He frowned. “Four days to Alien-One,” he added. “Is that long enough to complete our preparations?”
“I think so, sir.” Newcomb’s lips twitched. “It would help if we knew what the plan actually was.”
“I want to keep my options open, right now,” Stephen said. “And if we have to improvise, I want as many possibilities as possible.”
“Yes, sir.” Newcomb stood. “I do think, though, that we should hold some kind of service for the dead.”
“We’ll arrange it for when we start moving again,” Stephen said. “If we have time.”
“Yes, sir,” Newcomb said.
Stephen watched him go, then rubbed his eyes with frustration. He didn’t blame his crew for wanting to say goodbye to the dead - or, for that matter, wanting to lay down their burdens and take a brief rest. They’d been running themselves ragged for months, even before the shit had hit the fan. He could feel the tiredness running through the entire ship, from the damaged hull to crew who were - in the end - nothing more than flesh and blood. It would be easy to go back to his cabin and take a brief nap himself, but ...
He shook his head. He’d never liked the admirals who did as little as possible, or kowtowed to the politicians while making life harder for the men under their command. It had been a long time since the Royal Navy had had an admiral who didn’t have genuine spacefaring experience - it was rare to have an admiral who hadn’t fought in one of the interstellar wars - but an admiral’s uniform sometimes seemed to do things to their minds. And now he was an admiral, to all intents and purposes, he was damned if he was forgetting what he’d been before the battle. He was not going to enjoy the rank without the responsibilities.
And I should know, by now, that admirals do a lot of work, he mused. But the problem is we just don’t see it.
***
Alice dreamed.
She knew she was dreaming, even though she could neither move nor wake up. It was a dream. It had to be a dream. And yet, as the alien blob inched towards her, she simply couldn’t move. Terror rushed through her mind, her heart beating like a drum as the alien came closer and closer. She wanted to open her mouth and scream as it loomed over her, but nothing happened. The blob fell over her ...
... And she was drowning, breathing in the virus. She could feel it filling her, oozing through her skin even as it forced its way into her. It was violating her, tearing her mind to shreds as it cut through her defences one by one. She could hear it, hear thoughts slamming against her mind and body; she felt her will collapse, as if she could no longer resist.
YOU ARE MINE, the virus said. She could feel it pushing into her head. It was rape, a rape of everything she was. Nowhere was safe. YOU ARE MINE!
Alice snapped awake, sitting up so sharply that she nearly cracked her head against the low ceiling. Her heart was racing, her hands searching for a threat that wasn’t there; she rolled over, falling out of bed and coming up in a combat crouch ... the cabin was empty. There was no one there. Her fingers grabbed for the biological warfare scanner by her bed and keyed the switch. There was no trace of active alien viral matter in the air.
“Fuck,” she said. She hadn’t had a nightmare like that since ... since ever. The sheets were so drenched with sweat that she thought, for a horrible moment, that she’d wet herself like a toddler. “Fuck it.”
She sat on the side of the bed, trying to think. Had she been screaming? Marines normally slept deeply, but if she’d been screaming ... she looked at the closed door, silently relieved that dozens of marines weren’t trying to break it down. She hadn’t been screaming, she told herself firmly. She’d merely been trapped in a nightmare, one that had refused to end until ...
It had me, she supposed. She’d had bad dreams before - everything from trying to give a presentation naked to being chased by things with teeth - but nothing quite so vivid. Even the dreams of her childhood, when she had two parents and no fears for the future, weren’t so unpleasant. It had me and ...
On impulse, she picked up a blood monitor and pressed it against her bare skin. There was a brief pause, just long enough for her to start to worry, then the monitor bleeped the all-clear. She let out a sigh of relief as she forced herself to stand on wobbly knees. She wasn’t sure what she would have done if the monitor had suggested she was infected ... infected with live viral matter. Gone to Sickbay? Called for help? Or be forced to forget that she was infected until it was too late? The virus was designed to evolve, damn it. Was it capable of influencing her without arousing suspicions?
“Fuck it,” she muttered. “How do you cope with an enemy in your own head?”
She forced herself to stand and inch towards the washroom. A private washroom was a luxury - she wouldn’t blame the marines for grumbling - but for once she wasn’t going to complain. Her body ached as if she hadn’t slept at all. She stripped off her uniform, stepped into the shower and washed herself thoroughly. The dream was nothing more than a dream, a nightmare reminding her that the next time she faced the virus might be the last. She might die ...
Or lose myself, she thought, as she turned off the water. And that would be a fate worse than death.
A dull quiver ran through the ship as she started to move again. It had been two days since she’d captured the alien ship, two days of being inspected by the doctors ... who’d panicked at every little hint that one or more of the marines had been infected. None of them appeared to have been infected, according to the blood and sniffer tests, but ... Alice didn’t blame the doctors for worrying, even though it was annoying. She knew just how dangerous the virus was. Given a foothold in someone’s body, it would eventually take over unless they received immediate and constant medical attention.
Her terminal bleeped. She tapped a switch, opening the email. There was going to be a brief ceremony for the dead, once the ship jumped through the next tramline. Dress uniform was mandatory, for those who chose to attend. Alice sighed. Attendance might be voluntary, but there were few people who wouldn’t attend. The only people who would stay away were those on duty. She shook her head, then checked the time. She had enough time to knock hell out of a punching bag before she changed into her dress uniform and went to join the ceremony ...
It might be me next time, she thought, morbidly. She didn’t know anyone who’d died - not personally - but it didn’t matter. Or it might be someone I know.
Putting the thought aside, she headed to the hatch.
***
Richard stood in the shuttlebay and watched, keeping his face as impassive as he could, as Captain Shields carried out the ceremony for the dead. The caskets in front of him were empty. No one believed there was anything in them but empty air. None of the bodies had been recovered - they couldn’t have been recovered, even if the fleet had beaten off the attack and retained possession of Zheng He - and there was no way he could convince himself otherwise, but ... he winced, inwardly. The ceremony wasn’t for him. It was for the friends of the dead ... and the navy itself, a grim reminder of how many had died to save the rest of the fleet.
He felt his hands start to shake as the squadron leaders started to recite the names of the dead. Some of them he knew, despite himself; some of them were nothing more than names, men and women who had crossed his path briefly before dying somewhere in the infinite vastness of space. Captain Shields might talk about how they would never be forgotten, how their names would be added to the Cenotaph in London, but ... Richard had his doubts. He’d had ancestors who’d fought and died in the World Wars, ancestors who had been forgotten or mocked in the years leading up to the Troubles. The Cenotaph itself had survived, but other memorials had been defaced or destroyed. And now ...
I don’t want to know them, he thought. Another battle was looming, one that threatened to pit the fleet against a hardened enemy target. Too many people were going to die, some under his command. He didn’t want to know them. It would make it harder to send them to their deaths. And afterwards ...
He loo
ked at Monica, her face expressionless as the recital came to an end. She’d been right about him. He’d slipped and fallen and now ... the craving grew stronger, taunting him. It would be so easy to take a stim, even with her watching him. He wanted to believe it. No, the craving wanted him to believe it. She’d notice if he did ...
Perhaps it would be for the best, he told himself. Common sense told him that it would be better, for his subordinates, if he gave himself up. But I can’t give up my duty.
He sighed, bitterly. What would his ancestors - the ones who had fought and died - think of him? He’d make a mistake. He’d damaged himself ... he’d broken himself. Whatever happened, there was no way out ... not as far as he could see. Even if he beat the cravings, he would be tainted for the rest of his life. Failure - alas - was the only option.
Not yet, he thought, savagely. He stopped his hands shaking through sheer will. It isn’t over yet.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Jump in five minutes, Commodore,” Lieutenant-Commander Anisa Pettigrew said. “The live feed suggests that all systems are optimal.”
Stephen nodded, grimly. He should be on the bridge. He should be on the bridge when Invincible returned - again - to Alien-One. He’d been very tempted to retain command of his ship, at least long enough to supervise as she inched into the hostile system. But instead ... he’d forced himself to wait in the CIC. No doubt someone would see it as dereliction of duty.
Worry about that when you get home, he told himself, firmly. The destroyers had brought back a great deal of information, but he wanted - he needed - to see for himself. Right now, you have to be worried about surviving the next few hours.
“Very good,” he said. “Order the fleet to hold position and wait for my command.”
Stephen kept his voice under tight control. He didn’t know Anisa very well. She was a young staff officer with a good record, but ... Invincible had only three officers who were rated to man the CIC, all of whom normally had other duties. Stephen had never anticipated having to put together a fleet command staff at short notice. They’d drilled, time and time again, but it was hard to say how she’d react in a real engagement. They’d thought themselves prepared for the worst. The virus had taught them that their imagination wasn’t anything like grim enough.
In hindsight, we should have been running fleet command drills from the very start, he thought. But we never anticipated losing both Admirals so quickly.
He felt an uneasy sensation in his gut as the timer ticked down to zero. It wasn't the first time he’d been to Alien-One - his ship had been the first human ship to enter the system - but this time ... this time, they were coming in force. There were over seventy ships, just waiting for him to give the order to attack; seventy ships, pitted against the might of the virus. The destroyers had reported a significant drawdown in the number of enemy ships visible to their sensors, at least in Alien-One, but that was meaningless. The ships might not be visible, either to human eyes or starship sensors. That didn’t mean they weren’t there.
If only we knew how many systems they controlled, he thought. We might be able to make some guesses at just how many ships they could build and support.
He shook his head. The prize crew had spent days trying to extract something - anything - from what remained of the captured ship’s datacores, but without success. They’d drawn nothing, apart from gibberish. The techs hadn’t been able to decide if the datacores were damaged, corrupted or simply beyond humanity’s ability to understand. Stephen tended to believe the latter. The virus was very far from human. It had no eyes, no ears ... whatever senses it had, in its natural form, were very alien. It had no obligation to store data in visual form, not when it provided an extra layer of security. The techs insisted that they would succeed, given time, but Stephen doubted it. They were human and the virus was anything but.
It wouldn’t be as helpful as we might think, he reminded himself. They’d made a handful of guesses, based on the virus’s demonstrated power and reach, but they couldn’t say anything for certain. The virus’s economy was a mess, by human standards. The researchers were doing their best, but they were hampered by very human assumptions about how a society could and should work. The virus is just too different from us to make guesses about its true power.
He forced himself to relax as the last seconds ticked away. The virus was strong, but it wasn’t all-powerful. Humanity had given a good account of itself in the last few engagements, even though the human ships had been forced to retreat. If the odds had been even, humanity would have carried the day. Given time, Stephen promised himself, they’d build new weapons and technology and push the virus out of human space completely. They might even come up with a vaccine to remove the threat of infection once and for all. The doctors weren’t hopeful, but they did have some ideas ...
“Jump in five seconds,” Anisa said. “Four ... three ...”
Stephen felt his stomach twist - again - as the display blanked. He was blind, utterly helpless ... a passenger on his own ship. The display came to life again, a star and a handful of planets blinking into life. Stephen took a long breath, watching grimly as red icons and projection cones started to appear. Alien-One swarmed with life, all of it controlled by the virus. He shuddered, silently correcting himself. The virus wasn’t controlling the population, either though force or the threat of force; it didn’t manage a giant security edifice to keep the slaves in line, any more than it used implants to teleoperate the population remotely. The virus was the population. He could practically feel its presence, pulsing through space like a giant malevolent cancer. There was nothing that could be done for the races under its control. The only salvation he could offer them was a quick death.
“Jump completed,” Anisa said. “Cloaking device engaged. Local space is clear.”
“Hold position,” Stephen said, automatically. “Launch recon probes.”
“Aye, Commodore,” Anisa said.
Stephen scowled inwardly. Newcomb had to issue those orders, not him. Newcomb was the commanding officer now ... he told himself, sharply, that he’d done what he needed to do when he’d transferred command. It still felt wrong. Invincible was his ship. And he’d handed her over to his XO when he was needed elsewhere. It felt like a gross dereliction of duty.
He pushed the thought to one side as the display continued to update. The shipyard near the planet itself was a glowing mass of icons, the energy signatures so powerful that they were blurring together into a single entity. A handful of notes appeared beside them as the tactical staff crunched the data, identifying everything from slips to industrial nodes. The virus clearly hadn’t learnt anything from the engagement in Alien-Five, Stephen noted. Their shipyard was still concentrated, a giant station rather than a number of facilities in close proximity. He allowed himself a cold smile. They might not have realised how the other shipyard had even been breached, let alone destroyed.
Or perhaps they put the pieces together, he thought. The shipyard was surrounded by a solid mass of active sensors, sweeping space so finely that he doubted they could slip even a powered-down recon probe into the shipyard. There was no hope of sending the marines to repeat their success in Alien-Five. They must have worked out what we did.
He contemplated the problem for a long moment. The virus had thrown secrecy to the winds - the shipyard was probably visible from light-years away - but it had worked out in its favour. It knew that Invincible had passed through Alien-One. It knew there was no point in trying to keep the shipyard’s location a secret. Instead, it had set out to make the facility impregnable. Stephen had to admit that it might just have succeeded.
Watching fortresses, patrolling starfighters, hundreds of sensor platforms ... they certainly crafted a tough line of defence, he thought. It was hard to believe that the different active sensor platforms weren’t interfering with each other, but the virus’s own nature allowed it to control the entire system as a single entity. Stephen assumed it could compensate for any
confusion. There were probably also hundreds of passive sensor platforms scattered across space, watching for the slightest hint of enemy contact. If we were planning a conventional attack, we’d need more firepower.
His eyes sharpened as more starships came to light. A sizable flotilla - battleships, carriers, destroyers - held position between the shipyard and the planet, while thousands of starfighters and hundreds of orbital weapons platforms guarded the planet itself. Alien-One had to be important, he told himself, and not just as a source of breeding stock. The mere presence of a pair of orbital towers, their energy signatures suggesting they were worked harder than the four towers on Earth, told him the planet was definitely important. The virus had worked hard to turn the planet into a giant factory.
Stephen shuddered, his eyes skimming over the preliminary conclusions. Alien-One was heavily industrialised, with countless factories visible on the planet’s surface despite the presence of an orbital industrial network. It was hard to be sure, from their distance, but it looked as if the atmosphere was badly polluted. The virus didn’t seem to give a damn about the planetary environment. Stephen wondered, morbidly, what effects it had on the planetary population ... and if the virus even cared. It wasn’t short of host-bodies. It could simply bring in a few million from another infected system, if necessary.
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