Tobias nodded. The gunboats were no longer important. The missiles would do a hell of a lot of damage - and, if they didn’t, the fleet could either snipe at the defenders from a safe distance or simply withdraw, having given the enemy one hell of a fright. They’d been caught out of position ... their starfighters were already moving to challenge the human starfighters, rather than waste time trying to track down the missiles. The operation couldn’t have gone better.
A pang of guilt struck him as he noted two gunboats were missing, presumed destroyed. He hadn’t seen them go. He didn’t even know who’d crewed them. He kicked himself mentally as the gunboats picked up speed, heading back to Lion. They didn’t deserve to die. They didn’t deserve to die and be forgotten. Their names would be honoured, briefly, and then ... no one would remember them. Except their families ...
“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “War is hell.”
***
“Admiral,” Richardson said. “Fifty-seven percent of the missiles reached their targets.”
Susan nodded, concealing her displeasure behind an emotionless mask. She’d hoped the missiles would do better than that. The enemy had clearly learnt something from the previous engagements, perhaps enough to make the missiles less and less effective until the Royal Navy had to go back to plasma weapons. The boffins kept talking about more powerful energy weapons, but - so far - they’d only managed to make slight improvements to battleship guns. Susan knew, better than most, that the promises of more and better weapons were often broken.
She pushed the thought aside as the display continued to update. A dozen enemy installations had been smashed, the debris spinning out in all directions or raining down on the planet below. The planetary defence installations were trying desperately to smash the debris into smaller chunks before they could hit the surface, the shower distracting them from the real threat. The BioBombs were on their way. They’d enter the atmosphere and detonate, sentencing the entire planet to death. Susan wondered, morbidly, if nuclear weapons or massed asteroid strikes would be kinder. The planet was so thoroughly infected that it might be completely beyond recovery.
“Check with the sensor departments,” she ordered. “Are there any mystery installations on the surface?”
Richardson looked up. “None as yet, Admiral,” he said. “However, they caution us that they haven’t been able to get good visuals of the surface.”
Susan shrugged. It wasn’t as if they had time to land marines and recover more artefacts ... if, indeed, there were more artefacts to find. The surface was consumed by the virus, the landscape studded with industrial centres operated by countless host bodies ... she cursed under her breath. Last time, the counter-virus had clearly spread up the orbital towers and taken out a chunk of the orbital facilities. Here, there were no towers. The remnants of the system would have to be left to die, even though it ran the risk they’d be recovered and repaired by the virus. She just didn’t have the time to destroy them all. The virus might not have known they’d broken contact, before they’d shown themselves, but it sure as hell did now.
And some wanker back home will insist I could have kept the fleet under cloak and crept all the way to safety, she thought. It probably wasn’t true, but she could see why the thought would appeal to an armchair admiral. They know we’re here now. They’ll be coming for us.
She watched, grimly, as the enemy shuttles and starfighters fell on her ships, their movements powered by a determination to make her pay for what she’d done. They ran straight into the point defence, but kept coming anyway ... Susan shivered as a trio of shuttles rammed a destroyer, setting off a chain of explosions that blew the destroyer to atoms. Another shuttle crashed into a battleship, damaging her armour ... Susan shuddered, even though the giant ship had survived. The damage was starting to mount up, each and every blow making it harder and harder for her to repair her ships before time ran out. And she didn’t have the slightest idea just how much time she had. Whatever she did, she was entirely sure someone - with the advantage of hindsight - would criticise her.
“Deploy two destroyers to the tramlines,” she ordered. “One of them is to launch missiles to locate and destroy the flicker station. The other is to jump though the tramline and recon the next system.”
“Aye, Admiral,” Richardson said.
Susan nodded. The flicker stations weren’t easy to find - it was quite possible she’d just wasted a handful of missiles - but it was worth a try. If they took out the FTL communications station, the virus would lose a chunk of its flicker network. It wouldn’t keep the rest of the alien system from knowing her fleet was there - and where it had been - but it would deprive them of realtime data. She might just have enough time to put some distance between herself and the avenging alien fleet.
Richardson cleared his throat. “Signal from the forward recon units, Admiral,” he said. “The BioBombs have detonated.”
“And the planet is doomed,” Susan said. Millions - billions - of host bodies were about to die. There was nothing she could do for them. The resources under her command wouldn’t scratch the surface, even if she had time to try. And it was quite likely there was nothing to recover. She felt sick. Cold logic told her they had no choice, that they were fighting a war in which quarter could neither be asked nor given, but still ... “Deploy a pair of recon drones to monitor the collapse.”
“Aye, Admiral,” Richardson said.
Susan frowned. The counter-virus was designed to spread at immense speed. The virus, she’d been assured, was uniquely vulnerable to the counter-virus. The biological weapons would burn themselves out, if they were deployed against humans, but not against the virus itself ... or so she had been told. She wasn’t so sure. The virus had to know what had happened now, time and time again. It had to be looking for a counter.
It’ll come up with something, she thought, grimly. It’s just a matter of time.
She cleared her throat as the last of the alien starfighters died. “Recall our starfighters and gunboats, then prepare to boost for the tramline,” she ordered. “And get me a complete damage report.”
“Aye, Admiral,” Richardson said.
Susan let out a breath. The battle had been pretty much one-sided, but that was about to change. The virus knew where they were. She studied the display thoughtfully, silently gauging how it would react to their presence. It didn’t have many options, not if it wanted to keep her from getting her fleet home. The virus probably didn’t understand the concept of morale, or the importance of boosting civilian faith in eventual victory, but it sure as hell understood the danger of letting her keep her ships. It had a chance to destroy them before she got them home. She found it hard to believe it would just let the chance go.
And we’re flying right towards the war front, she thought. There was more than enough enemy tonnage along the front lines to destroy her fleet, if it concentrated and then brought her to battle. They really don’t want us punching our way back into New Washington.
“The damage control teams believe the damage can be fixed, given time,” Richardson reported, breaking into her thoughts. “However, Copenhagen’s cloaking device is offline and requires replacement.”
Susan cursed under her breath. Carrying out repairs underway was difficult enough without having to keep the ships under cloak too. The slightest mishap might be enough to alert a prowling enemy ship or trigger a remote sensor platform. And yet, she didn’t want to abandon a ship if it could be avoided. The fleet needed every unit it could muster.
“Have them replace the cloak, if possible, and align the ship with another if not,” she ordered, finally. Flying in tandem was a pain in the arse even if the fleet wasn’t under attack. “We don’t want to leave anyone behind.”
“Aye, Admiral.”
Chapter Thirty
“Captain,” Commander Donker reported. “The surviving gunboats have returned to the ship.”
The surviving gunboats, Thomas thought. He’d
made sure to glance at the personnel files, during the voyage from Earth to New Washington. The gunboat pilots might not be ... traditional ... naval personnel, but they’d done their work well. He hadn’t been sold on the concept, when he’d first heard of it, yet ... he had to admit it had worked. Poor bastards.
He promised himself he’d hold a proper ceremony for them, when they had some free time, and then put the thought out of his mind. The fleet was picking up speed as it fled the dying world, leaving the remaining enemy installations behind. There was nothing they could do to impede the fleet now, save - perhaps - for shaking their fists in the fleet’s general direction. Thomas smiled at the thought of hundreds of host bodies doing just that, then sobered. They’d just killed millions - perhaps billions - of host bodies. They’d just committed mass murder, if not outright genocide. And yet ... what choice had they had? The thought taunted him. There were no alternatives. The virus’s mere existence was beyond the pale.
His mind churned as the fleet glided away from the planet. He’d met enough aliens to know that they were intelligent, that they were as deserving of life as the human race itself. The thought of mercilessly sentencing them to death, just for existing, was appalling. They were different - they certainly didn’t think like humans - but their mere existence didn't pose a threat. The idea of a war that could only end in the complete destruction of one side appalled him. And yet ... he couldn’t think of anything better. The virus would never come to terms with the rest of the universe. It had to be destroyed.
And there’s nothing we can do for the hosts, he thought, numbly. They’d been infected from birth. It was unlikely they’d developed any intelligent personality of their own. How could they? The virus might regard their brains as yet another source of food. Killing them might be the only thing we can do for them.
He dismissed the thought as the fleet picked up speed, altering course the moment it slipped into cloak. The virus would know they were heading for the tramline - reversing course would add several months to their journey, if they didn’t run into the fleet they’d decoyed away - but it wouldn’t know precisely where they intended to jump. Hopefully, they’d remain undetected long enough to sneak through the tramlines to reach New Washington before it was too late. Thomas wasn’t afraid to encounter the enemy fleet again, but he knew how easily the fleet train could be destroyed. The virus could take it out first, weakening the rest of the fleet. And then they’d wear the ships down and destroy them.
“Signal from the flag, Captain,” Lieutenant Cook reported. “The recon destroyer just returned from the tramline. The next system isn’t particularly developed.”
“Good,” Thomas growled. The fleet had barely been tested - they hadn’t shot themselves dry attacking the last system - but the longer it took to encounter the enemy fleet, the better. The repairs needed to be completed as quickly as possible. “Keep us in formation.”
He sighed inwardly, feeling as if he were losing control. Lion was too big a ship to fly alone - he felt a sudden stab of envy for Captain Campbell - but she didn’t have to be part of a huge fleet. The admiral was making the real decisions and directing operations and ... in a way, Thomas felt almost powerless. He might be the admiral’s second, at least as far as the Royal Navy was concerned, but he wouldn’t inherit her position if she died. He understood, now, why so many younger scions of the aristocracy turned into drunkards, fops, or outright villains. They had almost no real power over their lives. They might live in luxury, but it wasn’t their luxury.
It could be worse, he told himself, dryly. They could have no control and no luxury.
He keyed his console, bringing up the latest simulation reports as the fleet prepared to make transit. The tactical staff had studied the last set of engagements and suggested minor improvements, although a handful of their more complex ideas would have to wait until the fleet got home. Thomas wasn’t going to have the missiles torn down and rebuilt while the fleet was in transit. The thought was absurd. They might need to fire the missiles at any moment. The enemy was still out there, somewhere ...
“Signal from the flag, Captain,” Cook reported. “The transit zone is clear.”
Thomas nodded. “Helm, take us through on command,” he ordered. “Tactical, prepare to bring up weapons and defences if necessary.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Commander Donker glanced at him. “Captain? Do you expect trouble?”
Thomas shrugged. “We’re deep in enemy space,” he said. “I’d be more surprised if we didn’t run into trouble.”
He let out a breath as the timer reached zero. The virus shouldn’t have been able to track them, but ... there were over a hundred ships in the fleet. Thomas knew from grim experience that the cloaking devices weren’t that good. There were so many ships in such close proximity that there was a very real chance one of the cloaking devices would interfere with another, causing a hint of disturbance that might draw attention. If the virus knew where they were going, it could have set up an ambush. The odds were against it, as spacers reminded themselves on every transit, but if there was any power that could pull it off it was the virus.
The display blanked, then rebooted. Thomas felt his heart clench as the aftershock of the jump claimed him. He was getting old ... he shook his head, reminding himself that the admiral was pretty much his age and she was riding starships with the young bucks. The thought was silly. He had many decades to live, unless he died in combat or in a hunting accident. It wasn’t as if he liked hunting, but it was expected of him. And no one had thanked him for pointing out that it was stupid.
“Captain,” Sibley said. “Local space is clear.”
Thomas nodded. The system was clearly inhabited - the display was starting to fill with icons - but not particularly industrialised. It reminded him of an early colony, with little spacefaring presence beyond an orbital entry station and a cloudscoop positioned above the local gas giant. The virus had infected the system - the sensors had no trouble picking out its drive fields - but never bothered to develop it. Thomas suspected it hadn’t considered the system particularly important. There were several more developed systems within a few short jumps.
The system might have been settled by an old enemy, before the virus overwhelmed it, he mused. And the virus never bothered to expand on their work.
“Signal from the flag, Captain,” Cook added. “We are to launch a ballistic BioBomb towards the planet, then continue towards the tramline.”
Thomas frowned. It would take days for a ballistic missile to reach its target ... he supposed it didn’t matter. The virus might not even notice the missile until it slipped into the atmosphere and detonated. And it might even assume the fleet had proceeded onwards without bothering to bombard the planet. It might not see death coming until it was too late ...
“Tactical, launch the missile as ordered,” Thomas said. It wouldn’t be hard to get closer to the planet, but the admiral’s briefing had made it clear time was not on their side. “And then continue to monitor the system.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Thomas settled back in his chair, feeling a deep abiding tiredness threatening to overwhelm him. He’d been in the navy for most of his adult life and yet he’d never been so unable to stand and leave the bridge to his subordinates. They were so deep in enemy space that the situation could go to hell in a heartbeat ... he knew, intellectually, that the odds of being discovered were low, but he didn’t really believe it. And yet ...
He forced himself to stand. “Mr XO, you have the bridge,” he said. The period of maximum danger would be when they crossed the next tramline. He had to be rested before then or he’d start making mistakes. Dangerous mistakes. “I’ll be in my ready room.”
“Aye, Captain,” Donker said.
***
Tobias allowed himself a moment of relief as a dull thump echoed through the gunboat, confirming they’d docked safety with the mothership. He’d feared the worst, when they’d been ordered to escort t
he battlecruiser once they returned to the - relative - safety of the fleet; he’d feared they might be picked off by enemy starfighters, intent on making the human fleet pay a price for invading their system. The tactical display warned that the fleet had taken damage ... it was just a matter of time, he knew, before they hit something vital.
“Life isn’t a computer game,” he muttered. “You can shoot a handgun at a tank all day and it won’t do any real damage.”
Marigold stood. “What?”
“I was just thinking,” Tobias said. “A terrible habit.”
“A very bad habit,” Marigold said. “Penny for your thoughts?”
Tobias laughed. “Can I charge you a pound for my thoughts?”
“You could try.” Marigold considered it. “I wouldn’t pay, mind you, but you can try.”
“I think I’ve priced myself out of the market,” Tobias said. “I ... remember those games, where you can line up a row of soldiers and take pot-shots at a tank with handguns until it explodes? It doesn’t work in the real world.”
Fighting For The Crown (Ark Royal Book 16) Page 29