The Cruel Stars

by Christopher Nuttall

  She smiled, thinly. “The other moral, I suppose, was that making something foolproof is pretty much impossible. You can do everything reasonable - you can cover your ass so tightly that people think you’re wearing nappies - and still get into shit because someone was idiotic enough to climb into a reactor core or test an emergency airlock.”

  “Or go playing on railway lines,” Alan added. “Or something else equally dumb.”

  Abigail nodded. “You can’t predict what someone will do, if that person is too ignorant or too stupid to understand what they’re doing,” she said. “All you can do is cover all of the bases as much as possible.”

  “Tell me about it,” Alan said. “We can’t even predict what the aliens will do.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” Abigail agreed. “If we can’t predict what our fellow humans will do, what are our chances of predicting what the aliens will do.”

  She put her empty mug on the table, then shifted position until her legs were brushing against his. Alan froze, unsure what she was doing. Was it a silent invitation? Or was it meaningless? The cabin was small enough that they’d brush against each other if either one of them moved. He found himself unsure of what to do. They’d had sex before, but that had been different. Now ...

  Or maybe it’s not that different, he thought. We both want - and need - to relieve some tension.

  He leaned forward slowly, giving her a chance to pull away. Abigail was not the sort of person who’d have any difficulty in saying no. Besides, he half-remembered her arms wrapping around him. She wasn't the strongest person he'd met, but she was tough enough to hurt him. Or put him out completely, if she brought her knee up hard. Instead, she lifted her lips to his and kissed him. Alan felt a rush of arousal, mixed with a grim awareness that the alert could sound at any moment. They didn't have much time. Even so, he wanted it to be different.

  His fingers struggled with her shipsuit, hastily undoing the clasps. Her breasts popped out, her nipples already hard. They pressed against his chest as she undid his suit, her tongue slipping in and out of his mouth. And then she was naked and he was naked and ... she groaned, deep in her throat, as he slid inside her. It was all he could do to contain himself long enough for her to come too.

  Afterwards, he lay on top of her on the tiny bunk. It wasn’t large enough for them to be side by side. Abigail looked pleased, although it was hard to be sure. Like him, she had too many responsibilities to be distracted for long. He wondered, as he carefully climbed off her, just what the sex had meant to her. Did she have feelings for him? It seemed unlikely. He rather suspected she’d simply found him convenient.

  “Thank you,” Abigail said. She gave him a mischievous smile. “You’re welcome to come back, when you’re not on duty.”

  “Thank you,” Alan managed. “You’re ... you’re very blunt.”

  “I’m too old to be coy,” Abigail said. She sat upright, her breasts bouncing in front of her. It was easy to tell she’d had children, yet ... her body was still strong and healthy. Like most belters, a number of improvements had been spliced into her DNA. “And I’m too old to feel that sex and love are the same thing.”

  Ouch, Alan thought, wryly.

  He checked his wristcom, then headed for the tiny washroom. There should be time for a quick shower before he went back on duty, if he was lucky. It shouldn't matter too much, unless the ship was attacked. But Maddy and the others knew not to wait for him if the aliens appeared out of nowhere and opened fire. They’d have to get the starfighters into space before it was too late.

  And we still have two weeks to go, he thought. And then ... we’ll find out if we’re wasting our time after all.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “You know, we really ought to name this system something more interesting than IAU-4728,” Anson said, as the flotilla slowly slipped away from the tramline. “Why don’t we call it Anson? Anson is a lovely name.”

  “There’s a settlement called Anson two jumps from Terra Nova,” Poddy said. “Podkayne is a much better name.”

  “It also happens to be the name of a city on Mars,” Anson pointed out. “Anson is a much better name.”

  “But also taken,” Abigail said. “I don’t think you’re allowed to duplicate a name.”

  “Anson is a very common name in the belt,” Anson insisted. “And Podkayne is quite popular on Mars ...”

  “Enough,” Abigail said. “Concentrate on your work.”

  She watched the display, half-expecting something to appear out of nowhere. It was easy to see why the system had been classed as useless. There was simply nothing in the system, save for a handful of comets and asteroids. Perhaps someone would set up a black colony in the system, if there wasn't one already hidden in the comets. There was certainly no shortage of groups who wanted a private home, light-years from the Great Powers. Or maybe the aliens themselves had a base in the system.

  “I’m not detecting anything obvious,” Poddy said. “The long-range sensor arrays aren't detecting anything either.”

  “Which may mean there’s nothing to find,” Anson said. “This whole mission might be a gold asteroid chase.”

  Abigail shrugged. Belters talked about a legendary gold asteroid, but she’d always assumed it was just a story. Besides, it wasn't as if someone couldn't find traces of gold in more mundane asteroids. Gold was relatively cheap, in any case. Platinum and palladium were far more useful. A belter who found a source of either would be set up for life.

  “Keep an eye on the sensors anyway,” she ordered. “I want to know about it the second the aliens show themselves.”

  She leaned back in her chair, trying not to let her own doubts show on her face. The weak tramlines were clearly visible on the display, but what if the analysts were wrong? What if they were wasting their time? What if ... she sighed, inwardly. The thought of waiting in the unnamed system until their supplies ran low, then returning to Earth to find a blackened cinder and Sol swept clean of life was a nightmare that no amount of work or sex could brush aside. She couldn't help worrying. If the analysts were wrong ...

  “Signal from the flag,” Poddy said. A green icon flashed up on the display. “We’re to hold position at Point Lovecraft and wait.”

  Abigail nodded. The tactic made sense ... assuming, of course, that the aliens could use the weaker tramlines. Point Lovecraft was near a least-time course between Tramline Two and Tramline Three, close enough to allow them to adjust their position and far away enough to give them a chance to avoid contact if the alien convoy was too heavily defended. It made sense, but ... she pushed her doubts away, savagely. They’d do their duty. The rest could take care of itself.

  “Take us there,” she ordered. “And watch your sensors!”

  The hours crawled by with agonising silence as the tiny flotilla crawled towards Point Lovecraft. Abigail felt her eyes begin to hurt as she monitored the display, unsure if she wanted the aliens to show themselves or not. The flotilla might be out of place if the aliens sent a convoy through now, but at least it would be proof that the aliens could and did use the weaker tramlines. She wouldn't be so unsure of herself if she knew the analysts were right.

  “Reaching Point Lovecraft,” Anson said. He sounded tired. “Captain?”

  “Hold position,” Abigail said. It was foolish to expect a convoy to appear as soon as they arrived. She understood the realities of interstellar shipping, realities she assumed bedevilled the aliens too. “Anson, Poddy; call the relief crew, then get some rest.”

  “You too, Mum,” Anson said.

  Abigail nodded, curtly. There would be no time for sex, not now they were on full alert. Commodore Jameson was already launching stealth probes towards the weak tramlines, trying to ensure that the aliens were detected as soon as they made transit. And once they were detected, the flotilla could move to intercept.

  “I’ll sleep,” she said. “And let us hope that the analysts were actually right.”

  ***

 
The howl of the sirens brought Alan out of bed, one hand grappling for a weapon that wasn't there as the sound grew louder. He glanced around, swearing angrily as he saw the red icons on the display. Long-range probes had indeed detected an alien convoy, the ships popping out of Tramline Two. He felt a shiver run down his spine as he grabbed his jacket and pulled it on. The proof that the aliens could indeed use the weaker tramlines was right in front of him.

  Bennett landed beside him. “Go, go, go,” he snapped. “Now!”

  “No hurry,” Alan said. He had no trouble calculating the vectors in his mind. “We have time.”

  He smiled, ignoring Bennett’s grunt of annoyance. It would be at least three hours before the engagement, if there was an engagement. The probes hadn't detected any alien warships yet, but he’d be surprised if there were none. Even if the aliens didn't expect them to blockade the unnamed star, they’d be well aware that human forces would be trying to return to New Russia sooner or later. Hitting a convoy in the occupied system would be a good way to knock the aliens back on their heels.

  And they know it as well as we do, he thought, as he opened the hatch and made his way down to the CIC. They can't expect us to do nothing in response ...

  “Seventeen freighters,” Maddy said. “And five warships. The analysts believe that they’re roughly akin to destroyers.”

  “Looks that way,” Alan agreed. By tonnage, if nothing else, the alien ships were probably destroyers. But there was no way to know what surprises might be lurking within their hulls. A destroyer built within the last five years was a more effective combatant than one that dated back twenty years ... or it had been, he supposed. The older starship would have carried more armour. “Are they expecting trouble?”

  “I ... I don’t think so,” Maddy said. “But I could be wrong.”

  Alan nodded, slowly. The alien ships weren't sweeping space with active sensors, but they weren't trying to hide either. He had no way to know if that meant they weren't expecting trouble or if they wanted it. There was a good chance that at least one or two of the freighters had been turned into a warship. Why not? Haddock had been turned into a warship. He studied the power readings, but saw nothing that might separate a converted warship from the rest of the ships. They simply didn't know enough about the aliens to make anything more reliable than guesses.

  Commodore Jameson’s face appeared in the display. “The aliens have arrived,” he stated, addressing the entire flotilla. “They are proceeding along the projected course to Tramline Three. We will attempt to intercept them at Point Lovecraft-One.”

  Good thinking, Alan acknowledged. They’d have no trouble getting in and getting out, unless the alien freighters really were bait in a trap. But the sensor probes hadn't picked up any hint that there might be other alien ships in the system. We can't keep second-guessing ourselves.

  He looked at the starchart, trying to parse out the weak tramline. Its destination appeared to be a star five light years away, but it was hard to be sure. Gravimetric tracers weren't always accurate, for reasons the boffins had never been able to put into words. There were a couple of tramlines that went to the wrong stars. He didn't know anything about the target star. The files insisted that humanity had never visited it. God alone knew how important it was to the aliens.

  A big fleet base or just another waypoint? He sighed, dismissing the thought. There’s no way to know until we crack the secret of using the weaker tramlines.

  “I’ve forwarded movement orders to you now,” Commodore Jameson said. “Please remember to avoid all unnecessary emissions. One sniff of our presence and they’ll react badly. Starfighters will be launched on powered-down trajectories at 1900 precisely, unless matters change.”

  “Two hours,” Maddy said. “Hell of a risk, sir.”

  “It has to be done,” Alan told her. He studied the roster for a long moment. The pilot who’d had a nervous breakdown was still in a secluded cabin, unable to take up his duties. “Inform Wing Commander Savage that I’ll be taking Jefferson’s place.”

  Maddy looked up, sharply. “Sir?”

  “The flag can handle starfighter operations,” Alan said. He’d run Maddy through a whole series of drills, just to make sure she could take the CIC if necessary. It wouldn't happen on a fleet carrier, but Haddock was no fleet carrier. “And if you have to issue orders, you can issue orders.”

  “I can issue orders to you,” Maddy said, lightly. “Sir ...”

  “See to it,” Alan said. He checked the timer. “And inform the remainder of the pilots that we’ll start launching procedures in two hours.”

  He sighed as he started to check the reports from the maintenance staff. The starfighters were all ready to go, thankfully. He’d seen plenty of flights when one or more starfighters developed a minor technical fault and had to turn back, even though the pilot should have been able to continue to fly. He supposed that had changed, now that they were at war. It was more important to get the starfighters into space than repair a tiny fault.

  Except a tiny fault might become a big fault, if left alone, he reminded himself. And if it becomes much worse, the starfighter might be lost completely.

  Maddy gave him a droll look. “If you don’t come back,” she said, “do I get your cabin?”

  “Only if you don’t mind sharing with Bennett,” Alan said, sarcastically. He looked around, half-expecting the big man to be lurking in the shadows. But there was no sign of him. “If I don’t come back, declare yourself the CAG and do a bloody good job.”

  He smiled as he headed for the hatch. Maddy wouldn't have an easy time of it, particularly as she hadn’t been a starfighter pilot herself. Savage or Whitehead might have to take over, although that might be tricky if they were needed outside. The Royal Navy had experimented with two-seater command starfighters, but none of them had proven particularly successful. He smiled, again, as he remembered the drills. The concept had been sound, but the double-sized starfighters had been easy for the enemy to pick out and target for destruction. And then the whole formation had started to come apart.

  Savage met him outside the launch tubes. “You’ll be taking orders from me, sir.”

  “I know,” Alan said. He outranked Savage, but Savage was the squadron CO. Technically, Alan should take command; practically, Savage should remain in command. The Admiralty would probably pitch a fit, if they noticed that Alan declined a command that should have been his, but he found it hard to care. “Just slot me into Jefferson’s place.”

  “I feared the old fart didn’t have it in him to last the course,” Savage said. He looked down at the metal deck. “Are we really that desperate, sir?”

  “You were at New Russia,” Alan said, grimly. Twelve fleet carriers, two of them British, had been wiped out in less than ten minutes. It would be a long time before such losses could be replaced, if the aliens gave them time. “What do you think?”

  He couldn't help feeling a thrill as he walked into the launch bay. Jefferson’s starfighter was already waiting for him, a spherical form bristling with weapons and sensor nodes. Two torpedoes sat under the cockpit, resting in makeshift cradles. It looked ungainly, certainly when compared to the hypersonic fighters the RAF flew on Earth, but he knew just how agile the design was in a battle. Besides, the RAF was living in a fool’s paradise. The aliens would have no trouble blasting stealth hypersonic aircraft out of the air, if they captured the high orbitals. Only bloody-minded stubbornness had kept the RAF from being folded into the army or navy long ago.

  Although there still is room for patrol craft on the waters, he reminded himself. He’d considered the border patrol as a career, before settling on the navy. And there may be room for the RAF too.

  Savage glanced at his wristcom. “Does your shadow know you’re taking a starfighter into combat?”

  Alan winced, despite himself. Savage knew ... well, he knew something. The only real question was why he’d kept his mouth shut. Perhaps he’d reasoned that Alan had done something remarka
ble to earn a bodyguard, rather than a prison warden. Or maybe he simply understood that the job needed to be done. Alan was in a better state, thanks to Colchester, than some of the reservists. His services couldn't be discarded in a hurry.

  “I dare say he’ll find out, sooner or later,” Alan said. Bennett would go to the CIC when the shit hit the fan, of course. And Maddy would tell him what had happened. “It doesn’t matter.”

  He changed into a flight suit, then scrambled up the ladder, gritting his teeth as he secured the oxygen feed and waste tubes. It wasn't embarrassing, certainly not after flying starfighters and then being in jail, but it was still annoying. He’d heard stories about pilots who’d been killed because they’d been distracted while fiddling with the waste tubes. And some of the stories were actually true. The starfighter powered up a moment later, allowing him to check the live feed from the carrier’s sensors. There was no hint that the aliens knew they were there. Their ships were still proceeding along the projected course.