The Cruel Stars

by Christopher Nuttall

  A good thing no one notices the smell after the first few hours, she thought, as she climbed into bed. But they’ll probably force us to go through decontamination when we reach Tallyman.

  Sleep didn't come easy. Indeed, by the time Anson paged her, she didn't feel as though she’d slept at all. She sat upright and keyed her terminal, linking to the external sensors. RNRB Tallyman was a fairly standard asteroid base - one designed for mining and zero-g construction work rather than habitation - but it was surrounded by a dozen Workhorse-class freighters and a pair of naval destroyers. Abigail shivered as she checked the freighter ID codes, recognising a couple of names. Whatever was going on was serious. The Royal Navy wouldn’t yank so many freighters off the shipping lanes without a very good excuse.

  “They want you to shuttle over to the base,” Anson said, over the intercom. “Now, apparently. The shuttle is already on its way.”

  “Joy,” Abigail muttered. “Open the lower hatch for them. Just let me slip into something a little less comfortable and I’ll be down.”

  She stripped off her shipsuit, sponged herself down and rapidly donned a fresh outfit. It wasn't a dress uniform, but it would have to do. She literally had nothing else to wear. The stuffed shirts who ran the navy might be outraged if they saw her, but it didn't matter. They should know they hadn't called her after she’d arrived at Ceres. She’d have hired something more suitable if they’d arranged a meeting on the asteroid. God knew she didn't meet potential clients in smelly shipsuits.

  Pinning her hair back into place, she hurried down to the hatch, checking the telltales before she opened it. The shuttle was fairly standard, the interior surprisingly luxurious for a military craft. A Royal Marine checked her fingerprints and DNA code, then directed her to a comfortable seat. Abigail wondered, helplessly, if she was in trouble. And yet, she knew it was absurd. The Royal Navy wouldn't have bothered to summon her to Tallyman if it wanted to arrest her. Ceres had an internal police force that would have happily taken Abigail and her crew into custody until matters were sorted out.

  She forced herself to relax as the shuttle undocked and headed back to the asteroid. The pilot kept up a steady stream of chatter, speaking to his controller ... Abigail had to fight to keep the contempt off her face. Didn't the navy trust its pilots? The endless checklists bred sloth and apathy, not efficiency. God knew she trusted Anson to handle her ship in her absence ... she wouldn't insult his intelligence by forcing him to run through a checklist for something as simple as a docking manoeuvre. Maybe the pilot was new. But in that case, he shouldn't be flying the shuttle ...

  A low clunk echoed through the craft as it docked with the asteroid. Abigail rolled her eyes in annoyance - Anson wouldn’t have banged a shuttle against the airlock - and then rose as the hatch opened. There was gravity inside, surprisingly. She’d half-expected the entire complex to be in zero-g. But then, the military could afford far more powerful and selective gravity generators than any civilian freighter crew. No doubt half their crew was composed of groundpounders. She could move easily from gravity to zero-g and back again, but groundpounders could not. Half of them couldn't even fly to orbit without throwing up.

  Sad, she thought, as she stepped through the hatch. Who’d want to live on the ground?

  A young man wearing a midshipman’s uniform met her on the far side. “Captain Harrison?”

  “That’s me,” Abigail said. She resisted the urge to point out that her identity had already been checked. The midshipman looked so young that she was tempted to check if he was still in nappies. Poddy looked older - and more responsible - and Poddy was fifteen! “What can I do for you?”

  “Please, come with me,” the midshipman said. His voice was very quiet. He turned, motioning for her to follow him. “There’s a briefing in the ... ah ... briefing room.”

  “And where else would we hold a briefing?” Abigail asked, rhetorically. “Lead on, young man.”

  The back of the young man’s neck went red, Abigail noted. She smiled to herself, then followed him through a series of drab - and unmarked - corridors. There was no personality to the complex at all, no decorations ... there weren't even any paintings or drawings produced by the local children. But then, there were probably no children on the base. The RNRB complex might just have been reactivated at very short notice. She mulled it over as she followed him into the briefing room, where four other merchant skippers were waiting for her.

  “Abigail,” Captain Philip Chester said. He was a colossal man, with a beard that reached down to his chest. His shipsuit was carefully tailored to show off his muscles. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “You too,” Abigail said, warmly. They’d shared a bed a few times, back when they’d been younger. It hadn't meant much to either of them, she knew, but it had been fun. “What’s an ugly bastard like you doing in a place like this?”

  “Waiting for you, it would seem,” Chester said. He waved a hand around the room. “We were all summoned here ...”

  “I’m sorry about the delay,” a new voice said. A young man strode into the room, closing the hatch behind him. “We were hoping to get started earlier, but something came up.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Captain Dawes said, sarcastically. “We’re just sitting here, twiddling our thumbs.”

  “Good,” the naval officer said, as he motioned for Abigail to take a seat. He didn't seem to have any sense of irony. “My name is Sidney Jameson, Commodore Jameson. I’m sorry that you were all summoned here at short notice. Please rest assured that we wouldn't have called you if the situation wasn't truly urgent.”

  “I’d prefer to rest assured that you were going to compensate us for our losses,” Captain Dawes told him.

  “We will,” Jameson said. He took a breath. “We are at war.”

  Abigail felt ice trickling down her spine. “At war? With whom?”

  Jameson looked at her. “Aliens.”

  Chapter Two

  One day in Colchester, Commander Alan Campbell had long since come to believe, was just like any other. He would be awoken at seven in the morning, fed something that might just have passed for a decent breakfast, then put through a routine of physical exercise, academic study and basic counselling. Alan wasn't sure why the Royal Navy bothered with the latter - as a member of D Company, he would be dishonourably discharged as soon as his sentence was up - and frankly he rather hated it. The military counsellors regarded him as a pimple on the Royal Navy’s bum and the civilian counsellors found him incomprehensible. But then, he was in jail. He simply couldn't decline counselling if the jail’s commanding officer thought he deserved it.

  It’s a punishment, he thought, when he bothered to think about it at all. Making me talk to some bushy-haired, bright-eyed, over-educated idiot is cruel and unusual punishment.

  He deserved it, he supposed. He’d killed his wife, after all. And even though he tried to tell himself that the bitch had deserved it, he knew better. He’d ensured that his daughters would grow up without either a mother or a father, as well as ruining his career and the rest of his life. He knew better than to think there was any future for him, outside Colchester. A criminal record generally meant the end of any employment prospects, even if he could cope outside the military prison. The unstructured world outside the stone walls might defeat him even if he did manage to find a job and rebuild his life.

  It was hard, so hard, to find the motivation to swing his legs over the side and stand. There was nothing to do, save for pacing the cramped cell and waiting for the redcaps to take him to class. Colchester was hardly as unpleasant as some of the other high-security prisons, if the horror stories he’d heard were accurate, but it was boring. The redcaps weren't openly sadistic, yet they were very careful. They didn't even let him have books in his cell. If he hadn't been used to military life, he suspected he would have gone mad by now. But if he’d been a civilian, he would never have been sent to Colchester.

  And if I’d been a civilian, my w
ife would never have been alone, he thought, morbidly. And she would never have cheated on me ...

  He forced the memories back down as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. That was odd. The redcaps were anal about sticking to their schedule, no matter what the inmates thought. Perhaps something had happened to one of the other prisoners. A young man who’d been sent down for a year had tried to hang himself in his cell a few months ago, somewhat to Alan’s surprise. He certainly hadn't been able to figure out how the poor bastard had managed it. It wasn't as if there were hooks on the ceiling. The cells were as bare as a crewman’s cabin on a frigate.

  The footsteps stopped by his cell. Something banged against the bars. “Campbell,” a voice growled. “On your feet.”

  Alan looked up, surprised. Perhaps he’d lost track of time ... no, it was 0930. He wasn't due to be marched out of his cell for another thirty minutes. There was certainly no reason for them to come early, as far as he knew. Did they think he’d done something wrong? It was hard to imagine what he could do, in Colchester. The inmates were so carefully supervised that resistance was completely futile.

  He stood, slowly. Two men stood on the other side of the bars, wearing the black uniforms and red caps of the Royal Military Police. They were seemingly unarmed, but he knew better than to believe that was true. Besides, the redcaps were used to wrestling drunken squaddies and hunting down the occasional rogue SF operator. Neither of them would have any difficulty flattening Alan, if he tried to put up a fight. And all it would get him would be a week or two in a smaller cell.

  “You have a visitor,” the lead redcap said. He wore no nametag, none of them did. The redcaps were completely interchangeable. “Hands.”

  Alan sighed and turned around, crossing his hands behind his back. The redcap snapped on the cuffs, then fixed shackles around Alan’s ankles. It was pointless, Alan had always thought, but it was procedure. And yet ... he froze, just for a second, as the redcap’s words sank in. A visitor? Who’d come to Colchester to visit him? His parents were dead, while his daughters were too young to visit the prison. And their guardians probably wouldn't let them visit in any case. Alan’s parents-in-law had never really liked him, even before he’d murdered their daughter. They’d probably helped convince the poor bitch to cheat on him ...

  You killed her, he reminded himself, sharply. What exactly do you deserve?

  He banished the thought as the redcaps opened the cell, one of them staying on the far side of the bars while the other entered. Alan rolled his eyes as the man searched him quickly - it wasn't as if there was anything in the cell Alan could smuggle out - and then inched his way out of the cell. It wasn't easy to walk in shackles, despite five years of practice. And they weren't even necessary to keep him under control.

  I suppose they don’t know that, he thought, bitterly. I might turn violent at any moment.

  The redcaps escorted him down the corridor, passing a handful of other long-term cells. No one else was moving about, as far as Alan could tell. Most of the other prisoners appeared to be trying to catch up on their sleep. He had no idea who most of them were, let alone what they’d done to get themselves thrown into the military prison. The prisoners simply weren't encouraged to socialise, even amongst themselves. And even when they did talk, they rarely talked about their former lives. No one wanted to think about the world outside the jail.

  They passed through a pair of doors that could have passed for starship airlocks - so heavily armoured that he was sure they’d survive a direct nuclear strike - and walked down a wider corridor. Another prisoner was coming in the other direction, a middle-aged woman wearing cuffs, shackles and an orange jumpsuit that obscured most of her figure. Alan stared anyway, he couldn't help himself. It had been years since he’d seen a woman. It was unusual for a woman to be sent to Colchester, certainly into the long-term detention section. He couldn't help wondering what the woman had done to merit it.

  At least she’ll be safer here than in a civilian jail, he thought, as the woman and her guards walked past. He’d heard horror stories about female prisons too. The redcaps won’t treat her as a whore.

  They stopped outside another door and waited, patiently. The door hissed open slowly, revealing a barren room. There were two chairs facing each other, both fixed to the floor, but nothing else. One wall was dominated by a mirror, almost certainly a one-way mirror. Alan stared at his reflection, wondering who was on the far side. They certainly wouldn't be impressed by what they saw, he knew. Five years in Colchester had taken their toll. His blond hair was shaggy, his unshaven face utterly unkempt ... he was lucky, he supposed, that it wasn't worse. But it could have been better too.

  And Judith used to say I was handsome, he thought, with a trace of the old bitterness. That didn't stop her opening her legs for the fucking neighbour.

  The redcaps marched him over to the nearest chair, pushed him down and cuffed him to the legs. Alan could barely move. He glowered at the military policemen, who ignored him as they checked the cuffs and then withdrew from the chamber. Alan scowled. He might be alone, but he wasn't fool enough to believe that he wasn't under observation. The entire prison was monitored 24/7. There were probably pickups embedded in the ceiling.

  Another door opened. Alan looked up ... and stared. A blonde woman stepped into the cell, wearing a baggy green jumpsuit that marked her as a visitor. There was something severe about her face, but Alan found it hard to care. Scrubbed clean of make-up, she was still the prettiest woman he’d seen in five years. He told himself, sharply, not to think about it. His visitor probably didn't consider him attractive. Whatever she was here for had nothing whatsoever to do with sex.

  And it has to be important, if she came in person, Alan thought. Everyone who visited Colchester was strip-searched before they were allowed to enter the prison. It was why there were so few visitors. What does she want?

  The woman sat down, resting her hands on her knees. “Commander Alan Campbell?”

  “Yeah,” Alan said. It would have been amusing if the redcaps had brought her the wrong person, but it was unlike them to make mistakes. “And you?”

  “Commander Liana Mountebank, Naval Legal Services,” Liana said. She had a firm voice, almost completely devoid of emotion. It was still the sweetest sound Alan had heard for years. “I have a proposition for you.”

  Alan bit down on a number of droll remarks and forced himself to think. The Royal Navy’s lawyers were drawn from senior ranks, but it was difficult for them to reconcile a law degree with a full-time military career. Chances were that Liana had been pushed into a naval career, then urged to take a law degree instead of serving on a starship ... he felt a flicker of contempt, mingled with droll amusement. At least she’d had the sense to realise that she was better off in a support role.

  “I see,” he said, finally. Somehow, he doubted it was that kind of proposition. “What do you want?”

  Liana studied him for a long moment. “You were born in Glasgow,” she said. “You attended Park Bank Primary School, then Robert Burns Secondary School. In your second year, you were expelled from Robert Burns after an ... incident ... and transferred to Kenilworth Borstal, where you spent the remainder of your schooling. You attempted to join the Royal Navy at sixteen, but were told to wait two more years; you reapplied at eighteen and were accepted, after aptitude testing, into the starfighter training program.”

  “I know all this,” Alan said, sharply.

  Liana ignored him. “You spent a year in the training program, after which you were assigned to Nelson Base’s defence squadrons for two years. During that time, you met and married Judith Foster, who encouraged you to apply for mustang status when you started to age out of starfighter service. You switched to command track, eventually rising to the point of Commander Air Group on HMS Formidable. Your family grew too, with the birth of Jeanette and Alice. You appeared to have a bright future ahead of you.

  “And then you murdered your wife.”

  �
�I know what I did,” Alan snapped.

  “You came home early to discover your wife in bed with John Slater, a neighbour,” Liana said, remorselessly. “You pitched Slater through the window, inflicting serious injuries, then proceeded to beat your wife to death. The police were called and you were arrested, charged with murder, and eventually sentenced to ten years in Colchester. So far, you have served five of those years.”

  She paused. “Why didn't you just file for divorce?”

  Alan glared at her. “Do we have to talk about it?”

  “Yes.”

  Alan paused, trying to control his temper. He could have sought a divorce, on grounds of adultery. The law would have been on his side, too. He would have won custody of his daughters, while Judith would have been left with nothing but the stigma of cheating on a serving military officer. The days when she could have walked away with two-thirds of his paycheck were long gone. But ...