“We do have three freighters with increasingly bored crews,” he pointed out. “I’ll order them to tranship supplies until one of the ships is empty, then it can be sent after us.”
His wristcom bleeped. “Captain,” Midshipwoman Powell said, “Captain Peterson and his daughter have left the ship.”
“Good,” John said. He closed the connection, then called the bridge. “Mr. Armstrong, set course for Cromwell and take us there, best possible speed.”
“Aye, sir,” Armstrong said.
John dismissed the others, then keyed his terminal to record a message. “Governor Brown,” he said. “The Larry Niven has informed us of a major crisis on Cromwell. I intend to investigate and render assistance. Captain Minion will remain in command of the squadron until my return. Please empty one of the freighters - I leave which one to your discretion - and have it follow us as soon as possible. I will report back to Clarke before heading elsewhere.”
He tapped the terminal again, sending the message. There was no point in trying to hold a normal conversation, not at this distance from Clarke. Besides, he needed time to think. If a freighter had gone missing, what did it mean? The long-predicted disaster the shuttle pilot had warned about, or something worse? There were too many possibilities and nowhere near enough evidence to speculate.
“Captain,” Armstrong said, through the intercom. “We are underway and will pass through the tramline in thirty minutes. All systems appear nominal.”
“Understood,” John said. They’d tested and retested everything while they’d been lurking around Clarke, but they hadn't jumped through a tramline for weeks. “I’ll be on the bridge when we jump.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Jump completed, sir.”
“Very good, Mr. Armstrong,” John said. “I barely felt it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Armstrong said. “I was able to take Captain Peterson’s records and use them to ensure a safer transit.”
“Good thinking,” John said, approvingly. “Take us to Cromwell, best possible speed.”
He learned back in his command chair as Warspite swept away from the tramline. Long-range passive sensors revealed no sign of human presence in the system, save for the automated beacon orbiting Cromwell itself. Originally, the files had stated, Cromwell would have been provided with an orbiting station and probably some asteroid miners by now, but even then it had seemed unlikely the schedule would be kept. Cromwell sat on the end of a chain of tramlines; pre-war, everyone had thought the system only had one. And then the war had shaken up everything.
Poor bastards, he thought.
He shuddered at the thought. The colonists wouldn't have known a thing about the war until a freighter came calling, after the truce. They might have been surprised, one day, by alien ships appearing in their sky and dropping bombs, or they might have regressed to barbarism when it became clear they’d been forgotten. And there wouldn't have been enough of a balanced population to ensure their survival. Men outnumbered women by at least ten to one.
“Lieutenant Forbes, transmit our IFF to the orbiting satellite,” he ordered, shortly. “Inform them that we will enter orbit in three hours and request a sit-rep.”
“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Forbes said.
It would be at least an hour, John knew, before they received a reply. He forced himself to wait, studying the system as more and more of it appeared in the display. No one would have considered Cromwell a major find, were it not for the presence of a life-bearing world in the correct location. There were four other planets in the system, but they were all rocky: one comparable to Mercury, the other three comparable to Mars. Maybe there would be good grounds for blowing up one of the outermost worlds, he told himself, remembering the shattered moon orbiting Clarke. The Cromwell System had no asteroid belt and only a handful of comets, orbiting at a safe distance from the local star. Its economic development would always be hampered, at least when the colonists started moving into space.
But they also have the tramline to Pegasus, he thought, dispassionately. They could earn a transit fee on every ship that passes through the system, while purchasing their fuel from Clarke.
“I have the latest efficiency reports,” Richards murmured in his ear. “Do you want to review them now?”
John had to laugh. Trust Richards to find a way to distract him from his worries.
“They can wait,” he said. Warspite hadn’t lost too much of her efficiency while she’d been trapped in the Pegasus System, thanks to endless drills he’d ordered to keep the crew sharp and alert. The internal shore leave rota might have been slimmer than anyone wanted, but it also ensured that everyone managed to get at least a few hours of downtime every week. “I don’t have time to review them properly.”
Richards nodded, then looked up at the display. Cromwell was growing closer, a blue-green sphere hanging against the darkness of interplanetary space. She looked very much like Earth, John thought, without the slender towers reaching up from the surface to low orbit, or any other sign of human occupancy. Most of Cromwell’s surface was completely empty, at least of any higher-order life forms. The first settlers hadn’t had time to expand before the war cut off any supplies from Earth.
They can eat the local animals, at least, he reminded himself. One of the reports had speculated that Cromwell’s economy might be boosted by selling meats from native animals, although it wouldn't last. Someone would obtain live samples and start a cloning program, if the meats really took off. They weren't at any real risk of starvation.
“Captain,” Lieutenant Forbes said. “I’m picking up a signal from the planet. The Governor is requesting you visit him as soon as we enter orbit.”
“Good,” John said. “Did he include a sit-rep?”
“No, sir,” Lieutenant Forbes said.
John frowned. It was possible that the Governor was still trying to put one together - he couldn't have anticipated Peterson finding help so fast - but it was odd. Most colonies maintained a standard sit-rep for transmission to incoming starships, although he did have to admit that Cromwell’s settlers had had other things to think about. He considered sending a demand for one anyway, then pushed the thought aside. There would be time to see the situation for himself as they entered orbit.
“Captain,” Richards said, quietly. “We know nothing about the situation on the ground.”
“I know,” John said. He also knew what Richards was really trying to say. John was Warspite’s commanding officer. He shouldn't leave her bridge, let alone go down to the planet, when the situation was so unclear. But he couldn't allow Commander Watson to go in his place, while anyone lesser would be considered an insult to the Governor. “I don’t think I have a choice.”
He keyed his terminal. “Major Hadfield, please access the live feed from the sensors as we enter orbit,” he said. “I want your impressions.”
“Aye, Captain,” Hadfield said.
John forced himself to remain calm as Warspite drifted into high orbit, floating over the colony. It had been established by the side of a river - the River Fairfax, according to the map Howard placed over the images - which had quite clearly burst its banks. Large sections of farmland were covered in water, while buildings that had been noted the last time the Royal Navy had surveyed the system were gone. It was far smaller than the devastation along the Thames or several other rivers in Britain, when rainfall and tidal waves had made them burst their banks, but proportionally it was far worse. Large tracts of farmland had been completely obliterated.
“It might have been a mistake to build so close to the river, sir,” Richards observed.
“You don’t say,” John said, dryly.
Offhand, he couldn't help wondering precisely why someone had built so much of the colony so close to a river. It was close to the sea and there were a handful of boats, clearly visible on the waters; maybe the original planners had intended the colony to grow into a harbour, as well as a farming settlement. But the rising waters had d
one immense damage to the small town. John had the nasty feeling that it was no longer a viable settlement.
His console buzzed. “Captain, this is Hadfield,” the Marine said. “I don’t think we can do much in the way of SAR, not now. This disaster happened months ago.”
“It does look that way,” John agreed. He thought rapidly. “I want you and a handful of Marines to escort me down to the surface. If there's something we can do to help, we can figure out what down there and do it.”
“Yes, sir,” Hadfield said. “Do you want to use a Marine shuttle?”
John concealed his amusement. Marine shuttles were piloted by daredevils, at least when compared to normal shuttle pilots. They had to be daring; they flew shuttles through incoming flak from the ground, dropped their Marines in landing zones that could turn hot at any second, then returned to their ships through another hail of incoming fire. But he’d been a starfighter pilot, back before the Battle of Bluebell. He had no fear of Marine shuttle pilots.
“I think so, yes,” he said. He closed the connection, then turned to Commander Watson. “Once we get a list of supplies they need, organise them for immediate dispatch to the surface.”
“Aye, Captain,” Commander Watson said.
John nodded. In some ways, Commander Watson was the ideal disaster relief officer. She didn't allow emotions or political demands to get in the way of saving as many people as she could, even when she had to make hard decisions about abandoning some people to save others. The post-war evaluation of the disaster recovery efforts in Britain had noted that too many officers had made the emotional choice, rather than the pragmatic choice. But it was never easy to condemn people to death, knowing that they might have a chance to survive with a little assistance. That way, madness lurked.
And how many of those officers, he asked himself, committed suicide after the war?
“Lieutenant-Commander Howard, you have the bridge,” he said, as he rose. “Remain in contact with the away team at all times; in the event of something going wrong, take whatever action you deem fit, in consultation with Mr. Richards.”
“Aye, sir,” Howard said.
John took one last look at the orbital display, then walked down to the shuttle hatch. Hadfield and three other Marines, wearing rural combat battledress, were waiting for him, their faces under very tight control. John smiled, knowing they were anticipating watching a starship officer panic as the shuttle dropped through the planet’s atmosphere, then opened the hatch and led the way into the shuttle. It was cruder than he remembered, but no one designed assault shuttles for elegance. They tended to be considered expendable by their commanding officers.
The shuttle disengaged from Warspite, then dropped rapidly towards the planet. John felt the hull shake violently as the craft hit the upper edge of the planet’s atmosphere, then closed his eyes, concentrating on the sensations. The shuttle rocked from side to side, as if it had been slapped by an angry god, then plunged again, deeper into the planet’s atmosphere. John smiled to himself, knowing that far too many officers would be trying to avoid throwing up by now. The shuttle pilot had the craft under complete control, but it sure as hell didn't feel like it. There was a final series of violent manoeuvres, one dull thud that echoed through the entire shuttle, then nothing. John opened his eyes and peered out of the porthole. They’d landed at the colony in record time.
“Excellent flight, Major,” he said, as he unbuckled himself from the seat. “My compliments to the pilot.”
“Thank you, sir,” Hadfield said. He sounded astonished, much to John’s private amusement. “I’ll pass your words on to him.”
John smirked, then stepped up to the hatch and out into the planet’s atmosphere. The air smelled of brine, he noticed at once; it was cool enough, despite the water droplets hanging in the air, for him to smell the brine clearly. The bright sunlight illuminated a landing pad that had clearly seen better days, even though regulations insisted that colony spaceports had to be kept open at all times. But to dignify the complex surrounding him as a spaceport seemed an unthinkable exaggeration. It was really nothing more than a hanger, made from rotting wood, and a small metal fuel tank on the other side of the field.
“I’ve been in worse places,” Hadfield said, as a handful of figures appeared in the distance and started to walk towards the shuttle. “And some of them were actively threatening.”
John nodded as the figures came into view. He recognised two of them from the files - Governor Jim Baxter and Deputy Governor Murray Gamble - but the other three were unknown to him. One was a harassed-looking woman who seemed to have aged a decade in less than a month; the other two were older men, their hair rapidly shading to white. From the way one of them was limping, it looked as though he had broken his leg and had it set very badly. The colony had to be short of medical supplies by now.
“Captain,” Governor Baxter said. “Welcome to Cromwell.”
“Thank you,” John said. He took a moment to study the Governor. His file had stated that he had experience on a dozen colony worlds, but he’d always been a subordinate. Cromwell was his first real command. “We would have come sooner, if we had known.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” the Governor said. “But tell me ... was there really a war?”
His deputy snorted. “With aliens?”
“Yes,” John said, quietly. “There was a war against an alien race.”
There had been people, he recalled, who had frozen themselves in hopes that their terminal diseases could be cured, with the proper application of nanotechnology. Some of them had been woken up, just after the war, and hadn't believed in the Tadpoles until they’d met the aliens, face to face. He couldn't blame the Governor and his staff for having the same reaction. Aliens hadn't been part of the human experience until a mere five years ago. It wasn't surprising the Governor had taken the reports with a pinch of salt.
“That’s ... bad to hear,” the Governor said, quietly. “If you will come with us, Captain, we can show you the city.”
Cromwell City - it was really more of a large town - didn't deserve the name, John decided, after five minutes of walking. Most of the town was composed of wooden buildings, which had suffered badly in the wake of the flood. A number had fallen down, while others were clearly on their last legs. The handful of prefabricated buildings - and the modified dumpsters - at the centre of the city had held up better, but even they were streaked with rust and other signs of decay. If he’d been in sole charge, he thought, he would have moved the colonists to higher ground and abandoned the city until the planet was firmly under control.
“I meant to ask,” he said, as they entered one of the dumpsters. The air inside stank, but no one seemed to notice. “Why did you build the colony so close to the river?”
“It was a compromise,” the Governor said. “We managed to convince a number of folk from the outer islands to immigrate here. They would only come if we guaranteed them a harbour and somewhere to sell their fish. And we didn't have the resources to do both.”
Fuck, John thought. A decision, made in the hopes of saving money, had managed to wreck most of the colony before the next wave of settlers arrived. No wonder everyone’s mad.
“I shall be blunt,” he said, once they were in the Governor’s office. “We have one ship, a modified cruiser. How may we be of assistance to you?”
The Governor and his Deputy exchanged glances. “We need medical support, if possible,” the Governor said, finally. “Most of the material that could be recovered from the flooded zone has been recovered. We may need help in moving it to higher ground, but that would take time to organise. How long can you spare?”
“And can you search for the missing colonists?” The Deputy added. “They should have arrived by now.”
“They departed on time,” John agreed. He knew they would have to search, once he had ensured Cromwell was going to survive, but he knew the odds of finding any of the missing colonists were very low. “But if they didn't make
it here, something must have happened along the way.”
“We would also appreciate a show of force,” the Deputy Governor said, sharply. “There have been ... rumours of trouble from the farmers, Captain. I would prefer to cow them before it’s too late.”
“That will do,” the Governor said. “We can't blame the farmers for being worried, not now.”
John understood. The farmers would owe debts to the colonial development consortium, debts that wouldn't be repaid unless they made a success of their farms. If the farms were now wrecked, the farmers would be faced with spending a lifetime in hock to the consortium or trying to repair the damage in the midst of a known flood zone. And most of their wives and children, who had been separated from them for the past five years, had vanished somewhere in interstellar space. It was a recipe for trouble.
But it’s also a recipe for a long-term commitment, he thought. He couldn't spare his Marines - and even if he could, he doubted there were enough of them to keep the colonists under control. We need another solution.
[Ark Royal 04] - Warspite Page 18