The Cruel Stars (Ark Royal Book 11)

by Christopher Nuttall

  It isn't going to happen, he told himself. Relax.

  “Death is a part of life,” Abigail said. Her voice was very clear. “We who live beside the vacuum know this for a fact. Death stalks us every day, waiting for the moment when our lives come to an end. And we accept this to be true, because death cannot be evaded permanently. We do not fear death, for death is a part of life. Instead, we strive to accomplish something with our lives before our time runs out, something that our families and friends will remember when we are gone.

  “Today, we gather to honour our comrades who died so that we may live. Seventeen people on this ship were killed in the battle, all members of our crew. Their deaths will not be forgotten. We will remember them as long as life itself endures.”

  She paused. “It is customary for the captain to speak briefly about each of the dead, but time is not on our side,” she added. “And so I will speak of two and Wing Commander Marc Savage will speak of a third. We ask your forgiveness - and that of the dead - for cutting the service short. The others will be remembered when we return home.”

  If we return home, Alan thought. The system was quiet, as far as their sensors could determine, but that meant nothing. The alien stealth systems were too good. It was quite possible that the aliens were already closing in. We may never see Earth again.

  “Rating Akuna Yu was young, yet she had an inborn engineering talent that only needed a little direction to flourish into light. I saw something in her, when she applied to join the crew, that could become something great. And so I allowed her to join. In the two years she was with us, she was beloved by everyone, credited for squeezing a little more power out of the drives. She will be sorely missed.

  “Rating Wayland was older, yet he was young at heart. He told me, once, that he never intended to rise in the ranks. He merely wanted to see the universe and serving on a freighter seemed a good way to do it. Perhaps he was right, too. In his time as a spacer, he saw more planets and star systems than anyone else, even me. I often wondered why he didn't apply for survey work instead of freighters, but he never answered. Perhaps he was happy where he was. He made us happy too.

  “His body has not been recovered. We cannot take his ashes home, nor can we launch him into space. And yet, I pledge he will not be forgotten. None of them will be forgotten.”

  No, Alan promised himself. None of them will be forgotten.

  She looked at Savage, who stepped forward. “I wish there was time to speak of everyone,” he said. “Fifteen starfighter pilots died, seven of them under my command. But I can only speak of one, Flight Lieutenant Sofia Augusta.”

  He took a long breath. “Sofia was a wild young woman, at heart. She was a thrill-seeker, willing to do anything for a dare. She confided in me, once, that she’d come very close to being expelled from her school after a streaking prank resulted in great embarrassment for her teachers. Thankfully, she was introduced to starfighters, where being willing to risk everything is considered an advantage.”

  Alan winced. That hurt, more than he cared to admit.

  “There was nothing bad about her,” Savage said. “She was not malicious. She wanted to live life to the fullest, not torment others. She could laugh at herself, rather than laugh at others. I liked her. We all liked her. And while she did deserve a severe reprimand for her conduct on her last posting, she didn't deserve to die. I like to think that she’s laughing at us - and herself - from beyond the stars.

  “I wish I'd known her for longer. I wish I’d known the others for longer. But what I know of her will be remembered.”

  It will, Alan promised himself. He wished he’d known Sofia Augusta better too. And so will all of the others who died in the battle.

  Abigail looked at him. “Alan? Would you like to say a few words?”

  No, Alan thought. But there are some things that have to be said.

  “I promised you that I wouldn’t bullshit you, when we first met,” he said. He’d said that to the starfighter pilots, but he thought the rest of the crew would understand. “We have just watched helplessly as thousands of people, some of them our friends and family, were blown away by our new foe. It won’t be long before they resume their advance on Earth. And if they take Earth - or even devastate the system - the war will be over.

  “This is a war for survival, a war waged against a race that seems to think the galaxy isn't big enough for both of us. This is not a little border skirmish or a struggle with religious fanatics, not even a war between Great Powers! This is going to be worse than any war humanity has ever fought. The loss of twelve entire fleet carriers may be only the beginning. It will get worse. Our very existence as a species is under threat!

  “I wish I had some comfort to offer. I wish I could promise you victory. But all I can say is that we will continue to fight, we will do everything in our power to hold the line until we can teach these bastards that humanity will never give up. We will fight. We will win. And we will make them pay for what they’ve done!

  “Remember the dead. And avenge them!”

  He stepped back. Abigail spoke a few brief words - Alan barely heard them - and then dismissed the crew. Alan started to follow them, tiredly. He wanted more sleep - he thought they all wanted more sleep - but there was no time. They had to get the ships repaired before the aliens showed up. They had to.

  And if they catch up with us after the repairs, he thought numbly, they’ll kill us anyway.

  Abigail caught his arm. “A word with you,” she said. “Now.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Abigail’s cabin hadn't changed, Alan noted, as he followed her into her private compartment. Of course it hadn’t changed. It was still cramped, despite being the largest cabin on the ship. A datapad sat on the table, blinking for attention. The hatch hissed closed as Abigail pointed him to the chair, her movements less graceful now they were alone. He couldn't help wondering what was bothering her.

  “Sit,” Abigail ordered, when he made no move to sit down. She softened her tone, just slightly. “Please?”

  Alan sat and watched, with growing alarm, as she pulled a box out of a compartment and opened it to reveal a bottle of dark red liquid. The bottle was unmarked, something that would not have passed muster on Earth. There was no list of ingredients or warnings about alcohol content, let alone snide notes about drunkards still being responsible for anything they did while under the influence. He’d always found them infuriating as a young man, although he supposed the warnings did make a certain kind of sense. A man who drank and then did something stupid would not be able to use drunkenness as an excuse when he was hauled up before the magistrate.

  “There are glasses in the compartment under your butt,” Abigail said. She sounded angry, although her anger wasn't directed at him. “Take out a couple, would you?”

  Alan hesitated, torn between doing as he was told and walking out. Abigail had given him alcohol before and the results had not been good. And he was supposed to set an example for the other pilots. God knew they’d think less of him if they found him wandering the ship in a drunken state, tunelessly singing the nine verses of Merlin the Happy Pig. But, at the same time, part of him wanted to drown his sorrows. He’d watched twelve fleet carriers die in less than ten minutes. The war had taken a very nasty turn.

  He reached under the chair, opened the compartment and produced two shot glasses. Abigail sniffed when she saw them - there were bigger glasses too - but took them without comment, pouring a splash of wine into each glass. Alan frowned as she passed him a glass, lifting hers to her lips. The smell was strong enough to bother him. He couldn't help wondering if the two-pint rule should be replaced by the one-shot rule.

  “Absent friends,” Abigail said. She looked down at the liquid for a long moment. “Cheers.”

  She drank. Alan drank too, carefully. The wine tasted strong, as if it had been left to ferment for too long. He wondered, as he put the empty glass down on the table, just how much alcohol he’d drunk. Shipboard rotgut
was normally not made with scientific precision. It could be anything from mildly-fermented grape juice to something so strong that a sniff of the liquid would make his head spin. No one had actually been poisoned by rotgut, as far as he knew, but that didn’t mean the wine wasn't strong. His superiors on Formidable would not have been amused if he’d turned up for duty drunk out of his mind.

  He shuddered as it hit him, again. Formidable was gone. The carrier had seemed invincible, utterly untouchable by modern weapons. But the aliens had changed the rules and Formidable had died and ...

  Abigail held up the bottle. “Another?”

  Alan shook his head. “No, thank you,” he said. “We have to keep a clear head.”

  “It’s a little late for that,” Abigail said. She put the bottle back in the box and returned it to the compartment. “She was a pretty young girl, you know?”

  “Akuna?”

  “Yeah,” Abigail said. “She could have gone far, if she’d lived. The belt doesn't care about tangled family trees, does it? All that matters is competence and ability and ... she had those, in spades. I knew she wouldn't stay with us forever, but I didn't care. I liked her more than I should.”

  She looked at him, sharply. “Does it ever get easier?”

  Alan shook his head. “No,” he said. Men and women had died under his command. They’d died in training accidents, not wartime, but it didn’t make it any easier. He knew accidents happened, he knew the board of inquiry had determined that the accidents hadn't been his fault, yet he kept thinking that there was something he could have done. “The pain dulls, but it never goes away.”

  “She wasn't military,” Abigail said. She sounded as though she hadn't heard a word he’d said. “I should have kicked her off the ship, when we were told that we were going to become an escort carrier. God knows it wouldn't have been held against her. She could have gone back to the belt and become a research scientist or something ... not stayed with us and flown into danger. I could have saved her life.”

  “You didn't know,” Alan said, quietly.

  He sighed, inwardly. He’d been told not to get too attached to his pilots, but that was impossible. When he’d been a starfighter pilot himself, he’d shared in the camaraderie; when he’d been CAG, he still hadn’t been able to distance himself from the younger men and women. Hell, it was worse on Haddock. He’d had twenty-four pilots under his command, not three hundred. He’d gotten to know them better than he should.

  “I should have known,” Abigail said. “She was barely three years older than Poddy. I shouldn't have let her come with us.”

  And the ship’s crew is too small for Abigail to detach herself from her subordinates, Alan thought. Akuna might not have been her biological daughter, but Abigail thought of her as a child.

  “She made her choice,” Alan said, unsure what to say. “It was what she wanted.”

  “She didn't know what she wanted,” Abigail snapped. “Is it so easy for you to dismiss her death?”

  “No,” Alan said. He honestly didn’t know what to say. “But she knew the risks.”

  Abigail snorted. “We all know the common risks,” she said, bitterly. “A war is a little different, isn't it?”

  “Yeah,” Alan said. “It is.”

  He looked down at the metal deck, trying to think of something he could say. But nothing came to mind. He’d known - he’d always known - that everyone who joined the Royal Navy was a volunteer. The navy didn't take conscripts. Even the army didn't take conscripts, although that might change in a hurry. The last conscriptions had been nearly a century ago, but the legislation remained on the books. He had no doubt the government would reintroduce conscription as soon as it dawned on the politicians that the navy might not be able to keep the aliens from landing on Earth.

  And we might not be able to resist, if they did, he thought. He wished, suddenly, for another drink. As long as they control the high orbitals, we’d have no hope of driving them off our world.

  He shuddered. He knew enough about counter-insurgency tactics to understand that the aliens would have little trouble defending their positions. If, of course, they didn't simply exterminate the human race. Wiping out every population centre was the work of an afternoon, if they wanted Earth for themselves. Or they could drop a genetically-engineered virus, once they’d captured the high orbitals. That particular demon had nearly escaped the bottle before the Great Powers had managed to slam the lid into place and weld it shut. And it had been humans who’d created the first tailored virus ...

  How can we blame the aliens for being inhuman, he thought, when man is so inhuman to man?

  “People have died before,” Abigail said. “I killed ... I killed a man who thought I’d be an easy target. He dragged me into a cabin, I drew my gun and shot him. I didn't feel anything as I watched him die. It didn't really shock me.”

  She looked at her empty glass. “He deserved it. I carried ... I had a gun. Didn't he think I knew how to use it? And my uncle died because he made a careless, but understandable mistake. I mourned him, yet ... his death was understandable. He pushed the life support too far, you see. It caught up with him eventually. But Akuna died in the middle of an incomprehensible war. Why does it bother me so much?”

  “She did nothing to deserve it,” Alan said, quietly.

  “No, she didn’t,” Abigail said. She looked up at him, sharply. “Did your wife do anything to deserve it?”

  Alan felt a hot flash of anger, mingled with bitterness. The pain had dulled, in time. Colchester had helped, if only by forcing him to keep a steady routine. And yet, he was torn between self-justification and the grim knowledge that he’d deserved far worse. He’d been very lucky not to be marched into the execution chamber and hanged. If Judith hadn't been cheating on him ...

  But if Judith hadn't been cheating on me, he thought, I would never have killed her.

  “I don’t know,” he said, finally. His feelings were awash. “I don’t know what she deserved.”

  Alan studied his hands for a long moment, unwilling to meet her gaze. “I thought she loved me,” he said. “I thought ... we were building a family. I was sending her enough money to ensure that we’d have a comfortable life, once I retired. I wouldn't have any problems finding a job afterwards, if I wished. Military vets get preference almost everywhere. Five more years ...”

  He swore as it dawned on him. If she hadn't cheated on him - if he hadn't caught her - he would have retired before the war. He’d never really expected to command his own starship, not when there were more potential captains with better connections than there were commands. He might have had a shot at XO - or wound up spending the last two years flying a desk - but command would have been beyond him. And he wouldn't have waited around, either. He’d always intended to retire when his daughters started secondary school. God knew they’d need a father in their lives then.

  And now they don’t have anyone, but their grandparents, he thought. Hot tears prickled at the corner of his eyes. Who’ll keep a sharp eye on them then?

  “You killed her,” Abigail said. Her voice was very hard. “You made the choice to kill her.”

  Alan sighed. He didn't know. Everything was a blur from the moment he’d walked into the house until the police arrested him. Flashes of memory, images of Judith screaming and ... and ... he shook his head. He didn't want to remember. Even thinking about losing control so badly scared him. He’d loved her. And yet ...

  “I know what I did,” Alan said. The first clear memory was being interrogated by the police, his hands cuffed to the table as they fired questions at him. There had been blood on his hands ... Judith’s blood. “And yet I don’t know what choice I made.”

  He gritted his teeth. A woman who cheated on her husband could expect nothing, after the divorce. And that went double for a wife who cheated on a military husband. She might get custody of the children, but even that came with a steep price. Hell, she’d be lucky not to be charged with demoralising the troops. Wh
o’d want to go to war - and accept a long separation from his wife and children - if he thought there was a chance his wife would cheat on him?

  No one, he thought. The day of the ‘Dear John’ letter is long gone.

  It wasn't fair, he told himself. Judith could have gotten a divorce at any moment, if she’d been willing to pay the price. No one would have forced her to stay in the marriage if she’d been unhappy. They could have sat down like adults and discussed custody and visitation rights in a calm and reasonable manner. He’d loved her, but he would have let her go if she’d wanted to go. Instead ... she’d had her fling. And he’d killed her ...

  “Everyone makes choices,” Abigail said. “They just have to learn to deal with the consequences.”

  Alan felt his temper flare. “You could have handed the ship over to some other captain,” he said, tartly. The days when the Royal Navy had more captains than ships were long gone too, but the navy wouldn't have had any problems digging up a CO for an escort carrier if necessary. “You didn't have to stay in command.”