Morton fell into step beside him as they left the ward.

  “Are you absolutely sure about that?” she whispered.

  “Webster’s recommended the pair of them for a gallantry award,” he said. “Makes it a little difficult considering their c.o. was one of the ones who didn’t make it back, but I’m sure we can sort something out.”

  “They did do a great job commandeering that enemy shuttle.”

  “The one we nearly shot down.”

  She shouldn’t have been surprised by that particular revelation but for some reason, she was. “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” Faulkner looked mortified. “I’d already given the order. Luckily, Webster had a bit more sense. He was the one who picked up that they were using Morse code to signal for help.”

  “Really?” she’d heard none of this. “How did they manage that?”

  “They’d managed to get their forward blast screens working. Used the light from inside the cabin to signal opening and closing the screens. Dot – dot- dot. Dash – dash – dash. Simple, but it worked.”

  They were back in the reception area and Faulkner’s retinue was getting ready to leave.

  “Well, thank you for showing me around, surgeon captain,” Faulkner’s demeanour was suddenly as stiff as his voice. “You seem to be doing a first-rate job.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she replied, mimicking his stilted delivery.

  Then she stepped in and lowered her voice. “This translator person they brought back, I take it you’ve met him?”

  “I have indeed. He manages to be very chatty without actually saying very much. I’m no expert but I’d be surprised that, after all he’s been through, there wasn’t some deep-seated trauma there somewhere. With your background, I’d appreciate it if you’d speak with him at some point.”

  “I’ll try and set up a session right away.”

  *

  Faulkner returned to the bridge to discover that they were on their final approach to Blackthorn.

  Webster had persuaded him to get some rest while he took the watch. Faulkner hadn’t relished the idea. He didn’t like being alone with his thoughts after losing so many members of his crew. He didn’t want to give himself the opportunity to ponder the integrity of his own decision making – why he had done what he had done and how he might have done things differently. Whether lives might have been saved.

  It was all too easy to get caught up in that kind of thinking but it was a luxury he just couldn’t afford. If he started to question himself now then that might be the end of him as an effective senior officer. As Morton was so fond of reminding him: even the greatest surgeon can’t save everyone. Losses were to be expected but it was his job to ensure that the number of casualties was kept to an absolute minimum.

  Besides, the tech people were still processing all of the data Mackie and his team had been able to send them and he was hoping to be able to check that out. He had a strong sense that what the major had discovered might, in some small way, justify some of their losses.

  The bonus, of course, had been the captured Da’al shuttle. Real tech they could actually lay their hands on. Davitz and his men were poring over it now. The chief engineer had sounded uncharacteristically animated when Faulkner had last spoken to him. It seemed that the aliens had been using some kind of groundbreaking propulsion system. Faulkner hadn’t really understood everything Davitz had said but he had recognised the enormity of what it was they were dealing with. Whether it would be enough to give them the advantage over this new race, this Anjharan Da’al, was yet to be determined.

  Someone had had the foresight to have a tray of sandwiches delivered to his room and, while he found he had no appetite, he thought it might be for the best if he actually ate something. He chose a tuna sandwich and took his time to chew it thoroughly before swallowing. He found the bread bland and cloying, while the filling tasted strangely metallic.

  Then he had gone to lie on his bed. He hadn’t expected to get any sleep and just lay there trying to clear his mind.

  The next thing he knew three hours had passed. Upon stirring, he went to take a shower.

  After changing into a fresh uniform, he felt almost human again. Not completely refreshed, the pain in his back and legs was too stark for that, but he did feel a lot better. And he was excited about returning to the bridge, that was the truth of it. Living in the moment rather than pondering the implications of what it was he was actually meant to be doing.

  When he checked the time, he saw that he was still an hour early for his watch but couldn’t think what else to do with himself.

  Webster started climbing out of the command chair as soon as he appeared. Faulkner signalled for him to stay where he was. It would do Faulkner good to stand up for a little while. His hamstrings were as tight as ever and sitting for long periods only seemed to make them worse.

  Plus, it would be good for the crew to see him up and about. Convince them, perhaps, that he wasn’t such a hopeless cripple after all.

  “There seems to be an awful lot of activity over there,” he observed.

  Most of it centred around the orbiting space station, the sheer size of it intimating the planet’s vast wealth.

  “It’s been like this for the past few hours,” Webster said.

  As well as all the usual commercial craft there were four large passenger cruisers jockeying for a berth complete with their retinue of smaller service craft.

  “Looks like the locals are getting restless,” Faulkner said. “Do they really think that running away is the answer? If the Da’al decide to turn up in force – as we suspect they might – those cruisers are going to be like sitting ducks. Have you spoken with the governor yet?”

  “Not yet. I put a request through a couple of hours ago but, so far, she’s not got back to me.”

  “Perhaps I should give it a try - see how they respond to that.”

  He indicated for the comms officer to make the connection. At this distance there would only be a four second delay in communication.

  “Blackthorn Station,” he paused to ensure that they were hearing him clearly. “This is Captain Robert Faulkner of the USDC ship Mantis. I am currently waiting on a communication from the governor’s office, please confirm.”

  The pause which followed was significantly longer than four seconds.

  “This is Blackthorn, Senator Parek speaking. I am afraid that the governor is very busy at the moment. As we made clear to your commander: the governor will contact you immediately she becomes available.”

  Faulkner looked over at Webster, who was doing well to mask his own frustration.

  “Now hear this, Blackthorn. As the only representative of the fleet currently in this system I am declaring a state of the highest emergency: Black Amber. I repeat: Black Amber. Do you acknowledge, over?”

  It took the official several seconds to collect himself enough to reply.

  “My apologies, Captain. But did you just say Black Amber?”

  “I did indeed. Is there a problem?”

  “Er, no. Only I don’t believe that I have the power to authorise that.”

  “And on that point we are both in agreement, senator. You do not have the authority to declare such an emergency but, as the senior Confederation officer operating in this system, I do. I am not asking for your permission, senator, only your cooperation. Now, I’d like you to consult your own emergency protocols. Do you have those to hand?”

  There was the sound of someone scurrying about.

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  Faulkner nodded. “Good. Then you should be able to see the Black Amber decal. Directly underneath that is a box marked: Enable. I’d like you to activate that box, please, senator.”

  “I’m not sure …”

  “Don’t worry, nothing terrible is going to happen.” He waited a moment before continuing. “Now have you done that?”

  “Yes. I have.”

  “Good. And now it’s asking you for a long chain of serial numbers you don’t have access to. So we’re just going to transfer those across…”

  “Oh, just a moment, captain, I just need to …”

  The senator was cut off, to be replaced by a more assured woman’s voice.

  “Captain Faulkner, is that right?”

  Faulkner arched his eyebrows. “That is correct. And who is this?”

  “This is Sigrid Ardent, Governor of Blackthorn Station. I believe you wanted to speak with me.”

  “Several hours ago, perhaps. But things have deteriorated since then. I fear our warnings may have come too late.”

  “Warning? What warnings?”

  “I take it that you were aware of the two hostile vessels that have only recently left your system?”

  “Of course I was aware of them. But they’ve been dealt with now. The danger’s passed. There’s certainly no need to declare a state of emergency. Did you stop to consider what impact that would have on our system? What state you’d leave us in?”

  “I am fully aware, governor. All civil aerospace flights would be grounded. A communication blackout would immediately come into force. All military craft would come under my direct command. Do I need to go on?”

  “Do you have any idea what would happen if you grounded all our ships? What would that mean for trade? For our partners within the system?”

  “As I said, governor, I’m well aware of the seriousness of the situation. But my priority is to ensure the safety of the people on your station, and that is what I intend to do.”

  “But why? You’ve dealt with the problem. A couple of pirate ships thought they’d push their luck. See what they could get away with. Happily, you were here to intervene: destroyed one while the other two simply ran for the hills. A very agreeable outcome.”

  “Governor, with respect, I believe that you have fundamentally misunderstood the severity of the situation we are facing. That enemy frigate may well have ‘run for the hills’, as you put it, but it did so for a very good reason.”

  They could hear her engaging in a muted conversation off mic.

  “Alright captain, I’m listening.”

  “We’re not simply dealing with pirates here. We believe that they represent the vanguard of an - as yet - unknown alien force calling themselves the Anjharan Da’al. We have reason to believe that their main force is currently located on the other side of the Felicity Gate and that they have now been alerted to our presence. We estimate that we have a little over eighteen hours before that force begins to enter the Allegra System and we can only guess how long before they come within range of your facility. We need to use that time to get our defences in order. Do you think you can work with me on that Governor Ardent?”

  The threat was unspoken but it was there. If Ardent refused, under the auspices of Black Amber, Faulkner had the authority to remove her from office. But if that were to happen then it would mark the end of two careers: Ardent’s and Faulkner’s.

  And both of them knew it.

  After an extended pause, Ardent’s voice came back over the speaker. She was struggling to keep the exasperation out of her voice.

  “Very well, Captain Faulkner, I think we can pull something together – so long as there’s no further talk of authorising Black Amber.”

  Faulkner wanted to press his advantage but somehow his inner diplomat managed to prevail.

  “Very well, Governor. I’ll leave it to your discretion.”

  “Thank you, captain. I’m glad we agree on something.”

  Faulkner said nothing, a strange smile playing over his lips.

  MAN OF WAR

  Book 2

  R.L. Giddings

  ©R.L. Giddings

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Faulkner struggled with the last few buttons on his dress shirt. It had taken him the better part of an hour to struggle into his dress blues, his shirt sticking to his back from his exertions. As captain his quarters were more than generous, but that didn’t make this particular task any easier to perform, his injuries meaning that he couldn’t lift his arms above his head. What he really needed, he fancied, was a butler of some sort. Someone who -under the guise of laying-out his uniform - could help him get dressed in the morning. It was never going to happen of course – but he could dream.

  Though his right leg was still poker stiff, he could just about manage to pull on his trousers himself but his shirt and jacket had proven far more challenging. He had to twist himself into positions that would make a contortionist blush just to get his arms into their sleeves. His shattered left scapula meant that his shoulder pulled far enough forward to give him a slightly hunched profile which the cut of his jacket was meant to disguise. The privations he had suffered as a prisoner of war meant that his left arm would never be straight again. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the fingers of his right hand were little more than inflexible claws.

  On the work camps of Rhagul, where he had been held for several years, the nights had been freezing cold while the days had been baking hot. Water had been at a premium and the guards hadn’t been inclined to waste it on their prisoners. Faulkner had quickly learned that the only way to survive was to wake up before dawn to dig a thin trench in the ground. As the sun warmed the soil, enough moisture would accumulate to sustain him for the rest of the morning. But, with no tools at his disposal, he had been forced to transform his right hand into a shovel.

  And a shovel isn’t something you need when attempting to fasten fine pearl buttons.

  Still, he nearly had it now, he was sure of it. He twisted his head to one side, ignoring the cords of pain which arced through his neck as he fumbled for the buttonhole. But then, as he turned to check his handiwork in the mirror, he saw that the button was still not fastened.

  Why do I bother, he thought? I’ll just wait for Morton. Those surgeon’s fingers of hers will make short work of this.

  When she appeared at his door a few minutes later, he didn’t need to say anything. He simply lifted his chin.

  Morton secured the button in an instant before setting about adjusting his necktie.

  “Anything else I can help you with,” she said, as she brushed down the front of his jacket.

  Apart from the cut, there was nothing extraordinary about it. What did set it apart though was the insignia at his collar which suggested that as well as commanding his own ship, he had the seniority to command other ships of the fleet also.

  “No, I’m fine, thank you, doctor.”

  When he finally realised what was wrong with her appearance he leaned away, as if suddenly wary of her.

  “Why aren’t you dressed?”

  She was wearing her khaki scrubs over a white t-shirt, her arms looking tanned and strong.

  “I’m not coming, Robert. Something’s come up.”

  Faulkner set his lips in a thin line.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  The shuttle would be arriving from Blackthorn Station in less than an hour and he couldn’t go alone. He needed someone by his side who he could trust. Morton had to accompany him – her presence was the only thing that would make this whole trip bearable. He couldn’t say as much, of course, but he hoped that she would have realised what his intentions were when he’d invited her in the first place.

  He chose not to say anything, for fear he might come across as sounding angry. No, he’d leave it up to her to explain.

  This was something he’d been working on of late– the golden pause. If you could hold it long enough and resist the urge to fill the silence yourself, he found that people would often volunteer all kinds of information.

  “You remember those two men who risked their necks on that rail gun?”

  “Of course,” how could he forget? Their contribution to the battle with the Da’al ship had invariably saved the day. Now, however, he struggled to recall their names. “Rodgers of course, and the other one… Isaaksen, was it?”

  “Johansson.”

  “They were both suffering from radiation poisoning.”

  “That’s right.”

  Faulkner nodded. As Surgeon Captain, both men would come under Morton’s direct care.

  “Is there a problem?” he said.

  “I’m worried about Johansson. His bone density is fine but we’ve given him a course of radiation cleansing therapy but he’s not responding as I’d like.”

  A long moment passed between them.

  Faulkner said, “You have to do whatever you see fit.”

  “Of course,” she scanned the room, her eyes lingering on the duffel bag lying on the floor. “Is that all you’re taking? Nothing else you’re likely to need? A ceremonial sword perhaps?”

  “I’ll only be gone a couple of days,” he said, ignoring her attempt at humour. “And I won’t need much of anything while I’m down there.”

  He bent down awkwardly and retrieved his bag from the floor. “Though I would appreciate it if you’d walk with me. At least to the docking bay.”

  That’s where he’d arranged to meet with his diplomatic team. He was secretly hoping that Morton would stick around long enough to make the introductions.

  The corridors were relatively quiet. After their encounter with the Da’al, ship security had been stepped down in order to give the crew a much-needed break, but there was still plenty to do as the Mantis approached Blackthorn.