“It’s a possibility,” Byron agreed. “We're not innocent when it comes to botched First Contacts either.”
George nodded. First Contact with the Tadpoles had led to war ... and First Contact with the Vesy had screwed their society up beyond repair. And First Contact with Woof’s people - the Foxes and the Cows - had sparked off a second war. But the idea of a race that attacked newcomers on sight, as a test of strength, was absurd.
But we haze newcomers too, she thought. Perhaps, in hindsight, it had been a mistake to decide not to hold initiation rites on Vanguard. She'd had the feeling they’d do more harm than good, but it might have taught Henderson a lesson before he lost everything. Perhaps the aliens are more like us than we care to admit.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “What are we going to do now?”
“Wait,” the officer said. “Right now, we don’t have a hope in hell if we launch a frontal assault on the aliens. They still hold the high orbitals, after all, and their reluctance to launch KEWs may no longer hold true if it looks like we’re winning. Wait ... and harry their forces as they move further and further away from the city.”
Byron looked at her. “A team of intelligence specialists are on their way,” he added. “Once they arrive we’ll be heading towards the city ourselves. You included.”
“Unless you want to stay,” the officer said. “Can you make yourself useful here?”
George shrugged. She wasn't a xenospecialist - she didn't even have the basics. She couldn't get any further with Woof without a great deal of help, but anyone with the experience and ability to help her wouldn’t need her. All she could really do in the farmhouse was make the tea. But she could shoot and she could make herself useful to the marines ...
“I’d prefer to come with you,” she said to Byron. “Is that all right?”
“It should be,” Byron said. “Gather your crap. We’ll be leaving in the next hour or so.”
“Yes, sir,” George said.
She wondered, as she returned to the room she shared with two of the marines, if she should go back to the cellar and say goodbye to the alien, then dismissed the thought. The alien was unlikely to have any feelings about it, while the intelligence staff would probably be annoyed at the thought of her saying anything to the alien. She hoped they could draw something from Woof, but she had a feeling it would be futile without a great deal of computer support. The alien language included quite a few words and tones that normal human hearing couldn't detect, let alone understand.
Talking to the Tadpoles is even worse, she thought. At least these aliens don’t need voders to shape human words.
She picked up her knapsack and checked her gear, making sure she was carrying food, water, a small medical kit and ammunition. Stott had spent an hour going through the pack with her, pointing out all the little inefficiencies and how many things she could do without, at least for the next few days. If she had to grab her bag and run, he’d said, the less she had to carry the better. She finished checking the knife she’d borrowed from one of the marines, then rose, pulled the bag over her shoulder and glanced into the mirror. Her uniform was long gone, replaced by an outfit that made her look like a poor farmer. She just hoped the aliens weren't in the habit of opening fire when they saw a human.
No, they’re in the habit of arresting everyone they can find, she thought, grimly. And if they catch me, they’ll put me in the pen too.
She rubbed her forehead, then hurried back down the stairs. A pair of grim-faced officers had arrived and were speaking quietly to Byron, their air of self-importance more than enough to confirm them as intelligence specialists. George’s uncle had told her, in some detail, that intelligence officers were rarely more than half as smart as they thought they were - and that they had a tendency to believe that their theories were correct, merely because they were the ones who’d come up with them. Line officers, he’d insisted, should always take an intelligence officer’s word with a grain of salt.
“It's not that they're bad people,” he’d said, afterwards. “It’s that they’re so smart they often put their theories before the facts, instead of keeping an open mind and being prepared to change their theories, based on the facts.”
“Ah, George,” Byron said. He gave her a dark smile as the intelligence officers hurried towards the cellar. “Don your coat. You’ll need it.”
“Of course,” Stott teased. “She’s pulled.”
“I’ll be pulling the trigger in a moment,” George warned. The marines seemed to like poking at her, although there was little real malice in it. They were testing her, just as midshipmen were tested ... and the aliens tested each other, if their theories were correct. “Is it a mere five hundred kilometre walk this afternoon?”
“Oh, no,” Byron said. “I thought we’d march south to Unity City.”
George frowned; Stott stepped in. “But Unity City’s north, sir.”
“Of course,” Byron said. “We’re going to march all the way around the globe and take them by surprise.”
He chuckled, then opened the door. George had wondered if it was wise to be moving about in the daytime, but as she peered out she saw dark clouds and heard the rumble of thunder in the distance. The rain started to patter down as they made their way out of the farmhouse, then grew worse and worse as they slipped beneath the jungle canopy. Visibility fell to almost nothing within seconds, leaving her feeling as though they’d walk right into an ambush without a hope in hell of seeing it. But there was no sign of anyone as they walked onwards.
She cursed under her breath as water started to leak through her coat, drenching the clothes underneath. The marines didn't seem any better outfitted than herself, but they kept moving without complaint. George forced herself to keep moving, thinking of hours spent with Peter Barton and moments of quiet comradeship with Fraser in the hopes of distracting herself from her waterlogged clothes. If she ever made it back to Earth, she promised herself, she’d convince Barton to join her somewhere hot and exotic ... where there was no risk of being shot by alien monsters. And if he didn't want to join her, she could easily find someone else ...
The hours ticked away, thunder and lightning crashing high overhead. George just kept walking, feeling her tension slowly draining away. Her body felt ... content, despite the wind and the rain. It was almost a disappointment when they slowed to a halt, waiting on the edge of the jungle. She wiped water off her face and waited with the marines until a local appeared, carrying a gun in one hand and a lantern in the other. He exchanged a few words with Byron, then led them towards a hidden farmhouse. It was worked into the trees so perfectly that it was surprisingly hard to see. George would have found it charming, she freely admitted, if she hadn't been drenched to the bone.
“Get undressed,” the local ordered, as soon as they were inside. The air smelt oddly familiar, although she couldn't place the scent. “Once you’re dry, there are some new clothes and food in the next room.”
“Do as he says,” Byron ordered, sharply.
George nodded, tearing off her sodden clothes and carefully placing them in a basket by the door. Thankfully, the local had thought to provide towels as well; she dried herself hastily, then walked through to the next room. The marines followed, looking as tired and subdued as she’d ever seen them. It was clear that they had been pushed to the limit too.
“Eat up,” the local urged. The food looked like stew; it tasted, she discovered, rather like a rabbit curry she’d eaten once, back at school. “There are sleeping pallets overhead.”
“Good idea,” Byron added. “We’ll be going on the offensive tomorrow.”
George shivered, despite the heat. All of a sudden, she felt very cold.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“The system appears clear, Captain,” Charlotte reported.
Susan nodded. The task force had moved through Tramline Two as soon as they’d linked up again at Point Haven, but the new system - known only by a Tadpole catalogue number - appeared to be em
pty. There was no sign of any enemy presence. She reminded herself, again, that that might well be meaningless, but searching the entire system for a cloaked ship would be worse than looking for a needle in a haystack.
“Maintain a careful sensor watch,” she ordered. “Alert me the moment anything enters the system.”
“Aye, Captain,” Charlotte said.
“Signal from the flag,” Parkinson reported. “The task force is to proceed along a dog-leg course to the other tramline, then jump through.”
“See to it,” Susan ordered. Admiral Harper had little choice. If the aliens deduced which way the task force had gone, they’d know where they’d be going. “Keep us in cloak.”
“Aye, Captain,” Reed said.
Susan frowned as the battleship moved forward. Admiral Harper had added several hours to the transit time by moving off the least-time course, but she couldn't fault his decision. New York still needed repairs; hell, Vanguard and her crew needed time to rebuild the point defence and sensor blisters for the second time. It was a frustration, but it wasn't something she could do anything about. The damned components couldn't be armoured to match the main turrets without rendering them nearly useless.
“Mr. Mason, you have the conn,” she said. “I’ll be in my ready room.”
She rose and walked through the hatch, then settled down on the sofa for a quick nap. It wasn't ideal, but she didn't want to move too far from the bridge if they encountered any patrolling enemy starships. She must have been more tired than she thought because she fell asleep almost at once and didn't wake until her alarm pinged, seven hours later. There had been no enemy contacts at all, she noted, as she splashed water on her face. The system appeared to be completely empty.
“Report,” she ordered, keying her wristcom. “Status?”
“The task force will be crossing Tramline Two in ninety minutes,” Reed said. He’d taken the conn after Mason and Granger had both retired to their cabins. “We didn’t spot a single enemy vessel.”
“Understood,” Susan said. “I’ll join you on the bridge in thirty minutes.”
She checked her appearance in the mirror, then walked out of her ready room and started a long tour of her ship. Vanguard might have been battered, she discovered as she walked from compartment to compartment, but morale was still high. A share in the credit for smashing two enemy carriers had probably helped, even though there would be plenty of arguments - when they got home - over just who had done most of the work. Perhaps it was a relief, after all, that the ships hadn't been captured. An argument over who deserved the prize money would have been far worse.
And the Admiralty would pay through their nose for a captured alien ship, she thought. Ark Royal had captured an alien vessel, back during the first war, but no one else had managed to duplicate their feat. Even a small fraction of the proceeds would go a very long way.
She smiled at the thought as she walked through the engineering department. Mr. Finch was directing half of his crews to patch up the overworked components and making the other half run successive damage-control drills until they could do it in their sleep. Susan couldn't help wondering if he was overdoing it, but she pushed the thought aside. There was little hope of limping back to a shipyard if the battleship took serious damage. If they couldn't repair it on their own, they were in deep shit.
We'd be screwed, she thought. It would be the end of us.
She returned to the bridge and took command, then checked the reports from the tactical analysts as the task force made its way towards the tramline. There was little new, unfortunately, but the analysts seemed to believe that there were several new ways to spoof the enemy sensors. It would be wonderful if they were correct, Susan thought, but she had her doubts. Enemy stealth systems were so advanced that it was hard to believe that their sensors weren't equally advanced. They’d certainly have tried to fool their own systems before testing their sensor masks on passing aliens.
“Signal from the flag,” Parkinson said. “We are to pass through the tramline as planned.”
“Understood,” Susan said. “Take us through as soon as you can.”
She braced herself as the display blanked, then flickered back to life. A G2 star, a handful of planets ... including one right in the middle of the life-bearing zone. It would have made an excellent prospect for colonisation, she thought, if it hadn't been further from Earth than Unity. The Tadpoles had established a small colony in the waters, according to the database they’d shared with their human allies, yet it hadn't lasted. She couldn't help wondering why they hadn't maintained and expanded the colony, but the files offered no explanation ...
“Enemy contacts,” Charlotte snapped. “Seven starships; I say again, seven starships!”
Susan leaned forward. Seven enemy ships, perhaps more ... orbiting the single life-bearing world. None of them seemed larger than a cruiser, save for one that was easily ten times the size of a battleship. She narrowed her eyes as she studied the power readings, then decided that it was probably an oversized freighter. If the aliens had figured out how to produce an actual warship over twenty kilometres long, the human race might be in some trouble.
But it would also be one hell of a target, she thought, amused. Vanguard’s armour was staggeringly capable of absorbing damage, but there was no way to hide the simple fact that she handled like a pig in mud. Bigger isn't always better.
“They may have a colony,” Parkinson mused. “I picked up flashes of radio traffic from the surface.”
Prince Henry will be pleased, Susan thought. We can try to make contact.
She smiled, rather dryly, at the thought. The aliens weren't normally talkative - or at all - and they certainly wouldn’t be talkative after the task force blew apart the starships in orbit. She wondered, briefly, about trying to open communications before they engaged the enemy ships, but she knew Admiral Harper would never agree. The smaller enemy ships couldn’t hope to best the task force, yet if they realised what was bearing down on them they could easily outrun it.
“Signal from the flag,” Parkinson said. “The task force is to alter course towards the alien settlement and secure the high orbitals.”
“Acknowledge,” Susan ordered. “Helm, take us towards our targets.”
She leaned back in her chair as the seconds ticked away, wondering just how many sensor platforms the aliens would have seeded through the system. The war was barely a year old, depending on how one looked at it; the aliens couldn't really have found the time, she was sure, to scatter more than a few dozen around the system. And yet, if she was establishing a colony so close to enemy space, she would have made sure to secure the system as much as possible.
But they may not have known about Unity, she thought, tiredly. It had been so much easier during the last war, when everyone had been sure the Tadpoles had captured a number of databases from Heinlein. We don’t know how much they know, so we can't guess at what they might do.
Charlotte sucked in her breath as alarms sounded. “Captain, we just got swept with an active sensor,” she snapped. “They know we’re here.”
Susan cursed. “Drop the cloak, then accelerate,” she ordered. The aliens would be unlikely to stick around, but they could try. If nothing else, they could make it impossible for the aliens to retrieve anything useful from the planet. “Time to target?”
“Nine minutes at current speed,” Granger reported. “The carriers are launching starfighters now.”
“Enemy ships moving out of orbit,” Charlotte added. “They’re heading into deep space.”
Susan nodded as she saw the course projections. The aliens weren't heading for any of the tramlines, although that meant nothing. They might - they probably would - alter course as soon as they were out of sensor range or cloaked. And there was nothing she could do about it. The starfighters might inflict some damage, if the warships didn't hang around to defend the freighters, but it would be minimal.
Every little bit helps, she told herself. And eve
ry freighter we blow up now is one that won’t be threatening us again.
“Launch probes towards the planet,” she ordered. “And sweep space ourselves. I want to find any other sensor platforms within range.”
“Aye, Captain,” Charlotte said.
Susan watched, grimly, as the alien warships fought to keep the human starfighters off the freighters. There was nothing wrong with their formation, she noted, but they just didn't have the firepower to make a major difference. The giant freighter stumbled out of formation, then exploded as a trio of Russian fighters volley-fired torpedoes into her hull, pieces of debris flying in all directions. Susan glanced at the live feed from the analysis department and scowled. It looked, very much, as though the giant hulk had been empty when she’d been blown apart. The remaining enemy warships picked up speed as soon as the last of the freighters died, heading onwards into space while the human starfighters returned to their motherships. They had every prospect of making it out before it was too late.
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