Fear God and Dread Naught (32 page)

“Pity we don’t have a cooking pot here,” Byron said.  He sat down next to her and munched his ration bar with every appearance of enthusiasm.  George was surprised he was such a good actor, although she supposed he had to set an example for everyone else.  “You know what I could do with a cooking pot?”

George shook her head.

“Pile in a dozen of these pieces of shit,” Byron said.  He waved the remains of the ration bar in the air, then swallowed it in a gulp.  “Mash them together in water, then add Tabasco and a few other sauces.  Boil it up, then eat.  It doesn't taste half bad.”

“I suppose it would taste better than these,” George mused.

“Oh, of course,” Byron said.  “But then, anything would taste better than these.”

He shrugged.  “When we’re in the field, we don’t get a team of cooks producing roast beef and potatoes for us,” he added.  “We have to make do with field rations.  And you won’t believe the smell.”

“It could be worse,” one of the other soldiers offered.  He sounded American.  “I was there during the Great Mutiny at Manhattan FOB.”

George frowned.  A mutiny?  “What happened?”

“Oh, we were outside the wire for two weeks,” the soldier said.  “The local assholes decided to take advantage of the bombardment by raiding a number of settlements under our protection.  We spent those weeks cruising around and teaching the fuckers a lesson.”

He paused for effect.  “And then we drove back to the base and lined up in front of the chow hall,” he added.  “They’d really done Uncle Sam proud.  It was like stepping into a burger bar from the last century.  The burgers were huge, the freedom fries crispy ... they’d even got straws you could share with your partner.”

George stared at him.  “On a military base?”

“It’s Little America,” the soldier said.  “The better officers keep trying to put a stop to it, but it never lasts.”

He smirked.  “You have to imagine the scene,” he added.  “There’s this bunch of REMFs sitting at the tables, wearing clean uniforms and combat boots ... a couple even have a pair of women on their knees ... and then we come marching in.  Fourteen soldiers, wearing uniforms that haven’t been washed in two weeks; dusty, grimy, smelly as fuck ...

“The bastards panicked!  They jumped up in shock!  And this weak-chinned moron goes up to the LT and says we can't come in.  There’s an immediate rumble behind the LT because every last one of us is just gagging for something that doesn't taste like recycled goat droppings.  And the LT, who was a bloody-minded son of a bitch, just picks the fobbit up, drops him in the trash can, marches up to the counter and orders about a hundred burgers and a couple of dozen rounds of freedom fries.

“You should have seen the looks on their faces,” he added.  “They couldn't have looked more shocked if a herd of man-eating tigers had walked into the diner.  But some bastard must have called the MPs on us, because they marched in while we were stuffing our faces.  And the LT tells them to take a long walk around the block until we've finished.”

He laughed.  “He was a character, I’ll say.”

George nodded.  “What happened?”

“We finished our meal and left in good order,” the soldier said.  “LT gets his ass chewed a couple of times by the base commander, but his
actual
superior knows the score.  And by the time we got back home, the whole story had turned into a stirring battle, a mutiny against particularly stupid REMFs.”

“And they changed the rules after that,” Byron said.  “Didn't they?”

“Just a little,” the soldier said.  “But the way things were out there ... the LT barely managed to avert a
real
mutiny.  We were starved and pissed and we weren't going to take
no
for an answer.”

“Ouch,” George said.

Byron grinned.  “It’s a bad idea to get between the soldier and his food,” he added.  “A few years ago, there was a base commander who thought he should ration food.  Some dickhead in procurement stopped chasing up whores long enough to calculate that everyone should have a certain level of food and no more.  So the base commander started locking up the food supplies.”

“And you started raiding them,” George guessed.

“Correct,” Byron said.  “
Everyone
started raiding them.”

He gave her a smile, then beckoned her to her feet.  “Let’s go,” he said.  “You’ll be going back out tomorrow.”

George followed him towards another hidden tent.  The interior was dark, but she could hear faint sounds of snoring from the inside.  She hesitated, then looked up at him.

“You said I was doing fine,” she said.  “Is that true?”

“I would not have been surprised if you’d requested to be sent well out of the danger zone,” Byron said.  “And I would not have blamed you.  This is not what you trained for.  But you stayed and you impressed us.”

“I’m not as good as you,” George protested.

Byron poked her in the chest, between her breasts.  “You had a few paltry lessons in shooting and self-defence at the Academy,” he said.  “We spent six months getting the shit kicked out of us during Basic Training.  Your experience of combat after the Academy is a handful of bouts, bouts which follow certain rules; my experience is over four years in various combat zones.  You follow the navy’s rules on exercise; we do press-ups and runs every morning before breakfast, just to keep in shape.”

He snorted.  “Believe me, if you were keeping up with us, I’d hate to think about what the Major would say.”

“Thanks,” George said.  She had to smile.  “But I do want to go back to the ship.”

“So do I,” Byron said. 

He nodded towards the tent.  “Now go get some sleep,” he ordered.  “You’re going back out tomorrow.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

“They’re definitely shadowing us, Captain,” Charlotte said.

Susan nodded, studying the display.  The alien ships had reversed course themselves after the human ships had broken contact, following the task force while maintaining a safe distance from human weapons.  Shaking them was not going to be easy.  They were almost certainly close enough to pick up on any bait-and-switch - perhaps even to track the task force if it retreated into cloak.  She dared not make any assumptions about the capabilities of alien sensors. 

“And they’ll track us all the way to Tramline Two,” she mused.  In some ways, it was reassuring.  It proved that the aliens didn't have any form of FTL
sensor
capability.  “And they’ll cross the tramline shortly after us.”

She contemplated the virtues of an ambush for a long moment.  Getting a clean shot at a starship that had just jumped through a tramline - with its sensors disrupted by the jump - was every tactician’s dream. But the more she looked at it, the more she doubted they could pull it off.  The aliens would be aware of the possibilities too - and take steps to avoid the danger. 

And if we lurk near the tramline, we give up our chance to lose them
, she thought. 
That could make life difficult in the next system
.

“Signal from the flag,” Parkinson reported.  “The task force is to continue on course, best possible speed.”

“Acknowledge,” Susan said.  She glanced at Mason.  “Mr. XO, what are the damage reports?”

“The majority of the damage can be handled while under way,” Mason reported.  “But there are elements that can only be handled at a dead stop.”

“Which we’re not going to have a chance to do for a while,” Susan said.  She had no idea what the aliens had in mind, but if they saw the task force slow to carry out repairs they’d certainly launch an attack.  They’d never have a better chance at weakening or destroying the remainder of the fleet.  “Inform Mr. Finch that he is to perform as many repairs as possible.”

“Aye, Captain,” Mason said.

Susan pressed her lips together in disapproval as the task force continued along its course, the aliens shadowing them at a safe distance.  She had to admire their timing, as awkward as it was.  If the task force turned to confront them, they risked major losses; if the task force continued on course, their shadows could keep a lock on them while rustling up reinforcements from the nearest enemy formation.  And it would be awkward, indeed, if the task force were to return to Unity as planned.  An enemy force shadowing them would ensure that they were caught between two fires. 

And we don't know where else the aliens might have reinforcements
, she thought. 
We might be being herded into a trap
.

She called up a starchart and studied the tramlines for a long moment.  The aliens wouldn’t have any difficulty charting them out, although they might not be able to access the alien-grade lines of gravimetric force.  Unless that had changed ... it had taken humanity nearly six months to duplicate the Tadpole Puller Drive, but the human boffins had had a working alien model to study.  Had the aliens recovered a working drive from the remains of the Contact Fleet?

They shouldn't have been able to recover anything
, Susan reminded herself. 
But we will never know
.

“If we proceed through Tramline Two, we will arrive in TPS-272,” she mused.  The Tadpoles had taken a look at the system some time before First Contact, according to the records, but they’d never considered it particularly important.  “And from there, we can proceed into TPS-271 through the alien-grade tramline.  They wouldn't be able to follow us.”

She keyed her terminal, opening a private link to Admiral Harper.  “As you can see, sir,” she said, “we do have options.”

“Making a dash for that tramline might be a wise idea,” Harper agreed.  “But they
would
know where we were going, even if they couldn't follow us.”

Susan agreed.  TPS-271 had only two serviceable tramlines, one of which was alien-grade.  If the task force took the other tramline as soon as they could, they’d still have to jump through three successive star systems before they returned to Unity.  Even if the aliens
couldn't
follow the task force, they’d have ample time to reverse course to head to Unity themselves or summon reinforcements.  The damned FTL communicator made matters far too complicated.

“And they might have a reasonable chance of getting there first,” Susan mused.  The haphazard distribution of the tramlines ensured that the aliens actually had a
shorter
trip back to Unity, even if they wasted time searching for the task force before realising they’d been tricked.  “Particularly if we have to stop and make repairs.”

“True,” Harper agreed.  “We’ll make the transit into TPS-272 in any case.  And then we can fart around a bit before attempting a breakaway operation.”

“Understood,” Susan said.  “I’ll see you on the far side of the tramline.”

She closed the connection, then leaned back in her command chair as the task force neared the tramline, altering course sharply a bare ten minutes before they were due to jump.  If there
was
an enemy fleet taking up ambush position on the far side of the tramline, their aim would be thrown off if the task force appeared somewhere unexpectedly ... she hoped.  The shadows could, she assumed, give real-time updates to a fleet lying in ambush ...

But surely it would be better to set an ambush in
this
system
, she thought.  Admiral Harper had deployed a dozen sensor drones to sweep their path, but they knew - all too well - that the alien cloaking devices were very good. 
They already have a force coming up behind us
.

Nothing showed on the sensor display, no barrage of missiles materialised out of nowhere as the fleet reached the tramline and jumped into the next system.  Susan held herself steady, fighting the urge to cringe, as the sensor display went blank.  If the aliens
were
waiting in ambush, they’d never have a better shot at
Vanguard
and they knew it.  But, as the display started to fill with icons, it became clear that the enemy
weren't
waiting for them.  The system was almost completely deserted.

“I’m picking up a mining and cloudscoop station orbiting the gas giant,” Charlotte said.  She glanced back at Susan.  “There aren't any freighters or warships in the system as far as I can tell.”

Susan frowned.  Placing a refuelling station
here
might make sense to a bureaucrat, but anyone versed in
practical
matters would know better.  It wasn't as if Unity and the handful of other Earth-comparable worlds in the sector didn't have their own gas giants.  Just for a moment, she wondered if they’d run into a
third
unknown alien race before the power signatures flickered up in front of her.  No, the Foxes and the Cows were definitely responsible for establishing the station.

“That makes no sense,” Granger protested.  “Putting a station here ...”

“Their drives might be inefficient,” Mason suggested.  He didn't sound as though he believed his own words.  “Or they may feel they need the redundancy.”

“We can ask them, afterwards,” Susan said.  “Continue to sweep the system for surprises.”

“Signal from the flag,” Parkinson put in.  “The task force is to adjust course to TPS-272-3 and prepare to destroy all enemy targets.”

Mason scowled.  “He’s giving up a free shot at their hulls!”

“Stow that chatter,” Susan said, sharply.  Mason had a point - but she doubted the aliens would be foolish enough to transit the tramline on the exact same vector.  Why would they
want
to give the task force a chance to hammer them with impunity?  “Helm, set course for the gas giant.”

“Aye, Captain,” Reed said.  “We will enter firing range in seven hours, thirty-two minutes.”

“We could try to capture the cloudscoop, Captain,” Granger suggested.  “It would give us a look at their tech.”

“If they’re foolish enough not to blow it up before the marines arrive,” Susan commented. 

She scowled.  It was definitely odd. 
Humanity
had set up refuelling dumps in transfer systems during the early days of space exploration, but advances in drive technology had soon rendered them useless.  Maybe the aliens were just being careful.  A cloudscoop near an inhabited world would be a priority target for any raiding forces.  Or maybe there was something in the system they were missing. 

The display glimmered in front of her.  She studied it carefully, but saw nothing.  There
could
be an asteroid settlement - a whole
string
of asteroid settlements - yet as long as the settlers were careful there was no way they’d be detected.  Her sensors were picking up enough asteroids to support millions of settlers ... there were people, back on Earth, who believed that one day the entire human race would live in space.  Susan wasn't
that
attached to a planet - they were big targets that couldn't run away - but she rather doubted it unless technology advanced considerably.  Asteroid settlements were terrifyingly vulnerable.

A flurry of red icons blinked into life on the display.  Susan leaned forward as the enemy fleet snapped into existence, close enough to continue tracking the task force without exposing its hulls to human weapons.  She silently complimented the alien shipmasters - they’d carried out a very tricky manoeuvre without apparent problems - and then glanced at Mason.  He didn't look pleased.

“Enemy fleet settling into pursuit course,” Charlotte reported.  “They’re still maintaining a safe distance from us.”

Susan rubbed her forehead.  She was tired, too tired to remain in command.  And yet, she didn't want to leave the bridge.  Cold logic told her there would be plenty of warning before their shadows could open fire, if they decided to abandon the pursuit and attack, but she didn't really believe it.  There could be a cloaked enemy fleet taking up an ambush position ahead of them.

“Mr. XO, you have the conn,” she said.  “Alert me the moment the enemy ships move onto attack vector.”

“Aye, Captain,” Mason said.  “I have the conn.”

Susan nodded, then rose and walked to the hatch.  It hissed open, allowing her to step out into the corridor beyond.  She wanted to sleep - she
knew
she should sleep - but instead she walked down the corridor, past the marine standing guard at the hatch to Officer Country and onwards to sickbay.  A number of crewmen were lying on beds, others sitting on benches with wounds that weren't considered immediate problems.  She waved them down when they made to stand, then hurried past them into the doctor’s office.  Doctor Adam Chung looked tired, as if he were about to fall asleep on his feet.  Susan didn't blame him.

“Doctor,” she said, quietly.  “How bad is it?”

“Thirty-seven dead, five missing and presumed dead,” Chung said.  Susan had always liked him.  Like her, he was a mixed-race child in a world that didn't always accept them.  But now, he sounded as tired as he looked.  “Their bodies have not yet been recovered.”

And may never be found
, Susan thought.  If someone had been near the damaged hull plating, their body might have been vaporised - or sucked into space.  And if that had happened, there wasn't a hope in hell of recovering the body. 
They’ll be drifting in space until the end of time
.

She took a seat and motioned for the doctor to sit too.  “And the wounded?”

“Forty-seven wounded, Captain,” Chung said.  “Seven, perhaps eight of them will probably have to claim a medical discharge.  We’ve done all we can for them - and we might have been able to do more, if we hadn't been overworked - but our best was insufficient.  The remainder should be able to return to active duty within a couple of months, at most.”

Susan shuddered.  Triage was one of the realities of military life.  A doctor had to choose which patients to treat first - and put a lightly-wounded patient, the one with a better chance of survival, ahead of a badly-wounded patient.  She understood the logic - there was no point in wasting limited supplies on someone who was likely to die anyway - but it didn't sit well with her.  And she hoped, deep inside, that it never would.