George looked up. “How? Why?”
“The how is easy,” Kelly said. He opened the alien’s mouth and pointed to a broken tooth. “Unless I miss my guess, that tooth contained a very strong neurotoxin that caused instant death. I’ve done some preliminary research on the remains, but without a proper lab I can't tell you anything about it, beyond the fact it’s very poisonous. And it isn't species-specific either. Don’t let them poison you with it.”
“Interesting,” Byron said.
“They killed themselves rather than be taken captive,” George mused. “What did they think we’d do to them?”
“I don’t know,” Kelly said. He shrugged. “The Foxes, if battered enough, become completely submissive. We’ve taken seven additional captives and they all appear to be cooperating on bended knee. We even gave them a chance to escape and none of them took it. But the Cows refuse to allow themselves to be taken prisoner.”
George shuddered. “I don’t want to think about the mentality of a race that does that.”
“We do,” Byron said. “Each of us is primed to commit suicide, if necessary.”
“You have a poison tooth too?” George asked. “But ...”
“The exact details are classified,” Byron said, shortly. “But yes, we can end our lives if we believe there’s no other choice.”
He shrugged. “Aren’t there poison jabs in spacesuits?”
George swallowed, hard. She knew they were there - the instructors at the Academy had explained their presence - but she didn't want to think about them. If she was lost somewhere in the vastness of interstellar space, if there was no hope of rescue ... she could kill herself, quickly, cleanly and painlessly. Or so she’d been told. No one who had used the suicide jab - and a handful of spacers had, in the Royal Navy’s long history - had come back to complain about the pain.
“Yeah,” she said.
“We’re not ordinary crewmen,” Byron said, quietly. “We’re not even squaddies. We’re Royal Marines, the best fighters in the world. Even the SAS respects us. If we are captured ... our captors will do whatever it takes to get information out of us. Or worse. Suicide ... there are times when suicide seems the best of a set of bad choices. And if that happens ...”
George looked at him. “Would you do it?”
“I don't know,” Byron said. He caught her shoulder and led her out of the tent. “None of us know, until the shit hits the fan. And then we find out.”
Night was falling over the camp as they hurried towards the mess hall. A handful of soldiers - marines and others from the multinational force - were eating ration bars with forced enthusiasm and drinking water. They looked tired, George noted. They’d expected to have plenty of time to set up their defences on the ground, not get forced into hiding bare days after the task force had arrived. She wondered, suddenly, just what had happened to Vanguard and the rest of the task force. There had been no word since the task force had left orbit.
They could all be dead, she thought, suddenly.
She took the ration bar he offered her automatically, her mind elsewhere. Vanguard could be gone, her crew reduced to atoms scattered through space; Potter, Paula, Fraser, Peter Barton ... they could all be dead. The thought hurt; she sagged to the ground, suddenly feeling very tired. If the task force was gone, what would happen to them? How long would it be before Unity was liberated? Would Unity be liberated at all?
“You can sleep, if you like,” Byron told her. “There’s a sleeping bag in the next tent for you.”
George looked up at him. “What happens if the task force doesn't come back?”
“We keep fighting as long as we can,” Byron said. He reached out and tapped her ration bar meaningfully. “Eat. Now.”
She unwrapped the bar and took a bite, grimacing slightly at the cardboard taste. It seemed to be a rule of thumb that ration bars always had to taste of nothing - when they didn't taste faintly unpleasant - but she understood the logic behind it. The manufacturers could easily make the bars taste of milk and honey - or anything, really - yet that wouldn't encourage people to get off them. It wasn't hard to earn enough to put something tastier than government-issue ration bars on the table.
“Pity we don’t have a cooking pot here,” Byron said. He sat down next to her and munched his ration bar with every appearance of enthusiasm. George was surprised he was such a good actor, although she supposed he had to set an example for everyone else. “You know what I could do with a cooking pot?”
George shook her head.
“Pile in a dozen of these pieces of shit,” Byron said. He waved the remains of the ration bar in the air, then swallowed it in a gulp. “Mash them together in water, then add Tabasco and a few other sauces. Boil it up, then eat. It doesn't taste half bad.”
“I suppose it would taste better than these,” George mused.
“Oh, of course,” Byron said. “But then, anything would taste better than these.”
He shrugged. “When we’re in the field, we don’t get a team of cooks producing roast beef and potatoes for us,” he added. “We have to make do with field rations. And you won’t believe the smell.”
“It could be worse,” one of the other soldiers offered. He sounded American. “I was there during the Great Mutiny at Manhattan FOB.”
George frowned. A mutiny? “What happened?”
“Oh, we were outside the wire for two weeks,” the soldier said. “The local assholes decided to take advantage of the bombardment by raiding a number of settlements under our protection. We spent those weeks cruising around and teaching the fuckers a lesson.”
He paused for effect. “And then we drove back to the base and lined up in front of the chow hall,” he added. “They’d really done Uncle Sam proud. It was like stepping into a burger bar from the last century. The burgers were huge, the freedom fries crispy ... they’d even got straws you could share with your partner.”
George stared at him. “On a military base?”
“It’s Little America,” the soldier said. “The better officers keep trying to put a stop to it, but it never lasts.”
He smirked. “You have to imagine the scene,” he added. “There’s this bunch of REMFs sitting at the tables, wearing clean uniforms and combat boots ... a couple even have a pair of women on their knees ... and then we come marching in. Fourteen soldiers, wearing uniforms that haven’t been washed in two weeks; dusty, grimy, smelly as fuck ...
“The bastards panicked! They jumped up in shock! And this weak-chinned moron goes up to the LT and says we can't come in. There’s an immediate rumble behind the LT because every last one of us is just gagging for something that doesn't taste like recycled goat droppings. And the LT, who was a bloody-minded son of a bitch, just picks the fobbit up, drops him in the trash can, marches up to the counter and orders about a hundred burgers and a couple of dozen rounds of freedom fries.
“You should have seen the looks on their faces,” he added. “They couldn't have looked more shocked if a herd of man-eating tigers had walked into the diner. But some bastard must have called the MPs on us, because they marched in while we were stuffing our faces. And the LT tells them to take a long walk around the block until we've finished.”
He laughed. “He was a character, I’ll say.”
George nodded. “What happened?”
“We finished our meal and left in good order,” the soldier said. “LT gets his ass chewed a couple of times by the base commander, but his actual superior knows the score. And by the time we got back home, the whole story had turned into a stirring battle, a mutiny against particularly stupid REMFs.”
“And they changed the rules after that,” Byron said. “Didn't they?”
“Just a little,” the soldier said. “But the way things were out there ... the LT barely managed to avert a real mutiny. We were starved and pissed and we weren't going to take no for an answer.”
“Ouch,” George said.
Byron grinned. “It’s a bad idea to get betwee
n the soldier and his food,” he added. “A few years ago, there was a base commander who thought he should ration food. Some dickhead in procurement stopped chasing up whores long enough to calculate that everyone should have a certain level of food and no more. So the base commander started locking up the food supplies.”
“And you started raiding them,” George guessed.
“Correct,” Byron said. “Everyone started raiding them.”
He gave her a smile, then beckoned her to her feet. “Let’s go,” he said. “You’ll be going back out tomorrow.”
George followed him towards another hidden tent. The interior was dark, but she could hear faint sounds of snoring from the inside. She hesitated, then looked up at him.
“You said I was doing fine,” she said. “Is that true?”
“I would not have been surprised if you’d requested to be sent well out of the danger zone,” Byron said. “And I would not have blamed you. This is not what you trained for. But you stayed and you impressed us.”
“I’m not as good as you,” George protested.
Byron poked her in the chest, between her breasts. “You had a few paltry lessons in shooting and self-defence at the Academy,” he said. “We spent six months getting the shit kicked out of us during Basic Training. Your experience of combat after the Academy is a handful of bouts, bouts which follow certain rules; my experience is over four years in various combat zones. You follow the navy’s rules on exercise; we do press-ups and runs every morning before breakfast, just to keep in shape.”
He snorted. “Believe me, if you were keeping up with us, I’d hate to think about what the Major would say.”
“Thanks,” George said. She had to smile. “But I do want to go back to the ship.”
“So do I,” Byron said.
He nodded towards the tent. “Now go get some sleep,” he ordered. “You’re going back out tomorrow.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“They’re definitely shadowing us, Captain,” Charlotte said.
Susan nodded, studying the display. The alien ships had reversed course themselves after the human ships had broken contact, following the task force while maintaining a safe distance from human weapons. Shaking them was not going to be easy. They were almost certainly close enough to pick up on any bait-and-switch - perhaps even to track the task force if it retreated into cloak. She dared not make any assumptions about the capabilities of alien sensors.
“And they’ll track us all the way to Tramline Two,” she mused. In some ways, it was reassuring. It proved that the aliens didn't have any form of FTL sensor capability. “And they’ll cross the tramline shortly after us.”
She contemplated the virtues of an ambush for a long moment. Getting a clean shot at a starship that had just jumped through a tramline - with its sensors disrupted by the jump - was every tactician’s dream. But the more she looked at it, the more she doubted they could pull it off. The aliens would be aware of the possibilities too - and take steps to avoid the danger.
And if we lurk near the tramline, we give up our chance to lose them, she thought. That could make life difficult in the next system.
“Signal from the flag,” Parkinson reported. “The task force is to continue on course, best possible speed.”
“Acknowledge,” Susan said. She glanced at Mason. “Mr. XO, what are the damage reports?”
“The majority of the damage can be handled while under way,” Mason reported. “But there are elements that can only be handled at a dead stop.”
“Which we’re not going to have a chance to do for a while,” Susan said. She had no idea what the aliens had in mind, but if they saw the task force slow to carry out repairs they’d certainly launch an attack. They’d never have a better chance at weakening or destroying the remainder of the fleet. “Inform Mr. Finch that he is to perform as many repairs as possible.”
“Aye, Captain,” Mason said.
Susan pressed her lips together in disapproval as the task force continued along its course, the aliens shadowing them at a safe distance. She had to admire their timing, as awkward as it was. If the task force turned to confront them, they risked major losses; if the task force continued on course, their shadows could keep a lock on them while rustling up reinforcements from the nearest enemy formation. And it would be awkward, indeed, if the task force were to return to Unity as planned. An enemy force shadowing them would ensure that they were caught between two fires.
And we don't know where else the aliens might have reinforcements, she thought. We might be being herded into a trap.
She called up a starchart and studied the tramlines for a long moment. The aliens wouldn’t have any difficulty charting them out, although they might not be able to access the alien-grade lines of gravimetric force. Unless that had changed ... it had taken humanity nearly six months to duplicate the Tadpole Puller Drive, but the human boffins had had a working alien model to study. Had the aliens recovered a working drive from the remains of the Contact Fleet?
They shouldn't have been able to recover anything, Susan reminded herself. But we will never know.
“If we proceed through Tramline Two, we will arrive in TPS-272,” she mused. The Tadpoles had taken a look at the system some time before First Contact, according to the records, but they’d never considered it particularly important. “And from there, we can proceed into TPS-271 through the alien-grade tramline. They wouldn't be able to follow us.”
She keyed her terminal, opening a private link to Admiral Harper. “As you can see, sir,” she said, “we do have options.”
“Making a dash for that tramline might be a wise idea,” Harper agreed. “But they would know where we were going, even if they couldn't follow us.”
Susan agreed. TPS-271 had only two serviceable tramlines, one of which was alien-grade. If the task force took the other tramline as soon as they could, they’d still have to jump through three successive star systems before they returned to Unity. Even if the aliens couldn't follow the task force, they’d have ample time to reverse course to head to Unity themselves or summon reinforcements. The damned FTL communicator made matters far too complicated.
“And they might have a reasonable chance of getting there first,” Susan mused. The haphazard distribution of the tramlines ensured that the aliens actually had a shorter trip back to Unity, even if they wasted time searching for the task force before realising they’d been tricked. “Particularly if we have to stop and make repairs.”
“True,” Harper agreed. “We’ll make the transit into TPS-272 in any case. And then we can fart around a bit before attempting a breakaway operation.”
“Understood,” Susan said. “I’ll see you on the far side of the tramline.”
She closed the connection, then leaned back in her command chair as the task force neared the tramline, altering course sharply a bare ten minutes before they were due to jump. If there was an enemy fleet taking up ambush position on the far side of the tramline, their aim would be thrown off if the task force appeared somewhere unexpectedly ... she hoped. The shadows could, she assumed, give real-time updates to a fleet lying in ambush ...
But surely it would be better to set an ambush in this system, she thought. Admiral Harper had deployed a dozen sensor drones to sweep their path, but they knew - all too well - that the alien cloaking devices were very good. They already have a force coming up behind us.
Nothing showed on the sensor display, no barrage of missiles materialised out of nowhere as the fleet reached the tramline and jumped into the next system. Susan held herself steady, fighting the urge to cringe, as the sensor display went blank. If the aliens were waiting in ambush, they’d never have a better shot at Vanguard and they knew it. But, as the display started to fill with icons, it became clear that the enemy weren't waiting for them. The system was almost completely deserted.
“I’m picking up a mining and cloudscoop station orbiting the gas giant,” Charlotte said. She glanced back at Susan. “There ar
en't any freighters or warships in the system as far as I can tell.”
Susan frowned. Placing a refuelling station here might make sense to a bureaucrat, but anyone versed in practical matters would know better. It wasn't as if Unity and the handful of other Earth-comparable worlds in the sector didn't have their own gas giants. Just for a moment, she wondered if they’d run into a third unknown alien race before the power signatures flickered up in front of her. No, the Foxes and the Cows were definitely responsible for establishing the station.
“That makes no sense,” Granger protested. “Putting a station here ...”
“Their drives might be inefficient,” Mason suggested. He didn't sound as though he believed his own words. “Or they may feel they need the redundancy.”
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