Fear God and Dread Naught

by Christopher Nuttall

  “See to it,” Susan ordered.

  She wondered, grimly, just how long it would take for the aliens to realise they’d been tricked. If the task force was very lucky, the aliens might never realise it; the drones would deactivate their drives, then vanish somewhere in the inky darkness of space. But the longer the aliens had to actually think about it, the greater the chance they’d realise that they’d been conned. Two more human battleships, without escorts ... they might start adding two and two together and getting the wrong answers.

  And then they’ll be more inclined to disbelieve their own sensors, she thought, coldly. And that will work out in our favour, in the future.

  “Signal from the flag,” Parkinson said, grimly. New orders flickered into place on the display. “We’re to cloak in five minutes. Drones are deployed to mislead the enemy.”

  Susan nodded. At close range, there was no hope of fooling the enemy, but as the distance between the two forces grew larger it would be easier to make the switch without being caught at it. The drones would leave the aliens with the very definite impression, by the time they finally deactivated themselves, that the human ships were heading directly for Tramline Three. By the time the aliens finally realised their mistake, the task force would be through Tramline Two and heading for its rendezvous with the transports.

  “Cloak us on command,” she ordered. She keyed her console. “Mr. Finch, damage report?”

  “Several pieces of hull plating need to be replaced, Captain,” Finch said, “but overall we were remarkably lucky. Replacing the destroyed sensors and point defence will take about a week, though.”

  “And we need to do it,” Susan said. She watched the timer slowly ticking down to zero, silently assessing the repair work they’d need to do. “What about the drives?”

  “Some damage to Drive Three, but nothing we can't compensate for,” Finch informed her, shortly. He sounded confident, which was a relief. If he’d been worried, she would have worried too. “I’d like to take it offline to do some repair work, but it can wait for a few hours if necessary.”

  “We’ll see what we find on the far side of Tramline Two,” Susan said. The alien ships were still falling back - the drones would already have begun to evade the alien ships, although time-delay meant they wouldn't see it on the display yet - but they would definitely have reinforcements on their way. “If we have a chance to shut the drive down, we’ll do it.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Finch said.

  The timer reached zero. “Taking us into cloak, now,” Granger reported. The lights dimmed, on cue. “The drones have gone active.”

  “They’re not quite perfect,” Charlotte noted. She sounded oddly amused. “Some of their power emissions are badly out of phase. They’re certainly not adjusting themselves to match our current signature.”

  “As long as they fool the aliens,” Granger said, crossly. Susan had the very strong impression she simply didn't like Charlotte very much. They rarely spent any time together, when they weren't sharing duty on the bridge. “At their distance, it’s unlikely they can get a solid read on our power emissions.”

  “That will do,” Susan said, tartly. She wanted a shower and several hours of sleep, but she knew she wasn't going to get either of them. “Helm, take us towards the RV point and through the tramline. Sensors, watch closely for any prowling alien ships. Tactical, be ready to engage any picket before it has a chance to sound the alert.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Reed said.

  Susan sat back in her chair as the battleship altered course, watching as the drones evaded the enemy battleships. The aliens would realise that they’d been decoyed, of course, but would they deduce that the battleships weren't real? There was no way to know. Logically, if there had been five battleships, they would have been concentrated together ... but it was quite possible that the alien attack had gotten lucky. Admiral Harper might even have sent two ships away without realising he was about to be attacked ...

  There’s no way to know, she told herself, sternly. Concentrate on what you do know and leave the rest to Harper.

  She watched, grimly, as the reports from the damage-control teams continued to flicker up in front of her. The damage wasn't as extensive as she’d feared, but as the teams continued their survey it became clear that they had a great deal of work in front of them. Finch had already put together a basic repair schedule, yet too much depended on what they found on the far side of the tramline. Pausing long enough to shut down Drive Three and carry out repairs would only be possible if there wasn't a bad-tempered alien fleet on the far side.

  And that’s the quickest way to get reinforcements into the system, she thought. They’ll know it too.

  “The drones have shut down,” Charlotte reported. It would have happened ten minutes ago, the reports only just reaching the battleship. “I don’t think the aliens have a hope in hell of finding them.”

  Susan nodded. The American drones were only three times the size of the average missile, barely even a grain of sand on an interstellar scale. There was no way the aliens would locate them unless they got very lucky. And if they did, the self-destruct system would vaporise the drone before the aliens could begin to unlock its secrets. It would be annoying - she’d heard that the drones each cost five times as much as an assault shuttle - but there would be no choice. The drones were one of humanity’s few advantages and they could not be compromised.

  She braced herself as the tramline came closer. There was no way to exchange notes with Admiral Harper, not when she only had a vague idea of New York’s position. A radio signal would betray their position to any prowling alien starships ... she wondered, absently, if the boffins had detected anything before the sensors had been blasted from Vanguard’s hull. A clue, anything to unlock the alien secret ...

  ... If there was a secret.

  There had to be a secret, she told herself. The aliens had done too much for her to believe that they were misinterpreting the data. She would have accepted one stroke of luck, one moment when everything just fell into place perfectly, but not dozens. No, the aliens had a way to coordinate their operations on an interplanetary, perhaps an interstellar scale. And it had to be duplicated before it turned into a war-winning advantage.

  “Take us through the tramline,” she ordered, quietly. “And be ready.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Reed said. “Jumping ... now.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “They’re definitely in pursuit,” Stott said, quietly. “At least a platoon, maybe two.”

  George shivered. The marines had kept moving, but they’d heard enough to suggest that the aliens were giving chase - and that they could move much faster than the marines, even without her slowing them down. She had no idea why the aliens hadn't sent aircraft or assault shuttles to look for the survivors of the crash - or even why they were bothering, given their distance from Unity City - but it hardly mattered. The aliens were coming for them ...

  The marines kept making their way through the jungle, scattering booby traps and other surprises as they moved. George couldn't help feeling that they were leaving a trail of breadcrumbs that would lead the aliens right to them, but the aliens seemed to have their trail anyway. One of the marines had muttered something about stealth drones watching from so high overhead that there wasn't a hope in hell of picking them out with the naked eye. She’d heard enough about drones used to secure forward bases in the Middle East and Africa to know that they might not be able to break contact, if the aliens already had a solid lock. But it felt as if the aliens were only giving chase on the ground.

  “This might be closer to their natural environment,” Kelly speculated. George was sweating like a pig - even a couple of the marines looked winded - and she honestly wasn't sure how long she could keep going. Her uniform was torn and stained, practically beyond repair. She would have torn it off if she’d had time. “Unknown #2 might like the jungle.”

  George shuddered at the thought. The temperature was
steadily rising; mist was rolling in from the distance, visibility dropping sharply. There were just too many trees pressing in around them, denying the marines a look at their enemy. And yet she could feel their presence in her bones, a grim awareness that kept her going when her entire body just wanted to collapse in the muddy ground. The marines, judging by their edgy glances and tight grips on their weapons, felt the same way too.

  “Stow that chatter,” Byron ordered, sharply. “Keep moving.”

  Kelly nodded - George was surprised he didn't salute - and kept walking. She was aware of him glancing at her every few minutes, silently gauging her ability to keep moving. It made her wonder what the marines would do, if she couldn't keep up with them any longer. Allow her to head off in a different direction, surrender to the aliens - or kill her themselves? She didn't want to consider the possibility, but it had to be faced.

  The bastards will have taken plenty of captives in Unity City, she thought, crossly. And I’m not important enough to deny to the enemy.

  She felt her legs start to hurt as she forced herself to keep moving, silently cursing the exercise facilities on Vanguard. If she made it back alive, she’d make sure she walked or ran at least a couple of kilometres each day. Her daily routine, enforced by regulations, was probably nothing compared to what the marines did before breakfast. She’d thought of herself as fit - she certainly wasn't the butterball some of her older cousins were - but she couldn't even begin to match the marines. And she was starting to think that her weakness would be dragging them down.

  “You should leave me,” she panted. She had no idea how Byron would react, but she would have been surprised if the thought hadn't already crossed his mind. “I’m just slowing you down.”

  “We don’t leave anyone behind,” Byron snapped. “Keep walking.”

  “They’re still catching up with us,” Stott noted. He slowed long enough to emplace another booby trap, talking all the while. “We should give them more of a bloody nose.”

  “We might have to,” Byron said. “But if they have a solid lock on us, they’ll call down fire from orbit.”

  George suspected it was a moot point. If the aliens caught up with them, they’d be trapped anyway. She had no idea just how many aliens were following them, but they had to be confident that they could overwhelm the marines. And that suggested at least a couple of platoons ...

  Unless they’re not expecting us to fight, she thought, darkly. Or they just want to shadow us without opening fire.

  She scowled, despite her growing tiredness. Ground-based combat had never been one of her specialities, but she had shot grouse and pheasant on her father’s estates. Sending out a team of beaters to drive the birds into the gunsights was a standard procedure. The aliens could have one noisy force behind them, keeping the humans running forward, while emplacing a secondary force ahead of them. They might find themselves trapped before they realised they’d been caught. And then ...

  The marines won’t surrender, she thought. Prince Henry might have been able to open communications with his captors, but she doubted she’d be that lucky. She dropped her hand to her pistol, wishing she had more than a couple of spare clips. But it still felt reassuringly solid in her hand. And I won't surrender either.

  “George,” Byron said, shortly. The marines had slowed, turning to peer back the way they’d come. “I want a word with you.”

  George was reluctant to stop - she had the feeling she wouldn't be able to get moving again, once she stopped walking - but she knew she had no choice. A chill ran down her spine, despite the oppressive heat, as she saw his face. He looked to have made a very unpleasant decision.

  “Yes, sir,” she managed. Her chest hurt. She wanted to throw up, but there was nothing in her stomach. Her breath came in gasps as she fought to keep from dry-retching. “What can I do for you?”

  “We need bait,” Byron said. “If they see you, they might just think you’re alone.”

  George looked up, taking the time to study their surroundings. There was room for the marines to take up firing positions, directly ahead of her. If the aliens thought they’d caught up with the escaped pilots - or at least one of them - they might just come forward too quick to be careful. They’d impale themselves on the human guns. But if their CO decided to call down a KEW strike, after the engagement ...

  She shook her head. The only other option was eventually being captured or killed. She had no idea how the aliens were tracking them, but they definitely were. Giving them a bloody nose, as Stott had argued, was the only way they could even hope to break contact.

  “Understood,” she said, between gasps. “What do you want me to do?”

  Byron explained, hastily, then motioned for her to stay where she was as he led the rest of the marines into the trees. George sagged to the muddy ground, feeling a conflicting series of emotions as she pulled the bottle from her belt and emptied the water down her throat. Her legs ached so much that she doubted she could walk again, at least without a hot bath and at least seven hours of sleep. But she knew she wasn't going to get either of them.

  The marines had vanished, completely. She glanced at the trees, but saw no sign of their presence. Had they abandoned her? She didn't want to consider the possibility - Fraser had been at pains to assure her that the Royal Marines were honourable warriors - but she had to admit that she was a liability. She couldn't keep up with them, she couldn't outshoot them ... what good was she, apart from being the bait? It wasn't as if they needed her for anything.

  She reached for her pistol as she heard ... something in the distance, approaching rapidly along the path they’d hacked through the jungle. It sounded like a hunting dog, breathing loudly as it found its target ... she wondered, suddenly, if the aliens had trained dog-like creatures to track the human survivors. And then her breath caught in her throat as seven aliens stepped into the clearing. She froze as they levelled their guns at her, unable to take her eyes off them. She’d seen holographic images of the aliens - and the other two races humanity had contacted - but seeing them in person was very different. They looked almost ... surreal.

  Five of the aliens looked like humanoid foxes, but with fur that shaded from brown to a soft golden colour that made her want to run her fingers through the hairs. Their eyes flickered from side to side; they moved forward in jerky motions, as if they jumped forward and then froze on command. They wore nothing, save for a thin outfit that barely covered their genitals - if indeed they were their genitals. And, as the wind shifted, she smelt a strange unpleasant musk radiating from the alien bodies.

  Behind them, the other two aliens were very different. They looked like humanoid cows, crossed with toads. Their leathery skin looked tough enough to qualify as armour in its own right; they moved slowly and deliberately, their every motion suggesting a ponderous inevitability. George wondered if they were in charge - they were certainly hiding behind the foxes - but she had no way to be sure. They might just be charged with bringing up the rear while the foxes led the way.

  One of the foxes jumped forward, his gun aimed squarely at George’s head. “Up. Now.”

  George did as she was told, moving as slowly as she dared. The longer they kept their eyes on her, the longer the marines would have to choose their targets. She wondered, absently, just how the aliens had known a little English, then told herself not to be stupid. English was the default language throughout the Human Sphere, certainly in interplanetary space. Even the simplest of children’s educational programs included the basics. She kept her hands in sight, wondering just what was keeping the marines. Had they really abandoned her?

  A shot rang out. George threw herself to the ground as three of the aliens toppled, the remainder taking up firing position and raking the trees with gunfire. One of the foxes moved forward so fast that it was a blur, almost reaching the marines before a stream of bullets practically tore him apart. His body crashed down to the mud, followed by another of the fox-like aliens. And then the gunfire came t
o a sudden end. Silence fell, broken only by grunts and gasps. One of the aliens was still alive ...

  “Corporal,” a marine said. “I ...”

  George barely had a second to register the alien’s movement, just before his claws slashed up and tore the marine’s throat out. Stott jumped forward and landed on the alien, pounding the creature with his fists; Byron snapped orders, two more marines followed, one of them carrying a roll of duct tape. The alien fought like a mad thing, despite the beating, but the marines managed to tie its hands and feet together. It didn't stop fighting until there was no way left to resist.

  “Well done,” Byron said. He helped her to her feet, then patted her on the back. “I couldn't have done it better myself.”

  George nodded tersely, then stumbled over to stare down at the alien. It glared back at her, hatred - or something she assumed was hatred - clearly visible in its eyes. The stench was overwhelming, a scent that made her want to turn on her heels and run. Did the aliens use scent as a defensive measure? Or did they use it as a form of communication? She had no way to know.