George swallowed. She’d been rude, very rude, to the first middy. He was quite within his rights to assign punishment duties or, as he’d threatened, give her a clout. But Fraser didn't look angry. Instead, he was holding a box in his right arm.
“I need to go through Nathan’s stuff,” he said. He opened Nathan’s locker as George scrambled out of her rack. “If there’s anything you want that isn't intensely personal, you may take it.”
“I don’t want anything,” George said. She rubbed her eyes as Fraser started pulling out Nathan’s spare uniforms. “He ...”
“Would have wanted you to have it,” Fraser said. It was customary to hand out a dead officer’s possessions, George recalled, save for anything personal. The remainder would be returned to his family or recycled. “You shouldn't pass up on anything that might be useful ...”
George nodded and watched as Fraser found a portable terminal and a handful of unmarked datachips. “Porn, probably,” he said, dumping them into the box. “Or Stellar Star. There isn't much difference.”
“He wouldn't,” George objected.
“Then he’d be the first midshipman not to have a private porn stash,” Fraser said. He smirked. “Even the ones more interested in boys than girls have their own stashes.”
He picked up a photograph and glanced at it before passing it to George. “That’s us,” she said, in surprise. The photograph had been taken during a brief excursion to the Apollo 11 park, near Armstrong City. “I remember that day!”
“So did he,” Fraser said. “Keep the photograph, if you want.”
George nodded, tucking the photograph under her pillow.
Fraser snickered. “Is this yours too?”
He held up a lacy thong. George felt herself blushing as she looked at it, even though it was clearly meant for a woman with a larger behind than herself. Where had it come from?
“That isn't mine,” she protested. “How ...?”
“There’s a tradition of keeping underwear as a way of proving one scored,” Fraser said, dropping the thong into the box. “It must have been a great lay.”
George shook her head. “He had plenty of girlfriends,” she said. “Is there anything else?”
“Just a set of handwritten notes,” Fraser said. “They’ll go to his family, I believe.”
George eyed him. “Shouldn’t we take the thong out first?”
“Take it and destroy it,” Fraser said, passing the box to her. “Unless you want to run a DNA scan to see who it belongs to?”
“No, thank you,” George said, primly.
Fraser laughed. “I don’t blame you,” he said. “Now, go to the wardroom and get something to eat. You’re on duty later, remember.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“I don’t know why they attacked,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said.
Henry allowed himself a smile. He had no idea why Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam had been assigned to the tactical section, but he did have to admit that she had a decent grasp of tactics and how best to apply the technology at her disposal. Maybe someone was still playing games - or, maybe, she’d been assigned to someone who wouldn't be impressed by her connections. Or maybe she’d been assigned to work with him to keep her busy.
“We may not understand it for years,” he said, dryly. The Tadpoles had had a reasonable motive, even if trying to make open contact would have saved considerable bloodshed on both sides. “They may be so alien that we cannot understand them.”
“I thought certain concepts were universal,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said. “Surely their understanding of the universe can’t be that different from ours.”
“It depends,” Henry said. “There have been human civilisations that thought differently from us, either because they hadn't evolved modern concepts or because they chose to openly reject them. They weren't alien, but we still had problems understanding them because we assumed that they thought the same way as us, making their actions completely irrational.”
He shrugged. The data was clear; the interpretation was not. A powerful fleet had been attacked in what had to be a pre-planned ambush. The enemy clearly hadn't expected the fleet to escape down an alien-grade tramline, but otherwise ... they’d been strikingly confident of victory. Henry didn't like the implications. Either the enemy had evolved from something akin to hermit crabs, which attacked anything foolish enough to pass within range, or they’d been utterly confident of victory. And that suggested they had a good idea of the power of their enemies.
They might have known about the Tadpoles for far longer than we assumed, he thought, grimly. And if that’s true, they might know about us too.
“They didn't even try to communicate,” he muttered. “They just attacked.”
They went through the final set of reports, trying to put together a briefing for the captain and her senior officers. Henry had watched Captain Harper carefully, fearing disaster, but apart from a prickly disposition Harper didn't seem to be anything other than a competent naval officer. Two days had allowed the crews to get as many repair jobs done as possible, although launching all of their starfighters was going to be a major hassle. Roosevelt and the two surviving escort carriers couldn’t hope to launch them all.
And our contingency plans are unlikely to survive their first encounter with the enemy, he thought, checking his wristcom. They had an hour before the briefing, but there was little more to say. Everything we know about the unknowns suggests that they are insane.
“Sir,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said, quietly. “Can I ask you a question?”
Henry gave her a sharp look. That didn't sound like a normal question.
“You may,” he said.
“My ... my friend died,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said, slowly. “And I feel ... I feel all sorts of things.”
Henry lifted his eyebrows. “Like what?”
“Conflicted,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said. “I’m saddened he’s gone, I miss him; at the same time, I’m angry at him for dying and I’m angry at the aliens for killing him. And I’m feeling numb and yet sorrowful ... is that remotely normal?”
“Yes,” Henry said. “I lost too many friends during the last war. All you can really do is carry on. The pain lessens, in time.”
“But I feel so conflicted,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam protested. “I don’t feel normal!”
Henry met her eyes. “How many people have you lost?”
“My grandmother died when I was nine,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said, after a moment’s thought. “But she was in her nineties.”
“And you had time to prepare yourself for her death,” Henry said. “Your friend died suddenly, unexpectedly. And so you are conflicted.”
He leaned forward, trying to sound reassuring. “You’ll miss him, really,” he added. It sounded as though the friend had been more than a friend, but he didn't want to ask. “I think you’ll have days when his absence will be an aching wound, yet it will fade. And then, afterwards, you’ll see him again.”
“If there is a God,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said. “But if there is, why would He allow a new alien race to start slaughtering us?”
Henry shrugged. “There are people who believe that aliens are His children, just as we are, and He loves us all equally, meaning that we have to learn to get along,” he said. He’d never considered himself very religious, although watching his children being born had taught him that there were true wonders in the universe. “And there are people who believe that the existence of aliens is a test, a test we have to pass if we wish to survive. Either we make friends with them or one race wipes the other out.”
“Like the Survivalists,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said. “Didn't they evolve from the Humanity League?”
“Yeah,” Henry said. “But they have a point.”
Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam looked down at the deck. “Which one do you believe?”
“I'm not convinced there is any grand plan,” Henry said. He’d grown to loathe organised religion b
efore he saw his first decade. “Just a string of accidents that comprise history. If we’d met the Tadpoles in space, surely we wouldn't have had a war.”
He cleared his throat. “And we’d better get back to work,” he said. “We have a briefing to attend in fifty minutes.”
***
“And so we’re as ready as we’ll ever be, outside spending a couple of months in a shipyard,” Chief Engineer Alan Finch concluded. “The patches on the hull should keep us going for a while longer.”
“Let us hope so,” Susan said. She’d inspected the damage over the last two days. Vanguard had survived, unlike so many other ships, but not all of the pre-combat simulations had been accurate. “Do you think we can survive another battle?”
“We might have no choice,” Finch said. “But there’s little else we can do before we go back to war.”
Susan nodded curtly, then looked at Mason. He’d handled the military aspect of the tactical analysis while Prince Henry had looked at the other aspects. She wasn't looking forward to this part of the briefing, but it had to be endured.
“Captain,” Mason said. He took a breath, then keyed his console, projecting a holographic image of the battle over the table. “At your command, my staff and I have gone through the sensor records and produced a preliminary analysis of alien capabilities.
“First, their stealth system. It appears to be more of a sensor shroud than a cloaking device, as far as we can tell; it definitely looks to be a blanket covering an entire fleet, rather than merely hiding a single ship. The bad news is that it has none of the weaknesses of a cloaking device; the good news is that it isn't remotely perfect, scattering sensor pulses rather than obscuring them. I believe that extending the drone screen outwards and combining our sensors through the datanet would provide additional warning of any further ambushes.”
He paused, then went on. “Second, their missiles. Our general feeling is that they have successfully designed compact missile drives at least an order of magnitude more powerful than our own, although they share many of the same weaknesses. Not least the simple fact that we can track them from launch and project their course. Their warheads, however, remain a more serious problem. We do not, as yet, have any explanation for their improved laser heads.”
Reed leaned forward. “Did they not simply scale up a bomb-pumped laser system? That’s what the Indians did.”
“Not unless they’ve designed a way to construct a mini-warhead,” Mason said. He scowled, darkly. “Their missiles aren't actually any larger than ours, but their warhead yields and ranges are definitely greater. We may need to start targeting their missiles with buckshot, rather than plasma cannons. They can just program their weapons to detonate outside our point defence range.”
“Update the programming,” Susan ordered. Buckshot was a frighteningly inefficient weapon, compared to plasma cannons, but the projectiles did keep going until they ran into something solid. “Can we do anything else about the missiles?”
“Not as yet, Captain,” Mason said. “They’re really quite determined little buggers. The Americans did try to draw some of them off with ECM decoys, but they didn't take the bait.”
“They might have had hard locks on our hulls,” Charlotte offered. “The fleet wasn't really trying to hide.”
“True,” Susan agreed. “Next time, we’ll be using our own stealth systems.”
Mason nodded, then leaned forward. “There’s a more serious problem, however,” he warned, his voice growing darker. “Watch the display and tell me what you think.”
Susan scowled - she hated guessing games - but watched, anyway, as the ambush played itself out for the second time. One alien fleet coming up the rear, another heading outwards from the tramline leading straight to the alien system ... it was definitely a picture-perfect ambush. And yet, coordinating it should have been hellishly difficult ...
“Run it again,” she ordered, coldly. She felt numb as the pattern evolved in front of her. “I ... they have some form of FTL communication.”
“Impossible,” Parkinson said.
“The aliens coordinated their operations as if there was no time-delay between their two formations,” Mason said, flatly. Susan guessed he was as stunned as she was. For all the rumours, no one had ever successfully sent a message at FTL speeds. “If you watch this part of the battle, it’s clear the aliens react faster than they should, if they were limited to radio waves or laser communicators.”
“If that’s the case,” Susan said slowly, “they have a major advantage.”
“Yes, sir,” Mason said. “As yet, we have no idea of the system’s range, but we know it covers well over five light-minutes. We have to assume that the actual range might be much greater.”
Susan nodded. It took between five minutes and twenty-one minutes to send a signal from Earth to Mars, depending on the two planets relative positions. But if someone could halve the time it took to send a signal, they’d have a major advantage. And in a space battle, where seconds counted, it could give them a decisive advantage. The more she thought about it, the colder she felt. Upgraded missiles were one thing, but FTL communications?
She tapped the table, meaningfully. “Do we have any clue how they do it?”
“Not as yet,” Mason said. “I have teams going through every last recording, but so far they’ve turned up nothing that might point to how it’s done. It’s quite possible, I think, that the FTL signals are beyond our ability to detect.”
“Wonderful,” Susan said, tartly. She knew she was being unfair, but she couldn't stop herself. “Do you have any other pieces of good news?”
“I’m afraid not,” Mason said. “Most of the ships that were destroyed during the battle were smashed, but a handful may have left significant chunks of debris behind. Even if the aliens have a habit of shooting at lifepods, Captain, they’ll be able to recover biological samples.”
Dead humans and Tadpoles, Susan thought.
She scowled. “Does that pose a threat?”
“It would certainly tell them they’re facing two races,” Mason said. “Beyond that ... I don’t think it poses an immediate problem. But they would have the ability, at least in theory, to manufacture a biological weapon targeted on us.”
“The Admiralty can worry about that,” Susan said. She’d heard rumours about just how much research went into safeguarding the British population from genetically-engineered viruses, but she knew very little for sure. Such research was largely considered taboo, after several parties had tried to release such weapons during the Age of Unrest. “Do you think they may have recovered computer cores?”
“I don't think so,” Mason said, “but it’s impossible to be entirely sure.”
Susan waited a moment, then glanced at Prince Henry. “Mr. Ambassador?”
The Prince sighed. “We have no facts, Captain,” he said. “There is no logical reason for them to open fire on us, unless they are either inherently aggressive or had strong reasons to believe we were a threat. It’s possible they thought we were far too close to their homeworld, but we could have haggled diplomatically over who owned UXS-469 or UXS-468. I don’t think the Tadpoles would have cared to keep them. They may also be at war already and assumed we were allied to that hostile force ...”
“Interesting,” Susan mused. “Do you have any proof?”
“We know nothing, Captain,” Prince Henry said. “All we have is speculation. We transmitted the complete first contact protocols as soon as we detected their fleet, which didn’t keep them from opening fire. Either there was a terrible mistake or they just didn’t care.”
Susan closed her eyes for a long moment. Mason had made her rest, but she just hadn't had enough sleep. Nor had the rest of the crew. They weren't exactly inexperienced, yet very few of them had seen actual combat. Vanguard had survived her first combat test, but it would be a long time before the scars faded completely.
“Thank you, both of you,” she said, opening her eyes. “I assume you’ve for
warded copies of your research to Captain Harper?”
“Yes, Captain,” Mason said. “For what it’s worth, the Americans reached basically the same conclusions as ourselves.”
Susan looked at Prince Henry. “Do you have any guesses what we’ll face in the future?”
“No, Captain,” Prince Henry said. “If this was a terrible mistake, they may attempt to open contact and make reparations. Or they may try to occupy the systems past UXS-469 towards the Tadpoles, in hopes of fending off any counterattacks. Or they may simply want to drive us away from UXS-469 and not proceed any further. There's no way to know for sure.”
Susan nodded, although her gut feeling told her that the newcomers would go on the offensive, now they’d smashed a major fleet. Whatever they’d meant to do, they now knew they were at war against two races, not one. They’d have to keep the initiative or be smashed flat when humanity and the Tadpoles launched a counterattack, after duplicating the alien weapons. Unless, of course, they saw the alien-grade tramlines as a balancing advantage and decided to sue for peace ...
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