“Carrier One is under heavy attack,” Charlotte reported. “She’s ...”
Her voice broke off. “Scratch one flattop,” she said. “I say again, scratch one flattop.”
Susan nodded. The alien pilots were overloading their drives, but it still wasn’t enough. She watched, vindictively, as the second carrier staggered to one side, then lost power completely as a chain of explosions wrecked her innards. Somehow, miraculously, her hull survived, but Susan would have been astonished if any of her crew had. Even if they had, there was no way they’d last long enough for help to arrive.
“Scratch a second flattop,” Charlotte repeated. Moments later, the escorts were picked off too. “The enemy ship is nothing but a ruined hulk.”
“Take us to her location,” Susan ordered. The enemy starfighters were screaming past the ruins of their ship, angling directly towards the human carriers. “Inform Prince Henry that he is to ready his technical analysis crews.”
She glanced at the sensor records as the Russian starfighters turned to face the oncoming storm while the French starfighters returned to the carrier, ready to defend them. The aliens had never been particularly careful, but now they seemed completely heedless of their own safety as they fell on the human carriers. Susan watched, knowing she could do nothing, as they roared towards their targets, firing savagely. Four starfighters slammed into Napoleon before the last of the alien craft were wiped out. Susan could only hope that the damage had not been that severe.
“Signal from Napoleon,” Parkinson said. “She’s lost one of her launch tubes, but is otherwise undamaged.”
“Acknowledge,” Susan ordered. Losing a launch tube was irritating - and it would slow down deployment until they reached a proper shipyard - but it was better than losing the entire ship. “Can we pull anything from the alien hulk?”
“Unknown,” Granger said. “Her innards were pretty badly fried.”
Susan glanced at Mason. If the alien warship designers thought along the same lines as their human counterparts, it was unlikely that anything sensitive would have survived. They’d captured alien debris before and learned next to nothing from it. But she had to admit that it was just possible that something had survived.
“Order the techs to do a basic survey,” she said, quietly. “If they find anything, we can commit resources to pulling it out.”
“Aye, Captain,” Mason said.
Susan leaned back, thinking hard. The hell of it was that the alien reinforcements would probably already be on their way. If their FTL communications really did allow them to send messages from system to system ... she cursed under her breath, angrily. She would like to know, for sure, just what the aliens could actually do. A system that wasn’t particularly useful, outside interplanetary distances, would still be a game-changer, as far as the tactical situation was concerned.
They may assume that there’s no hope of salvaging the situation, she thought. But we’ve definitely told them where we went, after Unity.
“Communications, record a message for the flag,” she ordered. She waited for Parkinson’s nod before continuing. “Admiral Harper, the operation was concluded successfully. We will attempt to determine if we can recover anything from the wreckage, but I doubt it will be possible. However, I recommend that we move immediately through Tramline Two, as planned.”
She paused. “Attach our sensor records, then send the message,” she added. “And inform me the moment he replies.”
“Deploying shuttles,” Mason said. “They’re taking a look-see now.”
Susan nodded, tightly. It would be at least an hour before Admiral Harper got back to her, assuming he made his mind up at once. She rather suspected he would have been planning to vacate the system at once, anyway, but his ship would be limping along until her repairs were completed. But there was no choice. If the aliens reacted quickly, they’d have an excellent chance to catch the task force scattered over the next system.
But not if we’re already moving, she thought. They’ll have to make some excellent guesses about which way we’ll go.
She worked her way through it as the seconds ticked away. Moving through Tramline Two ran the risk - or offered the opportunity - of running into whatever other reinforcements the aliens were sending to Unity. They’d be alerted by now - she dared not assume that the FTL communications system didn't work on an interstellar scale - but they’d still have no idea where the human ships were until it was too late. But moving through Tramline Three offered a least-time course back to Unity.
They'll know it, she told herself. But they won’t be able to be sure which way we’ll go.
If the researchers were correct - and it certainly looked as though they had a good handle on the alien mentality - the aliens would be furious. They’d want to hunt the task force down as fast as possible, but where would they send their ships? The sheer inability to decide would drive them mad, particularly given the likely consequences of guessing wrong. They’d know when the task force showed itself, she assumed, but before then ...
“The techs just sent in a basic report,” Mason reported. “They believe that the interior of the ship is completely gutted. There’s little hope of recovering anything.”
Susan nodded, unsurprised. “Recall them,” she ordered. She briefly considered completing the job, but decided it was pointless. The aliens could do what they liked with the drifting hulk. “And then set course for the RV point.”
“Aye, Captain,” Mason said.
“Message from the flag, Captain,” Parkinson reported. “Code green-blue-seven.”
“Belay that order, Mr. Reed,” Susan ordered. “Set course for Point Haven instead.”
“Aye, Captain,” Reed said.
“We’re moving on,” Mason said, quietly. “Moving further away from Unity.”
“We can double back,” Susan said. She had no idea how strong the aliens were in the sector - there were few colonies between Unity and alien space - but she rather suspected they were still scrambling to get reinforcements into the region. “And they’ll be kept guessing.”
Or so we hope, she thought.
“The techs have returned,” Mason informed her.
“Helm, take us to Point Haven,” Susan ordered. She glanced at Granger. “Tactical, cloak us as soon as we begin to move.”
“Aye, Captain,” Granger said.
She leaned back in her chair as the battleship started to move, linking up with the two carriers as they made their way towards Point Haven. The aliens couldn't have a lock on them, not now; they'd have to guess at the task force’s destination, with only a 50/50 chance of being right. And even if they were right, they’d still have to scrape up the forces to hunt the task force down and destroy it. Would they take the risk of leaving Unity uncovered? Or would they decide that securing the planet wasn't worth the effort?
We may not be making that much of an impact, she thought. But every ship we draw away from the war front may make a very big difference.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The alien peered at her through dark unreadable eyes.
George returned the alien’s stare, careful to keep a distance from its chained form. The carefully-prepared cells - not that they were called cells - on Vanguard were nothing more than a distant memory. Keeping the alien in a cellar, chained firmly to the concrete wall, would probably look very bad, when they returned to Earth, but there hadn't been any real choice. The locals had flatly refused to try to find somewhere more suitable to keep a prisoner.
Which isn't too surprising, George thought, as she worked to formulate her next set of questions. Our captive’s friends tore apart their world.
“Tell me how many of you there are,” she said.
The alien - the marines had dubbed him Woof - gazed at her uncomprehendingly. George wasn't sure if he didn't understand or if he was playing dumb, although she’d heard enough spoken words from the alien to suspect that he’d only been taught a very limited set of human words. He remi
nded her more of a British tourist off to see the continent than someone who was genuinely interested in talking to the locals on their own terms. But she would have been surprised if the alien leadership had wanted them to speak human languages. They might have been seduced away from their cause.
“Tell me how many are there in your unit,” she tried again.
“Twelve,” the alien rasped.
George frowned. They’d killed six aliens and captured one. If Woof was telling the truth - if the alien even understood the question - there should have been five more aliens chasing the marines. What had happened to them? She rather doubted the booby traps had caught more than one or two of them, not when the marines hadn't had the time to make them really unpleasant. Hell, the reports from the scouts suggested that the aliens were experienced soldiers, surprisingly good at picking out the traps from the surrounding landscape.
“Tell me how many landed on the planet,” she said.
The alien looked as if he wanted to answer, but said nothing. George scowled as she heard someone opening the door behind her, although she didn't take her eyes off the alien. Woof had shown a surprising reluctance to escape, but she knew just how fast the aliens could move. If Woof had managed to work a claw out of the chains, she would be merely the first to die.
“Corporal wants you up there,” Private Waters said. He jerked a finger upwards as he moved into sight. “Your friend is staying down here for the moment.”
“Understood,” George said.
She rose, nodded curtly to Woof and headed to the door. There were two armed guards outside, with strict orders to open fire if the alien broke out. Byron had warned George, twice, that the guards wouldn't hesitate to shoot, even if Woof was using her body as a human shield. They didn't dare take the risk of letting the alien out of the farmhouse. Given the speed the aliens could move, they wouldn't have a hope of catching up before it was too late.
The interior of the farmhouse itself looked half-abandoned. George had heard, from the resistance fighters, that the original owners had headed further away from the city, even though they were a good forty kilometres from the spaceport. But then, an aircraft could cover the distance in minutes, reaching its destination before anyone could prepare for its arrival. And the invaders were certainly ruthless enough to kick down the doors and come in shooting, if they had some reason to suspect trouble. She walked up the stairs and into the living room, where Byron and an officer she didn't recognise were bent over a hand-drawn map. It looked like the spaceport and the city, sketched by a child.
“George,” Byron said. “Did you get anything useful from the prisoner?”
“No, sir,” George said.
She scowled in frustration. She’d seen some of the preparations Prince Henry had made, massing a remarkable collection of brainpower and technological support in preparation for a sustained assault on the alien language. But she didn't have any support, not even a standard laptop terminal. Byron had flatly refused to allow any of the marines - or her - to carry anything that might radiate a betraying radio signal. Unlocking the alien language was well beyond her capabilities.
Byron nodded. “Do you get the impression he’s holding out on us?”
“I don’t think so,” George said, after a moment. “He behaves himself very well, I think. But his language is very limited. I don’t think he was taught enough English for a proper conversation.”
She sighed. She’d been forced to take French lessons at school and she’d been left with the impression that French was a very rude language. But that was just her perceptions talking, her understanding of one language impeding her ability to comprehend another. How much worse must it be, she asked herself, if the second language wasn't even human? The aliens might look humanoid, but they were clearly inhuman. Their way of looking at the world might be very different from hers.
“That wouldn't be too surprising,” Byron said. He frowned as he looked back at the map. “I don't think there's any evidence that they’re actually interested in interrogating civilians.”
George peered at the map herself. “What are they doing with civilians?”
“Everyone they caught, they tossed into a camp,” the officer she didn't recognise said. He had a strong American accent, strong enough to make her blink. “The fools who stayed in Unity City had nowhere to hide.”
“Oh,” George said. “How are they being treated?”
“Well enough, as far as we can tell,” the officer said. “But they’re very definitely prisoners.”
“The aliens have been sending out patrols over the last two days,” Byron added. His finger traced a pattern on the map. “They’ve been moving further and further away from Unity City.”
“Trying to provoke contact with us,” the officer mused. He looked at George. “What else can you tell us about our prisoner?”
George took a moment to gather her thoughts. “He doesn't seem to have any problems eating our food and drinking water,” she said. “As far as we can tell, he appears to be completely healthy. His ... bodily wastes ... have been taken away and buried. We’ve tried to wash his fur, but he didn't seem to appreciate it. The musk ... isn't exactly pleasant. It’s actually made a number of his watchers jumpy.”
Byron frowned. “It doesn't affect you?”
“I tell myself that the sensations aren't real,” George said.
She leaned forward as she spoke. “Mentally, he appears to be completely passive,” she added. “He obeys orders, when he understands them. I’ve discovered that he appears to react better to orders that are issued slowly, giving him time to comprehend them. In some ways, it’s like talking to a particularly dim-witted child.”
“But English is very definitely not his first language,” Byron pointed out. “Being a captive can't be very good for his mental health either.”
“Yes, sir,” George said.
She met his eyes. “I’ve tried to measure his intelligence through a number of counting games, like the ones I was taught in school,” she added. “He’s definitely capable of adding two and two together ...”
“I’m sure that will rock the scientific community,” the officer said, dryly.
George ignored him. “Numerically, he’s very good,” she said. “I managed to teach him the signs for multiplication and division, as well as a few other concepts. He’s far from stupid. But we don’t have a way to break the language barrier, either by teaching him more of our words or by learning to speak his language. At least, not yet. We’re just not set up for it here.”
Byron nodded. “Can you get anything useful from him?”
“Very little,” George admitted. “He insists, repeatedly, that we challenged them, not the other way around. Past that ... we just don't have enough words in common to discuss political concepts or the enemy leadership structure. He simply won’t be drawn on dozens of topics.”
She shrugged. “It’s a little hard to interrogate someone when they can't understand your questions.”
“A common problem,” Byron said, dryly. He gave her a tight smile. “I think I’m starting to understand how the aliens think.”
He tapped the map. “They hammered a few of our installations from orbit, but they otherwise held their fire - they didn't liberally spread KEWs around. That’s what we would do, if we had to invade a planet - blow up anything that looked remotely threatening. But they landed and engaged our forces on the ground.”
“And they chased us through the jungle,” George reminded us.
“Yeah,” Byron said.
“I’m honestly wondering if they just like challenges,” he added, after a moment. “They might just have attacked the Contact Fleet under the assumption that we might feel the same way too.”
George shook her head. “They’d have to be mad.”
“Or alien,” Byron said. “Dominance rituals are not uncommon for us, even though we tend to think of them differently. Why shouldn't the aliens be the same?”
Like Potter trying t
o undermine me, George thought. She wondered, suddenly, what had become of the ship. There hadn’t been any time to draw a last update from Vanguard before she’d crashed on Unity. And me, trying to keep him firmly in his place.
“If that were true,” she mused, “they’d run the risk of encountering a race that saw the attack as an unforgivable insult. And that race would chase them all the way back to their homeworld and lay waste to it.”
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