The Cruel Stars (Ark Royal Book 11)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “I was angry,” he said. “I ...”

  He tried to put it into words, but failed. He’d thought they’d had a partnership, that he could trust her not to betray him ... he’d come home early because he’d thought his wife would welcome him. And then he’d caught her in bed with another man ... he didn't care, in the end, why she’d betrayed him. All that mattered was that she had betrayed him. He’d been so angry that he hadn't quite realised what he was doing until it was too late.

  “The headshrinkers are fairly confident that you are unlikely to reoffend,” Liana said, when he’d finished. “You would not have been kept here if they’d felt otherwise.”

  Alan nodded, curtly. A life sentence would have seen him transferred to the work camps in Antarctica, if he simply wasn't dumped on a penal colony or marched to the hangman’s office and unceremoniously hanged. Ten years in Colchester had been remarkably merciful, under the circumstances. But it was still a harsh punishment.

  And you deserve it, he reminded himself.

  “We have an offer for you,” Liana said. “There is a war on. The Royal Navy has a significant shortage of trained manpower. If you ...”

  Alan stared. “A war?”

  “A war,” Liana repeated. “You’ll get a full briefing later, if you accept our offer. Right now, all you need to know is that the navy is desperate for manpower. If you are willing to return to service and serve for the duration of the conflict, we will cancel the rest of your sentence and scrub your record clean.”

  “You can't be that desperate for manpower,” Alan said, carefully. Hope warred with fear in his breast. “There’s no shortage of recruits.”

  “Which gives you some idea of just how serious the situation is,” Liana said. She leaned forward, meeting his eyes. “You won’t be going back to Formidable. You’ll have another assignment. I won't lie to you and tell you it’ll be a walk in the park, because it won’t be anything of the sort. If you refuse to take on the post you’re offered, you will be returned to your cell and left to rot.”

  Alan swallowed, hard. Hope ... he’d had no hope, only two short hours ago. And yet ...

  He thought, fast. The Royal Navy had never had a shortage of personnel. It had been able to pick and choose recruits from a vast pool of applicants. Hell, even crewmen who completed their short-term contracts and transferred to the merchant navy could be recalled to the colours if necessary. For there to be a manpower shortage, the demands on the navy’s personnel had to be vast. It would take time to expand the training program to turn weedy young groundpounders into qualified personnel ...

  Time they may not have, Alan thought. He’d seen some of the projections. Modern wars were supposed to be short and sharp, brief exchanges of fire to establish positions before the diplomats got involved and sorted out the mess. If the demand for manpower is so intense ...

  He sighed, inwardly. Liana was right. He wouldn't be going back to Formidable. The best he could hope for was ... was what? Something dangerous, no doubt. He was sure that he - and everyone else in Colchester - was considered expendable. Perhaps they wanted to put him back in a starfighter cockpit. It wasn't impossible, but it was unlikely. Starfighter combat was a young man’s game. The Admiralty would have to be really desperate before they put him in a cockpit again.

  “You’ll scrub my record,” he said, slowly. “What does that mean?”

  Liana shrugged. “Assuming you survive the war, you’ll be discharged from the navy and allowed to make your own way in life ... as if you hadn't killed your wife. You’ll have at least a chance to build something for yourself, perhaps on an asteroid settlement. Should you do anything criminal in the future, of course, the record will be de-scrubbed and you will spend the rest of your life in prison. Does that answer your question?”

  Alan nodded, slowly. There was no point in pretending to think about it. The prospect of being killed was bad, but staying in Colchester was worse. He silently damned Liana for bringing him hope ... he could have endured the prison, perhaps, if there hadn't been any chance of early release. But now ...

  “I accept,” he said.

  His thoughts ran in circles. Going back to space ... it was worth any danger. The chance to sit down and eat a good meal, even navy rations ... he’d have to see if he could find a brothel. Or an enthusiastic amateur. A Royal Navy uniform drew attention from every woman in the room. And yet ... he felt a stab of bitter guilt. He’d never slept with anyone, after marrying Judith. The thought of going to a brothel felt like betrayal ...

  Sure, his thoughts mocked him. And what was killing her, exactly?

  “Very good,” Liana said. She rose. “The military police will arrange your transfer, along with anyone else who accepts the opportunity, to a base where you will receive a fuller briefing and your assignments. I suggest you don’t waste this opportunity. You will not receive another one.”

  “I know,” Alan said. It was an unwritten law that anyone who declined a promotion would simply never be given another one. “Where are we going?”

  “Classified, for the moment,” Liana said. There was a hint of irritation in her voice. “Like I said, you’ll get a briefing when you arrive.”

  She turned and walked out of the chamber. Alan was too distracted to follow her with his eyes. A war, a chance to return to the uniform ... Liana was right. It could not be wasted. And yet ...

  His blood ran cold as the implications dawned on him. If they’re so desperate for manpower that they’re willing to recruit violent criminals, he thought, what the hell are we facing?

  Chapter Three

  “Aliens,” Abigail repeated.

  “Nonsense,” Dawes said. “This is a joke. Some depraved sick arsehole in the Admiralty has dreamt up an exercise and ...”

  “I’ll show you the sensor records in a moment,” Jameson said, coolly. It was clear, just from his tone, that he’d had the same conversation before. “Suffice it to say that, four weeks ago, the Vera Cruz colony was attacked by alien forces. Several other outposts in that sector have gone quiet. I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you what that means.”

  Abigail nodded, slowly. Four weeks ... the aliens might already be halfway to Earth. The situation was serious, if it wasn’t some insane drill. She didn't blame Dawes for being sceptical. A hundred years of extra-solar expansion and colonisation had turned up no forms of life more intelligent than a dog. Humanity was alone in the universe.

  We were alone in the universe, she thought. It couldn't be a drill. No matter the reasoning, no matter the compensation, a drill would have serious long-term effects on the relationship between merchant spacers and the navy. Dawes wasn't wrong to worry about his cargo, even if everyone was compensated appropriately. But right now cargo is the least of our worries.

  Chester snorted. “I’ve heard nothing about this,” he said. “The news channels were silent.”

  “There’s a total news blackout, for the moment,” Jameson said. “We don’t expect that to last indefinitely, of course, but it gives us a chance to get organised before the public starts to panic.”

  “True,” Abigail said. In her experience, groundpounders were a panicky lot. They knew nothing about science or technology or how it could be used to make life better. “Let’s cut to the chase, Commodore. Why did you summon us here?”

  “All five of you are Royal Navy Reservists,” Jameson said, bluntly. “And, perhaps more importantly at the moment, the Royal Navy financed the loans you used to purchase your ships. You signed an agreement, when you accepted the loan, that your vessels would be placed at our disposal if a war emergency situation was declared. It has been declared and yes, your ships are being requisitioned.”

  Dawes choked. “And my cargo?”

  “We’ll try to have it forwarded to its final destination,” Jameson said, curtly. “But right now, it is the least of our concerns.”

  Abigail exchanged glances with Chester, thinking fast. Legally, they didn't seem to have a leg to stand on, if they wa
nted to resist. They had signed the papers, after all. And even if they wanted to resist anyway, it wouldn't get them very far. The Royal Marines could board a freighter and arrest the crew if they wished. She felt a stab of pain, deep in her gut. The ship was hers. She didn't want to lose her. And yet, she might have no choice.

  “We captain freighters, not warships,” Chester said. “Do you want us to haul military supplies?”

  “No,” Jameson said. “We want to convert your ships into escort carriers.”

  Abigail stared. “Are you joking?”

  “No,” Jameson said. He tapped the terminal, activating a holographic display. A giant image of a Workhorse-class freighter appeared in front of them. “The original specifications for the Workhorse included options to convert the freighters into escort carriers if necessary. As you can see” - the diagram opened up to reveal the starship’s interior - “we’d strip out the main holds and replace them with modular components, everything from living quarters for a much larger crew to starfighter launching racks. The life support system is already over-engineered, but we’d expand it anyway ...”

  “Clever,” Dawes said, grudgingly.

  “Thank you,” Jameson said. He nodded to the diagram. “We can't replace the drives without committing ourselves to a much longer refit, but we will be replacing the computer cores and supplying additional spare parts. We’ll also be fitting close-in point defence weapons to the hull, along with their support systems. It will not be the most elegant design, but it will work.”

  I suppose that would appeal to someone who grew up in an asteroid community, Abigail thought, reluctantly. She’d been taught to value function over form since she’d been old enough to play with her first construction kit. Looking good took a second place to being practical and reliable. And the ship is designed to take the modifications without a serious refit.

  Chester cleared his throat. “I assume you expect us to captain these ships?”

  “Correct,” Jameson said. “Unless you wish to surrender your command, in which case you will be transferred elsewhere.”

  “Transferred,” Dawes repeated.

  Jameson’s voice hardened. “You are a Royal Navy Reservist, Captain Dawes. The price for the loan we gave you, ten years ago, was your ship and your service, should we have need of it. Your commission has been reactivated - activated, I suppose - and you are called upon to serve your country. And, I might add, the entire human race. This is not a human foe. We are facing aliens who probably can't tell the difference between a RockRat and a groundpounder. We all look alike to them.”

  Abigail couldn't help it. She smiled.

  “If you refuse to honour your obligations,” Jameson added, “your ship will be confiscated and you will be dispatched to prison. I assure you that your joint citizenship will not save you. Your government - both governments - are aware of the scale of the threat. You could easily be painted as a traitor to the entire human race.”

  He paused, just for a moment. “I understand that this isn't easy for any of you,” he said, his eyes sweeping the room. “Suffice it to say that every major government - including the Belt Federation - is in agreement that we have to prepare for war. There should be no reason to be concerned about divided loyalties. If you feel otherwise ... well, there are some reasonably comfortable places where you can be interned for the duration.”

  “Thanks,” Chester said, dryly.

  “And, assuming we survive, we will pay for your ships to be returned to their original state and do everything in our power to ensure that your reputations don’t suffer,” Jameson told them. “I believe that most people in the Belt will recognise that you had no choice.”

  “Hah,” Dawes said.

  Abigail shrugged. The Belters were remorselessly practical. Better to prepare for the worst and hope for the best than vice versa. It would be awkward if the war fizzled out after the diplomats started talking, but no one would blame her and her crew. And besides, the Royal Navy could offer a number of incentives to get Haddock back on the shipping lanes. A naval contract didn't offer much money, but it was fairly stable.

  She cleared her throat. “What about our crews?”

  “The ones who happen to be in the Naval Reserve will have their contracts reactivated at the same times as yourselves,” Jameson said. “We will expect them to continue serving with you, unless their services are required elsewhere. The others may leave your ships, if they wish; they can transfer to other freighters or simply return to their homes for the duration of the conflict.”

  Abigail made a face. The Belters would not be impressed by any of her crew who left the ship, not when they were being called upon to serve. She’d have to find a way to dismiss anyone who didn't want to serve, something that wouldn't be easy without blackening their reputations in other ways. The Belters didn't indulge in tasteless displays of patriotism, unlike so many groundpounder nations, but they understood duty and responsibility ... and cared little for those who shirked when the call came.

  “So, you expect us to take our ships into combat,” Dawes said. “How?”

  “We expect you to escort convoys,” Jameson said. “Right now, we have no other plan for your deployment. If that changes - when that changes - we’ll let you know.”

  “I have two crewmen from China,” Captain Hawke said. “What about them?”

  “They can stay or go, as they wish,” Jameson said. “The Chinese are preparing for war too.”

  “I see,” Hawke said.

  Chester leaned forward. “I have another question,” he said. “Are you planning to assign military personnel to our ships? In which case, who’s in charge?”

  “You will be in command of your ships,” Jameson said, reassuringly. “There will be a military officer serving as your XO, but you will be in command.”

  Abigail wasn't so sure. She understood ship handling, but she’d never served on a carrier or commanded starfighters. It probably wasn't anything like flying shuttles. And if there were enough military personnel on the ship, the XO could take over at any moment ... she shook her head, telling herself that she was being paranoid. She was a reservist, as little as she might like to remember it.

  Dawes frowned. “What’s the catch?”

  Jameson looked back at him. “The catch?”

  “You’re being very reasonable,” Dawes said. “Something must be wrong.”

  “Good point,” Hawke agreed.

  “We do need to get you and your ships ready for deployment as fast as possible,” Jameson pointed out. He sighed. “But yeah, there is a problem.”

  He took a long breath. “We are very short of manpower right now,” he said. “Our pool of trained officers and crewmen - even reservists - simply isn't big enough to meet all our requirements. We can - and we will - offer battlefield commissions to civilian crewers, on the understanding that their ranks won’t last past the end of the war, but even that isn't enough to fill every billet that needs filling. Even dropping some of the training requirements isn't going to be enough.”

  Abigail made a face. She’d heard enough about the Royal Navy’s training to know it was far from perfect, but random cuts weren't going to make matters better. She’d met too many senior officers to have any confidence that they were going to make effective cuts. They’d probably cut half the zero-g training, but keep Saluting 101. A sloppy salute might be indicative of a sloppy mind - or so she’d heard - yet she couldn't help regarding airlock training and weapons handling as far more important.

  “Go on,” Chester said.

  “We’re going to be drawing prisoners from various holding centres, if they have the right qualifications,” Jameson said. “I ...”

  Abigail felt a hot flash of anger. “Out of the question,” she said. “Do you think I’ll allow a convicted criminal on my ship?”

  Dawes nodded in agreement. “Did your planners watch The Dirty Dozen before coming up with this concept?”

  Jameson rubbed his forehead. “Let me finish,”
he said. “First, we will not be making these offers to men we feel are likely to reoffend. No serial killers, no paedophiles ... the handful that escaped being sentenced to death will not be released from prison until they die. The people we have selected are not people who pose a permanent danger.”

  “You can’t be sure of that,” Dawes muttered.

  “The reoffending rate is actually quite low,” Jameson pointed out. “In any case, like I said, we are desperate for manpower.”

  “Desperate enough to overlook ... what?” Abigail asked. “Murder? Arson? Or jaywalking?”

  “You’ll be given their files, assuming that they’re assigned to your ship,” Jameson said, bluntly. “I shouldn't have to warn you that such files are highly classified. You are not to share details with anyone, unless you are prepared to explain yourself to a court-martial board.”