The Nelson Touch

Chapter Forty

“Welcome back, Ted,” the First Space Lord said. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Tea, please,” Ted said. The urge to take something stronger was almost overpowering, but he knew once he started he might never be able to stop. Again. “Thank you, sir.”

The trip from the tramline to Earth had been nightmarish. A full quarter of the asteroid settlements mankind had created had been destroyed, while Mars and Venus had both been bombarded and the aliens had barely been kept from smashing the cloudscoops orbiting Jupiter and Saturn. Luna had taken a number of glancing blows — Sin City had been badly damaged, for no apparent reason — and several weapons had fallen on Earth herself. The general theory was that the aliens had struck Earth by accident, but it was no consolation to the millions who had died or found themselves homeless.

And the losses in starships were almost worse. Seven carriers, nearly a hundred frigates and dozens of other ships had simply been wiped out. The aliens, thankfully, hadn’t targeted the shipyards specifically, but they’d done enough damage to cripple humanity’s attempts to rebuild the fleet. Overall, Ted knew, for all the damage Operation Nelson had done, the aliens might have ensured their eventual victory over the human race.

“I saw your report,” the First Space Lord said, softly. “You did well, Ted.”

“Not well enough,” Ted grated. They’d hoped to deal the aliens a decisive blow. Instead, the aliens had hurt the human race badly. “And we lost the Prince.”

“His Majesty and the Privy Council have already been informed,” the First Space Lord said. “I imagine they’ll move quickly to capitalise on Henry’s” — his voice became cold, almost sardonic — “glorious death in battle. The strikes on Earth caused considerable damage to our morale.”

“There are other considerations,” Ted said, “but none of them are important now.”

“Probably not,” the First Space Lord agreed. “We honestly don’t know how to proceed.”

Ted sighed. There was the prospect — a very faint prospect — of locating an alien faction that wasn’t bent on a war of genocide. But, even now, the analysts hadn’t been able to determine if the faction genuinely existed or if it was just another attempt to deceive the human race. Had they been deliberately lured to Target Two or was that just, from the alien point of view, a happy accident? It was quite possible that the aliens would want to prevent the task force from encountering Faction Two… assuming, of course, that Faction Two actually existed. There was no way to say for sure.

But the aliens had knocked humanity back, hard. How long would it be until they came and finished the job?

Maybe it’s time to start planning an evacuation of the best and brightest of humanity, he thought. A ragtag fleet of starships making their way from star to star, looking for a new home.

He pushed the thought aside. It was his duty to stand and fight in the defence of Britannia, Earth and the whole human race. Others could try to make an escape, if they could. He would stay and fight.

“There are several promising lines of investigation,” he said. “And we have new insights into both alien technology and civilisation.”

“If we can call whatever they have a civilisation,” the First Space Lord muttered.

He looked up. “Ted, you and your crew will have to remain on your ships for the moment,” he added, in a firmer voice. “There will probably be an inquest into the Prince’s death at some point, but I doubt it will be pointing too many fingers, not now.”

Ted swallowed. The media had turned him into a hero once and it would do it again, but it was very much a double-edged sword. If they decided to brand him as the villain instead… his reputation might not survive, even if his career remained intact. And God alone knew what would happen when they heard about Prince Henry and Janelle Lopez. He’d probably find himself painted as the villain in their tragic love affair.

“Yes, sir,” he said, finally.

“During that time, I want you to work out proposals for taking the offensive once again,” the First Space Lord added. “And for contacting Faction Two, assuming they really exist.”

“Yes, sir,” Ted said, again.

“You’ll probably be also asked to testify in front of American and French inquests,” the First Space Lord warned. “In that case, I suggest you seek advice from my staff first. They will be looking for someone to blame for the loss of thousands of crew and a pair of very expensive carriers.”

“I know,” Ted said. It was hard to escape the feeling he deserved it. Frigates could be built relatively quickly, but carriers took years to produce. “I’ll inform you if I get any demands for my presence.”

The First Space Lord nodded and clapped Ted’s shoulder. “Good man,” he said. “Whatever else happened, Ted, you and your men did well. Don’t forget that, please.”

Ted sighed. They had, he knew, and he had been looking forward to returning home and tallying up the alien fleets and planetary defences they’d destroyed. But the alien attack on Earth had made a mockery of his plans. The aliens had been hurt, yet the human race had been hurt worse. And the Prince was dead. Britain was likely to end up with political chaos at the worst possible time.

“Yes, sir,” he said. He finished his tea and stood. “With your permission, sir, I would like to return to my flagship.”

“Granted,” the First Space Lord said. “And thank you, once again.”

“They blew up Sin City?”

North sounded shocked. Kurt couldn’t blame him. Sin City had been part of their lives ever since they’d been accepted into the training program. Now, the city had been badly damaged, leaving them with nowhere to go when they wanted to enjoy themselves. But it wasn’t the worst of it.

He swore as another message popped up in the buffer. Several pilots had lost friends and family, either in the desperate fight to defend Earth or down on the ground when the missiles hit. He’d already steered several pilots to private chambers where they could read the messages, then asked for counselling help for his men. But it was unlikely that anyone would be sent from Earth to tend to his crewmen. There were just too many problems on the planet below.

And then he realised that the message was addressed to him, personally.

He hesitated, fearful of what it might say, then downloaded the message into his private terminal and beckoned to Rose. She came over, puzzled; he showed her the message, then asked her to keep an eye on the remainder of the pilots. After a long moment, she gave him a hug — even though they weren’t in private — and motioned for him to leave the compartment. Bracing himself, Kurt walked down to his office, locked the hatch and opened the message.

We regret to inform you that your children, Percy and Penelope Schneider, have been transferred to Refugee Camp #19. Gayle Parkinson has recorded herself as their caretaker-of-note and has remained with them. Molly Schneider remains missing, location and current status unknown. If you wish to provide accommodation for your children and their caretaker-of-note, please contact the Refugee Commission or visit Refugee Camp #19 in person, bringing ID and details of their new address.

Kurt let out a sigh of relief, then stared down at the message. Where the hell was Molly? What had she been doing when the shit hit the fan? And what had happened, down on Earth, to drive his children out of their home?

“I need to get down there,” he muttered. The Admiral had told them that no one would be allowed to go down to Earth, but he could request special permission to go if he tried. And he had an urgent need to go. The few broadcasts he’d heard from the planet below had painted the refugee camps as horrific nightmares, crammed full of too many people for comfort. “They can’t stay there.”

He reached for his terminal and called the Admiral. There would be time to handle everything else later, he told himself, firmly. His children — and Gayle, who might well have lost her family too — needed him.

Henry opened his eyes.

For a long moment, he thought he was still trapped in a nightmare. The air felt hot and moist, while the lighting was low, low enough that he could barely make out anything beyond disconcerting shadows in the distance. He sat upright and discovered that he had been lying on a surface that felt oddly soft, yet eerie to the touch. It felt almost like touching a piece of human skin.

He swung his legs over the side and stood, then looked down at himself and recoiled in shock as he realised he was naked. His flight suit was gone, as was his watch, terminal, pistol and everything else he’d carried. Someone had stripped him completely naked… he shuddered as memories returned, reminding him that he’d ejected from his starfighter and then…

…And then what?

For a long moment, he thought he was in hell, but the coldly rational part of his mind dismissed it as unlikely. Logic suggested that he’d been picked up by a SAR team — and not a human SAR team. They’d have taken him to a sickbay or placed him in a stasis tube, not moved him to a strange compartment… he flinched as a shadow ran through the room, then looked upwards. Something that resembled a giant stingray was gliding through the air over his head.

Understanding clicked. The aliens had rescued him and transferred him to one of their underwater cities. He was a prisoner!

Five minutes of exploration revealed the limits of his prison cell. There was a small dispenser of water and food bars in one corner, a toilet in another… and a tiny hatch at the other end of the chamber, leading down into the water below. It looked as though he could just dive into the water and make his escape, but he had a feeling that he was too deep for escape before he ran out of breath. The aliens had created a devilishly simple prison cell that was utterly inescapable.

He sat back on the bed and waited, watching the fishes swim by overhead. There was nothing else to do.

It was nearly an hour before he heard splashing from the direction of the hatch and looked towards it. An alien was climbing out of the water with practiced ease, its bright green skin almost ludicrous in the dim surroundings. Were the aliens literally colour-blind? Or didn’t they care? Maybe that made them better than humans…

Up close, the alien was very alien. He’d seen their dead bodies, and the POWs taken to the base on the moon, but this alien was alive. It was roughly human, yet its body quivered constantly as if it were made of jelly. Its hands were oddly sinuous, thoroughly creepy. No wonder, he noted, that the aliens were happier underwater. They simply weren’t adapted to living on dry land.

He held himself still. There was nowhere to go.

The alien stopped, barely a metre from the bed, and bowed. And then it produced something metallic from a flap within its skin. Henry stared, wondering just where the alien had concealed the device. Its skin, up close, looked far too large for its body, as if it had once been very fat and then slimmed down tremendously. How much could it conceal there?

Henry winced as he heard a very faint sound, so faint he could barely hear it but it could still hurt his ears. And then there was a voice.

“We… greet… you,” it said. It came from the device in the alien’s hand. Its voice, Henry realised suddenly, had to be too high-pitched for human ears. Given that the aliens lived underwater, that made a certain kind of sense. “We… must… talk.”