At least we took out their shipyard, he thought. It will be a long time before they can resume the offensive ...
***
Pavel cursed under his breath as the alien fleet closed on Invincible. Dezhnev was amongst them, shielded by her fellows ... he wondered, savagely, if the aliens were deliberately taunting him. It was hard to believe that the virus wasn’t mocking them, exposing the infected ship to his fire and then yanking Dezhnev back before she could be targeted and destroyed. The virus had learnt a great deal from the captured ship, he noted. It had improved its point defence quite significantly over the last few months.
And if they had a chance to copy the datacores, they know everything about the human sphere, Pavel thought. The scale of the disaster was almost beyond comprehension. The virus would know where to find everything from naval bases to shipyards, industrial nodes and population centres. It wouldn’t need to waste time surveying the tramlines and feeling their way towards Earth. Mother Russia cannot allow the truth to come out, not now. It would be the end.
“Put us between Invincible and her foes,” he ordered, sharply. The carrier was streaming plasma as well as atmosphere. Cold logic suggested he should alter course and escape - Yuriy Ivanov could evade the alien ships if she didn’t have to keep station with Invincible - but he couldn’t abandon the carrier. Besides, it would give him the best chance of finally taking out the infected ship. “Target the incoming ships and fire.”
The aliens didn’t slow down as they closed on Invincible. They didn’t even pay much attention to Yuriy Ivanov, save for spitting a handful of plasma bolts in her direction as the range closed. The damage started to mount up rapidly. Pavel realised, grimly, that the virus knew precisely where to target its weapons. It might be determined to ram the carrier, just to make sure the carrier was actually destroyed, but it was weakening his ship. Dezhnev and her companions might just manage to get into ramming range after all.
The lights dimmed, just for a second. “Direct hit, port drive node,” the tactical officer snapped. Another shudder ran through the ship. “Fusion One is offline.”
“Offline?” The zampolit sounded terrified. “What do you mean, offline?”
“Shift to emergency power mode,” Pavel said, strapping himself to his chair. The gravity wouldn’t last much longer. Theoretically, Yuriy Ivanov could fly and fight on a single power core; practically, he suspected that it wouldn’t be long before he lost Fusion Two and found himself trying to power his ship on batteries. “Tactical ...”
“Sir, Dezhnev is closing to ram Invincible,” the tactical officer said. “She’ll hit the carrier and take her out.”
“Good,” the zampolit said.
Pavel hesitated. Dezhnev would be destroyed too, ensuring that all evidence of Russia’s misbehaviour would be lost. The other Great Powers might suspect, but they’d have no solid proof. He didn’t have to do anything. No one would question the infected ship breaking through the flotilla’s defences, such as they were, and slamming into the carrier. Yuriy Ivanov had done all she reasonably could ...
... But the carrier could be repaired, given time. Yuriy Ivanov could be replaced fairly quickly, if the navy thought it was worth building more of her class. Invincible, on the other hand, could not. And besides, any questions about Russia’s involvement would be buried forever if Yuriy Ivanov gave her life to save Invincible ...
“Move to intercept,” Pavel ordered. He ignored the zampolit’s squawk of horror as the wretched little man realised they were all about to die. “Ramming speed.”
“Aye, Captain,” the helmsman said. “Intercept in five ... four ...”
***
Yuriy Ivanov slammed into Dezhnev, bare seconds before she could strike Invincible. Both ships exploded, violently. There were no survivors.
***
“Captain, Yuriy Ivanov rammed Dezhnev,” Arthur reported. “Both ships are gone.”
Stephen sucked in his breath. “And the remainder of the enemy fleet?”
“Breaking off, on escape vector,” Alison said. “They’re not even trying to engage as they pass.”
“I think we won,” Newcomb said, quietly.
“Barely,” Stephen said. They’d survived through sheer luck - and Captain Kaminov’s sacrifice. The Russian had been very reserved, even after the heat of combat had forged the flotilla into a single unit, but he’d given his life for Invincible. He promised himself, silently, that the Russians would be remembered. “Shut down the drives and recall the remaining fighters, then hold position. We’ll need to beg for help from the fleet base.”
“I'm sure they’ll send us everything we need,” Newcomb said.
“Perhaps,” Stephen said. It would take months, even in a shipyard, to restore Invincible to fighting trim. Admiral Weisskopf would want to focus on ships that could be repaired fairly quickly first. “They might just give us a tow back to Earth.”
“Captain,” Morse said. “Admiral Weisskopf is hailing you.”
“Put him through,” Stephen ordered.
Admiral Weisskopf’s dark face appeared in front of him. “Captain,” he said. “Thank you for your intervention. Your arrival saved us from a very tight situation indeed.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” Stephen said. The analysts would spend the next few months trying to determine, rather pointlessly in his opinion, if Invincible’s arrival had been truly decisive or not. Admiral Weisskopf might have won the battle on his own. “That said, we do know the virus had other ships at its disposal.”
“It would be surprising if it did not,” Admiral Weisskopf said. He turned his gaze towards his tactical display. “We may face another attack within hours.”
“Yes, sir,” Stephen said.
“I’ll do what I can for your ship,” Admiral Weisskopf said. “But I think the best we can do is send you straight home.”
“I guessed as much,” Stephen said. “Did the captured ship come through?”
“It did,” Admiral Weisskopf said. “And there will be a lot of prize money when you get back home.”
Stephen kept his face impassive. There was enough money in his trust fund to keep him from being poor, even if he never worked another day in his life. It had been a shock to discover that some of his fellow cadets at the academy actually had to work for a living. He made a mental note to turn down his share of the prize money, even though he was technically entitled to a goodly share. His crew would find a far better use for it.
And I don’t want them praying for wounds to be distributed like prize money either, he thought, wryly. The old joke had made a comeback along with prize money itself. That would be awkward.
“I’ll speak with you again, before you go,” Admiral Weisskopf said. “I will probably need to discuss your report with you at some point. I have a feeling it will make interesting reading. And, if we don’t have a chance to meet in person, please know that you have my gratitude.”
“Thank you, sir,” Stephen said. “It was a pleasure.”
Admiral Weisskopf’s face vanished from the display. “Commander Newcomb,” Stephen said. “Begin preparations to return to Earth.”
“Aye, sir.”
Chapter Forty
The house looked as if it had come right out of an urban soap opera, complete with the neatly-trimmed garden, the knee-high wall, metal gate and neighbourhood watch sign hanging from the window. It was the sort of place, Richard thought, that would be very warm and welcoming to any newcomers, as long as they were the right sort of people with the right sort of attitudes. Any strangers in the area would be quickly noted - he was sure he’d spotted curtains twitching as they’d pulled up outside the house - and anyone who stayed too long might find themselves being asked pointed questions by the police. It was safe enough, but it wasn’t the sort of place he would have wanted to grow up. There was something faintly sinister about the suburb.
The men go off to work and the women compete amongst themselves, he thought, as he climbed out of the car. The
air was fresh and clear. He could hear the sound of schoolchildren playing in the nearby park. And the children know better than to put a foot out of line.
“Nice place,” Monica said. She stretched, brushing down her dress whites. “But a little too drab for me.”
Richard nodded, curtly. The houses were all practically identical. There were no major differences, as far as he could tell, and only a handful of minor ones. It was easy to believe that someone was busy dictating everything from the precise length of the grass to exactly how many kids each couple could have, even though it sounded stupid. Maybe the residents were too scared to express their individuality. Or maybe they were just boring middle-class couples who lacked the money and freedom to make a splash.
He opened the gate and led the way up to the front door, feeling a twinge of nervousness as he noted the black ribbon in the front window. That was unique, but no one would have dared complain about it. Someone had died, someone had died serving their country. No one, not even the prissiest social climber in the region, would bitch and moan about remembering the dead. The community would have rallied around the survivors and the local church would probably have already held a remembrance service, even if the dead woman hadn’t been a member. It was the right thing to do.
The door opened as he approached, revealing an older dark-skinned woman with penetrating black eyes. Richard felt a pang of sympathy for her, one that had nothing to do with the loss of a child. It couldn’t have been easy, growing up in Middle England with dark skin and mixed-race children. She would have found the locals looking sideways at her, at least until she proved herself. It had been nearly two hundred years since the Troubles, but social attitudes died hard. The hell of it was that Mrs Alibis’s family had been loyalists for generations.
“Mrs Alibis?” Richard hesitated, unsure what to say. “I was your daughter’s commanding officer. I came to pay my respects.”
“Aye, you’d better come in,” Mrs Alibis said. She stepped aside, inviting them to cross the threshold. “I’m glad someone came.”
“Captain Shields may be able to visit later,” Richard said. The family would have been visited by the military’s bereavement service, but none of the visitors would have known Samra Alibis personally. “However, he has been very busy.”
“So I heard,” Mrs Alibis said. She led them into a small sitting room. A large picture of Samra, draped in black, rested on the mantelpiece. Beside it, there were a pair of newspaper clippings. One honoured Samra, one honoured Captain Lady Susan Onarina. “Would you like tea? Or coffee?”
“Tea would be lovely,” Richard said, as he sat on the sofa and looked around. The room felt a little too formal to be real. There was nothing within sight that suggested that the family was anything other than English. “I wanted to express our condolences.”
“That would be nice,” Mrs Alibis said, as she stepped into the kitchen. There was a hard edge to her voice. “Can you bring her back to life?”
Richard said nothing, honestly unsure how to proceed. Beside him, Monica shifted uncomfortably. He thought he knew what he could have said to a friend’s parents or partner, but a grieving mother? What could one say to make the pain go away? Nothing came to mind. Samra had been a much-loved daughter, not a monster. It was unfair to expect her mother to be anything, but saddened about Samra’s death.
“She was the life and soul of the party,” Monica said, as Mrs Alibis returned with three china cups of tea. “She was a good pilot and we had high hopes for her.”
Mrs Alibis’s lips thinned. “She wanted to find a place of her own,” she said. She jerked a finger towards the wall. “The prats in school always gave her a hard time, just for being a little different. She thought the navy would give her a better chance at life. And it did, until she died.”
“She will be remembered,” Richard said.
“Maybe,” Mrs Alibis said. “My husband is dead. I have no more children. And all I can do is sit here and wait to die. I had hoped ...”
She looked down at the carpet, hiding her eyes. “I had hoped ... I urged her to get married, but she kept saying no. All those suitable boys ... she didn’t like them. She wanted to be a captain, she said. Or maybe she’d go to one of the colony worlds, where willing hands are more important than skin colour and anything else. And instead, she’s dead.”
Richard shifted, awkwardly. “She might well have saved the ship.”
“Hah,” Mrs Alibis said. “I read the newspaper reports, young man. She died for nothing.”
“I wouldn’t believe anything written in the newspapers,” Richard said, making a mental note to check on what the reporters had actually said. There hadn’t been any reporters assigned to Invincible, as far as he knew. It was pretty much a guarantee that whoever had written the story didn’t have the slightest idea what had really happened. “I was there. She died bravely and well.”
Mrs Alibis looked up at him. “Why didn’t you die in her place?”
Richard had no answer. No, he did have an answer, but it would be no comfort to a grieving mother. Samra had lacked experience. She’d lacked instincts that could only be developed through real combat. And while she’d done well in simulations, she had never been truly tested until she’d taken her starfighter into combat for the first time. She had never developed the edge that would have kept her alive.
He found himself unsure what to say, torn between the urge to stay and a growing desire to simply leave. What could he say? He would have traded his life for Samra’s without a second thought, but that wasn’t an option. Perhaps, he admitted privately, he would be less willing to consider it if it was an option.
“She died for nothing,” Mrs Alibis said. “And all I have to look forward to is dying alone.”
“I wish I could offer you something better,” Richard said. “But there’s nothing we can do.”
“I hope it was worth it,” Mrs Alibis said. “You got the ship home, didn’t you?”
“We did,” Richard said. He took a breath. “We would have died without her, Mrs Alibis. And that’s the truth.”
“I hope so,” Mrs Alibis said. She cleared her throat, loudly. “Was there anything else?”
“Just this,” Richard said. He was surprised at Mrs Alibis’s rudeness, but he didn’t really blame her. “What do you want to do with her share of the prize money?”
Mrs Alibis blinked. “Prize money?”
“Samra was entitled to a share of the prize money ... ah, for something classified,” Richard said. He’d been warned not to discuss the captured alien ship with anyone, at least until the Great Powers decided what they wanted to tell the media. “Technically, it should go to you as her next-of-kin and ...”
“Oh,” Mrs Alibis said. She paused. “Keep it. Give it to the survivors. Or charity. Or pocket it yourself. I don’t care. I just don’t want it.”
“Understood,” Richard said. “Unclaimed prize money goes to a military charity, normally. I can have the papers sent to you ...”
“Do it yourself,” Mrs Alibis said. “And now ...”
Richard took the hint and stood. “Thank you for seeing us,” he said. “And if there’s ever anything I can do for you ...”
“Unless you can bring back my daughter, I doubt there’s anything you can do for me.” Mrs Alibis let out a shuddering gasp. “But thank you for coming. I know you meant well.”
And that, Richard reflected as they made their way back to the car, sounded more like a curse than anything reassuring.
“Three more names to visit,” Monica said. “Are you sure you want to go?”
“No,” Richard said. “But we owe it to them, don’t we?”
***
“You’ll be pleased to hear that the girls are well,” Jeanette Campbell said. Her holographic image paced the compartment. “And my husband is well too.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Alice said, dryly. She didn't dislike her sister’s husband, but she’d never really liked him either. “I’d come d
own if I could.”
“Yeah,” Jeanette said. “About that ... is there a reason you can’t come down? Because they had a big ceremony in London for that Russian dude and Captain Shields was there ...”
“I had my duties,” Alice said. The doctors had advised her not to tell any civvy about the infection. It would only upset people, particularly now the infection was very definitely dead. “I couldn’t get permission to go down to the ceremony.”
“A shame,” Jeanette said. She giggled, but Alice knew her sister well enough to fear she knew the truth. Jeanette was not stupid. “And father sends his regards.”
“I'm sure he does,” Alice said. She shook her head. “Tell him that I still don’t want to talk to him.”
Para Bellum Page 40
