“If the reinforcements aren’t coming for some reason — lord knows there’s always some sort of cock-up — tell them I need those transports back. All of this is in the report I’ve sent to your ship, obviously, but you’ll have to be my voice in this. And if it’s come to that — that they’re sending ships to pull us off — then tell them we need enough for the French troops as well. And whatever civilians we can take off with us. We’re already getting word of reprisals down here and it’s a vile bit of business.
“Whatever you’re about to say, forget it, Carew. I can see on your face here that you don’t like the idea, but this is what I need from you. There’s nothing your ship can help with by staying and you must get word of our situation to Chipley or whoever might be in charge back on Alchiba. Once they’ve made a decision, I’d admire it if you hurried back here with word of it, though, so I know whether my backside will be going into the pan or the fire.”
Malicoat paused and after a moment of silence Alexis assumed he was done. No, she didn’t like it — it seemed like she’d be running back to the safety of New London space and abandoning Malicoat and all his men, but she realized he was correct. There was nothing Belial could do to help their situation.
“Aye sir.” She nodded. “You’re right that I don’t like it, but … I’ll deliver the message and be back with their response as quick as I may.”
“Good girl,” Malicoat said.
Alexis couldn’t even bring herself to bristle at that; the situation was too dire.
Chapter 47
The long sail back to Alchiba was a further exercise in frustration and impatience. Belial performed beautifully, racing before the darkspace winds as fast as any frigate — certainly faster than a ship of the line like Shrewsbury — but neither her ship’s performance nor her joy in sailing her could ease Alexis’ mind.
When they arrived at Alchiba, her worst fears were realized. Not only had the transports never returned to Alchiba, but there was no Naval presence in the system at all. The next nearest system she could be sure of having Naval officers was two weeks’ sail farther into New London at Lesser Itchthorpe. Even Dansby and Marilyn had moved on, though she heard that he’d been back and forth to Alchiba several times since the fleet sailed.
She sent copies of Malicoat’s messages and her own report on with a merchantman bound for Lesser Itchthorpe, along with a Naval draft for the merchant’s captain to sail there directly. She hoped the port admiral there would honor it and not give him too much trouble over it coming from a mere lieutenant.
What she should do — sail for Lesser Itchthorpe or some other station herself, remain at Alchiba in the hopes a fleet happened by, or return to Giron to assist Malicoat in some way — she didn’t know.
Finally she decided. It came down to feeling she was needed back at Giron. She had no idea what use she could be, but nothing else seemed the right course. To cover it all, though, she sent additional copies of her reports off to Lesser Itchthorpe by yet another merchantman, and one farther along to Penduli for good measure.
If she was to return to Giron, though, and place Belial alone in the face of a Hanoverese fleet possibly returning there, she could at least see that Artley and Isom were safe. She wished she could leave her entire crew behind on Alchiba to keep them safe, but needed them to sail the ship. They, at least, were proper Navy. Neither Artley nor Isom should face these risks, she thought.
Isom objected, but accepted her orders when she told him she wished him to watch over Artley for her. As for Artley, she told him that she wanted him there to pass on her reports and his own observations, should a New London force enter the system. He’d be her representative, responsible for seeing that any ships that could do so would come to the rescue of Malicoat and his men.
“You understand what I need of you, Mister Artley?” Alexis asked.
“I do, sir, I suppose … what you’ve asked of me, at least. I don’t understand the why of it, or why you have to go back. It seems hopeless.”
“History is full of times that seemed hopeless.” She thought of a few of the examples she’d read about since Eades’ humiliating comments on her knowledge of history. “Masada, Thermopylae, Agincourt, Third Rosada, our own ship Shrewsbury’s original namesake, come to that.”
“Seems a few of those were quite hopeless, sir.”
Alexis thought hard for a moment. “I think, Mister Artley, that it is the trying which echoes most loudly through the ages. The striving against odds. For in that striving, no matter the losses, comes hope. Perhaps, even, the knowledge that some will fight against those hopeless odds may deter the evil itself at times.” She shrugged. “I don’t understand it fully myself, but I feel as though my place, Belial’s place, is back at Giron. Perhaps on the sail there it will occur to me how one ship may be of some use.” She gripped Artley’s shoulder. “I’m depending on you to send me what help you may.”
“Aye, sir.” The lad frowned as though still thinking it through. “I’ll not disappoint you.”
Chapter 48
“No sign of them at all?”
General Malicoat’s shoulders slumped. Alexis had thought he looked exhausted when she’d arrived to give him a report on her journey to Alchiba and back; now he looked simply defeated.
“Nothing, sir. I’m sorry.” She waited while Malicoat filled a glass from the bottle of bourbon she’d brought down with her. Supplies for the constantly retreating army were low all around and she’d thought he might appreciate a bit of a drink with the news she’d brought for him. “Our transports never arrived back at Alchiba and there was no sign of them on either leg of our journey there and back. No sign of either of the war fleets. Neither any sign of the Hanoverese transports returning.”
Malicoat grunted. “Small favors.” He drained his glass and poured another. “Thank you for this. There’s hardly a drop left in the camp.” He turned to a large display behind him and was silent for a time.
Alexis studied the display. It showed the path the army had taken since breaking through the Hanoverese lines and fleeing Atterrissage. The line snaked across the continent, changing direction here and there to make the best use of terrain. Still Alexis could see the notations made where the Hanoverese columns had caught up and engaged the army’s rear. There were far too many of them for her liking.
“They brought in more transport than we have,” Malicoat said as though responding to her thoughts. “We manage to disengage and rush off to gain a few hours’ time — as we have now — but they’ll always catch up with us.” He tapped the screen near one of the marked actions. “They brought heavy cavalry, as well. Caught us here at Sauqueuse — the 451st drove them off, but the casualties …”
Malicoat reached for the bottle again, but capped it and held it up.
“I’ll just keep this, if you don’t mind, Carew?”
Alexis simply nodded. There was nothing she could think of to say and if the general wanted to drink in private later on, she’d not gainsay him.
“Thank you. There’s more than one lad in the hospital train who’ll not say no to a last wet. God knows I can’t offer them anything more.”
“Is there nothing we can do, sir?”
“You’ve done what you could, unless you can load a few tens of thousands troops aboard your ship.” He shook his head. “No, with no relief coming and no ships to evacuate us, the best we can do is draw it out. Don’t get me wrong, that’s what I’ll do. Especially with the civilians pouring in.” He rose and walked to the tent’s front to peer out the flap. “More every day — the Hanoverese reprisals have been bloody. Towns razed, executions in the square — before you returned and took down their satellite constellation they were transmitting them planetwide.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “They’ve said they’ll salt every patch of earth a traitor’s trod upon …”
Alexis winced. She couldn’t see how it had come to this. They’d been so sure, so certain, back at Alchiba that it would be a certain thing. Eades had
been giddy as a schoolgirl at the prospect of the beginning of the end of Hanover. Now the people of Giron were paying the price. Only Malicoat had argued that they weren’t bringing enough forces in the first wave … Dansby and Mynatt had seen it too, now that she thought about it, but no one had asked them.
“You were right,” she whispered.
Malicoat nodded. “Small comfort.”
* * *
Alexis left Malicoat’s tent and made her way through the camp back to Belial’s boat. Dobb and the others trailed behind her, but she was lost in thought. There was no doubt that Malicoat’s situation was dire. She thought there must be some way Belial could assist other than constantly running back and forth to Alchiba crying out for aid.
She must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, because she found herself leaving the military encampment and entering that of the civilians fleeing with the army. If the army’s encampment had been less orderly than she’d expected, this was chaos. Tents made of anything that could be strung between two posts, piles of household goods and valuables the people were trying to keep with them and further piles of those discarded as the march grew longer. The makeshift tents were arranged in small groups, some with a fire at the center and the occupants huddled around it.
Alexis stopped to get her bearings, Dobb and the others still following behind her. She supposed they’d thought she knew where she was going or hadn’t wanted to disturb her thoughts.
She was about to retrace her steps when she caught sight of a familiar face in the nearest group. She frowned, then approached and knelt down.
“Marie?”
The girl looked up slowly. She had Ferrau in her lap, held tightly to her. Her face was dull and still.
“Lieutenant Carew.”
Alexis reached out and laid her hand over one of Marie’s.
“Are you all right?” It was a stupid, silly question to ask, Alexis realized. Of course Marie wasn’t all right. No one on Giron was all right.
“I have Ferrau,” Marie said. She looked down and ran a finger over the baby’s cheek. “Mama est mort. Papa est mort.” She looked back to Alexis and shrugged. Alexis had thought she knew how much the French could pack into a simple shrug, but Marie’s brought tears to her eyes. “Courboin est morte.”
She lowered her gaze again.
Alexis sat with her for a moment, then rose. She made her way back through the camp to where she’d turned wrongly and headed for the landing field.
* * *
Alexis spent the time in the boat returning to Belial with her head buried in her tablet. She was convinced there must be some way for her to help General Malicoat, but couldn’t find one for the life of her. Belial was designed for combat in darkspace, not normal-space, and certainly not for use against a planet-bound army. Even if she were, the Abbentheren Accords forbade it.
Part of her determination was anger and frustration. She felt as though she’d been simply dragged along by events for far too long. Ever since Eades had first shown up and recruited her into his mad scheme she’d been helpless at the mercy of others’ decisions. First Eades, then Dansby, and now the Hanoverese army. She was determined to find something, anything, that would allow her to take back some control.
By the time they arrived at the ship, she thought she might have the beginnings of an idea. It might not work, might, in fact, be quite mad, for it surely sounded so to her, but she hadn’t found any sure reason that it would not work.
“Pass the word for the gunner, Mister Dobb,” she said as she was piped aboard. “I’ll see him on the quarterdeck. The carpenter and yourself as well.”
“Aye, sir,” the bosun said.
Alexis went to the quarterdeck and brought up an image of the planet on the navigation plot. She studied the symbols that represented General Malicoat’s forces, as well as what was known of the Hanoverese while waiting for the others to arrive.
“Y’sent fer me, sir?” the gunner asked.
“I did, Mister Starks.” Alexis kept her eyes on the plot, brow furrowed. “What would be the effect of firing our guns in atmosphere?”
“On the surface, d’ye mean?” He shrugged. “I suppose there’d be a bit o’ diffusion an’ that. Beam’d be weaker an’ wider, dependin’ on t’range, but not enough t’make no nevermind.”
“Even at, say, one hundred kilometers?”
“I see what yer thinkin’, sir, t’bring the guns down an’ support those troops an’ all, but there’s no man can lay a ship’s gun fer that range. A bit o’ a degree off an’ y’ve missed entire. There’s special guns fer that, what can aim themselves, but we’ve none of them.”
“I understand, Mister Starks, but would the beam still be effective at that range?”
Starks shrugged again. “Bit weaker, bit wider — but’ll never hit a thing.”
“We shan’t be aiming the guns by hand,” Alexis said. “The guns will be locked in place, and Belial’s computer shall do the aiming, just as we did in that drill before the Hanoverese showed up.”
“Sir,” Dobb said, “we can’t fire from orbit … the Abbentheren Accords —”
“Yes, the Accords,” Alexis cut him off. “That agreement which says we must now do nothing from orbit while the Hanoverese down there may burn towns and slaughter civilians with impunity.” She took a deep breath to calm herself. “I’ve just read the Accords.” She consulted her tablet and read. “‘No spaceborn force may bombard, fire upon, nor otherwise engage any planetary installation nor force of men.’ The thing about agreements between nations, gentlemen, is they tend to be quite specific. The Accords define ‘spaceborn’ as any attack from above a planet’s mesosphere.” She turned to Oakman, the ship’s carpenter. “Which brings us to my next question, Mister Oakman. Belial’s hull may be quite suited for dispersing the heat and energy of a laser … how is it with friction?”
Chapter 49
Alexis forced her hands to relax where they gripped the edges of the navigation plot. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and worried at it. This was where they’d find if she was mad or not.
Belial’s masts had been unstepped and brought inboard. All of their hull fittings as well, even the bowsprit. The massive rudder and plane at the stern, made without gallenium and extending far back from the hull to allow the ship to steer in darkspace, had been removed as well. They were far too large to bring inboard, so had been left behind in a high orbit. If a Hanoverese force arrived in-system now, Belial would be quite helpless. She’d be able to run within the system, but wouldn’t be able to flee to darkspace.
All of her guns had been brought to the port side and locked in place. If the men had no need to move them, the guns could be crowded together in the space meant for half their number.
The guns were loaded and run out, spare shot waiting on the racks and the gun crews standing by to fire and reload as quickly as they could.
She hadn’t told Malicoat what she intended, for fear he’d forbid it. Technically he couldn’t, as he was not in her chain of command and she was the senior Naval officer present, but she thought she might be relying on enough technicalities that she didn’t need to add one more.
Technicalities and theories, to be betting our lives on.
Technically, firing her guns from within Giron’s mesosphere would not violate the Abbentheren Accords and result in her crew being executed for war crimes. In theory, Belial’s hull would be able to withstand the heat and friction of dipping into Giron’s atmosphere to less than a hundred kilometers above the surface. In theory, the ship’s computer would be able to twist and angle Belial so that her broadside fell upon the Hanoverese columns. In theory, the conventional drive had more than enough power to push the ship back into orbit from that height, so that they’d not plummet to the planet’s surface.
Of course Mister Oakman assures me that the ship would break up long before we impacted the ground … so there’s that.
The worst part, as the ship made its way through the last orbit be
fore dipping into Giron’s atmosphere, was the waiting. The entire thing, save the firing and reloading of the guns themselves, was under the control of Belial’s computer.
And if there were ever proof we’ve not achieved artificial intelligence, it’s that the thing didn’t balk at what I’ve asked of it.
Boothroyd stood by at the helm, though. If Alexis gave the order he’d take control and try to get Belial to claw her way back to vacuum where she belonged.
Belial reached the start of her descent. On the quarterdeck, nothing seemed to change; there was just the ship’s position noted on the navigation plot. Then the view from the ship’s optics began to shake and tremble. Alexis had magnified views of the Hanoverese columns she’d targeted, but it soon became difficult to make them out as the image jerked about. It seemed odd that they felt nothing, but Belial’s inertial compensators negated the roughness.
The ship dipped lower, neared the point where she would be beneath the upper reaches of the mesosphere, then passed it.
“Fire,” Alexis said quietly, almost whispering.
She knew the gun captains had fired but couldn’t tell what effect it might have. All of the images on her plot were a useless jumble. She wouldn’t even hear from Malicoat until Belial resumed orbit. Something about ionization — Chevis, on the signals console, had tried to explain it, but Alexis had cut him off. She’d learned quite enough new things for a time and it was enough that Chevis said they’d regain contact with Malicoat once they returned to a proper orbit.
Was it her imagination or could she feel the ship trembling now? The gundeck reported that all guns were reloaded.
“Fire.”
She was firing by broadside. Perhaps if this worked and they repeated it, she’d have the guns fire as quickly as they could individually, but she had no idea what the effect of her shot would be on the surface. Each shot was only ten or so centimeters across, after all; it was entirely possible they’d hit nothing and this was a wasted risk. Still, by broadside had more effect on a ship’s morale. Perhaps it would be the same for troops on the ground.
The Little Ships (Alexis Carew Book 3) Page 28