He shifted uncomfortably inside his dress uniform as the shuttle settled slowly onto the deck, a dull clunk echoing round the shuttlebay as it landed.  The PR staffers always looked photogenic, something that had puzzled James until he’d realised that they were trying to impress reporters too ignorant or stupid to know that a clean uniform wasn't always the sign of a competent officer.  James had served under one commanding officer who had insisted that his senior officers always wear their dress uniforms, even though regulations only required them for special occasions.  He wondered what had happened to that CO as the shuttle’s hatch opened, revealing the reporters.

They weren't a prepossessing bunch, he decided, as they stumbled out onto the deck.  A couple wore clothes that looked military, at least when seen from a distance, and several more wore khaki jackets that would have been better suited to embedding with the ground forces, rather than the Royal Navy.  The remainder wore a wide variety of civilian clothes, ranging from simple tracksuits to low-cut shirts and miniskirts that would be sure to draw attention from the ship’s crew.  A less professional bunch, James decided, would be hard to find.  Even the entertainers who made their way from starship to starship looked more professional.

He stepped forward, pasting a smile on his face.  His family had taught him how to face the press, although none of their training had covered this exact scenario.  The downside of being born into the aristocracy, he’d been told time and time again, was that everything you did was considered newsworthy.  You could fart in bed, his grandfather had told him, and someone would consider it news.  And while one set of reporters would consider an aristocrat someone to admire, another set would consider him someone to tear down at all costs.  Being in the navy, he'd thought, would preserve him from their particular brand of savagery.  Clearly, he’d been wrong.

“Welcome onboard Ark Royal,” he said, as he surveyed the reporters.  Several of them carried cameras and other forms of recording equipment; he’d have to make sure that none of it interfered with the ship’s systems.  “If you’ll come with me ...?”

He led them through a maze of corridors and into a small briefing compartment.  Two junior crewmen had spent the day transferring all of the boxes of spare parts out of the compartment, just so he could brief the reporters.  He scowled inwardly at the waste of time it represented, even though he knew that neither he nor Captain Smith had been offered a choice.  The reporters had to be humoured, at least until they crossed the line so badly that no one could argue when the Captain threw them into the brig.