Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7)

by Christopher Nuttall

  Barton stared at the bar in shock. “Where did you get that?”

  “Luna,” George said. “It should be edible, I think.”

  “I should coco,” Barton said. He peeled back the wrapping paper, sniffed the brown chocolate and offered her a piece. George took the first bit and chewed it, savouring every last fragment. “You just can't get this in the mess.”

  George nodded. Cadbury had been in business for centuries, making quality chocolate for rich and poor alike, but whoever was in charge of military procurement had a habit of purchasing supplies from the lowest bidder. Or so she thought. The chocolate bars available in the NAAFI didn't taste anything like as good as civilian chocolate. And she dreaded to think what went into the liquid that claimed to be cola. Only the tea was better than anything available to a civilian.

  “Keep the rest, if you don’t want to finish it now,” George told him. She smiled at his gobsmacked expression. A gold bar would probably have been less surprising. “When are you going to stop lazing around and get out of bed?”

  “I should be back up on my feet in the next couple of days,” Barton assured her. He tapped the cast on his leg meaningfully. “The doctor says it should be completely regenerated tomorrow, then I just need to walk around until my body remembers how ... or something along those lines. I wasn't paying close attention.”

  “That’s something, at least,” George said. “Did .... did Simpson speak to you?”

  “Smith and Jones didn't make it,” Barton said. He looked down at the bed, suddenly a very unsure young man. “I would have thought that nothing could kill them.”

  “Nathan died too,” George said. The pain was still raw, despite working double shifts to make up for the dead or injured midshipmen. But there was nothing she could do about it, not now. Nathan had requested that his body be buried in space, along with most of the other crewmen, yet they couldn't hold a funeral until they returned to friendly territory. “He didn’t deserve it.”

  “Neither did Smith and Jones,” Barton said. It struck her, suddenly, that he’d had more time to brood. “How are you coping?”

  “Working hard,” George said. It was true; Fraser kept her and the other survivors working, even though it was clear he’d been devastated too. “I’m due back in the turrets this afternoon, really; Simpson has been reassigned to Turret Five and I’ve been spending time with him.”

  Barton smirked. “Should I be jealous?”

  George flushed. “No,” she said. She wasn't quite sure how to respond. Barton and she were hardly dating. “No one should be jealous.”

  “I suppose climbing out onto the hull was a bad idea,” Barton said. “But it was the best of a set of very bad ideas.”

  “Yeah,” George agreed. “The doctor said he wants me back here, after we return to friendly space. There might have been other complications.”

  “There shouldn't have been,” Barton reassured her. “He did a full cellular scan on me, seeing I was trapped in bed, and there wasn't any sign of radiation damage. I don’t think you had any less protection than I did out there.”

  George nodded, relieved. She’d taken the precaution of having a number of her eggs removed and frozen - male spacers had their sperm preserved - but the prospect of being accidentally sterilised terrified her. Or, worse, bringing a malformed child into an unfriendly world. She wasn't sure she wanted kids, at least not until she was much older, yet she hated the idea of losing that choice.

  And a wave of radiation might just have killed me outright, she thought. There was no shortage of horror stories, although some of them might well have been exaggerated to make sure that prospective spacers understood the dangers of life in space. Or left me crippled.

  “I’ll see what the doctor says,” she said. But he was likely right. She hadn't been any less protected than Barton himself. “And ...”

  She broke off and jumped to her feet as the alarms started to howl. “Crap.”

  “Good luck,” Barton said. She barely heard him as she raced for the hatch. “Hit one of the bastards for me!”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Captain,” Charlotte said, as Susan hurried onto the bridge. “I’m picking up five enemy starships proceeding towards Tramline One.”

  Susan took her chair and checked the display. Vanguard had transited through UXS-471 without incident and entered UXS-472, carefully checking for any signs of enemy presence before starting the long crawl towards Tramline Two. There were actually two other tramlines in UXS-472, but one of them was alien-grade and the other - according to the plotter - should lead away from friendly space. She couldn’t help wondering, now, if the enemy had started to run ships through the unexplored tramline. It might have allowed them to cut the time to get a blocking force in place.

  FTL communications screw up all our calculations, she thought, grimly. Even with a relay chain, it still takes weeks - at best - to get a signal from one side of the human sphere to another. Here ... the aliens might be able to react quicker than us to any potential threat.

  “Make certain of your identification,” she ordered, grimly. “Are you sure they’re our new friends?”

  “I believe so, Captain,” Charlotte said. “There’s no way to get a close look at their hulls, not at our range, but the power curves and drive fields match those recorded during the first clash. I think there're one heavy cruiser and four destroyers.”

  “Alert Captain Harper,” Susan ordered. Roosevelt was twenty light seconds behind Vanguard, close enough to exchange signals yet too distant to provide help if the giant battleship ran into trouble. But then, Vanguard was probably more capable of handling anything the new enemies had shown than the giant fleet carrier. “And show me their projected course.”

  She sucked in her breath as the enemy ship trajectories appeared on the display. Unless they altered course, they would hit the tramline and plunge straight into the next system without slowing to survey their current system. But if they didn’t alter course, they might well pass close enough to Roosevelt and the rest of the fleet to pick up something, despite the cloaking devices. And then ... four ships weren't anything like enough to overwhelm the fleet, unless they had a genuine superweapon, but they could shadow the human starships until the aliens assembled a much larger fleet.

  But they don’t know we’re here, she thought, coldly. She tilted her head to one side, considering the different possibilities. If they knew, they wouldn't be heading right towards us.

  “Record,” she ordered.

  “Recording,” Parkinson said.

  “Captain Harper,” Susan said. “As you can see, the odds appear to be in our favour. My ship can engage all five enemy craft, aiming to cripple or destroy them. I do not believe that the risks of engaging the enemy openly outweigh the prospective gains. Therefore, unless you order otherwise, I intend to put Vanguard and her squadron in position to intercept the alien ships. Please advise within the next ten minutes.”

  She glanced at Parkinson. “Send.”

  “Message sent, Captain,” Parkinson said.

  Susan felt her heart starting to beat faster as she contemplated the options. Evading the enemy ships altogether shouldn't be too difficult, unless the enemy had some kind of sensor system she’d never imagined. But they needed to know more about their enemy and she was in an excellent position to strike them before they could escape. And yet, there might be a handful of other enemy ships nearby, just waiting to see if the uncloaked ships would draw fire. Harper might well have rethought his aggressive approach during the fleet’s passage through the last system.

  And they came on the least-time course between tramlines, she thought, grimly. Is that actually a coincidence?

  She scowled as she thought it through. The enemy had to know where the fleet had gone, even if they couldn't follow. They probably also knew just how quickly the fleet could move, which would allow them to make some accurate guesses about how far they'd travelled since the battle. And that meant they had to have a rou
gh idea that they’d re-encounter the fleet in the current system or the previous one.

  Unless they think we snuck back into the first system, after moving down the tramline, she told herself. But we don’t dare count on it.

  “Picking up a signal from Roosevelt, Captain,” Parkinson said. He smiled. “Message reads: Proceed in the finest traditions of your service and mine.”

  “In other words, sail into danger,” Susan said. She settled back in her chair. “Pass the word to the screen. I want them behind us. Let the enemy ships impale themselves on our guns.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Parkinson said.

  Susan glanced at Mason. “Aim to disable the big ship, if possible, but if she keeps firing don’t hesitate to take her out.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Mason said. “And the destroyers?”

  “Take them out,” Susan ordered. The destroyers would have the greatest chance of escaping, once they knew they were under attack. “Don’t give them a chance to react.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Mason said.

  “Helm, slip us into attack position,” Susan added. “Don’t let them get even a whiff of our presence.”

  And half of us haven’t had time to take showers, she thought, as Vanguard altered course and moved to take up her new position. They can probably smell us.

  She dismissed the thought as the enemy ships grew larger on the display. It looked, very much, as though the enemy hadn’t been quite as enthusiastic about starfighters as either humanity or the Tadpoles; instead of developing newer ways to power tiny attack craft they’d spent their time improving realspace drives. Indeed, the more she looked at it, the more she suspected the enemy actually had higher acceleration curves than anything humanity had produced. The Tadpoles had had the same advantage, back in the war, but their starfighters hadn't been noticeably faster ...

  And better armed, Susan thought. They slaughtered us at New Russia because we underestimated the threat.

  A thought occurred to her and she smiled, coldly. Ark Royal had captured an alien starship and brought it home. Why couldn't Vanguard do the same? She had two companies of Royal Marines, men experienced in attacking unwary starships and taking control. And they were ready to dive into a disabled alien craft, gambling their lives that they could capture or kill the crew before they destroyed their own ship.

  If we can bring samples of the alien tech home, she told herself, all of the little irregularities of this voyage will be forgotten.

  “Captain,” Charlotte said. “The enemy craft are closing in.”

  Susan braced herself, pushing visions of fame aside. The closer the alien ships came to the lurking battleship, the greater the chance of being detected. She had no doubt that Vanguard’s missiles would be completely ineffective against the aliens, if she had to engage their ships at long range. The only consolation was that the revised point defence targeting patterns would make it harder for the enemy to score hits in exchange.

  Although they would be foolish to engage us, if they get a look at our hulls before it’s too late, she thought. They could give us one hell of a beating if they decided to close the range, but they’d be wiser to beat a retreat and scream for reinforcements. And they’d get a solid lock on our position in the process.

  “Stand by to engage,” she ordered, tartly. “Lock weapons on targets.”

  “Weapons locked,” Mason said. “Multiple targets sighted; main guns primed.”

  And hope to hell we haven't underestimated them for a second time, Susan thought. If they can see through our cloaks, they wouldn't keep on coming unless they had a surprise up their sleeves.

  “Twenty seconds to certain detection,” Charlotte reported. “Ten seconds to optimum engagement range.”

  Susan braced herself. This was it, this was payback ... the fleet needed a victory, needed it desperately. They’d been the most powerful force assembled in galactic history, as far as anyone knew, and yet they’d been slaughtered by the newcomers. Over twenty thousand personnel - British and American - were dead. Morale was in the crapper and wouldn't climb out, unless something happened to show the remainder of the crew that they were far from ineffectual. They needed a victory.

  The display flared red. “They have us,” Charlotte snapped. “Direct sensor contact!”

  “Fire,” Susan snapped.

  Vanguard quivered, lightly, as she unleashed the full weight of her broadsides. Susan watched, feeling cold merciless delight rippling through her soul, as one of the alien destroyers exploded without altering course or firing a single shot. Her crew had to have been caught completely by surprise. Two more destroyers staggered as they took heavy hits; the fourth started to back off, only to take a hammering from one of the turrets. Seconds later, two of the three remaining destroyers were dead.

  “The big bastard is moving forward to shield the fourth destroyer,” Mason said. “She's spitting missiles back at us.”

  “Point defence can handle them,” Susan said. She was more worried about the alien cruiser trying to ram Vanguard. If the aliens thought they couldn't escape, why not try to take out the battleship? “Keep trying to cripple their drives ...”

  The alien cruiser had a skilful crew, she had to admit, feeling an odd tinge of admiration she didn't like in the slightest. Taken by surprise, crippled in the opening salvos, she still tried to lurch into firing position ... and then amble forward, intent on ramming Vanguard. But Susan’s crew were alert; Reed altered course, smoothly and skilfully, as Mason hammered the alien cruiser into a drifting powerless wreck. And then something exploded within the ship and it came apart into an expanding cloud of debris.

  “Shit,” Mason snapped.

  “Target the final destroyer,” Susan ordered. It didn't look as though the cruiser had self-destructed, unless something had gone badly wrong. Human self-destructs were considerably more powerful. “Take her out before she gets out of range ...”

  “She’s already outside immediate range,” Mason warned.

  “Order the screen to attempt to intercept,” Susan ordered. It was probably futile - the aliens had had plenty of time to signal for help - but worth trying. “Launch a full sensor shell of drones. I want to know if there’s anything within a light minute of our current position.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Charlotte said.

  “Forward the details of the engagement to Captain Harper,” Susan added, addressing Parkinson. Harper’s sensors would have picked up the brief exchange of fire, but it was unlikely he’d know precisely what had happened. “And then advise him to dogleg around our position, just in case the ships we destroyed were bait in a trap.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Parkinson said.

  Susan took a moment to think as she studied the expanding cloud of debris. It was unlikely in the extreme that they’d discover an intact computer core within the wreckage, unless the enemy were stunningly careless, but there was a reasonably decent chance of recovering a body ... or, for that matter, a book or something else that might assist the xenospecialists to come to grips with their new challenge. And yet, if the four ships had been bait in a trap, remaining where they were was asking for trouble. She’d do better to break contact as soon as possible.

  Time to gamble, she thought.

  “Raise the Boatswain,” she ordered. “Tell him I want every shuttle in space, probing through the wreckage. Draw pilots from other departments, if necessary. They have thirty minutes to sift through the debris and find something - anything - that might be useful. All standard precautions when dealing with xenomaterial are to be observed.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Parkinson said.

  Susan settled back into her command chair, feeling relief mixed with fear. The aliens had been caught by surprise - their answering fire had been almost pathetically ineffectual - but there was no way to know what their superiors had been planning. Even if they hadn't intended to bait a trap, they certainly had an opportunity to do it now. They’d notice they were missing four ships sooner or later, wouldn't they
?

  Particularly if they expect the crews to report in every hour, she thought. FTL communications messed up all of her calculations. The light-speed bubble surrounding every event in space, showing how quickly word spread from one side of a star system to the other, was now meaningless. They’ll know the ships ran into trouble when they don’t reply.

  “The shuttles are being launched now,” Parkinson reported. “The Boatswain has taken overall command.”

  “The Main Shuttlebay is being prepped to Code Blue standards,” Mason added. “Major Andres has taken command.”

  “Good,” Susan said. She didn't know Andres as well as she’d like, but he was reassuringly competent. If there was any biohazard from the alien wreckage, he wouldn't allow it to threaten the rest of the ship. “Evacuate the surrounding compartments, just in case.”