Ark Royal

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“Commodore?”

Commodore Sir Theodore Smith opened his eyes and glared at his wristcom, lying where he’d left it on his bedside table. His mouth tasted foul, reminding him that he’d drunk several pints of ship-brewed rotgut before staggering into his bunk and going to bed. The ship’s doctor would probably want a few words with him later; regulations might not frown on officers and crewmen drinking when they weren't on duty, but ship-brewed alcohol wasn't always healthy.

“Yes,” he growled, pushing the thought aside. God, he needed a drink. “What is it?”

“There's a priority-one message from the Admiralty,” Midshipwoman Lopez said. There were times when Ted wondered just who the young woman had pissed off at Portsmouth Naval Training Base. Ark Royal was no posting for an ambitious and capable young officer. “They request your immediate presence at Nelson Base.”

Ted blinked in surprise. He'd always had the impression that Nelson Base preferred to forget that Ark Royal — and her drunkard of a commander — existed. They were an embarrassment, a relic of Britain’s first step into interstellar power. If Ark Royal hadn't been famous, she would probably have been broken up for scrap or sold to a third-rate power by now. And if Ted hadn't been a drunkard, he might have been promoted to Admiral.

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