Ted had never set foot in Westminster Abbey.  Not as a schoolchild, not as a tourist and not as a naval officer.  But now ... he settled uncomfortably on his seat, wishing desperately for drink, as the service for the dead droned on.  The Admiralty had surrendered to the political desire to honour the dead in Westminster Abbey ... he shook his head, cursing the politicians under his breath.  Surely, the dead deserved better than this farce of a ceremony.

He looked around, feeling oddly out of place among the brass.  It seemed that every officer above the rank of Commodore had been summoned to the Abbey, along with thousands of politicians, celebrities and reporters.  The latter were baying for blood – or newsworthy quotes – outside the Abbey, calling out to everyone they saw for something they could record and put on the datanet.  Ted would have preferred to face the aliens again, rather than the reporters.  At least the aliens would only have killed him, rather than dissecting his career, reputation and appearance.

It took nearly an hour before the service finally came to an end.  By that time, Ted was praying desperately for something – anything – to break the monotony.  Everyone from the Prime Minister to the First Space Lord seemed to have something to say, even though most of it consisted of useless platitudes.  Ted wished he could make his escape as soon as the end came, but he knew better.  There was a reception being held immediately after for Ark Royal’s senior officers.  It would be hellish.

He glanced down at his terminal as the PM left the Abbey, followed by a stream of senior officers.  There was a security alert at the top; apparently, thousands of additional reporters were pressing against the police barricades, even though they all had access to the live feed from within the Abbey.  But that wouldn’t be the same, Ted knew, as catching someone in the act of doing something embarrassing.  Or recording something that could be taken out of context and then turned into a weapon.  It struck him, not for the first time, that it had probably been reporters who had arranged for a ban on duelling.  They would have found themselves challenged repeatedly, otherwise.

Outside, the baying of the reporters grew louder as he followed the First Space Lord out of the Abbey and down towards a set of white cars.  They shouted and screamed, begging for him to turn and look at them, or answer their questions, no matter how absurd they were.  Ted kept his face as expressionless as possible, sighing in relief the moment he climbed into the car and shut the door.  After having his character alternatively praised and assassinated, he would be happy if he never saw any reporter ever again.