His mouth opened, but his lips worked incoherently for a few minutes before he managed to produce a few words. “Piss off.”
“No,” James said.
“Piss off,” the Captain repeated. His voice sounded stronger this time, suggesting he wasn't as drunk as he looked. “That’s an order, mister.”
James hesitated, staring down at the wreck his commanding officer had become. The part of him that was ambitious knew that he could go to the bridge and claim command — and no one would be able to dispute it. Even if they did, what could they do? Back home, if they made it home, even the most rule-bound Admiral wouldn't object to James relieving his commanding officer for drunkenness in the face of the enemy. The Captain could be beached; hell, James knew that Uncle Winchester would be able to find a place for him. It wouldn't be the end of his life…
But he didn't want to throw the Captain to the wolves. Captain Smith had done well, first in building up a crew and then in leading it into battle against the aliens. He was, by any standard, the most effective naval officer the war had yet produced. Six months ago, he had merely been a drunkard James had aimed to remove from his post. Now… now he was a friend. They’d learned to work together as partners.
He owed the Captain.
Duty warred with loyalty in his head. Duty demanded that he relieve the Captain of command at once, the sooner the better. Loyalty demanded that he assist the Captain in overcoming his demons so he could resume command of his ship. James hesitated, then stood up and walked into the washroom. Inside, he turned the shower on, lowered the water’s temperature until it was just above freezing, then walked back to where the Captain was sprawling on the sofa. Before the older man could muster an objection, James pulled him to his feet, half-dragged him into the shower and shoved his head under the water.
The Captain spluttered with anger, producing a string of swearwords so vile that James could only listen, impressed. He'd only ever heard one other person swear like that, an old family friend who’d served in the Royal Navy for years before leaving under a cloud. In hindsight, James realised that his family’s friend had had problems with drinking too. Pushing the thought aside, he helped the Captain out of the shower and reached for a towel. The Captain snatched it from his hands and started to dry himself.
James hesitated, then stepped back into the main cabin and found the collection of alcohol. It was oddly impressive, given that the Captain wouldn't have drawn that large a salary while he remained in the Royal Navy. Even his knighthood had come with his promotion to Commodore, rather than being awarded for heroism. Absently, he wondered why the Captain hadn't been granted further honours after the first encounter with the aliens, then dismissed the thought. While the Captain dried himself, he scooped up the bottles, dumped them into a bag and placed them outside the cabin. They could be concealed in his cabin until Ark Royal returned to Earth.
And what, a nasty voice at the back of his mind asked, will you do when the Captain orders you to return them?
He had no answer.
Ted rubbed his wet uniform with the towel, then gave it up as a bad job and removed his jacket and shirt completely. The XO had shoved him into the shower fully clothed… absently, Ted found himself wondering just what regulation had been broken by wetting the Captain’s uniform. Wasn't there something about not tampering with the Captain’s dignity?
He shook his head, sourly. The water had done an effective job of sobering him up, leaving him grimly aware of just how badly he'd played the fool. If he had realised that the alcohol he'd consumed before the call to war had worked its way out of his system, he might have realised that he couldn't drink freely any longer. And to think he was meant to be in command! What a fool he'd been, he told himself. How could he really blame the XO for considering relieving him of command?
Maybe he should relieve himself, part of his mind suggested. But regulations, which declined to offer many acceptable reasons for relieving a commanding officer, flatly forbade the commanding officer from surrendering command while underway. He could put the XO or another officer on the bridge, in position to act rapidly if necessary, but he could never give them the full weight of his authority. No matter what he did, he — Captain Sir Theodore Smith — was the commanding officer, master under God. He could not shirk that responsibility for a second time.
He walked back into the main room and scooped up a dressing gown, pulling it on to cover his bare chest. The XO was seated in one of the chairs, a cup of steaming coffee in front of him. Another was positioned on Ted’s desk, waiting for him. Ted wasn't fond of coffee — he strongly preferred tea — but he had to admit that it would be good for him. Sitting down, he wondered who’d made it — and what they knew about his situation.
“I made it,” Fitzwilliam said, answering the unspoken question. “No one else has come here… ah, I think I broke your door.”
Ted smiled at the sudden uncertainty in his XO’s voice, then glanced over at the hatch. It was pinned open, barely wide enough to allow someone as skinny as Fitzwilliam to slip through the gap. He shook his head in droll amusement; apart from himself, only Midshipwoman Lopez had access to his cabin. It had never occurred to him that the XO would need to enter too without breaking the locks. He’d acquired too many bad habits when his ship had been drifting at anchor, with no hope of ever returning to active service.
“Yes, you did,” he said. He couldn't help a sudden laugh. Under the circumstances, a broken door was the least of their worries. “A court-martial offense if I ever saw one.”
He hesitated, looking at the younger man's uncertain face. “I’m sorry,” he said, quietly. He found himself struggling for words, then realised he was trying to excuse the inexcusable. It would be better to take his punishment like a man, except there was no one who could punish him. “Thank you.”
Commander Fitzwilliam seemed to understand, thankfully. Ted cursed himself under his breath, wondering just how much of the younger man’s respect he’d lost when he’d tried to crawl back into a bottle. There was no point in deluding himself, he told himself savagely. He’d probably lost all of it. The belief that he’d led his crew into a trap didn't excuse abandoning them now…
He took a sip of his coffee, weighing up the options. Getting back through the tramline would mean confronting the alien battlecruiser… and it would be a very close-run thing. He didn't have the starfighter numbers to take her down without closing to engagement range, which would expose his carrier’s hull to her plasma cannons. One shot, assuming the analysts were right, would be enough to melt the carrier’s armour and ravage her innards. The second would blow them apart…
No, he thought. We cannot allow them to close to point-blank range.
Mass driver projectiles would work, he knew, if they succeeded in scoring a hit. Maybe they could snipe at the battlecruiser. But the alien battlecruiser was watching for incoming projectiles, he was sure. They might just give away their position for nothing. And, even if they did manage to sneak around the battlecruiser and enter the tramline, they’d still have to crawl past Alien-Two, then Alien-One. They would encounter the alien reinforcements on their way.
And there was no hope of modifying their Puller Drive to work like an alien drive…
A thought occurred to him. For a moment, he dismissed it as the last vestiges of the alcohol, then he started to take it seriously. It was insane, but it might just be workable. And besides, they were trapped. Thinking inside the box would only lead to a suicidal direct confrontation with the alien ship. But thinking outside it…