A note blinked up on his display. Someone — Midshipwomen Lopez — was asking for a private conversation. That was rare, particularly in the middle of a battle. Alarmed, unsure of why he was alarmed, James reached for his earpiece and voder, pressing one into his ear and the other against his throat. It had been years since he had used either of the pieces of equipment, but his body remembered how to use them.
“Sir, it’s the Captain,” the young woman said. James frowned in puzzlement, then recalled that he’d asked her to keep a subtle eye on her commander. “He just left the bridge.”
James felt his brow furrow in alarm. He'd known Captains who were tyrants and Captains who were too soft, but he’d never known a Captain who had abandoned his bridge when his starship was in deadly danger. Whatever else could be said about Captain Smith, he’d definitely had the same worth ethnic. It had been hard enough to convince the Captain to take a nap when the alien battlecruiser had been maintaining her distance. But why would he leave the bridge now?
“I see,” he subvocalised. He didn't dare speak out loud. God alone knew what the CIC’s officers would think if they heard him. “Who’s in command now?”
Midshipwomen Lopez spluttered. “You, I think,” she said. “But he passed bridge command over to Commander Farley…”
James felt a shiver run down his spine. Something was definitely wrong. Traditionally, the officer on the bridge held command, even if he was outranked by someone elsewhere on the ship. Captain Smith should have called James himself to the bridge or at least informed him that someone else would be holding formal command, if James couldn't leave the CIC…
“Inform Commander Farley that he is still in command, but he is to alert me if the situation changes,” James said, pulling up the personnel display. Ark Royal automatically tracked and logged the locations of everyone on the ship, including the aliens and their former captives, snug in their secure quarters. The Captain wasn't in his office, but his cabin. “I will deal with the situation.”
“But…”
“I will deal with the situation,” James repeated. The young woman had done enough — more than enough. No matter what had happened, her career wouldn't survive if the Admiralty found out what she’d done. “Remain on the bridge.”
He passed CIC command over to his second, took one final look at the tactical display — the alien ship was still holding position, mocking them — and hurried out of the CIC.
Ted entered his cabin, closed and locked the hatch behind him and sat down on the sofa, feeling absolute despair working its way through his mind. He’d failed; he’d failed everyone from the First Space Lord to the lowliest crewman on his ship. The aliens had them trapped now, holding in place and waiting for the force they needed to smash Ark Royal like a bug. Ted had no illusions. The aliens knew his ship now; they knew what they needed to destroy her. When they came, it would be the final battle.
He cursed his own stubbornness as he stared down at the deck. If he’d been thinking, he would have gracefully accepted the First Space Lord’s attempt to remove him from starship command. God knew there were few officers who had served on armoured carriers, let alone spent so long improvising improvements to the original design. Ted could have worked in the planning office, assisting the designers to prepare updated designs for carriers and battleships that would have combined modern technology and older systems to create powerful warships. Or he could have found a place in the Admiralty, doing paperwork to allow other — more capable — officers to take command.
But no, he’d had to keep his starship. He’d had to keep command.
He pulled himself to his feet and stumbled over towards the safe in the bulkhead, pressing his hand against the sensor so it could read the implant buried within his palm. It clicked open, revealing ten bottles of expensive alcohol. He'd considered disposing of them when he’d realised that Ark Royal was going back into active service, but he hadn't been able to convince himself to take the plunge. Maybe he would have served them at a dinner for his fellow commanders — he damned himself, silently, for not speaking more with them — if they hadn't all died because of his mistakes. Ark Royal had only escaped because the European frigates had sacrificed themselves…
Their sacrifice was in vain, he told himself, as he picked up a bottle at random. Fancy wine, he noted, from the Picard Vineyards on Mars. Who would have thought that humanity’s first and last full-scale experiment with terraforming would have produced a modified grape that could be made into an elegant wine? Not that Ted really cared about the details, he had to admit, or the pretensions harboured by wine snobs. All he really cared about was the alcoholic content, the ability to blot out his mind and escape the pain. He would have called the Chief Engineer and ordered rotgut if Anderson hadn't been so busy.
Ted poured himself a glass, then took a long swig. The wine tasted fruity on his tongue, leaving a pleasant trail of fire as it ran down his throat and into his stomach. It had been months since he’d touched a drop, he realised, as he felt his head start to spin. There was no longer any need to drink heavily in order to achieve drunkenness. His fingers twitched, dropping the glass on the deck. Cursing, Ted picked up the bottle and put it to his lips.
He felt a flicker of guilt as he felt the cold glass touching his bare flesh. The crew needed him, he knew, yet he was useless. They would be better off with Commander Fitzwilliam or even an untrained newcomer from the Academy, not a drunkard like himself. Fitzwilliam had proved himself, in the end, to be more than just a well-born little bastard who had thought his connections would prove sufficient to take command of a starship. He’d make the Royal Navy proud.
Or he would, Ted considered, if he ever made it home.
Bracing himself, he took another long swig.
The buzzer sounded, but he ignored it. Let someone else worry for once.
The Captain’s quarters were inviolate, James knew, as he came to a halt outside the hatch. A press of the buzzer brought no response. He hesitated, unsure of what to do. Technically, he could relieve the Captain of command… but he was surprised to discover that he didn't want to assert his authority. It would destroy his career, no matter how many friends and family he had in the Admiralty, yet that wasn't what was bothering him. He'd come to respect Captain Smith too much to want to destroy his career too.
He hesitated, then reached into his pocket and produced a standard multitool. One of the less standard classes at the Academy had shown the cadets how to bypass certain systems, acknowledging that sometimes the non-standard approach was necessary. James flipped open the panel beside the hatch, found the locking system and carefully removed it from operation. The hatch clicked as it unlocked itself, but didn't open. James cursed his decision to come alone as he pushed the door open, then squeezed through the gap into the Captain’s cabin. Inside, the Captain was sitting on the sofa, halfway to drunkenness.
James swore out loud as he saw the bottle in the Captain’s hand, torn between being impressed and being horrified. He’d never heard of anyone drunk on wine from Mars before, but that was because it was hideously expensive, even by aristocratic standards. James had tasted a small glass of it once, years ago, and had been left with the impression that it was grossly overrated. He certainly hadn't drunk enough of it to affect his feelings. Putting the memories aside, he walked over to the Captain, pulled the bottle out of his hand and placed it on the side table. The Captain looked up at him, blearily.