The Right of the Line

by Christopher Nuttall

  New icons flared to life in front of him. “Captain,” Arthur said. “I’m picking up a cluster of ships holding position near the tramline.”

  Stephen silently calculated the vectors in his head. The alien ships were in position to block anything that came through the tramline on a least-time course to Margo and Falkirk. It was a valid precaution, but anyone who knew anything about the realities of interstellar travel also knew that it was pointless. Evading the alien fleet would be easy. Invincible had done it and she hadn’t even known the alien ships were there. And yet ... he felt his expression darken as the alien fleet slowly took on shape and form. Battleships, carriers, cruisers ... a formidable force, but nowhere near as powerful as the fleet that had driven the MNF out of Falkirk. It looked more like a blocking force than anything else, albeit one on a larger scale than anything the Royal Navy could reasonably deploy. That, Stephen noted grimly, was something that might have to change.

  We can’t hope to out-produce the virus, he reminded himself. We’ll have to keep researching new technologies and hoping that we discover a silver bullet.

  He gritted his teeth. He’d studied enough military history to know that real silver bullets - a weapon that would instantly make all previous weapons obsolete - were very rare. Even when one side had possessed a formidable advantage in research and development, it was still hard - if not impossible - to come up with a war-winner. And there was always the danger of discovering - too late - that the new weapon came with drawbacks of its own. The magnificent fleet carriers from the era before the First Interstellar War hadn’t stood a chance when they’d been pitted against an enemy with plasma weapons and stealthed starfighters. They’d been too thin-skinned to survive ...

  “Only a handful of the ships are at combat readiness,” Arthur said. “The remainder appear to be powered down.”

  “They must have the same limitations we have,” Newcomb commented. “The wear and tear on their equipment must be something to behold.”

  “Perhaps,” Stephen mused. “It’s good to know that they do have some limitations.”

  His face twisted. It was a basic reality of interstellar war that no ship and crew could remain on alert indefinitely. The crews got tired of constant drills, while sensor nodes and starship components wore out ... sooner or later, something would fail. The virus might not give a damn about its host bodies, but it had to be aware of their limitations. He briefly considered an attack, only to dismiss the thought as suicidal a second later. There was no hope of getting into striking range before the enemy ships powered up and launched starfighters. Their deployments were right out of the tactical manual ... nothing particularly imaginative, but they didn’t have to be imaginative. The virus understood the tactical realities as well as he did.

  Close enough to the tramline to be sure of detecting a rushed attack, he mused, yet too far away to allow us to catch them with their pants down.

  “Deploy a flight of drones to monitor their positions,” he ordered. “And then shift a second flight of drones towards the other tramline.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Newcomb caught his eye. “Captain ... what’s happened to the rest of their fleet?”

  “Good question,” Stephen said. A shiver of unease ran down his spine. He would be happier if he knew where the missing ships were, although he supposed he’d change his mind if the answer turned out to be behind him. Invincible was tough, but the virus had destroyed battleships when it had forced its way into Falkirk. “And I wish I had an answer.”

  He scowled as he turned his attention back to the display. Newcomb was right. Hundreds of enemy warships were missing. It was possible, he supposed, that they had been powered down so completely that they were effectively undetectable ... possible, but unlikely. And yet, if they weren’t in Margo, where were they? Holding position in Falkirk? Or snapping up the human colonies that had been left high and dry? He doubted it. None of the colonies were particularly well-defended. A single gunboat would be enough to smash all resistance and begin the infection.

  “We have to find them,” he said, bluntly. “But we have another mission here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Newcomb said.

  Stephen cleared his throat. There was no point in waiting any longer. “Helm, set course for Tramline Two. Best possible speed.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  The hours ticked by slowly. Stephen stayed on the bridge until the end of his shift, then retreated to his ready room for a few fitful hours of sleep. He could feel oppressive silence spreading through his ship, his crew speaking in whispers even though they knew the virus couldn’t hear them. It felt as if a single dropped pot or burst of loud music would be enough to bring the wrath of God Himself down on them. Stephen could barely keep himself from whispering, too. It felt as if they were mice, being watched by an unseen cat ...

  We’ve done this before, he reminded himself. Invincible had sneaked through a dozen enemy-held star systems, some so heavily defended that he wouldn’t care to attack them without half the Royal Navy behind him. The odds of being detected were low, as long as they were careful. We can do it again.

  He felt tired and worn when his alarm bleeped, as if he’d only slept for a few seconds. It was hard to believe, when he checked the chronometer, that six hours had passed. He glanced at the status display as his steward brought him a mug of coffee and some breakfast, silently reassuring himself nothing had happened while he was asleep. Invincible had picked up a handful of additional contacts, two holding position near the planet itself. It didn’t bode well for the colonists. They’d have problems monitoring local space unless they powered up active sensors, which would draw the virus’s attention and get them smashed flat ...

  “Just living here didn’t bode well for the colonists either,” Stephen muttered. The coffee tasted foul, but it jerked him awake. “There isn’t even a gas giant to provide a handy source of fuel.”

  His wristcom bleeped. “Captain, we’re detecting a small number of enemy ships in transit between the two tramlines,” Newcomb said. He sounded disgustingly fresh for someone who couldn’t have had more than a couple of hours of sleep ... if he’d had any at all. “They appear to be a supply convoy.”

  Stephen sat upright. “How many escorts?”

  “We’re picking up four destroyers and what might be either a small carrier or another arsenal ship,” Newcomb said. “The freighters themselves might be armed, of course.”

  “And one or more of them might be a converted carrier,” Stephen mused. The Royal Navy had used the same trick itself, back in the First Interstellar War. A flotilla of enemy raiders would charge an apparently undefended convoy, only to discover - too late - that one of the freighters was actually a small carrier. “They presumably studied our tactical manuals.”

  Or came up with the trick themselves, he added, silently. The virus needed to grapple with the realities of interstellar logistics. It couldn’t allow raiders like Invincible to pillage its supply lines with impunity. We’re not the first spacefaring race the virus encountered.

  “Alter course to intercept, then deploy additional probes to ensure that there are no other alien ships within range,” Stephen ordered. He keyed the terminal, assessing the vector calculations for himself. It would take hours for the enemy warships near the tramline to become aware of the raid, let alone do something about it, but it was quite possible that the virus had other ships in position to intercept. “And then ready the crew for action.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Newcomb said. His voice was calm, but Stephen could hear the excitement underneath. “We will reach engagement range in two hours.”

  Stephen closed the link, then hurried into the washroom for a quick shower before donning a fresh uniform and making his way onto the bridge. The silence was gone, replaced with the thrill of anticipation. He had to smile. It wasn’t the first time his crew had gone to war - they’d tested themselves against the virus long ago - and they knew they could handle combat. They migh
t encounter something bigger than them, something powerful enough to blow Invincible out of space, but combat itself wouldn’t overwhelm them. None of his crew would freeze under pressure.

  “We could try and take one of the ships intact,” Newcomb suggested, diffidently. “It might tell us something useful.”

  “And bring in a great deal of prize money,” Stephen agreed. It was tempting. The more insights they had into the virus, the better. And the crew would love to have extra spending money when they returned home. “But they’ll come haring after us the moment they realise what we’re doing.”

  He shook his head. “Too risky. We’re already too exposed out here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Newcomb said.

  Stephen took his seat and studied the alien formation. Four destroyers and an unknown ship, the latter a complete unknown. A small carrier? It was possible, he supposed. He didn’t think it was a missile-carrier, unless the virus had deliberately designed it as a one-shot weapon. It struck Stephen as a bit wasteful, although he could see the logic. An arsenal ship would be targeted as soon as it was identified. Better to spit out the missiles in one giant volley and retreat, rather than have the missiles taken out along with the ship ...

  “Inform the CAG,” he said. “His starfighters are to make a stealthy approach to the target ships.”

  “Aye, sir,” Newcomb said. He paused, just for a second. “All squadrons?”

  Stephen nodded. There was no point in holding anything back, not now. One pass to obliterate the warships, another to smash the freighters ... and then a hasty retreat back into cloak. They’d have plenty of time to put themselves beyond all hope of detection before the enemy warships arrived, with blood in their eye. If, of course, the enemy warships were deployed. It was quite possible that the virus would realise that the situation was beyond recovery and leave the convoy to its fate.

  No human officer would feel comfortable making such a call, Stephen thought, as the first starfighters appeared on the display. They wouldn’t want to abandon the freighters to certain destruction, even though cold logic would suggest that the freighters were doomed whatever the officer did. But the virus isn’t human.

  He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of command descending on his shoulders. He’d made his call ... and now, all he could do was watch as the starfighters glided towards their enemies. Their icons were dim, warning him that the craft were almost completely powered down. A handful of vectors formed beside them, a grim reminder that even their exact positions could only be estimated after the first few minutes. So far, there was no hint that the enemy had noticed them, but that would change. The convoy wasn’t trying to hide. Its ships were running active sensor sweeps. It was only a matter of time before they realised they were under attack.

  And they’ll definitely notice when the starfighters power up their drives, he told himself, coldly. Starfighters were too small to carry cloaking devices. There would be no hope of concealment as the starfighters slipped onto attack vectors. A civilian-grade passive sensor would have no trouble seeing a flight of starfighters in such close proximity. And then ...

  The display flashed red. “They see them,” Newcomb said. A rush of excitement ran around the bridge. “They’re targeting the starfighters now.”

  “Order the starfighters to engage at will, then power up our drives and weapons,” Stephen ordered, calmly. “Prepare to attack!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Richard felt ... sluggish.

  It wasn’t just that he was floating in the inky darkness of space, completely disconnected from the squadrons that were meant to be under his command ... without even a sense of movement as his starfighter plunged through space at a speed unimaginable to groundhogs and reporters. It was ... he tried to think clearly, but his mind refused to function properly. His hands weren’t shaking, not any longer. They were dead weight, as if he was trapped in a lumpish piece of meat that no longer responded to his commands. The whole scene felt like a nightmare, a nightmare in which he couldn’t run or fight or do anything to evade the terrible fate he knew was behind him. It was impossible ...

  Alerts sounded. His display flashed to life. “Attack,” a voice snapped. “All squadrons, attack!”

  Richard tried to grit his teeth, but nothing happened. His starfighter was powering up - he could feel the gravity field shifting as the drive field came online - yet it was all he could do to sit up. His body felt tired, too tired to sleep ... he had to think to force his fingers to reach for his pouch. He knew - he knew - the dangers of using stims on a battlefield, but he had no choice. His fingers fumbled their way into the pouch - he almost panicked as they almost dropped the tab on the deck - and pressed the tab against his bare skin. There was a hiss, followed by a sudden rush of energy. The world seemed to snap into focus. Someone was yammering at him.

  “Commander?” Monica. It was Monica. “Richard? Can you hear me?”

  “I can hear you,” Richard confirmed. God! How long had she been shouting at him? “My power-up had to reboot.”

  He cursed under his breath as he took control of the starfighter. It was a plausible excuse - pieces of technology failed all the time - but he wasn’t sure if she would believe it. He wasn’t sure if anyone would believe it. He should have taken the stim hours ago, to give time for the edge to wear off before he went into combat, but there hadn’t been any way to time it properly. Instead ... the timing had been shitty and he’d almost collapsed. He forced his mind to focus, concentrating on the enemy ships. The freighters were slowly altering course, as if they had a hope of evading the starfighters. He almost laughed with glee. The starfighters could spot the freighters an hour’s head start - and three drive nodes into the bargain - and they’d still run the freighters down before they had a chance to break contact and go doggo.

  “Form up on me,” he ordered. “Prepare to engage.”

  He felt himself smile, a cold predatory smile. An enemy destroyer was advancing forward, putting itself between the starfighters and their prey. It wouldn’t have been a bad tactic, normally, but right now it was utterly futile. Invincible was right behind her starfighters, her plasma weapons already targeting the destroyer. There was no way in hell the enemy ship would survive long enough to give the freighters a chance to escape. He tapped his console, designating the enemy ship as the target before leading his starfighters straight towards the destroyer. Space started to fill with plasma bolts, but Richard barely noticed. In his hyped-up state, they seemed to be moving in slow motion. It was easy to evade them, even when they threatened to brush against his drive field. He had to fight to keep himself from carolling with joy as the range closed rapidly. It was all he could do to fire his torpedoes when he entered attack range. He wanted - he needed - to fly so close to the alien ship that he could have reached out and touched her hull.

  “Torpedoes away,” he snapped. “I say again, torpedoes away!”

  He smiled, thinly, as four of his subordinates launched their torpedoes too. The analysts had speculated that the virus had decided to prioritise taking out human starfighters, rather than defending its own ships, but the enemy destroyer clearly hadn’t got the memo. Or, Richard decided, it was rather more likely that the analysts were full of shit. The virus couldn’t have enough warships that it could afford to trade destroyers and cruisers for a handful of tiny starfighters. If it did, it would have pushed its way to Earth by now. The enemy destroyer was fighting desperately to survive, ignoring the retreating starfighters as it targeted their torpedoes. But it was a fight it was doomed to lose.

  “Scratch one destroyer,” someone shouted. “I got the bastard!”

  “Someone got him,” Richard corrected.

  He chuckled, feeling oddly amused. He might have got the destroyer. They’d have to study the records, after the battle, to determine who had really struck the fatal blow. He’d be surprised if they didn’t end up sharing the kill. Destroyers were smaller than fleet carriers, but a single torpedo hit was rarely enough to
kill them. A combination of hits, however, would set off a chain reaction that was almost always fatal. Nothing smaller than a battleship could survive.

  “Form up on me,” he ordered. He checked the status display, quickly assessing the overall situation. The four enemy destroyers had been blown to hell, while the mystery starship was altering course and trying to evade contact. It might have succeeded in evading Invincible, Richard told himself as he altered course, but it didn’t have a hope of escaping the starfighters. “Prepare to engage the enemy.”

  He listened to the acknowledgements as the squadron reformed around him and flashed towards the enemy ship. She wasn’t shooting, somewhat to his surprise. The odds of hitting anything might be low, but they’d be precisely zero if the enemy ship wasn’t shooting at all. What was it? A transport? A military-grade freighter? Or ... what? A carrier would have launched her fighters by now, surely. There was nothing to be gained by holding them back, not when the carrier herself might be taken out at any moment. He was almost relieved when the enemy ship finally opened fire. At least it was doing something...