The Cruel Stars

by Christopher Nuttall

  She sucked in her breath. Commodore Jameson had given orders that cripples had to be abandoned - a sign that the situation was truly desperate - but surely he knew they couldn't afford to lose Sirius. And yet, the entire flotilla would be at risk if they slowed long enough for Captain Chester to make repairs. She closed her eyes for a long moment, remembering the days they’d spent together as friends and lovers. Captain Chester didn't deserve to die.

  None of us deserve any of this, she thought, as the alien starfighters swooped down once again. This time, they seemed more inclined to target the warships than the battered escort carriers. She had no idea what the aliens thought they were doing - unless they had concluded that the escort carriers couldn't possibly escape in time - but she was grateful for the small respite. All we can do is keep fighting and hope for the best.

  ***

  There were warnings, strict warnings, about abusing military-grade stimulants. Alan had heard all the cautionary tales during basic training and he’d taken them to heart, even though he’d suspected that some of the stories were exaggerated. The horror stories he’d been told had never seemed quite plausible. Now ... his heart was thumping in his chest, his veins felt as if they were on fire and his senses felt almost preternaturally sharp.

  Be careful, he told himself. His starfighter suddenly felt achingly slow as he blew away two alien craft in quick succession, his reflexes boosted beyond human norms. What you’re feeling isn't real.

  It was hard, very hard, to believe it. The alien craft were moving in slow motion, barely able to avoid him as his guns fired snap-shots into their cockpits. Alan felt as through his starfighter was part of him, at once alarmingly fast and terrifyingly slow. He knew it was an illusion caused by the drug, but he didn't quite believe it. It was impossible to keep a clear head when the stimulant was pounding through his system ...

  ... And then the aliens started to fall back.

  Alan almost threw caution to the winds and charged after them. The humans were outnumbered, but not outgunned ... right? It took everything he had to keep his body - his starfighter - from giving chase. He had to repeat his orders several times before the other pilots fell back to cover the flotilla. And the alien carrier was retreating ...?

  It was a trick, Alan told himself. But what was the point? The drug made it hard to think clearly, but he knew the aliens had had them. One or two more passes and the entire flotilla would have been wiped out. His pilots were in no state for a long engagement, even with the drug. And an engagement that lasted too long would see his pilots suffering from withdrawal effects. They’d be doomed.

  We were doomed, he thought.

  “They’re running?” Savage asked. His voice sounded thick, as if he was talking and eating at the same time. “Where are they going?”

  “Fucked if I know,” Alan said. It wasn't something he would have said normally, not over an open link, but the drug made it hard to give a fuck. His mind was spinning out of control. “I ... they had us.”

  “All pilots, return to your ships,” Commodore Jameson ordered. “We’ll slip back into silent running.”

  And hope they don’t have a stealthed ship following us, Alan added, silently. We’re not in any state for a fight.

  ***

  “Ah ... the pilots are in no state for anything,” Poddy reported. “Maddy says the stimulants will take time to work their way out of their system.”

  “Understood,” Abigail said. She had enough experience with stimulants to be wary of them. Military-grade drugs were supposed to be good, better than anything you could get on the civilian market, but they came with a high price. Her lips quirked. “Tell them to get well soon.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Poddy said.

  Anson looked up. “Why did they run?”

  “I don’t know,” Abigail said. She studied the display for a long moment. There was nothing. No wave of human starships crashing through the tramline, no invasion force on its way to New Russia ... it made no sense. “Perhaps we’ll never know.”

  “That’s not very satisfactory,” Anson muttered.

  “Yeah,” Abigail agreed. “But sometimes the real world isn't very satisfactory either.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “You got very lucky,” Admiral Thomas Grant said. The American looked pleased, yet worried. “Do you know what happened while you were gone?”

  Alan shook his head. He wasn't in the mood for games. His head felt as though Bennett had used it as a punching ball, repeatedly. He hadn't felt so bad since his first experiments with alcohol, back when he'd been fourteen. In hindsight, the hangover had been worse than the punishment the headmaster had handed out. Now ... part of him just wanted the American to shut up. Grant was far too fond of the sound of his own voice.

  Commodore Jameson was politer, somehow. “We just broke through to Coralline,” he said, in a very diplomatic tone. “We’ve been out of touch for nearly six weeks.”

  “A carrier - your carrier - stopped an alien offensive dead,” Grant said. “Ark Royal met the enemy in battle and crushed them.”

  “Crushed them?” Alan stared in disbelief. “We won?”

  “You won,” Grant said. “The aliens lost at least four fleet carriers in the engagement. They haven't probed our defences since.”

  Alan looked at Jameson, who seemed equally surprised. They’d known that something was going to happen that might distract the aliens, but Ark Royal? Alan had always assumed it would take longer to get the old carrier back into service. God knew the ship was over seventy years old. But it explained, at least, why the aliens had been so reluctant to risk losses. They’d been taught a sharp lesson.

  “I’m very glad to hear that,” Jameson said. “And I hope you’re glad to hear of our success.”

  “I’m less pleased to have confirmation they can use the weaker tramlines,” Grant said. The American furrowed his brow. “They can bypass our defences here any time they like.”

  “The threat is far from over,” Jameson agreed. “But at least we have proof we can hurt the bastards.”

  “God be praised,” Grant said.

  Alan nodded. Coralline had been reinforced heavily over the past two months, but it didn't take a genius to know the defences weren't strong enough to stand off the aliens. New Russia had been more heavily defended, for crying out loud! The combined fleet in the system knew what it faced, now, but knowing wasn't even half the battle. If the aliens wanted Coralline, they could take it. The only upside, as far as he could see, was that Coralline might distract them from Earth.

  Except they don’t need to go through this system to reach Earth, he reminded himself. And even if they do, they can avoid the defenders with ease.

  Grant leaned forward. “My analysts are very glad for the data you brought,” he said. “And we’ve already started updating our training modules. However, where do you intend to go now?”

  “I believe we have to return to Earth,” Jameson said, after a moment. “I can transfer a number of pilots, if you need them.”

  “I think you might need them more,” Grant said. “Your ships took one hell of a beating.”

  “It would have been worse if they’d bored in for the kill,” Alan said. He wasn't keen on the idea of giving up his remaining pilots, but he could see the logic. Grant’s forces were far too close to New Russia for anyone’s peace of mind. “They really were concerned about taking losses.”

  “Mass drivers gave them one hell of a shock,” Grant said. He jerked a finger towards the bulkhead. “I’ve got teams putting together some mass drivers of our own, for the base ... building them from scratch is going to be a slow process, it seems. We stockpiled the components back home, apparently, but they’ve all been reserved for Earth.”

  Which is technically a breach of the treaty, Alan thought. But Britain probably did the same thing.

  “Understandable,” Jameson said. “Earth is the point-failure source for the entire human race.”

  “Not so comfortabl
e for us,” Grant said. “I’ll forward you a copy of the latest set of updates, Commodore. As far as we can tell, local space between Coralline and Earth is clear ... but that proves nothing, as you know. Watch yourselves. We can’t be the only ones who thought of raiding freighters to slow the bastards down.”

  Alan looked up. “Are there other raiding parties heading into alien space?”

  “I believe so,” Grant said. “But the reports were short on detail.”

  “All the Great Powers were converting freighters into escort carriers,” Jameson said. “I dare say they’ll be sending raiding parties in all directions.”

  “Anything to keep the bastards off-balance,” Grant agreed. “And, again, congratulations.”

  Jameson took the hint and rose. “Thank you for your time, Admiral,” he said. “And thank you, very much, for your assistance.”

  “I wish I could do more,” Grant said. “But I have to keep stockpiles in reserve for the warships.”

  Alan nodded, curtly, as they walked through the hatch. The Americans had been generous, but they hadn't had much to give. Grant was right to reserve supplies for his ships, although Alan was sceptical of their combat value. A ship like Ark Royal would be - had been - far more effective against the aliens. The modern fleet carriers were little more than target practice. It had been easy to see the engineers bolting armour to hulls as Haddock and her remaining consorts approached the orbital base. Alan was surprised the aliens hadn’t pushed the offensive against Coralline as soon as they’d finished wiping out the MNF at New Russia.

  There aren't many other military bases between Earth and New Russia, he thought. But this one may actually be a drain on our strength.

  The American base felt strange, compared to a British installation. It had the same prefabricated gray bulkheads, but it had a sense of being bigger - far bigger - that its British counterparts. The Americans had always liked large structures - American carriers were the largest in space - yet it struck Alan as a little extreme. Perhaps the Americans had hoped to expand the base all along, if the tensions between the Great Powers eventually led to war. Or maybe they’d just wanted somewhere with plenty of living space. The skeleton crew would have had plenty of room, before the war. Now ...

  There was an odd sensation in the air, relief mingled with desperation. Alan understood, even though it was something he would have struggled to put into words. The crew knew how vulnerable they were, after New Russia. They’d known their base wouldn't have lasted long, if the aliens had come knocking. The aliens would have obliterated the mobile force, then turned their attention to the fixed installations. And yet ... now ... they knew that the aliens had received a bloody nose. They were not gods. They could be beaten.

  But the base itself was still vulnerable. Alan had no illusions, as much as he might wish to cling to them. Ark Royal was nowhere near Coralline - he thought - and her closest American counterpart had been chopped up for scrap twenty years ago. The aliens would reassess the situation, he assumed, and then resume the attack. Ark Royal was effectively unique. It would take time to retool the shipyards to produce a whole new generation of armoured carriers. The aliens could still win the war.

  At least we kept an armoured carrier in service, Alan thought. If the Americans had kept theirs ...

  Jameson cleared his throat, loudly. Alan jumped, cursing himself. His superior had been saying something ... and he hadn't been paying attention.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. There was no point in claiming that he had been listening. “I was miles away.”

  “Light-years, no doubt,” Jameson said. He sounded amused, rather than irked. “I trust the starfighter squadrons are ready for deployment?”

  “Yes, sir,” Alan said. He’d found himself de facto CAG for the remaining ships, somewhat to his surprise. But then, the original squadrons had taken one hell of a pounding. He didn't think there was much point in trying to reconstitute them, at least until they received some new starfighters and pilots. “We will be rough around the edges, but we’re ready to fly.”

  “Hopefully, we won’t encounter anything dangerous before returning home.” Jameson mused. “But if we do, I want to be ready.”

  “Yes, sir,” Alan said. He couldn't disagree with the sentiment. “And what will we do when we get home?”

  Jameson smiled. “Be honoured as heroes, I imagine,” he said. “And then we’ll be sent straight back out again.”

  Alan sighed as they reached the shuttlebay. It was easy to forget, at times, that his career was a sham. There would be no future for him once the war was over ... not in the navy, in any case. He’d be pardoned, but then ... he shrugged. There was no guarantee of bare survival, let alone victory. He’d worry about post-war life when the war was over.

  “We’ll depart in five hours,” Jameson said. “That should give the pilots enough time to rest, I think.”

  “And the crews too, sir,” Alan said. He understood the younger man’s thinking, though. The starship crews worked in shifts, but the starfighter pilots didn't have that option. “I think we’ll be ready to go, once repairs have been completed.”

  “Very good,” Jameson said. “And tell everyone about Ark Royal. I think we need some good news.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  ***

  “The damage isn't as bad as I thought,” Drakopoulos said. “But the armour was weakened quite badly in a dozen spots and several plasma bolts wreaked havoc underneath it.”

  “Ouch,” Abigail said. They floated together outside the ship, examining the scorched and blackened hull. “Can we make repairs?”

  “Not without some replacement parts, which the fleet base doesn't appear to have,” Drakopoulos said. He sounded as if he didn't believe it. It wasn't uncommon for naval bases to deny supplies to independent freighters, although the war should have put all such considerations aside. “The real problem is that we overworked some of the drive nodes. I’ve replaced two of them, but we don’t have any more spares.”

  Abigail frowned, considering. “Doesn’t the fleet base have anything suitable?”

  “Not for us,” Drakopoulos said. “They did offer a couple of modern nodes, but they’d need to be reconfigured before we could use them. Better to crawl home, I think.”

  “Point,” Abigail said. “As long as we can make it home.”

  “As long as we don’t overstress the drive nodes, we should be fine,” Drakopoulos assured her. “And if we are attacked ... well, we’ll have other things to worry about.”

  Abigail nodded as she studied the mess the aliens had made of her hull. The damage was largely cosmetic, but ... she knew they’d been lucky. If the aliens had ignored their losses and pressed the offensive, they would have finished off the flotilla before the human ships had managed their escape. And then ... she told herself, firmly, not to look a gift horse in the mouth. The aliens had come far too close to smashing the entire flotilla.

  She sighed, inwardly. She loved EVA, but now ... she turned the suit, taking a moment to survey the endless sea of stars. It was easy to believe why so many people worshipped them, but ... they were also terrifying. They had glowed in the darkness for millions of years before she’d been born and would still be glowing, millions of years after she was gone. And who knew how many other threats were lurking amidst the stars?

  “I’ve replaced a number of the smashed point defence guns,” Drakopoulos added. “They don’t seem to have intended to target them, which is why so many of the weapons survived, but I expect that’ll change in the next encounter. They might have more respect for our armour by then. Thankfully, the datanet modifications kept it up and running while all hell broke loose. This time, there were no coordination gaps.”

  “Just a shame we didn't have any more ships to coordinate with,” Abigail muttered. The flotilla had been badly hurt. She was sure the news broadcasts would say otherwise - and, from a tonnage point of view, they might be right - but she couldn't avoid thinking that their next mission w
ould be their last. They’d been lucky to survive. “I don’t suppose you can whip up a superweapon in your spare time?”

  “I might be able to devise a planet-cracker,” Drakopoulos said. “Do you think that would help?”

  “I think I’d prefer a super-laser,” Abigail said. “Or a FTL communications device.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” Drakopoulos promised. “Right after I devise the teleporter, the stress-free jumper and the latest bread-slicer.”

  Abigail laughed, even though she knew it wasn't really funny. She was pretty sure that research programs across the belt - and on Earth - had been kicked into high gear, with money being thrown at everything that looked even remotely as though it would produce a serviceable weapons system, but she had no way to know what would turn into usable hardware. Most of the really interesting programs were highly classified, although some of the datapackets she’d scanned had talked about a handful of far-out possibilities that would reshape the universe if they ever became reality. She couldn't help thinking that their unclassified nature wasn't a good sign.