Free His Majesty's Starship by Ben Jeapes

We’ll get him to the ring. Give me a hand, Mr Kirton. Leave the prince’s baggage here, we’ll get it stowed later ...”
    It took another hour before everything was properly sorted out, and twenty minutes of that were taken up by
Britannia
being unable to give
Ark Royal
clearance to disengage. The clanging again went on for a very long time. Did the king really travel in that ship? Gilmore wondered. Did he have any idea of what a shower they were? It surprised him; he had always thought better of
Britannia
’s crew.
    At long last, the two ships were apart.
Britannia
backed off from
Ark Royal
and slowly turned away, orienting herself to boost down the arc back to UK-1. Gilmore watched her receding blip on the radar screen with relief.
    “Right!” he said, and rubbed his hands. This was finally it. Finally it, after all this waiting. “Ms Coyne, plot an arc to join the delegation fleet. Half-gee boost.”
    “Aye aye, sir.”
    Gilmore rubbed his hands together again and fought back a grin as the manoeuvring bell sounded. No more preparation, no more supplies to secure, no more last-minute worry.
    They were on their way to join the delegation.
    *
    The pinging noise interrupted the reverie of His Excellency R.V. Krishnamurthy of the Department of Diplomatic Affairs, Government of the Confederation of South-East Asia (or Greater India, as he preferred to call it), and he froze the display on his aide to answer the call. “Yes?”
    “Excellency.” In the wall display
Shivaji
’s captain, Surit Amijee, bowed slightly. “We’ve reached the rendezvous point.”
    “Thank you, Captain.” Amijee’s image vanished and Krishnamurthy stood up to look out of the porthole in the floor of his stateroom. All he could see was black beyond the port and his own reflection. But it was the rendezvous point for the delegation fleet.
    “Phase One,” he murmured. The countdown to Phase Two, in which the ships would travel to the point where the Rusties said they would ‘step-through’ between solar systems, was beginning. He felt an uncharacteristic surge of excitement. Excitement was something he tried not to feel – it clouded one’s judgement – but under the circumstances, perhaps he could allow himself this little luxury.
    Because he had been the mover behind this whole scheme. He had stuck his neck out, insisting that the Confederation be represented on the delegation. He had laid out the case for why the Confederation had to have a space presence. There was a lot riding on this mission, as Manohar Chandwani had made so clear the last time they saw each other.
    Well, he had eventually got his message across, though it had made him a whole fresh new crop of enemies in Delhi. Once he had got approval for his plan it had been put into operation in a very short space of time:
Shivaji
and various other items bought from the Confederation’s allies; a crew (all citizens, Chandwani had said: all Indians, he had made sure) gathered together from other space companies. He shuddered.
Shivaji
wasn’t the only ship on the delegation to be purchased or borrowed to meet the Rusties’ requirements, but still it was humiliating.
    The door chime sounded. “Come,” he said. It slid open and Krishnamurthy had a brief glimpse of the dark green uniforms of his NVN guards outside before they were eclipsed by an eager Secretary Subhas Ranjitsinhji.
    “Excellency,” said Ranjitsinhji. “We’ve reached the rendezvous point.”
    “Thank you, Subhas. Captain Amijee has already apprised me of the situation in, I believe, precisely those words.” Ranjitsinhji kept his face still, trying not to look disappointed. I don’t believe it, Krishnamurthy thought. He wanted to be the one to tell me and now he’s upset. Krishnamurthy pretended not to notice. “Who else is here?”
    “Apart from the Rustie ship, four others,” Ranjitsinhji said.
    The Rustie ship. The prideship. The nearness of that triumph of alien technology, just a few hundred