Fighting For The Crown (Ark Royal Book 16)

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  He felt a curious sense of detachment as the enemy craft closed in on the squadron. The point defence was working well, but the enemy were ducking and weaving seemingly at random. It was unusually efficient for the virus, suggesting there was a brainship somewhere within the enemy fleet. The fleet itself was hidden behind a haze of ECM, denying Tobias any hard data beyond the simple fact it was there. His heart sank as gunboats started to vanish, icon after icon vanishing from the display. The enemy shooting wasn’t very accurate, but they were pumping out so much fire it hardly mattered. The missile run had failed so badly ...

  The gunboat shook. The screens went blank. Tobias sagged in his chair as the simulation - their part of it, at least - came to an end. He keyed an override code into the console, in hopes of watching the remainder of the fleet score a victory, but it was starting to look as though it wasn’t going to be their victory. He shook his head in dismay. He’d been told it was important to overestimate the enemy - better to prepare for the worst than be caught by surprise - but it was demoralising. They’d done everything right up until the moment the enemy had sprung their surprise.

  “For you, the war is over,” Marigold said, dryly. “We lost.”

  Tobias winced. His father had gone to war and never returned. He’d grown up in world where countless windows displayed black ribbons, a testament to fathers, husbands and sons lost to war. A surge of bitterness overwhelmed him, undimmed by the grim knowledge the war had to be fought. What did it matter, he asked himself, when he’d grown up without a father? When countless other boys and girls had lost parents to the war? When it was no longer clear that anything would survive, even if the war was won tomorrow?

  And if we lose the war, he thought grimly, there’ll be nothing left of us.

  He gritted his teeth. He’d watched countless period dramas, alternate histories of how terrible life would have been in Occupied Britain. They’d been nothing more than bad propaganda, he’d always thought. Napoleonic Britain, Nazi Britain, Caliphate Britain ... a country dominated by foreigners, until brave, super and noble Britons remembered who their forefathers had been and rose up against the occupiers. He’d never liked them, not least because watching had been compulsory at school. And pointing out the historical inaccuracies had always gotten him in trouble. And yet ...

  The hatch popped open. Tobias glanced at the remainder of the exercise, then stood and gave Marigold a quick hug. They hadn’t had much time for themselves over the past fortnight. They’d been too busy training the newcomers and running endless simulations. Tobias was gloomily aware a lot of shit was going to be running downhill and pooling in their boots, when the admiral and her staff finally finished assessing the results. The entire fleet had been caught with its pants down, given the enemy a chance to put a boot up its collective arse ... no, the admiral was not going to be pleased. The thought of learning from their mistakes wouldn’t improve her mood.

  He yawned and tried to hide it as they stumbled out the hatch. His legs felt unsteady, even though he knew they’d never left the battlecruiser. The simulations were so good it was easy to forget they weren’t real, not least because the training officers wouldn’t have hesitated to make an issue of it if the pilots treated the simulations like a computer game. One could do things in games one simply couldn’t in real life. There was certainly no such thing as bonus lives. The pilots had to count themselves fortunate they’d have a chance to learn from their mistakes afterwards.

  Marigold wiped sweat from her brow as the rest of the pilots exited the simulators and headed to the washroom. Tobias felt a stab of worry, even though he knew she was a better pilot than he. God knew she’d kicked his arse on the computer ... he shook his head, looking away to give her what privacy he could. He wanted to urge her to stay home, where she was safe, but he knew she would take it the wrong way. His lips quirked at the thought. Was there a right way to take it?

  Bagehot stuck his head into the compartment. “Briefing Room, ten minutes.”

  Tobias nodded - he was too tired to salute - and stumbled into the washroom himself. It had taken months for him to get used to sharing bathrooms and toilets with anyone, male or female, but right now ... he was just too exhausted to give much of a damn. He splashed water on his face, made use of the facilities and then washed himself again before heading down to the briefing room. There was no one inside, when he entered. That was meaningless. The analysis deck had been watching. They were probably composing a truly savage piece of criticism, listing all the mistakes the gunboat squadron had made since the simulation had begun. Tobias wondered, idly, if they’d be making the same effort for the admiral. She’d been the one who’d issued the engagement orders.

  He poured two cups of coffee, then sat down. Marigold joined him a moment later, her hair looking slightly damp. Had she had time for a quick shower? It was possible. Tobias loved to luxuriate under the water, but the military had taught him to wash efficiently in less than five minutes. Commandos, he’d been told, could wash in less than a single minute. He wasn’t sure he believed that, although Colin had never shown any regard for personal hygiene. His body had always stunk of sweat and ...

  Put that behind you, he told himself, severely. Colin’s grown up.

  He forced himself to relax as the rest of the squadron joined them. Tobias couldn’t help feeling as though the newcomers were intruders, forcing their way into a space that belonged to others. They shouldn’t be there at all, but ... he’d found it hard to memorise their names. It would just cause heartache if they died ... when they died. The original squadron members were dead or reassigned. Tobias knew he’d been too attached to them. He didn’t want to repeat the same mistake.

  Marigold and I will die together, he thought. It was the sort of silly concept that idiots would declare romantic, except ... it was pointless. If only she would go home ...

  “Well, that could have gone better.” Bagehot entered and swept up to the front of the compartment. “What did we do wrong?”

  “Everything,” Tobias muttered.

  Marigold shot him a sharp look. “We let ourselves get jumped,” she said. “We didn’t realise the enemy starfighters had powered down, pretending to be holes in space until we got too close. We didn’t realise what we were seeing until it was too late.”

  “Starfighters can’t flash-wake their systems so violently,” another pilot objected. “They should have burned out their drives trying.”

  “It is possible, theoretically,” Bagehot disagreed. His eyes swept the room. “Statistically, yes; you’re right. A number of enemy craft should have rendered themselves powerless just by trying. But the odds were stacked against you.”

  Tobias nodded. He knew the score. As long as there was a chance, however slight, that the enemy would hit their targets, they would. The simulated starfighters had all survived their stunt, even though ... he looked at the display, which was showing the remnants of the engagement. They’d fucked up. There was no point in trying to hide from the truth. They’d flown right into a trap because they hadn’t given any real thought to what the enemy could do to them.

  “We kept our active sensors offline,” he said, thoughtfully. “And that gave them a chance to jump us.”

  “But if we’d put the sensors online,” another pilot argued, “we’d have signed our own death warrants.”

  “We got our arses kicked anyway,” a third pilot growled.

  “We certainly need to deploy more sensor drones with the squadron,” Bagehot said. “But even that carries its own risks.”

  “Our sensor pulses might reveal our positions to the enemy,” Marigold said. “That would be awkward.”

  “A bit of an own goal,” Bagehot agreed. “Perhaps if we were to adjust ...”

  Tobias leaned forward as the discussion continued, Bagehot trying to encourage all the pilots to offer their thoughts. There was no easy answer. Turning on their active sensors would allow the enemy to pinpoint their locations, yet not using the sensors ... he co
nsidered the possibilities as the discussion went on and on. There weren’t many. Military tactics were an endless succession of trade-offs, with each new tactic or piece of technology bringing its own difficulties in its wake. He hoped, desperately, that the virus’s brainships hadn’t been devising newer and better tactics, although he was sure that was nothing more than wishful thinking. The enemy had seen the gunboats and missiles in action. It had to start thinking about countermeasures.

  “Dismissed,” Bagehot said, when the discussion came to an end. “We’ll continue our simulations tomorrow.”

  At which time, the flag staff will have completed their analysis of just what went wrong, Tobias thought, as he stood. And they’ll be ready to start pointing fingers and placing the blame.

  ***

  Colin tried not to grunt as he hotfooted it down the corridor, Kevin on his heels. The protective suit was uncomfortably hot, and he felt sweat trickling down his legs and staining his trousers. The plasma rifle in his hands felt uncomfortably heavy as they reached the airlock, taking up positions on each side as Colin hit the override. The airlock opened, revealing an empty corridor. Colin was torn between relief and disappointment. It would have been a damn sight easier to track down the zombie - and anyone else who might have been infected - if the wretched creature had stood in the centre of the corridor and waited for them.

  He might also have tossed a grenade through the airlock as soon as it started opening, he thought, keying his throatmike to make a quick report. And that would have killed the pair of us.

  Colin glanced at Kevin, who’d taken position on the nearside of the hatch. The Vesy was wrapped in a protective suit, hiding his face behind a mask, but he was still very clearly alien. The proportions were all wrong. Colin held up a hand, marking out a countdown, and got a nod in return. Kevin might be alien, but there was nothing wrong with his training. It remained to be seen how he’d perform in real combat. Colin wasn’t looking forward to that. He’d sooner work the kinks out when no one was actually at risk of death - or worse.

  Warning icons flashed up in his HUD as they slipped through the airlock and inched down the corridor. There were traces of viral matter in the air, suggesting the zombie had entered the infectious stage. Colin guessed the poor bastard - or the alien intelligence that had taking over his body - knew he’d been isolated. It was just a matter of time before the host was tracked down, either by the bioscanners or the compartment to compartment search. The virus was trying to do as much damage as it could before it was too late. Colin gritted his teeth as they kept moving. There was no hope of saving the host. All they could do was avenge him.

  He frowned as he spotted an open hatch ahead of him, leading into a crewmen’s compartment. He sucked in his breath. It was a rule of thumb that the larger the ship, the less space there was for the junior crewmen and officers. If there’d been a bunch of sleeping personnel in that compartment, they were almost certainly infected. They might survive, if they received immediate treatment, but ... Colin’s eyes narrowed. The scene might as well have T-R-A-P painted on it. He wasn’t willing to throw explosive grenades through the hatch when he’d be killing men he could save. And that would give the original host a chance to get the drop on the marines when they crashed through the hatch.

  His hand dropped to his belt, removing the UV flashbang. It would give everyone a shock, particularly if they weren’t infected, but ... it was survivable. They’d get a sunburn, nothing more. He hefted the flashbang, glanced at Kevin to make sure the alien was ready, then hurled the flashbang into the compartment. A brilliant flash of light pulsed through the air. His mask darkened, automatically, as he hurled himself into the compartment and looked around. A handful of men lay on the bunks, groaning theatrically. They looked to be in the early stages of infection. There was no sign of the original zombie. His eyes swept around, looking for the host. The poor bastard was nowhere to be seen. The wardrobe compartments lay open, revealing a collection of protective shipsuits. Alarm bells rang in his mind, too late, as one of the shipsuits moved of its own accord.

  “Fuck!”

  He lifted his rifle, too late. The zombie threw himself forward, crashing into Colin with all the power he could muster. Colin stumbled back and crashed to the floor, his rifle clattering down beside him. The zombie had hidden inside the suit, using the protective layers to shield himself from the flashbang. Good thinking, Colin acknowledged sourly, as they struggled. The zombie fought with inhuman strength, trying desperately to rip Colin’s mask off his face. That might not be fatal, but it would certainly land him in sickbay for a few days. And his comrades would always wonder if he’d been infected ...

  The zombie jerked, then lay still. Colin pushed the body aside and looked up. Kevin was standing there, holding a shockrod in one hand. The zombies would, according to the boffins, be royally fucked if they were zapped with a shockrod, although Colin had no idea if that was true. No one had dared try, when shooting them was a great deal easier and safer. He certainly had no intention of risking his life trying to test the theory. If the boffins wanted to test it, they could try it themselves.

  “Good work,” he said, standing. His suit was intact, thankfully. The zombie had come very close to tearing off his mask. “That was far too close.”

  “I didn’t dare try to shoot him,” Kevin said. It was hard to be sure, given his accent, but there seemed to be a hint of humour in his voice. “That would have looked very bad on my record.”

  Colin nodded as he removed his mask, signalling the end of the exercise. Shooting one’s commanding officer in a simulation was a good way to end up in real trouble, even if there was a shortage of other options. Kevin would have had to knock him out if the mask had come off, in hopes of slowing the infection long enough to get him to safety. Colin had known officers who would have understood and officers who would have demanded harsh punishment for the bootneck who’d clobbered them. They probably felt it set a bad precedent. Colin had heard whispers of officers who’d bitched and moaned about going through blood screenings, even though everyone knew the risks. He was just glad he didn’t have to serve under one of them.

  His earpiece buzzed. “Good work, Corporal.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Colin said. He’d been caught by surprise - he’d never heard of a zombie donning protective gear before, not when the poor bastard was trying to infect the entire ship - but they’d recovered nicely. “It was almost fun.”

  He sobered as they left the compartment and headed back to Marine Country. It had been fun, but it was also deadly serious. They were preparing for war, against an enemy that - all too often - wore a human face. The next time it might be real. The next time ...

  We’ll be ready, he promised himself. The analysts were still drawing up their concepts of what the marines would find, when they boarded the alien catapults. And we’ll give them the fight of their lives.

  Chapter Twelve

  Susan had never really liked formal banquets, even when she was the hostess. She would have preferred to handle all discussions via holocommunications, if only to ensure her commanding officers were on their ships if - when - the shit hit the fan. The last thing anyone wanted, particularly her, was to be caught on the hop by a maundering alien fleet. The spooks swore blind there were no major enemy formations between Earth and New Washington, but Susan knew she couldn’t take it for granted. There was just no way to be sure the virus wasn’t already mobilising every ship it could muster to intercept and destroy her fleet before it reached the target star.

  She sat at the table, forcing herself to sit through an endless round of toasts to the king, the queen, a dozen world leaders and victory. She’d never been much of a drinker - she’d only been drunk once, an experience she remembered with a combination of embarrassment and horror - and the wine tasted oddly flat without alcohol. The handful of officers tossing the wine back like it was water bothered her, although she understood the impulse. She’d once served under an admiral who’d complained ab
out the problem of getting everyone moving in the same direction at the same time. She’d thought he was moaning about nothing until she’d tried it for herself.

  And it would be a great deal harder if we hadn’t been forced to work together, she thought, sourly. The virus taught us a great many lessons.

  The thought sobered her as she ran her eye over the guests. Admiral Herman Vermeulen, a French naval officer despite the Flemish name. He had to be competent if he’d risen so high. Belgium had been effectively annexed by France after the Troubles, after his country had been unable to cope with civil unrest that had turned to revolution and mass slaughter. No one had protested at the time - French troops had imposed order, at a cost - but she’d heard rumours of discontent. She hoped it wouldn’t be a problem. The virus wouldn’t give a damn about human political factions. It certainly hadn’t shown any ability to manipulate them for its own purposes. Yet.