The Cruel Stars

by Christopher Nuttall

  They might have evolved beyond it, she thought. Or they might never have developed it at all.

  She sighed, dismissing the thought. There was no point in speculation. No one was going to pay for an STL exploration ship, not when there were hundreds of stars and planets within easy reach. The inaccessible worlds would remain inaccessible, as far as humanity was concerned. Any threat they presented would have to cross the gulf of interstellar space ...

  ... Unless the aliens found a way to use the weaker tramlines.

  Worry about it later, she told herself, as she returned her attention to the display. You have too many other problems right now.

  ***

  “Nice shooting, sir!”

  “Thank you,” Alan said, tiredly. Greene meant well, Alan was sure, but right now he wasn't in the mood for dealing with an overgrown adolescent. “Your shooting was pretty good too.”

  He shrugged as the pilots congregated in the ready room. Three chairs were empty, a grim reminder that three pilots were dead. Alan couldn't help feeling a stab of guilt. He hadn't realised that they’d lost a third pilot until the engagement had been over. Somehow, not noting the pilot’s passing felt wrong. But there was no point in fretting about it.

  “Grab something to eat, then rotate through the bunks,” he ordered, raising his voice to be heard over the boasting. Everyone wanted to claim credit for destroying the alien ships, although it was difficult to be sure who’d fired the fatal shots. Post-battle analysis might point to the shooter, but their torpedoes might not have gotten through if the aliens hadn't been occupied shooting everyone else’s torpedoes out of space. “We may have to deploy again at very short notice.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Alan caught Savage’s eye as the pilots resumed their bragging. “I have to go to the CIC,” he said. “If the alerts sound, get the squadrons ready for launch.”

  “Of course, sir,” Savage said. “Do you want to work out who actually killed the ships?”

  Alan shook his head. Commodore Jameson might want to reward the shooter, but it was better for the pilots that they thought of it as a team exercise. Hell, it had been a team exercise. He understood the urge to gloat about scoring a direct hit, particularly on such a tough target, but it would only cause trouble. Everyone had made a valuable contribution to the mission.

  And we all deserve medals when we get home, he thought, taking one last look at the empty chairs. But will we get them?

  He felt a pang as he walked down the corridor. Three more pilots were dead, two men and a woman who should never have been in the firing line. And yet, they’d stepped up to serve when the call came. It was hard not to respect them, particularly when they probably wouldn't have had any trouble convincing a medical board that they weren't fit for active service. Better to put them behind a desk while the younger men took the field. But they’d decided to fly starfighters ...

  “They deserve to be honoured,” he muttered. They’d hold a wake, if they ever had the chance to go to a pub. Surely, the crew wouldn't be slapped back into lockdown after their famous victory. “And they will be honoured.”

  He stepped into the CIC. Maddy was sitting in front of her console, watching the live feed from the shuttles, while Bennett was leaning against the bulkhead. Alan half-expected a reprimand - or worse - but Bennett merely nodded curtly. There was no way to know if Bennett thought he’d done well or if he was disappointed that Alan hadn’t managed to get himself killed.

  “The shuttles aren't finding much,” Maddy reported. “There are a handful of traces of biological matter, apparently, but it's beyond reconstruction.”

  “Unsurprising,” Alan said. A couple of the freighters had contained something dangerous, judging by how violently they’d exploded when they’d been hit. “We walloped those ships pretty hard. I think ...”

  The alarms started to howl. “Shit!”

  “Yes, sir,” Maddy said. A red icon appeared on the display. “Enemy fleet carrier, inbound!”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Fuck,” Poddy said. “Captain, an enemy fleet carrier just jumped out of the tramline.”

  “Don’t panic,” Abigail ordered sharply, as five red icons appeared on the display. It was hard not to panic herself. Her most pessimistic estimates - guesses, really - had suggested they’d have several hours before the aliens managed to mount a counterattack. But now there was an enemy fleet carrier and four smaller ships bearing down on them. “They won’t be on us for at least an hour.”

  Unless their drives are better than we think, she told herself. She was still stunned by just how quickly the aliens had managed to react. Was it a stroke of bad luck? The alien fleet carrier might have been on its way to New Russia before the convoy was attacked. Or do they have a way to send messages at FTL speeds?

  Her blood ran cold as she considered the possibilities. Normally, the only way to get a message from one star to the next was a relay chain. A starship would jump through the tramline and beam the message to its destination - or to another starship, waiting near the next tramline. There was an entire network of courier boats designed to do nothing more than hopping backwards and forwards along the tramlines, delivering messages as quickly as possible. But if the aliens really did have a way to send messages at FTL speeds, the war might be on the verge of being lost.

  She shivered. It took far too long to send a message from New Russia to Earth, long enough that the message might be out of date by the time it reached its destination. The Admiralty couldn't hope to micromanage the war ... and trying would impose so many delays that the war might well be lost while the navy was waiting for orders. But if the aliens could send messages at FTL speeds, their high command could hear about problems - and issue orders - in real time. They’d react instantly to any setbacks along the war front ...

  Commodore Jameson’s face appeared on the display. “It appears that we’ve outstayed our welcome,” he said. “I’m recalling the shuttles now. Once they’ve returned, we’ll go into silent running and head straight for the tramline.”

  Abigail nodded, running through the possibilities in her head. If it was a coincidence, if they’d simply had a stroke of very bad luck, it might take the aliens some time to notice that their convoy had been destroyed. The shuttles weren't stealthy, but the aliens might not think they had any reason to look for them. But if the aliens had been alerted - somehow - the flotilla was in deep trouble. There would be no time to evade contact before the aliens landed on them with both feet.

  She calculated the odds, quickly. If the aliens didn't know to look for them, they might just get away ...

  The display bleeped an alarm. “The alien ships have altered course,” Poddy reported, grimly. “They’re heading our way.”

  “Fuck,” Abigail muttered. “How long until the shuttles return to the flag?”

  “Two minutes,” Poddy said. “They didn't find anything interesting.”

  She broke off as new updates flashed up on her screen. “The flag’s sent flight vectors, Captain,” she added. “We’re leaving now.”

  “Very good,” Abigail said. She brought the vectors up on her screen and studied them. The flotilla would fly a predictable course until the shuttles were back onboard, then alter course sharply to throw off pursuit. If, of course, the aliens didn't get close enough to follow them through the course changes. “Anson, get us moving.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  A low shiver ran through the ship as the drives engaged. Abigail gritted her teeth, watching grimly as the equations narrowed sharply. Either they put enough distance between themselves and the enemy ships to sneak back home or they didn't, in which case they’d be overwhelmed and destroyed. The aliens presumably knew, too, that the flotilla would have to use Tramline One. They’d certainly know how the fleet intended to make it home.

  And that gives them options, even if they lose track of us completely, she thought.

  “The shuttles have been recovered,” Anson said. “Silent r
unning ... now.”

  For what it’s worth, Abigail thought. She would have sold her soul for a sensor mask, let alone a proper cloaking device. The aliens might just be able to track them. And if they find us without using active sensors, they’ll take us by surprise.

  “Altering course,” Anson said. The display updated, yet again. “This course will add an extra week to our journey home.”

  “It can't be helped,” Abigail told him, bluntly. Thankfully, the aliens didn't seem to have noticed the course change. “Better to be a week late than dead.”

  “Unless Earth has been destroyed while we’re up here,” Anson said. “They might have stomped the groundpounders flat by now.”

  “Concentrate on your job,” Abigail ordered. “You can argue about politics later.”

  She sighed. There were belters who sometimes wished the homeworld would vanish. God knew there were no shortage of radical groups that believed Earth would eventually occupy the belt, unless the belters struck first. But she knew they’d miss Earth if the homeworld was destroyed ... assuming, of course, the aliens didn't attack the belt afterwards. Earth - and the orbital halo of industrial nodes - was still the main source of everything from communications lasers to drive field components. Losing the orbital industries alone would probably cost humanity the war.

  And there’s no way to know what might be happening core-wards of here, she thought. For all we know, we’re the last of the human race.

  It wasn't likely, she knew. There were nearly a hundred colony worlds, from Britannia and Washington to New Penn and Pasadena, and literally thousands of asteroid settlements. The aliens might be bent on genocide, but the logistics of exterminating the human race would tax even their capabilities. No, they weren't the last of humanity. But she couldn't help worrying about what might have happened over the last month.

  Poddy swore. “Captain, the alien ship just engaged her stealth systems!”

  Abigail glanced at the display and swallowed a curse of her own. The alien fleet carrier had vanished. So had her five escorts. Instead, there was a rapidly-expanding red sphere showing where the fleet carrier might be. And even that might not be accurate. If the alien starships could move significantly faster in realspace than their human counterparts, the wretched carrier might already be outside the sphere.

  And are they coming after us, she asked herself, or are they racing straight for the tramline?

  She puzzled it out, carefully. If the aliens did have a solid lock on the flotilla, the fleet carrier would have no trouble breathing down their necks. Given their stealth systems, the aliens might get very close indeed before they were spotted, allowing them to launch starfighters at short range and obliterate the flotilla without trouble. But if the aliens didn’t ... where would they go? The tramline, perhaps. They’d know that Haddock had to use the tramline. But the tramline was immense.

  Commodore Jameson’s face appeared, again. “We’ll alter course in thirty minutes,” he said, slowly. “It will give us some extra room to manoeuvre, if they are chasing us.”

  Abigail nodded. “I suggest dropping a stealth probe,” she said. “It might alert us if they’re coming up our tail.”

  “Good thinking,” Jameson said. He rubbed his forehead. “We will get through this, somehow.”

  “Yeah,” Abigail agreed.

  She turned her attention back to the interplanetary display and frowned. The red sphere was now so vast that it was effectively meaningless. Alien carriers were larger than their human counterparts, but they were still tiny on an interplanetary scale. And it could be anywhere. She wished she knew where the bastard was, even though she knew the aliens might be right behind her. Not knowing was worse than seeing the enemy ship coming right at her. Her lips twitched in cold amusement. She’d change her mind if she actually saw the ship closing for the kill.

  “Poddy, maintain a passive sensor watch at all times,” Abigail ordered. “I want to know about it the second that wanker shows himself.”

  “Understood,” Poddy said. She sounded very young, all of a sudden. “They can't get too close to us without being detected, can they?”

  Abigail shrugged. They just didn't know. The flotilla couldn't use active sensors without revealing its location, so it was quite possible that the aliens might get very close without being detected. But it was also possible that the carrier had headed straight for the tramline instead. Or deployed its escorts to locate the flotilla while it remained in the rear, waiting for the chance to kill. Or ... there were just too many possibilities.

  “I hope not,” Abigail said. She wished, not for the first time, that she’d sent Poddy back to the family before Haddock departed. Poddy was young, too young. Her daughter would never have forgiven her, but at least she’d be alive. Abigail could have coped with Poddy’s hatred if she knew the girl was alive. “I’m sure you’ll see him if he gets too close.”

  She kept the rest of her thoughts to herself. The alien carrier could launch its starfighters in one massive wave, while the escort carriers could only dribble them into space. Five escort carriers and their starfighters would be outnumbered anyway, but she doubted the aliens would let them have time to deploy all their craft. Why would they?

  They wouldn’t, she thought. If they were interested in a fair fight, they’d have used different weapons at New Russia.

  ***

  Alan sat up, cracking his head into the overhead bunk. He swore, loudly.

  “You swear like a little girl,” Bennett said, from somewhere over his head. “I’ve heard worse in locker rooms.”

  “So have I,” Alan growled. He felt awful, as if he hadn't slept at all. His body protested as he swung his legs over the side of the bunk and stood. “We’re still alive, aren't we?”

  Bennett snorted. “For a given value of alive, I suppose,” he said. “Or do you think this is hell?”

  Alan swallowed several nasty remarks as he checked the display. The computers had to be on the blink. According to them, he’d had five hours of sleep, but his body insisted that he’d barely slept ... if, of course, he’d slept at all. His eyes felt scratchy, as if he’d been sleeping in sand. He stumbled into the shower and turned on the water, cursing again as icy cold liquid cascaded down on his head. Thankfully, it helped clear his mind.

  “My grandfather served on a submarine,” Bennett said, once Alan was out of the shower and getting dressed. “I think I know how he felt now.”

  “I think I know too,” Alan said. “But at least he wasn't too far from home.”

  He looked at the interplanetary display and scowled. There was an alien fleet carrier and four escorts somewhere within the system; perhaps alarmingly close to them, perhaps on the other side of the dim red star. Or ... he wanted to believe that the aliens had simply turned around and left the system, but he knew better. It was what he wanted to believe, after all.

  Five days, he thought. Five days of sneaking towards the tramline, turning tail every time we pick up even a hint of their presence. And the hell of it is that we don't know if we’re detecting them or random fluctuations in space!

  He pulled his uniform on, then headed to the hatch. Bennett made no move to follow him, something Alan suspected had more to do with a desire to rest than trust. It wasn't as if Alan had anywhere to go, anyway. Bennett would probably stay closer to him once they were back at Sol. If, of course, they made it home.

  The CIC was quiet. Maddy was sitting at her console, looking half-asleep. Alan cleared his throat as he entered, making her jump. She was lucky she wasn't in the army. No one would complain - much - if a sergeant beasted a soldier who’d fallen asleep on watch. But then, nothing had happened. He skimmed the feed, just to be sure. The flotilla was steadily approaching the tramline, every passive sensor listening for trouble. If the aliens were nearby, there was no sign of their presence.

  And they won’t be able to tell when we leave the system, he thought. Unless they’re close enough to see our hulls.

  He made a f
ace as he sat down, quietly dismissing Maddy to her bunk. A couple of pilots had argued that the alien carrier had already left the system, pointing out that the aliens had to know that searching for Haddock was a waste of time. Alan hadn't been so sure. The aliens probably wanted a little revenge ... and following Haddock down the tramlines to Alkaline would give them a chance to take it, without delaying their arrival at New Russia too much ...

  The tramline grew closer as the flotilla inched towards it. Alan felt his heart starting to pound, knowing that the aliens would have to make a move now ... if they wanted to overwhelm Haddock and the rest of the ships. If, of course, they were there at all. He kept a wary eye on his sensors, one hand ready to sound the alert and start launching starfighters. But nothing materialised as they crossed the tramline.

  He gasped in pain, doubling over as an invisible fist slammed into his stomach. It was hard, very hard, to keep from throwing up. He forced himself to swallow, time and time again, as he straightened. The display had blanked, but was rapidly filling up with new data. There was no sign of any alien ships. He reminded himself, again, that that meant nothing. The aliens might have crossed the tramline ahead of them and started plotting an ambush.