It might scare the aliens, if they start picking up transmissions about wormhole generators and tramline-free FTL travel, she thought. But do they even bother to pay attention to our broadcasts?
She shrugged as she rotated in space, then jetted towards the nearest hatch. The aliens probably did pay attention to human transmissions, although there was no guarantee that they’d understand a word. There was certainly no sign that they were inclined to actually talk to humanity. And yet, even if they understood human languages perfectly, would they actually be able to comprehend what they were hearing? Abigail had enough problems understanding groundpounders - and groundpounders were human too - that she doubted the aliens could make heads or tails of human slang. A word could mean something specific in one place and something completely different somewhere else.
The hatch opened smoothly, allowing her to float into her ship. She felt a mild sense of disorientation as the gravity field reasserted itself, pulling her feet down to the deck. The hatch closed behind her, the telltales slowly flickering from red to green as a standard atmospheric mix was pumped into the chamber. She removed her helmet as the inner hatch swung open, removing the rest of her spacesuit as she walked into the antechamber. Her fingers automatically tested the suit - twice - as she hung it up for later use. She’d had the importance of testing everything drilled into her from the very first day she’d shipped on a merchant ship.
And uncle was always good at leaving little faults for me to find, she recalled. And missing one could have landed me in real trouble.
She shivered as she remembered believing, just for a second, that she’d donned a punctured suit. None of the faults had been lethal, but they’d always been alarming. Her uncle had believed - firmly - that it was better for her younger self to have a little scare before she tried something without a safety net. She supposed he’d been right, although she hadn't liked it at the time. It wasn't something she’d really understood until she’d had children of her own and discovered, the hard way, just how inquisitive toddlers could be. The time she’d caught Anson experimenting with the airlock had almost given her a heart attack. After that, she’d made sure to educate her children as quickly as possible. They lived in a very dangerous environment.
Her wristcom chirped as she made her way to the bridge. “Captain, Commodore Jameson wants to ship out in four hours,” Alan said. He sounded tired, but happy. “And I have a very special briefing for you.”
“We should be able to depart on time, but we’ll be slower,” Abigail said. She made a mental note to see what else they could requisition from the Americans. The Americans might just have some real food for the starship’s crew. “What about your pilots?”
“They should be recovered by then,” Alan said. His voice didn't suggest that he was particularly confident. “None of us feel great, of course, but we survived.”
You just wish you hadn't, Abigail finished, silently. She’d only used stimulants twice and, both times, she’d felt as though she had come very close to dying afterwards. And those had been civilian stimulants. The military drugs were supposed to be worse. We didn't have a choice.
She cleared her throat. “Will they be up to flying?”
“I hope so,” Alan said. “But right now, they’re either having a rough sleep or communing with the god of the porcelain throne.”
“I know the feeling,” Abigail said. She’d felt terrible after using stimulants. “Make sure you get some rest yourself. I’ll speak with you before departure.”
“Understood,” Alan said.
He closed the connection. Abigail looked down at her wristcom for a long moment, thinking hard. Ideally, she would have preferred to remain at Coralline long enough for her crew to recover and to carry out some more repairs. But there was a very good chance the aliens would mount an attack within the next few days. They had to be hopping mad after losing so many freighters, even if they were reluctant to press the offensive against the flotilla. She didn't know what it meant, but she hoped it was good news. God knew humanity needed some good news.
And we did score a victory, she told herself. Losing so many freighters would hamper the aliens as they prepared for the next offensive. There was no way to know just how badly they’d hurt the aliens, but they had hurt them. Jameson probably wants to get home to tell everyone about our great victory.
She smiled, wryly. And who could possibly blame him?
Chapter Thirty
“Well,” Anson said. “Nothing seems to have changed.”
Abigail frowned as they slowly made their way towards Tallyman. Sol seemed more industrialised than ever - she could see a number of new production nodes in the belt - but several more asteroid settlements had apparently vanished from the display. She hoped that meant they’d gone dark, rather than being attacked or otherwise abandoned. There didn’t seem to be any missing military installations. That was a good sign, she supposed.
“I’m picking up a detailed newspacket,” Poddy said. “Ark Royal did smash the bastards!”
“We knew that,” Anson said.
“It’s good to have confirmation,” Abigail reminded him, dryly. Three weeks in transit had given them plenty of time to speculate on just how badly the story had been exaggerated by the media. Humanity needed a victory, needed one desperately. It wasn't hard to believe that Ark Royal’s great victory might be nothing more than a damp squib. “Poddy, transfer the datapacket to my console.”
“Yes, Mum,” Poddy said. Her console bleeped. “And we have new orders. We’re to orbit Tallyman and ...”
She paused. “Apparently, we’re getting leave!”
Anson punched his fist in the air. “Sin City, here I come!”
“I’ll come too,” Poddy said. “I ...”
“You’re too young to go to Sin City,” Abigail said, firmly. Ideally, she would have barred Anson from going too, but he was too old for her to dictate his every move. “You can go to Ceres or Orion’s Belt or ...”
“Aw, Mum,” Poddy protested. “I’m nearly sixteen!”
“And you have to be at least eighteen to get into Sin City,” Abigail reminded her. “Don’t worry. You can make supercilious remarks when Anson comes back, so drunk he doesn’t remember his own name.”
She frowned as she pulled the message up on her screen. “We only have four days guaranteed leave,” she added. “Anson might want to go to Ceres too.”
Anson looked mutinous. Abigail shrugged at him. He was old enough to decide if he wanted to spend a day in transit, two days having fun and then another day in transit just to get back to his ship. It wouldn't be held against him if Haddock had to leave in a hurry and he couldn’t get back in time, although he would be in deep shit if he failed to get back before their planned departure date. But then, they didn't have one yet. Four days of leave was a good sign the navy didn’t have any plans for her ship, she considered. It might also be a sign that the navy understood that Haddock was in no fit state for combat.
Which is surprisingly understanding of them, she thought. The next mission is going to be really bad.
Abigail keyed her console. “All hands, attention,” she said. “We have been guaranteed four days of leave, starting from the moment we reach Tallyman. Let me know what you plan to do so I can arrange watch schedules. If you want to stay on the ship ...”
She paused. Normally, people who stood watches while the ship was docked were paid time and a half, but she doubted the navy would authorise the expense. It wasn't as if they were going to war. If nothing else, the bureaucrats would probably hesitate to pay ... she sighed in irritation. Life would be a great deal easier with a regular navy crew. But she knew she probably wouldn't have been able to endure a naval career.
“If you want to stay on the ship, I’ll try to organise the standard bonus,” she added. “But I can't promise anything. I suggest you make your plans on the assumption that there will be no extra pay.”
“Ouch,” Anson muttered.
Abigail clos
ed the channel, then gave him a sharp look. “Just remember that you don’t have unlimited funds,” she said, warningly. “And don’t get into debt on Luna. They’re right bastards about collecting money they’re owed.”
Anson looked unconcerned. “I’ll be fine.”
“Make sure you are,” Abigail said. “And if you’re late back to the ship, I’ll have you scrubbing the decks for hours.”
“Perhaps you should take Maddy somewhere nice,” Poddy suggested. “I’m sure she’d like to see Ceres.”
“She might like to see Sin City too,” Anson said. “I haven’t asked her.”
“Then perhaps you should,” Abigail said. She glanced at the display. “You have around three hours to make up your mind.”
***
“I’ve been called to the station,” Bennett said. He looked around their cabin, then back at Alan. “I trust you’ll be staying here?”
It wasn't really a question, Alan knew. He hadn't really expected shore leave, particularly not to a place where he could desert. The belters weren't very accommodating to demands that they find and return naval personnel who preferred to make a life in the belt than return to Earth. There was a war on, but he found it hard to believe that the belt had changed that much. They were very independent minded.
“I have plenty of reports to write,” he said. He’d written a full report - and included some analysis - during the long crawl home, but he knew from grim experience that the Admiralty would come back with a whole list of questions. Most of them would be impossible to answer, yet ... yet he’d be expected to try. “What about yourself?”
“I will probably have no time for shore leave,” Bennett said. He didn't seem particularly disappointed. “But we will see.”
Freak, Alan thought, unpleasantly. I bet you liked school too.
He shook his head, crossly. Shore leave - even very basic shore leave - was vitally important, if only because it kept the crew from going insane. Several months trapped on the same ship, with the same faces ... even the best crew in the navy would have problems, after a month or two had gone by. He found it hard to believe it was any different in the army. No matter how much you liked your fellows, it was only human to want a break from time to time. And he was stuck on the escort carrier ...
You could be back in jail, he reminded himself, sharply. His cell had no prospect of a sudden and violent death, but the disadvantages outweighed the advantages. You didn't get regular sex in your cell, did you?
Bennett gave him a sharp look - as if he knew precisely what Alan was thinking - and then turned and walked through the hatch. Alan watched him go, thinking uncomplimentary thoughts. Bennett seemed more inclined to relax while they were underway, assuming - probably correctly - that there was nowhere for Alan to run. But it was still galling to have an escort everywhere he went.
He picked up his datapad and checked the inbox. The news services he’d subscribed to after his release from jail had forwarded all their updates to him, stretching back over six long weeks. He skimmed the headlines automatically, looking for interesting articles. Ark Royal’s victory had been decisive, apparently. Reading between the lines, it was easy to see how the good news had been spun to obscure the bad. The aliens had occupied two more systems - he had to bring up a starchart to check where they were - and opened up two other possible ways they could advance towards Earth.
The really good news is that they don’t have an FTL communicator, he thought. Seen in hindsight, the aliens might have made a mistake. Their feints were wasted effort, now the main offensive had been turned back. Perhaps their local CO had scented weakness and taken advantage of it. I wonder if that means the enemy has already pulled back from those systems.
A new set of updates blinked up in his datapad. The Admiralty was stealing half of his pilots and reassigning them to fleet carriers. Alan gritted his teeth in irritation. It had taken three weeks to batter the makeshift squadrons into some semblance of order and now they wanted him to do it all over again? But he couldn't really blame the higher-ups. His pilots had seen the aliens and survived. They knew, deep inside, the lessons simulators couldn't teach. It would be better to ensure that their knowledge - and experience - was spread as widely as possible. But it didn’t stop it being annoying.
He forwarded the updates to the squadron leaders - they’d have to decide who to reassign - and then clicked through the next set of messages. Some bureaucrat probably needed to be shot, he thought. Quite why they thought he needed to read a thousand minor updates for everything from fleet carriers to tiny shuttles was beyond him. Someone was covering his ass, making sure he couldn't be accused of not sharing data. But there was so much data that there was no way he could read it all.
At least they’re improving the purpose-built escort carrier designs, based on our experiences, he thought, as he scanned one message. That ship might actually be dangerous, given half a chance. She could certainly get her fighters into space quicker if she came under attack.
His datapad bleeped. New messages - three personal messages - had just been downloaded from Tallyman. Alan swallowed, hard. No one would send him a personal message, apart from his daughters. And the in-laws, he supposed, although he rather suspected they would prefer to have nothing to do with him. The delay nagged at his mind. Someone on Tallyman had probably reviewed the messages ahead of time, just in case it was a ‘Dear John’ situation. He supposed the simple fact that the messages had been forwarded to him - after they’d been read - was a good sign. No one had turned up to provide ‘counselling.’
Not that they’d bother to counsel me anyway, he thought darkly. I’m a murderer, not an innocent young crewman on his first cruise.
He reached out a finger, then stopped. His heart was pounding frantically. Did he really want to know? He wasn't sure he wanted to open the messages. He hadn't felt so nervous since he’d opened his exam results, decades ago. And then he’d been sure he’d pass, although he doubted he’d get full marks. He’d spent too much time playing football and too little time studying. He knew he’d get far enough to enter the starfighter training program and that had been all that mattered. But now ...
His finger hovered over the first message. The header had already downloaded, informing him that it was a text-only message from Robert Foster. Judith’s father ... Alan told himself, firmly, that it was time to be brave. Robert Foster had never liked him, but surely he wouldn't deny his grandchildren the right to communicate with their father. It was illegal to deny a man access to his children, unless there was ironclad proof of abuse.
Murder is also illegal, a dark voice pointed out at the back of his mind. And he has every reason to hate you.
He tapped the message icon. It unwrapped, revealing a short message. Alan leaned forward, eagerly. He couldn't have looked away if his life had depended on it.
I won’t mince words. You killed my daughter. Whatever she did, whatever you think she did, you killed my daughter. You ensured that her children - your children - had to grow up without a mother. You should rot in jail for the rest of your life. But it seems you have somehow managed to wrangle your way out ahead of time.
I do not want you contacting your children. But it seems I cannot deny you. Very well - you may contact them via the datanet, on the clear understanding that every message you send will be read by me and my lawyers. You are explicitly forbidden to contact them via videochat or visit them in person. Any attempt to do so will result in the police being called and you being returned to jail. I will not hesitate to demand an injunction if you behave in a manner I deem inappropriate.
Ideally, my granddaughters would not have any contact with you until they were old enough to make up their own minds. However, it seems that I have no choice. Rest assured, I will put their safety and security ahead of any of your rights.
Alan clenched his fists. The bastard talked to him like that ... the bastard dared talk to him like that? How dare he? Robert Foster had never liked him. He’d never given much
of a shit about the lower-class yobbo his daughter had married. And now ...
You did murder his daughter, a little voice pointed out. I’d say his concerns were fully justified.
Shut up, Alan thought, savagely.
The next message was a video file. Alan reached for the icon, then hesitated. What if ... what if the in-laws had turned his daughters against him? What if ...
You murdered their mother, the little voice said. I don’t think they’d need to bother.
He forced himself to take a deep breath. It would be easy, very easy, to simply delete the messages and walk away. They were better off without him. And besides, the odds of him surviving long enough to earn his pardon and freedom were very low. It would be difficult to win a battle for custody, particularly after he’d spent so much time in jail. God knew the in-laws had money to fight and win a court case.
The Cruel Stars Page 30
