The Cruel Stars (Ark Royal Book 11) Read online

  The Cruel Stars

  (Ark Royal, Book IX)

  Christopher G. Nuttall

  Book One: Ark Royal

  Book Two: The Nelson Touch

  Book Three: The Trafalgar Gambit

  Book Four: Warspite

  Book Five: A Savage War of Peace

  Book Six: A Small Colonial War

  Book Seven: Vanguard

  Book Eight: Fear God And Dread Naught

  Book Nine: We Lead

  Book Ten: The Longest Day

  Book Eleven: The Cruel Stars

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  Cover Blurb

  A stand-alone set during the Ark Royal Era.

  The Royal Navy never expected to fight a full-scale interstellar war. Everyone knew the Great Powers would never risk everything on armed conflict, when there was plenty of room for everyone in outer space. But when a hostile alien force stumbles across humanity’s handful of colony worlds, the Great Powers must set aside their differences and fight to preserve humanity from utter destruction.

  Desperate for starships and manpower, the Royal Navy embarks upon an ambitious plan of converting freighters into makeshift carriers and recruiting reservists and criminals to fill the ranks. Classed as expendable, the small carriers will be given the most dangerous missions to slow a remorseless alien foe ...

  ... And the pardons their crews have been offered will be meaningless if they die.

  Author’s Note

  The Cruel Stars is set in the same era as Ark Royal - the First Interstellar War - and runs within the same timeframe. However, you do not have to have read Ark Royal to follow The Cruel Stars.

  CGN

  Prologue

  From: Commodore James Scorpio, Planning Cell Alpha Black

  To: Admiral Sir Thomas Hanover, First Space Lord

  Sir.

  At the risk of sounding somewhat peevish, it must be noted that the sudden appearance of a new threat - an unexpected alien threat - is a tactical and strategic nightmare. Our contingency planning - and long-term construction schedules - were based around a limited war with another human power, rather than a conflict with an alien power of unknown origin, motives and technological base. The data from Vera Cruz, such as it is, tells us little about our opponents. It behooves us, therefore, to prepare for a long war.

  This will not be easy. Assuming we cut as many corners as possible - and accept the risk of outright catastrophe - it will still take us six months to complete the fleet carriers under construction and another twelve to fourteen months to construct any new fleet carriers from scratch. (Frankly, the risk of serious system failure at the worst possible time cannot be discounted.) We are therefore faced with the prospect of a ‘come as you are’ war, with the danger - as in 2025 - that our forces and military stockpiles will be insufficient to the task at hand. Fifteen fleet carriers - sixteen, if we count Ark Royal - are a staggering force, yet we know nothing about our enemy. It is quite possible that they have enough fleet carriers at their disposal to outmatch all of humanity’s put together.

  While we can look to our allies - and the rest of the spacefaring powers - to assist in filling some of the holes in our order of battle, they will have similar problems of their own. Most notably, they will be reluctant to put their fleet carriers in unnecessary jeopardy as, like us, fleet carriers represent a massive proportion of their military budgets. Even if the various national governments devote a considerably greater percentage of their GNP to their militaries, it will still take time to bring new shipyards online, train new personnel, and start churning out new carriers. Our most optimistic projections indicate that we will simply be unable to increase the pace of construction for at least two years. Realistically speaking, that may be too optimistic.

  Therefore, I propose that we activate the escort carrier contingency plans at once.

  I concede that this will cause us problems. Removing even a relatively small number of Workhorse-class bulk freighters from the shipping lanes will have knock-on effects, most notably disrupting our logistics during our frantic rush to establish forward lines of defence around New Russia. We simply don’t have enough freighters at the best of times, despite nearly fifty years of trying to build up our interstellar shipping capability. (Construction of new freighters is something we can push forward, fortunately.) At the same time, we simply don’t have enough starfighter launching platforms to fight a full-scale war. Losing a single fleet carrier, sir, means losing the personnel as well as the ship itself. The loss of a single carrier would severely dent our ability to meet our commitments to both Britain and the united defence force. From a purely cold-blooded point of view, sir, the destruction of a dozen Workhorses would not impede our ability to make war.

  From a technical point of view, the conversion is only a matter of removing the hold facilities and replacing them with starfighter support and maintenance facilities. Given that normal safety procedures are suspended, the first escort carrier could be ready for deployment within a week of going into the yard. However, crewing does represent a problem. While a significant number of freighter captains and crews are Royal Naval Reserve personnel, others are not and may be resistant to serving on the front lines. (If nothing else, the question of nationality comes into play; freighter crews, particularly belters, are notorious for not asking too many questions about a prospective crewer’s past.) And our manpower resources are already stretched to the limit.

  With that in mind, sir, I have the following suggestion ...

  Chapter One

  No one, Captain Abigail Harrison had often reflected, would consider HMMS Archibald Haddock’s bridge to be remotely photogenic. It was a cramped mess, with five consoles and chairs jammed so close together that a crewman couldn't wave a hand without striking one of his fellow crewers. Even the command chair was little more than a slightly elevated console, giving the merchant vessel’s commanding officer a prominence that many military and survey officers would insist she didn't deserve. But it did have its advantages. She could not only keep a very close eye on her crew, but cut them out of the command network at once if she felt it necessary.

  Which might well be necessary, she thought, as she eyed Midshipwoman Podkayne Harrison’s back. Poddy hasn’t handled a proper jump since we left Britannia.

  She cleared her throat, loudly. “Poddy?”

  “I’m working on it, Captain,” Poddy said. She knew better than to call Abigail anything other than Captain when they were both on duty. “I’ve almost finished.”

  “Check and recheck everything,” Abigail ordered, reminding herself to remain calm and composed. Military ships might want to go through the tramline at speed, but there was no need for Haddock to hurry. Her daughter had plenty of time to complete her calculations before making the jump. “One mistake here and you’ll be in trouble.”

  “So will the rest of us,” Lieutenant Anson Harrison put in.

  “I’m relying on you to check your sister’s work,” Abigail said. Her eldest son could be relied upon to point out any flaws, not least because he didn't want to compete with his sister for postings on the next cruise. “And I’ll be checking it myself too.”

  She saw Poddy stiffen and winced, inwardly. It didn't feel right to put such pressure on her daughter, even though Poddy had grown up amongst the asteroids, where the slightest mistake could spell utter disaster. But there was no choice. Poddy couldn't be given her spacer badge until she calculated at least
three jumps in succession, each one as smooth as possible. Abigail certainly couldn't afford to develop a reputation for overlooking weaknesses in her children. Nepotism was hardly unknown amongst the RockRats and interstellar shipping communities, where family ties were stronger than anything else, but promoting an incompetent was a good way to lose everything. Poddy would have to start again - from the beginning - if she failed her last jump.

  I went through it too, Abigail reminded herself. Poddy can do it.

  She watched her daughter’s fingers darting over the console. Poddy was slight, with long brown hair and a pale face that owed more to her father than her mother. It was hard to believe, sometimes, that they were actually related. Abigail’s black hair, tanned skin and oval eyes - to say nothing of her heavyset body - spoke of a more exotic origin than the asteroid belt. But then, Poddy had had the latest set of genetic modifications spliced into her DNA before she’d been born. She wouldn't suffer from overeating unless she really overdid it.

  Poddy’s console chimed. “Done, Captain,” she said. “It’s ready.”

  “Anson, check it,” Abigail ordered. She tapped her own console, bringing up Poddy’s calculations on her screen. “You’ll be rewarded for any mistakes you find.”

  Poddy tensed, slightly. Abigail felt a flicker of guilt and reminded herself, sharply, that it was for Poddy’s own good. Better she had her mistakes pointed out by her family rather than some unrelated captain, who wouldn't hesitate to lock her in her cabin and throw her off the ship at the next port if he felt she was dangerously unreliable. Besides, their lives were at stake. A minor mistake in calculating the jump along the tramline might just destroy the entire ship.

  Or risk getting our licence pulled, Abigail thought. Her lips twitched. A fate worse than a fate worse than death.

  “It appears to be fine,” Anson said, grudgingly. He turned to look at Abigail, his white teeth flashing against his dark skin. “Captain, I believe we can make the jump.”

  Abigail nodded, slowly. There wasn't anything wrong with the calculations, as far as she could tell. She’d checked everything with savage intensity, just to be sure. And that meant ...

  She leaned back in her chair. “Make the jump,” she ordered. “Now!”

  A low whine echoed through the ship as the Puller Drive powered up. Abigail braced herself, feeling her ears starting to hurt. Something was wrong with the drive field, although no one - not even her engineer - had been able to find the cause. Perhaps a handful of components were simply worn down, ahead of time. She’d replace the whole installation, if she could afford it. But she simply didn't have the money to even begin to replace it.

  And there isn't much hope of getting a loan, she thought, as the whining sound rose to a crescendo. Not unless we really hit it big ...

  Haddock shook, violently. The displays blanked, just for a second. Abigail gritted her teeth, allowing herself a moment of relief as the displays started to come back online. A civilian would have assumed that Poddy had messed up her calculations, but Abigail knew better. It was a typical jump. She’d heard that the latest versions of the Puller Drive could take a ship through the tramlines without so much as spilling the captain’s coffee, but she didn't believe it. Besides, even if it was true, there was no way she’d be able to afford a newer drive either.

  “Jump complete, Captain,” Anson reported. “We have arrived in the Sol System.”

  “Made it,” Poddy crowed.

  Abigail allowed herself an indulgent smile. “So you did,” she said, trying to sound proud. “We’ll go out for dinner once we reach Ceres - and you can choose where we go.”

  Anson looked up. “All of us?”

  “Yes, all of us,” Abigail said, firmly. Anson probably wanted to visit the brothel. She didn't blame him for that - God knew it had been a long time since she’d had anyone in her bed - but family came first. They’d be at Ceres for at least a week. “Poddy, send a standard message to the shipping coordinator. Inform them that we have returned.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Poddy said.

  “Anson, set course for Ceres,” Abigail added. “No need to hurry.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Anson said.

  Abigail smiled as she pulled up the jump records and checked them against Poddy’s calculations. The young girl had done a good job. The calculations matched the records perfectly. Not that Abigail had expected anything else - a serious mishap would probably have ended poorly - but it was still important to prove that Poddy had earned the right to style herself a navigator. The guilds would check the records themselves, if Poddy decided to leave Haddock. Abigail made a mental note to ensure that the records were copied over as soon as they arrived on Ceres. One of her adult children was probably going to seek a transfer soon, no matter what Abigail did. There was only limited room for advancement on Haddock.

  And Anson wants to captain his own ship, Abigail thought. Her eldest son was twenty, more than old enough to strike out on his own. He’ll probably be looking for postings when we reach Ceres.

  Poddy’s console bleeped. “Captain, I am receiving a priority message from the Merchant Shipping Guild,” she said. “It’s tagged as urgent.”

  Abigail frowned. The message couldn't have been sent from Ceres. It would take hours for the message she’d sent to reach the asteroid, let alone for any reply to be sent back. The light-speed delay would see to that. And yet ... she keyed her console, bringing up the message. The header insisted that it had been sent from a monitoring station much closer to the designated emergence point. She felt a flicker of concern as she ran the message through the computers. The emergency codes all checked out.

  ALERT. ALERT. STUFT EMERGENCY. YOU ARE ORDERED TO PROCEED IMMEDIATELY TO RNRB TALLYMAN. ACKNOWLEDGE, THEN RADIO SILENCE. MESSAGE REPEATS. ALERT ...

  “What?”

  Anson glanced at Poddy’s console. “A STUFT Emergency?”

  “Ships Taken Up From Trade,” Abigail translated, absently. “They expect us to head straight for Tallyman.”

  She sucked in her breath, thinking hard. She was, technically, a Royal Navy Reservist. It was the price she’d paid for the loan that had allowed her to purchase her ship. But she’d never expected to be actually called upon to serve. She’d never seen any of the authorisation codes attached to the message, outside a handful of update messages. Her ship had certainly never been summoned at short notice. They hadn't even been dragged into any drills.

  “They’re out of their minds,” Anson said. “Mum ... do you know what will happen if we don’t meet the deadline ...”

  Abigail nodded, grimly. Interstellar shipping was never as predictable as travel on Earth - no one would risk setting their clocks by a starship’s arrival - but they were expected to arrive at Ceres within a certain timeframe. Being late would cost them badly, particularly if the penalty clauses loaded into their contract went into effect. And besides, their cargo was perishable. They might wind up being sued if they failed to deliver it on time.

  The Navy is supposed to indemnify us, she thought. But we might lose everything by the time the bureaucrats actually get around to paying out.

  She shook her head. “Anson, set course for Tallyman,” she ordered. “Poddy ...”

  “Mum,” Anson protested. “If we don’t get there ...”

  “I know,” Abigail snapped. She made a mental note to chew him out later. Other captains wouldn't be quite so forgiving of outbursts on the bridge. “But what would you have us do?”

  She watched Anson trying to think of a solution and coming up with nothing. There wasn't one, as far as Abigail could tell. Haddock could reverse course and go ... go where? The Royal Navy would eventually realise that the freighter wasn't going to show up at Tallyman and file charges, at which point the ship and her crew would grow too hot to handle. Even the independent asteroid settlements would refuse to have anything to do with them, if they were lucky. They’d be far more likely to be arrested and be shipped straight to the nearest penal world. And the t
hought of being locked out of space was terrifying.

  “... Fuck,” Anson said.

  “Don't worry,” Poddy said. “I’m sure this will be nothing.”

  “Hah,” Anson muttered. His fingers touched his console. “Course laid in, Captain. We should be there in seven hours.”

  “Very good,” Abigail said. “Poddy, send an acknowledgement and then go silent. No one is to send a message without my direct authorisation.”

  “Understood,” Poddy said.

  Abigail rose. “Take the bridge, Anson,” she ordered. “I’ll be in my cabin, catching up with my sleep.”

  “I’ll wake you if anything happens,” Anson assured her.

  “See that you do,” Abigail said.

  She stepped through the hatch and walked down to her cabin. It was a tiny compartment, barely large enough for a bed, a small desk and a private washroom, the only real luxury afforded to the freighter’s commanding officer. Abigail had heard that military officers had real cabins, but there was no way anyone could fit anything bigger into Haddock. The freighter was huge, yet the crew spaces were small. She loved her ship, but she’d be glad to move into a hotel for a few days when they completed their voyage. A proper bath alone would work wonders. She was ruefully aware that she - and the rest of her crew - stank.