Fear God and Dread Naught

by Christopher Nuttall

  Perhaps they feel the bodies aren't important, she thought. A thought struck her and she frowned. Or perhaps they’re just leaving them until they’ve finished sweeping the remains of the village.

  The aliens moved in odd jerky patterns. One moment, they were standing still; the next, they’d be moving so quickly that she could barely see them run. They were hard to see, even against the burning barn. She blinked hard, forcing herself to watch as the aliens converged on one another, just long enough to exchange a few words before sprinting away again. And then one of the helicopters ducked low, dropping ropes towards the ground. The aliens grabbed hold and were lifted up, back into the dark sky.

  And then they were gone.

  George blinked. “What the fuck?”

  Stott chucked, rudely. “Come on,” he said. “We don’t want to be anywhere near if they drop a KEW on the settlement.”

  He picked up his bag, then turned and led the way into the darkness, following a path George knew she would have had difficulty following even in broad daylight. Branches lashed out at her as she hurried after him, slipping and sliding in the mud. The marines insisted she should be grateful for the rain - it obscured their trails nicely - but she found it a nightmare. She was half-convinced she’d slip and break her neck as she walked behind him.

  “Their logistics must be beginning to bite,” Stott commented, half an hour later. They probably wouldn't be safe, if the aliens decided to blast the entire area, but so far they hadn’t bothered to do anything. “Did you notice they didn't use any rockets?”

  “They did use machine guns,” George pointed out. “Why ...?”

  “The resistance lured a couple of helicopters into a trap,” Stott said. “I imagine the aliens leant from that experience.”

  George nodded. “You mentioned their logistics?”

  Stott laughed, even as he walked faster, forcing her to hurry after him. “You think your logistics are bad? Ours are worse. Everything we need to bring to the party has to be transported from Earth - or one of the forward bases, if we’re lucky. A factory ship can produce some items, true, but not everything. A single MANPAD needs to be shipped all the way from Earth to wherever we want to use it.

  “I imagine the aliens have the same problem,” he added. “There’s fuck-all industry here, so everything they need has to be brought with them. Quite a pain in the ass if the insurgency stays active longer than they expected.”

  “I see,” George said. She’d assisted Vanguard’s officers with logistics, but she’d never had to handle it herself. Stocking Middy Country was easy compared to deploying a marine unit and making sure it had all necessary supplies. “So they might just run out of bullets?”

  Stott shrugged. “Depends on what they brought with them,” he said. “Bullets are easy, with the right tools - other things are not. Now, keep walking. I want to be back at the camp before the sun rises.”

  George nodded and followed him, trying to think about something - anything - other than the distance she had to walk to reach camp. If the aliens really were having logistics problems, what did that mean? That the resistance could simply walk in and retake their world once the aliens ran out of bullets? Or that the aliens might just withdraw to a single defensible point and call down KEWs on anything that looked threatening? She didn't want to think about what that might mean for the prisoners, if the shit hit the fan. The aliens didn't seem to be actively torturing or abusing them - not like the Vesy, if some of the darker reports were accurate - but that might change. She was all-too-aware of the human bodies she’d left behind at the destroyed settlement.

  “Bah,” Stott muttered, as dawn began to break. “You’ll be doing more push-ups later, young lady.”

  “Yes, sir,” George said, stiffly. “But we’re nearly there.”

  Stott surprised her by laughing. “Try saying that to a sergeant,” he said. “But make sure you do it from a safe distance.”

  He said nothing else as they reached the edge of the camp and passed through the outer defence lines. Byron had made sure to have all the approaches picketed, although he’d admitted that trying to put up a fight - when the aliens arrived - would be nothing more than suicide. George had been surprised when he’d told her the evacuation plan, but she had to admit it made sense. There was no point in a number of marines and resistance fighters getting themselves killed for nothing.

  “Get something to eat and drink, then join us in the tent,” Stott ordered, once they were through the lines. “The boss will want to speak to you.”

  George nodded and hurried towards the mess. The food hadn’t improved, not entirely to her surprise. There was nothing stopping the marines from hunting, but Byron was paranoid about cooking the food, even a safe distance from the camp. No one had argued. After the aliens had uncovered and destroyed a number of camps, none of the inhabitants felt like taking risks.

  Apart from the ones we have to take, George thought. Like going out and watching as the aliens take a pasting.

  She stepped into the tent and took a pair of ration bars from the box, opening one and stuffing the other in her pocket for later. The mess seemed almost deserted - coming to think of it, the entire camp seemed undermanned. She frowned as she chewed the ration bar, then carefully placed the wrapper in the rubbish bag before heading for the flap. Stott had told her, during one of their training sessions, that all rubbish had to be bagged up and transported well away from the camp. A skilled intelligence specialist could learn a great deal about the unit merely be studying its waste.

  “George,” Byron said, as she walked into the command tent. “What do you make of it?”

  “They were reluctant to give chase,” George said. “And they conserved their ammunition as much as possible.”

  She paused. “And they also showed a lack of respect for their own bodies.”

  “That fits with their previous behaviour,” Kelly put in. “They don’t seem to care about leaving their dead behind.”

  Byron looked disturbed. “Don’t they know how much damage someone could do with a single alien body?”

  “I suspect it’s tradition,” Kelly said. “We evolved a tradition of trying to recover the bodies of our fallen long before anything unpleasant could be done with them.”

  “Maybe,” Byron said. He glanced at George. “I’ve received word from General Kershaw. A message was forwarded to him through the network of stealthed relay satellites.”

  George looked up, sharply. “They’re here?”

  “The task force has apparently returned to the system,” Byron said. “We’re moving out tomorrow.”

  “To get into position,” George said. She stopped as she realised the implications. “If they see you coming ...”

  “It's a risk we have to take,” Byron said. “The aliens have a large garrison on the surface, George. If we can pin them down, we might just be able to prevent them from doing something drastic.”

  George blinked. “I thought you would have wanted to destroy the garrison.”

  “If the aliens stay in orbit, they’ll just smash us flat,” Byron pointed out. “And if the task force retakes the high orbitals, the aliens can either surrender or get smashed flat themselves.”

  “Without risking everything,” George said.

  Byron nodded. “I’d prefer for you to head south to one of the refugee camps,” he said. “But if you want to join the resistance fighters as they prepare to reinforce us, you may do so.”

  George swallowed, hard. She hadn't liked her first experiences of combat. Part of her would have been delighted to withdraw to the refugee camp and wait to see what happened. But the rest of her knew she’d never forgive herself if she retreated. She’d signed up to risk her life for her country.

  “I’d prefer to join you,” she said, honestly. “But if the resistance will have me, I’ll be there.”

  “They’ll be glad to have anyone who can fire a gun,” Byron said. “You don’t have the training to fight beside us, not here.”r />
  “I know,” George admitted. “When do we leave?”

  “In two hours,” Byron said. “The operation is apparently due to kick off this evening.”

  “So go get packed,” Stott put in. “And make damn sure you have plenty of ammunition. It’s meant to be used.”

  George nodded, shortly. It wasn't as if she had anything to pack, apart from the ammunition and a handful of ration bars. She only had one set of clothes, after all; she was all too aware that she was dirty, smelly and not fit for human company. Her sister would probably fall over in a faint if she laid eyes on George. She might wonder, in all honesty, if George was even human.

  Not that she would enjoy being here either, George thought, as she walked to the supply dump. She would hate it.

  The thought made her smile. Anne, her sister; Anne, who had long blonde hair that took the maids nearly half an hour to prepare; Anne, who wore gowns from a bygone age whenever she thought she could get away with it; Anne, who had never been told no since she’d been a little girl; Annie, who had never done anything more taxing than lifting a fan to coyly hide her eyes ... the thought of Annie crawling through the mud was absurd. George had to fight down a giggle as she imagined Anne making her way through the jungle, her dress tattered and torn before she’d even walked a mile ...

  She sobered, sharply, as the full implications struck her. This time, they wouldn't be picking on isolated patrols and alien encampments; this time, they’d be going after the garrison itself ... and if they lost, if the task force lost, they’d die. She’d never see her sister again.

  I’m sorry, Anne, she thought, morbidly. She’d written the standard letter before Vanguard had departed Earth - and another before they’d first entered the Unity System - but she knew it wouldn't be enough. I’d like to see you, one more time.

  She took a long moment to calm herself, then walked into the supply dump. If she got home, she would have time to talk to her sister again ...

  ... But for the moment, she had to prepare for war.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Two battleships in orbit, one carrier and five destroyers holding position at the L2 point,” Charlotte said, studying the records from HMS Pinafore. “There’s no sign of their other battleships.”

  “They may have been banged up worse than we thought,” Mason said. “Has the flag issued any updated orders?”

  “No, sir,” Parkinson said. “They may be still evaluating the sensor records.”

  Susan nodded. HMS Pinafore had slipped close enough for passive sensor scans, but going active would have betrayed her location to a watchful alien scout. The aliens might not have had the time - or the equipment - to set up a network of recon platforms, yet they would be watching for any trace of the task force. They had to know that the task force had escaped its shadows and headed back along a course that would bring it to Unity.

  “We can take them, Captain,” Mason said. “We’ve got more starfighters as well as the big guns.”

  “It looks that way,” Susan agreed. She was mildly surprised that Admiral Harper hadn't already given the order to attack. The aliens might have additional starships of their own waiting in cloak, but the task force would have plenty of time to break off if the balance of power suddenly swung against them. “Tactical, your analysis?”

  “The ships appear to be at readiness, Captain,” Granger said. “I’d say they were at condition-two, if they were human.”

  “Noted,” Susan said. She doubted that Admiral Harper would want to sneak up on them, not when the aliens were likely to see the task force coming. Besides, the plan for a joint assault on the ground as well as in space demanded that the aliens were lured away from the planet. “Continue to monitor their position.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Granger said.

  “Signal from the flag, Captain,” Parkinson said. “The task force is to advance, formation delta; I say again, formation delta.”

  So we’re giving up all hope of surprise, Susan thought. Formation Delta was nothing more than a direct challenge, advancing in full array without even the slightest attempt to hide. It should appeal to the aliens, if the xenospecialists were right. But if we’re outgunned, we should have a chance to break free before it’s too late.

  “Helm, take us out,” Susan ordered. “Tactical, prepare to drop the cloak on cue.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Reed said. “Estimated time to contact, two hours and forty minutes.”

  Susan settled back in her chair as the task force slowly crawled away from the tramline, picking up speed as the cloaking devices were switched off. The aliens wouldn't have any problems seeing them, despite the time delay. They were practically broadcasting their location to the entire system. Her instructors at the Academy would probably have exploded with rage, she thought, if anyone had tried that tactic in the simulator tank, but it might just work against the aliens. If they really liked a challenge, the task force was offering them one they should find irresistible.

  “They’ll see us in less than thirty minutes, Captain,” Granger said. “Unless they do have a ship watching the tramline.”

  Susan shrugged. For once, the presence of a cloaked spy ship wasn’t a concern. They wanted the aliens to see them. But if there were other cloaked ships in the system ... she shook her head. The task force was surrounded by a dozen sensor probes, watching carefully for anything that might indicate the presence of a cloaked ship - or fleet. If they picked up a hint of trouble, they had plenty of time to break off. Or so she kept telling herself.

  “Hold us on course,” she ordered. It would be nearly an hour before they knew what the aliens were doing, although as the task force converged on the planet the time delay would fall to zero. “And keep a sharp eye on the sensors.”

  She kept her own eyes on the sensor display as more and more data flowed in from the remote probes. The aliens, it seemed, hadn't had the time to establish their own cloudscoop, let alone set up an asteroid mining station of their own. She wasn't too surprised - they had to know their grip on Unity wasn't strong - but it didn't look as if they’d bothered to survey the remainder of the system either. It made her wonder, grimly, just how many records they’d captured from the contact fleet.

  But Unity is right on the edge of the war front, she mused. If they’re operating on a shoestring too, they’re not going to want additional commitments.

  The thought made her smile. Unity wasn't a system of little importance - the tramlines running through the system offered the aliens a chance to attack the Tadpole flank or plunge into human space - but holding it was going to be costly. The aliens might have made a serious mistake, tactically speaking, by invading the planet. They’d feel compelled to hang onto the surface when leaving the colonists to their own devices might have seemed a better idea. It wasn't as if they couldn't have emplaced a handful of automated weapons platforms in orbit, keyed to fire on anything leaving the atmosphere. Anyone trapped at the bottom of the gravity well would have been powerless to affect the course of the war.

  “They’re adjusting position,” Granger said, sharply. “I think they’re preparing to leave orbit.”

  They will have left by now, Susan reminded herself. The time delay was still a significant factor. And they’ll be coming out for us.

  She watched, grimly, as the situation developed. A human enemy might have thought twice about setting out on an intercept course, particularly against a force that outnumbered him, but the aliens clearly didn't intend to run. Instead, they were heading directly for the human ships, their carrier moving up behind the battleships. Susan wondered, as she studied its acceleration curves, if she was looking at an alien version of Ark Royal. The carrier definitely seemed to be older and slower than the carriers they'd killed earlier. And if that was the case ...

  “Signal the flag,” she ordered, quietly. “That carrier may be tougher than the others.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Parkinson said.

  Susan braced herself as the two alien battlesh
ips came closer, their carrier already launching fighters in attack formation. Admiral Harper barked orders over the datanet, commanding the human carriers to launch their own fighters. The French starfighters formed a CSP, protecting the task force, while the Russians plunged forward, intent on crippling the enemy ships. Susan watched, grimly, as enemy point defence fire began to take a toll. It looked, very much, as though the enemy had taken the time to analyse their earlier encounter and improve their targeting.

  “The enemy point defence has improved by at least twenty percent, Captain,” Granger reported, grimly. “And that carrier is definitely armed to the teeth.”