09- We Lead

by Christopher Nuttall

  And if we were in a shipyard, with our rear open to space, she thought darkly, a single missile would be enough to obliterate us.

  “We’ll try to keep the vulnerable portion of our hull away from them,” she said. It would be simple enough, in a straight battering match, but she knew the coming engagement could easily turn into a melee. “Jean, make sure the tactical computers are reprogrammed to take that into account.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Jean said.

  Susan looked down at the datapad, then up at the system display. Every instinct she had was calling for the task force to go on the rampage, to smash every last cloudscoop and asteroid mining station - and industrial node - within range. Tearing the guts out of the enemy’s industrial base would make the outcome of the war inevitable, no matter what surprises and innovations the enemy had devised. And yet, she knew her orders. The task force had thrown down a gauntlet. They had to wait to see if the enemy would pick it up.

  We may have called the dance, but we’re dancing to their tune, she thought, resentfully. The plan had seemed perfect, on paper; now, she had her doubts. Trying to turn the enemy’s culture and biology against them was one thing, but there were limits. And who knows what they will bring to bear against us?

  “They should be here by now,” she said, shortly. “Where are they?”

  “We don’t know when they set off,” Mason pointed out. “Captain, they may not have believed the reports until we entered ES-18.”

  “It’s possible, Captain,” Jean added. “The early reports from Vera Cruz weren't believed until hard recordings reached Earth.”

  Susan shrugged. Back then, everyone had known there were no other intelligent races in the universe. But the Foxes knew that their enemies had access to tramlines they couldn't use ... yet. They should have been more willing to believe in enemy fleets materialising behind their lines, not less. And yet ... humanity had known the alien-grade tramlines existed, they just hadn't been able to use them. Maybe the Foxes had reasoned there was no way anyone could reach ES-19 until it had become undeniable. They hadn't been wrong, either, until the jump drive had been invented.

  “We’ll see,” she said.

  She sat down in the command chair and studied the display. Everyone had assumed the Foxes would do everything in their power to mount an immediate counterattack, but what if they didn’t? What if they were content to allow the stalemate to continue? Susan couldn't imagine being willing to allow an enemy power to control Sol, certainly not any longer than strictly necessary, but the Foxes might feel differently. They might even gamble on wear and tear breaking down her starships before mounting a counteroffensive of their own. Susan wouldn't have cared to try - there would be no way to be sure the enemy ships had been weakened - yet the enemy might try. They knew they were on the cusp between victory or defeat.

  But they’re not, she told herself, sharply. Either we beat them and force them to surrender or we destroy much of their industrial base. We win, either way.

  She sighed. A rational species would be trying to negotiate by now, while it still had some bargaining power. But the Foxes weren't human ... she cautioned herself, again, against thinking they thought like humans. They might be closer to humanity than the Tadpoles, but they weren't human. Their thoughts and actions were dangerously unpredictable. They might decide that throwing caution to the winds and launching an all-out attack on Tadpole Prime - or Earth - was the only way to win.

  And if they do, she thought, we still win.

  “All we can do is wait,” she said. “And so we shall.”

  She grinned, rather humourlessly. “And organise another set of exercises,” she ordered. “We may as well make use of the time, while we wait.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Mason said. “Gunboats and battleships?”

  “And long-range missiles,” Susan added. “Everything we might reasonably expect to face, scaled up to the nines. We don’t want to be caught by surprise when the shit finally hits the fan.”

  ***

  Vixen, Penny thought as she stepped off the shuttle, smelled odd. Every planet had its own smell, something utterly indefinable and yet unique, but Vixen had something alien mingled into its scent. It wasn't really a surprise, she told herself as she breathed in the smell. She’d stood on Vesy, years ago. That, too, had been an alien world.

  “Step away from the shuttle,” someone ordered. “We’re moving supplies out now!”

  Penny flushed as she hurried towards the markers that designated the edge of the makeshift spaceport. She’d been an embedded reporter for eight years, ever since her first cruise on HMS Warspite. She knew how to behave, yet ... she’d made a rookie mistake. But how many people could really claim to have set foot on two alien worlds? Most civilians never even left Britain, let alone Earth.

  The spacehead was a mess, a strange mixture of prefabricated buildings, tents and dozens of armoured vehicles. Thousands of soldiers were running around, unloading shuttles and transporting their supplies to the defence lines. She heard explosions in the distance as alien shells were intercepted, blown out of the air before they could reach their targets. She’d been told that the front lines were quiet, but the enemy were clearly still harassing the soldiers as best as they could. They certainly didn't want to give the humans any chance to relax.

  We’re on their world, Penny thought, as she slowed to a halt. She’d been told someone would meet her at the spaceport. Of course they’re not going to let us relax!

  “Penny,” an oddly familiar voice called.

  Penny turned and stared. A marine was walking towards her, wearing body armour and a helmet that concealed his face. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder, a pistol and a computer terminal at his belt ... Penny was an experienced reporter, but it still took her several seconds to realise she was actually looking at a woman. And it took her longer still to recognise the face. The dirt and grime covering her features obscured them far too well.

  She found her voice. “George?”

  “In person,” George said. Even the voice was different. “Long time no see.”

  Penny nodded, struggling to find something to say. George was, technically, her cousin - her adopted cousin. And yet, they’d never really socialised. George had been ten, if Penny recalled correctly, when Admiral Fitzwilliam had adopted Penny and Percy. She’d been fifteen years old at the time. George had been too young to be anything more than an acquaintance. And while George had grown into adulthood, Penny had been building her career.

  She looked her cousin up and down. George looked ... messy, her uniform stained with dirt and mud. And yet, she also looked happy. Penny shook her head in frank disbelief. She was no stranger to hardship - the key to get soldiers to open up to you was to share their lives as much as possible - but it wasn't something she really enjoyed. If she’d wanted to spend her life in the mud, she would have volunteered for the reclamation squads or the handful of military units that accepted women.

  “You’re looking good,” she said, finally.

  “Liar,” George said. “I’m covered in shit.”

  She beckoned for Penny to follow her. Penny obeyed, remembering one of the big - and thoroughly awkward - family dinners she’d endured. George had gotten into real trouble with her mother, Penny recalled, because she’d gone out and played on the estate - messing up her clothes - rather than walking around like a little doll. It didn't look as though things had changed much, although George probably wasn't getting in deep shit for being muddy now. She was hardly the only person coated in mud.

  I’ll be coated in mud too, by the end of the day, Penny thought. Her boots were already muddy as she picked her way through the remains of the field. The ground had been torn up so thoroughly that there were hardly any traces of grass and crops left. Water pooled in places where tanks had driven through the mud as they made their way towards the front and into enemy territory. And so will everyone else.

  “I haven't seen you in years,” she said, truthfully. “How d
id you get down here?”

  “It’s a long story,” George said. She didn't look back. “And really, I’m not sure where I fit in right now.”

  Penny nodded, thoughtfully. “And what is really going on?”

  George stopped and turned. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been to enough military deployments,” Penny told her, “to know that the CO always gives me the best possible picture, whatever is actually happening on the ground. What’s really going on?”

  “I don’t think General Ross would lie to you,” George said. She smiled. “Do you think your brother would lie to you?”

  “He’s my brother,” Penny said. “It’s in the job description.”

  George smirked. “I lied to Anne so many times ...”

  Her voice trailed off. “You know she’d hate this place?”

  Penny nodded. Anne Fitzwilliam looked and acted like a doll, a pretty princess with no thoughts or feelings of her own. Perhaps that was a little harsh, Penny thought, but she’d rarely seen anything to indicate that Anne was anything more than an extension of her social-climbing mother. It was hard, really, to believe that George and Anne were related. They were just so different.

  But if George grew her hair long, she mused, she would look a great deal more like her sister.

  George cleared her throat. “The truth ... Anne couldn't handle the truth!”

  Penny had to laugh. “I can handle the truth.”

  “Hah,” George said. She shrugged, then turned away. “The truth is that we have established the defensive lines, as planned, and sent out scout teams, as planned, and are skirmishing with the enemy, as planned. So far, the enemy has declined to throw everything they have at us, not as planned. But we’re fairly sure they’re moving forces into position to hit us.”

  “When their reinforcements arrive,” Penny finished. “Otherwise ... they’d just be smashed from orbit.”

  “Probably,” George agreed.

  She stopped, just for a second. “I think it’s going to be a bloodbath,” she added. “I’ve been hearing stories ... the Cows don’t seem to fight, unless you force them into a corner, but the Foxes attack on sight. They’re armed to the teeth, too. I heard a couple of Americans arguing that the Foxes were better armed than Texans. Antitank weapons, mortars ... even plasma cannons.”

  Penny lifted her eyebrows. American gun control laws were so loose they might as well not have existed - and Texas had the loosest laws of all - but there were limits. Had the Foxes always expected an invasion? Or was it just their natural aggression demanding release? If the xenospecialists were right, the Foxes always existed in a state of low-grade conflict. It was how they sorted out the pecking order.

  And aren't you glad humans don’t settle things that way, she thought. Would you have won your spot if you’d had to arm-wrestle Clark for it?

  “That’s bad,” she said, finally.

  “Yeah,” George agreed. “Penny, we took casualties from Foxes who are - effectively - civilians. What’s going to happen when we run into more of their soldiers?”

  Penny said nothing as they reached the command tent. It was instantly recognisable: armed guards outside, a handful of flags fluttering in the moist air ... she wondered, absently, if it was actually wise to mark the tent for all to see. The Foxes could be flying their own stealth drones over the spacehead, quietly marking down targets for destruction. Who knew what would happen then?

  They’ll move as soon as the shit hits the fan, she told herself. And then ...

  “Good luck,” George said. She smiled. “I’ll be waiting outside.”

  Penny grinned. “What are you doing down here?”

  “Right now, I appear to be a gofer,” George said. She smiled, ruefully. “Believe me, it beats digging trenches - or latrines.”

  “I believe you,” Penny said. “And I’ll see you later.”

  ***

  “At the risk of sounding like a whiny little brat,” Henry said, “I wish to protest at your decision to allow reporters to go down to the ground, but not me.”

  Admiral Naiser smiled. “You’re rather more important than any reporter,” he pointed out, dryly. “But your protest has been duly noted.”

  Henry sighed. Personally, he wouldn't shed any tears - he’d even raise a glass - if he heard that one or two reporters had been killed on Vixen. He wouldn't piss on a reporter who happened to be on fire, even the one or two reporters who weren't complete wankers who thought his private life was fair game. There was no fate horrible enough for a reporter ... and yet he couldn't help feeling annoyed that reporters had been allowed to go down to the planet, without him.

  “I’m not that important,” he said, although he knew it was pointless. “The task force doesn’t need me to survive.”

  “It does need you to negotiate peace, after the battle,” Admiral Naiser said. “And your chances of survival are much higher on King Edward.”

  That, Henry admitted, was true. His prestige, at least as far as the Foxes were concerned, would be obliterated if he was captured. They’d certainly never take him seriously. And the giant battleship had a much greater chance of survival than the men on the ground. But it still felt wrong, somehow, not to share the danger. The whole operation had been his concept, even if it had been extensively refined during the planning stages. He should be down there with them.

  “This isn't about my survival,” he said, crossly. “Admiral ...”

  Admiral Naiser held up a hand. “You may appeal my decision, if you wish,” he said. “But I will not change my mind.”

  Henry snorted. The closest superior officer was light-years away. Even if he sent an appeal direct to Unity, it would be weeks before any response arrived. And the officers there would hesitate to overrule the man on the spot, particularly given Henry’s ... odd ... position in the line of succession. Admiral Naiser would probably be told to carry on the good work.

  “Understood,” he said, finally. “I’m just ... bored.”

  “Be glad of it,” Admiral Naiser said. He gave Henry a droll look. “Why did you become a starfighter pilot?”

  “I liked the thought of fast starfighters and faster women,” Henry said. It wasn't entirely untrue, but it was hardly a complete answer. Women had been throwing themselves at him for years. If they'd known about the gilded cage, perhaps they would have thought better of it. “I watched Stellar Star: Carrier Commander and fell in love.”

  Admiral Naiser looked disapproving. “And your family let you?”

  Henry sighed. “They wanted me to take a different path,” he said. “But none of them held out any real prospect for excitement.”

  He shrugged. “Why did you become a starfighter pilot? And why did you leave?”

  “I and a ... a friend were determined to sign up together,” Admiral Naiser said. “And we did - we even managed to get ourselves into the same unit. And then he was killed on Canopus and I thought I needed a change.”

  “Ah,” Henry said. “You didn't want excitement? Or romance?”

  “I thought I was serving my country,” Admiral Naiser said. “And I was right ...”

  The intercom bleeped. “Admiral, this is Hamish in Plotting,” a voice said. “Long-range scouts have detected an alien fleet moving towards us.”

  “Understood,” Admiral Naiser said. He sounded grim, even though everyone had known the aliens would counterattack as soon as possible. “Alert the fleet.”

  Henry glanced at the display, then sighed. “I’ll go back to my quarters, Admiral.”

  “Stay here,” Admiral Naiser said. He essayed a black joke. “You may as well see the missile that kills you.”

  “Thanks,” Henry said. “I’ll try to keep my eyes closed.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Captain,” Lieutenant Cathy Powell said. “I think you ought to see this.”

  Captain David Atwell looked up, sharply. HMAS Darwin had been on patrol long enough for him and his crew to get thoroughly bored, although
he knew - all too well - that Darwin had no place in the line of battle. She had been on the brink of obsolescence even before the First Interstellar War and the only reason the Royal Australian Navy had retained her services was because of a simple shortage of hulls. The engineers could - and had - crammed hundreds of modern systems into her hull, but there were limits to what they could do. It was all too likely that Darwin’s next engagement would be her last.

  “Show me,” he ordered.

  Powell tapped her console. “There’s a faint set of energy flickers here,” she said. “I would have dismissed them as background radiation, but there’s a definite pattern to the vibrations that has to be unnatural.”

  “And it’s inbound from Tramline Three,” David mused. Cathy was the best sensor tech in the navy, as far as he could tell. “That's the direct link to the front.”