Bennett cleared his throat. “An unusually blunt assessment, from you.”
“Thank you,” Alan said, suspiciously. He’d been ruthless, tearing apart everything that had happened and highlighting every mistake. He rather suspected he’d sounded more like a flying instructor than a CAG. His first CAG had never talked to him as though he was a naughty schoolboy. And yet, praise from Bennett was rare. “Do you have any thoughts?”
“The one point you missed,” Bennett said. He smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “A point I suspect you didn't want to acknowledge.”
Alan eyed him for a long moment. For once, Bennett didn't sound like he was having a go at Alan. Instead, he sounded almost thoughtful. Perhaps it was an act ... no, Bennett had no reason to act. They were alone. He could spend the next hour insulting Alan and no one would ever know.
“There’s a lot of points I don’t want to acknowledge,” he said, finally. “Which one do you have in mind?”
“You’re still alive,” Bennett said.
Alan blinked. “Is that a bad thing?”
Bennett shrugged. “The point defence railguns fired at you from practically point-blank range,” he said. “Maybe not knife-range, but still ... they should have scored a direct hit. It wasn’t as though you were corkscrewing your way towards the ship. You should have been hit.”
“I jerked out of the way,” Alan protested.
“I checked the records,” Bennett told him. “You should have been hit. At that range, you shouldn't have been able to evade the pellets.”
“How terrible,” Alan said, dryly.
“Quite,” Bennett agreed. “What happens when a real target makes a real attack run?”
Alan scowled. He didn't want to admit it, but Bennett had a point. Perhaps the railguns hadn’t been zeroed properly. And that meant ...
“We need to check the whole system, again,” he said. They’d been very busy in the last few days before leaving Earth. Something had clearly been overlooked. The real question was how much else had been overlooked. “And probably do a few more test firings.”
He made a face. Target drones cost over a million pounds apiece, which was why the navy had been reluctant to assign any to Haddock. She was an escort carrier, the beancounters had said. She’d never see real combat. It was more important to get the drones out to the fleet carriers, where they’d make a really important contribution. Simulated firing exercises weren’t bad - mucking about with live ammo was always risky - but they were useless if the weapons weren't zeroed properly. Perhaps, in hindsight, the whole incident had been a blessing in disguise.
“Melbourne might have a few drones we can borrow,” he said, although it was unlikely. “If not, we can probably rig up a few makeshift targets and dump them out there for target practice. And then try and get the weapon calibrated properly.”
“Good thinking,” Bennett said. “Perhaps there is something to be said for letting you out of jail after all.”
“And now you’re back to being an arsehole,” Alan said, crossly. It had been foolish of him to think, even for a moment, that he could have any actual camaraderie with Bennett. They were from very different worlds. “Do you have any other points you want to make?”
“Stay in the CIC and let the squadron commanders handle their jobs,” Bennett said. “You don’t want to give them the impression that they can be pushed aside at any moment, do you?”
Alan sighed. If he could convince Whitehead or Savage to take his place ... he shook his head. Bennett would never let him get away with it. Besides, neither of them were qualified to serve as CAG for very long. They could probably handle the job if Alan died, at least until a replacement was assigned to the ship, but there would be problems. Some of them would probably haunt the ship for years.
Not least because someone who does the job will resent being pushed aside by a newcomer, Alan thought. He’d seen once-good crews collapse when someone’s morale had been accidentally destroyed. Or because it will be a long time before anyone appoints a replacement for me.
Bennett cleared his throat. Alan realised he hadn't actually answered the question.
“I suppose not,” he said. “But you do realise I might have to go out there ...?”
“You might,” Bennett agreed. “And if you do, you do. But until then ...”
He made a show of checking his watch. “You’d better get some sleep. Morning will come far too soon.”
Alan cocked his head. “You’re not coming?”
“I have a report to write,” Bennett said. “And a couple of letters to my family.”
“Just remember they’ll be going through the censors,” Alan reminded him. “Poor Jock didn't get that memo.”
Bennett smiled. Alan smiled too, although it wasn't really that funny. Flight Lieutenant Jock Hazelton’s v-mail to his girlfriend had been shockingly explicit, including footage of him performing sex acts in the shower. Thankfully, no one else in the squadron knew what he’d done. They’d either laugh at him or be horrified, depending on their mood. The censors, for better or worse, had forwarded the v-mail to Alan. He’d had to chew Hazelton out for sending it. In truth, he wasn't sure which one of them had been more embarrassed.
“My siblings won’t want that sort of letter,” Bennett assured him. “I just have to avoid committing outright lies to paper.”
“True,” Alan agreed. That could be embarrassing, if they were the wrong kind of lies. There was nothing particularly shameful about serving on a fleet carrier, but Bennett was very obviously not a naval officer. “We don’t want them to think you’re a Walt.”
Bennett pointed at the hatch. “Out.”
Laughing, Alan did as he was told.
Chapter Thirteen
“Transit complete, Captain,” Anson said. “Welcome to New Russia.”
Abigail nodded, curtly, as the display began to fill up with green, blue and yellow lights. The convoy, slowly slipping back into formation as the ships transited one by one; military starships, holding position near the planet; interplanetary spacecraft, fewer than she’d expected, moving between New Russia and the daughter colonies scattered all over the system. New Russia was nowhere near as industrialised or as densely populated as Earth, but it was still impressive. The system had only been inhabited for ninety years.
“Poddy, inform the CIC that we have arrived,” she ordered. “Anson, take us out with the rest of the convoy.”
She leaned back in her chair, silently grateful that the mission was nearly over. There hadn't been any more ... incidents ... but they’d kept picking up vague sensor contacts that could have been anything. Commodore Banks had launched starfighters after some of the contacts - more solid than most, apparently - yet they’d found nothing. Abigail was torn between assuming the contacts were stray flickers of energy - space wasn't actually silent, no matter what the groundpounders claimed - and a feeling that something awful was about to happen.
But nothing I can put my fingers on, she thought crossly. And nothing I can take to Commodore Banks.
A low shudder ran through the ship. “We’re moving now, Captain,” Anson said. “Apparently, we’re going straight to New Russia.”
Poddy glanced back at her. “Shore leave?”
“Don’t count on it,” Abigail growled. She wasn't sure she would allow Poddy to go down to the surface, assuming it was an option. New Russia was hardly the Exclusion Zone, on Earth, but she’d heard stories. Russia was hardly the friendliest place for foreigners and New Russia, she suspected, would be even worse. “It isn't as if we’ve been on this ship for a year and a day.”
Poddy looked disappointed. “But Mum ...”
“Your mother is not in charge here,” Abigail said, sharply. And wasn't that a bitter pill to swallow? She was absolute mistress of her ship, as long as she did what she was told. But then, there had always been limits to her power. Taking the ship on a deliberately unprofitable voyage would have cost her everything. “You will get what you get and be
happy with it.”
She felt a flicker of guilt at the way Poddy’s face crumpled. Snapping at her daughter ... she hadn't done that, not much. Poddy had made mistakes, of course, but she hadn't done any of them deliberately. Abigail could hardly have punished her daughter for mistakes she’d made herself, when she'd been a young girl. And Poddy had learnt from her mistakes. She’d certainly never made the same mistake twice.
“We don’t know where we’ll be going next,” she said, lowering her voice. “If we spend a week or two in orbit, we might just be able to arrange something.”
“You could spend a few hours in VR,” Anson suggested. “Put on a headset and block out the world.”
“It isn't real,” Poddy said. “Is it?”
Abigail shrugged. She’d never really cared for VR entertainment. The games were fun, sometimes, but they gave her headaches when reality warred with fantasy. And the VR movies were even worse. There was no way to give up completely and slip into the story, doing things that she knew she could never do. Her brain just refused to surrender its grip on reality.
“It would be a distraction,” she said, curtly. “You could also spend a few hours studying for your next exam. That would be a kick in the backside, would it not?”
She leaned back in her chair, watching the holographic display. The system was so sharp that she wanted to keep it, after the war was over. Perhaps they could work something out with the military. Or ... she shrugged, watching the fleet carriers as they held position near the planet. Like all Belters, she was suspicious of the Great Powers and their massive warships, but she had to admit she was glad they’d been built now. The universe was nowhere near as peaceful as she’d thought.
They look impressive, she thought, ruefully. The smallest fleet carrier was two kilometres long, bristling with weapons and surrounded by a swarm of starfighters. Haddock was hardly small, but she’d vanish without trace in the immensity of their hulls. And if they’re as powerful as they look, perhaps the aliens will think twice before engaging us.
“ETA roughly one hour, forty minutes,” Anson said. “A couple of ships are lagging.”
“I suppose that speaks well of Banks,” Abigail said. She'd known military officers who appeared to believe that their engineers routinely overestimated how long it would take to complete repairs. “Better to slow the convoy than risk leaving ships behind.”
“It isn't as if anyone actually was following us,” Anson said. “And, if they were, surely they would have ambushed us somewhere short of New Russia.”
Abigail shrugged. She was no military officer, but she understood the realities of spaceflight far better than any pampered desk-flyer on Earth. They’d crossed a star system that was empty, save for a handful of asteroids and a lone comet. The perfect place for an ambush, she’d thought at the time. But realistically, if the aliens were careful, they could ambush the convoy in the New Russia System. They’d just have to complete the slaughter before the warships could race to the rescue.
“We shall see,” she said. The sense of looming disaster refused to fade, no matter how much she bombarded it with cold logic. Her eyes kept straying to Tramline Four, leading towards Vera Cruz. Who knew what was lurking on the far side? There would be scouts watching the other tramlines, wouldn't there? “Until then, concentrate on your duties.”
And I shall do the same, she told herself.
The minutes ticked away, one by one. She was agonisingly aware of each and every passing second. Haddock’s speed had never been a problem before - Abigail had known her ship was slow, compared to some - but now she just wanted to overload the drives and rush to New Russia. And yet, it would be pointless. There was no way she could boost their speed enough to matter. All it would do, if she tried, would get her in trouble with the navy. They wouldn't thank her for embarrassing them in front of countless foreign eyes.
Twelve fleet carriers, she thought, numbly. And only two of them are ours.
It was an odd thought. She was British - she held a Royal Navy Reserve commission, for God’s sake - and yet, she’d never considered herself truly British. She’d been part of the Belt since birth, heir to a civilisation that lacked the hang-ups and foibles of those who remained resolutely trapped in the gravity well. She liked to think she was part of something better. Hell, she was part of something better. She’d seen enough of Earth to know she didn't want to live there. A person who shot his mouth off at the wrong time could easily wind up in jail - or worse.
And yet, looking at the carriers, she felt an odd flicker of pride. She thought ...
Anson’s console chimed. “Captain, I’m picking up an all-ships alert,” he snapped. His voice was suddenly hard. “Hostile starships have been detected!”
Abigail sat upright. “Order all hands to battlestations,” she ordered. She keyed her console, opening a channel to the CIC. “Alan, we’ve picked up an alert.”
“Understood,” Alan said. He sounded calm, thankfully. “We’re rushing to launch stations now.”
Abigail nodded. She wasn't sure if Alan was truly calm or if he was just faking it, but she was glad he sounded calm anyway. She sure as hell didn't feel calm. The alert had been passed from ship to ship, but no red icons had appeared on the display. A drill? An all-ships drill? It was possible, yet ... she shook her head. Commodore Banks wasn't the sort of asshole who’d hold a surprise drill just before they reached safe harbour.
“Where are they?” Poddy barely glanced up from her console. “Where are they?”
“Lost in space,” Anson said. “Or just out of sensor range.”
Abigail nodded, curtly. Unless the aliens had some kind of drive technology that no one had ever heard of - in which case the war was probably already lost - it would take them some time to reach New Russia. There was certainly no hope of outrunning whatever warning message had been sent, not when the message was racing into the system at the speed of light. The fastest starship ever clocked had barely been able to make a third of the speed of light ...
And only then by overloading the drive fields until the nodes started to melt, she thought, grimly. A modern starship might be able to do better, but ...
She pushed the thought aside as she studied the empty display. The fleet carriers were launching hundreds of starfighters, tiny icons blurring together as her sensors struggled to isolate individual craft. Beyond them, the planet’s orbital defences were launching their own starfighters and shuttles. It couldn't be a drill then, she thought as she watched the escort craft move into position. No one would waste so much time and effort on a drill ...
Her thoughts seemed to freeze, just for a second, as red icons flared into existence. They were close to the fleet carriers, too close. Her mind yammered in horror as it tried to grasp what had just happened. That should have been impossible. The aliens were far too close to the fleet carriers ... that should have been impossible. Had they somehow used New Russia’s gravity field as a makeshift tramline? It was theoretically possible, but ... she felt ice running down her spine. If it was possible, the aliens might have a very real advantage over the defenders.
“But where did they come from?” Poddy’s voice was plaintive. “Mum ... they didn't come through the tramlines!”
“They must have done,” Anson said.
Abigail wasn't so sure. The aliens were in the wrong place for a least-time transit from Tramline Four. Or for any tramline, as far as she could tell. It was quite possible they’d sneaked into the system and altered course long before they’d been detected, but ... it was odd. Either they were utterly confident in their superiority or ... or what? Did they have a way of jumping through star systems without using the tramlines? Nearly two centuries of dedicated research hadn't been able to create a working FTL drive that didn't use the tramlines, but there were theories ...
“Orders from the flag,” Poddy said. “We’re to alter course, away from the combat zone.”
“Very good,” Abigail said. “Anson, see to it.”
“We should be helping them,” Anson muttered.
“We’re not going to be able to do much,” Abigail pointed out. “And the military won’t want us underfoot.”
She sucked in her breath as she studied the alien fleet. It was hard to make out many details - the aliens seemed to be using some kind of stealth field to confuse her sensors - but it was clear that they’d brought at least eight fleet carriers to New Russia. Or at least they were the right size to be fleet carriers. She wondered, absently, just how many starfighters each of them could deploy. If the aliens had cut down on weapons and armour, they might have been able to cram extra starfighters into their hulls. Or ... she shook her head. There was no way to know.
“The fleet is attempting to signal the aliens,” Poddy said. “No response.”
The Cruel Stars Page 13
