The trouble with that was that they still knew next to nothing about the aliens or their technology; and they had no idea where their homeworld lay. The Snappers could open and close wormholes, apparently at will; it was into one of those that they had disappeared when the human reinforcements had chased them from Osiris. There was no way to track them, no way to follow once the wormholes closed.
She reached the Infirmary, and here she found the handsome Carey Jain with a digital read-out in his hands, looking as weary as she felt. He had a few days' worth of stubble on his chin, his eyes were half-closed and deeply shadowed, and even as she watched, he stifled a yawn. She guessed he hadn't showered or even changed his rumpled clothes.
She stood for a moment drinking in the sight of him, wishing for things that could not be. He looked up, and a ragged smile brightened his features. “Come to check on the patients?”
“You know me well.”
“Most of the pilots who were being treated for combat injuries have been released, although some of those are still confined to quarters until they heal. I'd keep them in the Infirmary, but we simply don't have the space.”
“I know. I heard you'd been getting rather inventive with the placement of your patients.”
“We've put them wherever there's room, as close to the Infirmary as possible. Unfortunately, we don't have the equipment or supplies to deal with this amount of people. We've lost a lot of patients because of that.” He paused, his eyes wet. Brid went to him and put her hand on his arm, felt the lean muscle there. She removed her hand.
“The worst part is the lack of morale,” Carey said. “Things are so bad that many of my patients, fighter pilots included, are saying they think it would be a good idea to surrender to the aliens. A positive outlook is the key to good health. I worry.”
“I'll talk to them.”
“I wish you would.”
They spoke for a few minutes more, Carey unloading on her and Brid letting him. And as they spoke, it occurred to her that maybe they could end this for good.
Maybe the Colonies should surrender.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
On the outer edge of Earth's solar system
Brid fingered her coffee cup, clicking one short nail absently against the insulated ceramic. It barely made any sound next to the quiet but ever-present thrum of the Takarabune's engines and the nearly inaudible hiss of canned air that circulated throughout the ship. She sat in her captain's chair with one leg crossed over the other, not really needed on the bridge but having nowhere else to go and nothing else of import to do. Besides, she was the captain; she was expected on the bridge.
She bobbed her foot in the air, tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, and wondered what the hell she used to do all day when there wasn't a war on. She'd approached Commodore Dubicki and the rest of the warship captains with her plan as soon as she'd thought of it, and they'd unanimously voted to try it. So the commodore had prepared a statement—an announcement of surrender—and they'd broadcast it on all possible frequencies, hoping the aliens would hear and understand it.
For her own part, Brid had every certainty the Snappers could understand anything the humans said. They knew the humans could translate whatever Turtle language they'd been throwing at them, after all, and they knew enough about humans—or were enough like them—that they knew how to trick them.
But five hours had come and gone, and still the aliens had not responded to their request to surrender. It worried her. Maybe they suspected a trap. Or perhaps the humans simply hadn't broadcast the message on the right frequency . . . but that was as unlikely as the aliens not knowing how to translate English. And the declaration had been broadcasting on a loop, both in Earth's solar system and each of the Colonies' solar systems ever since they recorded it, so the Snappers couldn't have missed it unless they hadn't come back yet. They'd presumably travelled through the wormhole back to their own star system, maybe in a different galaxy altogether—or, for all anyone knew, even in a different dimension—so it was possible they were still far out of range of a radio transmission, and would remain so until they returned to Sol or a Colonial sun. Realizing that filled Brid with a new kind of dread; they could wait days or even weeks for the aliens to show up. And when they did, if they had further murderous intent, they might not stop to listen for transmissions outside their own.
If the message was broadcast on the channel they routinely used, though, surely they would have to listen. And the humans must have sent it out on that channel, because they'd sent it out on every damn channel there was.
She shuddered, unnerved by the possibilities. If the aliens didn't take the bait, they were screwed. If the aliens caught on to Brid's scheme, they were doubly screwed. She brought the coffee to her lips, drank the remainder of it in one fell swoop. It had gone cold, and she shuddered again; she despised cold coffee.
“Boredboredboredboredbored . . . ” Kaipo said.
Reindeer chuckled. “Shut up, you oaf.”
“What's an oaf?”
“Ha! You are! It means you're stupid. Uncultured.”
“Uncultured, maybe,” he said with a huff. “But I'll have you know I graduated at the top of my class.”
“What class would that be? Wisecracking, or Kissing Ass?”
“I think you mean, 'Kicking Ass,' and I'm equally good at both, if you must know.”
Time for a refill, Brid thought, and rose to fetch another cup of coffee. She normally asked someone else to get it for her, because it was good for morale to have the captain on the bridge where she could easily be reached, and because it was a captain's prerogative not to get her own coffee. But she needed to stretch her legs, needed to move a little so she could expend some of this pent-up energy. “I'm going for a coffee,” she said, because if she didn't say, someone would ask. And they should know she'd return soon.
“I could get it for you, ma'am,” Reindeer said, and half-stood.
Brid waved her back down. “That's all right. I need to make a detour anyway.” Meaning a bathroom break. The endless coffees did take their toll. Since the war had started, she'd habitually gone over the limit of the number of cups Carey Jain allotted her each day (four! God! Who could stick to four?), except on days when she'd been so busy choreographing a battle that she hadn't even thought about caffeine, so she decided she'd best switch to decaf for a change. She hardly needed any more jittery nerves today anyway.
She had the choice of either using one of the common ladies' rooms that lay situated to either end of each deck, or taking the time to go all the way up to her own quarters and use her private one. She chose to go to her room—that, too, was her privilege, and besides, junior officers became flustered when they discovered a commanding officer using their facilities. Probably because it was one of the few places they could gossip and talk behind their seniors' backs, theoretically without fear of getting caught.
Brid made short time walking to her quarters, and although she'd already downed her four coffees for the day, she made short work of relieving herself, too. When she finished, she washed up and gave her face a quick scrub with cold water, hoping that would somehow set her more to rights.
It didn't.
The comm beeped, and she jumped about a foot. “Captain to the bridge.” That was Pilirani talking, and if Brid wasn't mistaken, she heard a tremor of excitement in the younger woman's businesslike tone.
Brid punched the comm. “What is it, Pilirani?”
“Captain, the aliens have responded to our petition to surrender.”
“On my way.”
In her haste, she left her empty coffee cup on her bedside table. She ran—outright ran—down the corridor to the elevator and again from the elevator to the bridge, appearances be damned. She arrived in her chair out of breath and sweating as much from nerves as from exertion, and took in the Snapper warship looming on the main viewscreen. She shoved delinquent hairs off her forehead and gave herself a moment to tighten her ponytail, straighte
n her jacket, and catch her breath. “On screen.”
The picture of the enemy ship flicked off, replaced by a countenance so dissimilar to that of a human that her first, irrational thought was, My god, they really are aliens. Of those who'd seen them, one of the pilots in particular—Simonis, she thought his name was—had claimed the aliens resembled snapping turtles. They did, in an elemental sort of way—certainly they had the beaks for it—but to Brid they didn't look like anything Earth-born. Their eyes were too round and glassy, and the trio of flexible digits on each hand were unlike anything she recalled ever seeing on Earth or even in books about extinct species.
The one that currently took up the screen possessed a putty-grey sort of color, and its eyes were a rich, bright red. It wore a shiny red uniform and a matching skullcap with a wing in front, and the wing bore a gold pin of a symbol Brid didn't recognize but which she presumed was indicative of rank. Behind the first alien, she made out two others, both in white.
The one in red spoke. It opened its mouth when it spoke, making it clear not only that it had no teeth, but also that it didn't utilize its tongue when it talked, although its throat moved quite a bit.
Pilirani's fingers danced across her keyboard, helping the computer translate, and in a moment she read from the screen: “I am Commodore uh . . . Sorry, ma'am, I'm not sure I can pronounce this. The best I can do is 'Glyph.' To whom am I speaking?”
“Captain Brid Stephenson.” She'd never pulled anything like this before, so she thought it best to let Glyph do most of the talking, at least for now.
The alien spoke again, and Pilirani translated: “Are you qualified to negotiate, Captain Brid Stephenson?”
“I am.” Only because they'd worked this out ahead of time. One human warship hovered at each of the Earth and Colonial solar systems, waiting for the aliens to show up, and each of those captains had a prepared script to work from.
“We will accept the unconditional surrender of Earth and her six Colonies.”
“Granted. Give us a day to gather our ships, and we will surrender all our vessels and military personnel. We'd like to convene near Osiris, if that meets with your approval. It would be a sign of respect for our dead.” She hoped to God the Snappers didn't know any different, and that they cared enough about the dead to permit their enemies such a concession.
Glyph cocked its head—thoughtfulness? Indecision? Suspicion? Brid perspired through her shirt.
“We will allow this. Send us the coordinates. We shall meet tomorrow at 15.30 your military time.”
“Thank you.”
Glyph presented its hand, palm up, in a movement that to Brid meant it was either asking for money or offering someone a place to sit. She wondered what it meant to the aliens, and if she should return the gesture. She settled for bowing her head briefly but respectfully, and Glyph ended the communication. Then the ship opened a wormhole, and the aliens disappeared.
Brid took a shaky breath. Her hands trembled. She had to get word to all of the captains who were monitoring the Colonial solar systems, and then they'd all gather at Osiris, near the Freyr Asteroid Belt. Where the rest of the fleets already hid.
* * *
A goodly number of warships and battleships rested out in the open, weapons powered down, their fighters ready but unlaunched. The rest of the Earth and Colonial ships—including the Takarabune—lurked in the Freyr Asteroid Belt, which hung like a colossal beaded necklace between Osiris and Nommos, and which the two planets had aggressively warred over in the days before the Snappers arrived. If there was one positive thing the aliens had done for the human race, Brid thought, it was to bring them all together against a common enemy. She wondered if the peace would hold once the war with the Turtles ended.
She hoped she'd find out within the next several hours.
She also hoped the Snappers would prove a prompt race—they were back to waiting again, and she hated biding her time. It couldn't be helped, of course; they'd had to give themselves enough of a head start so they could get all their ships in place, especially in case—God forbid—the aliens happened to show up early.
The human ships were all open to the same frequency so they'd hear Commodore Dubicki's orders when he gave them, and so that they'd be in contact with one another if need arose, but they were to maintain radio silence for now except for routine ship chatter, so the aliens wouldn't pick up any clues as to what they had up their collective sleeve. Brid thought of it as a kind of self-imposed torture. She kept fiddling with her coffee cup, and she had to fight to keep from biting her nails, a habit she'd never indulged before. Even Kaipo and Reindeer had quit their bantering. It was eerie.
Brid was considering gnawing on just one thumbnail when a wormhole opened and released a fleet of ships blacker than the night that had spawned them. She sat unconsciously straighter in her seat, every muscle tense, her lips parted in awe and fear. The ships kept coming and coming, huge and powerful, filling the sky, until at last the wormhole closed behind them. Brid wondered what kind of technology it took to control a wormhole, and how much doing so depleted the ship that did it. It didn't appear to affect the alien vessels in the least.
The first thing Brid looked for once the shock had left her system were Copperheads, but none of the warships had deployed any—suggesting that the Snappers believed the humans really were surrendering. Tense moments passed. The aliens drifted into position.
Then, clearly and precisely over the ship-to-ship: “Hit 'em with all you've got!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Just outside the Freyr Asteroid Belt
Takarabune led the charge, her fighter pilots ahead of her, the 15th Squadron foremost. “Fire,” Brid said. Adelard took aim at the enemy's aft and let loose a succession of lasers. As instructed, the Banshees also struck aft, doing their best to hit the same area as the Takarabune, only taking care not to get hit by friendly fire.
“No damage, Captain.”
“Again.”
“Still no damage.”
“Mr. Daniau, fire at will.”
“Aye, Captain.”
The human ships had all moved into position, sandwiching the enemy, circling them. Some of the enemy craft, blocked by their own kind, had to rise up to fire at the Colonials. The humans were ready for that, and attacked as soon as they got the alien ships in their sights.
“Enemy warships are deploying Copperheads,” said Reindeer.
“Have our fighters engage them.”
Brid leaned forward, her gaze on the main viewscreen, which currently showed an image of the nearest alien warship getting it in the arse from both the Takarabune and her fighters. The ship's viewscreens and helm had been fixed along with the temperature control; in fact, the mechanics and techs had given the Takarabune and most of her fighters the go-ahead to get back in battle. But worry gnawed at Brid; because of the war, the techs had done a rush job on the repairs. Yes, they were ready for a fight–technically. But what would happen when they actually engaged the enemy? They had yet to find out.
“The alien warship has incurred ten percent damage to aft shields,” Reindeer said. “Copperheads are busy with our fighters.”
“Keep at it, Adelard. How are our Banshees doing?”
“No casualties reported yet, ma'am, but the battle's still young. Co–” She broke off as an enemy bolt hurtled into the ship, sending a vibration deep within the vessel. Brid was thankful her coffee cup had a lid on it, just in case modern engineering failed next time and her drink went flying. “Fifteen percent damage to forward shields,” Reindeer said once she could read the computer's input.
“Dammit, how do they always keep one step ahead of us?”
“I'm getting reports that other alien crafts are taking damage,” said Pilirani.
“That's more like it.” Another volley of shots came their way; damn the Turtles, their warships could fire behind them as well as they could fire in front.
Thoom! That one reverberated in her teeth. “Damage!”
“Forward shields down to seventy-five percent, Captain.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck! “Hit them, and hit them hard! I want to see them bleed.”
“Firing Missile One . . . Missile Two.” Adelard had kept his cool. Brid sought to regain hers as she waited for the results of the missile launch. She couldn't have the crew thinking her desperate. Passionate, yes. Angry, yes. But not desperate.
“Two direct hits,” said Reindeer. “Enemy's aft shields penetrated!”
“Ono!” It was Hawaiian for “sweet.” Kaipo put his hand up; Reindeer touched his fingers, tip to tip.
“Hit them again, and keep hitting them.”
“Ono!” Reindeer this time. “Enemy's aft has incurred thirty-five percent damage! We are vile!”
Brid smiled. She knew it was an unkind smile, and that did not bother her in the least. Then she saw two Banshees wiped out by the warship's fire, and the smile disintegrated.
“Casualty reports are coming in,” said Reindeer. “We've lost five fighters so far, and one had to return to the docking bay for repairs and injuries sustained.”
“Ma'am,” Pilirani said, “some of the other Colonial warships are also taking damage. The Kanaloa has sustained ten percent damage to forward shields, and Queenstown's forward shields are down to twenty percent.”
“Move closer to Queenstown. Let's see if we can't draw some of their fire. And get at the ship that's targeting her. Let's see how they like it.”
The Takarabune edged nearer her ally, taking care not to leave a big enough gap between warships that the enemy could slip through their trap. Adelard kept up a barrage of laser fire, striking primarily at the warship that had injured the Queenstown.
Colonies Of Earth: Unity War Book 1 Page 12