Para Bellum

by Christopher Nuttall

  The woman saluted the Russian flag, then Pavel himself. She ignored the zampolit, something that couldn't have done wonders for the man’s blood pressure. Pavel found the thought a little amusing. No doubt he’d go read her file now. He just hoped the man wouldn’t do anything stupid. Or, for that matter, that his crew wouldn’t do anything stupid that would cause a diplomatic incident. The British woman was the only woman on his ship.

  “Alice Campbell, Royal Marines,” the woman said. She had a tough, almost masculine voice. Pavel suspected he would have thought her a man if he hadn’t seen her. Her file had stated that she was a captain herself, although she hadn’t mentioned it. That was standard when there could only be one captain on a starship at any one time. “Thank you for your hospitality, Captain.”

  “We’ll do better on the return journey,” Pavel assured her, as he motioned for the marines to head down to their temporary quarters. They weren’t much, but they were better than anything they could expect to find on a troop transport. Pavel was very glad he hadn’t followed his cousins into the Naval Infantry. “There’ll be more to drink, for a start.”

  Alice smiled. “And we’ll be happy to drink with you, when we get back.”

  Pavel keyed his wristcom as the hatch hissed closed behind them. “Mr. XO, take us on our planned course as soon as the shuttle has undocked,” he ordered. “And make sure we give any alien ships or structures a wide berth.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Alice looked at him. “Do you anticipate any trouble in reaching the jump-off point?”

  “No,” Pavel said. His sensors had picked up more and more alien activity over the past few hours, yet the alien system was still incomprehensibly vast. They could have shaved an hour or two off the journey time if they’d wished, without running any real risk of detection, but he was feeling cautious. Better to be a live paranoid than a dead man. “We should be in position in five hours.”

  “Just long enough for the carrier to get into position herself,” Alice said. “And then we’ll see if we can put the cat amongst the pigeons.”

  “Quite,” Pavel said.

  He had to admire her nerve. The handful of women in the Russian Navy were all a cut above their male counterparts, and always ready to stab any would-be rapists with a knife, but he’d never met a female commando before. The FSB was an equal-opportunity employer, something that never failed to make him smile, yet most of the women it employed were spies rather than fighters. Alice and her men would be doomed if the operation failed. Pavel knew there was nothing he could do to extract them if they were detected before they were in position to do some serious damage.

  The hatch hissed open, revealing one of the cargo holds that had been hastily emptied and converted into living quarters. Pavel watched Alice thoughtfully, wondering how she’d react, but she showed no visible reaction as she stepped into the compartment. A handful of ration bars had been placed on a rickety table, a collection of blankets had been placed on the deck, a portable chemical toilet had been placed against the wall ... it struck him, suddenly, that a woman - a soldier - who was used to sleeping rough might see the compartment as a five-star hotel. Pavel had certainly felt that way when he’d gone home, after summer camp. The camp had been rough, very rough. He hadn’t slept so badly since.

  “I’ll see you after you return,” Pavel said. “Good luck.”

  Alice smiled for the first time. “Thank you, Captain,” she said. “And good luck to you too.”

  The zampolit said nothing until they were outside the compartment and heading back to the bridge. “She’s an arrogant bitch!”

  “She can also snap you in half with both hands tied behind her back,” Pavel said, dryly. “Can you name me a commando who wasn’t convinced that they were the best of the best, if not the best of the best of the best ...”

  “Captain,” the zampolit snapped. “This plan is not wise.”

  Pavel felt his temper begin to fray. “Then the risks will be borne by the British, and the British alone,” he said. Invincible and her tiny handful of escorts would be exposed, when they activated their drones, but Yuriy Ivanov would be fairly safe. Pavel had already drawn up a private contingency plan for evading contact and slipping back to Falkirk if the remainder of the flotilla was destroyed. “We will have ample opportunity to escape if things go wrong.”

  The zampolit glared at him. “And if we are detected?”

  “Then you will have ample opportunity to file a complaint when we get home,” Pavel said, dryly. The odds of survival if they were detected by an alien battleship or fleet carrier would be very low indeed. He doubted the zampolit was smart enough to know it. “Or would you like to explain to the Kremlin that you refused me permission to cooperate with our allies?”

  He smiled, openly. “I’d like those orders in writing, please.”

  “We will carry out our orders,” the zampolit said. “But it is my duty to ensure that Russia’s interests are upheld.”

  “Quite,” Pavel said.

  He allowed himself a moment of regret. If the zampolit had been stupid enough to put his orders into writing, Pavel would have had him over a barrel. Moscow would not have been pleased with a lowly political officer who dared to rewrite their orders without extremely good cause. He could have made the zampolit pay a huge price to have his words carefully removed from the datanet. Just having the man shut up would be more than enough.

  “And now we go to start our mission,” Pavel said, as the hum of the drives grew louder. “You may as well get some sleep. We won’t be doing anything interesting for a good five hours.”

  The zampolit scowled. “Yes, Captain.”

  ***

  “You know,” Monica said. “It strikes me that far too much can go wrong.”

  Richard gave her a sharp look. They’d spent the last two hours hastily reorganising the starfighter squadrons, once again, and then briefing the pilots on the operational plan. It was relatively simple - or at least their section of the plan was relatively simple - but Monica hadn't raised any concerns during the briefing. Richard wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or annoyed. Monica had far more status to raise complaints, and have her complaints taken seriously by the other pilots, than someone who had only graduated a few months ago, but it was better to hash such issues out in the open than have them fester in their minds. She might not be the only pilot with concerns about the plan.

  “What do you mean?” He glared down at his notes. They’d have only a few hours of sleep, in or out of the sleep machines, before they had to board their craft and wait for the order to launch. “If you have concerns ...”

  “Just one,” Monica said. “What if they don’t take the bait?”

  Richard looked up at her. “They’ll see an immense fleet bearing down on their shipyard,” he said. He’d watched as the drones were hastily reprogrammed, then shot into space. “They have to take the bait.”

  “They’ll also see a fleet that isn’t going to be in attack range for several hours,” Monica countered, dryly. “What if they decline to panic and merely fall back on the shipyard’s fixed defences?”

  “Then we’re fucked,” Richard said, after a moment. No smart defender would risk allowing such a large fleet into firing range, not when they had an entire shipyard to defend, but the virus was utterly alien. There was no way to know for sure how it would react when it saw the incoming fleet. “We’d just have to turn and retreat at high speed.”

  “Which would pretty much tell them that the entire fleet is composed of nothing more than sensor ghosts.” Monica cleared her throat, rudely. “But then, when we only deploy four squadrons of starfighters, they’re going to know it too.”

  “Probably,” Richard said. It wouldn’t be unusual for a fleet carrier to keep most of her starfighters in the launch tubes until the range narrowed sharply, trusting in the CSP to deal with any unexpected surprises, but their CSP would be strikingly understrength for a fleet that was supposed to include no less than
ten fleet carriers. “But they would be foolish to let us close to attack range.”

  He smiled, grimly. The fleet of sensor ghosts also included three whole squadrons of battleships, each one bristling with mass drivers. They’d be shooting projectiles towards the enemy shipyard as soon as the shit hit the fan and it would only take one hit to do real damage. The closer the fleet was allowed to get to the shipyard, the better their targeting and the greater the chance of scoring a hit ... if, of course, the ghostly fleet had been real. But could the enemy take the chance that the incoming fleet simply didn’t exist?

  No human commander would risk letting us close to a range where we could be reasonably sure of scoring a hit, Richard thought. Their point defence isn’t perfect - and mass driver projectiles are tougher than starfighters. But if they call our bluff, we’ll have to fall back ...

  “I know the logic,” Monica said. “But what if you’re wrong?”

  “Captain Shields is confident that the plan will work,” Richard said. He would have been surprised if the captain didn’t have his doubts, although he’d done a good job of hiding them during the briefing. “And if it doesn’t ... at least we tried.”

  He gave her a droll look. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Nothing,” Monica said.

  Richard felt his face heat as she smirked at him, just for a moment. He hadn’t meant to say something that could be taken in two different ways, really he hadn’t. And yet ... he knew Monica was going to find a way to tease him about it, despite the difference in rank. He’d grown to depend on her over the last few months and that made it harder to be strictly professional.

  “I just worry about the prospects for success,” Monica said, letting him off the hook. “And I know you feel the same way too.”

  “There’s nothing to be gained by doing nothing,” Richard said, quoting one of his old tutors at the academy. The man had insisted that it was better to do something, even if it was the wrong thing, than allow the enemy to dictate the pace of events. “And if we fail ... we will at least have tried.”

  He looked up at the holographic image of the alien shipyard. If it could be taken out, if it could be traded for Invincible and her entire flotilla ... humanity would come out ahead. The shipyard was simply too productive. And yet, if they all died out here, the Royal Navy would never know what had happened to them. Richard had thought himself aware of the dangers, but now he felt ice congealing around his heart. They could all die out here ...

  Shut up, he told himself, savagely. We have a war to fight.

  “Get some sleep,” he ordered. He’d need Monica to be very well rested when they went into battle. He needed some rest himself. “We’ll be launching in five to seven hours.”

  “Yeah,” Monica said. “As long as they take the bait.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Captain,” Newcomb said. “The decoys are in position.”

  Stephen sat upright, rubbing his eyes. He’d ordered himself to get some rest, in his Ready Room, but he hadn’t really slept. He should have gone to his quarters or used a sleep machine, yet that would have felt like he’d gone too far from the bridge. Getting out of a sleep machine in a hurry was no bed of roses. The last thing he wanted to do was command his ship with a banging headache. That would probably have led to disaster.

  “Thank you,” he said, as he stood. “Do we have an update from the Russians?”

  “The last signal stated that they were in position and ready to proceed once they received the final go command,” Newcomb said. “Should it be sent now?”

  Stephen keyed his terminal as his steward entered, carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits. He took the mug with a nod and sipped it gratefully, his eyes flickering over the latest set of updates. Nothing seemed to have changed in the last few hours, but he knew it was an illusion. The time-delay - he cursed, once again, the boffins who kept swearing that FTL sensors were a technological impossibility - made it impossible to be sure that nothing had changed. It would take an hour for a signal from Invincible to reach Yuriy Ivanov and another hour, at least, for a reply to be sent back. Who knew what might have happened to Yuriy Ivanov in the meantime?

  And who knows what might happen to us? Stephen munched a biscuit, wishing - once again - that he could share his doubts with someone. We might be blown out of space before the marines get into position.

  He pushed the thought aside. “Send the signal,” he ordered. “And then prepare to activate the drones.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Newcomb said.

  Stephen finished his coffee, mentally running through the plan once again. It was relatively simple. Invincible, surrounded by so many decoys that she’d look like the flagship of an invading armada, would blaze towards the enemy shipyard on a course that suggested she’d come through Tramline Four. The aliens, hopefully, would deploy their own ships to intercept her, giving the marines a chance ... he shook his head, grimly. This time, at least, he’d be taking himself into danger too. He had every hope of evading the enemy capital ships, but their starfighters were another matter. Invincible might find herself in serious trouble if they screwed up the timing.

  He pulled on his jacket, then turned and walked through the hatch and onto the bridge. The main display was brightly lit, showing the known and projected positions of hundreds of alien ships ... each one capable of giving his ship a very hard time. There was no way he could avoid using the decoy drones, even though the virus had seen that trick before. Invincible alone simply wouldn’t pose any significant threat to the system. The aliens had to see a very real threat boring in towards them at a significant percentage of the speed of light.

  And while a human might be stampeded into doing something panicky, the virus might be a little calmer, he mused, as he took his chair. It doesn’t see the loss of thousands of host-bodies as a significant problem.

  “On my command, activate the drones as planned,” he ordered. “And then bring up the main drives.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Lieutenant-Commander David Arthur said. “The drones are on standby, ready to move.”

  “Good,” Stephen said.

  His lips twitched. If nothing else, the fleet’s formation would look like an utter nightmare, the sort of thing that no sane spacer would condone for a second. Few commanders were sanguine about flying in close formation, not when the capital ships simply couldn't change course in a hurry. The odds of an accidental collision would be a great deal higher if the fleet had to evade a sudden enemy threat. Normally, the armada would be a great deal more dispersed. But now ... hopefully, it would look as though he’d fucked up badly. The virus would have a chance to shatter his formation before he could turn and flee. It was just a shame that most of the ships it would think it could intercept and destroy simply didn’t exist.

  Unless I’ve outsmarted myself, he thought. The virus might wonder why I was making such an elementary mistake.

  “Activate the drones,” he ordered, after one last look at the timer. The Russians would have around twenty minutes of warning before they saw the aliens start to adjust their formations and - hopefully - set out to offer battle to the ghost fleet. It would be long enough, his operations staff had said. Stephen could only hope they were right. “And take us in.”

  He felt the seconds crawling by, each one feeling like an hour as the ghost fleet slowly altered course. It had to look convincing, of course, and yet part of him wanted to ramp up the drives and present the kind of threat that the virus simply couldn’t ignore. But that would make it harder for him to withdraw, when the aliens came after him ... at least without abandoning the drones. That would start alarm bells ringing all over the system. If the virus realised that it was being conned too early, it might start to wonder why.

  And we have no way of deducing how it might react to ... well, anything, Stephen thought. By human standards, the virus was insane. Or simply nothing more than an entity that reacted on instinct alone. There was nothing to be gained, surely, by starting a war with
a coalition of alien races that might have the technological and biological prowess to defeat the virus at its own game. If it can access our people’s memories, it must know we’re intelligent. Why doesn’t it talk to us?

  He thought he knew the answer, assuming they weren’t dealing with an unintelligent life form determined to propagate itself at everyone else’s expense. The virus had to know that humanity - and every other intelligent race - would react with utter horror to its mere existence. There would be war. The virus hadn’t mounted a massive invasion of human space, let alone the other races, but no one really doubted that there would be war. There was no point in trying to co-exist with an entity that turned its victims into host-bodies. One might as well try to co-exist with a race that saw humans as nothing more than food animals.

  And if it understands us that well, he mused, the thought of trying to open a dialogue probably never occurred to it.

  His mind raced. Some of the boffins were entirely certain that the virus wasn’t natural, that someone had set out to create an ultimate weapon and succeeded all too well. They’d drawn up horrific scenarios, ranging from the virus evolving past whatever restraints had been gene-engineered into its system to an intentional leak that should have turned its original creators into an insect hive, with only a handful of people free to think for themselves. Given the horrors that humanity had tried to create during the Age of Unrest - diseases targeted on skin colour, for example - it wasn’t unthinkable. And yet, it was utterly insane. There were so few pureblood humans of any ethnic group that a targeted virus would eventually spread to everyone else.