Christopher Nuttall - The Trafalgar Gambit

James swallowed. The aliens had shown themselves to be innovative, first in creating weapons intended to scythe through humanity’s most modern starships and then, when confronted with Ark Royal , building weapons that had blasted their way through the Old Lady’s armour. Somehow, he doubted humanity’s enigmatic opponents would sit on their hands and stagnate while the refugees rebuilt a technological base and advanced well ahead of them. They’d certainly have far more resources than a single planet settled by a few hundred thousand humans.

“Chancy,” he said, finally. “And what happens if they do stumble across the colony?”

“The colonists die,” Uncle Winchester said. He sighed, loudly. “Given five or ten years, James, we’d kick their assess. The boffins are going nuts over all the discoveries from the alien battlecruiser you captured. Genuine original science is being performed. Some of them are even talking about ways to duplicate the tramline effect or use gravity-based drives to power missiles and starships. But we won’t have time to put more than a handful of new weapons into production before we get crushed by the aliens.”

He sighed, again. “Right now, humanity’s entire fleet is down to twelve carriers, not counting Ark Royal or the modified freighters. We’re making some progress on protective armour that will stand up to alien weapons, but it will still take months to get it into production and use it to coat the remaining ships. We have more frigates and destroyers, yet they’re not enough to make a difference. The bottom line, James, is that we are on the verge of losing this war.”

James leaned forward. “We don’t know how badly the aliens have been hurt,” he said, slowly. Ark Royal’s various missions had taken out at least twenty alien carriers, although post-battle analysis had suggested some of them might be repairable. “For all we know, we might have seen the worst they can throw at us.”

“But we don’t know,” Uncle Winchester said. “Have we taken out their entire fleet — or have we only scratched the surface?”

“I don’t know,” James said.

He recalled the projections the analysts had devised when they’d discovered and attacked Target One. They’d pointed out that Target One couldn’t have produced carriers for itself, suggesting there were other shipyards located somewhere deeper in alien space. But where were the shipyards? If they could be destroyed, the war might come to an end.

“We do have the vague hope of contacting another alien faction,” Uncle Winchester said. “But if it fails, we have to plan for the worst.”

“Yes, Uncle,” James said.

“This plan must remain a secret,” Uncle Winchester warned. “There will be panic if any word gets out.”

“That’s why the media has been discussing Prince Henry, despite the floods,” James said, in sudden understanding. “You’re using it as a distraction.”

“Essentially,” Uncle Winchester said. “The floods themselves are one hell of a distraction, of course, but the media is helping by trying to” — he smirked — “distract people.”

James snorted. He’d reviewed the datanet channels while the car had made its slow way to the house and most of them had been broadcasting entertainment programs from a bygone age. Soap operas had always disgusted him, but maybe he just wasn’t the viewer demographic they were made for. But if they showed mundane lives… their viewers, surely, would have mundane lives.

Or maybe he was just missing the point.

“Most people just want to relax and forget their woes, or wallow in woes belonging to other people,” Uncle Winchester added. “Or some of them want to feel reassured that life will return to normal.”

“But it won’t,” James said. Even if the war ended tomorrow, even if humanity came to a peace agreement with the aliens, it would be decades before life returned to anything like normal. Humanity would have to rebuild from the war, then come to terms with the fact that they were no longer alone in the universe — and that some of their new friends wanted to pick a fight rather than talk. “Surely they know better than that.”

“Most people are idiots,” Uncle Winchester said. He paused. “James, there was a reason I asked you here, today.”

James lifted his eyebrows. He’d suspected as much. Strings had been pulled to arrange for him to visit Winchester Hall, strings that had been in motion long before he’d approached his Uncle to ask for a favour. Those strings wouldn’t have been pulled if they hadn’t wanted something from him that went above and beyond the call of duty.

He settled back, cursing inwardly. There were days when he understood precisely why Prince Henry had sought to join the Royal Navy under an assumed name.

“ Formidable — and the entire colony mission - will need a commander,” Uncle Winchester said. “I’d like you to take command.”

“I should have expected that,” James said, slowly. “You do realise my carrier expertise is limited to Ark Royal ? Formidable is a very different kettle of fish.”

“You won’t be expected to take the ship into battle,” Uncle Winchester assured him. “All we want you to do is find a new world and set up a colony there.”

“Except you have no more idea than I do of what might be lurking at the far end of the tramlines,” James pointed out. “We might discover a second alien race, far more hostile than the first. Or we might discover the aliens themselves, trying to block our escape. You need a commander who knows more about modern carriers.”

“We need one who understands the urgency of the situation,” Uncle Winchester grated. “I would hesitate to nominate someone else…”

“But you should,” James said. “I had to learn the limits of my capabilities the hard way.”

“So you did,” Uncle Winchester said. “And there were other reasons to put you on Ark Royal . But those reasons are gone now, if you are to be believed, and it is time for you to move onwards.”

James took a breath. “Uncle,” he said. “I won’t desert Ark Royal or Admiral Smith, not now.”

His Uncle studied him coldly. “It is your duty to go where you are sent,” he said, after a tense moment. “I will not accept you trying to escape your duty for sentimental reasons.”

“I’m the commander of Ark Royal ,” James said. “She’s due to depart in twelve days — and isn’t that going to be a right headache? There is no time to prepare another officer, even Commander Williams, to take my place.”

He stood and walked to the windows. Outside, rain pelted the glass sheets and ran down towards the flowerbeds below, but he could still see the refugee camp outside the walls. A few hundred people resided there — even he hadn’t been able to pull an exact number from the datanet — after losing their homes and everything they owned to the tidal waves. Three weeks ago, they had been civilians, the people he was pledged to defend. Now, they were nothing but helpless refugees. How many of them, he wondered, had donated money to charities intent on helping people from Africa or the Middle East? Had they ever thought they would end up like the victims of endless civil wars and religious conflicts?

“And I owe it to the people down there not to run,” he added. “There are no guarantees of survival, Uncle, but I am damned if I will run.”

“The issue here is not bravery or cowardice,” Uncle Winchester said. He tapped the table to underline his words. “The issue here is the survival of the human race itself.”

“Or the British part of it,” James pointed out. No one would repeat the mistakes of Terra Nova in a hurry. He smiled at the thought, then sobered. “Do other countries have their own plans?”