09- We Lead

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Hopefully drawing their forces out of position,” Susan said. “And opening the way to ES-11.”

  “Maybe,” Admiral Naiser said. “On the other hand, the fleet base at ES-11 is more important than the colonies, at least in the short term.”

  Susan nodded, sourly. Sure, the aliens might come out to defend their colony worlds. Human governments would certainly demand that the navy did precisely that, if humanly possible. But would the Foxes feel the same way? Cold logic would mandate abandoning ES-14 and ES-15, simply because they were impossible to defend without a major commitment. And the only way they could make that commitment was through divesting ES-11 of some of its defences.

  “We’ll do some damage to their industrial nodes, sir,” she said, finally. She didn't envy the admiral. He would have to convince his subordinates that the plan was workable. “And give them a very hard time.”

  “Speed is still of the essence,” Admiral Naiser said. He reached out and tapped the red-blue stars along the war front. “If they’ve started moving forces back now, they’ll be on us soon.”

  “Yes, sir,” Susan said. Her most pessimistic assessment stated that it would be at least a fortnight - more like three weeks - before recalled starships joined the fight for ES-1. But what if she was wrong? “There’s too much at stake.”

  “And our captured ship may prove the key to getting into firing range without being detected,” Admiral Naiser added. “If, of course, we can fly her properly.”

  “We’ll find out, sir,” Susan said. The prize crew would have plenty of time to practice - and a number of willing assistants. It still astonished her, but the xenospecialists had assured everyone that it made perfect sense. The POWs now considered themselves part of the human tribe. “They’ll have plenty of time to work out the kinks.”

  “Then inform the fleet that we will depart in five hours,” Admiral Naiser said. “That should give us enough time to sort out the new formations.”

  “Yes, sir,” Susan said. She wasn't entirely happy with it, but the Admiral had made up his mind. Besides, she could see the logic. “Vanguard will be ready to depart on command.”

  “I expected nothing less,” Admiral Naiser informed her.

  ***

  “Congratulations, George,” Sammy said. He stuck out a tongue as they walked onto the alien bridge. “Or should I call you Captain?”

  George scowled. Technically, she was the senior naval officer on Black Hunter. Half the techs crawling through the alien hull were civilians - their habits driving their military minders to distraction - and most of the remainder were outside the chain of command. She honestly didn't understand why Commander Mason or another XO hadn't been assigned to Black Hunter ... hell, there was no shortage of officers who were senior to her. But someone had left her in command ... she wasn’t sure if it was a backhanded compliment or a subtle insult. She was more expendable than many other officers on Vanguard.

  And trying to give orders to the sergeant will be tricky, she thought. The marines had their own chain of command, with the senior marine reporting directly to the starship captain. But now ... maybe it was just a fluke. Or maybe someone had thought she could be spared from other duties. How am I meant to tell Tosco what to do?

  “You can call me George,” she said, as she studied the alien throne. Command chair or not, she couldn't help thinking of it as a throne. “I haven’t actually been promoted.”

  Sammy shrugged. “You’re the senior naval officer on a starship,” he pointed out. “That makes you the captain, whatever rank you actually hold.”

  “True,” George agreed.

  She shook her head. Two years ago - it felt like decades - she’d asked one of her instructors if there was a chance of becoming a CO within her first year on active duty. He’d told her that it would only happen if everyone above her dropped dead - and anything capable of killing so many crewmen would probably get her too. Being called captain while she was flying a shuttle had always struck her as absurd. Now ...

  You might be in command of an alien ship, she thought, but you’re also in command of the biggest target in the fleet.

  She sat down and studied the mismatched control systems. The alien technology wasn't that different from the gear she was used to using, but there were a lot of little discontinuities and things that didn't quite add up. It would get worse, she suspected, as they actually powered up the drive and headed deeper into enemy space. There was a chance, a very good chance, that they’d accidentally wreck the entire ship. The more she experimented with the systems, the more fragile they seemed.

  A pity we can't use their controls directly, she thought. They’re not designed for human hands.

  “We got the weapons ready to fire,” Sammy said. “But the tactical staff haven't quite managed to get them aimed in the right direction.”

  “Try to avoid firing on Vanguard,” George ordered, dryly. “We’ll be blown out of space before we can tell them it was an accident.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Sammy said. “But no promises.”

  George sighed and continued thumbing through the files, studying the starship’s specifications. There was definitely something very crude about Black Hunter, although she had to admit it was effective. Her brief tour of the vessel had only deepened her sense that something was very wrong with anyone who lived in such an environment ... she told herself, sharply, that humans and aliens could be very different. Humans were shocked when children were killed, even in horrific accidents; Tadpoles didn't even recognise their children as intelligent beings until they reached adulthood. The infant mortality rate on Tadpole Prime was, by human standards, utterly terrifying.

  She looked up as Major Andres and Sergeant Tosco entered the bridge, then hastily rose to her feet and saluted. Captain or not, she doubted either of them would salute her.

  “Status report,” Major Andres ordered.

  “We should be able to fly and fight, sir,” George said, softly. She wasn't sure what the admiral had in mind for her ship. It wouldn't be impossible to sneak back home, leaving the rest of the task force to continue the advance. “However, we won’t know until we power up the drive and take her out.”

  “And we won’t know how she handles,” Sammy added. “I think they deliberately surfed the drive field, overpowering the system to give them some extra nimbleness.”

  “Their beancounters must be less aggressive than ours,” George muttered. Surfing a drive field was easy enough, but it put so much stress on the drive nodes that it shortened their projected lifespan significantly. Trying to warp one’s drive field was technically forbidden, in the Royal Navy. It was only used if the crew were desperate. “If they really did overstress their nodes, one of them might explode sooner rather than later.”

  “I suspect their beancounters get regularly thrashed,” Major Andres said, dryly. “They know their place.”

  He shrugged. “But you can accompany the fleet?”

  “Yes, sir,” George said.

  “Unless there’s a false harmonic in the drive,” Sammy put in. “Realistically, sir, their system was never very good, even before the ship took a beating.”

  George kept her face expressionless with an effort. Sammy was right, yet he was undercutting her in front of their superior officer. She was sure, reasonably sure, that Black Hunter would have no trouble, once they powered up the drive. It wasn't the time to express her doubts.

  But surely they would like to know the problems, if there are any problems, she reminded herself, grimly. They’ll need the problem list, just to make sure they know what could go wrong.

  “Then prepare to depart,” Major Andres ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” George said. She paused. “Where exactly are we going?”

  “Where we’ve always been going,” Major Andres said. “The alien homeworld.”

  He smiled, rather coldly. “And make sure you know how to get off the ship,” he added. “You’ll need it.”

  George and Sammy exchan
ged looks. That didn't sound good.

  ***

  Admiral John Naiser leaned back in his chair, as the fleet started to get underway, and wished for things he knew he couldn't have. A rug on a hot sunny beach, an impractical cocktail that defied gravity, a handsome man right next to him ... they would have been preferable, he felt, to the catfight that had erupted between his senior officers. Half of them had supported his plan, the other half had loudly questioned its wisdom. And none of them had seemed inclined to shut up until he’d reminded them, loudly, that he was in command of the fleet.

  Commodore Hoover didn't object, he thought. But then, he got an independent command out of the deal.

  He reached for his cup of tea and sipped it, half-wishing he’d thought to ask the steward to put something a little stronger into the liquid. A stiff drink would have done him a world of good, except the Foxes would be straining every sinew to reinforce their defences before his fleet arrived. There was no time to get drunk, no time to do more than rest ... he finished the tea, then rose and strode down the corridor to his cabin. The two marines on duty stepped aside to allow him to enter as he returned their salutes with casual ease.

  It felt odd, John thought, to be in command of a fleet. He was travelling on a starship, but he wasn’t responsible for her. Technically, he was nothing more than a passenger. And yet, he was responsible for the entire fleet. It was tempting, very tempting, to attempt to micromanage, only he knew - from bitter experience - that it would be dangerous. Quite apart from offending his flag captain, it would distract him from his actual duties. He was meant to concentrate on fleet tactics and operations, not supervise a single starship ...

  But now he felt helpless, even as his plan was put into operation. Splitting the fleet was a gamble, one that relied upon the captured data being accurate. The xenospecialists swore blind the Foxes would submit - and they had - but it only took one exception to the rules to cause absolute chaos. If humans were often unpredictable, even by other humans, why couldn't Foxes be unpredictable too?

  He eyed his drinks cabinet, wondering just who’d decided that a fleet admiral needed a selection of expensive wines from across the Human Sphere. It wasn't as if he drank regularly, certainly not when on duty. Hell, the last time he’d drunk himself into a stupor had been shortly after HMS Canopus had been destroyed. He’d been the sole survivor, half-mad when he’d been plucked from the wreckage. No wonder he hadn't been able to return to starfighters after that.

  A low quiver ran through the battleship as she picked up speed. She’d be crossing the tramline in hours, then plunging onwards into ES-15. And then ... further, still further, until they reached ES-1. Enemy Star One. The alien homeworld.

  Sleep, he told himself, firmly. You’ll be no use to anyone if you stay awake.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Ballistic missile dispatched, Captain,” Granger reported. “Impact with the FTL station in seventy-two minutes.”

  “Barring accidents,” Mason commented.

  Susan nodded, curtly. ES-15 wasn’t particularly interesting, as star systems went; two rocky worlds, both of which would require extensive terraforming before anyone could live on them and a single gas giant, rather smaller than Neptune. The Foxes didn't seem to have done anything with it, as far as she could tell, although an entire community could be hiding on the gas giant’s moons, completely undetectable as long as they were careful. She checked the live feed from the drones surrounding the task force, then smiled grimly. Nothing could come within engagement range without being detected.

  “Set course for Tramline Two,” she ordered. There were only two tramlines in ES-15, although they were far from useless. “ETA?”

  “Forty-seven hours, assuming we don’t push the drives,” Reed reported. “We could push things a little harder.”

  Susan shook her head. “We can't risk leaving the logistics behind,” she said. Vanguard could move faster, given time, but the freighters couldn't keep up. “Or the marines.”

  She leaned back in her command chair as the task force started to pick up speed. Forty-seven hours ... she could relax, just for a while. There was nothing in the system, as far as she could tell, that threatened her ships. But there was no way to be entirely sure. If she was in command, on the alien homeworld, she would be scrambling everything she could to take advantage of the unexpected opportunity. Catching half the human fleet, hopelessly isolated from the other half ...

  They’d need to get very lucky, she told herself, sharply. And even if they did manage to get a superior force into this system, we could evade contact.

  “Cloak us in twenty minutes, as planned,” she ordered. “And then alter course.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Granger said.

  Hell of a gamble, Susan thought. She wasn't even sure it was necessary, although she understood the admiral’s paranoia. A least-time course from Tramline One to Tramline Two would be completely predictable. And we don’t even know they’re waiting for us.

  She glanced at Mason. “Mr. XO, how’s our new friend coping?”

  “They seem to have survived,” Mason said. “And I think they’re mastering the drive field.”

  Susan shook her head, honestly unsure if she should laugh or cry. The prize crew had fought desperately to control their vessel as she lunged from side to side, rather like a teenager taking a fast boat out on the choppy waters for the first time. Or riding a horse, something she hadn't done until she’d gone to boarding school. She hadn't envied the rich girls that much, she reassured herself, but she’d always resented their easy skill on horseback. The alien craft did seem to be settling down, she supposed, yet it was quite possible that the aliens would realise something was wrong the moment they saw her.

  “Keep an eye on them,” she ordered. “And inform me if anything goes wrong.”

  She brought up a starchart, studying the tramlines for the umpteenth time. Assuming the aliens had detected their arrival in ES-19, assuming the aliens had figured out what had happened to their task force ... they had, of course. Even if they hadn't, she dared not assume anything less. No, the aliens knew the task force was in their rear. They simply had to be doing their best to block the advance before it was too late.

  The fleet cloaked, then changed course as planned. Any watchful eyes would lose track of them quickly, Susan thought. There simply wasn't anyone close enough to the fleet to pick up what little escaped the cloaking devices. And yet ... she knew it would be for nothing, the moment they crossed the next tramline. All she could do was hope - pray - that it would be enough to confuse the enemy.

  She rose. “Mr. Mason, you have the bridge,” she informed him. “It’s time I toured my ship.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Mason said. “I have the bridge.”

  ***

  Commodore Juliet Watson-Stewart was dimly aware, at some level, that the starship was moving, but it wasn’t particularly important to her. She ignored it, just as she ignored the stream of unimportant messages that flowed in and out of her terminal on a regular basis. It wasn't her job to worry about flying the ship, even if she did hold a naval rank. She preferred to concentrate on raw science and leave the remainder to the other officers. Her husband could inform her if something was deeply wrong, something that actually did require her attention.

  It was annoying, very annoying, to be denied access to the FTL communicator or the absurdly-named alien starship. Juliet cared little for her own safety - indeed, she found it hard to comprehend, these days, that there was a universe that might actually want to hurt her. The prospect of cracking two or three formerly unsolvable scientific mysteries was worth any risk, she thought. But Admiral Naiser, one of the few people she considered to be a genuine friend, felt differently. And while she still thought he was being a worry wart, she bowed the head to his insistence. The techs on the freighter and the alien ship could answer any of her questions.

  The big mystery, as far as she could determine, lay in how the FTL communicator talked to alie
n starships. Working out the equations behind sending messages up and down the tramlines hadn't been hard - in some ways, it was an offshoot of her work on enhancing the tramlines - but how did they send FTL messages to their starships? Nothing smaller than an immense gas giant was large enough to produce a gravity well capable of forming tramlines ... and even her imagination quailed at the thought of a starship large enough to intimidate Jupiter. Everything she knew about how gravity lines behaved told her that the aliens shouldn't be able to do what they did.

  But they do it, she told herself, firmly. And so the theory is incomplete.

  She studied the alien files carefully, wishing - not for the first time - that everyone made careful notation of everything. Humans were laughably imprecise about such details. So too, it seemed, were the Foxes. There were details she knew were missing, details the Foxes wouldn't have needed to include because everyone knew them ...

  A faint noise caught her attention. She took a moment to centre herself, then slowly pulled out of the trance. Her husband was standing there, looking tired. He’d been working on the alien tech too, probing through the elements that had been shipped to Vanguard. She didn't think he’d had any more success than herself.