James sighed. “Yes, sir,” he said. “But they will want an interview with you too.”
“I’m going to be very busy,” the Captain said. He smirked, although there was no malice in his expression. “You’ll have to handle them.”
“Yes, sir,” James said, again.
He closed the channel, then procrastinated by checking the damage reports from the ships the aliens had targeted. They’d definitely learnt from experience, he told himself; they’d targeted weapons, rather than the armoured hulls. But it was an effective tactic, he had to admit, and one that could be repeated time and time again. There might be a second attack in the next system, which would have the additional disadvantage of convincing the aliens that New Russia was the target…
As if they were in any doubt, he thought, sourly.
* * *
Kurt ordered his squadron to wait in the ready room until he was reasonably confident that the aliens weren't about to put in another attack immediately, then reminded the pilots to make sure they staggered their showers and meals. If the aliens did return, they'd need to drop everything and return to the fray. Starfighter pilots were used to snatching sleep where they could — constant exercises saw to that - but this was different. This time, they might be snapped awake and flung out into space to do battle with the aliens once again.
Shaking his head, he reached for a terminal and began to type out a message for his family. If the damaged frigates were sent back to Earth, they could carry the messages… although he knew the censors would see them before they were uploaded into the planetary datanet. He was midway through writing the message when another message popped up in his inbox. It was from one of the reporters, asking for an interview. Judging by the curses he could hear around the ready room, he wasn't the only one to get such a message.
“Tell them you’re still on duty,” he advised. Honestly, the constant demands for interviews were getting beyond a joke. “And then remember that you are on duty.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Captain,” Farley said. “The two frigates have crossed the tramline and vanished.”
“Good,” Ted said. The frigates, assuming they made it, carried both letters from his crewmen and his theory that Vera Cruz was near an alien homeworld. Whatever happened, the Admiralty would have a chance to consider the possibilities. “Resume course.”
“Aye, sir,” Lightbridge said. A dull quiver ran through the ship as the carrier resumed her slow plod towards New Russia, accompanied by the remainder of the flotilla. “Course underway.”
“Launch a second shell of recon drones,” Ted added. “I want to know about the faintest hint of an alien presence.”
He looked up at the display. The aliens, damn them, would know their rough course and speed. Assuming their commanders reacted at once — an assumption he dared not reject — they could have another carrier in place to intercept the flotilla long before they reached New Russia. But there was a chance they could sneak through…
“Drones away,” Farley said. “Passive sensors… online.”
Ted nodded. Passive sensors were nowhere near as capable as active sensors, but at least they didn't radiate any betraying emissions for alien sensors to detect. Using active sensors would have betrayed their position to the aliens, while the aliens themselves might remain undetected until it was far too late to avoid another ambush. There were times, Ted knew, when he might want to advertise his presence, but not in what might as well be unfriendly space.
He rose to his feet. “You have the bridge,” he said, addressing Farley. “I’ll be in my office.”
“Aye, sir,” Farley said. “I have the bridge.”
Ted strode through the airlock and sagged, almost as soon as the airlock hissed closed behind him. The weight of command had never felt so heavy, not even when he’d first assumed command of the carrier… although, to be fair, no one had ever seriously expected Ark Royal to resume active service as anything more than a museum piece. Now… a mistake on his part could cost humanity the war. What if the attack on New Russia was a total disaster?
He’d thought, seriously, about abandoning the mission and withdrawing the way they’d come. It wouldn't have been a cowardly decision, he knew; there were strong reasons to favour a withdrawal and a return to Earth. He knew that there would be people who would say otherwise, who would accuse him of being a coward, yet he knew he had the moral stubbornness to proceed anyway. But they had to knock the aliens back on their heels and New Russia was the only reasonable target… at least until they found an alien homeworld they could target.
There was a chime. He looked up, then keyed the switch that opened the hatch, allowing Midshipwomen Lopez to step into the office. Annoyingly, she looked as fresh as ever, despite the brief and violent battle. Ted rubbed his forehead, wondering if he was losing his hair at a faster rate now he was going back into action, then dismissed the thought.
“Commander Fitzwilliam ordered me to bring you tea and cake,” she said, as she placed the tray down on his desk. Ted blinked in surprise, then looked up at her. There was nothing, but earnestness in her eyes. “He also said you should get some sleep.”
Ted grunted. It would be three days before they reached New Russia — three days, which would give the aliens ample time to prepare a surprise. He’d planned their approach to bring them into the system as far from the primary star as possible, but he was still uncomfortably aware that the aliens might well detect their arrival and come swarming. Just what were they doing in the system, anyway? There were no shortage of theories, yet there was no hard data.
“Thank you,” he said, wondering why Fitzwilliam hadn't suggested it in person. It wasn't as if their relationship was that tense. “Was there anything else he wanted to say?”
“Apparently, one of the reporters wants to talk to you,” Midshipwomen Lopez said. “But I believe the XO has headed her off at the pass.”
“Understood,” Ted said. “Tell him that I will speak to one reporter tomorrow.”
He rolled his eyes. No doubt the reporters wanted reassurance from the command staff that they hadn't been in any real danger. He wondered, absently, if they’d believe the truth, that the aliens had been the ones who had decided the tempo of operations. If they’d pressed the offensive… it was odd, when he thought about it. The aliens had shown an odd sensitivity to losses.
Or maybe they were just scared of us, he thought. By any standard, Ark Royal had hammered the aliens badly in the last encounter. It would be comforting to believe that was true…
Midshipwomen Lopez poured him a mug of tea, then turned and left the office. Ted took a sip and realised, to his surprise, that the tea was actually real, rather than the processed seeds used to fuel the endless supplies of tea in the mess. Someone — he suspected Fitzwilliam — had had them shipped onboard, then donated them to Lopez with orders to use them to make the Captain’s personal tea. He hesitated, then took another sip of tea and started to read through the reports from the smaller ships. Thankfully, the smaller navies hadn't developed the unfortunate tendency to be absurdly verbose, unlike the larger navies.
Unwilling to go further than he absolutely had to from the bridge, he walked over to the sofa, lay down and closed his eyes. He had been more exhausted than he’d realised, for the next thing he knew was his timer bleeping frantically, reminding him that it was time to take his next shift on the bridge. He pulled himself to his feet, hastily undressed and jumped into the shower, then washed himself clean before pulling on the same uniform. It felt slightly unclean against his flesh, but there was no time to get a new one.
He stepped onto the bridge and glanced at the status display. The carrier was still following the planned course, without any alien presence in sight. Ted prayed, silently, that it stayed that way, although he knew that, with a little care, an alien ship could be shadowing them at a distance and remain unseen. The only real risk lay in trying to follow them through a tramline…
Sighing, he sat do
wn and started to read through the next set of reports.
* * *
“So,” Yang said. “Just how much danger were we in?”
James briefly considered telling him that they’d come within a hairsbreadth of being killed — the inhumanly-thin reporter was right next to him, looking so pale he could almost see her bones under her skin — but decided it would be cruel. Besides, Yang probably had the experience to know that he would be lying.
“The aliens probed our defences, then broke off,” he said, shortly. Yang might understand the real implications, but he had no intention of spelling them out for his partner. “They didn't come near the carrier.”
“Odd choice of tactics,” Yang said. “Modern-day doctrine dictates the immediate destruction of the enemy’s carriers.”
James couldn't disagree. The vast majority of space navies — and God knew there was no sign the aliens disagreed — had poured resources into carriers, rather than fixed defences. It gave them a flexibility, the admirals had concluded, that orbital battlestations couldn't hope to match — and besides, orbital battlestations were sitting ducks. It was no surprise that the aliens had gone after humanity’s carriers during the Battle of New Russia; they’d known that destroying the carriers would eventually give them the victory. And they’d been right.
“True enough,” he said. “But the aliens might well have discovered who we are and backed off.”
“Or they have plans for a future ambush,” Yang said, with evident pleasure. His partner whimpered. “They might be ready for us.”
“It’s a possibility,” James agreed, shortly. The Captain had planned their entry to minimise the chances of detection, but the aliens — assuming they knew how humanity’s drives worked — might well manage to catch their arrival anyway. “But we have to press on anyway.”
The thin reporter looked up. “You mean to fly right into a trap?”
James shook his head, reflecting privately that the reporter wasn't as stupid as she looked.
“It is a trap,” she insisted. “Why else would they back off and let us go?”
“They would not have been able to assign too many ships to guarding all of the possible angles of approach,” James said, as patiently as he could. “I don’t think they expected an armoured carrier and a small fleet of armoured warships. The smart thing to do was to back off, which they did.”
The reporter sighed. James found himself studying her, privately reflecting — again — that perhaps he should send her to sickbay. She was so inhumanly thin… it crossed his mind to wonder if she was actually human, before dismissing the thought with all the contempt it deserved. Having her body extensively modified to allow her to survive with so little meat on her bones was stupid, but it didn't make her inhuman. Unless she was an alien spy…
He smirked at the thought. Humanity’s first depictions of aliens had been little more than humans in rubber suits. It hadn't been until computer technology had allowed the creation of computer-generated monsters that truly inhuman monsters had been depicted on the big screen. But the first real aliens humanity had encountered had been humanoid… the theorists that suggested that different worlds, faced with the same problems, would find the same answers, might have been right after all. And yet… somehow, he doubted they could pose as human.
But was it unbelievable that some humans would turn traitor? The aliens had taken prisoners, they assumed; they’d certainly captured a handful of human colony worlds. It would be easy enough, he knew, to convince some of their captives to serve them instead. If they happened to take an entire family prisoner, they could threaten the children to force the adults to comply. Why, if humans could be so unpleasant to their fellow humans, could they expect the aliens to be any better? And yet, there was no reason to assume that the aliens hadn't already started building up spy networks long before Vera Cruz.
James scowled. If suspicions were directed at everyone who might just have come into contact with the aliens, somewhere along the edge of explored space…
The reporter coughed. “Is there a problem, Commander?”
“I’m not sure,” James said. He made a mental note to write down his suspicions, although he was fairly sure MI5 would already have considered the possibilities. But the last thing humanity needed was a witch hunt for alien spies. “Are you having second thoughts about being on this ship?”
The reporter coloured, very slightly. “I was told it would make my career,” she said, miserably. “And that I would be safe.”
James had to fight to keep himself from giggling. What manner of idiot would believe that a military starship going into action was safe? But maybe it did make sense, in a weird kind of way. Embedded journalists like Yang went into action beside military units, even taking up weapons and opening fire if necessary. Other journalists remained behind the lines, donned clean uniforms and told themselves that they were being daring. And, having close access to cameras for ‘live’ reporting, tended to shape the media environment the way they wanted it to go.
“It may well make your career,” James said, although he didn't have the slightest idea of why anyone would have thought that too. “But it will not, I'm afraid, be safe.”
Yang stood. “If you don’t mind, Commander, I have to go file a report,” he said. “Can I leave Barbie in your capable hands?”
James blinked in surprise. Yang knew perfectly well there was no way to file a report, not until they returned to Earth or sent another ship back in their place. It puzzled him until he looked at Barbie — so that was her name — and realised that she was on the verge of crying. He scowled at Yang’s retreating back, then wondered just who had wanted to be rid of her. Maybe she was too silly to be considered an asset even in the most liberal mainstream media outlet…
Or maybe someone made her boss send her away, James thought, ruefully. From what he’d heard, media outlets were driven by feuds and jealousies that made the aristocracy look calm and reasonable. She seduced someone and her rival exacted a little revenge…
“It isn't safe at all,” he confirmed. “But the Old Lady is a tough little ship. She’ll survive.”
Barbie — absently, he wondered if that was just a media name — reached out and gave him a hug. James hesitated, then returned the hug, feeling her body pressing against his. She felt odd, almost childish, to the touch. The feeling was disturbing on a very primal level, so he pushed her away as soon as he decently could. Up close, her body seemed almost too thin to be sexual. According to her file, she was in her mid-twenties. He would have questioned if she was barely entering her teens.
“Thank you,” she said. She stepped backwards and turned, allowing him to see her buttocks. They too were thin, thin enough to be almost unrecognisable. “I’ll hold you to it.”
James rolled his eyes as she walked out of the compartment, leaving him alone. If Ark Royal were to be destroyed, James would die beside her… and the rest of the crew. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could evacuate… no, that wasn't likely to happen. Even if they did, they would be exploding outwards into alien-controlled territory. Would the aliens ignore the lifepods, fire on them or take their crews prisoner? There was no way to know.
“Idiot,” he muttered.
* * *
“This isn't a plan,” Charles objected, when he looked at the finished operational outline. “I think this is guaranteed suicide.”
Ivan’s face didn't change, but there was a definite hint of amusement in his eyes. “I always knew you British were soft,” he said. “This plan is bound to succeed.”
Charles gave him a sharp look. “Because it’s so absurd that no one in their right mind would expect it?”
“Precisely,” Ivan said. “We go anywhere and do anything to complete the mission.”
That, Charles knew, was true. The Russian Special Forces were known for pushing themselves to the limit, just like the other such units around the world. And, unlike the more open powers, the Russians had fewer qualms about taking terrifyin
g risks to complete the mission. Their performance in the Third Afghanistan War alone had marked their operators as being men to watch, even before they’d started bending the letter of international agreements on cyborg soldiers.
“We have to break into the system first,” Charles said, after a long moment. “And if we do that, we have to assault the planetary defences too…”
“They won’t have time to install anything heavier than a handful of automated platforms,” Ivan said, confidently. He shrugged, an exaggerated gesture that seemed to make up for his frozen features. “We know the risks, Major, and we know we have to break into the system first. Should that fail, we will consider alternatives. But, for the moment, this is our best option.”
“I will consult with the Captain,” Charles said, flatly. “He will have the final say… unless you wish to insert your shuttle into the system on your own?”
“Maybe as a last resort,” Ivan said. He looked down at the plan, then passed Charles a copy. “I would advise you not to share it with anyone, but I don’t think it matters here.”
Charles snorted. Three months ago, the concept of having Russian SF forces on Ark Royal would have been utterly absurd. Even though the carrier was in the reserves, the Admiralty would have had kittens at the thought… unless they decided to sell the carrier. But that would have alienated a pressure group that would have brought an immense political storm down on their heads. Now… working with the Russians — and a handful of smaller navies — might mean the difference between victory and defeat.
“I’ll show it to the Captain alone,” he said. “He will have the final say, as I said.”
He understood Ivan’s impatience to act. New Russia and millions of Russian civilians were under enemy occupation — if, of course, they were still alive. The aliens could have butchered them all by now. If Charles could feel the urge to hurry up and get stuck into an enemy that had casually wiped out two British carriers and thousands of crewmen, Ivan would feel far worse. But they had to be careful. Ark Royal was effectively irreplaceable. Did the enemy realise that was true?
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