She winced, inwardly. The conditions on the planet had to have been dreadful - she was a firm believer that conditions on planets were always dreadful - but evacuating even a small percentage of the population had to have been difficult. She’d helped to evacuate an asteroid once and that had been bad, even though the population had been largely composed of experienced spacers. Thankfully, colonists probably knew how hard life could be even before the aliens revealed their existence. She hoped that meant they’d be able to endure a few days on a converted freighter. Once they reached Aquitaine ...
Her console chimed. “Captain,” Alan said. “The starfighters are ready for deployment.”
“Understood,” Abigail said. Hopefully, they wouldn't encounter any alien ships on the far side of the tramline, but it was well to be prepared. “And yourself?”
“I’ll be part of the second squadron,” Alan said. “We don’t have enough pilots to let me stay in the CIC.”
Abigail’s lips twitched. “I’m sure you hate it,” she said, wryly. “I’ll see you on the far side.”
She closed the channel and returned her attention to the display. The alien fleet carrier was still advancing towards Admiral Delacroix’s fleet, although it looked as though the carrier was slowing down. Abigail wondered, idly, if the aliens were rethinking their aggressive posture or - more likely - they were just trying to screw with their enemy’s mind. A crew could not stay on full alert indefinitely, no matter what appallingly bad entertainment shows claimed. Admiral Delacroix’s crews would be stressed and tired by the time the aliens finally deigned to close to engagement range.
One hopes it screws with their minds too, Abigail thought. We don’t know anything about their endurance, either.
She yawned, covering her mouth guiltily. She’d caught some rest as the task force had crossed Talofa, but it hadn't really been enough. Hopefully, she’d have a chance for some more once they were across the tramline and hidden in the interplanetary void. Besides, Talofa was supposed to be relatively clear. The enemy would have to loop through Aquitaine if they wanted to attack Talofa or reinforce Bavaria. By her assessment, there were easier ways to do it.
“They could have hit the admiral by now,” Anson said. “Why are they fucking around with him?”
“Maybe they’re stalling,” Poddy said. “If they have another fleet carrier on the way, the odds get a lot more even.”
Abigail resisted the urge to tell them to shut up. Anson and Poddy were sensible kids - save, perhaps, for Anson’s unseemly love for a criminal groundpounder. They wouldn't scare each other too badly. Coming to think of it, Poddy’s birthday wasn’t that far off. She’d be old enough to date in a month or two and then ... Abigail winced, inwardly. God knew she had made some horrific mistakes before actually getting married. She’d have to sit Poddy down, probably a day before her birthday, and give her a frank description of some of Abigail’s mistakes. They weren't ones she wanted her daughter to repeat.
Although telling her not to do half the shit I did will probably make her want to do it, Abigail thought. The Belt had very strict rules on consent - and ways to determine if someone truly thought their partner had consented - but it didn't care much if someone tried something willingly and then discovered, midway through, that they didn't like it after all. Belters were responsible for their own shit. I’ll just have to make that clear to her.
“Tramline in twenty minutes,” Anson said, breaking into her thoughts. “The enemy still hasn't engaged the carriers.”
“It certainly looks that way,” Abigail said. They were far enough from Admiral Delacroix, now, for the time delay to be a very real problem. The battle might already have begun but it would still be some time before they knew it. “Are we clear?”
“Local space appears clear,” Poddy reported. “The drones aren't finding anything.”
She paused. “Commodore Jameson wants us to jump as soon as we cross the tramline, then head straight for the Aquitaine tramline.”
Abigail frowned. She wasn't sure what she made of that. A least-time course would ensure they got the refugees to Aquitaine before one or more of the freighters developed problems with their life support, but it had the disadvantage of being very predictable. The aliens would have no trouble keeping tabs on their location, if they detected the flotilla crossing the tramline. And yet, there was no hint the aliens knew where they were.
We shouldn't take it for granted, she reminded herself. The recon drones were good, but they weren't perfect. They might have shadowed us ever since we left the planet.
She waited for the last minutes to tick down to zero, then looked at Anson. “Ready to jump?”
“Aye, Captain,” Anson said.
“Then jump,” Abigail ordered.
Anson nodded, his hand dancing over his console. “Jumping ... now!”
Abigail grunted as she felt an invisible fist slam into her chest. It hurt worse every time, these days ... she wondered, grimly, just how long she’d be able to keep travelling the tramlines if it kept getting worse. Maybe she was just getting old. Or maybe ...
I might be able to buy a modern freighter, she thought, if I convince the navy to bankroll it or get a loan from ...
Alarms howled. “Incoming starfighters,” Poddy snapped. Red icons flashed into existence on the display, far too close for comfort. “We’re under attack!”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“Go, go, go!”
Alan gritted his teeth as the starfighter was hurled out of the launch tube and into interplanetary space. They’d been caught flatfooted, somehow. The aliens ... the aliens must have tracked them in Bavaria, then plotted an ambush in Talofa. They’d pulled it off too, he told himself. He would have been impressed with their cunning if the ambush hadn't been aimed at the flotilla.
That explains why they dawdled in Bavaria, he thought. They assumed the remainder of the task force would withdraw too.
He took stock of the situation as Savage began barking orders, forming the squadron up into some kind of formation. The alien starfighters were closing rapidly, although there was something oddly hesitant about their movements. Alan puzzled over it for a long moment, then decided it didn't matter. Perhaps the aliens had assumed they’d be facing one or both of the human fleet carriers. In that case, the escort carriers and freighters would have been ignored while the fleet carriers were massacred.
And their fleet carrier is actually some distance away. The enemy fleet carrier was making no attempt to hide. Alan didn't blame her commander. They know we can't attack her without uncovering the refugee ships.
He wondered, grimly, if the aliens even knew what they were attacking. Did they think they were targeting twelve escort carriers, even though seven of the ‘carriers’ hadn't launched a single fighter? Or were they just intent on destroying as much tonnage as possible? They’d already shown a frightening lack of concern for civilian casualties, although Alan did have to admit that the aliens didn't go in for mass slaughter. They weren't terrorists or insurgents, merely ... alien. And there was no way to tell them what they were attacking. They might be horrified, later, when they realised what they’d done. But it wouldn't come in time to help the flotilla.
And we can't even recharge the drives and jump back into Bavaria, not before they land on us, Alan told himself. The military ships could withdraw, if they were willing to abandon the civilians. And the escort carriers, for that matter. The hell of it was that cold logic insisted that abandoning the freighters was precisely what Commodore Jameson should do. It’ll keep us from losing seven warships as well as the converted freighters.
He shook his head. The military existed to protect civilians, not to abandon them. He didn’t think Commodore Jameson would willingly abandon the remainder of the convoy, no matter what cold logic said. God knew he’d be pilloried by the media when he got home, even though most of his superiors would probably - very quietly - agree with him. Alan didn't want to run either. But the aliens were going to tear the
m to shreds.
“Engage at will,” Savage ordered. “Don’t let them get into firing range!”
There were no jokes, not this time. The pilots were experienced enough to know that their backs were firmly pressed against the wall, that even jumping back into Bavaria wouldn't be enough to save them. Alan gritted his teeth as the aliens came closer, plasma bolts already flashing through space. He wished, suddenly, that he’d had a chance to record a final message for his daughters. The last message had been almost optimistic. He couldn't help hoping that they never saw it, before or after they heard of his death.
An alien starfighter materialised in front of him, driving straight through the CSP. Alan blew the alien to dust, then evaded a series of plasma bolts as the alien’s wingman tried to take revenge. He ducked and dodged until Savage scored a direct hit, wiping the alien out of space. Alan nodded his thanks as he looked for other targets, silently noting that the aliens were more intent on hitting the capital ships than duelling with the starfighters. It was good tactics, he admitted reluctantly, but a little unsporting.
War is not a sport, he reminded himself, as he directed his starfighter to chase the nearest alien fighter. And there are no rules, save those that can actually be enforced.
Sweat trickled down his back as the starfighters converged on the freighters. The damned aliens were closing rapidly, evading human point defence as they fired plasma bolts into the warship and freighter hulls. He cursed savagely as his sensors reported a bolt slamming into a freighter, burning through the thin metal hull. The carnage inside would be utterly horrific, a nightmare beyond imagination. He didn't think anyone in one of the outer compartments would survive ... God knew the freighters didn’t have anything like enough spacesuits for all the refugees. Even if they did, being in close proximity to a plasma bolt would probably set them on fire.
Those blasts can tear through metal, he thought. He’d seen the aliens ripping fleet carriers apart with casual ease. What can they do to unprotected skin and bone?
A freighter exploded, pieces of debris spinning out in all directions. Alan shuddered, trying not to be sick. The aliens had killed hundreds, perhaps thousands, of helpless refugees. He hoped they didn't know what they’d done, that they hadn't set out to do it intentionally ... and yet, he knew it didn't matter. Dead was dead, no matter the intention. Those refugees had left the frying pan and fallen straight into the fire.
He pushed the starfighter forward, heedless of the danger. The aliens seemed to recoil, just long enough for him to snap off a couple of shots. An alien starfighter vanished from the display, but he barely noticed its passing. They were doomed. He knew they were doomed. There was no way they could surrender or escape ...
At least we can scratch them properly on our way to the gallows, he thought, morbidly. It might just weaken them enough for Admiral Delacroix to break back through the system, if he wins his engagement.
He’d known he was expendable, right from the very moment he’d been offered a chance to don the uniform once again. And yet, he was about to die on something that hadn't been meant as a suicide mission. The irony made him laugh, despite himself. Perhaps his death would be rather more meaningful than he’d thought.
It wasn't a particularly reassuring thought. But, at the moment, it was all he had.
“They’re regrouping,” Whitehead said, curtly. His voice was so calm that Alan knew it was an act. “Form up on me and prepare to break them up.”
Alan blinked. Whitehead? Not Savage? He looked down at the display and swore. Savage was gone. He’d bought it ... he’d bought it, back while Alan had been trying to save the freighter. Alan cursed himself for not noticing, even though ... he should have noticed, he told himself. Savage hadn't deserved to die. He hadn't done anything that merited death. And yet ... it tore at Alan that he hadn't noticed. He hadn't even had time to mark Savage’s passing ...
Concentrate, he told himself. The aliens were spreading out, angling towards the escort carriers as they resumed the attack. And get into formation. Now.
***
“Shit,” Poddy said.
“Focus,” Abigail snapped. They’d been caught with their pants down - they’d been caught with their panties down, part of her mind yammered - and they were trapped, but panic wouldn't help. “How long until we can jump?”
“Twenty minutes,” Poddy said. “I ... I don’t think it’s going to be enough.”
Abigail nodded, curtly. The alien fleet carrier was hogging the tramline, slowly making its way towards the flotilla. She tried to imagine a human starship jumping through the tramline and accidentally interpenetrating with the alien carrier, blowing both ships to atoms, but she had to admit it was vanishingly unlikely. No, they couldn't stay anywhere near the tramline unless they wanted to die. But running away from the tramline wasn't a possibility either.
And staying here will just get us killed, she thought. They definitely caught us with our pants down.
She glanced at the communications board, but it remained blank. Commodore Jameson hadn't issued any orders, save for the command to launch starfighters. She wondered, vaguely, if the younger man could pull a miracle out of his arse, then silently laughed at herself for being stupid. No one, groundpounder or belter, could hope to save the flotilla now. Their only edge was the distance between the alien starfighters and their mothership and that was closing rapidly. It was starting to look as though all they could do was die bravely.
“Captain,” Poddy said. “They’re concentrating on us.”
Abigail wasn't surprised. The aliens had seen Haddock launching starfighters. They knew what she was. The aliens could blow away the warships and escort carriers, then concentrate on obliterating the remaining freighters while leaving the starfighter pilots to die when their life support packs ran out. She was surprised they weren't targeting the warships first, but she supposed they saw starfighters as more dangerous. Or, perhaps, they expected Commodore Jameson to abandon the flotilla to save his own skin.
“Stand by point defence,” she ordered, shortly. The command datanet was already coming apart, after the aliens had blown one of the destroyers into flaming plasma. It was no consolation to realise that a military formation would have re-established the datanet by now, if they’d lost it in the first place. “Engage the moment they enter firing range.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Abigail gritted her teeth as the alien craft swooped down on Haddock. They’d learnt a few things from the last encounter, she noted; they were targeting the drive section, rather than blasting plasma bolts into her hull at random. It made a certain kind of sense when they were targeting fleet carriers, but Haddock didn't have quite so many internal systems that could be badly mangled by the blasts. A dull quiver ran through the ship, followed by two more. Red icons flared up on the status display.
“The armour around the rear is holding,” Anson said, astonished. “But they’re concentrating their fire on the weaker aspects ...”
“Keep using point defence to break up their formation,” Abigail said. She would have sold her soul for plasma guns of her own. The navy might disagree, but as far as she was concerned breaking up the enemy attack was more important than scoring hits. “And recall some of our starfighters, if you can.”
“I think they have problems of their own,” Poddy said. “They’re taking a beating.”
Abigail nodded, grimly. Only two of the five escort carriers had managed to get all of their starfighters into space before the aliens had descended on the flotilla, their plasma guns picking off a handful of starfighters before their pilots could orient themselves. One of the escort carriers had been hit so badly that the entire flight deck had been smashed, although the remainder of the ship was intact. A dozen pilots had been killed and their starfighters destroyed before they’d had a chance to launch. She silently blessed Alan’s insistence on intensive training, even though she knew it had tired her crew. It might have saved a few lives.
Or at least give
n them a chance to fight back, she thought. They were doomed, but at least they’d make the aliens pay for what they’d done. Who knows? Perhaps we’ll take out enough starfighters to cripple their plans for Aquitaine.
“They’re coming back,” Poddy reported. “Captain?”
“Keep firing,” Abigail ordered. “Throw everything we have at them, up to and including the kitchen sink.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Commodore Jameson’s face appeared in the display. “All ships, prepare to alter course,” he ordered. “We can’t stay here.”
You should run, Abigail thought, grimly. There was no point in throwing away the entire flotilla, just because Commodore Jameson didn't want to be branded a coward. Take your ships and go.
She gritted her teeth as she saw the new course appear in front of her. Commodore Jameson wanted to avoid contact with the alien carrier ... it might have been workable, if their enemy hadn’t been a carrier. There was no way the human flotilla could break contact long enough to slip into silent running, not when the alien starfighters could catch up with the human ships at any time. All the aliens had to do was keep battering away at the human flotilla from a safe distance, trading starfighters for warships and freighters. The loss rate would be firmly in their favour.
The Cruel Stars (Ark Royal Book 11) Page 38
