Perhaps it was different for groundpounders, her mind suggested. Groundpounders were immature children, lacking the maturity and common sense of the asteroid belt. Alan might have every right to think that he, not his wife, had been betrayed. But it still wasn't anything like enough to excuse murder. The groundpounders had clearly agreed. Alan had been in jail, after all. He’d been looking at another five years in custody before his eventual release.
She listened as the drunken words came bubbling out, feeling sick. She'd wanted to know, hadn't she? And now she did know. What had the other convicts done? Did she want to know, now?
And he wouldn’t have had anything alcoholic for years, she reminded herself, sharply. I probably gave him far too much to drink.
She dug into her emergency kit and found a sober-up. “Here,” she said. She jabbed a finger at the washroom hatch. “You can use this in there.”
Alan eyed her for a long moment, then took the tab and rose, stumbling as he walked into the bathroom. Abigail allowed herself a sigh of relief, even though she knew she’d probably have to clean up the mess afterwards. Thankfully, Alan didn't seem to be so far gone that he’d need help to use the injector tab, then keep his head pointed in the right direction as he threw up. Abigail would have felt sorry for him - she’d used enough sober-ups to know she’d prefer a hangover - if she hadn't known what he’d done. He’d murdered his wife ...
You still have to work with him, she thought. And now ...
She sighed. She’d needed to know. But now she’d have to pay the price for her curiosity.
***
Alan felt his legs tremble as he forced himself back to his feet. His mouth tasted awful, worse than the time the matron had washed his mouth out with soap for swearing at a particularly unpleasant teacher. The old crone had been a horror, the kind of person who should never be allowed authority over anyone. He’d been privately delighted when she’d died, a year after he’d left the school. The Old Boys Club had joked that the only reason anyone had attended her funeral had been to make sure she was actually dead ...
He turned on the water and washed his mouth thoroughly, spitting out the water into the toilet. He’d drunk ... something ... and he’d gotten drunk. Abigail had gotten him drunk and then ... and then what? His mind wasn't quite clear. The sober-up had chased all the alcohol out of his system, at the cost of making him feel thoroughly unwell. A wave of guilt and self-recrimination overwhelmed him. He’d told the pilots, time and time again, that they were not to even think about touching alcohol. And now he'd managed to get drunk.
“Fuck,” he said. His mouth still tasted awful. Firewater? Someone had probably relabelled a bottle of bleach or hull cleanser or ... something. His thoughts were still tangled. What the hell had he been doing? “Fuck it!”
He turned and stumbled back into the tiny cabin. Abigail was sitting on the bed, fully dressed. He supposed that was a relief, at least. There would be no embarrassed breakfasts or embarrassed screaming, not like he’d endured as a young pilot. He’d thought his hard drinking days were over after he’d been promoted out of his cockpit. A CAG might outrank his subordinates, but he wasn't allowed anything like as much leeway. It didn’t seem fair, somehow.
“You murdered your wife,” Abigail said, flatly.
Alan stared back at her, too woozy to be angry. The sober-up might have spared him a hangover - and the embarrassment of being revealed as a hypocrite - but it hadn't made him feel better. Of course not. That would have been too easy. A moment later, the underlying meaning of her words dawned on him. She knew what he’d done. And that meant he’d told her ...
He took a breath. The air tasted awful too. “I know what I did.”
“Really,” Abigail said. “You left your children without their parents ...”
“I know what I did,” Alan repeated, sharply. His head started to throb the moment he raised his voice. “I have had plenty of time to regret it.”
“All the regret in the world will not bring her back,” Abigail said. “If you’d lived in the belt, you would have been executed for your crime ...”
A dozen answers ran through Alan’s head. He said nothing.
“Fuck it,” Abigail said. She jerked a hand at the hatch. “Get out.”
Alan looked down at his shirt - now stained - and then did as he was told. Abigail hated him now ... so what? He’d always known their working relationship would be a little strained. They would just have to be professional about it. He stepped outside and leaned against the bulkhead, silently grateful that it was shipboard night. One very definite advantage of serving on an escort carrier was that there were times when most of the crew were sleeping. A fleet carrier operated 24/7.
That’ll have to change, he told himself. We can't afford to be caught with our pants down.
He sighed. There was no way to hide the fact he’d fucked up. Allowing himself to get drunk had been foolish. And he hadn't realised the danger until it had been too late. He was a lightweight now. One sniff of the barmaid’s apron and his mouth had run away with him.
It was a little more than a sniff, he thought. I drank ...
He groaned. Not being sure of how much he’d actually drunk was not a good sign.
Shaking his head, he stumbled down the corridor. He needed something to eat before he went back to his bunk. A sandwich, perhaps. Or even a ration bar. He wasn't fussy.
And pray that Bennett never finds out about this, he thought, crossly. That would really put the cat amongst the pigeons.
Chapter Ten
“They look as though they’re drunk,” Poddy said. She jabbed a finger at the newly-installed display. “Mum?”
Abigail gave her a sharp look, then cursed herself under her breath. Poddy didn’t know ... of course she didn't know. She’d simply looked at what passed for a starfighter formation and made a caustic remark. Abigail made a silent promise to do something to make it up to Poddy, later. The poor girl didn't deserve a fright.
I got someone drunk because I wanted to know what he was hiding, she reminded herself, crossly. And what does that make me?
“It’s deliberate,” Anson said. If he’d picked up on the sudden tension, he said nothing. “They don’t fly in predictable formations because they’d make themselves easy targets.”
Abigail nodded, slowly. There was no such thing as an orderly formation in space, not outside the handful of military displays. Better to keep a wide gap between expensive starships than risk a collision. Not that accidental collisions were that common, she had to admit. The odds of accidentally ramming another starship were only marginally higher than the odds of flying through an asteroid field and hitting one of the asteroids. She’d always laughed when she’d seen groundpounder depictions of the asteroid belt. The asteroids had been so tightly clustered together that a starfighter could barely fit through the gaps.
Instead of being so far apart that you could fly every starship in the human sphere through the gap and still have room to spare, she thought, wryly. Anyone who hits an asteroid is either blind or trying to scam the insurance company.
“It still looks bad,” Poddy said. She glanced at her mother. “I’d be in trouble if I flew like that.”
“You’re not trying to dodge incoming fire,” Abigail pointed out. “And if you tried to fly Archie like a starfighter, you’d probably rip the ship apart.”
She broke off as Poddy’s console chimed. “What’s that?”
“An important message from the Admiralty,” Poddy said. “It’s being automatically forwarded to the XO.”
“Oh, goody,” Abigail said. She keyed her console, bringing up the latest set of readiness reports. “I ...”
Her console bleeped. “What now?”
“Captain, we have finally received our official orders,” Alan said. His voice was very steady, very calm. If she hadn’t known he’d been drunk last night, thanks to her, she would never have believed it. “Please could you join me down here to discuss them?”
; “As you wish,” Abigail said. She rose. “Anson, you have the bridge.”
The CIC was as cramped as always, with Alan, his three subordinates and his shadow seated in uncomfortably small chairs. Maddy made her way out of the compartment as Abigail entered, leaving her alone with the men. Abigail didn't really blame her. The compartment was uncomfortably small with four big men, let alone Maddy and Abigail herself. She had never been claustrophobic, but part of her just wanted to insist they took the discussion somewhere else.
Alan tapped a key. A holographic starchart appeared in front of them.
“The Multinational Fleet - eight fleet carriers, which will join four more at New Russia - is already departing the system now that the last-minute preparations have been completed,” he said. “That will give them an overall strength of twelve carriers, two of which are ours. The Russians will hold overall command, apparently, as they have committed six fleet carriers to the formation. I don't think I need to remind you that this will leave them with only three carriers in home waters.”
“New Russia is also their world,” Abigail pointed out, tersely.
“Correct,” Alan said. “Regardless, the Great Powers have decided that humanity will be making its stand at New Russia. Updated reports suggest that alien probes have moved into a number of systems on the far side of New Russia” - he nodded to the display, indicating the red icons - “and an attack on the system itself must be imminent. Of course, it might already have taken place. All our reports are at least a week out of date.”
He tapped the display, again. “The MNF will proceed at its best possible speed to New Russia, which will mean abandoning the fleet train. Accordingly, our task - and that of five other escort carriers - is to shepherd the fleet train to New Russia. Once we arrive, we will either be assigned to protect the system’s installations or escort a convoy on the return trip to Earth.”
Abigail did the calculations in her head. “We’d need at least three weeks to get there,” she mused, as she studied the starchart. “More like four, really.”
“We’ve been ordered to proceed at our best possible speed too.” Alan looked downcast for a moment. “Unfortunately, that will be the speed of the slowest ship in the convoy.”
“Ouch,” Abigail said. “And if we get attacked?”
“We have orders to defend ourselves, if fired upon,” Alan said. “If we detect their ships, we have orders to attempt to make contact. An updated first contact packet has already been uploaded to the database. Ideally, we should be able to talk to them, which will hopefully end the war.”
Abigail shook her head in mild disbelief. She’d been briefed on first contact protocols when she’d assumed command, although most of the belter crews had believed they were just a waste of time and energy. There was no such thing as aliens - and even if aliens did exist, what were the odds of an interstellar freighter making first contact? Now, such precautions were starting to look prophetic.
“There’s no reason to assume that they’ll agree to open communications,” Savage said. “So far, all they’ve done is point their weapons at us and open fire.”
“Pointing your weapon at someone is a form of communication,” Bennett pointed out. “And so is opening fire.”
“I don’t think anyone in the Admiralty believes that we can convince the aliens to back off,” Alan said. “I’d say that someone in the Houses of Parliament pushed for us to try to make peaceful contact, even if the aliens show no apparent interest in it.”
“So we are being put at risk because some political oxygen thief wants to feel good about himself,” Abigail growled. The belt, at least, demanded a certain level of competence from its leaders. “Are we allowed to fire first?”
“If we believe we’re under threat,” Alan said. He shot her an unreadable look. “That will be your call, Captain.”
“Thank you,” Abigail said, sourly. “When do they want us to depart?”
“Yesterday,” Savage said.
“The fleet train is moving to the RV point now,” Alan said. He didn't look pleased, just for a second. “We’ll link up with them in a couple of hours, then depart when Commodore Banks says so.”
“Joy,” Abigail said. She’d never liked flying in convoy. It hadn't been necessary very often, save for a handful of drills. Space pirates were the stuff of pulp fiction and bad movies that were no more realistic than the muscles and chests displayed by the actors. But then, aliens had been the stuff of bad fiction only a few weeks ago. “Do you know Commodore Banks?”
“He’s CO of HMAS Melbourne,” Alan said. “Australian, not British. Other than that ... I’ve never met the man. He’ll have a good record if they put him in charge of an oversized light cruiser, but” - he shrugged - “read the files. I dare say they’ll be more informative.”
“As long as he isn't one of those officers who think us merchants are all smuggling something,” Abigail said. “That might be bad.”
“It might,” Alan agreed. “Remind your crew to make sure they update their wills before we depart. The odds are not on our side.”
Abigail nodded, tightly. “Is there anything else?”
“I’ll be recalling the starfighters shortly,” Alan said. “We’ll continue drills as we plod our merry way to New Russia.”
“Very good,” Abigail said.
She turned and left the compartment, keying her wristcom as she made her way back to the bridge. It was a relief to finally have orders, she thought, even though they were going to be away from their homes for at least two months. She’d hoped she could swing a trip to Ceres, but the Royal Navy hadn't been interested in ensuring her crewers got some shore leave somewhere away from their ship. VR had its limitations, after all. No matter how detailed it was, there was no way to forget that the user was on a cramped starship.
“We’ll be departing in two hours,” she said, as she entered the bridge. “If any of you want to record a final message, do it now.”
She leaned back in her chair and watched as word spread rapidly through the ship. If nothing else, the constant series of orders - and replacement orders - had ensured that her ship was ready to depart at a moment’s notice. The starfighters were already returning to the ship, landing - one by one - in the hangar bay. She grimaced as she silently calculated just how long it would take to recover all twenty-four fighters. Doing that while taking fire - or waiting to cross a tramline - would be a nightmare. They might have to abandon some of their pilots just to save the ship.
Unless we have them latch onto the hull, she thought. It was theoretically possible. But that would be dangerous too.
Her console bleeped. “I’ve not gotten the final set of supplies from the station,” Vassilios Drakopoulos said, grimly. “Should we be pressing them?”
“Yeah,” Abigail said. In theory, they could operate without so many spare parts, but in practice ... a single failure might doom the entire ship. She had no illusions about how highly the Royal Navy valued her ship - they wouldn't have given her a murderer for an XO if they considered her anything other than expendable - but she liked to think that her crew were worth a little more. “Send me the request. I’ll forward it to them.”
Someone had definitely lit a fire under the beancounters, she thought, as the two hours ticked steadily away. She’d expected a fight, but instead the transfer was authorised within seconds. A team of dockyard workers even moved the pallet to Haddock, rather than waste time scrabbling over who’d have the honour of doing the work. The spare parts were neatly stowed away, just as the timer reached zero. It was time to go.
“Anson, set course for the RV point,” she ordered, as soon as she’d checked with Alan. “And take us out.”
“Aye, Captain,” Anson said.
Abigail felt her heart starting to pound in her chest as a low quiver ran through the ship. She kept a wary eye on the status displays, trying to reassure herself that everything was going to be fine. The dockyard workers had done a good job convincing equipment from se
veral different eras to work together, but she was too experienced a spacer to believe that it would work perfectly. A tiny error in the programming nodes might cause the entire system to crash, no matter how many precautions had been worked into the system. Hell, too many precautions might bring the system down by themselves. And if that happened while they were a long way from help, they might be in real trouble.
There’s no might about it, she thought, as they slipped away from the asteroid. We will be in trouble.
She keyed her console, bringing up the long-range sensor display. The military-grade sensors were good, good enough that she was seriously tempted to try to keep them after their military service was over. Hundreds of starships, intersystem spacecraft and shuttles were clearly visible on the sensors, making their way backwards and forwards across the Sol System. Tiny icons followed them, warning of time delays and potentially inaccurate projections. Abigail felt a flicker of contempt, mingled with amusement. Belters didn't need computers to tell them about the damned time delay!
The Cruel Stars Page 10
