The Cruel Stars

by Christopher Nuttall

  We’d do it too, he thought, as HMCS Seaford exploded into fire. Captain Hyatt was dead, bare minutes after assuming command. But they’re using our own logic against us.

  “They’re swinging around to target us,” Maddy reported. “Two more squadrons are closing in on the other escorts ...”

  “Let the point defence handle them,” Alan ordered. There was no point in trying to micromanage, not now. His subordinates knew what to do. “Is there still no sign of their starships?”

  “No, sir,” Maddy said.

  Alan forced himself to think, carefully. The aliens clearly hadn't known precisely where the convoy was, forcing them to send out recon squadrons to locate the human ships before whistling up something stronger to destroy them. But they’d definitely found their targets now, which meant ... either there was a fleet carrier somewhere nearby or the aliens were operating right on the edge of their endurance.

  Or we might simply have underestimated their endurance, he thought, sourly. The aliens might be able to endure much longer flights - and fights.

  The ship shuddered. “Direct hit, port armour,” Maddy said. “I ...”

  She broke off. “Red Wedding is gone,” she added sharply, as another icon vanished from the display. “They just blew right through her.”

  Alan winced. An escort carrier and her crew, just gone. It was nothing compared to the sheer number of lives already lost, but ... he told himself, again, that they’d mourn later, once they were safe. They were nearing the tramline. If no enemy capital ships showed up, at least some of the freighters would be safe.

  “Point defence network has been updated,” Maddy told him. “I think we’ve got a better chance at hitting the bastards now.”

  “Yeah,” Alan said. On the display, a freighter died in fire. The bastards hadn’t even tried to disable the ship. “But they’re still hitting us.”

  He cursed the aliens under his breath. A human starfighter would have to be very lucky to inflict serious damage on a fleet carrier with flechette guns, but the aliens didn't seem to have that limitation. They certainly didn't have to fly back to their carriers to reload after launching their torpedoes ... they didn't have torpedoes. They didn't need them.

  “Make sure you make every shot count,” he ordered, although he knew it was impossible to save their pellets. The aliens had another advantage there, as much as he hated to admit it. Sooner or later, Haddock would shoot herself dry. And then she'd be utterly defenceless against even a single alien starfighter. “And make sure the CSP knows too.”

  “They know, sir,” Maddy said. “They know.”

  ***

  “They just caught us a glancing blow,” Poddy reported. “Minor damage, but the hull is breached ...”

  “Minor damage,” Abigail repeated, sardonically. Haddock was designed to seal off any compartments that were suddenly exposed to vacuum, but with her ship taking a pounding it was hard to be sure the safety precautions would actually take effect. Losing her entire ship to a single hull breach would be embarrassing, although right now it was actually the least of her worries. “Time to tramline?”

  “Five minutes,” Anson said. “As long as the drive holds out, we’ll make it.”

  Abigail winced. City of Truro, a Workhorse-class freighter that might have been earmarked for later conversion into an escort carrier, had suffered a major drive failure and fallen out of formation. She’d hoped - and hated herself for hoping - that destroying a disabled ship would keep the aliens from taking out more ships. But the aliens had swept past the wounded vessel, no doubt marking her down for later attention. Abigail didn't know the vessel’s commander, but she was sure he didn't deserve to be stuck in an occupied system. The aliens would have no trouble picking him up, afterwards, and dumping the crew into a POW camp.

  If they bother to set up POW camps, Abigail thought. The Great Powers rarely bothered to take prisoners, these days. She’d heard the horror stories. The Geneva Conventions had fallen by the wayside long ago. They might just exterminate the ship and crew.

  “They’re coming back at us,” Poddy reported. “The CSP is badly weakened.”

  “Keep us going,” Abigail ordered. “And prepare to recover fighters.”

  The aliens attacked viciously, as if they sensed there wouldn't be another chance. Abigail watched two more ships die, a third losing power and falling out of formation. And then the first freighters reached the tramline and vanished ...

  “Start recovering starfighters,” she ordered. “I ...”

  “Negative,” Alan said, over the intercom. “Have them land on the hull!”

  Abigail winced. She should have thought of that. They didn't have time to recover the starfighters, not on this side of the tramline. The aliens were pushing them hard. Once they realised the starfighters were being recovered, they’d do everything in their power to disrupt the process. And she’d have to decide between leaving people behind or risking the rest of her crew.

  “Do it,” she ordered. “And jump us out the moment we have everyone onboard.”

  She keyed the console, looking back at New Russia. There was no sign of the aliens, not at this distance, but she knew they were there. They’d sweep the system, destroying facilities and occupying asteroid settlements ... if they didn't simply destroy them. Maybe the aliens were too advanced to need asteroid mining stations. Or maybe ...

  An instant later, the display blanked. Her stomach heaved.

  “Jump completed, Captain,” Anson reported. He sounded woozy. Jumping at speed felt like being punched in the gut. “We’re clear.”

  For the moment, Abigail thought. But what happens when they come after us?

  Chapter Sixteen

  There was nothing particularly interesting about the Kiev System. A Russian survey ship had visited the system over a century ago, but a brief survey hadn't turned up anything worthy of later attention. There was nothing in the system, save for a single gas giant and an asteroid cluster that might - once upon a time - have been a planet. The Russians had formally claimed the system, but - apart from using the tramlines - they hadn't actually done very much with it. There was no point in expending resources on settling Kiev when New Russia was just one tramline away. The only installation in the system was a refuelling station orbiting the gas giant.

  “We appear to be clear, sir,” Maddy said.

  Alan nodded, tiredly. Assuming an alien fleet carrier had been lurking out of sensor range, assuming ... he shook his head. There were too many assumptions, too many things he simply didn't know for sure. Right now, Haddock and her remaining comrades were in no state for a battle. If the aliens came after them, they were dead.

  “Get the fighters inside,” he ordered. He glanced at the latest update and winced. Only fifteen pilots had survived the brief, but brutal engagement. Nine of his pilots were dead, blown to dust ... so many others were also dead that their deaths might have passed unnoticed. “And tell the pilots to go straight to bed.”

  He glanced at Bennett. “Who’s in command now?”

  “Good question,” Bennett said. He studied the display for a long moment. “Is there any senior military officer left alive?”

  Alan gritted his teeth. The warships were gone, leaving four escort carriers and thirty freighters ... none of which were in any state for a fight. He honestly wasn't sure who was in command now. Technically, it should be the captain with the longest time in grade, but the belters might have different ideas. Perhaps Abigail would assume command. He wondered, absently, if he should encourage her to do it. But, right now, there was a more important problem.

  He keyed his console. “We need to run silent, the moment we have all the starfighters onboard,” he said. “Make sure everyone knows that a single leak could kill us.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Abigail said. She sounded as tired as he felt. “And I’ll check our remaining supplies, see what can be shared.”

  “Good thinking,” Alan said. He should have thought of that, but it had s
lipped his mind. They didn't have time to swap spare parts and ammunition around now - not unless they wanted to remain close to the tramline, which would just get them killed when the aliens finally crossed - but they’d have to do it later. “See if anyone has a recon probe too. We might need it.”

  He closed the connection and sat back in his chair. “Maddy, go get some rest,” he ordered, once the starfighters were all back onboard. “I’ll call you if you’re needed.”

  Maddy didn't argue. That, more than anything else, proved that she was reaching the limits of her endurance. Instead, she stood and walked through the hatch. Alan resisted the urge to watch her go. Instead, he turned his attention to the display as the convoy slowly started to move. If his calculations were correct, they should have a reasonable chance of remaining hidden if they managed to get well away from the tramline. A dogleg course would add days to their journey home, but there was no choice. The aliens would expect them to take a least-time course to the next tramline.

  Unless they’re planning to drive on Earth instead, Alan thought. Should we be trying to warn them?

  He stared down at his hands. Doctrine insisted that all fleet deployments should be quietly monitored by picket ships, a precaution that everyone had ridiculed when he’d been on the command track. It didn't look so stupid now. Surely, someone would have watched the battle, then hurried back to Earth. He tapped the console, bringing up the starchart and running through the calculations. Assuming they didn't encounter the aliens for a second and final time - another assumption he knew better than to take for granted - it would take at least five weeks to get back home. The aliens would have plenty of time to stomp Earth flat by the time the convoy arrived.

  And there’s no way to speed it up, he told himself. None of the freighters were particularly fast. He could shave a day or two off, if he tried, but not much more. The only way to really cut it down was to go back to New Russia, which ran the risk of being intercepted. We can't warn them to prepare for hell.

  He looked at Bennett. “There would have been a picket ship, right?”

  “Perhaps,” Bennett said. He didn't look tired, the bastard. Alan was starting to wonder if he was actually the product of a top secret genetic enhancement project. Or maybe he just had some really neat modifications spliced into his DNA. “But we don’t know.”

  “No,” Alan agreed. “We don’t.”

  He rose. “Get some sleep yourself,” he ordered, as the convoy kept moving away from the tramline. They should be safe now, as long as they were careful. At the very least, they’d have some warning before the aliens jumped them. “I’ll get some sleep too.”

  “Make sure someone is keeping an eye on the sensors,” Bennett advised. “And don’t take anything to go to sleep.”

  Alan nodded, tartly. Somehow, he doubted he needed it.

  He walked through the corridors, trying to ignore the faint smell of ozone in the air ... and Bennett’s constant presence, behind him. He’d been more than a little resentful, at first, when he’d been sentenced to prison, even though he knew - on some level - that he deserved it. God knew he’d murdered his wife, throwing away both his career and his freedom in a single moment of naked violence. And yet ... he’d never resented the navy. It had been his home, his tribe. The navy might have rejected him, but he’d never returned the favour. He was a navy man ...

  He shuddered, helplessly. Twelve fleet carriers, the strongest ships humanity had produced, had been blown away in less than ten minutes. Compared to them, the other warships barely merited being mentioned in dispatches. He couldn't think of anything that could be done to safeguard the remainder of the navy from alien weapons. Bolting heavy armour to the hulls, perhaps? It might work, if the crews worked fast. Perhaps the aliens simply hadn't understood just how well their weapons would work on human hulls. They sure as hell knew now.

  And they’ll punch right at Earth, while we’re still trying to adapt, he thought. And that will be the end of the war.

  The hatch hissed opened. He didn't bother with a shower. He just took off his shoes and climbed into the bunk. His thoughts haunted him as he closed his eyes. What would they find, when they got home? A destroyed navy and a world swept clean of life? Or ... or what?

  And yet, we have to go home, he told himself. We can't go elsewhere.

  He was tired. But it was a long time before he could sleep.

  ***

  “Those weapons were hot, Captain,” Drakopoulos said. The Chief Engineer looked as tired as Abigail felt. “They burned right through the hull. We’re damn lucky they didn't hit anything explosive or we wouldn't be here right now.”

  “That’s probably what killed the carriers,” Abigail said. She’d managed to snatch a few quick hours of sleep, but her body was loudly insisting that she hadn't slept at all. “Did you find the bodies?”

  “We pulled the remains of Rating Akuna out of the lower bay,” Drakopoulos said. “Rating Wayland remains unaccounted for.”

  “May the stars protect him,” Abigail said. “He deserved better, didn't he?”

  She shivered as a thought struck her. Wayland had been wearing his shipsuit. If he’d been swept into space when the lower bay decompressed, which seemed the most likely scenario, he might have survived long enough to know his body would be lost forever. She’d study the records, of course, in the hopes of finding his body one day, but she knew success was unlikely.

  “He deserved much better,” Drakopoulos agreed. “And so did the others.”

  He held up a datapad. “I’ve been in touch with the other engineers,” he told her. “We do have a list of spare parts we need to swap, so ... I’d like to start transfer flights as soon as possible. Once we have the parts onboard, we can start work at once.”

  “Once we’re well away from the aliens,” Abigail said. She glanced at her wristcom, silently calculating the vectors. They should be safe now, but there were too many question marks surrounding the aliens for her to be sure of anything. For all she knew, they were being tracked right now. “Can we survive without the spare parts?”

  “Probably,” Drakopoulos said. “But we did lose a handful of computer nodes. Fortunately, the remainder of the system compensated.”

  He paused. “I can have the lower bay repressurised in an hour,” he added. “It’s the only place big enough to gather the entire crew.”

  “Good thinking,” Abigail said. Belter custom demanded that the dead be honoured as soon as possible. And that went for the starfighter pilots too. They deserved to be honoured, even if they weren't Belters. Their deaths might just have saved the ship. “We'll hold the funeral in two hours.”

  “But no wake?” Drakopoulos said. “I could put together a still.”

  “No,” Abigail said, flatly. She felt a pang of bitter guilt, which she ruthlessly pushed aside. Getting her CAG drunk might not be illegal, but it had been stupid. “We are not getting drunk in the middle of a warzone.”

  She nodded to him, then started to walk through the ship. The damage was fairly minor, in the grand scheme of things, but it shook her more than she cared to admit. She knew, intellectually, that the ship was far from invulnerable, yet it was still a shock to see damage to the hull. The grim knowledge that they’d been very lucky not to be ripped apart by alien fire didn't help. Thankfully, the aliens hadn't known precisely where to place their shots. Taking out the bridge would have been utterly disastrous.

  It could have been worse, she told herself. But it could have been better too.

  ***

  Alan led the way into the lower hull and stepped to one side, allowing his surviving starfighter pilots and support crew to find places amidst the civilians. Someone had been busy. After patching the hull, the engineers had stuck a handful of pictures to the wall, each one representing a crewman who’d died in the brief, savage engagement. He wasn't sure how he felt about the starfighter pilots being included, although ...

  Stop that, he told himself, sharply. They’re trying to honour al
l the dead.

  Abigail stepped up to the front of the room and turned to face the crowd. Alan watched her as the chamber fell quiet, then glanced behind him. Everyone was in the chamber, save for a skeleton crew. He couldn't keep himself from hoping that the hull patches would hold, at least long enough for the service to be finished. If the hull broke open again, everyone in the chamber would be dead if they didn't manage to get their shipsuits on in time. And even if they did, survival would be challenging. Alan doubted many would make it.

  It isn't going to happen, he told himself. Relax.