“Come on,” he said, as he opened the next airlock. The hatch ahead of them was shut, the light overhead glowing red. “We have work to do.”
***
Commander India Khan kept her face under tight control as INS Nehru poked her way down the tramline. It was hard to escape the impression that another starship, human or alien, would materialise on top of them, but that wasn’t what was bothering her. They were light-hours from the rest of the fleet, yet her sensors could see far too much of the battle. The fleet was under heavy attack.
It wasn’t a pleasant thought. India’s father had died in the brief Anglo-Indian War. She’d grown up in a navy that looked forward to a rematch, even though India had quietly acknowledged that there were better ways to reach Great Power status. The Second Interstellar War - and then the Third Interstellar War - had cautioned them against fighting their fellow humans while genocidal aliens were prowling towards them. She hated the thought of abandoning the fleet, or being seen to run from battle, even though she had her orders. She had to find the flicker station.
She studied the empty display, wondering if they’d been tricked. The flicker station couldn’t be that close to the star, could it? She’d had her staff run all sorts of simulations, trying to determine where it could be hidden, but they’d drawn a blank. The tramline was tiny, compared to the system, but that was a relative term. They still had to search a volume of space large enough to hide every starship in human service and still have room left over for the combined alien fleet.
If they mounted the station on a starship, we might never find it, she thought. It shouldn’t be possible, but the virus itself shouldn’t be possible either. If they managed to cloak the station instead ...
She winced as her sensors picked up another energy flare. A starship had died ... she tried to tell herself it was an alien ship, even though she knew better. The last update had stated that the admiral had ordered the fleet to defend itself, rather than going on the offensive. India disliked that thought, although she understood the logic. If the Indian Navy had played it a little more carefully, nearly two decades ago, the war might have gone very differently.
And we would have run into the virus anyway, she thought. There’s no time to worry about our petty human scrabbles ...
The display pinged. “Captain,” the sensor officer said. “I’ve located an enemy structure.”
India frowned. The enemy structure was surprisingly close to the primary star. Not close enough to melt the station, whatever it was, but close enough to disrupt its radio links to the rest of the tramlines. She could understand the reasoning - it cut down the time it would take to send a radio signal from one station to another - yet it struck her as odd. The virus would be better off accepting the downsides of positioning the station further from the primary ...
“Tactical, lock weapons on the structure,” she ordered. There was no time to worry about it. She’d study the reports later. “Fire!”
The destroyer vibrated as she launched a pair of missiles towards the alien installation. India watched, half-expecting to see the structure come to life and start spitting plasma fire at her missiles. The virus seemed to like installing point defence on anything and everything it could. But the missiles reached their target, detonating with terrific force. The structure, whatever it was, vanished in the blaze.
“I picked up a gravimetric shudder,” the sensor officer reported. “That was the station.”
“Signal the fleet,” India ordered. She studied the sensor display for a long moment. Flicker stations were expensive, to the point that even the Great Powers clubbed together to operate them, but if there was any race that could build multiple stations in an isolated system it was the virus. “Inform them that we have taken out the station, and that we are currently checking to make sure there are no others.”
“Aye, Captain.”
***
“Signal from Nehru, Admiral,” Richardson said. His voice rose in excitement. “They killed the flicker station!”
Susan allowed herself a moment of relief. The enemy had battered her fleet constantly, steadily wearing her people down. She’d been on the verge of ordering the fleet to alter course anyway, of taking the risk of jumping through the tramline even though the enemy might have been waiting on the far side. Her people needed rest, something they weren’t going to get. Not yet. She had to get them out of the fire before it was too late.
“Signal the fleet,” she ordered. Nehru had warned there might be more than one station. She didn’t have time to wait for them to finish their survey. The fleet was on the verge of breaking. “All units are to alter course, as planned, in twenty minutes.”
She frowned as more and more warnings flashed up in front of her. “The ships that are no longer capable of making flank speed are to be evacuated, then set on automatic and abandoned,” she added. She doubted the automatic ships would slow the virus for more than a few seconds, if they were lucky, but every moment counted. “If they can be stripped of anything useful in that time, it is to be taken. If not ... leave it.”
Richardson sounded shocked. “Aye, Admiral.”
Susan understood. It went against the grain to abandon ships, particularly ships that could be repaired if they reached a shipyard. But there was no way they could get them out before it was too late. The fleet had to put some distance between themselves and the enemy. A combination of abandoned but still firing ships and sensor decoys would probably - hopefully - confuse the enemy long enough for her to break contact. And then they could rest.
A thought crossed her mind. It would be risky, and costly if it went wrong, but it might buy time. Might. There was no time to organise it properly. And yet, she was short on ideas. It had to be tried.
“And signal Nehru,” she added, after a moment. They would have to put the operation together on the fly. “I’ve had an idea.”
“Aye, Admiral.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
“And to think I thought we were getting a rest,” Willies grumbled. “Fuck me.”
“You’ll be getting arrest in a moment,” Davies teased. “Arrest? Get it?”
“Everyone got it,” Colin said, crossly. He wanted to rub his forehead. The stimulant coursing through his system had left him feeling uncomfortably sweaty - and permanently on edge. “They just didn’t think it was funny.”
He scowled around the shuttle. They’d been on the ship moments ago ... he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. Whenever Fleet Command scented trouble, the very first thing they did was call for the marines. And yet ... sweat beaded on his brow as the shuttle plunged through space. They were supposed to be stealthy, but he knew the enemy could see them. One enemy starfighter would be more than enough to blow the shuttle into dust.
“I don’t understand our orders,” Kevin said. “Why are we being sent to drag the crew off their ship?”
Colin sighed, inwardly. The admiral had ordered that every ship that couldn’t hope to escape had to be abandoned, left to their fate. He understood the logic, but he hated it. The idea of leaving one of his mates behind, while he ran for his life, really didn’t sit well with him. He could understand spacers being reluctant to abandon their ships, even though their ships were doomed and they’d die with them if they remained on the hulks. It was quite possible that some of them might think they could break contact and make their way back home without being hunted down and destroyed. But it wasn’t likely. The human race was desperately short of trained manpower. They couldn’t afford to leave anyone behind.
“We need them back home, ready to crew the next generation of ships,” Colin said. He made a mental note to discuss the issue later, when they had more time. It would be interesting to compare traditions. Did the Vesy have boats? He couldn’t recall. “And we don’t have time to argue.”
He took a breath as the shuttle altered course. The interior felt oddly deserted, the platoon crammed into a tiny handful of seats. The remainder of the company had been di
spersed over the other shuttles, or held back to provide interior security. Colin’s hand dropped to his belt, checking to make sure his shockrod was firmly in place. He disliked the idea of using it on an allied crewmember - that was how diplomatic incidents got started - but there might be no choice. If the shit hit the fan, he was damn well going to put a stop to it before matters got out of hand.
“Contact in one minute,” the pilot called. “Brace yourself!”
Colin gritted his teeth as the shuttle crashed against the Russian cruiser’s hull. The gravity field seemed to grow stronger for a moment, then subsided. He’d once heard a rumour the Russians liked to keep their shipboard gravity stepped up a notch, just to ensure their crewmen grew stronger, but he’d always thought it was silly. And yet ... he shook his head. Medical research had discovered, a long time ago, that variable gravity fields caused health problems. They could be handled, with genetic engineering, but such cures tended to lead to more problems further down the line. It was unlikely the Russians would bother.
He stood as the hatch slammed open. His mask blinked up an alert, warning him that the air was slightly contaminated. He stepped through the hatch and saluted a pair of officers standing on the far side. They wore Russian national uniforms with their own rank insignia, rather than GATO-approved designs. Colin cursed, inwardly. He understood the value of nationalism - that had been battered into him at school - but there were limits. He had no idea who he was addressing, or what rank he held. Or if he was in command of the vessel.
The Russian glared at him. “I am in command of this ship.”
Colin nodded, as he saluted. A junior officer, almost certainly. Probably someone far enough down the chain of command not to expect to assume command, not under normal circumstances. His English was heavily accented. The briefing, such as it had been, had stated the Russian ship - with an unpronounceable name - had been badly damaged. How many officers had died to put this young man - he didn’t look that much older than Colin himself - in command? Colin didn’t think he wanted to know.
“You have orders to evacuate,” he said, carefully. “We can take what remains of your crew off before it’s too late.”
“I cannot abandon the ship,” the officer insisted. He hadn’t so much as given Colin a name. “I cannot leave her behind.”
“You have no choice,” Colin said. He was tempted to stun them both, but that would start a fight as well as a diplomatic disaster. “This ship is doomed.”
He winced, inwardly. The idea of him taking command of the company, let alone the regiment, was absurd. He wondered, grimly, how he’d handle it if he did find himself in command. The shock of losing so many officers wouldn’t do him any good at all. And yet ... he forced himself to meet the Russian’s eyes, willing him to understand. His superiors back home wouldn’t punish him for losing the ship. It had been lost well before he’d taken command.
“We can take your crew to safety, where they can be transferred to a new ship,” he said, carefully. “If they stay here, they’ll die for nothing.”
He allowed himself a moment of relief as the Russian conceded without further argument and summoned his crew. The marines had been warned they might have to search the hulks for survivors, if they had time. Colin suspected they wouldn’t have time to give the ships more than a cursory search. If someone was trapped in a sealed compartment, unable to get out or to call for help, they would be left behind to die. The virus might blow the ship away from a safe distance, just to be sure, or it might dispatch boarding parties. Colin’s blood ran cold as he turned back to the shuttle. It was all too likely the abandoned ships would be set to self-destruct. If the virus caught and infected the survivors, if there were survivors, it would know everything they knew.
The Russian caught his attention as he stepped back onto the shuttle. “You have an alien on your ship.”
“He’s one of us,” Colin said. He kicked himself, mentally, for not warning the Russians ahead of time. The British crew had grown used to Kevin, but the Russians hadn’t even known he was there. “Is there anyone left onboard?”
The Russian looked pained. “Not as far as I know.”
Colin checked the timer, but it was just a formality. The fleet was already altering course. If the shuttle stayed much longer, they wouldn’t be able to get to the ships before it was too late and they got left behind. His heart sank as they disengaged. A standard cruiser, according to the briefing, had a complement of two hundred officers and crew. They’d saved forty-seven. The remainder were either dead or wishing they were.
“We’ll get you home,” he promised the Russian. The enemy starfighters were coming in again. “And then we’ll get you to a new ship.”
The Russian said something in Russian. Colin didn’t understand. He’d taken French in school, but he’d never been particularly good at it. Russian had never even been a possibility. It struck him as odd - the Russians were a Great Power - but there was no point in worrying about it now. He’d ask his old headmaster, if he ever got asked back to tell the students about the military life. Given what had happened last time, it was unlikely he’d ever be asked back.
He leaned back in his chair and forced himself to rest. He’d done all he could. There was nothing he could do about the incoming starfighters. Either they blew the shuttle to hell or ... it didn’t matter. He closed his eyes. All he needed was a little sleep ...
***
“The shuttles have disengaged, Captain,” Commander Donker reported. “They’re on their way back now.”
“Good,” Thomas said. The fleet was altering course, steadily picking up speed as it drew away from the cripples. The automated ships were turning to face the enemy, but no one really expected them to do anything more than delay the inevitable. Their self-destruct systems were already engaged, ready to blow the ships to atoms if they survived the enemy onslaught. “Helm, keep us moving with the rest of the fleet.”
He forced himself to sit back, all too aware the nightmare was far from over. The enemy might not be waiting for them on the other side of the tramline, but there was nothing stopping the ships behind them from continuing the assault. There would be a few moments of grace, then ... then what? Thomas glanced at the starchart, although he’d studied it time and time again over the last two weeks. There was too great a chance of encountering ships making their way back from the war front. They needed - they desperately needed - enough time to rest the crews and make repairs before they ran into the enemy again.
Lion picked up speed, her hull quivering slightly as she paced the remainder of the fleet. The fleet train was holding steady, but it was just a matter of time before the freighters started losing speed. Thomas made a mental note to suggest they transferred more supplies to the warships, before it was too late. The warships weren’t designed to serve as freighters, and transferring the supplies again would be a pain, but it would be better than nothing. Right now, the enemy was all too aware of the fleet’s weaknesses. It could just keep battering away at them until something broke.
Bagehot’s face appeared in front of him. “Captain, the gunboat crews are ready for deployment.”
Thomas nodded, keeping his face carefully blank. He’d been aware of the simple fact the gunboats were expendable ever since he’d first been briefed on the design, but it had never sat well with him. God knew the gunboat crews weren’t regular naval personnel, after all; they’d never really intended to spend their lives in uniform. But he couldn’t see any choice. The gunboats were far more expendable than the rest of the fleet. And there was at least a slight chance they’d survive.
“Deploy them when we reach the first waypoint,” he ordered. “And tell them I said good luck.”
“Aye, Captain.”
The display cleared. Thomas sat back in his chair and waited, the seconds ticking away as the alien starfighters redoubled their attacks. They had to feel as though they’d been conned. They’d kept the range open so far that they couldn’t bring up their own carriers,
not soon enough to make a difference. Either they’d continue the attack until they ran out of life support or they’d pull back, giving the fleet a break. He wasn’t sure which one he wanted. Taking out the enemy starfighters, or letting them take themselves out, would probably save more lives in the long run.
He frowned as the alien starfighters reversed course. That wasn’t a good sign. The brainship knew the human ships were heading towards another ambush, even if they’d evaded the risk of being caught on the hop. Thomas felt the relief rippling around the bridge and sighed, inwardly. They’d made it out of the frying pan, perhaps, but they might well be about to fall into the fire. Who knew what was on the far side of the tramline?
The admiral will dispatch scouts ahead of the fleet, he told himself. We should have a few seconds to deploy, before the shit hits the fan.
Somehow, he didn’t find the thought very reassuring.
***
“Signal from Pinafore,” Richardson said. “Captain Corcoran sends his compliments, Admiral, and confirms the transit zone is clear.”
Fighting For The Crown (Ark Royal Book 16) Page 33