Ark Royal

Chapter Twenty-Two

The recon platform had no name, nor did it want one. It was nothing more than a cluster of passive sensors, a handful of gas jets and a single laser communicator, governed by the most advanced automated systems the human race had been able to produce. There was no such thing as a true AI, at least not yet, but the controlling systems were capable of reacting to almost anything. Now, it opened its passive sensors to their full extent — taking the risk of having them blinded — and watched as the invisible projectiles smashed into the alien fleet.

Four smaller alien craft and a carrier were hit at once, all four damaged beyond repair. The remaining carriers brought up their active sensors and started sweeping space for threats, then opened fire with their point defence. Lacking any armour or means to evade incoming fire, the remaining projectiles started to vanish, one by one. The recon platform noted that the aliens took several shots to destroy each projectile, but they were definitely capable of putting out enough firepower to do it. Unbothered by human emotional reactions, the recon platform observed the destruction of another alien carrier, followed by the loss of dozens of other projectiles. Hundreds of alien starfighters swarmed free, advancing rapidly outwards to locate and destroy other projectiles. Behind them, the starships brought up their drives and started to fan out rapidly.

Faithfully, unaware of its impending destruction, the recon platform reported everything to its mothership.

Ivan had no doubts. Like the rest of his team, their emotional reactions had been minimised by the surgeons who had turned them into cyborg commandos. It was a must, he’d been told when he no longer had the emotional capability to react to what they'd done to him; they didn't dare allow their cyborgs to keep the full range of human emotions. The horror ordinary humans would feel at losing their genitals and being turned into inhuman monsters was nothing more than a minor notion to the cyborgs.

Hours of drifting through space in an unpowered shuttlecraft didn't bother him either. Yes, he knew — intellectually — that the alien sensor grids might locate his shuttlecraft and blow it out of space, vaporising it so completely that they wouldn't have a chance to test their capabilities for operating in space without a spacesuit. But it was merely an abstract concept to him. They had a mission and they would complete it or die trying.

There was no need to talk. All six cyborgs were linked together through low-power radio signals, allowing them to share thoughts and concepts without needing to open their mouths. Indeed, as they’d grown closer and closer together, they had stopped talking to others, apart from when it was strictly necessary. Ordinary humans, even Russians, feared the cyborgs, they knew. It wasn't something that bothered them. The cyborgs existed to serve as front-line commandos, nothing else. If ordinary humans were scared of them, so much the better.

Now, they prepared themselves as the unpowered missiles went active, coming online and lancing after the alien craft. The alien frigates didn't seem surprised to come under attack; they merely altered course and started to open fire with their point defence. Half of the missiles kept targeting the frigates anyway, the remainder altered course and headed down towards the planet. Assuming the odd radio signals were actually alien settlements, the cyborgs had decided when they were planning the operation, the aliens would have to concentrate on preventing the missiles from punching through the atmosphere. Unless they had radically good sensors, they would have no way to tell that the missiles carried no warheads. They’d be forced to assume nukes — or worse.

The concept of unleashing nuclear fire on alien civilians didn't bother the cyborgs. They’d had emotional reactions engineered out of them. Ivan had watched, dispassionately, as his fellow cyborgs had waged murderous war on the enemies of Mother Russia. The fact that those enemies included subversives who were, technically speaking, Russian themselves didn't bother him either. If they chose to defy the government’s orders, they deserved all they got. It had been programmed into him on the day of his rebirth.

There were times when he wondered who he’d been before he'd entered the cyborg program and turned into a monstrous amalgamation of flesh and metal. Memories of another life sometimes flickered through his dreams, suggesting that once he’d been something other than a cyborg. But the dreams were nothing more than illusions, he’d been told. It wasn't something to concern himself with, not when there was no shortage of work to do.

At precisely the right moment, the cyborgs uploaded the final set of commands into the shuttle, triggering a series of explosive bolts. Wrapped in protective orbs, they plunged out of the shuttle and rocked down towards the planet’s atmosphere, surrounded by the pieces of the shuttle. To human sensors, at least, it would look as through the shuttle had broken up in flight, perhaps after launching the missiles that had bedevilled the alien frigates. But if it failed…

Ivan had no doubts. He’d done all he could. Now, all he could do was wait and drop through the planet’s atmosphere. And if they failed, they failed.

It was all the same to the cyborgs.

“Two alien carriers destroyed, nine smaller ships picked off,” Farley reported. He nodded to the display, which was swarming with red icons. “I think we made them mad.”

Ted smiled. “Pull us back towards the tramline,” he ordered, as the alien sensors started to sweep through space for a hint of the flotilla’s presence. If they managed to get out of the system before the aliens got a clear lock on them, the aliens would waste hours searching for a flotilla that had already departed. Or maybe they’d just blame everything on the Russian stragglers in the outer system. “What about the Russian commandos?”

“They made it into the atmosphere,” Farley said, checking the live feed from one of the probes. “Other than that… we don't know.”

Ted silently wished them good luck, then turned his attention back to the swarming alien fighters. The aliens seemed determined to ramp up their sensors to the point where human sensors would significantly damage themselves, although their ships showed no traces of the problems human sensors would rapidly develop. Behind the sensor sweeps, swarms of starfighters were advancing forwards, heading towards the human tramlines. Someone, Ted realised, was thinking ahead. The tramlines were the only way out of the system and blocking them was the quickest way to prevent Ark Royal from escaping.

“Accelerate towards Tramline Three,” he ordered. The alien starfighters would get there first, but he was quite prepared to bet that Ark Royal could blast her way through them even without the help of the flotilla. “Launch a second set of drones towards the alien ships and…”

The display flared red for a long chilling moment, then faded back to black. “They swept us with a high-power radar,” Farley reported. Long minutes passed as they waited to see if the aliens would lock on, then the display turned red again. This time, it stayed that way. “They’ve got a solid fix on our location.”

Ted swore, although he’d expected it from the moment the aliens had started powering up their sensors. Ark Royal might have been impossible to separate from an asteroid if she’d been lying doggo, but a carrier moving at high speed was instantly recognisable. On the display, a swarm of alien starfighters turned and gave chase, followed by the smaller ships.

“Order our starfighters to prepare to launch,” Ted ordered. “Go active; ramp up our own sensors as much as possible. There’s no point in trying to hide any longer.”

“I guess we poked the hornet’s nest,” Fitzwilliam said, from the CIC. “Mass drivers are unlikely to score hits at this range.”

Ted nodded. The alien ships were accelerating forwards, but they were also altering their courses randomly, making it impossible to predict their location in time to fire at them with the mass drivers. Besides, with a swarm of starfighters covering their asses, it was unlikely that any projectiles would get through and do some real damage. Shotgunning them might have an effect, but not enough to make the expenditure worthwhile.

“The newcomers are also on their way,” Farley noted. “They’re pulling quite a high clip.”

“Fast buggers,” Fitzwilliam’s voice said. “I don’t think we could match them.”

“True,” Ted agreed. The alien carriers didn't seem to have a better acceleration rate that a modern human carrier — which still gave them an edge over Ark Royal — but the alien battlecruisers definitely had the highest acceleration rate ever recorded. It would be tricky for a human ship to match it, at least without heavy reengineering. But it was clear that they were going to have to do just that, sooner rather than later. “Calculate prospective intercept vectors.”

He ran through them in his head, then checked them against the computer. The larger alien ships were unlikely to run them down until they crossed the tramline, but the smaller fighters would definitely try to slow them down. Even if they hadn't improved their weaponry, Ted knew he couldn't rule out the prospect of a lucky shot… or, for that matter, the simple destruction of his ship’s ability to shoot back. Once they’d stripped Ark Royal of her defences, they would allow the bigger ships to catch up and blow his carrier apart.

“Enemy fighters will enter intercept range in ten minutes,” Farley warned.

And if they had mass drivers, they would have used them by now, Ted told himself. He hoped, desperately, that he was right. A single direct hit with a mass driver would smash his ship like an eggshell.

“Launch fighters at the seven minute mark,” Ted ordered. That should give his pilots enough time to launch and get into intercept position. “Hold the bombers for the moment.”

Silently, he cursed the decision not to build any more Ark Royal-class carriers… or even makeshift escort carriers. He didn't have the starfighters to cover both his hull and escort the bombers to their targets, while the aliens — with their multirole fighters — had no trouble doing both. Maybe he should have pleaded with the Admiralty to assign additional modern carriers to the flotilla… but he knew they would have refused. The modern carriers, once the queens of space, were now too vulnerable to be easily risked.

“Aye, sir,” Farley said. “Fighters are primed now.”

“Use one of the drones to try to raise the planet,” Ted ordered. If the Russians had any form of passive sensors left in orbit — or even simple ground-based telescopes — they'd know that someone was attacking the occupation force. And there was definitely no point in trying to hide now. “Transmit the pre-recorded message and wait for a reply.”

Until the drone is destroyed, he thought, absently. The planners might not have realised it, but the moment the drone started transmitting its signal, the aliens would know precisely where it was lurking. They’d send a starfighter to vaporise it within minutes. But at least the Russians on the ground, assuming they still have a radio receiver, would know that they weren't alone.

But they’d also know that the human raiders had retreated.

He shook his head, absently. There was no alternative. The Russians would know, at least, that the rest of human space remained free… and that the aliens were far from invincible. And they would have hope…

To an unprepared civilian, the tactical display was a indecipherable mixture of red and green lights, dancing around in seemingly random patterns. The fact that most of his fellow reporters couldn't understand what they were seeing, Marcus Yang suspected, was all that was stopping them from panicking. Marcus, who could read it, could tell that a formidable alien force was giving chase, bent on destroying the imprudent carrier that had given them a bloody nose.

He settled back, watching — with some private amusement — the reactions shown by his fellow reporters. Barbie seemed shocked at the carnage, even though it was minuscule compared to the Battle of New Russia. No, the first Battle of New Russia, he corrected himself. One way or another, this was definitely the second. Other reporters seemed almost pleased. They knew that humanity hitting back would make for high ratings… assuming, of course, they survived the experience.

Barbie looked over at him, her too-wide eyes disturbingly inhuman in the darkened compartment. “What is happening now?”

Marcus hesitated, then made a deliberate decision to be kind. “We’re withdrawing from the system,” he said, which was true enough. If, of course, a few of the details — such as an onrushing alien fleet — were left out. “You’ll have time to file your story soon enough.”

Barbie gave him a pitiful glare. “How can you be so calm?”

Marcus shrugged. “Whatever happens, happens,” he said. Being an embed in ground forces had taught him that bullets, IEDs and mortar shells were no respecters of press credentials. Nor were insurgents, as a general rule, and they tended to be savvy enough to check which reporters they’d kidnapped before deciding what to do with them. Some reporters had been released with exclusive interviews, others had been brutally raped, tortured and then murdered. “There's nothing I can do about it, so why worry?”

He smiled at her. The display kept them curiously disconnected from reality, but that would change when the aliens started hammering at Ark Royal’s hull. And they would, he was sure; this time, the aliens had enough firepower to just punch their way through the carrier’s defenders.

“You may as well relax too,” he added. “There’s nothing you can do to help or hinder operations.”

“Launch fighters,” Ted ordered.

“Aye, sir,” Farley said. He pressed a switch on his console. “Fighters launching, now.”

Kurt winced as the starfighter rocketed out the launch tube and into open space, followed rapidly by the rest of his pilots. Ahead of them, one cluster of alien fighters rested on the tramline; behind them, a colossal cloud of alien starfighters was catching up rapidly with the flotilla. There were so many of them that the sensors seemed to be having problems picking individual starfighters out of the cloud. Kurt had never seen so many starfighters outside exercises and flying displays for the King’s birthday.

“Wonderful,” Rose said. She sounded better, now they were in open space with an enemy force bearing down on them. They could take their frustration out on the enemy pilots. “I make it twenty enemy fighters each. We’ll all be aces by the time this is done.”

“True,” Kurt agreed. “Alpha and Beta squadrons; break up the enemy formation. Delta and Gamma, mind the carrier.”

The starfighters rocketed forwards, slipping past the frigates moving into intercept positions. Kurt scowled at them, hoping and praying that the IFF systems worked perfectly, even though he feared they wouldn’t. It was bad enough with British systems alone, but when several other nations were involved… he gritted his teeth. In hindsight, the strongest argument against there being any foreknowledge of the alien attack was that there had been no attempt to ensure that all human technology was compatible.

But if someone had tried, he thought, would it have been accepted?

He pushed the thought aside as his squadron raced towards the alien craft at a staggering closing speed. Quickly, he flipped his weapons on to automatic — he'd have to gamble that the computers didn't accidentally take a shot at an allied starfighter — then braced himself, keeping his starfighter on a random course. It seemed only seconds before the guns started chattering away, spitting out tiny balls of metal towards the alien fighters. Kurt saw a handful of icons vanish from the display, only to be replaced instantly by other alien craft. His starfighters weren't replaced so quickly…

“Alpha-five and Alpha-seven are gone,” Alpha-nine reported. Kurt hadn't even seen Alpha-seven die. “Alpha-three is disabled…”

Lucky bastard, Kurt thought. A fluke, a million-to-one shot that had damaged a starfighter, rather than destroying it outright. Behind him, the alien starfighters disengaged and roared towards the flotilla. Cursing, he yanked his starfighter around and gave chase, while Delta and Gamma squadrons rose up to cover the carrier. There were so many alien starfighters that some of them were almost certain to get through.

“Incoming starfighters,” Farley reported. “Weapons range in thirty seconds.”

“Open fire as soon as they enter effective weapons range,” Ted ordered. The alien starfighters were ducking and weaving past the frigates, refusing to engage them. It made sense, Ted knew; if they could cripple Ark Royal, the frigates were unlikely to make any difference to the balance of power. Still, he would have preferred the aliens to show tactical inflexibility rather than a limited degree of imagination. “Fire at will.”

He braced himself as the starfighters roared down on the carrier, scorching her hull with plasma bolts. It looked like random fire — it was random fire, he knew — but it had a very definite purpose. The aliens didn't have to target precisely to do damage… and, for them, spraying and praying was actually a viable tactic. Piece by piece, the damage mounted…

The carrier shuddered, slightly.

“Report,” Ted snapped.

“One of the aliens crashed into our hull,” Anderson said. “No major damage, sir.”

But the minor damage was steadily mounting up, Ted knew. One of the mass drivers was already crippled and would need a week of repair before it was ready to use again. Other weapons and sensor blisters had already been destroyed, crippling the carrier’s ability to defend herself.

“Captain,” Farley snapped. Ted heard a hint of panic in his voice. “New contacts!”

Ted swung around and stared at the display. A new series of red icons had appeared, right in front of them… and blocking their escape route from the system.

They were trapped.