“Do you have any idea of the size of the pile of bullshit you’ve managed to heap onto my desk through your sheer idiocy? Here’s a hint, it’s about the size of a railcannon shell, and on top of it all, I have the new fleet commander's staff breathing down my neck as to why I allowed an Alliance ship, a civilian one at that, to be forcibly ported, in what looks awfully like in total violation of interstellar law.”

Rear Admiral of the Black Freya Holland was sitting behind the faux-pine desk of her flag quarters, fingers tented underneath her chin while she was staring daggers at Commander Matthew Lysimachos, standing awkwardly at ease. Lysimachos actually liked and respected Holland; she was a no-nonsense officer usually lacking a flair for the dramatic, with long dark hair tied into a complicated braid, and piercing grey eyes. However, in the present situation, it was hard to not be intimidated by the angry senior officer.

“Lord Hartcastle,” she continued in the same icy tone, “is just about to formally relieve Sir Ryan Dumont as commander of Western Fleet, and the first thing on his docket is going to be the angry complaints from both the Starmistress’ cruise line and the Elysian and Alliance ambassadors on New Malta, claiming the docking of the Starmistress is a gross overstep of the Royal Navy’s jurisdiction in Maltese space.”

She untented her fingers and crossed her arms across her chest instead.

“What in the world were you thinking, man? This is exactly the sort of incident we really don’t want to have with the Alliance, especially at this point in time, with general elections looming for both the Kingdom and the Alliance. This sort of behaviour, this heavy-handed and haughty handling of civilian ships of foreign star nations by the Royal Navy, is exactly the sort of propaganda the Liberal Progressive and Charterist parties in the Independent Systems Alliance are spewing out, and here you go ahead and give them a perfect example on a silver platter.”

“Ma’am,” Lysimachos said, the first words he had said after entering the flag quarters of the HMS Swiftsure and being told to ‘shut up until I tell you otherwise’, “I can only apologise for the fallout of the whole affair.”

He was pretty sure he could see a vein bulge in Holland’s neck, but he braved on.

“But if you have studied my report, you must be aware that the presence of the Starmistress outside any of the combined Royal Navy/New Maltese Navy sensor bubbles is highly suspicious, as was her lack of calling to port during her cruise; which is very abnormal for an interstellar cruise ship.”

“I have read your and your 2-i-C’s reports,” Holland angrily retorted, “and while yes, that is unusual, the skipper of the Starmistress’ explanation is also wholly plausible. The Gozo ice-crystal asteroid field is in fact a major tourist attraction, something you’d have picked up on if you’d been in New Malta space for more than fifteen minutes.”

“Ma’am, we’ve been on station for a week–” Lysimachos opined, but Holland was having none of it.

“Shut up until I tell you otherwise, Commander,” she snapped, putting emphasis on commander, and Lysimachos’ mouth shut with a click.

“As long as you’re part of my flotilla, you’ll follow my orders to the letter. Carcharodon’s mission was to patrol the Gozo belt, primarily looking for smugglers or illegal mining operations, not creating international scandals by harassing commercial shipping.”

She grabbed an old-fashioned document folder and flipped through the pages a bit, before halting at one in particular, her eyes skimming the content.

“I’m putting Carcharodon on indefinite ready reserve duty, she will be replaced by Mandalay for the time being, until your heels have cooled sufficiently that I trust to put you out there again. And don’t even think about getting any shore leave while you’re at it, ready reserve also implies scramble and/or picket duty, so one third of crew on watch at all times, even while docked at Jutland.”

Lysimachos’ heart sank, but he tried not to show it, and smartly came to attention, hand snapping up to his cap brim in salute.

“Ma’am,” was all he said, and Holland gave him a ‘go away’ waving gesture, and he turned on his heel and marched out of the flag officer’s office, the bulkhead door swishing shut behind him.

“That’s fucking bunkum,” Lieutenant-Commander Leonetta Hazard said through gritted teeth, “a tired and newly arrived crew, having gotten no shore leave for nearly a month, is tossed under the proverbial groundcar just like that.”

She was leaning on the metal railing along a walkway facing a huge window out towards one of the many docking and maintenance arms of the gigantic orbital naval hub that was His Majesty’s Space Station Jutland. Like most military orbital installations, Jutland was centred on a massive core structure that ran the axis of the entire kilometres long complex which housed all the command and control, personnel, medical, administration, recreation, and other non-operating sections. Then, in circles that “walked” up the central spinal structure, were the docking, bunkering, maintenance, victualing, and emergency services stations, the docking arms sticking out almost like spikes, giving the outer circles a cogwheel-like appearance. The Jutland, some thirty-eight kilometres long along the main axis, and with a radius of sixteen kilometres at its widest, had a complement of around one-hundred and ninety-thousand Royal Navy and Royal Fleet Auxiliary personnel, in addition to civilian contractors. These were the support personnel that kept the ships and crews of the Western Fleet (and attached New Maltese units) operational, fed, fuelled, and ready for action. Ships like Carcharodon, but now the light cruiser was effectively put on time-out, as was her crew.

“It’s bollocks that we’re being punished for what is obviously Admiral Dumont being grumpy as shit that’s he’s out the door,” Hazard continued and Lysimachos, leaning on the railing next to her suppressed an urge to groan. “Sure, we may have jumped the gun a little, and perhaps, if we’re pointing fingers, Lieutenant MacKenzie should perhaps be given a larger share of blame than some of the other officers.”

Lysimachos turned and looked angrily at Hazard who flung up her arms in a disarming gesture.

“Hey, I’m playing devil’s advocate here, I’m not saying we should be putting Katherine even further into the dog house than she already is, it’s just that her, uh… zeal might have landed us collectively in hotter water than was necessary.”

“Leonie,” Lysimachos said, his tired tone betraying how resigned he was with the whole situation, “shifting blame, regardless if it is by miniscule amounts, is not very helpful in this current situation. I think MacKenzie is aware that she messed up, and I think she’s beating herself up over it, especially since all near eight-hundred of us on the Carcharodon are paying for this collectively. And ultimately, it was my call; on-board, the food-chain stops with me and I made the wrong decision and let emotion take over in the heat of the moment. There’s nothing to do but suck up and be professional about it. This isn’t the first time a crew has been punished in the long history of the Royal Navy.”

As he said that, they two watched as the massive white hull of the Starmistress left one of the docking arms on the same ring they were on. The captain of the Starmistress had received a formal apology from both Rear Admiral Holland, as well as Vice Admiral of the White Nicholas Shinkaruk, who commanded Jutland itself, and the strip search promised by Lysimachos had amounted to a perfunctory once-over by New Maltese customs officers. However, feathers had been ruffled, and the Alliance cruise captain had promised to file an official complaint to the ISA embassy in St. Angelo, and Lysimachos dreaded the outcome once Lord Hartcastle –who was allegedly already on his way to New Malta from his previous posting on Amaranth– heard of what had transpired. A beaching and half-pay for him and Hazard was probably getting off cheap.

“Well, I never,” a new voice shot in from somewhere behind the two officers and they turned as one to consider the newcomer; “if it isn’t the man of the moment himself. You’re the talk of the entire fleet currently, and that’s no mean feat.”

“Andrea?!” Lysimachos burst out in surprise.

Andrea Picoletti was a pale Westernessan of middling height, with a short red hair, freckles, and a contagious smile. Picoletti and Lysimachos had been part of the same house at King William Naval Academy, back in ’60-’64, and while not exactly the best of friends, they had hung in the same circles.

“I didn’t know you were out here,” Lysimachos continued in a quizzical tone, “I thought you were still attached to Valerian Station.”

Picoletti came up to the two and Hazard saluted as she recognised the newcomer’s three golden bands on her cuffs, denoting her as a Commander, and Picoletti gave her a quick salute in return before turning her focus back on Lysimachos.

“I was up until two years ago, but now I’m 2-i-C on the Constance, and with Commander de Haan’s promotion to Captain all but confirmed, I’ll be taking over as her captain.”

“So you’ve been out here for two years then, Ma’am?” Hazard asked and Picoletti nodded.

“That’s right, doing nothing more exciting than patrolling the outer reaches of the other member worlds of the Suzerainty, like Octavia and Augusta. That’s not to say we haven’t done anything, Constance is currently tied among Western Fleet ships for having caught most smugglers, with nineteen over the course of sixteen months. In addition to…”

Picoletti trailed off, cast a glance over her shoulder at a pair of passing leading ratings who were too busy discussing the information on their tablets to salute the officers, before continuing.

“Anyway, standing out here in the middle of a walkway is hardly the place for a chat. Say we hit up one of the Jutland’s bars and pick up the conversation again over a pint?”

Hazard consulted her wristwatch and shrugged.

“Well, since neither the Captain here nor I need to have the watch, I think we have time for a beer or three before we have to return to Carcharodon.”

“Thank you, Leonie, for pointing out the obvious, and also for inviting yourself,” Lysimachos said dryly, to which Hazard shrugged.

“I simply thought I had already been invited by proxy.” She turned towards Picoletti and saluted again.

“Lieutenant Commander Leonetta Hazard, Carcharodon’s 2-i-C, Ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Picoletti saluted back, more crisply this time around.

“The pleasure is all mine, Lieutenant Commander, and by all means, you’re welcome to tag along; I didn’t mean that the invitation extended to Matthew only.”

The trio walked down the deck and hitched a gravlift which carried them from Ring #17 to the main superstructure of Jutland itself, where the majority of facilities, including the leisure ones, were located. On the way, Picoletti and Lysimachos alternated filling in Hazard about their days together at the Academy, including a few stories about lecturers Hazard –four years their junior– had also had. By the time they reached one of the leisure and down-time decks, they were all laughing and swapping stories. The Royal Fleet Auxiliary’s shore establishment division officially owned its own pub and restaurant franchises that actually operated as regular establishments on space stations and on the worlds of the kingdom. The franchises were owned by the RFA, but run by civilian contractors and employees, and while it had started as exclusive naval station fixtures, they had over time expanded to open quite a few venues ground-side. The pub franchise was named Quarterdeck, and as far as pub franchises went (of which there were quite many in the Auroran kingdom), they were far from the worst, despite the impression of mass-production the naval memorabilia that hung on the titanium walls of this particular venue on Jutland’s deck 37E produced.

Taking a seat in a booth with faux-wood furniture not totally different from what could be found in a warship’s wardroom, Picoletti waved over a waitress.

“Three steins and a pitcher of draught New Toronto Choice, if you’d be so kind,” she said while taking off her peaked cap.

“Of course, Commander, coming right up,” the waitress said and disappeared behind the bar counter. It wasn’t all that surprising that the civilian waitress could identify Royal Navy ranks by looking at insignias; they were on one of the largest military stations in Human Space after all. Due to safety regulations, all non-essential facilities and compartments were not enclosed by bulkhead doors, due to the fact that if large groups congregated, getting everyone out would be slow; they were fitted with invisible privacy shields instead of being physically confined. This way the hustle and bustle of regular activity that defined daily life on a naval station could carry on outside, while off-duty troops could have a good time inside these bubbles.

“So, Andrea,” Lysimachos said after the waitress had deposited the glasses and pitcher, looking at Picoletti as he poured beer, “what did you imply by ‘in addition’ earlier?”

Picoletti took a good long swig of her stein before putting it down and leaning a bit closer over the small faux-wood table.

“You aren’t the first to run into civilian Alliance ships in places where they ostensibly ought not to be.”

She looked around slightly conspiratorially, but the tables around them were empty. Figures, Lysimachos thought, it’s only just past two in the afternoon.

“Three weeks ago,” Picoletti continued, “HMS Amethyst came across an ore hauler registered on Marduk that was on a perpendicular course with the orbital stations of Octavia, and had somehow managed to avoid getting seen by any New Maltese ships despite being in-system for five days. When Amethyst questioned her, they apologised for their mistake, produced some inane excuse that they had received bad vectors from Octavia Astral Control, and only then corrected their heading.”

Hazard and Lysimachos looked at each other in confusion and Picoletti nodded eagerly.

“Exactly, I can see what you’re thinking. Unless both the skipper and the helmsman of that hauler had been drunk for five days straight, there is no way they didn’t know they were off their approach vector by tens of millions of kilometres. Just like the Carcharodon, the Amethyst had just arrived on station, and with her better ARS-22C grav-pulse sensor arrays, she could see said ore hauler long before she could be observed in return, and was able to fall upon her before they had gotten their excuses in order.”

“Excuse me, Commander Picoletti,” Hazard intervened, nursing her stein in two hands and hiking one eyebrow up sceptically, “isn’t this somewhat of a precipitous conclusion? What proof do you have that said hauler’s, for instance, astrogation SAI, wasn’t simply broken or in need of an update?”

“Ah, Lieutenant Commander,” Picoletti replied while giving Hazard a toothy grin and pointing at her, “you’re good at your job as a First Lieutenant I see; yes, quote apt at being the devil’s advocate. I’ll tell you why Commander Alexander of the Amethyst assumed technical failure was the reason for her erratic course for about, oh I don’t know, fifteen seconds. Because he checked the logs and saw that comparable instances had happened seven times in the past fifteen months in New Malta sovereign space alone.”

Enraptured now, Lysimachos leaned forward after emptying his stein (and suppressing an embarrassing burp), and tented his fingers.

“By comparable instances, I take it you mean Elysian or Independent Systems Alliance registered civilian vessels?”

Pointing her fingers like a pistol at Lysimachos, Picoletti laughed, but none of the mirth reached her eyes.

“Spot on, Matthew,” she said, and took another swig of her beer.

“And as I said, that’s only within Suzerainty of New Malta space. You didn’t hear this from me, but we’ve gotten reports from the Republic of Corinth, channelled through our Corridor Station, and from our ‘good friends’ in the Sacred Kingdom of Dionysia of similar incursions there. Combine that with Octavia and Augusta, and you’re looking at suspicious activity by Alliance civilian skippers along two-thirds of the Royal Union’s border towards the Alliance. The only thing missing are illegal trespasses in the Kitezh, Antioch, and Azurea regions in the ‘south-west’ before one can conclusively deduce there is a pattern to the madness.”

“Andrea,” Lysimachos said, “have you brought this to the attention of the Western Fleet intelligence division? Surely you’re not the only one who has noticed this trend.”

“Of course this has been brought to Western Fleet’s attention. We had a senior officer’s meeting on Constance about this when we found out, and Commander de Haan forwarded an urgent report to Admiral Dumont’s staff. As did Commander Alexander on behalf of the crew of the Amethyst, and Baroness Trident Hill did the same when HMS Sovereign of the Stars chanced upon a wildly off course Elysian Indiaman while out on gunnery exercises. All to no avail, just the standard ‘thank you, we’ll look into it’ message from Dumont’s intelligence staff, and then complete radio silence.”

“That seems really odd,” Hazard offered, taking off her white beret to scratch her fiercely orange scalp, and Picoletti nodded in agreement.

“Thing is, there is a palpable sense of tension out here. And by out here, I mean the Royal Union star nations that directly border the Independent Systems Alliance.

She took another deep swig of beer, emptying her stein and refilling it, before refilling Lysimachos’ and Hazard’s glasses as well.

“The Kingdom of Aurora,” she started, now suddenly very serious, without any humour colouring her freckled cheeks, “and by extension the Royal Navy, is currently the epitome of status quo, just owing to the fact that we’re going through a change in naval leadership right now, and we have a general election for the House of Commons in the next ten months. That is why our commanders, regardless of their political affiliation, be they Sir Ryan ‘Fuck You Very Much’ Dumont…”

Hazard couldn’t help but giggle into her beer, and Picoletti shot her a sympathetic glance.

“Or Lord Jeremiah ‘A Stick Up Me Bum’ Grantham of Hartcastle…”

This time it was Lysimachos’ turn to laugh.

“Fundamentally, the policy of His Majesty’s Service remains the same; whatever else you may be up to, do not rock the fucking boat. And that is in stark contrast to what our allies in New Malta and Corinth are advocating, because they have had it up to here;” she said while putting the top of her flat hand against her chin.

“And that only involves provocations regarding nominally civilian vessels. While the frontier systems ache and demand response from the Kingdom, our political overlords only decry the current situation, and orders the Navy to try their very best to de-escalate the situation by carrying on as if nothing is out of the ordinary. Our battle squadrons carry out their exercises, and fly the flag in foreign ports on courtesy visits, our cruisers patrol the shipping lanes, and the destroyers run escort duties for merchant shipping when they’re not taking part in fleet exercises. Meanwhile, the Republic of Corinth Navy is actively scrambling task groups to patrol the borders of the demilitarised neutral zone of the Corridor, while the Maltese are putting long-range scout groups into the void between Octavia and Galloway on the Alliance side. There is real pushback from the New Maltese Council of Princes and the Corinthian Gerousia to Auroran policies, and in response to the Auroran lack thereof, they’re talking about hiking up the customs duties and import tariffs on goods from the ISA.”

“Oh, that’s trouble,” Hazard commented, and Lysimachos nodded in agreement.

“Yes it is,” Picoletti said, “because if two of the largest star nations in the Royal Union starts what is in effect a trade war with the ISA, things will spiral out of control quickly, especially smuggling which is already a major issue. It will also likely entice several of the neutral systems along the Corridor, like Ilion and Nova Polonia, to become brokers for shadow shipping lines, which in turn means that the Royal Union will crack down on imports from these systems as well, and that will be the death of their economy, which is almost completely trade-based.”

“And that’ll drive them into the hands of the ever-expanding Independent Systems Alliance,” Lysimachos finished for her.

“And if these systems join the ISA, they…”

“Gain control over the majority of the Corridor, yes.” Picoletti finished. The three were silent for a little while, the only sounds being the low music from the bar’s loudspeakers, the waitress washing out a beer-tap, and the barely audible hum of the privacy shield by the exit.

“Wow,” Hazard said at length, breaking the spell, “that is actually kind of a logical leap you two did there. I mean, you just assumed that by civilian ships dodging normal patrol routes, that the ISA is planning some sort of major take-over of a dozen or so neutral systems in the Corridor.”

Lysimachos pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“Leonie,” he said at length, after another taste of beer, “how many worlds form the Kingdom of Aurora?”

“Seven,” was the immediate reply, “Aurora, of course, Amaranth, Angevin, Westernesse, Cymru, Avalon, Nova Caledonia, plus that weird, somewhat of an outlier, the Grand Duchy of Novorosyia. Oh, and Kitezh, if they count nowadays.”

“Very good, Lieutenant Commander,” Lysimachos continued in a voice that made both Picoletti and Hazard giggle, “and what is the population of these seven worlds combined?”

“Ah,” the lieutenant commander in question hesitated a bit, “in the region of four-point-eight billion?”

“She’s right, you know,” Picoletti commented, “Aurora has a population of about two billion spread across a planetary surface almost three times the size of Old Earth, Amaranth and Angevin have about seven-hundred million inhabitants each, and the rest, apart from Novorosyia, have less than three-hundred million citizens in total.”

“Quite astute, First Lieutenant Hazard-slash-Picoletti,” Lysimachos said, sipping some more beer. “And would you hazard,” (cue an almost inaudible giggle from Picoletti at the unintended pun) “to guess the population of the ISA?”

“I don’t really know, somewhere in the tens of billions?”

“Correct,” Picoletti shot in, “by last conservative count, the ISA had a population of about twenty-one billion.”

“Do you know what that entails, Lieutenant Commander?” Lysimachos continued his impromptu interrogation.

“That we’re fucked?”

“To be fair, she’s not wrong,” Picoletti commented, draining the last dregs of her stein.

“Yes, Lieutenant Commander Hazard, in the long run, we are indeed, as you say, fucked. Our Navy is larger, has more technologically advanced ships, our officers and enlisted are much better trained. But that doesn’t count for shit if we’re facing down a space navy twice the size of our own. If His Majesty’s Service and the Admiralty drags this out for, oh I don’t know, five more years, the Alliance Space Navy might attain parity with our own fleet.”

“Fat fucking chance the Greens get their thumbs out of their arseholes long enough for that,” Picoletti commented, and Lysimachos couldn’t help but grin.

“Anyway, consider the numbers at play here, Leonie. The Royal Navy has enjoyed a qualitative advantage for the past four centuries regarding warship design. Sir Damien Koyanagi and his ilk maintain that this is still the case, but we out here on the, I beg your pardon, the frontier, know better.”

The Maltese waitress just did a walk-past, picking up the dirty steins and replacing them with new ones, and Lysimachos nodded appreciatively.

“The Alliance,” he continued after the unintended break, “has the economic and industrial capacity to out-produce both the Kingdom of Aurora and the Royal Union. While the Navy is happily boasting that the next generation of battleships, the Vanguard class, are ready to exit the slips, the crafty fucking Elysians are designing the next generation of ships of the line, ones who are specifically designed to counter our own. I hope you appreciate this, Leonie, because this isn’t going to get better; our Service is locked in a race with the Alliance’s Space Navy, and in the end, due to sheer economic and financial pressure...”

A buzzing sound in his chest pocket diverted his attention, and Lysimachos’ fished out his handcom.

“Commander Lysimachos,” the black-haired flotilla commander sung out on his small handcom screen, “consider this, you and your crew have seemingly at random been chosen to form part of the escort squadron for HMS Resolute, meaning you’ll be guiding Admiral Lord Hartcastle’s ship into port. I expect you to report to your ship and cast the proverbial anchor within the next fifteen minutes. Escort Lord Hartcastle into Jutland with the dignity he deserves, hubba-hubba.”

“Oh, now she wants to…”

“Leonie, please, shut up!”

Lysimachos closed his handcom, downed the dregs of his beer stein, and Hazard joined him as he rose and saluted Picoletti.

“It was a pleasure to meet you again, Commander Picoletti,” he said, “and I will take what you’ve just said into consideration.”

Picoletti saluted the two as they exited the Quarterdeck venue, and they walked up to the nearest gravlift.

“No rest for the wicked, eh, Sir?” Hazard pointed out.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Lysimachos’ groaned while waiting for the lift to carry the senior officers back on-board onto the Charcharodon, “for the love of the Gods, get fucking creative.”