A Small Colonial War (Ark Royal Book 6) Read online

  She gritted her teeth as a particularly nasty gust of wind slapped the drone, sending it cart-wheeling across the sky before she managed to regain control. The RPV had a computer core that was meant to handle the basics of flying, but it hadn’t developed its own understanding of the environment yet. In theory, a drone that crashed could have the core salvaged and loaded into another drone - thus allowing the second drone to learn from the mistakes of the first - but in practice they simply hadn't wanted to waste the tiny vehicles. That, she suspected, might have been a mistake.

  “Contact,” she said. “Three shuttles; seventy armoured men.”

  The Governor bent over her shoulder - so close she could smell the odour of tobacco on his breath - as the Indians came into view. The assault shuttles didn't look that different from British designs - the war had forced the various Great Powers to standardise as much as they could - but the armoured combat suits looked more primitive than the suits she’d seen on Warspite. Their wearers were already starting the short march towards the colony. Behind them, a handful of light tanks rolled off the shuttles, one of them rotating a gun to point towards the drone. Moments later, the screen went blank.

  “Contact lost,” she said, formally. “They’re on their way, Governor.”

  “Noted,” the Governor said.

  The minutes ticked by with agonising slowness. Lillian knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the defenders couldn't hope to win, yet she also knew the Governor couldn't simply order a surrender. Whatever happened afterwards, the colony could not be said to have surrendered without a fight. But as the monitors started to pick up the advancing forces, she found herself wishing the Governor would change his mind. She knew some of the men out there, girding themselves for a brief struggle. Some of them had disliked her - the policemen had kept a sharp eye on her for the first two months - but none of them deserved to die for nothing.

  She winced as the radio buzzed. “I have nine armoured men in my sights,” Sergeant Harkin said. He was actually a retired soldier, someone who’d been demobbed two years after the war and secured a posting to Clarke for reasons that he’d never really shared with anyone else. Lillian liked him more than she cared to admit. “They’re advancing towards the first trench.”

  “Engage at will,” the Governor ordered.

  Lillian closed her eyes for a long moment as the first set of combat reports came in. The defenders fired a handful of shots, then fell back to the next line of defences, forcing the Indians to waste time clearing trenches that were already abandoned. A handful of Indian soldiers were caught in improvised traps - she felt a moment of vindictive glee as it became clear that a handful of intruders would never see India again - but it wasn't enough to do more than annoy the advancing soldiers. They knew as well as she did that they had all the time in the world to clear the trenches.

  “Nine intruders down,” Sergeant Harkin reported. “I ...”

  His message cut off. Lillian glanced at the sensors and cursed under her breath as she realised the enemy had hit his position with a missile. The remaining defenders were pulling back, but they were rapidly running out of space. It wouldn’t be long before the Indians were in a position to either storm the colony doors or merely blast their way through the prefabricated walls. Either way, the colony couldn't hold out any longer.

  The Governor evidently agreed. “Contact the Indians,” he ordered. “Now.”

  Lillian swallowed as she tapped commands into her console. The Indians hadn't even tried to open communications. She couldn't help wondering if that meant the Indians had no interest in demanding and accepting surrender. The remaining defenders were still trying, but their position had been hopeless from the start ...

  “I have a link,” she reported. The screen blinked to life, showing a dark-skinned man with a neatly-trimmed beard. “Governor?”

  The Governor cleared his throat. “I am Governor Harry Brown, Governor of the Pegasus System.”

  “I am General Anjeet Patel,” the Indian said. He didn't seem inclined to beat around the bush. “Your position is hopeless.”

  “I understand,” the Governor said. His voice was tightly-controlled, but Lillian could hear the hint of anger underlying his words. “I wish to open talks ...”

  “My terms are quite simple,” Patel said, cutting him off. “You will order your remaining defenders to surrender and open the doors, allowing my men to occupy the colony. You will make no attempt to destroy your computers, your life support infrastructure or anything else that may be required. You may destroy classified files, but not anything relating to the colony and its personnel.”

  He paused for a long moment. “For the duration of the present emergency, Clarke III will be governed under Indian military law. Your people - military and civilian - will have nothing to fear as long as they obey orders. Prisoners will be treated in line with the standard Luna Conventions.”

  Lillian nodded to herself, unable to keep herself from feeling relieved. The Great Powers showed no mercy to insurgents, revolutionaries and terrorists, but the Luna Conventions applied to national troops who hadn't been caught breaking the laws of war. It would have been insane for the Indians to act otherwise, yet the mere act of starting a war was insane when it would only weaken humanity. Who knew what the Tadpoles would do?

  “I understand,” the Governor said, stiffly. “However, I am quite unable to acknowledge the permanent surrender of either the colony or the system itself.”

  “That is understood,” Patel said. “My men will advance to secure the colony.”

  His image vanished from the display. Lillian heard the Governor mutter a curse under his breath before keying his wristcom and issuing the surrender order. She felt an unpleasant knot in her stomach as she watched through the cameras as the Indians closed in on the defenders, who had dropped their weapons and were standing with their hands in the air. The Indians seemed to be trying to be reasonably civilised, but they were still careful to escort the prisoners - at gunpoint - into a tracked vehicle before opening the doors and entering the colony.

  “Purge the classified files,” the Governor ordered, quietly.

  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 Min
ister 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.