“It seems you expect us to take a risk,” Chester observed.
“If it was entirely up to me,” Jameson said, “there wouldn't be any war. And there would be no need to turn your ships into escort carriers. And there would be no need to look at every possible source of manpower. But it isn't up to me.”
He looked from face to face. “You took our money so you could buy and operate your freighters. Right now, we’re calling in the loan. You are under military authority and that means following orders. If you are unable or unwilling to accept the current state of affairs, you can leave - now - and we’ll give your ships to someone else. We know this isn't easy and we wouldn't be considering it if the situation wasn't desperate.
“We don't believe that any of the prospective candidates pose a serious risk. If that changes, our approach will change too.”
“So put up and shut up,” Chester said.
“Or fuck off,” Dawes added.
Abigail scowled, inwardly. She was aware, all too aware, that people made mistakes. She’d grown up in a society where people were publicly whipped for minor errors and completely ostracised for major mistakes. It had always struck her as severe, until she’d come to understand just how much depended on people not making mistakes. The lives of everyone on an asteroid depended on a complete lack of mistakes.
But people don’t go to groundpounder jail for minor mistakes, she thought. Groundpounders were rather more forgiving than RockRats. Whatever they did had to be serious.
She closed her eyes for a long moment. There was no point in trying to argue, not when she had signed the contract. And there was no way she was abandoning her ship and crew. She loved the old freighter more than she loved her husbands and wives ...
And if any of the criminals step out of line, she told herself firmly, there will be an unfortunate accident.
She nodded to herself. Groundpounders and RockRats might disagree on what constituted a dangerous and irredeemable criminal, but they both agreed that certain kinds of people could never be let free. The simple fact that the criminals hadn't been executed suggested that the judge and jury had believed there was no reasonable possibility of reoffending. And yet ... no one would blame her if she executed a criminal who misbehaved on her ship. It was technically within her authority, even as a civilian. She was damned if she was allowing anyone a second or third chance.
Jameson cleared his throat. “Are there any other points you wish to raise?”
Abigail nodded. “How long do you expect the conversions to take?”
“Roughly two weeks,” Jameson said. “The modular components have already been transported here, along with additional dockyard workers. We’ve already done one conversion, so most of the kinks in the system should be worked out by now. There’s no guarantee, of course, that we will meet our deadline. We’re planning on the assumption that the schedule will slip at some point.”
“How reassuring,” Chester said.
“True,” Abigail said. Refitting a giant freighter wouldn't be easy, even if they didn't run into any major problems. Two weeks might be ludicrously optimistic. “At least we can't be blamed for any delays.”
“Or strikes in the dockyard,” Dawes added.
“There is a war on,” Jameson said. “All strikes have been suspended for the duration.”
You mean, anyone who strikes will be arrested, Abigail thought. Industrial action was rare in space - there were more jobs than there were trained workers - but it had been known to happen. And yet, if a state of emergency had been declared, any strikers would be arrested ... and then what? Put back to work? We couldn't arrest everyone without shooting ourselves in the foot.
“I’ll make sure you have copies of all the files,” Jameson said. “I should add, again, that all of these files are classified. You are not to share them with anyone. Indeed, we are under complete radio silence. You are not to contact anyone without sending the message through the censors here.”
“Because you don’t want to tell the little people that Armageddon is approaching,” Dawes muttered.
“We don’t want a panic,” Jameson said. “The news will be released soon, I believe, once the first wave of preparations has been completed. That should convince the public that we know what we’re doing.”
Abigail snorted. “How can that possibly be true? We’ve encountered aliens. Even if the war comes to an end tomorrow, nothing is ever going to be the same. We’re just pretending that everything is normal because we don’t know what will change when we admit that everything is no longer normal!”
“That’s somewhat above my pay grade,” Jameson said. He shrugged. “Yeah, I admit there are philosophical implications here. Contact with an alien race, us no longer being alone ... yes, there is much to consider. But right now, our real concern is that the aliens are not remotely friendly. They attacked us, not the other way around. Preparing for war is more important than trying to make contact with them.”
“Maybe they’re too alien to understand us,” Hawke mused. “We humans have problems talking to each other when we come from different cultures. The gulf between us and the aliens must be far wider than the gulf between spacers and groundpounders.”
Abigail nodded. There were things - spacer things - that no groundpounder would ever understand. They might claim to understand intellectually, but emotionally? They simply didn't understand. It was impossible to discuss such matters because the groundpounders refused to accept them.
“Or maybe they’re just nasty bastards,” Dawes said. “How many historical humans can claim to be nasty bastards? Genghis Khan? Napoleon? Hitler? Bin Laden? Sir Charles Hanover? Chairman Shan? It’s not like they needed excuses to be bastards.”
“There are people who will find humanity even in Hitler,” Hawke said.
“Which goes to prove that a great many people are idiots,” Dawes said. “What excuse do our new enemies have for being nasty bastards?”
“I dare say we’ll find out,” Jameson said. He smiled, humourlessly. “If any of you want to leave your ships now, say so. If not ... we’ll start the refitting as soon as possible.”
Abigail sighed. “I don't think any of us want to leave our ships.”
And if any of the criminals act up, she added mentally, I’ll put him out the airlock first and worry about coming up with a story later.
Chapter Four
“All right, everyone out,” a voice barked. “Move it!”
Alan jerked awake. He’d tried to stay awake, when they’d been marched out of their cells and into the bus, but the vehicle’s steady motion had lulled him into sleep. It hadn't helped that the windows had been tinted, making it impossible for him to see outside. He thought they’d been driving for around three hours, but it was impossible to be sure. They could be anywhere in England by now.
He staggered to his feet, joining the others as they stumbled towards the door and piled out onto the tarmac. They were on a military base, all right; there was no mistaking the bland buildings, the ugly signs on the walls and the guards, standing by the fence. It looked as though the base had been hastily reactivated, he decided as he looked around. The fence didn't look very secure, he thought. Normally, a military base would look like a garrison in a hostile city.
Which isn't really a good thing, he thought. But too many bases were attacked during the Troubles.
“Proceed into the first building,” a redcap barked, as pre-packed overnight bags were handed out. Unusually for a redcap, he wore rank insignia. A colonel, apparently. “Take one of the shower cubicles and wash thoroughly, then dress and make your way down to the mess. Do not delay.”
Alan shrugged as he walked into the building and found a private shower room. It was tiny, no larger than a washroom on a starship, but it was private. He undressed, turned on the water and stepped under the flow. It felt heavenly. He ran his fingers through his hair, wishing he’d had a chance to have it cut properly, then rubbed shaving gel on his cheeks to remove the stubb
le. The water washed the bristles away without hesitation. He wanted to linger - a long shower seemed the height of luxury after prison - but he knew better than to delay too long. Turning off the water, he dried himself and changed into his new uniform. It had no rank insignia, nothing to suggest his assignment or status, but it was still far superior to prison jumpsuits.
He stepped outside and stopped in front of a mirror. The blue uniform looked good on his pale skin, matching his blue eyes. He looked like a new recruit, save for his unkempt hair and obvious age. The dark lines around his eyes proved he was in his thirties, at the very least. Alan studied himself, then sighed. Colchester had probably made him look at least ten years older. It would be a long time before he managed to get himself back in shape.
You have a reason to stay in shape now, he told himself, firmly. There would be an exercise room on the base, somewhere. He’d have to go regularly, at least until he received his assignment. You need to be fit for what’s coming.
He made his way down the stairs and into the underground mess. It looked as if it had been designed for over five hundred soldiers, not forty men and three women. Everyone was a little spread out, eying each other - and the guards - with some concern. Alan shrugged as he walked over to the counter, where the cook splashed sausages, potatoes and beans on a military-issue plate. The food might be disgusting, by civilian standards, but it was better than Colchester’s. And it looked as though there was plenty of it.
Sitting down, he allowed his eyes to roam the room as he ate. He recognised a handful of the men from Colchester, but the remainder were strangers to him. The women were complete unknowns ... had they come from Colchester too? Or had they been brought from another prison? It was hardly unknown for female convicts to be transferred to a civilian prison, after sentence had been passed. Maybe someone had decided to spare them Colchester. If so, they'd done the women no favours. Colchester was harsh, but there were worse places to be.
“There are books and other entertainments in the next room,” a redcap boomed, pointing towards a far door. “When your name is called, walk into the interview room and sit down.”
Alan rolled his eyes as he finished his second helping, then walked into the next room. It was a small library, complete with row upon row of paper books and a handful of computer terminals. A quick check told him that the computers weren't linked to the datanet, unsurprisingly. It didn't look as though they were linked to MILNET either. He supposed that wasn't a surprise. The base looked old enough to predate the Troubles. Maybe it had been an internment centre rather than a real base.
A young man winked at him. “There are pretty-looking chicks in there,” he stage-whispered, mischievously. “You want to ask one of them to fuck?”
Alan shook his head, curtly. They were being watched. The chains might have been loosened - they hadn't been cuffed and shackled for the journey - but he would be surprised if every last inch of the base wasn't under constant observation. And besides, the redcaps were a constant presence. Any misbehaviour would just get him shipped back to Colchester to serve the rest of his sentence.
He pulled a book from the shelf - the latest in a series he vaguely recalled reading before he’d been sentenced to spend ten years behind bars - and sat down to read. The author had started well - he’d captured the life of a space marine quite accurately - but he'd clearly gone downhill over the last five years. This book was nothing more than a hodgepodge of plotlines that didn't quite blend together and sex scenes that would probably result in physical injury if someone tried them in real life. By the time his name was called and he walked into the interview room, it was something of a relief.
“Commander Campbell,” a young man said. “Thank you for coming.”
Alan sat down, studying the younger man closely. He wore a plain blue uniform, without any rank insignia or nametag. Intelligence, perhaps? In Alan’s experience, REMFs tended to wear the fanciest uniforms they could get away with, at least in public. They hated it when anyone questioned their right to wear the uniform, or when someone addressed them by the wrong rank. Or maybe he was a naval reservist who hadn't been allowed to return to his former rank. There was no way to know.
“You’re welcome,” Alan said, finally. He reminded himself, sharply, to behave. This young man could probably wreck his sole hope of getting out of jail with a word in the right - or wrong - set of ears. “What can I do for you?”
“I have a file for you,” the young man said. He passed Alan a paper file. “Read it.”
Alan frowned, then opened the file. The first page was a summary; short, informative and completely unbelievable. Aliens? There was no such thing as aliens. Everyone knew there was no such thing as aliens. Every stray signal that humanity had detected, every vague sensor contact ... all of them had, eventually, been proven to have a natural explanation, one stripped of all wonder and terror. Aliens didn't exist ...
... And yet, no one would recruit convicted criminals from Colchester unless they were desperate.
She mentioned a manpower shortage, Alan thought, weakly. His mouth was suddenly very dry. The nation is gearing up for war.
He looked up. “This is real?”
“Yes,” the young man said, flatly. “Keep reading.”
Alan read through the next few pages, torn between disbelief and outright shock. Aliens ... hostile aliens. It couldn't be happening, could it? And yet, it was. He had no doubt that aliens would choose to wage war on humanity, if they thought they could win. The galaxy might not be big enough for two intelligent races. Perhaps the aliens thought they had exhausted their tramlines and now they were moving into the human sphere. Or ... he shrugged. It didn't really matter. All that mattered was that there was a war on.
“There isn’t anything here about their technology,” he mused, slowly. “Was something redacted from the report?”
“Very little is known about their technology,” the young man said. His voice was very calm, but there was an undercurrent of concern, perhaps even fear. “We know they must be capable of using the tramlines, as they’re clearly not native to Vera Cruz, and they apparently do have something akin to our drive system, but beyond that? We know nothing.”
And it must cost you to say that, Alan thought. Intelligence officers, in his experience, liked to pretend to be omniscient. It was a rare officer who realised, let alone admitted, the limits of his knowledge. And yet ... he frowned. If we know nothing about their technology, we have no way of knowing how our weapons and defences stack up against theirs.
He flipped through the report, trying to get the high points. The first contact - the first reported contact - had been nearly a month ago. He concentrated, trying to recall the starcharts he’d seen before being imprisoned. The aliens might well be a great deal closer to Earth by now. Or they might be feeling their way along the tramlines, as unaware of the interior disposition of human space as humanity was unaware of theirs. Unless they’d captured a database from Vera Cruz. The civilians might not have thought to destroy their libraries before they were overwhelmed.
They might know everything, or nothing, or somewhere in-between, he thought. And the only thing we really know about them is that they’re hostile.
“I see,” he said, finally. Aliens. He could cope with aliens. “What - exactly - do you want from me?”
“We are currently putting together crews for escort carriers,” the young man said. “You are qualified to serve in a role that is a cross between CAG and XO. If you choose to accept it, you will be shipped out in the next couple of days to your new home. If you refuse ...”
He left the rest of the sentence unspoken. But Alan could guess. It was possible - even probable - that the Royal Navy would have another role for him. And yet ... the navy might also think that he’d had his chance and blown it. He could be put back on the bus and sent straight back to Colchester. There was no way to be sure.
An escort carrier, he told himself. It wouldn't be that bad, surely.
“V
ery well,” he said. “I accept.”
The young man nodded, curtly. “Very good,” he said. He tapped his wristcom. “Officer Bennett, please join us.”
Alan’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Officer? That was odd ... a redcap rank? Or an intelligence officer? No, intelligence wankers normally used naval ranks in the hopes civilians wouldn't pay too much attention to them. If half the stories Alan had heard were true, intelligence officers spent a fair percentage of their time pretending to do nothing more important than ordering paperclips and stapling documents. An officer would be ...
The door opened. Alan turned, just in time to see a grim-faced man step into the room. He was short, but surprisingly muscular, his dark hair topping a face that had clearly taken one too many beatings over the past few years. Alan met his dark eyes, fighting the urge to recoil. The sense of violence - of threat - was almost overwhelming. He wanted to step back, yet he knew that showing weakness would be the worst possible thing he could do.
The Cruel Stars Page 4
