The Dogs of God

by Chris Kennedy

  “Targeting systems online,” Marigold reported. “Targets locked. Missiles being launched…now.”

  Richard nodded. He’d understood the time delay before he’d joined the Navy—it was a vital part of Naval Command—but he’d never really grasped how much of a problem it was before he’d started to fly simulated gunboats. The few seconds it took for messages to move between the mothership and the gunboats—and the long-range missiles—were quite long enough for the targets to alter course, deploy decoys, and shoot down incoming missiles before they received their final orders. The gunboats provided real-time targeting data to the missiles at the risk of being blasted out of space if they took a single hit. Richard knew all too well why they were called Redshirts. He’d even overheard a couple of techs arguing that the squadron should be called the Twenty Minuters. They seemed to assume the gunboats wouldn’t last any longer when they flew into the teeth of enemy fire.

  He gritted his teeth as the enemy targets opened fire, filling space with hundreds of simulated plasma bursts. Their targeting was lousy, poor enough that he doubted they could hit him even without the stealth fields and ECM, but they were pumping out enough plasma bolts that it hardly mattered. Sooner or later they’d score a hit, even though they were on the edge of the effective point defence range. He threw the gunboat into a series of evasive patterns, keeping them as random as possible. The enemy computers would be tracking his manoeuvres, trying to predict his flight path so they could put a plasma bolt in his path. It would be humiliating to die knowing he’d steered into a plasma bolt…it had happened far too many times in the simulators. Bagehot had pointed out the mistake time and time again. Give the enemy an inch, and they’d take a mile and ram it somewhere the sun didn’t shine.

  “Missiles entering engagement range,” Marigold said. “Deploying ECM drones…”

  “Which makes us an even bigger target,” Richard muttered. “I think we’re…”

  He yanked the gunboat to one side an instant before a plasma bolt shot through the space they’d been occupying. The bastards were increasing their fire, zeroing in on their target…he breathed a sigh of relief as the missiles struck home and the enemy targets vanished from the display. A freighter exploded into a ball of plasma; four asteroids shattered into chunks of debris…he wondered suddenly if they were making a mistake. There was a seemingly permanent shortage of freighters, according to the unclassified reports he’d been able to access. The Navy needed every hull it could get. It shouldn’t be using them as targets for live-fire exercises.

  “All targets destroyed,” Marigold said. “Did they scratch our paint?”

  “They didn’t even come close,” Richard assured her as he altered course and steered back towards the carrier. “Our paint remains firmly unscratched.”

  “Hah,” Marigold said. “We kicked their ass!”

  Richard shared a smile with her, feeling an odd surge of kinship, then turned his attention back to his display. The exercise appeared to be going well. One of the fleet carriers had come under fire from the battleship, while the other had kept running…he scowled, wondering—again—why they hadn’t split up. The cruisers didn’t seem to be doing much, as far as he could tell. They weren’t big enough to take on the battleship—unless they decided to ram—and they weren’t small enough to go unnoticed. The battleship would blow them into atoms as soon as the fleet carriers were dead.

  Unless one of them actually rams the battleship, he mused. It was terrifyingly easy to forget that it was just an exercise, although one that included live weapons. What would happen then?

  The console bleeped. “Well done,” Bagehot said. “Do you feel up to another mission?”

  “Yes, sir,” Richard said. “We’re ready.”

  “Very good,” Bagehot said. A stream of verification data appeared on the console. “You’re going to snipe Jellicoe.”

  Marigold snickered. “All of a sudden I want to take my sick leave.”

  “I know how you feel.” Richard brought the gunboat around and set course for the battleship, then gunned the drives. “Are you ready?”

  “Yeah.” Marigold worked her console. “She’s a bloody huge target. I wonder how we can miss.”

  Richard nodded as the range closed with frightening speed. Jellicoe—a Vanguard-class battleship—was a formidable opponent, her point defence cannons already swivelling to confront the gunboats even as it rained plasma bolts on Formidable and fended off the starfighters. Richard was no expert, but he could see the pattern. The battleship was keeping the starfighter squadrons from converging and bringing down the hammer on her hull, dooming the pilots to a cold and lonely—and simulated—death in interplanetary space. They just couldn’t hit her with enough torpedoes to take her out. Richard tensed as space started to fill with fire, each bolt capable of swatting the gunboat without even noticing what it had done. The battleship commander knew what the gunboats could do. Or, he reasoned, what the gunboats were supposed to be able to do. He wouldn’t want to let the tiny craft any closer to his hull than strictly necessary.

  “Missiles locked on target,” Marigold said. “They’re moving in for the kill.”

  Richard smiled grimly as another plasma bolt shot past them. The shipkillers—the verification codes made it clear they weren’t armed—were bigger and nastier than starfighter torpedoes, designed to channel the power of a nuclear blast into a single ravening beam of destruction. Richard didn’t pretend to understand the science behind it, but he knew what it would do. A needle of destruction stabbing deep into a battleship’s guts would do immense damage. Battleships were built to take damage and keep going—they had internal armour as well as a solid layer of hull protection—but there were limits. He’d heard that a dozen battleships had been lost since the war began.

  “Two direct hits,” Marigold said. “A third…”

  The display washed red. “Shit,” Richard swore. “We’ve been hit!”

  “Bugger,” Marigold said mildly. “I think we damaged their drives.”

  “So we suffered a simulated death in exchange for doing simulated damage to a battleship’s drives,” Richard said. He clicked on the IFF beacon, configuring the broadcast to make it clear they were officially dead. “Do you think they’ll give us a simulated funeral afterwards?”

  Marigold shrugged. “Probably a set of expensive medals for the next of kin,” she said. “The battleship does seem to be having problems.”

  Richard kept his thoughts to himself as he steered his way back to McCleery. The battleship didn’t appear to be on the verge of exploding any time soon, but she was definitely limping as she crawled towards her targets. A fleet carrier had a low rate of acceleration compared to a cruiser or destroyer, but the carriers might just be able to put enough room between themselves and the crippled battleship to survive. Bagehot would be pleased. The gunboats were cheap compared to a battleship or carrier. The Royal Navy could trade a thousand gunboats for a single enemy battleship and still come out ahead.

  “So,” he said as he docked, “what do we do now? Sit on our bunks and pretend to be dead?”

  “I think they’ll just resurrect us tomorrow,” Marigold predicted. She unstrapped herself and stood, brushing her hands through her hair. Bagehot had told her to cut it the second day at the academy. “There aren’t enough of us to pretend to be a full wing.”

  “No.” Richard started to unbuckle himself. His fingers worked by rote. “I guess not.”

  Bagehot met them as soon as they stepped through the hatch. “Good work,” he said. “You crippled a battleship.”

  “At the cost of our lives,” Richard reminded him. “You’d be saying nice things about us at our funerals if the plasma bolts were real.”

  “Yes.” Bagehot didn’t bother to deny it. He’d never tried to hide unpleasant truths from them, not once. “But your deaths may have saved thousands more lives.”

  Richard hesitated, then shrugged. “Can we get some sleep now?”

  “Don�
�t be too rude onboard ship,” Bagehot warned. “You’re not quite starfighter pilots.” He snorted. “Go get some rest. I’ll see you at the debriefing, 1900hrs.”

  Richard saluted—he knew his salutes were sloppy, but at least he was trying—and led the way back to the barracks. It wasn’t quite Pilot Country, but it would do. Marigold headed for the shower as soon as the hatch closed, stripping off her shipsuit as she moved. Richard was tempted to take a shower himself. But he knew he needed sleep more. He’d shower before the debriefing.

  Not that anyone can complain about me stinking of sweat, he thought, dryly. We all stink worse than…

  And then the alarms began to howl.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Six

  “All gunboat pilots report to Briefing Room A,” a voice snapped, as the alarms grew louder. “I say again, all gunboat pilots report to Briefing Room A! This is not a drill!”

  Richard jumped up and grabbed his datapad as Marigold hurried out of the shower, hastily towelling herself off with one hand, and yanking her shipsuit on with the other. She was dripping water, droplets flying in all directions, as she tried to do several things at once. Richard caught a glimpse of one breast and looked away hastily as he picked up her datapad and held it out. She’d need it, too. She made a noise that sounded like something between anger and embarrassment as she took the datapad and hurried to the hatch. The alarms grew louder as the hatch opened, revealing a handful of crewmen heading to their combat stations. Richard followed her as they made their way to Briefing Room A, where they were joined by two other gunboat crews. It took him a moment to remember that the remainder of the gunboats were still on exercise.

  Bagehot stood in front of a display, a cluster of red icons burning a hole in space. Richard felt his heart sink as he studied the positioning, realising that the enemy ships—the very real and very deadly enemy ships—had either spent hours carefully getting into position and waiting for precisely the right moment, or had somehow managed to get very lucky. They’d caught the naval squadrons with their pants down, their starfighters in desperate need of rearming and refuelling before they were sent into battle…

  “The enemy ships don’t appear to have noticed McCleery yet,” Bagehot noted. “They’re on a direct course for Admiral Thompson’s fleet. Their timing has been extremely good. By the time the fleet can launch starfighters, the enemy ships will be on them. The odds are not in Admiral Thompson’s favour.”

  He altered the display. “Fortunately, we can snipe them from our position. You’ll guide our missiles into the teeth of the enemy formation.”

  Richard shivered. If he hadn’t been sitting down, he thought he would have fallen. The enemy starships would be shooting real plasma bolts at him, real bursts of death…he shivered as he realised he might not make it back alive. It was going to be a very real baptism by fire. He wanted to run and hide under the bed, but…he knew he didn’t dare. There were thousands of lives at stake. Anything that could win the fleet more time to prepare itself was worthwhile. It had to be done, even if it came at the cost of their lives.

  Mum will be proud, he thought morbidly as Bagehot continued the briefing. She’ll be able to say her son sold his life in defence of his country.

  He shivered again. Bagehot had made them all write wills, pointing out that death could come at any moment, but…Richard hadn’t really believed it, no matter how many times he died in the simulators. He’d known he wasn’t invincible—Colin had taught him that, time and time again—yet it was hard to believe he could actually die. Richard didn’t want to believe it, but he had no choice. He might never see his mother or his sister or his relatives ever again.

  Bagehot finished speaking and looked around the compartment. “This isn’t how we intended to throw you into action,” he said, “but this is what we’ve got. Man your ships.”

  Richard forced himself to rise and make his way to the airlocks. Marigold walked beside him, looking as pensive as Richard felt. It struck him suddenly that he knew very little about her, beyond the fact she was a gamer and a friend, and…he glanced at her, torn between asking and choosing to respect her silence. If she wanted him to know, she’d tell him. He’d always thought it was easier being a girl than a boy, but that could just be a case of the grass always being greener on the other side of the fence. He promised himself that he’d be there for her afterwards if she needed him. If there was something he’d learnt in the last two months, it was self-respect.

  And that and a couple of quid will buy you a mug of coffee, he thought as he climbed into the gunboat and took the pilot’s seat. I might never see Earth again.

  The display came online as the gunboat powered up, the tactical display showing a cluster of alien starships as they converged on the human fleet. Richard felt a shiver run down his spine—there was no mistaking the signatures of ships that had done so much damage to the human race and its allies—and pushed it aside with an effort. There was no time for fear, no time for anything but doing his job. The aliens had worked hard to get into the right position to mount their ambush, yet…he worked his way through the tactical vectors as the remainder of the gunboat readied itself for combat. Bagehot was right. They might just have a chance to catch the enemy ships by surprise.

  “Drive field coming online…now,” he said. The gunboat quivered as it undocked, the twisting drive field propelling it into open space. “Are you ready?”

  “Targeting locks in place,” Marigold confirmed. “We’re assigned to Target One.”

  Richard nodded. Target One was an alien battlecruiser, a starship fast enough to escape anything that could kill it. There’d been problems with the human battlecruiser designs, from what he’d read on the dark web, but the alien virus didn’t seem to have them. They’d deployed dozens of battlecruisers to the front. Or they simply had the resources to keep building them anyway, despite the downside. The thought chilled him to the bone. The virus acted like a rich man, buying whatever he fancied because he thought he couldn’t run out of money, and therefore didn’t need to bargain. They—it—didn’t need to choose carefully. It could build a starship for every occasion. He put the thought aside as he set course for Target One. The alien sensors swept over the gunboat but didn’t lock on. It made him wonder if they saw the gunboats as a threat. They might not see them as a real problem. A gunboat could carry a full-sized shipkiller, but only one of them.

  The Foxes developed them first, Richard reminded himself. They never had a chance to do much with the concept before it was too late.

  He gritted his teeth as the range steadily closed. The alien starships were actually accelerating, as if they thought their targets would turn and run. Richard rather suspected they either intended to make one pass through the human formation, firing missiles and energy bursts in all directions as they plunged through and vanished into the distance, or simply aim to ram the human ships. At their closing speed, the impact would vaporise even a battleship. He eyed the sensor feed, wishing he knew enough to be sure. It looked as if the virus was cutting its safety margins right down to the bone.

  But the virus might not need human-grade compensators, he reminded himself. And they might be able to boost their speed well into the danger zone without being in any real danger at all.

  “Target One is deploying drones,” Marigold warned. On the display, Target One seemed to split into a dozen different targets. “But I’ve got a solid lock.”

  “So do they.” Richard was sure of it. The gunboats were burning a hole in space, their drives too powerful to be concealed. The virus didn’t need active sensors to blow them out of existence once they entered weapons range. He was morbidly sure they already had the shot lined up. “We’ll start evasive patterns in ten seconds.”

  “Missiles will be fired in five seconds,” Marigold said. “We’ll have to keep the target locks open.”

  Richard nodded. “I’ll stay as close as I can.”

  He gritted his teeth as the display seemed to explode w
ith light. The alien ships had opened fire, spewing out a nightmarish hail of plasma bolts. He’d been told the simulated starships had more weapons and better targeting than their real-life counterparts, but it sure as hell didn’t look that way. He forced himself to remain calm, trying not to think about what would happen if one of those blasts actually hit him. The aliens were trying to get him to impale himself on one of their plasma bolts. He ducked and weaved, trying to stay close without flying in a straight line or doing something else that would get him killed. The missiles were growing closer…

  “Control links established,” Marigold said. “Target locks established. Target One is in trouble.”

  “Hurry,” Richard said, although he knew she couldn’t speed things up. There’d be a pause—at least a moment’s pause—when the virus realised the real danger. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep us moving…”

  Sweat prickled down his back as he avoided another hail of plasma bolts. The alien ships—insanely—were still picking up speed. They had to be redlining their compensators, even if they didn’t need them. He couldn’t believe it. The virus was a cloud of biological matter—viral matter—in its native form, but it still needed flesh and blood bodies to operate. Or were the ships largely automated? The virus had gone further than any known race when it came to crafting mind-machine interfaces, if the reports were to be believed. It hadn’t allowed moral qualms and common decency to get in the way of searching for newer and better ways to do things.

  Target One switched targets, shooting wave after wave of plasma fire as the missiles brought up their drives, switched to sprint mode, and threw themselves at its hull. Four missiles died, picked off by plasma bursts; the remainder slipped into attack range and detonated, stabbing bomb-pumped laser beams straight into the alien hull. For a horrible moment, Richard thought the battlecruiser had survived; it blew into a giant ball of expanding plasma, the blast swallowing a handful of missiles that hadn’t gotten into engagement range in time. He let out a long breath. They’d done it.