And I chose to stay and fight, George thought. What was I thinking?
She sat down and slumped against a tree, watching through tired eyes as the remaining fighters slowly filtered into the camp. She’d left with thirty others - a combination of resistance fighters and volunteers from the stranded naval parties - in the morning; now, only fifteen fighters had returned to the camp. The dead had been left behind, either blasted to dust by the KEW strike or gunned down by the aliens. She wondered what the aliens would do to the bodies and hoped, grimly, that they’d be civilised enough to merely bury or cremate them. There were all sorts of things one could do with a captured body, she knew from her studies. Entire towns and villages had been firebombed, during the Age of Unrest, for producing even one or two terrorists. The aliens might do the same.
“You look beat,” a familiar voice said. “Wounded?”
George looked up. Kelly was squatting beside her, holding out a glass of water. “No,” she said, taking the glass and sipping it gratefully. “Just tired.”
“Makes you one of the lucky ones,” Kelly assured her. “Any engagement you can walk away from is a good one.”
“I’ve heard that before,” George said. “We ran.”
“He who fights and runs away, lives to run away another day,” Kelly misquoted. “And standing and fighting, George, would have gotten all of you killed.”
George finished the water and looked up. “How bad was it?”
“From what I’ve heard, a quarter of the fighters who went out were killed or wounded,” Kelly said, grimly. “There’s no way to know how bad it was at the other camps, of course.”
George nodded. The days of instant communications on Unity were over, as least until the aliens were chased out of the high orbitals. Anyone stupid enough to turn on a radio transmitter would get a KEW dropped on his head, seconds later. And the ground-based telecommunications infrastructure of Earth simply didn't exist on Unity. The disparate camps were linked together by runners, men who might suffer accidents or get caught as they moved from camp to camp. She knew that General Kershaw was out there somewhere, controlling his detachment of American Marines, but she didn't know where. What she didn't know, Byron had pointed out, she couldn't tell.
Or be made to tell, she thought. If they interrogated me, how long could I hold out?
She shuddered at the thought. The prospect of capture had haunted her mind ever since they’d landed, although she doubted the aliens knew or cared about her. If she’d been at risk of falling into terrorist hands, she would have made preparations to kill herself, rather than take the risk. Snuff movies showing what happened to soldiers who fell into enemy hands were still common, despite dire retribution. The bastards would take their time with her, she knew. They’d think the First Space Lord’s niece deserved special treatment ...
“You’re coping well,” Kelly said. “Did you ever consider going into the groundpounders?”
George shook her head. A couple of her uncle’s cronies had tried to talk her into it, but it hadn't really made much of an impression. Most of the really good regiments were still closed to women. There were no shortage of postings open within the Adjunct General’s Corps - the men and women who handed everything at the rear - but it wouldn't have been the same. And besides, there would be no hope of command. The British Army had learned harsh lessons about promoting men without combat experience and that went double for women.
“I spent enough time at school to know I didn't want to go crawling through the mud for the rest of my life,” she said, instead. “We had a complete ...”
She broke off as she heard someone shouting in alarm. “Code Blue! Code Blue! Get up and move to the south, now!”
George rose automatically, grabbing and checking her rifle as she moved. Kelly unslung his from his shoulder and then grabbed her arm and led her towards the south. The other resistance fighters were moving too, glancing around in alarm. Kelly waved to one of the leaders - a burly man who had never introduced himself - and snapped out a question. The man glanced at him in surprise, then nodded.
“One of the spotters reported a major flight of enemy helicopters heading this way,” he snapped, grimly. “They’re aimed right at us.”
“They found us,” George said.
“It looks that way,” the man agreed. “We have to be gone before they arrive.”
“Tell everyone to sneak out, preferably east or west,” Kelly said, sharply. “And warn them to expect trouble.”
The man glared at him. “What do you mean?”
“They’re not stupid,” Kelly snapped. George tensed as she heard the sound of helicopters, again. If she ever got home, she rather doubted she’d ever be able to hear a helicopter again without flinching. “Coming right at the camp is stupid.”
“That's what they’re doing,” the man snarled. “Or should we just stay here in the hopes they’re bluffing?”
“They’re making you look at one threat,” Kelly said. “Ten gets you twenty that there’s a much quieter force massing behind us, ready to scoop up as many of our people as they can ...”
A burst of gunfire rattled out behind them. George jumped.
“Shit,” the man said. “What do we do?”
“Break and scatter,” Kelly said. “And I suggest you hurry.”
He nodded to George, then led her towards the western side of the camp. The sound of shooting was growing louder; George realised, to her horror, that Kelly had actually understated the problem. While they’d been congratulating themselves on their success, the aliens had launched a column of their own into the jungle. Quite how they’d tracked the resistance fighters down was a mystery, but it hardly mattered. All that mattered was getting away as quickly as possible.
“Don’t shoot unless you have no choice,” Kelly muttered. The helicopters flew low overhead, their weapons yammering away at targets on the ground. “There’s no hope of saving this camp now.”
“Yes, sir,” George muttered. “What happened ...?”
“Save it,” Kelly advised. “We just have to hope they didn't have time to throw up a proper cordon before they launched their attack.”
George nodded and kept walking, keeping her head down as they inched westwards. The sound of gunfire faded, only to spark up again as the aliens overran clumps of resistance fighters and crushed them. She had no idea if the aliens were bothering to take prisoners or not, but she had the nasty feeling that they weren't even trying. They’d been stung badly by the raids and probably wanted a little payback.
Assuming they think like us, she thought, sourly. Woof hadn't thought like a human, if her first impressions had been accurate. They might believe in peace through mass slaughter.
She pushed the thought aside as Kelly led her onwards, ducking low as they heard footsteps crashing through the jungle. Humans or aliens? She had no way to know. Kelly relaxed, slightly, as they kept moving without stumbling over an alien patrol. Maybe they’d made it clear ...
Sure, her own thoughts mocked. And maybe they’re watching you to see where you go.
She caught Kelly’s attention an hour later, when all they could hear was the jungle’s normal background noise. “Where do we go now?”
“There’s an RV point, some distance from here,” Kelly said. “We’ll go there and wait. The boss will send someone to check on us.”
“Unless he’s been caught or killed too,” George pointed out.
“If no one shows up in a day or two, we’ll have to think of something else,” Kelly said. “But until then, going to the RV point is our best bet.”
George looked at him, sharply. “What happens if they have a lock on us?”
“I don’t think they do,” Kelly said. “And just in case they’re smelling us, we’ll take a cut through the river. But if they can track us through the jungle, resistance is hopeless anyway.”
“Oh,” George said.
“Unless you want to head south and hide,” Kelly added. “But where would yo
u go?”
“I wouldn't know,” George said, stiffly. She realised, too late, that she was being teased. “I don’t want to run.”
“Nor do I,” Kelly agreed, dryly. He gave her a brilliant smile and then turned to lead her onwards. “And that’s why we’re heading to the RV point.”
Chapter Thirty
“Report,” Susan ordered.
She sat down in her command chair as soon as Granger vacated it, studying the reports from the stealthed platforms. The alien ships were indeed coming from Tramline One, just as she’d been told - did that mean they'd come from Unity? Or had the aliens merely rerouted yet another group of reinforcements dispatched to Unity? The damned FTL communications system threw all of her normal predictions up in the air.
“Two battleships, seven cruisers,” Granger said. “Plus two starships that might be escort carriers, although they haven’t launched starfighters. The build’s right for freighters, but the acceleration curve suggests mil-grade drives.”
Mason took his own console, his hands tapping away on the keys. “Do we know if they’re the ships we fought at Unity?”
“I’m not sure,” Granger admitted. “But my gut says no.”
Susan glanced at her. “Can you explain why?”
“The aliens took a battering at Unity,” Granger said, slowly. “These ships - the newcomers -don’t appear to have taken any punishment. And that suggests that they’re actually reinforcements, rather than the ships we’ve already seen.”
“Which adds credence to the theory that the aliens are desperately trying to scrape up forces to secure this sector,” Mason commented.
Susan scowled. It was a tempting thought. She wanted to believe it. And hell, it made a certain kind of sense. The aliens were throwing everything they had against the Tadpoles, trying to break through the network of heavily-guarded star systems surrounding Tadpole Prime. Discovering that there was another empire on the far side of Tadpole space had to have shocked the hell out of them, even if they did like a challenge. Defeating the Tadpoles before the human race could mobilise its forces would be their priority ...
Which means that they need to keep us from rolling up this sector and then stabbing straight into their territory, she thought. And they’ll be trying desperately to reinforce their attack forces with everything they can scrape up.
“Let us hope so,” she said. “Communications, has there been any update from the flag?”
“Nothing, apart from the alert signal,” Parkinson informed her.
Admiral Harper hasn't decided what to do, Susan thought. And nor have I.
She considered the problem as the task force slowly moved away from the planet, every sensor on alert for signs of cloaked starships sneaking up behind them. Two battleships, seven cruisers and two ships that might be escort carriers? The task force could take them, but how much of a task force would they have left? They might win the battle, only to fall easy prey to the next alien force.
We could try to break contact now, she thought. But Harper won’t want to leave without scratching their hulls.
“Signal from the flag,” Parkinson reported. “New trajectories are being uploaded now.”
Susan nodded, curtly, as the display updated. Harper was playing it safe, just enough to annoy the aliens without overcommitting himself. The task force would have a chance to engage long-range fire - and starfighter attacks - with the aliens, without ever coming within energy weapons range. And if it were timed well, the aliens would lose their chance to take a shot at the human ships.
“Take us into position, then follow the Admiral’s lead,” she ordered, smoothly. “Stand by to move to condition one when we close on the enemy ships.”
She took one last look at the enemy planet, feeling a flicker of sympathy for Prince Henry and his staff. They’d have to explain to the boffins why the task force was moving away from the planet, despite not having managed to establish a communications link. Perhaps they would have been better advised to kidnap a few aliens from the surface, even though it might have caused long-term problems. But then, kidnapping civilians was one thing that would guarantee a violent response on Earth. The Great Powers had learned that lesson the hard way.
At least they’ll be alive to gripe about it, she thought. They wouldn't be so safe if we allowed ourselves to be trapped against the planet.
“Interesting formation,” Mason mused, as he replayed the transmissions from the recon platforms. “They’re not concerned about being attacked.”
“Someone on the planet must have been updating them in real time,” Susan said. She felt a flicker of envy, again. Despite the problems she knew it would bring in its wake, she still wanted an FTL communicator. “They know they’re safe.”
She contemplated the problem as the minutes ticked by, slowly becoming hours. Did the aliens have FTL sensors too? They’d seen no sign of them at any of the engagements, but did the analysts know what to look for? If the aliens had real-time data on the task force’s movements on a tactical level, as well as a strategic level ... it would make the way far more uncertain. The aliens might just have an unbeatable advantage.
“Communications,” she mused. “Did you pick up anything from the planet?”
“Just normal radio waves and burst transmissions,” Parkinson said. “I believe we recorded a number of aliens speaking in the clear. The analysts are working on them right now.”
Susan scowled. A clue. That was all they needed. A clue. Anything could be studied, anything could be duplicated, if only they had a clue. But they had no way to know how the FTL communicator worked. No wonder, she admitted sourly, that so many politicians and analysts questions its mere existence. But she’d seen the aliens pull off too many tricks to believe otherwise. They had to have some way to send messages at FTL speeds.
“They could be telepathic, Captain,” Mason commented. “One or both of those races could be telepathic, just like those aliens in Stellar Star ...”
Susan bit down a groan. Quite why Stellar Star’s fans didn't download a few million gigabytes of porn from the datanet was beyond her. The movies could be amusing, she admitted, but they were really nothing more than softcore porn. And as for the aliens ...
“I don’t think that’s too likely,” she said. “There’s never been a proven case of telepathy, has there?”
“Not amongst humans, Captain,” Mason said. “But the Tadpoles are supposed to have a profound understanding of each other’s feelings.”
“It isn't the same,” Susan said. The thought of having her mind read was creepy, yet was it possible? Could an alien mentality make sense of human thoughts? “And besides, if they could read our minds, they'd know what we were planning before we did it.”
She dismissed the thought and studied the display. The aliens were coming into sensor range, altering course to push their battleships forward while keeping the two unknown ships at the rear. It did look as though they were escort carriers, Susan noted. The Royal Navy had rigged out a number of freighters to carry fighters during the First Interstellar War and the aliens might have had the same idea. And escort carriers were far more vulnerable to a determined attack than a fleet carrier. But there was no way to be sure until they started launching fighters.
“Signal from the flag,” Parkinson reported. “Starfighters will be launched in fifteen minutes, mark.”
“Understood,” Susan said.
The aliens weren't bothering with any fancy tricks, despite being heavily outgunned. They were merely steering towards the task force, weapons at the ready. Susan eyed the near-space display, wondering if they were being conned - an entire alien attack fleet could be sneaking up on them, hidden behind a cloaking field. The force in front of them could merely be the decoy. And yet, the more she studied the readings, the more it seemed that local space was clear.
They fight as long as they think there’s a chance to win, she mused. Do they think we took more damage than we did?
She cursed the waiting
under her breath as the minutes slipped away, the alien fleet maintaining its silent course. Prince Henry’s staffers sent message after message, covering every frequency they knew the aliens used, trying to get the aliens to talk. But there was no reply. Perhaps they were telepathic after all ... Susan considered the thought for a long moment, then dismissed it. Telepathic aliens would know the Contact Fleet had come in peace, wouldn't they? Unless their telepathy was limited to their own race.
And to think that everyone claims that telepathic communication would make us better people, she thought, sourly. It doesn't seemed to have worked for the aliens.
“The carriers are launching now,” Granger reported. “Enemy fleet ...”
She stopped, just for a second, as the display blazed with red icons. “Enemy fleet has opened fire,” she reported. “I count over five thousand missiles.”
Fear God and Dread Naught Page 30
