“That’s asking a lot,” he said. “The crew are still getting used to the equipment.”
In response, Guinness patted his computer pad, on which he had uploaded a copy of the ship’s tech ‘bible’.
“But Commander,” he said, “the advantage of old equipment is it doesn’t have any surprises to throw at us. All the kinks have been seen and we have the fixes on record, not to mention that a lot of my lads are used to older tech than this.”
Chuichi let out a non-committal grunt.
“What about the rest of the squadron?” he asked.
“Cetshwayo and Saladin are also being commissioned. We are to be designated Cruiser Squadron Twenty Three. Commodore Dandolo on Saladin will be squadron commander and we are joining the Home Fleet.”
“It is a lot to ask of any crew,” Chuichi said morosely, “to go from commissioning to combat inside a few weeks.”
“I know, Commander, but we aren’t the only ones and well… a few weeks from now, we will be shot at. We can do it out there where we can shoot back or we can be sitting here where we can’t. I know which one I would prefer.”
___________________________
The flak cruiser Deimos hung in geo stationery orbit over Mar’s equator. Around her in matching orbits were another dozen ships, mostly civilian. There was a continuous cycle of shuttles leaving the ships, being passed on their way by those climbing away from the planet surface. Five years old and designed with a projected operational lifespan of twenty-five years, she should have been in her prime. But Deimos was now a hard used warhorse. Many hull plates showed the scars of minor strikes, others dished inwards from the force of near misses and a few were paler and cleaner – new plates covering repairs to major damage. On board, Commodore Ronan Crowe was making his way down to his cabin when a furious bellow erupted from the compartment ahead.
“For the love of sweet Jesus! Would you shut your yap hole! People are trying to fucking sleep!”
As Crowe passed through he caught sight of a couple of shocked civilians and a tired and irritated looking petty officer leaning out of a sleeping alcove. One of the civilians caught sight of Crowe and by his expression clearly expected him to discipline the petty officer. Crowe kept walking.
The ship’s Bosun was waiting at the hatch to his cabin.
“Come in Benson,” Crowe said as he passed. “So what have you got for me?” he added, as he threw his cap onto the bunk before absentmindedly scratching his balding crown.
For years he had wondered which he’d do first – go grey or bald, but it looked like his receding hairline would carry the day.
“We’ve found places for everyone so far, sir,” Benson reported as he stood at parade rest, “but a couple of compartments are starting to look like tins of sardines.”
“We won’t have to put up with them for much more than a day Bosun.”
“Sir, how many more are we getting? It’s just that we are overtaxing life support as it is.”
“How much redundancy do we have left?”
“The book says we can take another twenty warm bodies, but the book also says that we’re badly overdue a full system purge and overhaul. If we suffer any kind of failure,” Benson paused, “well then things will get a bit interesting, sir.”
“In which case we’ll declare an emergency and either head to Earth or offload them on someone else,” Crowe replied as he checked his computer for any other messages. There were a few from Headquarters and one from his wife. He moved it to be looked at later, then winced as he noticed the previous one still showed as unread.
“A lot of the civvies have non-standard survival suits – cheap rubbish, which won’t mate with our systems, sir,” Benson persisted. “If we have to depressurise, we can’t link them to a flow system. Some of them have small O2 tanks that give as little as twenty minutes…”
“Bosun, I appreciate your concerns, but we won’t be in action before we drop them off. Our presence here is no more than a precaution. Lieutenant Shermer is due to bring another dozen from the surface, then that’s us full.”
“Yes, sir,” the Bosun agreed in the resigned tone of a man who didn’t agree but knew there was nothing to be gained by further argument.
“Still a few precautions won’t hurt. Get a few hands to do carbon dioxide checks. Make sure we don’t have foul spots. These people with cheap suits, make sure they are moved to sickbay if we have to depressurise.”
When the Bosun was gone Crowe sat back in his chair and heaved a long sigh. It had certainly come to something when orbiting around Mars – pretty much Earth’s back yard – was enough to leave some of the crew feeling exposed. But this crew had seen a lot, maybe even too much. The Massacre at Baden, Kite String, the defeat at and retreat from Junction – they been in the thick of it – and all in little more than a year. They’d seen the Nameless spring surprise after surprise on them: jump in capability far closer to a planet than any human ship could manage, FTL sensors, mass driver missiles and most recently fighters. It was no wonder that in the minds of too many, the Nameless were becoming less a military opponent and more an all-powerful bogeyman. We need a victory, and we need it soon, Crowe thought. He then smiled unhappily to himself. The next battle would be fought in the skies above Earth and if they didn’t win that one – well, that would be the end of all humanity’s problems.
Turning his chair, Crowe stared at the hologram being projected against the cabin wall. The powerful cameras mounted on Deimos’s outer hull could make out robots far below, hard at work darkening the surface and pumping out CO2. There weren’t many people on Mars – less than two thousand, all part of what was usually referred to as The Great Experiment. But now as the human race contracted inwards, back towards the world of its birth, it was being abandoned. Around Saturn the forces of planetary defence were being strengthened, while the orbital hydrogen processing facilities were being evacuated of all but the few brave souls willing to remain behind to form skeleton crews. The rest headed for Earth to be with their families.
Family; Crowe glanced toward the photo of his wife. Was it wrong that he felt no regret that if the end came, they wouldn’t be together? No, he’d been the one to start this and he would be here for the end. All I ever wanted was to explore.
___________________________
“Lieutenant Shermer, ma’am, we have a slight problem in the main habitat,” the voice of the senior petty officer crackled across the radio.
“What kind of problem, PO?” Alanna asked as she stood with her back to the compound, enjoying the stark beauty of the Martian landscape, where a dust devil briefly swirled before collapsing again.
“Well, it’s a bit political, ma’am,” came the reply.
Out of my pay grade, Alanna mentally translated.
“Alright, PO, I’m on my way,” she replied.
Political complications were exactly why junior officers were sent on these kinds of jobs. Nodding to the shuttle pilot who was busy prepping for take off, she set out across the compound.
The walk wasn’t far, but in the unfamiliar Martian gravity only one third of Earth’s, Alanna was breathing heavily by the time she reached the main personnel airlock. The settlement, sited in the shadow of Olympus Mons, was the administrative and maintenance centre for terraforming activity in this quarter of the planet. She probably could have, probably should have insisted they just drop everything and get into the damn shuttle. But they wanted to make sure anything that could potentially go wrong in the next few weeks was either dealt with or shut down. Various flyers, flimsy things that would never be able to fly in Earth gravity, flitted about, moving materials into the central compound.
Mostly the evacuation had gone quietly. The researchers and technicians accepted that on a planet with no orbital defences, it was the only choice. If the terraforming worked as claimed, then someday Mars might be a garden world on which a person could stroll about in nothing but their skin – if the notion took them. But that was decades away and
in the here and now, Alanna waited patiently as the habitat’s airlock cycled.
“Alright,” she said to the two men waiting just inside the lock as she pulled off her helmet. “What’s the problem?”
“This gentleman,” the petty officer said before the civilian could open his mouth, “wants to remain here. He even has a couple of others persuaded. He also has a piece of paper.”
The PO’s tone suggested this last point was the most heinous crime of all.
“Lieutenant,” the civilian said with a polite smile, “I am Professor Scalzi, the head administrator of this outpost. Could I prevail upon you to be allowed to speak privately?”
He was an elderly man, with sparse white hair and a friendly smile.
“Alright, Professor. But it will have to be quick.”
“Of course.”
Scalzi led her to what was clearly his office and waved her towards a chair before pushing his own from behind the desk next to her.
“Lieutenant, what your man told you was fundamentally correct. I and two of my colleagues would like to remain behind.”
“I’m sorry, Prof…” Alanna began.
“Please, hear me out at least.”
Alanna settled back into her seat as he continued.
“I’m aware that the orders from your superiors and mine are for the complete evacuation of Mars, but I would ask you to in part set those orders aside. Lieutenant, I don’t know whether you have had the opportunity to follow our work, but I would like you to understand that the terraforming of the planet is at a delicate phase. We are approaching the tipping point at which the process starts to become self-sustaining. We only have to get the atmosphere a little thicker and a little warmer, for bacteria to be able to work. But at this moment the process still needs monitoring and adjustments. If we all up sticks and leave, what we have achieved so far will start to degrade. We could lose ten years of work in months.”
“It’s not likely to be as long as months. If we drive…” Alanna bit her lip. “When we drive off the Nameless, you can return here. It should be no more than weeks.”
“Oh, Lieutenant, I don’t doubt that the battle for Earth will be over in weeks at most, but in its aftermath, I don’t believe getting anyone back to Mars will be a priority. That is why I and my colleagues wish to remain – as a skeleton crew if you will.”
“Professor, do you understand, you won’t be safe here? I don’t know the exact plans, Professor, but I can say with certainty that the fleet won’t defend Mars and that there is no planetary defence here. If you put out a Mayday, there won’t be a response.”
“I understand that. Battle Fleet made it very clear that we are trusting to good fortune. But I want to make something equally clear to you. I have been on this planet for the last nine years of my life and I gave another ten before that in preparation for coming here. I fully expected, even before this war, to be buried here. I know the odds you and your courageous comrades are facing. We have to put as brave a face as possible on this, but I know they aren’t good. If the worst happens, well, being on Earth won’t change anything.”
“Sir, is there no one there you would want to be with?” Alanna asked quietly.
“No, there isn’t. This world became home a long time ago,” Scalzi replied, before adding, “not to mention that after nearly ten years in one third Earth gravity, I’d probably break a hip within an hour of landing.” He handed over a neatly folded sheet. “This is the piece of paper that so offended your man. It is to confirm that I and three of my colleagues have decided of our own free will, not to evacuate and we absolve Battle Fleet of any responsibility with regard to our safety.”
Alanna sat for a moment, thinking, then reached out and took the sheet.
“My commander won’t be happy,” she said. “I don’t have the authority to force you get on that shuttle. But I strongly advise you to do so.”
“I – we, choose not to.”
Alanna sat back in her seat and opened the sheet. At the bottom were three neat signatures. “All right Professor,” she eventually said. “I wish you luck.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I hoped you would understand.”
“Maybe a little, Professor, but I’ve got out of the habit of thinking long-term,” Alanna replied with a sigh. “When we leave, go dark. Don’t wait for the Nameless to arrive. If you wait until they do, it will be too late. Shut down all transmitters, beacons and reactors, if you can. Just run at the very minimum. With a little luck, you won’t look like you’re worth a missile.”
“Why did you let them stay, ma’am?” one of the shuttle pilots asked as they climbed away from Olympus Mons. “The Council gave us full authority to evacuate.”
As the shuttle had lumbered down the runway, she’d seen three tiny suited figures standing outside the compound waving.
“When this is over, Lieutenant,” Scalzi said as they stood at the edge of the compound, “come back here. I’ll give you the full fifty-dollar tour. I’ll make sure you see the real Mars, what it is and what it will be, not just the tourist nonsense.”
“Because he thinks we can win,” Alanna replied quietly, “and I don’t want him to be wrong.
___________________________
Lost in thought, his cold blue eyes staring into space and his spare frame ramrod straight, Admiral Paul Lewis stood on the very spot where, a little over two years before, he had watched the cruiser Mississippi limp home after that first fateful encounter with the Nameless. A year after that, he’d led the Home Fleet out for the great clash at Alpha Centauri. As the Home Fleet repaired and rebuilt, he had seen many ships set off to fight only to return as broken vessels.
Two years and yet not enough time, not close to enough time.
The last twelve months had seen dozens of new defence projects started, as Battle Fleet attempted to adapt to the war it now found itself desperately fighting. Some of the projects – the jump missiles and parasite fighters – held great promise. But others, such as the cold plasma shielding, were so wildly ambitious that Lewis couldn’t help but wonder what the hell their proponents were thinking. But it didn’t matter – two years wasn’t enough time for a project to go from concept to development, then through production and into service.
Turning, Lewis looked into the brightly lit space of the shipyard. The battleship Warspite, his flagship, lay in the most distant berth, her refit finished. She was now completing her final loading and would within hours be moving out to join the fleet. Alongside her lay one of the few new projects to reach fruition, the barrage ship Minstrel. Built on freighter chassis, each side of the hull disposed forty short, low velocity railguns. At maximum rate of fire, Minstrel could lay down a box barrage no missile could get through and empty her magazines in less than eight minutes.
No, when the Nameless arrived, there would be no new wonder weapons. Battle Fleet would have to fight with the same armaments that had come up short so many times before.
___________________________
“The breakthrough at Junction Line three weeks ago, has resulted in a drastic change in the strategic situation that is not in our favour,” Admiral Wingate told the Council. An African-American in his mid-sixties, he was the fleet’s senior military officer. Despite the faded scars of old burns and a maimed hand, until two years previously he had looked like a man ten years younger. Now the reverse was true. “Unlike their opening advance last year, this new the Nameless offensive has been methodical rather than a blitzkrieg.”
The Council chamber was near silent, disturbed only by the hum of the holograms. On the far side of the table sat the hologramatic forms of the heads of United States, Argentina, India, China, Japan, Great Britain and France. In the two years since the first contact with the Nameless, this room had seen many briefings. The means by which the war would be prosecuted had been subject to both discussion and argument. All the while as the war ground on, humanity’s position weakened.
“While we cannot be sure of their exact strengt
h, or their timing, we can be certain that within the next three weeks the Nameless will arrive in this solar system with a fleet that will outnumber and outgun our own,” Wingate continued. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I will not lie to you. What we face is a strategic nightmare and what may well amount to a tactical, no-win scenario.”
“So,” asked President Clifton, “can we expect an immediate direct attack on Earth?”
“No, Madam President. I do not believe Earth will be subject to an immediate frontal assault, something I say with considerable regret,” Wingate replied. “With the combined strength of the Home and Second Fleets, plus the starforts and ground-based planetary defence fighters, such an assault could be stood off. In fact, given the relative fragility of Nameless warships compared to our own, a direct assault would give us the best chance of winning a decisive victory. This is something we have to assume the Nameless themselves are well aware of. While they have never demonstrated any reluctance to suffer casualties, it is unlikely they will seek a battle that plays to our strengths.”
“So what do you believe their strategy will be?” British Prime Minister Layland asked quietly.
“To a certain extent, sir, it depends on what their long and short term objectives are,” Wingate replied. “If our swift eradication is their primary objective, then they may be willing to take a more forceful approach to destroy Battle Fleet and our planetary defences. Once they control Earth’s orbit, orbital bombardment will sterilise the planet within days. If they want Earth with a still functioning biosphere, then the intensity of any bombardment must be reduced. However, with control of orbit, none of the national militaries could mount an effective defence for long. Any large troop formations could be picked apart by orbital fire. This approach would expose the Nameless to a more long running campaign with higher casualties.”
“So there is a chance of them getting bogged down in an insurgency type conflict?” someone asked.
The Last Charge (The Nameless War Trilogy Book 3) Page 3