A Small Colonial War (Ark Royal Book 6) (3 page)

He sounded defeated.  Lillian felt a chill running down her spine as she keyed the command into the system, starting off a process that would wipe, reformat and finally destroy the classified datacore.  The Governor hadn’t had many secrets, she was sure, but destroying his codes and ciphers was a tacit admission that all was lost.  She nodded to herself as the destruction was confirmed, then verified; she glanced at the Governor, who was watching as the Indians slowly advanced though his colony.  Civilians who stumbled into their path were told to return to their quarters and wait for orders.

“At least they're not brutalising the civilians,” the Governor mused.  He sounded as though he were speaking to himself, rather than to her.  “But they’ll need them, won’t they?”

Lillian nodded.  Clarke wasn’t a habitable world.  It had taken two months of intensive effort to build up a life support infrastructure, let alone establish a geothermal power source and start mining for raw materials.  The Indians would need to secure the colony, but they’d also need the men and women who made the colony work, at least until they brought in their own people and learned the ropes.  They’d have to be insane to mistreat the civilians.

But the sick feeling in her chest wouldn't go away.  It felt like hours before the Indians finally stepped into the control centre and looked around, holding their weapons at the ready.  Lillian hadn't been so scared since the day she’d been arrested on
Warspite
.  The Indian soldiers looked tough, determined and utterly ruthless.  She’d been taught the basics of shooting - several ships had been boarded during the war - but she knew she was no match for them.

“Step away from the console,” one of the Indians ordered.  “Now.”

Lillian obeyed, careful to keep her hands visible at all times.  She
had
only been a lowly engineering officer, but she’d had the same training program as every other junior officer; she knew, all too well, that the first hours of an invasion and occupation were always the worst.  The invaders would be jumpy, unsure of their ground, while the locals would be unwilling to tamely accept occupation.  Accidents happened ... and it was unlikely that anyone would care if the Indians shot her.  The years when lawyers paralysed trigger fingers were long over.

Another Indian strode into the control centre, wearing a dress uniform.  Lillian had to admit he looked handsome, but there was a coldness in his eyes she didn't like.  The men following him took the consoles and went to work, pulling up the operating subroutines and examining them quickly, looking for backdoors, viruses and other hidden surprises.  Lillian knew they wouldn't find anything more significant than a handful of porn caches the Governor wasn't supposed to know about.  Clarke’s system just wasn’t large enough to hide much more. 

And we didn't exactly expect occupation
, she thought, sourly. 
We would have rigged the system thoroughly if we had
.

“Governor,” the Indian said.  “I am Colonel Vasanta Darzi, Governor of Clarke.”

Lillian saw the Governor tense, but he kept his voice under tight control.  “Harry Brown,” he said, shortly.  “Governor of Clarke.”

The Indian shrugged.  “My men have occupied the colony,” he said.  “From this moment onwards, Clarke will be governed under my law.  I expect your people to assist in maintaining the colony for the foreseeable future, until the current ...
unpleasantness
is cleared up.  Under the circumstances, this may cause some awkwardness with your government; in the event of your people being threatened with charges of treason or collaboration, we will be happy to testify that you were forced to work under duress.”

And the Government might not buy it
, Lillian thought.  There was a fine line between working under duress - real or implied - and outright collaboration.  And the people on the spot might not be able to see that line.  They would be judged harshly by outsiders who had never been within a hundred light years of Clarke. 
If they feel otherwise, we may wind up going home to our deaths
.

“My personnel should not be forced to work on defences or military-related projects,” the Governor said.  “I believe my government would understand the need to keep working on life support.”

“That is understood,” Darzi said.  “In the long term, your personnel will be free to relocate themselves to British territory or apply for Indian citizenship.  If they choose the former, the Indian Government has already agreed to pay for their relocation and compensate them for their efforts on Clarke. 

“However” - he held up a hand warningly - “I am also obliged to warn you that any resistance, active or passive, will be treated as a hostile act.  Any attacks on my personnel or attempts to sabotage the defences will be severely punished, in line with the Luna Conventions.  Insurgents and those who support them will face the death penalty.  I advise you to make that
very
clear to your personnel.”

“I understand,” the Governor said, tartly.

Lillian cringed, inwardly.  British territory hadn't been occupied since the Second World War, unless one counted the social unrest of the Troubles.  No one knew how to behave under enemy occupation ...

“I do not, however, believe that my government will simply concede Clarke to you without a fight,” the Governor added.  “In that case, I expect you to do everything you can to protect the civilian population.”

“In that case, we will certainly try,” Darzi said.  Oddly, Lillian had the feeling he meant every word.  India wouldn’t look very good if innocent civilians were caught in the crossfire.  “But by the time your military can respond, if your government is intent on a fight, we will be ready.”

Chapter Two

10 Downing Street, London, Earth

“There’s a line of protesters outside, sir,” the driver said.

“Stay clear of them,” Vice Admiral Sir James Montrose Fitzwilliam ordered.  It had been years since the violent protests that had shaken London to the core, but memories ran deep among the elite.  “Get us past the gates and into Downing Street as fast as you can.”

“Aye, sir,” the driver said.

James sucked in his breath as the car passed the protesters, half of whom seemed to be carrying banners condemning the Indians.  The other half seemed to be a mixed group, ranging from pacifists to Britain First; the latter, idiotically, demanding that money and resources be lavished on rebuilding Britain rather than expanding the navy and securing the peace.  A long line of policemen stood between the two groups, while a handful of armoured soldiers waited at the gates to Downing Street.  Protests were fine - they were a way to blow off steam - but outright violence would be squashed with terrifying speed.  London could not risk a return to anarchy.

And we came close to that during the war
, James thought.  He’d been on
Ark Royal
at the time, raiding enemy space and blissfully unaware that the enemy was returning the favour by attacking Earth.  They’d never had the slightest awareness that Earth was threatened until they returned home to discover that the planet had been attacked. 
A second round of chaos will destroy us
.

He pulled a small mirror out of his pocket and inspected himself quickly.  At forty-five, with jet-black hair and shaven face, he still looked reasonably handsome, although he was grimly aware that he was no longer as spry as he used to be.  The war - and the long battle to rebuild the Royal Navy afterwards - had taken its toll.  He closed the mirror, picked up his briefcase and braced himself as the car rolled to a stop.  Moments later, the driver opened the door and saluted as James climbed out.  The policemen standing outside Ten Downing Street waved him through the door without hesitation.  They’d have checked his Navy ID as the car passed through the gates.

“Admiral Fitzwilliam,” a young woman said.  She was probably in her early twenties, he decided, with long brown hair tied into a bun.  The suit she wore made her look rather like a penguin, he decided, but he knew better than to underestimate her.  She wouldn't have reached her position so young unless she was highly competent.  “They’re waiting for you in the COBRA Room.”

“Thank you,” James said.

He clutched his suitcase tightly as the girl led him down a long flight of stairs into the bunker complex below Ten Downing Street.  It might
look
like a row of houses, but in reality it was a facade; the houses had long since been woven together into a single huge complex, the tip of the iceberg.  Below them, there was a network of bunkers, administrative centres and barracks for troops.  The
real
work was done far from the prying eyes of the public and the media.  They passed two security checkpoints before finally coming to a halt in front of a set of sealed doors.  Someone’s child had drawn a painting of a cobra and left it there, marking the room.  James couldn't help smiling at the image as the doors were opened, allowing him to step into the room.

“James,” Uncle Winchester said.  “Please, take a seat.”

James nodded, curtly.  Uncle Winchester - Henry Winchester, Secretary of State for Defence - had been trying to shape his life for years.  In hindsight, James had to admit he might have had a point, but it didn't please him to be a pawn in his uncle’s games.  Or, for that matter, to be forced to choose between loyalty to his superior officer - a man he had come to respect - and loyalty to his family.  He accepted a cup of tea from the steward and glanced at the clock on the wall as a handful of other attendees stepped into the room.  There was no sign of the Prime Minister.

“The latest news isn't good,” Uncle Winchester muttered.  “I’ve heard ...”

He broke off as the doors opened, admitting Prime Minister Steven Goodwill.  James rose to his feet, along with everyone else, as the Prime Minister made his way to the head of the table and sat down, his gaze sweeping from face to face.  The doors closed firmly as the rest of the attendees sat down, the stewards returning to their seats beside the drinks machine.  They’d be cleared for everything, James knew, but it still felt like a security nightmare to him.  And yet, he had the feeling that most people in the room would be horrified at the thought of getting their own tea.

“Gentlemen,” the Prime Minister said.  His voice was very cold.  “It is no exaggeration, I feel, to say that today’s meeting may decide the fate of the British Commonwealth.”

He paused.  James watched him carefully, wondering just which way the Prime Minister would jump.  The man had guided Britain through five years of recovery, a task that had turned his hair grey, but did he have the nerve to resist the Indians?  To commit Britain to an interstellar war against a human enemy?  Or would he look for an excuse to pull back and concede defeat?

The Prime Minister nodded to the young woman.  “Sandra?”

Sandra cleared her throat as she tapped a switch.  A holographic starchart appeared above the table, glowing with tactical icons.  James silently parsed out the tramlines that led to Pegasus, Cromwell and Vesy, noting with disgust that all three of them were shaded in red. 
He
, at least, had no doubts about what should be done.  The Indians could not be allowed to get away with such blatant acts of aggression.

“Thank you, Prime Minister,” Sandra said.  She’d be one of the Prime Minister’s personal intelligence officers, James decided.  “The situation is as follows.

“The Indians have definitely occupied both Vesy and Pegasus - specifically, Clarke III,” she said.  “We believe they have occupied Cromwell too, but the only evidence we have for that is a flash message relayed down the chain of communications beacons before the Indians took the beacons offline.  In any case, our tactical staff believes that the Indians would have good reason to occupy Cromwell.  They would find it easier to block our advance through that system.

“Despite their advance, losses have been minimal.  There was a brief exchange of fire at Clarke III before the destroyers retreated; the Indians did not pursue.  They have returned almost all of the prisoners they took on Vesy, who testify to their good treatment.  In some cases, the Indians even ransomed the prisoners from the aliens who took them captive.  The only exceptions, as far as we can determine, are a handful of men who are critically wounded and are currently undergoing treatment.”

“How nice of the Indians,” Uncle Winchester muttered.

Sandra ignored him.  “The Indians have been reported in Boston, but so far they have not made any hostile moves against the planet.  We believe the Indians have no intention of trying to occupy the system as that will add the Americans to their list of enemies.  However ...”

The Prime Minister held up a hand.  “That will do, for the moment,” he said.  He cleared his throat.  “I received the ultimatum from the Indians personally.”

James sucked in his breath.  It was rare, very rare, for Heads of Government to handle diplomatic discussions personally.  There was just too great a risk of a personality clash that would lead to diplomatic rows, or even all-out war.  It was generally better to allow the diplomatic offices to handle such matters at first, knowing that they could be disowned if necessary.  A diplomat could be declared
persona non grata
and sent home.  It was a great deal harder to ignore a Head of Government.

“It's a strange piece of work,” the Prime Minister continued.  “For an ultimatum, it has some oddly conciliatory phrases.”

“The Indians may themselves be divided,” Neville Murchison said.  The Foreign Secretary leaned forward.  “They may not be as determined on war as it seems.”

“Or that’s what they want you to think,” Uncle Winchester growled.  Murchison and he were old sparring partners.  “What do they actually
want
?”

The Prime Minister frowned.  “They want recognition as a Great Power,” he said, flatly.  “Their control over both Vesy and Pegasus is to be recognised; they are to be effectively granted possession of those systems and the sectors beyond.  In short, it is a land grab on an interstellar scale.”

He shrugged.  “If we accept those terms without further debate, the Indians will
graciously
allow us access to Vesy and the tramlines,” he added.  “But we will no longer control any of the systems ourselves.”

“So the Indians expect us to just roll over and surrender those systems,” the First Space Lord said.  “We
can't
let this pass.”

“No, we can’t,” Uncle Winchester agreed.  “We do have allies.”

“We don’t,” Murchison said, flatly.  “The Great Power system is dead, Henry.  It was killed by the war.  Right now, the Americans are having their election; they won’t risk getting involved unless the Indians do something they can't ignore.  The French have their own internal problems; they’re unlikely to get involved unless we make concessions to them instead.  I rather doubt the Chinese will go to bat for us and the Russians ... well, we believe the Indians have been making inroads with the Russians.”

James winced.  The Russians, during the height of the war, had attempted to deploy biological weapons against the Tadpoles, effectively committing genocide.  Their commandoes had tried to take control of
Ark Royal
and launch the weapons, injuring James badly in the process.  He cursed inwardly at the thought.  If he hadn't been wounded, he would have been on the Old Lady when she made her final flight.  It would have been better, perhaps, than surviving.

And Admiral Smith would have told you that you were being an idiot
, he reminded himself sharply. 
You have far too much to live for
.

“So we’re alone,” Uncle Winchester said.  “We still have a considerable firepower advantage, don’t we?  Six fleet carriers to three?”

“Three of our carriers are deployed to the border,” the First Space Lord said.  “Concentrating an overwhelming force will take time.”

“We can still take the offensive,” Uncle Winchester said. 

The Prime Minister tapped the table, sharply.  “The question before us is simple,” he said.  “We have a choice between either conceding that the Indians have successfully captured some of
our
territory or going to war.  Which choice do we make?”

Murchison cleared his throat.  “Prime Minister,” he said.  “I understand the primal urge to just hit back at our enemies.  There is no excuse for invading and occupying our territory, territory claimed by us in line with the various interstellar treaties; the Indians have committed acts of aggression and must be made to pay a price.

“
But
... we are not in a good position ourselves.  The Royal Navy was gravely weakened by the war and there are endless demands on our resources.  We could take the offensive against the Indians and beat them, only to discover that we’ve killed ourselves too.  A long war might not only bring in other human powers, Prime Minister; it might weaken us to the point the Tadpoles see a chance to resume the war on their terms.  They
have
to regard us as a dangerous enemy.

“We
have
denied the Indians recognition as a Great Power in the past, even though they probably deserved the title.  Conceding that now will do us no harm; it may even serve as a bridge to opening other discussions.  We gain little from Vesy; the system isn't worth fighting to keep.  Let the Indians have it, if they wish.  The only sticking points are Pegasus and Clarke and I believe the Indians can be talked into withdrawing from both systems.  It would be a clear breach of the international order to
keep
them.”

James had his doubts.  Yes, there was little to gain by keeping Vesy; the natives were primitive, barely crawling out of the Stone Age.  But otherwise ... rewarding the Indians for acts of aggression stuck in his craw.  Maybe they
could
be talked into withdrawing from Cromwell and Pegasus ...

Uncle Winchester cleared his throat.  “It has always astonished me just how often the diplomats want to talk, talk, talk,” he said.  “In this case, there is nothing to talk
about
.”