“And they haven't been able to liberate New Russia either,” Janelle added. “And even if they did, they would still be in considerable trouble.”
“So they start hunting for desperate measures,” Henry said. He stood and walked over to the transparent blister, staring out at the stars. “They’re mad.”
“Sounds that way,” Janelle agreed. She stepped up behind him. “I’m sorry for your losses, Charles.”
“Me too,” Henry said. He’d known several of the dead pilots personally. Part of him exulted at having survived when others had died, part of him cursed himself for being so damn unfeeling. The dead pilots had had family and friends, men and women who would miss them now that they were gone ... most of whom didn't even have the slightest idea the pilots were dead. “Does it get any easier?”
“No,” Janelle said. “But you do go on, regardless.”
There was something in her voice that caught at him. “Why?”
“My grandfather used to say that you always had to go on,” Janelle said. “But he didn’t go on, not really. He applied for citizenship, got it and never left again. My father ... was more than a little embarrassed by our heritage. And I ... I went into the Royal Navy and joined the Old Lady’s crew.”
Henry lifted an eyebrow. He’d spent months learning to master the expression. “Why did you join the crew before the war?”
“My grandfather’s ass was saved by the Old Lady,” Janelle said. She reached out and touched the transparent blister, her fingertips seeming to hang in space against the stars. “He was one of the first settlers on the New Haven Colony – they wanted to be completely independent from the rest of the universe, particularly Earth. And then they had a major environmental failure and screamed for help.”
She smiled, but the expression didn't quite touch her eyes. “It was the Royal Navy who responded,” she said. “Sticking with the Old Lady when there was a chance to get a slot onboard her seemed a worthwhile use of my career.”
“It must have been one hell of a gamble,” Henry said, mildly impressed. Serving on Ark Royal, prior to the war, had been a good way to lose any chances of promotion one might have had. “Or were you just that devoted to the ship?”
“It seemed a good idea at the time,” Janelle admitted. “And besides, it worked out in the long run.”
Henry couldn't disagree. Being Flag Lieutenant to the Royal Navy’s most famous Admiral would open a great many doors for Janelle Lopez. She’d meet many powerful politicians, officers or aristocrats, including Captain Fitzwilliam himself. If she went into command track after her stint as Flag Lieutenant, her record would ensure she had a shot at commanding a starship of her own. Or she could continue to shepherd the Admiral’s career and develop a position as the power behind the scenes. Some of the most effective people in Britain’s Civil Service had done wonders without anyone ever learning their name.
And, quite by accident, she’d struck up a relationship with the Heir to the Throne.
Or was it an accident? Even if she hadn't been told directly, she might well have been able to deduce the true identity of Charles Augustus. In hindsight, it was far too obvious; he might as well have stuck with Charles Welsh. But it had seemed a good idea at the time.
If I ask her, she might lie, he told himself. And merely asking the question would be far too suspicious if she doesn't know who I am.
Janelle leaned forward. “Charles?”
Henry hesitated, thinking hard. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was light years away.”
“You certainly looked like it,” Janelle said. “Penny for your thoughts?”
It hurt to lie, somehow But he had grown far too used to lying over the years.
“I was thinking of the coming battle,” he said. “They’re not going to let us just sit here and threaten their planet without a fight.”
“We haven't seen hide or hair of them for two days,” Janelle pointed out.
“That probably means they’re plotting something really bad,” Henry said. He didn't fear death, not really. Part of him would almost welcome it; God knew there had been times when he’d considered suicide in the past. But losing the rest of his friends – and Janelle – would hurt. “Or gathering a big enough hammer to smash us to pieces with a single blow.”
“Maybe,” Janelle said. “Why worry about it?”
Henry had to admit she had a point. “How long do we plan to stay in this system if the aliens don't boot us back out?”
“The Admiral was talking about a month,” Janelle said. “I believe the researchers were even asking to be allowed to stay behind, if we had to leave in a hurry. But no one expects to have that much time, really.”
Henry agreed. Even assuming there were no deployable alien forces closer to Target One than the front lines, the aliens could probably scramble forces to Target One in a handful of days. And, even when the front lines were some distance from Earth, the human race had never significantly reduced the planet’s defences. There was just too much chance of the aliens launching a brutal raid on the planet. Logically, the aliens should feel the same way and race to reinforce Target One as quickly as possible.
“I’d be surprised if they left us in peace for a couple more days,” he said. “Have we found anything under the waves?”
“The probes have been observing alien cities,” Janelle said. “Haven’t you seen the pictures?”
Henry shook his head. “No,” he said. “Just the planet itself.”
“They look like ... well, farms,” Janelle said. “But they also looked remarkably strange to human eyes. In some ways, the aliens may even be hunter-gatherers on a colossal scale, rather than settling down and growing their food like we do. Makes you wonder, doesn't it, what sort of culture they took to the stars?”
Henry couldn't disagree. Several different human societies had started to establish bases in space, but only the ones who were flexible – and understood the value of basic maintenance – had been genuinely successful. Janelle’s Grandfather might have suffered an unfortunate accident, yet quite a few other settlements had suffered accidents because the inhabitants hadn't bothered to replace the life support filters on a regular basis or – in one case – evicted the hired help on the grounds that any of the inhabitants could do the same job and probably better. The videos taken when American Marines had boarded the asteroid had made everyone who’d seen them sick to their stomach. Everyone inside had literally suffocated to death.
“They might just move from star system to star system, without ever settling down,” he mused. “Or they might see us as a potential threat because we block their wandering path. But we could have bloody come to some agreement if only they would deign to talk to us!”
He looked over at her. “Are they actually intelligent?”
Janelle frowned, daintily. “It seems impossible to imagine someone building starships and space stations without some form of intelligence,” she mused. “And besides, they have tactics and attack plans instead of just charging at their targets and slaughtering madly.”
Henry had hunted when he’d been a younger man. It wasn't politically correct, which was at least partly why he'd done it. Chasing through forests on horses, hunting foxes ... he’d been a staunch supporter of the genetic engineers who had wanted to design far more interesting creatures to hunt, before the media had managed to embarrass them into taking their research to Sin City. But some of the foxes had shown a certain cunning that had sometimes embarrassed the humans chasing them. A couple had even managed to sneak around and escape their would-be killers.
But they weren't truly intelligent, he knew.
“I don’t know,” he said, finally. “But it just seems odd that we will never be able to talk to them.”
“We don’t know that,” Janelle said. She put her hand on his shoulder and spun him around to face her. “And you don’t have to worry yourself over these matters.”
Henry found himself gazing into her eyes. His breath caught in his thro
at. Part of him wanted to lean forward to kiss her, part of him held back, terrified of her reaction. And then he pushed the reaction aside and leaned forward anyway. Their lips met ...
... And, for a long moment, there was nothing in the universe, but her.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed, when he pulled back. He was suddenly very aware of her breasts pressing against his chest. His hands twitched, demanding to reach for them. But was that the right thing to do? What did normal people do when they’d just kissed a girl? His life hadn't taught him how to have a normal relationship. It wasn't something he could ask anyone on the ship. “I’m ...”
“Don’t be,” she said. “Just ... just relax.”
Henry smiled and leaned forward to kiss her again.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Captain Tom Cook had few illusions about his command.
HMS Primrose was a warship only by courtesy. She’d started life as a heavy bulk freighter, one of hundreds designed to transports goods and settlers from Earth to Britannia, then been hastily reconfigured as a light carrier when it had become obvious that the Royal Navy needed more fighter platforms in a hurry. She was an ugly boxy creation, studded with weapons and sensor blisters, but he cared for her deeply. There was something about his ship that was solid and reliable.
Once, he’d wanted to protest his assignment to the light carrier. He’d paid his dues, he’d served in the Navy for years; surely, he was entitled to a shot at commanding one of the modern carriers. But now, with the aliens targeting the modern carriers specifically, he had good reason to appreciate his command. If nothing else, it attracted less fire from marauding alien starships. And the two squadrons of starfighters crammed into her makeshift launching bays gave her a punch that, he hoped, had come as an unpleasant surprise to the aliens.
“Captain,” the tactical officer said, “we have targeted the alien cloudscoops.”
Tom nodded, looking down at the reports from the long-range sensors. There was nothing particularly special about the alien cloudscoops; as far as the techs could tell, they were effectively identical in concept to humanity’s designs. They were really just long tubes, hanging down from an orbital station and sucking in HE3 from the gas giant’s atmosphere, which would then be converted into fuel for fusion plants or starship drives. Oddly, Tom found the sheer conventionality of the system reassuring. The aliens might have some tricks humanity couldn’t – yet – match, but their technology was based on similar concepts. They had nothing so advanced, so inexplicable, that it might as well be magic.
“Transmit the warning,” he ordered.
He frowned as the recorded message was beamed towards the alien installations. The Admiral had insisted, even though the aliens hadn't bothered with any warnings when they’d wiped out everything noticeable in the New Russia system. If the aliens understood English, he’d pointed out, at least they’d have a chance to evacuate the platforms and save lives. And if they didn’t, the humans lost nothing. There was no way the aliens could save the cloudscoops from certain destruction.
“No response,” the tactical officer said. No dedicated Communications Officer for Primrose! “They’re not evacuating the platforms, as far as we can tell.”
Tom sighed. Did that mean that the aliens had no intention of abandoning the platforms, that they didn't understand English or that they were daring the humans to open fire anyway? He had no way to know ... he shook his head in grim disbelief. What sort of race would just ignore all attempts to open communications? Given the panic on Earth after the Battle of New Russia, the aliens could probably have talked the human race into surrender if they’d just tried. But instead they’d chosen to continue with their advance.
“Open fire,” he ordered. “Take the platforms out.”
He watched, grimly, as the first set of projectiles were hurled out of the mass drivers and launched down towards the orbiting platforms. Unlike starships, or even some of the more advanced stations, the platforms were completely immobile; they couldn't hope to evade the incoming projectiles. He half-expected them to reveal hidden defences, but instead the projectiles just slammed into their targets and smashed them into rubble. Chunks of debris fell through space, mostly falling towards the gas giant below. Its gravity would eventually pull in all of the pieces of rubble.
“Targets destroyed,” the tactical officer said. “I say again, all targets destroyed.”
“Stand down from Red Alert, then take us back to Target One,” Tom ordered. They’d spent the last day destroying most of the alien installations in the outer reaches of the solar system, although several of them had been placed off-limits by the Admiral. Tom wasn't sure if that was a good idea or not, but storming a complex on an uninhabitable world was always dangerous. “Launch an additional shell of recon platforms as we go. We may see something crawling out of the woodwork.”
He felt another quiver running through his ship as the helmsman took her away from the planet, muttering curses just loudly enough for Tom to hear. It was hard to blame him, really; Primrose made Ark Royal look elegant when it came to manoeuvring in space. Her designers had never anticipated that she might have to do anything more complex than dock at an orbital station, let alone evade incoming fire. Unlike most warships, she would be in deep trouble if anyone fired a mass driver at her from long-range.
“Captain,” the tactical officer said suddenly, “I’m picking up a starship on approach vector.”
Tom leaned forward, snapped awake. “Alien?”
“I believe so,” the tactical officer said. “Trajectory suggests she entered the system from Tramline Four.”
“Not that that proves anything,” the helmsman said.
“No,” Tom agreed. “Sound Red Alert, then launch a probe towards the incoming ship.”
He watched, grimly, as the data started to appear on his display. One alien starship, midway in size between a frigate and a battlecruiser, heading directly towards Primrose. It looked like an attack, yet there was something about the alien trajectory that he found oddly reassuring. He couldn't help thinking that the aliens looked as if they were trying to sneak up to the small carrier, rather than make their approach obvious. But they had to know they couldn't get within plasma weapons range without being detected.
“Contact the Admiral,” he ordered, although he knew it was futile. It would take around forty minutes for their message to reach Target One, then another forty minutes for the Admiral’s reply to reach them. By then, the whole situation would probably be resolved. “Inform him that we intend to engage the enemy, if possible.”
He hesitated, looking down at the display and silently calculating odds. A ship-to-ship engagement would be fatal for Primrose; she’d never been designed to be anything more than a carrier, even if she did have additional layers of armour bolted onto her hull. No, the only way he could fight was to have his starfighters take the alien craft out before she got into engagement range ... or force her to go pick on someone else. Given the known capabilities of the alien drives, it was unlikely that he could avoid engagement if the aliens chose to home in on his ship.
“Prepare all starfighters for launch,” he said. “Standard attack profile; the fighters are to cover the bombers.”
There was a bleep from the tactical console. “Picking up a second starship, Captain,” the tactical officer said. “She's following the first starship, trying to catch up with her.”
Tom gave him a puzzled look. The alien tactics made no sense. They had to know that sending one ship after another was asking for trouble, even against little Primrose. Had something gone wrong with their timing? Or was something else going on?
“Show me,” he ordered. The display changed. By his calculation, Enemy One would overrun Primrose in thirty minutes, but Enemy Two would catch up with her in twenty ... maybe the aliens hadn't blundered after all. But then Enemy One started to pick up speed, narrowing the time between her and Primrose. “What are they doing?”
The tactical officer looked b
lank. “Maybe they’re competing for the honour of taking us out?”
Tom rather doubted it. The Royal Navy worked hard to have glory-seekers excluded from the upper ranks, although an alarming number of them ended up flying starfighters or commanding small frigates. Surely the aliens took similar precautions? Or was he looking at something else, something he didn't yet understand? Or were the aliens feeling safe enough facing Primrose to allow themselves the luxury of a competition?
“No,” the helmsman said. “Enemy Two is trying to overrun Enemy One.”
Ark Royal 2: The Nelson Touch Page 26
