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The ship was on a seemingly endless patrol of near-Earth space. Parts and food, such as reached them, were shipped in by light freighters and transferred by hand from ship to ship. The crew struggled endlessly against the conflicting demands of failing systems and the boring patrols.
Sharon knew they were no better or worse off than the other frigates. The converted fast couriers were the front line of the Federation's defense against the Posleen, but they were frighteningly inadequate from the human's point of view. The ships were ancient, literally centuries old, and lacked every item that humans had come to expect in a warship. There were no redundant systems, no easily switched out spares, not much in the way of defense, and the weapons were nearly useless.
What made matters worse was their customization. Each ship was hand built over nearly a half century by one of a few Indowy families. Since each ship was custom fabricated there were no interchangeable spare parts. For that matter, since the ships were designed to last for a few centuries of blemishless activity, then be taken out of service, there were no parts whatsoever. Every part was solid-state; there was no reason that they would not last a pair of centuries. And the Indowy guaranteed it.
Unfortunately, most of the ships, like their own Agincourt, had been in service since the begi
She nibbled at her dry toast and had another sip of the bitter tea. Then she tapped the artificial intelligence device on her wrist. «What's the news?» she asked.
«There are twenty-seven messages in your e-mail queue,» the AID answered in a melifluous baritone.
«How many of those are the maintenance people on Titan whining about our parts requests?»
«Fourteen.»
«Delete.»
«Okay. Then there are five denying requests from various crewmembers for a transfer off ship. One of those is a rather snotty question about the leadership of the frigate.»
«Send 'em a copy of the transcript from the inquiries and tell them to kiss my ass. Diplomatically. And resubmit the requests. God knows somebody should be able to get off this tub.»
«Done. There are six answers to your requests for better food, all of which boil down to quit whining.»
«Okay. Send the requests back but increase the requested amount every time until you get to our maximum stores level. Do that once per day or once per denial if they respond within the day. Carbon-copy all requests to Fleet HQ.»
«Okay. Most of the rest of it is junk. But there is a message from Titan Base stating that the new CO has been assigned and will be arriving this afternoon.»
«Joy,» said Michaels. «Bloody joy and happiness. Another one.» Part of the problem was that the COs for the frigates were captains. The post would have been one for a lieutenant commander or even a lieutenant in a regular navy but the frigates were the only place for «wet navy» sailors to learn the ins and outs of space command. Because the posting was relatively «simple,» the senior officers assigned generally started off assuming that they knew twice as much as the officers and crew in place. Many of them had learned what it was like to breathe vacuum.
Sharon shook her head. «Hey, maybe this one will be different. Who is it?» she asked the AID.
«Captain April Weston,» said the AID.
At the name, Michaels sucked in his breath. «Bloody hell.»
«You know her?» asked Sharon.
«I've never met her,» said Michaels. «But everybody in His Majesty's bloody Fleet knows about her.»
Sharon made a come-on gesture, indicating a request for enlightenment.
Michaels shook his head. «Well, she's just about the only woman who has ever stood for admiral in the fleet who came out of surface warfare. She's a bloody legend among the swifties. On her mother's side she's related to a dead chappie named Mountbatten.» He paused trying to figure out how to explain that to an American.
«I've heard of him,» Sharon said dryly. The late Earl Mountbatten had been the last of a breed. Closely related to the Royal Family he had been an officer in the Navy during World War II. After distinguishing himself as commander of a destroyer squadron and having repeated ships shot out from under him he had formed the first combined special operations groups in history. After the war he had been made Earl of Burma and expertly ushered that country into independence. He was a national hero and a treasure whose life was finally snuffed out by the bomb of an Irish terrorist. «So she's related to the Royal Family?»
«Distantly,» said Michaels with a shrug. «Us Brits have still got a thing about, well, 'blood.' You know?»
«Lineage,» said Sharon.
«Bloody right. Well, this Weston is the sort of person who . . . sort of reinforces that. If there was ever a case of the acorn not falling far from the bloody oak.»
Sharon nodded. «So this is good?» she asked cautiously.
«Oh, yeah,» said Michaels. «Of course, Mountbatten survived four ships. And most of his chappies never made it back. There was some as would jump ship rather than sail with him.»
Sharon snorted and thought about the departed Russian. «I'll take my chances.»
* * *
The air lock hissed and Captain Weston stepped forward, still fumbling at the catches of her pressure helmet. It a
One of the petty officers standing at attention stepped forward and unhooked the last recalcitrant fitting and her ears were blasted by the shrill of a recorded boatswain's pipe.
She stepped forward and returned the salute of a good-looking brunette in a slightly soiled coverall. «Captain April Weston,» she said and removed a folded piece of paper from a sealed belt-pouch. That maneuver she had managed to practice on the shuttle over and it went off flawlessly.
« 'You are hereby ordered to proceed forthwith to the Fleet Frigate Agincourt for purposes of assuming command,' « she quoted. «Signed Hareki Arigara Vice Admiral, Director, Fleet Perso
«I stand relieved, ma'am,» said the brunette. «Sharon O'Neal, Lieutenant Commander. I'm your XO.»
Captain Weston nodded and looked around at the assembled crew. It was a fairly small party. «I am about to betray my ignorance,» she admitted. «Is this most of the crew?» she continued, slightly aghast. Normally most of the off-duty crew members would be present for the greeting party. There was more than enough room in the pressure hold for more people, so the group of twenty or so might be it. That would place the upper end of the crew at thirty or so. The crew of a «wet» frigate would number over a hundred. Her previous cruiser command had numbered over a thousand.
«Ma'am, there are four on duty in the tac center,» the XO answered, «three in engineering and four more at various other points. There are also six Indowy crewmembers.» She hesitated. «They . . . don't usually associate with large groups of humans.»
Weston nodded her head. That was one briefing she had gotten. «Understood.» She looked around and raised her voice slightly. «I'm sure we'll all get to know each other well over the next few months.» The tone was a command voice. It implied that what the speaker said would occur, whatever the universe might throw at the speaker. Compared to the whiny and blustering Russian she replaced it was immensely heartening to the crewmembers. Which was what she had intended.