Para Bellum

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Welcome,” Captain Kaminov said. The zampolit was standing behind him, holding a glass without sipping from it. “We appear to be clear, for the moment.”

  Alice allowed herself a moment of relief. “How clear are we?”

  “Clear enough that we can risk getting drunk,” Kaminov said. He held out an injector tab, which she took. “But if we do run into trouble, we will have to sober up in a hurry.”

  “Ouch,” Alice said. She understood the precaution - if the ship was attacked, the command crew would definitely have to sober up in a hurry - but it wasn’t something she wanted to use if it could be avoided. She’d used injector tabs herself, back when she’d been a teenager sneaking out to the nearest pub. Throwing up several pints of craft beer was not her idea of fun. “Should we be drinking now?”

  “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die,” Kaminov said. “And besides, we have to celebrate the success of your mission.”

  Alice sighed, but took the glass he offered her anyway. It was an attitude she’d seen before, during joint operations with the Russians. She’d wondered, at the time, if heavy drinking affected their efficiency, but it seemed the Russians had ways to cope. Besides, half of Kaminov’s senior officers were missing. She guessed they were the ship’s designated drivers. Kaminov would probably have some hard questions to answer, if the ship was attacked, but he’d taken a string of reasonable precautions. She just hoped his superiors would see it that way.

  She took a sip of the vodka - it tasted so strong that she guessed it had been produced onboard ship, rather than transported all the way from Earth - and did her best to answer the captain’s questions without giving too much away. Kaminov seemed to think that the shipyard was definitely out of commission, to the point where the virus would find it cheaper to build a whole new shipyard from scratch than try to repair the old one. The zampolit was much less impressed and worked hard to pour cold water on the whole idea. They simply didn’t know, he said again and again. Alice, who’d seen the nukes go off, had no doubts. The shipyard had been so badly damaged that it would be years before any new ships came off the production line.

  “But we still don’t know how badly we hurt them,” Kaminov mused. He was on his fifth glass, but somehow he still seemed perfectly lucid. “If they have a dozen systems as ... industrialised as this one, they will still be able to smash us to rubble.”

  “There will be a long and hard fight,” the zampolit said. His face was flushed and his nose had gone red. “But the size of our country will work for us and eventually we will triumph.”

  Which is pretty much Russian military doctrine, Alice reminded herself. The Russians had always been more ... fatalistic than their western counterparts. It gave them an advantage, of sorts. They were used to soaking up immense casualties - and losing vast tracts of land - and continuing the war anyway. But against the virus, how can their orthodox doctrine hope to stand?

  She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold air. The human race was infinitely better prepared to face the virus than the poor natives of Alien-3, but it was still going to be a long and hard fight. The virus was just too powerful to take lightly. She had a sudden vision of hidden redoubts in Siberia or Alaska or other places the virus would find it hard to take root, at least at first. But orbital bombardment would be more than enough to put a stop to any organised resistance. She had no illusions about what would have happened if the Tadpoles had managed to gain control of Earth’s high orbitals. The virus would have all of their advantages and more besides.

  And the Tadpoles are our allies now, she reminded herself. They’re just as much at risk as ourselves.

  The night - it felt like night, even though her wristcom insisted it was early afternoon - wore on. She drank enough vodka to get a pleasant buzz, silently thanking the genetic engineers for splicing increased alcohol resistance into her genes. They’d done it to protect the marines from other threats, she’d been told, but she rather suspected that keeping her from getting drunk was more useful at the moment. The Russians drank and sang and invited her to join a whole series of party games. Alice was just thankful that the Russians didn’t seem to have invented some of the truly awful activities she’d seen during her first leave. Some of them had been disgusting.

  “You’re not telling me much about yourself,” Kaminov said, hours later. Half the Russians and nearly all of the marines had departed to sleep it off. The zampolit was sitting in a chair, snoring loudly. Somehow, he managed to keep a glass in his hand. “You must have an interesting story to tell.”

  Alice shrugged. “There’s not that much to tell,” she said, shooting a wary glance at the zampolit. She wasn’t sure he was actually asleep. “I was born in Britain, I grew up, I joined the Royal Marines ... what more is there to tell?”

  “And you passed one of the hardest commando courses in the world,” Kaminov said, seriously. “You’re not exactly typical.”

  “Perhaps not,” Alice said. She allowed him to steer her out into the corridor and down to his cabin. “But I haven’t joined the SAS either.”

  Kaminov lifted his eyebrows. “Is that a bad thing?”

  Alice shrugged, again. “There were five women in the SAS, before the Troubles,” she said, finally. “One of them was killed on active duty, during the Siege of Whitehall. Two others were ... ah, removed after question marks were raised about how they passed Selection. And the other two retired shortly afterwards. Now ... I might get to chance Selection myself, if they are sure they can trust me, but there would be no guarantee of passing.”

  She winced, inwardly. She’d read all the reports from the Troubles, all the position papers that had made it clear that standards had been allowed to slip for political reasons. She would have been more forgiving, she supposed, if she hadn't gone into combat herself. Lowering standards was a bad idea at the best of times, but it was a complete disaster when a soldier - male or female - was regarded as inherently inferior to his or her fellows because their training hadn't been quite so intense. And then someone had been killed. She wondered, morbidly, if any of the senior officers behind the scheme to allow women to join the SAS had ever been punished for their failings. Sir Charles Hanover had been Prime Minister at the time. It was possible.

  “And yourself?” Alice turned the question on him. “What about your life?”

  Kaminov smiled at her. “I was born to a military family with strong political connections,” he said. “There was never any suggestion that I wouldn’t go into the military myself. They would have regarded it as outright treason if I hadn’t signed up on the day I reached adulthood. I joined the navy and climbed up the ranks until they made me a captain. And that is the whole story.”

  “Really?” Alice had to smile. She was sure he was leaving out all the interesting details. “And you just became a captain?”

  “I'm young,” Kaminov said. “I haven’t even married yet.”

  “But you have to marry,” Alice said. “Don’t you?”

  “In theory,” Kaminov said. He let out a heavy sigh. “It wouldn’t matter if I liked men instead of women. I have a duty to the motherland to marry and have children sooner rather than later. I’m surprised they let me put it off for so long.”

  Alice nodded. She’d heard the stories. Women in Britain were encouraged to have children ahead of anything else, but the Russians made it compulsory. They had no intention of seeing their population drop again. They’d come far too close to demographic disaster.

  Kaminov smiled at her, then inclined his head towards the bunk. She knew what he wanted, all right. And she was tempted. It wasn’t as if either of them were inclined to boast about their conquests. She wouldn’t be putting her career at risk if she slept with him. He was probably in more danger than her. The zampolit would probably be annoyed if he realised that Kaminov had spent the night with a British woman. God alone knew what his family would think.

  But that’s his problem, she told herself, as he leaned forward to
kiss her. Right now, her body was reminding her that it had been a very long time since she’d had sex with anyone. It was hard to find a suitable partner who would be discrete. And if he wants to cope with it, that’s his problem too.

  Grinning, she kissed him back. Hard.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Well,” Chief Engineer Theodore Rutgers said, two days after they’d broken contact with the alien fleet and sneaked out towards the edge of the star system, “it could have been a great deal worse.”

  “I believe you,” Stephen said, dryly. He’d taken advantage of the downtime to call a full staff meeting in the conference room, rather than speak to his officers individually. “Just how bad is it?”

  Rutgers tapped his console, bringing up a holographic display. “The enemy starfighters took out around two thirds of our point defence systems, Captain,” he said. “We were damn lucky we got away when we did. We’re replacing them now, but we don’t really have any way to keep them from doing it again - next time. It’s a standard tactic and quite effective. The real problem lies in our damaged armour and drive nodes. I have teams repairing or replacing them now, but they won’t quite come up to spec. We need a shipyard.”

  “We wrecked the closest shipyard to us,” Newcomb cracked.

  Stephen nodded, feeling a flicker of pride. The reports from the probes had made it clear that the enemy shipyard had been smashed beyond repair. If the virus had been human, he was sure it would have been cursing its own failure to run Invincible down before she managed to break contact and escape. There was still no way to be sure just how much damage they’d truly done to the enemy’s war machine, but it was hard to believe that they hadn’t inflicted a major blow. Losing that shipyard had to hurt.

  And we got the marines back alive, he told himself. We were lucky the Russians managed to pull them out of the chaos before they could be wiped out by the aliens.

  “It wasn’t as if they would have done the repairs for us in any case,” Stephen said. “And the rest of the damage?”

  Lieutenant-Commander Rebecca Wycliffe, CAG, looked haunted. “We lost twenty-five starfighter pilots in the engagement, bringing our total down to thirty. There is some indication that Flying Officer Falladine managed to eject, but we weren’t able to locate her beacon before we retreated and, by now, her suit will have run out of life support. Not that there’s any way to be sure. Our squadron rosters were shot to hell. Pilots were flying with whatever wingmen they were able to find before they were recalled to the barn.”

  Stephen winced. He’d never met Flying Officer Falladine, but if she’d been left to die alone in the inky darkness of space ... he pushed the thought aside, savagely. There was no time to mourn, let alone wallow in guilt. He’d write a formal letter to her family later and hope they mourned her properly. He just hoped the aliens hadn't stumbled across her. It wasn’t unknown for a lifepod to be mistaken for something more dangerous and swatted out of space before the enemy realised the truth, but the virus had a far worse fate in store for anyone who happened to fall into its hands. Flying Officer Falladine might have wound up as yet another host-body for the virus ...

  “Do what you can,” he ordered, finally.

  “Yes, Captain,” Rebecca said. She looked pensive. “Wing Commander Redbird is reforming the squadrons now. However, we only have enough starfighter pilots to field two slightly-oversized squadrons. Redbird was suggesting that we conscripted everyone who has ever used a starfighter simulator to man our remaining birds.”

  Stephen hesitated, considering the matter. It wasn’t as if it was a serious problem, unless Wing Commander Redbird wanted someone who was needed urgently elsewhere. In theory, he could operate his ship with thirty men ... although he’d better pray he didn’t suffer any damage that required a damage control team. Invincible had a large crew because it was impossible to anticipate just what demands would be placed on her manpower. Automation could only go so far.

  “If he feels they have a chance of surviving their first mission, then he may put in a request for their services,” Stephen said. “But I want them cleared with their department heads first. I can’t afford to give him any damage control specialists.”

  “No, sir,” Rebecca said. “We do understand.”

  Stephen looked at Parkinson. “And the marines?”

  “In good health, sir,” Parkinson said. “I think we’ve reached the point where we can clear Alice Campbell for a return to active duty. If she was still infected, she would not have allowed us to blow up the alien shipyard.”

  “I see,” Stephen said. “And what does Doctor Watson have to say about that?”

  “So far, nothing,” Parkinson said. “But I think he will agree.”

  “If he does, then you have my permission to proceed,” Stephen said. “If he raises an objection, however, she can wait until we return home.”

  Parkinson didn’t look pleased, but he nodded. “I’ve assigned the remainder of the assault force to their bunks for a few hours of sleep, once they had a check-up. The Russians fed them poisonous levels of vodka, but nothing they hadn’t already encountered in Plymouth or Colchester. There’s no hint that any suits were breached, let alone that any of the marines were infected. I think the operation proceeded without a hitch.”

  “And we learnt that trying it with missiles wasn’t likely to work,” Newcomb added.

  “Good thing we didn’t try,” Stephen said.

  He took a long breath. “Realistically, we cannot continue with our mission. Do any of you disagree with my assessment?”

  There was a pause. “No, sir,” Newcomb said. “We took too much of a beating.”

  “And expended too many of our supplies,” Arthur added. “I think we have to concede that we have done as much as we can, for the moment. The next engagement might ruin us.”

  “We still need to recon the other tramlines,” Parkinson pointed out. “We know nothing about what lurks beyond three of the five tramlines in this system.”

  “No, we don’t,” Stephen agreed. “But we also have to face facts. We’re no longer in fighting trim. The ship needs repairs and the crew, bluntly, needs a rest. It is my intention, therefore, to head directly to Tramline Four, cross into Alien-1 and return to Falkirk.”

  “Assuming the astrographers are right about Tramline Four leading to Alien-1,” Newcomb pointed out. “They might be wrong.”

  “It’s going in the right direction, sir,” Arthur said. “And the gravity pulses match ...”

  “We only made long-range observations,” Newcomb reminded him. “If we’re wrong, Captain, we could find ourselves lost in space.”

  “If we’re wrong, we simply head back through the star systems we’ve already explored,” Stephen said. He held up a hand before anyone could object. “I understand the issues, but it is my decision. We set off for Tramline Four as soon as we’ve completed our repairs. Mr. Rutgers?”

  “That will be around thirty-six hours,” Rutgers said. “We have a clear picture of what we need to do now, sir, so we simply have to run down the schedule and hope for the best.”

  “Time enough to finish the game and beat the virus too,” Newcomb misquoted.

  “Drake may not have said that,” Parkinson said. “And even if he did, he would have had to wait for the right tides before he took his ship out of harbour and onto the open sea. He might have felt that it was better to keep playing instead of waiting around and doing nothing.”

  “Perhaps,” Stephen said, amused. “We’ll leave as planned. Dismissed, gentlemen.”

  He waited for the room to empty, then sat back in his chair. Parkinson was right, in one sense. They hadn’t learned anything like enough about viral space to satisfy their superior officers. But, at the same time, they had learnt a great deal and they’d dealt a significant blow to the aliens. The virus had been hurt badly. Civilian morale would improve, once they heard what had happened. Who knew? It might even broaden support for the war.

  Not as if it would make
much of a difference, Stephen thought. We’re fighting for our survival, not for ... not for a tiny territorial gain that won’t mean anything to the vast majority of the population. It doesn’t matter if the population wants to fight or not. The virus wants to fight and that is all that matters.

  He sighed, then stood. There was no time for him to stand around, brooding. He had too much work to do. Traditionally, letters to the families of dead crewmen had to be written as soon as reasonably possible. He didn’t want to write them, but he saw no choice. Besides, it would help keep his mind off their situation. He had no doubt that crossing Alien-1 was not going to be easy. The virus would be looking for them.