The Right of the Line

by Christopher Nuttall

  He almost stopped - dead - when he realised she’d led him to the briefing room. He’d forgotten ... he glared at her back as she walked into the compartment, struggling to resist the urge to turn and run. A debriefing ... of course there would be a fucking debriefing. His thoughts ran in circles, remembering the days when debriefing had meant something very different. It might be almost preferable to the debriefing. His lips twitched. A giggle almost escaped. Captain Shields would have a lot to say about the other kind of debriefing, none of it good. Starfighter pilots had a lot of latitude, but not that much.

  The pilots still looked cheerful as he strode into the briefing room. Richard felt a surge of hatred, mingled with envy and a grim awareness that their cheer would soon be gone. It wouldn’t be long before it dawned on them, if it hadn’t already, that five of their comrades were gone. They would never be seen again. Richard would have to clear out their lockers, box up their possessions and ... he bit his lip, once again. He would do it. He would carry out his duty until he could carry it out no longer. He would not let his people down.

  He tapped the podium for attention. “That was our first real engagement,” he said. The pilots looked back at him, their expressions sobering as they realised what it meant. They’d popped their cherries, alright. It was the morning after now. “We were lucky.”

  A low murmur ran through the compartment. Richard ignored it.

  “There were no enemy starfighters,” he said. “We don’t know why.”

  “They could be off trashing Earth right now,” someone said. “Or ...”

  Richard glared him into silence and continued. “We lost five of our fellows breaking through their point defence,” he said. “Five pilots are dead ... and more will follow. It would have been a great deal harder if we’d faced enemy starfighters. I will be saying that time and time again. It would have been a great deal harder if we’d faced enemy starfighters.”

  He wondered, morbidly, how many of his pilots would truly get it. They felt themselves invincible. The deaths might shake them, or they might not. Richard had lost count of how many of the youngsters had died simulated deaths. The simulations were good, almost too good. It was easy to come to believe that death meant nothing more than restarting the simulation.

  “We will discuss the engagement endlessly tomorrow,” he added. “By then, the tactical staff will have analysed everything we did. They’ll tell us, with the benefit of hindsight, everything we did wrong. Until then ... those of you assigned to the reserve, go get some sleep. The rest of you, grab a shower and wait in the ready room. We could be attacked again at any moment.”

  He took a moment to survey the room. It was sinking in now, he saw. The confident faces were slowly darkening as they realised - finally - that anyone could die. Richard found himself wondering who would be the next to die. An American? A German? An Italian? Or perhaps one of his own pilots? He kicked himself, mentally, a second later. They were all his pilots. He had to take care of them.

  His hands started to shake again. He clasped them behind his back.

  “If you have questions, we’ll address them later,” he concluded. “Dismissed.”

  Monica caught his eye as the compartment emptied. “What now?”

  Richard glanced at the duty roster. Technically, Vargas was the duty officer, but Vargas and his squadron were sitting in the launch tubes, ready to catapult themselves into space at a moment’s notice. Someone else would have to command the ready fighters. Monica? She was the best candidate. He knew he couldn’t take command himself.

  “You’ll take command of the ready fighters,” he said. “I need to catch some sleep.”

  “A good idea,” Monica said, tonelessly. “You look terrible.”

  “Probably,” Richard said. He tried to smile. He had the feeling it looked more like a grimace. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Later,” Monica echoed.

  Richard nodded, then forced himself to turn and stumble down the corridor to his tiny cabin. It was growing harder and harder to think clearly ... no, he knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. His mind kept going back to the warnings attached to packets of military-grade stimulants. In theory, they could be used constantly; in practice ... it wasn’t advised. The long-term effects could be disastrous. Addiction was the least of them. He shuddered, remembering the drug rehabilitation clinics he’d been told about at school. The addicts were treated like criminals. They even had permanent blots on their records.

  And they weren’t endangering anyone but themselves, he told himself as he opened the hatch and stepped inside. They were still treated for drug abuse.

  He sighed as he lay down on the bed. He wanted - he needed - another stim. He could feel the craving gnawing at him, insisting - demanding - that he take another. And another. He cursed his own mistake as he closed his eyes. One stim was harmless. Two ... three ... they were probably harmless too. But how many had he taken? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.

  His body was tired. His mind even more so. But it still felt like hours before he finally fell asleep.

  ***

  “A fascinating engagement,” Admiral Zadornov said, as her holoimage sipped a glass of tea. “And really quite revealing.”

  Stephen took a sip of his own tea. “Yes, Admiral,” he said. “If they were prepared to arm a relatively small squadron with so many missiles ...”

  He didn’t have to finish the sentence. He’d read the reports from the tactical analysts. They might have used five words where one would do, and added so many caveats that it was sometimes hard to follow their logic, but in general they agreed with his conclusions. The human race was in deep shit.

  “They might well have been trying to close the range when we spotted them,” he said, quietly. “Or they might have been trying to gather intelligence.”

  “My spooks” - Svetlana smiled, coldly - “think it was the latter. The virus has every interest in knowing what reinforcements are being sent up the chain. And how we might react to threats.”

  She studied her tea thoughtfully. “Any normal enemy would have learned a great deal from our reaction,” she mused. “But what did the virus learn?”

  “We have to assume the worst,” Stephen said. “They might well have figured out the gaps in our defences. We came very close to taking a direct hit or two.”

  He took another sip of his tea. It was standard operating procedure, in peacetime, to deny potential enemies any insights into the full capabilities of military technology. It wasn’t uncommon for a cloaked ship to be spotted, then ignored as long as it didn’t move closer ... in hopes of convincing the ship’s crew that they hadn’t been detected at all. There were ships and technologies, Stephen knew, that had never been shown to humanity’s alien allies. He believed - quite firmly - that the aliens, allied or not, did the same. It was never easy to forge ties with non-human races. Who knew what incident would lead to another war?

  But such niceties couldn’t be tolerated in wartime. Someone was probably going to argue - Stephen was sure someone would argue - that he should have let his ship be hit a couple of times, rather than reveal the full capabilities of his point defence weapons and sensor arrays. It was the kind of absurd concept he’d expect from an armchair admiral, the kind of idiot who’d assume there was long-term advantage to be gained from short-term vulnerability. Stephen knew better. A single hit in the wrong place might cripple - or destroy - his ship. Invincible was tough, but not that tough. He wouldn’t risk taking a hit if there was any other alternative. No sane commanding officer would do otherwise.

  “And they may be able to take advantage of what they learned,” Svetlana said. “Of course, it would be hard to tell what they already know ...”

  “Unfortunately true,” Stephen agreed. “They’ve had plenty of opportunities to watch our hardware in operation.”

  And someone will argue that we showed them something they didn’t already know, his thoughts added. Backbiting was disturbingly common in government.
And no one will ever be able to prove otherwise.

  Svetlana waved her hand, dismissing the subject. “We will continue on our course to Zheng He,” she said. “It is unfortunate that we cannot pick up speed.”

  “Yes, Admiral,” Stephen agreed. The warships could move faster, if they were prepared to leave the freighters behind. They couldn’t take the risk. “We may arrive, only to discover that the system is already under attack.”

  “Or fallen,” Svetlana said. “But there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  Stephen allowed himself a moment of admiration. He’d met admirals who fretted endlessly about matters that were out of their hands, issues that couldn’t be changed no matter what they did. Their tendency to micromanage was driven by a fear of losing control, control they’d never really had. Svetlana, on the other hand, didn’t seem inclined to waste time worrying about things she couldn’t change. There was no way to speed up without paying an unacceptable price and that was the end of it.

  And someone will say she made the wrong call, if it blows up in our face, Stephen thought, grimly. There’s always someone willing to nitpick from hundreds of light years away.

  He winced, inwardly. The First Interstellar War had forced the Admiralty to do something outsider observers had considered impossible: change tactics in a hurry. The Bombardment of Earth had done a great deal of damage, but it had also focused a few minds. But the Anglo-Indian War had been fought on a very small scale, while the Second Interstellar War had taken place far from Earth. Humanity’s very existence had never been under threat. Now ... now the virus had taken the war right into humanity’s very body. The handful of attacks on Earth might be signs of a far greater threat.

  “We proceed,” Svetlana said. “Invincible and her escorts will stay on point, for the moment. If you detect any further alien contacts, engage at once. We’ll try to deny them any further intelligence.”

  “We could cloak,” Stephen pointed out. “Or try to conceal at least some of our strength.”

  Svetlana looked impassive. “It would cause confusion and delay,” she said. “And half the freighters can’t cloak.”

  And someone would probably accuse us of trying to lure the virus into attacking, Stephen mused. It wouldn’t be a bad idea if we were sure of victory.

  “No, we keep it simple,” Svetlana said. “And we push on at best possible speed.”

  “Understood, Admiral,” Stephen said. He wasn’t sure it was the right decision, given the potential options on the table, but he understood her reasoning. “If we spot the bastards, we’ll give them hell.”

  “Make sure you do,” Svetlana said. “I want them to know we won’t stop fighting.”

  She raised a hand in dismissal, then tapped her wristcom. Her holoimage vanished. Stephen nodded to himself as he turned his attention to the endless series of reports. His ship had performed well, with a minor handful of exceptions. None of them were a surprise. Two sensor nodes - hastily replaced before their departure - had failed in combat and had to be replaced again. The engineers weren’t sure why they had failed, but promised they’d find out once the fleet was back underway. A tactical officer had added a note about starfighter performance, warning that the pilots hadn’t been quite up to scratch ...

  Which isn't too surprising, Stephen thought. He made a mental note to read the report later, along with the debriefings from the flight deck. We all got flatfooted by those missile ships.

  He checked the rest of the reports, then stood. There was nothing particularly urgent in his inbox, just ... more and more reports. His time would be better spent inspecting his ship, after a brief nap. Paperwork could wait. He checked the status display - there was no sign of any more alien ships within sensor range - and walked to the sofa. A quick nap and then ... it felt wrong to be napping when they might be attacked again at any moment, but there was no choice. He needed to be rested when the next attack began.

  The virus knows we’re coming, he thought. If he’d had any doubts, the brief engagement had laid them to rest. The virus had had plenty of time to send a message back to its forward bases before commencing the attack. And it has more than enough time to prepare a proper welcome.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “This is fucking ridiculous,” Captain Jon Anders said. “Just ... look at it!”

  Alice resisted the urge to point out that Anders, like every other senior officer onboard ship, had been offered a chance to comment on the design before the engineers had started to turn the concept into reality. The Royal Marines knew better than to allow designers without combat experience to start work on hardware without input from the men who’d have to take it into combat. She had to admit that the breaching pod was an experimental hodgepodge - and quite unlike anything else the marines had deployed over the years - but it was still the best solution to their problems. Or, at least, the best solution to their problems so far.

  “It could be worse,” she said. “It could be a giant passenger shuttle that would be visible from the moment it launches right until it gets blown into dust.”

  “Yes, I suppose it could,” Anders snapped. “But this is a disaster waiting to happen.”

  Alice shrugged. The engineers had taken a standard worker bee, the type of tiny maintenance craft that could be found in any shipyard, and turned it into a conical landing craft designed to land on an enemy hull, burn its way into the interior and allow the marines to flood inside before they could be stopped. The official version would be much neater, she was sure, but the one in front of her would do. It would get her and a handful of escorts onto an alien ship ... assuming, of course, that they didn’t get spotted on approach and blown out of space.

  And we won’t have to wear armour or protective suits, she thought. There won’t be a moment when we are exposed to vacuum.

  “I seem to recall that every new idea was greeted with howls of outrage from the traditionalists,” she said, sweetly. “If they had their way, we’d still be swimming in the sea instead of evolving legs and walking on dry land.”

  Anders jabbed a finger at the landing craft. “And what will happen if this ... this piece of shit gets sighted before it manages to land on an alien ship?”

  “We die.” Alice took a breath. “What happens when a standard assault shuttle gets spotted on approach too?”

  “At least the passengers might have a chance to live,” Anders pointed out. “You will be dead.”

  Alice looked back at him, evenly. “I am aware of the dangers, Jon. But can you see any alternative?”

  Anders glared. “You are going to be walking onto an alien ship wearing fuck-all and you expect to survive? You expect to take control? What next? I have boobs, you must obey?”

  “I smell nice, you must obey.” Alice put rigid controls on her temper. It wouldn’t do to assault a fellow marine, particularly an officer. There were too many senior men who disliked the idea of female marines for her to take the risk. Besides, she had to set a good example for the men. “If this works, we wind up with an alien ship. And more prize money.”

  “And if this fails, you wind up dead.” Anders didn’t sound convinced. “And that will be the end of you.”

  Alice wondered, briefly, what would happen if she decked him. Technically, she was on detached duty ... which wouldn’t stop Major Parkinson from chewing them both out for brawling like common squaddies. Or drunken spacers on leave. Maybe she could convince him to get in the ring with her. God knew marine officers were not allowed to let their skills fade, once they reached high rank. They were expected to keep fit as long as there was a chance they might lead troops into combat.

  “I know the risks,” she said. “I told you I know the risks. And I ask, again. Do you have a better idea?”

  “No,” Anders said. “But I don’t like the thought of throwing away lives, either.”

  Even my life? Alice rather doubted it. You might be happier if I died in that landing craft.

  She pushed the thought to one side. There was n
o point in disputing the simple fact that their plan was risky. There was nothing they could do to mitigate the risk. Anders was right about that, if nothing else. She would be unarmoured - effectively unprotected - if the landing craft sprung a leak. The thought made her snort. Her instructors had always based their emergency decompression training on having the right equipment close at hand. If the trainees didn't, they’d pointed out, they were dead.

  “If you don’t have the right gear within reach, and if you don’t know how to use it,” they’d said, “take your last seconds to bend over and kiss your ass goodbye.”

  “It should work,” she said. “And if it doesn’t ...”

  “Madness,” Anders said. “This whole scheme is madness.”

  Alice felt her temper begin to crack. “Do you have a better idea? Really? Because, as far as I can see, all you’re doing is whining about something that might save lives.”

  “Something that hasn’t been properly tested,” Anders said.