The Right of the Line

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Granted,” he said, softly. They would have time, at least, to rearm the starfighters. The pilots would even have a chance to get some rest. But it probably wouldn’t matter in the long run. “And the rest of the fleet?”

  Anisa looked grim. “Gotham was badly damaged, sir. She’s lost all but one of her drive nodes.”

  Stephen glanced at the report, then nodded. “Order her crew to abandon ship,” he said. It could take weeks to replace a drive node, if there was one on hand. He didn’t even begin to have enough time to jury-rig a replacement. “As they leave, they are to rig the self-destruct to catch any alien boarders.”

  “Aye, Commodore,” Anisa said.

  The crew won’t be happy at abandoning their ship, Stephen thought. But there’s no way we can get that ship out of the danger zone in time.

  He forced himself to watch as the fleet slowly crawled towards the tramline, linking up with Force Two and the remaining carriers along the way. New alerts flashed up constantly, keeping him updated. Invincible had been badly damaged, but at least she could still move and fight. Other ships had been far less lucky. He performed ruthless triage, abandoning ships that couldn’t be saved. Their crews would have to be fitted in, somewhere. It wasn’t as if he was short of berths to put them.

  We’ll be living out of each other’s pockets for a few weeks, he thought, glumly. Until we encounter the enemy fleet and die.

  He keyed his console, looking for other options. They didn’t have to go through Falkirk and Zheng He, did they? But there were no tramline chains - no known tramline chains - that would allow them to return to friendly space, not without passing through those systems. He gritted his teeth, wondering if he dared take the risk of looking for an undiscovered chain ... he knew it was too dangerous. There was no guarantee of finding anything, particularly with half his fleet battered to near uselessness. They wouldn’t be able to evade the enemy either. They’d be run down and destroyed.

  “Commodore,” Anisa said. “We’re approaching the tramline.”

  “Detach two destroyers to scout ahead of the fleet,” Stephen ordered. If the enemy had ships in place - if - they would have an excellent opportunity to set an ambush. For once, they could make an excellent guess where his fleet was going to cross the tramline. “They are to jump back at once if local space is clear.”

  Should have done that earlier, his thoughts mocked him. You’re tired and cranky and slipping ...

  He bit his lip, studying the live feed from the recon drones they’d left behind. The shipyard had clearly been badly damaged, although it hadn’t been completely destroyed. He hoped the damage was extensive enough to slow down production ... he shook his head in dismay. It was impossible to know for sure. The planet itself was a nightmare, the atmosphere darkening with every second ... Stephen felt a twinge of guilt, mingled with the grim awareness there hadn’t been any choice. Better to put the host-bodies out of their misery than give the virus a chance to rebuild. It didn’t look as if the virus would be bringing the planetary facilities back online anytime soon.

  We might have killed an entire planet, he thought, numbly.

  The thought chilled him to the bone. Decades ago, the Belters had seriously proposed blowing up Mercury, on the grounds that the resulting asteroid field would be easier to mine. The Great Powers had - for once - been united in their condemnation. It wasn’t as if the Belters were going to run out of asteroids any time soon. But ... they’d drawn up plans for a planetcracker. Stephen wouldn’t be surprised to hear that the Great Powers had designed their own, too. The weapons had just never been tested.

  That might be about to change, he told himself. If the only way we can exterminate the virus is to slaughter entire planets ...

  “The destroyers have returned,” Anisa said. “Local space is clear.”

  Stephen allowed himself a sigh of relief. “The fleet is to proceed through the tramline as quickly as possible, then head straight for the next tramline.”

  “Aye, Commodore.”

  And hope to hell we can complete some repairs before the shit hits the fan again, Stephen thought, grimly. The last time Invincible had fled down the tramline chain, there had been friendly ships at Falkirk. They’d known where they’d find safety. Now ... he didn’t know how far they’d have to travel before they reached human lines. That enemy fleet is still out there, blocking our escape.

  His stomach lurched as the ship transited the tramline. He watched the display blank out, feeling his heart start to race before it came to life again. The system was empty, seemingly unsettled. The Russians had claimed it months ago - it felt like years ago - but nothing had ever been done. Its proximity to Alien-One had made sure of it. The Russians simply hadn’t had time to establish a colony before it was too late. He supposed it wouldn’t have mattered in the long run. It would just have given the virus a few thousand more host-bodies to play with.

  “The fleet has transited, Commodore,” Anisa said.

  “The destroyers are to fly ahead of us and scout the next system,” Stephen said. He tried to calculate where the ambush would take place, but gave up within seconds. There were just too many variables. “And then ...”

  He studied the fleet list for a long moment. “Detach two more destroyers, with orders to sneak down the chain,” he added. “They are to avoid all contact with enemy forces. I want them to take word home. The human race has to know what we did here.”

  “Aye, sir,” Anisa said.

  “And deploy a handful of recon platforms here, near the tramline,” Stephen ordered. “I want to know as soon as the enemy ships enter the system.”

  They won’t try to be clever, he told himself, as his fleet staggered away from the tramline. They’ll just try to shadow us until we run into the rest of their ships.

  He watched, tiredly, as his crews struggled to repair their ships. It wasn’t easy. There were too many repairs that couldn’t be completed while the fleet was underway, too many repairs they simply couldn't perform without a shipyard ... he wondered, suddenly, what had happened to the mobile shipyard in Zheng He. The ship had had standing orders to cloak and evade contact, the moment the enemy appeared, but he had no idea what had happened when the attack finally came. He made a mental note to check the records when he had a moment, then put the thought aside. The mobile shipyard wasn’t with the fleet and that was all that mattered.

  “Order the commanding officers to make sure their crews get some rest,” Stephen said. He felt too tired to move. He wasn’t sure just how long it had been since he’d had a rest himself. “It will be hours before we contact the enemy again.”

  “Aye, Commodore,” Anisa said.

  Stephen nodded, then checked the updates. The ship was badly damaged. There was no point in trying to deny it. Hundreds of crewmen remained unaccounted for, their bodies either trapped in the destroyed sections or blown into space. Or vaporised. He might never know what had happened to some of his crew. The only real consolation was that the virus probably hadn’t had time to infect them. They would have died a quick death.

  We hope, Stephen thought. He tried not to imagine some of his crew being blown into space, their shipsuits keeping them alive long enough for the virus to capture them. It was all too possible. The shipsuits had been designed to attract rescuers, not hide from them. We may never know.

  He forced himself to stand. His legs felt rubbery, as if he’d aged decades in a few short hours. It would have been so much easier if he’d been on his bridge ... he silently apologised to all the admirals he hadn’t taken quite seriously, to all the superiors he’d dismissed as useless REMFs. In hindsight, he acknowledged, commanding a fleet wasn’t easy even if one had a trained support crew to translate one’s ideas into practice.

  The display blinked an alert. “Commodore,” Anisa said. Her voice was flat, as if she was too tired to be afraid. “The alien fleet just made transit.”

  Stephen nodded, unsurprised. “And now it’s a race.”

  Chap
ter Thirty-Six

  Richard sat in his starfighter, shaking helplessly.

  His hands were useless, trembling so hard that he couldn’t trust himself to open the canopy without disaster. His entire body was itching, as if his skin was dry ... he knew, all too well, that the brief period of cold turkey had only made things worse when he allowed himself to take yet another stim. He cursed himself as he heard someone outside the starfighter, fingers fumbling with the latch. Monica was going to kill him ...

  No. Monica was dead.

  He wanted to scream in frustration, to cry like a toddler. He couldn’t control himself. He hadn’t felt so teary since he’d been a child, when the world had been fresh and new and dreadfully unfair. Monica shouldn’t have died. It should have been him that had died. He was worthless, he was ... the canopy came open, revealing a tired-looking face peering down at him. Richard silently accepted the proffered hand and clambered out of the starfighter, stumbling down to the deck. The flight deck was utter chaos.

  “You have orders to rest,” the crewman said. “The XO said so personally.”

  “Great,” Richard said, sarcastically.

  He stumbled towards the hatch, his mind spinning in circles. He could get his hands on more stims, couldn’t he? Monica wasn’t watching him now. He cursed himself a second later. He shouldn’t be thinking like that, should he? He shouldn’t be defiling her memory. She’d meant well, he knew. She hadn’t been a playground tattletale. She would have reported him without a second thought if she’d wanted him gone. Hell, she should have reported him. She might still be alive if she’d done her goddamned job.

  And I have to tell her family something, Richard thought. He’d met Monica’s parents, once upon a time. They’d been good people. They didn’t deserve to hear that their daughter had died saving a worthless life. What the fuck am I going to tell them?

  He stumbled into the briefing room and keyed the terminal for a status display. The alien fleet was keeping its distance, close enough to keep tabs on the human ships while remaining well out of weapons range. He drew up plans for a starfighter assault, then shook his head. He wasn’t even sure how many starfighters had survived the engagement. A brief check revealed that only fifteen pilots had returned to Invincible.

  Fuck, he thought, numbly. How many pilots had died this time? He couldn’t count. He was glad he didn’t know their names and faces, let alone their stories. He wanted to believe that some of the starfighters had landed on other carriers, that it was just a matter of time before he saw them again, but ... he knew better. It was far more likely that the rest of his subordinates were dead. I need a fucking drink.

  He looked up as Colonel Francesca Bernardello entered the compartment, looking as shattered as he felt. She was the only survivor amongst his squadron leaders, his de facto XO. He wondered, sourly, what she’d do if she knew about the stims. Probably report him at once, as per regulations. She was too well-connected to suffer any adverse consequences from breaking the unwritten rules ...

  “Tell the surviving pilots to bed down in Compartment B,” he ordered, curtly. “I have ... duties in Compartment A.”

  Francesca showed no visible reaction. “Yes, sir.”

  She turned and left. Richard’s eyes followed her, lingering on her behind. The uniform she wore was really too tight ... he cursed himself a moment later, once again. He was too far out of it for anything, save for catching some sleep. The stims were calling to him, promising to keep him upright. He told himself that he was imagining it as he stumbled down the corridor and into his cabin. He was half-asleep before he hit the bed.

  It felt as if he had barely rested for seconds, when he opened his eyes. His throat was killing him. He needed to drink, he needed to piss ... he rolled out of bed and practically crawled into the washroom, snatching a glass of water along the way. His entire body was itching now, as if he was on the verge of jumping out of his skin. Flashes of energy were mixed with lassitude that threatened to drag him back to sleep. It was all he could do to answer the call of nature before staggering back into the cabin. He checked the terminal - there were no alerts, no calls to action - and poured himself a mug of coffee. He didn’t want to go back to sleep. He wasn’t sure he’d wake up.

  I’m sorry, he thought, bitterly. He wasn’t sure who he was apologising to. Monica ... or himself. I’ve been too weak.

  He forced himself to shower, then made his way down to Compartment A. It was empty. He tried not to look at all the empty berths as he stepped inside and found Monica’s bunk. It hadn’t been touched, not since she’d flown her final mission. She’d made it neatly before reporting for the briefing ... he felt a stab of bitter guilt as he touched the sheets. She hadn’t deserved to die.

  She died saving your life, he reminded himself. Show a little fucking gratitude, why don’t you?

  He opened a cabinet and removed a flattened cardboard box. His fingers felt stiff, as if they didn’t want to work properly. It took a moment to fold the box out, then write Monica’s name and details on the top. A wave of grief threatened to overcome him as he opened Monica’s locker, remembering the instructions she’d written in her will. Her personal possessions were to be sent home, when possible; everything else was to be shared amongst her squadron. Richard wondered, morbidly, if the latter set of instructions still held true. He didn’t think there were more than a couple of her original squadron left alive.

  “I should have done better for you,” he muttered. He dug through the locker, removing three basic uniforms and a single dress uniform. He folded them on the bunk, leaving them for whoever wanted them. They wouldn’t be going home. “I should have died instead.”

  He felt another twinge of guilt as he inspected Monica’s underwear. Her bras and panties were plain white cotton, something that surprised him more than it should. Monica had never been inclined to wear fancy lingerie, not when she was on duty. She’d simply requisitioned what she needed from the supply department. He folded them neatly, then placed them on top of her uniforms. If the remaining pilots didn’t want them, they’d have to be returned to the supply department. No doubt someone else would be wearing them sooner or later.

  She’d probably find that amusing, he thought. Monica had concealed a packet of Mars Bars and Snickers under her clothes. They’d be shared out too. I wonder what she was saving the chocolate for.

  He put it on the bunk, resisting the urge to take one for himself, then dug further. There was a small box at the back of the locker. Richard took it out and opened it carefully, unable to avoid feeling like a voyeur. It was her private collection, something he shouldn’t be touching ... there was so little privacy in the compartment that what little privacy the pilots had was practically sacred. A handful of photographs, a couple of souvenirs, a single golden ring and a civilian smartphone. He glanced at the smartphone and checked to make sure that it was switched off before put it in the box, then studied the ring. A wedding ring? Monica hadn’t been married. He’d been the closest thing she’d had to a boyfriend. He wondered, despite himself, just what it had meant to her. Her mother’s wedding ring? Or her grandmother’s? A keepsake passed down from grandmother to mother to daughter? There was no way to know.

  He finished emptying the locker and stood, feeling curiously empty. Monica hadn’t left much behind, not here. Starfighter pilots rarely brought anything irreplaceable onboard ship, not when it might be lost at any moment, but ... he sighed, dismissing the thought. Monica hadn’t needed much, not really. She’d known she was going to war. Better to put her goods into storage or leave them with her parents, rather than risk losing them to enemy attack.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

  He sealed the box, then sighed. He knew he should do it for every last pilot, for everyone who had been under his command - no matter how briefly - but he couldn’t force himself to go through the motions. It didn’t take a genius to know they weren’t out of the woods yet. The fleet would need weeks to return to friendly space, even if the
re wasn’t an enemy fleet snapping at their heels. They could be brought to battle at any moment.

  And maybe someone will box up my possessions, he mused, as he picked up the box and carried it out into the corridor. It would go into storage until Invincible returned to Earth, if she ever did. If I don’t make it back alive ...

  ***

  Who would have thought, Alice asked herself crossly, that the old man had so much bravery in him?

  It was a misquote, she knew, but it seemed to fit. She hadn’t really given much thought to what her father would be doing during the battle, not when she’d spent most of her time assisting the damage control teams and transporting the wounded to sickbay. She hadn’t even bothered to check until the fleet had transited the second tramline, putting more distance between themselves and one alien fleet while steadily inching closer to another. In truth, she wasn’t sure why she’d checked.

  But she had. And her father had done well.

  It shouldn’t have surprised her, she told herself. Her father had flown starfighters during the First Interstellar War. Starfighter pilots weren’t marines, of course, and they didn’t get down and dirty with the enemy, but there was no doubting their bravery. Alice had even heard that the mortality rate amongst starfighter pilots, during wartime, was far higher than the corresponding figure for the Royal Marines. Her father had been a brave man. But then, many of the fanatics she’d killed during deployments to the Security Zone had been brave too.