The Cruel Stars

by Christopher Nuttall

  But they were his children. He couldn't walk away from them. His finger tapped the icon almost before he knew it.

  A young girl appeared in front of him. Alan stared in disbelief. The brown-haired girl was a stranger. Who was she? Had Robert Foster somehow hired an actress to pretend to be one of his daughters ... no, he was being stupid. It had been nearly five years since he’d laid eyes on his oldest child. Jeanette was twelve now, not seven. Of course she’d look different. The uniform she wore - a red blazer, covering a red shirt - told him that she was attending a fancy private school. Only the very rich could afford to spend so much money to look like a wally as they walked to and from school.

  It could be worse, he thought. She could have a straw hat and boater.

  “Dad,” Jeanette said. “I ...”

  Alan felt his heart skip a beat. It was Jeanette. The voice was the same, the mixture of Glaswegian Scot and Yorkshire that had characterised his daughter, back when she’d been nine. The Glaswegian had slipped slightly, part of him noted. He hoped that wasn't a bad sign. It wasn't uncommon for kids to be bullied because they sounded funny, a holdover from the Troubles that had never quite gone away. He clenched his fists at the thought, remembering some of the assholes he’d met in the borstal. The surge of anger - and protectiveness - surprised him. If some fucking wanker of a kid picked on his daughter, that wanker was going to be eating his meals through a straw for the rest of his life. And if his daughter’s teachers couldn't impose discipline, they’d be dead too. He’d go back to jail - quite happily - if it meant his daughter was safe.

  “Dad,” Jeanette said, again. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Because your grandfather was probably listening, Alan thought. There was no sign of anyone else within the pickup, but that meant nothing. And because ...

  “I miss you,” Jeanette said. “But I miss Mum too. When they told us ... I wanted to pinch myself. I hoped I would wake up and discover that it was just an awful dream. But it wasn't, was it? I ... my father murdered my mother.”

  Alan felt his heart sink. His in-laws hadn't told their granddaughters the truth, then. But what did it matter? Alan had killed their mother! They didn't care about his reasoning, let alone his excuses. How could they? They wanted their mother back!

  “I don’t know what to say,” Jeanette said. “I wanted to write to you, afterwards, but Granddad wouldn't let me. He said we would do better to forget you. And yet, I can't forget you. I want ...”

  Tears glistened in her eyes. “I want you back. I want Mum back. I want ...”

  She rubbed her eyes. “Keep messaging us, please,” she said. “But I don't know ...”

  The screen went blank. Alan jerked. That - that - was the end of the message? It certainly looked like there was nothing further. He wondered, sourly, if the in-laws had fiddled with the recording. Robert Foster was hardly a technophobe. It wouldn't be that difficult to edit the video. Or simulate an entire conversation, if necessary. It had been so long since he’d laid eyes on his daughter that any flaws in the simulation could easily be explained away.

  Or that might be her, Alan thought. He didn't want to open the third message, not now. And yet, he knew he had no choice. She has every reason to be conflicted.

  He looked down at his hands. She’d had no reason to hate him, let alone fear him, until someone had told her that he’d murdered her mother. He hadn't been an abusive father ... he hadn't even smacked her when she was naughty. It was natural for her to feel conflicted, but this was bad ...

  It would be easy to kill himself. He wanted to kill himself. Bennett hadn't allowed Alan a gun, but there were plenty of ways to commit suicide on a starship. Rigging the airlock to allow him to leave without a spacesuit would be easy. And yet, part of him refused to just give up. He had duties towards his children as well as rights.

  “It will take time,” he muttered, grimly. He keyed his datapad, setting it up to record a new message. “All I can do is be patient.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Alan looked ... different, Abigail decided, as they rode the shuttle to the asteroid base. It wasn't something she could put her finger on, but it was there. They’d both been too busy over the last few days to sit down and chat, something that made her wonder if she should have been paying more attention to him. They hadn't even had time to go to bed together.

  She pushed the thought out of her head as they docked and followed the marines through the network of corridors. Tallyman seemed to have expanded since her last visit, a sign the escort carrier program was actually working. She guessed that their success had to have convinced the Royal Navy to start converting more freighters, although she suspected they’d eventually reach a point of diminishing returns. There hadn't been enough freighters plying the spacelanes even before the war.

  “Ah, Captain Harrison,” Jameson said, as they entered the briefing compartment. “Thank you - and Commander Campbell - for coming.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” Abigail said. She had to admit Jameson had put his own life on the line, just to prove that the escort carrier concept was workable. “Thank you for the repair crews.”

  “It's in the Royal Navy’s interest to see that your ship is turned around as quickly as possible,” Jameson told her. Four new captains, all strangers, entered the room. “Please, take a seat. We’ll start as soon as everyone’s arrived.”

  Abigail looked at Alan, then led the way to a seat close to the projector. She sat and watched the newcomers, wishing she had a moment to talk to Alan privately. If something was bothering him, she wanted to know about it before it exploded in her face. But she doubted she’d have the time. It was starting to look as though they would be shipping out within the next few days.

  Or sooner, she thought. The four days of leave had never been extended. She’d had to reprimand two of her crew for grumbling about not being able to get to Titan and back in four days. The navy probably want us to leave this afternoon.

  The hatch hissed closed. “Thank you all for coming,” Jameson said. “As I’m sure you’re all aware - from the briefing notes I forwarded to you - our enemies have been given a bloody nose. Our best guess - at the moment - is that they’re reassessing their plans, following some unexpectedly staunch resistance. These are just guesses, to be fair, but they do make a certain kind of sense.”

  “A certain kind of human sense,” Alan muttered.

  Jameson proved to have sharp ears. “Correct,” he said. “Their idea of smart military tactics may be completely alien to us. However, so far their planning appears to follow a sensible - and entirely understandable - pattern. Lure our ships into a killing zone, test themselves against the ships - and then make an attack on Earth, when our ships proved incapable of stopping them. Thankfully, we stopped that attack dead in its tracks.”

  Abigail nudged Alan. “Busted.”

  “The Admiralty is currently looking at a number of options for taking the offensive and - again - winning time for refitting our fleets,” Jameson said. He keyed a switch. A holographic starchart appeared in front of them. “As you can see, the aliens have been moving towards Aquitaine - a French-ethnic colony only three jumps from New Russia - with the obvious intention of forcing us to split our defences. As Aquitaine is under threat from two separate tramlines - and its fall would open up several other possible routes core-wards - we have a strategic interest in not allowing it to be occupied.”

  “And a political interest too,” a captain said.

  “Correct,” Jameson agreed. “Politically, allowing Aquitaine to fall would lead to a major political crisis. And, as the system has a small industrial base, we have a vested interest in not allowing the aliens to destroy it. I believe the French have already started to convert their industrial nodes to war production, but it will take time before new weapons and starfighters start rolling off the assembly line.

  “It has therefore been decided, at the very highest levels, that we will make a serious attempt to reinforce the sys
tem before it can be invaded. Your ships will be charged with protecting a convoy to the system, then taking part in the defence - and, perhaps, a little aggressive raiding. We might well be able to give the aliens another bloody nose.”

  Or get our ships blown up, Abigail thought coldly.

  “The convoy is already being organised,” Jameson said. “Assuming that everything goes according to plan, we’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. I had hoped for a longer period of downtime, but” - he shrugged, expressively - “it was not to be.”

  He paused. “Do you have any concerns?”

  Alan stuck up a hand. “We will have hardly any time for squadron training, let alone integration,” he said. “I have seven pilots under my command who served on Haddock during our last engagement. The remaining pilots are either reservists or maggots who’ve been rushed through the final stages of basic training. Frankly, sir, we need more time in simulators before we start flying actual starfighters.”

  “I am aware of the problem,” Jameson said. “However, we are very short of experienced personnel.”

  Alan didn't look pleased, but he didn't say anything further. Abigail glanced at him for a moment, wondering if that was what was bothering him. Alan had trained two squadrons - four, practically - and now he was faced with the task of doing it for the third time. She could understand how that might gnaw on him, particularly given the loss rates. Sooner or later, Alan’s luck would run out ...

  And mine too, she thought grimly. A few more plasma bolts in the last engagement and my ship would be nothing more than atoms.

  “We are also short of commanding officers,” Jameson said. “We have a number of officers who are desperate to move up, but very few of them have any experience in commanding and operating fleet carriers. Therefore, it has been decided that Captain Harrison will receive a brevet promotion to commodore, effective immediately.”

  Abigail blinked. “Me?”

  “You will assume command if something happens to me,” Jameson said. “I don’t know if the French will recognise a brevet promotion, Captain, but you’ll definitely have command of the flotilla. It should help limit the command disputes that plagued some of the other early engagements.”

  “Congratulations,” Alan muttered.

  Commiserations might be more in order, Abigail thought. Herding belter captains was like herding cats. Some of her new subordinates would understand the importance of a unified command, others would resent her newfound prominence. Even if I never have to take command, it will make life difficult.

  “I’m sorry for the late notice,” Jameson said. “If it was up to me, there would be a longer gap between missions. But right now ... England expects that everyone will do their duty.”

  “Duly noted,” Abigail said, calmly.

  Jameson dismissed the audience, then hurried through the hatch before anyone could ask him any further questions. Abigail rolled her eyes at his retreating back, then led Alan back to their shuttle. She’d never liked pointless social chatter and she had no intention of talking to any of the other captains, not when half of them were probably feeling resentful and the other half indulging in some Schadenfreude. Besides, she was too old to feel obliged to spend time with people when she didn't need to do anything of the sort.

  “So,” she said, once they were back on the shuttle. “What’s bothering you?”

  Alan gave her a surprised look. “You can tell?”

  “I’ve been a daughter, a wife and a mother,” Abigail said. She leaned back into her chair as the shuttle started to move, undocking from the asteroid and heading back to Haddock. “I know how to read a man, Alan. What’s bothering you?”

  Alan half-covered his face with his hand, just for a second. “I’ve been exchanging messages with my eldest daughter,” he said. “We’ve been ... we’ve been chatting. The in-laws have been reading over her shoulder.”

  Abigail lifted her eyebrow. “Do you blame them?”

  “Not really,” Alan said. “But it is annoying.”

  “Put up with it,” Abigail advised. If a belter had murdered his wife, he’d be executed. The belt didn't tolerate murderers. Alan might not be a monster, but he’d still crossed the line. “I don’t think you have any room to complain about them reading your mail.”

  Alan’s eyebrows furrowed. “Tough love?”

  Abigail shrugged. “I grew up in a place where the slightest mistake could get me killed,” she said, dryly. “You know that. I was taught harsh lessons as a child and I taught them myself to my children, because the alternative was them fucking up when I wasn't there to catch them. Sometimes you have to let children make mistakes ... and sometimes you have to keep a close eye on them, so those mistakes aren't disastrous.”

  She shrugged, again. “What are they saying?”

  “They seem to be in two minds,” Alan said. “There are times when they want to talk to me and times ... and times when they seem to want to have nothing to do with me. And how can I blame them for that?”

  “I don’t suppose you can,” Abigail said. Losing a mother was bad enough, but losing a mother because the father had murdered her ... she couldn’t imagine it. She'd grown up with the grim knowledge that she could die at any time, yet ... death had been an impersonal force of nature. One didn't need malice to kill. “Just ... give them time. Record a final message for them before we leave.”

  Alan shook his head. “We don’t have time to get ready before we leave.”

  “And Jameson told you to suck it up,” Abigail reminded him. “I don’t think we have much of a choice.”

  “No,” Alan said. “We don’t.”

  ***

  Alan would have brooded more over the unfairness of it all if there hadn't been so much to do. The new pilots had to be briefed - he felt as though he could give the speech in his sleep now - and then assigned to bunks and their bags searched for contraband. He knew he should be trying to get to know his new subordinates, but he didn't want to allow himself any more ties to them. Too many of his former subordinates had died in the brief, savage engagements for him to feel inclined to get to know their replacements. He knew that too many of the newcomers would be dead before too long.

  Training is getting shot to hell, he thought, bitterly. The Royal Navy normally trained its pilots in four classes, but the first and second classes had already been rushed into service. They knew how to fly - he’d give them that much - yet they were lacking in so many other ways. And while he wasn’t a keen proponent of military etiquette, he knew there were plenty of other fields of study. Half of them can barely tie their own shoelaces without help.

  Maddy stepped into the briefing room, holding a datapad in one hand. “A couple of pilots were caught with alcohol,” she said. “Officer Bennett sent me to ask what you wanted done with the bottles.”

  Alan considered a number of answers, none of them really useful. “Tell him to pour the bottles into the head,” he said, bluntly. “We may as well run it through the recyclers.”

  “Aye, sir,” Maddy said. She glanced down at her datapad. “They were new pilots, not the old hands.”

  “Old hands,” Alan repeated. It was funny, but ... he felt too depressed to laugh. “How long have we been on this ship?”

  Maddy looked puzzled. “Ah ... four months, roughly,” she said. “That’s about right, sir.”

  “Feels longer,” Alan said. He leaned back in his chair. “There was a time when you would still be considered a newcomer until you’d served at least a year in a squadron. Wasn't there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And now there are old hands who might as well be in diapers,” Alan continued. “Or at least have only been flying for three or four months.”

  “And others who returned to the colours,” Maddy said. “They’re not exactly new.”

  Alan scowled. There had been no way to avoid the simple fact that most of the older pilots had been killed. They simply hadn't been up to the demands of modern warfare. He wanted to order every
one over the age of thirty out of the cockpit, but he knew he’d never be allowed to make it stick. The Royal Navy had more starfighters than it had pilots. Once upon a time, everyone had assumed that producing more starfighters would be the bottleneck, if full-scale war broke out. In hindsight, that assumption was starting to look foolish.

  And besides, everyone over the age of thirty would include me, he thought. I’d have to pull myself out of the cockpit.

  He looked down at his hands for a long moment. Was there blood on his pale skin? Or was it just an illusion? He blinked. The shadow vanished. He was too tired, he told himself. He was starting to see things. The drugs had long-since worn off, but tiredness seemed to follow him wherever he went ...

  Maddy cleared her throat. “Sir?”

  “Tell Bennett to pour the alcohol away,” Alan said. “And then report back here. We have a training schedule to work out.”