The Right of the Line

by Christopher Nuttall

  “She’s an alien,” someone whispered.

  Alice felt the back of her neck grow warm in embarrassment. She wanted to swing around and confront the speaker, just as she’d confronted the girls who’d taunted her at boarding school. Slamming her fist into their noses had been very satisfying, even if it had earned her an encounter with the headmistress’s cane. But it would be a sign of weakness now, one she could not abide. She forced herself to ignore it as she made her way down to Bay One. A handful of marines were waiting for her.

  “We just opened the crates,” Patterson said. He held up something that looked a practice grenade. “What do you make of these?”

  “They look like gas grenades, sir,” Alice said. They’d always struck her as slightly absurd, although there was nothing funny about inhaling a lungful of tear gas. “What are they?”

  “Stink bombs,” Corporal Glen Hammersmith announced, cheerfully. “I feel like a kid again.”

  “Again?” Tindal smirked. “I have it on good authority you lied about your age when you signed up.”

  Hammersmith ignored him. “They’re stink bombs,” he said. “Someone farted into a bottle and ...”

  “That will do.” Patterson spoke mildly, but there was enough command in his voice to make the younger man shut up. “Officially, these are Type-One Pheromone Dispensers. Unofficially, they’re ... well, stink bombs. They’re designed to dispense pheromones in all directions.”

  “I see,” Alice said. “The researchers managed to produce something workable?”

  “We don’t know.” Patterson passed her the practice grenade. “The briefing notes weren’t very clear.”

  Alice nodded, sourly. There was nothing particularly complex about stink bombs. They were really little more than a handful of chemicals which were either smelly on their own or produced a bad stench when combined. Schoolchildren could produce them in chemistry labs ... she’d heard the stories, although she’d never seen it done. The stink bombs could be produced, then put in storage until they were needed. A pheromone bomb, on the other hand ... she hefted the grenade in her hand, thoughtfully. It was difficult to say just how long the pheromones would actually last.

  “They should work, if the pheromones remain active,” she said. The grenade looked like a small aerosol, right down to the colour and weight. “But we don’t know how long they’ll survive in these containers.”

  “That’s the problem,” Patterson said. “We cannot afford to go into battle relying on weapons we know to be unpredictable.”

  Alice nodded in agreement. It was a basic rule of thumb that a device that worked perfectly in the laboratory wouldn’t work properly in the field. There were all sorts of issues that would only become apparent when the new weapon was actually tested in realistic conditions. Normally, the grenades would be tested extensively before being issued to troops who might reasonably expect to go into combat. It was astonishing just how often a minor - and overlooked - factor could make the difference between a successful lab test and a complete disaster in the field.

  “The theory is solid.” Alice hated to defend boffins, none of whom had ever seen a muddy battlefield, but it had to be said. “The pheromones should trigger a cascade reaction in alien atmospheres. In practice ... the results might be a little mixed.”

  “We might be better off simply venting the atmosphere and watching the aliens freeze to death,” Tindal said. “The weapon doesn’t seem that workable.”

  “And we have to test it,” Alice mused. She had no doubt the weapon would have been tested against the infected prisoners, but that was hardly a battlefield test. The virus wouldn’t be fighting back. “We have to know if it works.”

  A marine captain, someone she didn’t recognise, stepped forward. “It strikes me as a waste of time. Sir.”

  Patterson glanced back at him. “Captain Anders, I understand your reasoning. But we have to know if the pheromone grenades work in battlefield conditions.”

  “Even a harmless smoke grenade can cause confusion if tossed into a bunker,” Alice pointed out. Captain Anders? She’d never heard of a Captain Anders. Newly promoted then, at a guess. She would probably have heard his name, even if they hadn’t actually met, if he’d been longer in his rank. “And a few moments of confusion could make the difference between success and failure.”

  “Yes, but waiting to see if the grenades actually work could also make the difference between success and failure,” Anders countered. “Their success and our failure.” He snorted, rudely. “How do these things even work?”

  “When they detonate, the grenades soak the area in alien pheromones.” Alice took a breath. “In theory, the pheromones - the very strong pheromones - will trigger off a reaction, spreading the pheromones through the air. The infected will actually relay the command onwards to their fellow infected. And it will take them some time to realise that it’s a false command. Indeed, in a sense, it won’t be a false command.”

  “Like an email with all the proper security headers and suchlike,” Hammersmith put in, wryly. “Or an order with all the correct command codes attached.”

  Anders gave him a quelling look. “Yes, but we would question an order to surrender if we received it,” he pointed out. “Or a command to remove our armour and strip naked in the middle of the battlefield. Common sense alone would ensure it.”

  “We have common sense?” Patterson smiled. “Why was I not informed?”

  “The virus isn’t human.” Alice took a breath. “It is a single entity spread across millions of bodies. Its thinking isn’t human. It can no more question a pheromone burst than your rifle could question your decision to fire, even if it’s a negligent discharge. You might be in the wrong, Captain. Your rifle would not be.”

  “There are risks,” Patterson said, flatly. “If there is anyone here who wanted a nice safe life ... he’s fucked anyway.”

  Alice had to laugh, although it wasn’t funny. Her father’s generation had grown up in a nice safe world. The only people who’d seen the elephant were the ones who’d joined the army and been deployed to the security zone. The Royal Navy hadn’t seen real action in decades. Now ... Earth had been bombarded, uncounted millions of civilians had died, and the virus was running loose. There was no safe space any longer. Really - realistically - the world had never been safe. The military had just never been allowed to believe otherwise.

  “Yes, sir,” Anders said. “However, I must question the value of these ... stink bombs. Venting the ship” - he nodded to Tindal - “would be a far better option.”

  Tindal made a face. “Can these things affect us?”

  “No,” Alice said. “To us, they’re just stink bombs.”

  “Even to you?” Anders eyed her, suspiciously. “Could you be influenced by these stinks?”

  Alice felt her temper begin to fray. “I can no more be affected by these devices, Captain, than you could have a period. I may look like an alien, as far as their senses are concerned, but I do not have the command structures that can - that will - respond to the pheromones. I am immune to them. I can no more read them than I can be influenced by them.”

  “Are you sure?” Anders glared at her. “You might not know you were being influenced.”

  “I’m sure,” Alice said. “The doctors checked and checked again ...”

  “She has been cleared for active duty,” Patterson said. “If she wasn’t so ... vital, right now, she would be your senior officer.”

  Anders reddened. “With all due respect, sir, we don’t know if she can be trusted.”

  Patterson met his eyes, evenly. “Captain Campbell was never actually under alien control,” he said. “She was rescued and treated in time to prevent the virus from getting its hooks into her. She then volunteered for a dangerous and experimental medical procedure which destroyed the alien cells beyond repair, allowing her to return to the ship. During her second cruise, she was kept under close supervision and monitored constantly. There was no sign - not even the meres
t hint - that she was in any way compromised. We have no reason to disbelieve the doctors when they say she’s safe.”

  Alice allowed herself a smile. “If I was under alien control, Captain, would I have taken part in a mission to wreck an alien shipyard?”

  Anders snorted, but said nothing.

  “We’ll be testing the weapon as soon as possible,” Patterson said. “However, we will plan on the assumption that they will not be effective in combat.”

  “Yes, sir,” Alice said.

  “We’ll start tomorrow,” Patterson said. “Alice, stay with me. Jon - everyone else - dismissed.”

  Alice let out a long breath as the compartment slowly cleared. “I take it he doesn’t like me?”

  “He was on the ground when the virus hit Stonehouse Barracks,” Patterson said. “I debriefed him myself, when he was deployed up here. There was no warning at all before the shooting started, he said; no hint of trouble before all hell broke loose. The virus’s puppets did their job to perfection.”

  “And now he’s taking it out on me,” Alice said. She didn’t blame Anders for being paranoid, particularly after his garrison had been attacked, but there were limits. “The hell of it is that he might have a point. We don’t know how these weapons will work in the field.”

  “No,” Patterson agreed. “But we won’t know until we try.”

  He took the practice grenade back and put it in the case. “Your thoughts?”

  “There shouldn’t be any need for specialised training,” Alice said. She took the papers he offered her and ran her eye down the text. It was painfully obvious that the writer hadn’t been a marine - his style was neither brusque nor concise - but it looked as though the grenades should function like standard gas grenades. “We can just lob them into enemy positions and follow up with explosives if the stink bombs don’t work.”

  Patterson looked pained. “They’ll all be calling them stink bombs after today,” he predicted, sourly. “And then people will stop taking them seriously.”

  “That will stop after they’re deployed, sir,” Alice said. “And if they work.”

  “If they work,” Patterson agreed. He closed the case and sat on it. “Do you have any other concerns?”

  “No, sir,” Alice said. She wanted to ask - to demand - to return to active duty, but she knew it was pointless. “I just can’t wait to test them in the field.”

  “No more personal concerns?” Patterson cocked his head. “Nothing you want to discuss with a friend, instead of a CO?”

  Alice tensed. There was only one thing she might have wanted to discuss and that was ... she shivered. Had her father contacted Patterson? It was none of his goddamned business, but ... if he’d somehow brought pressure to bear on Patterson, it had become his business. Or ... had one of the monitors alerted him to the endless stream of messages? She wasn’t naïve enough to think she wasn’t being monitored. Anders wouldn’t be the only one who had quiet doubts about her, doubts that couldn’t be quelled by any means known to mankind. She’d heard the stories. There had been traitors who had passed an entire stream of lie detector tests because they hadn’t known they were traitors. They’d believed - they’d honestly believed - they were loyal citizens. But the conditioning they’d been given said otherwise ...

  “No, sir,” she said, finally.

  Patterson studied her thoughtfully. “You’re still receiving messages from your father.”

  Alice coloured. “I have no interest in speaking to him. Sir.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Patterson said. “And no” - he held up a hand - “I have no intention of forcing you to talk to him.”

  “Sir.” Alice paused, unsure what to say. She knew how to accept praise or take a reprimand, but this was different. It was personal. “With all due respect, my private communications are none of your business.”

  “I tend to agree,” Patterson said. His bluntness was almost refreshing. “But not everyone does, where you’re concerned.”

  Of course not, Alice thought, sourly. She knew the score. I had no expectation of privacy from the moment I put the uniform on.

  He straightened. “Talk to him or don’t, as you see fit. But it might be better for you - and him - to get some sort of closure before it’s too late. My father and I ... we didn’t talk for a long time. He wasn’t the best of men and ... I thought myself well rid of him. And then, he died in the war. And there are times...”

  The alarms howled. “Shit!”

  “Battlestations,” Alice said. Her fingers checked her service weapon, automatically. She didn’t have a combat station, not now, but she had no intention of sitting around doing nothing. “We’re under attack!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “What do we have?”

  Stephen had been half-asleep in his Ready Room when the alarms began to howl. He’d rolled off the sofa, grabbed his uniform jacket and hurried onto the bridge almost before the XO called him. He hadn’t expected to contact the enemy somewhere between Earth and Zheng He, but the possibility couldn’t be ruled out. The media seemed to assume that the tramlines were impassable barriers - and he had a feeling that some politicians felt the same way - but anyone who knew anything about deep-space operations knew better. The concept of fortifying the tramlines was nothing more than an impractical joke.

  “Seven contacts, three definitely alien,” Lieutenant-Commander David Arthur said, as Stephen took his seat. “They’re cloaked, but we caught them when they crossed the picket line.”

  “Too close for comfort,” Commander Daniel Newcomb said.

  “Oh yes, by far,” Stephen agreed. He took his chair and studied the display. “Our status?”

  Newcomb didn’t have to look at his console. “The CSP is ready to redeploy on your command, sir,” he said. “Ready and reserve starfighters are preparing for launch now. All weapons and tactical sensors are standing by.”

  “They know we’ve seen them, sir,” Arthur said. “The picket swept an active sensor over them.”

  Pity, Stephen thought, although it couldn’t be helped. Newcomb was right. The red icons on the display were too close for comfort. He frowned, unsure what the virus had in mind. The fleet wasn’t trying to hide its presence. If the virus had wanted to merely keep an eye on the human ships, it could have deployed a single starship to shadow the fleet from a safe distance. Instead, the enemy starships were closing the range rapidly. It wouldn’t be long before they were in missile range. What the hell are they doing?

  His mind raced. The enemy was badly outnumbered and outgunned, as far as he knew. Did they have something new and deadly up their sleeves? Something that would tip the balance of power firmly in their favour? Or did the virus think there was no hope of escape? Or ... did it have enough ships to sacrifice a handful just to gather intelligence? There could be more ships, lurking in the endless darkness of interplanetary space. The ships they’d seen might be nothing more than the tip of the iceberg.

  And we may never know, Stephen thought.

  “Signal from the flag, sir.” Lieutenant Thomas Morse sounded excited. “We’re to intercept the enemy ships and destroy them.”

  Stephen nodded. “Launch the ready starfighters,” he ordered. For once, there was no shortage of starfighter cover. There was no way to know if the enemy had starfighters too - it didn’t look as if they’d brought a fleet carrier to the party - but it was hard to believe that they had many. None of the sensor contacts looked particularly large. “The CSP is to cover the antishipping strikes.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Stephen leaned back in his chair, feeling the frustrations and fears of the last few weeks slowly drain away. Action was always chancy - he knew it was quite possible that Invincible might be blown out of space every time he took his ship into battle - but at least he was doing something. He wasn’t sitting on his ass, dealing with paperwork or reading reports of disasters hundreds of light years from Earth. He was going to make the virus sorry it had ever sent ships into human space.


  “Our escorts are to flank us,” he added, after a moment. A low quiver ran through Invincible as she picked up speed. “And prepare to fend off kamikaze attacks.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The display updated rapidly. Seven contacts, four of them very definitely oversized cruisers and a fifth almost certainly a converted freighter. A carrier, probably. He tried to calculate the number of starfighters that the virus could have crammed into the ship’s hull, but drew a blank. The virus’s nature made it impossible to even guess at the figures. It was quite possible that it hadn’t bothered to provide more than basic life support for the warm bodies manning its ships. Stephen had served on a converted freighter, back at the start of his career. It hadn’t been a comfortable experience - the ship had been so cramped that none of the officers had had enough room to swing a cat - but it was luxury incarnate compared to an alien ship. Stephen had read the reports. The virus didn’t seem to give a damn about basic comforts.