Alexis Carew: Books 1, 2, and 3

by J. A. Sutherland

  Alexis stopped to get her bearings, Dobb and the others still following behind her. She supposed they’d thought she knew where she was going or hadn’t wanted to disturb her thoughts.

  She was about to retrace her steps when she caught sight of a familiar face in the nearest group. She frowned, then approached and knelt down.

  “Marie?”

  The girl looked up slowly. She had Ferrau in her lap, held tightly to her. Her face was dull and still.

  “Lieutenant Carew.”

  Alexis reached out and laid her hand over one of Marie’s.

  “Are you all right?” It was a stupid, silly question to ask, Alexis realized. Of course Marie wasn’t all right. No one on Giron was all right.

  “I have Ferrau,” Marie said. She looked down and ran a finger over the baby’s cheek. “Mama est mort. Papa est mort.” She looked back to Alexis and shrugged. Alexis had thought she knew how much the French could pack into a simple shrug, but Marie’s brought tears to her eyes. “Courboin est morte.”

  She lowered her gaze again.

  Alexis sat with her for a moment, then rose. She made her way back through the camp to where she’d turned wrongly and headed for the landing field.

  Alexis spent the time in the boat returning to Belial with her head buried in her tablet. She was convinced there must be some way for her to help General Malicoat, but couldn’t find one for the life of her. Belial was designed for combat in darkspace, not normal-space, and certainly not for use against a planet-bound army. Even if she were, the Abbentheren Accords forbade it.

  Part of her determination was anger and frustration. She felt as though she’d been simply dragged along by events for far too long. Ever since Eades had first shown up and recruited her into his mad scheme she’d been helpless at the mercy of others’ decisions. First Eades, then Dansby, and now the Hanoverese army. She was determined to find something, anything, that would allow her to take back some control.

  By the time they arrived at the ship, she thought she might have the beginnings of an idea. It might not work, might, in fact, be quite mad, for it surely sounded so to her, but she hadn’t found any sure reason that it would not work.

  “Pass the word for the gunner, Mister Dobb,” she said as she was piped aboard. “I’ll see him on the quarterdeck. The carpenter and yourself as well.”

  “Aye, sir,” the bosun said.

  Alexis went to the quarterdeck and brought up an image of the planet on the navigation plot. She studied the symbols that represented General Malicoat’s forces, as well as what was known of the Hanoverese while waiting for the others to arrive.

  “Y’sent fer me, sir?” the gunner asked.

  “I did, Mister Starks.” Alexis kept her eyes on the plot, brow furrowed. “What would be the effect of firing our guns in atmosphere?”

  “On the surface, d’ye mean?” He shrugged. “I suppose there’d be a bit o’ diffusion an’ that. Beam’d be weaker an’ wider, dependin’ on t’range, but not enough t’make no nevermind.”

  “Even at, say, one hundred kilometers?”

  “I see what yer thinkin’, sir, t’bring the guns down an’ support those troops an’ all, but there’s no man can lay a ship’s gun fer that range. A bit o’ a degree off an’ y’ve missed entire. There’s special guns fer that, what can aim themselves, but we’ve none of them.”

  “I understand, Mister Starks, but would the beam still be effective at that range?”

  Starks shrugged again. “Bit weaker, bit wider — but’ll never hit a thing.”

  “We shan’t be aiming the guns by hand,” Alexis said. “The guns will be locked in place, and Belial’s computer shall do the aiming, just as we did in that drill before the Hanoverese showed up.”

  “Sir,” Dobb said, “we can’t fire from orbit … the Abbentheren Accords —”

  “Yes, the Accords,” Alexis cut him off. “That agreement which says we must now do nothing from orbit while the Hanoverese down there may burn towns and slaughter civilians with impunity.” She took a deep breath to calm herself. “I’ve just read the Accords.” She consulted her tablet and read. “‘No spaceborn force may bombard, fire upon, nor otherwise engage any planetary installation nor force of men.’ The thing about agreements between nations, gentlemen, is they tend to be quite specific. The Accords define ‘spaceborn’ as any attack from above a planet’s mesosphere.” She turned to Oakman, the ship’s carpenter. “Which brings us to my next question, Mister Oakman. Belial’s hull may be quite suited for dispersing the heat and energy of a laser … how is it with friction?”

  Forty-Nine

  Alexis forced her hands to relax where they gripped the edges of the navigation plot. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and worried at it. This was where they’d find if she was mad or not.

  Belial’s masts had been unstepped and brought inboard. All of their hull fittings as well, even the bowsprit. The massive rudder and plane at the stern, made without gallenium and extending far back from the hull to allow the ship to steer in darkspace, had been removed as well. They were far too large to bring inboard, so had been left behind in a high orbit. If a Hanoverese force arrived in-system now, Belial would be quite helpless. She’d be able to run within the system, but wouldn’t be able to flee to darkspace.

  All of her guns had been brought to the port side and locked in place. If the men had no need to move them, the guns could be crowded together in the space meant for half their number.

  The guns were loaded and run out, spare shot waiting on the racks and the gun crews standing by to fire and reload as quickly as they could.

  She hadn’t told Malicoat what she intended, for fear he’d forbid it. Technically he couldn’t, as he was not in her chain of command and she was the senior Naval officer present, but she thought she might be relying on enough technicalities that she didn’t need to add one more.

  Technicalities and theories, to be betting our lives on.

  Technically, firing her guns from within Giron’s mesosphere would not violate the Abbentheren Accords and result in her crew being executed for war crimes. In theory, Belial’s hull would be able to withstand the heat and friction of dipping into Giron’s atmosphere to less than a hundred kilometers above the surface. In theory, the ship’s computer would be able to twist and angle Belial so that her broadside fell upon the Hanoverese columns. In theory, the conventional drive had more than enough power to push the ship back into orbit from that height, so that they’d not plummet to the planet’s surface.

  Of course Mister Oakman assures me that the ship would break up long before we impacted the ground … so there’s that.

  The worst part, as the ship made its way through the last orbit before dipping into Giron’s atmosphere, was the waiting. The entire thing, save the firing and reloading of the guns themselves, was under the control of Belial’s computer.

  And if there were ever proof we’ve not achieved artificial intelligence, it’s that the thing didn’t balk at what I’ve asked of it.

  Boothroyd stood by at the helm, though. If Alexis gave the order he’d take control and try to get Belial to claw her way back to vacuum where she belonged.

  Belial reached the start of her descent. On the quarterdeck, nothing seemed to change; there was just the ship’s position noted on the navigation plot. Then the view from the ship’s optics began to shake and tremble. Alexis had magnified views of the Hanoverese columns she’d targeted, but it soon became difficult to make them out as the image jerked about. It seemed odd that they felt nothing, but Belial’s inertial compensators negated the roughness.

  The ship dipped lower, neared the point where she would be beneath the upper reaches of the mesosphere, then passed it.

  “Fire,” Alexis said quietly, almost whispering.

  She knew the gun captains had fired but couldn’t tell what effect it might have. All of the images on her plot were a useless jumble. She wouldn’t even hear from Malicoat until Belial resumed orbit. Something
about ionization — Chevis, on the signals console, had tried to explain it, but Alexis had cut him off. She’d learned quite enough new things for a time and it was enough that Chevis said they’d regain contact with Malicoat once they returned to a proper orbit.

  Was it her imagination or could she feel the ship trembling now? The gundeck reported that all guns were reloaded.

  “Fire.”

  She was firing by broadside. Perhaps if this worked and they repeated it, she’d have the guns fire as quickly as they could individually, but she had no idea what the effect of her shot would be on the surface. Each shot was only ten or so centimeters across, after all; it was entirely possible they’d hit nothing and this was a wasted risk. Still, by broadside had more effect on a ship’s morale. Perhaps it would be the same for troops on the ground.

  Time passed. Alexis watched their position and a counter she had running on the navigation plot. She’d calculated that they’d be within the mesosphere and within range of the Hanoverese for only three minutes and she wanted three broadsides in that time, but the counter ended before the guns reported they were ready.

  She tensed and felt a pain in her lip, then tasted blood and forced her teeth to let go. Now was the real test, as Belial’s computer tried to pull her out of the mesosphere and return to orbit.

  Finally her optics and other sensors cleared … well, most of them; some were dead and blank still. Alexis suspected they’d been damaged or burned out and would have to be replaced. The Hanoverese columns were back around Giron’s curve, so she couldn’t tell what, if any, effect she’d had on them.

  “A message to Mister Starks on the gundeck, Chevis, I’ll have three broadsides in the next pass or know the reason why.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Pass the word for the bosun and carpenter, as well. They’re to take a crew onto the hull and determine its state.” She glanced at her plot. “We have three hours for them to make any necessary repairs before we come around again.”

  “Aye, sir. General Malicoat is sending, sir.”

  “I’ll take it on my plot, Chevis.” She opened the transmission on her plot and found Malicoat staring back at her, red-faced. “Yes, general?”

  “Are you mad, Carew? Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  “General, I —”

  “You’ve violated the Abbentheren Accords!” Malicoat yelled. “There are craters ten meters across throughout the Hanoverese column! They’ll hang you for this and I might well be on the bloody gallows beside you!”

  Craters? Alexis considered that. She supposed it made sense, now that she thought about it. The ground would be far less efficient at absorbing and dissipating her shots’ energy than thermoplastic of a ship’s hull, and each shot did have a great deal of energy behind it in order to overcome that. Superheated dirt and rock might very well react … violently.

  “Good,” she said.

  “What? Bloody ‘good’?” Malicoat’s eyes were wide.

  “The craters, sir,” Alexis assured him. “I was concerned my fire would have little effect, but it appears to have been an idle worry.”

  “Get in a boat and get down here, Carew. If I have you shot now they may not hang me.”

  “General Malicoat, I have not violated the Accords, I assure you. Belial was well within Giron’s mesosphere when I fired.”

  Malicoat blinked. “The what? And what difference does that make?”

  “The mesosphere, it’s … well, sir, here —” She sent Malicoat a copy of the Accords with the relevant sections highlighted, as well as Belial’s logs from the attack.

  Malicoat looked at his tablet, frowned, brow furrowed, then gestured to someone off-camera.

  “Whitehead! You understand all this legal higgety-jibbet! Get over here and look at this!” he bellowed. “Look, here —” He handed his tablet to someone. “— and tell me whether or not I have to shoot someone.”

  He took a deep breath and met Alexis’ eyes.

  “Assuming you’re correct, Carew, and I don’t have to execute you … how soon can you do it again?”

  Fifty

  Over the next several days, Belial fell into a routine. If, that is, hours of back-breaking effort to repair damage to the hull followed by minutes of terror and unleashing horrible violence can be called routine.

  With every orbit, Oakman was out onto the hull with a crew to examine and repair weakened portions. His fabrication plant in the hold was working full time to create replacement parts, sensors, and hull sections. Alexis allowed him his grumbling that it would be easier and safer to simply build a new ship from scratch, confident that he’d tell her specifically if there was a true danger.

  Alexis spent the time while Belial dove into Giron’s atmosphere each orbit with one hand clutching the edge of the navigation plot in fear and the other caressing it as she whispered promises to her ship that if Belial stood just a few minutes more of this indignity, she’d soon be back in vacuum and her crew would see to the wounds inflicted.

  Her guncrews met, and even exceeded, her demand for three broadsides in each pass, sometimes managing four, and putting sixty or more shots into the Hanoverese lines. Malicoat sent her images of the destruction that caused Alexis to clench her jaw and harden her heart.

  She hated that her strikes were delivered so randomly upon the common Hanoverese soldiers, as it was impossible to identify where the officers kept themselves. Then she told herself that these were the soldiers who would obey the orders to sack and burn a town like Courboin, slaughtering the inhabitants indiscriminately, and readied herself for the next pass.

  Alexis stayed on the quarterdeck throughout. She managed to catch a brief nap through some of the orbits, but she kept the deck through each dive upon Giron. Also she kept the guns firing by broadside and on her order alone. She’d not put that on anyone else.

  The Hanoverese reacted quickly to this new threat from above. They spread out their columns more and more, so that their soldiers wouldn’t be clumped together. But they also learned Alexis’ limitations.

  Though she varied the length of her orbits, there was still a minimum amount of time after each pass before she could return for another. The Hanoverese would rush forward after each of her passes, coming together again to engage Malicoat’s columns, then fading back and dispersing before her next pass.

  With each orbit came a short time before Belial dove where Alexis would communicate with Malicoat. He’d give her the coordinates to fire on that he thought would do the most damage to the Hanoverese.

  Alexis entered the latest set of these and viewed the images of where Malicoat wished her to fire next. Her eyes widened and she keyed them in second time, thinking her fatigue had caused her to make a mistake, but the images remained.

  “General Malicoat,” she said, “there’s active fighting at these coordinates.”

  Malicoat had grown more and more haggard as time went on, Alexis had noted. His hair was in disarray, smudges of dirt covered his face and uniform, and his uniform jacket was torn in places. He nodded wearily.

  “I’ve a rear guard keeping them engaged,” he said. “Not allowing them to fall back and disperse.”

  “Sir, if I fire on this … sir, our own men are there!”

  “There’re fewer of them than it appears.” Malicoat closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “They’re volunteers and of the French … most from homes that don’t exist any longer.” He swallowed heavily. “God forgive me what I thought of them at the start of this … but those lads have found their mettle and more.”

  “But —”

  “The Hanoverese come closer and closer to overruning us with every engagement. If they make it through our lines and into the civilian columns … those lads know what’s coming, Carew. They understand.”

  Alexis met his eyes. She could see they were as haunted as her own thoughts.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Alexis confirmed the coordinates to target. Belial dove into atmosphere once more.
Alexis watched the counter tick down, one hand caressing the navigation plot. She closed her eyes and whispered, promising Belial that the burden fell on Alexis herself and not her beautiful, faithful ship.

  “Fire.”

  Fifty-One

  “Transition, sir! At L1.”

  At first, Alexis wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. Belial’s world seemed to have become just a long repetition of fatigue and butchery. She blinked and made her way to the tactical station. There was little information about the newcomer, just the image of a ship as the light reached them. It was flying no colors.

  “Make sure we’re flying New London colors on the hull, Chevis,” she called to the signals console.

  With no masts stepped there as little in the way of signaling Belial could do, and she’d never been made a proper ship of the New London fleet, in any case, so she had no number to identify her. There was little she could do to flee, either, with her masts in the hold and her rudder and plane still left at a higher orbit. The best they could do was flee in normal-space.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Alexis studied the plot.

  “It’s gone, sir, transitioned back out.”

  Alexis tensed. “Set us a course out of orbit,” she ordered. For a ship to transition to normal space and then back to darkspace so quickly, it had to be expecting trouble. What they’d do now that they’d gathered enough information to know Belial was the only ship in system would determine Alexis’ next action — either greet a force from New London, or hope to flee the Hanoverese again.

  “Transition!” Leyman called out. “Same ship and it’s clearing the Lagrangian point, sir! Still no colors.”

  Alexis started for the tactical console, but had hardly taken a step before Leyman called out again.