His Majesty's Starship Read online

  “It’s ... um ... common knowledge on Ark Royal, sir,” Adrian said.

  McLaughlin grinned again. “And they’re convinced no one notices ’em.” Again, he glanced around him: it was beginning to dawn on Adrian that he thought the area might be bugged. “Well, son, it wasn’t the humans knowing that I’m worried about. No hard feelings, I hope?”

  “No, sir.” Adrian felt it was expected of him. “We’re ... well, we’re all in the same boat, aren’t we, sir?”

  “Sure,” McLaughlin said with a nod. “One happy family. Just remember that, sub. Oh, and sorry, again.”

  *

  There was an old song that Prince James had once heard and the words had stayed with him ever since. It was about Britain rising out of the sea at Heaven’s command, and the chorus declared that Britannia ruled said sea and that her people would emphatically never be slaves.

  At first you might have thought that the words had been written by a megalomaniac, and, granted, they were a product of the time when Britain felt it had the God-given right to conquer the rest of the world and turn everyone into little British; but the point was, they had been written.

  James had no firm convictions on the subject of Heaven and, with space within his grasp, he was quite happy to cede rule of the waves, but nonetheless he approved of the sentiments of the song. The desire not to be slaves was a thoroughly reasonable one.

  By the purely arbitrary division of the Roving time into 24 hours, each slightly longer than an Earth hour, it was now 23.30 – well past midnight by Earth standards. Day One had gone well but James was tired and glad to have retired to his cubicle. He looked around it and half smiled, half grimaced. It wasn’t exactly what he felt a prince, even a deposed prince, should be living in. All his life it had been drummed into him that he was a prince in name only; that he had to work for a living like everyone else, despite all the advantages that being the son of the richest human alive conferred. But even in this purely republican age of humanity, children were still told stories of kings and queens and princes and princesses. For as long as he could remember, James Windsor had felt vaguely cheated.

  He switched his aide to voice mode. “Plantagenet.”

  By now, channels of communication were well established to Ark Royal and there was no delay before his personal AI replied. “Here, sir.”

  James lay back on his pillow. “Encrypt.”

  “Encryption on, sir.”

  “Good. Plantagenet, Lieutenant Kirton has a program running somewhere on the ship. He’s doing a job for me, feeding our sample of Rustie-talk to a neural net to get a translation.”

  “I have it, sir. He has encrypted it with his own code.”

  “Can you break it? Discreetly, of course.”

  “One moment, sir,” Plantagenet said. There was the silent whisper of the ether, and then: “His program is a very simple intelligence, sir. It will do what I say.”

  “Is it making much progress?”

  “It is difficult to say at this stage, sir.”

  “Good. I want you to rewrite the output file with the contents of my own, file name ‘Uboat’, password ‘Atlantic’.”

  “Complying.” Another pause. “It is done, sir.”

  “Excellent!” James smiled, stretched luxuriously and gestured for the lights to dim. “Tidy up after yourself – keep to his protocols, don’t leave footprints. I don’t want him suspecting any more than he’s going to anyway.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Goodnight, Plantagenet.”

  “Goodnight, sir.”

  - 12 -

  19 May 2149

  The battle alarm sounded and the crew scrambled for the lines as Ark Royal turned into the wind. From the quarterdeck, Captain Michael Gilmore put his telescope to his eye and looked at the ship of the line bearing down on them, the French tricolour streaming from the main mast. Four-legged rust-coloured forms swarmed in the ship’s rigging; glancing down, he saw the intruder’s gun ports opening.

  “She’s squaring for battle,” he said to his Number One. “We’ll present our starboard beam and open with a broadside. Pass the word, Mr Dereshev.”

  “Broadside, sir?” said Hannah, who had been a man since leaving port. “We’re unarmed.”

  “No we’re not. We acquired 95 guns and three decks to put ’em on when we docked with Britannia.”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry, sir, I was forgetting. I’ll have the guns run out.”

  Despite the clamour of a ship preparing for combat, Gilmore found time in one corner of his mind to be pleased with himself; every other ship in King George’s navy rang a bell to sound battle stations, or passed the word verbally, while his ship had the latest in electronic alarm systems. The rapid beeping in his ears was beginning to annoy him, though.

  “Cabin boy!” he called.

  “Sir?” piped the lad. Young James had been put to sea by his father; like many a leader of a noble house, the king had decided that what his son needed to mature was a taste of rum, sodomy and the lash. He wasn’t a patch on Joel, the other ship’s boy.

  “Shut the alarm off.”

  “I can’t, sir,” the boy chirped. “It’s your alarm, not mine. You’ve got to reach your arm out and-”

  “-turn it off myself,” Gilmore mumbled into his pillow. One arm was stretched out and fumbling for the aide. He gave up.

  “Off!” he shouted, his voice still muffled.

  “Complying,” said the flat voice of his aide, and the beeping stopped.

  “Time?” Gilmore muttered.

  “07.00, local.”

  “Hmmph.”

  Gilmore rolled over and stared up at the ceiling. 07.00 of the first full day to be spent on the Roving. The day he-

  “Oh, grief,” he muttered, and rolled over again.

  *

  “Good morning, sir. May we join you?” Hannah and Samad had appeared at Gilmore’s table, trays laden down with breakfast.

  Gilmore felt a pang of envy. Those humans not going on the grand tour had been offered a leisurely look around Capital. Granted, he was going to see a whole alien world, not just a city, but ...

  “By all means,” Gilmore said, hoping they weren’t feeling conversational. A 1.3 gravity, an unaccustomed mattress and Revolutionary France had made his sleep restless and he wasn’t in the mood for being nice. Then he saw Peter and Adrian lurking in the background with their own trays, clearly trying to pluck up the courage to approach their seniors. He beckoned them over, indicated they should sit.

  “I wanted to ask you something, Number One,” Adrian said. “Julia’s asked me to swap my watch with her in two days time. Arm Wild’s arranged a visit for her to some kind of Rustie concert. Is that all right?”

  “Certainly,” Hannah said, with a glance at Gilmore for confirmation. He would be more affected by this than she would.

  He nodded. “So we’re going to share a watch, are we?” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” Adrian said. “And Julia will be with Number One on the watch after that.”

  “Fine,” Gilmore said.

  “Looking forward to the trip, Captain?” Prince James paused by Gilmore’s table and for a moment Gilmore thought the man was going to take breakfast with him too, but James’s posture indicated he was only pausing long enough to exchange compliments.

  “Yes, sir,” Gilmore said, not even bothering to think of something original to say.

  “Good, good. Remember, we leave at 09.00 sharp.”

  James walked off, carrying his tray across the refectory that was gradually filling up with humans. He was heading towards a group of delegates at another table.

  Sitting opposite her captain, Hannah Dereshev smiled over a cup of coffee. Reading his thoughts from his expression, she said, “Well, you might have forgotten.”

  Gilmore grunted. The prospect of a day in the prince’s company during a whistlestop tour of the planet had never been appealing and now the first thing the man had done was get on his nerves. Not a good sta
rt. He wondered if he could recapture his waking dream the next time he slept: James the cabin boy might catch scurvy, or get his leg blown off by a French ball.

  *

  At 08.55, a crowd of about fifty humans was milling about outside the Dome, waiting for the vehicles to arrive. It had clouded over since yesterday. Then, Gilmore had appreciated the clear air and sunshine but now humidity and windspeed had risen. Looking up at what looked like looming rain clouds he was beginning to remember what weather was like, and why space was so much better without it.

  Now coming out of the Dome was a short, plump man who looked vaguely familiar to Gilmore but whose identity was just out of reach, until Gilmore saw him talking to Shivaji’s Surit Amijee and he recognised the face at last. Was that the dreaded Krishnamurthy?

  “Did you sleep well, Captain?” Arm Wild had appeared at his elbow. Strangely, the presence of the alien was something comforting and familiar.

  “So-so,” Gilmore said. He looked about him. All the other delegates had their Rustie liaisons with them and were constantly involving them in their conversation – asking for advice, suggestions, input – and yet, over there was Prince James and over here was Arm Wild.

  “Shouldn’t you be with the prince?” Gilmore asked.

  “The prince has told me I will be called if needed,” Arm Wild said and Gilmore, not for the first time, began to wonder about the wisdom of having Prince James represent the UK. Not only was the man devoid of all social graces but he seemed in no hurry at all actually to find out about the world he was meant to be making a bid for. How he expected to put together a coherent tender without Arm Wild’s assistance was a mystery.

  *

  “Here you are,” said Samad Loonat. He handed the small sphere to the Rustie accompanying them. “Just point, and press this button here. Can you manage?”

  “I think so,” the Rustie said. It was one of the ones that hadn’t learned to subvocalise and its own words in Rustie mouthtalk were audible over the translator. The problem now facing it was that the camera just wasn’t designed for a Rustie to hold. One of the Rustie’s graspers was wrapped around the little globe, the other poised over the button.

  “Wait a moment,” Samad said, and hurried over to join the rest of the crew at the foot of the monument that commemorated the first discovery of an alien race. Four stylised Rusties each faced a different point of the compass. They appeared to have been carved to make them look domineering: their forelegs were distinctly longer than they should be, making them seem to rear up; their shoulders were bigger, their necks were longer and they leaned slightly forward, as if staring into the distance for the least hint of danger. Or looking out at new worlds to explore. Cortes on the Peak of Darien, if Cortes had been a Rustie.

  Peter’s aide chose that moment to beep and Samad ruined his own picture by thinking it was his own aide and looking down at it. He groaned when he heard the camera buzz and the wave of coherent light swept over them while Peter continued to hold the pose.

  “Hold on, people,” he begged, “one more-”

  “Move over, Ark Royal,” someone said. The crew from another ship were waiting their turn, with another ship – Shivaji – after them. Samad reluctantly moved on to join his comrades, giving the Indians a cold glare as he did so, and they watched the next batch of humans make fools of themselves.

  “God, we’re a bunch of tourists,” Hannah muttered. She looked around at the other Rusties, the locals from Capital, who seemed happy just to stand and watch the strange aliens. “The captain doesn’t know when he’s lucky.”

  “Ah, yes, love, but we’ll have this to show our grandchildren, one day,” Samad said. He was playing the picture back and studying the laser image carefully. Grinning faces from Peter and Adrian; Hannah with her arms folded and an ‘if I must’ look on her face; and himself, staring down at his belt. Then he heard Peter exclaim.

  “No! I ... it’s impossible! It’s ... it’s ...” There was such agitation in Peter’s voice that the rest of the crew gathered round. He didn’t notice them, too busy staring at his aide’s display. “One hundred percent match!” he said. “One hundred per ...”

  He looked up, noticing the other humans nearby. “Over here,” he muttered, and moved a few ostentatious steps away. The non-Ark Royal humans got the hint and kept their distance.

  “What’s the problem, Lieutenant?” Hannah said. The formal request helped him pull together.

  “I was working on a translation program for the prince,” he said. “Rustie to Standard, and the prince provided the input data. My hopes weren’t high, but ... Look, say something. Anything.” He held up the aide, ready to record whatever was said.

  “Um ...” the others looked hopefully at each other.

  “Oh, come on!” he said. “Anything!” He looked at Hannah.

  “Oh, well,” she said. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, or close the wall up with our English dead.”

  “Uh, huh,” said Peter. “Command: translate.” The sound of Rustie speech came out of the aide, then the Standard word “English.” “No Rustie equivalent for that,” he said.

  Six round eyes stared at him.

  “Pete, you’re a genius!” Adrian said.

  “That’s what’s so weird,” he said. “I was only doing it to oblige the prince. I can’t – I couldn’t – I can’t believe it would have worked so quickly. I mean, the sample of Rustie speech that I had to work on was what they said on UK-1. They can’t have used that many different words ... do you really think they said ‘breach’, fr’instance? Or ‘unto’?”

  “Try this,” said Hannah. He held up the aide again, ready. “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.”

  Cough, splutter, Israel, gasp.

  “Okay, my turn,” said Samad. He cleared his throat. “In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful. Say: he is Allah, the One. Allah, the eternally Besought of all. He begetteth not nor was begotten, and there is none comparable unto him.”

  The aide balked at ‘Allah’, ‘besought’ and ‘begetteth’.

  “I couldn’t tell you what they mean either,” said Adrian.

  Peter said, “And don’t tell me the Rusties, on a diplomatic visit to King Richard, used any of those words. Or ‘begotten’.” He thought. “Or, I don’t know. How about, ‘have you met James, my first begotten son ...’”

  “Of course,” Adrian said, “all you know so far is that the translator thinks it’s got a translation.” The others looked at him. “I mean,” he said, a bit defensively, “you can’t test it against itself, can you?”

  “You’re right,” said Peter. He squared his shoulders and walked over to the nearest Rustie.

  *

  The transporter, a converted grain freighter capable of Mach 5, was parked on the ridge up above, overlooking a deep quarry that had been visible from miles away. Gilmore, not usually given to vertigo, peeped warily over the edge. The Rusties had told them the pit was as deep as the diamond mines at Kimberley in South Africa. Gilmore had never been to Kimberley so the statistic was meaningless, but it was big. He held up his aide to record an image of the place for Joel’s benefit, and told it to add a scale so the boy would get an idea of the size too.

  The tour of the Roving was only a couple of hours old and less than a quarter of the way around the globe from Capital, zigzagging their way across the main continent from site to site. Now they were deep in the interior, just on the eastern edge of the central desert. It was a relief to be out of the transporter; no doubt it was airworthy enough but the Rusties’ method of flying it was to point it up at about 45o and put on the afterburners, taking an almost ballistic trajectory to their next destination. They were packing in as much of their world as they could into a single day.

  The delegates were standing nearby, engaged in conversation with Iron Run and some of the other Rusties. The odd phrase drifted over:

  “-naturally, an equitable exploitation of this world’s natural r
esources is foremost on our minds-”

  “-the Confederation is unparalleled on Earth for its industrial base and its care for the natural environment-”

  Blah, blah, blah.

  Caterpillar tracked trucks were climbing laboriously up the switchbacked road that led up from the depths of the pit. Up close they were bulky and looming but they looked small as beetles below. Gilmore watched as one made it to the edge and the flat ground with a sigh of relief from its gears. It surely couldn’t be as efficient as an antigravity device, so why didn’t the Rusties use one? Gilmore ran through the possible limiting factors in his mind and hit on size. If an a-grav generator, or whatever it was, were the same size as a truck ...

  “A call from Lieutenant Kirton,” said his aide. Gilmore took it.

  “Gilmore.”

  Peter Kirton seemed slightly dazed, though still with a look of triumph. “Sir, you remember the translation program the prince asked me to do?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, it ... it works! Sir, it can translate practically anything! I’ve used it on some of the Rustie bystanders here and ... well, I think for the first time ever I can read a Rustie expression. Very, very surprised.”

  Gilmore blinked. “Well done,” he said. “That’s amazing.”

  “Not half, sir. It shouldn’t work!”

  Kirton went into the details of why it shouldn’t work: not enough words in the sample data, and it had all come together far too quickly. Gilmore listened in silence.

  “What now?” he said at the end.

  “I’ll go through it very carefully, sir. But meanwhile I think the prince should know, sir, but I thought I should go through you.” Kirton twitched as though he had just been nudged from off-camera. “That is, Commander Dereshev felt I should, sir.”

  “Very good,” Gilmore said. He glanced up over at the delegates. “The prince is busy right now, but I’ll get him to call you when he’s free.”