Fear God and Dread Naught

by Christopher Nuttall

  The aliens must have known they were in trouble, but they didn't seem inclined to fall back and escape into the darkness. Instead, they found more cover and continued to fire, sniping at the resistance with brief bursts of fire. They could see in the dark, George noticed, as the illumination round began to burn out. Their shooting was distressingly accurate for creatures that shouldn't have been able to pick out the resistance fighters from the surrounding jungle.

  Someone tapped her shoulder as the alien fire intensified. “Pull back,” a fighter snapped, when she turned to look at him. “Now!”

  George nodded and glanced at the man who’d chatted to her earlier. He was dead, his body lying beside her. A bullet had struck the side of his head - his brains were leaking out onto the muddy ground - and she hadn't even noticed! She gagged, despite herself, then crawled backwards, not daring to rise. The alien shooting was actually intensifying, even though they must be running short of ammunition. They were certainly spending it freely.

  She moved deeper into the jungle, feeling safer as the darkness enveloped her. The sound of shooting was growing louder, along with a hail of explosions that suggested that the aliens were trying to counterattack. Her ears ached - no matter how she tried, she couldn't determine just what was going on as she rose and ran to the next rally point. The sound of engines in the distance grew stronger as she reached her destination, warning her that more alien vehicles were on the way. They’d link up with the stranded infantry, she assumed, and then launch a thrust down the road.

  Or they’ll try to sneak through the jungle, she thought, grimly. They’d take us in the rear if they had a chance.

  “Take a grenade,” someone ordered. The resistance fighters had already started to set up a barricade, half of them digging a trench while the other half felled trees so they fell across the road. “And get ready to join the fight.”

  The noise grew louder as the first alien vehicle appeared, surrounded by a handful of alien soldiers. They were advancing forward at a remarkable speed, but clearly watching for traps instead of impaling themselves on the resistance’s guns. George braced herself, hastily checking her ammunition. She cursed under her breath a moment later. She'd gone through nearly two-thirds of her supply without even noticing!

  An explosion enveloped the first vehicle, sending its infantry escort scattering in all directions. George cursed as two more vehicles appeared, their machine guns opening fire and practically disintegrating the barricade. She clung to the earth as the ground shook around her, suddenly very aware that the trench was very fragile and provided very little protection. There were so many bullets flying overhead that she didn't dare lift her head and look out of the trench. Fear practically held her frozen as she cowered at the bottom - she could practically smell the aliens as they advanced on the trench. And then a helicopter, flying overhead, was blown out of the sky by a direct hit. Shocked out of her paralysis, George pulled herself up and peered over the side of the trench ...

  ... And beheld a disaster.

  The aliens had smashed the resistance position, leaving only a handful of fighters alive as more and more aliens marched onto the scene. She hadn't expected much from the barricade - it wasn't as if they’d had hours to get it in place - but it had been blasted aside with casual ease. And the aliens were marching forward, weapons at the ready. They’d find her ...

  George scrambled out of the trench, crawling as fast as she could towards the edge of the jungle. She felt stark naked, utterly exposed. There was no way she could count on the darkness to hide her, not when the aliens could see in the dark. It felt as if a pair of crosshairs had been drawn on her back, as if she could feel, deep inside, that someone was pointing a gun at her. She heard footsteps behind her, a pitter-patter that wasn't remotely human; she tried to turn and bring up her rifle, but it was casually snatched out of her hands before she could fire a shot and tossed into the distance. And then the alien slammed her face-down into the muddy ground, pushing her nose and mouth into the dirt. She struggled, but it was useless. The alien was far stronger than her.

  She choked as she tried to breathe, then went limp. Woof had submitted when the marines had beaten him, hadn't he? Perhaps, if she submitted too, the aliens would spare her life ... there was a long moment when she thought she’d failed, that she was about to die, then the alien hauled her upright and held her effortlessly in the air. Claws flickered out of his palm and sliced her clothes away, leaving her naked and helpless. She stared numbly at the creature, wondering just what was about to happen. All those Z-Grade movies about aliens coming to Earth to steal women couldn't be true, could they?

  The alien dropped her to the ground and spun her around, resting one hand on her naked shoulder. She stayed very still, remembering the razor-sharp claws that could slice through her neck as easily as a hot knife through butter. The alien gave her a gentle push, marching her towards the remains of the ambush site. A handful of other human prisoners were kneeling on the ground, as naked as herself, their hands on their heads. Four aliens were guarding them, weapons at the ready. George couldn't help wondering if she was being marched to her execution. The aliens couldn't be pleased with everything that had happened since the attack had begun.

  “Sit,” the alien said.

  It pushed her down at the same moment. George knelt, placing her hands on her head. The aliens marched around, exchanging comments in their barking tongue; she wished, suddenly, that she was better at reading their moods. She'd killed a couple of foxes on her father’s estate - Anne had hated the whole idea, claiming it was cruelty to dumb animals - but she’d never bothered to learn how to read them. And even if she had, the aliens weren't actually related to Foxes. They merely looked similar.

  She glanced northwards. The sound of firing was getting louder. Her captors didn't seem to know what to do - had they killed their commanding officer? Or did their CO not know what to do either? They didn't know what was lying in wait down the road. A whole string of ambushes - or an open road to the garrison. Charging down it blindly might just get them all killed.

  They might just force us to walk in front of them, George thought, grimly. And that would get us killed.

  She shuddered, helplessly. Human shields ... two centuries of brutal combat since the dawn of the Age of Unrest had taught the military not to flinch when terrorists and insurgents used human shields. Western military forces had done what they could to save the poor unfortunates used as human shields, then hunt down the bastards who’d used them and hang them from the nearest lamppost. But the aliens couldn't be expected to know that, could they?

  I can't do it, she thought, grimly. Whatever they want me to do, I can't do it.

  She closed her eyes in pain. She’d gone through the Academy’s version of the Conduct After Capture course, but no one had seriously expected her to be captured in the field. Maybe that had been a mistake - Prince Henry had been captured in the middle of a battle - yet ending up on Unity during the war had been utterly unexpected. She’d expected, when she’d considered it at all, that she would be taken into custody after a surrender. The rules were different then, at least for humans. God alone knew what the aliens considered them to be.

  The barking grew louder as the aliens chattered away. She opened her eyes in time to see one of the aliens jabbing at another with his claws, starting a fight. The second alien lunged, claws extended; George watched, in growing horror, as they tore at one another, droplets of blood splashing everywhere. She fought the urge to rise and run for her life as the fighting grew more savage, a moment before the first alien caught the second in the chest with a clawed hand. The second alien slumped to the ground, dead. None of the other aliens seemed to care.

  And to think I thought that battling Fraser was bad, George thought, stunned. Middies were expected to jostle for position, but killing someone - even seriously hurting someone - would be grounds for a court martial. What sort of military allows its people to kill one another?

  The victo
r turned to its comrades and barked a long string of orders. George couldn't understand a word, but being hauled to her feet and pointed down the road was easy to understand. She braced herself to refuse if the aliens tried to force her north, even though she knew it would get her killed; the aliens, instead, ordered her south. Other aliens materialised out of the jungle as they moved, looking grim and despondent. Had they lost the fight? Or were they merely waiting for their space-based comrades to end the battle?

  She glanced at the other prisoners, who looked as stunned as she felt. Everyone had known the aliens had stopped taking prisoners. Had the aliens accepted their submission? Or had they merely decided not to waste bullets shooting prisoners? George considered the idea, then dismissed it a second later. The aliens didn't need to shoot the prisoners to kill them. A single slash of their claws would be more than enough to finish the job.

  Gritting her teeth, she looked upwards. It was growing darker, but she could see the first glimmers of daybreak in the distance. And the shooting was still going on ... she imagined Byron and the marines punching through the defences, storming the spaceport, slaughtering the alien commanders ...

  It didn't matter, she realised dully. If the aliens were beaten in orbit, the navy could hammer their positions on the ground; if the aliens drove the task force away, they could hammer the imprudent humans from orbit. The battle on the ground might have put pressure on the aliens, as Byron had hoped, or it might have been completely immaterial. She had the nasty feeling, as she marched to an unknown fate, that it was the latter. Hundreds of lives - and countless pieces of irreplaceable equipment - had been lost. And it might have been for nothing.

  The battle will be decided up there, she thought, tiredly. Perhaps she should have gone to one of the refugee camps after all. It would have made her feel like a coward, but how much use had she actually been? And everything down here is just a side show.

  She sighed, bitterly, as she kept walking. There was nothing else she could do.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Susan felt cold as the two enemy battleships advanced towards the human ships, surrounded by nine smaller ships and a light carrier. Or something she assumed was a light carrier, she reminded herself. After the arsenal ships, she’d be damned if she took anything that looked harmless lightly again.

  “Confirm,” she ordered. “Those are our former shadows?”

  “Confirmed,” Granger said. “They’re definitely the same battleships - but they seem to have picked up a couple of other escorts somewhere along the way back here.”

  Susan nodded, grimly. There was no hope of avoiding engagement, not with both Vanguard and Indianapolis badly damaged. Their drives couldn't hope to ramp up enough power to escape the aliens, while she knew - all too well - that there were no reinforcements on the way. She could use drones to try to trick the aliens into believing that there were reinforcements entering the system, but she doubted they’d fall for the same trick twice. And that left her with no option, save for a long-range duel against an enemy she knew outgunned her.

  “Alter course,” she ordered quietly, as her idea came to life in her mind. “Bring us about - let them chase us.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Reed said.

  Susan briefly contemplated their options. The two battleships could fight a heroic rearguard operation while the remainder of the task force fled, but that would mean surrendering to the inevitable. And it wasn't in her nature to simply give up. Besides, if she carried out the engagement properly, the smaller ships could disengage even if the battleships were destroyed. The carriers wouldn't be able to stand up to the battleships, but they were fast enough to outrun them and their starfighters could dispose of anything fast enough to catch the fleeing ships.

  “Signal to the task force,” she ordered, slowly. “The carriers are to launch starfighters on attack vector as soon as the enemy reaches attack range. Their objective is to weaken the battleship point defence and sensor nodes as much as possible.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Parkinson said.

  Susan watched the display, wondering if any of the commanding officers would object. The reasoning that had put her as Harper’s second no longer applied, not after all of the surviving commanders had had their taste of combat against the new aliens. And yet, they had to know that there was no time for a debate. As she watched, acknowledgements flowed in from all of the remaining ships. Even Yegorovich had accepted her command without a fight.

  Probably because he’ll never have a better chance to paint another alien battleship on his hull, she thought, cynically. And because Russia’s reputation won’t survive a disaster if he causes it.

  She forced herself to wait, as calmly as she could, while the alien ships slowly converged with hers. The task force was moving away from the planet now, daring the aliens to follow them. Susan would have been surprised if they’d declined the challenge. Hammering the ground forces on Unity was important, but taking out two enemy battleships and two carriers would be far more useful. It took far too long to build a battleship, despite the best efforts of humanity’s shipyards. Vanguard and Indianapolis simply couldn’t be replaced very quickly.

  And the aliens will know it too, she thought, numbly. Their technology is on a par with ours.

  “Enemy ships will enter starfighter attack range in twelve minutes,” Granger reported.

  “The carriers are signalling that they’re ready to launch the attack,” Parkinson added.

  “Good,” Susan said. She looked at Mason. “I have some specific orders for you.”

  She ran her hand over the console, sending him the tactical diagram she’d worked out as the alien ships grew closer. It was chancy, she had to admit - and she wasn't sure the programming could be adapted in time - but it was their best chance of actually surviving the next few hours. Mason’s eyes went wide, yet he took her diagram and began to work without question. He knew, as well as she did, that they couldn't survive another close-range engagement.

  We’re going to have to work on our missiles, Susan thought, sourly. And we might have to start investing in long-range missiles after all.

  “I think this will work,” Mason said. “But if they notice it ahead of time ... we’re sunk.”

  “Quite,” Susan said. She sucked in a breath as the timer continued ticking down to zero. “If they like a challenge, we’ll give them a challenge.”

  She watched him issuing orders, then turned to look at the main display. The aliens had to know they had the whip hand, even though she had far more starfighters than they could hope to deploy. They might take a beating - they would take a beating - but they’d destroy at least two battleships in exchange. And then ... even if the carriers survived, they’d never be able to retake Unity without reinforcements.

  Come on, you bastards, she thought, savagely. Tempting target right here.

  “The enemy has entered starfighter attack range,” Granger reported.

  “Order the carriers to launch,” Susan said. “And tell them I said good luck.”

  She gritted her teeth as the remaining fighters - Russian and French - flashed towards their targets, without holding anything in reserve. The alien carrier launched its own starfighters a moment later, choosing to keep them as a CSP rather than send them out to attack the human ships. Susan didn't blame him. His carrier only carried three squadrons, nowhere near enough to break through the wall of point defence protecting her ships. And besides, they might make a difference against the starfighters closing in on the battleships.

  Not enough, she thought, as the two sets of starfighters began to exchange fire. Nowhere near enough.

  The enemy had definitely improved their point defence, she noted, just like the last set of enemy ships. Had they been sharing notes over the FTL communicator? She clenched her jaw at the thought - the latest reports suggested that the analysts were still unaware of how the damned system worked - and then pushed the thought aside. There was quite a bit of debris drifting through the system, afte
r all. Her techs would have a chance to examine the remains in hopes of finding something - anything - that might point them in the right direction.

  “The enemy point defence has taken a beating,” Granger reported. “A number of the pilots also attacked the enemy drives with torpedoes, but they’re very heavily armoured. Damage appears to be minimal.”

  Pity no one ever managed to produce antimatter in large quantities, Susan thought. She’d heard a great deal about successive attempts to manufacture antimatter, but none of them had actually produced something that could be deployed. Mounting anything larger than a nuke on a torpedo is out of the question.

  “Order the starfighters to continue the engagement,” Susan said. “And start ramping up the ECM. I want them jumping at shadows.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Granger said. She paused. “The enemy ships will be in missile range in five minutes.”