The Cruel Stars

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Like they’re going to say anything now,” Anson muttered.

  “Concentrate on your job,” Abigail ordered.

  She studied the alien formation for a long moment. The aliens were moving towards New Russia, forcing the MNF to block their advance, yet ... yet there was something sloppy about it. The aliens were both immensely capable - they had to be, if they’d managed to get so close without being detected - and immensely stupid. She didn't like it. Some of the sneakiest people she’d met had been very good at pretending to be idiots, at least until they got what they wanted. What did the aliens want?

  “They’re not replying,” Poddy said.

  Abigail nodded, slowly. The aliens were practically standing still, on an interplanetary scale ... it made no sense. Why not drive on New Russia? Why give the MNF all the time it could possibly need to launch starfighters and prepare for combat? Why ...?

  Her console bleeped. “The Commodore is deploying drones,” Alan said. “We’re going to go on a little detour.”

  “Good thinking,” Abigail said, slowly. Haddock and the rest of the escorts couldn't add much to the firepower already facing the aliens. And yet ... something kept nagging at the back of her mind. The aliens were being obliging. Suspiciously obliging. “What are they doing?”

  “I don’t know,” Alan said. More green and blue icons winked into existence. Smaller ships, coming to join the defence. “But we can't let them dominate the rest of the system unchallenged.”

  He sounded as perturbed as herself. Abigail was torn between finding that reassuring and scary. She would have preferred to be told she was being silly. She wouldn't have liked it - there were too many military officers who looked down their noses at merchant spacers - but it would have set her mind at rest. Instead, Alan seemed to be having doubts himself. What were the aliens doing?

  “We have the advantage, don’t we?” She keyed her console, bringing up the fleet list. There was no way to be sure, but it looked as though the MNF outmassed its opponent by quite a considerable margin. “We have enough firepower to make them regret sticking their noses into our space.”

  “Perhaps,” Alan said.

  “I’ve seen platoons of Royal Marines pitched against hordes of rampaging fanatics,” a new voice said. Bennett. He sounded as though he was recalling a pleasant memory. “They have numbers, but we have superior weapons. We mow them down in their hundreds, then dump the bodies into ditches. If it looks like we’re going to be overrun, we call in helicopters and long-range artillery - even orbital strikes. The bastards don’t stand a chance.”

  Abigail felt a shiver of disquiet. She’d known there were endless skirmishes on Earth, but ... she shuddered. Better to tap the endless resources of space, and leave those who wanted to stay in the mud to their fate. Her mother might have been a mail order bride - a whore, some less enlightened people had called her until Abigail had taught them better - but at least she’d had the sense to leave. Life in Britain was hard enough. She dreaded to think what life in the Exclusion Zone must be like, particularly for women. Hard times were always hardest on the women.

  But she took Bennett’s point. The wooden navies of the Napoleonic Era might have looked impressive - she’d watched a few historical dramas - but they wouldn't have lasted long against an ironclad ship. And then the battleships had given way to aircraft carriers, which in turn had fallen to cruise missiles and orbital kinetic strikes. The aliens might just have a technological advantage that would tip the balance of power permanently in their favour.

  But they could have driven straight on Earth, she thought. We had enough time to move entire fleets to New Russia while they dawdled. They should have reached the system within a fortnight of Vera Cruz, before we knew that alien life was more than a myth ...

  Her blood turned to ice. Unless we did what they wanted us to do.

  The display shifted, rapidly. Clouds of starfighters lanced away from the MNF, heading straight for the alien fleet. Starfighters leading the way, followed by torpedo-bombers ... she winced, remembering some of the combat simulations they’d run. A full-sized fleet carrier wouldn't stand a chance if so many starfighters and bombers roared down on her. Haddock would be vaporised by a force a tenth of the size. It looked an irresistible force ...

  “Something is wrong,” she said.

  “I know,” Alan agreed. His voice was tightly controlled. “But what else can they do?”

  Abigail swallowed. The MNF couldn't just sit there and do nothing, could it? There was no way the Russians would want to surrender the rest of their system, no matter how the other nations felt about it. And besides, no one would want to leave the MNF pinned against New Russia while the aliens made mischief elsewhere. And yet ...

  “They’re not launching starfighters,” she breathed. It was the strangest, most alien, thing of all. “Where are their starfighters?”

  “Perhaps they don’t have starfighters,” Anson suggested. “Or perhaps ...”

  New red icons flared into existence on the display. Abigail heard Alan’s stunned curse through the intercom as he struggled to process what they were seeing. The aliens did have starfighters, starfighters that had somehow managed to appear between the MNF and its starfighters ... starfighters that were roaring straight towards the fleet carriers. Abigail watched, in horror, as the human starfighter formation came apart, the pilots seemingly unsure what to do. Should they continue the offensive against the enemy carriers or turn back to reinforce the CSP?

  “Shit,” Anson said.

  Abigail stared in horror. The alien starfighters were descending on the human carriers, firing ... Abigail wasn't sure what they were firing. Superhot flashes of energy? Plasma pulses? Human plasma cannons had never managed to do more than fire a handful of shots before overloading and exploding, if they lasted long enough to do that. But the alien weapons were firing constantly, burning deep into their target’s hull ...

  And HMS Formidable vanished from the display with a sudden, terrible, finality.

  Chapter Fourteen

  For a long moment, Alan refused to believe his eyes.

  HMS Formidable was an Illustrious-class fleet carrier. Two kilometres long, carrying four entire wings of starfighters and a crew of over a thousand ... he’d served on her, once upon a time. She couldn't be gone. But her icon was gone, replaced by an expanding cloud of debris and hundreds of alien starfighters seeking new targets. She was just ... gone.

  He stared, trying to understand what it meant. Captain Napier - if his former CO was still in command - was dead. Commander Higgins was dead. Wing Commanders Arden and Smith were dead. Everyone he’d known on the ship - if they’d still been on the ship - was dead, unless they’d had a chance to get to the lifepods. But there was no hint that any lifepods had made it off the giant carrier before she died ...

  Bennett poked him, hard. “Snap out of it!”

  Alan glared at him. Bennett didn't understand. A fleet carrier had been torn apart in less than a minute. And that meant ... he shuddered as a Russian carrier staggered under a hail of plasma bolts, exploding into debris bare seconds after the attack began. The alien starfighters didn't seem to be that much faster than their human counterparts, but they definitely seemed to be more manoeuvrable. And they all packed one hell of a punch. The plasma cannons tipped the odds squarely in their favour.

  He forced himself to watch as a third carrier died, then shuddered as the human starfighters tried to press their offensive against the alien ships. But the aliens had mounted plasma weapons on their starships too, putting out hundreds of thousands of plasma bursts every second. Their firing didn't seem to be very accurate, but it didn’t need to be. All they had to do was break up the human formations and prevent the torpedo bombers from closing on their targets. Hundreds of starfighters died before someone - whoever had assumed command - ordered a retreat. And yet, it wouldn't be enough. Two more human carriers had died while he was watching the starfighters.

  “Signal from the flag,” M
addy said. She sounded badly shaken. She’d served long enough to understand the implications. “We’re to alter course towards Tramline Two and run silent.”

  Run silent, Alan thought, sarcastically. As if we have a hope of remaining hidden.

  He gritted his teeth as the disastrous battle unfolded in front of him. The MNF seemed to have fallen apart, pilots flying with whatever wingmen they could find rather than staying in their national formations. British pilots flew beside Russians, Americans flew beside Chinese ... and it didn’t seem to matter. The aliens fought with a cold, lethal precision, concentrating on the remaining fleet carriers and warships. Their plasma weapons really had tipped the scale, the analytical part of his mind noted. They didn't have to keep some of their starfighters in reserve, did they? They certainly didn't need a CSP.

  Another icon - USS Obama - vanished from the display. Four more warships followed her into destruction: three frigates and a cruiser. The MNF command network, such as it was, appeared to have gone down completely. The flagship was gone, as were the two secondary command ships. No one might be sure who should be in command, let alone who was in command. The loss of the datanet meant certain destruction if they didn't manage to withdraw in time.

  Which isn't going to happen, he thought, numbly. The carriers can't get out of the killing zone.

  He was beyond shock now, his thoughts sluggish as he watched the display. Part of him felt as though he was watching a training simulation, with the enemy forces drawn from a science-fantasy rather than real life. And yet, it was real. He forced himself to think, assessing the situation as best as he could. The alien starfighters definitely didn't appear to be any faster than their human counterparts, but they could still catch a retreating fleet carrier. Only three carriers were left now, drawing fire from hundreds of alien craft. Alan sourly admired the alien discipline as they closed on their targets. Their pilots didn't seem to be wasting time shooting down other starfighters.

  A low quiver ran through Haddock. Alan glanced at the display, half-convinced that the aliens were already coming after them. But instead, the escort carrier was slowly turning away, retreating with the rest of the convoy. Commodore Banks was doing the right thing, Alan knew, and yet it felt as though they were abandoning their comrades. He felt a flicker of surprise as he realised just how much the navy meant to him, despite everything. He’d been raised to believe that the navy never abandoned its own. But there was no choice. The escort carriers couldn't hope to stand off a single alien carrier.

  And the freighters don’t have any stealth systems, Alan thought. We’d have to go doggo and deactivate the drives completely if we wanted to hide.

  He shook his head, grimly. The aliens had had plenty of time to get a solid lock on the convoy. There was no way the freighters could hide, not if the aliens came after them. The aliens might not know precisely where they were, but they’d certainly have no trouble calculating which volume of space to search. A freighter - even forty freighters - was still tiny on an interplanetary scale, yet they couldn't hide forever. A single emission would be more than enough to lead the aliens right to them.

  Perhaps we should scatter, he thought. Commodore Banks had probably made the right call in heading for Tramline Two instead of Tramline One, but they were still going to be far too close to the aliens for hours. That might give some of the freighters a chance to escape.

  And doom any that get caught, his own thoughts answered. We’d have a better chance to fight if we stay together.

  “They won,” Maddy said. “Sir ...”

  Alan looked back at the display. The last human fleet carrier was nothing more than an expanding cloud of debris, while the remainder of the human starfighters were either falling back on New Russia or launching suicide attacks into the teeth of enemy firepower. They hadn't done anything wrong, as far as he could tell. The MNF had followed doctrine to the letter. But traditional doctrine had been written for a very different weapons mix, one where starfighters launched long-range strikes while fleet carriers tried to stay out of the line of battle ... they’d never anticipated being so heavily outgunned. He silently cursed the aliens under his breath. In hindsight, it was clear that they’d waited deliberately, holding their cards in reserve until humanity had assembled a force to challenge them. And then they’d pounced.

  Maddy stared at him, her eyes wide with horror. “Sir ...”

  Alan wondered, suddenly, just who she’d seen die. Maddy might have known some of the dead too ... come to think of it, she might have better reason to believe that some of her former friends were dead. Alan could hope, at least, that none of the crewmen he’d known on Formidable had still been on the ship. It wasn't as if most starfighter pilots - and starship officers - stayed with a single ship for their entire career. If he recalled correctly, the average officer served on at least four ships ...

  “Bring up the sensor records,” he ordered, harshly. He couldn't afford to have Maddy go to pieces, not now. “See if you can find something we can use.”

  Maddy gulped. “Aye, sir.”

  Alan nodded, then keyed his console. The aliens were concentrating on New Russia - their starfighters were already heading towards the planet, without bothering to recharge and rearm - but it wouldn't be long before they started hunting the convoy. New Russia wasn't going anywhere, after all. He’d read a handful of vague articles about moving entire planets, but they’d never been anything more than theoretical studies. Dyson Spheres were more practical and it would be a very long time before humanity could construct a shell around a star. There was certainly no sign that the aliens possessed the technology to do anything of the sort.

  Bennett cleared his throat. “Did we get any of them?”

  Alan shrugged. Post-battle analysis would tell them, he supposed. But then, the only thing they could count on were long-range sensor records. If Melbourne had drawn data from the in-system network, it hadn't been shared with Haddock. The time delay alone would make it problematic. A hundred alien starfighters might have been killed and no one would know. It was certainly clear that no alien capital ships had been destroyed. He didn't think any of them had been so much as scratched.

  “We’ll find out,” he said. On the display, the alien starfighters were tearing into New Russia’s defence grid. The orbital defences had had some time to get over the shock and prepare, he noted. But it didn't look like it was going to be enough. The orbital network wasn't designed to cope with alien starfighters. “I wish ...”

  He looked at the timer and swore out loud. Ten minutes. Barely even that, really. Ten minutes ... twelve fleet carriers had died in less than twelve minutes. It had been the single most one-sided engagement in the Royal Navy’s long history, worse even than the loss of Queen Elizabeth during the Second Falklands War. He couldn't even begin to calculate how many people had been killed. The two British carriers alone would have had over three thousand souls onboard, if one included the Royal Marines and Royal Engineers. Unless they’d been offloaded before the engagement ...

  “Shit,” he said, quietly. The Russian defence grid had been brushed aside. “What happens now?”

  Bennett was watching the displays as the alien starships entered orbit, systematically dropping KEWs on anything that might be dangerous. They didn't have much to fear, Alan knew. Ground-based beam weapons didn't pose much of a threat to starships, while missiles would be easily tracked and intercepted as they boosted out of the atmosphere. New Russia was naked and helpless now, the forces on the ground utterly unable to keep the aliens from landing wherever they wanted. Alan had watched as the Royal Navy had pummelled a warlord-run state from orbit years ago, teaching the local barbarians not to mess with British citizens. The boot was on the other foot now. It would be very difficult for the Russians to muster any serious resistance to the alien invaders.

  “It depends,” Bennett said, turning away from the displays. “What do the aliens want?”

  Alan shrugged. He’d read all the speculations, or at leas
t the ones the Royal Navy had considered creditable enough to forward to its officers, but none of them were based on anything beyond science-fantasy and wild imaginations. Certainly, it was hard to take some of the suggestions seriously. The aliens might want to keep humanity from posing a long-term threat, but it was hard to believe that they actually wanted to eat humans. Or cross-breed with human women, for that matter. But human history showed a wide range of possible motives as well as outcomes. It was quite possible that the aliens believed they had a right to humanity’s planets. And convincing them otherwise might be difficult.

  “If they’re unsure about the outcome, they’ll probably leave the civilians alone,” Bennett commented. “They wouldn't want to give us any excuse to retaliate against their civilians, if they lose the war. But that assumes they think like us.”

  “Yeah,” Alan said.

  He shivered. He’d studied the Age of Unrest. Tin-pot dictatorships and religious fanatics had often moved helpless civilians into danger zones, daring their enemies to slaughter innocents. It had worked once, when the war had been genteel. Years of increasingly bitter conflict and hatred had hardened attitudes and dehumanised enemy civilians. Surrounding a power station or military installation with human shields just meant a lot of dead civilians, none of whom had had a choice. By then, the war had been seen as total. It was a minor miracle that large swathes of the planet hadn't been depopulated.