A handful of new icons flashed into existence as the task force steadily approached Bavaria, alarming her until she realised they were nothing more than alien satellites. It was possible they were automated weapons platforms - or simple mines - but they were nowhere near powerful enough to slow the task force. Admiral Delacroix sent orders through the command network, ordering his destroyers to engage the satellites with railguns. One by one, the satellites vanished from the display. It didn't look as though any of them had tried to offer resistance.
“Orbital space is clear,” Poddy said. “The probes are expanding outwards now.”
Abigail nodded, curtly. The aliens might have wanted to trap the task force against the planet, but if that was the case they’d missed the shuttle. She knew from bitter experience just how good the alien sensor masks were, yet it was hard to believe they could hide a fleet powerful enough to destroy Admiral Delacroix’s task force within attack range. Maybe the alien fleet was on the other side of the system, but ... if it was, it wasn’t going to be able to impede the task force at all. Admiral Delacroix would have plenty of time to decide if he wanted to fight or withdraw.
Unless they’re off stomping Aquitaine instead, she thought grimly. Aquitaine wasn't exactly undefended, but she doubted the fixed defences could stand up to an all-out attack. That would be a bitter end to the whole adventure.
Poddy glanced up. “New orders, Captain,” she said. “Carriers and escorts are to remain in interplanetary space, destroyers are to secure the high orbitals and demand surrender.”
At least we’re not gambling everything, Abigail thought. Just ... too much.
“Do as he says,” she ordered. It would give the task force room to manoeuvre, if the aliens really were lurking nearby. “Have we picked up any sign of alien installations?”
“I’m not sure,” Poddy said. “I’ve got the unfiltered live feed from the drones, but I’m not sure how to assess it.”
“Just point to anything that looks out of place,” Anson suggested.
Poddy sneered at him. “You mean like your face?”
Abigail slapped her console. “Concentrate, both of you,” she said. She took a long breath, calming herself. As stressed as she was, she shouldn't be taking it out on her children. “Can you see anything out of place?”
“There are a handful of craters in the middle of the colonies,” Poddy said, slowly. “My guess is that they bombed anything that might be dangerous from orbit, but ...”
She frowned down at her console. “There are a handful of new installations along the coastline, but none of them appear very large,” she said. “But they’re not shown on the pre-war maps.”
Abigail smiled at Poddy’s back. “Good thinking,” she said. “What are they?”
“I don’t know,” Poddy said. She paused. “Doomed. They’re doomed. Admiral Delacroix just sentenced them to death.”
So much for trying to take any prisoners, Abigail thought. She checked the live feed herself, trying to determine what had happened to the human colonists. The colonies looked deserted, as far as she could tell. But then, there were plenty of isolated farms where refugees could hide, if they wished. The alien installations seemed deserted too, waves washing against weird half-melted buildings that seemed to blur into the water. I wonder what happened to the inhabitants.
She glanced, again, at the display. There was still no sign of anything dangerous. Even the alien freighters had crossed the tramline and vanished. And yet, her sense of foreboding refused to fade. Admiral Delacroix would order a withdrawal soon, wouldn't he? The plan had been to raid the system, not try to liberate it permanently. And yet, what if he refused to leave? Or wanted to take the task force on a long arc towards New Russia? Or ...
“They seem to have established contact with the ground,” Poddy said. “I don’t know what they’re talking about, but ...”
A red icon flared into life on the display, followed by a dozen more. “New contacts,” Poddy snapped. “They just came through Tramline Three! A fleet carrier, four destroyers ... seven starships of unknown type. They’re heading into the system.”
Anson looked up. “Did we take them by surprise?”
Abigail wasn't so sure. It was unlikely the aliens would choose to risk one fleet carrier against two, but ... they might have different ideas. They certainly had the firepower advantage, even if they didn't have the numerical advantage. And yet, it certainly had the hallmarks of a convoy arriving to discover - too late - that it was in the middle of a battle ...
And yet, something was wrong. Something she’d overlooked. But what?
She looked at Poddy. “Time to contact?”
“Seven hours,” Poddy reported. “Unless they’re a lot faster than we think ...”
“Understood,” Abigail said. She looked at the display, waiting for orders. Admiral Delacroix’s flagship floated in the middle of the formation, looking invincible. She knew, all too well, that that was an illusion. “Plenty of time to withdraw, if necessary.”
“Or to fight,” Anson said. “We have the advantage, don’t we?”
“Maybe,” Abigail said. “But it would be unwise to count on it.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“Well,” Bennett said. “That’s a turn up for the books, isn't it?”
“It certainly looks that way,” Alan agreed.
He shook his head as he sat in the CIC and monitored the live feed from the long-range drones. Two fleet carriers against one ... he understood, all too well, why Admiral Delacroix was having problems deciding how to proceed. On one hand, the numerical advantage favoured humanity; on the other, the prospect of losing both of his fleet carriers was paralysing. Depending on the outcome, Delacroix would go down in history as a hero - or a bloody fool.
Commodore Jameson’s face flashed into existence on the display. “The colonists have requested evacuation,” he said. “We’re going to pick up a number of refugees before withdrawing from the system.”
Alan frowned. That suggested that Delacroix wasn't planning to seek engagement, but there were no formal orders from the flag. And that meant ... what? Delacroix was playing his cards very close to his chest. Alan resisted the urge to com the admiral personally and demand orders, knowing it would only get him in trouble. Instead, he forwarded the orders to Abigail and started to consider options. The escort carrier was already too cramped to take more than a handful of refugees.
“Seven hours to engagement,” Bennett said. He sounded surprisingly thoughtful. “How many colonists can we evacuate before then?”
“I’m not sure,” Alan said. Delacroix had brought along a number of freighters - he’d considered evacuating the colony, if possible - but the logistics of moving thousands of people to orbit were going to be a nightmare. “I might have to fly a shuttle personally.”
“How terrible,” Bennett said, dryly. “I’m sure you’ll hate it.”
Alan shrugged as a new set of orders appeared on the display. “I probably will,” he said, dryly. “Flying a shuttle is nothing like flying a starfighter.”
He checked the roster quickly, then nodded. None of the other starfighter pilots could be spared - and he didn’t think Abigail would want to spare any more of her crew than absolutely necessary. There were three shuttles, but crewing them was going to be a pain in the bum. Thankfully, the fleet carriers and destroyers had shuttles of their own.
“Maddy, hold the fort,” he ordered. “Bennett, you can accompany me on the shuttle.”
“Let me grab my weapons,” Bennett said. “Refugees can behave oddly.”
Alan nodded. “I’ll meet you at the shuttle hatch,” he said, as he keyed his wristcom. “Hurry.”
He spoke quickly into the wristcom, briefing Abigail. She didn't sound pleased, although she understood the importance of evacuating as many colonists as possible. Seven hours wasn't long enough ... not that it mattered, Alan knew. They wouldn't have seven hours. Admiral Delacroix wouldn't let them spend more than two hou
rs picking up refugees, not when they had to make a break for the tramline before the aliens closed to engagement range. The orders were all too clear. Commodore Jameson’s flotilla was to cover the refugee convoy as it fled Bavaria.
And hope that the fleet carriers can stop the aliens, Alan thought, as he raced to the shuttle hatch. It opened on his command, allowing him into the cockpit. Thankfully, the shuttle had been powered up from the moment they’d jumped into the system. If they can't, we might be unable to get out of the system before it’s too late.
Bennett joined him, wearing an intimidating set of black armour and carrying a rifle that looked too big to be real. Alan wasn't sure if it was meant for threatening people rather than actual combat, but he supposed it didn't matter. Besides, Bennett was also carrying an oversized pistol on his belt and a handful of devices slung over his shoulder. Alan motioned him into the nearest seat, then undocked from Haddock and steered the shuttle into the planetary atmosphere. Bennett - damn him - seemed utterly unconcerned by the rough flight as they crashed down towards the surface.
“There’s a refugee camp near the river,” Alan said, as more data flowed into the communications network. “We’re to land there.”
“Got it,” Bennett said. “Good luck.”
Alan nodded, keeping a wary eye on the sensors as they dropped lower. The evacuation hadn't been very well planned, unsurprisingly. There had been no data with which to plan an evacuation ahead of time. And there wasn't anything like enough time, either. It was going to be very much first come, first evacuated. He was fairly sure a few thousand colonists wouldn't want to leave, not when the aliens hadn't shown any interest in them. Alan had been envisaging an insurgency, like the one that had dominated the Age of Unrest, but ... there hadn't been any direct human-alien contact at all. It was tempting to believe that almost nothing had changed after the aliens had occupied the system.
“Not bad camouflage,” Bennett said, grudgingly. “The camp is barely visible from space.”
“Good,” Alan said. The shuttle touched down in the middle of a clearing. “You go gather the refugees.”
Bennett nodded and unstrapped himself, before heading to the hatch. A line of refugees, mostly women and children, were already waiting. Bennett opened the hatch, inviting them to come in and take their seats. A handful of older men were watching from a distance, weapons at the ready. Alan wondered if they were planning to march overland to what remained of the alien bases - their positions clearly marked by plumes of smoke - or simply stay in hiding until the war was over. Either way, he admired their nerve. He wasn't sure he could have stayed behind so calmly.
The hatch shut with a loud clang. “Buckle up,” Bennett called, sharply. “We’ll be taking off in five minutes.”
“Do a quick census,” Alan ordered, as he powered up the drive. “They’ll have to assign them to a slot on one of the freighters.”
He winced, inwardly. The freighters hadn't been designed to transport large numbers of people. Their life support was going to be pushed to the limits, just keeping the refugees alive long enough to get them to Aquitaine. And then ... it was hard to imagine what would happen next. Aquitaine wouldn't be able to stand off a full-scale alien offensive, if the aliens decided to throw caution to the winds and attack. Perhaps the refugees would have to flee into the countryside again.
The shuttle shook, violently, as he steered her up and out of the atmosphere. It felt heavier, somehow, even though he knew he was imagining it. And yet ... he pushed the thought aside, glancing at the timer. If they were lucky, there would be time for at least two more collection missions before they had to return to Haddock. Unless, of course, the aliens decided to show up early ...
He looked at the live feed from the sensors. The alien fleet carrier and its escorts were still barrelling towards Bavaria, as if they could save their compatriots on the ground. Or, perhaps, catch Admiral Delacroix with his pants down. Or maybe ... his lips quirked into a humourless smile. Maybe the aliens wanted to score a cheap victory that would allow them to cover up their embarrassment too. Or was that too cynical? Or too human?
“We’ll be docking in twenty minutes,” he said. Two more shuttles were ahead of them, their crews already encouraging the refugees onto the freighters. Their trip to Aquitaine was going to be an absolute nightmare. “Move off the shuttle as quickly as possible, please. We have to go back for the others.”
He did his best to ignore the questions as the shuttle docked with the freighter. There was no way he could answer any of them, even the simplest. How was he to know when a particular husband or wife or child would be evacuated? There wasn't even a roster of people to be uplifted! The freighter crews would try to put one together, he was sure, once the convoy was underway, but until then ...
The refugees stumbled off the shuttle, looking unsure if they should be relieved or worried that they might have jumped from the frying pan into the fire. Alan didn't really blame them, not when the aliens had largely ignored the refugee camps after smashing anything that looked as though it might be dangerous. Earth was not kind to refugees, even refugees who’d been forced to flee through no fault of their own. It was quite possible that they wouldn't find any safety at all.
There but for the grace of God go I, he thought, as they undocked. But at least they’ll have a chance to survive.
***
“New orders from the flag,” Poddy said. “Commodore Jameson is to assume command of the flotilla - and we’re to make our way back to Aquitaine as quickly as possible.”
“Good,” Abigail said. “Recall the shuttles. If they’re carrying refugees, they can unload first, but I want them back onboard as quickly as possible.”
She frowned as the command network updated. Admiral Delacroix, it seemed, was planning to confront the alien fleet carrier, relying on numbers to offset technological superiority. It was hard to determine if he had a chance or not, but it wasn't a gamble she would have taken if she’d had a choice. And yet, she had to admit that it would buy the flotilla time to escort the refugees to Aquitaine. She just hoped they wouldn't get there in time to watch the alien fleet completing the destruction of the fixed defences and occupying the world.
“The last shuttle should be back onboard in ten minutes,” Poddy said. “Anson suggests taking his refugees onboard instead of shipping them to the freighter.”
Abigail shook her head. “Our life support is already pushed to the limits,” she said. The Royal Navy had made a number of improvements, but Haddock’s life support had been designed for a smaller crew. A few dozen newcomers might push them well into the danger zone. “Tell him to expedite unloading as much as possible.”
“Aye, Captain.”
The task force altered course slowly, the fleet carriers rising up to challenge the incoming aliens while Commodore Jameson’s tiny flotilla started to head back towards the original tramline. Abigail resisted the urge to pace her bridge - the bridge really wasn't big enough for pacing - as the last of the shuttles docked and the flotilla picked up speed. The aliens weren’t pressing them that hard, but she had no illusions. A stern chase wouldn't be a long one for them. Haddock and her sisters simply couldn't outrun the aliens if they got too close.
“Set a least-time course for the tramline,” Commodore Jameson ordered. “And go to full silent running.”
He didn't look pleased. Abigail couldn't tell if he was annoyed because he was being ordered to run from the brewing fight or if he thought the fight itself was a bad idea. Probably the latter, she thought. Jameson wasn't above gambling with lives - his included - but he wasn't completely reckless. History would judge Admiral Delacroix harshly if he never came back from the engagement. Hell, it wouldn't take that long. She knew plenty of Belters who’d judge her poorly - Belters who were passing judgement from a safe distance - and she doubted the groundpounders were any different.
“Understood,” she said, curtly. There was no need to worry about leaving the shuttles behind now. “Let’s go
.”
She leaned back in her command chair and ran through the calculations in her head. A least-time course should get them across the tramline before the engagement began, unless something disastrous happened. And yet ... Commodore Jameson was already launching a shell of recon probes to make it impossible for the aliens to sneak up on them. The flotilla certainly should be able to evade any contacts before it was too late to avoid detection.
Unless we get unlucky, she thought. And they get lucky.
Anson stepped onto the bridge, looking haggard. “Reporting for duty, Captain.”
Abigail eyed him for a long moment. “Are you alright?”
“I’ve been better,” Anson said. He looked ... haunted. “I ...”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Abigail said. She wanted to send him to his cabin, perhaps with a sedative, but he was the best helmsman she had. And besides, something that rendered him completely unconscious would be very dangerous if they ran into trouble. “Take your station.”
The Cruel Stars Page 37
