“Aye, Captain,” Lieutenant-Commander David Arthur said. “Weapons are locked on target.”
And they’ve been locked on target for the last twenty minutes, Stephen thought, wryly. And you wish I hadn’t asked the question.
“All weapons, fire at will,” he ordered. “I say again, fire at will.”
“Aye, sir,” Arthur said.
Stephen braced himself as Invincible opened fire, her massive plasma cannons and mass drivers tearing into the alien structure. The aliens fired back - the virus seemed to be trying to launch missiles from shuttlebays, something Stephen found oddly admirable - but most of their weapons were swept out of space before they managed to get into attack range. Arthur shifted targeting, pounding the alien shuttlebays into scrap. A chain of explosions shook the station, blowing clumps of debris into space. Stephen noted, with a twinge of displeasure, that the alien armour seemed to be holding up very well. Battleships were tough - he’d seen battleships sail into plasma storms without taking serious damage - but the alien station was tougher. It was lucky they’d taken out most of its weapons. He wasn’t sure they’d survive a straight battering match.
But they don’t use this armour on their ships, he mused. Could it be an updated version of the old solid-state armour?
It was an interesting thought. He’d studied Ark Royal during his training, paying close attention when his instructors had outlined the strengths and weaknesses of the century-old design. The Royal Navy’s Old Lady had been tough, incredibly so, but her acceleration curves had been pathetic even when she’d been on the cutting edge of development. It was no wonder that later designs, concentrating more on speed than armour, had cut protection back to the bare bone. And they had been cut to ribbons when they’d encountered a foe armed with plasma weapons.
“Commander Newcomb, detail a pair of shuttles to recover any pieces of alien armour that happen to be intact,” he said, as another chunk of debris was thrown into space. “See what the analysts make of it.”
“Aye, Captain,” Newcomb said. “She’s holding up pretty damn well.”
Stephen nodded. The interior of the alien station was exposed now - he doubted that any of the virus’s host-bodies had survived the holocaust raging through the structure - but it was still trying to fight. The biological computer network must be still intact. It was practically flailing around randomly, yet it was holding up ... he grimaced, wondering what it would be like to go toe-to-toe with an alien battleship. If the enemy ship was escorted by starfighters, the fight would be dangerously uneven ...
The station came apart, showering debris in all directions. Stephen tensed as chunks of rubble flew towards Invincible, a handful targeted and destroyed by the point defence before they could strike the carrier’s hull. Other pieces fell towards the planet below, de-orbiting so rapidly that there was nothing the virus could do to stop them. Stephen felt a stab of sympathy for the natives, none of whom had asked to be turned into alien slaves. Too many of them would die when the debris hit the planet’s surface. He hoped, grimly, that they’d see it as a relief.
Assuming they can even think for themselves, he thought. The reports, the highly-classified reports, had insisted that all higher brain functions were terminated once the virus had completed its conquest of the victim’s body. Stephen supposed that was a relief - at least he’d be dead, instead of trapped helplessly inside his own body as it was controlled by an alien force - but it was still terrifying. The natives might have been brain-dead right from the start.
“Target destroyed,” Arthur reported. “Station Two is attempting to target us with missiles.”
“The point defence can handle them,” Stephen said. There was nothing to be gained by engaging the other two orbital fortresses. He’d cleared the way for the marines - and learnt something useful about alien armour - and there was no point in risking the ship just to smash the remaining defences. They were irrelevant to the overall conflict. “Target the structure on the ground and smash it.”
“Aye, Captain,” Arthur said. A low shudder ran through the ship. “KEW’s away, sir.”
Stephen nodded. There was probably nothing to be gained by blowing up the surface base either, but it was a sitting target ... and besides, who knew? It might impede the enemy in some manner. He wanted to believe that there was a native resistance force on the surface, ready to take advantage of the chaos, but he knew it was unlikely. There was no sense that the natives had had any more awareness of how diseases were transmitted than the humans who’d faced the Black Death. They’d been overwhelmed by a threat they couldn’t even begin to comprehend, a genuine Outside Context Problem. And there was no hope of recovery.
Poor bastards, he thought. I wish there was something we could do for them.
“Captain, the alien aircraft are closing on the shuttle,” Arthur said. “I request permission to engage them.”
Stephen nodded, curtly. The stealth shuttle wasn’t so stealthy when it was boosting through the upper atmosphere. It was a race now, a race to get into orbit before the alien aircraft brought their weapons to bear. A single laser pulse would be enough to do serious damage, even if it didn't blow the shuttle out of the sky. Hell, even an old-style air-to-air missile would be more than enough to bring the marine craft crashing back to the ground. But the marines had an orbital guardian angel. One by one, the enemy craft were picked off and vaporised before they got into firing position.
And so, once again, we learn the importance of keeping command of the high orbitals, Stephen thought. He’d seen the plans for long-term resistance to alien occupation, plans that had been drawn up during the First Interstellar War and hastily revised when the planners had forced themselves to come to terms with the reality of the virus, but none of them had struck him as likely to do more than irritate the occupation force. As long as the occupiers hold the high ground, KEW strikes can eliminate any resistance force stupid enough to mount a major attack on the surface.
“All targets destroyed,” Arthur confirmed.
“The marines are heading towards us,” Newcomb said. “They’re requesting permission to dock.”
“Have them detailed to the quarantine section,” Stephen ordered, as the marine shuttle connected to the datanet and started to upload its records. There was no sense that the craft was under enemy control - the interior sensors were not reporting any trace of the virus - but he had no intention of taking chances. “The marines and the ... remainder of the recon team are to stay there until they are cleared.”
Until we decide if we dare take the risk of letting them rejoin the crew, he added, in the privacy of his own mind. It was a reality he’d known he’d have to face from the moment they’d realised just what the virus did to its hosts. If they’ve been infected, somehow, we may have to kill them if they can’t be cured.
He winced at the thought. The marines had known the risks. The entire crew knew the risks. Stephen had no doubt that most of them would prefer to die, rather than be turned into mindless puppets; hell, if they were mindless puppets, they would be dead long before their bodies were destroyed. But it wasn’t a command he wanted to give, let alone watch as it was carried out. He had no qualms about killing the enemies of Great Britain, let alone the entire human race, yet ... he shook his head. He’d give the order, if there was no other choice. He just hoped he’d be able to live with himself afterwards.
“As soon as the marines dock, take us to Point Galahad,” he said. “Activate the cloaking device as soon as we are out of immediate sensor range.”
“Aye, Captain,” Lieutenant Sonia Michelle said. “They won’t be able to track us.”
Stephen had his doubts. The early reports from the marines had made it clear that they had been tracked ... somehow. And that meant ... what? It was starting to look as though the entire operation had been a waste of time and resources. Taking out the cruisers and the station had been satisfactory, but nothing more. It certainly wasn’t a war-winner. Alien-3 was nothing more than an al
ien transhipment station. They might as well have bombed the handful of depots on Pluto.
He leaned back in his command chair as the marines docked, the drives powering up seconds later. They’d have to go on, sooner rather than later; they’d have to head directly to the next tramline, once they’d broken contact with the alien stations. Sonia was right; the stations wouldn’t be able to track the flotilla once it was out of immediate range. But there was no way to know if the virus had managed to summon help or not. There was no way to hide the simple fact that a starship had managed to sneak into the virus’s rear, not now. Stephen had no doubt that a number of very hard questions would be asked, when they returned home. The only upside was that the virus would either have to waste its time detailing starships to hunt Invincible down or run the risk of the carrier causing havoc in its rear ...
Which it is better placed to judge than ourselves, he thought, coldly. The virus knows what awaits us in Alien-4. We don’t have the slightest idea what to expect.
He studied the display for a long moment. There was nothing to be gained by remaining in Alien-3, not now. The virus couldn't be allowed a chance to trap them in a useless system - or even to get a starship into position to shadow them until larger, more powerful formations arrived. No, they had to press on and hope for the best. The only other alternative was to reverse course and hope they could slip through Alien-1 and return to Falkirk with their mission unfinished.
“Helm, once we have reached Point Galahad, set course for Tramline Two,” he ordered. “Communications, inform the remainder of the flotilla of our intentions and instruct them to accompany us.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Stephen nodded to himself. They hadn’t done badly. The victory would be good for his crew’s morale. They’d pulled the virus’s beard and got away with it. But ... he couldn't allow himself to believe it had been decisive. They’d barely scratched the virus and they knew it. It was easy to imagine his family’s political enemies making capital out of the recon team’s deployment. If it had been a waste of time - worse, something that had revealed their presence for nothing ...
Newcomb caught his eyes. “Captain, I think you should see this,” he said. “Something very interesting happened down on the surface. The marines are assessing it now.”
Stephen met his eyes. “Interesting?”
“Very interesting,” Newcomb confirmed. “You need to see the report now.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“We’re docking with the quarantine section,” Sergeant Radcliffe said. “I trust you all remember how to behave?”
Alice ignored the groan from behind her. There might be some grumbling - the less said about quarantine procedures, the better - but the marines knew to take them seriously. They all knew what had happened to her, on the alien ship they’d encountered on Alien-1; they all knew that the risk of being infected was inherently unpredictable. It was better to go through the procedure, as unpleasant as it was, than gamble that medical science could save them from being turned into yet another set of host-bodies. Alice was still, as far as she knew, the only person to be freed from alien control.
And it never really got into my brain, she reminded herself. I wouldn’t have survived if it had.
The hatch clicked open, revealing an airlock tube filled with bright lights. Alice exchanged a glance with Sergeant Radcliffe, then stood and walked into the tube. It was all she could do to keep her eyes open as the light grew brighter. The combination of strong visible light and ultraviolet light was supposed to kill germs and bacteria, including the virus, but no one was entirely sure. Anything lurking under her skin was safe from being killed. A second hatch opened up in front of her, closing the moment she stepped through. She gritted her teeth, reminded herself that she’d been through worse, and started to undress. The sense of being watched through hidden cameras grew stronger as she stripped, dumping her uniform and facemask in a basket. They’d probably be fed straight into an incinerator. Naked, she stepped through the third hatch - her skin feeling warm as the lights pulsed brighter - and into the examination chamber. She carefully wrapped the sensor bracelet around her wrist and waited. Two doctors wearing bio-protection suits emerged from the other hatch and walked towards her. Alice absently admired their nerve. If she was infected, she could break their necks before anyone outside the chamber could intervene. She wasn’t even restrained!
It felt like hours before the examination was finally completed. The doctors took samples of everything, from blood and urine to hair and skin cells, then forced her to drink a collection of vile-tasting medicines before allowing her to walk through the hatch into the waiting chamber. Alice ignored her nakedness as best as possible, feeling oddly exposed as she met the remainder of the recon team. The marines ignored her - she’d bedded down with them before - but the civvies didn’t know where to look. She cursed the virus under her breath as she found a robe and pulled it on, then sat down and picked up a datapad. She needed to write a full report while the details were still fresh in her mind. God alone knew how much she’d forget if she waited. The smallest detail, it had been drilled into her head time and time again, might be vitally important.
“We’re leaving orbit,” Hammersmith commented, as a low quiver ran through the giant carrier. “Where do you think we’re going?”
“Off to fuck your mother,” Tartar said, sharply. He was rubbing a nasty-looking bruise on his elbow. “I hear she’s ...”
“As you were,” Sergeant Radcliffe said, before a fight could break out. “We’ll be on our way to the next target.”
Alice nodded in agreement, then bent her head over the datapad. She had to record everything, starting with her puzzlement over how the aliens had tracked the recon team to why she’d simply been allowed to leave after they’d caught her. Cold logic insisted they should have killed her on the spot, but ... they’d let her go. She turned the question over and over again in her mind, yet the only answer that made any kind of sense was that the change in her scent had marked her as yet another host-body. It was irrational - and it suggested the virus knew nothing about security - but ... she’d taken part in exercises where she’d had to slip onto secure military bases. Wearing the right uniform and looking like you belonged could get you a very long way.
Hammersmith caught her eye. “How long are they going to keep us here?”
“Are you that desperate for a wank?” Tartar made a rude sound. “Go find a potty and ...”
“Shut up, the pair of you,” Sergeant Radcliffe ordered. “They’ll keep us here until they know we’re clean.”
“But we know we’re clean,” Hammersmith protested. “Sarge ...”
Alice looked up at him. “How would you know?”
The communications console bleeped before Hammersmith could come up with a cutting reply. “Captain Campbell, please go through the hatch into the private compartment.”
“I think this is where you’re supposed to tell Big Brother that you hate us all and want us to die in a fire,” Hammersmith said. “And then they’ll vote you out of the house.”
“I am not going to dignify that stupid comment with a stupid answer,” Alice said, as she stood. Her legs felt stiff, but nothing a little exercise wouldn’t cure. She certainly didn’t feel as wretched as she’d felt when she’d been infected. Hammersmith might well be right. The virus would be weakening their defences by now if it had managed to infect them. “And I’m shocked - shocked - to hear that you watch Big Brother.”
She stepped into the next compartment and closed the hatch. A holographic projection was waiting for her, wavering faintly in the bright light. Alice wasn’t remotely surprised to see Doctor Watson, his hand holding a datapad. She rather suspected that he’d been reading her report as she’d written it, rather than waiting for her to file a cleaned-up version that included all her second and third thoughts. Hammersmith had been more right than he’d known. They were indeed being watched from afar.
“Alice,” Doctor
Watson said. “Do you think they smelled you ... and then let you go?”
“Yes,” Alice said. “No other explanation makes sense.”
She ran through a handful of others, dismissing them one by one. There was no way in hell a humanoid ... well, human ... could be mistaken for an eight-legged alien. The virus couldn’t be that unaware of what the host-bodies looked like, could it? And the infected natives had shown every intention of wanting to capture and infect the recon team, but they hadn’t tried to infect her. The only answer that made sense was that they thought she was already infected and beyond salvation. She had a nasty feeling that she’d been very lucky.
“You may be right,” Doctor Watson said. “What do you think we can do with the knowledge?”
“Use it,” Alice said. “If we could convince the virus we’re all already infected, it might leave us alone.”
Para Bellum Page 27
