Free His Majesty's Starship by Ben Jeapes Page A

metres away, made Krishnamurthy’s skin tingle. He had seen footage of the Rustie vessels. They were a wonder: no fusion flame, no careful balancing of action and reaction, just the playing off of one gravitational force against another. It attracted itself towards this object, repelled itself from that one. He was no spacer but still he felt it was uncanny, watching a ship move so effortlessly. Also off-putting was contrasting the size of the thing visually with the muzziness of its radar echo: its ceramic construction meant it hardly registered.
    They make their ships out of pottery! Doubtless we’ll find out why ...
    “And how is the network going, Subhas?” Krishnamurthy asked. Ranjitsinhji had been so full of his plans to install an agent on every ship that Krishnamurthy had let him go ahead, out of curiosity to see what would happen. The man did have a talent for getting his spies into the strangest places.
    Ranjitsinhji’s face fell. “I regret my initial plan was over-optimistic. I have recruited some agents-”
    “No matter, no matter.” Krishnamurthy turned back to the porthole. “The success of this mission will depend on diplomatic intrigue and the scientific application of military might. It’s all very well to have some obscure, below-decks toilet cleaner in our pay, but what could he actually accomplish? Still, your agents might come in useful one day.”
    “Thank you, Excellency ...”
    Ranjitsinhji trailed off and Krishnamurthy saw his assistant was looking at the still frozen display from his aide.
    “Rustie performance art,” he said by way of explanation. “Place Brave gave me the files and I copied them to you. Have you looked at them yet?”
    “Um-”
    “Fascinating. Truly fascinating. You can learn a lot from their stories of everyday Rusties. I recommend it, Subhas. Now, how long until the delegation fleet leaves?”
    “Twenty three hours, Excellency.”
    Krishnamurthy beamed. “It begins, Subhas. It begins.”

- 7 -
    13-15 April 2149
    There was silence on
Ark Royal
’s flight deck as the countdown to Phase Two entered its final minute. Arm Wild sat in his custom-made Rustie couch, watching. His spectacles-that-weren’t gave him a vaguely owlish look that verged on the comical.
    Peter Kirton had the controls. “Sixty seconds,” he said.
    “Very good,” Gilmore said.
    “Exciting, isn’t it, Captain?” said a voice from the hatch, and Gilmore looked up in horror. Prince James was half in, half out of the flight deck, glancing about with interest; his space sickness appeared to have cleared up. Gilmore looked quickly around to check that there was a spare couch available.
    “Sir, we’re boosting in less than a minute. Strap down!”
    “Oh, don’t worry about me, I’ll hang on here-”
    “You’ll damn well strap down now!”
    The prince’s face grew cold. “Don’t take that tone with me, Captain.”
    Gilmore turned round. “Ms Coyne, make to prideship, ‘Request postponement of boost due to-’”
    “You wouldn’t!” The prince sounded shocked.
    “Forty seconds,” Kirton said.
    Gilmore turned back to the prince. “We’ll be boosting at 1.3 gees. You could hurt yourself badly, so strap down now!”
    “All right, all right,” the prince said. He airswam clumsily to the couch next to Arm Wild, who had been watching the scene without comment but with who knew what thoughts, and strapped in. He was finished just as the countdown reached zero.
    Fusion flames erupted from the sterns of the Earth ships. There was a distant rumble from
Ark Royal
’s own stern – from below.
Ark Royal
had weight again: it was accelerating at a rate of 1.3 Earth-type gravities, which was the gravity of the Roving. It would take getting used to.
    “Convoy status?” Gilmore said.
    “All ships firing as planned, sir,” said Kirton. He was grinning from ear to ear. “All systems are green. We’ll be at the coordinates for Phase Three in three days, thirteen hours, twenty three