The War After Roswell

(The Multiverse War – Book Four)

17 St. Ronan’s Terrace
Edinburgh
EH10 5NG

Christopher_g_nuttall@hotmail.com
Christopher@changingthetimes.net
Tel: 0131-447-4117
Mobile: 0796 006 5850

The War After Roswell Cover Blurb

In a world where the Roswell UFO actually crashed, the United States and the Soviet Union remain in uneasy partnership; an alliance that was created by fear of the unknown aliens who were probing Earth years ago.  From Earth Orbit to the Moon, from the colonies on Mars and Venus to the asteroids, the two superpowers prepare endlessly for the aliens, of whom nothing has been seen since 1947.

And suddenly, under suspicious circumstances, an alien ship is discovered far from Earth.  It falls upon an Earth at the brink of war, for the alliance is about to collapse under internal strains.  To this world come the Time Agents, looking for the Enemy Agent who is provoking the war - unaware that time is about to run out for the whole planet…

Author’s Note

It seems to be common to assume that anyone who writes about Roswell or UFOs is privy to the truth that naturally has been hidden by world governments for the years since 1947.  While I hold Views on the subject, as I discuss in the Afterword, I know nothing for certain, at least about Roswell and what might or might not have happened there.

Got that?

Good.

The War After Roswell, like the other Multiverse War books, is intended to be stand-alone, although it refers to events that took place in The Counterfactual War.  All the new reader needs to know is that at the end of The Counterfactual War, Professor Thande, inventor of the Portals in TimeLine A, was recruited by one of the Time Agents, Sally Woods, to fight in the Multiverse War against the Enemy.  From their point of view, The War After Roswell takes place roughly six months after The Counterfactual War.

Christopher Nuttall
Edinburgh, June 2006
Prologue

They could see the glow from several miles away as the small convoy of trucks drove through the darkness before dawn.  The strange flickering white glow, reporting…what?  Captain Hammond, the commander of the small force, leaned forward, trying to determine just what there was ahead.  The desert of New Mexico seemed very quiet…except for the flickering glow.

“I can’t hear anything, Captain,” Sergeant Jackson said.

It was on the tip of Hammond’s tongue to berate him for stating the obvious, but then he stopped; it was quiet, too quiet.  There should have been the noises of animals and birds, but it was quiet.  They might have been in one of the most remote areas of the state, but someone from the Roswell Base had clearly gotten there ahead of them and acted – summoning two hundred armed soldiers.  

He stared at the glow as they rounded the corner and jumped off the road, heading cross-country towards the glow.  His first thought was that it was an aircraft crash – there were some unusual designs coming through the air base – which would explain the security, but not the glow.  He flinched suddenly; could an atomic bomber have gone down?  Uncle Joe Stalin was still refusing to accept American supremacy; could he have sent a bomber into American airspace?

He slipped his hand down to the service pistol on his thigh.  If there were Russians about, they would regret ever trying to invade America.  

The truck jumped over a ridge and he saw it, lying on the ground and…glowing.  He felt his mouth drop open as his brain took the sight in; a massive glowing silver disc, lying broken on the ground.  It was tilted, like a giant Frisbee, slammed into the ground by an angry god.  

“It’s one of those flying discs,” Sergeant Jackson said.  “You know, the ones that the papers have been raving about.”

Hammond felt his trance break.  “Move out,” he snapped, shouting orders to the men in the rear of the truck.  The tailgate fell open, allowing the troopers to spill out and stop, staring at the crashed…flying saucer.  Hammond looked at the disc, and remembered some of the stranger stories about the saucers…none of which seemed impossible now.

“Mark Robertson, Special Investigator,” a clipped Washington voice said.  Only the hint of fear, not of Hammond, but of the unknown, kept it human.  “Captain, order your men to secure the site.”

Hammond nodded to the tall handsome man, who was wearing civilian clothes.  An officer assigned to the nuclear bombers, caught in plain clothes then.  “Yes, sir,” he said, after examining Robertson’s credentials.  He barked orders to Sergeant Jackson, and then turned to Robertson.  “Sir, what is this?”

Robertson looked blank.  “Between thee and me, sir, I haven’t the slightest idea,” he said.  He nodded towards a small group of civilians sitting on rocks, watching the activity.  “I managed to convince them to remain here, Captain, but we must ensure that no one else comes near the…well, the flying object.”

“Flying saucer,” Hammond said, and smiled at Robertson’s reaction.  He stared down at the craft, noticing that the glow was fading, even as they watched.  Something moved, far too close to the wreck, and he jumped forward on instinct.  “Follow me.”

Robertson didn’t hesitate; he plunged down behind Hammond.  Hammond noted suddenly that Robertson wasn’t carrying a weapon, but he found it hard to care; whatever was moving down there had to be checked.  He peered into the fading glow, trying to make out the shape…and recoiled.

“What the hell is that?”

It was tall and grey and possessed of a large almond-shaped head, with dark black eyes.  They seemed to be sad, as if they knew the entire future of humanity and the world; they seemed to look down at Hammond from a great distance.  It reached out with one long spindly arm…and then it fell backwards, dead.

“I think its dead,” Robertson breathed.  At that moment, the glow around the saucer vanished, leaving it dead on the ground.  Hammond held up a small torch, looking down on the dead creature, trying to see something of humanity in it.

“I think it’s…not human,” he said.

The world changed overnight.

***
Harry S. Truman, President of the United States of America, studied the note from the Soviet Union with considerable concern.  It was simple, once stripped of all the nonsense about ‘peace-loving workers and peasants;’ it was an ultimation to the United States.

“I think they’re serious,” George Marshall, Secretary of State, said.  They were alone in the room; not even a stenographer to record the President’s words for the future.  “The news of the…whatever crashed in Roswell a few months ago has frightened the living daylights out of them.”

Truman nodded slowly.  “And so…what do we do about it?”  He asked.  “General, can we withstand them if they come over the border in Germany?”

“With our other commitments?”  Marshall asked dryly.  “I think we would be lucky if we managed to maintain a base in France.”

Truman sighed.  The United States had a long tradition of reducing its deployable military as soon as possible after a war; the forces that had smashed Germany and Japan to rubble simply didn’t exist any longer.  Stalin, on the other hand, had upwards of thirty front-line divisions in East Germany; they could be on the border within a day.  

“There are also other problems,” Marshall continued.  “I think…that whoever they are, they’re not friendly.  The craft was far too close to the sole bomber base with atomic-powered weapons.”

“They came to spy on us,” Truman said slowly.  “For what?”

Marshall paced around the office.  “We have security on our end under wraps,” he said.  “We had one major leak, but so far no one has pulled away the blankets.  If we didn’t have Uncle Joe breathing down our necks, we could keep it secret indefinitely, but do we want to?”

Truman frowned.  “Do we, the United States, gain any advantage from keeping the craft under wraps?”

“I think that we’re going to need a new space program,” Marshall said.  “I was discussing the matter with the Oversight Group, the team of scientists assembled to study the craft, and one thing they were certain of was that the craft had crossed space to reach here.  They might have come from Mars, or from somewhere else, but our only hope is to build a base in space.”

“That would be very expensive,” Truman said flatly.

“Exactly,” Marshall said.  “We have to convince people that we need to do it, and showing them the crashed ship is the only way to do that.  Now, the aliens…it defies belief that they won’t know that we have the craft; they must know that the craft has crashed somewhere.  We need that program…”

“And we need peace with the Soviets while we’re at it,” Truman said.  “If we had somewhere around a year’s grace, could we obtain a decisive military advantage?”

“If the atomic bomb doesn’t intimidate Uncle Joe, then it’s hard to see what else we could do,” Marshall admitted.  “Learning anything from the craft is going to take years, at best.”

“Years,” Truman mused.  “If they were to invade tomorrow, then…what?”

“We would fight, and so – I assume – would the Soviets,” Marshall said.  “They would have the advantage of being very high above us; the ultimate high ground.”  He paused significantly.  “It could be a very short war, Mr President.”

Truman nodded impassively.  “And if we come to blows with the Soviets now, we will only weaken any defence against the…outside threat.”  He shook his head.  “A month ago, we were worrying about communism in France, and now…”

“Now we have a new problem,” Marshall said.

Truman smiled.  “I think that we should consider the Soviet demands,” he said.  “We worked with them against Hitler…”

“And they screwed us,” Marshall injected.

“We can make sure that that doesn’t happen this time,” Truman said.  He nodded towards the door.  “Can you call the Russian Ambassador and ask him to come visit me?  I have a brave new foreign policy initiative to launch.”

Sixty-five years passed…

Chapter One: Confrontation

USS Abraham Lincoln
Toreros Asteroid Cluster

“Captain, we’re picking up a distress signal,” Lieutenant Malady reported.

Captain John Howard looked up from his command station, mentally cursing the complete lack of gravity.  The massive bridge ships could rotate, but ships using the new Procyon Drive couldn’t generate gravity for themselves.  The Joint Research Team kept promising that they would figure out how to get the drive field to generate a gravity field, but so far their promises had been empty.

“Acknowledge,” he said automatically.  “Who’s sending the signal?”

Lieutenant Malady hesitated.  The USS Abraham Lincoln, the first of the ships to be fitted with the Procyon Drive, was exploring out beyond the system plane, examining one of the hundreds of asteroid clouds below the system.  There should be no one else out here at all; even the thousands of American asteroid homesteads hadn’t reached so far yet.  A survey team might have passed this way, but they would have had to have informed the United States Space Force.

“I don’t know,” he admitted finally.  “There’s no identification tag at all.”

Howard tapped his display, bringing the signal up on his display.  Lieutenant Malady was right; the signal was in breach of half a dozen regulations, laws and international agreements just by being broadcast without such a tag.  He felt his heart beat faster; might there be some truth in the rumours about pirates, after all?

“Helm, set us a course,” he said.  Under the international agreements, any ship was obliged to respond to a distress call – if possible.  Normally, the simple application of the laws of physics made any such response difficult, but the USS Abraham Lincoln had a special drive, one that gave it unparalleled ability to move across space.  Some of the researchers were already taking about using the Procyon Drive to push across interstellar space; it was only twelve years to Alpha-Cent, after all.

Howard shook his head.  Like many in the United States Space Force, and – he assumed – the Red Space Force, anything that might attract the attention of the Roswell aliens was automatically a bad idea.  One crashed ship had allowed humanity to develop space technology – including the drive itself – but humans didn’t completely understand what they used.  No one, not even the American genius Professor Anderson, really understood the drive.

“Course laid in,” Lieutenant Marian Davidson said.  “Time to intersection with the source of the distress call; thirty-seven minutes.”

Howard smiled.  Any other ship – with the exception of the four American and three Russian spaceships with the drive – would have taken several hours to reach the distress call’s source, and then several more hours to match course and speed with the mysterious spacecraft.

“Take us there,” he said, and felt the ship shudder slightly as the Procyon Drive came online.  It was unnatural; most drives, from rocket boosters to fusion plumes, gave some kind of pressure, of gravity, but the Procyon Drive felt like nothing beyond the first shudder.  

His first officer, Commander Hammond, quirked an eyebrow at him.  Jane Hammond was a famous descendent of the first man ever to make contact with an alien race; Captain – then General – Hammond himself.  Hammond’s success at Roswell, securing the craft, had led to his promotion and then to a high position within the Senate after some of the new anti-aging drugs had been perfected.

He knew that Jane had taken some stick over her famous and influential relative, but he knew that she was as competent as they came.  She’d only served with him for a few months, while the USS Abraham Lincoln went through her shakedown cruise, but he’d come to trust her abilities – and, more importantly, to trust her.

Jane smiled at him, her short-cut auburn hair poking through her helmet.  “Want me to call Ivan?”

“No need, I think,” Howard said, after a brief moment of thought.  If it was a Russian ship in trouble, then he would have a duty to inform Ivan, but there was no need to inform the Russian liaison officer without Russians actually being involved.  “Jane, can you check that we’re ready for an evacuation if we have to do that?”

She nodded and floated out of her chair.  Howard turned back to his display, cursing the lack of updates from the Pentagon; they were nearly two weeks out of date.  There was very little on the Toreros Asteroid Cluster; a survey probe had flown past them in 2010, and the Russians had purchased access to the data a year later, but since then there had been nothing.  There were no applications for a homestead, no mining interests; as far as the data was concerned, no human had shown any real interest in the asteroid cluster at all.

Howard felt a thrill run through him.  Might they be on the verge of the second meeting with the Roswell aliens?  He considered launching a probe towards the asteroids, before reminding himself that the probes were not only expensive, but the ship would outrace them – and if it were a genuine emergency, then they were required to move as fast as they could towards the site and render assistance.

“We have a communications update from the homestead colony on Darla Asteroid,” Lieutenant Malady said, referring to one of the thousands of small towns in space, encompassing tiny colonies on dozens of asteroids.  “They copy our transmission; they report that three fast-boost shuttles have been placed on alert and will launch on demand, but their records show no signs of activity in the Toreros Asteroid Cluster.”

“Noted,” Howard said.  “Time to contact?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Lieutenant Marian Davidson said.  “Drive seems to be working perfectly.”

Howard would have paced if it were possible.  “No further communications?”

“Nothing,” Lieutenant Malady reported.  “Just the ongoing distress pulse.”

“Balls,” Howard commented.  Something was very wrong; this wasn’t 1970, when nearly four hundred Americans and Russians had died in space habitats.  The technology wasn’t perfect – that would be impossible for centuries yet – but the habitations, whatever they were, should have been safe.  “I wonder…is there any trace of ships in the region?”

“Nothing,” Jane said, returning to the bridge.  “Chief Douglas reports that we are ready for an evacuation of any…well, whatever there is out there.”

Howard linked into the private communications band.  “I don’t like this,” he admitted.  “What the hell is out here?”

“A secret base, such as Area 51?”  Jane asked.  Howard scowled; the discovery of what should have been a secret American research base on the other side of the sun had provoked much hilarity from the Russians, who almost certainly had such bases of their own.  “That would hardly be included in the records.”

“Or an alien base,” Howard commented.  “It’s been…what, nearly seventy years since we found the crashed spacecraft.  We know they’re out there.”

He saw Jane dip her head slightly.  Generations of scientists and researchers had speculated wildly on the possible motives for the alien reconnaissance of Earth.  Certainly, only one UFO had ever been recovered, but there were always…hints, flickering indistinct shadows on the radar screens…or maybe they were just classified Russian stealth aircraft.  

“I recommend red alert,” Jane said formally.  “We might have a real alien encounter, or perhaps pirates…and neither might accept us just poking our noses in.”

A thought occurred to Howard.  “It could be a black colony,” he said.  “Would one of them thank us for any help?”

Jane smiled, practical as always.  “If they’re in real trouble, then how can they object?”

“Now entering final approach,” Lieutenant Marian Davidson said.  “Seven minutes to close approach.”

Howard reached for his command display.  “Sound red alert,” he said, over the intercom.  Throughout the small spacecraft, the crew would be abandoning their standard work to take up their battle stations, preparing the USS Abraham Lincoln for combat.  “All hands to battle stations.  I repeat; all hands to battle stations!”

He closed his eyes for a long moment.  “Call Ivan to the bridge,” he ordered.  “Jane?”

Jane looked up from her back-up command chair.  “All stations report that they are battle-ready,” she said.  “Laser stations on alert and unlocked; long-range missiles on alert and ready to fire.”

“Good,” Howard said.  “Lieutenant Malady; open a direct communications channel, EMERGENCY channel.”

Lieutenant Malady worked his console.  “Channel open, sir,” he said.

“This is Captain Howard, of the USS Abraham Lincoln,” he said.  “We are responding to your distress signal.  Please advise.”

There was a long chilling pause.  “Nothing, sir,” Lieutenant Malady said, after a long moment.  “Nothing, not even a carrier wave.”

Howard narrowed his eyes.  Whoever was in the asteroid cluster was in breach of so many different laws and regulations that they would be lucky not to be permanently locked up in the Venus penal colony.  Sending out a distress signal was utterly forbidden for anything, but a real emergency; not confirming, even with automatics, was worse.

“Open channel again,” he ordered.  Lieutenant Malady nodded confirmation.  “I repeat, this is Captain Howard, of the USS Abraham Lincoln,” he said.  “Under International Space Law, you are required to respond to this signal before rescue operations can take place.  Please respond…”

“I have movement,” Jane snapped suddenly.  “One small craft, moving on reaction thrusters.”

Howard slashed his finger across his throat; Lieutenant Malady cut the communications channel.  “Report,” he snapped.  “What is it?”

The display locked in on the small craft.  “Sir, it reads out as a Custer-like design,” Jane said.  Her voice was calm, but with an undertone of real emergency.  “I don’t recognise the make from radar returns, but it’s coming our way.”

Howard felt his blood run cold.  A Custer-class space vessel was never manned; it had been conceived as a counter to the laser weapons developed jointly by the American and Russian research teams.  They were designed to be nasty customers…and the unknown craft might carry more weapons, or less, or…what?  There was no way to be sure.

“Lock weapons on the craft,” he snapped.  USSF regulations permitted the Captain to fire only if he believed that his craft was in genuine danger.  “Active systems; prepare to fire.”

“Active systems painting the hull,” Jane said.  “Craft now identified as a Yuri-class light attack autonomous craft.”

Howard swore.  The Yuri was the Soviet Union’s counter to the Custer-class space vessel.  This Yuri was moving slower than he would have expected, but Soviet inferiority in advanced penetration missiles had led them to pack more firepower into the basic design…which was hopelessly outdated now.  It should have been moving much faster with its nuclear pulse drive…

Except I would have taken that as a sign of hostile intent and opened fire, Howard thought, feeling cold.  He hesitated for a long moment; the Yuri seemed to be trying to avoid exciting suspicion, which was suspicious in its own right.

“Open communication channels,” Howard snapped, and waited for Lieutenant Malady to nod confirmation.  “Whoever you are, if you do not deactivate your systems at once, we will open fire and…”

“Missiles launched,” Jane snapped.  “Four fast-boost missiles launched towards us.”

“All lasers, fire at will,” Howard snapped, training asserting itself.  “Jane, hit that bastard!”

“Incoming missiles,” Jane said.  Her voice was calm, professional.  “Enemy craft targeted with shipkiller; shipkiller launched.  Lasers engaging incoming missiles; three down...four down.”

The display flickered.  “Enemy craft hit,” Jane said.  “All targets destroyed.”

Howard wanted to let out a sigh of relief.  “All decks, report,” he snapped.  “Any problems?”

“No damage,” Chief Douglas assured him.  “Some minor problems caused by the use of the nuclear warheads; all within acceptable parameters.”

“Good,” Howard said, as the final deck reported.  He knew that all problems would be minor; a major problem would have doomed the ship before he could have reacted.  “Jane, any sign of other hostiles?”

“None, sir,” Jane said, after a long moment.  “Sir, I’m picking up…”

She waved a hand at the display.  Howard turned, to watch as the radar finally revealed some signs of habitation; wrecked habitation modules attached to the side of the asteroid and buried deep within the asteroids.  They were twisted and burnt, damaged beyond easy repair; perhaps any repair at all.

“My god,” Howard breathed.  The scale of the devastation was unprecedented; there were several dozen asteroids within the cluster and many of them had been colonised.  “Lieutenant Malady, is there any more communications now?”

“Nothing, sir,” Lieutenant Malady reported.  “I can’t pick up anything at all.”

“They’re all dead,” Jane said.  Her tone was hushed, worried.  “Captain, I think that we should send in the automated drone systems.”

Howard nodded, wishing that he could dispute her suggestion.  “Lieutenant Malady, copy all of our sensor data into an encrypted file, then transmit it to Fleet Command,” he ordered.  “Lieutenant Davidson, pull us back from the asteroids; Jane, you can send in the drones and see what we can find.”

“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Marian Davidson said.  “Beginning manoeuvre now.”

***
“Still nothing from Fleet Command,” Lieutenant Malady reported.  “Don’t they have anything better to do than answer us?”

“That’s enough of that,” Howard said sharply, although less sharply than he wanted to say it.  He understood Lieutenant Malady’s puzzlement; there might not have been time for the signal to have reached Earth, but there were several bases closer with commanding Admirals, all of whom were normally more than eager to issue orders to Captains light minutes away.  “Jane?”

“Still picking up signals from the drones,” Jane said.  There was a long pause.  “Captain, I think that you should take a look at this.”

Howard nodded and activated his display, accessing the feed from the drones.  Up close, the devastation was far more impressive, with laser-burns slicing through habitation modules as if they were made of paper.  Hardly a module had survived the experience; he shuddered as he saw bodies drifting in the cold of space.

“Fuck,” he said mildly, as he saw the flag on the side of one of the modules.  The lights on the drone illuminated it for all to see, but Howard would have known it anywhere; the stars and stripes of the United States of America.  He closed his eyes for a long moment, in pain, and then accessed the private channel.  “Jane, this must have been a secret base.”

“I worked that out,” Jane said.  Her voice was grim.  “The Russians destroyed the base.”

Howard sighed.  “Where’s Ivan at the moment?”  He asked.  “Jane?”

“He’s in his cabin,” Jane said.  “Sir, we should keep him under strict security until we can find someone higher up to drop this all on.”

“Why would the Russians have attacked a secret base?”  Howard asked grimly.  “That craft was Russian, but what Yuri ever carried a weapon that could inflict so much damage?”

Jane’s frown could be heard over the communications channel.  “There’s no reason why they couldn’t have souped it up a bit,” she said.  “A single fusion cell could have provided enough power for the laser.”

Howard shook his head thoughtfully.  “Then why not fire at us with the laser?”  He asked.  Jane said nothing.  “Lasers travel at the speed of light; the first we would know about it was when the beam started cutting into our armour.”

Jane spoke softly, respectfully, but firmly.  “Captain, our base has been attacked, and all of the evidence points to a covert Soviet mission.  If we ask Ivan anything, we’ll be providing the Reds a post-battle assessment free of charge.”

“I don’t buy it,” Howard said.  It just didn’t make sense to him; why would the Soviet Union risk shattering a peace that had lasted for sixty years, ever since both superpowers had allied to face the alien foe…the foe that hadn’t shown themselves since Roswell.  “If they wanted to cover everything up, all they had to do was command the Yuri to self-destruct.”

“Or perhaps they wanted this ship,” Jane said.  Her voice darkened.  “Was it a coincidence that this happened so close to our flight path…and no other?”

“Excuse me, Captain,” Lieutenant Malady injected.  Howard deactivated the private channel with some private relief.  “We have a message from Fleet Command.”

“That’s one bit of good news,” Howard said.  “What does it say?”

“Two heavily-encrypted signals,” Lieutenant Malady said.  “One for you and Commander Hammond; one for all of us.”

Howard muttered a curse and opened the first message on his display.  It was simple enough; the USS Abraham Lincoln was to withdraw from the location without further ado and proceed at once to Lunar City, where the crew would be debriefed.  The second message – the private one – was more worrying; the drones were to be left behind to survey the wreckage, with their command codes encrypted and left in Jane’s hands alone.  Further, Ivan was to be denied all access to communications equipment until after the ship had reached Lunar City.

That’s an act of war, he thought grimly, and laughed at himself.  What they’d found might just trigger a war anyway.  

“We have our orders,” he said, sending the second signal to Jane’s display.  “Lieutenant Davidson; set course for the moon, normal cruising speed.  Officer Hawk; you are ordered to place Ivan into confinement in his quarters.  I’ll be there later to discuss the matter with him.”

“Aye, sir,” Officer Hawk said.  The Internal Security Agency officer hadn’t impressed Howard when they’d first met, but he knew his business.  “It shall be done.”

“Good,” Howard said.  He switched back to the private channel.  “Jane, can you handle the programming of the drones?”

“Of course,” Jane said.  “It’s not that complicated a problem.”

Howard scowled.  On the display, the asteroids rotated out of their view, replaced by the sun…and, in the distance, the tiny blue light of Earth.  It was invisible at this range to the naked eye, of course, but the computer added it in anyway.  Howard had once read the studies of how men would react in space…and had concluded that most of the time the USSF’s early workers had been more than a little mad.

“Yes, it is,” he said.  “Jane, by this time tomorrow, we might find ourselves at war with the Soviet Union.”

Chapter Two: The Diplomatic Option

Alliance Conference Centre
Iceland

The Icelandic Security Force snapped neatly to attention as the President of the United States of America entered the lobby.  The commander of the small force saluted the President, receiving a salute in return, before President Andrew Woodrow passed their ranks and entered the inner lobby.  A small gaggle of aides followed his progress, before being blocked by the Icelandic guards.  Iceland’s security hinged on the American and Soviet agreement; they would not risk any harm coming to either of the world leaders.

The President nodded once as he stepped into the inner lobby, discarding his briefcase onto a chair before removing his jacket.  The Secret Service had had fits at the thought of an American President – even one who was a former Marine – walking into a private meeting room with the Soviet leader, but they had been overruled – again.  They’d pressed every President since Truman on the subject, only to be rejected.  The meetings were too important to risk anything going wrong because of paranoia on their part.

The President smiled.  The KGB’s close protection section had had similar concerns; General Secretary Boris Andropov wasn’t even a former Red Army officer, but one from the Red Space Force.  Like the American military establishment, the more traditional Russian military services had resented their increasing subordination to the space-based service, but they’d had no choice.  It was space that made America and Russia the most powerful nations in the world, even if the British Commonwealth and the Western European Union were starting to challenge their dominance.  

Protocol, drawn up since Stalin died of lead poisoning, dictated that both world leaders entered together, but neither of them had much time for such matters.  Both of them were outside the view of the world’s media; it hardly mattered who entered the room first.  The President took his seat and waited patiently.  General Secretary Boris Andropov entered five minutes later.

“I apologise for the delay, Andrew,” Andropov said.  They were friends, as far as they could be.  “I had an urgent conference call with the Commissioner on the Lunar SSR.”

The President shrugged as Andropov took his seat.  “We have a problem,” he said, tossing a folder onto the table.  Andropov picked it up and flipped through it, page by page.  “One of your craft attacked a secret research base in deep space.”

Andropov’s face tightened.  “I issued no orders for such an attack,” he said.  “The Soviet Union categorically denies any involvement.”

The formalities were concluded.  The two men got down to business.  “This makes the seventh incident in space in…what?  Two months?”  The President asked.  “Boris, what’s happening?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Andropov said seriously.  He sounded sincere, as far as the President could tell.  “There have been three incidents of attacks on Russian mining platforms, even one destroying a military spacecraft.  The Politburo believes that you’re planning to attack us.”

“That was the conclusion of the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” the President agreed.  “They said, word for word, that the attack was merely the first strike in a Soviet war against us.  Boris – why?”

Andropov sighed.  “I wish I knew,” he said.  “Space is so vast that anything could happen, out there in the darkness.  There have always been the occasional clash in space between rival mining teams; ever since your Congress let private enterprise into space…”

“There wasn’t a choice,” the President snapped.  “We’ve had this argument before.”

“And my predecessor lost his role over failing to convince you to keep space in the hands of the government,” Andropov said.  The President nodded once; the Soviet Union had opposed the commercialisation of space, but there really hadn’t been any other choice.  “Your commercial mining teams are far more aggressive than ours – or even your governmental prospectors.”

The President sighed.  It had seemed a good idea at the time; habitation modules were cheap and easy to make, and they could be deployed with only a small spacecraft.  A major propaganda campaign, reminding Americans of the Wild West and their pioneer roots, had been launched, with astonishing success.  Hundreds of thousands had signed up in the first year along; within a decade there were millions of independent prospecting teams out in the asteroids and even further away.

The Soviet Union, in contrast, hadn’t been anything like as successful.  All of their asteroid mining was in the hands of state-owned enterprises, which tended to claim entire regions of the belt without even bothering to launch survey probes.  The United States governmental prospectors had been willing – reluctantly – to accept that; the independents were not.  

The President shook his head.  No one, not even the Government, knew for certain how many Americans – and other nationalities – were out there in deep space, in the hidden black colonies or the grey colonies.  Sometimes, even the completely legitimate colonies would act following their interpretation of the international agreement; the one that stated that possession was literally the entire law.

“They do make the effort to get there first,” he said, as mildly as he could.  Congress would no longer tolerate weakness over that particular issue.  It hadn’t been important when only taxpayers’ money was involved; now that big corporations were involved made it serious.  “Why not simply expand your own mining efforts, or even colonising efforts?”

“We have commitments to nations who are hiring our launch vehicles,” Andropov said slowly.  “That is not an option at the moment.  Andrew; can you not hold back your own people?”

The President chuckled.  “Not without being impeached,” he said.  “The American Party is growing stronger; some of my own Republicans are leaning towards its platform, at least in space.  The…incidents don’t make that any easier to handle, Boris; they want a strong refutation of the standard interpretation of the law and additional military support to any prospectors who are in regions your people claim.”

“I hardly think that they need it,” Andropov said wryly.  The President scowled; no one had ever proven who had fired the first shot in the incident two weeks ago, but a small Russian warship and an American prospector ship had managed to kill one another.  There had very nearly been a second incident when rescue ships had arrived, before the tension had been defused.

“You know what I mean,” the President said.  “Boris, why all of the suspicion so suddenly?”

Andropov stood up, pacing around the room.  “There has always been a strong streak of suspicion of you Americans in Russian politics,” he said.  “The fact that we have had to work together for the last sixty years has been very…galling to the parties who would prefer a constant low-level war.  I myself was…selected for this post because I could work with Americans, but at the same time I cannot get too far distant from the collective opinion of the Politburo.

“They…think that you have let us do all of the hard work of the past years,” he continued.  “We handled China, and you did nothing to help or hinder us.  We invaded Iran when they started to spread trouble into the Muslim SSRs – and proclaimed war against you too, for good measure – and you did little to help us.  We now have the cost of the occupations to bear, and it’s getting to be a serious problem.”

The President had the feeling that Andropov was trying to tell him something important.  “I was unaware that either of the nations were having any success at fighting you,” he said.  “Are they having more success than we know about?”

Andropov tilted his head.  “Of course not,” he said, with a straight face.  “With Saddam dominating Arabia, why would they not prefer our rule to his?”

The President frowned.  “Exactly what would you like us to do to help?”  He asked.  “I know that President Robertson did offer help in dealing with Iran, and the General Secretary rejected it.”

“Nothing,” Andropov said, his voice grim.  “I’m trying to explain that there are factions within the Soviet Union that would not be…unhappy if we had a falling out.”

The President felt his blood run cold.  “There are still the aliens, out there somewhere,” he said.  “If we have a falling out, if the alliance collapses, then the aliens might take advantage of it.”

Andropov sighed.  “No one has seen hair or hide of the aliens since 1947,” he said.  “Your Nightwatch Program hasn’t heard anything, has it?”

“Nothing,” the President said.  “What about your program?”

“Anyone would think that we didn’t have a joint program,” Andropov said wryly.  The President smiled at the dry reminder that both powers kept secrets of their own from one another.  “No, we have heard nothing for sixty years…did you know that there are some people who think that the entire program was a hoax?”

The President felt his mouth fall open.  “I’ve seen them,” he said.  “We have dozens of scientists who have examined the three bodies; hell, one of them is in one of your science cities!  Your scientists helped ours to develop the Procyon Drive…”

“Your scientists helped ours to develop the Procyon Drive,” Andropov said.  In a remarkably childish gesture, he stuck out his tongue.

The President snorted.  “I’m sure it was the other way around,” he said.  “Boris, how could someone in 1947 have made that ship?”

“I am on your side,” Andropov said dryly.  “I know that; try convincing some highly sceptical American-hating xenophobic politburo members.”

“My point remains,” the President said.  “Where are the bastards?”

“I don’t know,” Andropov said.  “That’s what they’re arguing; nothing has happened for sixty years, there’s been no alien invasion – we could hardly have failed to see it - so why should the alliance continue to exist?”

The President took a breath.  “Boris, we have to keep the alliance going,” he said.

“And you cannot keep your own people under control,” Andropov said.  “I don’t know if the alliance will survive that, let alone the curious incident of the missing Yuri.”  He closed his eyes for a long moment.  “Do you know; there are only twenty of those things still in service, and all of them have been accounted for?”

The President stared at him for a long moment.  Andropov met his gaze.  “Then where did the one that fired on the Abraham Lincoln come from?”  The President asked finally.  “What did your people make of the recordings?”

Andropov scowled.  “Oh, they confirmed your people’s results,” he said.  “The craft was a modified Yuri-class ship, one designed to work under remote control, or as an independent…well, space mine.  The general theory is that one was stolen somehow when the class was in proper service, but…we would have noticed the loss of a unit.

“The more curious fact is that the design was never intended to carry a self-destruct system,” he continued.  “The one that your people found did – it exploded when it was disabled and could no longer fight.  They also never carried lasers; by the time lasers entered service the class was on the verge of retirement anyway.”

“So someone took it, wiped your records, and sent it out to kill Americans,” the President said.  “That, Boris, is what Congress will say.”

Andropov nodded.  “I know,” he said.  “The Politburo will resist all suggestions that we might be involved in some way.”

“You hire out so much equipment to Japan and India,” the President said.  “Did you ever sell one?”  He scowled.  “Hell, why do you do that anyway?”

***
General Secretary Boris Andropov, the official head of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, stared at the earnest American president and wished that he had the gift of words.  How did anyone explain the endless problems within the Soviet Union, the high price of the space force that gave the Soviet Union so much of its prestige?  How did one explain the cost of the endless occupations of Iran and China; even the Soviet Union’s reserves of manpower was not bottomless.  How did one explain that the system needed more and more hard cash, not the state-supported currency that the Soviet Union used for internal trading, and the only way to do that was though loaning out equipment and selling equipment to nations determined to have their own space programs.

Except American technology, almost completely across the board, was better.  The Soviet Union was guaranteed access to all technology derived from the alien spacecraft, but how could it afford to match what capitalism did for funding?  The Americans could build an entire fleet of Procyon Drive ships in a year; the Soviet Union would be lucky to be able to build more than ten ships within the same time period.  

And, of course, we mortgage our future to save the present, Andropov thought coldly.  The KGB knew that dozens of Soviet miners had simply mutinied, heading out to set up on their own or with American miners, and there was nothing they could do about it – not without admitting the problem.  The Americans knew – he hoped – that Communism was proving as effective as capitalism; what would they do if they knew that that was a lie?

He closed his eyes in pain.  How did he feed those who needed food, except by taking the food from the Eastern Bloc nations, which created more unrest, which created the need for a larger and larger military, which…

“We are always interested in expanding the space frontier,” he said, avoiding the question.  He wished that there was some way to explain the truth to the American, but the President would not understand; how could he?  “Both of those nations are quite friendly to us.”

The President nodded.  “As we supported the British Commonwealth,” he said.  “The French and Germans, of course, did it through sheer bloody-mindedness.  You know; the French actually demanded that we include them in with the study program.”

Andropov felt his blood run cold.  There was only one program that the French would have the slightest interest in joining; the Roswell Program.  “Completely out of the question,” he said flatly.  The Soviet Union didn’t need more competition, particularly not such independent-minded competition as the French.  And then there was always the German problem.  “Tell them that we will not permit them to access the results.”

“I’ll let you explain that,” the President said.  “Boris, what is going to become of us?”

Andropov sighed.  “You want a simple explanation?”  He asked.  “When we started, it was just you and we, the Americans and the Russians.  Now we have the British and their Commonwealth, the Indians, the West Europeans…and even the Japanese.  Between us, we are all-powerful…but the History Institute insists on reminding me of the situation before 1914.  You may remember that Imperial Germany wanted colonies…and there was hardly anything of the world left.”

He frowned at the President’s expression.  “You mean…that they will want their place in the solar system?”  The President asked.  He shook his head violently.  “We’re getting away from the point, Boris; what are we going to do about the clashes?”

Andropov sighed again.  “We put the brakes on as hard as we can,” he said.  “We’ll lower our claims in the belt to the ones that we have surveyed; you put a leash on the miners, if you can.”  The President nodded once.  “Until then, I will issue orders to my people to avoid confrontations…and if we’re lucky, your people will avoid creating a possible ground for a confrontation.  If we show a united front, perhaps we can avoid some idealistic sub-lieutenant pulling the trigger at the wrong time.”

He closed his eyes, hoping that his headache would fade.  It refused to fade; it had been a permanent fixture of his brain since taking the post.  He mentally cursed the decision ever to angle for the post of General Secretary.  “Can we do that?”

“I can make it clear to the mining corporations that there had better be hard evidence that they’re in the right before I send them any support,” the President said.  “I wish I could promise more.  Why not simply send out more of your own miners?”

“We’ve been over that,” Andropov said, knowing that it was partly a lie.  The Soviet Union could not even begin to afford to expand the mining program, not with all of the other commitments.  If they tried, the result would almost certainly include more defections to the black colonies, or to the Americans.  “We can’t do that at the moment.”

The President met his eyes.  “I will try to reduce the tension,” he said, and Andropov knew that he meant it.  “I just have a nasty feeling that there’s something going on that we’re not seeing.”

Chapter Three: What on Earth is Wrong With Earth?

New York
United States of America

The air shimmered as something took form, hanging in the middle of the alley, barely touching the ground.  The cat sitting on the dustbin took one look and fled, leaving behind the dead rat it had been eating for its dinner.  The door opened and two figures stepped out, glancing around them carefully as they exited.

“Dear God,” Professor Thande said, shaking his head in awe.  The door looked like a normal everyday common or garden door; it even opened and closed on hinges.  On impulse, he stepped around the door, and looked back; there was no sign of its presence at all.  He stepped forward, through the door, and felt nothing; nothing at all until he looked backwards and saw the door standing there, defying his senses.

“I see it,” he said, “but I don’t believe it.  What was wrong with the simple teleporters?”

“Non-Contemporary energies,” Sally Woods said.  Her hair, brown these days, seemed to glow in the sun.  “Normally, of course, we try to keep a lower profile, but I thought you deserved to see something like that once.”

Thande smiled at her expression.  “How many chinks in the universe are there?”  He asked.  “Ones you – we – create, ones made by the Enemy, natural ones…?”

“Millions,” Sally said.  Her voice was warm and quiet.  “Most people don’t get to see the Vale because their mental processes literally freeze until they bump into another timeline and enter it.  You did the math, Professor, back when the Nazis invaded your world.”

Thande placed his hand on the door.  It felt like normal painted wood.  “And now I’m seeing it from the inside,” he said, hearing the awe in his voice.  “Sally…thank you for that, if nothing else.”

“I have to close the door now,” Sally said, tilting her head in a signal to the Harry Turtledove.  The Multiverse Ship closed the door; it vanished as if it had never been, sealing the hole in the space-time continuum.  “You said you wanted to visit another timeline, Professor; now’s your chance.”

For the first time, Thande took a careful look around him.  The alleyway was…well, normal; as normal as could be.  A line of neat dustbins stood near a door, which was clearly a service entrance of some kind, inhabited by a cat that was clearly trying to pretend that it had never seen them.  Thande waved to the cat and got a hiss in return.

“I don’t think that the cat believes in us,” he said, teasing Sally.  She wasn’t listening; her head was moving as she tried to use the implants in her head.  “Sally?”

“Something is wrong,” Sally said.  Her voice was puzzled.  “There are far fewer radio transmissions, and television transmissions, than I would have expected.”

Thande grinned.  “Planet of the super-intelligent people,” he said dryly.  He knew that Sally had more implants in her body than he did; now he knew what one of them did.  “I always said that television rots your brain.”

“It depends on what you watch,” Sally said absently.  “Only humans could invent so much trash on the airwaves, but…there’s hardly any transmissions here.  What there is in the air appears to be very encrypted indeed.  Either that, or they’re deliberately broadcasting nonsense.”  She scowled, marring her face; the Time Agents, within reason, got to design their own faces.  Sally wasn’t classically beautiful, but every red-blooded male would give her a second glance, at least.  “There is a contradiction here, Professor.”

“I’m not exactly a professor here,” Thande reminded her.  “I don’t think that whatever version of Britain exists here will recognise my qualifications.”  He paused.  “Where are we, anyway?”

“Earth, America, New York,” Sally said.  “It’s the year 2015, more or less; it’s not always a precise science, even for us.”  Her voice was distracted, puzzled.  “I still don’t understand,” she confessed.  “We’re limited to the standards of this era, but the implant still cannot decrypt any of the transmissions.”

Thande glanced around again, taking a breath.  The air smelt…clean.  He blinked; he’d been in the New York of TimeLine A – his timeline – more than once, and it had stunk of engine fumes.  This air wasn’t exactly the pure dry air of the Harry Turtledove, or the air of Cambridge, but it was certainly cleaner than anything he would expect from New York.

He said so.  “That’s…odd,” Sally said.  He had the feeling that she wasn’t exactly listening to him.  “They have the ability to generate ultra-compressed signals that are so encrypted that technology operating at the limits of the general Contemporary technology cannot decrypt them, at least…not yet.  At the same time, they do not have enough communications in the airwaves to count, almost all of which is at very low frequencies.”

Thande shrugged.  “Sally…what happened in this world?”  He asked.  “Coming to think of it, why are we here?”

“I thought I would leave the former for you to work out,” Sally said.  She smiled.  “Learning to identify the Point of Divergence is part of your training.  As for the latter, the Harry Turtledove detected traces of Enemy activity in the quantum foam surrounding this particular timeline, which is why we are here.”

Thande scowled.  He hadn’t even begun to come to grips with the equations governing the Vale – the space between universes, existing outside the Multiverse itself – but he did know that it worked on its own time.  It was quite possible that the Enemy hadn’t started work yet – according to Vale time – and they would encounter the Harry Turtledove at any moment.  If that happened…Sally and he would be stuck forever in the strange timeline.

“I do not understand,” he said, almost sullenly.  “We know that the Enemy are at work here, or have been at work here, or will be at work here…and all we’re doing about it is sending you and me into this timeline?”

“In a manner of speaking…yes,” Sally said.  Her face twisted into a smile that lit her entire face up from the inside.  “This timeline…might have a major Enemy presence already, which would mean that we want to avoid being noticed.  They might even control the United States Government.”

Thande had to smile.  “In my timeline, there were dozens of people who thought that the government was controlled by aliens,” he said.  “It would certainly explain a lot.”

“There is a timeline with the Confederate States that is controlled by the Enemy,” Sally said.  “I think we had better leave this alley before someone reports us to the local police, coming?”

She held out a hand.  “Confederate Nazis,” Thande muttered, as he took her hand.  “How…cliché.”

The alleyway led them to a street, which was actually crowded with cars, and a handful of pedestrians.  Thande studied the cars with interest; they were all…almost the same, with only a handful of individual colouring designs, rather than different frames.  They emitted a hum as they moved down towards one of the tunnels leading out of Manhattan, releasing almost no smell at all.

“Electric cars,” Sally commented, leaning into his arm.  Some of the pedestrians smiled at the young couple.  “That’s…not unusual, but they’re clearly more advanced than I would have expected.  The designs are more uniform as well.”

Thande wasn’t listening to her.  The skyline they could see was very different to the one that he remembered, but there was something there that shouldn’t have been there.  He felt his mouth drop open again as he made out the details of the famous Twin Towers, the ones that had been destroyed in the opening shots of the Terror War, which had come crashing to a halt when the Nazis invaded.

“There was no attack on September 11th in this timeline,” he said.  “I wonder, Sally; could that be the Point of Divergence?  Perhaps Osama was killed something before the war began.”

“I don’t think so,” Sally said dryly.  “There are plenty of timelines where the war started early, or with a different cast; the problem was that the world was going to hell with or without Bin Laden.  You got lucky.”

Thande smiled.  “We had the Nazis,” he said.  “Upwards of a billion people, nearly a sixth of the global population, died in the war.  God alone knows how many died in TimeLine C.  Sally…have I ever told you that you have a curious definition of luck?”

“Many of the poor, the outcasts, the dispossessed…the ones who would fight against the wealthy west were exterminated by the Nazis,” Sally said.  “You got a second chance; it was at a very high price indeed, but you don’t get to alter the price.”

Thande gave her a sharp look.  “Now…what?”  He asked.  “What do we do now?”

Sally reached into her handbag.  “I’ve been scanning several handbags,” she said.  “We now have some money, perfect counterfeits…so I think we should find a café and some newspapers.  What do you think?”

“I can hardly argue,” Thande said, as they entered a park.  It wasn’t exactly Central Park, more of a children’s play area, but they could see the café on the far side as they crossed the grass and passed the swings.  He frowned.  “Look at the children.”

Sally smiled.  “They do seem rather innocent, don’t they,” she said.  “That’s…curious, particularly for this era; the successive governments proved to be very bad at controlling the increasing rate of criminal activities directed against children.”  Her voice darkened.  “Your timeline had dozens of paedophiles, but this timeline…doesn’t seem to have them at all.”

Thande watched as three young girls ran past, wearing short plain skirts, and nodded slowly.  “They seem to show no fear of strangers,” he said, as they reached the café.  His gaze lit on a small general store near the café.  “Do you want to order us coffee while I look in the store for clues?”

Sally’s face broke into a grin, before she passed over a small sheaf of dollar notes.  Thande examined one of them thoughtfully; the face of Abraham Lincoln was instantly recognisable.  A second face, of a bald man with a kind smile, was completely unfamiliar.  A noise in the sky made them both glance up and Thande burst out laughing.

“An airship,” he said, though his chuckles.  “You have to have airships, don’t you?”

***
The interior of the store was neat and clean, a far cry from the ones he remembered from Cambridge.  It was actually larger than he had realised; two rooms, one with food, the other with various bits of household equipment.  He examined the equipment thoughtfully, trying to understand; there were curious…discrepancies.

“Are you going to buy anything?”  The shopkeeper asked.  His dark skin contrasted oddly with his almost-English accent.  “I have the latest equipment for every house here.”

“Really,” Thande said absently.  “Tell me, do you have any computers?”

“Just in there,” the shopkeeper said.  Thande entered the second room and blinked; one room was filled with electronic equipment.  There were small televisions, a series of laptops that looked more advanced than the ones from his home timeline, but no radios.  He examined one of the televisions thoughtfully; it had a cable for linking into a computer – or so he thought – but no actual aerial.

“I wonder,” he muttered to himself, as he exposed the instruction manual.  It was very detailed, but it seemed to assume more basic competence than his own universe would have done, talking in terms of connecting fibre-optics without using baby talk.  Apparently, a buyer had only to pick up the system, connect it to the Digital Communication Network, and quality programming would be his for the watching.  The device seemed to have hundreds of gigabytes worth of space on its memory; it could record anything that the user wanted, without problems.

“Curious,” he said, examining the price.  The manual promised at least ten years worth of service, but the price was astonishingly low; only one hundred dollars for a device that would have cost a lot more in his own timeline, if it could have been built at all.  If the new timeline had increased the amount of data transmitted along it’s wiring to match television in his timeline, it might explain the lack of any television channels.

“No built-in degradation?”  He asked himself, examining the other products.  All of them seemed to have been built for a long lifespan, even the computers.  It was puzzling; the designers seemed to have concentrated on building long-term products, rather than planning for only a few years of service life before obsolesce.  It was wonderful, from the consumers’ point of view, but…it hardly made commercial sense.

He looked up at the wall and felt his breath catch.  On the wall, there was a poster; one with a very unrealistic image of an asteroid, with a normal American house planted on top of the asteroid.  He leaned forward, reading the message; EMBRACE THE NEW SPACE RACE.

“They’re moving people into asteroids?”  He asked, as he took in the small print.  It said that anyone who wanted to set up as an asteroid miner, or any related occupation, could get a grant and assistance from a number of governmental initiatives.  “What on Earth?”

“Of course they are,” the shopkeeper said.  “My son and his family are up there now, even with all the noise about the Russians.  Now, are you going to buy anything?”

Thande smiled.  “I’d like a copy of every newspaper, please,” he said.  “I’ve been away for a while.”

The shopkeeper muttered, but presented Thande with seventeen different newspapers, some familiar, some not.  Thande paid for them with one of his notes, noticing again how cheap everything seemed to be.  The economy seemed to be working well in this timeline; the shopkeeper had only a handful of customers, but he seemed to be living well.

It was quieter as he stepped back out into the open air, heading over to the café, where Sally was waiting.  She smiled up at him as he placed the newspapers on the seat, before sipping his coffee gratefully.  It wasn’t particularly good coffee…and it was cool.

“I was starting to wonder if there was a black hole in there,” Sally said.  “You took nearly half an hour.”

Thande heard the concern in her voice and smiled wryly.  “They seem to have a much more expanded space program,” he said.  “They have homesteads in the asteroids, and apparently there’s something wrong with the Russians.”

“Curious,” Sally said.  “Why would the Enemy want humans to get into space?  Every other time we’ve seen them at work, they have been opposed to humans reaching for the stars.”

“There should be a clue to their identity right there,” Thande groused, opening the newspaper.  The front-page story was on the Denver Broncos winning some kind of award, but the second page was far more interesting.  “Listen to this,” he said, and waited for her attention.

“It’s not that simple,” Sally said.  “Change human history and you change the history of the entire galaxy.  In some timelines, you change pretty much the entire multiverse.”

Thande stared at her.  “I can’t believe that we’re that important,” he said.

Sally smiled.  “You should see some timelines, five hundred years in the future,” she said.  “Anyway, what’s the story?”  

“Listen,” Thande said, affecting a newsreader voice.  “Four days after the report of a Russian attack on an American base in deep space, there remains no evidence to suggest that the Russian claims of innocence are in fact true.  Senator Chapman, leader of the American Party, warned of ‘lies, damned lies, and Russian lies,’ citing the increasing number of clashes between mining parties as evidence that the Russian beast has not changed its spots since 1947, even after Stalin was killed.”

“Fascinating,” Sally said.  Her tone was a curious mixture of fascinated and worried.  “Anything else?”

“Yes,” Thande said, astonished.  “The President of France today denounced the decision by the Grand Alliance Chairman, former President Thayne, to deny the Western European Union access to any” – his voice almost broke from shock – “technology recovered from the Roswell spacecraft of 1947.”

Sally leaned forward.  “Fuck me,” she said, for once forgetting her manners.  Thande was too astonished to make the obvious joke.  “They actually recovered the Roswell spacecraft?”

Thande stared at her.  “You mean…that actually happened?”

Sally’s eyes narrowed.  “It’s an infinite multiverse,” she said.  “Anything can happen, and frequently does.  Roswell is one of the…lower-order probabilities, however; only a handful of races took any interest in Earth before 2200 or thereabouts, and most of them were wiped from many timelines.”

Thande blinked.  “Why?”

“Does it matter?”  Sally asked.  She took the paper from him and read it quickly.  “If the Enemy caused Roswell to happen in this universe, then…why?  It’s not as if humanity needed an excuse to advance into outer space.”

Thande skimmed though a long article singing about the joys of establishing a homestead on an asteroid.  “Kemlo,” he said.  “They were stories from the 1950s or thereabouts; that’s what this reminds me of.  They’re trying to build a civilisation in space.”

“Not a bad idea, but…”  Sally began.  She broke off.  “Have you noticed that it’s gotten very quiet here?”

Thande looked up sharply.  The quiet cars had almost stopped moving down the streets, driving away from the main road, away from the park.  Several helicopters flew overhead as the street emptied; several dozen policemen came running up past them into the park.

“Got the feeling that we’re in trouble?”  Thande asked, feeling butterflies rising within his stomach.  “Sally?”

“I don’t think they’re here for us,” Sally said.  “They seem to be sealing off the area and…”

A noise from down the street drew their attention like a magnet.  “Now…that is interesting,” Thande said.  Under the circumstances, he felt that that was commendable understatement.  “Sally?”

“Oh dear,” Sally said, as the source of the noise became clear.  “I really don’t think that that is right at all.”

Chapter Four: Protests and Parades

New York
United States of America

Samuel Dyson had never really considered a war before the outbreak of clashes with the Russians.  When he thought about it, he became scared; would he have to fight?  Almost all of the college students were eligible for the draft…and he knew that he simply didn’t possess the academic potential to have the dean of the college exempt him from the draft.  The Draft Act of 1970 had made that very clear; only the best and brightest of the men – and fifty percent of the women – could be exempted from the draft.

But America had never faced a war since Hitler – until now, and over what?  A handful of asteroids?  Dyson was certain that the asteroids didn’t matter in the long run; what mattered was peace and the development of space, not fighting the Russians over the endless resources of space.  So what if national pride was involved?  Pride and a quarter wouldn’t even buy a cup of tea.

“The Government never listens to us when we send in petitions,” the organiser said.  Maureen Hanover, a tall redheaded student, had organised the entire protest, calling in favours from every college around the city.  The Mayor had refused them a permit to protest, but they had decided to protest anyway, even though dozens had left when Maureen had informed them of that.  They’d been jeered by the remaining students.

“We are not going to be drafted to fight over a few useless rocks,” Maureen said.  “Only sanity and peace can prevent us from wiping one another off the face of this lovely planet.  We must make our voices heard!”  She glared around the massive group.  “Who’s with me?”

“Me,” Dyson yelled, at the top of his voice.  Thousands of other voices joined his in a massive cry.  “Me!”

“Then follow me,” Maureen cried, and led the way out of the square onto the main road.  The cars were already moving out of the way as the NYPD sent electronic warnings to the drivers, trying to prevent an accident.  Only a handful of policemen could be seen, trying to move pedestrians out of the way.  

He glanced back as one of the other groups opened up a banner, reading NO MORE NUKE SHIPS.  Other banners, NO DRAFT, MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR, were rapidly unfurled; he took one end of the MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR banner and got a smile from the girl who was organising that particular part of the protest.  He smiled back; there were other compensations for taking part in such activities.

“No draft,” Maureen shouted, as they marched up the road.  “No draft!”

Dyson took up the chant, along with the other pre-prepared chanters.  “No draft, no war, no blood,” he shouted.  The newcomers, the students and the people who had joined just for the fun of it, took up the chant.  “No draft, no war, no blood!”

***
“No draft, no war, no blood!”

“Curious, that,” Sally commented, as the echoing refrain reached their ears.  Sitting in the small enclosed outside seats, they had a grandstand view of the march.  “Look at the crowd.”

Thande looked thoughtfully.  For a moment, he remembered the protests against the Iraq War in 2003, and then he noticed how the protesters were moving, almost in step.  They might be protesting against a war, if there was a war on, but they acted like people with military training.  They wore…the same basic styles, not the often-outrageous styles of his own timeline, but simple basic clothes.

“I do not understand,” he said.  “They’re…students, but they’re not dressed like students.”

“That would depend on where you’re standing,” Sally said grimly.  “I think that this society is far more conservative than yours – or mine, for that matter.  Look at the girls.”

Thande looked, feeling like an old man as he stared.  The girls, almost all of them, wore loose clothes, not ones that revealed much of their bodies.  The skirts in the crowd were knee-height; none of them seemed to be showing much at all.  Only a handful of girls had low-cut blouses.

“Strange,” he said.  “I wonder…do you think that they are fighting a war?”

As the noise grew louder, he glanced down at the newspapers.  There was no mention of a war, but there was clearly a war scare on; between America and Russia.  A small paragraph in the New York Times revealed that ‘certain anarchist factions’ were protesting against the draft, as ordered by President Buzzard in 1965.  A second paragraph ordered reservists to report to their stations for possible military duty.

“They certainly seem to expect one,” Sally said, leaning back in her chair as the crowd drew closer.  “Do you think that this will have any effect at all?”

“I have no idea,” Thande said.  The crowd certainly seemed strident enough to have an effect of some kind, but he wondered…would it be the effect they wanted them to have.  As he read the placards, he wondered; many of them were against the draft, or against the war, but others were stranger.  None, fortunately, were for or against abortion or affirmative action, but some were clearly against science.

NUKE SHIPS HARMED THE WORLD, one sign warned.  WILL THE PRESIDENT DO ANYTHING FOR THOSE SUFFERING FROM POISONING?

“More bloody luddites,” he snapped.  “Is there no escape?”

“We are not involved,” Sally snapped.  The tone of command was in her voice.  “We are here to find out how and why the Enemy are interfering.”  Her voice softened.  “I know how you feel, Professor, but we are not directly involved here, simply because we know too little to risk involvement.”

Thande opened his mouth, but was cut off by a new chant.  “U-S-A,” they chanted.  He blinked; patriotic sentiment didn’t seem to have been on the protestors’ agenda, and then he looked down the street in the opposite direction to the protestors.  A new protest was forming up and advancing towards the original group.

“Oh…shit,” he breathed.  “Sally, I think we’d better go inside.”

“I wasn’t arguing,” Sally said, as the second group grew closer and the air grew more ominous.  The second group was composed of…workers; strong muscular men, with a handful of women.  They were advancing on the first group with grim purpose, their fists clenched.  It would have been funny if it weren’t so serious; he had a sudden idea of exactly what they meant to do.

“Come on,” he snapped, coming to his feet.  He left the papers behind him as the men advanced, heading into the café before the owner could lock the door.  Sally lagged behind him, studying the men; Thande reached out and pulled her in by force.

“This is not the time to pick up men,” he said.  Sally scowled at him, before taking a seat at the window, staring out at the growing chaos.  The first group of marchers had seen the second group and had come to a halt, or tried to.  The force of the men behind them was pushing them forward, right into the face of the second group.  As he watched, the violence began.

“No, that’s really not good,” Sally said.  Her tone was unconcerned as the second group lashed into the first one.  Some tried to fight, others tried to run, but they were packed together like sardines.  “Who are those people?”

Thande was dimly aware of the Italian café manager behind him as he spoke.  His voice was almost perfect Middle American.  The horrors of the short riot were almost overpowering; there were no traces of any attempts to stop the second group from beating the tar out of the first group; as he watched a student girl went down under the fists of a burly man.

“They’re the steelworkers, madam,” he said to Sally.  Thande could believe it; they certainly looked strong enough to work with heavy metals.  “They’re in favour of the war, so they’re doing their patriotic duty.”

The sniff in his voice was horrifyingly unconcerned.  Thande could hear screams above the roar of the riot and saw red.  “Their patriotic duty?”  He demanded.  “What is possibly patriotic about doing anything like that?”

A body crashed against the window.  Thande was surprised that it didn’t break open.  “Where have you been for the past few weeks?”  He asked.  “Everyone knows about the incidents in orbit.”

Sally gave Thande a sharp look.  “We’ve been married for the past six weeks,” she said quickly.  “We’ve been…”

“Busy?”  The owner asked.  He stuck out a hand to Thande who shook it reluctantly.  “I’m Guido, pleased to meet you.”

“Pleased to meet you too,” Thande said.  He closed his eyes for a long moment; Sally’s quick thinking had made their task a little easier.  “We’ve been…busy in our hotel,” he improvised.  “What’s been happening?”

“The Russians have been moving in on our territory in the Belt,” Guido said.  “They’ve been forcing some of our miners to leave their asteroids, perhaps even killing some of them out in the darkness of space.  There’s going to be a war on, you know.”

He sounded rather pleased at the prospect; none of the dread of nuclear war for him.  Thande was sure that that was a useful datum somehow, but he found it hard to care.  “Where are the police?”  He asked.  “How long is this going to go on for?”

***
Dyson saw the steelworkers at the end of the road, just past the park, and knew that it was over.  Maureen either didn’t know or didn’t care; she strode forwards towards the steelworkers as if she didn’t have a care in the world.  The chant was wavering slightly, fading away, as the marchers in the front row began to realise that something was wrong.  

I have to get out of here, he thought grimly.  His father was a steelworker; if one of them were a friend of his father and saw him, his father would not be happy about it.  The steelworkers’ own chant, the endless repeat of ‘U-S-A, U-S-A,’ echoed down the streets, drowning out the remaining chanting from the marchers.  Their voices were firm and hard, holding their certainty out like a shield.  

“Come on,” he snapped in sudden desperation, trying to break out of the parade.  He knew exactly what his father would do under the circumstances, and he didn’t want to face it.  It was impossible to escape; there were nearly a hundred people near him alone and almost a thousand pushing them forward.  Maureen had reached the steelworkers…and a steelworker woman punched her in the gut.  She fell to her knees, only to be pushed aside by the marching steelworkers, as the marchers finally met.

Dyson lifted his hands in self-defence as a burly steelworker threw a punch at him.  The punch hurt, worse than anything in the military training they’d undertaken while in school; his arm went numb very quickly.  He saw an opening as his training took control, slamming a punch towards his opponent’s throat, only to have his arm knocked away and…

“Steal my job, would you?”  The steelworker asked, as he kicked out hard.  Dyson screamed as he fell to his knees; he’d been kicked hard in the chest.  His chest hurt badly, as if he’d broken a few ribs, or worse.  He tried to look around; the protesters were in full retreat, leaving only their injured lying on the ground.  He saw a girl lying there, her leg clearly broken, as the crowd dispersed.

“This is the New York City Police Department,” a new voice thundered.  A fleet of helicopters flew overhead, beaming down brilliant lights, even in the daylight.  He knew what that meant; laser targeting systems and stun guns.  “Stay exactly where you are; do not attempt to move or escape.”

Finally, he thought absently, as the police finally arrived.  He passed out as they started arresting people.  His last sight was one of Maureen, being picked up by a policeman and loaded into a van.

***
“Finally, some repression,” Thande commented, as the NYPD arrived.  The police had arrived in force, not only with helicopters and vehicles, but some form of battle armour.  Thande had known that the British Army had been experimenting with it before the Nazi War, but he’d never seen personal powered armour before, not outside of Japanese movies and the strange television series about the Posleen.

“Perhaps,” Sally commented.  “That was…unusual.”

“Oh, the steelworkers are often breaking up protest marches against the draft,” Guido commented.  He seemed to have taken a shine to them; Thande just wished that he would go away.  He seemed far too pleased about the entire series of events.  “They don’t like the thought of us seeming weak in front of our allies.”

“I…see,” Thande said slowly.  He glanced down at an empty coffee cup.  “Could we get some more coffee?”

“Anything for newly-weds,” Guido said, picking up the cup and leaving with it.  As soon as he was in the backroom, Sally grabbed his hand hard enough to hurt.

“This is not our world,” she said sharply, in an icy whisper.  “This is not your America.  Remember that, if you remember nothing else!”

Thande stared at her.  “We ought to be trying to stop this,” he protested, keeping his voice down.  They could have used the communications implants, but Sally had warned him against using them except in an emergency.  “Look at that!”

He waved a hand at events outside the window.  The NYPD was hard at work, arresting the surviving students, even the lightly injured ones.  The steelworkers seemed to be getting off much lighter; only two were arrested out of the mob that had descended on the protest march.  

“There are versions of America that would make you sick,” Sally hissed.  “There are versions where the South lost the civil war and was treated as an occupied territory, rather than a wayward teenager.  There are versions where Britain defeated Washington at Yorktown and broke American dreams of freedom for a generation.  There are versions where America actually managed to develop a proper communist party and ended up a communist state.”

Thande glared at her.  “What about a Confederate victory?”

“They seem to be rarer than writers seem to think,” Sally said absently, as Guido came back with two cups of coffee and some chocolates.  “Thank you.”

“Here,” Guido said, passing over a small newspaper.  It was more detailed than the ones that had been left outside when they’d moved inside, detailing the build-up to war.  “This might help you to get back in the groove.”

He vanished again.  “Interesting,” Sally commented, her voice back to normal.  “By the way, when we find a hotel, we are not sharing a bed.”

Thande gave her a droll look and picked up the paper.  “I had rather figured that out,” he said.  “Better keep the act going, honey pie.”

“Oh, shut up,” Sally said.  A harder edge entered her voice.  “Read the paper, love.”

Thande snorted and skimmed through the paper.  It was an oddly frustrating experience; he could read about some events by name, without the slightest idea of what they’d actually been, but he didn’t know any of the framework behind the alternate reality.  It called on the people of New York to support Mayor Terwhilliger on such matters as increasing grant payments to researches into advanced materials and supporting the plans for New York’s own personal space cable, and to oppose him on rumours of plans to relax the strict laws against smoking in public.  

“Ah, current affairs,” he said, as he reached the international page.  It wasn’t much more helpful; the British Monarch, King David, had begun a tour of British possessions around the Solar System, starting with the moons of Saturn.  “Charles and Diana must have been a butterfly event; gone through the random effects of chaos.”

“Really?”  Sally said, without much interest.  “There’s been a riot here, still is in some places, judging by the racket, and there is still no major increase in background radio transmissions.”

“Odd,” Thande said.  “Perhaps they simply don’t use as much as we did in our reality.”

“Or perhaps they’re just paranoid,” Sally said.  “Still no progress on trying to decrypt the signals.”

There was a banging at the door.  Thande glanced up as Guido came out of the backroom; the riot scene had been cleared, with some help from the arrested students.  He wasn’t sure if he should be shocked or applaud; the rioters were actually helping to clear up the mess they’d…had a hand in creating.  

“Good afternoon, Sergeant,” Guido said.  Thande looked over at the door; three of New York’s finest were entering the café.  One of them was black, another Chinese, but they seemed to work perfectly together.  “Can I get you something?”

“No, thank you,” the Sergeant said.  “It’s just a routine check; we need to have a copy of your records for the report on this unfortunate event.”  He paused and glanced in the direction of the two Time Agents.  “Not many customers, today.”

“No, alas,” Guido said, leading the way towards the rear of the shop.  He didn’t seem scared of the policemen, Thande noticed; that was probably a good sign.  “It’s this war scare; it puts people off eating my fine foods.”  There was a pause.  “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

“I’m afraid not,” the Sergeant said.  “I just need to collect a note of identity papers, and then we can go.”  He held a scanner up to Guido’s computer and Thande nodded to himself; they seemed to use very short-ranged transmissions indeed, perhaps even exclusively.  “Now…”

He stepped over to Sally and Thande.  “I need your identity card, please,” he said.

Thande felt his blood run cold.  He hadn’t expected identity cards in America!  Sally seemed equally astonished, although she covered it well.  “We…have been away from our normal home,” Sally said.  Thande knew with a sudden sick certainty that it wouldn’t work.  “We don’t have our cards with us at the moment.”

“No?”  The Sergeant asked, all of his attention on Sally.  Thande noted the two policemen moving behind him before he could do anything stupid.  “Are you not aware that it is a breach of the law to not carry a card, for any reason at all?”

Sally said nothing.  Thande felt the two policemen grab hold of him and lift him out of his seat, handcuffing him before he could react.  Sally wasn’t spared; she was handcuffed quickly and professionally, her hands locked firmly behind her back.

“Under the provisions of the Identity Card Act, as revised in 2011, I have no choice, but to place the pair of you under arrest,” the Sergeant said, and ran through a list of their rights.  Thande was amused to note that they included the right not to sue if they tried to resist and were restrained.  “You will come with me to the station at once.”

Chapter Five: Politics and Politicians

The White House
Washington DC, USA

“Mr President, Senator Chapman is here for his appointment,” Judith said.

The President looked up at the communicator and wished that there were some way to stall the meeting.  He wasn’t looking forward to it at all.  Senator Bill Chapman, the leader of the American Party, wasn’t one of his biggest fans.  The American Party had only grown stronger in the growing climate of tension between the United States and Russia, and Chapman had proven to be very skilled at making political capital out of the tension.

“Send him in,” he told his assistant, and stood up in his chair.  Protocol dictated that he stand up and shake Chapman’s hand, pretending to a friendship he didn’t feel and strongly suspected that Chapman didn’t feel either.  The door opened and Chapman entered, his hand already extended for a handshake.  The President shook his hand firmly, examining Chapman with some interest.

He was shorter than the President had expected; his head was slightly lower than the President’s own.  His neat military-style haircut was edged with grey – unlike many senators, Chapman saw no need to use one of the new treatments to colour his hair – and he wore a civilian suit cut with a vaguely military style.  His face was curiously hung, almost as if he had once laughed so hard it had permanently marked his face.  He carried himself as if he were still the military officer he had been once; he’d been commended for gallantry under fire in one of the many skirmishes along the Mexican border.

“Mr President,” Chapman said.  His voice had a vague accent of Texas within it, a hint underlining his American voice.  Television and the Communications Network had done more to standardise the American accent than anything else; the constant preparations for a second alien encounter had broken down barriers faster than anything short of a Third World War would have done.

“Thank you for seeing me,” he said.  “As always, it is a pleasure to talk to you.”

You didn’t give me much choice, the President thought.  Chapman’s seniority within the Senate gave him a great deal of influence, not all of it visible to the unpractised eye.  He not only held membership on several important committees, but he had friends and allies everywhere.  Like the founder of the American Party, Joe McCarthy himself, Chapman had a reputation for never changing his opinions, something that Texas had found endearing enough to keep electing him, time and time again.  It wasn’t as if he was bad, or corrupt, or had a habit of intimidating his competitors; he was definitely one of the better and most effective Senators in the Senate.  

The President frowned inwardly.  Chapman was…ambitious; he had built the American party back into a serious contestant for the Presidency after it had fallen during the Iran Crisis, several decades ago.  He had an intensely disciplined Party, the support of dozens of influential people who suspected the Soviets of bad intentions and – or – acting to reduce American profits.  He might be the weakest of the three party leaders on paper, but in practice?  The President didn’t know; no one did.

“And to you too,” the President said, keeping his voice level.  The exercise in mutual hypocrisy would be good for both of them, he was sure.  “We don’t see each other that often.”

Chapman smiled.  “It is always a pleasure, is it not?”  He asked, mischievously.  The President was oddly impressed; Chapman was charming, no question about that.  “I don’t get to visit the White House that often, not since we all became rather busy at the Senate, wheeling and dealing and trying to come up with a compromise that everyone can…well, perhaps not exactly like, but…”

“Accept,” the President said.  “Bill, we’ve both been in politics long enough to know that almost everything Congress and the Senate does is an exercise in political give-and-take.  You’ve done wonders recently with the Lunar statehood bill…”

He smiled, hoping that the topic would distract Chapman long enough for him to think.  It worked; Chapman seemed pleased to discuss it.  “Naturally, we never anticipated that there would be an independence movement within the moon, or at least our sections of it.  Did you know; the KGB busted a cell within the Russian lunar city, the one with the unpronounceable name, that was working towards a declaration of independence from Mother Russia?”

“I heard about that from the CIA,” the President said, keeping his annoyance from his face with an effort.  Chapman wasn’t supposed to know about that.  “It seems that some of them felt that the Communist Party was pushing too hard to expand their mining and manufacturing efforts at the wrong time, while they were having problems getting the skilled staff they needed for the role.”

“I heard that it was because of the Communist demands that the Earth – which means Mother Russia in this context – maintain control over the Moon as if it were the Ukraine,” Chapman said.  The President felt his eyes narrow; was Chapman showing his cards to show that he had access to the CIA’s reports, or was he trying to make a different point altogether?  “In fact, the Russian Lunar-born children were behind it, as much as anything else.”

“One would imagine that people with…limited tolerance for high gravity would be incensed at the mere suggestion that they should be placed wherever the Communists thought that they should go,” the President said mildly.  “Of course, it’s not as if we would have such problems, is it?”

Chapman preened.  Was it an act or not?  The President couldn’t tell.  “Not now,” he assured him.  “Although the Russians objected strongly, we have started the preparations to have the lunar state confirmed as an American state; taxation with representation, if you will.”

The President nodded slowly.  Few had seriously believed that the lunar settlements would seek…if not independence, then greater say in their own affairs, particularly as the civilian population grew larger and larger, creating a critical mass of settlers with their own agenda and a strong opposition to the United States Space Force bureaucrats who knew little of the realities of space.  The protests had begun and they had grown darker as the first months slipped by without real action on the part of the government.  

He scowled.  The situation could have become really nasty, were it not for Senator Chapman, who’d done most of the work in creating a State Government for the Luna City and convincing Congress and the Senate to accept Luna as a state.  It wouldn’t be long, the President was certain, before Mars and some of the massive asteroid homesteads went the same way.

“You did well,” he said, concealing his real feelings.  “But then, I assume that you didn’t come here to get my congratulations…?”

Chapman smiled.  “They’re very welcome in any case,” he assured the President.  “I have come, however, on a different matter.”

“The Russians,” the President said shortly.  “I assume, given the protests, that they’re part of your…concerns.”

“As you know, the Russians have become more and more…quarrelsome lately,” Chapman said.  “In fact…”

“I do love the way you’re treating them as children,” the President said dryly.  “Might I remind you that they are the only power equal to ourselves?”

“In fact,” Chapman continued, ignoring the President’s comment, “they injected themselves into our internal affairs during the problems on the moon.  I know that some of my party – the crackpots, if I may use such a term – believed that the Russians were funding and arming the…well, democrats, but I don’t believe that that was in fact the case.

“The Russian position remained consistent, in fact, throughout the entire…crisis,” he said.  “They were and indeed remain opposed in the strongest possible terms to any suggestion that the lunar colonies should gain independence, or even statehood.  Why?”

The President considered for a long moment.  “They don’t like the thought of adding more competitors to the space race?”

“They’re scared that our ideals will…contaminate their own people,” Chapman snapped.  “God damn it, Mr President; did you not see the pirate broadcast from Poland?  They have food riots there!”

“I know,” the President said, truthfully.  He remembered the protests of the Polish citizens from America; the Russians hadn’t been that determined to prevent Poles from escaping the Iron Curtain.  “We have an alliance with them.”

“Then we should be meddling in their affairs as well,” Chapman said.  “What possible concern of theirs is it if we grant our people the right to determine their own destinies, within America?”

“It is not a concern of theirs,” the President said, his tone like ice.  Chapman, for once, was quiet.  “I might remind you, Senator, that I signed the Lunar Statehood bill into law myself, and indeed supported it on national television.  I did not allow…General Secretary Boris Andropov to influence my decision.”

“This is an internal matter,” Chapman said, repeating himself.  “Why should we even think about allowing them any…concerns at all?”

“We have issued formal protests over the suppression of the Polish riots,” the President said.  “They have issued formal protests over the matter of statehood for the lunar colonies.  What can we charge them with that we have not done ourselves?”

“We have not fired on their miners,” Chapman said.  “They are committing acts of war, out there in the belt.”

The President sighed.  “I knew that that was coming,” he said.  “Your Party has been very active in demanding that something must be done about that.”

“Yes,” Chapman said.  “Mr President; the Russians are using an outdated interpretation of the law.”

“It’s part of the joint agreements we signed, back when asteroid mining became possible,” the President said mildly.  “We don’t have the right to change the law because we have suddenly found it…inconvenient.”

Chapman took a breath.  “We have the right to change stupid laws and agreements,” he said.  “Just because the Russians have a claim – a very weak claim – on some hunks of rock is no excuse for attacking our people.  What about the attack on the research base and the Abraham Lincoln?”

“It is my belief that that was not a planned attack by a Russian force,” the President said, putting as much steel as he could into his voice.  “I assume that you do?”

“It was a Russian craft,” Chapman said.  “It attacked one of our bases and killed everyone inside.  It then attacked the Abraham Lincoln, perhaps the most powerful ship we have, and was destroyed.  There is little question that the craft was Russian in origin.”

“Have you seen any of the Standard Integrated Operational War Plans?”  The President asked, as calmly as he could.  “Each year, the Pentagon draws up a plan for working against the Soviet Union, everything from accidental clashes in the moons of Jupiter to all-out war.  What they agreed upon, Senator, was that the first Soviet strike would be across the board, not a tiny pinprick that puts us on our guard.”

Chapman started to speak.  The President held up his hand, silencing him.  “On the day that the Abraham Lincoln was attacked, what do you think the Russian orbital weapons platforms orbiting this planet did?”  He asked.  “I’ll tell you; they did nothing.  They launched no missiles at our platforms; they made no attempt to use their lasers and directed energy weapons against our own systems.  No missiles were launched from the ground; no submarine launched missiles towards Washington DC.  No kinetic impact devices impacted on our soil; no concentrated chemical lasers wiped aircraft out of the sky.”

He paused.  “They did nothing at all, not even a higher alert status, until the Abraham Lincoln sent its signal back to the base in lunar orbit,” he said.  “As we went to full alert, General Secretary Boris Andropov made a very brave decision and ordered his forces to remain in stand-by mode, rather than go to alert themselves.  If we had intended to defeat them, Senator, we could not have had a better opportunity to open fire.  We will, one hopes, never have such a tempting opportunity again.”

“Perhaps you should have opened fire and have done with it,” Chapman snapped.  “Look, I know that you and General Secretary Boris Andropov have a friendship.  The point is; his people are becoming more and more…hostile to us by the day.  How long will he remain in power?”

The President stared at him.  “Why would he fall from power?”

Chapman met his eyes, holding them with all of his considerable personality.  “Because if there’s one thing that the Russians hate, its weakness.  They tolerated Stalin for years, because he was strong, and they overthrew Nicholas the Last because he was weak.  They fought to the death against Hitler, marshalling every single man and woman to fight…and I suspect that no one was as surprised as they were when they won, mainly because of our support.”

“They claim they won the Great Patriotic War on their own,” the President said mildly.  

Chapman didn’t rise to the bait.  “The CIA seems to think that the Russian economy is functioning well,” he said.  “I confess…that I’m not so sure.  Why would they have food riots in Poland if their economy is perfect?”

The President frowned, remembering a paper.  A State Department think tank had considered the possible advantages to be gained by making a major deployment to Europe of soldiers and men, just to force the Russians to spend more and more of their hard-earned currency on reinforcing their own borders.  He’d rejected the plan at once when he’d heard about it; with aliens out there somewhere, the last thing the human race needed was a possible war on their own planet.

“The CIA thinks that the economy is working as well as our own, from space,” the President said slowly.  “Like us, they have SPS systems, which they use to sell power to Africa and even the Middle East.  Like us, they mine asteroids.  Like us, in fact even more than us, they hire out spacecraft to other nations, offering them access to space on Russian terms.”

“Ready made allies,” Chapman snapped.  “Why would they do that if there wasn’t something in it for them?”

“They want the money,” the President said thoughtfully.  “India may be slightly socialist, but it’s not going to go communist in a hurry, not after China.  Pakistan wants a space program because India has one already, but they can barely afford to pay for it, which leaves us in the odd position of both powers depending on the soviets to maintain their space programs.”

Chapman spoke with great urgency.  “Space has made the American economy what it is,” he said.  “It is the most successful economy in the world.  Everyone has a job; everyone has enough to eat.  Everyone wants in on the space boom, even third-rate countries like India and Pakistan…all of which will quite happily suck Soviet cock in exchange for the program.”

The President felt a rush of distaste.  “And your point is…what?”

“If they want their own economy to boom, why are they hiring out ships to third-rate countries?”  Chapman asked.  “It makes little sense; they’re burning up what they have today and therefore losing tomorrow.”

Judith interrupted before the President could speak.  “Mr President, Senator, there’s been an…incident in New York,” she said.  “There’s a news report on Line Four.”

“I think we’d better watch this,” the President said, picking up his remote and activating the television.  The screen came to life at once, conveying the reports from New York across the country through the massive intercontinental communications cables buried deep under the ground.  The whole network had been designed to survive in the event of an alien attack, the President knew; disasters had failed to shut it down anywhere.

“Bother,” Chapman said, as the report was displayed.  There had been a riot in New York; more protesters against the war had bumped into a group of steelworkers who resented the suggestion that they should do less work – and therefore get less pay, perhaps even losing their jobs.  The counter-protesters seemed to have won the battle.

“The Draft Act has suddenly become unpopular,” the President commented.  He felt grim; the Act might well have served its purpose, but was it still necessary?

“They’re scared of fighting to keep what we have built,” Chapman sneered.  “Young people, all who live in a world of safety, one where everyone has a fair chance at becoming a Senator, even a President…and they refuse to fight for it.  Mr President, we should drop a hammer on them.”

The President scowled at him.  “It looks as if the steelworkers have already done that,” he said.  “The right to protest, the right to counter-protest…where does it end?”

“Protesting against one of the laws that keeps America safe could be considered treason,” Chapman said.  “I myself was an unwilling draftee, but look what it got me?  I, Mr President, was made what I am by the draft.”

The President sighed.  Chapman was right, in a sense; the draft did teach youngsters skills they could use later in their lives.  More than a few successful businessmen, space workers and scientists had grown out of people who’d been drafted; Times Magazine had written a particularly fine editorial on the subject.

“They will be going to the work camps anyway,” the President said, as he checked the updates from New York.  Protesting without a permit wasn’t legal; the citizens of New York would have every right to sue them, or demand criminal proceedings.  The Mayor, a staunch American Party loyalist, would certainly be in the lead.

“Some will chose to go to the army,” Chapman snapped.  “There, at least, they will serve their country.”  He scowled.  “Mr President, there is strong discontent over your mild handling of the Soviets.”

“So you have made clear to me,” the President said.  Chapman might have expected the sudden shift in the conversation to throw him, but the President had been a practicing politician for too long.  “Senator, I understand your concerns, but the Alliance has served us both well.  Do we really want to break it up over a few tiny rocks?”

Chapter Six: The Nine-Sided Pentagon

Lunar Pentagon
Lunar Orbit

When he’d been younger, Fleet Admiral Matt Burghardt had been utterly mystified by the decision to build the Lunar Pentagon; the massive space station orbiting the Moon that housed the command systems of the United States Space Force.  Older and wiser, he understood; politics alone made it tricky to build the command base in Earth’s own orbit, while a ground-based base might have had difficulty communicating its instructions to space units.  The Lunar Pentagon balanced both requirements; it was large enough to house the entire command staff and provide communication with units all the way across the solar system.

Burghardt had to smile as he stepped inside the base’s command centre.  There were other political reasons for building the base, ones that had little to do with Russian spies or even the tacit agreement to limit deployments in Earth orbit.  The entire birth of the United States Space Force had been almost aborted by the Army, the Navy and the Air Force, prompting the ironic comment from former Commander Stanford, which was now enshrined on Burghardt’s chair.

“The Soviets are our rivals,” he’d said.  “The aliens, should we ever encounter them, will be our opponents.  The Army, the Navy and the Air Force; they’re our enemies.”

“The Admiral is in the command centre,” the duty officer announced.  The Lunar Pentagon was large enough to spin on its own, generating gravity and just incidentally making it harder for any opponent to damage it with laser weapons.  Burghardt preferred that to any of the active-duty stations or shipyards, neither of which spun for anything, just to provide more stable platforms.

“As you were,” he growled, stepping over to the big display against one wall.  Like all space dwellers, he found it easier to consider the space station as a single block, rather than the spinning shape it was; it did odd things to the mind just thinking about it.  More than a few people had washed out of the USSF when they froze in the middle of a space station, trying to understand how it worked.  “Commander Jones, report.”

“No significant changes in the last updates from the other bases,” Commander Erika Jones reported.  “We have a confirmed report that the Russian Stalingrad is on its last approach to Venus now; we are expecting a report that it managed to successfully enter orbit within the next hour.  The Andrew Jackson is on its cruise to Mars, where it will recover two people who are seriously ill, and transport them to the main medical facilities there.  The Soviet Procyon Drive ship, the Maxim Gorky, is apparently having some slight drive trouble and is heading to Mars as well.”

She paused.  “At last report, Admiral Williams was concerned about the prospect of a clash at Mars,” she said.

“Blast it,” Burghardt commented.  Erika said nothing.  One of the eternal problems with space travel was that the speed of light was an absolute limit on communications between spaceships and their bases on Earth.  From the Earth to the Moon was hardly a problem, but from Earth to Mars – or the asteroid belt, or as far out as Uranus – it became a serious problem.  One of Burghardt’s private nightmares was of a war starting in the outer system, with a chain of destruction reaching across space as the signals reporting the war reached bases and outposts, hours before they reached Earth.  In the circumstances, the USSF had little choice, but to place the choice to open fire in the hands of commanding officers who might not have time to ask for orders from higher authority.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, considering.  A single miner craft, worth little more than a thousand dollars, might just trigger the war that would decimate the Solar System, just by claiming settlement rights against the might of a Soviet warship.  All it would take was a single shot…

“I don’t think that we have a leg to stand on,” he said.  “Inform Admiral Williams that he is ordered not to protest the Maxim Gorky’s trip to Mars; it’s not as if we own the entire planet, after all.  Besides, if they had serious trouble, we are obliged to help them.”

They shared a look.  Few people who had been off-planet could really appreciate the realities of space, the coldest and harshest environment known to mankind.  As long as it put American interests in no danger, every man and woman in the USSF would risk life and limb to save a Soviet spacecraft, knowing that the Soviets would do the same for them.

“Yes, sir,” Erica said.  “Neighbourhood Watch reports negative results, again, and several more miners have filed complaints.”

Burghardt scowled.  “Against the Soviets?”

Erica nodded grimly.  “No actual violence this time,” she said.  “Several miners had set up a small mining base on a large asteroid, which was actually about to receive Soviet miners within the next day or so.  After a long argument, the miners agreed to work with the Soviets for a while, but they’re still complaining.”

“I see,” Burghardt said coldly.  He was a staunch Republican – few in space supported the anti-Soviet hatred of the American Party – but he had to admit that the Soviet interpretation of the law was growing out of date.  “At least there will be profits on this side.”

“Yes, sir,” Erica said.  “Captain Franz Stephan would like to see you before the big meeting at twelve hundred hours.”

“Oh joy,” Burghardt said, rather snidely.  He had nothing against Stephan as a person – as a legal officer he was supremely skilled – but the last thing he wanted was to argue the law for several hours.  “Inform him that I’ll see him at eleven, which will give us half an hour before the big meeting.”

“Yes, sir,” Erica said.  She pointed a laser pointer towards the display.  “There’s nothing major happening,” she said.  “The Indians, by the way, have given formal notice to Earth Space Control that they intend to capture an asteroid for conversion into an Earth orbit space station, perhaps even into a space cable.  They’re using Russian equipment for most of the effort, but the Russian representatives on the Control didn’t seem happy about it.”

Burghardt snickered.  “Not our problem,” he said.  He smiled; after all the effort the Russians had invested in India’s space program, it was ironic that they would be the ones protesting an Indian attempt to escape Russian dominance.  “Has the National Command Authority issued any orders?”

“No, sir,” Erica said.  “If the situation changes, I will of course inform you.”

Burghardt looked around him at the command centre.  A dozen officers were working away on their consoles, trying to coordinate the massive American military machine around Earth and the Solar System.  With all of the space junk flying around, from satellites to massive space stations, their task grew harder with each and every year.

“Please see to it,” he said.  “I’ll be in my office; send Stephen in to see me when he arrives.”

***
The United States Space Force had grown out of the desperate rush to reach space before the invincible alien armada – or, more practically, Uncle Joe Stalin – reached Earth and the position of total military supremacy control of space bestowed.  Burghardt had studied the politics of the area during his preparation for the all-important role of Fleet Admiral; it had made the internal politics of his time seem meek and mild by comparison.  It was something of a surprise to him that anything at all had been accomplished in space; only the threat of the aliens had concentrated minds on the possible dangers to force the development of space technology.

The Air Force – or the Army Air Force as it had been in those days just before it became a separate service – had argued that it, as the aviation service, was solely responsible for space.  The Navy, which had suddenly seen that its new carriers were likely to become redundant along with most of their budget, had argued that it too had a right to control space.  The Army, in contrast, hadn’t been quite sure what it wanted to do with space, but it was sure that it didn’t want either of the other services controlling space – and just incidentally getting their hands on a large share of the monies Congress was voting for space research.

Burghardt nodded, reading his way through the latest report.  Thirty years later, Congress had finally agreed to Admiral Hainlein and Director Roddenberry’s proposals to unite all of the space services under the USSF banner, ending the inter-service rivalry…and creating more confusion for the newcomers.  The USSF was structured along naval lines, but they had a very real ‘fighter jock’ mentality and a whole force of ‘Space Marines.’  Personally, Burghardt blamed the Space Marines television show; excellent propaganda they might have been, but no one would allow them to choose a new name, such as Starship Troopers.

His personal communicator chimed.  “Admiral, Captain Franz Stephan is here for his appointment,” his secretary said.  Burghardt blinked and checked his watch; was it really that time already?  “Admiral?”

“Send him in,” Burghardt said, carefully filing the papers in his drawers, wishing that he could file them in the bin instead.  Congress was voting funds for more ships, but only for defence ships; only a handful would be able to carry a Procyon Drive.  Without the drive, it would take months for any of the other ships to reach a trouble spot.  He looked up as Stephen entered.  “Come in, Captain,” he said.  “Have a seat.”

“Certainly, sir,” Stephen said.  He saluted once, smartly, and then took a seat.  “I have some rather disturbing news for you.”

Burghardt scowled at him.  “This had better be important,” he said.  “I don’t have time to debate tiny matters when there’s a possible war on our hands.”

“A miner has filed suit against us,” Stephen said.  “I thought that you would want to know at once.”

Burghardt stared at him.  “If that’s a joke…”

“It’s not,” Stephen said.  “In fact, he’s backed by several of the larger mining companies, including the ones behind the proposal to formally accept the new interpretation of the law where…”

“I know,” Burghardt said, holding up a hand.  “We’re being sued, right?  What for?”

“It’s Oscar Spike,” Stephen said.  “As you may recall, he was one of the miners involved in the mining scandal two months ago, when he and his crew were removed from the asteroid by the USS Theodore Roosevelt and taken to Ceres, where they were arrested and shipped back to Earth.  The ship was there, sir, because the asteroids were well within Soviet claimed space, according to…”

“One bloody interpretation of the law,” Oscar Spike snapped.  “God damn him!”

“Yes, sir,” Stephen said.  “It’s hard to tell if Mr Spike is really interested in suing us himself, but certain corporations are pushing this forward as a test case.  He’s suing for damages in excess of several million dollars in profit, lost because of” – he read from the papers in his hand – “the USSF’s attachment to an outdated and illegal interpretation of the law.”

“The bastard,” Burghardt breathed.  It hadn’t been the fault of the Captain or the crew of the USS Theodore Roosevelt; they’d been obeying orders.  It couldn’t truly be said to be anyone’s fault; enforcing the law on the High Frontier was part of their job, after all.  The Soviets had complained and Spike and his crew had been removed.  “Are they deliberately trying to provoke a confrontation?”

“Who, sir?”  Stephen asked.  “It’s logical that the corporations would want to have the old interpretation revoked as soon as possible, and they would have the war chest to fight such a case.  The miners, on the other hand, seem to be very supportive of Spike as well, while the old guard politicians…”

Burghardt shook his head.  “It hardly matters,” he said.  “He’s suing my officers for performing their duties, carrying out their orders.  Who exactly does he think he can sue?”

“A hard question to answer,” Stephen admitted.  “My gut tells me that the case has been brought like this, like it has, because Spike and his backers want a very public case, one that will discredit the interpretation of the law they don’t like.  It’s a political decision, at the very heights of the USSF, but I suspect that they would be happy with a guarantee that it won’t happen again, which means de facto recognition of the modern interpretation of the law.”

Burghardt wished, not for the first time, that he had a window in his office.  The computer display of space, hauntingly still despite the station’s rotation, simply didn’t come up to what he wanted to see.  He could watch anything, from home records to landscapes, but it wasn’t real.

“It’s a political decision,” he said.  “President Woodrow will have to make any decision on the topic.”

Stephen stood up, and then hesitated.  “I have a strong feeling, sir, that someone is organising this from behind the scenes,” he said.  “After the recent…incident with the Abraham Lincoln, it may be anything but a coincidence.  It could be being planned by…”

“I would keep your speculations to yourself,” Burghardt said dryly.  “I’ll take it up with the President, after the big meeting.”

Stephen saluted.  “Yes, sir,” he said.  “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

***
The main conference room occupied a large section on the outside of the station, it having been determined that the conference room was less important than the weapons, or the fusion plant, or anything that might keep the station alive and fighting in the event of a war.  Burghardt had always understood, but there were times when he wished that the original designers had been far less noble in their intentions.  

There were seven men in the room.  He knew them all, from Captain John Sanderson, commanding officer of USS Enterprise, to Commander Jackie Burnside, Fleet Intelligence.  Despite her low rank, Jackie knew more about the Red Space Force than anyone else, even the CIA.  They had two things in common; they were all experts in their particular fields…and he trusted them to keep secrets.

He smiled suddenly.  Everyone who worked at the Lunar Pentagon had full security clearances, even the cleaners.  Still, there had been incidents involving spies; officially the Alliance members didn’t spy on one another, but both sides knew perfectly well that the other was spying on them.  It had been almost a game, with spies traded for spies, until recently…

“I will be blunt,” he said, opening the meeting without preliminaries.  “It is the opinion of the Joint Chiefs of Staff that we may have a war with the Soviet Union within months.  The Soviets…certainly seem to be moving towards confronting us on a number of levels.  Thoughts?”

Admiral Sigmund Hawk, Strategic Defence Commander, coughed.  “There is still the puzzle of why they did not simply attack us from a standing start,” he said.  “Is it not more likely that one commanding officer decided to…have a go at us on his own bat?”

“No,” Commander Jackie Burnside said shortly.  She showed no hesitation in speaking bluntly to senior officers, which explained why she remained a commander.  “Their command system is far more…complex than ours.  Any Captain” – she nodded towards Sanderson – “of ours has complete authority over his or her ship, or station; a Russian commander does not.  Each and every one of their ships has a Political Officer, a KGB Staff officer, and probably several KGB moles within the crew.”

“So that’s why they have larger crews than we do,” Sanderson commented.  His drawl echoed through the room.  “And there I was thinking that it had something to do with having extra hands to do the hard work.”

“They have less automation than we do,” Jackie said.  “The point is; it would be very difficult for any Soviet Captain to launch an attack against one of our bases without permission in triplicate.  We assume – this is only an assumption, I must note – that if there actually was a war the situation would be relaxed a bit.”

“Let’s hope not,” Sanderson said seriously.  “If they need to take five minutes to decide before opening fire, then we would have an advantage.”

“If there is a planned war,” Jackie said, ignoring him, “then their high command has to be involved.  The system is hardly fail-proof, but it’s tougher than anything we have.”

“So, they might be attacking us,” Hawk said.  “If so, what do we do about it?”

“We would need proof that they were actually engaged in a general offensive,” Commodore Tyler said softly.  “Out among the belt, it’s hard to prove who really fired first.”

“A test of the orbital defence system would be proof enough, I think,” Hawk said.  

Burghardt held up a hand.  “The decision as to whether or not we go to war is a political one; ours or the Soviets,” he said.  “Our task, here and now, is to plan the war.”

“The old DROPSHOT plan?”  Sanderson said.  “Sir…that plan is worthless.”

“I expected that,” Burghardt said.  “Details?”

He was amused to note that Sanderson didn’t seem intimidated by the challenge.  “We have major settlements on the Moon, Mars, the asteroids and further out,” he said.  “Until the Procyon Drive was invented, it was generally assumed that the outer system would have to fight with its own resources; that everything we had at Earth-Moon was going to be needed here.  The Earth was the decision point of the Solar System; whoever controlled Earth controlled the Solar System.  Now, of course, with self-supporting Soviet colonies – and ours as well, of course – the war is going to be fought everywhere in the system.”

He tapped the display.  “I took part in the tactical exercise without ships a few years ago,” he said.  “Depending on the assumptions fed into the computers, with our people playing the role of Soviet officers…”

“Something I advised against at the time,” Jackie injected.

“We either won quickly or lost quickly,” Sanderson continued.  “Once we held Earth, we could bring the rest of the system to heel…but that’s no longer true.  Sir, whoever has a large fleet in the outer solar system might still be capable of winning, even if their nation was completely wiped out.”

“A victory like that would ruin Earth,” Hawk whispered.  His command was tasked to destroy incoming weapons aimed at America, a task that was harder than many people assumed.  “What about our allies?”

“Apart from the British Commonwealth, how many of them actually contribute to space?”  Burghardt asked dryly.  He looked around the room.  “Today, people; we are going to draw up the new war plan.”  He smiled.  “If a war is coming, I want to be ready.”

Chapter Seven: Interrogation

State Police Station
New York, USA

The NYPD had been surprisingly gentle, particularly after the suppression of the riot – not one of them attempted to take advantage of Sally while she was helpless - but they had also been very firm.  Handcuffed and helpless, they had been escorted to a large police station, had a small blood sample taken from them, and placed firmly in the cells.  The NYPD didn’t seem to be strong on the rights of criminals; the cells were bare and featureless.  As soon as the doors slammed shut, leaving them alone together, Thande opened his mouth to speak.

“Quiet,” Sally said, over the private communications link.  Thande bit down his words in his mouth.  “Don’t say a word out loud, not here.  Lie down on the bunk and pretend to be trying to sleep.”

Thande concentrated, activating the biological implant inside his head.  It should be undetectable to any technology within the reality they had entered, but he knew that the signals might very well be all too detectable.  Something clicked inside his head as the implant activated, drawing power slightly – very slightly – from his brain’s electric currents.

“They’ve arrested us,” he said/thought to her.  “I would never have expected America to be a fascist state.”

“It happens more often than you might think,” Sally said, her thoughts elsewhere.  “I’ve been using very careful scans on the cell; we’re being watched, at least by some kind of surveillance program.”  She paused.  “There’s no way to hack into the systems without using non-Contemporary technology.”

Thande blinked, trying to keep his face still.  “So, you can’t alter their records?”

He got a mental impression of Sally shaking her head.  Her body, lying on the bed, never even twitched.  “Not at all,” she said.  “That’s not suspicious, but it’s odd; there is a degree of paranoia here that I don’t understand.  Your computers were built to interface with almost any other computer; these computers seem to be a completely separate intranet.  There are literally no points that I can use to get into the system with this implant.”

“I see,” Thande said slowly.  “Now what?”

Sally smiled once.  “They seem to think that we’re secure here,” she said.

Thande sent the mental impression of him sticking out his tongue.  “Our hands are firmly handcuffed behind our backs,” he said, becoming aware of the discomfort for the first time since lying on the bed.  “I seem to think that we’re secure here.  Why don’t we just go?”

“Why?”  Sally asked innocently.  She thought in an almost coy tone.  He was surprised that she didn’t bat her eyelashes.  “We’re not in any real danger of being hurt, are we?”

Thande would have stared at her if he could have moved quickly enough.  “You know what I mean,” he said/thought.  “We’re in the hands of the local police, who will…what?  What happens if someone doesn’t have an identification card?”

Sally’s thoughts radiated grim steel.  “And you know what I mean,” she said.  “A pair of people vanishing in a flash of white light would be noticed here.  If the Enemy is hooked into the Government, they are bound to notice and then start wondering if we’re active here.  No, we stay here for the moment.”

Thande allowed a flash of anxiety to colour his thoughts.  “So, what’s our cover identity?”  He asked.  “What do we tell them when they ask who we are?”

“Thande and Sally Iona,” Sally said.  “We’re British citizens, on our honeymoon.  We left our papers back at the hotel; would they kindly let us go now?”

“Is that the best you can do?”  Thande asked.  “We’re doomed.”

Sally smiled.  “I’m sending you some details into your implant now,” she said.  “Unfortunately, I’m working from very little; we know nothing at all about the Britain here, for example.  Hopefully, posing as British citizens will gain us some credence from the local authorities.”

Thande grinned.  “And when they offer to take us to the British Embassy?”

“We accept gratefully, of course,” Sally said.  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Thande opened his mouth to say something cutting, when the cell door burst open.  “On your feet, you two,” a guard said.  His voice had only a hint of Irish accent within it.  “The Captain wants to see you.”

He helped Sally to her feet, her hands still handcuffed.  “Do we have to wear these?”  Sally asked.  She put on her most beguiling tone.  “We’re not criminals.”

The guard gave her a dry look.  “I do happen to be married,” he said.  Thande smiled in sudden amusement; was adultery a rare event on this particular side of the looking glass?  “Standing orders; all people in the temporary cells wear handcuffs, without exceptions.”

“Bother,” Thande commented.  He kept his voice deliberately even.  “What happens when we need to go to the toilet?”

The guard paused.  “Do you have to go?”  He asked.  “If so, you’ll have to go now, before the Captain sees you.”

Sally nodded.  “Yes, please,” she said.  “Thande?”

“No thanks,” Thande said.  The guard nodded once and led them along the corridors into a room that felt – and smelt – like a swimming pool.  A policewoman stood up as they entered, nodding once to the guard and giving Thande a dirty look.

“One for the toilet,” the guard said.  He turned to face Thande as the policewoman hustled Sally away.  The clinking of Sally’s handcuffs could be heard as they turned around the corner, followed by the sound of running water.  “Are you sure that you don’t want to go?”

Thande nodded.  “Why is she going in with Sally?”  He asked, playing the innocent tourist.  “Why can’t she go in on her own?”

“Oh, they’ll have fun with her hands cuffed,” the guard said.  He laughed, unpleasantly.  “It can get quite messy, but the criminals have no rights.  That includes no right to commit suicide, or try to escape.”

Thande smiled.  “What an excellent idea,” he said, playing the innocent as best as he could.  “This is really jolly exciting.”

“Oh, a limey,” the guard said.  Thande half-expected him to make a remark about the potato famine.  “Where will your people stand when war comes?”

Thande, having absolutely no idea of the political situation, shrugged.  “I imagine that we’ll support you,” he said, suspecting that that was what the guard wanted to hear.  “I’m not the Prime Minister, though; just a simple tourist.”

***
Lieutenant Solomon Ben Gruver, Chief Records Officer at the Police Station, tapped on the door of his commander, Captain Abraham Douglas.  There was a long moment and then Douglas shouted to him to come in quickly.  He adjusted his glasses on his face, before opening the door and stepping inside.  Captain Douglas, a fit burly black man of indeterminate age – Gruver had once accessed the personnel database and discovered that Captain Douglas was forty-three – nodded at him as he saluted; he’d once been in the military and ran the police station with military precision.

“I have the records on the prisoners,” he said, allowing some of his puzzlement to leak into his voice.  “Most of them are students from two nearby universities, all from courses that would hardly have guaranteed them the exemption they wanted.”

Captain Douglas snorted.  “You can’t get something for nothing,” he said.  “Anything special about them, or should we simply run them in front of a tame judge, give them the standard sentence, and wash our hands of them?”

“There’s nothing too special about them,” Gruver said.  “One of the women, they injured redhead, was once a member of the Communist Party, but apparently left under a cloud.”

“They all say that,” Captain Douglas said.  His voice dripped with scorn.  “All those spies they catch, all former members of the Communist Party.”

Gruver didn’t bother to correct the Captain.  “One of the boys had a previous conviction for drunken behaviour,” he said.  “It wasn’t much; just three weeks in a work gang in Nevada.  Other than that, nothing from the students.”

He took a breath.  “All of the steelworkers we arrested had excellent records,” he continued.

“That’s good,” Captain Douglas said crossly.  “The Mayor is breathing down my neck to have them released as soon as possible, so have them tossed out on their ear as soon as the interview is finished.”  He smiled.  “What about the happy couple?”

Gruver took a breath.  “There are…peculiarities about their data,” he said.  He hadn’t wanted to discuss that with the Captain, but Captain Douglas had left him no choice.  “Quite bluntly, sir; they don’t exist.”

Captain Douglas stared at him.  “Everyone exists, Lieutenant,” he snapped.  “What exactly do you mean?”

“I put the names they gave us into the computer first,” Gruver explained.  “No match.  I expanded it slightly, running their likenesses through the CCTV network, and the only matches are the ones from today, from the parade.”  He paused for effect, even though he suspected that drama was wasted on Captain Douglas.  “I then took one of the blood samples we took and ran it through the system.”

Captain Douglas sighed.  “Give it to me straight,” he said.  “Why don’t they exist?”

“We have blood records on almost everyone within America, certainly records on every foreign visitor to America,” Gruver said.  “They’re…not included, which means that they somehow slipped through the screening process at the airports, or the space cables, or somewhere else.  The woman…might just have a handful of relatives, but the match is so…insignificant…sir, on that scale, you and I might be brothers.”

Captain Douglas laughed dryly.  “And the man?”

“Now that’s even more interesting,” Gruver said.  “His file seems to exist in some form, behind a security barrier.  I have forwarded the contact to the ISA; they’re the ones who handle that particular barrier.”

“How…curious,” Captain Douglas said.  “Anything else, any clues, in their possessions?”

“Some money, almost nothing else except dust,” Gruver said.  “The woman’s handbag had a great deal of very fine dust in it.”

Captain Douglas drew the connection at once.  “Something was in the bag and was disintegrated,” he said.  “What?”

Gruver shrugged.  “I have no idea,” he admitted.  “One final interesting point; their blood had a lower radiation count than most people here do, which suggests that they have never been into space.”

“Hardly unusual,” Captain Douglas said.  “Fine; I’m curious too.”  He frowned.  “Did the ISA get around to sending anything back?”

“No, sir,” Gruver said.  “They must be still on their lunch break.”

“Four in the afternoon,” Captain Douglas said.  “That sounds exactly like that.  Very well; you stay here when we interrogate them.”

***
Thande studied the big oak door with considerable amusement; it was the first personal touch they’d seen in the entire police station.  Sally had said nothing since she’d been to the toilet, her face creased in a darkening expression that bothered Thande.  The door opened when the guard stepped inside, waving them both into the room.

“This is Captain Douglas,” the guard said, indicating a middle-aged black man sitting at the desk.  A second man, tall, thin and somehow…disciplined looking, leant against the wall with folded arms, a pose right out of the more disreputable adventure novels or television shows.  Thande was grimly certain that the man was a trained combat expert, despite wearing glasses; the most dangerous man he’d ever met had looked harmless.

“Pleased to meet you,” Thande said, noticing that Sally wasn’t saying anything.  “I would shake hands, except…”

He shook his hands, clinking the handcuffs.  “I quite understand,” Captain Douglas said.  His voice held hints of the Bronx, which wasn’t – Thande supposed – surprising, given where they were.  “I apologise for the handcuffs, but prisoners…”

“Have no rights,” Thande said.  It seemed almost to be a mantra here.  “It’s quite all right, Captain; when can we leave?”

Captain Douglas waved them both to stools.  Thande noted with grim amusement that they were designed for people wearing handcuffs, with an open area at the rear.  “There are a number of formalities to go through first,” Captain Douglas said.  “For a start, the carrying of identification cards was mandated thirty years ago or thereabouts…why were you carrying none of them?”

Thande blinked, trying his best to look astonished.  “We’re not American citizens,” he protested.  “We came here on a honeymoon…”

“All visitors to our fair shores are obliged to carry identification at all times,” Captain Douglas said.  “That should have been made clear to you at the orientation session.  Where exactly are you staying?”

“The Waldorf hotel,” Thande said.  Captain Douglas seemed to smile at the news.  “What exactly is going to happen now?”

Captain Douglas seemed to consider.  “Under normal circumstances, this…minor offence would result in a major fine, one that would seriously diminish your holiday funds.  As you were arrested near a protest march, instead of taking part in the march, that would be considered as a point in your favour; say, ten thousand dollars, or thereabouts.”

Thande gaped at him.  It required no acting ability.  “Of course, if you’d actually been caught in the protest without identification, particularly seeing how it…ended…”

“Those other men broke it up,” Thande said.  He knew that his outrage was seeping into his voice and didn’t care.  “Who the hell were they?”

“The local steelworker’s guild,” Captain Douglas said.  His face smiled; his eyes did not.  “It seems that they didn’t like people suggesting that they should work less for less money, or that people should be nicer to the Soviet pirates.  A lot of people here do well for themselves, but others have problems making ends meet; upturn in the economy or not.”

He chuckled.  It was a harsh unfunny sound; the noise of a man laughing because he felt that he should laugh, not out of genuine humour.  “So, who are you?”  He asked.  “What are your names?”

Sally spoke, her voice faint.  “We are Thande and Sally Iona,” she said, playing the part of the nervous young bride.  Captain Douglas’s grin grew wider, like a shark’s grin.  “Sir, please will you let us leave?”

“Of course not,” Captain Douglas said.  “My dear…Thande, if that is indeed your real name, the Waldorf Hotel burned down some time ago.  In the current climate, when no one knows if New York will last out the month, I don’t think that anyone would rebuild it.”  He smiled.  “Mr Gruver?”

The tall thin man spoke up.  His accent was flat, almost without a detectable accent at all, his long fingers moving as he spoke.  “You have no records at all,” he said.  “There is no sign of your very existence, past the recordings of the protest march that became a riot.”  His voice showed little emotion, but Thande was sure that he could hear a hint of curiosity.  “Mr Thande, who are you really?”

Sally’s the one you should talk to, Thande thought coldly, mentally cursing the Time Agents and their unknown backers.  They’d hardly bothered to do any research at all; testing exercise or not, it was becoming far too unnerving, particularly if the Enemy were really involved in this weird timeline.  They’d been sent in almost totally blind.

“You carry no weapon, which is odd for someone from Britain,” Captain Douglas said.  “Many of them enjoy carrying weapons around when they come here.  You have money…and nothing else, but a handbag full of dirt.  Why?”

The duplicator must have destroyed itself, Thande thought.  He said nothing.  There was nothing to say.

“I think that you’re spies,” Captain Douglas said.  Under the circumstances, it was an astonishingly close guess.  His voice hardened as he spoke.  “Who exactly are you working for?”

Thande closed his eyes, trying to speak in a bored monotone, knowing that it was futile.  “We are British citizens,” he said.  “I respectfully request that you take us to the British Embassy.”

Captain Douglas met his gaze.  “Do you work for…what’s it called?  MI6?  Why would one of the foremost intelligence services in the world send you in like this, totally unprepared?  I think…I think that you’re the diversion and we’re missing something somewhere else.”

Thande almost groaned.  Of all the police officers they could have met, they had to meet one who seemed to think that he would have made a great spy catcher.  “What do you say to that, Mr Thande?”

“We are not spies,” Thande said, as the telephone rang.  He wished that he dared try to talk to Sally; it was so hard, like navigating a minefield without knowing the terrain – or the shape of the minefield.  “What proof do you have?”

“Waterproof,” Captain Douglas announced delightedly.  Thande almost groaned again.  Captain Douglas glanced up at Gruver, who had answered the telephone.  “Lieutenant?”

“Captain, it’s for you,” Gruver said, passing over the phone as if it were a poisonous snake.  Thande saw and wondered why; who could be on the other end of the line?

“Thank you,” Captain Douglas said, taking the phone.  “Captain Douglas speaking.”

Thande watched as Captain Douglas’s face paled remarkably for a black man.  “Yes, sir,” he said finally.  “I’ll have them transported to Cheyenne Mountain at once.”  There were more unintelligible mutterings from the phone.  “Of course, sir; I’ll see to it personally.  Goodbye, sir.”

Captain Douglas put down the phone and stared at both of them.  “That was the ISA duty officer,” he said.  His tone was stunned, disbelieving.  “They had some orders relating to you two.”

Thande waited for a beat, and then ran out of patience.  “And what do they want you to do with us?”

“My orders are simple,” Captain Douglas said.  “I’m to give you both a quick meal, and then I’m to see to it that you get transported to one of the main military centres in the country.  Mr Thande, Mrs Sally; what the hell are you?”

“That’s classified way above your pay grade,” Thande improvised, looking at Sally for guidance.  She nodded once, slowly.  “Captain, believe me; you’d be a lot better off not knowing anything about it.”

The lines had come from a thriller novel he’d read once.  As Captain Douglas personally unlocked their handcuffs and led them towards the cafeteria, Thande could only wonder.  What did the mysterious ISA know that made collecting the pair of them so important?

And what did it mean for the War?

Chapter Eight: Boot Camp

Prison Compound
Near New York, USA

“All right, you little punks, listen up.”

Dyson looked up from his place in the large camp as the burly man, wearing a military uniform that didn’t quite disguise his growing paunch, stepped up onto the platform.  They’d spent the night at the camp, completely cut off from the world, past the mandatory telephone call.  He’d attempted to explain himself to his father, but his dad had been horrified; all of the neighbours would be horrified.

“You have all been taking part in violent protests without the permission of the Mayor’s office and giving aid and comfort to possible enemies of the United States of America,” the man continued.  “Under the Resistance to Draft Act, passed 2009 and revised the following year, your behaviour is quite unacceptable.  In fact, I would go so far as to call it high treachery.

“For the moment, you can forget about graduation,” he continued.  There was a long heavy sigh from the crowd; several students began to cry.  “Your universities have discarded you from their records, particularly those of you who had high results on the military training programs; you may never have another opportunity to study again, or have any choice at all about what you do when drafted – if you were to be drafted.”

He stared down at them for a long moment.  “I don’t understand it,” he said.  “Statistically, how could we possibly conscript all of you?  There are millions of students; the odds are something like one in five that any single one of you would be drafted, particularly with all of the volunteers.”

Dyson said nothing.  He had the feeling that political debate would be useless against the massive form of the man.  “I don’t understand it,” the man repeated.  “You have a good life because of thousands of people like myself – like your parents – serving their time protecting America and building America into a good nation.  And instead of serving for the benefit of your own children – assuming that weak-chinned people like yourselves ever have children – you spit on the flag and refuse to serve!”

He glared down at them.  “Were it up to me, you would all be spending the next ten years on a chain gang,” he said.  He placed more scorn than Dyson would have believed possible into his voice.  “Fortunately for you, the revised version of the Act gives you a choice; you can put yourself down for military service for a standard period of five years, or you can spend those five years working off your debt to society in a work gang, doing the work most people shun.”

He smiled, not very nicely.  “Please,” he said.  “Choose the work gang.  Please, spare your country the danger of you attempting to fight in its defence.  Please, spend five years in boring barracks, but nice and safe and actually quite well fed.  Choose.”

“You heard the nice Sergeant there,” another man called.  Dyson stared at him; unlike the Sergeant, he was fitter and trimmed, carrying himself with an effortless competence.  “Make your choice; anyone who wants to sign up for five years in the service, come over here.  Anyone else, stay where you are.”

Dyson thought quickly.  Without his graduation, he wouldn’t be able to do anything he had wanted to do, even without the arrest blot on his record.  Employers would look twice at anyone if he or she had criminal convictions, but they wouldn’t want to hire them.  His father wouldn’t put him up at home any longer, not after getting arrested, and he certainly wouldn’t want a son who had spent five years in a work gang.

He made his choice and strode over to the second man.  “I would like to sign up,” he said, when he got an enquiring look.  “What do I do?”

“You give me your identity card,” the man said.  Dyson passed it over, allowing him to scan it though his portable reader.  “Samuel Dyson, 19 years old,” the man read.  “No criminal convictions; has a major in engineering studies, was working on a degree for civilian work before joining the Peace Front.”  He gave Dyson a dry look.  “What exactly were you thinking?”

“I didn’t want everyone to die,” Dyson said.  He refused to be drawn into a debate.  “What now?”

“You have good army training,” the man continued, ignoring him.  “You showed promise in small unit actions and suggestions of higher command ability; you certainly led your team to victory in the war games, three years ago.”

Dyson smiled, remembering the triumph.  He’d cheated, but cheating was allowed; provided everyone had a fair chance to cheat.  Fair play, they’d all been told, meant that they weren’t playing fair; a little joke with a serous point.  The portable homemade radio Jammer had utterly disrupted the other team’s commander.

The man looked up at him.  “I’m Captain Graves, by the way,” he said.  Dyson found the name oddly appropriate.  “Why did you never continue with the offered advanced training course?  You might have made a very good soldier.  Hellfire, son; you had an opportunity to train for one of the battlesuit units!”

“I never liked it,” Dyson said, unwilling to admit that part of him had enjoyed the night time war games.  “I wanted to study engineering, not…”

“Much good it did you,” Captain Graves sneered.  “Congratulations; welcome to the army.”  He pointed a long hand towards a bus.  “Get abroad,” he said.  “Once we have everyone on the bus, we’ll head off to Camp Washington and get you all started on the training session.”

Dyson nodded.  “Do we get a phone call to inform our folks of what’s happening?”

“Once you’re at the camp, you get a certain allowance of telephone calls and network access,” Captain Graves informed him.  “Now, get on the bus and let me handle the next…two hundred or so.  Not many with the stomach to fight in the Peace Front; would you let the enemy beat the crap out of you without daring to fight back?”

Dyson glanced behind him.  A large queue had formed behind him, but far more were waiting to be led off to the work camps.  “No, sir,” he said.  “We just wanted to change the world.”

***
The American Army had abolished racial segregation in 1950, desperately preparing for the expected alien attack.  Hundreds of new divisions had been raised for combat, facing an attack that had somehow never materialised.  As America’s cities had been prepared for war, the army had grown and grown, even though few saw a real use for it when the enemy controlled space.  The public supported the army; it, more than anything else, had broken the spectre of racial hatred in America.  When black army veterans had white friends who were fellow soldiers, united by blood, racial organisations like the Ku Klux simply melted in the sun.  The final members of the KKK had spent the remainder of their lives in penal colonies, working for the benefit of America.

Sexual segregation had remained until 1980, as women entered the military in larger numbers, including the rapidly expanding USSF.  Simple numbers and the dictates of a combat environment – even though the Army had not been involved in a major campaign past the Mexican Intervention and the Cuban Intervention – had forced integration forward, something that had also benefited society as a whole.

As Dyson stepped out of the hot and smelly bus, he was astonished to see that there were thousands of new recruits, all signing up in the fervour caused by the incidents with the Soviet Union.  He almost stopped as he saw the crowd, but the person following him pushed him forward.  Nervously, feeling very alone, he walked forward into the crowd.

He stared at the organised chaos.  There were people of all races and sexes; some of them were more than likely to be homosexual.  He had to smile; Congress had ruled in 1990 that if a person was willing to put their lives on the line to defend America, than who cared what sexuality they had?  Sexual relations of all stripes were discouraged, but everyone knew someone who knew someone who had spent his time in service sleeping with a female servicewoman.

A loud whistle blew, attracting all ears.  “Welcome to Camp Washington,” Captain Graves bellowed, as the racket quietened down slightly.  “This is a basic camp designed for a six-week course that will get you back into the army style and have you selected into your basic formations.  You will be examined, put through your drills, and then you’ll be split up into separate groups, depending upon what you’re doing.”

He stared down at them.  “You have all taken the oath in the recruiting stations,” he said.  Dyson, who hadn’t, frowned, unable to say a word.  “That is a serious oath; no one here is allowed to act against the interests of the entire army.  If you have problems with people from outside, they stay outside; what you did on the outside doesn’t matter here.  You are all equal here; your task is to obey orders and become soldiers.  Understand?”

There was a cheer.  “I will now hand you over to Sergeant DiGritz, who will direct you though the first day here,” Captain Graves said.

An even larger man stepped up, his face a mixture of firmness and friendliness.  Dyson studied him with care; he looked older than Captain Graves, with scars all over his face, which was vaguely Hispanic.  His body seemed to be working properly; his grey hair didn’t seem to be slowing him down at all.

“Welcome,” Sergeant DiGritz said shortly.  “The first thing that happens is a medical test, which is also the basic security check.  You will be tested for everything under the sun and a few things that aren’t under the sun, and then we will sort you out into basic teams.  Any questions?”

Someone raised their hand in the silence.  “Sir…”

“I am not a ‘sir,’” Sergeant DiGritz said, putting on an air of exaggerated patience.  Dyson realised that he went through that every year.  “’Sergeant’ will do for the moment; when we know each other better we’ll graduate to ‘Your Supremacy.’”  Only the glint in his eye revealed that he was joking.  “Now, your question?”

“When will we join active units?”  The speaker asked.  “I want to get stuck into the Reds…”

Sergeant DiGritz gave him a dry look.  “That, young man, will depend upon how well you do in the first month.  If you prove yourself to be capable, you will be rotated out to an active-duty unit pretty soon.  If not, you’ll be stuck here for a while longer.”  He paused.  “Any more questions?”

There was a long moment of silence.  “No?”  Sergeant DiGritz asked.  “All right; men in that door there, women in the other door, double quick!

Dyson winced.  There was a long moment of absolute confusion, made more confusing by the different groups of people, before everyone was slowly filing their way into the first building.  He looked around for Maureen, wondering if she was in the female line, but he didn’t see her.  He wondered what had become of her as the line slowed down, finally stopping for ten long minutes.

“Next,” someone shouted from inside the building, and they stepped inside.  Dyson recognised the design; it was a basic hospital, one designed for taking as many people as possible.  The design had become popular during the long period of preparing for civil defence, even though there were now private hospitals that provided more personal care than any public hospital.

“Over here, young man,” a male nurse said, directing him towards a small section behind a curtain.  Inside, he saw a female doctor, opening her filing papers already and pointing a finger towards the bed.

“Pass me your card and then strip,” she said shortly.  Dyson didn’t bother to argue; he’d been through the entire process at the regular school and college health checks.  Protests meant nothing to the doctors who staffed them, trying to eliminate such problems as venereal disease and ill health.  He stripped down to his underpants and lay on the bed, waiting as patently as he could.

“No serious health problems,” the doctor commented.

“No, madam,” Dyson said.  “Not since I broke my leg while I was in first grade.”

“It seems to have mended nicely, according to this,” the doctor said.  The little chip on his ID card would have provided all of the data she could have wished for.  “You don’t have a weight problem, or any major problems.”  She looked over at him.  “Take off your underpants.”

Dyson flushed, but complied; she examined him everywhere, even in the most private of parts.  “Nice muscle development,” she said.  “You have been keeping yourself fit?”

“Regular exercise, Madam,” Dyson said.  “I do a lot of exercise, such as cycling and running and playing basketball…”

“Good, good,” the doctor said.  “I see no mention of a contraceptive implant,” she said.  “Are you a virgin?”

Dyson was sure that his burning face would set the bed on fire.  “Madam…”

“I need to know,” she said.  “Soldiers have a more active libido than most people, young man.”

Dyson shook his head.  “It was after we won the games and…”

“I don’t have to know all of the details,” the doctor said, carefully drawing a sample of his blood.  “I just have to know if it’s worth the effort of making the checks.  You’ll need an implant, by the way.”

“I don’t have any plans to become a father…”

“And lots of girls don’t have plans to become a mother,” the doctor said, rather tartly.  “I think that you can do without accidentally having to marry someone who might not be right for you.  Report back here…at some point; I’ll send you an email when we have more time.”

“Yes, Madam,” Dyson said, having given up trying to argue.  “What about the blood?”

The doctor examined the blood-sampling device.  “It seems fine,” she said.  “You have the normal range of vaccines and other stuff in your bloodstream; no traces of alcohol or drugs, both of which would have earned you a punishment duty.  Now, any other questions?”

“No, Madam,” Dyson said.  “Anything else?”

“You may leave the room,” the doctor said.  “Walk along the yellow line on the floor” – she pointed down towards the arrows – “and one of the sergeants will show you to your barracks.  Welcome to the army.”

She turned away from him, saying nothing else.  Rather put out, Dyson dressed quickly, recovering his card and other details before following the line outside into a smaller group.  He didn’t recognise any of the people in it; they were a fairly mixed group of men and women, facing another sergeant.

“Ah, our final recruit,” the sergeant said.  His face creased into something like a smile.  “I am Sergeant Davis.  Follow me.”

He led the way away from the medical station, talking all the time.  “You will be spending the next few weeks as part of a united force,” he said.  “Some of you will probably be transferred out; ideally, at the end of six months we have an active team made up of the remains that can be slotted into a regiment somewhere as an active duty unit.  For the moment, you’re a team; enjoy it.  Remember, you live or die on how well the team works together when the shit hits the fan, so…”

They reached a long dark building, one clearly far larger than the twenty-one of them would need.  “This is Barrack Unit Five, Section Two, Camp Washington,” Sergeant Davis said.  “This will be your home for the next few weeks, perhaps for months.”  As they stepped inside, revealing row after row of bunk beds, Sergeant Davis pointed to a single section, one with two showers and two toilets.

“This is your section, Section Two,” he said.  “You’ll notice that we are a bit snowed under at the moment, so we will be breaking you into the army life over the next week more gently than we normally would.  For the moment, this is the team’s space; you don’t let any other team use your stuff” – he pointed at the showers – “without permission from one of us.

“You get two hours to get used to the team space, and then we will be having the evening meal,” he said, putting on a fake hotel accent.  “After that, there will be a run around the camp which all of you will complete before anyone gets any supper.”  There were some chuckles.  “I’m serious,” Sergeant Davis said.  “Now…on the bunks you’ll notice that there are some documents; I would advise you to read them carefully.”

Dyson looked over at the bunks.  They didn’t seem large enough to hold a dog, let alone a man, but he was familiar with them from his school days.  “Tomorrow, a section leader will be chosen from among you, but until then behave yourselves, understand?”

“Yes, sergeant,” Dyson said.  There was a small chorus of agreement.

“Two hours, then report outside, wearing the basic army uniforms,” Sergeant Davis ordered, pointing to the small pile of clothing at the rear of the section.  “There are military issue trousers, military issue jackets, military issue underpants and military issue bras.”  He paused.  “If any of the guys wear them, it will be a punishment duty for them; that joke stopped being funny after the first two years.”

“The clothes you can’t use, because they’re the wrong size; bring them outside and dump them in the hoppers, understand?  If there aren’t enough clothes of a particular size, wait until the hoppers get filled from the other sections.  If there still isn’t one of the right size, come find me.”

“Yes, sergeant,” they all said.

Sergeant Davis grinned.  “Welcome to the army,” he said.  “I hope that it will make something of all of you.”

Chapter Nine: Unidentified Space Object

Asteroid Cluster #857759
Deep Space

“This,” Captain John Howard declared, “is a fine reward for discovering the Soviet craft that attacked Area 72.”

His first officer smiled from her place in the tiny office.  Both of them were trying to drink coffee from squeeze bulbs, something that wasn’t always easy at the best of times.  Without a functional gravitational field generator – something the techs were certain that the Roswell ship had had – there was no way to drink a proper cup of coffee.

“I think that the government – both governments – wanted to keep down the tension,” Commander Jane Hammond said.  She sucked her coffee without regard for its fine Jamaican origins.  “We’re the bearers of bad news; ergo, we get sent somewhere where no one has to see us.”

“Or at least most of each government,” Howard commented.  He scowled down at the regular political update from Fleet Command.  “The Soviets are saying all the right things, but they seem to be having problems deciding what they want to do about the situation.”

“We ought to kick them hard too,” Jane said.  “Just to remind them that we have ships, and missiles, and the drive too.”

“Then the tension won’t fade,” Howard said, scowling.  It was maddening; they’d done everything right…and they’d been exiled up above the system plane, examining more asteroids that by rights were in interstellar space.  Some scientists might consider them vitally important and interesting; he didn’t find their thousand-year orbits interesting at all.  “They poke us, we poke them…and then some idiot fires on the wrong ship and the war begins.”

Jane shrugged.  “We’ve had that argument before,” she said.  “Problem is; we have to break them out of the habit, not give it up for ourselves.”

Howard scowled.  “It still bites, though,” he said.

The USS Abraham Lincoln had been heading away from the solar system for two weeks, heading upwards out of the system plane.  No other ship could have made such a rapid transit, one that ignored little details like the laws of physics, but it took them well away from civilisation.  Out in the darkness, it was easy to believe that they were completely alone in space, without even direct communications with anywhere else.  

Jane nodded, her short hair flapping in the breeze from the air filters.  “I dare say that if war looks more likely, the Fleet Command won’t want us hanging around up here,” she said.  “They’ll call us back if it looks like shooting is going to break out.”

“That’s very…reassuring,” Howard said dryly.  “Speaking of which, how are we on the weapons front now?”

“Well, we’ve been running drills,” Jane said.  “As per your orders, we have drilled and drilled; the weapons crew now hates my guts, by the way.  The good news is that simulations make us the most likely to survive a clash with the Maxim Gorky or another of its class, although the plans to attempt to scale down the Procyon Drive for missiles make me nervous.”

Howard nodded slowly.  The Procyon Drive might have freed them from some problems, but it created others; for example, it could only provide a safe speed of around a third of the speed of light…or the drive’s power would smash everyone inside the ship against the bulkheads hard enough to kill them all before they ever knew what had happened to him.  In theory, the drive could generate a field that would push a spacecraft to half the speed of light, but that would be suicide for a manned spacecraft.  For an unmanned missile, however…

“I think that that’s some distance off,” Howard said.  “Building the drive we have, let alone the one that the Gorky has, was expensive and difficult.  Scaling it down will take time and effort, even for the best and brightest.  How else do we compare?”

“The Gorky has more lasers and missiles,” Jane said.  “It has fewer automated systems and ECM; we might be able to beat it in a duel as we will have better counter-missile fire.  The Gorky has less armour than we do – the Soviets don’t seem to have pressed forward the development of ceramic armour as much as we have – but it does carry nuclear missiles.”

“And if one of them hits us, bang,” Howard said dryly.  “We’ll just have to be somewhere else when it goes off.”

Jane smiled dryly.  A nuclear warhead made a massive impact on the surface of a planet, but far less in the depths of space.  The threat of EMP had once been deadly, but the new computers made it far less dangerous, even to largely automated ships.  The Abraham Lincoln might not be able to outrace a missile with the Procyon Drive, but it could almost certainly outrun any other kind of missile.

“I think that we would also be able to melt it quite quickly with our lasers,” Jane said.  “That would really ruin their day, unless they’re deploying stealth missiles.”

Howard shrugged.  “Those things can’t hit the broadside of a barn,” he said.  “Any acceleration…and the entire world can see them.”

“And to think it seemed like a good idea at the time,” Jane said.  She checked her wristcom.  “I think that the first probe to Cluster #857759 will make close approach to the first asteroids in a few minutes,” she said.  “There’s no point in us being there.”

“True,” Howard agreed.  The survey crew could do all of the work before the Abraham Lincoln made its own approach to the asteroids.  The plan called for them to spend a week examining the rocks for anything interesting or useful, and then proceed on to the next little cluster.  “I think that the bridge crew can handle it themselves.”

“You should be getting some more sleep,” Jane said, changing the subject with a speed that only she was capable of, at least in Howard’s opinion.  “Captain, you have been working for the last four hours.”

Howard nodded to the computer display.  “Crew efficiency reports,” he said.  “We have fifty-two people on board, not counting the survey experts, and all of them have to have me reading their reports and…”

His wristcom chimed the emergency tone.  “This is the Captain,” he said, lifting it to his mouth.  “Report!”

Lieutenant Marian Davidson’s voice echoed through the wristcom.  “Captain, I think that you and Commander Hanover should come to the bridge at once,” she said.  “I think…I think that we have a Code Blue.”

Howard felt his mouth fall open.  His first thought was that it was a hoax, or a simple case of mistaken identity, but he knew that Marion wasn’t the type to jump at shadows.  He looked up at Jane, who looked exactly as stunned as he felt.  “We’re on our way,” he said.  “Seal the bridge; all recordings to be transmitted into the secure store, not a word outside the ship.”

“Yes, sir,” Marian said.  “So far, the data hasn’t been shown to the survey officers.”

“Keep it that way,” Howard ordered.  The mixture of fear and thrill that came with any possible Code Blue ran through his system.  “We’re on our way.”

***
The main display was building an image from the probe’s reports, constructing a 3D image of the…object, floating in the middle of the asteroid field.  It was damaged, but surprisingly intact; whoever had parked it there had placed it almost perfectly within the field.

“My God,” he heard Jane breathe, behind him.  He found it hard to disagree at all.  “It’s them; they’ve come back.”

The ship was long, longer than the Abraham Lincoln, almost three hundred meters long.  It was strangely shaped, with a strange flattened squid-like prow, which ran down to an angular drive section at the end of the ship.  Parts of its hull were damaged, with dark scoring and breaches everywhere, but there was enough of the original hull left to ensure protection of the internal systems.

A crew might still be alive, he thought absently.  “Marian, how long until we reach the asteroid cluster?”

“Around twenty minutes at current speed,” Marion said.  “Sir, I took the liberty of warning engineering to prepare for higher acceleration.”

“Good thinking,” Howard said.  “Sensors, is there any sign of life?”

“Nothing at all,” Lieutenant Singh said.  “The probe has found no traces of any energy leakage at all.  Of course, there might be something…unknown out there, but there are no attempts to attract our attention, activate a drive field, or anything else.”

Howard stared up at the picture of the alien ship.  How long have you waited out here?  He asked it silently.  What are you waiting for?

He closed his eyes, wishing that someone – anyone – else were in his position.  It was suddenly a very hot seat indeed.  “Jane, I think that we should send a small exploration team,” he said.  “I won’t take the ship too close; you’ll have to take the launch.”

Jane nodded.  “Yes, sir,” she said, her usual confidence shaken.  “Five crew?”

“Yes,” Howard said.  “Maintain radio silence and inspect the ship.  Any sign of trouble, you pull out at once and inform the ship.”

“Yes, sir,” Jane said.  “Sir, I am obliged to remind you that under Code Blue we are supposed to inform Fleet Command at once of the discovery.”

“I know,” Howard said.  “Lieutenant Malady, please prepare an encrypted signal, one for the nearest relay station, and transmit it on my command.  Attach all of our sensor records; conclude with Jane’s team being sent over.”

Jane frowned.  “Sir, given all the fuss over the Russians, should we be telling anyone?”

Howard scowled.  “Under Code Blue, we are to inform Fleet Command,” he said.  “We won’t go shouting it all over the system.  Form your crew, Commander, and take point.”

Jane saluted.  “Yes, sir,” she said.  “I’ll launch as soon as we get into range.”

***
The good ship – or rather launch – Adam Bomb - was the smallest spacecraft designed by the USSF.  It wasn’t a proper spacecraft at all, as it only carried minimal life support, but it was intended to serve as a small inter-orbital transport if the Abraham Lincoln couldn’t dock at a service station on its own.  In an emergency, it was tasked with carrying the crew off the ship, although without any real prospect of rescue afterwards.

Jane smiled to herself as the Adam Bomb disconnected itself from the Abraham Lincoln.  One great advantage of the Abraham Lincoln was that it didn’t spin for gravity, allowing her to jet away without worrying about the spin jamming up her manoeuvres.  She deployed the small gas jets as the launch fell away from the Abraham Lincoln, steering it towards the asteroids.  The ship’s radar showed the asteroids as the Abraham Lincoln beamed lights towards the asteroids; it would still be some time before they actually saw the asteroid themselves, let alone the alien ship.

“Hang on to your hats,” she said, as she gunned the gas jets.  The craft picked up speed slowly, heading directly along the safest course the computer had been able to find.  Asteroid clouds were misnamed, of course, all of the fleet could have flown between the asteroids and never come close to hitting one, but there was always the danger of rocks too small for anyone to see.  “We’re going in, right now.”

One moment, she could see nothing, and then the first asteroid loomed out of the darkness.  It was a massive shape in the lights, one easily large enough to support a research centre, almost unmoving relative to the primary.  She’d calculated that they would pass within several kilometres of it, but its sheer size was unnerving even at such distance.

“That looks to be a mainly iron asteroid,” Doctor Yulin said.  The asteroid expert had insisted in accompanying the mission.  “It would make a suitable base.”

Jane scowled, without saying anything.  Doctor Yulin had touched upon one of her fears that they had accidentally stumbled upon a black colony.  The odds were vastly against it, but it was possible…but it seemed that they had been lucky.  Ahead of them, something glittered in the darkness.

“Jane, your vitals are starting to shift,” the Abraham Lincoln’s medical officer said.  “Are you all right?”

“Just awed,” Jane said, biting down a curse.  The shape of the alien craft was starting to take shape in front of her under the glow of the Adam Bomb’s lights.  Up close, it was even more awesome than she had expected, somehow more…finished than anything the USSF had produced between them.  It looked strangely beautiful, far less practical than any USSF ship; the creation of a society that had no fear of space.

“I would advise entering that hole there,” Lieutenant Mason said.  The engineering second officer had been a natural choice for the mission.  “It’s large enough for us to drift inside and we can just park the ship outside.”

“We’re going to look inside,” Jane said, taking a moment to survey the top – or perhaps the bottom – of the alien ship.  It seemed utterly indistinguishable; she couldn’t tell which was which.  “Captain, we’re continuing the feed from our helmets.  Anything from home?”

“Nothing,” Howard said.  Jane laughed at herself; it would be hours before Earth would get their message, let alone respond.  That would give them – her – time to explore before Fleet Command, and the White House, and the Roswell Oversight Committee, had their say.  “Jane, take care.”

“You know me,” Jane said, carefully matching the launch to the alien ship.  It was easy; the ship had almost no velocity of its own.  The gaping gash in the hull looked at them mockingly; she could see hints of a corridor beyond, without any sign of life.

Howard snorted.  “That’s why I’m worried,” he said.  Jane realised that he wished that he had joined the away team.  “Jane, be careful.”

“Is everyone in their suits?”  Jane asked, checking for the final time.  She’d checked when they all boarded the launch, but it had to be checked again.  “Good,” she said, as soon as everyone had replied.  “Let’s go.”

She stepped into the airlock, silently blessing the new spacesuit that allowed her to move far more easily than the old designs, and waited for Lieutenant Mason to join her.  She’d made it clear that it would be just the two of them in the first away mission.  She nodded once as Lieutenant Mason checked her suit, and then checked his, just in case.  Space was a very unforgiving environment to the unprepared.

“Air being removed now,” she said, as he hit the button.  There was a long moment’s pause, and then the airlock slid open and she stepped into space.  Long training kept her eyes on the alien ship; more than a few promising officers had made the mistake of looking down at the wrong moment and panicked.  “Come on.”

“Right behind you,” Lieutenant Mason said.  The silence was almost oppressive, so close to the alien ship; she was glad of his voice.  She activated her jetpack, allowing it to boost her over to the ship, right towards the gash in the hull.  Up close, she couldn’t tell what had damaged the hull; it seemed to have almost broken, like china.  “Commander?”

“I’m going inside,” Jane said, activating her jetpack again.  She slid forward faster, right into the hull, her hand extended to touch the alien bulkhead.  As soon as she touched, light flickered through the hull, illuminating the corridor.  “Good God!”

Howard’s voice was alarmed.  “What’s happened?”

“The lights seem to have come on,” Jane said, looking down the corridor.  It was easily high enough for an adult human, which was odd; the pictures of the Roswell aliens had shown them as being chest-height.  “It’s a strange light, almost blue, but not quite.”

“Take care,” Howard said.  Jane kept the annoyance from her face; didn’t he have anything else to say.  “Do you want to go further into the ship?”

“Of course,” Jane said.  She jetted forward…and then fell to the ground.  “Fuck!”

“Now what?”  Howard demanded.  “Jane?”

Jane, for a long moment, wasn’t quite able to believe the evidence of her senses.  “Captain,” she said, “you’re not going to believe it, but they have gravity in here.”  The gravity flickered, backwards and forwards for a second, and then settled back to a level nearly the same as Mars.  “Captain?”

“Captain, the gravity is inside the hull,” Lieutenant Mason said.  His voice was stunned, astonished, but he knew his duty.  “I’m outside the hull and I’m still in free fall.”

“Intact and working Roswell technology,” Howard said.  His voice was awed.  “We just made the history books.”

Jane was about to speak, when she saw something just down the corridor.  “I’m just going to look at something,” she said.  She walked down the corridor slowly, watching as the shape on the ground took on a form, one that had haunted all of human history since 1947.  It was grey, or so she thought; it was hard to tell in the eerie alien light.  Its eyes were dark almonds, its head was impossibly large, perched on top of a spindly body that seemed too small to hold it inside a gravity environment.

Jane took a breath.  “Captain, can you see the image from my camera?”  She asked.  “I think there’s no longer any doubt, sir; these are the Roswell aliens, lost thousands of light years from home.”

“Pull back,” Howard ordered.  There was a mutter of protest from the civilian scientists.  “This needs a specialised team, all of you.  We will wait until we have orders, before we do anything else.”

Jane wanted to protest, but she understood the logic.  “Yes, sir,” she said, as the gravity flickered again.  “I think, however, that we should encourage them to hurry; the technology here might give out at any moment.”

“I think that that might be the least of our worries,” Howard said.  “Pull back at once, Jane; I think that this is likely to destabilise things too far for any good at all.”

Chapter Ten: Mirror Image

Cheyenne Mountain Research Base
Colorado, USA

“I’m getting that déjà vu feeling again,” Thande commented, over the secure link.  Several careful tests had revealed that the Americans in this timeline couldn’t detect or track the transmissions.  “You know, when you feel that you’ve done something before.”

Sally said nothing, studying the history book in her lap.  The policemen had been surprisingly helpful, once the ISA had made their call; they had been more than happy to supply some reading matter for them.  Thande had glanced through it, but apart from the Roswell spacecraft, it was hard to see many pre-1950 changes.

“No Korean War,” Sally said softly.  Her mental voice held a tinge of regret.  “That would explain the militarism; this world never got the idea that wars were supposed to be short, easy, and media friendly.  I would hazard a guess that Watergate never happened either, or something like it.”

Thande shrugged.  The policemen had escorted them on board the private aircraft, but had been content to allow them to pretend to be tourists, rather than handcuffing them to the seats.  He was reminded of flying to NORAD in his home timeline, before the Nazi War had begun in earnest; did this world have a NORAD?

“I don’t know,” Sally said, as the aircraft touched the ground.  “Professor, you must be very careful; if the ISA wants to see us, it could mean all manner of possible problems for us.”

“Yes, madam,” Thande thought.  The stewardess came up to them and he had to concentrate to speak aloud.  “Thank you for the flight,” he said.

The stewardess, a pretty Chinese woman, smiled at him brightly.  “Thank you, sir,” she said.  She sounded civilian, but she wore a military uniform, one Thande didn’t recognise.  “You are to be escorted off the plane and shown to your quarters.  Follow me.”

Shown to our quarters?  Thande wondered, puzzled.  Sally shrugged when he met her eyes.  He followed the stewardess off the plane…and into the middle of a military base.  There was no mistaking it; the fortifications around this Cheyenne Mountain were far greater than the ones that had been hastily erected before the Nazi War, and more configured against an aerial attack.  Mobile anti-aircraft missile launchers were positioned all around the airfield, enough to beat off the entire Russian air force on their own.

“No more private communications,” Sally sent quickly.  “We have no idea what’s happening here.”

“Understood,” Thande said, as he stepped off the staircase.  Three dark-suited men were standing there, waiting for him.  They were staring at him, their eyes peering into his face and examining everything about him.  “Ah…can I help you?”

“Yes,” the leader said shortly.  “You will come with me, at once; do not attempt to deviate from our route.”

Not a good conversationalist, Thande thought, wondering just what the hell was going on.  So much about the entire situation didn’t make sense; what the hell were they doing?  They followed the leader as he reached the beginnings of a long tunnel – longer than the one in his timeline – and stepped into a small powered car in the tunnel.

“Keep your hats on,” the leader said, showing the first sign of real emotion.  He started the car’s electric engine, pushing it forward along the tunnel, driving with a recklessness that amused and annoyed Thande.  The long tunnel seemed to go on for miles and miles of dull featureless concrete and glowing light bulbs, all in perfect condition.

“And here we are,” the leader said.  Thande felt his stomach shift; the men still hadn’t shared their names with anyone.  “Right this way.”

Thande allowed Sally to lead the way, following her along featureless corridors into a single room.  The door closed behind them with a grim thump; Thande wondered if they’d simply been led into prison, but the three men were still there.

“I am Agent Homer, ISA,” the leader said, holding up a badge.  Thande had never seen an ISA – which seemed to stand for Internal Security Agency – badge before, but he examined it carefully anyway.  It was simple; a golden eagle against a black leather background.  “Who are you?”

“We’ve been through this already,” Sally said.  She kept her voice admirably calm; Thande was impressed.  “We’re…”

“Not the lies you told the police, please,” Agent Homer said.  His voice wasn’t angry, more tired than upset or cross.  “We know that you two are not tourists…so, who are you?”

Thande met Agent Homer’s eyes.  The man seemed to be examining him carefully.  Thande looked back, examining the simple crew cut and neatly cut suit that he was wearing, very anonymous in any background.  “We’re just tourists,” he said.  “Nothing more.”

Agent Homer sighed.  “What sort of tourists doesn’t come by plane, train, bus or ship?”  He asked.  “Where exactly do you come from?”

Thande scowled at him.  “Britain,” he said.  “We’re both British citizens.”

“It’s possible, I suppose,” Agent Homer said, but unlikely.  “I suppose…that you might have lost your memories?”

“I don’t think so,” Thande said.  Something was very…odd, almost surreal, about the entire conversation.  He didn’t understand at all.  “Agent Homer, why exactly are we being kept here?  Why are you holding us prisoner here?  We have committed no crimes.”

“The Internal Security Agency has jurisdiction over foreign espionage and terrorism within the country,” Agent Homer said.  Thande wondered madly if they would meet Bart and Marge as well.  “According to several acts of Congress, passed after Hoover was discovered to be a person with a rather…dubious personal life, the ISA has considerable powers for counter-intelligence and counter-terrorism.  In a war crisis, we would have complete authority to shut down spy rings within the United States of America.

“Ignorance of the law is not an excuse,” he continued.  “If you came as tourists, you would have known that you had to have your ID card at all times.  You did not; furthermore, you seem to have appeared out of nowhere.  That, at the very least, is odd; no one, but no one, can walk around without creating a paper trail.”

His voice remained calm and even.  “I say again,” he said.  “Who are you?”

“Is it not obvious?”  A voice asked from behind him.  “He’s me.”

***
The man stepped dramatically out of the dark shadows; a dramatic moment that Thande would never have permitted himself in real life.  His hair was long and blonde, hanging down from his head, and he was unkempt.  Not slovenly, not as if he didn’t know or care what a bath was, but as if such things simply didn’t matter to him.  He wore a white lab coat, stained by something Thande preferred not to think about, and had an unshaven face.

He stared.  The newcomer looked terribly familiar, as if they’d met before somewhere.  His eyes were blue, as blue as Thande’s, and their faces were the same, except for the unshaven chin.  Their bone structures were identical and…

“Professor Anderson,” Agent Homer gasped.  He glanced at Anderson, then at Thande, then back at Anderson.  “You’re the same!”

“A very clever deduction,” Professor Anderson said.  His voice was droll, almost a sneer.  Thande stared at him; now he understood, he could see clearly.  Anderson and he were the same person, or people, or whatever.  “We do, after all, share the same DNA.”

Agent Homer looked back at Thande.  “A cloning experiment that went wrong?”  He hazarded, clearly grasping for some rationality in the universe.  “What are you?”

Professor Anderson – clearly this Thande hadn’t changed his name – spoke in dry mocking tones.  “A clone would take 30-odd years to grow to the point where it could successfully pass for me,” he said.  Thande winced; his counterpart might be a sarcastic version of Professor Snape, but there was clearly nothing wrong with his brain.  “Even if that were possible, of course; neither we nor the Russians have successfully managed to make a perfect clone.  The science was only developed on a large scale twenty years ago, and still isn’t perfect.”  He scowled.  “We would probably have advanced further, were it not for the bio-ethics laws, but…”

“That’s beside the point,” Agent Homer said.  “Professor…do you have an explanation for this?”

Thande held his tongue with an effort.  Professor Anderson leaned down to peer at him, his breath smelling vaguely of pear drops.  “Don’t you see?”  He asked.  “He is me, in body, if not necessarily in mind.”

Sally snickered suddenly.  “Oh dear,” she said.  Her voice was richly amused.  “Two of them.”

Agent Homer banged the table with his fist.  “Just what the hell is going on here?”  He demanded.  “We have a major security breach and…”

Professor Anderson smiled.  “You’re from an alternate reality, aren’t you?”  He asked.  Thande gaped at him; the jump seemed too far for him.  Anderson read his eyes.  “I know, it is a stretch, but…it seems to be the only explanation.”

“An alternate reality,” Agent Homer said.  “Professor Anderson, you may be the shit-hot scientist, but that is so far out of this world…”

“Like an alien spacecraft crash-landing at Roswell?”  Anderson asked dryly.  “There are too many oddities in their bodies for any other explanation to fit.”  He looked at Sally.  “Is it true?”

Sally looked back up at him.  “Yes,” she said simply.  “We’re travellers from an alternate reality.  We have nothing to do with your world.”

“Or the Soviet Union, of course,” Agent Homer said.  “I don’t suppose that you happen to have any proof of this?”

“Do a quantum signature check,” Thande said.  It took him a moment to realise that Professor Anderson had said the exact same thing, in perfect match to him.  “Well?”  He asked.  “You should be able to do that.”

“Now that’s creepy,” Agent Homer said, shaking his head.  “Professor?”

“Yes?”  They asked together.

“Professor Anderson,” Agent Homer snapped.  The two versions of Thande shared a grin.  “Can we perform such a test?”  He paused.  “And what the hell is a quantum signature anyway?”

“Don’t mind him, he’s just my watchdog,” Anderson said.  “He does come in handy for some things, so I keep him around.”  He looked up at Agent Homer.  “I can perform such a test, yes,” he said.  “There is sufficient technology here to get such a reading, quite easily in fact.”

“I see,” Agent Homer asked.  “And exactly what would that prove?”

Anderson shared a long look with Thande, who smiled dryly.  It seemed that both of them had worked for the military, although it was a surprise that this Thande had worked for the American military.  They shared the same thought; the military mind knows nothing of science…

“Every object within this reality shares the same quantum signature,” Anderson said, falling into the same lecture mode that Thande himself used.  “It was researched, some time back, in hopes of finding a perfect identification method.  It failed; the fingerprint, if you will, is exactly the same for everyone.

“However, these two should have a very different quantum signature,” he continued.  “Shall we go find out?”

Without further ado, he led them out of the room, with Thande and Sally following him and Agent Homer and his two gorillas following them.  “This complex was designed as a war-fighting centre, before the focus of any possible war moved to space almost completely,” he said.  “An alien invasion of the continental United States was thought quite possible in those days; this base was designed to command American forces in a war that might have literally been the war to end wars.  

“Later, it was redeveloped into Science City Zero, which housed the Roswell spacecraft and the joint research team, including myself,” he continued.  “Every scientist in the world” – he winked at this point – “would cheerfully sell their grandmothers into slavery to obtain one of the prized permits to enter this complex.  I was lucky; I only had to sell my mother.”

“He has the same sense of humour,” Sally muttered, in an aside.  “I wonder; how did he get here?”

“My parents moved to America while my mother was pregnant,” Anderson commented.  “I deduce from the slight differences in our accents that you are in fact British, rather than American.  This is a genuinely fascinating problem, don’t you think?”

Thande smiled brightly.  “This does add a new meaning to talking to yourself,” he said.  Instinctively, he wanted to trust his counterpart.  “You actually have an example of alien technology here?”

“Oh, yes,” Anderson said.  “Don’t you have one in your world?”

“No,” Sally said shortly.  “I suspect that that might be the Point of Divergence.”

Thande blinked.  Her tone was sharper than he would have expected.  Didn’t she like his counterpart?  “So…what did you do without one?”  Anderson said.  “You would have still been able to reach the Moon and Mars; we didn’t start unlocking the secrets of the UFO until 1985 or thereabouts.”

Thande felt embarrassed on behalf of his entire universe.  “No,” he said.  “We walked on the Moon and then turned our backs on it, until the Nazis invaded through a trans-dimensional Portal.”

“You bloody idiots,” Anderson said.  “No space race?  No competition?”

“Not enough to put us permanently in space,” Thande said.  “What about you?”

They reached a single large door, built to withstand a nuclear blast.  “We have a lunar state now, or we will have when they finally get it organised properly,” Anderson said.  “We have large colonies on Mars and the asteroids, all of which make it easy to fund more and more pure research into the alien craft.”

The door opened and they stepped into a large room.  Thande felt at home at once; the room was exactly how he would have designed it, with chunks of expensive equipment scattered around the room.  It was well lit, with bright warm lights, and decorated with scientific charts for quick reference.

“Ah, Caroline,” Professor Anderson said.  A young black woman looked up from her desk in the corner.  “Would you mind fetching several cups of tea for my guests?”

Caroline stared at the two professors, but wisely asked no questions, settling for leaving the room at speed.  “My secretary,” Anderson explained.  He stepped across to one large cupboard and punched in a security code, opening it and withdrawing a large chunk of jury-rigged equipment.  “This thing should be able to tell us just what you are,” he said.  “Let’s see.”

Thande examined the device as Anderson set it up.  It reminded him of one of the devices he had created to develop Portals, back during the Nazi War.  It didn’t seem too complicated; it simply did a scan for quantum effects and compared them against reality.  Often, the first disruptions in the quantum layer were the first sign of someone trying to generate a Portal from the other side.

“Pass over your hand,” Anderson said, tapping an interior chamber on the device.  Thande did so wordlessly, feeling nothing as the device hummed away.  “Interesting,” Anderson said.

Agent Homer looked at him.  “Interesting?”  He asked.  “What do you mean, interesting?”

“I thought that you had a command of Standard English,” Anderson said.  “They quite definitely have a very different signature on their bodies.”  He smiled dryly.  “That means that they were telling the truth.”

“Good,” Agent Homer said, as Caroline returned with several cups of tea.  “So, what now?”

“We talk, of course,” Thande said.  Sally gave him a warning look.  “For a start, what is this Roswell craft?”

“This,” Anderson said, activating a computer.  Thande studied it with interest; it looked like a simple Windows system, but more basic.  A display on the wall activated, revealing a silver craft, sitting in the middle of a hanger, with people pouring all over it.  Thande stepped forward, staring in awe; the craft was somehow, oddly…alien.

“This craft crash-landed in the 1940s,” Anderson said.  “Since then, the combined scientific resources of the world have been focused on that; that and getting a major human military presence into space as quickly as possible.  By 1980, thousands of people were already living and working in space, and we’d seen nothing of the aliens.  Thirty-five years later, no one has seen sight or sound of another alien ship.”

“No massive alien invasion,” Thande commented.

“No,” Anderson said.  “Might it have come from a dimensional warp?”

“It is possible,” Sally said absently.  She was studying the craft, her face taut.  Thande suddenly realised that Sally recognised the craft, or at least its design.  “Professor, can you show us the aliens?”

“Of course,” Anderson said.  If he had any thoughts on Sally, he kept them to himself.  “Here you are.”

Thande couldn’t resist feeling a little shiver as the grey aliens appeared on the screen.  They were the aliens of myth and legend, from The X Files to Independence Day.  They were grey-skinned, with dark black eyes, and they looked sinister.  He wondered; did they look sinister because of all the bad press they got, or something else?

“They’re still something of a mystery,” Anderson said.  “One of them was alive at the crash site, but died minutes afterwards.  There were three bodies in total; two of which remained here, the third went to Moscow.  They have larger brains than we do, but their bodies are strange; internally, there is no sign of sexuality at all.  They seem to have neither penises nor wombs.

“They’re strange,” he continued.  “In some ways, they seem perfect for space work; we made some advances ourselves from analysing the bodies.  However, they seem to be largely…that flesh, whatever it is; their internal organs are nothing like as complex as ours.  Their lungs are larger and merged with the heart; they have only a simple blood circulation system.  Their blood holds more oxygen than I would have expected to be safe, for anyone at all.”

Sally leaned closer.  “I wonder,” she mused.  “I wonder what they’re doing here.”

“No one knows,” Anderson said, as the telephone started to ring.  Agent Homer went over to answer it.  “Have you got them in your timeline?”

“Myths and legends,” Thande said.  He knew that he sounded disturbed; he was more disturbed than he’d been seeing the videos of the Nazi War.  “Everyone knows these creatures, even though we never had a Roswell crash.”

“Professor Anderson,” Agent Homer said.  His voice was stunned, alerting Thande that something was very wrong.  “You are not going to believe what they have found in the outer solar system.”

Interlude One: Out Where the Cold of Space Seeps in…

It was something of a misnomer to term the Oort Cloud a ‘cloud,’ at least in the conventional sense.  On the scale of an entire solar system, the ‘cloud’ might be noticeable, but a spacecraft driving through the region at high speed would be unlucky indeed to hit anything.  Not unlike the asteroid belt, there were plenty of spaces were nothing resided, where no human would ever go.

The Small One bowed its big monstrous head to Mission Commander Tak’Char as he entered the centre of the mothership.  Only a handful of small ones – the hardly-named drones composed of unnecessary matter – were within Mission Control; the thousands of drones were needed elsewhere, preparing the fleet for the invasion of Earth.  It had been years since they had arrived in Earth’s solar systems, years that hadn’t been wasted; Tak’Char had been busy indeed.

“Great One,” it squeaked harshly.  Tak’Char inclined his head; the small ones knew a great deal about life, but they lacked the spark of true intelligence.  They, in his view, had been responsible for the loss of a scoutship on Earth; one that had set the invasion plan back years.  The humans had risen to technological supremacy over their own planet; in the years since discovering the crashed scout they had adapted its technology to develop their own space base.

This world might need ultimate sanction, Tak’Char thought, as the image of Earth appeared in the centre of Mission Control.  The Hive had spread itself through space using the method of sending a single mothership to each star, and then having the mothership reproduce itself through the resources of a conquered species, who would add their diversity to the Hive.  A handful of humans now laboured for Tak’Char; the remainder of their race would join them, if they could be tamed in time.

“Small One,” he said, his own voice dark with overtones only another of his race could detect.  The small one couldn’t have even begun to perceive it.  “What happened within the last fifteen time units?”

“The lost ship was discovered,” the Small One squeaked.  Its voice was as subservient as ever; initiative and rebellion were foreign concepts to a small one.  “The human ship built using Hive technology discovered it.”

The hologram changed at Tak’Char’s command, revealing the location of the missing ship, which had vanished along with one of the other Great Ones on the mothership.  Five should have been enough for any eventually that the Hive might encounter…except it hadn’t been; one of them was dead.  Four Great Ones, all supposedly equal, were a recipe for trouble – if they fell out, who would command the mission?

“Disquieting,” he said mildly.  The small one bobbed its head in agreement.  “How did we rediscover it after losing it?”

“The ship powered up briefly when the humans arrived,” the Small One said.  It didn’t show any of the emotions that Tak’Char felt; small ones felt little beyond the basic body-feelings.  “It had time to emit a graviton signal before power levels fell below minimum levels again.”

“How…interesting,” Tak’Char said.  The Hive had been watching humanity for a long time, ever since humanity had discovered the Hive ship, just to see what they would make of it.  As a race absorbed into the Hive, humanity would lose much of its own independent view of the universe…and the ability to make new ideas.  Before that inevitable result happened, it was important for the future of the Sol System within the Hive that humans developed new ideas that could be used for the Hive.

It had worked before, to the advantage of many parts of the Hive.  It would work again, to Tak’Char’s own advantage.  His Hive would become known throughout space as a clearly superior Hive, maybe even the master Hive for the entire sector of space.

He took his throne in the centre of Mission Control, his mind entering the computer and reaching out to one of the other Great Ones, Researcher Mac’Ar.  “You will have heard that the humans have found a second of our craft,” he thought slowly, outlining all of the details in his mind.  “The one that went missing ten human stellar rotations ago.  Do we proceed with the advanced attack plan now, or continue to wait out here?”

“I do not believe that that will be necessary,” Researcher Mac’Ar radiated harshly.  As always, his dislike of humanity rang through his thoughts, colouring them in a way that Tak’Char found slightly distasteful.  “My projections indicate that humanity will fight over the possession of the craft, each side fearing what their enemies could do with the craft against them.  They will think nothing of us.  We just have to make certain that one power bloc blames the other for the loss of the craft.”

Researcher Mac’Ar spread out a plan in his mind.  Tak’Char read it directly from the older Great One’s mind.  “Ambitious,” he thought simply.  He was impressed with the speed that the older entity had thought up the plan; he made no futile attempt to hide his amazement.  Among a mind-reading race, the source of clear Hive superiority over every other form of life, hiding thoughts was impossible.  No other race had more than basic telepathy; the Hive had never encountered an equal race in thousands of years of space exploration.

He considered the possibilities of the humans fighting a bitter war long enough to weaken themselves, versus the dangers of the humans learning more from the craft they had suddenly found than he would have found comfortable.  He asked just one question.

“Will it work?”

“We have been making the tension in this region rise for many time units,” Researcher Mac’Ar said.  “Humans know nothing of us; they have grown soft waiting for us, they are preparing to fight amongst themselves.  All we have to do is make one power bloc’s bad intentions known to the other power” – a hint of a mental smile – “in a way they cannot possibly ignore.”

Chapter Eleven: Fateful Decisions

The White House
Washington DC, USA

“This had better not be a late April Fool’s joke,” the President said, examining the recordings.  The image of the second alien ship floated in front of him, moving to allow him to examine all of the angles.

“It’s real, Mr President,” Fleet Admiral Matt Burghardt said.  “We have confirmation from the Abraham Lincoln now.”

“It could hardly have come at a worse time,” the President said.  He stared down at his desk.  “You know the problems we have with the Soviets.”

“It gets worse,” Burghardt said.  “There are some very clear signs that there is still some active units on board the Wanderer.”

“Active alien technology,” the President said, deciding not to comment on the name.  “Admiral, at the moment, that’s the last thing we need.”

The Secretary of State, Chris Thompson, frowned.  “Mr President, I foresee considerable problems if we made this news public,” he said.  “It would be in our interests to keep it secret for quite some time.”

“Oh, blast it,” Arvin Gilder snorted.  The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency shook his head firmly.  “The Soviets have a lot of agents within our facilities, not counting the Commissioners on…”

The president felt his blood run cold.  “The Commissioner on board the Lincoln,” he snapped.  “What’s happened to him?”

“Offloaded to report back to Moscow after the first incident,” Burghardt said.  The President sighed in relief.  “There won’t be any leaks from that quarter, fortunately.”

He stood up, slipping a secured data chip into the computer.  The display flickered and reconfigured itself into a tactical map of the solar system.  “The problem, however, is simple; do we attempt to bring the ship closer to Earth or not?”

“We have to study it in secured places,” Thompson said.  “Is there any reason why we should not order the Abraham Lincoln to tow it back to Earth?”

“The Soviets would find out,” Gilder said dryly.  “Which brings us right back to the original matter at hand; do we tell them anything…or not?”

“We have a treaty obligation to tell them,” the President said slowly.  “Can I assume that you have a problem with that?”

The Cabinet looked uncomfortably at one another.  Thompson spoke after a long moment of silent debate.  “Mr President, the last thing we need is something that suddenly triggers the war we fear off.”

“The Soviets have a right to study the craft alongside us,” the Press Secretary said slowly.  “If we deny them access, they will be…more than a little upset.”

“Assuming they find out about it,” Thompson said.

“If we take a greater interest in a heap of worthless rocks, they will notice,” Burghardt said flatly.  He pointed a stubby finger towards the display.  “It’s some weeks away with a non-Procyon Drive ship, which most of the fleet is still composed of.  Worse, they will see us moving any such ship out there…and they will wonder why.  Hell, we would do the same if they took an unexpected interest of their own.”

The President steepled his fingers.  “And we couldn’t move the ships out there without being noticed?”

“No, Mr President,” Burghardt said.  He kept his voice deliberately even, the President noted, careful not to propose a course of action.  “The Soviets would be able to track the ships.”  He paused.  “It would be easy, however, to move the ship back towards one of the asteroid bases.  If the Lincoln was to tow it back…”

“I see,” the President said, without committing himself.  “What, then, remains the best option?”

The President’s Political Advisor coughed.  “I foresee considerable political ramifications from doing either,” he said.  “If we honour our treaty obligations, Congress and the public will crucify us for sharing technology with a potentially hostile power.  It could lead to impeachment; the craft could give the Soviets a decisive military advantage over us.”

He paused.  “If we do not honour our obligations, there will also be grounds for an impeachment; this time for not honouring treaties we signed in good faith.  At the same time, the Soviets might begin a war, which would make matters such as impeachment rather irrelevant.”

“Damned if we do, damned if we don’t,” the President said.  “I love the ‘we’ there, by the way.”

Burghardt frowned.  “Will possession of the craft really give the Soviets a decisive advantage, even if we gave them total access, or handed the craft completely over to them?”  He asked.  “It was nearly thirty years before any real progress was made with the Roswell craft; the early years of the USSF were based on purely human technology.”

The President looked up at Doctor Gillian Avers.  “It’s impossible to say,” she said.  “From the preliminary recordings from the Lincoln, there seems to be still be some power in the craft, rather than it being dead, like the Roswell craft was.  It took years to trigger even some of the Roswell ship’s systems; there was a basic incompatibility with the electrical supply into the ship.  Their energy source, we think, was designed to be a completely self-contained system, with its own energy.”  She smiled.  “No, I don’t know how that it possible either.

“Possession of a working system, however, would make understanding come much sooner,” she continued.  “If we could map out how their computers work, for example, we might actually be able to read their databases and learn where they are!  We could access their equivalent of a user’s manual, or perhaps even learn how the ship flew, or how their FTL drive works…”

The Secretary of the Treasury frowned.  “This could have economic problems,” he said.  “What effect would introducing all of that into our system have on it?”

“It’s impossible to say,” Gillian said.  “Isn’t this wonderful?”

“No,” the President said.  “Tell me if I’ve got this straight; if they had access to the ship, they might be able to get a breakthrough very quickly?”

“It’s possible,” Gillian admitted.  “I would need time to study the ship before making any promises, of course.  Mr President, the Joint Research Team are the experts on alien technology.”

The President looked around the room.  “If we make this public, the Soviets will demand we share with them, which might be dangerous because of the ongoing tension,” he said.  “If we keep it to ourselves, we risk political fallout and a war.”

“They wouldn’t go to war over the ship,” the Press Secretary said.  “Surely they wouldn’t be so stupid…”

“Yes, they would,” Burghardt said flatly.  “They will see it as the United States suddenly becoming the superpower three to four years down the line.  They will have the choice between striking at once, or losing their status.”

The President’s intercom buzzed.  “Mr President,” his secretary said.  “Senator Chapman has requested an emergency meeting as soon as possible.”

The President glared down at the intercom.  “Set him up for a meeting in an hour,” he said.  He waited until the connection was closed, and then looked up.  “That was quick,” he said.

There was a generally uncomfortable shifting of feet.  “The Soviets are bound to know soon,” Gilder said.

“Perhaps,” Burghardt said.  “The Senator is on the Oversight Committee, after all; he would be one of the first people to be informed.”

The President scowled.  “We will keep a lock on the information for the moment,” he said.  “Admiral, remain behind.  We have matters to discuss.”

***
“I don’t know how the information reached Senator Chapman,” Burghardt said, as soon as they were alone.  “He does have friends within the USSF, including many highly-placed officers.”

“Who may have broken every security regulation in the world,” the President said.  He closed his eyes.  “That’s not important for the moment; there’s a different matter.  Admiral, you know about how the tension has been rising…?”

“Yes, Mr President,” Burghardt said.  “They have attacked some of our miners over this interpretation of the law, and they have accused us of attacking them in some places as well.”

“I know,” the President said.  He met Burghardt’s eyes.  “I trust that the USSF has been behaving itself?”

Burghardt’s face flushed.  “We have never fired on a Soviet warship,” he said, with grim confidence.  “That said, no Soviet warship has fired on us either.  We haven’t engaged one another directly, just hints and shadows.  The incident that started all of this was the worst; that odd Soviet ship that the Lincoln destroyed.”

The President looked up at the ceiling.  “Something is going badly wrong,” he said.  “We have fifty years of peace, more or less, and suddenly we’re on the brink of a war.  This new ship…it’s going to trigger a war, one way or the other.”

Burghardt frowned.  “Perhaps it won’t come to that,” he said.  “It’s not as if…what’s his name…”

“General Secretary Boris Andropov,” the President supplied.

“It’s not as if Andropov is a Hitler-type,” Burghardt said.  “He’s not insane.”

“If a war comes, it will be over that ship,” the President repeated.  “That’s a prize worth everything.  Tell me honestly; can we win such a war?”

Burghardt hesitated.  “Define ‘win,’” he said.  “It’s going to be tough, one way or the other; they’re armed to the teeth and so are we.  It could go on for months.”

The President snorted.  “I thought that the projections had victory or defeat coming very quickly,” he said.

“They’re out of date,” Burghardt said.  “There really wasn’t anyone taking a look at the situation with a fresh eye.  Now…the Soviets have major colonies on Venus and Ganymede, neither of which was the case when the last war plan was drawn up.  There are more ships too, hundreds of them; they have dozens more options, but so too do we.”

He adjusted the President’s display.  “We have major forces on the ground on both the Moon and Mars,” he said.  “Venus…our base there is really too small for a war.  Of course, if one side gains space superiority, the other will lose.  I suspect that in the first hour of the war, most of the orbital fortresses will be blown away or seriously damaged; the Soviets have plenty of orbital weapons to use against us.  Mr President, if we fight a battle in Earth Orbit, we will have to concentrate every single weapon on defeating them; them coming out ahead will be a disaster.”

He smiled.  “I think that we will clean up in the asteroids,” he continued.  “We have dozens of warships and thousands of mining craft parked out there.  The Soviets have their own forces, of course, but we have a larger support element and enthusiastic civilians.  If the British get involved on our side, they can take Saturn and its attendant bases; the Soviets were never that involved out there.”

He sighed.  “We’ve run thousands of projections,” he said.  “The best case estimate is that the Moon and Mars will stalemate until we can get reinforcements out there, which will mean gaining command of space.  The bridge ships, both ours and the Soviets, are not proper troopships; they will need escorts just to give them any chance at all of survival along their very predicable flight paths.

“In Earth orbit, I expect again that there will be a stalemate,” he said grimly.  “The modified plan calls for sending almost all of the space fleet to either the Moon – if we do manage to suppress the Soviet colonies – or the asteroids, where they will concentrate, rearm from the major bases and return to retake Earth orbit.  Unfortunately, in Earth orbit…we may as well be firing point-blank at one another.  Technology is not as much an advantage as you might think, not with ballistic weapons and lasers.  I have a very nasty feeling that we’ll wipe out almost all of the Earth orbit weapons in the first hour of the war, leaving us with only a handful of defences in orbit.”

“And the Soviets might fire on our civilian stations,” the President said slowly.

“It’s a possibility,” Burghardt agreed.  “We have much more in orbit on that front than they do.  A very real danger, sir, would be one of us accidentally knocking an asteroid out of orbit…”

“We must be mad,” the President said.  “What are we thinking?”

“How to come out ahead in a war,” Burghardt said.  “We can win…”

The President sighed.  “And what will they be doing at the same time?”

“I have no idea,” Burghardt said.  “They might well decide to gamble that they can win here and attempt to take all of Mars.  They might concentrate themselves, at Venus – our base there will fall quickly – and attempt to attack Earth themselves.”

“I see,” the President said.  “God only knows what sort of spin Chapman is going to put on this.  Admiral, I don’t want a war, but if war comes I want to be damn sure that we win it as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” Burghardt said.  “Can I have permission to place the USSF on alert?”

“I think that that would be a bad idea,” the President said.  “Just…try and warn everyone quietly that there might be trouble in the future.”

Burghardt saluted.  “I think that after all of the trouble with the Soviets, everyone knows that,” he said.

***
Senator Chapman looked as angry as ever as he was escorted into the Oval Office.  The President had wondered if it might have been coincidence, but he’d dismissed the thought; coincidences…weren’t in his business.  

“Mr President,” Chapman said, without preamble.  “Exactly what are you going to do about the alien ship?”

So he does know, the President said.  “I’m not certain,” he admitted.  He narrowed his eyes.  “Do I assume that you have an opinion?”

“Yes,” Chapman snapped.  “Mr President, it is the unanimous opinion of three separate committees that sharing anything with the Soviets is an extremely bad idea.  In fact.”

The President stood up sharply.  “Senator, only the Roswell Oversight Committee is cleared for the information,” he said.  “How many others have you informed?”

“No one,” Chapman said guilelessly.  “I coached the entire question in terms of a ‘what if’ question.  I certainly didn’t breach any security agreements.”

“You stupid…”  The President cut off his voice with an effort.  “Really?  It would hardly look good on your security review, Senator.”

“That’s beside the point at the moment,” Chapman said.  “Are you planning to inform the Soviets?”

“Do I have a choice?”  The President asked.  “We have obligations…”

“We have an alliance which they are not honouring,” Chapman snapped.  “They’re attacking our people in space, Mr President.  When are you going to do something about it?”

The President looked at him.  “There is no proof that the Russians are behind some of the disappearances,” he said.  “They have had them too…”

“They say that they’ve had some disappearances,” Chapman snapped.  “The attack on Area 72 just happened to have been carried out by a Russian ship.  It could hardly have gotten out that far without some transport; where was the Gorky during that time?”

“At Venus,” the President said.  The Incident Board had gone over that possibility.  “It was hardly involved…”

“It could have launched the drone – the automated attack ship – weeks, or months, before the incident,” Chapman snapped.  “Might I remind you that the Strategy Board ruled that it was a Russian attack?”

“Duly noted,” the President said icily.  “If it had been a real attack, would they not have been doing other things at the same time?”

“We’ve been over that,” Chapman snapped.  “They’re testing our strength, not trying to start a war…”

“And you want us to fight a war,” the President said.  He felt pure rage for the first time in the day.  “You would have a war that benefits no one at all?”

“We have an advantage dropped in our laps,” Chapman snapped.  “What possible benefit do we get from having the Soviets looking at the tech as well?”

“Balance?”  The President suggested.

“That’s exactly the same argument as those fools who were spying for Russia used,” Chapman snapped.  “Mr President, just whose side are you on?”

The President said nothing.  “The tri-partisan committee has agreed,” Chapman said.  He held up a sheet of paper.  “In this climate of unrest, blah blah blah, it is the opinion of the committee that sharing any technology with the Soviets would be seriously counter-productive and lead to expanding the tension now prevalent within the outer solar system.”

He leaned around the stare at the President.  “Mr President, if you make any move at all to share the discovery with the Russians, I will move at once for your impeachment,” he said.  “This is way too important to share with the Soviets; it would be dangerous beyond belief.”

Without another word, he swept out of the office.  The President watched him go, thinking hard; would the impeachment be sustained?  Or…was Chapman bluffing?  An impeachment had to be public, and the Soviets would certainly take an interest, which would reveal the reasoning behind the proceedings.  The secret would be blown wide open anyway…in a manner that would make the global situation even tenser.

He shook his head.  “It’s too dangerous,” he said.  Picking up the phone, he dialled a number from memory, waiting for the secure line to kick in before saying anything.  “Connection secure?”

“It’s secure at my end, Mr President,” Burghardt said.  “What did the Senator say?”

“Nothing of great wisdom,” the President said, giving in to his anger for a short moment.  It wasn’t wise, but he’d just had enough.  “The Lincoln; can it tow the new ship back to an asteroid base without being noticed?”

Burghardt sounded astonished.  “In secrecy?”  He asked.  “Yes, we can; is that what you want to do?”

The President sighed.  “We have to do this carefully,” he said.  “I want the ship towed back to the base and we’ll worry about the rest later.”  He put the phone down.  “God help us all,” he breathed.  “God help us all.”

Chapter Twelve: Terrible Truths

Cheyenne Mountain Research Base
Colorado, USA

“All right, Sally,” Thande said, afterwards.  “What do you know about the aliens?”

Sally looked up at him from the bed.  They’d been given guest quarters that were surprisingly luxurious – and surprisingly bug-free - but there was no question that they were still under suspicion.  Agent Homer had assigned two guards to them, just to keep an eye on them, and Anderson – his counterpart – had warned them not to go near the Roswell craft.

“I know you would be as eager as me,” he’d said, “but trust me; security would not allow it.”

“This is not your world,” she said flatly.  “That man…is not you.  He may look like you, think like you, but he’s not you.”

Thande scowled at her.  “Does an object that has all the properties of Professor Thande exist?  If so, is it not Professor Thande?”

“Now you’re being silly,” Sally snapped.  “An eddy in the timestream that allows you and your counterpart to exist here does not make him identical to you.  Why did you change your name?”

Thande hung his head.  “It’s a long story,” he said.

“Clearly whatever caused it didn’t happen here,” Sally said.  “This…person has had a completely different life experience from you.  He may look like you, but he is not you.  He’s an American republican, for goodness sake!”

“I’m a republican,” Thande said.  “Sally…what’s with the aliens?”  Sally looked sharply at him.  “You recognised them,” he said.  “You said nothing while we were discussing the differences in timelines; you were just looking at them.  I know them; they’re the little grey bastards that TV producers use when they feel like being lazy.  And here they are, real!

“Sally, what are they?”

Sally looked up at him for a long moment.  “They’re…aliens,” she said.  “They shouldn’t be here at all.”

“I believe that I had worked that out,” Thande said.  “What – exactly – are they?”

Sally took a breath.  “They’re called” – she said a word that sounded like glass breaking – “which loosely translates as ‘Hive.’  They were destroyed during the Multiverse War.”

Thande stared at her.  “An entire race was wiped out?”

Sally nodded.  “Oh, yes,” she said.  “They’re really not very clever, but they’re powerful telepaths; when their planet was destroyed, they all screamed into the physic waveband, which is why your people have nightmares about them.  Those creatures, the tiny little aliens, are just…biological robots.  The real masters will still be out there, somewhere.”

Thande sat down, feeling his legs wobble.  “An entire race wiped out,” he said.  “How?  Why?”

Sally shrugged.  “Crossfire,” she said.  “Both sides hoped to manipulate that particular section of the galaxy, and the…Hive was in the middle of it.  Things went very badly wrong and several Multiverse Ships exchanged fire – literally.  We don’t have many direct clashes between the two sides, but the Hive was unlucky.  They lost several stars in the battle as space and time began to collapse in that region, annihilating their worlds.”

She shrugged again.  “It’s possible that one side or the other might have done it on purpose,” she said.  “The Hive…was – is – dangerous; they’re conquerors.  At the same time, they rarely advanced on their own, without help.”

Thande stared at her.  “An entire race gets wiped out as…galactic crossfire and you’re not even worried about it?”  He demanded, horrified.  “What happened to the survivors to get them here?  It can’t have been that close to Earth; the expanding wavefront of radiation would have wiped us out as well.”

“It was a very long time ago, relatively speaking,” Sally said.  “How did they get here?  I have no idea.  They never developed FTL on their own; I think, from the records, that they never used it for their conquests.  Instead, they sent a small force which” – her voice darkened – “took up position in the new solar system, prepared the invasion force, and…”

“Invaded,” Thande said.  “Why haven’t they hit Earth already?”

“I have no idea,” Sally said.  “They’re assimilators, in a sense; they’ll wait until they’re ready, and then they’ll move to assimilate the human race into their biological Hive.  Humans will become drones, working for the Hive; doing that will require a powerful force, just to prevent resistance and to avoid the need to damage Earth too far.”

Thande closed his eyes.  “We have to warn them,” he said.  “They can’t have any idea of what they’re facing.  That new ship…”

“It might well be their old one,” Sally said.  “Something might have gone badly wrong with the invasion plan.  Sixty years for humanity to prepare a defence, and lots of interesting new ideas for the Hive to assimilate.  They might have decided that the benefit of the latter outweigh the risks of the former, except…”

Thande lifted an eyebrow.  “Except…?”

“Except they might not have bargained on humanity building a real space force,” Sally said.  “The Hive will have drive fields – what these humans call the Procyon Drive, don’t ask me about the theory here – but they’re not that useful near a planet; the humans will know that they have to come to Earth.  If the Hive can break through the human defences, they can take Earth before any other human force can react.  Hell, they’re probably wondering about Mars and Venus, if your counterpart was telling the truth about the terraforming efforts.”

“We have to warn them,” Thande said again.  “Sally…”

“This is not your world,” Sally repeated.  “Thande, I understand your feelings, but our priority is finding the Enemy interference…”

“That ship perhaps?”  Thande said dryly.  “Sally, why can’t we tell them what they’re facing?”

“We don’t know that that’s what they’re facing,” Sally said.  “If we tell them what we know, they’ll have to be told about us, about the Time Agents, about the Multiverse War.  This place…it will only make them more paranoid, to say nothing of running the risk of tipping off the Enemy to our location.”

Thande sighed.  “Why can’t we simply leave, leaving them a note?”

“We could,” Sally agreed.  “However, if we do that, they won’t believe it.  People in authority prefer not to believe unusual things; how do you think we’ve gotten away with it for so long?”

The weak joke fell flat.  “I still think that we should be doing something,” Thande said sullenly.  “There must be something that we can do…”

“There is,” Sally said practically.  “We have an Enemy agent to find and capture, possibly more than one.  Thande, Professor, go to sleep.  We’ll make a start in the morning.”

Thande undressed without comment, suddenly very aware of Sally’s womanly body.  “That’s the Vale effects wearing off,” Sally commented dryly; Thande blushed bright red.  “You don’t feel anything in the Vale at all.”

Thande chuckled and climbed into bed.  “Don’t you feel anything like it?”

“Yes,” Sally said softly.  “You get over it, eventually.”

***
“Everyone is very excited about it,” Professor Anderson said, as the pair of them joined him for breakfast in the refectory.  “The news has travelled all over this building; each and every person has his or her own theory of what might be in the ship.”

“Interesting,” Thande said.  “Is it from the same alien race?”

“It certainly looks that way,” Anderson said.  Up close, properly shaved, the resemblance was more stunning than ever.  They were the same person.  “We found three bodies in the second exploration of the ship from the Abraham Lincoln.  They’re all Greys, just like the ones we have downstairs.  There’s also gravity and some lights in the ship.”

Sally gave Thande a warning look.  “That’s amazing,” Thande said, and meant it.  “How old is it?”

“It’s impossible to tell,” Anderson said.  “We’re looking at the other craft now, just to see if there is some way to work out how old it is, but we’ve not had any major success at all.  In space, nothing changes or decays; the bodies don’t even show any degradation.”

“In space, no one can hear you scream,” Thande mused.  “What’s going to happen to the craft now?”

Anderson shrugged, waving a hand dismissively in the air.  “Oh, apparently there’s some big political decision that needs to be made,” he said, as if it didn’t matter to him.  Thande, who had done similar things during the Nazi War, understood.  “The sooner we get it into Earth orbit so we can take it apart properly, the better.”

Thande blinked.  “Is that wise?”  He asked.  “It could be a doomsday machine.”

Anderson gave him an odd look.  “There were people who thought that the Roswell craft would pose such a threat,” he said.  “It didn’t stop us trying to take it apart to see how it worked.  What makes you think that that would be a danger?”

“It’s a staple of our science-fiction,” Thande said, wondering if he would have to explain the name.  “A large alien artefact appears, humans play with it, and it explodes with stunning force.  Earth dies, the spacecraft dies…everything dies.”  He smiled.  “The darker version is that of the Trojan Horse in space; the alien thing gets taken back to Earth…and then the nightmare begins.”

“Fascinating,” Anderson said.  “You have a lot of science fiction?”

Thande nodded.  “Don’t you?”  He asked.  “No Star Trek?  Star Wars?”

“There was a Star Wars movie some time back,” Anderson said.  “It featured several nude scenes; not that I watched them, of course.”  Thande chuckled.  “There was the mixed crew of American and Russian astronauts fighting against the aliens in space.  There was this second officer, who was black and a real babe, and she gets into the sack with the Russian commanding officer…”

“Talk about the mile high club,” Thande said, chuckling.  “What else?”

“Oh, there was a long expanded series of the War of the Worlds, set in Britain,” Anderson said.  “There was the long Wagon Train to the Stars, which was intended to promote homesteading and…”

“Star Trek,” Thande said, and explained.  “It was one of the most popular television shows on our world.”

Sally spoke rapidly.  “Why do you have so little radio noise?”  She asked.  “It’s not exactly normal.”

Anderson frowned.  “We’re a bit worried about aliens reading our mail,” he said.  “From time to time, someone comes up with a proposal to generate an electronic Internet that would hang in the air and allow anyone to connect to it, but it would be an awesome security risk.”

“The demon security,” Thande commented.  He’d hated it back in his own timeline.  “We wondered if you didn’t have the technology at first, but…”

“We could do it,” Anderson said.  “It’s just…unwise.  There are agreements on limiting how much is broadcast and the entire world is signed up.”  His pager chimed.  “Excuse me a moment.”

He stepped away from them.  “Don’t say too much about the Hive,” Sally muttered in Thande’s ear.  “We don’t have time.”

“I understand,” Thande said.  “I hope that you don’t expect me to like it.”

“Sorry about that,” Anderson said, coming back over to them.  “There’s going to be a meeting in Washington and they want me to attend.”

Thande nodded slowly.  “About the alien ship?”

“I think so,” Anderson said.  “They want…advice, and who’s the most qualified to give them that advice?”

Sally, Thande thought.  “Me,” he said.

Anderson laughed.  “Got it in one,” he said.  “Answer me a question; so far, we haven’t shared anything about you to anyone else.  Agent Homer wasn’t keen on the idea, but there’s too much going on to add a new factor to the board.  Do you want us to inform the President about you?”

Thande looked at Sally.  “I’d rather not until I know more about the situation,” Sally said carefully.  “There’s a lot going on here that I don’t understand.”

“Like why did an alien ship appear in our reality, but not in yours?”  Anderson asked.  Thande was ruefully impressed; he would have figured that out as well.  “I think that you two should start studying history.”

“A good idea,” Sally said.  “Do you have a library here?”

Anderson nodded.  “I think that you two had better come to Washington with me,” he said.  “I want to keep an eye on the pair of you, personally.”  He paused.  “Besides, I’ll have to think of something else to tell them if you stay here, so…”

“That would suit us just fine,” Thande said.  “Now, can you show us to the library?”

“Just like me,” Anderson said.  He shook his head.  “I wonder; were we to fight, which of us would win?”

“Logically, neither of us would win,” Thande said.  “We would be very evenly matched.”

“And if I kissed you – your wife permitting, of course – would that be masturbation or pre-side sex?”  Anderson asked.  He chuckled at Thande’s shock.  “Just kidding.”

“Yep, definitely a counterpart,” Sally said, her tone light.  “You have the same sense of humour.”

***
The library was tiny, but well stocked; there were a handful of books on all topics on a set of bookshelves, with a single large desk for the reader.  Thande took a moment to examine the books on World War Two; many of them were like the ones he remembered, but others were different; there seemed to be less study of the Russian Front than he would have expected.

“The German Contact with Aliens, by David Irving,” Sally said, picking one book off the small selection dealing with the Roswell craft.  “You ever heard of him?”

“Not in a good way,” Thande said.  “Sally, why are we going to Washington?”

“We need to find the Enemy agent,” Sally said.  “He or she will be somewhere within the power blocs of the world; perhaps one for each of the major power blocs.”

Thande frowned as he opened a second book, Post-Roswell Development.  “Why don’t we just take the Turtledove and look backwards in time?”

Sally shook her head.  “Not here,” she said.  Thande remembered ruefully that walls might very well have ears here.  “It would have an effect on the quantum foam; we might as well put up a large sign saying WE’RE HERE, COME KILL US.  With” – she waved a hand at the ceiling to indicate the aliens – “around, the last thing this world needs is a direct clash between multiverse exploration units.”

Thande nodded slowly, reluctantly, and opened the book.  It was fairly concise and detailed; he had no idea who Professor Palter had been in their universe, but he approved of the man’s writing style.  The ten years after Roswell – and after Stalin had died several years earlier than in his timeline – were radically different from what he remembered…and so was America.

There had been no war in Korea; Kim had been forced by Stalin’s successor, Molotov, to stand down and leave South Korea alone.  Eventually, the nation had been taken over by the Soviet Union, just for constantly threatening world peace, and the ordinary citizens had benefited considerably.  Vietnam had never happened either; the nation had ended up divided between Communist and Capitalist countries.  Iran had still had its revolution, but after trying to spread terrorism into both superpowers’ territory, it had been suddenly and violently shut down – by a Soviet invasion with some American support.  

“My God,” he breathed, as he read about America.  The Civil Rights Era had been skipped altogether; the preparations for the alien invasion – which had never materialised – had drowned it out.  Blacks, whites and Mexicans worked together as one; the KKK was branded as a traitor organisation to the American Dream.  Both Mexico and Cuba had been invaded in the 1970s, but they had been reconstructed along American lines with massive American investment.

In Europe, Britain and its Commonwealth reached into the Solar System, while the Western European Union followed into space, grumbling over the lack of access to the Roswell Craft.  NATO had apparently never really come into existence in this timeline; the Soviets had refrained from threatening West Germany and the Iron Curtain simply wasn’t as firm as it had been in his timeline.  The Berlin Wall, apparently…didn’t exist, and had never existed.

“It seems like a dream world,” he said.  Sally nodded; the details on Africa and the Middle East were sparse.  Oil was simply not as important in this world; the Middle East was a backwater.  Israel existed, but it was in far less danger; the states around it possessed far fewer resources to threaten it with.  No Saudi state – it had apparently broken up in 1970 – and no Osama Bin Laden.

“It will become a nightmare,” Sally said, over the private communications channel.  Thande was astonished; she was clearly too concerned to worry about security.  “Look at this.”

Thande read the brief outline of the developing tension between the United States and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.  “I don’t understand,” he said.  “Why are they falling out?”

“It’s what the Hive does,” Sally said.  “They’ll have taken a few samples of humanity from the asteroids…and of course they would have no difficulty in remaining hidden.  This world lacks gravimetric scanners, so as long as they take some care, they’ll be undetected.  Here; the Americans will be blaming the Russians, and the Russians will be blaming the Americans…and the real enemy will go unnoticed until it’s too late.”

She paced around the room, putting the book down on the table, stroking at her hair.  “That’s what the Enemy must be doing here,” she said.  “Pushing the tensions forward, faster and faster, until some idiot pushes the trademarked big red button…”

“And the human defences destroy themselves,” Thande concluded.  “So, we have to warn them…”

“They wouldn’t believe us,” Sally reminded him.  “Why should they?  Who are we to them?  They’ll know the dangers, of course, but they won’t care; they’ll do everything they can, except back down at the right time.”

Thande blinked at her sudden fury.  “You seem to know a lot about this,” he said.  “Why?”

“I’ve seen it happen before,” Sally said grimly.  “It will not happen again!”

Chapter Thirteen: Dark Night In Space

Asteroid Cluster #857759
Deep Space

Captain John Howard stared at the display, showing the mocking form of the alien spacecraft he’d nicknamed Wanderer, just to have something to call it when discussing the matter.  The instructions from Fleet Command had been oddly specific; hold position, remain under radio silence, and continue careful examination of the hulk.

“It would be a lot easier if it were a hulk,” he muttered, as he sipped his coffee from a bulb.  Jane had attempted to convince him to allow them to use the launch as a permanent base on the Wanderer, but he'd vetoed the idea; they might well need the launch for other matters.  So close to the alien ship, it was easy for his people to simply reach the vessel through EVA; the launch could be held back for other missions.  

He scowled.  Instead of being a hulk, however, Wanderer remained a mystery.  The crew had explored large sections of the ship, but it was massive, far larger than the Abraham Lincoln.  The ship was clearly generating power, but no one had been able to find out where its engines were, or even how it was generating the gravity field.  The field itself flickered in and out of existence, suggesting that something had gone wrong somewhere, but how could they find out if they couldn’t explore the entire hull?

But even without the strange evidence of extremely advanced technology – he was reminded of the British Space Director’s comment about sufficiently advanced technology seeming to be magic – Wanderer just gave him the creeps.  He’d served for nearly thirty years in the USSF…and there was something about the alien ship he just didn’t like.  It seemed so…uncaring of petty human concerns, just drifting out in the wastelands of space; it looked…inhuman.  

He smiled ruefully; human hands hadn’t built the Wanderer.  The ship had been constructed by alien hands and minds, so why should it look human?  Some parts of the ship were completely inaccessible – they’d found no trace of a bridge either – and he’d been reluctant to try to force them open.  Whoever got the ship would want to explore it all carefully; he suspected that Fleet Command had only ordered them to examine the ship out of a desperate need to know as quickly as possible.

His wristcom buzzed.  “Howard,” he said.

“This is Jane,” Jane said.  “Captain, we’re beaming back a signal from the latest room we’ve explored.  I really think you need to see this.”

“I’m starting to dread that phase,” Howard said.  “What have you found this time?”

“It’s a bit hard to explain,” Jane said.  “I’m sending it to your computer.”

Howard scowled, but activated his desktop display.  The camera image was sharp, clear…and astonishing.  An aircraft was positioned neatly within the alien room, dropped on the deck without any damage at all, one carrying United States markings.

“Jane,” he said slowly, “is that what I think it is?”

“It’s a modified high-attitude Hunter,” Jane said.  Her voice was grim.  “According to Mason, they were produced to serve in an ASAT role before the space program really began to pay off; they were man-killers and finally abandoned, not without a sigh of relief.”  She paused.  “That was in the late 1950s, when they had some really strange ideas of what would happen if you used rockets to aid a plane.”

“I don’t believe it,” Howard said, shaking his head in disbelief.  A thought struck him.  “Jane, is there any sign of the pilot?”

The video tilted as Jane stepped closer to the human aircraft.  It seemed to be in perfect condition, with only a hint of melted paint on the side of the airframe.  The cockpit was empty, with no sign of a human pilot inside.

“No sign,” Jane said.  “It looks undamaged inside” – the video tilted as she bent over to look into the cockpit – “and there are no signs of a struggle.  The landing gear wasn’t extended, so it’s still on the deck, which suggests that the craft was simply snatched out of thin air.”

Howard scowled.  “Could the Wanderer pass through the atmosphere?”  He asked.  “It might be able to do that with a Procyon Drive.”

“I’d hate to try it,” Lieutenant Mason said.  “Using a Procyon Drive so close to a gravity well would be far dicier as the gravity field would be interfering with the drive field.”

Howard frowned, a chilling image passing through his head.  The Wanderer floating high above the Earth, tracking the United States Air Defence Command and its aircraft.  When an opportunity presented itself, the ship moving, heading into the atmosphere to snatch a plane out of thin air.  The people on the ground would have known that the Hunter was a very imperfect aircraft; no one would have suspected foul play when there was such a logical explanation.

“This is something rather more serious,” he said, thinking hard.  The Hunter had entered service, if he recalled correctly, in 1957.  It hadn’t lasted long; some theories had proven to be rather spectacularly wrong, even if some pilots had loved the aircraft.  That meant…that the aliens had been hanging around the Solar System for that long, without doing anything to alert humanity or to attempt to communicate with the human race.

That meant…trouble.  “Jane,” he said slowly, “did your famous grandfather ever mention any UFO incidents after Roswell?”

Jane’s voice wasn’t surprised.  Clearly she’d been thinking along the same lines.  “There were always a handful of strange reports, such as the Mantrell crash and several other strange radar contacts, but there was no real proof of alien activity – at least as far as he told me,” she said.  “He wouldn’t say too much about his activities after Roswell, but…I’m sure he would have mentioned something, particularly after I graduated.”

“I see,” Howard said thoughtfully.  “This…has to be kicked upstairs as well.  I really don’t like some of the implications.”  He paused, considering; they were building up a fairly useful map of the Wanderer, at least one that would allow them to know where the proper research team should begin their work.  “If they were kidnapping aircraft, what’s to say that they might be still doing it?”

There was a long pause.  “This might be the only ship they had,” Jane said.  She sounded as if she didn’t believe herself.  “If it’s gone, there might not be a second ship.”

“I don’t think that we can count on it,” Howard said.  “Continue exploring and recording.”

“Aye, sir,” Jane said.  The connection broke, and then the wristcom chimed again.

“Howard,” Howard said.  “What is it now?”

“This is Lieutenant Malady,” Malady said.  “We have just received orders from Fleet Command.  They’re encrypted; your eyes only.”

“Finally,” Howard said.  “I want you to prepare to transmit a second message to them, which I’ll send you, and then send the orders to my console.  I’ll deal with them here.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Malady said.  “I’ll send them over to you at once.”

Howard quickly composed a message for Fleet Command, detailing the unnerving discovery of the Hunter and adding a request for reinforcements, before opening the message from Fleet Command.  Five minutes later, he cursed; the orders would not be difficult to carry out, but they would be one hell of a problem.

***
Commander (second-class) James McPherson had had two ancestors who’d fought in the American Civil War and one who’d written a very well received book on the subject, something he never allowed anyone to forget.  As one of the handful of people who actually understood how the Procyon Drive worked, he was a qualified ship’s engineer, but he had always struck Howard as more than a little effeminate.  The USSF had a closed-eye policy to sexual relations among crewmembers of equal rank, but there were few who shared McPherson’s rank.

Howard shook his head.  Under the circumstances, it hardly mattered.

“This will be something of a challenge,” McPherson admitted, floating in the middle of the engineering section.  The massive closed unit that made up the fusion power plant hummed away behind him; the USSF forbade anyone from trying to repair that in flight, no matter the reason.  Behind that, the far more open structure of the drive field generator was situated, glowing with a faint eerie glow.  Howard had once seen McPherson perform repairs on it while the ship was at Ceres Base; it had been a fascinating experience, but a chilling one.

Howard nodded, hanging onto the railing.  The Abraham Lincoln remained at rest, without using anything that could offer even a minute gravity field…and of course the drive itself didn’t offer one at all.

“Fleet Command is insistent,” he said.  “Can we do it?”

“This is a job for a fleet of tugs,” McPherson protested.  “Yes, of course we can do it; there will just be some problems.”  He paused for a moment; Howard quirked an eyebrow.  “You know how the drive field works?”

Howard nodded.  McPherson went on anyway.  “The drive exists as a bubble around the Abraham Lincoln,” he said.  “The Wanderer will be outside the bubble; it will have velocity from what we give it, but that won’t vanish when we lose our own field.  The alien ship is too bloody big for us to push it along, as we can’t extend the drive field around it.”

“You’ve been thinking about this,” Howard accused, his eyes twinkling.

“Well, I wanted a look at the Wanderer myself,” McPherson admitted.  “Seeing you wouldn’t let me go over myself, then…anyway, changing the subject; the drive field is limited at most, with the power we have, to roughly a diameter of two hundred meters, which means that we cannot push the Wanderer without facing massive problems.”

Howard frowned.  “Such as?”

“No one has been stupid enough to try it in real life,” McPherson said.  “Simulations, however, suggest that we’d blow ourselves to bits, just because of half of the ship still remaining in normal space.  On the other hand, we can tow the ship quite nicely…until the field is turned off at the end.”

Howard swore.  “We’ll have it coming right up our backside,” he realised.

“Exactly,” McPherson said.  “We cut our drive; the Wanderer, which still has the velocity, keeps coming on and smashes into us.  We’re going to need some tugs at wherever we’re going.”

“A classified base in the belt, for the moment,” Howard supplied.  “That’s between you and me and Jane, by the way; keep your mouth closed about it.  Any problems with the drive or anything else I ought to know about?”

“It’s going to need some fancy flight work,” McPherson said.  “I’ll run through some simulations, and then slip them over to Marian; she can work on them and we can see if we can perform them without serious problems.  If we can’t, then we’ll have to think about some other way to do it.”

“Get on with it,” Howard said.  He lifted his wristcom.  “Lieutenant Davidson, report to the Chief Engineer in thirty minutes for simulations of the manoeuvres; Lieutenant Tusk will relieve you.”

“Aye, sir,” Marion said.  “Will there be simulations ready by then?”

“I should have a simulation worked out by then,” McPherson said.  Marion signed off.  “Captain, when do you want to start moving?”

“Yesterday,” Howard said.  “One other detail; we have to keep down the amount of energy we spill out.  It’s supposed to remain a secret.  Not even the Russians are supposed to know.”

“The drive is undetectable,” McPherson said.  “Unless they get an optical look at us, what will they know?”

***
Ensign Sonya Barton carefully manoeuvred the tiny rocket pack forward, placing it neatly on the side of the asteroid.  She paused as the computers ran through a long complex series of calculations, before finally pronouncing the rocket as having been placed perfectly.

“This is Ensign Barton,” she said.  “The rocket is in place.”

“Acknowledged,” Commander Hanover said.  “Confirm that everything is perfect, and then return to the ship.”

“Aye, Commander,” Sonya said, carefully jetting the tiny work-bug away from the asteroid, which had been floating too close to the Wanderer for safety’s sake.  “Making final positioning check…now.”

She slowly orbited the asteroid, allowing the computers to add to their already monstrous store of variables that they had to consider, before pronouncing that everything was safe.  Personally, she suspected that someone had deliberately drawn all of the asteroids around the alien craft; a lot of them seemed to be floating in a perfect, unnatural, orbit.

Taking a breath, she activated her computer, performing a final location check.  It was standard USSF procedure, but this time…something was different.  The system was designed to use lasers for communicating, but the laser was heading back towards a hidden location in space…the location of a Soviet intelligence base.  

She smiled as the compressed message finally finished its cycle, heading away from her suit at the speed of light, and activated the second system in her pre-planned program.  It had taken several hours to prepare, but it would wipe any trace of the first program and the laser transmission, replacing it with a perfect – and false – record that would show that nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

“This is Ensign Barton,” she said, into her radio.  “The positioning check has been completed; everything seems to be perfect.”  She smiled; if something went wrong, they would be able to move the asteroid without damaging the priceless ship.  She’d already given some thought to trying to destroy the Wanderer, but that would almost certainly convince the ISA that the Abraham Lincoln had a spy among the crew, the one thing that scared her ever since taking up her role in America.  Her cover was supposed to be perfect, but the ISA would probe away at everyone, looking for her.

And besides, the KGB would be rather unhappy about losing their own chance to study the ship, even if it were alongside the Americans.

“Good work,” Commander Hanover said.  Sonya smiled; Jane’s voice betrayed no suspicion at all.  “Return to the ship now.”

“On my way,” Sonya said.  “I’ll be there in around…five minutes.”

***
Fleet Command had approved the plan to move the Wanderer, allowing Howard to do the fine work of organising the entire project.  He studied the status board; he had to admit that it looked a little…Heath Robinson-like.  The massive shape of the Wanderer was connected to the Abraham Lincoln by a single long cable, made up of very strong tensile material.  It reminded him of a little tug trying to move one of the massive aircraft carriers, before most of them had been scrapped; David and Goliath.

He lifted his wristcom.  “Any reaction from Wanderer?”

“Nothing,” Jane said.  “The ship did nothing at all, apart from the constant gravity shifts.”

“Understood,” he said.  “Are you sure that you want to remain where you are?”

Jane laughed.  “Yes, sir,” she said.  “First commander of an alien-built ship; how could I resist?”

“Laser us if you need anything,” Howard said.  “If you have any problems at all, let us know at once, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Jane said.  She’d volunteered, along with three other officers, to remain on board the launch, which was attached to the Wanderer.  Howard hadn’t been happy about that at all, but Fleet Command had insisted on someone remaining to see how the Wanderer reacted to being moved from its location.  “We’re all ready here.”

Howard winced as the connection broke.  “Lieutenant Davidson, please confirm that everything is in readiness,” he said.

“Everything is perfect, sir,” Marian said.  She sounded truly confident; She and McPherson had spent the last hours preparing by running through everything that could possibly happen.  “The helm is functioning properly, sir; all systems report full readiness.  Back-up systems are online and ready to take over if necessary.”

“Engineering?”  Howard asked.  “James, is everything ready?”

“The drive is drawing power now,” McPherson said.  “We can move at your command.”

Howard nodded slowly.  “Helm, move us out,” he said.

The Abraham Lincoln shuddered slightly as the cable snapped taut, and then the ship started to move.  “The drive is having some slight problems coping with the cable interfering with the field,” McPherson said.  “I’m adjusting to compensate.”

The ship shuddered again, and then settled down.  “We have movement,” Marian said.  Howard let out a sigh of relief.  “I would recommend keeping the speed at 0.1C at most, for the moment; I don’t like the fluctuations in the drive.”

Howard nodded.  “Understood,” he said.  He kept his concern out of his voice.  “Jane?  How are you and your people over there?”

“Some limited shuddering,” Jane said.  She sounded to be fine.  “There’s some very definite pressure on us, outside the field.”

Howard felt his blood run cold.  No one had thought about that possibility; if they went too fast, Jane and the rest of her team might be killed without ever knowing what had happened to them.  “Marian, keep the speed as it is,” he said.  “Time to base?”

“Two weeks,” Marian said.  The Abraham Lincoln shuddered again, and then returned to normal.  “Sir, I’m not sure what is causing that,” she said.  “It’s a complete mystery.”

“It’s reacting to the gravity field on the Wanderer,” McPherson said.  His voice sounded delighted to have solved a puzzle.  “They must be related, sir; whatever produces their gravity must be a variant on the drive itself.”

Howard smiled.  “See if you can figure out how they do it,” he said.  “You’ll be the most famous engineer in history once you solve that problem.”

“The Wanderer seems to be settling down properly now,” Marian said.  “As we’re moving at the same course and speed, we’ll be safe if the cable breaks.  All we have to do now is keep plodding along until we reach the asteroid base.”

Howard nodded.  “Well done, everyone,” he said.  “Marian; you’re relieved.  Go get some rest and report back here tomorrow for duty.”

Marian grinned.  “Yes, sir,” she said.  “Thank you for everything.”

Chapter Fourteen: Musical Chairs

The Kremlin
Moscow, USSR

It was a curious fact, in the years since Stalin had died from an overdose of lead poisoning, that authority, title and responsibility within the Soviet Union rarely went together.  The President of the Supreme Soviet, in theory the supreme authority of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, was little more than a rubber stamp post, used for removing Politburo members who had run afoul of internal Party politics.  Real power, as far as it could be concentrated in the hands of one man in a system determined, above all else, to prevent a second Stalin, rested in the hands of the General Secretary.  

However, in the shadowy world of the Politburo, even his authority was not absolute.  The old trinity of Party, Army and KGB still held, but it wasn’t alone; the Economic Planning and Space departments were of growing importance.  The old Strategic Rocket Service had been replaced by the Red Space Force, which consumed an ever-increasing fraction of the budget.  The Army and the Red Navy still had influence, still possessed the ability to call upon a larger fraction of the Soviet Union’s budget than everyone found comfortable, but the power balance was growing ever more unwieldy.  

All in all, it made Moscow far more of a dangerous place to live.

Dimitri Yazov’s official title was Minister for the Economy; as always, it was slightly misleading.  The Western intelligence agencies had dismissed Yazov as one of the ‘New Men;’ the people who were appointed from time to time as part of a power shift within the Soviet Government.  Yazov, in fact, had much greater powers than anyone had assumed; it had been his task to finally bring the economy under control.  It was a thankless task – and not one to guarantee a long life within the halls of power.  At one point, it would have threatened him with death – Stalin had a short way with ministers who failed – but that didn’t happen anymore.  Mostly.

Like all Politburo members, Yazov had expanded into other fields, using his powers of patronage to build up a power base of his own, one composed of men loyal to him.  He had influence and friends within the KGB, which affected parts of the economy simply by existing, and the military services, which he was responsible for funding, somehow.  Using that influence and his own not inconsiderable talents, he had succeeded at a task no one else had succeeded at…and he rather wished he hadn’t.  He had composed the first accurate picture of the Soviet economy, the first one anyone had managed that was not distorted by endless over-reporting and/or claiming that the fault lay anywhere, but with the person doing the reporting.

The picture was not encouraging.  The Soviet Union’s economy, he knew, looked well and healthy, a fair match for that of the United States.  It wasn’t anything of the sort; too many bureaucrats had made the mistake of believing the endless chains of paper reports passed up the massive reporting lines, or had actively engaged in fleecing the system.  The thousands of corrupt officials had only made the entire situation worse…and the collective farming concept had turned it into a disaster.

“We’re robbing Peter to pay Paul,” he’d thundered at a meeting of the Politburo.  They hadn’t understood; many of them were ‘Old Men;’ people who had been born into the Party and remained part of the Party.  Thanks to the geriatric treatments flowing out of American research laboratories in space, some of them remembered the Great Patriotic War, when Hitler had been alive.  Some of them had even been part of the cabal that had assassinated Stalin and blamed it on Mao.  

The charts and projections had made it quite clear.  The supply of food – as opposed to useable military technology and space equipment that could be bartered for food – was drying up.  Poland and the rest of the Warsaw Pact were in a state of near-revolt; only a massive KGB force kept them under control.  Their farms, also collectivised, were being used to feed the Russian population…which meant that the Poles themselves had less to eat.  There were thousands of people, fleeing into West Germany, something that the KGB had encouraged in order to get rid of troublemakers, but they included the people whom they depended upon!  Farmers, scientists, researchers; they were refusing to serve within the Soviet Union.

It was impossible!  The Soviet economy needed major renovation, now!  He understood how it could be done, just by removing some of the shackles and cutting part of the military budget…except that was suddenly impossible.  The Procyon Drive had arrived, and unless the Red Space Force kept pace with the Americans with such ships, they would be rapidly outnumbered and then…the Americans would hold a decisive military advantage.

And now…a new alien ship had been discovered.  Yazov could have wept at the irony; the economy was in ruins, the last thing it needed was more instability.  The report from the KGB spy had been very detailed; the Americans intended to hide the craft for themselves, except that that could not be allowed.  Without some guarantee of equality, the long slow process of collapse wouldn’t continue at the slow rate – it would accelerate, crashing down.  The Soviet Union would look weak, which would encourage the subject nations to revolt against it.  

He shook his head as he reached the massive doors that marked the entrance to the Politburo chamber.  If Poland revolted, food supplies would be cut badly.  If that happened, the system – with its inherent corruption – would fall apart…and the citizens would revolt.  It had happened in 1917; the starving population had allowed the revolution to succeed.  Would it happen again?

The Red Guards at the door, part of an elite force that was answerable only to the General Secretary, opened the door for him as he reached the door.  Inside, the chamber was luxurious, decorated in a fashion that someone a safe distance from the Soviet Union would have unhesitatingly called aristocratic.  Yazov had always found it to be disgustingly overstated; golden paint had been applied liberally – and the chandelier was solid gold.

“Comrade Yazov,” Joseph Shapov said.  The Director of the KGB wore no uniform; only a light copy of an American-made suit.  American goods slipped into the Soviet Union somehow; no one had been able to cut off the smuggling.  Yazov had a private suspicion that that was because it was the border guards doing the smuggling.  “You have arrived.”

Yazov nodded once.  He didn’t like Shapov – few liked the KGB at all – but he was an ally, of sorts.  Certainly, he could be counted upon to support any anti-American measure; his weak chin and beady eyes didn’t match his personality.  The KGB had spent the last two days warning about American deceptions against the USSR; the discovery of the American refusal to live up to their treaties had boosted their prestige within the informal power structure.

“I have arrived,” Yazov agreed.  Small talk wasn’t common in the Politburo chamber; no one knew what might be considered disloyalty to Russia.  Even talking about the weather could be hazardous.  He glanced around the room; the nineteen seats were half-filled, mainly with members of the anti-American faction.  That was worrying; the pro-American faction, for want of a better term, was clearly plotting something.

“I heard that the Space Marshal wants to send a fleet to intercept the alien ship and its American escort,” Shapov said, ignoring convention.  “Would that meet with your approval?”

Yazov felt a flicker of admiration.  Shapov had asked him…without even implying which way he himself thought.  “It is important that the Americans live up to their obligations,” he said neutrally.  Guarding words became second nature after years in Moscow.  “We cannot allow them to break one, or they will break others.”

Shapov seemed about to press further.  The door opening silenced him as the general Secretary stepped in, accompanied by the Space Marshal, Gennedy Bukharin, and two other military officers.  He stood, along with the others at the table, to show respect to the General Secretary, even though he felt none of it.  General Secretary Boris Andropov was one of those opposed to making the changes in the economy that were so necessary.  

“The General Secretary,” Bukharin said.  It was the signal; as Andropov took his place at the formal head of the circular table, the others sat down and looked attentive.  Yazov smiled; falling asleep during a meeting simply wasn’t done, only one of Stalin’s henchmen had ever done that.

Andropov nodded to Marshal of the Soviet Union Alexandr Vostrakov, who spoke like the soldier he was.  “For those of you who are unaware of the details, I will summarise,” Vostrakov said.  “The Americans have discovered a second alien ship, out along the edge of the solar system.  This has several disturbing implications; the most important being that the Americans have apparently decided to conceal the discovery from us, and their own people.”

Space Marshal Gennedy Bukharin spoke quickly.  He resented, along with the rest of the Red Space Force, their apparently permanent subordination to the Red Army.  “The most important implication, according to the report, is that there is clearly some systems on the ship remaining active,” he said.  “You will be aware that that was untrue of the craft that crashed so long ago; it took a combined research effort years to make even any progress at all.”

He looked around the room, hammering the point into their heads.  “This means, Comrades, that we have a serious problem.  Once some power was finally applied into the Roswell craft, we managed to make some breakthroughs” – he didn’t mention the lost lives when something taken from the Roswell craft had exploded in the middle of the joint research base – “such as the Procyon Drive.  This ship…we might be able to expect discoveries very quickly.”

“In American hands alone, that could be disastrous,” Shapov said mildly.  “They have not honoured their obligations.”

“Indeed,” Maskow Lavrov, Foreign Minister, agreed.  “We have signed a treaty that agrees that in the event of a Code Blue – the discovery of a second alien craft – we will inform the Americans and allow them access.  The Americans made the same agreement, except they are apparently giving in to their odd – and totally unjustified – suspicions about us.  They have made no attempt to inform us…and they can no longer claim that it was a false alarm.”

Yazov remembered.  An American listening post had been very confident that it had detected an alien signal, one of astonishing regularity.  The ensuing panic had required that still more resources be devoted to the space program…before someone had worked out that they were caused by natural objects in space called quasars.  

Vostrakov spoke with growing anger.  The Red Army possessed an intrinsic…dislike of Americans, as the only possible foe – and justification for the massive budget that went towards creating the army.  There were thousands of tanks and vehicles, all almost useless in an era where space command decided wars, all purchased to keep the army happy.  The Red Air Force was worse; they had hundreds of intercontinental bombers…that a single laser in orbit could wipe out in an hour.  The Red Navy was worst of all; their massive fleet was horrifically vulnerable to flying crowbars.  

We could invade America – if the Americans were asleep, or stupid, Yazov thought disdainfully.  

“The Americans intend to keep the ship for themselves,” he said, and Yazov had to agree.  It certainly looked that way.  “They are using the incidents in the belt, the incidents that they themselves are causing with their undisciplined mining crews, as a justification to utterly ruin us.”

“One trusts that our miners have more discipline,” Andropov said.  The General Secretary’s voice was calm, composed, and alert.  Yazov wondered; might some commander in space have started a private war?  It seemed impossible, but he knew that strange things had happened before in space.

“Of course they do,” Bukharin snapped.  “Our miners are all part of collective state enterprises.  They know better than to start a war.”

They know better than to show any initiative, Yazov thought coldly.  A Soviet worker had no real reward for his efforts, no promotion, no prizes, not even a commendation.

“We cannot allow this to stand,” Vostrakov said.  “What will it do for us if the Americans somehow manage to gain such an advantage?”

Yazov knew that the question was directed at him.  He also knew the rules; you could answer ambiguously, or carefully, but you could not lie.  “The American economy is already stronger than ours,” he said.  He’d considered if the discovery would have had a disastrous effect on the American economy as well, but he’d had to conclude that that would have been unlikely.  “This…could seriously ruin ours.”

He heard some of the sighs from the Old Men.  They’d been born in an era where Stalin had only to shout ‘dog’ and everyone would start barking.  It wasn’t like that any longer; the Soviet Union was not as strong or as able to dispense punishment as it had been, not without suffering badly in return.  The New Men, at least, would listen.

“We need considerable inputs of foreign currency, mainly Japanese and Indian, to maintain the economy at its current level,” he said.  The problem, of course, was that the problem was still growing worse, like trying to slap a plaster on a cancer patient.  “We have one great advantage, which I have been using to the best effect I can; our supply of asteroid metals outstrips demand.

“In effect,” he continued, “for every one hundred tons of asteroid metal we refine, we use ten tons for our domestic internal use.  The Americans may have a far larger program, and the British are catching up, but both of them use much more of the metal for their internal use; the Americans, from time to time, have actually purchased metal from us.  The Japanese and the Indians don’t have a program in space – or, more accurately, they didn’t have a program in space.  Hatred of America and dislike of the former colonial master, or so we thought, kept them in our pocket.”

He paused.  Placing the blame on the General Secretary, who had made the decision, wouldn’t go down well.  “In recent years, both of our main external buyers have been developing their own space programs, with a great deal of help from us.  You will remember that I advised against that at the time, but with the danger of them going to America instead, the decision was taken to support them.  The only American contribution was to insist that neither power orbited weapons, something that we agreed to…”

“And would have insisted on ourselves anyway,” Shapov injected.

“Exactly,” Yazov said.  “Now, we are facing an economic disaster; when either or both of them develop their space programs to the point that they can meet their own domestic demand without our help, we will suddenly be out billions of dollars, which you will recall we use to purchase equipment and food from outside the Warsaw Pact.  At the same time, we will continue to face high demands on the budget; refitting the entire fleet with Procyon Drives, for example, will still take years even without the sudden loss of the budget.”

He took a breath.  “If we suddenly have to race to match the Americans again,” he said, “the economy will collapse.  We need, desperately, a breathing space.  We should destroy the alien craft and swear blind that it was an accident.”

“We cannot do that,” Bukharin said.  “If the aliens are out there somewhere, we have no choice, but to match their technology or we will be destroyed.  The Procyon Drive alone changes the power balance; if the entire alien fleet is equipped with drives like that, then we would be in serious trouble.  It takes weeks, for a ship on fusion drive, to cross the distance between Mars and Earth; on a Procyon Drive it can be done in days.”

“Then we have to stop spending money elsewhere,” Yazov said, knowing that it would go nowhere.  “We simply cannot meet all of our obligations.”  He paused, considering.  “The situation might be even worse than we know.”

“We would seem to have no choice, but to demand access,” the General Secretary said.  Several cutting remarks passed through Yazov’s mind, but he forced them down.  “The Foreign Minister will present a formal note of complaint to the Americans, demanding access or various unspecified consequences.”

There were a handful of fake chuckles.  “I think that we need more,” Vostrakov said.  His voice was old, but firm.  “What’s to stop the Americans saying ‘no’ and daring us to open fire?  Will we open fire under such circumstances?”

“It would be madness,” Yazov said.  “It would start a war.”

“Damned if we do, damned if we don’t,” Bukharin said.  His voice was taut.  “We could always invoke our obligations under Code Blue; sending a military force to ‘secure’ the alien craft and ‘escort’ it in.”

“That would also provide the American president with an excuse to save face,” the General Secretary said.  He paused for a long moment.  “Is there any dissent?”

His gaze passed around the table.  Yazov noted that opinion was firmly in favour of sending a small force to ‘escort’ the American ship and its alien discovery, and voted with the majority.  As the opinion became more and more in favour, some of the first who had disagreed changed their opinions; finally uniting the table.

“The motion is carried,” the General Secretary said.  “Space Marshal, please make the arrangements.”  He nodded to the Foreign Minister.  “I’ll draft you a note to be submitted to the American President,” he said.  “You will take it in person; the Ambassador in Washington needs to stay out of the loop for the moment.”

Yazov frowned as the meeting broke up.  He understood the decision, even supported it, but if it led to a war…there was no way that the Soviet Union could survive a long war.  The economy simply couldn’t take it.

Chapter Fifteen: Counterpart Chaos

Safe House
Washington DC, USA

“I keep telling you that he’s not the same person,” Sally said.  “I know you get on with him, and well you should, but he’s not the same person at all.”

“So you keep saying,” Thande snapped.  “Sally – what is the problem with it?”

“He isn’t you,” Sally said.  “Listen; haven’t you noticed?  You trust him completely – and you’ve hardly known him for more than two days.  He trusts you as well; you’re here, instead of cooling your heels in a jail cell.”

“So are you,” Thande pointed out.  Professor Anderson had taken them with him to Washington.  “You don’t have a counterpart here.”

“You have to be careful,” Sally said.  “You’re starting to bleed slightly into one another; that could be very dangerous.  We don’t really understand how the effect works; we just know that it happens.  However, he’s not you!  You might end up becoming him, or vice versa.”

Thande sighed.  “Enough,” he said.  Sally snorted.  “Have you made any headway?”

“I can trace lines of interference,” Sally said.  She’d been reading through history books and databases; Professor Anderson had been more than willing to supply them with such material, even though they were in a gilded cage.  It was a cage, no matter how nice it looked; the small house was very secure and surrounded by ISA agents.  Thande had no doubt that they would shoot to kill if they tried anything too stupid.

She held up a list of notes.  “This world has made astonishing progress, almost too astonishing,” she said.  “I wonder; why would the Enemy want to divert Vietnam?  If there is an alien invasion force massing outside, why would they want to prevent that war from ever happening?”

“I don’t know,” Thande said.  “What effects – good effects – did the Vietnam War have?”

Sally shrugged.  “It’s hard to think of any,” she said.  “You might make a case that damaging the willingness of young people to fight for America was good for the gene pool, but that doesn’t really hold up under scrutiny.  Except…”

She smiled brilliantly; Thande felt suddenly weak at the knees.  “We’ve been looking at the effects on America,” she said.  “What about the effects on Russia?  Without Vietnam, would they ever have overextended themselves the way they did in the source timeline?  If America didn’t look weak and helpless, would Iran and Iraq have challenged America the way they did?”

“Russia invaded Iran here,” Thande commented.  He studied the list of notes.  “Might the Enemy have been supplying intelligence?  Wiping out prominent people before they ever became a problem?”

“It’s possible, but unlikely,” Sally said.  “The more interference from outside, the more distortion to the timeline, therefore the greater the chances of discovery.  It’s much more likely that they were quietly urging the Soviet Union further into space, which makes sense from the Hive point of view.”

Thande narrowed his eyes.  “You mean – instead of looking for the Enemy, we’re looking for Hive infiltrators?  They’re causing the disruption to the timeline?”

“They were never multiverse-capable,” Sally said.  Her voice sounded troubled.  “There is a real puzzle here, Thande; they should have been wiped completely out of existence.  They’re part of the timeline; they can’t have been causing the disruption, so the Enemy has to be involved here somewhere.”  She ran her hands through her hair.  “It makes sense from a tactical point of view; we know that they want to slow down development of technology in the multiverse, particularly human technology, and the Hive are as close to stagnant as you can get without freezing in place.”

“They can’t have come backwards or forwards in time?”  Thande suggested.  “They might have come from an era before they were destroyed.”

Sally yawned suddenly.  “Not possible,” she said.  “They were wiped completely from existence.  They never evolved; the damage swept back along their timeline like wildfire.  All of history altered itself to allow for their disappearance.”  She scowled.  “You can’t hop backwards in time from anywhere, although you can build a link to the future.  You need to enter the Vale to do that.  If they managed to get into the Vale somehow, they should still have vanished when they tried to re-enter the Multiverse.”

Thande nodded slowly.  “I’ll take your word for it,” he said.  “Sally, if the Enemy is actively engaged against humanity, perhaps they’re from a race that humanity fought against, or even wiped out.  They might even be a renegade human faction.”

Sally laughed.  “We did think of that,” she said, her tone light.  “We’re not total incompetents, you know.”

“I was wondering,” Thande said.  “We got sent into this timeline with bugger-all preparation…and I just wondered.”

Sally smiled.  “Now…which enemy would you like?”  She asked.  “There’s a timeline where a bastardised version of Christianity and Islam gained control over the Solar System, on a holy crusade to exterminate all other races.  There’s a timeline where there’s a massive union of advanced races, threatened by humanity’s upstart nature.  There’s a timeline where humanity forged a massive alliance with several other races, spreading across almost all of the galaxy.  There’s a timeline where humanity managed to have a nuclear war in 1980 and destroyed America.  There’s a timeline where a human nation from South Africa spread across the planet…”

Thande stared at her.  “I do hope you’re joking,” he said.

Sally smiled enigmatically.  “I never joke,” she said.  “There’s a timeline where humans accidentally created their own successors and got wiped out by them in 2100; a timeline where First Contact led at once to a bloody war…Thande, just how many official Enemies of Humanity do you think exist out there?”

Thande considered.  “Hundreds?”

“Pick any number you like,” Sally said.  “I can almost guarantee that it would be too small.  There are so many races, each with their own timelines, that detecting which one of them will lead to the Enemy is an impossibly huge task.  We’re working on it, but I don’t expect success.”

She shook her head.  “And now, of course, there’s the Hive,” she said.  “I think I’d better inform the Turtledove about them; the ship can send a probe to where they originally came from and find out.”

Thande nodded.  “Good thinking,” he said.  “Now what?”

Sally stood up.  “I’m going to go to bed,” she said.  “In the morning, we’ll start going through the lists of possible Enemy agents in this world.”

Thande held up a hand.  “Sally…is it possible that the Enemy might have a ship attached to this timeline as well, somewhere out there in the Vale?”

Sally nodded.  “They must have, somewhere,” she said.  “The Turtledove will be watching out for it; if they find it, they’ll try to destroy it.  The Vale is such a huge place; it could be parked anywhere, relative to this timeline.”  She sighed.  “Good night, Professor.”

Thande half-wished that he could be going to bed with her, but a yawn stopped that line of thought.  “Good night, Sally,” he said.  “See you in the morning.”

The White House
Washington DC, USA

“In short, Mr President, the implications of the discovery of the Hunter are disturbing,” Fleet Admiral Matt Burghardt said.  “We investigated through the records, once we had a note of the identification number, and we found the records.  The Hunter was launched in 1959 and ordered to investigate a strange radar contact.  The aircraft climbed to a record height, closed in on the contact…and disappeared.”

The President looked up at the tactical display.  Someone within the USSF had worked out that there was no real reason for the Wanderer to be attached to the Abraham Lincoln for the entire trip; it would be far safer to have the Wanderer separate from the American spacecraft for most of the flight.  Now that some small rockets were attached to the alien ship, there was no longer any need to imperil the Abraham Lincoln.

He scowled.  “Why did no one realise that the aliens were still operating within our atmosphere?”

Burghardt sighed.  “The radar network wasn’t perfect during that time,” he said.  “The circumstances were such that the craft was assumed to have crashed into the Caribbean; the Hunters were always unstable airframes.  It was written off as systems failure and the pilot got a posthumous medal.  The radar contact apparently vanished as the Hunter climbed, Mr President, and radar…”

“Isn’t an exact science at the best of times,” the President said, holding up a hand to break the flow of words.  The small meeting stared back at him as he looked around the room.  “Implications?”

There was a pause.  “Fascinating, Mr President,” Professor Anderson said.  He was the senior American specialist on the Roswell craft, one of the people who would lead the team that examined the new alien craft.  “The prospect of artificial gravity alone will revolutionise science, to say nothing of opening up new vistas for space transport.  We have problems with acclimatising people to Martin gravity; that need no longer be a problem.  Massive bridge ships, practically small space colonies, will no longer be needed.”

“Speaking for the USSF, that will be something of a relief,” Burghardt said dryly.  There were some chuckles; the bridge ships, the monstrous spinning spaceships travelling between Earth and the colonies, were run by the two main space governments rather than any commercial effort or corporation.  Their operating expenses were simply too high to sustain, but at the same time they were vital; the larger Mars colonies needed their new colonists adapted as quickly as possible.

“There are always people who have never adapted themselves to space properly,” Anderson agreed.  “That need no longer be a problem.”  He smiled.  “There are other possibilities, Mr President; do you know that we’ve never been able to really dent their main hull on the crash ship?”

The President frowned.  “What is it made of?”

“I wish I knew,” Anderson said.  “It’s completely non-conductive, which means that any ship built with it will have many holes in the hull for the drive, but it’s very strong.  Back during the early days, one of the researchers tried hitting it with a hammer, which broke.  However, the Wanderer has holes in its hull, which means that we might be able to calculate how to hurt it.”

“That would be useful,” Burghardt said.  The USSF – and the Red Space Force – had worried about their chances against impregnable hulls.  “We can finally test out the new plasma warheads against some of the metal as well.”

“True,” Anderson agreed.  “Although I am reluctant to risk damaging the Wanderer…”

“There are other implications,” Burghardt said, interrupting.  “The radar network back then was primitive, compared to the one we have now, but the alien craft was detected for a short period of time.  It vanished…but it was clearly present, just to take the Hunter out of the sky.  That wasn’t noticed.  If they can move around detected or undetected at will, they must have a cloaking device of some kind.”

The President frowned.  “How is that different from the stealth aircraft that we and the Soviets have been deploying?”

“A stealth aircraft is undetectable to radar, most of the time,” Burghardt said.  “We can gain some results tracking them with optical systems from orbit, but hardly enough to guarantee success.  However, they cannot decloak, as it were; they remain as stealthy as they are.  This craft was clearly able to cloak and decloak at will.  They might be floating right above us and we’d never notice.

“It gets worse,” he continued.  “This ship is bigger than anything we have – or the Soviets have – except for the bridge ships.  This ship somehow floated down into the atmosphere, snatched an aircraft out of the air, and headed back into space again.  Does anyone here have any idea at all how difficult that would be to do with our current technology?  We have a force of sub-orbital bombers that were built in 1990, but they don’t land, or even go very low at all.”

The Secretary of the Treasury snorted.  “Those were a massive white elephant,” he said.  “I don’t know what the USSF was thinking.”

“It seemed a good idea at the time,” Burghardt said dryly.  “It was some time before my time, but several people took early retirement over it.”

“And so they should have,” the President said shortly.  “Right; we have heard about all of the implications?”

Burghardt nodded.  “The current report, at last update, is that the Wanderer is falling towards the secret base in the asteroids, with the Abraham Lincoln keeping station beside it.  We have some people on board the Wanderer; enough to continue exploring the ship while it’s in transit…which gives us some time to decide what to do with it.”

“We have to bring it back to Earth,” Anderson said firmly.  “Mr President, the best researchers are on Earth, not space.  We could move people out to the belt, but at the cost of losing access to them if we needed them on Earth.”

“I am opposed to bringing the craft into Earth orbit, let alone down to Earth,” Burghardt said flatly.  “One of my analysts warned that the ship’s drive might explode, or something else; something that would do grave harm to Earth.”

“Besides, we’d never be able to keep this a secret if we had the ship in Earth orbit,” Chris Thompson said.  “Mr President, we have to treat this with kid gloves.”

“Except that we need to know what we can, as fast as we can,” Anderson said.  “Mr President, this is the greatest scientific discovery since Roswell.  It is our duty to explore the ship and find out how it works.”

“We know nothing about it and you want to poke it at random,” Burghardt said.  The President scowled at the developing argument.  “Better to keep it a safe distance away.”

Gilder tapped the table for attention.  “Could we not spare a handful of experts from Cheyenne Mountain for a long-term deployment?”  He asked.  “Professor, surely you yourself might want to go into space…?”

“I could,” Anderson agreed, without enthusiasm.  “The point, Director, is that all of the scientific equipment is in the main base at Cheyenne Mountain.  If we move that, it will be noticed and the Soviets will start wondering why.”

The President scowled.  “So we keep it secret, and limit our ability to do anything with it, or we risk blowing open the secret,” he said.

“Or we tell the Soviets the truth,” Thompson said.  “How much of a fuss can Senator Chapman make?”

“Enough to paralyse the government, just when we don’t need it paralysed,” the President growled.  Last night, there had been two more reports of damaged or destroyed automated mining equipment – and no one knew who had done that.  “If we moved a few experts, how long would it be before we could duplicate the equipment?”

“Not that long,” Anderson conceded.  “If you convinced the director of the lunar observatory and the scientific station there to let us borrow some of his equipment, we might be able to put together a suitable set of tools within a week or so, then two or so weeks to get them to the belt.”

“We might be able to free up the Andrew Jackson,” Burghardt injected.  “That would bring the transit time down to a day.”

“See to it,” the President said.  “Is there any way that we can speed up construction on the next generation of those ships?”

“We’re working on it out in the belt,” Burghardt said.  “It’s still going to be a month before Hull #5 is ready for its trials, though.”

“An unnamed ship,” Anderson commented, in some surprise.  “Do you want me to put together a team?”

The President nodded slowly.  “Yes,” he said.  “Pick four people from the mountain who can be spared without alerting any of the Russian researchers there.  Don’t brief them; just find an excuse to send them to Washington, then the ISA can escort them to the moon and then the Andrew Jackson.”

Anderson smiled.  “Do I get to go?”  He asked.  “I would give my right eyeball for the opportunity.”

“You get to stay here,” the President said.  “You’re too high-profile for my liking; all of the Russians know who you are.”

Anderson looked rebellious, but subsided.  “I’ll see to security,” Burghardt said.  “If we do it low key, no one will ask questions.”

The intercom buzzed.  “Mr President,” Judith said, “There is an update from the Lunar Pentagon for you and the Fleet Admiral.  It’s marked priority two.”

The President frowned.  Priority two was just short of a shooting war breaking out, or being about to break out.  “Send it through,” he said.  The screen on his desk flipped up, revealing a computer screen and a simple grim message.  “Ah,” he said.

“Mr President?”  Burghardt asked.  “Sir?”

“The Russians have just launched a force of seven of their most modern corvettes,” the President said.  “Guess where they’re going?”

Burghardt’s face paled.  “The Wanderer,” he said.

The President nodded.  “Exactly,” he said.  “They know what we’re up to; God alone knows how.”

“A spy somewhere,” Arvin Gilder said angrily.  “God damn it!”

The President’s screen flickered again.  “Oh, yes, and the Russian foreign minister is on his way to meet me,” he said.  “A sub-orbital hypersonic, no less.  They must be in a hurry.”

Burghardt scowled.  “Mr President?”

“You have that small force of modern warships?”  The President asked.  Burghardt nodded.  “Good.  I want them prepared for departure to rendezvous with the Abraham Lincoln.  Once I’ve spoken to the foreign minister, then we’ll send them to reinforce the captain on the spot.”

“Captain Howard,” Burghardt said.  “That’s the current commanding officer.  Admiral Westmoreland will command the force that we placed on standby, with six modern corvettes and one cruiser.  We’ll have the Russians outgunned.”

The President nodded.  “Have the ships prepared, but warned not to start hostilities without a direct order,” he ordered.  He scowled darkly.  “Senator Chapman is going to love this.”

Chapter Sixteen: The Cat’s Out of the Bag

The White House
Washington DC, USA

Foreign Minister Maskow Lavrov rather liked Americans, even though they could be irritating at times.  They were a strange people; so free with their opinions and so quick to press against injustice, but so reluctant to become involved with the rest of the world.  The Soviet Union had intervened in both China and Iran – and annexed North Korea – the Americans seemed content to allow problems to grow and fester before bestirring themselves to do anything about them.  Would Cuba had had to undergo the torments of the Castro regime for so long if the Americans had intervened at the start?  Would Mexico have gone through a brutal civil war if the Americans had launched their invasion earlier?

No, he decided, as he had decided ever since studying in America; Americans had an innate sense that the world should be fair.  They expected that they had the right to seek life, liberty and happiness in whichever way they wanted – and that everyone else felt the same way too.  A strange folk; they had crushed Japan to nothing in 1945, then remembered Japanese effects on the American economy at just the right time to limit Japanese penetration of Australian and American markets.  They had abandoned their allies in the Second World War, then aided them to reach space, then neglected them again.  

Americans, he knew, felt safe.  The ISA might watch for trouble, but anyone could speak an opinion, even one supporting his own country, and not get arrested for it.  It was not a crime in America to publicly insult the President; in Russia, anyone foolish enough to speak his or her opinion to the wrong person would be lucky to be sent to Siberia.  America sat behind massive oceans and a massive orbital defence system; not even the might of the Red Navy could break through unaided.  They were safe from the world, no matter what it thought of them.

He pulled his tie around his neck, fastening it properly with an effort.  Unlike Americans, his own people knew the dangerous of trusting someone too much.  Stalin had trusted Hitler – although some said that he had planned to strike Hitler first in 1941 – and that had led to the Great Patriotic War.  Russians remembered what it was like to be stabbed in the back…and they would never forget.

He scowled as he checked his appearance.  Two hours in a hypersonic rocket, a single-stage-to-orbit craft that had been pressed into service, hadn’t improved his appearance.  He’d taken the precaution of bringing a spare suit along with him to change into in the White House; he’d been careful not to inform Ambassador Yeltsin that he was coming.  The man was a virtual drunkard; Lavrov knew that he’d only gotten the post because he had powerful friends in Moscow who wanted to get him out of the way.

“Mr Lavrov?”  The steward asked.  “Are you decent?”

Lavrov had to smile at the question.  No Russian would have spoken in such a way, unless ordered to do so by someone of significantly higher authority.  Even so, they might well still suffer for it; abuse of authority was a consistent factor in Russian organisations.  Why should a senior officer back up a junior who had embarrassed him, never mind that it had been the senior officer’s fault?  What was worth the risk of embarrassment?

“I’m decent,” he said, and smiled at the joke.  He made one final check of his appearance; white hair firmly combed, and suit clean and free of dandruff, and stepped outside of the luxurious bathroom. The steward, a young black American man, gave him a quick check before leading the way to the Oval Office.

“This is always an impressive building,” the steward said, seemingly determined to make conversation.  Lavrov smiled inwardly; that was something else that his country never had.  “Only last week, the Girl Scouts came through the building on their annual tour of the government buildings in Washington.  The President sat with them and had milk and cookies.”

Lavrov’s smile grew wider as he tried to picture the General Secretary playing with little girls, just for publicity’s sake.  The image refused to form; the charges against Beria had horrified even the hardened KGB members who had finally arrested their chairman after Molotov’s coalition had taken power.  He was sure that President Woodrow hadn’t had any evil intentions at all – he hoped that he hadn’t – but the image would always have distressing associations for him.

“That must have been interesting,” he said neutrally, marvelling once again at the Americans.  He was sure that a hundred armed Secret Service agents were keeping a close eye on the terrible Russian in the White House, following them through cameras and covert observation points, but for all the world to see there was just him and the young steward.  “Did the President gain any polling points because of it?”

The steward gave him a scandalised look.  “It’s part of his duties,” he said, astonished at the question.  “It hardly matters how well he did in the polls because of it.  The President is the Head of State.”

Lavrov nodded thoughtfully.  The formal head of state in Russia was the President or Chairman of the Supreme Soviet – a powerless figurehead in real life.  The head of government could concentrate on actually governing the country through peace and war – the Americans, however, merged the duties.  

“This is the Oval Office,” the steward said, as they reached the massive doors.  Lavrov had been there before, but he suffered the attentions of the two Secret Service agents who ran scanners all over his body.  “I think you’re clean.”

Lavrov ignored the temptation to make a joke, unable to decide if he was being insulted, or if it was a genuine example of American behaviour.  “Thank you,” he said.  “Do I just walk in?”

The steward held open the door for him, allowing him entrance into an antechamber.  The President’s secretary, a middle-aged woman called Judith Baker, nodded politely to him and waved him in.  

“Good to see you, Mr Lavrov,” she said, as the door closed behind Lavrov.  “I’ll just let the President know you’re here.”

“Thank you,” Lavrov said, checking the clock behind her.  Americans, at least, knew the value of being punctual; his own people tended to be delayed.  He felt very jet-lagged, as if it should be the other side of the clock.

Judith nodded, muttering into her phone.  “You can go right in,” she said.  “Would you like me to fetch you something?”

“No, thanks,” Lavrov said.  A glass of vodka or tea would have been very nice, but he wanted to remain alert.  He stepped up to the door and Judith opened it for him; he entered the Oval Office and shook hands with the President as he stood up.  On the surface, at least, everything seemed friendly.

“Foreign Minister,” the President said, waving Lavrov to a seat.  “To what do I owe the honour of this meeting?”

Lavrov sat down and took a moment to get comfortable.  Americans simply didn’t know how to make good chairs.  “Many reasons,” he said.  He had planned a speech, but he decided to stick with the essentials.  “In 1950, your nation and mine signed an agreement, which was ratified by your congress the following year.  Under the term of ‘Code Blue,’ it was agreed that any further alien contact would be reported at once to the other party, something that in fact led to several minor panics and one major panic.”

The President nodded slowly.  “I think that in essence the Soviet Union can be said to have lived up to its part in the agreement,” Lavrov continued.  “We have cooperated with you to a degree that has caused political trouble for General Secretaries down the years; a great deal of trouble, in some cases.  We allowed you to intervene in Cuba, despite the communist nature of the Castro regime, and we raised no objection to your interventions in Mexico.”

“We raised none to your actions in China and Iran,” the President said.  He tilted his head slightly.  “Shall we get to the point of this meeting?”

Lavrov met the President’s eyes.  “Mr President, I will be blunt,” he said, and saw the President nod slightly.  “We have received information to the effect that the United States has had a Code Blue in the outer solar system.”

He noticed that the President didn’t deny it.  “Why do you think that?”  The President asked.  “What source do you consider reliable enough to gamble everything on such a matter?”

“A source in your State Department,” Lavrov lied smoothly.  “Mr President; why have you broken the agreement?  Surely, there was enough time to be certain of what was on your hands, and then to inform us?”

The General Secretary had issued very specific instructions; give the President a way out that would save face.  “We wanted to ensure that we got the craft to safety before making any announcements,” the President said carefully.  “Why have you sent six ships to intercept ours?”

Lavrov smiled.  This was what he loved about diplomacy.  You’re lying, Mr President, he thought.  I know you’re lying…and you know that I know you’re lying, but we’re both going to smile and pretend we’re being honest and we’re going to accept it…because the alternative is worse.

“As you know, one of the dangers with the Roswell craft was the very clear danger that one of the other alien ships would attempt to recover the craft,” Lavrov said.  “In the case of Roswell, the craft was guarded by your forces in a secret location, and then moved to the research base somewhere that even I am not cleared to know about.”  He smiled, self-deprecatingly.  “This craft is in the middle of deep space.

“Under paragraph four of the alliance treaty, the Soviet Union has an obligation to – and I quote – put all of its resources towards protecting any further information on the aliens from destruction,” he continued.  “We have therefore ordered the six ships to escort your ship and the alien ship to a safe place for study.”

He watched the President’s expression carefully.  “That would be very useful,” the President said finally.  “Unfortunately, domestic politics are likely to prove something of a problem.”

“So are international politics,” Lavrov said.  He bit down several comments that occurred to him.  “We have an urgent need to look at that craft.”

The President looked…grim.  Not angry, not angry with him or Russia, just grim.  “You remember those clashes in the belt?”  He asked.  “Domestically, the decision will almost certainly be to…restrict access to the craft until the clashes stop.”

Lavrov stared at him.  “We are not responsible for those clashes,” he snapped, feeling pure fury pouring through him.  “Keep your bloody miners under control.”

“Some of the clashes have involved your craft, such as the incident at Area 72,” the President said tiredly.  “We don’t understand what the craft was doing there, but it attacked the base, killed everyone…”

“And then tried to destroy one of your ships,” Lavrov snapped.  “We did not send an outdated craft to attack one of your bases!”

“I believe you,” the President said.  Lavrov realised with a shock that he actually meant it.  “The problem, if I can level with you, is simple.  Domestically, the situation is growing more and more anti-Soviet.  You are being blamed for the clashes in the belt…”

Lavrov glared at him without real anger.  “How do you know that your…independent miners are not doing the attacks themselves?”  He asked.  “It could be designed to start a war they would benefit from.”

“By destroying much of the planet?”  The President asked dryly.  “I don’t think that there’s enough of them to risk that; you know what they’re like about helping one another out.”

He shrugged.  “It doesn’t matter, Mr Lavrov; if I make the decision to share access, I will very likely be impeached…”

Lavrov sighed.  “You must know that our option isn’t good either,” he said.  “If you do restrict access, the anti-American faction is likely to get into influence…and that would be very bad.”

The President nodded.  “Your ships can escort the Abraham Lincoln,” he said.  Lavrov nodded back.  “Some more of our ships will join the convoy.  We’ll try and avoid an accident.”

Lavrov smiled.  It wasn’t exactly something he could argue about.  “Understood,” he said.  “What about access?”

The President frowned.  “You’ll have access to the results,” he said.  “With a little sleight of hand, perhaps it can be pulled off without informing too many people and stirring up the public against you.”

“I hope it works that way,” Lavrov said, feeling the weight of his office bearing down on him.  “Good luck, Mr President.”

***
The President watched Lavrov leaving his office, his thoughts already a million miles away, out with the Abraham Lincoln.  He waited until the door closed, and then sighed, putting his head in his hands.  The weight of his office had never felt so heavy; he wished that he had never accepted the candidacy for the presidency.

“If we grant them access, there will be uproar,” he said grimly.  “Chapman and his ilk will press for impeachment and an anti-Soviet government will be elected next year.  If we don’t grant them access, there’ll be a war…and god help us all.”

“Mr President?”  Judith asked, over the intercom.  “Senator…”

“Chapman has just asked to see me,” the President completed angrily.  “Just the person I want to see.”

“That’s good,” Judith said dryly.  “He’s on his way here, right now.”

“Wonderful,” the President said.  Whoever Chapman’s source in the White House was, he was clearly worth every penny.  “Send him in when he arrives.”

He busied himself with a report on military readiness, ordering Fleet Admiral Matt Burghardt to launch Admiral Westmoreland’s fleet as soon as it could be done, while waiting patiently.  It wasn’t long; it took only twenty minutes for Senator Chapman to arrive.  He must have been moving as soon as he got the call.

“Senator,” he said.  “What can I do for you?”

Chapman’s face looked angry.  “You had the Russian ambassador here,” he said.  “Mr President…”

“I had the Russian foreign minister here,” the President said, keeping his tone pleasant.  “As you can tell, the Russians clearly find the entire affair…rather important.”

“Who told them?”  Chapman demanded.  “What the hell fucking business of it is theirs?  Who decided to go ratting on us to them?”

“Language,” the President said mildly, still keeping his voice calm.  “They have as large a stake in this as we do, probably larger.”

Chapman’s face purpled.  The President wondered suddenly if Chapman had been the one to inform the Russians, but he didn’t think that that was likely; the man wanted to be President one day.  Everyone had said that Henry Wallace – a former presidential wannabe - had been a Soviet spy, but no one had known for certain; if Chapman had risked something like that, he would have been lucky not to be shot out of hand.

“This is not a game, Mr President,” Chapman snapped.  “Millions of lives may be riding on how well you handle the Russians.  Will you be standing up to them in front of the world, or will you back down when they threaten to break wind into your face?”

“You are entirely correct,” the President said.  Chapman glared at him suspiciously.  “This is not a game.  We tried to keep it hidden, Senator, and we were found out!”

Chapman started to speak.  The President spoke over him.  “We have a treaty obligation,” he said sharply.  “We signed those treaties in good faith…and so did they.  Are you blind to some of the implications, you with access to committees you’re not supposed to have access to?  The aliens are still out there!”

“No one has seen an alien ship – an active alien ship – for sixty-seven years,” Chapman snapped.  “For all we know, the resources in the wreck we have found will push the Soviets far beyond us.”

“Or us beyond them,” the President said.

“Exactly,” Chapman snapped.  “You’re the President of the United States of America!  The rest of the world can take care of itself!”

“Or it will try to take care of us,” the President said.  He took a breath.  “Senator, I don’t know why I’m trying to explain this, but listen.  The Russians are ready to go to war, Senator; just as we would be if the roles were reversed.  Do you remember the flap in 1960, when Eisenhower was informed that the Soviets had an alien craft?”

“It was a false alarm,” Chapman said.  

“He was ready to go to war,” the President snapped.  “He had seen the elephant, commanded troops in battle, took part in a peacekeeping role…and he was still prepared to send thousands of young men into war.  The Russians are willing to do exactly the same, Senator; if we don’t grant them equal access, there will be war!”

“I don’t believe that they would be so foolish as to fight a war with no winner,” Chapman said.  His voice was harsh, angry.  “It would destroy both of us!”

The President sighed and took a long breath before speaking.  “Don’t you understand?”  He asked.  “From their point of view, the choice is taking both of us down, or just them going down in five years.  If you knew that we had superiority, would you urge fighting a war?”

Chapman took an angry breath.  “Then we shall see what Congress thinks,” he snapped.  “Does secrecy apply in something like this?”

The President scowled.  “Yes, it does,” he said.  “I would advise you to keep it to yourself, at least while the situation is so tense.  If news of this gets out, there will be panic.”

“If news that the Soviets have access gets out, and you are to blame, there will be more panic,” Chapman said.  His voice became icy cold.  “Congress will pass judgement on you, Mr President!”

Chapter Seventeen: Countdown to Disaster

USS Independence/USS Abraham Lincoln
Deep Space

“Admiral, all ships report that they’re ready for rendezvous,” Commander Archer said, as Admiral Westmoreland turned to look at him from his acceleration couch.  “Time to turn-over; thirty minutes.”

At fifty-seven, Admiral Westmoreland knew that he was pushing the edge of retirement age, even with the new geriatric drugs being introduced for all of the Americans who had the skills to continue to expand the United State’s colonies in space.  The drugs were expensive and difficult to produce; the Department of Colonisation used them as an incentive to convince thousands of people to move off-planet.  The drugs may have kept his body fit – and his mind would be perfect until the day he died – but he still winced against the thought of the change in the acceleration.

“Excellent,” he said.  United States Space Force Task Force 4.1 was boosting away from the solar plane, heading upwards to meet the Wanderer.  The six corvettes and the main cruiser that housed his command staff had been in transit for over a week, heading away from the main base…and straight towards an alien craft.  It was an encounter he – along with every space worker – had dreaded, but at least the Wanderer was under human control.

The display activated at his command.  The seven ships were in a formation that would have horrified one of the old wet navy’s admirals; it looked as if the ships just happened to be travelling in roughly the same direction.  He knew that the formation was almost perfect; the ships were spread out enough to allow for independent manoeuvring, while preventing any danger of a single missile strike taking out more than one of the ships.  In theory, that wasn’t a danger; in practice…well, Westmoreland would have hated to be the admiral who had lost an entire fleet to a single missile.

“Sound the alert five minutes before turn-over,” he ordered, and returned to studying the pattern on the display.  The USSF – and the Red Space Force – had faced one considerable problem in rendezvousing with the Wanderer and the Abraham Lincoln; their ships lacked the Procyon Drive that would have given them near-perfect manoeuvring capabilities.  A Procyon Drive ship could move like a bird in space; one of the fusion-drive ships had far more problems in reaching anywhere.  Literally, the force had to stop, reverse, and then catch up again with the Wanderer.

He smiled grimly.  It was fortunate that the Abraham Lincoln hadn’t been able to impart even a small fraction of its theoretical top speed to the Wanderer; his force would never have been able to make the rendezvous with the alien ship.  That would have been…embarrassing.  Of course, the Soviet ships would have been bound by the same laws of physics, which would have given them the same problem, but it would have been…annoying.  

They would probably end up blaming us for that too, he thought grimly.  Over the last week, the political briefings had become grimmer and grimmer, reflecting the decline in relations between the two superpowers.  The USSF was bending over backwards to prevent incidents, but they were happening anyway, all over space.  Most of the world, unaware of the Wanderer, had no idea what was going on.

“Damn it,” he muttered.  He glared at the radar blip that represented the Wanderer.  “I should just toss a plasma warhead at you and see what that does to your armour.”

“Now hear this,” the voice of the first officer, Commander Higgins, echoed over the intercom and everyone’s wristcom.  “Turn-over in five minutes; I repeat, turn-over in five minutes.  All decks; assume acceleration postures and prepare for heavy deceleration.”

Westmoreland felt his lips twitch as the tension built up.  The Independence and the other ships of her class were probably the only ships in the USSF in which the term ‘decks’ had any meaning.  Most ships were modular, built around a fusion drive, but Independence was special.  She was a command ship, intended to serve as a flagship, which just incidentally would make her the first target in a real battle.  Despite her size, nearly three times the size of the six corvettes; she possessed more defensive firepower and armour than offensive weapons.  She carried fewer missiles, but more lasers, which in a pinch could be adapted for firing at the enemy ships as well as the incoming missiles.

“Turn-over in five,” Commander Higgins informed the crew.  “Four…three…” – Westmoreland felt his insides clench – “two…one…turn-over.”

The feeling of slight gravity shifted as the fusion drive redirected itself, pouring out to the starboard of the Independence, as smaller rockets fired at the prow of the ship.  Independence was literally swinging end-over-end, turning to point its drive backwards to cut down on its speed.  The ship was cart-wheeling across the skies on a ballistic course that gave everyone the chills when they encountered it for the first time.

“Now hear this,” Commander Higgins said.  “Fusion drive activation in five seconds; I repeat; five…four…three…two…one…activation.”

The feeling of gravity shifted again, violently, as the drive fired.  That too was a gift from Roswell; no metal or alloy that humans had been able to discover on their own had been even able to begin resisting the heat of a fusion drive.  Some of the more insane combat manoeuvres in the manual involved trying to use a fusion drive as a weapon, ramming an enemy spacecraft.

We’re going to run from the enemy, Westmoreland thought wryly.  Assume offensive ramming position and push us hard away from the enemy.

He checked the laser links to the other ships in the small task force.  They had all been re-established; all of the ships had come through the manoeuvre well, without problems.  Westmoreland allowed himself a sigh of relief; far too many things could go wrong travelling at such high speeds…and rescue would be difficult, if not impossible.

The weight of the acceleration – or, rather, the deceleration – continued to be felt, but it was fading slightly as they became more and more used to it.  Spacers laughed at the perceptions of people on the ground, who panicked at the merest push of gravity; humans could become used to anything, if they had little choice.  Westmoreland almost pitied Captain Howard and the other lucky captains, commanding the Procyon ships; they missed out on part of the experience of spaceflight.  

He checked part of the display.  “Did the Soviets come through all right?”

“Aye, sir,” Commander Archer said.  He was unique on Independence and the task force; a person who held commander’s rank – so that he could speak for his admiral – but wasn’t in the chain of command.  Normally, Westmoreland had no problems with the arrangement – Archer had known what he was getting into when he took the job – but there were times when he knew that it would damage his aide’s career.  There would always be officers sitting on the personnel boards who would look at a Commander without command experience and brand him as ‘scared of command.’

“Good, I suppose,” Westmoreland muttered.  Out in the darkness of space, it was harder to remember that the Soviets were…if not the enemy, then at least the rivals.  They had been allies for so long that it was strange to be considering them a potential threat, even though that was almost exactly what they were.  “Show me their display.”

The display altered, revealing the radar image from the Newfoundland, one of the corvettes on the task force.  The Independence wasn’t using its own radar; there were few things more attractive to someone with bad intentions than a radar pulse, but Westmoreland knew that that was one of the times when a regulation existed because it existed, not because it made sense.  With the Independence riding ass-backwards down a fusion flame, any Soviet gunner would have an easy target.

He studied the Soviet ships with interest; he’d actually visited one of them while he’d still been a captain.  Like the Americans, the Soviets had seen the sense of building a large number of smaller ships, rather than a handful of larger ships; in the absence of any real force shield – as opposed to the magnetic field spreading out in front of the task force – a single nuclear warhead could vaporise any human-built ship.  What a plasma warhead – more power concentrated in a single location – could do didn’t bear thinking about.

The gravity flickered again.  The Soviet ships were also corvette-class, at least according to the joint protocol on ship classifications, but they were slightly larger than his ships.  The radar imagery suggested that they’d taken the opportunity to cannon up while in their asteroid base; loading more weapons and missiles on their ships than they would normally carry.  They would only do that if they were expecting real trouble…and what was there for them to fight, apart from his ships?

He frowned.  American doctrine – and God knew that there was no sign that the Soviets disagreed – focused on rapid-fire conflicts between two groups of spread-out ships.  Corvettes and destroyers could be built fairly quickly; larger ships cost more and were just as vulnerable.  The concept of a close-range battle in space was laughable…but was it that laughable for whoever had made the Wanderer?  The hardened hull alone would make it a difficult target.

“There she goes,” Archer commented, as the Wanderer slid past the Independence, heading down towards the asteroid base.  He’d half-wondered if one of the Soviet ships would fire on the Wanderer and try to destroy it, but none of them had fired when the ship passed within easy firing range.  At the combination of speeds, any hit would have been fatal even without the warhead…at least for a human ship.  

“We will match course and speed within twenty minutes,” Commander Higgins said, over the wristcom.  “We’re almost at point zero now; the main acceleration will begin again in…three minutes.”

“Good,” Westmoreland said, examining the display.  “Time for the Soviets to intercept?”

“They’ll have matched course and speed within twenty-five minutes,” Archer said.  “Unless they’re willing to risk higher gravity than we would…”

“I wouldn’t,” Westmoreland muttered.  Their own gravity shifted yet again as the drive began to boost them forwards again.  “Captain, take us into the proper formation and then raise Captain Howard.  We should at least let him know that there is someone else out here.”

Archer smiled.  “I imagine he already knows,” he said.  “He could hardly have missed us.”

Westmoreland smiled.  “Inform all ships that I want to go onto tactical plan delta as soon as we reach the Wanderer,” he said.  “We’ll keep the radar from the Newfoundland and spread out a little.”

He nodded to himself, feeling the weight of the gravity increase as the fusion drive forced the ship forward still faster.  If the Soviets intended to run ballistic tracks on them once the drives were shut down, the tiny changes in course caused by the gas manoeuvring jets – undetectable except at very short range – would screw up their targeting systems.  Missiles might be able to mount faster drives than most spacecraft – having no crew to kill with the sudden acceleration – but they lacked more than a rudimentary manoeuvring capability.  

Of course, a simple radar sweep would reveal their location to hostile sensors, but at the same time the location of any soviet ship would be revealed by the same radar pulse; the Soviets would reveal their own locations.  With the ongoing laser links between the American ships, they would have little difficulty keeping track of one another’s location, which would spare them the need to use more than one ship’s radar if they needed to use any.  Best of all, the gas used for the jets came from the fusion drive’s waste reaction products; it was effectively limitless.  He could make as many random changes in his formation as he would have liked…and the Soviets would be none the wiser.

“Just like that scene in Bugs Bunny,” he commented, remembering the children’s cartoon he’d watched when younger.  Bugs and his opponent, a strange grey alien, had been perched on trains running in the same direction along parallel lines.  As the trains had sped on, they’d blasted away at each other with pistols, unable to move off the tracks with their old-style locomotives.

Archer laughed harshly from his own couch.  “Exactly, sir,” he said.  “Fifteen minutes to go.”

***
Something moved in space, hidden behind a field that absorbed all energy that happened to intersect the field.  It was moving along a course that many human scientists would have said was impossible – until the Procyon Drive was invented.  Free of all concerns such as gravity or fuel, it moved onwards, heading towards its fateful meeting.  

Inside the craft, an alien mind made a decision.  The Procyon Drive field fluctuated, expelling something forward from the alien craft.  Alert sensors watched its passage through the field, watching for any sign of anything that might betray the presence of two craft, not one, and found nothing.  No human ship was nearby, no listening post was close enough to see them; they remained undetected.

The Great One allowed himself a moment of triumph.  It was not a Hive emotion, but his mentality included some parts taken from other races, including one that might have become a serious threat if left alone for a thousand years.  It hadn’t lasted long at all; the army of Small Ones, armed with laser weapons, had swept over wooden catapults and bronze swords with ease.

No human would ever know that the Hive was involved, until it was too late.  A radar pulse would see the second craft – it was part of the plan that the second craft would be seen – but they would never see the craft hiding in space.  Never.

***
“Captain, we have Admiral Westmoreland and his task force, closing in on us from the rear,” Lieutenant Singh said.  “They’re looking good; they have matched course and speed precisely.”

“Very well done, really,” Howard said, examining the display.  The older craft couldn’t manoeuvre anything like as well as the Abraham Lincoln could move, nor could they catch her if she chose to run, but they looked more than impressive on the display.  The seemingly random positioning of the fusion ships disguised a tactical arrangement that combined flexibility with mutual support; even the Soviets, coming up further behind the Wanderer and its escort, were doing well.

“Yes, sir,” Jane said, over the communicator.  “We can see the flames flickering out now.”

“Quite precise, really,” Howard said, impressed.  The commanders of the seven American ships were no slouches; they were already falling into an escort formation.  All that would be needed was the Soviets, who were – according to the private agreement worked out between Admiral Westmoreland and his counterpart – going to take up a side position relative to the Wanderer.  Howard wasn’t sure how to feel about that; on one hand, it would keep the Soviets under his eye and in a position where they would have to make a pretty radical series of changes to be a real threat, but on the other the Soviets would be able to weave together their lasers into a single web.

“Hellfire,” Lieutenant Singh muttered.  “Sir, the Soviets…two corvettes have split off from the original force.”

“Show me,” Howard snapped.  The display altered, revealing that two Soviet ships were slipping out of their formation, moving to take up positions on the flanks of the entire formation.  It meant little at interplanetary distances – the entire fourth fleet could have flown between the ships without hitting anything – but it was clearly meant to be intimidating.  It was also in breach of the informal agreement.

“I think they’re not happy with us for something,” Jane’s voice said.  “Do you think that it was something we said?”

“I hope not,” Howard said.  “Lieutenant, is there any sign of tactical radar?”

“No, sir,” Lieutenant Singh assured him.  “Two ships are radiating standard station-keeping radar, and I assume that they’re using lasers, but the other ships are silent.”

Howard nodded slowly.  One advantage of the Lincoln and its sister ships was that a person could walk across the bridge – or, more accurately, float across the bridge.  He would have given a great deal to be able to have paced as the tension rose; instead he remained firmly strapped into his seat.

“The Soviets would have to be idiots to start something now,” Jane said.  “We have eight ships to six.  We outgun them and we have possession of the Wanderer.”

“Unless you’ve found the weapons, that won’t do us any good,” Howard snapped.  His mind raced, calculating trajectories as the minutes rolled by; might the Soviets be thinking about trying something clever?  They had already broken the agreement they’d made with Admiral Westmoreland.

“Captain, I have something on the main radar download,” Lieutenant Singh said.  “It’s a contact; it just appeared as a very faint return.  I request permission to do a sensor focus.”

Howard glanced down at the display.  A glowing blue icon – blue for unidentified – had appeared as a very faint contact, not too far away from the force.  It could hardly be anything else than a piece of space junk…except it would have still been an astonishing coincidence – and he didn’t believe in coincidence.  

“Permission granted,” he said.  “Five pulses; focused only.  No point in giving the Soviets additional data.”

“Working,” Lieutenant Singh said.  His hands danced over the console.  “Captain, it’s a” – an alarm shrilled on his console – “fusion flame, Captain; far too close for comfort!”

Howard stared down at his display.  A monstrous fusion flame, far older than any of the equipment on the American ships – or the Russian ships – had appeared, blasting…something forward at terrific speed.  That alone proved that it – whatever it was – was unmanned; no human could endure such a gravity force, applied so fast.

“It’s on a course to intersect us in…five minutes,” Lieutenant Singh snapped.  He sounded astonished and Howard didn’t blame him; no one in his right mind would try such a manoeuvre unless they were desperate.  “Captain…its emitting targeting radars!”

Howard felt ice crystallise in his veins.  “Sound red alert,” he said.  “All hands to battle stations.”

Chapter Eighteen: Disaster

Battlezone
Deep Space

“Captain, the unknown contact just lit up tracking radars,” Lieutenant Trutnev reported.  “It’s moving faster towards the alien ship.”

Captain (senior grade) Fursenko glared up at the main display.  The four larger Russian corvettes – the ones with additional firepower – were bunched together in a group, but they were on the opposite side of the entire formation to the unknown craft.  If it was intending to be hostile, the three American corvettes would be receiving the brunt of its intentions…but the unknown’s flight path would bring it into almost perfect firing positions for engaging every other ship, American and Russian alike.

And there’s something familiar about the flight pattern, he thought.  It reminded him of something he’d seen once, back when the Red Space Force had been training him as an officer cadet.  A sniff from the acceleration couch behind him caught his attention; mentally, he cursed the Admiral coming down with a convenient disease at just the wrong moment.  As acting commander of Force Alain, he not only had his own Commissioner to handle, but Commissioner Pachinko as well.

He concealed his annoyance.  His own Commissioner had served in space before and knew the realities of interplanetary flight.  Commissioner Pachinko knew nothing; he didn’t even understand how the man had lived on an asteroid, which was a far safer environment than a ship, without killing himself through sheer ignorance.  Not that the man had ever shown any willingness to learn, of course; he had a sneaking suspicion that Commissioner Pachinko had been sent out to the Stalingrad just to get him out of the Admiral’s hair.

“Captain,” Commissioner Pachinko’s voice echoed through the private Captain-to-Commissioner link.  Commissioner Savchenko knew better than to misuse it, but then; he would have been able to read the basic display.  “What exactly is going on?”

Fursenko bit down any number of comments that would have had him sent to work on the Martian Tundra or Venus.  Commissioner Pachinko had connections; he wasn’t a space-born Russian, but someone who would have been out of his depth trying to organise a children’s tea party.  All he had was a talent for intrigue that enough highly-placed people found useful enough to keep him around – and damn the effects it had on military readiness.

“There is an unknown craft closing in on the formation,” he said.  There was something impossible about the unknown’s flight path; it had clearly matched course and speed before lighting up its fusion drive…and that was impossible.  

“Spectroscopic analysis indicates that the unknown’s drive is not designed for the task,” one of the officers reported.  “Sir, bits of the drive are flaking off in the exhaust.”

No one on their right mind would build a fusion drive from inferior materials, Fursenko thought, dazed.  Sooner or later, the drive would get out of control and destroy the ship, which meant…

“They’re not expecting to come back from the mission,” he snapped, and then realised where he’d seen the flight path before.  “It’s an autonomous attack craft.”

Commissioner Pachinko coughed.  “And that means…what?  It’s an American attacker?”

“It could be,” Fursenko hedged.  “In fact, it seems to have been rigged together from several different parts…”

“Missile separation,” Lieutenant Trutnev snapped.  “At least seven missiles, heading for the American ships on very high boosts.  Time to impact; one minute.”

Fursenko swore.  “What is it doing?”  He snapped.  “Tactical, if you can hit one of the missiles, take it down!”

“Captain, you must not act to save Americans,” Commissioner Pachinko said.  “Save your weapons for defending your own ships.”

Fursenko felt a wave of pure fury, and then he saw the display.  None of his ships would be in position to hit the missiles anyway.  “Understood,” Fursenko said, feeling grim defeat running through his blood.

“American targeting radars lighting up,” Lieutenant Trutnev said.  “They’re not happy.”

***
“Captain, we have an identification from the radar sweep,” Lieutenant Singh snapped.  “It’s a Yuri!”

Howard stared up at the Russian attack ship on the radar.  It had somehow – impossibly – already possessed a speed equal to the American ships in the task force.  His mind grappled with the impossibility, wondering if the Russians had somehow managed to predict that the alien ship would be found, before dismissing the thought.  It didn’t matter at the moment.  With its fusion drive – which a decades-old Yuri should not have even been able to carry – it was building up a terminal velocity, heading…directly for the Americans.

“Missile separation,” Lieutenant Singh snapped.  “I read seven missiles…nine; all being launched.  Targeting; one for us; three for Independence, the others are targeted on the corvettes.”

One lucky bastard is going to get away completely, Howard thought, with the surprising detachment of combat.  “Helm, cut our speed, and bring us around to face the Yuri.  Tactical, take down the missile.”

The Abraham Lincoln wheeled around into an arc course, its drive providing it with the manoeuvring capability to face the Yuri without losing too much speed and the interception window.  Whatever Russian programmer had programmed the attacking craft had done a fine job, Howard realised; it had fired at precisely the right moment to have the greatest chance of a hit, while remaining outside the range of light-speed weapons.  It was still coming on, its radars closing down, but its drive remaining active, forcing it on at a speed no human could hope to survive.  

“Lasers firing,” Lieutenant Eriksson said.  The display flickered as the missile vanished.  “Missile taken out.”

“Good shooting,” Howard said.  The Yuri was still coming, launching a second spread of missiles.  “Mr Eriksson, take out that ship.”

“Plasma missiles locked on target, firing tube one, firing tube two,” Lieutenant Eriksson said.  “Missiles inbound; targeting tracking the target, impact in thirty seconds at closing rate…”

“Captain, the missiles have hit two corvettes,” Lieutenant Malady commented.  “Admiral Westmoreland has placed the fleet on alert…and he’s manoeuvring to fight the Russians.”

Howard nodded.  It had to have been a planned Russian ambush, one that had been conducted perfectly…and the Abraham Lincoln was out of place, unable to join the fight until it had dealt with the Yuri.  

“Missile one taken out by the enemy ship,” Lieutenant Eriksson reported.  Howard swore; Yuri-class ships were not supposed to have any counter-missile capability at all.  “Missile two…impact.”

The display altered as the plasma warhead detonated.  At such a vast closing speed, the impact alone would have destroyed the Yuri, but the wavefront of expanding super-hot plasma melted through the Russian metal like a hot knife through butter.  The cold of space became fractionally warmer for a long moment, before it faded away along with the remains of the Russian craft.

“Bring us around,” Howard snapped.  “Get me a tactical read-out; inform Admiral Westmoreland that we are on the way to join the fleet.”

***
Admiral Westmoreland knew what he saw; a Russian craft firing on his ships.  His half-hopeful thought that it might have been an attack from an unknown power had faded as soon as he saw the targets of the missiles; neither the Wanderer nor any of the Russian ships had been targeted.  He winced; four of the Russian craft remained in perfect position to fend off an attack from his position…and there were missiles streaking in to attack his ships.

“All ships, this is the Admiral,” he said, as alarms howled through the ships.  “The Russians have opened hostilities.”  His hands danced over the keyboard, designating targets; leaving the actual business of firing to the tactical officers.  “All ships; fire at will.”

“Missiles away, sir,” Commander Archer reported.  Westmoreland nodded once; the priority was to launch the ready missiles – flushing the tubes – before any of his ships could be lost in the sneak attack.  Once that was done, the fleet could work its way through the incoming missiles, and…

Independence shuddered as it flushed its main missile tubes towards the sole enemy vessel on its side.  Two more ships added their missiles to the force; the others concentrated on trying to break the Russian main formation.  Westmoreland didn’t hold out much hope for success, but one never knew and it would rattle the Russians.  

“All hands, prepare for counter-battery fire,” Commander Higgins warned, over the intercom.  “Three incoming missiles, all drives cutting out now.”

The display altered as the missiles ran through their fuel reserves, or whatever Russian missiles used, and entered ballistic courses.  Westmoreland gave no orders; they would only have provided a distraction to the tactical officer, who was trying to take out the missiles.  Computers were sifting through space, trying to determine from the merest flicker of a reading if the enemy missiles were using gas jets to alter their course…or if they were slavishly following the ballistic course they had entered.

“Starboard lasers, engage the enemy,” the voice of the Captain said, echoing through the communications link.  “All decks, brace for possible impact…”

“Confirmed hit on missile one,” Archer murmured.  “Our missiles are closing in on the soviets now.”

Westmoreland took a breath.  “Plasma detonation,” Archer snapped.  “Sir, the Newfoundland…”

Westmoreland looked at the display, which was now showing the signature of a single plasma burst, enveloping the Newfoundland’s last known position.  He spared a moment to wince at the thought of the crewmen, wiped out without ever knowing what had happened to them, then concentrated on the battle.

“Missile two hit,” Archer muttered.  “We seem to have lost missile three.”

Westmoreland took a breath as the impact timer swept down towards zero…and went into minus numbers.  They’d missed!  The missile had been trying to be clever…and it hadn’t been quite clever enough.  In a futile attempt to evade counter-battery fire, it had lost its course and headed into deep space…with no way to cutting its velocity and turning around to engage them.

“Thank god,” he said, and then the display changed again.

“USS Ohio,” Archer said.  “Standard nuclear impact detonation.  Twelve men dead.”

Westmoreland felt cold rage burning through him.  “And our missiles?”

“Impact on primary target in three…two…one…impact,” Archer said.  Westmoreland heard and understood the fury that ran through his aide’s voice.  “Two plasma detonations, sir; the target was destroyed.”

Westmoreland nodded, reading the display.  The second force of missiles, aimed at the Soviet formation, had failed to kill any of them.  “Clear the decks,” he said.  “We have some Russians to kill.”

“Aye, sir,” Archer said.  “Sir, we have a targeting radar flash from a Russian ship.”

“Designate that one as fleet primary target,” Westmoreland ordered.  “Engage at will.”

***
Commissioner Pachinko’s voice was heading up towards panic.  “Comrade Captain, what’s happening?”

“The Americans are firing on us,” Commissioner Savchenko said dryly.  He at least knew emergency procedure.  “Now, be quiet!”

Fursenko could have kissed his ship’s normal commissioner, even though he was as ugly as sin.  “The Americans have gone mad,” he said, and suddenly understood.  “They think that that ship is a Russian ship – one of ours!”

“Incoming missiles,” Lieutenant Trutnev snapped.  “American targeting systems have locked in on us and they’ve attacked us.”

“All ships, counter-fire, now,” Fursenko snapped.  “Fire at will; I repeat, fire at will.”  He closed his eyes, silently bidding peace goodbye.  Protestations of innocence would clearly be futile; the Americans had launched a concentrated attempt to destroy his command…and the Kiev would clearly be destroyed.  He had to fight back, if only to keep his own Stalingrad from meeting the same fate.

“All defensive systems online,” Lieutenant Trutnev informed him.  “Laser targeting network online; all systems read green.”

Thank God for that, Fursenko thought, taking sudden faith in the God his mother had worshipped and the Communist Party claimed didn’t exist.  “Order all ships to engage the missiles at will, I repeat; fire at will at the missiles.”

He nodded slowly as the computer network weaved his ships into a coordinated defensive force, linking all of the tactical systems together to provide a coherent wall of laser fire against enemy missiles.  One by one, they fell; the Americans hadn’t had the time to program in new tricks into the systems.  

“Captain, the Kiev has been destroyed,” Lieutenant Trutnev reported.  “At least two American plasma missiles destroyed it.”

“Understood,” Fursenko said, studying the display.  All of the American ships were manoeuvring slightly; just to provide harder targets, and one of them was targeting his ships.  The Americans used more computers and automation than the Soviet Union; even now, they would be sharing targeting data and…

“Missile separation,” Lieutenant Trutnev said.  “At least thirteen missiles, aimed into our formation.”

Fursenko winced.  “Comrade Commissioner,” he said, “I formally request permission to open fire.”

It should have been a meaningless formality.  With Commissioner Pachinko, it was anything, but meaningless.  For a moment, he envied the American Captains; they didn’t have political officers watching everything they did like hawks – officers too stupid to know what they were doing, or else they would be Captains themselves.

“Granted,” Commissioner Pachinko said, with surprising speed.  “Kill all of the Americans.”

Fursenko scowled.  Killing all of the Americans was likely to be impossible.  He had five ships, one of which was horrendously exposed to American five.  Escape…was the only real solution, but it had its problems; lighting up the fusion drives would provide the Americans with the most perfect targeting solution imaginable – if they could shoot a missile through a fusion flame.

“Lock missiles on nearest two American craft,” he ordered, watching as the Americans clearly prepared their own strike.  “Fire all tubes; then load with screamers and nuclear warheads.”

“Missiles away, sir,” Lieutenant Trutnev said.  “Strike outbound…now.”

Fursenko nodded.  “Helm, compute us a least-time course for Lenin Base,” he ordered.  “As soon as the screamers detonate, I want to be moving as fast as we can move safely.”

Commissioner Pachinko stared at him.  “You want us to run?”

Fursenko gaped at him.  “We’re outnumbered and outgunned,” he said.  “We have to get away so that someone can tell the Politburo what’s happened here.”  He took a breath.  “Comrade Commissioner; we’re at war with the United States of America.”

***
“The Russians have just launched,” Archer said.  “They’re firing into our own formation.”

Westmoreland cursed; the Russians could hardly have picked a better moment to strike.  Half of his ships were still bracing against the strike from the mysterious Yuri; they didn’t need to be attacked from a different direction as well.  Worse, most of his ships were heading towards the incoming missiles; they would have even less time to generate a firing solution and intercept.

“Flush all the tubes at the Russian ships,” he snapped.  “What’s the report from the Lincoln?”

“Now hear this, missiles away in five…three…one…launch,” Commander Higgins informed everyone.  Westmoreland scowled; he understood the vital need to keep the crew informed, but it was so very distracting!  “Missiles away; all hands, brace for impact.”

“The Lincoln has taken out the enemy ship,” Archer said.  Westmoreland nodded once.  “Admiral, the Russians have started to launch a second spread of missiles.”

“Wonderful,” Westmoreland scowled.  “Time to impact?”

“Force one will be on us in two minutes…their drives are cutting out now,” Archer said.  “Force two will be upon us in five minutes.”

Westmoreland nodded.  Battles in space took more time than anyone would understand; they were long moments of suffocating terror, followed by hours in which both sides tried to get into position for a shot.  Unfortunately, if one fighter could see the other, it was a reasonably fair bet that the other could see them as well, which meant…

“All lasers moving into counter-battery fire now,” Archer said.  “Four missiles down, seven missiles down…”

His voice broke off.  Westmoreland glared up at the display; one of his ships had been hit by…something.  Whatever they were, they hadn’t even registered on the radar, at least on the passive systems.  As he watched, the explosion that vaporised the Austin vanished within space, leaving no survivors.

“What the hell was that?”  He demanded.  “Do a full radar scan, now!”

Archer didn’t argue, even though he knew that the command would suddenly turn Independence into the largest target in the battlezone – except, perhaps, for the Wanderer.  “Scanning now,” he said.  His voice was astonished.  “Sir, you’re not going to believe this; they’re ball bearings.”

Westmoreland cursed.  It was obvious now what the Soviets had done; they’d mounted the space equivalent of a fragmentation grenade on a missile…and detonated it at just the right time, sending thousands of ultra-fast particles towards the American ship.

“Can we separate the missiles that have those weapons?”  He snapped.  “We have to take them all out.”

“I’m looking,” Archer said.  “The computer…isn’t sure which is which.”  An alarm shrilled.  “Admiral, the Russian ships have just lit up their drives.”

“They’re running,” Westmoreland realised.  He smiled; how could his own missiles miss?  The display flickered with static.  “What was that?”

“ECM weapons,” Archer snapped.  “They’re Russian screamers, missiles carrying systems designed to fuck ours up.”

Westmoreland nodded slowly.  On the display, the Russian ships were retreating, trying to outrun his own swarm of missiles…and they might just make it.  They’d kicked in their drives hard enough to hurt their crew badly; they must feel outmatched.  “What’s their course?”

“It’s hard to be certain, but it looks as if they’re heading for Lenin Base,” Archer said.  “It’ll take them at least a week to reach it, sir; they’ll have to alter their velocity quite sharply to make any rendezvous.  Sir, should we pursue them?”

Westmoreland clenched his fists in his chair.  He wanted nothing more than to chase the foe that had killed nearly half of his force.  He wanted to order his ships on a massive charge against the enemy ships, even ramming them to bring them down.  He knew that it would be futile; only the Lincoln could hope to catch them…and the Procyon Drive ship would have other obligations.  War had just broken out…and the Lincoln would be needed in five places at once.

The display altered slightly.  “One of the missiles detonated in their fusion flame,” Archer said.  “We got one of the bastards.”

It wasn’t enough.  “Do a full radar scan,” he snapped.  “Bring up the radars; check for any unexpected surprises that the Russians might have left behind…and then I think I’d better record a secure message for the President.”  He winced.  “Someone had better tell America that we’re at war with the Soviet Union.”

Chapter Nineteen: On the Brink…

The White House
Washington DC, USA

The President looked down at the printed report, and then up at his cabinet.  The Vice President had been on a tour of Mars when the entire crisis had begun; while Mars was still American territory, it would be difficult to coordinate any kind of meeting over those distances.  He smiled with bitter humour; at least, that far away, even if America itself was destroyed, the chain of command would still exist.

For the moment, it had caused all manner of problems for the government.  The Secretary of State, Chris Thompson, had been moved to a secure facility as third in line to the Presidency, or Vice President, as the popular imagination termed it.  The Speaker of the House had been overseeing the dispersion of the Senate and Congress, which at least kept Senator Chapman from bursting in and demanding war at once.

“Right,” the President said slowly.  “Exactly what the hell happened in deep space?”

“There was a clash between our fleet and a Russian fleet,” Fleet Admiral Matt Burghardt admitted.  His face was pale and wan; in a thirty-minute battle both sides had taken a serious beating.  “Mr President, we have to assume that it was a Soviet ambush, one that almost came off perfectly.”

“A deep space ambush,” Thompson said, through the secure link.  “How exactly did they pull that off?”

“They must have been moving another Yuri into position to attack the Wanderer and its escort fleet,” Burghardt said.  “That ship had been heavily modified to carry modern weaponry, including plasma warheads, which were deployed against our ships.  Two of our corvettes were destroyed in the first exchange and it got in several more minor hits before the Lincoln destroyed it.

“That was perfect,” he said.  “The Russian manned ships were in a perfect firing position and they took advantage of it.  However, their attack wasn’t as successful as they might have hoped; the fleet remained essentially intact, along with the Lincoln.  The Russians cut their losses and ran, losing a third ship of their own on their retreat, using electronic distortion devices to cover their flight.”

Gilder snorted.  “Why did our fleet not pursue them and finish the job?”

Burghardt kept his voice calm through sheer effort; the President was almost impressed.  “The Russians were already building up their own speed,” he said calmly.  “It would have taken several hours to catch them, let alone fight it out with them.  Admiral Westmoreland made the decision to break contact…and I fully support his decision.”

Burghardt glared firmly at Gilder.  The President spoke before someone could say something unfortunate.  “There has been an exchange of fire,” he said.  “What…exactly, do we do about it?”

The Press Secretary waved a hand towards the curtained windows.  “Out there,” he said, “there are tens of thousands of American citizens, demanding…war.  There is no question of the Russian guilt this time, Mr President; the citizens are demanding blood.  It would be a rather bad moment to show weakness.”

The President scowled.  “Does Joe Sixpack really want a war?”  He asked, glaring down at the Press Secretary.  “Does he want a war in which his wife and children will die?”

The Press Secretary met his gaze.  “They know what has leaked out,” he said.  “They know that a Russian ship has launched an unprovoked – unprovoked, Mr President – attack on some of our ships, leading to the deaths of nearly fifty officers and men.  They know that the Russians have been acting in a manner calculated to provoke America…and this is now the final straw.”

“There is a second problem,” the Political Advisor said.  The President frowned; a political advisor was a must for every President when the balance of power could shift so rapidly in one direction or another within Congress, but the man had a tendency to be timorous when it came to confronting Congress.  Not always a bad thing, when the other two parties could oppose the President, but at the moment…

“Senator Chapman has tried to introduce a bill declaring war on Russia,” the Political Advisor continued.  The man worked away at his dark moustache; the President had always considered it to be a particularly weak attempt to grow a firm twirling moustache, just like the movie villains wore.  “With Congress and the Senate being dispersed, it will take a few days before there can be a debate, and, of course, there will be questions about its constitutionality.  Does Congress have the authority to declare war on its own bat?  The Senate?  The last major war we fought, it was President Roosevelt who asked the two houses for the declaration, not a Senator.

“Worse, many of the corporations have joined in,” he said.  “They’re pressing their tame senators and congressmen, demanding that they push for war.  They’re the ones who are losing miners out there, to say nothing of the billions of dollars’ worth of orbiting capital if any unpleasant precedents get firmly established…

“Damn that,” Burghardt snapped.  There wasn’t time for a debate.  “What’s the bottom line?”

“No one is going to risk shattering a career by filibustering this bill,” the Political Advisor said.  The president smiled; if he’d known that shouting at the man would have made him talk faster, he would have done it a long time ago.  “Even attempting to hold it back might be lethal to a career.  Congress will debate quickly…and then the bill will pass.  The President could veto, but then he would be impeached…”

“It wouldn’t matter,” Thompson said.  His face in the display was worried.  “The Russians would see what was happening and start the war themselves; they’d have no choice at all.”

“If something doesn’t happen to start the war beforehand,” Gilder said.  He snorted.  “Something has already happened.  Mr President, the miners are not supposed to be armed, but you know how much power someone with any technical expertise can coax out of a mining laser.  With all the paranoia going around, someone will see a Russian ship, a miner or a warship, and open fire.”

“Or even attack the Russians on their own without orders and call it their patriotic duty,” Burghardt muttered.

“Fine,” the President snapped.  “We’re on the brink of a shooting war.  Admiral, what is our defence status?”

Burghardt glanced once at Doug Freeman, the Secretary of Defence, caught the President’s eye and clearly decided to talk first.  “The United States Space Force is at full alert,” he said.  “We’re at DEFCON TWO, with the preparations for DEFCON ONE – outright declaration of war – well in hand.  All of the spaceships, warships and space fighters are on alert; we’re lifting up the reserve pilots now from their bases on the ground.

“The ground-based defences on Mars and the Moon are ready, although I repeat my earlier comments about space being the decisive battleground for both planets,” he continued.  “The garrison on Venus has its orders; they’re to fight, put up as much resistance as possible if – when - attacked, and then surrender once they’re completely helpless.”

The Political Advisor stared at him.  “You’re talking about writing off nearly a thousand men and billions of dollars’ worth of capital,” he said.  “That won’t look good at all.”

“I know,” Burghardt snapped.  “Look – there is no way at all that we can reinforce those men at all before war starts, if it starts!  Attempting to reinforce them might start the war!  Attempting to pull them out would be taken as an attempt to reinforcement and start the war!  All we can do is order them to make a stand for the honour of the flag and…”

“Enough,” the President said.  “What about the asteroids?”

“Everyone is on full alert and we’re concentrating the fleet units out there,” Burghardt said.  “In fact, you might want to invoke the War Powers Act; if the miners could be bound into our command structure, it would be a lot easier to control them, to say nothing of reinforcing our forces.”

The President nodded.  “Make it so,” he ordered.  He closed his eyes.  “And the Wanderer itself?”

“It’s still in transit,” Burghardt said.  “The Lincoln is still escorting it, but I had to detach the remainder of the task force to run to Ceres Base.”

“I wish that fucking ship had been destroyed in the crossfire,” the President snarled, in a burst of uncharacteristic anger.  “Why the hell did we have to find it?”

Burghardt frowned.  “The Neighbourhood Watch people have wondered if the ship was left there for us to find,” he said.  “It seems unlikely, however.”

“It seems impossible,” the Secretary of Defence snapped.  “Mr President, General Armchair has the reports on ground-based defences.”

The President sighed.  He understood Doug Freeman’s anger – technically, he should have asked him to order Admiral Burghardt to give the report – but there wasn’t time.  There just wasn’t time!  “Let’s hear it,” he said, turning to General Armchair.

“Thank you, Mr President,” General Armchair said.  The highest-ranking general in the United States Army, General Armchair commanded the largest force; Continental Command.  The preparations for the alien invasion had mandated the creation of a powerful force deployed within America, from defences against invasion to a powerful and capable mobile defence force.  General Armchair, who was the butt of innumerable jokes, was known for being capable, but unimaginative.  

“We have three tiers to the defences,” he said.  “The anti-space weapons, the anti-aircraft weapons and aircraft, and the ground-based forces, from dug-in troops to the battlesuit units.  The anti-space weapons, ground-based lasers and missiles, are all ready to fire on warning; tracking of targets in space is proceeding nicely.  The operators have warned of losing radars in the event of a successful Soviet first strike, but the optical network is active and moving to sweep the sky.

“The aircraft, the F-30s fighter jets and the tactical laser-armed bombers, are maintaining a combat air patrol over the continental united states and Canada, as per the defence agreement we signed…”

“That might bring the British into the war,” Thompson said.  “Their House of Commons is still debating the matter.”

“It hardly matters,” General Armstrong assured them.  “The Canadian Government signed the agreement with us; the Russians know and respect that.  In the event of our nightmare, an attack made directly over the Pole with aircraft – or, less likely, an attack on Alaska from the Russian Far East.  The Russians have a powerful force there; it is not inconceivable that they might be considering a direct invasion of Alaska from their territories there.  Their logistics would suck, but if they were lucky, they might just succeed in gaining a foothold.”

The President nodded grimly.  “Who was that Senator who kept urging the Senate to invade Canada?”  He asked.  “Dave…”

“Howary,” his Political Advisor supplied.  “He was voted out of office ten years ago.”

General Armstrong coughed.  “Finally, we have all of our mobile units on the ground ready, and we’re activating all of the new divisions,” he concluded.  “It’s going to be a pain, because some of them will hardly have served as a unit before, but we can have them deployed to their invasion stations quickly.”  He snorted.  “It’s…rather unlikely that the Russians will be able to deploy troops into the heart of America instantly, so we should have time to knock them into shape.”

“Excellent,” the President said.  “Are there any more comments before we decide what to say to the Russians?”

There was a long pause.  The President remembered a cartoon about a would-be president who had been a movie star beforehand; he’d been given an autocue hat to help him remember his words…except it had once blown off in the wind.  His improvised lines – “back off, you big red bananas, there’s only room for one top banana in this bunch” – had been wildly applauded.  The real would-be candidate, of course, hadn’t even passed the primaries.  In some ways, Senator Chapman owed his rise to that man, whose name the President had forgotten.

“Just one thing,” Burghardt said.  “The last time we seriously considered a war with the Russians, it was in 1947.  We updated war plans over the years, of course, just in case, but how many of them were ever taken seriously.”  He paused.  “In 1947, the war would have developed slowly; President Truman could have afforded to have put hard decisions off for days, maybe even weeks.

“In this war, whoever fires first will have a definite advantage,” Burghardt continued.  “Light-speed weapons hit before the other side knows that they should duck.  If we fire now, we might wipe out up to a third of the Soviet automated weapons in orbit before they could return fire.  The same, more or less, goes for them firing on us.  Everything is on a hair trigger, Mr President; one junior officer, on either side, could start the war we fear.”

There was a very long silence.  “I understand,” the President said finally.  He looked around the room.  “I have a press conference in half an hour, where I will have to deliver the official statement on the subject which the Russians will watch with interest, so…are there any suggestions?”

***
“My fellow Americans,” the President said, half an hour later.  The White House Press Room was packed with reporters; all there just to say that they had been there, even though streaming video carried the President’s words across the nation before any of the reporters could have published a story on the Communications Network, let alone a newspaper.

“My fellow Americans, this has been a grim week for us all,” he continued.  “It is with a heavy heart that I confirm the loss of USS Newfoundland, USS Austin and USS Ohio, destroyed in space in a clash between American forces and those of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.  Three Russian ships of roughly comparable design were also destroyed in the clash, along with an automated attack drone.”

He was careful to avoid any sign of gloating, even though it would probably be wasted.  The people wanted blood, Russian blood.  “This incident, coming on the heels of many incidents of collisions between American and Soviet forces, can only be regarded as having the gravest of consequences for the future of the alliance…and, of course, the human race itself.  We do not understand exactly what happened, or why the ships exchanged fire; we only know that it looks very bad indeed for humanity.”

He hoped that enough people would think of the consequences of war, enough to prevent Congress from trying to declare war on its own authority, or for the Russians to panic and start shooting.  That had been what Burghardt had meant, what he’d tried to explain; it was starting to look more and more like shooting first was the logical thing to do.  If someone pulled the trigger now, the Russians wouldn’t hesitate; they would fire back with everything they had.

“Many have urged that the actions be treated as a declaration of war,” he said, reminding them of that.  “I do not know – know beyond a shadow of a doubt – that the Russians mean us harm.  I do, however, have enough evidence to know that something is going very badly wrong indeed…and therefore I am announcing a full mobilisation, under Section Three of the War Powers Act.”

He paused.  It would cause a great deal of disruption to the economy and end up costing a great deal of money.  There wasn’t any other choice, however; they had to be ready for enemy attack, whatever was happening out there.  If the Russians were in fact hostile – although he was sure that General Secretary Boris Andropov didn’t really mean harm to America – being on alert might mean the difference between survival and annihilation.

“I call now upon the Soviet Government, which is matching us in moving to war positions, to stand down,” he continued.  “I am asking – demanding – that the Soviet Government joins us in a full and open investigation of exactly what happened out there in deep space, an investigation that will explore all computer, radar and sensor records, all internal monitoring devices, everything that could possibly shed some light upon the mystery.

“I am asking – demanding – that the Soviet Government participate fully in the investigation,” he said.  “If Americans are found to be at fault, then they will be punished to the full extent of the law; I am asking – demanding - that Soviet citizens be questioned before a full and impartial board of inquiry into the disaster.  I am asking – demanding – that we gain access to any Soviet investigation, and we will share access into our own investigations.”

He looked around the room.  Miracle of miracles, there had been no reporters shouting questions; most White House reporters were well behaved.  The President had read a study once; it had suggested that that happened because everyone saw what the presidents said for themselves, rather than snippets partly obscured by commentary from reporters.  A reporter who lied knowingly – and it was hard to see how it could be an innocent mistake – would rapidly become the target of public mistrust.

The President nodded.  American Presidents behaved themselves as well; sometimes they were brilliant, sometimes they were popularly regarded as dire, but none had ever tried to lie.  The President had to be honest; his government stood or fell by his words.  How could it be otherwise?  Americans were responsible citizens, with the right to make their own reasonable decisions; that was what freedom meant.  How could the government look after everyone?

“This is a very dire situation,” he said, sparing them nothing of the horror of the situation.  Americans sometimes didn’t need to know everything, but this?  They had to know how bad the situation really was.  “We are on the brink of a war that could change the world beyond repair.  I ask all Americans to prey with me for peace, for if war comes, it could destroy us all.”

Chapter Twenty: Watching the Lights Go Out

Safe House
Washington DC, USA

“Answer me a question,” Sally said, as they watched the television broadcast.  “Is there something about humans in this particular part of the multiverse that makes them more and more determined to leap blindly into war?”

Thande glared at her.  The week of inactivity hadn’t sat well with him, even if they had been able to do a great deal of private research.  Curled up on the sofa, Sally looked almost like an innocent teenage girl; only her eyes betrayed her age.  They were older and wiser than anyone else he’d ever seen.

“How would I know?”  He asked, knowing that he sounded like a petulant teenager himself – even if he didn’t look the part – but unable and unwilling to stop.  “What happened in your world?”

“We Americans were top dog and God help anyone who thought better,” Sally said absently.  “You learn detachment after a while, Professor; each world has its own people, with their own petty problems.”

“This world is about to go to war,” Thande said.  His counterpart was plugged into the national emergency system and he’d spared them nothing.  “Sally, we should be trying to help them.”

Sally shook her head.  “The priority is finding the Enemy agent,” she said.  “What sort of help do you think that we could give them?”

Thande scowled.  “We still have the link to the Harry Turtledove, don’t we?”  He asked.  Sally nodded shortly.  “We could bring it into this reality and wipe out the Hive ship, wherever it is; erase it from history…”

“It’s too attached to events now to erase it,” Sally said.  “If we had known that it was there, we could have caught it before it entered the Earth’s solar system and allowed one of its scouts to crash at Roswell.”

Thande narrowed his eyes.  “They allowed it to crash?”

Sally frowned.  “I think that that is the most likely explanation, which is bad,” she said.  “The Hive was never known for being imaginative, but some of them were almost devious, and they were always a lot smarter than humans.  Being telepathic, when one of them has a good idea, it spreads through the Hive very quickly.  Enough of the Hive together could literally shout across light years.”

She closed her eyes.  Thande realised with a shock that she was very tired.  “Except they should have done the obvious and sent a second ship to retrieve it,” she said.  “They would hardly have sent one ship to scout if they didn’t have a way to retrieve it or destroy it if necessary; imagination would be needed to actually think of breaking that particular rule.”  She snickered.  “It takes imagination to even think of the concept of changing the rules – and it takes imagination to use the crashed ship to force humans to develop technology that the Hive might be interested in claiming for itself.  Once humans have been…absorbed, there’ll be no more imagination at all.”

Thande shook his head.  “Madness,” he said.  “What happens if humanity came up with a doomsday weapon to use against them?”

“They don’t have the imagination to even think of that,” Sally said.  She yawned longer than seemed humanly possible.  “It’s literally inconceivable to them.”

“That’s…reassuring,” Thande said.  He stared at Sally for a moment; some senses he hadn’t realised he had were sounding an alarm.  “Sally…are you all right?”

“Stupid question,” Sally said, with genuine affection.  “It’s the effects of being so close to a major shift in the timestream; you’ll start to feel it too, later.  It’s rather like jet lag; it’s evidence that there will be shifts running up and down the timestream, and the stronger they get, the closer you are to the change.”  She closed her eyes, speaking in a tired voice.  “Sixty-odd years ago, the effects running up and down the timestream, altering history as the event-front travels across this new reality and…

“Changing history, as opposed to creating a second timeline, isn’t easy, whatever Doctor Who and Star Trek might have told you.  There’s nothing particularly sacred about any given timeline, except…  You have to be careful to change history; you have to set up the dominos so that they fall in perfect order…and humans are very bad at making the unpredictable choices at the wrong times.  You only get one chance at changing a timeline; if you fail, you end up with a second timeline and far too many signs of your interference.”

“I see,” Thande said.  “I take it that Asimov’s science of predicting the future doesn’t work, then?”

“It would be a failure for anything larger than ants,” Sally said.  “I know; we have been trying to develop such a science for years, but…it fails.  Humans – hell, almost all intelligent life – have a tendency to make the stupid decision at the worst possible time; any reasonable prediction of Munich, including all the facts, had the western allies deciding to tell Hitler to stop or else.”

She took a breath as she stood up, pacing around the room to reach Thande.  “Except we could scan around the timeline, looking for the facts, and Chamberlain did not, could not.  He believed Hitler’s lies, believed that the war would be…well, the real World War Two starting a year earlier…and signed that dreadful agreement.  How could you predict something like that?”

She stepped up to Thande, leaning on the chair.  “Professor, I…”

She staggered against him.  Thande caught her; she weighed almost nothing.  “Sally,” he said, in alarm.  He’d wanted to hold her, but…  “Sally, what’s happening?”

“I was wrong,” Sally said, her voice hazy.  “We’re too far from the change for it to be affecting me like this.”

Thande stared down at her face.  She seemed almost drunk, reeling around; if he hadn’t seen her only drinking coffee, he would have wondered what she’d drunk during dinner.  He considered desperately, remembering how to link back to the multiverse ship, wondering if he should get Sally out of the reality before…

“Sally, I could take you back to the Turtledove,” he said.  “Sally…”

“Something echoing up and down the timestream,” Sally said.  Her face looked paler than normal.  “It happened, or it will happen in the future, and…no; don’t take me out of here.  I have to get used to this.”

Thande blinked.  “Sally, you’re…”

“Unwell,” she said.  She giggled suddenly, inanely.  “You better hadn’t take advantage of me…”

Thande had to smile.  “Not like this,” he said.  “Sally, what can I do to help?”

Sally was clearly trying to think.  “Help me to my room,” she said.  “Thande; you have to be careful.  Something is going to change here and you’ve been in the Vale; you have a slight immunity and sensitivity.  Please…”

Thande carefully picked her up like a child.  The safe house was large enough to allow him to carry her into her room and place her gently on the bed.  She was already asleep in his arms as he laid her down and pulled the covers over her.  He watched her for a long moment, and then returned to the living room.  The television was broadcasting a repeat of the President’s speech, and then talking about the lack of Russian response to the message.  So far, the Russians had said nothing, which the presenter seemed to think was very suspicious.

“Less talking heads in this universe,” Thande muttered, not sure if he should be pleased or amused.  He’d been interviewed a few times while he’d been working at Cambridge, before the Nazi War; it had always managed to amaze him how even the most carefully explained explanation was misinterpreted.  A lecture on how space could be folded by a sufficiently large gravity field – part of the ongoing attempt to crack the secret of FTL travel – had somehow become a statement comparing the universe to a folded sheet of paper…and warning that someone might accidentally create a black hole in Somerset.

He had to smile.  This universe…seemed mercifully free of the twin problems his world had faced before the Nazi War; endless hysteria over the march of science and endless condescension from scientists over the former.  They’d built Orion spacecraft, for heaven’s sake; you couldn’t get a more controversial project than that in his reality.

“In reality, the Russians seem to have been planning an offensive against us for some time, perhaps even years,” Senator Chapman said.  He was clearly being interviewed by the local equivalent of CNN, although that didn’t seem to have come into existence here either.  The entire television system of his world, with thousands of satellite channels, didn’t exist here; the closest thing there was reassembled streaming Internet broadcasting, just to avoid transmitting anything militarily useful into space for alien ears, assuming that they had ears.  The images that Professor Anderson had shown him had shown the Hive aliens as having no ears, which, he supposed, a telepathic race would not need.

“I wonder if you have so much science because you never had TV until later,” he told the image of Senator Chapman, before turning the entire system off.  They’d considered Chapman as a possible Enemy agent, but Sally had suspected that they would have preferred to work through someone less public than a Senator.  “That might explain a lot about our world.”

He checked the new wristcom that Professor Anderson had purchased for him; it was late at night.  He rather liked the device; it was clock and mobile phone in one.  It reminded him of the devices that Thunderbirds had made popular in the public imagination, before the movie and the second series had ruined the entire Thunderbirds franchise.

Shaking his head, he slipped upstairs, pausing to look in on Sally.  She looked much better, almost at peace with herself, so he closed the door without saying anything, before going to bed himself.

***
“Tell me more about the Portals you made,” Anderson said, in the morning.  “Exactly what do they do?”

Thande considered.  Sally had made one point very clear; they were not – ever – to mention the Time Agents or the Multiverse War to anyone.  Sally had been up for an hour in the morning, eating enough to stuff a horse, before returning to bed.  She’d looked better, but still pale and drawn.  The attack, whatever it was, seemed to be fading away.

Or maybe she’s just getting used to it, Thande thought, and shuddered.  She’d insisted that they claim to be associated with the Thande Institute – something that had made Thande laugh – rather than anything more serious.  His namesake organisation had never come to this timeline, so it would be impossible for anyone, even his counterpart, to catch them out at the lie.

He scowled.  Was it really worth exploring thousands of alternate timelines, if one became sick from time to time as the timeline shifted?  He smiled inwardly; of course it was.  Sally had been doing it for years…and she still had a sense of wonder.  This was his first real exploration…and he had to admit that he was enjoying himself, most of the time.

Anderson coughed.  “I beg your pardon,” Thande said.  “I was several universes away.”

Anderson laughed at the weak joke.  “That would make sense here,” he said.  “Tell me; how do your Portals work?”

Thande smiled.  “I’m surprised that you haven’t worked out the math,” he said.  “You’re me, after all.”

“I think that I went down a different research path,” Anderson said.  “I helped develop the Procyon Drive from clues within the alien ship; you…clearly worked on inter-dimensional travel.”

“Not on purpose,” Thande said.  “The entire process was an accident.  If the Nazis hadn’t invaded our world, we might have missed it entirely.  We were working on an FTL drive and came up with the idea of generating quantum distortion waves…but it was the equivalent of treading water rather than swimming forward.”

Anderson considered.  “But what they were doing was altering the quantum structure of the…ship itself,” he said.  Thande smiled at the comment, even if it was slightly based on a false assumption.  “It would be defined as belonging to the wrong universe, and therefore would fall into that universe.”

“Until the drive shut off,” Thande said.  As far as he knew, no one had actually tried to generate a Portal around a spacecraft; the Nazi War had largely been fought on the ground.  “We ended up using it on the ground; once the Portal was activated, it would create a link between two universes.  It was the Nazis who got it right first, however; they came into our universe baying for blood.”

“Nazis,” Anderson said slowly.  “I’m surprised that they worked out the pure science behind such a system.”

Thande frowned.  The Nazis had had help…from the Enemy.  It wasn’t something they could talk about.  “Surprised hell out of us too,” he said.  “Which does rather suggest that there are countless Nazi victory timelines where they don’t invent inter-dimensional travel.”  He shrugged.  “Anyway, why are you so interested?”

“The basic expansion of the vast and limitless fields of human science?”  Anderson asked.  Both men burst out laughing.  It was an old joke that the humans with the purse strings, which rarely meant scientists, were only interested in profit and/or weapons, rather than pure science.  “More seriously, what happens if there is a war?”

Thande frowned.  “Do you think that it will come to that?”

Anderson frowned too.  The expression was almost comical; it was exactly the same as Thande’s.  “I hope not,” Anderson said.  “But if we and the Soviets do start shooting at one another, it’s going to get very bad, very quickly.  A Portal to an uninhabited Earth would be the perfect fall-out shelter.”

“There would be no way to tell what universe you were entering without going inside and looking,” Thande said.  “You might run into a universe where the Soviet Union is the dominant power, thanks to time-travelling idiots.”

Anderson looked up at him.  “You can use a Portal to travel in time?”

The correct answer to that was ‘no.’ A Portal was bound to the same relative time and space as its world and universe.  You could travel in time, but only through the Vale.  Attempts at opening gashes in time, from the future to the past, never lasted long; each attempt created an alternate world.  

“No,” Thande said, without going into details.  The Thande Institute knew nothing about the Vale, after all.  “Professor, why is everyone suddenly racing towards war?”

Anderson scowled.  “I think it’s been building for a while,” he said.  “Us and the Soviets, bound together by chains of fear…fear of the unknown aliens…”

“And you’ve just had proof that the aliens are still out there,” Thande snapped.  He knew what Sally had told him…and he struggled to compose a warning that would be heeded.  “You’re being played.  How long will your war last before you’ve destroyed the defences you’ve spent fifty years building?”

Anderson stared at him.  “The aliens are doing the attacking along the belt,” Thande snapped.  “You haven’t found any survivors, have you?  All they have to do is convince you that you’re under attack by the Soviets…and you and they do all the hard work of blowing each other away!”

He kept speaking, as fast as he could.  “You have proof, proof positive, that they can hide themselves from detection,” he said.  “It’s easy to hide from radars; they would have found it easy to stage the attack on the Wanderer.  God knows; they should have tried to destroy the ship as well…except it gives you something to fight over!”

“No one has suggested anything more than the Trojan horse concept,” Anderson said.  He sounded disturbed, as well he might.  “Enough people are thinking that the Wanderer is the mothership to have them wondering if the aliens are still a threat.”

Thande glared at him.  “How long will it be before they attack you, then?”

“I think…I think I’d better go see the President about this,” Anderson said.  “Please will you remain here; he may want to talk to you?”

Thande smiled.  “You haven’t told him about us?”

Anderson smiled back.  It was exactly what Thande would have done; learning about inter-universal travellers would have only upset the President.  “Not as such,” Anderson said.  “It would only have upset him.”

Thande laughed.  “Good luck,” as Anderson got up to leave.  He poured a cup of tea quickly, then a second cup, and placed them both on a tray, carrying them up the stairs.  Sally, he was relieved to see, was awake; she took the cup of tea with relief.

“I was afraid I would have to start shouting for room service,” she said.  Thande made a face at her and sat down beside her on the bed.  “You’re a good nurse.”

“You certainly sound better,” Thande said, sipping his tea.  It was time for confession.  “I told Anderson that I was certain that the troubles were being caused by the aliens.”

Sally shrugged, seemingly unconcerned.  Her voice was sharp, but warm at the same time.  “Did you tell him about the Hive?”

Thande shook his head.  “Just that the aliens had the most to gain from World War Three breaking out across the Solar System,” he said.  “They could quite easily have left the Wanderer for humans to find as well.”

“Don’t do it again,” Sally said, mock-seriously.  “At least, not without consulting with me first.”  She reached out and squeezed his hand, sending shivers up and down his spine.  “Tampering is difficult and dangerous; Professor, it can have serious side-effects.”

“Understood,” Thande said contritely.  It was somehow entirely natural to slip his hand across her shoulder, allowing her to relax into him.  “I won’t do it again.”

Sally smiled up at him.  “You’ll be getting sick soon,” she said.  “As we approach the change in time…”

Thande held up a hand, listening intently.  He could hear something…gunshots!  There were gunshots coming from just outside the house!

Chapter Twenty-One: Red Alert

Camp Dependable
Virginia, USA

There could only be one reason, Samuel Dyson was convinced, for the entire section – and the entire two thousand soldiers in the barracks – to be moved rapidly in the middle of the night on a long drive to a camp he’d never heard of before; a suddenly utterly sadistic drill.  In their buses, which he couldn’t help noticing were military-issue buses, the soldiers had speculated endlessly, finally concluding that it was in fact a drill.  

Camp Dependable wasn’t much to look at either.  Unlike Camp Washington, it was clearly a temporary military base, one well hidden in the forest.  Armed soldiers guarded every entrance, sweeping the borders with a routine he remembered from basic training while in high school; one designed to cover all of the possible angles of approach to the camp, while appearing random and uncoordinated.

He smiled, remembering.  Each of the shifts would have their own patterns and their own random changes in pattern.  An observant attacker would have real problems trying to scout out a path through the guards…and there was plenty of firepower hidden around the camp.  As he watched, an armed battlesuit marched past, seeming to nod as it passed the buses, carrying a heavy weapon that matched a tank’s main gun for firepower.

“That is so…awesome,” Simon Jenkins breathed.  Dyson could only nod in agreement; he’d been lucky enough to try out a battlesuit while on summer camp, and it had been extremely fun to drive.  They were rarely seen on Earth; most of them were deployed to Mars or the Moon, where having an armed spacesuit was extremely important.  

“Perhaps this is not a drill,” Andrew Thomas said.  He’d been appointed Section Leader; he spoke with the voice of someone just one step below God in the Army.  “Would they put so much firepower on alert just for us?”

Dyson said nothing, but he had to admit that Thomas had a point.  So much firepower would cost more money than he cared to think about, and while the Army had a large budget, it would surely not be large enough to handle such an expense for two thousand random trainees.

“Everyone off,” Sergeant Griffin bellowed.  Dyson scrambled to his feet, grabbing his overnight bag as he moved, before jumping off the bus and forming into ranks.  He blinked as he looked past the foliage into the clearing; Camp Dependable was larger than it looked, with more buses unloading in the darkness.

“Move out, to the centre of that clearing,” the Sergeant ordered, as soon as they were all out of the bus.  “Do not hesitate; move!”

Dyson reacted to the tone and ran for the clearing, followed by the rest of the section.  The clearing was filling up rapidly, with thousands of soldiers and soldier-trainees moving into the clearing, watching the stand at one edge of the clearing.  Two officers, both Generals, were talking rapidly in hushed voices; too far away for them to hear anything.  He glanced up as a roar split the sky for a long moment, seeing the slight glow of the hypersonic fighter’s engines briefly in the darkness.  For a moment, he wished that he were up there with the pilot, but he’d never shown any aptitude for flying his own aircraft.

“Attention,” an unfamiliar sergeant bellowed.  Dyson snapped to attention with the rest of the men and women soldiers, staring up at the stand.  A general, dressed in a green uniform with more medals than Dyson himself would be comfortable with on his chest, stood there, looking down at them.

“Welcome to Camp Dependable,” the General said.  His face was black, but his voice was almost Canadian.  “I am Major-General Hartman, your commanding officer, for the 235th Active Infantry (second-class).  You may have noticed that something unusual is going on; normally, you would be put through a complete refresher course before being assigned to a military formation or being sent back to reserve, whatever else happened.”

His face…looked darker, if that were possible in the half-darkness.  The entire force of soldiers was calm, something that warned Dyson that the situation was in fact deadly serious.  Normally, troops called from the reserves, let alone civilian formations, took time to get back into the discipline grove; only two weeks wasn’t long enough for them.

“Unfortunately, events have rather run away with us,” Hartman continued.  “There has been a major clash between our forces and those of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.  In the belt, there was an exchange of fire, which resulted in significant casualties to both sides.  We lost…upwards of fifty men, and three ships in the engagement.  One more ship was seriously damaged.”

A dark mutter of anger ran through the soldiers.  “It is far too likely, men, that we will be at war within the week, war against the forces of Communist Russia.  The Russians may invade Europe to pressure the WEU into supporting them, or they may try to invade us directly.  Alternatively, we might be trying to invade them; the battle to decide command of space will determine which side manages to attack the other in its own homeland.

“I won’t lie to you,” he continued.  “It is my sincere hope that we will not come to blows over this, but my own personal reading is that the Soviets are unprepared to admit their guilt, which means that they’re almost certainly behind the attack.  Their own forces remain on alert; they too are rushing to their war stations, which means that they’re making preparations…and we must move to match them.

“Today, the President ordered a full mobilisation,” he concluded.  “Under the circumstances, your normal recruitment path has been curtailed; you have been assigned to the 235th Active Infantry (second-class).  You will serve as part of that formation deployed to defend the Northern borders.  In the event of war coming, I expect that each and every one of you will handle his or her responsibilities with the courage and determination that built America and placed the American flag on worlds across the solar system.”

He paused.  “Dismissed!”

***
An ‘Active Infantry’ regiment was a concept that had been developed during the Second World War and modified endlessly as technology advanced.  As Dyson had studied in military classes, the problem had been moving a force of men to wherever it was needed, as quickly as it was needed.  As his instructor had pointed out, more than once; it would take upwards of three weeks to concentrate a sizable force anywhere within America itself, let alone sending a force overseas.  The only solution had been to build military bases all over America, such as Camp Dependable, and develop the Active Infantry as rapid deployment units.

“Congratulations, Private Dyson,” Sergeant Griffin said, as Dyson was given his rank badge.  He’d been classed as a trainee when at Camp Washington, even though it was mainly a refresher course, but the actual Army allowed no trainees to fight in battle.  “Welcome to the Army.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Dyson said wryly, as the sergeant started to pin the next rank badge on the next former trainee.  Dyson stepped up to the group of infantry and collected the remainder of his new equipment, from the electronic units that provided encrypted burst communication with the rest of his force, to the heavy weapon that he would carry while on duty.

“Here comes the heavy metal brigade,” someone shouted, as a line of tanks moved past slowly, their weapons clearly in ‘ready’ position.  Dyson had to smile; the Patton tanks were hardly the heavy tanks of popular fiction, like the Bradley.  The Patton was designed to be deployed quickly and fight as a very fast-moving vehicle, holding the line until Bradley tanks or another design could be deployed to reinforce them.  They were armoured, but Dyson knew that they would probably not be a match for a T-90, should the Russians actually try to land somewhere.

An air landing is their best option if they want to land in our region, he thought, remembering the maps and the endless briefings.  The Russians were known to have their own Active Infantry – the Shock Brigades – and they possessed a large air transport capability.  They would fly over Canada – which might or might not be taking an active part in the war – and they would land in the northern United States, perhaps near Detroit.  If they could punch their way through the USAF, and take an airport, they would be able to reinforce quickly.

And that’s when we find out how good we are, he thought grimly, and hefted his weapon.  He’d used one like it during basic training, and the refresher course had included a large amount of actual shooting, but he’d never been under fire.  The military games he’d played in had included a large amount of tactical manoeuvring, but that had been using laser systems to count hits, not actual bullets.  He’d known that he couldn’t have died in the battles…and that might have slowed him down.

“All right, everyone over here,” a Captain snapped.  Dyson shouldered his weapon – putting a weapon down on the ground for any reason beyond danger was a punishment offence – and wandered over to the growing group of soldiers.  The entire 235th Active Infantry possessed around ten thousand soldiers, of one type or another, but only two thousand or so were in the camp itself.  Dyson wondered, absently, where the others were, before giving the Captain his full attention.

“I’m Captain Wachter,” the Captain said.  “Welcome to the 235th Active Infantry.  You are all part of the Infantry part of that description, which makes you the most important part of the force.”  There were some chuckles; most infantry suspected that the armoured tankers considered them to be nothing more than squishy things on the ground.  “We are going to be deploying later today, so we’re going to the nearby civilian airport, where we will be moved to our base near Detroit.”

Wachter looked around at them all.  “The tanks will be moved up in heavy air transports,” he said.  Dyson blinked; speed was clearly considered more important than safety here.  A single Russian orbiting weapon could snap down dozens of aircraft until it was destroyed; it would take time even to be noticed to be at work.

“There’ll be upwards of an entire corps moving up there within the week,” Wachter continued.  “Unfortunately, the border is so long that we’re going to be strung out defending it.  The National Guard units have already been activated, but there are problems that are above even my immense pay packet to be solved.”

Some of the men chuckled.  “I always knew you couldn’t trust the Guard,” Sergeant Griffin muttered, in that special tone that he intended to be heard.  “It’s full of weekend warriors.”

“Nonsense,” Wachter said wryly.  “More importantly, our task will be to engage any Soviet units that will appear within our area of responsibility.  It is envisaged, by the tactical planning lot, that the Soviets will either launch an attack directed against one major population centre, just to gain a foothold, or that they will launch a handful of raids all along the border.  We can expect, unfortunately, that they will be working to slip spies and sabotage teams in right now.

“I won’t lie to you,” he said, echoing the Major-General.  “We’re an under-strength force and we may be in the shit right from the start.  Whatever happens, I expect that we’ll hold up our end of the fight.”  He paused.  “Sergeant Griffin will handle moving each of you to the airport, where you will board a commandeered aircraft for the flight.  Try not to make a mess; we might have to pay for it.”

There were more chuckles.  “A final note,” Wachter said.  “All of the above only applies if we and the soviets manage to batter each other out of operations in space.  If one or the other of us comes out ahead in space, the war will be decided…almost overnight.”

Dyson’s imagination filled in the unspoken parts.  An American victory would expose the heartland of the Russians to bombardment from space, ending the war.  If the Soviets won…the Active Infantry had been also designated as underground fighters in the event of an alien invasion.  They would be well equipped to carry that out…even against the Soviets instead of the aliens.  He thought of fighting a war in the cities, like the Iranians had tried against the Russians, and shuddered.

“For those who want to call home, there will be facilities on board the plane,” Wachter concluded.  “Good luck, all of you.  See you in Detroit”

***
The aircraft was a modified passenger jet, one of thousands built for cheap passenger flight around the world…and just incidentally designed to be quickly converted into a military transport craft, should the need arise.  The former flight crew, who had been stripped down to two USAF reservists, had removed everything that had made it an interesting passenger jet – including the stewardesses.  Dyson, who had had to listen to Tommy’s bantering on about the joys of stewardesses and their short skirts, hadn’t been able to resist a snigger at Tommy’s crushed expression when he discovered that all of the Stewardesses had been removed.

“I guess they saw you coming,” he’d said, needling Tommy.

He looked at the simple intercom on the side of the private cabin with some concern.  It was a simple enough device, connected through a laser link into the America-wide communications network, but he was nervous.  Not of using the device, of course, but of talking to his family.  In a quick motion, he activated the touch-screen and tapped in the number of his home phone.

It rang once, and then his mother picked it up.  “Mother, it’s me,” Dyson said.  “Mom, how are you?”

“Samuel,” his mother said.  She sounded relieved to hear from him.  “Where are you?”

“Deploying,” Dyson said.  They’d been warned not to discuss their destination with anyone, just for the sake of security.  “I’m in the 235th Active Infantry now, Mom; you have to tell Dad.”

“He’ll be so proud of you,” his mother said, seriously.  Dyson winced; his father hadn’t been happy at all to know that he had been protesting against the war preparations, even now that his only son was in the army.  “Sam, are you sure that you’re going to be fine?”

Dyson considered.  If the Russians attacked, they would send their best and brightest; their most capable commando units to mount the daring commando raid they would need to secure the location they were going to try to snatch.  His force, unprepared, under-trained, under-equipped, would be trying to stop them.  It would be difficult to do more than get killed; the Russians were supposed to practice every day.

“Of course I’m sure,” he said.  “Is Angelina there?”

“Your sister has been at her school,” his mother said.  “Something about preparing for First Aid, should it be needed.  The radio keeps talking about the need to stay calm and to open up the bomb shelters under New York; son, do you think that we need to?”

“I don’t know,” Dyson said, thinking quickly.  “The local defence force will be doing that anyway, won’t they?”

“Yes, but…I’m worried about you,” his mother admitted.  Dyson felt oddly embarrassed.  “Son, take care of yourself.”

The line broke before Dyson could say anything else.  He considered trying to re-establish the link, but there were others waiting for their turn to use the phone.  The amount of traffic on the datanet would be rising constantly as more and more units were activated, bringing parts of it to a crawl.  He’d never seen anything like it, never seen a moment when information was more than a few seconds away.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” he said, as he slipped past Sergeant Griffin to take his seat.

The Sergeant reached out a hand and stopped him.  “You did well on your tactical exercises,” he said.  “How do you feel about doing it now?”

Dyson paused.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “I don’t know the terrain.”

Griffin passed him a map.  “Study this,” he said.  “Learn what you need to know, and then start thinking about how you would act in command of a platoon.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Dyson said, taking the map and returning to his seat.  The rest of his section were trying to sleep, or perhaps to experiment with some of the equipment they’d been given, trying to see if they would play games on them.  He opened the map and examined it thoughtfully; Detroit was marked, as were several bases near the city, including a major USAF base.  

That would be the prime target, he thought, and considered the problem carefully.  If nothing else, it would help to pass the time.  The map was astonishingly detailed; it almost seemed to show every nook and cranny, which meant…that perhaps it was possible to defend the base with just the 235th Active Infantry.

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Hour of Decision

The Kremlin
Moscow, USSR

The air in the bunker deep beneath the Kremlin was cold, but tense; the Politburo was nervous.  The entire room was nowhere near as luxurious as the main meeting room, being cast in hard concrete for greater survivability in the event of the long-dreaded nuclear attack.  It was so deep underground, the engineers had boasted, that an asteroid the size of the Kremlin would be unable to blast its way through the ground to reach the hiding Politburo.  

Dimitri Yazov, Minister for the Economy, sensed the tension as he entered the main room, passing the Red Guards at the entrance.  The room itself was cold, but the guards were clearly sweating; their lords and masters were nervous, which would be bad for them personally if they could be blamed for anything.  Discipline held, keeping them firmly in place, but they were…unhappy with the situation.

Yazov understood.  He too was unhappy with the situation, at least what he’d heard through the grapevine and his own personal network.  The General Secretary and STAVKA had clamped down hard on information distribution, but the very formation of a STAVKA council was very informative in itself.  Someone expected a war; perhaps, one had already broken out.

The General Secretary spoke rapidly as he took his seat.  “By this time tomorrow, we may be at war with the United States,” he said flatly.  “Comrade Bukharin?”

Space Marshal Gennedy Bukharin, Commander of the Red Space Force, looked nervous as several angry glances – and more worried looks – were cast in his direction.  The principle of blaming the messenger was alive and well in the Soviet Union, along with what was effectively racism and sexism.  Who in their right mind would put a spacecraft in the hands of an untutored savage from Kazakhstan?  They were only good for soldiers…and not good ones at that.

“There has been a major clash between our forces and those of the Americans,” Bukharin said.  “The Americans are blaming us for the clash…and it seems as if they might have a point.”

Yazov felt pure anger spreading through him.  “One of our officers attacked an American ship?”  He demanded.  “Did they take no notice of our instructions on the subject?”

Bukharin didn’t snap at him, perhaps a sign of weakness, perhaps a sign of concern.  “There was an…unexplained incident,” he said softly.  “The Americans were attacked, by one of our lost vessels.”

“Explain,” the General Secretary said, when no one else spoke.  The room held its collective breath.

“The Americans claim that they were attacked by a Yuri-class vessel,” Bukharin said.  “The ship, armed with weapons that it should never have carried, fired on the American ships as part of an attack pattern designed to place the blame on us.  The Americans fired back at all of the Russian ships…and killed three of our spaceships, with a death toll of seventy men.”

There was a hiss of anger.  “Then it is just the Americans claiming to have seen one of our ships,” Marshal of the Soviet Union Alexandr Vostrakov said.  “They are lying to us?”

Bukharin shook his head.  “The Red Space Force has been looking at the records taken by the Stalingrad and comparing them to the ones we…obtained from the Americans,” he said.  Yazov understood; few would refer to any of the KGB information raids on American systems, just as much as they would refer to the CIA doing the same thing to Russian systems.  All of a sudden, it was deadly serious.  “The preliminary analysis is grim.”

“The KGB would be happy to make its own facilities available to the Red Space Force,” Joseph Shapov, KGB Director, said, keeping his voice lazy and calm.  Yazov silently damned the man’s eternal calm, as if it were all a game.  “We know some things that we never shared with anyone else.”

“That might be needed,” Bukharin said, when no one else said anything at all.  “The results are still being studied, but one thing is clear; the Americans are not making all of this up out of their…Hollywood imaginations.  There was another craft present, it seemingly was a modified Yuri-class ship…and it did fire on the American craft.”

“But we issued no orders,” Shapov said, keeping his voice still in that infuriatingly calm tone.  “None of our captains would have dared to fire on an American craft.  All of our Commissioners had been warned to keep the Captains from firing, unless the Americans fired first…”

“Which they did in this instance,” Bukharin said sharply.  “They thought that we were attacking them, so they fired back, and then Captain Fursenko fired back on them, and then…all hell broke loose.”

The General Secretary held up one hand, quieting the babble of questions.  “What is the current status of the remains of Captain Fursenko’s force?”

Bukharin seemed relieved to have such a simple question.  “Making all speed for Lenin Base,” he said.  “They’re not in a good course, however; it will be several weeks – at least two – before they can make rendezvous.  They were actually heading down towards the American base we weren’t supposed to know about and then they clamped on their drives and fled.  Under normal circumstances, we would have had time to make proper braking manoeuvres and select a proper course, but if they had done that the Americans would have had a perfect targeting opportunity.”

He said nothing about how he thought about how Captain Fursenko had acted.  Yazov wasn’t surprised; if necessary, he knew that Captain Fursenko was already set up to be the sacrificial goat for the entire battle.  Bukharin would say nothing until the general gist of opinion was clear, at least on that subject; until the room had decided if Captain Fursenko was hero or traitor.

“I think that questions of what happened are of more importance,” Shapov said, his tones growing sharper.  “What should we believe?  Who’s telling the truth here?”

“There was a Yuri present,” Bukharin said shortly.  “Unfortunately, it was a heavily rebuilt version, which was odd.  No unit of that class should have been worth the effort of converting it to carry a fusion drive, particularly not such a junk piece as it was carrying.  The drive tube was coming apart; it was flaking off in the heat of the drive!  It certainly should not have been able to make its interception without being seen, by either us or the Americans, and it would have had to have been launched months before the Americans found the alien craft.”

He sighed.  “The weapons are even odder,” he continued.  “Only a handful of the original design carried nuclear missiles…and all of those were accounted for.  Plasma weapons were only invented ten years ago, twenty years after the last Yuri was scrapped.  I could accept one of the units that got lost in space somehow deciding to attack the ships, particularly if the cold soak damaged its computers somehow, but one armed with modern weapons…?”

“The mystery of where it came from can wait,” the General Secretary said.  “Were there any signs of where it came from?”

Bukharin shook his head.  “The Americans destroyed it,” he said.  “Quite understandable at the time, of course, but there was no wreckage left; one of the plasma warheads must have been set to detonate if the craft lost containment.”

The General Secretary nodded.  “We have to decide how to react to the Americans,” he said.  “What do they want?”

“The Americans are not happy,” Maskow Lavrov, Foreign Minister, said dryly.  “I had a long and rather acrimonious conversation with President Woodrow last night; in short, the American public is blaming us for the attack and wants blood.”

“I find it hard to believe that the President is willing to commit to a war,” the General Secretary said.  “If he meant to attack, he would have ordered the attack at once.  What were the demands?”

“The Americans have given us…well, in effect it is an ultimation,” Lavrov said.  “President Woodrow might not have intended it as one…but the mood of the American public and their Congress is going to make it one.  They’re very unhappy over the deaths of their servicemen; they’re really unhappy about us…and everything else.

“The Americans have demanded that we stand down our own defences,” Lavrov said.  The room collectively took an indrawn breath.  “They have demanded that we take precautions to prevent this from happening again…and they have demanded that we participate fully in a joint investigation of the incident.”

“Unacceptable,” Shapov said grimly.

Vostrakov nodded in agreement.  “If we stand down our defences, they will open fire and tear us to shreds,” he said.  “We cannot agree to anything like that unless the Americans make the same agreement.”

“Which they won’t,” Lavrov said.  “They see themselves as the injured party here.”

“Perhaps there is room for negotiation,” the General Secretary said.  “We can take part in a joint investigation; that will be something that we will be doing anyway.”

“They will want total access to everywhere,” Shapov snapped.  “We will be allowing them the greatest intelligence scoop of the last fifty years!  The Americans are trying to trick us into starting a war!”

The General Secretary studied him for a long moment.  “And how exactly do you know that?”

Shapov stood up and paced the room, a gross breach of etiquette.  “The Americans have as much technical sophistication in space as we do,” he snapped.  “They…could quite easily have built the Yuri themselves; they would have found it easy to have placed it in the right place for attacking the force.  They might not even have informed their commanders of the action, so they would react naturally.  None of our Yuri-class units had plasma weapons or fusion drives; would we have been so careless as to equip a rogue unit with such weapons, particularly if we wanted to maintain the fiction that it was a rogue unit?

“I have in my case” – he nodded towards the case he’d brought in with him – “reports from America.  I have proof that the Americans are moving towards a first strike against us.  I have proof that elements of the American government are already planning to attack us everywhere at once, even to the degree of targeting our bridge ships…”

He paused for effect, and then opened his case.  “This is a report on the American mobilisation process, which was started late last night,” he said.  “They have sent out electronic messages, ordering all of their reservists to prepare for mobilisation, or to report to their designated start point.  In the last five hours, several dozen divisions have been activated, bringing their Army rapidly upwards towards its total strength.  And that, Comrades, is not all.”

He held up a second sheet of paper.  “The Americans have activated all of their air defence units,” he said.  “That’s over a thousand jet fighters, mainly the hypersonic interceptors and the support craft, including laser-armed aircraft intended to hit satellites.  Their navy is leaving port, or will be leaving port, soon; that’s seven large carriers and dozens of smaller ships and submarines.  In orbit, they have begun to reinforce their orbital defences, preparing for war.

“Finally, the Americans have begun their civil defence drills,” he concluded.  “They have opened bomb shelters everywhere.  They have begun to stockpile food, diverting it from their farms, something that has already – after only a few hours – caused considerable trouble.  Plans to evacuate parts of the population from the cities, I am reliably informed, are being activated, right as we stand here debating!  In short, if the Americans are not preparing to attack us, then they clearly must be out of their minds.”

He took his seat and gazed around the table.  Yazov met his gaze evenly, showing no commitment either way, as his gaze passed over him.  “There seems to be no other interpretation,” Shapov concluded.  “The Americans are making preparations for war, preparations that can only imply that they intend to strike first.  Are they waiting for our response?  No.  Are they acting to calm tensions?  No.  They are preparing for war.”

There was a long uneasy pause.  “I…see,” the General Secretary said finally.  “And what, exactly, do you suggest?”

Shapov looked down at Bukharin.  “Our own space-based and ground-based forces are ready,” he said.  “We should strike first, now!”

Lavrov glared at Shapov.  “Are you mad?”  He asked.  “That would trigger the war.”

“The Americans have gained a lead in mobilisation,” Shapov snapped.  “If we don’t attack now, they will have completed their preparations ahead of us…and then they will strike.  They could be planning to strike now, while we’re dithering here!  Even now, laser beams could be streaking through space, annihilating the shield that defends the motherland from attack.”

Vostrakov nodded his big head in agreement.  “We must strike now,” he said, “or all is lost.”

Yazov didn’t know what to say.  If both sides were even, the war would be a long one, which would mean an American victory.  If the war weren’t won quickly, it would be impossible to hold the economy together, particularly with the Poles and the others in outright revolt.  Striking first might leave them supreme…except that the costs would still be high.

“We cannot occupy the American mainland,” he said firmly.  He kept his voice calm as they stared at him.  “The costs would be impossible to bear.”

Shapov nodded.  “I do not call for their total destruction, or for their occupation,” he said.  Someone more idealistic would have spoken of the need to spread world communism.  “I call only for removing the threat to our motherland.”

***
Years of long practice kept General Secretary Boris Andropov’s face blank as he mentally counted through responses, trying to see who was pro-war and who was anti-war.  It wasn’t easy; many of the older Politburo members had been schooled in the same manner as he had, they could keep their faces blank without much effort.

He scowled inwardly, refusing to show any trace of his conflicting feelings.  Shapov, Bukharin, Vostrakov and perhaps Yazov were pro-war.  He and Lavrov were the only two who were strongly against the war, which meant that there would still be enough members to force through a declaration of war, even without him.  Indeed, opposing the majority would almost certainly cost him his role…and any possibility of moderating the disaster.  

He understood all too well.  The Americans looked as if they were going to attack, even though he didn’t believe that the President would do any such thing.  If they did strike first, then Russia would lose the vast majority of its orbiting defences before they could reply, which would cripple them in the war.  They had built far more than any rational system had suggested that they would need, just to make it impossible for the Americans to take them all out in one strike, but…

An American had once written a paper speculating on the dangers of a war, concluding that in the end both sides would face the certainty that the safest course of action was to strike first – devil take the hindmost – in hopes of handing out a beating to the opponent.  Perhaps, it was possible that humanity might just move away from the brink, but never if the war was total.

He cleared his throat.  He knew that there was no point in asking for a voice vote, one that would only reveal how weak he was.  “We seem to have no choice, but to strike first,” he said, and felt something die inside him.  “We must, however, be very careful in what we do.”

He looked down at Bukharin.  “Comrade Space Marshal, you are ordered to activate War Plan Five,” he said.  “In particular, your orbital targeting is to be directed only at American military installations in orbit, not the commercial systems or retirement homes they have floating around.  You are not to target any of the lifting cables or the asteroids with heavy weapons; space fighters can handle the asteroids offensive weapons.”

He looked up at the table.  “We cannot fight a long war,” he said, knowing that it was true…and wondering if they all knew it too.  “We can only hope to gain a position of military supremacy in space, which we can then use as a handle to convince the Americans to stand down without causing major damage to both side’s space installations.  It is also important not to damage the Americans too much; there are to be no nuclear warheads aimed at their soil, and no strikes against civilian targets.  The only weapons are to be used against American bases that fire first, and are to be all kinetic weapons.

“We’re going to have to live with them afterwards,” he concluded.

There was a long silence.  “I will issue the orders myself,” Bukharin said finally.  “The war will only last an hour, Comrades.”

Lavrov coughed.  “Should we not at least try to talk to them first?”

“No,” Shapov said sharply.  “That would just warn them in advance.”

Andropov had never hated anyone so much as at that moment.  “This is a limited strike, with limited aims,” he said, just to make sure that they all understood.  He wished, for the first time, that he had been religious, but the Party was a jealous god.  The thought of praying to Karl Marx was somehow amusing.  “We are talking about the future of the entire world here, comrades; we cannot afford to lose anything that we don’t have to lose.”  He paused.  “And we will have to live with them afterwards.”

He watched as the members of the Politburo filed out of the room.  He wanted to cry, knowing that the world was about to plunge into war, but it was too unsafe, even in the heart of Moscow’s defences.  The displays on the wall would light up soon; displaying the progress of the war…which he knew would last longer than an hour.

“God help us all,” he said, remembering finally what his mother had used to say.  “God have mercy on us all.”

Chapter Twenty-Three: Who Dares Wins (Or At Least Comes Out Ahead)

Safe House
Washington DC, USA

The man who called himself Agent Homer wasn’t impressed with the timeline travellers, although he understood that they might be important for the coming war.  He’d actually gone so far as to request reassignment away from the task, even though he knew that it was important; he found it hard to believe that their presence would be militarily useful to America.  

He scowled.  His superiors had made their opinion very clear.  Agent Homer – ISA agents almost never used their real names when on active duty – had been requested specifically by Professor Anderson to guard his counterpart and his…friend.  He wasn’t happy at all by the decision – he’d been body-guarding Anderson for too long to feel completely impartial towards him – but he had accepted it.  

He paced outside and looked up at the dark sky, flickering with the lights of stars and monstrous orbital installations.  Unlike many Americans, he had never taken a trip into space; he’d never visited Mars or the Moon.  Tourism was a great money-maker for the space program, but he had never been tempted to use the facilities himself, even as an agent for the ISA.  Technically speaking, he should never have been detached from Professor Anderson, but, as normal, what Anderson wanted Anderson got.

He would be harder to bear if he wasn’t worth all of the attention, Agent Homer thought, as he checked through the defences.  With all of America up in arms, and with almost all of the adult population carrying weapons, it was important to be prepared; who knew what might happen if anyone realised that the newcomers were in the safe house?  The ISA knew, better than anyone, how many weapons were out there – somewhere – and not all of them were in the hands of decent citizens.

He checked the position of one of his men, nodding in approval at the positioning as the man hissed to him not to come too close.  The bush looked almost natural; even full daylight would not have revealed the man hidden within it, staring out for trouble.  It would have taken a blast by a machine gun, which, unfortunately, a lot of Americans possessed, to have revealed him.

“Good work,” he subvocalised, into his tactical transmitter.  There was no need to speak aloud as he slipped away, looking out onto the darkened Washington streets.  Weapons, small and large, were available almost everywhere within America; some states had restrictions on what could be carried outside the house, but there were few other restrictions.  Far too many people were scared of what the aliens could have done – and what the government might have become with the new security measures – to allow any form of gun restriction.

Normally, Agent Homer approved, but when it came to securing a safe house in the suburbs of Washington, he could only wish that gun ownership had been restricted more.  Any Soviet commando force could have slipped ashore without weapons, without any equipment at all, and picked up all the weapons it would have needed on its trip towards its target.  In theory, gun sellers weren’t supposed to sell to non-American citizens, but he knew as well as anyone how amiable the merchants were to anyone waving money under their nose.

He’d asked – argued – for Thande and Sally to be moved to a secure region, maybe even the Marine base north of the city, but Anderson had overruled him – again.  He’d argued that it would be better to keep them in pleasant surroundings, away from anywhere that looked like a prison cell, and higher authority had backed him up.  If Anderson hadn’t believed in Thande’s origins – and even Agent Homer had to admit that they were certainly identical twins, if nothing else – it would have been…prudent to have slammed them both in a cell for ‘duration of hostilities,’ but…

There was something in the air.  He could feel it; a growing panic spreading through Washington, matched by an air of grim resolve.  A sizable percentage of the population were in the Reserves; they had been informed that they would be called up at any moment, or indeed had already been called up.  No one had ever tried to test the massive system before – the determination to ensure that it wouldn’t take the United States two years to build an army again somehow didn’t account for the economic damage that would result from actually trying the system in a test run – and not everyone knew what they were doing.  

“There better had be a war after this,” he muttered, as he stepped back inside the house.  Seconds later, a gunshot rang out, just behind him.

***
Organised crime was rare in the United States; the FBI and the ISA made certain of that.  Mandatory military service had given a large percentage of Americans discipline, and the use of heavy punishments for minor crimes kept the criminal population down.  For someone like Lucre, becoming involved with the ISA was the equivalent of a death sentence.

He cursed as he studied the house from the safety of the house opposite the target.  The ISA agents were clearly demonstrating their usual professionalism; they had protected the house as well as they could.  He’d counted five agents in the grounds of the house, one set within its own garden and everything, and he was prepared to bet that some of the homeowners nearby, apparently rich businessmen, were in fact ISA backup.  

The instructions from the Don had been simple, not instructions that Lucre wanted to disobey.  The entire network of the interconnected criminal families had barely survived the FBI; engaging in what was an act of terrorism on American soil, particularly with the entire country up in arms against the Russian threat.  The irony would have appealed to Lucre, if he had time to think properly; his people had fled the effects of the Italian Communist Party, and then the WEU, to eradicate them – and the nation that might have been able to free his people was about to be attacked, by him.

Why on Earth does the Don want them anyway?  He thought.  The Don wasn’t known for his love for the Soviets, and in any case they had plenty of money, so they weren’t being paid by the Soviets to snatch the pair.  He had pictures and strict instructions; capture them and bring them to the base, unharmed.  

“And what would you like me to do after lunch?”  He muttered.  The sheer audacity of the attack would stun the ISA – and, for that matter, the Washington police – but they would recover very quickly indeed.  He would have ten minutes, at most, before the police or ISA back up arrived…and by then he had to be away from the house.  “Jake, are you ready?”

Jake nodded from his position.  “I have the computer link established,” he said.  “We should be able to prevent them using the network to call for help.”

Lucre nodded.  “When the shooting starts, do that,” he said.  It had taken several days to move the entire force into the house; twenty men, all professional hitmen.  The ISA, by his count, had only ten people in the house, not counting the targets, and they should be swept aside with ease.  He hoped.  He stepped into the next room and checked his men.

“Ready?  Good,” he said.  “You know the mission and you’ve been over the plans of the target house.  It’s the same as this one inside, so you should have a good idea of where to go.”  He took a moment to examine their uniforms; they certainly looked like professional soldiers.  “Let’s go.”

The darkness surprised him as they drove out of the garage, half-hidden in their vans.  The first van would move down the street slightly, the second would move in the opposite direction, and the third would remain in front of the house.  It would all look innocent, until…

“Go,” he snapped, into his tiny tactical radio.  He didn’t know how the Don had gotten hold of them and he didn’t care, but it was a wonderful tool; he could command his troops without having to be in earshot.  The first gunshots were already cracking out in the night as he moved himself, allowing five of his men to precede him, riddling the plants with bullets.  

“The door,” one of his men hissed.  The windows were too small for them to attempt to go through them; they would be a perfect firetrap for the ISA agents, who would now be trying to summon help.  A gunshot cracked out of one of the upper windows and several of his men fired as one, riddling the window with bullets.  “Charge in place, now.”

“Detonate,” Lucre ordered.  The explosion was tiny, but designed to focus inside, ruining the day of anyone inside the house.  Three of his men moved swiftly inside the house, one of them fell back with a hole in his head.  Shots rang out as his men quickly cleared the ground floor; they knew exactly where they were going.

“Head upstairs,” he muttered into his tactical radio.  He had to lead that part of the mission personally; the Don would have killed him if either of the targets had gotten killed, no matter if one of the men too dumb for the Army had killed them.  “Garland, Bosco, you first; kill anyone, except the targets.”

Garland leapt up the stairs, moving in an astonishingly unprofessional half-crouch, half-dance that would have impressed anyone who knew nothing about military tactics.  It didn’t impress the ISA; one of their agents fired once from above, blowing Garland’s head apart with a single shot.  Bosco was more careful; he fired twice and killed the ISA man.

“Check the bedrooms, quickly,” Lucre snapped.  “Remember; don’t kill them!”

A shot cracked past him.  “That might be easier said than done, boss,” Bosco said.  “Whoever’s in there is armed.”

***
Thande’s first impulse had been to go to the window; Sally had dragged him back by main force.  “Whoever they are, they’re after us,” she snapped.  “I think we have to find out what they want.”

“They have to be Russians,” Thande said, listening as the shots rang out.  “I think we might want to consider returning to the Turtledove.”

“The higher-ups will cancel our mission,” Sally said.  “I want to know what’s going to cause the shift in the timeline.  Professor, I think we’d better cannon up.”

She reached out her hand and it went…away, twisting out of the range of the universe that normal human senses could perceive, but Thande could see, even though he’d never seen the process before.  The weapons were held in a pocket universe linked to their current universe, one that could only be accessed by someone with the proper key.  Without that key, not even someone who knew as much as the Time Agents did about manipulating time and space could even find the locker, let alone access it.

“Here,” Sally said, pulling her hand back.  The Turtledove had set up the locker for them; Thande had wished that their foresight had extended to placing the duplicator in the locker as well.  She held out a single weapon, designed along the lines they’d seen in the new universe, one built directly from energy.  

He took the gun and examined it.  “Now I feel like a man,” he said, and was amused to see Sally grin.  She seemed to have shaken off the effects of her illness and inter-dimensional shock now that there was action pending.  “What now?”

Sally looked around the room.  “I think we’d better close that door,” she said, as the sound of gunfire came closer.  Thande laughed as she shoved the door closed, then started to drag the bed across to block the door.  Thande helped her, moving the bed to block the door, and then he checked the windows.

“Close the door, they’re coming through the windows,” he said, off-key.  Sally giggled.  “Seriously, I don’t think they can get through that.”

“I don’t think that we can get out either,” Sally said.  “I wonder who they are.”

“I thought you said that they were Russians,” Thande said.  “What we need is a…”

There was an explosion on the side of the door.  They’d done their work well; the bed was forced backwards, but the door wasn’t shattered completely.  Thande leaned up and cursed; there were several holes in the door, enough for anyone to shoot through.

“You in there,” a new voice shouted.  Thande tried to listen for a Russian accent, but all he heard was an American accent.  “You in there; come on out or we’ll fill you full of lead.”

“You watched too many cowboy movies as a brat,” Thande shouted back before he could stop himself.  It suggested that their attackers were American; would a Russian know so many…Americanisms?  “Who are you and what do you want?”

“You,” the voice shouted back.  “Surrender now and we won’t kill you.”

“They want us alive,” Sally sent, through their private channel.  “I think that we should…”

A second explosion blasted out against the door.  This time, it shattered backwards; Thande ducked just in time to avoid being hit by flying splinters.  He lifted his weapon and fired twice back along the corridor, unable to tell if he had hit anything.  Several shots were fired back before the enemy commander, whoever he was, shouted for his men to crease fire.

“I think you should go,” Sally said, firing one shot herself.  She was clearly a good shot; Thande heard someone yell as the bullet hit him.  “Reinforcements are on the way…”

Something was thrown over the improvised barricade.  Thande realised the danger a fraction of a second too slow; he was still diving for the strange grenade when it detonated, triggering an electrical storm of blue lighting over both of them.  He felt his body jerk under the electrical shock, heard Sally cry out in pain…and fell flat on the ground.

“Got you, you bastards,” someone’s voice said, leaping over the barricade.  Thande’s eyes weren’t working properly, or perhaps it was the effects of being in the Vale; the man was both young, a child, and then middle-aged…and then dead.  He didn’t have long to live, Thande realised suddenly; he would have shivered if he had been able to move at all.  “You are our prisoners.”

Thande felt his mind beginning to fade out of awareness.  He was only dimly aware of his hands being firmly handcuffed, before the darkness swallowed him up completely.  His last thought was a sudden understanding; these people know who were are…

***
Lucre allowed himself a sigh of relief as the limp bodies were carefully carried outside.  His men were taking no chances; they’d been handcuffed hand and foot, and a van with yet more restraints was waiting outside for them.  Total time; five minutes.

“We have to move,” he snapped, dropping the detonation charges around liberally.  He knew all too well that the ISA would take the entire place apart with a fine-toothed comb, looking for clues as to what had happened, and there would be far too many clues for him to be comfortable with leaving behind.  The ISA agents were all dead, he hoped, but five minutes wasn’t long enough to be certain that that was indeed the case.

He glanced down at the pair as his men carried them outside into the darkness.  The citizens had done the sensible thing, he realised; no one had poked their heads outside to take a look at them.  Despite their masks, they would be dangerous to leave behind.  He shook his head as he examined the two stunned humans; they didn’t look special at all.  The girl would have been pretty, except for the bruise forming at the side of her mouth; the man was utterly unexceptionable.

“Move,” he snapped, as they reached the van.  He was as certain of anything as he had been in his life that the police were on their way; the nearest police station might have had its hands full with the side effects of mobilising the society, but it would certainly try to investigate a shooting incident if it could.  He watched as the two were hefted into the van, the engine already running, and then he jumped into the side seat, allowing the driver to take the van away from the house.  The rest of the men had their orders…and he had his.

He pressed the button on the controller in his pocket, detonating the charges he’d left in the house, and then sat back and relaxed.  The rest of the men knew their tasks; they would make it back to their homes or die trying, but it didn’t matter to Lucre.  All that mattered was getting the two strangers to the holding cell that had been prepared for them, and then they could worry about closing other security loopholes.

The flames could be seen in the rear-view mirror as the charges detonated, triggering a wash of flame that would utterly destroy the house and probably spread to the other houses on each side before the fire brigade could put it out.  Now there were citizens running out, some carrying weapons, but it was too late.  Even if they got out a description, there were thousands of vans exactly like his out there…

“Keep the papers in sight,” he said grimly.  The Don had somehow managed to provide them with papers guaranteeing immediate passage through any roadblock, but he knew that he didn’t look like a person who had any right to have them…which raised all sorts of interesting questions about how the Don had obtained them.  One alert policeman and they would be sunk.

“Yes, sir,” the driver said.  He at least looked like a proper escort solider.  “Right on to the base?”

Lucre nodded.  “The sooner we can get there, the sooner we can end all of this and go have a drink,” he said.  Now that the entire action was over, he was starting to shake.  “I think that there’s been quite enough excitement for one night.”

Chapter Twenty-Four: Strike First

Lunar Pentagon
Lunar Orbit

Fleet Admiral Matt Burghardt wished that he could pace the deck of the Nine-Sided Pentagon.  Unfortunately, that was no longer possible; the station had entered a war-readiness mode, which included removing the spin to make war-fighting operations easier.  He wasn’t sure that he liked the logic; it might have been easier to launch small craft and fire weapons, but at the same time it meant that a laser would have more time to inflict damage on the station.

He stared up at the vast tactical display.  The entire set-up was duplicated on Earth, under Washington and two other locations that even Burghardt didn’t know about, and on Lunar City.  This might be the centre of American military power in deep space, linked together by powerful communications lasers, but it was vulnerable; everywhere was if the war grew hot enough.  He knew just how dangerous a war would be, particularly if they missed the signs that an attack was about to be launched before it was too late.

His eyes swept over the tactical display.  Both sides used low Earth orbit laser buoys as their first line of defence – and offence – and they would play a significant role in any first strike.  He knew that each and every Soviet buoy – at least, he reminded himself, the ones they knew about – had been targeted by at least two of his own buoys, to say nothing of the space fighters orbiting the planet.  He also knew that laser buoys were expendable; they would last only a few seconds under the impact of a high-powered laser, let alone a plasma warhead.

Higher up, his eyes passed over the main defence stations, each one armoured against laser fire and dotted with laser weapons to protect against missiles.  Each of his own stations included several squadrons of space fighters – small spacecraft designed to provide mobile firepower – and he knew that most of the Soviet stations also carried fighters.  Unlike his own stations, however, the Soviets had expanded; all of their stations could recover and rearm fighters, while only half of the American stations could do so.  The nightmare, that of losing all of their fighter bases, would make recovering the fighters impossible…

A good thing we never got around to building that space carrier, he thought.  The designs for a massive spacecraft, perhaps even the size of a bridge ship, had been floating around for years, designed by people who wanted big ships because they were big, probably, he thought, because they were compensating for something else.  Like almost all of the real space admirals, Burghardt had campaigned against the carriers; they would be awesomely expensive…and utterly vulnerable to enemy fire.  A single nuclear warhead could destroy a carrier before it even knew that it was being targeted…which meant that the USSF had to rely on smaller ships for its defence needs.

He checked the display, looking for the Earth-Moon fleet.  In accordance with the defensive doctrine, they had been drawn around the industrial stations and asteroids scattered around the Lagrange points.  He knew that certain members of Congress – and indeed the Joint Chiefs of Staff – had worried endlessly about protecting the asteroids in high orbit, but everyone knew that if the Soviets were crazy enough to knock them out of orbit, the world was doomed anyway.  

Finally, there were the defences orbiting the moon, including more armed stations and mining ships.  He had a definite advantage over the Soviets, although the Russian corvettes boosting their way up from Earth to the Moon now would offer the Russians more options.  In fact…

“We just got the latest update from Admiral Westmoreland,” Commander Erika Jones reported.  “His ships should be reaching Ceres day after tomorrow, where they will be concentrated for military operations within the belt.”

“If the balloon goes up,” Burghardt muttered.  “Erika, what about the update from Venus?”

“Delayed,” Erika said.  Burghardt felt cold ice running through his veins; anything could have happened, out under the clouds of Venus.  The entire planet was one hell-pit, even with the ongoing Soviet terraforming efforts.  The base could be covered by one of the storms caused by the Soviet ice asteroid bombardment…or they could have been killed already.  There was no way to know.

“The Soviets don’t have that large of a force there,” Commander Jackie Burnside reassured him.  The Fleet Intelligence officer frowned grimly.  “They could have armed the miners, but would it be really worth the effort?”

“I have no idea,” Burghardt said grimly.  Venus was a much harder place to terraform than Mars, even with the brute-force methods both sides had started to use.  Increasing the water levels and dispersing the cloud around Venus – and spreading crops designed to aid the development of a proper atmosphere – was only the beginning there, in contrast to Mars.

In fifty years, we could have had a proper war there, he thought, and shuddered.  

“Even if they had, it would be harder to get the troops in to attack the base,” Jackie continued.  “It would be tricky; much simpler to have opened fire on the cable connecting the base to the orbital station.”

“We should have paid more attention to Venus,” Burghardt said, turning back to the display.  Mercury was hardly a problem; there were only a handful of miners on the surface and a handful of stations in counter-rotation.  The stations closer to the sun were useless from a military point of view; their only purpose was to watch the sun for scientific research.  “Anything from the ground?”

“Nothing,” Erika said.  Her face was grim.  “There’s calls in Congress for a declaration of war, and there have been…incidents in Washington itself.  A Soviet hit team is being blamed for attempting to kidnap an important scientist.  The world is up in arms.”

“Blast,” Burghardt said.  He’d hoped that sanity would prevail.  It didn’t look as if it would.  “What about the others in space?”

It wasn’t exactly an idle question.  The Americans and Russians weren’t alone; there were the British, the Western European Union, the Indians and the Japanese with space facilities now.  The latter two had no weapons in space – and would have been Soviet allies in any case – but the other two had plenty of weapons and firepower of their own, to say nothing of a growing asteroid mining industry.

“The French have proclaimed their neutrality,” Jackie said.  She smiled wryly.  “They did that very quickly.  The British…haven’t said anything yet, at all.  The BBC said that Parliament was still debating the matter, but if it comes to armed shooting at each other…they might not get involved…”

An alarm sounded.  Burghardt’s head snapped up towards the display; one of the low-orbit weapons was blinking red.  “Report,” he snapped.  “Erika, what’s happening?”

“We just lost three of the low-orbit buoys,” Erika said.  Her voice was calm and composed.  “That’s five now, falling out of the laser network.  Admiral, it is my considered judgement that the Soviets are attempting to launch a first strike and…”

“I just got confirmation,” another officer said.  “The 23rd Fighter Wing reports that several of their fighters have been attacked with Soviet orbital laser weapons.  They’re requesting permission to return fire.”

Everything crashed down on Burghardt with an impact.  He could barely think under the sudden rush of pure…impact.  He had clear orders; if the Soviets started to engage the satellite network and the other defences, he had to return fire at once, before the Soviets ran through their targeting lists and started to concentrate on the orbiting stations, except…it would start World War Three.

He shook his head.  The war had already started.  “Order all laser buoys to begin the pre-targeted targeting plan,” he ordered, feeling an icy calm rising up around him.  He knew that the original plan was almost certainly worthless now – as he watched, another three laser platforms blinked out of existence – but the computer network would adapt.  If necessary, reserved weapons on the orbiting stations would be ordered to target the soviet orbital weapons as well.

“Aye, sir,” Erika said.  She tapped buttons on her console, placing the conduct of the first stages of the war under the control of the computer.  “Lasers armed…and firing.”

The display adjusted rapidly, as lines of light designating laser fire flashed through space.  Soviet satellites began to vanish, as did American designs; he watched, but so far the Soviets hadn’t even tried to target the orbiting facilities.  Honours seemed about even, but he had a nasty feeling that the Soviets would end up ahead.  They’d started sooner, after all.

“Get me a FLASH line to Washington,” he snapped.  Establishing a radio link would be impossible under the circumstances, but a laser should still be able to punch through the growing confusion.  A large icon vanished from the display and he cursed; it all seemed so bloodless on the display, so…simulated.  The display showed nothing of the crew of the spacecraft that had just been hit, either killed at once or suffocating in the cold of space.

“The USS Texas has just been destroyed,” Erika said calmly.  Burghardt felt anything, but calm; the Soviets had just expanded the war by firing on a spaceship, instead of unmanned units.  Shooting at space fighters was one thing – both sides considered them expendable – but an entire spacecraft?

He didn’t have time for a prayer.  “Clear platforms to move onto the second line of targets,” he said, knowing that it might already be too late.  The ten minutes – he found it hard to believe that it was really that long – since the war began had seen a massive exchange of fire…and thirty men dead on the American side.  “Order fighters to engage enemy targets on the second list, and their opposite numbers.”

“Sir, request permission to engage enemy commanders,” Commander Paulworth said.  “They’re in their own command post, orbiting Earth.”

“Denied,” Burghardt said.  Attacking the enemy command post directly was forbidden except if the war had gone right out of control.  For the moment, the American forces were holding their own, and…

“I have the line to Washington,” Lieutenant Petal said.  “The Secretary of Defence is on the line for you.”

Burghardt adjusted his earpiece.  “This is Burghardt,” he said, without further identifications.  “The Soviets have begun hostilities.”

“We know,” Doug Freeman said.  “The President is on his way to the Arlington Bunker now; he’ll get in touch with you as soon as he reaches safety.  Can you give me your impressions?”

Burghardt felt pure anger for a moment, then understood; Freeman was asking what was really happening, not what the displays showed.  “The Soviets have opened fire on us,” he said.  “Seventy percent of our laser platforms have been destroyed.  Several larger orbiting weapon platforms have been hit badly.  We’ve taken out sixty to sixty-five of their laser platforms, but they got their blows in first and they dominate part of the sky.  We’re retargeting lasers on the stations now, but that might…”

The display changed sharply.  “They’ve started to launch missiles,” Erika said.  “They’re targeting the bombardment platforms…and they’ve launched a hail of weapons down towards Washington.”

“You are ordered to take out the remainder of those platforms,” Freeman snapped.  Burghardt nodded; there was no time for the steady rise of warfare now, not that the ground bases themselves were being threatened.  “Past then, handle events according to War Plan Alpha.”

Burghardt snapped out orders to hit the remaining bombardment platforms, designating them as the new priority targets, before turning back to the link to the ground.  “Mr Secretary, I request permission to use our own remaining bombardment platforms in accordance with War Plan Beta.”

There was a long pause.  “Denied,” Freeman said.  “That would make the conflict even hotter.”

Burghardt stared up at the display.  The bombardment platforms were armoured against laser fire, but not against the missiles now being launched towards them by the Soviet Union.  The computers were working hard, prioritising the protection of the platforms over all else, but he knew that most of the platforms would be hit, which would mean that…

“Mr Secretary, if the platforms are destroyed, we will lose most of our ability to hit their own ground bases,” he said, with one eye on the display.  Continental Command would be using their own lasers on the incoming projectiles, which seemed to be making tracks towards launch bases and a handful of long-range missile sites, but he knew that they would fail to hit all of them.  One target, near New York, would be almost certainly hit – unless the Soviets were trying to miss on purpose. 

“Lasers engaging missiles,” Erika muttered, into his ear, as the display altered yet again.  He was struck by how curiously bloodless it was; there was little sound or fury, none of the noises that Jim Baen had made popular in his movies.  “Sir, three of the platforms are going to be hit in…”

The symbol for a plasma detonation flickered over three platforms, and then vanished.  “That’s three of the platforms down,” Burghardt said.  “Mr Secretary, I need firing permission now, before they take them all out and have a few of theirs left now.”

There was a long pause.  “Strike Plan Beta-A only,” Freeman said finally.  There was a pause.  “What about the outer system?”

“Nothing as yet,” Burghardt said, as he tapped orders into his display.  Even now, the remaining platforms would be launching their own projectiles, targeting space-capable forces within the Soviet Union.  Three more had been destroyed while Freeman was giving his permission; he could only hope that there were enough left to finish the job.  “We’ve sent them warnings, of course; sir, I need to send them orders to attack the Soviets.”

“That’s a Presidential decision,” Freeman said.  Burghardt scowled; the Secretary of Defence could only order limited military actions…if America was attacked first.  “I’ll get you the authority as soon as we can, but…”

“We have to move now,” Burghardt insisted, forgetting for a moment that Freeman was his civilian superior.  “Mr Secretary, there are thousands of people on Mars…and the light-speed delay means that it will be hours before they even know that we’re at war!  Anything could have happened out there, or in the belt…”

“Admiral Westmoreland was on alert, was he not?”  Freeman asked.  “He has clearance to open fire if attacked, right?”

Burghardt thought about trying to explain the dangers of having an admiral on a single ship that would be a target anyway, and gave up.  “Please, let me know as soon as I can send orders,” he pleaded.  “Inform the President that every second is precious.”

The line suddenly broke in a hiss of static.  “What happened?”

“Relay satellite seventeen got hit,” Erika said.  “There are no indications of nuclear blasts on the planet.  Platforms three through seven, and nine through fifteen have shot their wad on the planet, targeting according to Plan Beta.  Other platforms have been hit; we’re chasing down the reminder of the Soviet platforms now, sir.”

Burghardt took a breath.  If both sides lost – or emptied – their bombardment platforms, they would be limited to weapons launched from the higher space stations, which so far had hardly been targeted.  There was something odd about the Soviet actions; in their place, he would have hammered everywhere he could have hammered…

“Satellite imagery reports that there is a major armoured column heading for Lunar City,” Commander Lombardi snapped.  “There are missiles being launched towards Lunar City’s defence grid.”

“Pass on the warning to the city’s defenders,” Burghardt snapped.  “What’s the status of the lunar weapons?”

“We’ve both taken a beating,” Commander Lombardi reported.  “We’re both low on laser platforms, and so far they seem to be lagging behind us.”

God bless centralised command, Burghardt thought coldly.  The Soviets had clearly not trusted their commanders to fire on their own authority, but had ordered them to fire at the same time as the other platforms…except there was an inevitable delay, just long enough to allow his platforms to start shooting first.

“Admiral, those Soviet ships are barrelling towards us,” Commodore Tyler said.  Burghardt understood in a sudden flash of inspiration; the Soviets, aware that they would be unlikely to walk off with a decisive victory, had clearly planned for the stalemate they had, except that the Lunar Pentagon was still armed and in their path.  If he fired on the Russian ships, he would have made the Lunar Pentagon a legitimate target, and if he didn’t….

“Clear them for targeting from here,” he ordered, and his voice was that of a stranger.  “Engage them with our weapons, plasma and nukes, and launch fighters to engage…”

“Turn-over,” Erika snapped.  “The Soviets have flipped over and started their deceleration.”

“A shame they didn’t keep coming on,” Burghardt snapped.  If they had, they would have hardly been unable to avoid ramming the moon.  They’d timed it exactly right, assuming that he wouldn’t fire on them directly from the Lunar Pentagon.  Blinded by their own drives, they would have far less time to react to the fighters from the base.  “Launch the second flight.”

Commodore Tyler nodded.  “Squadron Three launching now,” he said.  “Squadrons One and Two returning from their mission, but they’ll be at least twenty minutes before they are in engagement range.”

“Put them in the back-up position,” Burghardt ordered.  Space fighters carried less pilot support systems than he was entirely comfortable with.  “Squadron Three can handle the ships, particularly if they remain blind.”

The display flickered.  “Four major hits on our bases on the ground,” Erika said grimly.  “Casualties somewhere around seven hundred.  Our own strike has taken losses, but is about to hit the ground.”

“And the shit is about to hit the fan,” Burghardt said, looking up as the fighters launched from the base.  He checked the location of the other spaceships and was pleased to note that they’d remained where they were, just in time to act if the industrial facilities were threatened.  “Good luck, boys.”

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Battle to the Swift

The White House
Washington DC, USA

The President hadn’t been sleeping well, not since learning that his Vice President remained trapped on Mars, unable to leave with the military alert consuming all of the ships on the station.  His wife had been sent ahead to one of the bunkers, leaving him alone and wondering what he could do to prevent the war he knew was coming.  The news didn’t look good; the Soviets hadn’t replied to his broadcast, the diplomats were still arguing in Geneva over the crisis – and someone had blown up an entire street in Washington.  The ISA, who had owned the safe house, had been puzzled; they thought that it had been an attempt to kill Professor Anderson…except the neighbours had seen armed gunmen trying to kidnap someone.

He shifted in his bed.  Time was running out; the Speaker of the House wouldn’t be able to delay Senator Chapman’s formal debate on the…incident for much longer, which would mean starting the war.  He’d hoped – prayed – that tempers would cool, perhaps if the Soviets agreed to the investigation, if nothing else, but they hadn’t said anything…and tempers were still rising.

Armed policemen had dispersed the crowds outside the White House after the bombings in Washington, concerned about someone trying to assassinate him, but he knew that it hadn’t dampened the war fervour at all.  No one, but him, seemed to be aware of the high costs of war, or even of the massive death toll on both sides that would result from the battles.  How long could such a war go on, raging across the solar system?

The door burst open.  The president sat up sharply, unconcerned.  The Secret Service guarded his room; they would have had to have allowed the men access to his room.  He opened his mouth to speak, the man, the leader of his security detail, overrode him.

“Mr President, the war has broken out,” he snapped.  “We have to get you out of here.”

The President had practiced the drill often enough to know what needed to be done.  Almost before Captain Manlito had finished speaking, he was out of his bed, grabbing for the purple dressing gown he always wore when not properly dressed at night; it had POTUS written on it in golden threads, just to make sure that everyone knew who he was.  Manlito was already moving towards the tube in the side of the wall, opening the small lift shaft and checking the interior, as ridiculous as it seemed.

No one could have gotten in there first without passing through my bedroom, the President thought, trying to keep himself together.  Manlito’s paranoia wasn’t that justified – no one had tried to kill a President for a long time – but he knew better than to question it too closely.  The President was still one of the most important targets in any all-out war; the security existed to prevent the aliens – or the Russians – from killing him.

“It’s clear,” Manlito said, pulling the President into the tube and closing the door behind him.  The tube dropped at once, falling down towards the ground floor and then into the vast underground complexes beneath the White House, the bunkers that were never mentioned on any tourist brochure.  No one, but no one, needed to know about the bunker network.

The President drew in his breath.  He had always hated the tube during emergency drills…and this was no drill.  His dinner tried to rise in his gorge, but he forced it down, pulling himself into a standing position that was at least comfortable, if not entirely suited to a President.  “What’s happening?”  He asked.  “Who did what?”

The tube stopped as suddenly as it had started to fall.  The President shuddered as the effects of the fall caught up with him again.  “I don’t know,” Manlito admitted, already shoeing the President towards the train underground.  “All that I heard was the emergency alarm, one without the standard disclaimer.”

They climbed into the train, which started off quickly, heading away from Washington, deep underground and well below the normal public underground trains.  The entire journey passed in silence; emergency protocols forbade the use of more than the bare minimum of radio communications within the tube.  Finally, they reached the station at the other end, ten minutes after the war had begun.

General Armchair met them as they climbed off the train, which promptly reversed itself, heading back to collect the Secretary of Defence.  The President nodded grimly Doug Freeman would be issuing the necessary orders now, but there were some that only the President himself could issue.

“General,” he said shortly.  “What’s happening?”

General Armchair glanced at his watch.  “Twelve minutes ago, the Soviet orbital weapons systems opened fire upon ours,” he said.  “The alarm was sounded at once, Mr President; we’re moving to full war status now.”

“Understood,” the President said.  He led the way down the long corridor into one of the secret nexuses of American military power.  As always, it was active, with officers rushing all over the complex, but now with an undeniable air of panic.  “What did Doug do?”

“As per standing orders, he opened counter-fire at once,” General Armchair said.  “Admiral Hawk, I believe, has a more up-to-date briefing for you.”

The President took his seat in the Command Annex, waited for the video links to be connected, and then nodded once to Admiral Sigmund Hawk, the Strategic Defence Commander.  “Can you be spared from your work here?”  He asked shortly.  Hawk nodded.  “Then…what’s happening?”

Hawk’s voice was calm, but with an undertone of fear.  “The Soviets have been hammering away at us, with our unmanned systems given priority over manned systems, with the exception of a spacecraft that was in Earth orbit at the time.  I beg leave to report that the Texas was lost with all hands.”

The President nodded once, brutally.  Grieving for the dead could wait.  “The Soviets also launched ground bombardment weapons,” Hawk continued.  The President felt his breath catch in his throat.  “They were targeting a handful of the most important laser defence bases and launch sites in America,” Hawk said.  “Most of the weapons were intercepted on their way; only a handful actually hit.”

The President sighed.  “I assume that Doug unleashed our own weapons?”

Hawk nodded.  The President suddenly realised that the Admiral wanted to be up in orbit with his men, rather than stuck down on the ground.  “Several platforms were destroyed by the Soviets, but the others launched against Soviet targets across the Soviet Union, mainly targets similar to theirs.  At last report, their own defence weapons were engaging our projectiles.”

The President closed his eyes in pain.  He’d seen all of the theories that various well-meaning people had composed, back before the…twenty-minute-old war had begun.  All of them had concluded that counterforce strikes, ones aimed at the other side’s offensive weapons, were a very bad sign indeed.  They suggested an attempt to prevent any chance that the Americans would succeed in harming the Russians.

“There are still the weapons on board the main space stations,” Hawk said, sensing the President’s line of thought.  “We can still hurt them…”

The President dragged his mind back to reality.  “What is the current situation?”

Hawk looked through the transparent glass-like material, in reality hard enough to prevent gunfire from passing through, and looked up at the display.  “The initial burst of fighting seems to be dying down a little,” he said.  The President followed his gaze; the display still seemed to be sparking with fury.  “The surviving laser weapons in orbit will have run out of their early power charges; they’ll need time to recharge before they can resume firing, Mr President.”

He pointed a long finger at part of the display.  “The Soviets, I think, are trying for a suppression strike on Lunar City; they have a major force of ships heading towards it, and surface elements trying to move in as well.  We’re not sure exactly what they want, but it looks as if they want to knock out the exports of minerals from the moon to the industrial facilities.  Admiral Burghardt is already moving to counter their move with space fighters and the Lunar Pentagon’s own weapons.

“In orbit, the fighting is about to expand again,” he said.  “Unfortunately, we don’t have the ability to break contact, and nor do they.  We’re suddenly locked in a death grip” – the President winced at the words – “and neither of us can break it.”  His finger indicated new tactical icons moving slowly towards each other.  Signs and symbols surrounded them on their path.  “That, Mr President, is our fighters and their fighters, about to come within range of one another.”

“I see,” the President said.  He knew that his tone sounded bitter.  “What next?”

Hawk frowned.  “It depends what happens when the fighters clash,” he said.  “Some of the stations have exchanged fire with one another, long-range laser fire, but so far neither of us have come out ahead.  I don’t think that we should move the fleet” – he nodded to its location in one of the Lagrange Points – “until we have suppressed their stations, because the stations mount heavy weapons for anti-ship fighting.”

The President nodded slowly.  “Any word from Russia or the General Secretary?”

“Nothing,” Thompson said, over the video link.  “The bastards didn’t even bother with a declaration of war.”

The President closed his eyes.  “Chris, please ask Congress for a full link-up in…oh, one hour,” he said.  “We may as well do it properly.”

Thompson nodded.  “Yes, Mr President,” he said.  “What about the public; what do we tell them?”

“The Emergency Broadcast System is online?”  The President asked.  General Armchair nodded.  “Inform them that there has been an exchange of fire in orbit, one started by the Soviet Union.  I’ll make a proper broadcast later, once Congress has declared war.”

“I’ll see to it,” Thompson said.  “What about Gavin?”

The President scowled.  Vice President Gavin Cozort was on Mars.  “We’ll have to see,” he said.  “Gavin might be in a better place there, you never know.”  He turned to General Armstrong.  “What about the rest of the world?”

“So far, there have been no clashes in the air or at sea,” Armchair said.  “The Soviets have apparently decided to concentrate on space, Mr President, which makes sense from a tactical point of view.  If they lose there, they won’t have pissed us off quite so much.”

The President narrowed his eyes.  “Are they going to come out ahead?”

General Armchair looked at Admiral Hawk, who frowned.  “It’s impossible to be sure,” he said.  “A lot depends on how the fighters manage to handle the fighting; if one side comes out ahead there, then it has a very good chance of carrying through to a victory.  If we each weaken each other so much that we cannot push ahead, then it will be a stalemate…”

“And they will have nothing to lose by pushing ahead in other theatres of war,” General Armchair said.  “Mr President, Admiral Burghardt was requesting permission to send formal notifications of war to Admiral Westmoreland and Admiral Williams.  If the Soviets are concentrating on us here, we might have an opportunity to strike there and gain something to trade in the peace settlement.”

“We ought to wipe them all,” Hawk snarled.  “Mr President, the belt could already be engulfed in the war; there’s literally no way to know for hours yet.  However, if the belt is not in the war, we could hammer the Soviets hard before they even knew that something was up.”

“They must know,” General Armchair said.

Hawk scowled.  “I meant…they wouldn’t be preparing an attack of their own,” he said.

The President tapped the table firmly.  “Send the signals to Admiral Westmoreland,” he said.  “Do not authorise Admiral Williams to do more than defend himself under standard rules of engagement; Mars is way too close to the Russians red hearts.”  He closed his eyes.  “I need to see Congress,” he said.  “Can we win the war?”

Admiral Hawk nodded towards the display.  “It all depends on that battle,” he admitted.  “If they come out ahead there by a large margin, we’re in trouble.  If not, then we have a good chance of winning the war.”

“I have plans ready to launch a counter-attack if necessary,” General Armchair said.  “If we hold space, they will have no choice, but to surrender.  If we have space in dispute, then we might want to move ahead with one of the BROADSWORD plans.”

The President winced.  “Not yet,” he said.  “I assume that most of our forces remain in a defensive position?”  General Armchair nodded.  “Keep them that way,” the President said firmly.  “What about the civilian and industrial stations?  The asteroids?”

“So far, neither of either type have been attacked,” Admiral Hawk assured him.  “That may not last; if the war stalemates they’ll be looking for other ways to pressure us.  The loss of even half of the industrial stations would be devastating to our economy, Mr President; it would take years to replace it all.”  He paused.  “So far, they’ve been careful to keep the shooting away from the asteroids, Mr President, and I think that we should do the same thing.”

The President nodded.  “Don’t shoot at them unless they’re being used as weapons platforms,” he said.  He glanced at his watch.  “I’d better go make sure that I get a say in Congress’s decision.”

***
The Congress Room was the butt of many jokes within the complex, most of them of the obvious and predicable variety.  The President had never been fond of it; unlike the rest of the complex, it felt like a supremely luxurious hotel, rather than a serious conference room.  The single chair for the President and the equipment that would broadcast his image to the rest of the Congress was the only touch he liked; it was perfect for what he needed.

Congress itself had been dispersed over the country, but the members could gather together online, peering at one another through cameras.  The computers kept a tapestry of their images displayed in front of the President, something that he found a little distracting.  The speaker, whoever he or she was, would have their face magnified, sometimes allowing the watchers to see right up their noses.

The President smiled grimly.  There were times when he suspected that the designers of the system had done that on purpose; it always looked as if the speaker was looking down his nose at everyone else.  As more and more congressmen and women came online, the President concentrated on looking composed.  It wasn’t easy.

“I have grave news,” he said, as soon as the Speaker had announced that everyone was online, or had been rejected for not having logged on in time.  The system had been carefully designed to provide warning of the conference; the designers hadn’t really made any allowances for Congressmen trying to be fashionably late, something else that the President suspected that they’d done on purpose.

He drew a breath.  “The Soviet Union has engaged our forces in orbit,” he said flatly.  “In the space of one minute, almost every single one of their laser satellites engaged ours, in a way that can only be the result of deliberate aggression.  So many different military units were involved, Congress-people, that it could not be the result of a mistake.

“In the past ten minutes, lives have been lost,” he said, after running through the brief sequence of events.  “Lives were lost on the USS Texas.  Lives were lost when manned satellites were hit directly.  Lives, worst of all, have been lost when they struck at the sacred soil of America itself.  The Soviet Union seems to have decided that war is the only option; they have engaged us in a life-or-death struggle above the planet.”

He’d wanted to speak of peace, of limiting the conflict, but he knew that that would be impossible.  Congress wouldn’t listen; in his heart, he wasn’t sure that they were wrong to refuse to listen.  Boris - General Secretary Boris Andropov – had wanted peace, he was sure, but perhaps he was no longer in charge in Russia.  Russian politics shifted suddenly, for reasons that made no sense to the Western World, and he might have been exiled to his dacha.  

“We have attempted to seek peace,” he said, the only acknowledgment he could make.  “We have attempted…oh, how we have attempted, but we have failed.  The Soviet Union has launched an attack that gives us no choice, but to assume that they mean us harm…and to fight.  I stand before you now and ask; will you declare war on Russia?”

“The chair recognises Senator Chapman,” the Speaker said, after a long moment.

“I soundly second the motion,” Chapman said, without any preamble of his own.  The President was surprised; he would have expected Chapman to have used it to gain more power.  He’d half-hoped that he would; it would have ruined him.  “I further move that we set up a formal Committee on the Conduct of the War, as set forth in the Amendment to the Constitution, and a Committee on the Origins of the War, one to establish beyond all doubt that the Russians started the war!”

“I second,” another Senator, one of Chapman’s allies, said rapidly.

“The declaration of war is on the table,” the Speaker said.  He’d already agreed to limit debate.  “Place your votes now.”

There was a long pause.  “The vote is carried,” the Speaker said.  Only four Congressmen had voted against war.  “Please, place your votes now for forming the two committees.”

So that’s what the bastard is doing, the President thought, unwillingly impressed.  Both Committees would be extremely powerful in political terms; Chapman would either serve on both of them, or would be able to nominate people for the one he didn’t serve on.

“The motion is passed,” the Speaker said.  “The United States of America formally declares war on the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”

The President nodded grimly as the standing ovation began.  Now…now, it all depended upon the battle raging in space.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Fighter War

Battlezone
Earth-Moon System

Captain Stephen Kawonski peered down at his radar screen, knowing just how dangerous the manoeuvre that Third Squadron was attempted to pull off was, without the benefit of a proper navigational system.  Despite the shooting, there were still more than enough beacons for navigation, but he would have felt better with a proper radar system.  He knew that there was no choice, however; an active radar would have been like painting ‘I’m an idiot, easy shot right here; come shoot me’ on the hull of his fighter.

There was no need to worry about being seen just yet, however.  Ahead of them, he could only see stars through his cockpit window, but his sensors revealed the position of the Russian ships, violently decelerating on their fusion plumes.  He felt a moment of sympathy for the Russian crewmen, strapped firmly in their couches as the ships cut their speed before ramming into the moon, and then he concentrated his mind.  He was here to kill them…or they would kill him instead.

“Third, check in,” he ordered, over the encrypted laser beams between the fighters.  Lead Pipe, his own fighter, was shaped exactly like a lead pipe; it was a major spacecraft in all, but size.  Riding on almost undetectable gas jets, covered with a small amount of stealth material, it would take a full radar sweep to reveal their presence…by which time they would be in firing range.  There was no need to panic yet, however; the Russians would be blinded by their own drives…until they cut them off.

Now, how would I do it?  He asked himself, as the final member of his twelve-ship squadron reported in.  Unlike many USSF pilots, he’d actually served in the USAF before transferring to the space force, something that had given him a lot to unlearn, but had also given him a new perspective on war-related materials.  If I had an observer on the moon, I’d have him establish a laser link…except you can’t get a laser beam through a fusion plume anyway.  But if you had a second ship, or a stealthed platform…

“We’re coming up on final approach now,” he said.  Ahead of them, the Russian ships had almost cancelled their velocity, except they wouldn’t want to cancel it completely, because they would start to drift towards the moon, or provide a stationary target.  “If we can get close enough to use lasers, rip them open; if we are detected before we’re that close, then launch missiles to designated targets.”

He checked the computer’s designated targeting pattern, before taking firm control of his fighter and waiting.  It always surprised the USAF when they studied space combat; it included more and more dull waiting to reach the target, even in craft that travelled faster than a hypersonic fighter.  A jet battle, between missile-armed opponents, could be over within minutes, perhaps even with both jets smacked out of the sky.  In space…

There was no fast manoeuvring in space, at least not without risking exhausting the gas reserves that powered his craft.  He could move along a ballistic path, but stopping and starting, or looping the loop was impossible in space, at least without a Procyon Drive.  

His screen flickered and he swore; the Russians had cut their drives, still falling towards the Moon, but moving slowly enough to give them plenty of time to reach orbit.  His screen flashed red; the Russians had opted to lose whatever stealth they’d had left and use a full radar scan, looking out for incoming threats.

”They’ve seen us,” he said calmly.  “All fighters; fox two!”

Lead Pipe jerked as it fired the first of its Sparrow missiles towards one of the Russian ships.  The missile was moving faster than his ship almost as soon as he loosed it from under the wings, although ‘wings’ was a very bad term for them.  There was no way that Lead Pipe could enter the atmosphere and survive the experience.  The missile streaked off towards the Russian ship, moving faster and faster, followed by eleven other missiles from the remainder of the flight.

“Lead, this is Third-seven,” one of the pilots said.  “They’re launching counter-missiles.”

“Activate automatic defences function,” Kawonski snapped.  The Russians would be trying to use their lasers to take down the Sparrows, but their computers had clearly decided that a little payback was in order as well.  “Fire as soon as you get a clear target.”

“Lead, Third-five,” another pilot said.  Her voice was young and very definitely female; Kawonski would have asked her out if he hadn’t been the commander of Third Squadron.  “Four Sparrows have been taken down…make that six.”

Kawonski muttered a curse under his breath, just as one of the Russian ships exploded from the impact of two plasma-tipped missiles.  “We got one,” he said, just as a second Russian ship died.  “Make that two…”

“Third-eight is down,” Third-five said.  “They killed him.”

“Entering laser range,” Third-nine said.  “Permission to engage?”

“Permission granted,” Kawonski said.  “All pilots; engage!”

He watched as the laser beams lanced out towards the Russian ships, which were returning fire with their own weapons.  He made several minor course changes, following the example of his pilots, just to avoid the Russians firing along his course and killing him.  Lasers were close-range weapons, but the Russians had armour and…

“Two more down,” Third-five said.  “Three left to go.”

“They’re killing us too,” Third-nine said grimly.  “Fox three…”

His voice vanished.  Kawonski checked and swore; Third-nine hadn’t been able to launch the missile before the Russians fired at him.  At that range with laser weapons, there would have been absolutely no warning at all.

“Fox three,” he said, launching his own missile and hitting the jets as hard as he dared.  Lead Pipe’s systems screamed a warning as a laser beam melted one of the wings, but the Russians didn’t follow up their attack as the American pilots swept over their position and passed on around the moon.

“Check in,” he ordered, as they passed out of Russian missile range.  “Who’s left?”  He listened while everyone checked in.  “Five craft left,” he said.  Behind them, two Russian ships remained in orbit, laughing at them.  As he watched, they cut in their drives, and prepared to enter range of Lunar City.

“Bastards,” he swore at them.  His systems were sounding the alarm; he couldn’t adjust his course enough to swing around and have another shot at them.  He would have to go all the way around the moon, and that would take hours…if his air didn’t run out before he was finished.  He ordered his computer to establish a link with the fighter base and was astonished at how long it took; many of the relay satellites had been destroyed.

“It’s been an hour,” he said, astonished.  “How much will be destroyed before the war ends?

***
Commissioner Kharitonov’s voice was spitting bile.  “They caught us napping,” he protested.  “The American scum managed to ambush us, thanks to your incompetence!”

Captain Potapov, commanding officer of the destroyer Zhukov, ignored Commissioner Kharitonov’s ranting as best as he could, trying to catch up with the situation.  The rumours that the Americans had somehow developed a missile that could pass through a fusion flame had been disproved, or they hadn’t used them in the battle; the fleet had managed to reach the moon without getting destroyed by an impossible weapon.  The fighter attack had been conventional, if unexpected; he knew better than to think that the Americans would have let them reach lunar orbit without a fight.

“Check for more laser weapons in orbit,” he said, as his ship twisted into orbit.  “They’ll attempt to engage us with those, if they have them now.  Lieutenant, how long until we are in bombarding position?”

“Twenty minutes,” the helm officer said.

“No sign of any surviving laser weapon in orbit,” the sensor officer added.

“Excellent,” Potapov said.  Commissioner Kharitonov lifted one eyebrow, clearly collecting himself after being worried by the American attack.  “We’re out of engagement range from their Lunar Pentagon, which STAVKA has declared off-limits anyway, which means that there’s nothing they can do to us until we cross the engagement range of the defences on the ground near Lunar City.”  He smiled.  “That gives us plenty of time to attack the Americans where it will hurt.”

He sat back in his acceleration chair and examined the display.  Most of the stations surrounding the Moon were either automated defence platforms, which had been destroyed in the brief war, or industrial stations that were unarmed.  He was fairly certain that the American owners and crewmen would be relaying information to the USSF – after all, the Soviet workers, peasants and spacemen were doing the same thing – but STAVKA had insisted.  No civilian target was to be engaged, full stop.

“Program the firing pattern,” he ordered, seeing that Commissioner Kharitonov seemed inclined to keep his mouth shut.  “Targeting priority; the defences only.  The surface forces can take over the city itself.”

“Updating the target list now,” the weapons officer said.  “Captain, it will take several minutes to hit all of the targets, during which we will be in range of their weapons.”

“That makes life interesting,” Potapov said, enjoying the expression on Commissioner Kharitonov’s face.  The Commissioner was sweating in panic; his hands grasping the chair hard enough to go bone white, but he wasn’t screaming for them to run.  Potapov gave him grudging respect, even as he hated the mere thought of having a lackey of Moscow on his ship.

He watched as the targeting display updated itself.  The original plan had assumed that they would lose three ships, not five; the plan needed to be adjusted to spread the load among the remaining two ships.  He made a couple of minor changes, pushing the powerful ground-based lasers to the head of the targeting list, before they came up on firing position.

“Fire,” he said, as calmly as he could.  Zhukov started to unleash the huge number of tactical impact weapons it carried, launching them all onto ballistic trajectories that could be fired from around the moon’s gravity field, looping around to strike at the surface.  He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the thought, before issuing the next series of orders.

“As soon as we cross the horizon, I want to launch the shorter-ranged weapons,” he said.  “They’ll be targeting both of us with their lasers; we have to knock them out quickly.”

“Yes, sir,” the weapons officer said.

Potapov waited as the horizon – the moment when they would be able to see Lunar City and it could see them – crept closer and closer…until they finally covered it.  “Fire,” he snapped, just as the display began updating itself.  They’d clearly managed to get some good hits in on the American moonbase – some of its sensors and weapons were damaged – but he knew better than to assume anything.

“Weapons away, sir,” the weapons officer said.  “Impact in twenty seconds and…”

“Incoming missiles,” the sensor officer said.  “Launched from the surface, at least nine of them.”

The KGB didn’t tell us about that, Potapov thought, with wry amusement.  “Lock lasers on the missiles and take them out,” he ordered, as a second flight of missiles were launched at them.  He hated unexpected surprises.  “Launch tactical impact weapons; re-designate the missile launch site as priority one…”

“We lost the Mutza,” the sensor officer said sharply.  “Designating missiles as main targets now.”

Potapov swore.  Losing their sister ship meant that there had to be a laser cannon still operating down on the surface.  He barked orders, ordering his people to hunt for it, knowing that they’d simply run out of platforms to use as missile launchers.  They’d hurt Lunar City’s defences, perhaps badly enough to allow it to be taken, but they’d sacrificed themselves in the process.  The force of missiles were still closing in, growing closer and closer, despite the attempts of his lasers to sweep them out of the sky, and…

In a blast of energy, Potapov and the Zhukov vanished from the heavens forever.

***
“The Russian attack force has been wiped out,” Commander Erika Jones reported.  “Sir, Lunar City is still under heavy ground attack, but most of its forces are repelling the attack now.”

“Good for them,” Burghardt said, his attention on the battle in Earth orbit.  Whoever won that one outright – if such a thing were possible – would win the war, but he was starting to think that it wasn’t possible.  “Report on the number of fighters lost now.”

“Heavy, sir,” Erika said.  Burghardt nodded slowly.  “I think that we’re both losing craft at an even rate.”

“I know,” Burghardt said, staring at the display.  There was no longer any attempt by either side to hide what they were doing; there were so many powerful radars blazing through the chaos that there was literally no point in trying.  Stealth armour wasn’t that good.  Two more fighters seemed to ram each other…before separating; each far too small to succeed at a ramming attempt.  The display couldn’t handle the distances involved; it was giving him a headache just trying to look at it.

“Hit!”  Captain Darter bellowed, as one of the larger red icons vanished off the display.  A plasma missile had sneaked through the defences of one of the larger Russian space stations, an orbiting battle station in high orbit.  Even as Burghardt watched, the blast utterly ripped the station apart.

“Good shooting,” he said, watching through the fighter’s cameras as the station died.  The image vanished…and he knew that that meant that the pilot and his ship had been destroyed.

“Admiral, the President is on the line for you,” Erika said.  “Do you want me to patch him through?”

Burghardt snorted at the question.  “Yes, please,” he said, activating his voice mike.  “Good Morning, Mr President.”

“It’s not a good morning,” the President said.  Burghardt could only nod in agreement; three more fighters had vanished in the swirling slow motion battle.  “What is the current status?”

Burghardt studied the display for a long moment before answering.  “The Russians hit us hard, Mr President,” he said.  “They’ve crippled our ability to hit their ground bases from orbit, although they’ve lost their own capability to do that, and they’ve damaged a lot of our armoured stations.  On the plus side, we wiped them out of Lunar orbit and we should be able to have some ships move up to reinforce Lunar City pretty soon.”

He took a breath.  “At the moment, our fighters are fighting it out with theirs for space supremacy,” he said.  “Mr President, if we win, we will be in a position to push against their space stations and end the war.”

The President heard the doubt in his tone.  “And if they win?”

“They can do the same to us,” Burghardt admitted.  “It’s hard to call a winner at the moment.”  The display flickered.  “The Soviets have evidently come to the same conclusion; almost all of their fleet is hauling ass out of here towards Venus and their fleet base there.”

“I see,” the President said.  “So…we might have a victory, or we might have a stalemate?”

“Yes,” Burghardt said.  “Mr President, I formally recommend that we seek to break contact between the fighters and accept the stalemate, in accordance with War Plan Red-Seven.”

He heard the President’s quick indrawn breath.  “It’s that bad?”  The President asked.  “Bad enough to accept that it will be a long war?”

Burghardt faced the truth unflinchingly.  “Yes, Mr President,” he said.  “We might continue the fight in orbit, but we might end up with the winner only having one or two fighters left.  We might win, without being able to press to victory.”

“Or they might win,” the President said.  He took a longer breath.  “This is going to be a long war, Fleet Admiral; if their fleet is withdrawing, that gives us time to secure the Moon.”

“Yes, Mr President,” Burghardt agreed.  He allowed himself a moment of more optimism.  “There’s also the asteroid belt; we’ll come out ahead there.  The miners will be on our side, far more than they were ever sold on the glories of the worker’s paradise.”

“But not on Venus,” the President said grimly.  “Two hours after the war began and…”

“We can and we will come out ahead in the end,” Burghardt said.  “We have a much greater orbital industry here and in the belt than they do.  We can out produce them in space weapons and win when the fleet returns from the belt.”

The President sighed.  “Break contact,” he said, his voice reluctant, but firm.  “Secure the moon, if possible; there should be more troops coming up via the cables.  The Russians didn’t shoot at our cables and we haven’t shot at theirs.”

Burghardt nodded.  “Yes, sir,” he said.  No one wanted to see how many of the horrifying projections of what would happen when a cable broke were true.  “Has there been any word from the other space-faring powers?”

The President sighed.  “The French are offering to meditate,” he said.  “The British have declared their neutrality in the war.  Hard to blame them really; a lot of the Commonwealth’s orbiting capital is at risk.”

“Ingrates,” Burghardt said, unwilling to accept that.  “The Russians will go for them next.”

“If we fall,” the President said.  His voice became darker, tired.  “Will that happen?”

Burghardt tapped orders into his panel, ordering the fighters to break contact and return to their bases.  It wouldn’t be an easy series of orders to obey, but he had faith in his men.  The Russians too, he suspected, would greatly prefer not to be fighting to the finish.  If they had wanted an all-out struggle, they would have sent their fleet into the main battle, instead of sending it away to Venus.

“No, sir,” Burghardt said firmly, projecting as much confidence as he could into his voice.  “We will win this war.”

Interlude Two: Watching For An Opportunity

The display was a perfect hologram, light years ahead of human technology, using scanners that tracked objects through the gravity effects they caused.  Scanner units had been placed near Earth, well away from any path that a human spacecraft would use, to observe the fighting near Earth.  The human militaries would have sold their souls for the technology; none of the side effects of the war, from plasma blasts to EMP, would affect its ability to probe through and locate human resources.

The Small Ones chattered away on their telepathic band, coordinating the effort of running the mothership, while Mission Commander Tak’Char relaxed in his chair, his mind seeing the information as it was fed through the filters and then into his mind.  He knew that there was no real reason to use filters these days – it had been years since any of the Hive had fought another of the Hive – but it was habit, and the Hive did not change habit unless there was a strong reason to do so.

He allowed himself a cold moment of appreciation.  The humans were fighting it out; as predicted, neither of the human sides had gained a real advantage.  Tak’Char hadn’t expected that either of them would have managed it; between them they simply had too much firepower for a first strike to be effective.  In fact…

“I have analysed the projections for human total war and refined them in the wake of new data,” Researcher Mac’Ar sent, through the telepathic network.  “I predict that the war will spread to the rest of the human system within seven of Earth’s rotations.”

Tak’Char inclined his head.  “And the prospects for total human destruction?”

“Unlikely,” Researcher Mac’Ar sent.  “They would have to be affected by a total mania to destroy themselves completely; the bases off Earth itself would survive, even if Earth itself was to be scoured clean of life.”

“Which we do not want, of course,” Tak’Char said.  An Earth that had been wrecked would offer little to the Hive, certainly not a new source of biological materials.  He closed his eyes and accessed other places within the biological network, trying to plot out the invasion.  It would have to be launched once the humans had done enough damage to themselves…and before the humans had managed to start using weapons of planetary destruction on themselves.

There was no hurry, he knew.  He just wanted it to be tidy; maximum gains for minimum effort.  

“We must recover our missing ship,” Researcher Mac’Ar sent.  Tak’Char sent a pulse of agreement.  “It holds secrets that the humans might be able to use.”

“They will not be able to convert it into a weapon in time,” Tak’Char sent back.  “Still, recovering it would be a good idea, just in case.  The human units guarding it, apart from the ship based on our technology, have been withdrawn.  That ship will pose little threat to us.”

“Sending the ship will risk detection,” Researcher Mac’Ar warned.

“It matters little now,” Tak’Char said.  “The plan will proceed on schedule.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven: You Have to be in Two Places at Once

USS Abraham Lincoln
Deep Space

Captain Howard was starting to positively hate the Wanderer.  The alien ship was still proceeding on its long course towards the asteroid base where it was supposed to be being studied – or where it would have been studied if the Third World War hadn’t broken out.  He could have looked out of one of the portholes on the Abraham Lincoln and looked across at the alien ship, silently mocking them with its massive presence.

“A single plasma missile would tell us how hard your hull is,” he muttered in the Wanderer’s general direction, before turning back to look at the message that had been transmitted to the entire fleet.  It was clear and concise, which was rather more than a little unusual for the USSF, in itself a warning of how dire the situation was.

All ships ALERT.  Hostilities have broken out between the USSR and the USA.  All ships are to confine any Russian personnel at once and report to station admirals for further orders.  Any Russian spacecraft is to be treated as hostile and is to be engaged.  ROE Alpha Delta Three.  Good Hunting.

The second message had been from Admiral Westmoreland, ordering him not to attempt to head to Ceres Base on his own, but to remain with the Wanderer and await orders.  It was…impossible; the Abraham Lincoln was the most powerful unit in the American space force, and it was remaining moving along a predicable path, rather than heading for Ceres or somewhere where it could do real good.

He looked down at the constant updates from fleet command.  Three hours after the war news had arrived at the Belt, there had been a handful of shots exchanged between some miners and a Russian ship, but nothing else.  The commander of the Russian force was clearly doing the same thing as Admiral Westmoreland; he was concentrating his force in preparation for offensive action.  If the American force were all armed with the Procyon Drive, they could have outmanoeuvred the Russian force and destroyed Lenin Base, but instead it would have to be a brute-force war, with both sides struggling to bring the other into firing range.

He sighed.  The battle might have already been decided, one way or the other, at Earth.  If the Russians gained superiority, or if the Americans had withstood the surprise attack, the war might already be over.  If neither side had managed to gain a real supremacy, however, the war would continue…until one side came out ahead.

“That will be us,” he vowed, and turned back to the latest report from the five people on board Wanderer.  Commander Jane Hammond had been insistent; there was no reason not to continue surveying the alien ship, even with the war on.  She probably felt as useless as he did, weeks away from any of the fighting at the Wanderer’s speed.  Sure, the Soviets would know exactly what course the alien ship was following, but…why would they attempt to seize it with the war on?  Researching the Wanderer, some on board power or no, would take decades.

Jane’s report was as clear as always.  Some parts of the alien ship remained sealed, but they’d found several more bodies, all of the little grey aliens.  They didn’t seem to have panicked; whatever had happened to the Wanderer must have come as a surprise.  It was hard to read alien expressions – and he knew that he could be treating them as if they were human – but they all seemed to be calm.

His wristcom chimed.  “Captain, it’s Hammond here,” Jane said.  “We found something interesting.”

Howard blinked.  “An entire alien ship is not interesting?”  He asked.  “What have you found?”

“Channel two,” Jane said, informing him of the link to their video feed.  “It’s rather unexpected, you know.”

She sounded very cheerful for someone stuck on a creepy alien ship.  Howard activated his screen and stared at the alien face that had appeared on the viewer.  It was…thicker, heavier, than any of the other alien bodies they’d found; it seemed to be older somehow.

The camera panned back and he could see the alien’s body.  It was taller than a smaller alien, almost as tall as an average human; it seemed thinner than one of the other aliens, apart from the head.  Its skin was the same grey tint, but it seemed to be softer, somehow, and its mouth was open in what Howard suspected was a cry of pain.

“I think that it’s an entirely different alien,” Jane said.  “Not a different alien race, but one from a different subset.  It’s a lot taller than the others, for example; and I have a suspicion that it’s not been simply scaled up.  Notice that the braincase is a lot bigger, sir; it might well have a larger brain.”

“Wonderful,” Howard said, not quite sincerely.  He felt bitter and angry at wasting time with the alien ship.  “Is there any sign of how it snuffed it?”

“It does look as if it’s in pain,” Jane agreed.  If she heard the bitterness in his voice, she said nothing.  “I honestly don’t know; the Doctor says that the aliens from Roswell were all clearly suffering the effects of the crash, but it was very hard to break their skins.  It’s possible that this lot all died from similar internal injuries, or perhaps simply from lack of oxygen.”

Howard had to smile at the dryness in her tone.  “Point taken,” he said.  “Have you found any sign of what killed the Wanderer?”

The camera view panned up as Jane stood up, revealing a room that Howard was certain was a bridge; it had the right general construction idea.  The large alien – the taller alien – had been sitting in the exact centre of the bridge, with several of the smaller aliens at consoles – all dead now – and several more gathered around the taller alien.

Their Captain?  Howard wondered, feeling a flicker of sympathy for the aliens.  Whatever they’d been doing at Earth, did they deserve to die like that?

“This room seems to have been significant,” Jane said dryly.  “I wish that we could pump some oxygen in here, just to allow us to search without spacesuits.  It won’t be long before we get this sucker to the research base, whereupon they’ll tell us to fuck off and get lost.”

“They do have a habit of thinking that they’re the only ones who know anything about alien technology,” Howard agreed dryly.  “How are you doing for supplies?”

“We have enough for a couple of weeks,” Jane assured him.  “If anything happens, we can always ride the Wanderer down to glory.”

His console chimed.  “Excuse me,” Howard said, as the icon for ‘urgent message’ began to flash.  He checked the message quickly, deciphering it with his Captain’s key, before it would agree to be displayed.  “Ah.”

Jane’s voice was puzzled.  “Captain?”

“We have just received our orders,” Howard said.  “Jane, are you sure that you’ll be fine on the Wanderer for the next week?”

“Of course,” Jane said.  “Captain, what’s happened?”

Howard sighed.  “Nothing much,” he said, unstrapped himself from his chair.  “We’re to proceed at once to Mars, where we are – and I quote – to escort the Bridge Ship Runaway into Mars without allowing the Soviets to take a pot shot or a dozen at it.”

Jane whistled.  “They could hardly have found you a harder task,” she said.  Howard nodded; bridge ships, the massive habitat-sized spacecraft that travelled between Earth and the other planets, could hardly manoeuvre to avoid a planet, let alone a flight of missiles.  “That’s going to be a bastard.  What about the Wanderer?”

“You’re to be left there on the ship,” Howard said.  “Apparently, and I quote again, to maintain a physical presence on an item of the most important strategic value.”

“And that and my USSF ID card will get me a slight amount of respect from the Soviets when their ships come to the Wanderer,” Jane said.  “I don’t think that anyone is going to respect salvage rights when the Wanderer is concerned.  It’s simply too vital a target for everyone in this war.”

Howard nodded once.  “I’m going to have to issue the orders now,” he said.  “This is pretty much your last chance to decide that you want to come with us.”

Jane snorted.  “Orders are orders,” she said.  “Besides, I might find something that will make me famous for myself.”

“Good luck, Commander,” Howard said.  “Keep the laser link going; don’t hesitate to scream if you need help.”

The connection broke.  Howard tapped the wristcom and raised Lieutenant Malady.  “Lieutenant, please send a simple acknowledgement to Fleet Command, and then inform the Runaway that we’re on our way.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Malady said.  “What about the Wanderer?”

So he didn’t read the orders, Howard thought.  The USSF was full of tales of communications officers who had somehow rigged the system to read even classified and heavily encrypted messages, but Lieutenant Malady clearly hadn’t done anything of the sort.  Or, of course, he was just pretending.

He smiled.  At the moment, it hardly mattered.  “It seems that we’re leaving them there,” he said.  “Make sure that we maintain a communications laser at all times.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Malady said, as Howard floated out of his chair towards the hatch.  “Any other orders?”

“Call the duty offices to the bridge, except for those on the Wanderer,” Howard said.  “I’ll be there in one minute.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Malady said.  “I’ll do that at once.”

***
“This is the bridge ship Runaway,” Howard said, five minutes later.  The Procyon Drive had already been restarted; the Wanderer was falling away at a massive rate of speed.  The Abraham Lincoln was already building up speed as fast as it could, pushing the drive as hard as Lieutenant Marian Davidson dared.  This was no time to have a drive failure.

The bridge ships had been designed, in concept, when the voyagers to the Moon and then to Mars had depended upon purely chemical rockets.  Both the Americans and the Soviets had developed large boosters, which were very capable at putting objects into orbit, but were far less capable at putting objects further away – at least if the passengers actually intended to do anything once they reached the destination, like slowing down.  The bridge ships had been loaded in Earth orbit, and then dispatched along a gravity-assisted course that combined speed with efficiency, while also allowing the later passengers time to get used to living in space.

The Runaway was one of the last generations; built after the fusion drive was perfected.  It was massive, one of the largest human ships in space, and housed over a thousand Americans.  It was built like a massive habitat, spinning around to provide Mars-standard gravity for its passengers, allowing them to get used to Martin conditions in a safe environment.  It was very definitely not a military ship – it was so large that one of the planned space fighter carriers would be a perfectly safe ship in comparison – but would that matter, after the Soviet sneak attack?

Several dozen bridge ships – American, Russian and British - were in transit between the Earth, Mars and Venus, to say nothing of the outer planets, but only one of them was actually coming close to the battlezone before the war ended.  The Runaway, carrying colonists for Wells, would almost certainly be a target for the Soviets.  Even if they weren’t playing at being outright evil, they would certainly suspect that the Runaway might be armed, or that it was carrying soldiers.  

As if we would put soldiers on something so slow it could only arrive weeks after the war, Howard thought, and continued the briefing.

“We’ve attempted to inform the Soviets that the Runaway is a passenger ship, armed only with emergency lasers,” he continued.  “The situation in Mars orbit is very tense at the moment, and the Russians have said nothing.  They haven’t opened fire either, to be fair, but it’s quite possible that they have decided to bide their time until they learn what’s happened on Earth.”

He wished that they could have a proper table for discussions, rather than having everyone on the bridge in their acceleration couches, but there was no time.  “Admiral Williams was very clear on the subject; we are not to engage the Russians unless absolutely necessary.  While this is against standing war orders, it makes sense; we’ll get our shot at the bastards later after the Runaway has unloaded its cargo.”

“The Russian Martian base on that moon has the Maxim Gorky on it,” Lieutenant Singh observed.  “I’m surprised that they’ve simply not opened fire and tried to wipe us.”

“So am I,” Howard admitted.  He shrugged.  “There’s no time to worry about it now, anyway; how long until we reach the Runaway?”

“One hour,” Lieutenant Marian Davidson reported.  “Then there’ll be three more hours before the ship can enter Martin orbit.”

“It’s a good thing that the ships that braked by entering the Mars atmosphere have all been converted to deep-space habitats around Uranus,” Howard sighed.  “Keep us on course.  Lieutenant Malady, is the laser link still functioning?”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Malady said.  “There’s been no change at all in the Wanderer’s status.”

“Dismissed,” Howard said, a meaningless formality under the circumstances.  He sat back in his chair and watched the stars go by, running through tactical simulations in his head.  If the Russians had no interest in being hostile in orbit around Mars, then would it benefit the Americans to get hostile first?  What would happen if the Gorky came up for a fight?

Marian’s voice shocked him out of his thoughts.  “Captain, we’re coming up on the Runaway now,” she said.  On the display, the Runaway, large enough to generate its own tiny gravity field, flickered into view.  “I’m adjusting course and speed to match.”

“Thank you, Marian,” Howard said.  “Lieutenant Malady, establish a laser link with the Runaway, and then contact Admiral Williams and ask him for a situation update.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Malady said.  There was a long pause; Mars wasn’t that far out of laser range.  “Sir, Admiral Williams is sending a warning; the Gorky is on its way out here.”

Howard sucked in a breath.  The Russian ship could be on them at any moment.  “Sound battle stations,” he said calmly.  “Lieutenant Singh, find me that ship.”

“I’m on it,” Lieutenant Singh said.  “I’m scanning for it now, but it won’t have a fusion flame and…”

“You may use the main radar mount,” Howard said, anticipating the request.  If the Russians knew what they were escorting, they would have a good idea of where the Abraham Lincoln actually was.  “Just find me that ship!”

“I have it,” Lieutenant Singh said, after a moment.  “It’s closing in on us, directly from Mars.  No sign of any active targeting systems, but…”

They won’t need them, Howard thought.  “Marian, move us and…”

“Incoming missiles,” Lieutenant Singh snapped.  “Request permission to launch ECM buoys!”

“Granted,” Howard said.  “Lieutenant Krakow, you may return fire at will.”

“For Poland,” Lieutenant Krakow – a Polish escapee from behind the Iron Curtain – snapped, pushing the firing trigger.  Abraham Lincoln launched four missiles back towards the Gorky, which went through a whole series of crazy manoeuvres to escape the American missiles, finally flying free of them with ease before swinging around the Runaway to come back into firing range.

If I hadn’t seen it, I would never have believed it, Howard thought, as the distances between the two ships closed.  It was as different from a normal space battle as night was different today; neither side had proper weapons for the task at hand.  I think that we’re going to need more energy weapons for later battles.

The Captain of the Gorky clearly agreed.  He closed in rapidly, firing several missiles, but mainly concentrating on using his lasers on the Abraham Lincoln.  The lasers were ineffective at the distance, but Howard knew that they would become more and more effective as the ships converged and…

“Fire missiles,” he snapped.  Abraham Lincoln shuddered once as four missiles launched from the ship, heading directly along the Gorky’s projected course.  The Russian ship veered sharply, avoiding the missiles and flooring the drive, outrunning the missiles with ease.

“This could go on for a while,” Lieutenant Krakow admitted.  “Captain, it’s impossible to hit a ship that can outrun missiles in an instant.”

Howard nodded.  “I’m not blaming you,” he said, knowing how the Pole felt at being unable to hurt the enemy ship.  “Get all of our lasers merged together and…”

“Captain, the Gorky is retreating,” Lieutenant Singh said.  “It’s heading back towards the planet.”

Howard swore.  “There is bound to be a battle there now,” he said.  He thought about all the Americans hanging in Mars orbit and his heart went cold.  “Lieutenant Malady, copy the details of the engagement to Admiral Williams; warn him that there might be a fight at any moment.”

“We expended seven more plasma-tipped missiles,” Lieutenant Krakow reported, as the Abraham Lincoln stood down from battle stations.  “Sir, if that happens again, we’re going to run out of missiles, unless Mars can resupply us.”

Howard nodded.  “We can certainly get more missiles at Mars,” he said, thinking through the engagement.  “Any thoughts on the weapons?”

“Fat lot of good they were,” Marian muttered.  Howard understood her feelings exactly.  Most space battles were formal dances; the one they’d just fought had been madness.  He still didn’t understand why the Gorky had just challenged them without fighting it to the end.  “We need more lasers, perhaps even heavy particle weapons and…”

“Captain,” Lieutenant Malady snapped.  Howard heard the alarm in his voice and knew what he was going to say before he said it.  “We’ve lost contact with the Wanderer.  The laser link just broke!”

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Battle for the Moon

Lunar City
The Moon (American Territory)

Administrator Lucas – who, until recently, had hopes of being elected Governor Lucas – examined the map with a strong sense of absolute dismay.  The Soviets had clearly been busy; they’d started to advance their own forces across the Moon, heading directly for the centre of Lunar City…and his forces would have to stop them.

He scowled, remembering.  He was older than he looked, thanks to the geriatric drugs; he could remember when President Truman and General Secretary Molotov had cut the Moon in half, giving the western sphere to the Americans and the eastern sphere to the Russians.  He’d been a young lunar worker then; he’d never dreamed that he would have risen to the heights he now occupied, let alone end up commanding soldiers in a battle.

“It all seems so futile now,” he commented to General Pastor.  The moon-born General, commander of the Lunar National Guard, nodded grimly.  They’d been at odds, before the compromise had managed to allow the Moon to become a state within the United States…something that the Russians had opposed.  He was sure that that was why the war had broken out; the Russians were so opposed to the idea of off-Earth governments that they had started a war and rigged up contact with an alien ship to explain the war to their own people.

“Yes, Administer,” General Pastor said.  “The Russians are clearly moving in heavy units towards the centre of the city, the oxygen-cracking plant and the spaceport.  If they take any of those, they will have a stranglehold on the city and we will have to surrender.”

Lucas nodded grimly.  The Russian attack on Lunar City had damaged many of the defences that would normally have protected it against a determined Russian attack.  Help might be on the way, if the USSF could organise a rescue force, but the reports weren’t good.  Several troop shuttles had been shot down over America by Russian space stations, and he knew exactly what that meant.  

He studied the display.  There were simply too many automated sensors for the Russians to have destroyed them all, which meant that he had a grandstand view of the end of his world.  The Lunar Pentagon might be in orbit over the Moon, but its orbit didn’t bring it into position to support him, even if it had carried bombardment systems.  The Russians had destroyed almost all of the orbital weapons platforms that he could have normally called upon, which meant that Lunar City would have to meet the attack on its own resources.

He scowled.  Lunar City was the largest city in the United States – perhaps even in human civilisation – if one went by distances.  Unfortunately, most of the population was concentrated in the centre of the city itself, which meant protecting the city was the priority.  The smaller lunar towns and villages simply weren’t important; from retirement homes to homesteads, they were irrelevant to the struggle.  It was the heavy industry the Russians wanted, and most of that too was concentrated in the main city.

“I think that we’d better engage them here,” General Pastor said.  The Russian troops were riding on heavy Buggies; craft designed specifically for the moon.  Not unlike hovercraft, they floated along on gas jets, travelling very quickly along the lunar surface.  They could move very quickly; Lucas knew that there were generals back on Earth who would have given their left eye-teeth for tanks that could move as fast as the Buggies.

General Pastor pointed to a place on the map, just outside the formal boundary of Lunar City.  “This is the closest place we have to a formal defence line,” he said.  “If we meet them there with our armoured troopers, we can cut them to ribbons.  The drones can hit them first; they should soften them up a bit.”

Lucas nodded grimly.  “Make sure that you deal with all of them,” he said.  “I really don’t want to be fighting in the corridors.”

General Pastor nodded back.  “That would be bad,” he agreed.  “Still, they’ll be less eager to blow holes in the corridors than we would be, under the circumstances.”

“I really hope you’re right,” Lucas said.  “If they blow open a large section of the underground passages, we’ll be dead before we have a chance to beg for mercy.”

General Pastor snorted.  “They launched a sneak attack on us,” he said.  “How much mercy do you think Congress will show them?”

Lucas frowned.  “Take command of the defences,” he said.  “I’m going to ensure that all of the precautions have been taken, and then I’m going to get under my bed and cower.”

General Pastor laughed.  “Don’t worry, sir,” he said.  “It won’t be that bad.”

***
They said that this wouldn’t be that bad, General Mikhail reminded himself, as he checked the portable communication and coordination system.  It was a danger to life and limb – specifically his life and limb – to be using a communications device so near to the American positions, but he had no choice.  He’d never seen, let alone tried to coordinate, such a slapdash assault.

It looked good, on the screen, and Commissioner Stepan Marlen certainly seemed pleased with it, but General Mikhail knew better; it was chaos.  The Red Army had limits on recruiting from those born on the moon, had even been reluctant to recruit any until it became clear that there would be hardly any sergeants qualified for space work without using the space-born.  That meant that the five hundred men he intended to use to seize Lunar City were almost completely from Earth, with a grand average of two weeks on the Moon.  The remaining soldiers, the ones he had no transport for, were even worse; some of them had come up on the troop shuttle only yesterday, when the world was at peace.

It’ll be a miracle if we don’t accidentally kill ourselves and save the Americans the task, he thought.  His plan had called for launching the attack as soon as the war broke out; his soldiers’ unfamiliarity with the Buggies had slowed them down for several hours.  The armoured column of Lunar Tanks were on their way, but they couldn’t simply jet over any problems; they had to go around them, something that slowed them down still further.  He knew that his training wasn’t perfect; his Red Army training had been based around fighting on Earth, not on the Moon.

“The men are finally deploying,” Sergeant Ivan Kuzma informed him.  General Mikhail allowed himself a sigh of relief; no normal Red Army general would accept a mere Sergeant as his aide, but Sergeant Ivan Kuzma was a rarity; a Moon-born Sergeant.  He was needed, far more than any number of twittering staff officers; General Mikhail himself had only gone on the attack because he knew that everything would depend on the first battle, not on the second or third.

“Good,” he said, choosing not to comment on the delay.  Everyone had been supposed to have been deployed twenty minutes ago.  “Any sign of American activity?”

“None at all,” Kuzma said.  “In fact…”

He was interrupted by a screech from the sensor pack.  “We have incoming drones,” the sensor officer said.  “They are closing in to attack us.”

“Tie the deployed machine guns into the sensor network and take them down,” General Mikhail ordered, refusing to give into panic.  Being killed by the Americans was one thing, even being killed by their automated servants, but he truly dreaded the thought of something punching through his suit.  “Open fire.”

A soldier toppled and fell as one of the drones fired at him.  It was curiously silent; there was no noise at all in space.  His comrades threw themselves to the ground, moving in slow motion, bouncing off the ground as if it were a bouncy castle.  Several of the machine guns were moving; firing bursts of shells into the air, following the radar instructions from the deployed sensors.

A flicker of light in space caught his eye.  Something had died out there; a drone or one of the orbiting systems, perhaps.  He knew that it didn’t matter; the last update from Molotov, the Russian city on the moon, had warned that the Americans were moving up some of their fleet units.  By then, they had to be in position to present the Americans with an occupied Lunar City.

“Units one and two, move forward,” he ordered, watching as the men moved forwards in their armoured spacesuits.  The two point platoons were the best they had at their disposal, the men who he’d had Sergeant Ivan Kuzma work to death, just to ensure that they could perform the task at hand.  Somewhere out there, the Americans waited and…

“Unit two taking fire,” a Sergeant reported.  “Requesting rocket back-up.”

“Designate that bunker,” General Mikhail ordered, examining the data feed.  The Americans had been clever; they’d built a line of defences that had been carefully prepared to withstand the light weapons that both sides had their soldiers carry, but he didn’t think that the Americans had appreciated just how easy it was to carry artillery into the battlezone on the Moon.  Three of his soldiers were carrying a unit that would have needed a heavy truck to move on Earth; it launched small plasma rockets, ones that no one in their right mind would consider using on the Moon.

But I’m not going to be using them on your habitats, he thought, with a smile.  The Americans clearly hadn’t expected that the Russians would have such weapons, or else they would have taken more care with their defences.  He waited until the weapons were set up and in position, and uttered a single word.

“Fire,” he said.

The results were spectacular, even on the Moon.  The glare of the plasma detonations were so bright that his helmet darkened automatically to protect his eyes.  The blasts themselves were very powerful indeed; the Americans had seen his force, as he had assumed that they would, and risked a forward defence in a place where he could use his heavy weapons without fear of causing a major atrocity.

“Units three and four, reinforce one and two, then move on,” he commanded.  The soldiers moved with higher morale than they’d shown before – nothing enhanced morale than watching the enemy getting pasted – and showing more professionalism than he had expected.  Two of them died as American soldiers, three survivors, put heavy bullets through their armour, before they were both killed.

“Good,” he said.  “Commissioner, any thoughts?”

“It was bad that the men died before being indoctrinated in the values of world communism,” Stepan Marlen said dryly.  General Mikhail had to smile; it was also good that he had a Commissioner who understood something of the military realities of the situation.  “Other than that, nothing.”

General Mikhail nodded.  “I think that we can split up now,” he said.  “Units one and two; claim your reinforcements, and then prepare to head for their surface command centre.  Other units, you know your targets; head for them.”

***
General Pastor felt sick, recognising the mistake as soon as the Soviets had fired.  He’d hoped that it would have been possible to have surprised the Soviets, who would have already been weakened by the drone attack, but it had been too late.  The Soviets had heavy weapons, ones designed for use against spacecraft, and they’d simply vaporised most of his men.

“Place the Guard on defence,” he said.  He’d hoped that the Lunar National Guard – apart from those on the outside – would not be needed, but it was clear that they would be needed desperately.  The Soviets were already moving; some of their men were heading towards the oxygen-cracking plant, others towards the control centre.  He allowed himself a moment of puzzlement – the Soviets should also have been trying to hit the spaceport – before understanding.  With weapons like those, spacecraft were suddenly the least of their worries.

He closed his eyes, thinking hard.  “Deploy the remaining two suited units to the oxygen-cracking plant,” he said.  Half of the plant was in vacuum anyway; the rest would be as soon as the Soviets broke through the door.  “Have three units suiting up now into their battle-armour.  The rest…are to be deployed to the emergency stations outside the command centre.”

He scowled.  His last order meant certain death for several dozen young men, even if they would be wearing breathers.  The cold of the moon would kill them, even if they didn’t suffocate from losing air.  The command centre had been built more to show off than for practical use – one of the underground centres had already taken over most of its functions – but it was still a vital tactical location.  Control of the command centre would give the Soviets access to all of the rest of the massive city…and there would be no way of preventing it with the number of men at his command.

“Now hear this,” he said into the microphone.  “All non-defence personnel are to evacuate the command centre at once, I repeat; at once.  The Russians are coming.”

***
Private Alexey Valeriy checked his gun, before stepping up to the massive American airlock, designed to handle the ore trucks the Americans used to gather ore from the lunar surface, cracking it down for vital materials.  He knocked once on the door, hard.  Unsurprisingly, it didn’t open.

“Move, Private,” Sergeant Varlaam Anton ordered.  Valeriy, who knew perfectly well that Anton – a man of Cossack blood – would hurt him if he didn’t obey, moved at once.  He snapped the first explosive charge onto the airlock and stepped back.

“Ten seconds,” he said.  The rest of Unit Three moved backwards sharply.  The timer ticked down to zero…and the blast shattered the airlock.  Valeriy nodded in relief; he’d done the charges precisely.  Oxygen whooshed out of the plant, just incidentally killing all of the Americans inside, unless they’d had time to get suited themselves.

“Excellent work,” Anton said.  Valeriy, knowing that Anton was already considering how to steal the credit, said nothing.  “How long will it be before the American rats are smoked out?”  He paused.  “Ah, yes; five minutes.”

He laughed coarsely.  Valeriy had a sudden mental image of Americans choking to death on thin air and said nothing.  He’d heard that some Americans had come up with the idea of trying to terraform the moon, but it seemed like a fairy tale to him, and he’d planned to be an engineer before being conscripted into the army.

“Move,” Anton said, well inside five minutes.  Valeriy lifted his weapon, knowing better than even to try to argue, and stepped inside the airlock.  Inside, it was shattered and gloomy; the lights had gone out almost completely.  “Use your light,” Anton ordered.

Valeriy hesitated.  His hesitation saved his life for a moment; the entire unit had pushed its way into the cracking plant, and one of the soldiers activated his headlamp.  The sudden burst of firing was a total surprise; Valeriy leapt forwards in the low gravity as the hidden American – in suits, he noticed without surprise – opened fire.  One of them saw him…and he felt his faceplate shatter as an American bullet grazed it.  The air faded out of his suit…and the last thing he thought was that he had finally escaped American and the Red Army.

***
General Mikhail listened in silence to the report from the cracking plant.  As soon as the messenger had finished, he cursed Sergeant Anton in words he had never used since entering the Red Army, for they were Georgian words and he was from Georgia.  He stared up at the American command dome and scowled; they would have to break through the armoured wall.

“Trying to get through an airlock would be suicide,” he muttered.  More than a handful of Red Army exercises had come to a stunning halt when the commander of one side had overlooked just how obvious the airlock was as a means of entrance.  Sergeant Ivan Kuzma nodded beside him.  “We’ll have to go through the walls,” he said.

“The charges are in place,” Kuzma said, as the soldiers scattered back from the wall of the dome.  “Should I fire them?”

General Mikhail waited until the last of the men were out of the blast range.  “Fire,” he said, nodding to the sergeant.  The charges detonated, pushing out a blast of streaming air.  He could see the air, misty as it roared out of the dome, before it faded into thin air.  He smiled at the pun, before snapping out a command; the men fired into the holes before moving forward, covering each other.

“No sign of Americans,” Kuzma reported, as they stepped into the main corridor on the lower level of the dome.  General Mikhail scowled; that wasn’t good news.  The Americans would hardly have simply refused to contest the corridor; it made too good a defensive position.

“Move the groups up to each of the airlocks,” he said.  He was tempted to simply blast through the wall again, but the orders had been clear; no needless deaths, even American deaths.  “Once we have them secured, we can move further into the base, perhaps even bring up more reinforcements.”

Kuzma saluted and moved down the corridor.  General Mikhail followed him at a safe distance, his bodyguard following him, until they reached one of the airlocks.  It had been sealed, as expected; the Americans wouldn’t have missed them blasting through the walls.  Just as they reached, it, the airlock burst open; General Mikhail threw himself to one side as the Americans opened fire with their own weapons.

“Grenades, now,” he snapped, as soldiers fell under the bursts of American fire.  He knew in that moment that the base couldn’t be taken without reinforcements.  The explosion blew through the airlock, spilling Americans into space and opening the wall enough for them to spread further…except they no longer had the manpower to hold what they’d taken.

“Send back the Buggies,” he said, into his radio.  “We need reinforcements, as fast as they can be sent, or else we’ll have to withdraw.”  His blood suddenly ran cold as he remembered something vitally important about space.  “What’s the time for the armoured units?”

“Two hours,” Kuzma said.  His suit had been damaged, General Mikhail realised, but he was still alive.  One of the soldiers was patching the tiny holes as he spoke.  “Sir, the oxygen…”

“I know,” General Mikhail snapped.  “We have to break through quickly and secure more supplies, or we have no choice, but to surrender.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Secrets and Lies

Bond Warehouse
Washington DC, USA

“All awake now, then?”

The female voice, sharp enough to cut through steel, echoed through Thande’s head as he struggled to clear his mind.  It was darker in his head than outside; every part of his body hurt badly.  He could feel his implants working, trying to clear his body of the poisons that had been injected into it, but it wasn’t happening quickly enough to make him feel better.  He lifted his head and recoiled; the sheer shock of the attempt had almost made him throw up and faint at the same time.  He heard himself whimper in pain; his body was on the verge of total collapse…

“I know,” the woman’s voice continued, marginally gentler.  “The suppressor field does tend to have that effect on trans-temporal operatives.  Something to do with having the wrong quantum signature, or something like that.”

For a moment, he thought that it was Sally talking, but the voice was all wrong; harder and nastier than Sally, even at her most sarcastic.  He struggled to open his eyes against the pain in his head…and then it struck him that the woman, whoever she was, had known what they were!  Sheer panic and rage forced his eyes open…and he saw her for the first time.

She was…patrician, for want of a better term; with a face that would have been the envy of every noblewoman and would-be noblewoman in the entire multiverse.  She had long white hair, cascading over a simple blouse and white trousers combination; her eyes were brilliant blue.  Her finely-formed bones merged into an overwhelming impression of power and authority; the rest of her body followed suit.  She sat in a small seat, one that could hardly have cost more than a few dollars, and she made it look like a throne.

“I trust that you are finished with your observations,” she said, not even bothering to form it as a question.  Thande’s mind was rapidly clearing, but he could tell that there was something very wrong with the woman, as if she were out of place somehow.  He remembered, dimly, a discussion with Sally, about one of the Enemy’s attacks on humanity; a cult for woman only that taught them how to use conditioning to influence people.  

Thande focused his mind with an effort, hearing a groan beside him.  He looked to one side and saw Sally, neatly handcuffed to the chair next to him.  A quick check revealed that he too was handcuffed; their captors – and he understood now what their captors were – hadn’t taken chances.  

He concentrated on one issue.  “Where are we?”

“This is a bonded warehouse,” the woman said.  “We hired it as a base of operations within Washington itself.”

Thande laughed out loud, despite the flickering pain in his head.  “A warehouse,” he said.  “Tell me, why is it always a warehouse.  Whenever the cross-time travellers arrive, they always arrive in a warehouse!  The invasion force decants itself through a warehouse, the spies appear in a warehouse, the private wormhole to Dimension X exists within a warehouse…it’s a whole cliché…”

“Have you finished?”  The woman asked.  Her voice wasn’t angry, merely completely unconcerned.  Thande suddenly realised that she didn’t even see him as human.  “As you may have noticed, you are in the hands of the secret rulers of this timeline.”

Thande looked at her.  Now he had a better idea of what to look for, he could see that she didn’t belong in the timeline.  She simply didn’t smell right; the effects of her having a slightly different quantum signature flickered in and out around her, revealing her nature to anyone with the proper eyes to look.

“Your friend awakes,” the woman said.  She paused.  “You may call me Snow, if you like.”

Thande glanced over at Sally again.  She was struggling to look up, just like he had.  He didn’t like the look in her eyes; she was staring at the woman with undisguised hostility.  Snow – if that really was her name – seemed unconcerned about Sally’s rage.

“You may have also noticed that it’s suddenly impossible for you to simply blip out,” Snow continued.  Thande saw Sally’s eyes widen for a split second.  “You are, in fact, my prisoners; an unexpected bonus for my work here.”

“You’re working for the Enemy,” Sally said.  Her voice was weak, but rising in power.  “Why?”

Snow’s eyes narrowed.  It took Thande a moment – her body language was so alien – to realise that she was laughing.  “Your people are fine ones to ask that question,” she said.  “Or…perhaps, have we met outside our given timelines?  From my point of view, the deed is done…but have you done it yet from yours?”

Thande frowned.  “What exactly are you accusing us of?”

Snow tilted her head slightly.  It was a motion that was somehow captivating and repelling at the same time.  “This is not a Bollywood movie,” she said.  Thande guessed that Hollywood hadn’t existed on her world, or perhaps she had been more familiar with the Indian version.  His mind worried away at the problem to keep from panicking; what might have happened to create her world?

Snow’s voice was amused.  “I have no obligation to unfold my plan in front of you,” she said.  “I think it would be a lot safer for all concerned if I didn’t tell you anything.”

Thande scowled.  He knew that he needed to give Sally time to think.  “But…Miss Snow; in the evil villains handbook, you have to expound upon your plan now.  You have to rub your hands together and gloat a lot, expounding on every single detail, you have to really rub it in, and then you have to laugh a lot – muwahahahaha and so on.”

Snow gave him a dry look.  “Your people destroyed mine,” she said.  Her face twisted for a long moment; Thande felt grief and rage hit him like a physical blow.  “We would have built the perfect society and you destroyed it.”

“The concept of one sex being superior to the others was disproved years ago,” Sally said.  Thande was still shaking in his restraints.  “The ability to control your body language, to the degree of being able to affect men and other women, does not make you superior.”

Thande shook the effects off with an effort.  “So she’s not a Draka then?”

Sally shook her head.  “No, just someone who had a lot of very intensive and special training, and then was carefully brainwashed to fit into a madwoman’s idea of a perfect society.”  She looked up at Snow.  “Answer me this; if you cause all women to hate and abjure tyrannical man, how then is your posterity to be provided?”

Thande dimly recognised the quote.  “This is still not a Bollywood movie,” Snow said.  “Do you know what is going to happen to you now?”

Thande scowled.  “Do I want to know?”

“You have been cut off from the multiverse ship you have nearby,” Snow said calmly.  “When we are finished here, we will take you with us.  In time, your minds will give up all the information you possess.”

Sally snorted.  “What little information we have, you are welcome to have,” she said.  “Do you think that our commanders would send people who knew too much into a war zone?”

Snow shrugged.  “It hardly matters,” she said.  “Given time, they could reprogram you two, adding you to our agents, perhaps even sending you back to your people to spy on them.  The war’s begun now, so it won’t be long before we’re called back home.”

Thande felt his mouth fall open.  “The war’s started?”

“Oh, yes,” Snow said.  “Funny how the human males operate; all of them made reasonable decisions, but the ones we wanted them to make.  The old MAD situation again; how many times have we managed to use that?”

Sally’s eyes narrowed.  “Why are you doing this?”  She asked.  “You may complain about us preventing your people from destroying all of humanity in your timeline, but the Enemy – your masters – intend to exterminate all of humanity.”

Snow looked down at them.  “No,” she said simply.  “They have far greater plans for humanity than simple extermination.  But then…your side started the war.”

Thande said nothing; he didn’t believe her.  Sally’s lips went pinched, then returned to normal.  “You lie,” she said.  Her voice was icy.  “You lie to everyone.”

“But you agree with me, don’t you, Professor Thande?”  Snow asked.  Her head tilted again…and suddenly she was the most desirable woman on Earth, the only woman on Earth for him, one who would love him and be with him, as long as he made one small concession to her and…

Thande shook his head violently.  The effect had still hurt him, but he found that he could dismiss it.  The thought of what women like Snow might have achieved on a different timeline, without any preparation or warning at all, was chilling; how many people of both sexes would they have been able to affect?

“No,” he said, keeping the rage from his voice.  “I don’t agree at all.”

“More fool you,” Snow said violently.  “Put them both in the cells, then leave them there, somewhere secure.”

Two big men appeared behind them and picked them up, chairs and all.  They carried them without apparent effort, without even a single grunt, into a large room, clearly designed as a prison cell.  They didn’t lock the door, but what would have been the point?

***
Thande took a breath as soon as the door slammed.  He allowed himself a moment of hope as he realised that it wasn’t locked, but then he knew that he was being silly; chained up as they were, how could they break free?  Besides, there were more important matters at hand.

“Sally?”  He asked.  Sally looked…ill again, almost beaten.  “Sally, are you all right?”

“They took one of our people, a long time ago,” Sally said.  “We thought that they had killed her, until she returned and tried to deliver an entire multiverse ship into the hands of the Enemy.”  Her voice was broken, almost weepy.  “I had to kill her, to save us all.  Who’s going to kill us?”

Thande concentrated.  There had to be a way out, somewhere; no matter what it was.  “Sally, was what she said true?”  He asked.  “Did you people start the war?”

Sally laughed through her tears.  “The first battle of the war happened in a region that was already weak,” she said.  “The entire region of space and time was destroyed; anything that goes in…well, we think it falls out of the multiverse altogether.  We don’t know who fired the first shot; all we know is that they are the unreasoning enemies of every species that has a hope to reach transcendence.”

Thande nodded slowly.  “And the war has started,” he said.  “Sally, we have to get out of here; how can we contact the Turtledove?”

“We’re in a pocket dimension, like the weapons locker,” Sally said.  “All of this, fitted into a single warehouse?  I think it’s a lot more likely that they have expanded the space inside the warehouse somehow; there are several ways of doing it.”

Thande stared at her.  “They could have an entire force of Hive soldiers here and no one would have a clue about it,” he said.  “We have to warn someone!”

“We’re in a pocket dimension,” Sally repeated.  “We can’t get a signal out through the dimension; the ship can’t get to us or open a Portal without the precise signature of the manufactured universe.  We have to leave through the exit.”  Suddenly, violently, she pushed her heels back to the floor and pushed her chair against the wall.

Thande blinked.  “What are you doing?”

“Silence,” Sally said.  “Walls have ears, so don’t mention the war.”

She pushed the rear of her chair hard against the wall.  There was a long chilling moment of silent struggle, and then the chair shattered.  Thande stared as Sally crashed to the floor, and then smiled with relief as she emerged from the mess, un-looping her handcuffs from the remains of the chair.  She held one piece of chair leg in her hand like a club.

“We’re going to have to have these on our wrists for a long time,” Sally said, helping him to break his chair.  It hurt, more than he had expected, and it tore his skin, but he was finally free of the chair.  He gasped in pain, just as Sally listened at the door, and then pulled it open, moving out…to see no one, but one sleeping guard.  She brought her club down on his head, sending him sprawling to the floor.

“Get his weapon,” Sally muttered.  Thande took the guard’s weapon – it looked like a modified AK-47 – and hefted it.  Sally hunted on the guard’s body, looking for keys, but found none.  “We’d better get moving.”

Thande looked down the corridor.  “Which way?”  He asked.  “It’s bigger than the TARDIS in here.”

Sally held up her hand, testing the ebbs and flows of the pocket dimension.  “Got to hand it to them,” she muttered.  Her voice sounded unwillingly admiring.  “This is the perfect base, well hidden, literally impossible for anyone else to find except by sheer luck…perfect.”

She closed her eyes, spun around, and pointed in one direction.  “That way,” she said.  “Come on.”

“We need to get rid of these handcuffs,” Thande said.  “We have a pair from each arm and each leg; we looked bleeding ridiculous.”

Sally smiled, leading him past several doors, all unmarked.  “I think that we have other matters to attend to,” she muttered.  “Damn it; if we had time, I would have hunted for the power source of this place, perhaps even tried to get it to explode.  If that happened, the pocket dimension would collapse and…”

“Halt,” a guard bellowed, already lifting his weapon.  Thande dropped him with a single burst; Sally ran over his body and continued down the corridor without a backwards glance.  Her breath was becoming ragged as she ran, with Thande following her, but she clearly wasn’t going to give up at all.

“That idiot might have alerted an AI, if there is one here,” she muttered.  “We can’t be stealthy any longer; we just have to run.”

They entered a massive garage, itself so large that it could hold the entire production run of a major factory.  Cars of all designs lay on the ground, attended only by robots that completely ignored the humans.  There was something funny about some of the robots, something oddly familiar, but there was no time to look.

“My God,” Thande breathed, as they ran past a monstrous beast.  It opened one flickering red eye to look at them as they passed, but did nothing else.  Thande couldn’t help himself; he stared at the scaly wings in awe.  “Is that really a dragon?”

“Yes,” Sally said.  She caught his hand and pulled him onwards.  “This place is clearly a major base attached to this part of the world tree.  God alone knows what the dragon is for, though.”

Thande scowled.  “A timeline where dragons exist, perhaps,” he said.  The weapon was starting to get heavy and there was still no sign of a way out.  “Or maybe it was a robot.”

“There are no such timelines attached to this part of the world tree,” Sally said flatly.  “There are some things that just don’t happen.”  Her voice was oddly disturbed.  “They must use this place as a base of operations for their kidnappings, so the way out must be…that ahead.”

Thande stared at it.  A blank, utterly featureless wall stared back at him.  “Sally, it’s a flat wall,” he said.  “How do we get through that?”

Sally was staring at the wall thoughtfully, and then she stepped up to the wall…and through the wall, as if it didn’t even exist.  Thande stared at her, and then followed her; there was literally nothing, but a feeling of…transference, and then they were in a warehouse.

“Another bloody warehouse,” he muttered.  The massive room was completely empty; the door firmly locked.  “How do we get out of this one?”

“Carefully,” Sally said.  “Have you still got the weapon?”  Thande nodded.  “Then shoot out the lock, Professor.”

Thande snorted, examining the locks and wondering.  “Shouldn’t we check to see what’s outside first?”

“There’s no point,” Sally said.  Her tone was grim.  “Fire.”

Thande fired a single short burst at the lock, which exploded out of the warehouse.  The design wasn’t unfamiliar; the wheels and pulleys on the door started to open it as soon as the lock broke, allowing bright sunlight to come streaming in.  He stepped outside the warehouse, breathing the strange air of the Roswell Timeline, and sighed in relief.

“Come on,” Sally said, taking his hand.  “We have to get away from here quickly.”

They walked for several blocks before they entered the more population regions of Washington.  The streets were still almost deserted; it was almost eerie.  Sally picked up a newspaper from a litterbin and read it grimly; they’d been in the pocket dimension for two days…and the war had indeed broken out.

“We have to intervene,” Sally said.  Her voice was grim.  “We have to make contact with the Government here, and offer them some advice.”

Thande frowned.  “Shouldn’t we go back to the Turtledove?”

“No,” Sally snapped.  “We can’t, not until we deal with the Enemy here, whatever it takes.”  Her face darkened.  “Why did we get away so easily?”

“I would have hardly said that it was easy,” Thande said defensively.  “That was harder than it could have been.”

Sally shook her head.  “It should have been impossible,” she said.  “They could have kept us under a hypnotic trance.  They could have placed us in a timeless dimension.  They could have paralysed us.  They could have warped reality and turned us into animals, or statues, or something.  They could even have placed a couple of armed guards in our room.”  

She sighed.  “Tell me, Professor; why would they let us get away so easily?”

Chapter Thirty: Alien Abduction

Wanderer
Deep Space

The alien ship was creepy, but Commander Jane Hammond was surprised to discover that she was enjoying the long task of escorting the ship to the asteroid base, even though it was boring and possibly dangerous.  Fleet Command had been advised by the Researchers from the Joint Study Group to order them to remain in the launch, but sanity had prevailed; a trip of a week – unless the Abraham Lincoln returned in time – would be hellish inside the launch, with all five of them cooped up in the tiny spacecraft.

“The rockets are all in place,” Commander (second-class) James McPherson informed her, as she donned her spacesuit.  The design was a modified skin-tight suit; it wasn’t a full battlesuit or emergency suit, a concession to the requirements of anyone on the launch.  She rather appreciated it, even though the launch was so small that they had to change within eyesight of one another.

She sighed.  After a week of travel, they were all going to smell so bad that the asteroid’s crew would probably insist on them being fumigated, decontaminated and quarantined under the Code Blue regulations, never mind that they hadn’t been on board the Wanderer without a spacesuit.  McPherson had suggested that it might be possible to pressurize a section of the Wanderer, to improve their exploration capabilities, but the Joint Study Group had vetoed the suggestion in no uncertain terms.

“Good luck, Commander,” McPherson said, opening the inner airlock for her.  Another thing she liked about the skin-tight suits was that they allowed her to move almost normally; she walked into the airlock without the strange jerky waddle that the battlesuits or armoured spacesuits required.  The airlock ran through its cycle…and there she was, standing on the hull of an alien spacecraft.

“I’ve got the wire now,” she said.  One of the first things they’d discovered about the Wanderer was that its hull wasn’t made out of metal, but of something that reassembled ceramic, but was very hard indeed.  From the records that the Joint Study Group had – reluctantly – forwarded to them, a researcher had tried to hammer the Roswell craft with a hammer…and had had to be sent to hospital.  Instead of using magnetic boots, they had had to string wire from the launch to the breach in the hull they used to gain entrance.

She paused to look out at the stars, somewhere towards Jupiter, and then stepped along the hull.  In spite of constant science-fiction novels, the ones written before space flight became common, she was in no real danger of drifting off into space – unless she did something really stupid – but care was programmed into them at the academy.  She pulled herself along until she reached the breach, and then she followed the wire into the corridor.  By now, slipping into the impossible gravity field was old hat; she knew exactly how to do it.

“I’m on board,” she radioed, just to make sure that McPherson knew where she was.  Again, it was probably unnecessary, but it was a safety precaution, just in case.  Dutchmen – a person floating away in space – only happened rarely, but enough had occurred to make the USSF paranoid about the danger.  There were thousands of space-trained workers, to say nothing of the growing number of space-born, and there were never enough for all of the requirements.

“Acknowledged, Commander,” McPherson sent back.  “Have fun.”

Jane laughed briefly.  “Thank you, James,” she said.  “I’m sure that I will.”

She was, too.  The Wanderer represented a fascinating puzzle, a miracle of technical sophistication far beyond even the Abraham Lincoln.  The ship was designed without even the slightest regard for such minor inconveniences as the laws of physics, almost as if one of Hollywood’s dream starships had stepped off the movie screen into reality.

She wandered through the long corridors, all dull and bland, passing the occasional alien body as she walked.  As far as they could tell, the aliens had all died in place, without even a hint of what had killed them.  Humans tended to show signs of injury when pressure was lost and they suddenly found themselves trying to breath vacuum, but the grey aliens showed no signs of injury.

It’s as if they were designed for vacuum, she thought, in a sudden flash of insight.  Some of the more extreme asteroid homesteads were talking about adapting humanity for working in space, tightening the skin and inserting implants that would render a spacesuit unnecessary; had the alien civilisation progressed further along the same path?  Was it even possible that they might have been…bred to work in space?

The thought chilled her and she moved on, passing through corridors into the room that she was certain was the command centre.  Unlike a human bridge, insofar as it was possible to have a bridge on a human spacecraft, it was designed as a circle; the commanding alien – for she was sure that the bigger alien was the commander – sat in the centre, looking down upon his or her crew.

She paused, studying the alien.  The alien seemed to be naked; there were no hints of clothing, all of the aliens were naked…so how did they breed?  There was no penis, no signs of a vagina; did they even have separate sexes at all?  The alien’s face seemed to be mocking her, its dark eyes glittering even in death.  

“What secrets do you hold?”  Jane asked the alien.  It didn’t reply, of course; it was beyond saying anything to anyone.  Its mouth seemed to be half-open, but too small to eat any solid food; what had they eaten?  The Doctor had claimed that the aliens from Roswell had had nothing that passed for a stomach, had this one been eating before it had died?

She activated her radio, relaying on the relay beacons to pass on her call.  “Doctor, did you try to examine the stomach of the big alien?”

“No, Commander,” the Doctor said.  Like all USSF doctors, he’d been given a course in alien physiology, or as much as humanity knew about them, but he had admitted freely that he was hardly an expert.  Few humans were.  “The Study Group insisted that we left the alien bodies as they were.”

“Bastards,” Jane muttered.  There was something tingling at the back of her head; something was behind her!  She spun around, one hand dropping to the space-adapted pistol at her belt…only to see nothing.  The control room was empty, apart from the dead aliens; shaking, she checked them and realised that they were still dead.

“Commander, are you all right?”  McPherson demanded.  Jane realised with a curse that her suit would have sensed her sudden panic.  “Commander?”

“I’m fine,” she said, regretting whatever had happened.  “Sorry, this place was getting to me.”

“You’ve been in there for nearly an hour,” McPherson said.  His voice was concerned, almost pushy, as any good duty officer had to be.  “Do you want to come back to the launch now?”

Jane shook her head.  “No,” she said firmly.  “I’m going to explore a bit longer.”

McPherson said nothing – she did outrank him, after all – but she sensed his concern.  “I’m fine,” she said, more harshly than she had intended.  “Carry on monitoring everyone.”

The communications link cut off.  Alone again, she closed her eyes, regaining her calm.  She opened them again…and found that she was looking directly into the eyes of the dead alien.  Her breath caught in her throat, and then she cursed; she was getting too jumpy on the alien ship.

“Now, let’s see,” she said, addressing the dead alien.  “If I was in your position, I would have the chair facing towards the helm controls, and I would place them forward of everywhere else.”  She stood in front of the alien and looked northwards, towards the Wanderer’s prow.  “If my logic holds true,” she said, examining a console with a dead grey alien in front of it, “that should be the helm.”

She stepped forward and looked closer.  The alien had fallen onto the console, perhaps when the gravity had flickered during the Wanderer’s long stay in deep space.  The console itself seemed to have been made of glass or something similar, which suggested that it was a touch-screen that could be reconfigured at any moment.  She wasn’t sure that she approved; in a combat situation, time would be wasted reconfiguring the most basic controls, or worse, the officer might mess up the orders to the ship’s computers.

Computers, she thought.  “A ship this size will need computers,” she said.  She looked down at the alien thoughtfully.  “Where are yours, I wonder?”  A thought struck her.  “I’m going about this the wrong way, aren’t I?”

She sat down on the Wanderer’s deck and unhooked her portable computer from her belt.  Working with practiced skill, she accessed the chart they’d composed of the Wanderer, all of the ship that they’d been able to explore, from what they’d designated the hanger deck to a room that they suspected had been used as a cargo hold.  The intact Hunter – McPherson had suspected that they would be able to make it operative again with little effort – lurked in the hanger deck, mocking them with its silent presence.

Angrily, she dismissed the thought and returned to her computer.  Parts of the Wanderer, despite its vast size and the advanced technology surrounding it, had been destroyed beyond repair, which meant that the entire ship could be explored.  Thoughtfully, she modified her copy of the chart, marking areas they’d explored, which left…nearly two-thirds of the remaining ship to be explored.

Smiling, she checked her oxygen level…and heard a strange whispering at the back of her mind.  She spun around, drawing her weapon, half-expecting the aliens to be rising to their feet…and saw nothing.  The whispering faded in and out of her mind, before vanishing completely.

“Commander?”  McPherson asked.  She holstered her pistol angrily.  “Your vitals just jumped again…”

“I know,” Jane snapped at him.  “Is someone talking on the radio?”

McPherson’s voice was puzzled.  “No, Commander,” he said.  “There’s only two people on the Wanderer and…”

Jane tuned him out as her eye caught sight of one of the alien consoles.  It had been dead; now there was a blinking light, flickering away on the alien machine.  She felt her blood run cold, but she forced herself forward, bending over to examine the light.  It was creepy – the colour wasn’t one meant for human perceptions – but she could see it somehow.

“There’s a light flickering on one of the alien consoles,” she said, as the pattern of light became more detailed.  “James, call Rodney and ask him to come here and…”

A howl of static swept over the radio, which suddenly lost all of its power.  Jane stared at it in shock – the radio was meant to be indestructible – before realising what else had lost power.  Her computer, her other tools…even the suit’s shielded power supply.  She felt a moment of wild panic, before remembering that the air was supplied through a system that required no power to run.

I have to get back to the launch, she thought, drawing her pistol on instinct.  The gravity flickered suddenly; lights flickered on and off throughout the corridor.  She kept her pistol raised as she moved carefully down the corridor, cursing the Wanderer’s vast size under her breath.  Any human ship could have been covered in minutes; the Wanderer took real time to leave, even with the marked corridors.

A shape moved ahead of her and she sighted her pistol, before recognising Lieutenant Rodney.  He made the sign for ‘lost communication,’ leaning forward so that they could touch helmets.  It looked almost like a very strange kiss; they had to push their faces really close together, just to talk.

“Commander,” Rodney said.  “We’ve been hit by an EMP from somewhere.”

“I know,” Jane said.  “Can you hear the whispering?”

On cue, it swept back, strange voices shouting out made-up words at random.  “Yes,” Rodney said.  She could hear the panic in his voice.  “Commander, what’s happening?”

“We have to get back to the launch,” Jane said, forcing herself to remain calm.  “Do you have your sidearm?”  Rodney nodded.  “Then come on!”

It wasn’t a long walk to the breach in the hull, but it was harder than she had expected.  At one point, the gravity level rose so high that it was an effort to move, at other points it was almost gone, allowing them to bound along like Lunar-born children.  Strange lights flashed along the bulkheads, flickering in and out of her perception; once a strange wave of green light held her mesmerised until Rodney shoved her.

“Thanks,” she signed with her fingers.  He nodded grimly; she wasn’t sure what the ship was doing, but she was confident that it wasn’t good at all; she reached the breach in the hull…and stared.  “My god,” she breathed, for once uncaring that no one could hear; the sight was impossible.

It hung in space next to them, keeping pace with the Wanderer’s long fall through space with ease.  It reassembled the Roswell craft, a larger version of the strange glowing disc that her grandfather had seen, so long ago.  It glowed, emitting strange pulses of light, like massive spotlights moving across the hull of the Wanderer.  

Rodney caught her arm and pointed.  She followed his finger towards the launch, seeing three space-suited figures being dragged away from the launch by seven tiny grey figures.  She felt her mouth drop open; there were no signs of a spacesuit on any of the aliens, they were walking in vacuum as if it was something perfectly normal.  They were somehow attached to the deck of the Wanderer, moving with eerie creepy grace…and then one of them looked at her.

“Back,” she signed, and pushed Rodney backwards.  The greys came on, moving with a speed she wouldn’t have believed, even as they were caught by the Wanderer’s gravity field.  The alien ship seemed to be calming down as the greys entered the ship, moving down the corridor towards the fleeing humans.

Jane forced herself to think.  The second alien ship must have generated the EM pulse that had wrecked their equipment, which meant that they had no way to signal for help.  If the aliens somehow left them alone, there would still be no way to call for help, and within an hour their air would run out.  If they could get back to the launch, they would be fine, except…the aliens held the launch in their little hands.

The whispering returned to her mind as the first of the greys turned the corner.  It was moving calmly; almost as if it knew perfectly well that there was no way that they could escape.  She lifted her weapon and the alien tilted its massive head, its black eyes deep and all-knowing.  She stared; she had no sense of intelligence, or malice, just…unconcern.  Did the alien even know what they were?  Did it even care?

She closed her eyes and let the pistol slip from her grasp.  The USSF had very clear regulations on alien contact; attempt to establish communications, but do not open fire unless fired upon.  Rodney dropped his pistol as well, lifting his hands, as more aliens arrived.  Up close, they looked…dangerous, but there was still no sense of threat.

The lead alien lifted a hand and beckoned.  She realised that they had no choice; she followed it back along the corridors, into the breach in the hull.  She hesitated for a long moment, wondering if it intended for them to jump across to the new alien ship, but a beam of bright blue coherent light gripped them, pulling them away from the Wanderer.  She felt pure fear as she fell towards the source of the light…before realising that it was some form of tractor beam.

She twisted her head inside her suit.  The other aliens were riding the beam as well, seemingly unconcerned about the vastness of space.  She looked ahead as the alien ship grew closer, before they were sucked into its hull and carried into a vast room.  She could see the other crewmen from the launch, wearing their suits, as the aliens beckoned them further into the ship.

She looked around her with interest as a massive airlock slammed shut.  The corridors were made of the same material as the Wanderer’s hull, but they were glowing slightly, emitting just enough light to see by.  The air was thick and heavy, almost smoky; it emitted a strange air of…alienness that was almost overpowering.  Dozens of the small aliens passed them, carrying equipment she didn’t recognise, unconcerned about the effects of the atmosphere on their bodies.

They don’t need to breathe, she realised, as they reached a new room.  The aliens motioned for them to enter; as they entered the air sparked around them.  She recoiled in alarm, before realising that she could just make out a flickering wall of energy in the air.  An alien lifted a hand…and the flickering energy became far more visible, almost a force field.

Now what?  She wondered.  The entire trip had taken upwards of forty minutes, she realised, relaying upon her time sense.  In that case, she would run out of air in half an hour, if not less…and the same went for Rodney.  The others might last longer; the aliens had clearly been able to place them in their suits.

She made her decision and quickly opened her helmet, taking a breath of the alien air.  She saw McPherson’s panic as she exposed herself to the aliens’ mercy, but she tasted the air and realised that it was clean, although a little dry.  She took a long breath, awaiting any funny effects, and motioned for the others to take off their suits as well.

“After so long,” Rodney said.  He poked the force field experimentally; it sparked, but did nothing else.  “After so long, why have they bothered to show up now?”

Jane understood, wishing that there were some way that she could get clean.  “The Wanderer,” she said.  “They took advantage of the war to recover their lost ship.”

McPherson snorted.  “How bloody ironic,” he snapped.  “That fucking ship started the damned war!”

Chapter Thirty-One: Power Does Not Equal Being Responsible

White House Bunker
Washington DC, USA

The President stared down at the text of the report, and then looked up at Fleet Admiral Matt Burghardt.  The image was being relayed through two space stations, which left a slight delay in the conversation, but it was worth it for the chance to talk without either the Soviets or the media listening in.

“The entire alien ship has just vanished,” he said slowly.  “Admiral, just how likely is that to have happened?”

“It has happened,” Burghardt said.  His voice was grim.  “As soon as the Runaway was in Mars orbit – the Soviets never tried to engage the Runaway directly, by the way – the Abraham Lincoln raced back to the Wanderer’s last known location, breaking several speed records, by the way.  The ship wasn’t there at all.  Total elapsed time since the laser link was broken, nine hours.”

The President sighed.  “I don’t understand,” he said.  “How could the Soviets have gotten a ship out there without us noticing?”

“I don’t know,” Burghardt admitted.  “All of their Procyon Drive ships – hell, most of their ships in the Belt – have been accounted for.  None of them were missing long enough to have attacked the Wanderer, and something capable of vaporising the ship would have needed several megatons of explosive force.  We should have been able to see it from Pluto; instead, there was just the break in contact.”

The President nodded slowly.  “I don’t know what we can do about it at the moment,” he said.  “We have a war to fight.”

Burghardt narrowed his eyes.  “Mr President, there are five people wherever that damned alien ship is,” he said.

“I know,” the President said, feeling the weight of his office settling down around him.  “I also know that we have a shooting war in Earth orbit, an ongoing war on the Moon, and the situation across the rest of the Solar System…could be better.  Admiral, I understand your feelings, but we don’t have time!”

“I know,” Burghardt admitted.  “Are you going to call the rest of the members in now?”

“Yes,” the President said.  He’d agreed to have five minutes to have a private talk with Burghardt first; it was time to allow the other War Cabinet members into the conference.  The security computers allowed their computers access to the system, allowing him to see all of them in their offices and bunkers across America and the space stations orbiting Earth.

“All security links checked,” the computer reported finally.  “Encryption in place; no attempts to hack into the lines detected.”

“Thank you,” the President said.  “This meeting of the War Cabinet is now called to orders.”  He smiled suddenly.  “Unless anyone has any serious or relevant objection” – his voice darkened on the last two words – “we are going to skip reading the minutes and roll call, and proceed directly onto business.”

There was a long pause.  “The ground first, then,” the President said.  “General Armchair?”

General Armchair coughed once.  “We have finally computed the causalities from the Soviet ground strikes as standing at roughly two thousand,” he said grimly.  “The damage to some of our facilities for launching rapid reinforcements of the Moon and the orbiting space stations was considerable, although the defence weapons did quite well in intercepting the incoming weapons.  Bottom line, Mr President, is that our supply of troop shuttles has been slashed in half.

“So far, there has been no confirmed report of any of the rumours of Soviet commandos infiltrating,” he continued.  “There have been several shoot-outs between various members of the National Guard and unknowns, but further investigation revealed that most of those shot dead were looters.  Most of our troops remain in their active defence positions, but they’re making good use of the time to train.”

He peered down into the camera.  “Preparations for BROADSWORD are well in hand,” he said.  “I estimate that the basic operation can be launched within a week, perhaps less if the frogs cooperate.”

“They won’t,” the President said shortly.  “The French – and their Western European Union – have declared neutrality in the war.”

“Short-sighted morons,” Doug Freeman, the Secretary of Defence, muttered.  “Don’t they know that they will be the next meal for the Russian bear?”

“It would appear not,” the President said sharply.  “I don’t want a debate on that subject.  Now, what about space?”

Admiral Burghardt spoke calmly; only the undertone revealed how tired he was.  “It’s been two days,” he said.  “In that time, both we and the Soviets threw a great deal of firepower at one another, up to and including the kitchen sink.  Post-battle analysis suggests that the Soviet objective was to destroy the automated laser platforms and the bombardment platforms; few of our space stations took any fire until after the battle was well and truly joined.”

The President felt his lips quirk at the thought of an American space station launching a barrage of kitchen sinks at the enemy.  “I see,” he said.  “So, what is the situation now?”

“Within the first hour of the war, both of us had blown away upwards of ninety percent of the other’s automated platforms,” Burghardt said.  “As you know, there weren’t that many kinetic kill weapons in orbit, apart from the bombardment platforms, and most of what we had were either destroyed in the first minutes of the war or flushed down towards the enemy – use it or lose it.  At the same time, both sides were deploying fighters to suppress the other’s fighters, leading to a massive fighter duel in low orbit.  Eventually, we made the decision to break contact, which resulted in the Soviets doing the same thing, preserving their own fighters rather than challenge the defences of the orbiting stations.

“That left the stations in orbit,” he continued.  “Unfortunately, it was something of the equivalent of a point-blanking spitting match in orbit; neither of us could really hurt the other without using heavy missiles, and of course that would only trigger retaliation.  We lost two stations; one to a lucky hit, and killed three of the Soviet stations.”

He looked around; the President realised that he was sweeping his gaze over the other screens in his office.  “At the moment, the situation is stalemate,” he said.  “We still control enough of space to prevent them reinforcing their forces in orbit, but unfortunately they can do the same to us.  They lased a cable car carrying troops, warning us – I think – not to attempt to use them without risking attacks on the cables.  They also shot down a troop shuttle with a laser buoy that we had erroneously classified as dead.”

The President nodded grimly.  “What about the rest of the Solar System?”

Burghardt scowled.  “Venus was attacked almost at once in a direct attack,” he said.  “After a two hour battle, the commander of our base there asked for terms; at last contact, the Soviets had promised to treat their prisoners as they would be under the Geneva Convention.  Mars, so far, has avoided a serious fight; we think that the attack on the Abraham Lincoln was an attempt to take the vital ship out of the battle.  That won’t last, however; there is simply too much firepower in Mars orbit for everything to remain peaceful.”

He scowled.  “Incidentally, we now know that some of the attempts to predict what a fight between two Procyon Drive ships would be like were wrong,” he said.  “The two ships fought, but they lacked the ability to destroy one another.”

The President shrugged.  “That’s a matter for another time,” he said.  “And the asteroids?”

“There have been a handful of clashes, mainly our ships exchanging long-range fire with their ships, and some miners moving into Soviet territory,” Burghardt said grimly.  “A handful of miners are under arrest; apparently they had a long grudge with a particularly hostile Soviet mining group and when the war began they went off and attacked them, blasting open their habitat to space.”

“They’re going to be regarded as heroes when Senator Chapman hears of them,” the Political Advisor said grimly.  “It might be a good idea to keep them very under wraps.”

“It’s being done,” Burghardt said.  “Outside the inner solar system, there’s been no serious incidents, but it won’t be long before something blows, somewhere.”

The President steepled his fingers and stared directly into the camera.  “What now?”  He asked.  “What are our aims in the war?”

He was inviting discussion.  The Secretary of State, Chris Thompson, spoke first.  “We want to make sure that the sneak attack cannot be repeated,” he said.  “We want to make sure that the issues in the outer solar system are settled to our satisfaction.  We want recompense for the attack and some explanation of why it was launched.”

“And past that?”  General Armchair asked dryly.  “We should be trying to make sure that they get more than a slap on the wrist.”

The President waited while they argued, listening without saying anything at all.  “If we seek to…say, lock them out of space, they will have no motive to stand down and surrender,” Thompson said.  “If we back them into a corner, they will only fight harder.”

The Secretary of the Treasury, Darla Brennen, nodded in agreement.  “Economically, locking the Soviets out of space would utterly ruin them,” she said.  “If we try to do that, we can expect them to fight to the last, just to prevent us from crushing them utterly.”

The President spoke into sudden silence.  “What effect is the war having on our economy?”

Darla hesitated, and then unfurled a complex series of charts.  “It’s hard to be sure,” she said.  “Part of the problem is that we are literally in uncharted territory here; the last time we had a full mobilisation was in 1960, which was before everything became so interconnected.  The war itself adds to the problem; entire sections of the economy might be destroyed at any moment.  Worst of all, entire sections of the workforce have gone to join the army or the other military forces, which means that parts of the economy might collapse at any moment.”

She scowled.  “To add to the problem,” she continued, “we are dependent upon transhipment of metals from the asteroids and supplies from the industrial stations in orbit.  The Soviets will, I think, interdict our shipping lanes, which will cut entire units out of most production lines on Earth itself, to say nothing of not getting the metals we need.  It’s not quite as bad as saying that we cannot build…a single extra tank, but it is pretty grim.

“I have my office looking at contingency plans now,” she concluded.  “Given a couple of months to prepare, the crisis could have been handled; for once, the government is running a surplus in resources and money.  It won’t last, however; if we make a shift over to a total war economy, we will lose financial stability very quickly, and then there will be runaway inflation.”

Thompson sucked in his breath.  “You mean, like the Great Depression?”

“It could quite easily be worse,” Darla said.  Her dark face darkened still further.  “We have a great deal of confidence invested in the government.  If people start thinking that their dollars will start to decline in value, they will panic, which will make the crisis worse.  If everyone made the right decisions, then we would be fine…but people have a habit of trying to make the decision that is best for them, rather than the one that is good for society as a whole.”

“It don’t think that it will be a total disaster,” the Secretary of the Interior remarked.  The President felt his eyes narrow; Robin Brooks was a somewhat supercilious man with a fine nose, just perfect for looking down at people.  “We have all of the ration cards issued, my dear; we can feed everyone better than Roosevelt could ever have hoped to feed them.”

Darla glared at him.  “Can we pay the farmers?”  She asked.  “What about the distributors?  We may have massive stocks of MREs for people, but they will run out if we attempt to feed the entire population.  At worst, we will face rebellion from the farmers…if the war goes on for too long.”

“And yet the Soviets are refusing to talk to us,” the President said.  “Their economy seems to be handling the war just fine.”

Darla snorted.  “They have a command economy dating from 1930,” she said.  “They’re used to this sort of thing; we are not.  For all the power in the hands of the government since Roswell, there are still limits on the power of the government, limits that everyone knows, deep down inside.  This crisis depends, as much as anything else, on perceptions; if the farmers feel badly off, they might…just say no.”

The President sighed.  “Then we need to end the war,” he said.  “Options?”

Thompson spoke first.  “We could ask the British to get involved,” he said.  “Their defence network remains intact…”

“They won’t,” Brooks pointed out.  “Their network is still smaller than ours or the Soviets.  They might be intact, but the Soviets would still be able to hurt them.  Besides, they’re a commonwealth, which means collective action, and neither Australia nor South Africa is keen on us these days.”

“There are two military options,” Burghardt said, his tone reluctant.  “One of them provides an opportunity for a strategic victory.  One provides a possible way to gain bargaining chips.”

“They’re not talking to us,” Thompson said.  “There may have been some tactical agreements, but no contact from the General Secretary to the President.  Hell, General Secretary Andropov may no longer be in charge over there.”

“Then it’s important that we force whoever is in charge over there to their senses,” the President said.  “What are our options?”

Burghardt spoke firmly, confidently; his tone hard and flat.  “The first option is simple; the Soviets have been concentrating their asteroid-based ships at Lenin Base, which is their major base in the asteroids.  It’s quite a big target; we could attack it, either attempting to force it to surrender or to literally destroy it.  We gather the ships we have at Ceres, reinforce them with the Lincoln, and just go shoot the shit out of Lenin Base.”

He paused for effect.  “Once that base has fallen, the Soviets will not have the ability to support whatever ships remain in the asteroids,” he said.  “They were always more reluctant than we were to make asteroids habitable; the ones they do have won’t be able to supply the fleet.  We could capture them all fairly quickly; hell, some of them will be quite willing to join us.  That, Mr President, is option one.”

The President took a breath.  “And option two?”

“Mars,” Burghardt said.  “In the event of hostilities breaking out there, we send the fleet to Mars, blow the Soviet defenders away and take the planet.  We have enough troops in Wells to take the Soviet facilities once their space forces are destroyed, which means that they will suddenly lose their much-prized Mars SSR.  Better still, they have a large percentage of their fleet heading to Mars…but we can beat them there.  If we get there and prepared, we can clobber their second fleet, which will give us a significant advantage.”

“They would almost have to sue for peace,” Brooks injected.

“Option one offers limited gains at limited risk,” Burghardt said, ignoring Brooks.  “Option two offers victory – if we win.  It would be chancier; they would have the Gorky and the fixed defences on Mars itself.  If the battle stalemated, like it did at Earth, then their ships would have a good chance at beating us or forcing us to withdraw.  If that happens…well, we would be in a very bad position indeed.”

We’ll lose, the President interpreted silently.  “There are no other options?”

“There’s BROADSWORD,” General Armchair said.  “It would be tricky without command of space, but it could be done.”

“It would be far too risky at the moment,” the President said.  He held up a hand.  “Yes, I know that the damned Committee for the Conduct of the War thought that it was brilliant; none of them have ever fought in battle.  There are too many risks involved for me to agree to it in good conscience.”

“Yes, Mr President,” General Armchair said, looking subdued.

The President looked up at Burghardt’s screen.  “I think that we had better go with option one,” he said.  He knew that staking everything on a single gamble was crazy, under the circumstances; the Russians clearly meant them harm.  “Will you make the arrangements?”

“Yes, sir,” Burghardt said.  “Mr President, the asteroid manufactories are also starting to turn out the new weapons now.  If we wait a week, we might be able to use some real surprises on the Soviets.”

The President considered…and then nodded.  “That would be fine,” he said.  “I think that we can afford a week.  One point, afterwards; would we be able to move on to option two?”

Burghardt hesitated.  “Perhaps,” he said.  “It depends on what happens when the Soviet forces reach Mars.  They might keep the uneasy truce, or they might open fire and then…well, we might well lose at Mars without the forces at Ceres.”  He paused.  “It’s a political decision, Mr President; we might be better advised to move the ships from Mars, except that would be sure to tempt the Soviets to try something.”

“I wanted this job,” the President said, reminding himself of an unpalatable fact.  When he’d accepted the nomination he’d worked so hard to gain, he hadn’t really considered some of the costs of being President.  “What was I thinking?”

No one tried to say anything, funny or cutting.  The President silently blessed them.  “Admiral, activate option one, for the launch date in a week,” he ordered.  “May God have mercy on us all.”

Chapter Thirty-Two: Shades of the Enemy

Washington DC
USA

Sally’s face was pale and worried as she spoke.  “It makes no sense at all to let us go,” she said.  “Why?  We’re too dangerous to have hanging around.  The only reason I can think of to let us go is a bad one, one that gives them the advantage.”

Thande scowled.  “Or perhaps the plan is so far advanced that they know there’s nothing we can do,” he said.

“You heard the bitch,” Sally said.  “They wanted us, Time Agents; people who could give them useful intelligence.  Why lose that?”  She sighed.  “The only reason I can think of is simple; they want the Turtledove.”

Thande stared at her.  “But how?”  He asked.  “We can just open one of the Portals and step through onto the ship.”

Sally nodded grimly.  “And they’ll be trying to track us back to the Turtledove’s location within the Vale,” she said.  “It’s somewhere within the Vale, in a spot that corresponds to this Earth, within this timeline, and if they can find it, then…”

Thande finished the line.  “They can attack it, or capture it,” he said.  “If they do that, then they might find a more important base and then destroy that too.”

“I know,” Sally said.  “There’s no longer any point in being subtle; we have to do something about the Enemy presence here and then find a way of breaking the tracking system on us.”

Thande smiled.  “We know where their base is here,” he said.  “Can’t we just ask my counterpart to whistle up a force to raid it?”

“There wouldn’t be a point,” Sally said.  “By now, they’ll have moved the Portal to their pocket dimension.  They’ll have other properties within Washington, ones unrelated to the warehouse we fled.”  She closed her eyes in thought.  “We have to convince the government here to act against the Hive.”

Thande smiled.  “You’re going to get off your butt and do something?”

Sally nodded.  Her face was grim and determined.  “There’s no longer any point in keeping a low profile,” she said.  “The Enemy clearly has enough influence here to be capable of tracking us down, given time, although they may have some problems with you.”  Her eyes lit upon the entrance to a park.  “In there, Professor.”

Thande followed her into a shady place, the sunlight looking almost green as it blazed down on them.  It was so quiet and peaceful that it was hard to believe that there was in fact a war on, if indeed there was one.  Snow could have lied about that…but there was the nagging question of who had really started the war.  

Winners always write the history books, Thande thought coldly, as Sally checked around to make sure that they were not being observed.  In this war, however, the loser gets to rewrite them, and then the new loser gets to write more, and then…

Sally’s hand twisted as she reached into the weapons locker.  “We can still access it,” she said, with some relief.  “I was worried that they might have tried to break the link to the locker, but they clearly didn’t know that it existed.”

Thande nodded as her hand came back, holding a weapon he didn’t recognise.  “I think we’d better get rid of those handcuffs first,” Sally said, taking his hand.  A beam of ruby-red light sliced through the handcuffs dangling from his left hand, and then his right hand, removing both of them.  “Now you look less like an escaped criminal.”

Thande took the weapon without comment, impressed by the lack of recoil as he used it to free Sally from the dangling handcuffs.  “If these things can be made here,” he asked, “why don’t they use them that often?”

“Too prone to breaking down or running out of power in combat,” Sally said shortly.  “Lasers only entered major military use in 2024 in what would have been your timeline, and then they were more of the directed energy variety, rather than a real laser.”  She paused.  “Well, that, and the enemy started to use mirror shields and a host of other clever tricks.”

She chuckled, before retrieving more items from the locker.  “I think we’d better change as well,” she said, practically.  Thande took the spare outfit without comment, undressing rapidly and changing into the simple suit.  She passed him a sheet of paper and a pen as soon as he had finished.  “Write a quick report on that while I change.”

“Yes, boss,” Thande said, writing quickly and concisely.  He briefly outlined what had happened since they had entered the timeline, and then detailed their encounter with the Enemy agents and what Sally suspected had been done to them.  “What now?”

Sally sat up, wearing a decent brown skirt and yellow shirt.  She looked stunning.  “I add a little more, and then we put it in the weapons locker,” Sally said.  “It’s a pocket dimension, so they won’t be able to see inside, but the Turtledove crew will check it every so often, and then they’ll come find us.”

She took the paper and wrote quickly, and then returned it to the weapons locker, withdrawing two wallets of money and two simple side arms.  “Carry this,” she said.  Thande took one of the weapons, examining it thoughtfully.  It didn’t look as if it had been created by an energy field moving little particles around to build the weapon, rather than normal human hands.  “Now, I think it’s time we went and found something to eat.”

Thande chuckled.  “Another café?”

Sally nodded.  “Cafes are good places in most timelines,” she said.  “Except, of course, in Paris in a timeline where the French ended up conquering most of the world in 1940.”

Thande stared at her.  “You are kidding, right?”

“Not a bit of it,” Sally said.  “Napoleon III was lucky enough to have a General who also had a mania for railroads.  Thanks to that, they defeated Prussia in 1870, pretty much ended up ruling Europe, and developed North Africa into a powerful base for further expansion.  In 1920, they marched into the Middle East, developing tanks along the way, and ended up invading British India through the Persian door.  Britain collapsed; Russia fell in 1930 to a revolt that the French took advantage of…the only place they failed was in Mexico; the power of the United States was too strong for them to overcome.”

She frowned.  “Unfortunately, Napoleon XI is a right nutter,” she said.  “These days – I mean during the time I visited – you can’t have a conversation in Paris without being taken for a suspected revolutionary and being locked up under the Seine.”

Thande shook his head in awe.  “All the things you must have seen,” he said.  “I think I envy you.”

***
The café they found was a neat little British café, serving what it claimed was food from ‘Ye Oldie England.’  Thande examined the menu dubiously; haggis was a Scottish dish and he was fairly certain that his version of Britain had never developed a yen for hamburgers the size of dinner plates.  The café was almost empty, so they were able to have a proper meal without being interrupted by anyone.

“All right, that might not have been exactly English, but it was good,” Thande said, after finishing a hamburger.  It had been the kind that cows want to grow up to become; rich, meaty and perfectly cooked.  The chips had been a delight – no packet chips here – and the coleslaw had been surprisingly good.

Sally nodded, finishing her fish and chips.  She’d ordered the large portion and had devoured it all, to Thande’s well-concealed amazement.  Sally showed no indications that she was worried about her weight, or anything else; she just ate and ate.  The last of her chips vanished into her mouth before she spoke.

“I think that we’d better make formal contact with the American President here,” she said, reaching out for one of the newspapers the café manager had been more than willing to give them.  “Thoughts?”

Thande scowled.  He’d read the newspaper and it seemed as if the news was grim; the war was quite definitely on.  According to the newspaper, which waxed lyrical on Russian atrocities, the battle in space was proceeding well; the Russians had suffered heavy losses.  It said nothing about American losses, which Thande took as a bad sign; if America had lost nothing, they would have gloated about it at length.

“We could always ask my counterpart,” he said.  “He should have informed the President about us anyway.”

Sally lifted an eyebrow.  “And he didn’t?”  She asked.  “How like you he is.”

There was something in her voice that Thande chose to ignore.  “We have to talk to the President…unless he’s the one the Enemy have influenced.”

“I doubt it,” Sally said.  “The Enemy, like us, is not keen on placing their people into public view.  It’ll be some backbencher somewhere, a member of the President’s retinue, or someone like that.”

Thande nodded.  “In that case, the best person to ask remains my counterpart,” he said.  “He was bragging about how much access he had, when we were arguing over who had had the most successful career.  Besides, Sally; do you have a better plan?”

“If we could access the Turtledove, we could step out into his dressing room,” Sally said grimly.  “Without that, how can we simply…just walk up to the White House and demand access to the President?”

“We can’t,” Thande said.  “We’d be lucky if they just locked us up for the…duration of hostilities.”

“I know,” Sally said.  She sipped the coffee that the café manager had brought them personally.  “It seems that your counterpart is the only card we have left to play.”

Thande grinned.  “Then come on,” he said, standing up.  “Time and tide wait for no man.”

“That’s the problem with time travel,” Sally said.  Her tone was droll.  “There are times when both of them do.”

***
Professor Neilson was having a bad day, largely because of Professor Anderson’s insistence that he come all the way out from the centre of the Joint Studies Group to Washington to brief him on the missing alien ship.  Inventor of the Procyon Drive or not, the only man who had managed to describe in more than mathematical terms how the drive worked, surely even Professor Anderson didn’t deserve the insane degree of subservience that everyone seemed to give him.

“I have matters to attend to in Washington,” Anderson explained, stroking his goatee.  “The President, God bless him, wants an alien expert nearby.  Do you know, for instance, that he wanted me to analyse the results of the first battle between ships equipped with my drive?”

Neilson shook his head.  He was dreading the moment when he had to explain to Anderson that the long-awaited second alien ship had simply...vanished.  Professor Anderson was known for having a volatile temper, one that exploded at the slightest sign of things not going exactly the way he wanted them to go.

“It was obvious,” Anderson continued, “that neither the Lincoln – a ship that I take a certain amount of propriety interest in – nor the Maxim Gorky, whose launch I was honoured to attend, could prevail without an idiot at the helm.  Both ships can move in ways that their weapons were not even programmed to counter, let alone have any realistic hope of actually dealing with them.”

Neilson tried to interrupt.  Anderson spoke over him.  “What was the point,” he asked, “of arming either of the ships with weapons that the other could outrun, or outmanoeuvre, with ease?  There wasn’t one; barring one ship managing to hit the other with a sustained laser burst, it was impossible for either of them to even have a hope of scoring a hit.  All of the post-battle analysis they conducted missed that point; neither ship had an idiot for a captain.”

“Yes, Professor,” Neilson said.  “We have a problem.”

Anderson quirked an eyebrow.  “Really?”  He asked.  “We have a war on.  What’s the problem with that, eh?”

Neilson could tell that he was being mocked and he didn’t like it.  “The Wanderer has vanished,” he said.  “The entire ship, along with its prize crew, have vanished.”

Anderson stared at him.  “The entire ship…those idiots tried to turn on its drive,” he snapped.  His voice darkened.  “We told them not to do that!”

Neilson blinked at the rage in his voice.  “They would have obeyed orders, I’m sure,” he said.  “There was nothing there, not even a cloud of expanding wreckage.”

“Bah,” Anderson snapped.  “What do soldiers know of following orders?”

“Everything,” Neilson said, nettled.  He’d served several terms in the National Guard.  “What makes you think that they tried to turn on the ship’s drive?  Do you think that it went faster than light?”

Anderson seemed amused by the question, his anger flaring under the surface.  “In the math behind the Procyon Drive, there are some very real implications for what would happen if the drive destabilised radically,” he said.  “Have you not read my papers on the subject?”

“I have always been more interested in the alien bodies,” Neilson confessed, feeling ignorant.  It wasn’t a feeling he liked.  “What are the implications?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Anderson said, attempting a light tone.  “Just that a destabilised drive will literally crush a ship down to nothing, given half a chance to try.”

Neilson stared at him.  “And you didn’t think to mention that?”  He demanded.  “I would have thought that something like that would be rather…important, don’t you?  It’s only something that threatens the lives of everyone who might happen to use one of the drives, be they American or Russian or even…”

Anderson sighed, cutting off Neilson’s rant.  “That is why I insisted on building all sorts of cut-outs and other systems into the first drives we produced,” he said.  His tone was mockingly patient, as if he were talking down to a child.  “It may impose a larger power requirement for the drive, my good man, but it does ensure that flight is safe.  Well, safer.  Those idiots probably tried to activate the drive, without having the power needed to generate a proper field, so instead the field collapsed and took the ship with it.”

Neilson reeled.  “And the launch?”  He asked.  “It disappeared along with the ship.”

“It was attached to the ship,” Anderson pointed out dryly.  “It would have gone with it into non-existence.  Bastards!  How dare they ruin my ship?”

There was a sudden knocking at the door.  Neilson stood, but Anderson waved him down; the security officers would get it.  Neilson didn’t even know why Anderson lived in his private house, instead of a safe house or one of the secure compounds for the Joint Studies Group.  There was a sudden commotion, and then Agent Michelangelo shouted for Anderson.

“It’s you,” Anderson exclaimed, sticking his head out of the door.  His voice certainly seemed pleased, as if long-dead relatives had come back to life.  “My goodness; what’s happened to you?”

Neilson stood up as two people entered, with a glaring disregard for security.  One was a young woman; pretty, but apparently vague.  The second…he found himself staring at the newcomer, then at Anderson, and then back at the newcomer.

“This is my counterpart from an alternate world,” Anderson said calmly.  His voice betrayed little concern, just amusement and surprise.  “Thande, I thought that you were both dead, or in Russia.”

Neilson found his voice after struggling with his astonishment.  Anderson could have introduced the newcomers as clones and it would have been less surprising, but people from an alternate world?  Impossible.  

“These…people are known to you?”  He asked, suddenly feeling on firmer ground.  Perhaps Anderson could be tamed, or humiliated, after all.  “Professor, you have gone too far this time.  Who are these people and why is he looking like you?”

“What bad grammar,” Anderson remarked.  His tone was vaguely mocking; Neilson flushed with rage.  “Don’t you see, Neilson; that man is me!”

“We’re from an alternate timeline,” the duplicate – Thande – said.  “Tom, we don’t have time; your world is about to be attacked by aliens.”

Neilson stared at him.  He seemed to have many of Anderson’s qualities, but a very different personality.  “Aliens?”  He asked.  “But the Wanderer has disappeared…”

“They made a mistake with the drive,” Anderson injected.  He sounded very certain.  “The idiots crushed the ship down to nothing.”

“No, they didn’t,” the girl said.  Her voice was barely under control.  “Professor Anderson…ah?”

“Professor Neilson,” Neilson said.  He held out a hand.  “And you are?”

“Sally Woods,” Sally said, shaking his hand firmly.  Her grip was firm and stronger than he would have expected from someone with her build.  “As you may have realised, Professor Neilson, we have information that it is vitally important that your President sees at once.”

Anderson coughed.  “There is a war on,” he said, sounding oddly timorous.  Neilson remembered that he had once barged into a senior ISA security meeting.  “Just how important is your information?”

Thande gave his counterpart a disappointed look.  Neilson shivered; in some ways, both of them were very much alike…and then he wondered why that had surprised him.  They were the same person, more or less; surely they would have similar attitudes…except there was just enough familiar in Thande – from Anderson – that it was disconcerting.  The same face, the same mannerisms…and some slight glancing differences.

“There is an alien force massing on the edge of your solar system,” Thande said.  His tone was just like his counterpart’s tone.  “It has been watching you for a long time.  It now knows that its hand has been forced; when you found the Wanderer, you could hardly have failed to deduce that they were still out there somewhere.”

He took a breath.  “That force is far more powerful than your worst nightmares,” he said.  “If you do not stop this war you’re fighting and unite…you’re dead.  Your family is dead.  Your nation is dead.  The world, the entire world…is dead.”

Chapter Thirty-Three: Star Wars

Near Lenin Base
Asteroid Belt, Deep Space

Cold logic told Captain John Howard that there was no way that the Soviets could have destroyed or captured the Wanderer.  The ship had been well away from any known Soviet ships; any attempting to make rendezvous with the alien ship would have had to burn their drives hard enough to be visible all across the Solar System.  The CIA, a private report had informed him, had quietly investigated rumours that there was a fourth Soviet Procyon Drive vessel…and come up blank.

A stealth missile, despite all of the treaties forbidding their deployment, might have been able to hit the Wanderer, although he doubted it; the burn would still have been visible.  Even if the Soviets had managed it, there would have been debris; a blast that would have been picked up on sensors from Earth to Pluto.  Somehow, the Wanderer had vanished without trace…and he didn’t like it.

He’d read the classified briefing paper from Professor Anderson, suggesting that Jane and her crew might have accidentally triggered the Wanderer’s drive and killed themselves, but he didn’t believe it.  In the middle of World War Three – Solar War One, as the wags were already calling it – there was little time for a formal Board of Inquiry, but he’d already registered his opposition to the suggestion; Jane had been many things, but she wasn’t stupid enough to have attempted to use any of the Wanderer’s systems.

His gaze alit upon the display and he scowled, feeling tense.  Abraham Lincoln, after a quick search of the Wanderer’s last known position, had been summoned to Ceres Base, where the ship had been equipped with a handful of new weapons.  Many of them had been banned from active deployment under various treaties, but then…so had the war.  Once armed, the Lincoln had been dispatched on a course that would have taken it back to Earth…and then on a dogleg around in deep space, heading directly for Lenin Base.

“I assume that there hasn’t been a change,” he said, watching the display.  They’d lurked outside the Russian base, just far enough away that they wouldn’t be detected accidentally, watching carefully for activity.  Every hour, they squirted a laser pulse towards Admiral Westmoreland’s position, receiving tiny replies in return.  

“No, sir,” Lieutenant Singh said.  The Lincoln had received new crewmembers from other ships, replacing the losses, but he’d kept most of his bridge crew.  He missed Jane’s presence; it was so hard to know who he could trust with his ship during the rare moments that he was spending in his cabin.

Singh pointed towards a display.  “There have been no changes at all,” he said.  “They’re still cannoning up those ore freighters; the ones from the mines, but no major change.”

“They must be preparing something,” Howard muttered, glaring at the tiny light icons.  The Soviets were pulsing out radar pulses, which suggested that they had given up any hope of evading detection…although, to be fair, they could hardly have shifted Lenin Base anywhere else.  The massive asteroid was so large that it would have taken hundreds of fusion drives years to move it…and hundreds more to slow it down afterwards.  “Those ships might make weapons platforms.”

Singh shrugged.  The Soviets had followed a very different pattern than the Americans in mining the skies and the asteroid belt; they relied on massive ships and large crews, rather than the more individualistic Americans.  Their miners were massive ships, with large crews; they might be able to carry more weapons, but they would be easy targets, unlike the fighter-like American mining crews.  There were reports from all around the belt of miners attacking Russian miners and defeating them.

“Not particularly good ones, sir,” Singh said.  “I think they’re mustering their strength.”

Howard nodded.  “Lieutenant Malady, what’s the latest from Admiral Westmoreland?”

“The fleet is preparing to set off,” Lieutenant Malady said.  “In the event of the Russians changing their positions we’re to inform them, otherwise we’re to stay silent.”

Howard smiled.  Without the need for a betraying fusion drive, Lincoln could lurk far closer to the Russians without any danger of being seen.  The Russians would have to prepare for the danger of being spied on, of course, but the Lincoln radiated far less energy than any other craft.  

“Keep us in our position,” he ordered.  Without the drive active, Lincoln was almost stationary, relative to Lenin Base.  “Inform me if anything changes.”

He closed his eyes and thought rapidly.  The Gorky had tried to kill them and failed…and his ship hadn’t been able to kill the Russian ship.  It made sense, of course; the Russian ship had roughly the same capabilities as the Lincoln, but it was aggravating.  They needed more energy weapons, not missiles; ones that packed more punch than lasers did.

“We just got the update from Admiral Westmoreland,” Lieutenant Malady reported.  “The fleet has departed Ceres; it will be in position to attack the enemy within five hours.”

Five hours, Howard thought, and shook his head.  At full speed, it wouldn’t take the Lincoln long at all to reach Ceres from its current position.  “The days of fusion ships are over,” he said.  “Once this war is over, the entire fleet can be converted…and then the stars will be ours.”

***
Admiral Vaskov had been diverted from Mars to replace the former admiral, who had taken ill just before the Wanderer had been discovered.  Captain Fursenko, commanding officer of the Stalingrad, had already discovered that Vaskov might be a stubborn man, but he knew his job.  He’d also taken Commissioner Pachinko off his hands, which was something of a relief.  

“Comrade,” Vaskov said.  “I assume that you read the latest brief?”

Fursenko hesitated.  He had read it – hardly anyone in the Asteroid Fleet hadn’t read it – but it was still technically an offence, even though the document was declassified.  “Yes,” he admitted finally, when Vaskov started to look impatient.  “The Americans are pushing hard against us in the asteroids.”

“Just as we are pushing against them in and on Venus,” Vaskov said.  “They will be coming here soon, Captain; we will have to stop them.”

Fursenko considered.  Vaskov had already demonstrated that he didn’t mind his subordinates showing a little initiative, even though it was hardly encouraged within the Red Space Force.  The problem was acute; the Americans had more ships than they did, and they had their damned miners to back them up.  Hell, one reading of the brief had all, but implied that American miners – capitalists, of course, not the workers – had started the war.

“It will be difficult,” he said, non-committal.  There were some things that a junior could never say to a senior, including the basic fact that the Americans were bound to have more firepower when they came than the defenders would.  “We will prosper and survive, however.”

Vaskov’s eyes flicked into the ‘Commissioner’s Watch,’ a motion that indicated the presence of the two commissioners in the office.  Expressing doubt, for example, couldn’t be done in front of a commissioner – and they were required by law to be present at all strategy discussions.

“I don’t doubt it,” Vaskov said.  His voice was dry, but with some concern hidden under it.  “However, we have certain responsibilities, so we will handle them.  The first issue of concern is the storage of the vital minerals that we collected from the miners.”

“If the Americans come, they may try to destroy them or take them,” Fursenko warned.  “They’re floating out in space, away from everywhere else.”

Vaskov nodded in agreement.  The Soviet Union had been reluctant to place more than a bare minimum of industry out on the belt, let alone on the colonies outside the asteroids.  Officially, it was intended to prevent an alien attack from destroying it…but Fursenko knew perfectly well that it was to prevent a rebellion.  

“We will have to launch it towards Earth,” Vaskov said.  Fursenko was impressed…and not a little worried; out in deep space the Americans could intercept it with ease.  “Yes, it will be…tricky” – they shared a wry look – “but we can handle it…and the Americans won’t be able to intercept it if we punch it up really fast.”

Fursenko opened his mouth; Vaskov talked over him.  “If we take the fusion drives we were using here and strap them on to the asteroid-miner capsules, we can really force them forwards,” the admiral said.  “I’d like to see them try to intercept that.”

Fursenko had to smile.  The plan would be political suicide – with inevitably fatal consequences for the admiral – if it failed, but it had class.  It was the sort of mad scheme that Comrade Stalin – may he rest in peace – would have approved of, even though it could go very wrong.  

“We’ll affix some rockets to start the long process of slowing it down,” Vaskov continued, his eyes alight with enthusiasm.  “There won’t be any real hurry.  Alternatively, we can rig up a nuclear bomb and detonate it if the Americans somehow do manage to intercept it, or something else goes wrong.”

“Yes, Comrade Admiral,” Fursenko said, feeling genuine admiration.  An alarm rang.  “Admiral?”

Vaskov lifted the internal phone and listened.  “The Americans are finally on their way,” he said.  “How lazy of them; I was expecting them hours ago.”

Fursenko chuckled weakly.  It might have been bravado, but it was exactly what he needed to hear.  “Get the men working on fitting the drives to the asteroid rock,” Vaskov ordered, and then get back to the Stalingrad.  I will command the engagement from here.”

***
The cruiser Independence cut its fusion drive as it reached the edge of inner-Russian space, which in a more peaceful time would have been forbidden to non-Russian ships.  In its CIC, Admiral Westmoreland issued orders for the final engagement, before turning to examine the latest feed from the Abraham Lincoln.  The Soviets would have had to have been blind to have missed them coming – the entire system would have seen them – but they weren’t coming out to meet the Americans in deep space.

“That’s odd,” he muttered, as he examined the chart.  The American ships were flying in towards Lenin Base; the Russians could have built up the velocity to fly through the American ships and fire at them in a brief engagement which, although short, would have given them their best chance at actually hitting the American ships hard enough to make them hurt.  Instead…

“They’re still remaining in their position near Lenin Base,” Captain Haddock reported.  “Admiral, that makes no sense.”

“I know,” Westmoreland snapped.  The Russians might have been hoping to have been able to take several shots at the Americans if they continued in towards Lenin Base, or flipped over for a zero-zero intercept, but that would have been stupid.  The Red Space Force, like the USSF, might have its fair share of fools, but few of them reached high office.

At least, not where they can harm their men, Westmoreland thought, with all of the experience of years in command rank.  They could hardly have been expecting him to crash into an asteroid; the entire USSF – and the Red Space Force – could have flown in formation through the so-called asteroid ‘belt’ without hitting anything, even a tiny hunk of space rock.  

“Activate AWACS,” he said.  There was little point in trying to be sneaky, not when the Russians had had all the time in the world to calculate his course; they would lose nothing by using a radar pulse.  “I want a total radar sweep.”

“Aye, sir,” Captain Haddock said.  The AWACS-class ships, named for an aircraft that had become obsolete five years after the Americans had designed it, were little, but massive flying radar systems.  They were also large targets, which was one reason why they were never deployed without corvettes being deployed to add their point defence to cover the AWACS.

Westmoreland took a breath and waited.  He’d wondered if the Russians had somehow mined the space around Lenin Base with asteroid rock, but it would have still been an impossibly difficult task.  The radar pulses swept out…and came back, revealing a force of small objects scattered around the Russian base.

“Missile separation,” Commander Higgins snapped, over the intercom.  “Seven Russian missiles, launched directly from the base.”

Westmoreland nodded.  He’d expected as much; the Russians had taken a massive asteroid and dug deep into it, outfitting the massive base with dozens of missiles and missile launchers.  The Russians believed firmly in force protection; the missiles, which he saw now were heavy-burn missiles, were aimed directly at the AWACS.

“I believe in force protection too,” he muttered.  “Order the corvettes to fire on the incoming missiles.  Tactical, any identification on those Russian objects yet?”

“None, sir,” Captain Haddock said.  “I think they’re mines.”

Bomb-pumped lasers, Westmoreland thought.  “Clear the point forces to engage,” he ordered.  “I want those weapons taken down before we get anywhere near them.”

***
“Not too bad, Americans,” Fursenko muttered, from his command seat on board the Stalingrad.  He’d known – rather, Admiral Vaskov had known – that the Americans would suspect a trap of some kind…and he’d gone to some lengths to build the Americans a fake trap for them to see.  At the moment, Fursenko was convinced, the American commander was probably congratulating himself upon his cleverness…rather than looking for the second trap.

“Bring up our drives,” he said.  He wasn’t happy – and Commissioner Pachinko had been even less happy – over the second part of the plan, but orders were orders, particularly when an Admiral had issued them.  “Take us out.”

“Yes, Captain,” Lieutenant Trutnev said.  “Taking us out in five seconds.”

Fursenko nodded.  The problem was that Lenin Base was a stationary target; it might have been armed to the teeth and covered in enough rock to build an dozen mountains like Mount Everest, but it was forced to remain in the same orbit that it had always occupied.  The Americans, he could tell from their flight plan, had intended to fly in, launch a few missiles, and then come around to finish the job.  Hitting Lenin Base would hardly be a problem for them; even a blind man with two broken arms could have hit the base.

Admiral Vaskov had followed that line of logic and added another stage.  If the Americans wanted to claim this region of the belt permanently, they would have to take out Lenin Base itself.  It wasn’t a task that their miners could have done; it would have to fall on the might of the USSF.  The Americans would have to come to Lenin Base; they had no choice.

“I have a communications message for you, sir,” the communications officer said.  “Sir, it’s the Admiral.”

“Captain, have your ships thrusting away now,” Admiral Vaskov ordered.  “You want to make it look as if you are running like rabbits, understood?”

Fursenko nodded grimly.  “Understood, sir,” he said.  “Are you sure…?”

“Yes,” Vaskov said firmly.  “I want your ships out of here, now!”

Fursenko issued his orders as the line closed.  The Stalingrad was soon heading away from the base, thrusting out to Mars.  There were other bases in the region, but none large enough to support twenty ships…and the Americans had forty ships bearing down on the base.

“Captain,” Lieutenant Trutnev said.  “I think it’s starting.”

***
“Captain, we have multiple missile separations…Jesus Christ!”

Admiral Westmoreland stared down at the display, and then began barking orders, knowing exactly how they’d fallen into the trap.  Nearly two thousand missiles, clearly stripped from the Russian ships that were now thrusting away from the doomed base to Mars, were heading towards them, controlled directly by Lenin Base.  As their drives flared out, powerful radar and jamming pulses emitted from the base, trying to disrupt the American defences still further.

He swore once, vilely.  All of a sudden, he was committed to every commanding officers worst nightmare; a forward charge right into a missile storm.  The Soviets would have had plenty of time to have targeted each and every one of his ships…and this was clearly an attempt to outright destroy the fleet.  If they tried to cut their speed, they would only be in the danger zone longer…and if they tried to speed up, their own drives would mess up their sensors still further.  

“Launch the missiles at Lenin Base,” he snapped, before the missiles could be pulled from the tubes.  Seventeen nuclear warheads would really mess up the Soviet base, even if only one actually reached it.  “AWACS-One, take command of the fleet’s defences; take us through the storm.”

He gripped the side of his chair as the counter-missile defences started to work.  The computers on the AWACS had carefully tracked all of the Soviet missiles; all that they had to do was hit them…before they reached the American ships.  It wasn’t easy; only lasers had any real hope of scoring a hit in time…

“The Washington had been destroyed,” Haddock said.  Westmoreland said nothing as five other ships flashed into non-existence.  “That’s AWACS-Two down.”

Westmoreland gritted his teeth.  Without either of the AWACS, the missile defence would suffer badly.  “The cruiser Benjamin has been destroyed.”

Admiral Rollins, the back-up command staff, Westmoreland thought.  Damn.

“Four missiles have hit Lenin Base,” someone snapped in the background.  “That’s one in the eye for the reds.”

Suddenly, they were though the swarm of missiles, racing on towards the ruins of the Soviet base.  It hadn’t been quite blown apart by the nuclear missiles; Westmoreland ordered a second strike as they passed within their closest approach to the base.

“Damn you,” he muttered.  The media would make it out to be a victory – and he supposed that in some way it was.  He’d come with forty ships, what he’d believed to be an overwhelming advantage, and ten of them had been lost, just for the base.  They had even been denied any metals to seize; the Soviets had cleverly sent their mining surplus away from the base, followed by an undamaged Russian fleet.

“No, not a victory at all,” he said, as his force prepared to cut its acceleration.  “Slightly better than a draw, but not perfect.”

Chapter Thirty-Four: Red Storm Falling

The Kremlin
Moscow, USSR

The Politburo was scared, the General Secretary realised…and he didn’t blame it.  The vote had been unanimous, of course, but there was two things that wasn’t equal anywhere – responsibility and power.  The endless desire to be better than anyone else had only made the Politburo more inclined to either sit on the fence or ride the storm down to destruction.

General Secretary Boris Andropov felt his chest, half-relieved that there was no sign of the threatened heart attack; half-annoyed that it left him still trying to tame the whirlwind that Soviet politics had suddenly become.  Stalin had managed it, of course, but Stalin had been the Vozhod; the man who had managed to hold more power in his hands since the Tsars.  After Stalin, the trinity of Army, KGB and Party had sworn never to permit a second Stalin…and that meant that he could never hope to prevent the war, not on his own.

He envied the American President, even as he distrusted the system on which his power was based.  What was the point of some idiot ‘vote-yourself-rich’ system like democracy, if it meant that the leaders of America couldn’t think past opinion polls?  President Woodrow might have considerable power, but no one in the American political system seriously considered him a dictator; no one ever felt that they had to strike first with violence, before he struck them.

He looked at the table, carefully avoiding making eye contact.  Even at the best of times, the simplest and most innocuous signal, even an innocent motion, could be taken as a sign to start something violent.  Only bad American novels portrayed Russians as accidentally having shootouts in the Politburo chamber, but there was a grain of truth in the stereotype.

“Events seem to have gone a little off course,” he said, as mildly as he could.  “Perhaps someone would care to explain exactly how this happened?”

There was a long pause.  “The Americans were clearly on the verge of launching their own attack,” Joseph Shapov said finally.  The KGB Director had too many powerful friends to purge; it would certainly start a non-violent bureaucratic civil war if he attempted to purge Shapov.  “We must have fired only moments before they fired on us.”

“And that’s the Party line,” the Minister of Information said.  Minister Yegor was one of Shapov’s cronies; his position allowed him considerable public influence.  He had sold the war as an attempt to defeat American attempts to cheat the Russians out of their ore fields in space, rather than mentioning the Wanderer; it would be hard to purge him without purging the entire faction.

Can’t even think up a good lie, Andropov thought coldly.  The Russian people would certainly support a short war of aggression – particularly if it brought them new goods into an impoverished market – or a long war against an invader, but they would not support years of indeterminate warfare.  Hitler had been so bad that even Stalin had looked good; the Americans, when the Russians knew that they even existed, were something else.  How could the popular image of Americans, that of fat boors, stand against an American victory, or even a successful defence?

“We just lost our asteroid base,” he said calmly.  “It will take years to regain our position; in the time we have before the American miners move in, it will be impossible.  I invite you all to imagine what that will do to our economy.”

“Perhaps the Admiral who thought up the defence plan should be purged,” Shapov said, his eyes grey and hard.  “Losing the base was careless, was it not?”

He looked around the table, looking for agreement.  “No,” Space Marshal Gennedy Bukharin said.  His voice was acidic.  “Under the circumstances, he fought a brilliant defence…and in any case went down with the base.  The units of the Asteroid Fleet have been preserved and are on their way to Mars…”

“And you have bungled the first stages of a war that was supposed to have ended by now,” Shapov charged.  His voice was grim.  “The Americans have forced us to a stalemate on the Moon and in orbit; they have kicked us out of the asteroid belt.”

“A slight exaggeration,” Bukharin snapped, making no attempt to hide his anger.  Andropov understood; Bukharin had probably worked out that he would be the most likely target of the collective anger of the Politburo.  Collective responsibility – otherwise known as passing the blame on to the weakest and most vulnerable member of the group.  “It will take the Americans years to evict every last one of our miners and…”

“It matters little,” Dimitri Yazov, Minister for the Economy, said.  Andropov studied him thoughtfully; Yazov was one of the newer men on the Politburo, not one of his appointees, but one who had been practically appointed by others.  “The economic damage had already begun.”

Andropov scowled.  Shapov spoke before anyone else.  “The Americans are the ones with a discontented working class,” he sneered.  “Let them suffer; we do interdict their space-to-ground transport, do we not?  Let the Americans starve in their homes, their menfolk fighting us in the army, their women bleeding and dying in their weapons factories, and spending the night in bed with their masters…we can outlast them.  How long will their will to fight hold out?”

Andropov sighed inwardly.  How can one so bright be so stupid?  Does he really believe the trash we tell everyone outside the inner circle?

“Yes,” Bukharin said.  “We have been preventing them from moving anything from their industrial stations to the ground.  They, I fear, have been doing the same to us.  However, Mars can make up many of the items that the fleet will need for the duration of hostilities.”

“There are also no signs of anyone coming to the aid of the Americans,” Maskow Lavrov, Foreign Minister, injected thoughtfully.  “The British have so far remained silent; we have offered South Africa an under-the-table deal.  We have betrayed some of the black cells within the hostile countries surrounding South Africa in exchange for their support for the British Commonwealth staying out of the war.”

Andropov nodded.  Harbingers of international communism or not, the trained underground fighters opposing apartheid were nothing more than pawns, as far as the Politburo was concerned.  They fought in name for their own freedom; in reality, they carried out orders from Moscow, whatever they were.

“I imagine that that will please the whites in South Africa,” he said.  The massive influx of former Americans from Dixie had only given strength to the apartheid regime.  “I assume that all of our ties were cut beforehand?”

Shapov nodded.  “We have told them that we stumbled across them on a routine KGB sweep” – a less than subtle reminder of the power of the KBG – “and they have pretended to believe us,” he said.  “The British themselves are pro-American, along with the New Zealanders, but without the other two they can’t join the war.”

“I suppose,” Andropov said slowly.

“It still solves nothing,” Yazov said.  “Comrades, we are on the verge of disaster.”

***
Dimitri Yazov, Minister for the Economy, looked at his comrades, at the other members of the Politburo, and tried to find the words that would convince them to do the right thing and abandon the war.  They refused to form; he wanted to give them a great speech, fully comparable to what many a General Secretary had made, but all he could think of were facts, figures and the framework they fitted into.  It made grim reading…but few of the Politburo even knew how to understand.

“The war has been raging for a week,” he said, starting with an obvious statement.  Deep below Moscow, it was easy to lose track of time sometimes, particularly when losing track of time meant losing track of reality.  “Because of the war, we are suffering quite badly in certain areas, including food supply and mining ore.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment.  “We were on the verge of one of the largest harvests since the 1960s,” he said.  “The war has made it harder for us to move the food around the nation; the Americans hit several vital railway junctions and airports.  The Americans, as Comrade Vostrakov has pointed out, might not have been playing from a full deck – there was certainly no overall effort to cripple us – but the damage they inflicted was quite bad enough.  

“The first problem is that we are going to be low on food, simply because a lot of our remaining transport capability has been devoted to the war,” he said.  “The second problem is that the Poles are in a state of…well, revolt.  The counter-revolutionists, people who oppose our position as the head of the global revolution” – read; people who hated, feared and distrusted Russian domination – “have been growing more and more…anti-Russian lately.”

It was as close as he could come to an admittance that Russian domination of Poland, to say nothing of the other Eastern European states, had caused the entire problem.  If the entire Polish Communist Party was in revolt, then what of those who hated and distrusted the Russians and the Communists?  

“The war has offered them a chance to start a move against us,” he continued.  “They have actually raided several of the food storage warehouses, distributing what they have stolen from the peace-loving starving Russians to the Polish people.  The Polish Army has not opposed this; in many cases, the Polish Army is doing the stealing.  We have a large force tied down in Poland…and they’re completely unable to rely on the Poles for anything.

“All of this is seriously hampering our ability to gather food,” he said.  “As I have said before” – it never hurt to remind the Politburo that he had warned them – “the farming we do in Russia is very inefficient, which will force us to cut rations quite sharply.  Frankly, Comrades; if this war goes on for more than three months, we will be in the same position that Tsar Nicholas was in, one hundred years ago.”

“My troops can prevent a Polish revolt,” Shapov said, with utter confidence.  Nearly half a million KGB soldiers were in Poland, watching out for sabotage and amusing themselves at the expense of the locals.  Yazov scowled behind his frozen face; after the KGB has visited a town, the locals became even more anti-Russian than they had been before, if that were even possible.

“It doesn’t matter,” Yazov said.  He wanted to shout; he wanted to scream.  “The food is only one problem.  The loss of the asteroids – something that is going to happen – will cost us badly, even if the war ends tomorrow.  If the Americans have time to destroy as much of our infrastructure as they can, even if they surrender tomorrow, we will still be facing an economic collapse.  We are dependent upon the stream of cash from the surplus of asteroid ore, which we are suddenly going to be unable to mine to sell.”

He took a breath.  “And that’s not even the worst problem,” he said.  “We’ve demanded much higher output from the factories here, despite my warnings that there was really little point in attempting that, and the result has been chaos.  Factories have been persistently underestimating their outputs and overstating the number of people they actually had on the books.  The plan we had to expand industry has failed, Comrades.”

There was a long pause.  “This war has to end,” he concluded.  He knew that he was going to make himself into a target, but he had enough patriotism in him to do the right thing.  “We should ask the Americans for a return to the status quo ante.”

“Quite out of the question,” Shapov said.  Yazov knew that he had just made an enemy of the KGB director.  “Send in the KGB, send in the GRU, send in accountants and even some of the trained economists, if there are any left.  Shoot the factory managers; make a few examples of them.  That will boost production.”

Yazov shook his head.  “The entire structure has been falling apart for years,” he said.  “The best people we had went into orbit, or to Mars or Venus or the asteroids, for what little industry we permitted to be placed there.  If we had five years of peace, with a massive budget and all the skilled craftsmen we had working on it, we might be able to clear up the mess…but we’re at war.”

***
The General Secretary understood Yazov’s frustration, far better than Yazov himself would have believed, had he been gifted with mind reading skills.  He knew just how inefficient the entire infrastructure was, but he accepted it; it was the only way to prevent the development of more Kulaks, the people who would eventually come to rule the Soviet Union…instead of the Party.

He took a breath.  Yazov had been brave, suggesting a peace, but a peace couldn’t come unless the Americans could be convinced to return to the pre-war situation.  What would they demand, in exchange for ending the war?  What would their Congress demand?

“The disappearance of the Wanderer means that there is one less thing to fight over,” he said carefully.  The timing of the alien ship’s disappearance bothered him; his first thought had been that the Americans had managed to hide it, but an intensive radar scan of the last known location of the alien ship had revealed nothing.  Was it a coincidence that the second example of alien technology humanity had found had vanished…at the precise moment that neither power was in a position to conduct a full investigation?

Or is something more sinister going on?  He asked himself, as silence descended upon the ranks of the Politburo.  “What sort of terms would you consider agreeable to ending the war?”

“We should push through to victory,” Shapov said.  “With the ships heading to Mars, defeating the Americans there would be easy.  That will give us control of Mars.”

“Big deal,” Yazov snapped.  Andropov smiled at how the man had dropped the Americanism into the conversation.  “Perhaps we will make Mars the Red Planet, but the economy will have crashed long before then.”

Maskow Lavrov, Foreign Minister, coughed.  “It is possible that the Americans will accept a return to where we were before the war,” he said.  Andropov suspected that Lavrov was deluding himself, but said nothing.  “Neither of us wants to fight the war out to the end.”

Shapov frowned.  “If we call it a draw now, after the Americans have…kicked us out of the belt, then they will take it for weakness,” he said.  “There are parties…within America that want to defeat us once and for all, just like they did to Japan, so long ago.  Politically, Comrades; we cannot afford to show weakness.”

“So…what exactly do we do?”  Bukharin asked dryly.  “Do we restart the fighting in Earth orbit?”

Shapov inclined his head slightly.  “Isn’t coming up with the military alternatives your job?”

The nasty undercurrent made Andropov shake his head in amusement.  Shapov, in one slightly unpleasant question, had contrived to remind Bukharin that he had come up with the operations plan that had led to the war…that he would be blamed for it, and then showing him that there was a way to redeem himself.  

You’ll never be General Secretary, Andropov thought coldly, studying Shapov through cold grey eyes.  Neither Party nor Army will accept a former head of the KGB as General Secretary; such a man would be a nightmare – their worst nightmare.  But…are you trying to be kingmaker?

“There are two options,” Bukharin said.  “The first one is simple; we have around fifty ships within a week of Mars, both the ones withdrawing from the asteroids and the ones we launched from Earth after the fighting…stalemated.  We can order them to move now, heading directly for Mars as fast as they can.  Once they reach Mars, they will give us a decisive advantage over the American units in the region.”

He paused.  “That force will then attack the Americans and seek to capture the high orbitals,” he said.  “Once they’re in position, the Americans will have no choice, but to surrender.  We would be able to clear the way for the ground forces with ease.  With Mars in our hands, we would be able to sue for peace on favourable terms.”

“I see,” Andropov said, before Shapov could say anything.  “What about the other option?”

“I should ask Marshal of the Soviet Union Alexandr Vostrakov to outline that,” Bukharin said, reminding everyone of the power of the Red Army.  “It was largely his idea.”

Vostrakov stared grimly at Shapov.  “The second option is a great deal harder,” he said.  Practically, it’s possible; politically, it would be a huge gamble…and if it failed, it would certainly ruin any chance of a just or favourable peace.  Quite simply; invasion…USA.”

He stood up and adjusted the main wall screen, displaying a map of America.  “We would attack with scramjet cruise missiles all across North America,” he said, “targeting the USAF and their ground-based anti-aircraft systems.  At the same time, we would surge the entire 15th Transport Force, along with as many other units as logistics can scrape up, and send them directly into the American-Canada border region.  They would be very low in certain areas, including armour and some supplies, but they could reasonably be expected to hold out.

“At the same time, the Red Navy would be landing on Iceland, Greenland and perhaps some parts of the American coast, raiding to create the impression of a much larger invasion force,” he continued.  “Iceland and Greenland, assuming that we take the airfields intact, will become part of an air bridge allowing rapid reinforcement of the invasion force through the air.  Assuming that we manage to disrupt the American counter-attack – and they will throw one in as soon as our threat takes shape – we will then have a powerful presence in America – Alaska, in fact, can be attacked directly from the Far Eastern Region.”

He paused again, his face grim.  “There are incalculable risks involved,” he admitted.  “Like us, the Americans have neglected their navy to build their space forces; we face a fairly even balance of power in the Atlantic, at least until they bring their own Pacific Fleet through the Panama Canal.  We think that we have taken down all of their bombardment platforms, but they might well manage to rig up some flying crowbars, which would destroy the fleet.”

“It would work,” Shapov exclaimed.  “The KGB could destroy the Canal and…”

The general Secretary asserted what authority he had left.  “It’s far too dangerous,” he said.  “We built that transport capability for other purposes than invading America.  I think, Comrades, that we should take the Mars option.”

“It does offer the greatest chance of preserving the economy,” Yazov said unhappily.  “If we attack the Americans in their homeland, the war could drag on for years.”

“The Mars option, then,” Andropov said.  “Those in favour?”

Chapter Thirty-Five: Alien Encounter

The Hive Mothership
Deep Space

Jane had lost track of how long they had spent in the cell; they’d slept and eaten the bland alien food for what felt like years.  Logic suggested that it was only a few days, at most, but what did logic have to do with the little aliens that were watching them constantly, their immobile faces showing little trace of human-like emotion.

She was starting to suspect that the aliens were telepathic, at least in some way; the strange whispering she could hear at the back of her head grew louder whenever one of the greys stepped closer to her, its dark eyes seeming to burrow into her soul.  She’d tried to communicate, concentrating on the USSF’s mandated attempt at peaceful contact, but the grey had just ignored her – if indeed it had understood.  She’d thought, viciously, about twisting the little alien’s neck, tearing it apart, but the alien hadn’t responded to that either.

“Perhaps they don’t think in English,” McPherson had suggested, when they had discussed it.  All attempts to communicate with their jailors had failed; the aliens seemed uninterested or unable to communicate with them.  “Perhaps they do all their thinking in…well, whatever language they speak.”

He stared at one of the aliens, watching them before heading back into the smoky interior of the craft.  “Hey, you; what language do you speak?”

The alien grey regarded him quizzically for a long moment, and then turned away, heading back into the smoky interior of the small craft.  Jane was suddenly convinced that the alien had indeed understood her, but it seemed disinclined to try to replay.  McPherson slammed his hand against the force field in frustration, sending up a shower of tiny sparks that seemed to do nothing.

Up close, alive and well, the aliens seemed far more sinister than the one that was kept preserved in the USSF’s space academy.  They seemed to tolerate an atmosphere that was almost like an industrial nightmare; smoke and oddly-coloured steam seemed to blast out of components and pipes at random.  It was hot…and then it would be cold, and then hot again, for no reason that she could understand.  The lights flickered on and off, running up and down the colour line…and the aliens didn’t seem to care.

“I would go crazy if I had to live in a place like this,” Rodney muttered.  Jane nodded in agreement; she fully shared it.  If any Captain in the USSF had kept their ship in such a condition – and not had it explode under them – the USSF would have put them through a court martial without a second thought.  The conditions would be actively dangerous for humans, but the aliens…

“They can breathe vacuum,” she said.  “How the hell is that even possible?”

“It’s not,” Rodney said.  “Look at that one’s arm.”

He pointed towards a grey alien, utterly indistinguishable from the rest of the aliens.  Its arm, she realised suddenly, wasn’t the normal ‘child’s hand’ of a grey alien, but a form of technological implant.  It seemed utterly unconcerned about its missing hand, but used the cyborg arm without hesitation.  It made it look natural; it moved with the same eerie grace of the other aliens.

“They implanted a new arm right into it,” McPherson breathed.  “Why?”

Rodney seemed to be less nervous now that he had something to explain.  “In some of the asteroid colonies, and some of the deep-space colonies, the grey ones, there are ideas about converting humans for use in space,” he said.  “Humans, in their grand plans, will give up everything to become superhuman; they will have implanted tools and weapons, rather than hands, and inserted bio-modification nanites to develop their bone structure.”

His voice darkened.  “Imagine,” he said.  “A human without genitals, without anything, but their body.  They would be immune to high-gravity sensations; they would have no difficulty in tolerating constant boost to a level far beyond what even the toughest USSF officer could tolerate.  They would never get ill, they would be extremely difficult to kill…and they would be able…”

“To breathe vacuum,” McPherson said.  His voice was that of a stunned man.  “How can they do that?”

Rodney sighed.  “You want my guess?”  He asked.  “From the reports of those who analysed the alien bodies from Roswell, it’s possible that they were somehow…engineered, developed, designed to survive under unpleasant conditions.”

Jane placed her hand on his shoulder as he slumped against the wall.  “How come I never heard of that before?”

“It was never declassified beyond Code Blue-7,” Rodney said grimly.  “The Joint Study Group and the Roswell Oversight Committee made a decision about that a long time ago; only doctors were permitted access to those records, for all manner of reasons.”

McPherson chuckled.  “But you’re telling us now,” he said.  “You naughty boy you.”

“You need to know,” Rodney said.  “The briefing covered the possibility of another alien contact; if it happened, the CMO was to brief the Captain if it became necessary.”

Shelia Grove, who had volunteered to stay, looked up from her position on the floor.  “But why keep it a secret at all?”  She asked.  “How could it possibly benefit anyone?”

Jane shrugged.  She was worried about Shelia, although she didn’t have any proper time for a girl-to-girl talk, not with three men in the same prison cell.  The USSF encouraged cohabitation bunking, but not as close as they were; the sexes were permitted privacy for going to the toilet, if nothing else.

“The Soviets might have influenced the decision,” she said.   “They keep a lot of things secret from their own people, even from their higher-ranking people.  Something like this would have upset them for no good reason.”

Rodney shrugged as a wave of green light flashed through the smoke for a long chilling second.  “There’s another reason,” he said.  “You remember that I said that some of the belt colonies were seriously researching the subject of human modification for space?  Well…don’t you think that the USSF would give its collective right testicle for soldiers who could fight in vacuum without a suit?  No?  What about pilots who could withstand gee-forces enough to smash a normal man into a pancake?”

He took a breath.  “I bet you anything you care to put forward that the USSF and the Soviets are experimenting right this moment,” he said.  “There has been a lot of work done on implanting things into people; you know how the implants work for monitoring someone’s health and location on a spaceship.  How would you like to be able to control the Lincoln by interfacing your mind into its computer?”

Jane looked down at her breasts, hidden beneath her uniform, and knew the answer.  “It means giving up being human,” she said.  “Would someone really agree to do that?”

“The Soviets would not let something like that get in the way,” Rodney said.  “They have something, therefore we must…”

The alien ship’s gravity fluctuated wildly, suddenly becoming heavier, then lighter, then somehow varied all over the entire cabin.  A dull thrumming noise ran through the ship, which seemed to be shaking slightly, sending them sprawling to the floor.  Jane bumped her arm as she fell and swore, just as the ship stopped its shaking.

McPherson’s eyes were wide.  “They can control gravity like it was nothing,” he said.  “How the hell do we stop them?”

“Knowledge,” Jane said.  “Keep your fucking eyes open and…”

Three new aliens had come up to look at them.  Jane met one of their eyes and winced; they were so unlike human eyes that they were very disorientating to try to look into, as if they went on forever.  The alien made a strange motion with its hands – both normal hands, she noticed – and its companions seemed to move backwards slightly.

“Come to stare at the human captives?”  McPherson asked it.  The alien ignored him.  “Oy; you!  What are you doing?”

Jane sighed.  “Don’t antagonise it,” she said softly.  She wanted to join him; she wanted to smash the alien in the face.  “James, we don’t have any way of getting back home without their cooperation.”

One of the alien’s companions stepped up, its hand moving over an empty part of the wall.  The force field flickered…and then faded, vanishing into nothing as if it had never been.  The lead alien beckoned to them to come; Shelia started to cry.

“I can’t go with them,” she said.  “Please…don’t make me do anything, please…”

Jane put one hand around her shoulder and helped her to her feet.  “We don’t have a choice,” she said.  “I think that we have to do as they want, for the moment.”  She addressed the alien.  “Don’t forget we need to breathe,” she said.  “Breathing keeps us alive!”

The alien made no sign; it just started to walk down the corridor, leaving its two companions to bring up the rear.  Jane stared at the alien’s behind, trying to see muscles, but there were none; she couldn’t tell if the alien even had a bum to roll.  It seemed to be naked, but there was no sign of an anus, just unbroken grey skin.

“Keep your eyes open,” she ordered, as they passed out of the small compartment into another massive room.  It seemed almost like a scaffold; there were open walls and floors everywhere, with dozens of grey aliens moving around, half-hidden in the smoke.  A jet of red smoke blasted across their path for a long moment, soaking them all with water that condensed on their bodies and then faded away.

The alien led the way into a corridor that looked more like one from the Wanderer, which then ended in a ramp, allowing them to step out of the ship…into a hanger bay.  She felt her mouth fall open as she stared around the room, which was littered with dozens of small craft.  On impulse, she looked up…and saw a ship like the Wanderer gliding high overhead, still massive to her eyes.

“It’s going to fall, it’s going to fall,” Shelia gibbered, almost completely in shock.  Jane slapped her hard, forcing her to focus her mind; there was no time for panic.  The alien guards were getting impatient; she couldn’t help, but notice that they had guns on their left arms.

“Come on,” she said, helping Shelia to her feet again.  “It’s not going to fall; it looks perfectly suspended up there.”

Her mind raced, trying to understand how it was remaining in the air, as the alien led them towards a massive grey wall.  She wondered about an adaptation of the Procyon Drive; something had taken the Roswell craft into the atmosphere and she was confident that that would have taken them something other than a jet engine.  She stared around, trying to count the number of craft in the hanger, but gave up; the air was becoming smoky again.

They stepped through the door into what she recognised at once as a travel capsule, like the larger space habitats used.  She wondered if they were on a habitat – it would be easy to hide a habitat at the edge of the solar system – just as the capsule started, heading along a long corridor towards an unknown destination.

Shelia whimpered slightly in her arms.  “Commander…”

“Don’t worry,” Jane said, her own mind too numb to make any form of sense out of their experiences.  The complete lack of any acceleration sensation was merely another fact, not the worrying datum it should have been.  “It’ll come out all right, somehow.”

She looked up at one of the aliens.  Without their cyborg implants, it would have been impossible to tell them all apart from one another; they all looked like clones from a single template.  No, she thought, it won’t be all right.  Our chances of escape are non-existent.

The capsule doors opened; the lead alien led the way into a long corridor, just the same as the Wanderer’s.  The air was clear in the corridor, with only a slight smell she couldn’t quite place.  They followed the alien towards a single large door, which opened as they approached.  They stepped through into a large room, with a second door at the end, very like an airlock.

“You will strip,” a voice said.  It was strange and very inhuman.  “You will remove all of your clothes.”

“You can talk,” Rodney exclaimed.  His eyes were jumping from alien to alien; trying to discover which one had spoken.  “You can talk to us.”

Silence.  The aliens said nothing.  They just stood there; they showed no impatience or frustration, not even the inclination to force their captives to move quicker.  They just watched the humans, waiting.

McPherson coughed.  “Commander?”

“I don’t think that we have a choice,” Jane said.  She undid her uniform trousers and slid them off in one firm motion, followed by her top and brassiere.  Her panties followed quickly, then she helped Shelia to undress.  The poor girl – it was her first cruise, Jane remembered – was trembling, but she was finally naked as well.  The three men undressed quickly, keeping, Jane noted with some amusement, their hands in strategic spots.

“No,” Shelia whispered.  She looked pathetic, with her hands trying to cover all of her body.  “No.”

A brilliant wave of light, burning bright, washed through the chamber.  As it vanished, Jane saw the first sign of emotion on the faces of their guards; they were blinking rapidly, almost like humans.  She looked closer; their eyelids moved like shells, rather than skin; they flipped up and down faster than human eyelids moved.

“Decontamination,” Rodney commented.  “Guess they don’t trust us not to be clean.”

“We have been away from water for a few days,” Jane muttered back, as the second airlock door hummed open.  Five aliens stood there, accompanied by one of the larger aliens.  She stared at it; it seemed to move far more like a human, with a face that actually showed some emotion.  She just wished that she knew which facial expressions meant what.

The aliens stepped forward.  One of them stepped up to Jane and took her hand in a firm grip.  It was stronger than it looked; it dragged her forward like a pushy teenage boy at the Prom.  Its hand felt leathery; it pulled her into a separate room without any apparent effort.  Jane saw Shelia try to struggle and was amused to notice that she knocked down two of the aliens before they caught hold of her…and did something to her.  Shelia’s face went slack; she followed the alien as if she was in a trance.

The door closed behind her, trapping her in the room with three aliens.  One of them pointed to the bed; she climbed on reluctantly, only to discover that it felt marvellously soft and warm.  She yawned suddenly as one of the aliens bent over her, holding something in its hand and…

…She woke up suddenly, realising that she’d been asleep.  Her body hurt; she felt as if she’d been microscopically examined by a psychotic gynaecologist.  She tried to move and discovered that her body had been drugged; she couldn’t move more than a few motions.  She looked up and nearly screamed; the taller alien was standing over her bed.

Panic rose in her mind, overwhelming her.  “What do you want?”  She asked.  “What are you?”

“Please do not be alarmed,” it said.  Its voice didn’t come from its mouth, she noted, as her training asserted itself.  It seemed to come from a small medallion it wore about where its breast would be, if it were a woman.  “We mean you no harm.”

Jane tried to speak, remembering the message that the USSF had drilled into them for any alien contact.  “We bid you welcome to our solar system and ask you to come talk to our leaders,” she said.  “We found your craft, a long time ago.”

The alien inclined its head, cutting off the speech.  “We know,” it said.  The voice wasn’t flat or atonal, it seemed to move up and down the tones, as if speech wasn’t something the society was familiar with.  “You found two of our craft.”

Jane struggled to think as the whispering echoed through her head again.  “We learnt of your existence from the craft that crashed so long ago,” she said, quoting the speech.  “We would like to learn more and share more of ourselves in exchange.”

“Your race will come to us,” the alien said.  Jane felt a sudden flicker of pure alarm, cutting though the haze that numbed her mind.  “You are a strange race, one with so much to offer us; you will become part of us.”

It seemed as calm as if it were discussing the weather.  “I don’t understand,” Jane said, wishing that her head would stop aching.  “What do you want with us?”

“We gave your race a gift, a long time ago,” the alien said.  Its voice had…slipped into a single tone, echoing from its speaking machine into her head.  “We wish for you to join us in our union of lives.  We will add your people to ours.”

Jane tried to think.  Alien concepts, she’d been warned, might have little to do with human concepts.  “What do you mean?”  She asked.  “Please will you return us to Earth and talk with our leaders?”

“We will return you,” the alien said.  Its voice was still shifting, placing higher tones on the wrong words, words that made no sense to point out.  “You will talk to your leaders for us.”

Jane tried to nod.  “I will pass on any message you want,” she said, trying to think.  The whispering grew louder.  “What do you want us to tell them?”

“We are coming for your world,” the alien said, its voice still calm.  “We will add you to our…Hive.  You will not be able to resist us.  If you try to resist, you will be denied your role within the Hive.”

Jane felt numbing horror spreading through her.  Part of her mind was elated; if the aliens felt like issuing a demand, then perhaps resistance wasn’t impossible either.  The other part was horrified; might the aliens be just offering them a chance to submit?

She tried to speak.  “You wish us to take a demand for unconditional surrender?”

“Exactly,” the alien said.  It showed no trace of gloating, no human emotion at all.  The pain in her head grew and all she could hear was its voice as she blacked out.  “You will inform your leaders that we have come for your world.”

Chapter Thirty-Six: The Powers That Be

The White House Bunker
Washington DC, USA

It had taken Professor Anderson over a week to set up the meeting, much to Thande’s annoyance.  It shouldn’t have taken anything like as long, particularly if Anderson was as important as he had suggested, but it had taken that long, which was odd.

“If I didn’t know better, I would say that he was stalling,” Thande muttered to Sally, who nodded thoughtfully.  The news had just come in of the Battle of Lenin Base, which he supposed had forced the government to concentrate on the war, but it was still less important than the burning matter of the Hive.

“The Hive would have recovered their ship,” Sally said, changing the subject as they headed along the corridor into the bunker.  “They would have had no difficulty in towing the ship outside of radar range, perhaps even in activating the Wanderer’s own drive and sending it away.”

Thande scowled.  “Why are they delaying before they see us?”  He asked.  “Sally, don’t they have any common sense at all?”

The Secret Service officers met them as they reached the end of the corridor, running a full check on them, from portable sensors to a physical body search.  They were remarkably professional, but Thande still felt as if they had minutely examined every part of his body with tweezers.  

“They’re just concerned about the President’s security,” Anderson said, meeting them after they passed through the security check.  “They were fascinated to discover that we shared the same DNA; they were worried that the Soviets had managed to master cloning of living humans.”

Sally snorted.  “Force-growing a clone is far beyond the technology of either of you,” she snapped.  “What about the quantum signature?”

“Oh, they found that even more fascinating,” Anderson said.  “Do you know that yours is different still from Professor Thande’s signature?”  Sally nodded.  “You must be from yet another timeline.”

Sally nodded.  “It’s a long story,” she said.  “I have travelled the timelines for a very long time.”

Anderson nodded.  “I’ve explained to the President who you are, with some support from Professor Neilson,” he said.  “The sudden loss of the Wanderer has rather alarmed the poor dear; he might listen to you about the aliens, if you really know what you know.”

Sally shrugged.  “Did Professor Neilson perform the check on the alien bodies you have, as I suggested?”

Anderson lifted an eyebrow.  “You were right,” he said, oddly reluctantly.  “They not only share the same DNA-analogue, which suggests that they’re clones, but some of the odder internal structures you identified.  He’s baffled as to what possible good they might be, though; what’s the point?”  He chuckled briefly.  “He wasn’t able to find any sexual organs either.”

Thande smiled.  “You mean that they have no balls?”

Sally gave him a reproving look.  “They’re…drones, for want of a better term,” she said.  “They’re only servants, beasts sent out to work for the Queen Bees, which remain hidden somewhere in deep space.  They don’t breed, they don’t even think the same way you do…and they can move independently in space.”

Anderson frowned.  “This is the inner office,” he said, as they reached the door.  Thande had expected it to be decorated with the Presidential Shield, but it was blank; dull and featureless.  “The President and the Secretary of State, Chris Thompson, are inside.  Are you ready?”

Sally nodded.  “Yes,” she said.  She seemed almost nervous; Thande wouldn’t have believed it.  She was American, true, but one from a very different timeline…and besides, the President was hardly a king.  “I’m sorry,” Sally said.  “Old habits of secrecy die hard.”

Thande nodded in sympathy.  “Let’s get on with it,” he said.  “Open the door.”

A Marine Guard nodded once, unable to keep his eyes from widening at the sight of the two counterparts, and opened the door.  They stepped through into a simple office that belayed the stereotype of luxurious nuclear bunkers; it was plain and very simple.  It was also freezing cold, much to Thande’s amusement; he felt Goosebumps rising on his arm.

The President himself looked as if he had aged several years in the last week.  He reminded Thande of John Major, the former British Prime Minister in his timeline, except President Andrew Woodrow had lightly-tinted blonde hair.  He wore a simple dark suit, one that a businessman might have worn, and seemed to be calm.  Thande remembered that one American President had remarked that looking as if you were calm was half of managing a crisis…and President Woodrow seemed to be managing it.  His face was greyer than his hair; almost as if it was changing colour right in front of them.

Beside him, Chris Thompson seemed older and wiser than his boss, with a pockmarked face and a second chin.  His body might have not looked healthy, but his eyes were bright and very aware behind his glasses, while his hair seemed uncombed.  Thande recognised, with the natural instinct of the fellow sufferer, that Thompson’s hair simply would never stay under control.  It was light brown, falling over his balding head and trying to hide the growing patch of bare skin.

The President looked carefully at Thande.  “I find you difficult to believe in,” he said.  “You and Professor Anderson are almost identical; if it wasn’t for that goatee, you would be the same.”

“I always wanted to grow a goatee,” Thande admitted, feeling slightly…as if the entire event was more than a little surreal.  “Under the circumstances, it’s a good thing that I never did, I think.”

“It doesn’t suit you,” Sally said, her voice light.  “I think that you should spend more time looking into what you might have been under other circumstances.”

The President smiled suddenly.  “Can you see a universe where I lost the last election?”

“We could probably find one,” Sally said.  “It depends; a lot of what’s happened would have happened anyway under a different President.”  She smiled suddenly.  “For all the fuss over President Bush versus President Gore, a lot of what happened after the 2000 election remained remarkably similar; history only really started to change after 2003.”

Thande snorted.  “I know people who would have sold their souls to have Gore rather than Bush,” he said.  “Did it really make that little difference?”

The President cleared his throat.  “It was President Harrison in 2000,” he said.  “He was opposed by Marla Hastings and Jack Ormond.  Who are Bush and Gore?”

Sally shook her head.  “It doesn’t matter,” she said.  “All that matters now is the Hive, and opposing them before they walk in and take over.”

***
The President studied the two…multiverse travellers as they started to explain, wondering if they were really telling the truth, or if it was somehow all a Russian trick.  Cold logic…was unsure of what direction to go; it seemed beyond belief that the Russians could have produced a clone of Professor Anderson, even one without a goatee.  Thande was more unkempt than Anderson, but he was clearly the same person.

Sally, in contrast, seemed to have no duplicate.  She seemed more of an accountant or a secretary than a real secret agent, but she was clearly in charge and capable of holding her job, whatever it really was.  She spoke with an accent that the President didn’t quite recognise, her long brownish hair spilling down over her blouse.

“A long time ago, there was a war,” Sally said, her tones grim.  The President listened carefully as she spoke; even through her tale was fantastic beyond belief.  “We – our people - saw the war happen as the Hive – the aliens who crashed at Roswell – were destroyed, but a handful of them clearly survived and escaped towards Earth.  They will want Earth and its resources as a base for rebuilding the Hive; hell, they might not even know that the rest of the Hive was destroyed.”

“Or more Hive aliens might have survived somewhere,” the President said.  “How do you know all of this anyway?”

Sally frowned.  “We’re in contact with a number of different alternate timelines,” she said, crossing her shapely legs inside her skirt.  “In some of them, the Hive was destroyed…sending a physic shockwave towards Earth.  In others, the human race was contacted a long time ago by aliens who took part in the destruction of the Hive.”

There was something about her story that didn’t quite add up, but the President let it pass for the moment.  “I see,” he said.  “So…the Hive is somewhere in the solar system?”

“Yes,” Sally said.  “They would have taken back the Wanderer once it had served its purpose, although they might have done better if they had destroyed it instead.  They are very advanced, but not invincible; they would have wanted to limit how much you could learn from that.”

Professor Anderson coughed.  “If they were worried about our resistance,” he asked, “then why not simply take back the craft that crashed at Roswell?  If they’re capable of returning to Earth, then why not snatch it from Cheyenne Mountain, before we learnt anything from the craft.  It took thirty years for us to learn anything; that would be more than ample time for them to plot and execute a recovery mission.”

“Because they don’t care,” Sally said.  “They’re not human, but they have a very clear idea of what you could learn from the craft.  Even if you learnt about everything on the ship, you wouldn’t be able to learn enough to stop them.  It takes time to build something; people knew that the atomic bomb was possible for decades before anyone could build it in most timelines.”

She paused.  Thompson spoke quickly.  “If that’s true, then what do they want?”

“You,” Sally said flatly.  “They want the Earth.  They want humans to serve them, to be turned into drones like the small aliens you recovered.  They want whatever human imagination can give them for further development; they want…everything you’ve built over the last fifty years.”

“We’ve been terraforming Mars,” the President said slowly.  “The Russians have been trying to terraform Venus.  The British have major settlements on Titan.  There are other large colonies on the outskirts of the solar system and all of the belt infrastructure…”

“And they want all of that,” Sally said.  “You must have surprised them when you pushed into space without their technology, but they won’t have been really concerned; your early ships would have been easy targets for them…and of course it would have taken them time to build an attack force that they could use to invade Earth.  They would also have wanted to kidnap a few humans from the belt, just to work out techniques for converting humans into drones.”

The President held up a hand.  “What are they, really?”  He asked.  “What do they do?”

Sally showed a flicker of irritation.  “They don’t have FTL,” she said.  The President wondered how she could be so confident.  “They would have sent a small ship to this solar system, one that would have launched the Roswell craft, which was probably scouting out your defences when it crashed.  Once they decided that you didn’t pose an immediate threat to them, they would have taken up position in the outer solar system and start building their army.”

Anderson blinked.  “But we do pose a threat to them,” he said.  “We know they exist…”

“Would it matter if Churchill and Roosevelt had known about hypersonic aircraft?”  Sally asked.  “They would not have been able to send Spitfires and Hellcats against them with any hope of success, would they?  Would it matter to the Hive if humans took pot shots at every odd-looked cloud?  They could afford to take their time and build their forces properly.”

She looked up at the President, who met her gaze evenly.  “Except everything changed with the Wanderer,” she said.  “You have a much more advanced and capable base for studying a new ship, and of course some of the systems were working.  They had no choice, but to snatch the ship back…and at the same time the Wanderer triggered off a war between the two main human powers.”

The President felt a sudden cold shock running down his spine.  “The losses in the asteroids,” he said.  “There were no witnesses.”

“They would have needed stock for their armies,” Sally said coldly.  “If you and the Russians started shooting at each other, it would have been a bonus.”

“Why did we never think of them?”  The President asked.  “Why did we never even consider that they might have been behind it?”  He rounded on Anderson.  “Why was this never brought before me before the war started?”

Anderson looked uncomfortable.  “It was the conclusion of the study group that the Wanderer was the Roswell craft’s mothership,” he said.  “As such, there was no need to worry about it further…”

“Stuff and nonsense,” the President snapped.  “We knew they were out there somewhere…”

“The sleeping volcano,” Thompson said softly.  “We have lived with the possibility that they might have returned for so long…that we got complacent and ignored the danger.”

Sally looked up at the President.  “You have to end the war,” she said.  “You’re going to need everything you have to defeat the Hive, even if you have to destroy Earth in order to save it.”

The President felt a sudden burning helplessness.  “But don’t you see?”  He asked.  “We can’t end the war!”

***
Thande recoiled from the President’s words, unable to believe that he’d heard them.  Sally looked equally shocked beside him, for once stunned beyond words.  He was dimly aware of…something from Professor Anderson behind him, a flicker of emotion that defied description.

“Why?”  He asked finally.  “You’re about to be enslaved by an extremely powerful alien force!  Why not attempt to seek a peace with the Russians?  You stand to lose everything!”

The President’s eyes showed no anger, just a soul-burning tiredness that seemed to be eating away at him from the inside.  Thande would almost have preferred to be shouted at; the President was clearly losing his calm.

“As far as the vast majority of the American people are concerned,” the President said, “we have suffered a sneak attack comparable to Pearl Harbour.  The Russians fired first, using kinetic bombardment weapons against American bases on the ground, and they hacked away at parts of the defence network that has kept America safe since 1970.  The public mood is not good.”

He sighed.  “There are political factions within Congress and the Senate,” he continued.  “One faction, led by my old friend Senator Chapman, wants nothing less than total victory, one in which America becomes the sole superpower in the solar system.  Another faction would settle for a compromise peace, but wants a very clear admittance of Russian guilt and a grovelling apology.  Yet another would agree to no territorial adjustments on Earth, but wants the Russian colonies in the solar system to be added to American colonies…need I go on?

“And then there are factions descended from Poles and Finns and people fleeing the nightmare of the Balkans,” he concluded.  “They want their nations freed of Russian domination, no matter how hard the long hard road towards victory if we tried to liberate everyone.  All of a sudden, there are dozens of little factions, all wanting their own way out of the war – with America as undisputed victory.  I ask Congress for a truce…I get impeached seconds later!”

Thande stared at him.  “But there’s an alien force…”

“One that there is no proof exists,” Anderson said.  “I have already detailed how an accident could have caused the Wanderer to have destroyed itself without leaving a trace…”

Sally slammed her hand down on the table.  “We don’t have time,” she snapped.  “If you keep fighting it out…well, this won’t be one of the wars where the enemy takes one look at the American forces and triggers their own self-destruct systems.  You’ll keep fighting and keep fighting until you have nothing left to fight with!”

“There’s even the plan to invade Russia directly,” the President said reluctantly.  “God have mercy; some elements of Congress have already gotten wind of that and are demanding that it be used…”

“Which means that the Russians will probably know already,” Thompson said.  “We need proof.”

Sally nodded.  “Then we had better find something that proves the Hive’s existence quickly,” she said.  She closed her eyes in thought.  “You can build a gravimetric scanner if you try; something that could track items by the ripples they cause within the gravity field.  It can track an item that uses what you call a Procyon Drive…”

“They have the Procyon Drive,” the President said, looking rather like a boxer who had been knocked to the floor three times in a row and was seriously considering just giving up.  “Of course; we can’t track a ship using it…and they might be sending ships right to Earth and we would never even notice.”

“We can help you make a scanner,” Sally said.  Thande winced at the tone of her voice.  “If we can work on that, then we can get the proof that they exist…”

There was an urgent bleeping from the President’s intercom.  “Excuse me,” he said, activating the speaker.  “The President,” he said shortly.  “What’s happened?”

The voice on the end of the line sounded worried.  “Mr President, the battle for Mars is about to begin,” it said.  Thande couldn’t even tell the sex of the speaker.  “The Russians are moving in on Mars in force.”

“Understood,” the President said, keeping his voice calm.  “Keep me informed.”

He shut off the intercom and turned to face Sally.  “The Russians aren’t going to listen to us,” he said, “and nor will Congress…unless you get that proof!”

Sally nodded.  “We’ll get that proof,” she said.  Thande saw her eyes darken.  “Whatever it takes, we’ll get it for you – and then you can prepare to face the real enemy.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Mars Attacks

Mars Orbit
Mars

Captain Fursenko allowed himself a moment of admiration at how the plan had come together.  It had taken nearly a week of hard acceleration, matched by careful manoeuvring on the part of both components of the Russian fleet, but in the end nearly sixty Russian ships would arrive at Mars at roughly the same time.  One force was looping up from Earth; the other racing to catch up with Mars from the asteroids.  Behind them, the American fleet seemed to have decided against chasing them, which was lucky as far as Captain Fursenko was concerned.

“There are still no signs of their having decided to chase us,” Lieutenant Trutnev reported, as the fusion drive was deactivated, just long enough for a sensor sweep.  If the Americans had been very lucky, they might have been able to cut their own drives at the same time, but that would have required precognition – and a great deal of luck.  

“Good,” Captain Fursenko said.  His body hurt; the effects of the constant acceleration had been hard on all of the crew.  They’d had to deactivate the drive for changing shifts, something that could have had unpleasant effects if someone had been caught out of an acceleration chair or couch.  If the Americans had given chase at once, it might have become…dicey, as the British said.

“I have a laser communication from Admiral Petrovich,” the communications officer said.  “He wants us to prepare to enter Mars orbit at the same time as the shooting starts, or as close to it as possible.”

“Bother,” Captain Fursenko muttered.  The Asteroid Fleet was racing to catch up with Mars, which was spinning with effortless ease around the Sun.  Worse, they were actually running short of fuel, and there were no handy comets or asteroids around to use as emergency fuel.  If there were a single mistake in the calculations, they would race past Mars and become lost in interstellar space.

He wished that he could remind the Admiral that his ships had been stripped of almost all of their missiles, particularly the more modern missiles.  The force that had fled the battle above Earth had its missiles, but his force didn’t…and both sides had armed space stations in orbit.  If his force were forced into a missile duel, they would be in serious trouble; the Americans would still consider them serious targets.

“Twenty seconds to turnover,” Lieutenant Trutnev reported.  Captain Fursenko winced; this was the hardest part of the flight, they had to match velocities precisely with Mars, and they had to do it while they would be effectively blind.  “Ten seconds, five seconds…turnover!”

The Stalingrad flipped end-over, turning its main drive so that it faced towards Mars.  Captain Fursenko took a breath; they were all in the hands of the computers now, rather than anything human.  A single missile, fired towards them, would have really ruined their flight, but they would never know about it until it hit them…when it would be too late.

“Beginning main fusion burn now,” Lieutenant Trutnev reported.  The deceleration pressure started to rise.  “Cutting speeds and entering insertion window…”

Captain Fursenko took a breath, almost wanting to pray.  If they missed their window for entering Mars orbit, the fleet was doomed; they would shoot past Mars and almost certainly be unable to recover their course before they ran out of fuel.  At best, Admiral Petrovich would have to send tugs and tankers out to recover them…if that were possible.  So far, neither side had shot up the others tugs and tankers…but there was always a first time.

“Insertion complete,” Lieutenant Trutnev reported.  They were now falling ass-backwards towards Mars, their ships following a ballistic course that would inevitably take them towards Mars.  “Entering Mars engagement range in twenty minutes.”

Captain Fursenko nodded as the drive cut out again.  Engagement range meant that the range when the Americans might be reasonably willing to risk losing missiles to hit them – when they would have a fair chance of actually scoring a hit.  Before then, he hoped that the Americans would have been distracted.

***
Admiral Williams, Commander of the American Mars Defence Force, watched grimly as passive sensors tracked the incoming Soviet forces.  The Russians had nearly ninety ships in Mars orbit, or heading towards it, which was a fair percentage of their fleet.  Like the Americans, they would be rapidly putting more ships together in their industrial plants, but without the asteroids…the Russians might have to work slower than they would have preferred.

He scowled.  For the two long weeks of war, Mars had been in a position of near-total standoff.  The Russian Procyon Drive ship, its drive clearly repaired after the fault that had placed it at Mars in the first place, had attempted to attack the Lincoln, but apart from that there had been an uneasy peace.  American ships and forces had been needed elsewhere; the Russians had clearly thought along the same lines – until now.

“Admiral, the Gorky is moving,” his sensor officer said.  “She’s already pulling enough speed to put her outside of gravity’s control, until her drive is cut.”

Admiral Williams scowled.  The Gorky would be almost undetectable until she came close to one of his stations, which would give her considerable room for causing trouble.  She was armed, dangerous, and far more capable than any of his other ships.

“Place the entire defence network on alert,” he said, wondering if he dared shoot first.  The rules of engagement weren’t clear on that point; he could fire if he felt that his command was in real danger, or if fired upon, but not if the enemy seemed to be getting far more reinforcements.  “Keep tracking her if you can.”

There was a long pause.  “I have her,” the sensor operator said.  “She’s approaching Mars-Beta and its defence units.”

Admiral Williams cursed.  Mars-Beta was one of the nine defence stations orbiting Mars, armed to the teeth.  It was also the one in the best position to engage the Russian ships that were now falling towards Mars, preparing to enter orbit.  If the Gorky attacked it, then…

“Send the automatic warning to all units,” he ordered.  “If the Gorky opens fire, I want to hammer everything with a red star on it in orbit.”

“Yes, sir,” the Fleet Officer said.  “What about the fleet?”

Admiral Williams studied the display.  There were only thirty warships in orbit around Mars, all of them corvettes apart from one command cruiser.  “Order them to head for higher orbit,” he said.  A thought struck him.  “Did the Russians include a tanker in the forces heading our way?”

The operator worked his console.  “It doesn’t seem like it,” he said.  “They must be planning to refuel here.”

“That’s odd,” Admiral Williams said.  He knew Admiral Petrovich – they’d met in happier times – and he knew that the Russian was hardly incompetent.  If he had neglected to order a tanker to come with his force, then his ships must be heading towards empty tanks, which meant…

They don’t plan to lose, he thought coldly.  A thrill of brilliant alarm ran through him; the Russians had committed everything to sending a massive force to Mars, one that the Americans could have trapped in Mars Orbit with a little bit of luck.  He opened his mouth to bark orders…and then the tactical officer barked out an alarm.

“Admiral, the Gorky has opened fire on Mars-Beta!”

“Inform all of the platforms,” Admiral Williams ordered.  “Open fire; hit them with everything we have!”

Space became a maelstrom of weapons fire as every American weapon opened fire at once, following a predetermined targeting plan.  Unlike at Earth, the Americans had fired first and had suffered no losses; almost every one of the first line of targets were hit in the first few moments of laser fire.  Missiles were already being launched, followed by the first flight of space fighters, heading down towards the enemy space stations…

“If we can make you bleed, you bastards, then you’ll regret ever trying to take Mars,” he muttered, as the first results came in.  They’d done better than he had dared hope with the first hail of laser fire; nearly half of the Russian defence platforms had been blown away, with the others shooting according to an already-broken firing plan.  The American missiles were blazing towards the enemy, already taking counter-missile fire and…

The Russians fired back.  Admiral Williams winced as their remaining platforms fired rapidly, winnowing through his own platforms and the space station’s own defences.  Missiles that had clearly been built in Mars orbit had been pre-emplaced in position to be fired towards the American stations, racing towards the Americans in numbers too vast for point defence to handle.  One station died, then a Russian station was ripped apart, and then one of the asteroids was struck directly by a nuclear warhead.  It was blown apart as its nuclear demolition charge detonated automatically, scattering tons of rock and the remains of an entire pocket civilisation into orbit.  In the years to come, much of it would impact on Mars, ironically helping the terraforming effort by adding more heat to the atmosphere.

“Who fired that shot?”  He demanded, knowing that there was no way to be sure.  The entire command and control system, for both sides, was breaking down as more and more weapons came into play and more relay stations were hacked from space.  It could have been a Russian missile, or an American missile; one that had missed its intended target.  Neither side was targeting the other’s asteroids; it had clearly been an accident.

“Unknown, sir,” the sensor officer said.  “Sir, two more stations have been destroyed.  The Gorky is moving to engage Admiral Barnett’s fleet and…we have several dozen missiles heading towards us, at very high boost.”

Admiral Williams sucked in his breath sharply.  “Order Admiral Barnett that he’s to cut and run for the asteroids,” he said.  “If he can take a pot-shot or two at the incoming Russian ships, that’s fine, but I want his ships out of here.”

“Point defence is engaging the Russian missiles,” the tactical officer snapped.  “Sir…”

Admiral Williams looked up at the display, watching as a single Russian missile lanced through the defences, running straight and true into the heart of the massive space station.  Its plasma warhead detonated…and a blossoming cloud of super-hot plasma blew the station apart.  Admiral Williams felt nothing as he died.

***
“Captain, some of the Americans are heading towards us,” Lieutenant Trutnev reported.  “They’re going to pass within engagement range of us.”

“Brave bastards,” Captain Fursenko muttered.  “Clever bastards too; they know that we can hardly manoeuvre until we enter Mars’s orbit properly.”

He started to bark out orders.  “Clear all lasers for point defence,” he ordered, noticing that the American craft would not pass within laser range of his craft.  The Americans were forcing their drives to push them faster than Captain Fursenko himself would have done, in their position, but he understood their point.  With their drives working, they would have no warning of Russian missiles, which meant…

“Target them with the remaining missiles,” he ordered, watching the display carefully.  If they were really lucky, they might just be able to score a total kill.  “Fire upon my command.”  He counted quickly.  “Fire!”

Stalingrad shuddered as it launched its final two missiles, followed rapidly by the other ships in the force.  Luck wasn’t with them, the Americans cut their drives too soon for a guaranteed hit, their lasers and sensors already ranging out to deal with any incoming threats.  Their point defence began to fire, even as they spat their own weapons towards the Russian ships.

“We killed four of them,” Lieutenant Trutnev reported.  “One missile overshot its target and is heading towards Mars.  Another didn’t explode, but destroyed its target anyway.”

“Excellent shooting,” Captain Fursenko said seriously.  At the speeds that the missile and the American ship – absently, he wondered what it had been called and who her captain had been – were travelling, there was no real need for a nuclear warhead at all.  “What about…?”

“Incoming fire,” the sensor officer snapped.  He had standing orders to interrupt anything, even a Commissioner, if there was a serious threat to the ship.  “At least thirty American missiles, heading directly for us.”

And on a perfect ballistic course, no doubt, Captain Fursenko thought coldly.  The Russians had no choice; they had to take down all of the American missiles, or they were dead.  There were no clever choices, nothing, but the simple ballistic laws of physics.  

“Activate all of the point defence,” he snapped.  “Fire at will; take them all down!”

“Engaging the targets,” Lieutenant Trutnev snapped, as the lasers started to fire.  Captain Fursenko allowed himself a second of worry about the charge in the laser banks, before realising that it didn’t matter; they would live or die before it became a problem.  “The computer net is working well.”

“The Americans have flashed past us,” the sensor operator said.  “They’re cutting in their main drives now.”

“Anyone would think that they didn’t trust us not to engage them as they passed,” Captain Fursenko commented, keeping his voice light.  He sensed Commissioner Savchenko’s concern behind him, and silently thanked his dead admiral that Commissioner Pachinko had died with him on Lenin Base.  “Report?”

“Three of our ships have been hit,” Lieutenant Trutnev reported.  “Sir, one of our ships has been hit by flying debris and has been hulled.”

“Lucky bastards,” Captain Fursenko said.  He could count on one hand the number of times that a ship had been damaged, without being outright destroyed.  “Is that the end of it?”

There was a pause.  “They’re not firing any more missiles,” the sensor operator said.  “I think that they’ve decided to leave the battle.”

“Sensible of them,” Captain Fursenko said.  “Communications, inform Admiral Petrovich of the engagement…and that we are heading into Mars orbit now.”

“He copies,” the communications officer said.  “He wants us to take the surrender of the American habitats.”

Bastard, Captain Fursenko thought coldly.  If something went wrong, he was certain that Admiral Petrovich had already set him up to take the blame.  “Acknowledge for us,” he ordered.  “Lieutenant Trutnev, take us over there.”

“Yes, Captain,” Lieutenant Trutnev said, gunning the drive slightly.  “It will take us five minutes to match orbits with the cluster of American habitats.”

And us without any missiles, Captain Fursenko thought grimly.  If the habitat administrators wanted to fight, his force would find it difficult to hurt the Americans…but the rest of the force had missiles, some of which were nuclear-tipped.  The asteroids could hardly dodge an incoming missile; they would have the choice of outright surrender or being blown apart.

No one in their right mind would try to board an asteroid, he thought.  It was possible, he knew, and some units of the KGB had been trained in the techniques for some reason classified well above his level, but none of those units existed here.  He scowled, mentally cursing the Admiral; if the Americans refused to surrender, the only other option would be committing an atrocity that would only result in retaliation against Soviet civilian populations.

“The asteroid is hailing us,” the communications officer said.  “They’re demanding to talk to you.”

“Put them through,” Captain Fursenko ordered.  “This is Captain Fursenko, Commander of the Red Space Force Ship Stalingrad and brevet commander of the Red Asteroid Fleet,” he said.  “I must demand your surrender.”

There was a long pause.  “This is Administer Robins,” a woman’s voice said.  Captain Fursenko saw some of the crew exchange lecherous glances; women were not allowed to serve in the Red Space Force.   “I am the senior elected official in the asteroids after you blew one of them apart.  What are your terms for surrender?”

Her voice was like ice; she would make a formidable foe.  Captain Fursenko knew that if he failed, or if he offered terms that the Politburo or STAVKA didn’t like, then he would be blamed for it, rather than Admiral Petrovich.  He exchanged glances with Commissioner Savchenko, then spoke with all the confidence he could.

“We will guarantee the safety of all of your people,” he said.  “In exchange, you will give us control of all of the habitats and make no attempt to resist us.  After the war, I dare say that you will either be permitted to continue to live on the habitat, or returned to Mars, but for the moment you can continue your normal lives.”

There was a second pause.  “There will be no attempt to force us to follow your laws or to collaborate with you?”  The woman asked.  “There will be no purge of the senior officers?”

“None at all,” Captain Fursenko said.  “Look, Administer Robins; I understand that this entire situation isn’t easy, or that you would be reluctant to commit treason against your own government.  All we ask is that you refrain from active resistance against our forces.”

“In that case, I surrender to you,” Administer Robins said.  Her voice was still hard.  “See that your troops behave themselves, or I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”

“What imprudence,” Commissioner Savchenko said, as the communications line broke.  “Anyone would think that she had the guns.”

Captain Fursenko shrugged.  “Communications, raise Admiral Petrovich and see what he can send us in the way of Marines to hold the asteroids,” he said.  “We have no troop element of our own, so…”

“The Admiral is currently negotiating with the American Martian Government,” the communications officer said.  “However, he has ordered some troops launched from Mars; they should rendezvous with us in thirty minutes.  He also said…’well done.’”

Captain Fursenko smiled.  “It won’t be long before Mars surrenders,” he said.  “Once we have all of its industry, we should be able to force the war to a successful conclusion.”  He shrugged.  “Lieutenant Trutnev, find us one of the stations where we can get some more fuel and missiles,” he ordered.  “If we run out of fuel completely, we might end up falling into Mars.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Search and Rescue

Abraham Lincoln
Deep Space

The news of the fall of Mars spread rapidly across the Solar System, angering and worrying Americans from the civilian population to the military.  A board of inquiry was swiftly convened on the destruction of Janis Habitat, in Mars orbit, which rumour swore had actually had some very covert cooperation from the Soviet Union, despite the diplomatic silence.  The conclusion, that the destruction of the habitat had been a terrible accident – without even having someone to blame – had pleased few, even though it meant that the Soviets had not decided to start blasting civilian habitats.

Yet, Captain Howard reminded himself.  Nuclear warheads were dangerous things, and almost every warship carried more than a few on its missiles.  It was quite possible that it had been an American warhead, three days ago, that had destroyed the habitat; in the middle of the electronic storm it was impossible to know for certain who was to blame.  

He scowled.  The Lincoln should have been at Mars, fighting the Gorky.  He was certain that the newer modifications to his ship would have made it a more…interesting match.  Instead, they were surveying asteroids, looking for signs of Soviet miners.  He didn’t understand it at all; what were they going to do about Mars?

“We should have taken the asteroid fleet and moved in to attack them,” he muttered to Commander Haircloth, who had replaced Commander Jane Hammond.  He was nothing like as capable as Jane had been; he showed limited imagination and experience in fusion-drive ships, which hardly prepared him to serve on the Lincoln.  It had taken Howard time to get used to his ship’s capabilities, but they were at war!  There wasn’t time to coddle people and ease them into the new ships.

“We have to find the remaining Soviet miners,” Haircloth said.  His voice was young and earnest.  “They could still be used for mining ore for the Soviets at Mars.”

“Bollocks,” Howard said.  “They wouldn’t be able to get anything there before we intercepted it, unless they sent it so slowly that it would be years before they reached Mars.  No, we’re out here for the economic interests.”

He scowled fiercely down at his display.  He knew perfectly well that the miners had been demanding that the USSF aid them in hunting for the remaining Soviet miners, as helpless as they were.  A single American mining ship might not be able to defeat one, but there were thousands of American miners; they could have done the task for themselves.

He scowled.  It made a bitter kind of sense, he supposed, to use the Lincoln, which could re-join the fleet at any time, rather than a corvette that would have to waste time burning fuel to meet the rest of the fleet.  The Lincoln could certainly move quicker within the asteroid belt than anything else that Admiral Westmoreland had under his command, but still…

“Damn it,” he muttered, studying the region they’d been assigned to survey.  It seemed empty, but he knew that any Soviet miner could have simply cut all of their systems and pretended to be a hole in space.  Without being very close, even a radar pulse might not recognise that it was pinging off a real spaceship, as opposed to yet another chunk of rock.

“Perhaps we’ll stumble on the lost silver meteor,” Haircloth said.  Howard snorted; the rumours that a miner had found a genuine rock made entirely of silver – and then lost it – had to be complete nonsense.  He could see a few miners trying to steal it from others, although most miners tended to work and live together in rough harmony, but it defied belief that so many people would steal it in so little time.

He smiled.  Since when had logic and common sense impinged upon a good story?

“I don’t think that that is likely to happen,” he said.  Congress had passed laws governing someone who found a genuinely rare asteroid, but few ores were rare out in the belt.  Iron was as common as water in the belt; some rarer elements tended to bring in prize money.  “Perhaps if we found a missing ship, we could sell it on to the miners or something.”

“We might even find the Wanderer again,” Haircloth said.  “You never know.”

“No, you don’t,” Howard said, turning to face the display.  Hours passed as the Lincoln moved further along the belt, pausing to examine some asteroids from time to time.  He was grimly aware that miners would be watching his ship, trying to see if they’d found anything interesting; claim jumping was a fact of life out on the belt, even though few miners would use violence to do anything like that.

“Captain,” Lieutenant Malady said.  “We’re picking up a very weak distress call.”

Howard sighed.  “Oh God,” he said, remembering the last distress calls they’d answered.  “Not again.”

Haircloth gave him a reproving look that was one millimetre short of insubordination.  “Who’s sending the call, Lieutenant?”  He asked.  “A Russian ship?”

Lieutenant Malady’s face was pale.  “Captain, it’s from the launch,” he said.  “It’s definitively from the Adam Bomb.”

Howard stared at him for a long chilling moment, and then started to bark orders.  “Trace it,” he snapped.  “Where is the bloody thing?”

“I’m trying,” Lieutenant Malady said.  “Captain, it’s only a few hundred thousand kilometres away, above the system plane.”

“Hardly significant at that distance,” Howard snapped.  “Helm, take us there, best possible speed.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Marian Davidson said.  Her voice was a mixture of hope and fear.  “Best speed; full ahead, sir.”

“Red alert,” Howard ordered, as the Lincoln started to move out of the asteroid belt.  “Lieutenant Malady; compose a laser pulse to Admiral Westmoreland.  Inform him of the contact, its location and the other details, and then that we’re going to investigate.”

“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Malady said.  “Sir, the original signal is fading in and out, as if the launch was losing power.”

“It could be a trap,” Haircloth muttered, through the private channel.  “Something like this would be sure to get our attention.”

“I know,” Howard said.  “Still, I don’t see how we have any major choice.”

The Lincoln raced towards the source of the signal, its sensors reaching out ahead of it to see what they could find, forsaking secrecy and stealth to find its missing crewmembers.  Howard watched as the display altered as the ship headed up towards the source of the distress call, wondering how the launch might have reached its location.

“No sign of the Wanderer,” Lieutenant Singh reported.  “Something like that should have shown up at this distance.”  There was a chime from one of his sensors.  “Captain, I am reading the launch; it’s floating in space.”

“Lieutenant Malady, try to raise it,” Howard ordered.  “Any response?”

“Nothing,” Malady said, after a few moments.  “The computer link has been opened; they have a normal atmosphere, but little else.”

Howard wished bitterly that he could have led the mission to the launch himself.  “Commander Haircloth, take two officers and the new Doctor,” he ordered.  “You will EVA over to the Adam Bomb and search it.”

“Yes, sir,” Haircloth said.  There was no hint of worry or fear, Howard was pleased to note; perhaps it was merely the fact that he had replaced Jane that irritated him.  Obviously, they couldn’t dock with the launch before they knew what had happened to it.  “I’ll get on it at once.”

Howard nodded.  “Lieutenant Malady, send an update to the Admiral,” he ordered.  “Tell them that we’re continuing with the investigation.”

***
Commander Jane Hammond lay helpless in her acceleration couch, trying to move, trying to do anything at all.  She couldn’t move; her body was strapped down almost perfectly.  The image of the tall alien remained in her mind, but she couldn’t move at all.  The couch had been part of the institutional paranoia of the USSF – no launch could really move fast enough to make such a couch necessary – and she cursed the desk-bound knave who’d insisted on it.  

Her mind hurt constantly, as it had for the week; the mere presence of some of the aliens was enough to trigger a massive headache.  There were no aliens in the launch with them, only one other person…and part of her mind knew that she should be concerned about the fate of the other three.  Shelia, James McPherson and…she’d forgotten his name in the haze.  Where were they?  What had the aliens done to them?

Arthur, she thought.  That had been his name.

The message from the alien leader – for she was convinced that the tall alien was the leader – remained firmly stamped in her mind.  She knew now that the aliens were very hostile; their merest touch had made her mind hurt beyond imagination.  Her body felt as if she’d been severely beaten and raped; Rodney’s groans from his couch suggested that he felt the same way too.

She tried to concentrate, to remember what had happened from the moment she’d blacked out, but it refused to form in her mind.  There’d been lights, and shadows, and something had burrowed into her body and…she couldn’t remember.  Her thoughts were a jumbled mess; she could barely remember her own name…

“Commander Jane Hammond,” she reminded herself, trying to think through the pain.  “Commander…”

Something bumped against the side of the launch.  Instant fear spread through her; had the aliens returned to recover them?  She wasn’t even sure of what they were doing with her, or why they were on the launch.  Was it all a nightmare?  Was she in her cabin on the Lincoln…?

The airlock hissed open and she felt mildly concerned; a figure stepped into the launch.  It wasn’t a short alien figure and the relief she felt was overpowering; the figure was bigger and bulkier than a grey alien.  She would have welcomed a Russian; seeing the American flag was just icing on the cake.

“Commander,” the figure said, its voice echoing through the suit’s intercom.  Jane smiled at him, feeling some of the pressure in her head ease.  “Commander, can you hear me?”

It took Jane several tries to speak.  “Yes,” she managed finally, suddenly aware of her parched throat.  “Water.”

Another figure was checking out Rodney, she realised, as her figure removed some water from the launch’s tiny kitchen, holding the water bulb to her lips.  She suddenly realised that they were in zero gravity; she couldn’t understand why she hadn’t realised before.  Pain flared along her head and then faded, vanishing completely from her head.  She sighed in relief, seeing concerned eyes in the space-suited figure.

She tried to speak and found that it was easier now that she’d drunk something.  “What ship?”  She asked.  “What ship are you from?”

“The Abraham Lincoln,” the figure said.  He seemed oddly embarrassed.  “I think I was your replacement.”

Jane laughed rather drunkenly.  “You have to warn Fleet Command,” she said, trying to undo the straps.  The aliens had done their work well, she realised; it was impossible for her to undo her own bonds.  “You have to inform them that there’s a Code Blue-Zulu.”

The figure’s hands were moving to undo her straps.  They stopped in shock.  A Code Blue-Zulu was used for only one emergency; imminent alien invasion.  It wasn’t a Code Blue – signs of alien technology – or a Code Blue-Delta – alien contact – but outright invasion.  The figure seemed astonished.

“Commander Hammond, are you sure?”  He asked.  “What’s happened to you?”

The pain surged back into Jane’s head.  She almost screamed from the sudden impact.  “They came for us and took us,” she said, against the pain.  “Hundreds of the little grey bastards; they took us from the Wanderer and then they took the Wanderer and they took us to a base somewhere a long way from Earth.”

The figure undid her bonds.  She floated off into the air slightly, trying hard to control herself.  “They said that we could submit willingly, or we would be forced to submit,” she said.  The pain seemed to fade as she repeated the alien’s message.  “You have to warn them.”

A thought struck her.  “What’s happened with the war?”  She asked.  “Who are you?”

“The Soviets tossed us out of Mars,” the man said.  “We kicked them out of the asteroids.”  He paused.  “And I’m Commander Haircloth, assigned to take your space.”

“Bastard,” Jane said, without real anger.  Haircloth seemed to understand.  

“I think that the USSF will give you your place back, after you’ve been debriefed,” he said.  “For the moment, however, we need to decide what to do with you.”

***
Howard had ranged between delight and horror as Haircloth reported back, reporting that Jane was alive…but where were the missing three?  He wished that he could pace around the bridge, trying to remain calm, but it was impossible.  He waited…and he listened to reports.

“I’ve been trying to access the launch’s computers,” Lieutenant Singh said.  “They seem to have been hit with a powerful electronic pulse; hardly any records survived past the loss of contact.  The pulse itself, of course, is proof that part of her story is true, but…”

“I don’t think she would lie to us,” Howard growled.  “Anything else?”

“Some imagery,” Singh said.  “It’s from one of the emergency systems, with hardly any real resolution; it really needs better people than me working on it.”

“And with a possible alien invasion in the works, the Admiral will want to stick his oar in,” Howard said.  The Code Blue-Zulu had made certain of that.  “What the hell do we do with something like this?”

The radio buzzed.  “Captain, this is Doctor Dean,” it said.  Judy Dean’s voice was firm and professional.  “Both of them have been seriously examined, I think, and I don’t recognise some of the techniques used.  I really need to get them both into a proper sickbay, maybe even take them back to Earth.  There’s a lot of stuff in their bloodstream that I really cannot account for.”

“Understood,” Howard said.  He knew what he had to do.  “Commander Haircloth?”

“Yes, sir,” Haircloth said.  His tone darkened; what he’d seen on board the ship had clearly changed him.  “We have orders?”

“More or less,” Howard said, rolling his eyes inside his combat suit.  “I want you to place both of them in spacesuits and bring them back to the Lincoln,” he ordered.  “Once they’re back here, we can examine them properly.  The launch can be abandoned in space.”

“Aye, sir,” Haircloth said.  His tone became a lot more enthusiastic, Howard noted, when he had something to do.  “We’ll do that at once.”

“Captain, we have a communication from Admiral Westmoreland,” Lieutenant Malady said.  Howard lifted an eyebrow.  “We’re to take the two of them back to Earth, dumping the launch’s memory into a secure store, and then abandoning it.  Direct course back to Earth, sir; his exact words were no diversions or sight-seeing.”

“What sort of Captain does he think I am?”  Howard asked no one in particular.  “Lieutenant Davidson, set course for Earth; as soon as they’re all aboard and locked down, then we can move to Earth as fast as we can.”

“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Marian Davidson said.  Her voice was nervous, but determined; Howard was proud of her.  “Course laid in.”

***
Ensign Sonya Barton was grimly aware that she had played a large role in starting the war now raging across the Solar System, but a possible Code Blue-Zulu meant that the war had to be put on pause, if not terminated altogether…except that the Americans would be the only ones who knew about the contact.  Would the President try to cut a deal with the aliens, or would he try to divert them onto Mars, which now belonged to the Soviet Union?  How could she know?

Her task was simple; she had to assist Commander Haircloth – a stuffed shirt if ever she had seen one – to bring the two returnees back to the ship.  It was an easy task, but she had a second task; using her system to alert the Soviet Union.  As she made EVA, she loaded the second program into the suit, knowing that it was very risky indeed.  Fortunately, moving people into an airlock when they weren’t aware was tricky – and Doctor Dean had ordered them both sedated.

“Attach the cable to the Commander,” Commander Haircloth ordered, sounding competent enough.  Sonya jetted out to meet him as he brought them both together, tethering Commander Hammond to the ship, then turning slightly to allow her system a chance to triangulate on the location of the Russian relay station.  “Now take her inside the ship.”

“Yes, sir,” Sonya said, pulling Commander Hammond into the airlock, where two other crewmen were reaching for her.  Lieutenant Rodney, the former CMO, followed her; she didn’t know where the others were now.  She tried to peer into their spacesuits, just to see what they looked like after being in the hands of the aliens, but they just seemed…normal.

“Now all we have to do is move them to the sickbay,” Commander Haircloth said.  Sonya nodded inside her suit, before carefully removing it as soon as the airlock opened and UV light had decontaminated them all.  She towed Commander Hammond along with her, pulling her towards the small medical bay, and secured her to the first table.

“Doctor,” she asked, “should I take them out of the spacesuit?”

Doctor Dean answered after a long moment, long enough to make Sonya worry.  Had someone stumbled upon the program in her spacesuit?  “No, thank you,” she said.  “It would probably be better for all concerned if they remain in the spacesuits.  Good thought though.”

Sonya smiled.  “Thank you, Doctor,” she said.  The Captain would hardly want to risk alien contamination of his ship.  “Any further orders?”

“No, thank you,” Doctor Dean said.  “I’ll be along in two minutes, then you can return to your duty station.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Face of the Enemy

Washington DC
USA

It had always amused Professor Thande that successive governments liked keeping pet scientists nearby, even though they rarely listened to their advice.  While he’d been working for the British Government in Cambridge, before Cambridge had been blown into a radioactive slagheap along with the Middle East and Africa, he’d seen it happen time and time again.  Sensible, respected scientists, people with not only posh-sounding intellectual degrees, had said useful things like “we could power all of Britain with ten perfectly safe nuclear reactors,” or “we could build genuine fuel and pollution-saving cars if you actually gave us a proper budget,” and had then been ignored.  

He had a private suspicion that the governments just liked the thought of clever people nearby, just so they could ignore their advice.  Americans were particularly bad at this; American scientists had made almost all of the breakthroughs in space technology, particularly since their Soviet Union had gone out of business, and they had then been ignored.  Hundreds of qualified researchers had pointed to the massive benefits to be gained by mining the asteroids, only to be ignored in favour of junk science and political expediency.  

It therefore hadn’t surprised him much to discover that there was a fully-equipped research laboratory in Washington, despite the security risks that that entailed.  Professor Anderson, Professor Neilson had explained, was considered one of the greatest living experts on both alien technology and the Procyon Drive, and therefore might be needed at any moment.  Anderson himself had explained that he preferred to work at Cheyenne Mountain, where every politician who wanted to ask a question couldn’t interrupt him.

“The Procyon Drive creates a bubble around the ship,” he explained, when Sally had asked.  Sally was far from being an airhead – Thande knew that she was quite intelligent – and he couldn’t understand why she was playing to his counterpart’s ego.  In many ways, it was like looking into a mirror of himself, one that had been oddly distorted.

“The easiest way to explain it is that the ship’s drive literally presses against the fabric of space,” Anderson continued, expounding on his work of twenty years.  Thande had been quite impressed, except he would have expected more to have been done, and quicker.  There were implications in drive fields that Anderson seemed to have missed entirely.  “In effect, the craft is literally riding on the drive field, pulling itself along by sheer pressure; in fact, it might be capable of pulling up to ninety percent of the speed of light, were it not for one minor problem.

“The drive can accelerate very quickly,” he continued, apparently unaware of Sally’s light brown eyes resting worshipfully upon his.  Thande could tell that he was very aware indeed and was enjoying the attention.  “Quickly enough, in fact, to literally smash the crew to paste.  We lost an entire crew that way on the test ship, back before the war; they died before they had a chance to realise what was happening.”

He smiled at some memory, and then continued.  “The solution, as it happened, was to generate two separate fields, one inside the craft that provided a counter to the first field.  Unfortunately, this imposed a speed limit; attempting to move much past one-third of the speed of light tended to cause either or both fields to collapse rapidly.  In either case, the crew would be killed.  Missiles, of course, can travel faster, but the drives are so expensive that it will be a long time before Procyon Drive missiles become a practical opinion.”

Thande coughed.  “Could you not simply…hollow out the first field?”  He asked.  “If you were to…say, have the interior of the ship spared from the drive’s effects, it would still go along with the field.”

Anderson gave him an unreadable look.  “The math suggests that doing something like that would tear the ship apart,” he said.  “It would be like pulling one part of the ship along without the rest of it being subjected to the same pressure.”

There was a flaw in that argument, Thande was certain; logic was reminding him about something.  He wished, desperately, that he could remember what it was; there was something that his counterpart was missing.  It was obvious, dancing at the very back of his mind…and it refused to surface.

Anderson coughed.  “In practice,” he said, “a Procyon Drive ship can be detected outside close range only with difficultly.  While it does not absorb radar pulses, it emits little in the way of practical detectable energy; unlike a fusion drive, it does not spit out a long line of radiation.  It also has no reason to remain on a genuine ballistic trajectory; it could quite easily jump about like a flea on a hot griddle.”

“Like the Gorky did,” Professor Neilson injected.  The other Professor had insisted on watching the proceedings; Anderson had agreed reluctantly.  “It was literally impossible to hit.”

“Of course,” Thande said.  “You would need new weapons, perhaps even something capable of disrupting the drive field, which would leave the ship trapped at a dead stop.”

Anderson looked as if he had bitten into a sour fruit.  Thande was puzzled; wasn’t he enjoying the discussion.  “It’s very difficult to collapse what is in effect a drive field built out of energy,” he said.  “The energy may not interfere with incoming weapons or sensor pulses, but it would require an awesomely powerful pulse of energy to disrupt it.”

“A laser,” Thande said thoughtfully.  “You have working lasers; rig up a battery of them and just hammer away at the ship.”

“That would rather require the blasted ship standing still,” Anderson said.

“But you could tie in one of the newer directed energy weapons,” Neilson said.  He gazed over at Sally, as if he wanted admiring glances as well.  “They’re supposed to have a stronger line of pure energy, which would also have the advantage of cutting the ship apart when they hit it.  Hell, you could expand the beam, which wouldn’t be so useful against a hull, but it would interfere with the drive field.”

Sally coughed.  “We’re getting off course here,” she said.  “Weapons are one thing, but the priority is gaining some genuine evidence that the Hive is still out there.”

“But the Wanderer destroyed itself,” Anderson objected.  “All of the evidence suggests that the ship literally crushed itself under its drive fields…”

“No it fucking didn’t,” Thande exclaimed in absolute delight.  The thought that had been drifting around in his mind exploded into his full awareness.  “No it didn’t, Professor; the energy of the fields only exists in potential!  It’s not real, not in the sense that it can affect matter!”

Neilson blinked owlishly at him.  “But of course it can,” he said.  “The drive somehow takes a ship along with it…”

“That’s the point,” Thande said.  “The drive has an effect on space, but space is not quite the same as matter, is it?  The potential energies of the drive might move the ship, or do they?  Do they just create a bubble that carries the ship along with it?”  

He paced the room, smiling broadly.  “I didn’t understand when I was first told,” he said.  “How can the field crush a ship, which would give it some existence in a physical sense, and at the same time provide no protection against incoming missile fire?  When you talked about using energy weapons, you were talking about introducing more energy and hoping to cause the field to overload, but there’s no point if the field doesn’t pick up anything in the way!”

Sally looked innocent, admiring, and inquisitive at the same time.  Thande admired her acting ability, even as she asked the important question.  “So the Wanderer wasn’t crushed after all,” she said.  “Can we prove that?”

It was Anderson who answered, his voice grim.  “It is possible that I may have made a mistake in the calculations somewhere,” he said.  Thande wasn’t blind to the look Neilson gave him; he felt a flicker of sympathy for his counterpart.  “Perhaps one of our fields simply exists at too low a level to crush ships.”

“Perhaps you simply forgot to carry the one,” Thande said dryly, an old joke among theoretical scientists.  “Still, exactly what is our purpose here?”

Anderson collected himself with an effort.  “If we are looking for…gravity distortions caused by the Procyon Drive, then we will need to build a gravimetric sensor,” he said.  “I have taken the liberty of making one according to your specifications.”

Sally smiled.  Thande took the credit, as they had agreed earlier.  “I hope that they were followed exactly,” he said.  “A gravimetric sensor is a very delicate system indeed.”

“Here’s one I made earlier,” Anderson said, picking up a complicated Heath Robinson kind of gadget.  “It took me a lot of time to track down a program that could be adapted for the task of running the system, but it actually has some similarities with programs used for scanning under the surface, in effect using underground shockwaves to make deductions about what exists under the surface.”

He placed it on a table, speaking all the while.  “As I understand it, it sends out a short-ranged gravity wave that reacts with anything that has an effect on the fabric of space, whatever that effect actually is,” he said.  He paused.  “In some ways, this might be a key to making an FTL communications device.”

“It could be,” Thande agreed.  “However…”

“However, the device seems to work fairly well as a sensor,” Anderson said.  He tapped a second piece of equipment.  “After the trial run, we’ll generate a small Procyon Drive field in here – don’t worry, it won’t be moving – and see what effect the Potential energy of the field has on the sensor.”

He smiled.  “Shall we start?”

Sally shrugged.  Her eyes were very bright.  “Why not?”  She asked.  “Once it’s done, the sooner we can deal with the Hive.”

Anderson tapped a button on the scanner.  Thande frowned, trying to sense the gravity wave, and failed.  Like the Procyon Drive, the gravity wave had very little interaction with normal matter, even to the degree that it only responded to something on a very minor level indeed.  He noticed that Sally was watching Anderson very carefully.

“Let’s see,” Anderson said, activating a display screen.  It filled with a grey field, broken only by darker spots within the room.  “I’m sorry about the colouring,” he explained.  “I think it was designed for mining originally and it just…kept its original form.”

He pointed to it, section by section.  “That’s me,” he said.  “That’s Professor Thande.  That’s Neilson.  That’s Sally…and that, I think, is the scanner itself.”

“It’s in the right place,” Thande agreed, as soon as he worked out the system.  It was very neat, he had to admit; the gravity pulse clearly hadn’t cared about Earth’s own gravity.  “Now, the real test?”

Anderson nodded.  “We will generate a Procyon Drive field that will last for only twenty seconds,” he said.  He tapped a switch.  “Activating…doing gravity scan…”

His hands danced over the panel.  “Deactivating…now,” he said.  “Shall we see?”

“Yes,” Sally said.  Her voice was ice.  “Let’s see the result.”

Anderson displayed the result.  Thande felt a wave of disappointment.  “It’s exactly the same,” he commented.  “We’re in different places, but it doesn’t register the drive at all.”

“No,” Sally agreed.  There was something in her tone that made him wince.  “No, it doesn’t.”

Anderson sighed.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “I had thought that your science was certain.”  He paused.  “Any questions?”

“Just one,” Sally said.  “Professor Anderson, how long have you worked for the Enemy?”

***
Thande felt his mouth fall open.  Sally was standing at her full height, glaring down at Anderson, her eyes blazing fire at the unfortunate Professor.  Anderson was blinking, as if he was confused; his face didn’t seem guilty or horrified, just…astounded.

“Sally,” Thande protested, “he’s me!  He’s not going to work for the Enemy…”

“I keep telling you that he’s not you,” Sally snapped.  “Answer my question?”

Anderson watched her as if she was lying below a dissecting knife.  “The Enemy,” he said thoughtfully.  “Is that what you call them?”

Sally glared at him.  “Do you have a better name for them?”  She demanded.  “It’s one of the greatest mysteries of the multiverse!”

“Excuse me,” Neilson said.  His voice echoed with puzzlement.  “Professor…”

Anderson ignored him.  “They call you that, you know,” he said.  His voice seemed very calm.  “The Enemy of everything they are.”

“Your people have brought the Hive to Earth,” Sally snapped.  “You twisted time and space into a pretzel, just so that the Hive could survive, against the rewritten multiverse!”

Anderson shrugged.  Thande stared in disbelief.  “Why?”  He asked.  “You’re me; why have you worked to bring the Hive to Earth?”

Anderson spoke only to Sally.  “At the risk of sounding dreadfully clichéd,” he said, his tone amused, “what made you think it was me?”

“Someone had to tell the Enemy where to find us,” Sally said.  Her voice was very calm.  “Someone should have told the higher authority here about us…and didn’t.  Someone made certain that the Enemy would be very well prepared for the attempt to take us…and yet you showed little concern for little details like security.  I started to wonder…”

“Excuse me,” Neilson said, his voice hardening.  Thande spared a moment to sympathise with him, the onlooker caught up in the madness.  “Professor…exactly what is happening?”

Sally’s voice darkened.  “You’re renowned as the inventor of the Procyon Drive, which is odd because all you really did was reverse-engineer the one that the Hive had crashed over Roswell,” she continued.  “And yet…there are flaws in the maths, and only a handful of scientists really understand the drive.  The drive works, yes, but it doesn’t work to its full potential and you have awful problems building more.”  Her gaze fixed itself on Anderson.  “Thande understood the maths, and he saw the flaw, which means that you should be able to have seen it as well.”  She paused.  “And now you tried to sabotage the detector.”

She smiled with genuine triumph.  “You’re working for the Enemy,” she said, her voice echoing with satisfaction.  Her hand extended itself into the weapons locker.  “You’ll…”

Anderson moved with a speed that Thande wouldn’t have believed he could have moved, slamming a fist into Sally’s jaw with astonishing force.  Sally jerked backwards, falling to the ground along with her weapon.  Anderson punched Neilson in the nose, hard, before turning to run for the door.  Thande recovered from his shock and scooped up Sally’s weapon, giving chase through a maze of corridors under Washington.

“Stop or I shoot,” he shouted angrily.  “I mean it…”

“You have a curiosity bump as big as mine,” Anderson shouted back.  “You won’t kill me, any more than I would…”

His voice broke off as Thande fired once, firing a beam of red light past Anderson, blasting a hole in the wall.  Anderson threw himself to the ground, crawling as fast as he could towards the door, and Thande caught up with him, covering him with the laser pistol.

“It’s over,” he said.  Thande shuddered as he saw his counterpart clearly for the first time.  Anderson’s face was a twisted parody of his own; he could see darkness billowing within it, an expression of dark scientific detachment that he hoped had never graced his own face.  “Why?”

Anderson looked up at him from his place on the floor.  “Have you never had the fun of pure research?”  He asked.  “Think of all I could do without people constantly pressuring me for briefings; think of what I could do if I could actually travel across the multiverse.  Think of what I could do if they stopped demanding newer and better weapons and scientific miracles.”

Thande was puzzled, knowing that part of him understood.  “You’re from this dimension,” he said.  “You knowingly worked to allow the Hive to come to Earth?”

The change in Anderson’s expression was shocking.  “What’s the point?”  He asked.  “How can I possibly research anything if I have to work to prove that my research is useful?”

Thande understood, at a deep level.  His research too would have advanced faster if he had been properly funded, except…  “But everyone knew that your research was vital,” he said.  “Why?”

“It wasn’t my research,” Anderson bellowed.  Thande understood in one second; Anderson had resented dissecting the Roswell craft, rather than exploring the universe for himself.  What was the fun in discovering how someone else did it, instead of finding out the answers for yourself?  “They promised me a ship to explore the entire universe, if I delayed human use of the Roswell craft for just long enough…”

Thande felt numb horror spreading through his body.  “But the Hive will exterminate humanity,” he said.  “Who would you be able to show off to?”

Anderson’s eyes glittered.  “My ship will have a human crew,” he said, his voice becoming harsher.  “I will take some people with me into the multiverse.  Goodbye, my counterpart…”

Thande lifted his weapon, but it was too late; Anderson disappeared in a strange flash of light.  “Fuck,” he swore, and stumbled back to the research lab.  “Sally?”

Sally looked up at him from her position on the floor.  She looked bruised.  “I’m all right,” she said.  “Where is he?”

“Gone,” Thande swore, allowing the weapon to fall from numb fingers.  It fell to the hard floor with a clatter.  “He vanished in a flash of light.”

“Micro-Portal,” Sally said.  She laughed suddenly.  “So that’s what it feels like.”

Neilson was pulling himself to his feet slowly, his nose bleeding.  “The bastard,” he said.  “Exactly what just happened?”

Thande and Sally exchanged glances.  “He was working for the Hive,” Sally said.  They’d already decided not to mention the Multiverse War if they could avoid it.  “I’m afraid, Professor, that that is very bad indeed.”

Chapter Forty: Reactions

Lunar Pentagon
Lunar Orbit

Fleet Admiral Matt Burghardt felt as if he had been punched in the belly.  “Professor Anderson was working for the aliens,” he exclaimed in astonishment.  “If they can get to him, who else can they get to work for them?”

“I don’t know,” the President admitted.  “His body was destroyed, utterly disintegrated, which suggests that there was some way that we could have used it to find out the method of the influence.”

“I see,” Burghardt said, and related what the Abraham Lincoln had found in the belt, concluding with the odd fact that the Russians hadn’t even tried to prevent the Lincoln from returning to Earth.  “This could hardly have come at a worse time.”

It was the President’s turn to be astonished.  “They found two of the crew from the Wanderer?”  He asked, astonished.  “What happened to the others?”

“We have no idea,” Burghardt said.  “The memories of both of them are hazy, or so they say.  All that Commander Hammond will say is that she has a message for Earth’s leaders.  Apparently, the aliens want Earth; resistance will not change the final outcome.”

“Resistance is futile,” the President said wryly.  It had been the tagline of one of television’s most beloved version of the alien threat.  “Admiral, any thoughts on strategy?”

Burghardt frowned.  “We have contingency plans for fighting an alien invasion,” he said.  “They were updated constantly, except…”

The President’s face furrowed.  “Except that we and the Soviets have been kicking the shit out of each other’s defences,” he said.  “We have less to fight with than we would have had a year ago.”

“But with more knowledge,” Burghardt said.  “Admiral, I was going to recommend that the two returnees are subjected to a full Code Blue interrogation, including drug and hypnosis treatments.”

The President narrowed his eyes.  Burghardt sympathised with him; it was perfectly possible for truth drugs to be used in interrogations, but there were hundreds of legal restrictions surrounding their use in any criminal case, even espionage cases had legal restrictions.  Burghardt was pressing against the limits, just by even thinking about it.

“They’re not criminals,” the President said slowly.  “Why is it necessary?”

Burghardt recognised the half-spoken offer to withdraw the suggestion, but ignored it.  “They cannot remember what happened to them,” he said.  “We need to know, desperately, what happened, and hypnosis might be the only way to find out.”

The President nodded.  “Ask them first,” he said.  “If they volunteer, then we have some legal cover.  If not…then carry out the interrogation anyway.”

Burghardt nodded with some relief.  “Yes, Mr President,” he said.

The President, who had just taken his career in his hands, smiled weakly.  “I have a second order for you,” he said.  Burghardt lifted an eyebrow.  “I understand that you were preparing a force from the asteroids to go to Mars?”

Burghardt nodded.  “The Russians have behaved themselves so far, and we have discouraged resistance in the asteroids, but that won’t last,” he said.  “Sooner or later, we expect that they will begin looting our colonies for theirs.  All they’ve taken so far are the remaining stocks of fuel for fusion ships and some of the missiles that weren’t destroyed during surrender negotiations.”

“I have to give you an order on that,” the President said.  Burghardt knew with a sudden sick certainty that he wasn’t going to like the order.  “You are not to launch the attack on Mars,” the President ordered.

Burghardt stared at him.  “Mr President…”

“There is no choice,” the President said flatly.  “There is strong evidence that the aliens have been inciting the war we are fighting at the moment, just to get us to burn off our strength.  We need to conserve strength – both ours and the Soviets.”

“Mr President,” Burghardt said slowly, “won’t that have political implications?”

The President nodded grimly.  “Congress, so far, doesn’t have the slightest idea about the alien contact,” he said.  “I intend to brief some of the senior leaders into the situation over the next few days, after I meet with the General Secretary.  If we’re lucky, we can convince the Soviets to a ceasefire long enough to make urgent preparations for an alien attack.”

Burghardt felt his mind reel.  “They’ll impeach you,” he said.  “Mr President…”

“It’s worth the risk,” the President said.  “In the long run, we might end up needing the Russians; what’s my political life compared to that?”

Burghardt understood in a sudden burst of admiration.  The President was gambling his future on the aliens becoming all too visible before Congress could have a fit over America unilaterally ending the war.  If the Russians could be convinced to agree to a truce, just long enough for a joint investigation, it would be hard to start the war off again – provided that the American portion of Mars was returned to America.  Would the Russians agree?

It wasn’t the kind of question that he could ask the President.  “Should I have one of the Russian liaison officers watching the interrogation?”  He asked.  “It might make convincing them easier.”

“Good thought,” the President said.  “We don’t have a real point of contact at the moment, do we?”

Burghardt shook his head.  “There are still supposed to be a few Russian miners out there, but nothing else,” he said.

“Then keep it that way,” the President said.  “Once we talk to the Russians, then we can decide how to handle the results of the war.”

***
The Code Blue facility existed two thousand kilometres from the Lunar Pentagon, a small space habitat that had been unique in being run by a joint caretaker crew.  It hadn’t drawn any fire at all during the war, something that had astonished Captain Howard; it was mainly in American hands, simply by being too close to the Lunar Pentagon.

“No,” Doctor Picard said, as they walked down towards the main examination room.  “This was always intended to be a joint project; both sides had very strong interests in keeping it intact.  The fact that all of its weapons were clearly intended for self-defence only made it less of a target.”

“I see,” Howard said.  The Abraham Lincoln had returned to Earth as fast as the ship could move, skirting the outer edge of Soviet weapons range without – oddly – being fired upon.  It was possible, he supposed, that the Soviets might have simply decided not to use their weapons, but it was odd.  “What exactly do you intend to do to my people?”

“Hypnosis, mainly,” a Russian-accented voice announced confidently.  The white-haired man held out a hand; Howard shook it reluctantly.  “They have the information locked up inside their heads, and hypnosis may help to retrieve it.”

Howard gave him a dubious look.  “And who exactly are you?”  He asked.  “I have never been keen on mind-shrinks…and this might even be against the USMJ code.”

“I am Doctor Aleksei Kerenkov,” the hypnotist said, in tones of freezing ice.  “They have both volunteered for this, my boy.  Such a truth-testing, I believe, is guaranteed by your own laws.”

Howard scowled at him.  Truth-testing, both voluntarily and involuntarily, was a fundamental process of American law.  In the case of the former, a suspected criminal could ask for the Court to order that he be subjected to a process of interrogation involving drugs, a polygraph and hypnosis, just to prove his innocence.  In the case of the latter, the Court could order that the process by conducted on an unwilling victim – provided that enough evidence existed to cast suspicion upon the criminal.  All such evidence, however, could only be collected through a long and complicated process with massive oversight, which made it unpopular with the police and the FBI.

Picard spoke rapidly.  “Doctor Kerenkov has been on this base for the last three years,” he said.  “As you may be aware, it was originally expected that any alien encounter would have a massive effect on the humans involved, from shock and mental trauma to biological infection and contamination.  Under such circumstances, it was decided that a secure facility would be required to handle any humans, just to ensure that there was no contamination of Earth and the other space colonies.”

Howard felt a flicker of pure rage.  “And you insisted on taking them on the Lincoln?”

“We had to get them back here as fast as possible,” Picard said.  “Unfortunately, there are complications…”

“Your Commander Hammond has exercised her right to the truth-testing,” Doctor Kerenkov said.  “Under the circumstances, this was something of a relief to us.  However, she has insisted that you remain in the room at the same time, which unfortunately is an unalienable right.”

Howard nodded.  A suspected criminal was entitled to due process, and one of those processes was that all truth-testing had to be done under careful conditions, from qualified medical supervision to witness observation.  The criminal had, in fact, the right to select his or her own witnesses, regardless of whether it was voluntarily or not.

“The second problem is stranger,” Doctor Kerenkov continued, at Howard’s nod.  “Doctor Rodney, in many ways, would be a better candidate for the process, but his brain is showing signs of very disturbing mental activity.  In fact, according to all previous theories, he should be dead.  He is having, for want of a better term, a brainstorm.”

Picard nodded.  “We have been keeping him under sedation,” he said.  “However, the strange patterns in his mind have refused to abate.  When he was awake, he raged and screamed; in fact, I think his mind is still back with the aliens, somehow.”

They reached a door marked WARD ONE.  Picard held his hand against a sensor pad and the door hissed open.  “There seems to have been no sign of biological contamination,” he said.  “They have a number of odd things in their bloodstream, but none of them seem to be more than some drugs, including several types we use ourselves for sedation.”

“They should have flushed themselves out of their systems by now, however,” Doctor Kerenkov injected.  “That they’re still there is…odd.”

They entered a white ward, with a comfortable chair placed neatly in the middle of it.  Commander Jane Hammond looked up and smiled at Howard as he entered; Howard felt unutterable relief.  They hadn’t been able to talk on the Lincoln; Admiral Westmoreland had ordered him to keep the returnees sedated and he had obeyed.

“It’s good to see you again,” she said.  “I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”

“That’s fine,” Howard said, and meant it.  Doctor Kerenkov pointed him and Picard towards a bench in the corner, where they were joined by a blonde female doctor who nodded once to them as she entered.

“The session begins,” Doctor Kerenkov said, keeping his voice firm.  “From this moment on, you must say nothing; if you need to suggest something, write it on the pad beside the bench and show it to me.  The session will be recorded and transcribed; under Code Blue regulations, all copies will be classified under Code Blue protocols.”

He tapped a button.  “Hypnotic session; Commander Jane Hammond, USSF,” he began, reciting the time, the date and her serial number.  “This session is attended by Captain Howard, USSF, Doctor Picard, Code Blue and Doctor Alice Wilkinson, Code Blue.  Commander, do you understand and agree to the procedure?”

“Yes,” Jane said.  “I understand.”

“The procedure begins,” Doctor Kerenkov said, and began.  Howard watched with interest as he started to weave a spell of words around Jane, slowly pushing her into a trance.  He watched as Doctor Kerenkov slowly and carefully helped her to relax and to let go of the world, finally leaving her lying back in the chair, completely limp.

“Good, Jane,” he said.  “Now, I want you to go back to the Wanderer; what happened on the ship?”

Jane’s voice was light and breathy.  Howard stared; her voice wasn’t sexual, or as if she were an airhead, but as if she had only the tiniest connection to the events she was describing.  “The ship was lighting up,” she said.  “My mind…I could hear them!  I could hear them in my head.  They came for us and…”

Her body contorted in the chair.  Doctor Kerenkov talked calmly to her, finally returning to the matter.  “The aliens came, the ones from Roswell; little tiny grey aliens.  They moved like monsters, not like us; they didn’t have muscles like us.  They walked through the vacuum like it was air, they didn’t need to breathe, they…”

Her voice flickered in pain again.  Howard realised that he was leaning forward and sat back with an effort of will.  “They came for us,” she said.  “They’d taken the launch, knocked out our communications; there was nothing we could do.  I surrendered; they took us to their ship, a massive gleaming dish of light in the sky and…they took us somewhere else, somewhere utterly massive.”

“And what was that something else?”  Doctor Kerenkov asked.  “Did you ever find out?”

“A base, perhaps,” Jane said.  Her voice was tinted with pain; her face was contorted, as if she had a headache.  Howard found that Alice’s hand was gently squeezing his; he looked up into her reassuring eyes.  “It was massive,” Jane said.  “There were ships all over the hanger, ones like the Wanderer; ships like the one that had crashed at Roswell.  There were thousands of the aliens, crawling all over the ships and…”

Doctor Kerenkov spoke softly to her as tears began to leak out of her eyes.  “You’re safe,” he said.  “You’re not there anymore and they can’t hurt you anymore.  You’re just watching what happened and telling us…”

“They took us into a room each,” Jane said.  “They” – her voice twisted with pain – “they’re putting things in me; there’s something crawling about under my skin!  They’re putting things in my womb; I can feel it!  I’m screaming and I can’t scream and I can’t move and…

“There’s an alien looking down at me,” she said, her voice darkening with fear.  “He’s much bigger than the little ones; he’s in charge.  I know that somehow; he has a louder whisper in my mind.  He’s talking to me, telling me that they’re coming for Earth – that they have been watching us for years and…”

She twisted violently in her chair.  Doctor Kerenkov calmed her again, before allowing her to continue.  “They’re inside my mind,” she screamed.  “They’re looking into my mind, asking me questions!  It hurts!  It hurts!”

Howard found himself looking down at her contorted face, having somehow moved without ever having noticed that he’d moved at all.  Doctor Kerenkov waved him back to the bench angrily, before continuing to speak to Jane, calming her again and again.

Howard scribbled a question on the pad and held it up to Doctor Kerenkov, who nodded.  “Jane,” he asked, “what were they asking you?”

“They were asking about the Lincoln and the other ships,” she said.  Her voice faded, grew calm.  “There’s nothing for a long time and then there’s a woman there; lots of humans there.  One of them has living eyes, the others are all dead.  They’re all dead!  The woman is looking at me; she’s all white, everywhere!”

Her voice was running faster and faster.  “There’s pain everywhere and they’re carrying me somehow, into the launch and then the room is shifting and I can’t move and…”

She screamed once and leapt forward.  Doctor Kerenkov caught her as she gasped for air, holding her gently.  Howard realised that whatever had happened then had been so traumatic that it had broken the trance utterly; Jane’s face was aware and streaked with tears.

“Enough,” he said firmly, and meant it.  Doctor Kerenkov nodded; he didn’t seem inclined to argue.  “Jane, how are you feeling?”

“They…wiped my mind,” Jane said.  “I know I know, I just can’t remember what I know!”

The fury and frustration in her mind tore at Howard’s heartstrings.  “Actually, I have some expectations of the rest of your memories coming back soon,” Doctor Kerenkov said, before Howard could speak.  “You were a fairly good subject, particularly in the state that you were in; in fact, I suspect that the aliens may have attempted to hypnotise you themselves.”

Jane shivered.  “You mean, they might have put commands in my head?”

“Unlikely,” Doctor Kerenkov said.  “Although it is possible to insert a post-hypnotic command, it is actually rather difficult to convince someone to do something completely against their will.  Hypnotising someone into having sex, for example, is quite difficult; the only time when it might work is when the subject actually wants to have sex with the hypnotist, movies like Hypnotic Love Slave aside.

“The real effect of hypnosis is to remove inhibitions,” he continued, slipping into lecture mode.  “In some ways, that can include acting in ways you would never dream of acting normally, like clucking like a chicken.  In others, it can include removing mental blocks, either caused by pain or other hypnotists.  The mind, for example, is encouraged to forget that which it would prefer to forget.”

“I see,” Jane said, as Alice took her and led her over to a small examining bench.  “What now?”

“It depends,” Picard said.  “I’ll have to inform the Joint Studies Group of this, despite the current…unfortunate situation.  I suspect, particularly with the presence of more humans on the alien ship, that Doctor Kerenkov will have to put you back under again, perhaps several times.  Whatever has been locked up in your head has got to be released.”

Howard frowned, looking at Jane’s sweat-stained overalls.  “Is that safe?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jane said shortly.  “There’s no choice; what’s in my head might be the key to victory in the coming war.”

Howard sighed.  “They’re out there,” he said.  “They’re out there…and we and the Russians have just spent the last two and a bit weeks blowing hell out of each other’s defences.”

Jane’s face flickered.  “He said that,” she said.  “The big alien; the boss.”

“Wonderful,” Howard said, clutching at his head.  “All we have to do is convince everyone to end a war that everyone wants to fight.  We are so screwed!”

Chapter Forty-One: The Best of a Bad Selection

Alliance Conference Centre
Iceland

The Politburo knew very little about the meeting; the Americans had asked for the meeting, and requested that it be held in secrecy.  Knowing of what would happen to Russia – to the Soviet Union – if the war continued, General Secretary Boris Andropov had made the decision to abide by the American request, even before discovering that there had in fact been a real Code Blue.

He nodded once as the American President entered the room, too tired in his soul to stand up and greet his old friend, who might have become his most implacable enemy.  President Andrew Woodrow looked tired and grim; the KGB had reported that the American Committee for the Conduct of the War was giving him a hard time over Mars.  Under other circumstances, he would have been amused, but now…with Mars under Soviet domination, it would be harder for the Americans to agree to even a limited truce.

We want a truce, we the leaders, he thought absently, as he finally stood up, feeling every bone in his body creaking with the effort.  They, the rest of the people, do not.

The balance of power in the Politburo was finely balanced.  Some wanted to fight to the end, confident in an American defeat and total Soviet dominance of the world.  Some would accept a peace that left the Soviet Union in control of Mars, and some would accept a return to the pre-war status.  None of them would countenance giving up any Soviet territory, even asteroids that had never been really claimed.

They shook hands firmly, allowing President Woodrow to sit down, staring at him.  Andropov held his eyes firmly, priding himself on that much control, and then blinked as the President passed over a folder to him.  He read through it quickly; it was a summary of the information obtained through hypnotic treatment, as he had already been informed of by the Joint Studies Group.

“We have a problem,” the President said shortly.

Andropov nodded once.  “We have several problems,” he said.  “This…is merely the next one in line.”

The President frowned.  “There is an alien invasion force on its way,” he said.  “The Roswell aliens, the ones that we’ve known about for over sixty years.  They’re going to be coming here and trying to invade Earth.  We seem to have around a week to prepare, with the covert that…”

“We know,” Andropov said, knowing that he was risking betraying one of the KGB’s agents.  It no longer mattered.  “You have a warning from one of the people you lost on the Wanderer…”

“And a spy right in the heart of the Joint Studies Group,” the President said.  “Professor Anderson was working for the Hive, as our sources of information tell us the enemy is called.  There are apparently other humans on their base, which means…”

Andropov didn’t need to be led to the conclusion.  “There might be others,” he said.  “I imagine that that was why you asked for this conference to be held in total secrecy.”

“Exactly,” the President said.  “Boris; we were manipulated into this war.”

“I worked that out,” Andropov admitted.  “If they had been the ones doing the attacking in the belt, particularly the ones where no one actually saw who was doing the attacking, then they would have been working to make us exchange blows.”

“In some ways, that is a hopeful sign,” the President said.  “There would be little point in encouraging bow-and-arrow wielding savages to start fighting each other if you are armed with tanks and guns.  They couldn’t hope to stop you in any case.  If they encouraged us to fight it out, then they must fear that we can harm them in some way.”

Andropov flicked through the briefing paper.  “I confess that I have some problems in seeing how,” he said.  “Perhaps the Red Space Force can suggest some tactics.  However, we have the minor problem that our nations are at war…”

“A war you started,” the President pointed out.  “There is no doubt who fired the first shot.”

“A war that was made likely by your decision to restrict our access to the Wanderer,” Andropov commented.

“A decision that was made because of the confrontations in the asteroid belt and Area 72,” the President said.  He scowled darkly, his blonde hair falling over his eyes.  “The aliens have a lot to answer for, it would seem.  If they attacked our bases, including one doing weapons research, then they would have been trying to not only trigger a war, but hamper our science.”

He shook his head.  “I won’t argue the truth behind starting the war,” he said.  “All that matters now is stopping the war, and indeed working to re-establish the alliance as quickly as possible.”

Andropov laughed harshly.  “Our hosts,” he said, referring to the Icelanders, “would be pleased to see that.  How many of your own people would be pleased?”

The President winced.  “That is a point,” he said.  “We have people who want to end the war with major gains, if not your total destruction.”

“Senator Chapman,” Andropov said.  “As you may have guessed, we have the same kind of people in the Politburo, or sitting on STAVKA, plotting your total defeat.”

“Only a fool fights in a burning house, as the Klingons say,” the President said.  “We could do with Captain April’s attitude now, Boris.”

“I preferred the stories about how humans and aliens will meet one another in deep space,” Andropov said.  “An advanced alien society would be communist, naturally, and they would part in a haze of ionised vodka.”

“Can’t stand vodka,” the President admitted.  Andropov snorted.  “Boris, we have to somehow tone down the war so that we can resist the true enemy.”

Andropov sighed.  “I’m not arguing,” he said.  “I quite agree with you.  The problem is simple…how?”

The President’s eyes glittered.  “What would your peoples’ terms for ending the war actually be?”  He asked.  “What do you want from this?”

Andropov chuckled.  “Which set would you like?”  He asked.  “There’s the set that demands that you give up all your space colonies and the fleet to us.  There’s the set that demands that you recognise our claim to Mars and Venus.  There’s the set that demands that you keep your miners out of our area of the belt, permanently.”

He smiled at the President, who looked shocked.  “Which set would your people agree to?”

“None of them,” the President said flatly.  “At the very least, my people will want you to accept our interpretation of the law of asteroid mining, and return all that you have taken from us.”

“And what about the asteroids that you have taken from us?”  Andropov asked.  “What about the damage that you inflicted on our moon colonies?”

The President frowned.  “You’re the all-powerful General Secretary,” he said.  “You can snap your fingers and all will obey…”

***
The President had expected many different responses, but he hadn’t expected Andropov’s peal of outright laughter.  “You Americans have strange ideas,” Andropov said, after he had finished laughing.  “I am hardly all-powerful; if I step too far outside the consensus, I will be removed from power.”

The President stared at him.  “There are endless CIA reports that you utterly dominate your people,” he said.  “Are those reports false?”

Andropov shrugged.  “Define false,” he said.  “I suppose that they also tell you that everyone in the Warsaw Pact is happy and contented with Russian dominance?”

The President frowned tightly.  “We know that the Poles are revolting,” he said.  “There are some within America that want to help free them.”

“Not just the Poles,” Andropov said.  He seemed to have decided to trust the President with something very important.  “The Germans; we must keep them down, or it won’t be long before German Panzers roll on their long way towards Moscow.  The Balkans, where only a heavy detachment of the KGB, backed up by the Army, keeps them from killing each other…”

“Rather than staying with Communism,” the President injected.

Andropov nodded.  “Andrew, there are times when I envy you,” he said.  “Your military is not in the habit of threatening a coup, aided by your CIA, if you become unpopular.  The job of a General Secretary, ever since Stalin was removed, is to help build a consensus among the people who run the country, not to actually rule.  I am not the Commander-In-Chief of the armed forces; I am lucky if I get to appoint the Commander-In-Chief.”

The President stared at him, honestly shocked.  “Oh, yes, I get some leeway,” Andropov continued.  “I could come here, but I could do little else.”  He paused.  “Andrew, would your people give up Mars for peace?”

The President knew the answer to that one.  “No,” he said.  “There are nearly a million American citizens on Mars, currently under Soviet rule, including space habitats, one of which was hit by a missile.”

“Our inquest concluded that we had and have no idea what happened,” Andropov said.  The Red Space Force had gone over the entire incident with a fine-toothed comb.  “Was yours any different?”

The President shook his head, and then pushed on.  “There are several factions within Congress,” he said.  “They’re still arguing over war aims, which gives me a degree of executive control.  For the moment, there are those who want a limited set of war aims, including myself, and those who want a total victory.  Senator Chapman is leading the second party, which doesn’t exactly endear it to me.

“One group would probably be happy if you returned the Mars and Venus colonies to us and accepted our interpretation of the law.  The second…would like to be dictating terms within the Kremlin itself.”

Andropov frowned.  “The Hive – if that’s what they’re really called – managed to slip one agent into the United States,” he said.  “How do you know that Chapman isn’t one of those agents?”

“I don’t,” the President admitted.  It was causing a lot of sleepless nights among those charged with security in the United States.  “Simple logic, further, suggests that you have a few agents in the USSR as well.”

“I thought of that,” Andropov said.  “How the hell do we catch them?”

“I have people working on that,” the President said.  “Would your people return Mars and Venus in exchange for peace?”

Andropov lowered his eyes.  “For political reasons, the only way we can end this war is something that looks like a victory,” he said.  “We could accept that you hold the asteroids in exchange for Mars, but not everyone would be happy with that; the Red Space Force in particular.”

“Nor those who were looking forward to Mars gaining statehood, at least our part of Mars,” the President said.  “Why do you need a victory?”

“Your victory in the asteroids gave a boost to those within the Warsaw Pact that wanted to break free of the Soviet Union,” Andropov said simply.  “Our victory at Mars reduced it.  If we end the war on any terms other than victory, the Warsaw Pact will fall apart.”

The President frowned.  “Then why not just let them go?”

“Tell that to the Confederate States of America,” Andropov said dryly.  “We can’t, Andrew; if we do, the Germans will be at our throats within ten years.”

The President took a breath.  “It seems to me that we have a problem,” he said, ignoring Andropov’s snort.  “We have to put the war on hold long enough to prepare for the real enemy to arrive, which is predicted to arrive within a week or two.  What would your Politburo say to a truce?”

Andropov lifted one eyebrow.  “A truce,” he said.  “I imagine that they would be hopeful.”

“Neither of us can really mount a counteroffensive or a new offensive for a while,” the President said, not exactly truthfully.  The planning for the counter-attack on Mars was still going ahead, even if the operation itself had been put back sharply.  “It seems to be a good time to have the diplomats earn their pay for a week or two.”

***
Andropov allowed himself a flicker of hope.  Perhaps there was a way that they could get out of the disastrous war after all.  “A truce,” he repeated.  “On what terms?”

“We halt in place,” the President said.  Andropov sensed the idealism that seemed to be common to all American Presidents hanging under his voice.  “Your forces continue to occupy Mars, but you allow us to take back the Vice President and ship in emergency supplies for the citizens.  The same goes for Venus.”

Andropov blinked.  “And your forces?”

“We’ll continue to hold the asteroid belt and the moon,” the President said.  “We won’t interfere with any of your miners left in the belt and we won’t interdict any attempt to transport goods from the orbital industries to Earth, provided you do the same for us.”

“I could convince STAVKA that such a pause would be in their best interests,” Andropov said slowly.  He knew perfectly well that if there were actually any miners left, they had defected to the American miners, who would be delighted to have them.  “What about prisoners?”

“No exchange, apart from the Vice President,” the President said.  “I need Gavin back on Earth to help prevent Congress from turning everything into a catfight.”

Andropov thought rapidly.  The chance to bring in some of the stockpile of goods from the orbital factories would please Dimitri Yazov, Minister for the Economy, as it would give the economy a temporary boost.  Space Marshal Gennedy Bukharin would doubtless be happy that his fleet wasn’t being shot at for a while.  The only member of the Politburo who would really object was Joseph Shapov, KGB Director, and everyone who mattered knew that he had urged that the war go ahead.  

He smiled.  Best of all, from the point of view of the military, it would give them some time to build up their forces in orbit again, which would only give them some extra firepower for fighting the aliens – or the Americans, if it was all some kind of elaborate trick.

No, he thought.  He’d seen the sensor records of the Wanderer; there was no way that it was an American trick.  If the Americans could build a ship like that, they would have won the war with ease.  Still, it would help convince the military to support him.

“I think that I could sell that to them,” he said finally.  “What about your own people?”

“I think that there would be support for a while,” the President said.  “If you were to make noises about returning Mars, then they would be happy enough to have the truce and to have the time to rearm the high orbitals, which we might need urgently.”

They smiled at one another.  “Good,” Andropov said.  “When do we announce the truce to the world?”

The President smiled.  “The Icelanders have agreed to allow us to use their telecommunications hub,” he said.  “Do you want to send orders to your forces first?”

Andropov nodded.  “I’d better make sure that they know,” he said, standing up.  “If they shoot at your people by accident, then there will be problems.”

***
The teleconference with the Politburo had taken longer than Andropov had expected.  Shapov had objected loudly, as expected, along with several non-entities who Andropov had known were the KGB’s dogs.  The other senior and/or influential members had sat on the fence until Andropov had outlined all of the benefits, using all of the arguments he could muster to convince them that the truce was the logical step forward.

“If we end the war with us in possession of Mars, then we’re in a strong position,” he’d snapped finally.  “If they take it back, we will be in a weak position.  We will need time…and this is the best way of getting that time.”

“They agreed,” he informed the President, twenty minutes later.  “They wanted some of the liaison officers on your bases, just to make sure that you were keeping to the terms, but I managed to talk them out of it.”

“Thank you,” the President said dryly.  “That would hardly have pleased my people either.”  He grinned and passed over a sheet of paper.  “Remember to smile when you read it.”

Andropov scanned the paper quickly, taking care to read both the English and Russian versions.  “Good enough,” he said.  It basically detailed the truce, which both governments would back, and the terms of the truce.  “Shall we begin?”

The President nodded.  “Well begun is half done,” he said, and led the way towards the telecommunications centre.  “If the aliens attack, in a week it won’t matter anyway.”

Interlude Three: Time’s Up

Space is vast.

It is so vast that it is literally beyond the comprehension of humans.  The distance to the nearest star, around four to five light years, is so vast that it would take even a Procyon Drive ship upwards of fifteen years to reach it.  On such a scale, even the largest starship would be nothing; it wouldn’t even begin to register.

Mission Commander Tak’Char surveyed the hologram of the mothership with something that a human would have equated with pleasure, perhaps even rubbing his grey hands together.  It was massive, very much the largest ship that had ever entered the Solar System, far larger than even one of the Bridge Ships that flew their long paths through the Solar System.  It had taken nearly sixty years to build it, converting the starship that had reached the Solar System into a ship so large that it would utterly intimidate the humans.

There was no longer any time.  The long-ranged sensors had reported that fighting seemed to be slowing down; their mysterious allies had reported that the United States and the Soviet Union were on the verge of a truce.  In theory, there was nothing that the humans could do that would harm his ship, but the Hive hadn’t lasted for…

Tak’Char paused.  How long had the Hive lasted?

He shook his massive head, dismissing the thought.  It had taken them years to build the army that would convert Earth into a new Hive for their further development, years that the humans had been kind enough to employ in terraforming Mars and Venus for them.  It would be years before the humans could hope to finish the job, even with Mars alone, which would give the Hive time to finish converting Earth to their use.  

He sat back in his throne, feeling his mind merging into the ship’s biological computer, far faster and more capable than anything the humans had even begun to consider.  Power flickered through the massive ship, testing and retesting everything, before finally beginning the long power-up sequence.  The power core, a gift from their mysterious allies, started to funnel power into the mothership’s fields, preparing to move it out of its location far beyond the edge of what humanity regarded as their Solar System.

Not long, Tak’Char thought, as his mind passed through the ship, looking for problems and opportunities.  The attack craft remained in their cradles, manned by the millions of Small Ones; disciplined soldiers and cannon fodder, as far as the Great Ones were concerned.

Tak’Char’s face became an expression of…displeasure.  The Hive Doctrine was very clear; one of the Great Ones was always supposed to be on board a Type-3 craft – one of the ships like the Wanderer – just to observe.  If something went wrong, no matter what it was, the spare Great One would execute the ultimate sanction on Earth, before withdrawing back to their home world.  Except…one of the five had died on board the Wanderer, which meant that there would be no observers.  The Small Ones could not be trusted with the job; they had a tendency to become robotic if left unsupervised for too long.  It was…irritating.

Tak’Char dismissed the thought.  They had a ship from a technology nearly a hundred years ahead of humanity’s; even with the help they had received from the crashed Hive ship.  They had powerful weapons and even more powerful defences.  They would even be able to outrun most of the human ships, most of which were out of place to intercept them in any case.  Human ships were slow and creaky; only seven had drive fields to power them.

The odds, Tak’Char calculated, were vastly on the side of the Hive.  A sporting human might have chosen to handicap himself; the Hive had no such morality and/or malice to hamper them.  They were merely going to invade Earth and convert it into a Hive world as quickly as possible.

What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter Forty-Two: Protesting the Eve of Annihilation

The White House
Washington DC, USA

“The shit has hit the fan,” the President said.  Thande could only admire his calm.  “Senator Chapman has really gone mad at the suggestion for a truce – and the fact that both of us implemented the truce before informing Congress or the Senate has really hacked him off.”

He sounded remarkably pleased about that.  Thande frowned thoughtfully.  “Can he start the war off again on his own?”

“I don’t think so,” the President said.  “So far, Congress and the Senate is waiting for permanent peace terms before deciding if they want to accept them or try to impeach me for dealing with the Soviets.  I’ve briefed the Majority Leader and the Speaker; they’re going to be stalling Chapman and the rest of the war hawks for a week or so.”  

He snorted.  “I’m in a conspiracy with the General Secretary of what is, more or less, an enemy nation, advised by two travellers from an alternate reality, against a nearly all-powerful alien force,” he said.  “Are there ever times in your life when you just look at what you’re doing and wonder just what the hell is happening?”

Sally smiled from her position, looking out over the White House lawn.  “You learn to roll with it,” she said.  “I’ve seen more out there than you could imagine, more ways that history could have been different than Harry Turtledove ever saw.  You never get used to it.”

Thande blinked.  “Familiarity breeds contempt?”

“Something like that,” Sally said.  “So, what now?”

The President frowned.  “We have the Code Blue team working on gaining more information through hypnosis, but it seems unlikely that the enemy will have revealed that they happen to have a major weakness somewhere,” he said.  “What will the Hive seek to do, seeing that they may know that they have been tumbled?”

“They will know that you know about them,” Sally said flatly.  “They sent two people back to you.  What was the decision on the alien demand?”

“Surrender and be enslaved, or fight and get enslaved anyway?”  The President said dryly.  “The General Secretary and I were agreed on that point; we fight.  The aliens are unlikely to ever take the boot of our backs if we just give in to them.”

“They’ll enslave you more completely than any system humans have developed,” Sally said.  “They already have some human slaves; they’ll know how to do it without any problems.  They’ll crush your defences, and then they’ll spend a few years assimilating your world into what they themselves want from it – an entire new Hive world.”

Thande gave Sally a worried glance.  He himself suspected that the reports of humans on the alien…space station, or ship or whatever it had been was proof of Enemy activity.  The thought of his other-self aiding the Hive was disgusting; he had often been annoyed by the British Government, but he had never felt the need to betray the entire country.  

“You’re helpful,” the President said dryly.  “Can you offer us more practical comments?”

Sally nodded.  “Only from observation, with the note that they might not be reliable,” she said.  “They may not spare too much attention for the rest of the system while they’re getting set up on Earth, so you’ll have time to prepare the fleet in Mars orbit or among the asteroids.  You have new Procyon Drive vessels preparing there, don’t you?”

“Yes,” the President said thoughtfully.  “A lot of money was flung at the shipyards when the war actually broke out; the Russians, of course…oh, shit!”

Thande frowned.  “Mr President?”

“The Russians, hell, some of ours as well…have a lot of their space-based industry in Earth or Lunar orbit,” the President said.  “They won’t ignore the moon, will they?”

“Probably not,” Sally said.  “You’ll have to write all of that off.”

“That will not please Congress, or the commercial interests,” the President said.  His tone was bitter, almost defeated.  “If we attempt anything like that, we are likely to face a riot.”

“You cannot defend them until you know more about the Hive,” Sally said.  “I don’t know what form their threat will take; there are simply too many variables.  There are a few items and weapons that we can help you build…”

“No God-weapon from thousands of years in the future?”  The President asked.  “No ships from a world where the war never started?”

“No,” Sally said, without giving details.  “There are limits to what we know how to build.”

The President nodded.  “I’ve decided that the best use of your talents would be to send you to the Lunar Pentagon, and then further, perhaps even to Ceres,” he said.  “There is a powerful manufacturing centre there; it might be what you need to get some interesting ideas into production.”

“It makes sense,” Sally said.  Her voice betrayed nothing, but satisfaction.  “How are we going to get there?”

“You’ve assured us that there will be no biological contamination, at least from the aliens,” the President said.  “The Abraham Lincoln remains under quarantine, but without contamination, she should make a quick trip to the belt.”  He paused.  “One point; how do we detect a Hive worker in future?”

Sally paused.  “It’s hard,” she said.  “If you do regular brain scans, you might find evidence that they have been…got at.”

The President stared at her.  His face was a mask of horror.  “Can they control people through their minds?”

“No,” Sally said.  “They’re not human; they can’t even talk to humans through telepathy.  Their brains are nothing like ours.”  She paused.  “I was referring more to implants, very tiny ones in the brain, that might be influencing their thoughts in ways that the aliens would approve of.”

The President shuddered.  “We’ll get on with it,” he said.  He held out a hand.  “If I don’t see you again, thank you for the help.”

Thande smiled.  “Think nothing of it,” he said.  “We’ll do what we can at the belt.”

***
They were an odd couple, the President reflected as they left, and they would end up as lovers soon.  Their body language betrayed them; they were reacting to one another like…they were more than friends, but not yet crossing the brink to lovers.  He smiled suddenly; with love, he thought in a moment of romanticism, all other problems seemed small.

He stood up and paced along the corridors into the conference room.  His War Cabinet stood up as he entered, greeting him with genuine respect.  He nodded and took his seat at the head of the table, looking around the table to measure the mood of his people.

“Fleet Admiral Matt Burghardt will join us now,” Judith Baker said, activating the teleconference link.  The president nodded to the Admiral as his face appeared in the display, then turned to the entire room.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said.  The entire United States military and political establishment was very busy; he knew that he was pulling a lot of people away from useful and important work.  “Garth?”

His Political Advisor coughed.  “Senator Chapman has had several different kinds of fit,” he said.  “Basically, he’s slammed you as everything from a weakling to a Soviet stooge.  The remainder of the American Party has been reluctant to follow his fire and brimstone rhetoric, but they want an open peace conference, one to be held on Iceland as soon as possible.”

The President nodded.  “It should give us at least a week before we can get such a conference set up, and longer before they’ve finished arguing over details like the size of the conference table, breaks for lunch and how many drinks they can have,” he said.  “We can get a lot done in that time.”

He looked up at General Armchair.  “General?”

“We have been working on disengaging from the Soviets,” General Armchair said.  “Fortunately, on Earth all we were really doing was exchanging a few pot-shots at sea between surface ships and submarines.  Ordering our ships to return to the pre-war ROE was fairly easy; we just sent the orders.”  He paused.  “There has only been one incident since, between submarines, and we won anyway.”

There were some chuckles.  “Space-wise, we’ve been making use of the pause to ship up several thousand troops to the Moon,” he said.  “The chance to rearm the space stations has been taken full advantage of; we now have some of the newer and ever more interesting weapons on the stations.  If there are aliens out there, we’ll give them a hot reception.”

“I hope you’re right,” the President said, feeling again the sense of impending doom.  “What about the ground?”

“No real change,” General Armchair assured him.  “There should be a few extra divisions emplacing themselves in their deployment zones, but that might cause problems for the economy.”

“Politically, we can hardly afford to relax our vigilance,” the Political Advisor said.  “If we were to give soldiers additional leave during the first week of peace, then we would be implying that we didn’t expect that the war would begin again.”

“Which might offer the Soviet hard-liners a chance to hit us,” the President said grimly.  “If they can dispose of the General Secretary, then they will have power over the Soviet Union.”

He shook his head.  “It doesn’t matter at the moment,” he said, looking up at Fleet Admiral Matt Burghardt’s image.  “How do we stand for fighting the war in space?”

“It could be better,” Burghardt admitted.  “At the moment, we have precisely seven ships, mainly destroyers, in Earth orbit or nearby; the majority of the fleet is in the asteroids, preparing to retake Mars.  There will be more being assembled at the moment, in the shipyards, but at the moment they’re barely capable of supporting human life, let alone taking part in a battle.”

He scowled down at his personal display.  “The Soviets have around five ships of their own in orbit, nestling under the weapons of their space stations,” he continued.  “They’re supposed to be in fighting trim, but there’s no way to be sure; they might be just being broken down and cannibalised.  The British have the largest force of ships in orbit or nearby at Cruthane; twenty-four corvettes belonging to the Commonwealth Navy.  The French have been concentrating on their bases in the outer system; I think in preparation for doing a deal with whoever comes out ahead in this way.”

He shook his head slowly.  “We know so little about the real enemy that it’s maddening,” he concluded.  “Can they pop out of hyperspace or somewhere right above Earth and open fire?  What communications and surveillance capabilities do they possess?  Will they have more agents on Earth; if so, where?  Will they do a deal with the Soviets, or us, or the British?”

“We’re working on getting more intelligence,” the President said.  “Professor Neilson?”

Professor Neilson’s nose had been dented by the punch from Professor Anderson, but his eyes burned brightly with intelligence and anger, a dangerous combination.  Under other circumstances, the President would have been quite happy to recommend that Professor Neilson be given leave for as long as he needed, but his scientific knowledge was necessary to advise the world.

“We have entire teams going through the remains of the original theory notes that Professor Anderson left,” Professor Neilson said.  His voice was dark with subdued fury.  “Unfortunately, the notes are in various codes, or stored in secure computer stores, all of which is taking time to sort out.  It is clear, however, from a preliminary analysis of all of the Procyon Drive effects, that he has been busy.”

His voice became darker, were that possible.  “There are all sorts of implications in the maths and the observed experiments that he just…ignored,” he continued.  “One possibility is that of literally generating artificial gravity, which would make building ships like the Wanderer a possibility.  A second involves using a drive field to interdict incoming missiles and energy weapons, which would make a ship – a single ship – more than a match for the entire fleet.”

Burghardt’s voice was tinted with alarm.  “The enemy ships could have something like that?”  He asked.  “A protective force field?”

“It’s a possibility,” Professor Neilson admitted.  “Just how effective it would be in practice, however, remains unknown.”

“This gets worse and worse,” Burghardt said.  His face twisted.  “Are you sure that this is real?”

The President barked a short harsh laugh.  “Yes, I’m sure,” he said.  “The Hive is out there somewhere.”

“Then we need some new weapons of our own,” Burghardt said firmly.  “Professor, are there any weapon-implications in the math?”

“More than I care to think about,” Professor Neilson said.  “I’ll have a full report on your desk by this time tomorrow, but the gist of it is simple; given a few weeks we can build weapons that would be powerful enough to blast the Lunar Pentagon to little atoms in a flash.”

“Nukes can do that already,” Burghardt said dryly.  “What about war production?”

The Secretary of the Treasury, Darla Brennen, smiled.  “The good news, at least, is that the truce reports have helped our economy.  People are buying more consumer goods again, which helps to force forward the flow of money sloshing around.  This is something of a relief; we were starting to get very worried about ongoing hikes in the price of everything, something that could have started off a wave of industrial unrest.”

The President scowled.  Almost every man in America had a basic familiarity with weapons.  A strike could get very bloody, very quickly; strike-breakers had been outlawed for years, but corporations might just try to reintroduce them if the economy was weak enough.

“This is helping war production,” she continued.  “Production of missiles and weapons suitable for space warfare has never stopped, of course; they’re still being manufactured as we speak.  There will be time to move as many as we can into orbit, perhaps even to deploy them in space as part of one massive wave of missiles.”

“That could have distressing implications for the war with the Soviets,” Thompson said.  “Mr President – Andrew – I know that you want the war to end before it spills out of control, but there are many in the Soviet Union that hate us and far more that fear us.  If we start deploying heavy missiles to float freely in orbit, they might become concerned.”

The President was spared the need to reply at once by a note he’d been slipped by Judith Baker.  It told him that Professor Thande and Sally had been placed into a cable car for the ride into orbit, where they would be transhipped to the Abraham Lincoln.  

“Good, keep me informed,” he said to her, and then he turned back to face the table.  “I know the dangers,” he said, “but we may end up needing extra firepower in orbit.”

“That raises another political question,” Thompson said.  “If there really is an alien battle fleet coming to kill us, I assume that we will be resisting?”  The President nodded sharply.  “If so, then who will hold operational command?”

“We will, of course,” Burghardt said, before anyone else could speak.  “I don’t think that we can trust the Russians to command American ships after…”

“I believe that the post of President comes with some authority,” the President said, who had been giving some thought to the matter.  “What about a British commander?”

“The Russians will love that,” General Armchair muttered.

“We will need a joint command,” the President said.  “We cannot take a Russian commander; they, one assumes, will not accept an American commander.  That leaves the British or the French…and the British have more experience at space warfare.”

He looked around the table.  “Any arguments?”

***
The day wore on into the night.  The President slept fitfully, unable to sleep for long, while worrying so much about the future.  His dreams were nightmares, dreaming about grey aliens appearing in his room and massive flying saucers hovering over Washington.  He knew now – it was all too clear in hindsight – how elegantly the human race had been manipulated; how they’d been tricked into expending much of their firepower on each other.  They’d lived with the alien threat for so long that they’d simply…stopped worrying.

He arose in the morning, drinking a large cup of coffee to awaken his mind, before reading the morning papers.  Most of them were encouraging the idea of peace, although not at the cost of any American territory; the plight of the Mars colonists under Russian control received several pages, mainly of exaggerated reports of Russian brutality.  

“There won’t be peace if idiots like that keep ranting,” the President muttered, reading the political analysis page.  The author seemed to think that the American Party would collapse, between those who had supported peace and those who wanted to fight until the end.  “Idiot.”

The telephone rang.  The President, still with one eye on the newspaper, picked it up.  “Yes?”

“Mr President, this is General Armchair,” General Armchair said.  “We’re picking up a report from the outer solar system now.  Sir, I think that this is it.”

The President discovered that his hand was squeezing the telephone hard enough to make it creak.  “They’re here?”

“It looks that way, Mr President,” General Armchair said.  “I’ve flashed the alert around the world.”

“Understood,” the President said, feeling crawling terror moving along his spine.  “I’ll be in the situation room in five minutes.”

Chapter Forty-Three: The Overcompensator

Listening Post XXI
Past Pluto’s Orbit, Sol System

There were times when Lieutenant Caroline Levin disliked working on one of the fifty listening posts, stationed out beyond Pluto’s orbit, but there weren’t that many of them.  The listening post was actually quite big, far bigger than it really needed to be to accommodate the ten-man crew on the listening post, large enough to actually generate a gravity field for the crew.  That and the massive quarters for each of them, larger than they would normally expect on any space structure, made living on them for the six-month stint quite bearable.

She smiled.  Lieutenant Gruskin, one of the Soviet officers, was another compensation.  The Code Blue teams were jointly composed of Soviet and American crewmembers, but she could safely say that they’d taken the concept of relations much further than any other crew.  Gruskin and she had been lovers for the past two months, and there were another two months to go before their stint was up.

She smiled again.  It was unlikely that they would be separated, even though there was a war on.  The Code Blue system had to be maintained, the human race had to keep listening for hints of alien activity out there somewhere, and there were still too few people willing to be cooped up with nine other people for them to be spared from their role.  It had been four hours since they’d last been together, and already her body missed him terribly.

Only five more hours to go, she thought, sitting in the command chair and pretending that she was the captain.  The listening post was studded with all manner of equipment, from radar sensors to telescopes and other passive sensors, but normally the quantum decryption computer handled all of the systems with unsurprising efficiency.  The crew, she knew, was only there to keep an eye on events.

“We’re just there to make sure that everything works,” Captain Hamilton had said, when she’d first arrived, and she knew that that was true.  Some of the crew played endless computer games on the system; others played endless games of chess, or poker, or other games.  Risk had been quite popular for a while; Russians versus Americans.  

She shrugged and accessed her eBook, reading about the latest adventures of Captain Napoleon, one of the spin-offs from the Wagon Train to the Stars series.  The entire series had served as nothing less than propaganda for the USSF, but it had worked; thousands of young men and women had signed up to the service, just to have a chance at reaching for the stars.  

The console chimed.  She blinked, half-lost in a fantasy about inviting Gruskin to the command deck for some very un-gentlemanly sex, and checked the systems.  Everything seemed normal…and then the console chimed again; the near-space contact report.

“That’s bizarre,” she said to herself, in puzzlement.  Even without the war, they were so far out that the closest base, the Israeli one at Neptune, would hardly send out a fusion ship to visit them without a very pressing reason.  The computers were insistent, however; there was something out there, something powered.

“Run me a trajectory sweep,” she said, wondering if they’d encountered one of the black spaceships from the black colonies.  This far out, there were bound to be dozens of the hidden independent asteroid colonies, trading amongst themselves and hiding from Earth’s two powers.  The computer clicked…and spat out an impossible result; the…ship, if ship it was, was impossibly huge.  It was so large that the system had been tricked; it wasn’t as close as it seemed.

“This has to be an error,” she said, but procedure was ingrained into her.  She hit the alarm button, resetting several of the sensors to attempt to gain a clearer image of the object.  She knew that she would be doing all of the washing, or perhaps a humiliating forfeit, if it were a false alarm, but there was something…real about it.

Captain Hamilton ran into the room at full tilt.  He’d been spending time with a Soviet lover too; in his case, a Soviet man.  Caroline knew that that wouldn’t go down well with the rest of the Soviet Union, even though she knew that they wouldn’t be too happy with her and Gruskin either.  Captain Hamilton could be a hard-ass at times, but he was a decent person under the occasional burst of sarcasm.

“Report,” he snapped.  “What’s happened?”

The station shook violently.  “We have a contact,” Caroline said.  Her mind was racing; what the hell could have caused the station to shake?  A nuclear warhead would have destroyed it, but shockwaves didn’t move in a vacuum.  The computer was still thinking about the size of the object…and then it displayed its results.

“That’s impossible,” she breathed.  “Captain…”

Hamilton leaned over her shoulder.  The object itself was proceeding into the solar system with a disdain for the listening post that would have been magnificent under other circumstances.  It was huge, emitting waves of…something that were rocking the listening post, as if they were caught in a gigantic wave of distortion caused by the ship.

“Five hundred kilometres long,” Hamilton breathed.  His face had gone pale; Caroline would have preferred to have swept the station naked, or done all of the washing for the next two months, rather than face such an impossible ship.  “Moving at…”

Caroline picked up the cue.  “Around a tenth of light speed,” she said.  “Sir, it’s slowing down slightly…and it’s heading directly for Earth.”

Hamilton’s eyes snapped up to the big display of the entire solar system.  The computer had already performed a trajectory analysis, presenting its findings in an easy to understand format; the ship was heading directly for Earth.

“It will be around a week before it reaches Earth, assuming it continues to loose speed at its current rate,” Caroline said.  “Sir, what are we going to do?”

“Our duty,” Hamilton said, standing up as firmly as he could.  His eyes had hardened into an expression she normally hated, but welcomed now; now that they were face to face with the nightmare that had haunted humanity for sixty years, since Roswell.  “Pull up the first contact package and transmit it towards the alien craft.”

Caroline suspected that anyone who could build a ship that large wouldn’t care what the human race had to say to them, but she obeyed; calling up the system and transmitting it outwards towards the alien ship.  It was so large that it was starting to emit a gravity field; it must have had a massive amount of resources put into building it.  She thought, trying to imagine any use for such a massive ship, and she could only think of one.

“It’s a colony ship,” she said.  “The USSF – and several dozen private factions – have been researching interstellar travel for ages.  There are even supposed to have been some of the black colonies actually trying to take their asteroids off into interstellar space.  But they got here first.”

Hamilton nodded as Gruskin came in, ignoring the very un-regulation hug Gruskin gave Caroline.  “Any reply to our transmissions?”

Gruskin had caught sight of the alien ship, a black mountain hanging against space, and had frozen in astonishment and awe.  “None, sir,” Caroline said.  “The USSF hasn’t received our ‘all-ships’ message yet; the aliens haven’t bothered to reply.”

“They’re moving off,” Gruskin said, ignoring the fact that the aliens had never really stopped to take a look at the listening post.  “Can’t we stop them?”

Hamilton gave him a dry look.  “With what?”

Caroline started to shake as the alien ship receded into the distance, and then froze.  “Sir, we have incoming from the alien ship,” she said.  “It’s a taped message; human voice.”

“Put it on,” Hamilton said.

A voice echoed around the control centre.  “They have come for Earth,” a woman said.  Caroline felt for the woman; her voice was scared, almost like a little girl’s voice.  “They will take the Earth.  They demand that you surrender.  They have come for Earth…”

“It’s just repeating,” Caroline said, after a moment.  “Sir, what do we do?”

“It’s heading away from us,” Hamilton said.  “It’s…out of our hands.  Transmit a full report up the chain of relay satellites, and then send it on to the other listening posts.  I’m sure that they will have seen the ship, but…just in case.”

Caroline felt Gruskin hold her tightly.  She wanted to be held.  “Yes, sir,” she said.  “It’s in the hands of the rest of the Solar System now.”

The White House
Washington DC, USA

“It will be about a week before it arrives here,” Fleet Admiral Matt Burghardt reported.  The President felt insanely like reproving him for his unkempt appearance, knowing that his own wasn’t that good; the alien ship was a science-fiction nightmare come to light.  “It’s speed is fluctuating, which might be something to do with its drive, or it might be intended to prevent us from knowing exactly when they’re going to arrive.”

The President looked up at the big display.  Under normal circumstances, it would track missiles and spacecraft moving all over the Solar System; now it was tracking the massive alien spacecraft as it moved slowly, but oh-so-surely towards the Earth.  Relay probes and even a French spacecraft had been in position to observe the craft, sending back pictures to Earth.  

It was utterly massive, huge on a scale beyond human comprehension.  It was shaped like a giant mountain, pointing directly at Earth, and it was studded with strange flickering lights, glittering out in the darkness of space.  It seemed to be made of the same kind of hull metal that had graced both the Wanderer and the Roswell craft, which would make its hull very tough indeed.

“There’s going to be panic,” Chris Thompson said.  “They’re going to take one look at the craft and panic.  It’s so large that it seems impossible that it could even slow down enough to enter orbit, and even if they do, they’re going to have a massive effect on the tides.”

“According to some of the sensor readings, the…thing is being powered by a version of the Procyon Drive,” Professor Neilson said, remarkably calmly.  “I have been attempting to contact Professor Thande, in hopes that he can help unravel his counterpart’s work, but at the moment all I can tell you is that it must have one hell of a power source.  We never even thought about something so large.”

The President closed his eyes, hoping that he could blot the sight from his mind.  “Admiral,” he said, “what are our chances of attacking that…ship successfully?”

Burghardt frowned.  “Successfully?”  He asked.  “As in surviving in one piece?  Impossible to estimate, Mr President; we just don’t have the data.”

The President shivered.  “And when that thing enters orbit, it’s going to knock down all of our space stations,” he said.  “Admiral, was there any response to the signals?”

“Nothing,” Burghardt said.  His eyes, the President noticed, were very tired indeed.  “They keep sending us that demand for surrender, or at least that’s what we think it is, nothing else.  They haven’t responded to any of the signals asking them to hold position, which means…”

“They’re hostile,” the President said.  “If the General Secretary and I do decide to press an attack against the ship, when would be the best time to do so?”

Burghardt scowled.  The President sympathised; his force would have to take the brunt of any fighting – and the aliens’ response.  “It’s hard to say,” he admitted.  “We could take the ships from us, the British and the Russians and attempt to intercept them at any point along its path.  It’s unlikely that we could get any non-Procyon Drive ships from anywhere else into the fight; there just isn’t time.  

“If we wanted more firepower, we could wait until the alien ship reaches Earth and add the space stations firepower to the fight,” he continued.  “Unfortunately, if we do that, then we run the risk of shooting ourselves in the foot; that ship will break up and rain debris down on Earth.  That…would be just as bad as letting them land and trying to fight it out on the ground.”

The President nodded.  “I have a conference call with the Prime Minister in half an hour, and the General Secretary several hours after that,” he said.  “When, in your opinion, should we attack?”

“I don’t like the odds at all,” Burghardt admitted.  “I would be in favour of attempting to attack it several days from Earth, which would have the effect of sparing Earth the impact of thousands of pieces of space junk, if we succeed, and it may highlight a weakness in the defences for the space stations to exploit.  Seriously, sir; I have a suspicion that it will be a turkey shoot, with us as the turkeys.”

“I know,” the President said.  “Start making the preparations.”

The connection broke.  Professor Neilson coughed from his place.  “Professor Thande has been examining the reports,” he said.  “One of the gravimetric sensors that we lifted into orbit is reading the alien ship, revealing some of its secrets.  One of them is that it’s not really using a Procyon Drive, but instead rippling space around it and…well, riding the rapids, for want of a better term.”

He smiled.  “Professor Thande also suggested a name for the alien ship,” he said.  “The Overcompensator.”

“The Overcompensator,” the President said dryly, and laughed.  “I wonder what they’re compensating for; they don’t have penises.”  He shook his head.  “Did he have any useful suggestions?”

“He recommended against an attack for the moment,” Professor Neilson admitted.  “We don’t know enough about the alien ship to risk lives on what might well be a futile attack…”

“I know that,” the President snapped, allowing the strain to burst out of him.  “Professor Neilson, I have no choice, but to order an attack.”  He waved a form in front of the Professor’s nose.  “The news is already out, Professor Neilson, and they are panicking.  If half the country wasn’t under arms already it would be worse, Professor; as it is, we have riots in several places and worse!”

He glared down at the image of the alien ship.  “We can’t let that thing enter orbit,” he said.  “Even if this is all a horrible mistake, they will have the most terrible effects on the tides and the ecology.  We’ve tried to ask them to stop, but they have refused without even bothering to reply; they must have some way to slow that big bastard down, but…”

He met Professor Neilson’s eyes.  “Tell me, what other choice do I have?”

***
The White House Press Room was as full as ever with reporters…and the stink of fear.  Reporters were not always spared the draft; they might be permitted to embed as soldiers, but they had to act as soldiers during their deployments.  Working in Washington seemed to be the safer option…except they had all heard about the third alien craft to have arrived in the Earth’s solar system.  It was large enough to be picked up even by commercial telescopes, even at its distance; there was no point in trying to keep it secret.

The reporters were curious…and they were scared.  Some of them had seen genuine combat action; they knew what it was like…and they didn’t want to face it again.  Others had never served as an embedded reporter; they wanted their chance at glory.

The President wished, not for the first time, that he could have had better news to announce.  The last time he’d spoken to the press had been just after the Third World War had broken out, with shooting occurring in orbit and the Lunar City bases under attack.  There was little room for fancy wordplay; everyone knew about the alien ship.  

“My fellow Americans,” he said.  “Recently, we discovered certain proof of a conspiracy intended to weaken us.  Not just America, but Russia and the rest of the world as well.  Alien infiltrators worked hard to start the war between us and the Russians, from attacking our bases to allowing us a chance to snatch an alien ship – the Wanderer.  In that war, the Soviets and we have wasted a great deal of strength.  Men and machines, built for another purpose, have been foolishly wasted on a petty human struggle.”

He took a breath.  He’d been of two minds about mentioning the alien infiltrator, but he knew that public opinion had to be directed away from hating the Soviets to hating the aliens, or at least to be distrustful of them.  Dealing with all the problems that had suddenly been blown into the open by the Third World War could wait.

“We came close to a peace,” he said, “and the aliens have finally decided to strike.  You may have heard about the reports of the alien ship heading for Earth; those reports are true.  There is an alien ship, larger than many countries, heading this way.  It is so large that it will affect our tides, the weather, the very skin of Earth itself.”  

He took a second breath.  “This is the most dangerous moment that the human race has ever faced,” he said.  “I intend to restore the alliance between the United States and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, just to ensure that we have a chance to stand off the new threat.  When we emerge triumphant from the encounter, we will take up, once again, the cause of the Americans on Mars, or the Russians in the asteroids; for the moment, there are more important matters.  The fate of the entire human race is at stake!

“I ask you all not to panic,” he concluded.  “The aliens are powerful, but they are not all-powerful.  We will do everything within our power to prevent the situation from becoming a war, but if a war comes…I have faith in the ability of the human race to win it.  Goodnight…and God bless all of humanity.”

Chapter Forty-Four: Real Russian Roulette

The Kremlin
Moscow, USSR

Dimitri Yazov, Minister for the Economy, knew that he didn’t like surprises.  It was one of the pleasanter parts of being a senior Party member that you knew what was going to happen, often years in advance.  Some events, like the war, had been a surprise, but that sort of surprise wasn’t interconnected with the Soviet power structure.

There had been two surprises in the last week; the sudden development of a truce between the United States and the USSR, and the sudden summons to the Politburo.  The latter was alarming; Yazov knew that he should have been warned by one of his sources that there was a meeting in the works, even if it had been called at very short notice indeed.  The presence of two armed Red Guards at his rooms in the bunker, coming to fetch him and make sure that he didn’t get lost, was chilling; it was just like being back in Stalin’s time.  

His mind raced rapidly as they turned the corner into the main corridor, and he almost stopped with astonishment.  There were dozens of Red Guards around, armed to the teeth, in breach of so many different parts of the unwritten constitution that it was utterly without precedent.  Even Stalin hadn’t had so many armed men near him – he hadn’t even known that there were so many Red Guards in the entire USSR.

He considered asking his escorts as they moved along the corridor, passing more intensive security than he’d ever dreamed of seeing in one of the safest places in the Soviet Union, but that would be a sign of weakness.  Had there been a coup?  He wondered; it might just have been possible, except the head of the Red Guard would have had to have been suborned for them to be taking part as the plotters, rather than the final line of defence.  No, he realised; that was impossible…

A second thought occurred to him and he shuddered inside.  The General Secretary might not be allowed direct control of the armed forces, but he got to pick the commander of the Red Guards – and he had chosen a man who was loyal to him.  Could the two of them have decided to attempt to assert their authority without the rest of the Politburo; was he walking to his own execution or to demands for his allegiance?  

No, he thought.  Stalin was like that, and we swore that no one would ever be allowed to hold that much power in his or her own hands again.

They reached the doors to the Politburo chamber and his escorts surprised him by saluting, before opening the door and allowing him access.  A newcomer would have seen nothing unusual in the room, sensed nothing odd in how the men sat, but Yazov could sense it; the Politburo was scared.  It wasn’t as evident as it might have been in an execution chamber, there was no scent of loose bowels, but it was present and very powerful.  

He shivered.  They had been the rulers of Russia…until everything seemed to have changed around them.

His seat was there, inviting him and mocking him, and he sat down without comment.  None of the men were able or willing to make eye contact; there was no sign of the General Secretary, Space Marshal Bukharin or Marshal Vostrakov.  Had the three of them formed a troika and decided that the rest of the Politburo was suddenly surplus to requirements?  

The door opened and the General Secretary entered.  As one, the Politburo stood, an expression of respect that might save their lives.  The two military men entered behind the General Secretary, whose face was twitching into a half-smile that would have been invisible to anyone without the years of experience in the snake pit of Party politics.

“Comrades,” the General Secretary said, waving them to their seats.  He himself stood behind his seat, leaning on it, watching them through his cold grey eyes.  “There has been a remarkable development on the edge of the Solar System.  In fact, one might almost say that the war situation has taken a turn not necessarily to our advantage.”

His voice was a mixture of honey and ice.  Yazov recognised the quote, knowing that few others would; the Japanese Emperor’s final broadcast of surrender to his people.  The Emperor himself had committed suicide in 1960, as a symbol of his people’s redemption; the Americans, preoccupied with the defence of the Earth, hadn’t even begun to notice.

He flinched inwardly.  Had the Americans developed some superweapon?  Had something happened that would have ended the war, despite the truce?  Did the Soviet Union have no choice, but to surrender, or to end the war on bad terms?  He thought about what that might mean for the economy and shuddered.

The General Secretary’s voice hardened.  “The Code Blue listening post systems remain in effect,” he said.  “That was common sense; that, and the fact that it would have taken years to have secured all of them during the war.  A quite unnecessary diffusion of our strength, one might say.  There was no need to waste even a single old missile on harmless listening posts.”

His voice darkened.  “You might be very glad that we took that decision,” he said, reminding the Politburo of its collective responsibility for the war.  “One of those stations has detected something truly remarkable on the edge of the Solar System, coming our way.”  He smiled at Bukharin.  “If you please?”

Bukharin was holding a remote control, Yazov suddenly realised, and both military men wore side arms.  That was so far beyond precedent that he was almost minded to protest…and then the display flickered into life.  It wasn’t as capable as any American computer display, as he knew to his cost, but it was clear and sharp enough to show a massive dark shape against the stars.

“That is the bigger brother of the Wanderer,” the General Secretary said.  His voice was curiously flat, almost as if he wanted to show nothing of his feelings.  That wasn’t unprecedented, but it was…odd, in this situation.  “The alien ship – and there is no doubt that it is alien, for those who think that it might be an American hoax – is roughly five hundred kilometres long, which makes it almost as large as Britain.  It would take more power and technological expertise than we can call upon to build a ship like that – would you not agree?”

There was a chorus of agreement.  Yazov joined in, seeing it as the safer course.  His mind reeled at the size of the alien starship, but there were other problems; he would panic over the aliens later.  The priority now was finding out what was going on and surviving…what was starting to look like a purge.

“And yet,” the General Secretary continued, “the builders of that ship are worried about humanity, worried enough to work to manipulate us into doing much of the hard work for them.  Would anyone like to hazard a guess as to what that was?”

There was a long pause, pregnant with menace.  “No?”  The General Secretary asked.  “I have a theory myself; it has something to do with the war.”

He paced around the table; Yazov was riveted to his seat and knew that the others in the room felt the same way too.  “What do we know?”  The General Secretary asked.  “We know that one of our units, one that must have been lost a long time ago, attacked the Americans at the Wanderer Battle.  We know that a similar craft attacked an American base and then an American spaceship.  We know that the Americans have lost miners, out there in the belt, and we know that we too have lost miners, often entire ships.”

He paused, watching him.  “And the Wanderer,” he continued.  “Vanishes without trace, but a handful of survivors are picked up a week later.  Something came and took the ship, removing it from the Americans like stealing candy from a baby.  And now…does anyone have an explanation that might account for the facts?”

Yazov said nothing.  The Politburo said nothing.  Used to the old concept of never committing themselves, unaware of how many mines there were in the minefield the General Secretary was spreading out for them, they remained silent, watching and waiting.  Yazov despised them, just as he despised himself; none of them would ever dare to say that the Emperor had no clothes.

“Perhaps…perhaps we have missed something all along,” the General Secretary said.  “Perhaps, some other power was working to incite trouble.  Perhaps…perhaps the aliens themselves were conducting the attacks.  They have Procyon Drive ships, do they not?  They could have sent entire battle fleets though the sensor network and we would never even have known.  Why?”

This time, someone spoke.  “We went to war with America,” Vostrakov said.  Yazov noted that he wore his full uniform, with his Hero of the Soviet Union medal; Vostrakov, unlike many, had genuinely earned it suppressing counter-revolutionary Czechs.  The symbolism was not lost on him.  

“Yes, we did,” the General Secretary said.  “We fought a war with the Americans that has cost upwards of twenty thousand lives – our lives – and how many of theirs?  We’ll probably never know.  How many ships have been destroyed in this war?  Space fighters?  How many?”

Bukharin, Commander of the Red Space Force, spoke quietly.  “Thirty-one ships,” he said.  “Three hundred and seventeen space fighters.  Five stations, with one more damaged beyond easy repair.”

Yazov felt himself cringe.  The General Secretary was doing something that hadn’t been done since Stalin, systematically building up a case against someone as a preliminary measure before purging him from the Party.  Stalin had killed his opponents, or people he feared would become opponents…which had naturally created more opponents.  Had Boris Andropov decided to go the same way?

“In a week, an alien starship bigger than our worst nightmares is going to be here,” the General Secretary said.  His voice was very quiet and cold.  “We spent the last three weeks before then blasting American units; they spent the last three weeks before then blasting our units.  Where are many of our defence units now?”

He paused significantly.  “And something else happened in America as well,” he said.  Yazov knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was the important part.  “The Americans, for various reasons, had to check some of their maths…and imagine, there were flaws in the math governing how the Procyon Drive works.  The Americans got their sums wrong!”

There were a few chuckles.  “Now, how could that have happened?”  The General Secretary asked.  “The Americans are not incompetent, getting the drive to work at all was a minor miracle…so why did they have problems?”  His voice darkened still further.  “Perhaps…someone put a spanner in their works.”

Yazov stared up at the General Secretary.  “Imagine the American’s surprise when it turned out that they’d had an alien agent working on the project,” the General Secretary said.  “Imagine…that we might have one too.  Our system is much easier to infiltrate if you have techniques that allow perfect control of someone’s thoughts, and…

“Who said that the Americans would fold at the first shot?”  He asked.  “Who put the case for war so forcefully that none dared argue against it?  Who…”

Yazov’s head snapped around as Joseph Shapov, KGB Director, moved with blinding speed.  One fist slammed into the head of the man next to him, cracking his skull, and the other picked up the chair as he jumped out of it, tossing it at Bukharin as he struggled to draw his pistol.  Shapov’s face was slack, uncaring, as Vostrakov fired four times into his chest; he just kept coming at astonishing speed, his hands reaching out for Vostrakov’s throat and…

Seven Red Guards burst into the room, weapons already raised.  Shapov spun around, but it was too late; three red laser beams tore through his body, sending him crashing to the ground in a bloody heap.  Yazov felt sick; it had all happened so quickly that he hadn’t even been able to begin grasping what had happened.

“I wasn’t sure what that would do,” the General Secretary said.  He seemed unconcerned by the carnage.  “I rather suspected that he would try to make a break for it, rather than assassinating the entire Politburo.”  He nodded to the guards, who lifted their weapons to cover the remaining Politburo.  

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but all of you will have to be checked by the doctors.  We’ll meet again in an hour.”

***
It was longer than an hour; the Politburo had required longer to check than he’d anticipated.  General Secretary Boris Andropov spent the additional thirty minutes reading the report from the medical staff, detailing what seemed to have happened to Joseph Shapov.  Andropov allowed himself a moment of flickering anger; the Hive could hardly have placed their agent in a better place.  Might all of the KGB be suddenly infected by the aliens?

“According to the doctors, Shapov was…implanted with a mind control electrode,” Andropov said, as the Politburo reconvened.  He was amused to see that some of them had had to change their pants.  “This device clearly watched from behind his eyes, filming everything he saw, and doubtless influencing his actions.”

He held up a hand to discourage comment.  “From the further report, the implant clearly kick-started his body, burning up everything he had with one final imperative; get the hell out of Moscow.  While this is not entirely dissimilar to the drug-induced furies that we have experimented with, this is clearly something entirely different.”

He placed the folder on the table and looked around the room.  For once, he had their complete attention – and respect.  “We were manipulated into the war,” he said.  “Now, we have lost some of our ships…and there is a much larger alien ship bearing down on us.  I think, from the way they used Shapov, that they mean us ill indeed.”

He felt no remorse at turning Shapov from a villain into a martyr.  The Soviet Union needed them, needed people to fire the blood.  In the future, Shapov would be portrayed as the victim of an alien mind rape, a man who had fought valiantly against their control.  For the moment, it would be enough to remember him – and not as the man he had been.

“We have no choice, but to join with the Americans in defence of our world,” he said.  There were surprisingly few objections.  “If the aliens can influence the KGB, the Joint Studies Group, and who knows what else within America as well as here, they have a whole advantage over us.  We know nothing about them; they, we have to assume, know everything that Shapov knew about our defences.”

He paused.  “Are there any comments?”

“I have only one concern,” Bukharin said.  Few men would have guessed that they’d agreed on that beforehand.  “We have exchanged fire with the Americans.  If we are to commit ourselves to a joint force, then we should insist that we have the right to command that force.”

“The Americans will not agree to that,” Maskow Lavrov, Foreign Minister, said.  He too was following the script.  “They will fear that we intend them harm.”

Andropov nodded.  “I have had a discussion with President Woodrow and Anthony - Prime Minister Anthony Hawthorne,” he said.  “They are both very aware of the alien threat, and the British control the largest deployable force in Earth orbit.  We have agreed that command will go to a British admiral.”

Bukharin nodded.  “The Red Space Force will accept that,” he said.  “Was there any thought on strategy?”

“That will be discussed later,” Andropov assured him.  “For the moment, the three world leaders have agreed that unless the aliens halt within three days, we will be forced to consider them hostile.  Under such circumstances, we will be launching an attack on the ship from Earth orbit as soon as possible.”

“I assume that we will be informing the aliens of the line they cannot cross,” Lavrov said.  “They may, of course, say the equivalent of ‘oh yes, make me’ or something like that.”

Yazov coughed.  “We were taking advantage of the truce to move more weapons into orbit,” he said.  “While we cannot replace the entire pre-war network in the five to six days we should have before the aliens enter firing range, we can push forward rearming it if the Americans are still honouring the truce.  Production of weapons is continuing to rise, but it won’t be long before the entire system starts to weaken still further and…”

Andropov smiled.  Yazov had handled himself well during the war.  His occasional bouts of doom-and-gloom were worth listening to.  “They are,” he said.  “They also will be taking the opportunity to rearm their own orbital network; we might also be able to integrate some of our defensive weapons with the American weapons, combining our systems to hammer the shared enemy.”

“That will worry people,” Bukharin commented mildly.  “Having the extra firepower will be welcome, but not direct American control of our systems.”

“I know,” Andropov said.  They shared a long glance.  “Russia has faced many threats in her time,” he said, addressing the whole table.  “We were invaded by Hitler, nearly seventy years ago.  We were invaded by the Kaiser, nearly a hundred years ago.  Napoleon, Frederick the Great…all of them saw us as weak and easy to crush – and all of them were proven wrong.  We defeated them all and grew stronger; this new threat is one that we too can defeat.”  

He met each of their eyes individually.  “We were in a bad position at the start of each of those wars,” he said.  “We are in a bad position at the start of this one, the first interstellar war, as well.  We will survive this storm too, Comrades; we will survive and prosper.”

Chapter Forty-Five: The Ruler of the King’s Navy

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom

The brown eyes and light brown skin of Queen Arunika of the British Commonwealth glared down at Admiral Alistair Campbell as he entered the Prime Minister’s office.  Queen Arunika had only come into existence because of an arranged marriage between the heir to the throne and an Indian descendent of a Prince, intended to bind the Commonwealth closer together.  The traditionalists had complained, but the chaos following Roswell had made it all too necessary.

It hadn’t worked, Prime Minister Anthony Hawthorne knew, as he received the Admiral’s salute.  Britain had always lagged behind the United States until recently, and the choice between allying with very pro-British South Africa or India had been a hard one, but finally they had had to go with the growing power of South Africa.  Queen Arunika remained the only part of India to be part of Britain, but it was generally agreed that she was worth it.  

“Thank you for coming,” he said, waving Campbell to a chair and studying the Admiral.  Like almost all of the Royal Space Force since its establishment, Campbell had been working in space, either in the space stations orbiting the Earth, the asteroids, or on the Saturn colonies.  Saturn’s moons represented the main Commonwealth effort; almost all of the British defence capability was focused on defending the moons.

“When the Prime Minister of the Commonwealth summons, I can, but obey,” Campbell said, a dry reminder that the Commonwealth was hardly as tightly organised as the United States, let alone the Soviet Union.  Trying to keep all of the nations going in the same way was tricky, particularly when many of them had different interests.  The Prime Minister had often thought that without the Americans flying in space and the French in North Africa it would be impossible.

“I’m glad to know that this post comes with some authority,” the Prime Minster said dryly.  “Anyway; what is the current status of the Home Fleet?”

Campbell smiled.  ‘Home Fleet’ was the name that the squadron permanently based at Earth held, but it had been small compared to either of the two superpowers…before the war had broken out.  The Prime Minister knew that many in the Royal Space Force had been watching the destruction and rubbing their hands together, at least until the alien ship arrived.

“It’s ready, all twenty-four corvettes,” Campbell said.  His tone was dry.  “Am I to assume that we are going to be fighting against the aliens?”

The Prime Minister’s voice was equally dry.  “In the absence of any way of talking to them, then yes,” he said.  He closed his eyes for a long moment.  “This is not yet public knowledge; only the Privy Council and the Committee of Imperial Defence know about it at the moment.  There will be a public announcement later, but in the wake of the events in America, we have had an alarming glimpse into what the enemy can do to us.”

Campbell nodded.  “That is what normally happens,” he said.  “The Yanks want us to pull their chestnuts out of the fire?”

The Prime Minister sighed.  America’s position in world affairs after Roswell – a mixture of benign neglect and active division of the world with the Soviet Union – had been bitterly resented in the United Kingdom, and outright hated in South Africa and Australia, although for different reasons.  It had been hard to convince the Americans to allow the British to participate in the Code Blue Joint Studies Group; the British had no capability – yet – to build Procyon Drives.  

“In a manner of speaking,” the Prime Minister said.  He tapped the heavy wood table, one passed down from Prime Minister to Prime Minister.  “There is something of a shortage of fleet units that can engage the enemy.”

“I know,” Campbell said, rather brusquely.  “The Americans and the Russians blew away a lot of their ships.”

“They know that,” the Prime Minister said dryly.  They shared a look of mixed amusement and horror.  “The plan is currently to launch a joint attack on the alien ship at two days from Earth, or four days from now.  After a long discussion, the Americans have made two requests of us.  The Russians, curiously enough, have seconded them.”

He met Campbell’s eyes.  “The first request is that we join them in the attack,” he said.  “Although they both still have more ships than we do, we do have the largest force left in Earth orbit.  Adding twenty-four corvettes to the joint force is not something for them to sneer at.”

“It won’t stop them from trying,” Campbell said.  “That would give us thirty-six ships, all either corvettes or destroyers, to face off against an alien ship five hundred kilometres long.  Somehow I don’t think that that will be enough.”

The Prime Minister shrugged.  “As I understand it, if we engage it any closer, such as trying to destroy it while it was inside the Earth-Moon gravity well, we might get a few million tons of space junk falling onto Earth,” he said.  “We have to take the first shot at it while it’s too far from Earth for the gravity to suck in junk.”

“That might be harder than it seems,” Campbell said.  “I’ve been doing some research, Prime Minister; the ship isn’t a proper Procyon Drive.  The effects of the drive might…continue to linger after the ship is destroyed.”

“Which at least gives us a chance to smash the space junk,” the Prime Minister said.  He waved a hand dismissively.  “That’s the first request, and it is the decision of the Privy Council, which has all of the Prime Ministers and Leaders of the Opposition serving on it, that we will join the Americans and Russians.  The French may or may not scrape up a ship in time, but you never know.

“The second request,” he continued, “is a little more complicated.  For reasons including the fact that they have been taking pot shots at one another for the last few weeks, the Russians and the Americans don’t really trust each other to command the fleet.  They want one of us to command it.”

Campbell nodded.  “We are putting in twice as many ships as they are,” he said.  “Besides, after Russian arrogance and Americans looking down their noses at us, few of my Captains would be happy to have either of them in command.”

“I have chosen you as the commander,” the Prime Minister said, and enjoyed the look on Campbell’s face.  “The Americans and the Russians wanted one of us to command the fleet – and you’ve been selected.”

***
Campbell felt a rush of excitement, mixed with more than a little concern and terror.  He’d known, of course, that the Royal Space Force was working to attempt an attack on the alien ship, but all of the simulations had been frustratingly vague.  They simply knew nothing at all about the aliens, from their weapons to their defences.

He scowled, remembering.  If the alien ship was as vulnerable to nuclear weapons as the human ships were, then it could be destroyed.  Not easily, perhaps, but it could be done.  However, humanity had followed that reasoning to build entire fleets of smaller craft; why had the aliens disagreed with the reasoning of four different human space fleets?

“They have to be certain that they can defend that monster,” he muttered to himself, and noticed that the Prime Minister was watching him.  “Prime Minister, I would be more than willing to serve.”

“Excellent,” the Prime Minister said.  If he had any doubts, he kept them to himself.  “You’re due to head up to Clarke Station later today, right?”

Campbell nodded.  “There’s a lot of work to be done before we can make any sort of defence of the world,” he said.  “All the politics have to be handled first, and then we have to get the missiles into orbit to assist in the defence force.  Just making everyone go in the same direction is…tricky.”

The Prime Minister nodded ruefully.  Canada was very pro-American, which wasn’t too surprising with America right on the border and high overhead, while South Africa wouldn’t shed too many tears if America – or Russia – sank into the sea.  America moralised; Russia backed dozens of ‘liberation groups’ that were the bane of South Africa’s existence.  Australia resented America’s decision to permit Japan – their eternal enemy – into space, even if they had no weapons platforms, and Britain itself remembered having to attempt to pay the crippling debt from World War Two.

Campbell smiled.  The general opinion of Russia was worse; the Russians might or might not have had a hand in the anarchists and socialists who had come very close to wrecking Britain in the 1960s, but they were problem children with thermonuclear weapons in deep space.  The British Commonwealth might well have supported the American stance on asteroid law…and many had hoped that both sides would weaken themselves to the point where the Commonwealth would be powerful.

“The imminence of the alien arrival should concentrate a few minds,” the Prime Minister said.  “Any thoughts on strategy?”

Campbell thought rapidly.  There were plans and schemes that he would have preferred not to have to explain.  “The American plan to intercept the alien ship short of Earth’s orbit is a good one,” he reluctantly conceded.  “That leaves us with a choice; do we attack the ship in one mad rush, or several attacks?  I’d prefer not to try for a zero-zero intercept with something so unknown, even if it were possible.”

He noticed that the Prime Minister was looking blank.  “An attack with both of us stationary, relative to the other,” he said.  “No; that would be too dangerous under normal circumstances, let alone these…rather odd circumstances.  It would probably be better to mass into several groups; perhaps six ships each, and attack in sequence.”

He paused.  “Ramming the ship directly, either under full fusion drive or ramming ass-backwards with a fusion drive might inflict severe damage,” he continued.  “If we can get a few of those robotic ships in motion in time, we could ram the bastard with them, perhaps even stuff them with nuclear warheads ahead of time.  It would all have to be argued out over the next couple of days; the Americans and Russians will doubtless have their own ideas.”

The Prime Minister nodded.  “Politically, there will be limits on your authority, for home consumption,” he said.  “In practice, both the General Secretary and the President have assured me that you will be in command, full stop.”

“And I can believe as much or as little of that as I like,” Campbell injected.

The Prime Minister sighed.  “Expecting total cooperation between the Russians and the Americans would be a bit much, after they started to shoot at each other.  God only knows how Mars and the Asteroids will work out after the aliens have been defeated.  They’ll probably start shooting at each other again.”

“If there had been a few less…wars between the American Indians, the Europeans would have had a much harder time of it,” Campbell said thoughtfully.  “Is that really our problem?”

“Just try to keep them all pointed at the aliens,” the Prime Minister said.  “Good luck.”

Space Station Clarke
Earth Orbit

The short drive to Heathrow had given Campbell time to read through all of the briefing papers, which had been hand-carried over the Atlantic by a hypersonic American fighter and a Russian passenger jet.  The aliens, everyone was now sure, had been watching Earth for some time, perhaps ever since humanity had walked out of the water, and no one knew for sure how good their decryption technology was.  It was quite possible, he knew, that they might already have picked up on the precautions – perhaps even to the point of knowing about his appointment.

The massive conical shape of a Dare-class Single Stage to Orbit spacecraft awaited him on the tarmac of the spaceport.  The Dare-class had been one of Britain’s major successes in the space development field, although the development of space cables and elevator cars had rendered them less than useful.  Still, they remained the passenger ship of choice for the fast-moving businessman – and they formed the mainstay of several smaller space corporations.  

“Flight to orbit, sir?”  The pilot asked, saluting Campbell, who had to smile.  This particular Dare had been configured for high-speed runs to Clarke; it was hardly capable of reaching any other destination in Earth.  “Clarke station?”

“Yes, please,” Campbell said, adjusting his cap as he stepped into the craft’s main passenger area.  Some wag had entitled it the Passenger Lounge, but it was really too small and cramped to serve as a proper lounge.  He heard with one ear the pilot’s conversations with ground control, just before the pressure of launch began and the ship started to make its way into orbit.  

He winced as one paper, marked ‘top secret,’ was unfolded.  It detailed the discovery of an alien spy in the centre of Russian power, which would suggest that there might well be others within Britain or America.  A full search was going on, but it would be too dangerous to assume that all of the spies could be found, even if they were not spying for the enemy of their own free will.

“Now proceeding to dock at Clarke Station,” the pilot said.  “That’ll be four and sixpence, sir.”

Campbell chuckled as he pulled himself out of the docked craft and into Clarke itself.  As the first major Royal Space Force base in orbit, Clarke had a large crew and lacked a proper gravity field.  He knew that there had been dozens of plans to spin the station up to one-gee, but the engineers worried about the effects of the stress on the structure of the station.  

He nodded once at the Commander of the station.  Clarke served as the main British base in orbit, but the majority of the fleet was based at Cruthnane, an ice-asteroid that provided fuel for the fleet without serious problems.  For once, however, he would assume command of the fleet from a destroyer, the Invincible.

“The American and Russian are on board this station,” the Commander informed him.  Campbell nodded; he’d expected as much from the briefing notes.  He swam along the corridor, regaining his space legs with confidence, before heading towards the main conference room.

“Good, I think,” Campbell said.  He smiled.  “Have all of the simulations sent to the computer in the room, and then have the pair of them escorted into the room.”

“Aye, sir,” the Commander said, as they reached the briefing room.  It was one of the rooms that could have benefited from a little gravity; it wasn’t so easy to brief people with everyone hanging in the air.  

Campbell nodded as the Commander left, his mind already out with the alien craft.  The series of probes and a handful of telescopes had already expanded their knowledge about the craft; it looked more like a massive mountain of city lights, pointed directly at Earth.  It was still – impossibly – slowing down, but it wouldn’t come to a halt until it reached Earth.  

“Admiral Campbell,” an American voice said.  “I am Admiral Fulton; this is Comrade Admiral Paskov.”

“Pleased to meet you both,” Campbell said, taking a moment to size them up as they found their seats.  They were both clearly used to living and working in space; they had no difficulty at all with the seats, or the computers.  Both of them seemed more nervous, less self-assured, than he would have expected, but he supposed that a massive alien craft did that to a person.  

He smiled.  “The largest ship we humans have ever built was the Soviet Bridge Ship Lenin III,” he said.  “It was ten kilometres long before it was converted into one of the first mining stations in the belt.  That…Overcompensator rather makes it look small, does it not?”

Paskov’s English was fluent, without a trace of an accent.  “Yes,” he said dryly.  “I have orders to place the five remaining ships of the fleet here under your command.  How do you intend to attack that thing?”

Blunt son of a bitch, aren’t you?  Campbell thought coldly.  “If we attack it, we will have little choice, but to brake the hard way, rather than looping around a handy moon.  We will have exactly one shot at it before we’re out of range; each.”  He paused.  “It is therefore my belief that we should split the fleet up and attack in several waves of ships; all armed to the teeth.”

There was a long pause.  “I cannot say that I disagree with your analysis,” Fulton said.  “You propose them, to hammer it without mercy?”

Campbell lifted an eyebrow.  “Do we have a choice?”

Paskov coughed.  “What happens if they offer to talk when we begin the attack run?”

Campbell cursed inwardly.  It was a good question, but not within his remit.  “That would be a problem,” he admitted.  “My government has considered that; it seems that unless they agree to halt where they are, the attack goes ahead anyway.”

Fulton nodded.  “My government thinks that they can use their drive to stop pretty much wherever they like,” he said.  “Unless they stop, they have to be stopped, whatever it takes.”

“Which means using nuclear warheads as often as we can,” Campbell said.  “In the first attack, we might be lucky enough to hit something vital, allowing the second wave and the third time to retarget their own weapons against the weakened spots.”

“Good point,” Fulton agreed.  He pointed a finger at the image of the Overcompensator.  “Have you any thought as to the first targets?  Even nukes are tiny against…that thing.”

“I was thinking about these locations,” Campbell said, and got down to business.  There were only a few days left before the alien ship arrived at Earth…and they had no choice, but to try to stop it before it entered orbit.

Chapter Forty-Six: Blame Thande

USS Abraham Lincoln
Deep Space

“The Overcompensator,” Sally said.  Her voice was light and teasing, precisely what Thande didn’t need at the moment.  “Why did you come up with that name?”

Thande glared at her though the haze.  He’d never been in space before, and there was something about the Turtledove that kept a person from recognising that it was a real spaceship; it looked so normal, nothing like the Abraham Lincoln, which was without a real gravity field.  Even thinking about it made him….

“Yuck,” he said, rinsing his mouth out with a squeeze bulb of water.  “Do people ever get used to flying around in the air?”

Sally smiled.  She didn’t seem to have any difficulty with zero gravity at all, Thande noted resentfully; she seemed completely able to live without gravity.  His eyes burnt as she turned a summersault in mid-air, something that he’d only ever seen done underwater before, and then he relaxed as she smiled at him.

“A lot of humans have problems at first,” Sally assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder.  The mere pressure sent him falling towards the deck, or what he hoped was the deck; whoever had designed the ship seemed to have been in the habit of turning the papers upside down from time to time.  “You’ll get better soon, I promise.”

“We have to get back to the Turtledove,” Thande said.  “My head feels as if it’s not attached to anything at all, just spinning around and around.”

“Keep your eyes on me,” Sally said, with a mischievous glint in her eyes.  “No, not on that part of me.”

Thande chuckled.  “I couldn’t resist,” he said.  “Sally…”

Sally giggled.  “Remind me to slap you when we’re back in a gravity field,” she said.  “Don’t worry; without Anderson nearby, they will have problems tracing us back to the Turtledove, even though now that the ship is warned the Enemy will find it harder to sneak up on it.  However, I think that we have to help these people.”

Thande blinked at her.  “I thought you were the one who wanted to stay uninvolved,” he said.  “You know; find the source of Enemy interference and get out.”

“I know,” Sally admitted.  Her voice darkened.  “I thought that you were the one who wanted to get involved.”

Thande gave her a sharp look.  “You know what I mean,” he said sharply.  “All of a sudden, you’re the one giving them all the information on the Hive and everything else.  You even came close to telling them about the Multiverse War.  Sally, exactly which side are we on?”

Sally sighed.  “I know what you mean,” she said.  “Professor, there are a handful of species that travel across the light years, and even into the Vale, that have rules against interference.  They have constructed a great numbers of arguments against interference, whatever the risks to the younger race, and all of them fall down on examination.  Despite that, they keep on refusing to interfere.

“If I thought that they could defeat the…Overcompensator without our help, I would refuse to interfere,” she continued.  “Interference is not always a good thing; there are weapons and technologies that would destroy the Overcompensator with ease – and we dare not bring them here because…”

She paused.  “Imagine a proxy war between” – she waved a hand towards the stern of the ship – “the United States and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.  The Americans are quite happy to arm one side and the Soviets will also arm the other, but the mere act of starting the long process will trigger interference from the other.  If we bring a…antimatter production device into this war, the Enemy will raise the stakes, perhaps by aiding the Hive to do more with their Procyon Drives, or even with their smaller craft.  We have to abide by the rules…”

“You make it sound like it’s nothing more than a game,” Thande snapped.  His indignation even overcame his ongoing nausea.  “There are peoples’ lives at stake; when the Overcompensator reaches Earth, the Hive is going to launch an invasion.”

“They might well have convinced the Hive to emplace a few dozen agents in and around the power systems on Earth,” Sally said absently.  Thande glared at her.  “It’s something they did, a long time ago, but…it’s so hard to remember!”

She looked so frustrated that Thande would have felt sorry for her, under other circumstances.  “What’s to stop us going back in time and warning them?”  He asked.  “We can move through time, from the Vale; we could warn them not to fight the stupid and petty war that wasted their strength…”

“If we were lucky,” Sally said, her tone sharp, “we would only create a second timeline.  If we were unlucky, it could lead to a direct clash between our forces, and that would be very bad for Earth in this timeline…and all of the others that will spawn out from this one in the future.”

Her voice softened.  “I understand how you feel,” she said, somehow moving around to give him a hug.  “We can only introduce things that they can build for themselves, if they thought of it; no giving nukes to the Kaiser, for instance.”

Thande relaxed against her for a long moment, before sighing.  “Sally, can that force they’re putting together in Earth orbit stop that ship?”

Sally shrugged.  “I very much doubt it,” she said.  “They simply don’t have the firepower to hammer it hard enough to break it up; the Hive will have built that ship from one of their smaller ones, taking years to ensure that it’s absolutely perfect.”  She paused.  “Why call it the Overcompensator anyway?”

“Long story,” Thande said.  “The joke was that someone who carried a big gun, or a big weapon of some kind, was compensating for having a small penis.”  His voice darkened.  “Can they defeat it with some help?”

Sally frowned.  Thande hit a button; the image of the Overcompensator appeared in front of them.  “Maybe,” she said.  “It depends…what sort of help did you have in mind?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Thande said.  His voice brightened with enthusiasm.  “They should be able to create Portals, right?”  Sally nodded.  “So there will be no real problem with helping them to build a generator, then we open one into another universe and open another Portal from there, right into the heart of the Overcompensator.”

Sally shook her head.  “The Overcompensator is too much of an unknown object to have any hope at all of getting a Portal into the right position,” she said.  “It’s moving far too fast for it to be easy to get a stable Portal in the next universe, even assuming that the energies powering the Overcompensator will allow a Portal to form inside it.”

Thande shook his head in dismay.  “How much power does it take to move that thing?”  He demanded.  “I would bet my life that it would take billions of whatever power unit they use to power it, and they’re doing it without a blink.”

“They may have help,” Sally said.  Her eyes widened in sudden understanding.  “They might just have something that is keeping them here, against the tides of eternity that say, quite firmly, that the Hive does not exist any longer – and indeed never existed at all.”

Thande smiled.  “Then if we could take that out, then what?”

“I have no idea,” Sally said.  “History might grudgingly allow the Hive to continue to exist anyway.  The entire ship might vanish.  This timeline might spin back out of control.  Hell, the entire timeline – at least this part of it – would vanish behind an event horizon, like the remains of the Hive’s former location.”

Thande’s hope died.  “Except…we cannot get though the Overcompensator’s defences,” he said.  “How the hell do we take on a ship that’s five hundred kilometres long?”

“With difficulty,” Sally said.  “I have been wondering about that for the last few days, thinking of weapons we can use without breaking the rules.  I can’t think of any.”

There was something nagging at the back of Thande’s mind; something from the Nazi War.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “But what happens when they invade the Earth?”

Sally looked up at him.  “You saw the report from Moscow?”  She asked.  “That’s what will happen to humanity; every human deemed worth keeping will be placed under the Hive’s control.  Every human deemed as a waste of space will be…recycled into something more useful, or simply exterminated.  These are not nice people.”

Thande scowled.  The idea at the back of his head refused to reveal itself or to go away.  “To think; all those people predicted when the human race finally met aliens that they would be friendly,” he said.  “There are people in California – my California – who worship the little grey bastards.  What would they think if they were here now?”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Sally said.  “Reality…just sometimes has a hard time infringing itself on the human race.”  She smiled.  “After all, how did the worshiping of the Giant Sheep start?”

Thande scowled.  “I think that it had something to do with a lot of dope, smoked by the guy who ended up founding the religion after having visions, or hallucinations, depending upon whom you believe.”  He smiled.  “I think they’re better off than the ones who worship the Hive.”

Sally shook her head.  “The Hive doesn’t exist in your world,” she said.  “They’re only here through freak circumstances and Enemy interference.  If worshipping a Giant Sheep would keep the Hive away, then…”

“I wish I knew,” Thande said.  “What the hell do they want?”

“Earth,” Sally said.  “Thanks to your counterpart, the human race is in no condition to resist the Hive.”

“I know,” Thande said.  “Blame Thande.”

***
There was a battle about to begin near Earth…and the Abraham Lincoln – again – was to miss out on the battle.  Captain Howard wasn’t sure what to do; part of him wanted to disobey orders and swing around to join the battle, but his iron sense of duty kept his ship firmly on course.

Well, that and all of the scientists I have on board, he thought wryly.  Almost all of the Code Blue experts from the facility in Lunar Orbit had been loaded on board the Lincoln, which had orders to deliver them all to the asteroid base.  Americans and Russians alike, all of them were scared; Howard knew that they had good reason to be.  The Lincoln was the finest ship in the American USSF – and the Overcompensator made it seem like a matchbox toy.  

He scowled.  None of the Procyon Drive vessels, American or Russian, were going to be included in the first battle, much to the annoyance of their Captains.  All seven of the ships had been ordered to head to the asteroids, something that hadn’t pleased the Russians; there were only a handful of Russians left in the belt.  To hear the American miners tell it, a lot of Russian miners had simply killed the KGB agents on their mining craft and surrendered at once, asking only that they be allowed to join the Americans.  

Howard snorted.  It sounded more like miner propaganda to him, and with a massive alien ship bearing down on Earth, it seemed rather out of place.  Russian miners had defected before, for all kinds of reasons, but the mining ships had always been returned.  Now…

There was a chime at his hatch, which he persisted in thinking was a door.  He had had hopes, following some of the reports from the post-Anderson examination of the Procyon Drive, that the engineers would come up with a way to duplicate the Wanderer’s gravity field, but the arrival of the Overcompensator could only mean that such projects would have to be put on hold.

“Come in,” he called.  The door hissed open and Jane Hammond pulled herself inside the room.  Howard smiled at her as she came across the room; she was moving with her old grace again.  “Jane,” he said.  “How are you feeling now?”

“Much better,” Jane said.  She sounded a lot better too, Howard was relieved to notice; her voice was firm.  “Now that most of the memories have been unlocked, I think that I am back to normal.”

“That’s good,” Howard said.  “What do the doctors say?”

“Oh, that Russian thinks that I should be fine, now that I’ve faced up to my fears, or some babble like that,” Jane said.  They shared a grin of equal contempt for the shrinks, who had ruined more promising USSF careers than enemy action and incompetence put together.  “It’s more than a little worrying to know that they blocked out certain parts of my mind, but…I’m better now.”

Howard nodded.  “Any sign of what happened to the others?”

Jane shook her head.  “Nothing as yet,” she said.  “Everything seems to be accounted for, all of the time on the ship since we got separated, and…I would never have believed that that was a real spaceship.”

“Me neither,” Howard said, gazing at the Overcompensator’s image on the display.  It was massive…and he had the grim feeling that it could outrun his command any time it chose.  “Science-fiction got it wrong, didn’t it?”

“They were right about the alien invaders,” Jane pointed out.  Howard nodded; alien invasion films had been common for the decades following Roswell, all featuring aliens of all shapes and sizes, but with a common goal.  “Captain, what orders do you have regarding the Code Blue staff?”

Howard smiled.  “It’s good to know that you’re back to your inquisitive self,” he said dryly.  Jane flushed slightly.  “That’s need to know, as well you know, but you do have some need, so…you’re being dropped off at an asteroid base no one knew about until now.”

“Security,” Jane said, making the word a curse.  “Captain, I would like to request permission to take up my old position again.”

Howard winced.  He had expected that it was coming to that.  “Jane,” he said slowly, “you must know that there will be some reluctance to place you on one of the ships that have the most modern drive…”

“I came up clean in the scan,” Jane pointed out.  Howard nodded; only two other alien infiltrators had been found, one on the Moon, the other in a refuelling station in the asteroids.  Both of them had caused a great deal of damage before they’d been killed; Fleet Command had warned that the implants somehow drove their hosts into a display of pure rage, forcing them to display superhuman strength for a brief period – before their bodies and minds burnt out.

“I know,” Howard said.  He hated himself at that moment.  “Jane, there is also some concern over your mental stability…”

He saw the flash of pure anger in her eyes before it vanished.  “Captain, I have more experience of the aliens than anyone,” she said.  “I’ve seen them up close; has anyone started to take account of the fact they don’t need spacesuits to live in space?”  Her voice hardened.  “I earned the chance to take a crack at them!”

“I won’t argue that,” Howard said.  “The fleet from Earth might still destroy the Overcompensator, before it can harm Earth.”

“I wouldn’t put money on it,” Jane said.  Her tone was grim with rage and a particular kind of fear.  “That thing is awesomely big.  We should be concentrating on building something with more bang for the buck.”

“Me neither,” Howard said, grimly aware that he was repeating himself.  His emotions were a whirl; he would have been delighted to have Jane back on the ship, and yet he knew that there was good reason to be worried about her.  Jane did have a point, he knew; she had seen the aliens before and if it came down to a boarding action, then she would be less likely to have an adverse fear reaction.

“If we were to convert some of the older ships into huge missiles, forcing them to build up very high speeds, we might have a real weapon,” Jane said, growing more enthusiastic as she considered the problem.  The mass of something the size of a cruiser striking even the Overcompensator would be noticed, surely.”  Her mouth worked for a moment.  “The energy release would be considerable.”

“I hope that you’re telling all of those ideas to the Code Blue team, or perhaps even our other guests,” Howard said.  He closed his eyes.  “I have a condition.”

Jane lifted both eyebrows dramatically.  “A condition?”

“Yes,” Howard said.  “I want you to get clearance from the team that was supervising your hypnotherapy before I take you back into the command chain.”

“I can do that,” Jane said confidently.  “I was wondering if…”

Howard gave her a dirty look.  There were so many regulations against trading sexual favours that he was convinced that an offender were literally meant to be crushed under their weight.  “I have better things to do, thank you,” he said crossly.  “Now, perhaps if you were to do that, I could make a case that Fleet Command could accept without…”

A chime rang through the room.  “I’m starting to dread that noise,” Howard muttered, opening the intercom.  “Captain here.”

“Captain, this is Lieutenant Malady,” Malady said.  Howard heard his tone of voice and knew what it was.  “We just received an update from Fleet Command.”

Howard shared a long glance with Jane.  Her eyes were firm and composed.  “And what did they say?”

“It was a signal from Admiral Campbell,” Malady said.  “They have engaged the Overcompensator.”

Chapter Forty-Seven: The First Battle of Earth

HMS Invincible
Deep Space

In space, even the largest man-made object was nothing, compared to the immensity of the planets.  The Overcompensator, built by alien hands, was still tiny compared to the sheer scale of the planet; even at nearly a light minute away the ship couldn’t have been seen by the naked eye.  Probes and drones had revealed more about the ship’s basic dimensions, awe-inspiringly vast through they were, but there was little hope of making out any real detail.

Admiral Campbell sat back in his acceleration chair as the Invincible flashed through space, part of the third wave of attacking vessels.  He’d finally managed to sort out a basic flight pattern, placing two American and two Russian vessels in the first wave, followed by six more formations of human ships.  Thirty-six of them were warships, armed to the teeth; the rest were civilian craft that had been hastily adapted for ramming manoeuvres.

He stared up at a close-up picture of the Overcompensator.  The alien ship was detailed in a way that no human ship could be, a flying city against the blackness of space, glittering with strange alien lights.  He wondered if the Overcompensator was a genuine city-ship, like one of the Bridge Ships, except there seemed to be no way of knowing for sure.  No matter the power of the resolution used by the cameras on the probes, the Overcompensator was still a confusing mass of detail; something that he feared would only confuse the targeting sensors.  

“Alert, gravity wave inbound,” the officer of the watch snapped, over the intercom.  The Invincible shuddered slightly as the wave of gravitational force snapped over the hull, spreading out from the position of the Overcompensator.  No human scientist had – yet – managed to work out how the gravity waves were generated, or why.  They seemed to be useless as weapons; all they did was shake the human ships.

He frowned.  One of the benefits of his position was that he had access to all of the reports from Code Blue, and one of the reports had speculated that the Overcompensator was somehow using the very fabric of space and time to slow itself down, sending out ripples in the gravitational flux.  The technobabble had meant nothing to him; all he was concerned about was how dangerous the Overcompensator was likely to be.

“That seems to be them all, for now,” Doctor Graham said.  The researcher had been working on the gravity detectors before the Overcompensator had appeared; the Americans had been more than willing to send him with the fleet, just in case his sensors became useful.  “They don’t seem to follow any pattern, but…”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Campbell said.  He stared up at the display.  “Do the gravity waves pose any threat to Earth?”

“I don’t think so,” Graham assured him.  “They just seem to be fading as they pass us; I think that they’re actually coming forward from the Overcompensator, as we don’t seem to be able to pick up any with the probes.”

Campbell shrugged and went back to waiting.  The human ships had boosted out of Earth orbit, sacrificing stealth to build up speed, holding to their course for nearly a day.  The Overcompensator, flying ahead of them, had been continuing to shed its speed, but even so they would only have a few minutes to attempt to destroy the massive ship before the combination of their speed and the alien ship’s speed took them out of engagement range.  

“I’m paranoid, but am I paranoid enough?”  He muttered to himself.  The Overcompensator, assuming it used radar and passive sensors like human spaceships, should not have been able to track the minute changes in course and speed they’d carried out, which would at least give them a chance to get in one good smack.  Except…the Overcompensator might not use anything remotely like radar – they hadn’t picked up any radar pulses – which meant that it might know perfectly well where the humans were.

“Admiral Paskov reports that he is entering engagement range,” Captain O’Neil reported.  The South African kept his voice professional.  “He is requesting permission to open fire.”

Campbell took a deep breath.  “Open fire,” he ordered.

***
He could see the Overcompensator through the porthole, a hint that there was something big out there, glittering in the sunlight from the Sun.  Admiral Paskov wasn’t surprised; the Overcompensator was large enough to reflect some sunlight, even if it still looked like a tiny needle from his distance.  Something seemed to sparkle off the alien ship for a long chilling moment, before fading into the darkness of interplanetary space.

“If I get out of this alive, I’m going back to Kiev,” he muttered.  His Commissioner shook his head dryly.  “Lieutenant, report.”

“Fleet Command has authorised us to open fire,” his communications officer reported.  “Admiral Campbell has just sent you a personal good luck message.”

“Thank him from me,” Paskov said, turning back to the main display.  The Overcompensator showed up much more clearly on the display, a shape out of a nightmare, lancing towards the planet Earth.  It was a long needle, pointing directly towards Earth – and the Rodina.  He gritted his teeth and considered; how would he be rewarded if he managed to destroy the ponderous ship in the first volley?

Dismissing such thoughts, he checked the laser links to the other five ships, making curtain that they were all in position and relaying one another’s signals.  The flight plan called for them to spread out around the Overcompensator; the odds were vastly in favour of them losing contact in the shadow of the alien ship’s massive bulk.  Assuming the Overcompensator – and them, a part of his mind whispered – survived the attack, and the other missiles they would launch as they passed the ship, the plan called for them to break over a period of weeks, before returning to Earth.  By then, they would either return to a world where the Overcompensator had been destroyed, or one with the aliens in orbit, raining down fire and death on the land…

He pushed such thoughts out of his mind.  They didn’t matter now.  All that mattered was defeating and destroying the Overcompensator.

“Lock weapons on designated targets,” he said, knowing that it was an unnecessary order.  “Confirm targets for each ship, then the second firing sequence…and then fire on my command.”

There was a pause.  “All ships are confirming that they’re locked on their targets,” the fleet tactical officer reported.  “All weapons and point defence pods are charged and ready to go.”

“I should be saying something dramatic,” Paskov muttered to his Commissioner, who rolled his eyes.  “All ships; open fire!”

The Sevastopol rocked as it launched its first missiles towards the Overcompensator.  “All missiles launched,” the tactical officer reported.  Paskov felt his heart shiver; they had just launched twenty nuclear-tipped missiles towards the alien ship.  The die was cast now; there was no way that that could be mistaken for an accident – and the other ships had also fired.  Over a hundred nuclear warheads were heading towards the Overcompensator.

The speed of the Overcompensator would help bring them together quicker than his mind could follow.  He waited with baited breath, waiting for a reaction, not knowing if he feared alien counter-fire more than he feared alien inaction.  The former was a known quantity, at least among humans; the latter either indicated overconfidence, or a belief that the missiles could do nothing to harm them.

Paskov took a breath.  He knew that he could only hope that the aliens had no reason to be overconfident.

The sensor officer drew in a breath.  “Captain, we’re getting an energy spike on the Overcompensator,” he reported.  “Something’s happening…”

The display adjusted automatically, following the report.  Paskov watched as the energy flickered over the Overcompensator’s hull, dancing along the ship, before forming into a ball of blue light, which lashed free of the hull towards the lead missile.  More blue balls followed, glowing in the vastness of space, as they were fired, heading directly towards the missiles.

“They’re not light-speed weapons,” the sensor operator reported.  “They’re moving at around the same speed as the missiles.”

From the bridge, it seemed as if the balls of energy were moving slowly towards the first missile…when the missile was hit.  There was a brief flare of light…and then nothing.  The missile had been completely disintegrated.

“The missile has been destroyed,” the tactical officer reported grimly.  “Captain, all of the other missiles are being targeted and wiped out.”

Paskov cursed.  “Send the detonation signal to the remaining missiles,” he snapped.  They were nearing the Overcompensator; soon they would have flashed past it.  “Launch the second force?”

“Missiles away,” the tactical officer reported.

“Nuclear detonation,” the sensor officer snapped.  The display flickered as the input from the missile washed through it.  “One missile detonated.  No observed damage to the Overcompensator.”

“Shit,” Paskov snapped.  The point defence system was stunningly effective – and clearly capable of tracking the missiles, engine burn or no engine burn.  “Reprogram the second flight of missiles, then launch the third, all targeted on one location.”

“The point defence system is engaging the second flight of missiles,” the sensor officer reported.  Paskov scowled at the fearful tone in his officer’s voice.  “They’re being wiped out.”

“We’ll have to try to overload it,” Paskov said.  The display was clear; this would be the last shot that they got before passing and racing away from the Overcompensator.  “Pick a location on the ship and…”

“Energy spike,” the sensor officer snapped.  “Sir, they’re targeting us.”

Paskov cursed as more blue balls of light flashed away from the Overcompensator, closing in rapidly on the human ships.  “Engage with point defence,” he snapped.  “All weapons free, I repeat…”

“Lasers unsuccessful,” the sensor officer reported.  “Sir, the Houston has been blown apart.”

An American corvette.  Twenty-one crewmembers.  Paskov knew that he didn’t have time to mourn; his own ship was in serious danger.  The weapon, whatever it was, was hellish; it allowed them time to see their deaths coming and…in a flash of blinding light, Paskov and his ship vanished from the universe.

***
“Admiral, the first strike force has been wiped out,” the fleet tactical officer reported.  “The second wave is asking for orders.”

“Not a single weapons got close,” Campbell breathed.  “Science?”

There was a pause.  “We didn’t get good sensor readings,” one of the scientists said.  “Admiral, it looks to be a plasma charge, like one of our plasma missiles, but contained within a self-generating magnetic structure.”

“I hope you know what that means,” Campbell snapped back.  “Can you figure out a way to disrupt it before the second wave enters attack range?”

“No, sir,” Doctor Rigin said.  “We need a way to disrupt its containment and we need to hit it hard enough so that the containment is wiped out completely.”

Campbell swung his chair around to peer at the display.  The second wave, ten more ships, would just be an easy target for that weapon – except there was no longer any time to break contact.  He had no choice, but to close into the face of the enemy – and he had to assume that the aliens knew that.  No wonder they’d come in so fat and happy; they’d wanted to lure the humans’ close into a range where escape was impossible.

“What about a plasma missile?”  He asked.  “Those have a large kick in them.”

There was a second pause.  “It might work,” Doctor Rigin conceded reluctantly.  “The missile would have to be reprogrammed as a point defence weapon, rather than as an offensive weapon.”

“Very offensive,” Campbell muttered.  Using one of the tubes to launch plasma missiles in self-defence would mean that there would be one less nuclear warhead, per salvo, flying to hit the Overcompensator.  He shook his head; it wasn’t as if they’d actually managed to score one hit before the first wave had been wiped out.

“Tactical, have the plasma missiles programmed for self-defence, and then have the nuclear missiles programmed for evasive manoeuvres,” he ordered.  “Yes, I know; they might overshoot the ship, but what choice do we have.  In fact, program them all to detonate before the enemy’s point defence can hit them, in hopes of disrupting the targeting.”

“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said.  “Missiles programmed and locked on targets.”

Campbell sat back and thought as quickly as he could.  Like it or not, he was committed to the attack; there was simply no way to avoid entering the Overcompensator’s engagement range, even assuming that it was only the distance that they’d shown them.  The enemy had swatted down nearly two hundred nuclear missiles, without even batting an eyelid, or whatever the greys had instead of eyelids.

“The second wave is about to engage,” the fleet control officer said.  “Admiral Fulton is confident that they can score at least one hit.”

Campbell nodded, tapping a command into his system.  The American Admiral was spreading out his force more, but narrowing the target so that all ships would be shooting at the Overcompensator’s prow, which might just limit the amount of fire that the aliens could pour onto the missiles.  The missiles were launched…and Campbell smiled; Admiral Fulton had deliberately ordered some of his missiles to attempt to shield the others.

“Clever American,” he said, as the first missiles detonated, wiping out several of the plasma balls as they exploded, sending out a hail of EMP and sensor distortion.  He watched as one of the missiles emerged, heading directly to the Overcompensator’s prow…he watched as it flashed closer and closer…and detonated right on top of the alien ship’s prow.

“Hit,” the sensor operator bellowed.  Cheers went up all over the fleet.  “We hit the bastard!”

For a crazy moment, Campbell wondered if they’d actually succeeded in destroying the Overcompensator, but the illusion was swiftly shattered.  The nuclear blast was powerful, and he saw damage rippling through the side of the Overcompensator, but it was only a speck compared to its immensity.

“They’re firing,” the sensor officer said, as the Overcompensator fired dozens of blue balls into space.  One by one, the ships of Admiral Fulton’s force were blasted from space, wiped out in a hail of blue fire.  The plasma balls were moving faster now, Campbell realised; at least the enemy were taking them seriously now.  Twenty seconds after the Overcompensator was hit, the final ship was wiped out of space.

“We hit them once,” he said numbly, unable to believe the scale of the disaster.  Sixteen ships had been killed, utterly destroyed along with all hands, in exchange for one little hit.  He drew himself up.  “We have to hit them again.”

“Twenty minutes until we enter engagement range,” the fleet control officer reported.  Campbell knew what he meant; twenty minutes until they died too.  “Admiral?”

Campbell snapped out orders.  It was clear that the Overcompensator’s defences could be overloaded, if they could be presented with enough threats to keep them from reacting to the real threat.  He signalled the ramming ships, ordering them to stand by to ram the Overcompensator as soon as the rest of the ships opened fire, knowing that they might be seen as a real threat.  

“Have all of the ECM units online,” he snapped to the sensor officer.  “There’s no longer any point in keeping them hidden; there are no longer any of our ships to interfere.”

“Aye, sir,” the sensor officer said.  “I’m programming all of the drones for maximum ECM; they might draw some fire from the mobile weapons platforms.”

Campbell nodded.  “Communications, send a copy of our full report to Clarke, the Lunar Pentagon and the Russian military base in Earth orbit,” he said.  “Inform them that we die not for ourselves, but for you.”  He paused; a thought had struck him.  “And open me a channel to the rest of the fleet.”

“Channel open, sir,” the communications officer said.  “They’re all listening to you.”

Campbell took a breath.  “We go now in the hopes of defeating a foe of incredible power,” he said, knowing that every man on board the remaining ships would hear him.  “Our gallantry here will win time for Earth, time for more of our people to be evacuated, time for some of the newer weapons to be forced into production, time for our families to take precautions…

“The Earth expects that everyone on board the fleet will do his or her duty,” he concluded.  “God bless us all.”

The channel closed.  “Ten minutes to intercept,” the fleet control officer said, without being asked.  “All weapons are locked on target.”

Campbell nodded.  The dark shape of the Overcompensator grew larger and larger on the display, seemingly unbowed by the nuclear missile that had whacked into its prow.  It hadn’t slowed once for the human attack, not even to attack the incoming fleet outside its own range.

“Launch the special weapons first, and then a round of tactical nuclear missiles,” he ordered.  The special weapons, stealth missiles banned by all space-faring powers, might be stealthy to the enemy.  “Launch as soon as we enter engagement range…”

“Missiles away, sir,” the tactical officer said.  Campbell leaned forwards in alarm as his voice sharpened.  “Sir, the Overcompensator is accelerating towards us…”

Campbell felt his blood run cold.  That meant that they would enter the Overcompensator’s engagement range sooner than they had planned, which meant…

“The Overcompensator is firing,” the fleet tactical officer said.  “Sir, the ramming fleet is kicking in its drive now, both classes.”

Campbell frowned.  The first group of ramming ships would be accelerating, even as they smashed into the Overcompensator.  The second group were breaking, throwing out a powerful fusion plume into the path of the Overcompensator; they wouldn’t have stopped when they went ass-backwards into the alien starship.

“Sir, the Overcompensator is firing,” the tactical officer said.  His voice was grim; the Overcompensator was launching thousands of the blue plasma balls into space, hammering their way through the human missiles by force of numbers alone.  “Sir, the ramming fleet has been destroyed.”

Campbell nodded.  There was nothing else to say.

Chapter Forty-Eight: Horror

The White House
Washington DC, USA

The President along with the other world leaders, watched the battle in silence.  The ships fought hard and made a valiant effort, but it was too late.  As HMS Invincible died in a blast of blue light, the President knew that the battle for Earth had been lost.  The final British ship died…and he knew that it was over.  The Overcompensator ploughed through the debris field and kept coming.

“One day,” someone said.  The President didn’t bother turning to see who had spoken.  “One day, and then that thing will enter orbit.”

“There will be…repercussions in Congress,” his political advisor said.  “They will not be happy.”

The President rounded on him.  “Garth, will you just shut up!”  He snapped.  “Nearly a hundred people were killed up there, and the damned thing is still coming!”

There was a long embarrassed silence.  The President placed his head in his hands, trying to blot out his mind.  The images from the recon probes and the dying spacecraft refused to leave; the Overcompensator had simply smashed its way through the best that humanity could challenge it with.

“There are some hopeful signs,” Fleet Admiral Matt Burghardt said.  The President looked up hopefully.  “We did score one hit on that monster, perhaps two.  That suggests that it does have weaknesses.”

“One hit,” the President said.  “Atomic bombs won us the war with Japan, and then threw massive payloads into orbit.  We see them as the ultimate in destructive power, until suddenly it’s too late.”

“One hit is better than no hit,” Burghardt said, keeping his voice calm.  “The ship will enter orbit in less than a day, and we can prepare a reception for it.”

“What’s the use?”  The President asked.  “Even if by some miracle we manage to kill it, the debris will fall onto the Earth and kill us anyway.”

General Armchair frowned.  “Continental Command stands on alert,” he said.  “When they try to land, we will give them a hot welcome.”

“Where there’s life, there’s hope,” Robin Brooks said.  “Mr President, I saw the Russian report on their infiltrator; I don’t want to end up like him.”

The President sighed.  “Nor do I,” he said.  “How many years of human history has there been?  Ten thousand?  We’re looking at total extinction, at least in our current form, and there’s nothing to do, but try to take them down with us.”

“There are always the colonies,” Thompson said.  “The ones on Mars and the Moon, the ones in the outer solar system; the human race will go on.”

“Thousands of people have been fleeing in commercial spacecraft,” Brooks added.  “There will certainly be enough of us left to rebuild afterwards.”

“Don’t you think that they’ll want the outer solar system as well?”  The President asked.  He wanted something, anything, to clutch to, but there was nothing.  “They’re going to come for us, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“We can mass our fire,” Burghardt said.  “We’ve been emplacing thousands of missiles in orbit.  When they enter range, we’ll throw everything we have at them.”

His voice grew more confident.  The President didn’t know if he was putting it on, or if he meant it, but he was grateful for the effort.  “That…massive bastard has weaknesses, or Admiral Campbell would never have managed to score that hit.  Some of them we have been able to deduce; we might even be able to take advantage of them.

“One of them is its vast size,” he said.  “It is very hard for us to actually miss it, which means that we can pour on the missiles, spreading them over the entire hull.  They will have to take down all of our missiles in order to prevent themselves from being hit, which will spread their defences too far.  At the same time, we will launch the commandeered civilian craft into the teeth of their defences, hoping to score a hit.  Some of the weapons we produced for fighting the Soviets can also be used, in hopes that they might be just as effective against an alien target.”

He paused.  “And, once they get down on the ground, it is not necessarily game over,” General Armchair said.  His voice, the President was grimly amused to notice, was less confident than Burghardt’s.  “We all seem to be assuming that they’re going to have to ram the planet, but why would they do that if they want us as their brain-implanted slaves?  They wouldn’t, therefore they will have to enter orbit and send down troops to subdue us.”

He waved a hand at a deployment chart.  The President remembered absently that standing orders called for them to be wiped as soon as the enemy got within visual range, something that meant less and less as technology grew more powerful and capable.  Who knew; the aliens might be capable of reading human databases from orbit.

“This is the war that we have prepared for since Roswell,” Armchair thundered, trying to convince them all that they could win.  “We have armed civilians and soldiers scattered all over the nation.  The Soviets have the Red Army deployed and dug into their defence positions, the French and Germans have their armies ready and the British have their forces in position.  We can bleed them; I don’t care how many of them there are in that ship, they can’t have upwards of six billion warriors and potential warriors, like we do.”

He tapped the map sharply.  “We have thousands of missile launchers and anti-spacecraft weapons,” he said.  “We can beat them, bleeding them into death, while the civilian population goes underground.  If the Overcompensator is destroyed, then much of the population will survive in the shelters, and even if they gain control of parts of the Earth, we will be able to hold out for years if we have to.”

“I can only hope that you’re right,” the President said.  “Chris, I assume that you have begun the long process of distributing command authority?”

Thompson nodded.  “Gavin” - Vice President Gavin Cozort – “is heading to the asteroids,” he said.  “In the event of us losing control of Earth, there will be some parts of the civilian government left in existence.  The others in the chain of command are being distributed now; even if Washington is hit as part of their first strike, the command authority will remain intact.”

“So…all that leaves is dealing with the panic,” the President said.  “They’ll be able to see the Overcompensator now, won’t they?”

“Pretty soon,” Burghardt injected.

“Mr President, I recommend formal declaration of martial law,” General Armchair said formally.  “There is going to be panic and all of the normal problems that will result from suddenly trying to prepare to stand off an alien invasion force on the ground.”

“Congress would almost certainly approve such a measure,” the Political Advisor said.  “Mr President, there is also the question of people escaping Earth.”

The President opened his mouth to snap at him again, and then thought better of it.  It was a good point, unfortunately.  “Talk about a can of worms,” he said.  “Do we allow people to leave, or do we try to organise an evacuation, or do we ban it altogether?”

There was another long pause.  “I think that we should try to organise the lifting of trained technical people,” Burghardt said finally.  “Their families and dependents should be lifted as well – they won’t want to leave them – but I don’t see how we can organise an evacuation of even the tiniest worthwhile fraction of the population.”

“All of the civilian space lines are raising their prices,” Thompson said.  “They’ve even having a large problem with desertion; Captains set out for the moon and keep going towards the asteroids.”

“Running out,” Burghardt muttered.

“They don’t want to face the Overcompensator,” Thompson said mildly.

The President thumped the table.  “Inform them that they are to keep their prices down to where they were before the war,” he said.  “I’ll get a conference set up with the remains of Congress and the Senate; they can vote on the martial law issue.”  He scowled.  “Admiral, make all of the preparations for engaging the Overcompensator as soon as it enters range, coordinating with the Russians and the British.”

Burghardt nodded.  “Yes, Mr President,” he said.

“God help us all,” the President said, and ended the meeting.

***
Congress had been surprisingly accommodating to the President’s request to declare martial law; the sight of the Overcompensator on the news bulletins and even in some telescopes had concentrated their minds to an amazing degree.  The President, who knew that it might all be futile, could only be grateful for small mercies; they were running out of time.

It was twenty hours until the Overcompensator entered engagement range.  Rumours of the disastrous battle in deep space had been spreading across the communications network for hours, despite no official comment, and panic was starting to spread.  All of the corporations with space-facilities and hotels on the Moon and Mars, let alone passenger transports, suddenly found themselves overwhelmed with bookings.  Riots appeared outside travel agencies when unscrupulous ticket sellers sold tickets that would not be – could not be honoured – and the police had to be called into action.  The price freeze might have made life easier for some people, but others paid through the nose to have others bumped off the flights, so that they could have their places, and there were more riots.

“We never thought that this day would come,” the President muttered to himself.  He was supposed to be heading into a bunker deep below Washington, along with most of his staff, to ride out the coming storm.  His generation would never have dreamed of fiddling while Rome burned…but then, he’d been born in an era where space flight was still dangerous.  Now that there was an escape route, people were trying to use it, rather than stand and fight.

“We might just end up having to pull out some of the tugs,” Burghardt replied.  The tugs were pulling entire life support capsules from Earth to the Moon, trying desperately to move some of the thousands of people who were trying to get into orbit.  “Mr President, we’re working hard on emplacing more missiles, but it’s going to be close.”

The President nodded.  “I have to go on TV in twenty minutes,” he said.  Congress had signed into action the Alien War Bill, which had been hastily updated in the wake of the Overcompensator’s arrival.  His generation would never have dreamed of panicking when an alien battleship arrived, but they’d been…expecting it.  Roswell seemed almost like a dream to the newly born, one quiet moment when Earth had been touched by the fantastic.

He’d often wondered what would have happened if Roswell had never happened.  He knew, somehow, that both the Americans and the Russians would have expanded their way into the solar system – it defied belief that both powers would be too stupid to take advantage of space.  Would the British have managed to hang onto real power, even much reduced, in the form of their Commonwealth?  Would the Soviet Union have gone to war against the Americans?

“Mr President, it is time for your press briefing,” Judith said.  The President was suddenly aware of her concern about him and smiled; she had no need to worry about him when the rest of the world was threatened.  “Shall I inform them that you’ll be along in a moment?”

The President nodded and followed her down the long corridor, into the Press Room.  Only a handful of reporters had turned up, something that he would have been relieved about under other circumstances, but he supposed that it made a certain kind of sense; would there be any newspapers in the next few days?  The President didn’t know.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States of America,” Judith said, introducing him.  The cheers astonished the President; were they that desperate for good news?  The President wished that he had some good news to tell them.

“My fellow Americans,” the President said.  His voice was grim; somehow he sensed the wave of disappointment and fear running through the room.  “It is with a heavy heart that I confirm the destruction of the Earth Defence Force, after a valiant and noble battle when several major hits were scored on the opponent, the alien Overcompensator.”

He’d made the decision to exaggerate Admiral Campbell’s success; there had to be something to boost morale, somehow.  “The Overcompensator remains on its course towards the Earth, and it will enter orbit sometime tomorrow.”

“What happens if it doesn’t stop?”  A reporter shouted.  No amount of arrogance could hide the fear from his voice.  “What happens if they hit the planet?”

The President had to smile at the question.  “Then we won’t have to worry about paying our taxes any longer,” he said.  There were some weak chuckles.  The joke wasn’t all that funny, but they knew that they needed something to laugh at.  “We believe that the Overcompensator is seeking to enter orbit, and once it does, we are convinced that she will send down ground troops to engage us.”

He paused.  “We know what they want,” he said.  “There have been rumours of alien infiltrators in places of power.  Those rumours are true; four of our people and two Russians have been implanted – controlled – by the aliens.  They have all been detected and we expect to find the others shortly.

“That is the fate they have in mind for us,” he continued.  “A slavery more terrible than any ever practiced in the Deep South.  If they land and win – game over.  We have no choice, but to use each and every one of our weapons to fight, which means deploying our soldiers to fight them at every possible landing point.  Today, with the full agreement and oversight of Congress, I am declaring martial law over the United States of America.”

He waited for a response.  He’d been of two minds about informing the Press about the alien infiltrators, but they’d had to know what was at stake.  Martial law could only be used in the worst possible situations, which the arrival of the Overcompensator certainly would be.

“This is not a step I take lightly,” he said, into the silence.  “The aliens are coming, and their approach has brought panic.  We have no choice, but to prepare to fight them everywhere and anywhere.  In space, there are new weapons being prepared, but for the moment we have to hold them to Earth, bleeding them so highly that they’ll give up attempting to enslave the human race.”

He paused.  “Are there any questions?”

“Mr President,” a reporter asked, “what about finding the alien stooges?”

“We have a method for doing that now,” the President said.  There was something so fundamentally horrifying about brain implantation that he would quite happily shoot the alien who had come up with that idea for war crimes.  “We will find them all and remove them, whatever it takes.”

Senate Bunker
Washington DC, USA

Connie Chapman hated the Senate Bunker with a passion that would have surprised her husband, who had always loved the trappings of power and position.  Senator Chapman meant everything he said about how much the Russians were evil and could never be trusted, but in the end it was his wife who both ran his campaign and hated it.  Connie knew that she shouldn’t be cooperating with her husband, who she did love, but when the whispering in her mind started, she knew that she had no choice, but to obey.

It was only then that she remembered their honeymoon, just after her husband had started along the long path to rising to being part of the American Party leadership.  They’d had a good time, until they’d gone hiking up into the woods.  They’d planned to have a midnight picnic and a deliciously naughty session in the open air…but then…

Her mind recoiled as she remembered the small grey aliens who had appeared out of nowhere, stunning both humans.  She remembered a growing pain in her head, the sense that something was fundamentally wrong…and then there had been a ‘click’ in her head and she hadn’t remembered a thing except…

Unaware, her hands clenched and unclenched, as she left their room.  She could hear her husband’s voice at the end of the long corridor, talking to one of his cronies and several other Senators and Congressmen.  Her husband’s career might be over, despite her unwilling advice, but she knew that it wouldn’t matter.  Part of her mind knew what was happening and was screaming; the rest of her mind found it impossible to care about what was happening.

She reached the door and looked into the room.  Her husband was talking to one of his friends…and she saw his eyes widen as he saw her.  Part of her mind flushed with humiliation, for she was naked, the other part of her mind felt a wash of deep overpowering rage that defied  any control.

Her husband spun around to look at her.  “Connie…?”

Connie moved forward, lost in her rage.  Her husband’s neck broke with ease; several others were killed just as quickly.  One Congressman tried to grab her and self-defence lessons came to the fore; she smashed his groin and kicked his neck with enough force to crush it.  The red maddening rage was all around her and…

“Stop,” a voice shouted.  A young man’s voice, part of Connie’s mind noted; knowing how she must look to him.  She felt a giggle inside her head, just before she leapt for the young soldier.  He fired, four times, and Connie felt her body collapse as her legs shattered.  She tried to speak, to thank him, but it was too late.  The red rage rose up within her again and she knew no more.

Chapter Forty-Nine: The Second Battle of Earth

Lunar Pentagon
Lunar Orbit

The report on Connie Chapman was quite clear.  Fleet Admiral Matt Burghardt read it with a growing sense of disbelief; everyone had suspected that Chapman had been an implanted alien agent, but instead it had been his wife.  Seven Congressmen and Senators had died in the attack; she’d torn most of them to pieces with her bare hands.  The report made chilling reading; it seemed likely that the implant had forced Connie to move with superhuman speed, burning up her brain in the process.

“We might never be able to take an implanted victim alive,” Doctor Anung had concluded.  “The implant was causing a brain seizure in the subject.”

Burghardt shuddered and turned back to his display.  The Overcompensator was now only a few thousand kilometres from Earth…and it was very visible in the sky.  The size of the massive alien craft was already having an effect on Earth’s tides, and he knew that it would only get worse as the monstrous ship grew closer.  Already, some of the space stations were reporting instabilities caused by the Overcompensator and the mysterious gravity waves spilling out as it eased itself into Earth’s orbit around the sun, racing to catch up with the planet.

“It won’t be long until it enters missile range,” Commander Erika Jones reported.  Burghardt nodded grimly as the massive ship grew closer.  “Sir, the Russians have completed the task of tying all of their systems into ours.”

Burghardt shook his head in amusement.  It had been barely a month since the war had started, stopped, and restarted against a far more dangerous opponent.  The presence of the alien agent in Russia had scared the Russians to death; not unlike the Americans, they were hunting for more agents, finding a handful within the Red Space Force.

He shuddered.  Both sides had understood the rules for spying on one another; they didn’t fight, didn’t let it get nasty, and the spies could be traded through Switzerland or some other neutral country.  Gun battles between spies and counter-espionage officers happened once in a blue moon; Burghardt could only remember one incident when there had been any gunplay at all.  The implanted victims, however, might not know that they were spying, passing loyalty checks with ease…until the implants activated.

“We have to stop them,” he muttered.  “What’s the latest on the evacuation effort?”

“The No Time For Gin was requesting permission to head along the longer route, back to Mars,” Erika said.  Her voice darkened.  “It’s due to arrive in Earth orbit two days after the big bastard and the captain seems to think that it will not be allowed to leave.”

“Two more fucking years and all of the ships would have had Procyon Drives,” Burghardt snapped.  His hand slammed into the table in sudden frustration.  The Bridge Ship No Time For Gin would be very lucky if it managed to return to Mars; under normal circumstances, he would have been worried about allowing it to head into space at all without a few tugs around.  With the Overcompensator around, it would be unlikely that there was anything that could refuel the Bridge Ship, should it run out of fuel.

Of course, if that happens, then we won’t have anything to worry about, he thought, with a sudden burst of fatalism.  “Inform the Captain that he has permission to attempt such a manoeuvre,” he said.  “What about the other ships?”

“Many are still heading to the Moon, but a lot of pilots are refusing to return to Earth,” Erika said.  Burghardt wasn’t surprised; civilian pilots, many of whom held part-time USSF commissions, were not paid to take unarmed ships through a war zone, particularly when they might end up stuck on Earth.  “That’s around twenty thousand people on the moon in the last week; Administer Lucas was complaining.”

“A drop in the bucket,” Burghardt snarled.  “What about the Russians and the British?”

“The Russians got around five thousand people into space, mainly Party members and their dependents,” Erika said.  Her voice darkened.  “The British got a lot of people into space, but then there was a riot at Heathrow and nothing else has been launched since.”

Burghardt winced.  Despite the best efforts of all of the world governments, panic was still sweeping the Earth.  He gazed up at the display, calculating; the Overcompensator would enter Earth’s orbit on the other side of the moon, something that both annoyed him and relived him.  It was, in some ways, a good sign; the aliens were clearly human enough to be worried by the effects of the lunar gravity on their ship.  

He smiled.  It might also make the best position to attempt to intercept the Overcompensator.  He’d been careful not to share his plans with anyone on the ground; the aliens might have overheard, or worse, an implanted slave might have attempted to sabotage them.  

“And all of our weapons are in place,” he muttered.  His mind’s eye followed the tracks of all of the weapons that the three main powers had placed into orbit, hundreds of thousands of missiles.  “We can really attempt to hammer it.”

“The fleet is also reporting that it’s ready to engage,” Erika said.  Burghardt shuddered; almost all of the remaining human warships were in the asteroids, or Mars, or ever further out.  The ‘fleet’ was a force of rapidly converted civilian craft, from high-boost tankers to tugs, all armed with whatever weapons they could scrape up.  “They’re eager to engage.”

Burghardt nodded, paying them silent respect.  “And the minelayers?”

Erika frowned.  One advantage of this kind of war was that everyone knew what direction the enemy ship, the Overcompensator, was coming from; some of the scientists even suspected that the Overcompensator was too large to pull off some of the ‘turning on a dime’ manoeuvres that the other Procyon Drive ships could handle, which meant that the enemy ship was now committed to the course it had set itself.  Mines hadn’t been practical in the war between the two human powers, but against a target larger than many countries…

“They’re deploying their mines now,” she said, after a long pause.  “Sir, the mines don’t read on passive sensors, so…”

Burghardt nodded.  The scientists were fairly confident that the Overcompensator used gravity sensors to see though space, which meant that stealth covering would be useless, perhaps even worse than useless, on missiles, but it was hardly an additional expense for mines.  

He smiled without humour.  If the minelayers had gotten their sums even slightly wrong, the mines would drift off and even a five hundred kilometre long target would be missed.  He had a nasty feeling that something was going to go very badly wrong – they’d prepared for the worst…and he knew that that was what they were going to get.

They waited.

***
Captain Joe Buckley could see the Overcompensator as it closed in on Earth, feeding back the reports and images from his sensors to Fleet Command, knowing that the tiny corvette had been spared destruction in the first battle, only to face it in the second.  The Benito Santini had had a drive failure that had prevented it from going with Admiral Campbell, but there was no longer anywhere to hide.  The Santini couldn’t limp out of the battlezone; the only thing that mattered was getting in a few hits on the opponent.

He frowned as the laser update came in.  Under normal circumstances – and he had to keep reminding himself sometimes that the situation was anything, but normal – he would never have dreamed of taking his ship away from the shipyards without a proper crew, but most of the experienced crewmen had been sucked away into the desperate defence duty.  The crew he had was brave enough, but they had less collective experience than a Polish figurehead for the joint Communist space program, one of the handful intended to convince the Poles that they were true equals.  

He smiled.  It hadn’t worked; the sight of the Overcompensator had only driven the Poles to fight harder against the Russians, who were getting bogged down in Poland.  Even the Polish Communists were fighting against the Russians, who would be hard-pressed to find a friend in Poland.

“Captain, the fleet command is reporting that they are preparing to attack the ship,” Ensign Steffen reported.  “All of the missiles are coming online now…and we’re to stand by.”

“How informative,” Buckley sneered.  There were seventy ships in orbit, but only one of them was a real warship, and the Santini was crippled.  He’d already decided how the battle was to end, at least for him; he was going to ram the alien ship.  “Keep the download going.”

He turned back to the display as the missiles’ ignited their drives.  The Russians and the Americans had emplaced thousands of missiles in orbit; all heading directly for the Overcompensator, at what would have been the most vulnerable point of its journey for a bridge ship.  No one knew if the same was true for the alien ship.

“Wow,” Ensign Steffen breathed.  Buckley didn’t reprimand him; it seemed beyond belief that anything could stand up to the wave of missiles heading towards the Overcompensator.  Perhaps, just perhaps, they wouldn’t be needed…

“The second wave is moving now,” Ensign Stevenson reported.  “The first wave will intercept the Overcompensator in fifty-seven seconds, fifty-six, fifty-five…”

“Enemy point defence activating,” Ensign Steffen reported.  His tone was that of a crushed spirit.  “They’re firing…”

Buckley watched as the alien ship came alight with blue balls of energy, firing plasma blasts toward the incoming missiles, some of which exploded before the blue balls reached them, hoping to disrupt the targeting systems.  Bomb-pumped lasers fired madly, spewing their deadly cargo towards the Overcompensator…and scoring hits.  A missile slammed into the Overcompensator, and another, sending fire blasting along the alien ship’s hull.

“The first wave of the missiles has been destroyed or has impacted,” Ensign Stevenson reported.  His tone was grim; the Overcompensator was still coming, despite signs of trouble on its hull.  “The second wave is inbound now, and then they’ll hit the mines…”

“Mine, dreadful space mine ahead,” Buckley muttered.  The Overcompensator was still firing, launching its strange weapons towards the incoming missiles; he noticed that some of the weapons were simply vanishing before they reached any target, the blue plasma having burned itself out.  The weapon clearly had a more limited range than they’d guessed.

“We could use our ships as weapons platforms if we stayed out of that thing’s range,” he muttered, thinking as hard as he could.  “Perhaps even…”

“Captain, something is happening to the Overcompensator,” Ensign Stevenson snapped.  Buckley looked up in time to see some new lights appearing along its hull, and then moving away from the alien ship; a massive swarm of lights.  For a long moment, he thought that the entire ship was coming apart…and then he understood.

“Space fighters,” he hissed, as the sensor readings gave them shape and form.  They were shaped exactly like the Roswell craft, hardly any different from the craft that had crashed so long ago.  The swarm formed up and swooped forwards, firing plasma blasts as they came, ducking and weaving around the human missiles.

“Shit,” he said mildly, seeing doom approach.  The swarm was pressing into the mines, which were responding to their presence; bombs and bomb-pumped lasers started to detonate.  The little craft – the fighters – were hardly as invulnerable as the Overcompensator, he was relieved to notice; he saw one of them disintegrate under a bomb-pumped laser beam.

“They’re killing off the mines,” Ensign Stevenson reported.

Buckley knew suddenly that there was only one thing that the fleet could do.  “Contact all of the ships,” he said.  “We’ll have to use the plasma missiles on sprint-mode; those bastards dodge too quickly for anything else.”

He shuddered as the fighters swooped down on the fleet.  Between them, the Americans and Russians had scraped up nearly two hundred of their space fighters, which were clumsy and slow compared to the craft facing them.  The aliens were hacking their way through the mines…and coming to challenge the human ships.

“Here they come,” he said.  “I want a missile salvo ready to go, configured for wide detonation.”

“Ready, sir,” Ensign Stevenson said.  “Targets locked.”

“Fire,” Buckley snapped.  The Santini shuddered as it fired a salvo of plasma missiles, making it the main target for the alien force.  The alien craft bore down on the corvette, which tried desperately to fend them off with its lasers.  One alien craft was hit badly enough to cause it to break off from the battle and return towards the Overcompensator; the others kept coming and…

Buckley looked up sharply at the viewport.  Something was moving within the dark space, it was coming closer and…a blue ball of light slammed into the Santini, destroying it utterly.

***
“I’ve doomed us all,” Burghardt breathed, in total horror.  No one had expected that the aliens would have fighters – and yet, it was obvious in hindsight.  Hindsight said, quite clearly, that they should have expected the aliens to possess the capability to build them, and yet…no one had expected it.

“Admiral, the last ship has just been destroyed,” Erika said.  The air in the control room was cold and still.  “They’re spreading out now.”

Burghardt shuddered.  The third line of defence was missiles and systems in Earth orbit, but how much good would they be under the weight of the unexpected threat?  The anti-fighter weapons that the space stations carried were not intended for any manoeuvrable target; they had been designed for slow human space fighters.  There were the human fighters, buzzing around, but how much good would they be?

None, he thought, and shivered.  

“Space Station Archon is engaging the enemy now,” Erika said.  Burghardt glanced up at the display, suddenly short of ideas, or orders to give.  The space station’s launchers were going to rapid fire as the little alien craft grew closer, firing missiles towards the alien craft, which ducked and covered with ease.  Plasma blasts swatted missiles from the sky; only a handful managed to score hits.

“They’re firing,” Erika said.  Burghardt wished, just for a moment, that she would shut up, just as the first blasts hammered into the space station.  It was a larger target than any ship; it required several hits to tear it apart, but finally it exploded, sending chunks of junk down towards the planet.  The alien craft didn’t bother with any complicated victory manoeuvres; they just slipped away from their target, heading towards the next space station, and the next.

“Lasers and plasma missiles can kill them,” Commander Jackie Burnside commented.  Burghardt wondered, just for a moment, what a Fleet Intelligence officer was doing, commenting on a battle, and then he realised that it hardly mattered; what good was intelligence if they had no sources among the enemy?

“They might not be so manoeuvrable in the atmosphere,” Erika said softly.  “They seem to be intended for space work and…”  Her voice broke for a moment.  “Admiral, the Overcompensator is entering orbit.”

Burghardt stared at the display.  The massive ship had completely entered orbit of Earth, circling the planet in an almost perfect orbit, its weapons clearing the way and shattering any hope of resistance.  Thousands of smaller ships were being launched, floating out over the planet and surrounding it; a seemingly endless stream of ships heading down towards the planet.  

“The cables are being cut,” Jackie said.  Her voice was horrified; not even the recent war between America and Russia had seriously threatened the cables.  The results of cutting them were too horrific to even think about…as thousands of meters worth of ultra-strong cable crashed back to Earth.

“Update the Earth-bound authorities,” he said, looking around at the Lunar Pentagon.  It had seemed the pinnacle of technology at one time, until all of Earth’s defences had been simply…brushed aside by the Hive.  “Inform them that…”

“There are seven of the little craft heading to the Moon,” Erika said.  Her voice grew calmer.  “They’re heading directly for us.”

“Stand by all weapons,” Commodore Tyler snapped.  “Admiral, any orders?”

Burghardt shook his head.  “Fight your station,” he said, knowing that it would be futile.  They would only hit one of the alien craft through sheer luck.  He glanced around the room again.  “It was an honour to serve with each and every one of you,” he said.  “Thank you for everything.”

“You too, sir,” Erika said quietly.  “You did well, sir.”

Burghardt nodded.  On the display, the Hive fighters grew closer, travelling at speeds only the Lincoln and the other ships of its class could match.  The Procyon Drive ships might be the only hope for humanity’s survival, in some parts of the outer solar system.  Perhaps…they might have to head outside the Solar System, on an asteroid ship, but humanity would survive.  He was certain of it.

“Send a signal to Admiral Westmoreland,” he said.  “Tell him that upon this day we did our best, and now we lay down to rest.”

“Yes, sir,” Erika said.  “I’m sending the signal and the final dump now.”

Burghardt wished that he could object.  The final dump, a copy of all of their records from the fighting, was only sent when the station was on the verge of destruction.  He knew – now – that the station was doomed, but he wished that there were some other way.  A civilisation from the stars could have taught humanity so much, except…

“Weapons engaging,” Commodore Tyler said, as the station shuddered.  Missile after missile launched towards the alien craft, which dodged them with ease…one was hit, blown apart by a plasma blast, but the others kept coming and opened fire.

“Goodbye,” Burghardt said, as the Lunar Pentagon started to disintegrate under the pounding.  Alarms howled as consoles exploded, power shorting out over the entire station as parts of it were simply vaporised.  “God bless America.”

Chapter Fifty: Hell on Earth (I)

The White House Bunker
Washington DC, USA

The President fancied that he could hear the noise of the Overcompensator as it rumbled overhead, high up in orbit.  It was nonsense, of course; sound didn’t travel through a vacuum, but something was clearly shaking the Earth.  The observers suggested that it was the remains of the gravity waves as the alien ship settled into orbit, but they couldn’t say for certain.

There was no time to mourn, the President knew.  The entire orbital industry, several thousand-billion dollars’ worth of investment, had been captured or destroyed.  The cameras had been very clear, before they were destroyed; hundreds of grey aliens were swimming through space, swarming over the industrial stations.  Resistance had been bloody, but ultimately futile; the greys had overrun the defenders.

He shuddered.  The communications network was still working – thank God – and it was reporting strange effects all across the world.  The tidal effects of the Overcompensator’s presence were already starting to be felt; higher tides had been observed all across the globe.  The United States was reporting real problems in some low-lying cities; God only knew when it would end.

“When are they going to do something?”  He demanded.  General Armstrong shrugged; the Overcompensator had been floating gently into orbit for the last hour, having sent out its small craft to systematically wipe out all of the relay stations and remaining ships within the Earth-Moon system, including destroying the Lunar Pentagon.  “What now?”

“I don’t know,” General Armchair said patiently.  “The ship is in range of our interceptors, if we launched them now, except that that will draw their fire onto the launch sites.”

“And so we wait,” the President said, returning to the big display.  The United States Air Force was in the air, waiting for the aliens to do something, but they had done nothing since entering orbit.  The hypersonic interceptors, prepared to intercept craft entering the atmosphere, were waiting, but the aliens had done nothing.

“Yes, Mr President,” General Armchair said.  Tracking the Overcompensator was hardly a problem; the alien ship was so large that it was easy to see from the surface.  The United States and the Soviet Union had long prepared a joint network of passive sensors to track craft in orbit, from telescopes to the new gravimetric sensors; they knew that several Wanderer-class vessels had been released from the Overcompensator, spreading out to surround the planet.

“They don’t think that we’re a threat,” he commented.  The President looked up at him sharply.  “They’re floating around in orbit, carefully making certain that all is ready for their landings, and just ignoring us.  We can make them bleed for that mistake.”

“At the moment, they’re out of range,” the President pointed out.  “If we launch missiles at them now, they’ll have plenty of time to intercept them.”

“I know,” General Armchair said seriously.  “They’re spreading out, which suggests that they want to make sure that they have all of their maps ready before they start landing.  All of their spies might have been found or used up by now.”

The President shuddered.  Senator Chapman had only been the most prominent of the Senators and the other officials to be murdered by someone very close to him.  Half a dozen other implanted agents had struck at the same time, killing several important people, including the commander of the Western Defence Region.  The Russians had reported something similar; they’d been on the verge of a near-civil war, simply because of a handful of implanted KGB officials.  

“We can’t count on that,” he said.  “They might have thousands more.”

General Armchair nodded.  “I don’t think they do,” he said.  “If they could do that, then why not take the time to implant everyone in the USSF?  If they could make their way higher and higher up the ladder, they could have taken over without us ever knowing that the threat existed.”

The President winced.  “Point taken,” he said.  “At least…we have a way of tracking them, if they try to add more to their forces.”

“True,” General Armchair agreed.  The smaller alien craft, the ones that shared a design with the craft that had crashed at Roswell, could only be tracked through the gravimetric sensors; they refused to show up on most other sensors.  Radar didn’t seem to work too well on them; they were very close to perfectly stealthy.  It was more than a little…distressing.

“And they’ve been rumbled now,” the President continued, in the tones of a man who was trying to convince himself.  “We’re looking out for more spies, and we have checked almost the entire remaining senior staff in Washington, and then moved through the men.”

“We have to do everyone,” General Armchair said.  “I would never have suspected Mrs Chapman – I guess that’s why they did it.”

The President nodded.  “That would make some sense,” he agreed.  “She was always rumoured to have been the driving force behind his ambitions.”  He thought of his wife and smiled.  “Rumour had it that she wanted to be First Lady…and God help anyone who got in her way.”

“Or perhaps even President,” General Armchair said.  The United States had had two female Presidents since Roswell, both energetic and capable women.  “Or would that have made controlling her too hard?”

“We know so little about the technology,” the President said.  “For all we know, activating the implants caused the brain collapse that killed Mrs Chapman.”

There was a chime from one of the displays; red lights were flashing on it, sounding the alarm.  The President stared up as the main display started to update itself, revealing hundreds of smaller alien craft launching from the Overcompensator, heading down towards the Earth.

“They’re coming,” he said, his voice a whisper.  “Where are they going?”

General Armchair frowned.  “There’s about a thousand of the little bastards, heading for America,” he said.  “Several thousand more heading for Russia and Europe.  NORAD is updating the hypersonic interceptors now; they must be expecting that their stealth will protect them.  They probably won’t show up on radar at all, except at very close range.”

The President took a breath.  “This is it,” he said.  “Where are the primary targets?”

More images appeared on the display.  “Bigger craft,” Armchair commented.  “Perhaps not the size of the Wanderer craft, but quite big enough.  I think – NORAD thinks – that they’re heading for several different landing sites – unless we can break their formations up before they arrive.”

He scowled.  “It almost looks as if they want to take our military bases,” he said, in puzzlement.  “What could we have there that they would want?”

Over the Atlantic
Near Eastern American Seaboard

Captain Andy Hamilton, known as Biggles to his friends for reasons that he refused to discuss with anyone who wasn’t a hypersonic pilot, studied the upload from NORAD and frowned in puzzlement.  The hypersonic was topping out at well over Mach Seven, heading higher into the sky, and yet…there was no sign of the enemy on his radar.  The uplink insisted that the aliens were coming into the atmosphere ahead of him, but his radar was seeing nothing.

“This is Alpha Leader,” he said.  “I see nothing; the skies are dark blue and clear and…”

His radar suddenly showed him a contact, racing towards him at a speed well above Mach Eight.  Instinctively, he moved the aircraft sharply, relying on the computers to keep the craft from tearing itself apart, as a blast of red light flashed past him.  He saw the alien craft, a silver almond twice the size of the hypersonic, as it flashed past him, already preparing to turn around and engage him again.

“This is Alpha Leader,” he snapped.  “Am under attack by” – his radar found a tight formation of seventy other alien craft, descending into the atmosphere – “a large force of alien craft.  Am engaging primary target.”

“Understood, Alpha Leader,” the ground controller said.  His accent was stronger than the high-class English accent that Biggles affected, but there was an ugly undertone of fear within it.  “Alpha flight is moving to support you.”

Another bolt of red light flashed past him as the alien pilot – or pilots, he remembered that the Roswell craft had had three pilots – zipped neatly onto his tail.  He pushed the hypersonic forward, running through a long series of evasive manoeuvres, hoping that the controllers were picking up the feed from his satellites.  In the absence of any space stations or satellites, it was hard to be sure; the signals might even be being jammed.

He jammed down hard on the controls as a massive alien craft appeared out of nowhere, missing it by inches.  The craft, one nearly the size of a battleship, seemed to be heading towards the ground; as he watched, it fired bursts of blue light down towards the ground, far beyond Biggles’ sight.

“Am engaging,” he snapped, selecting a plasma missile and launching the ‘fire and forget’ missile without turning the plane to face the enemy craft.  The missile, following the commands within the tiny computer, adapted and swooped around to come directly at the alien craft.  Biggles winced as a blast of white light swallowed the alien craft, wiping it out of existence.

A flash of red light danced past him as the other alien craft fired at him.  Part of his mind analysed the weapons the aliens were using; they clearly weren’t seeking weapons or light-speed weapons, more likely plasma weapons of some kind.  The aliens seemed to be fond of plasma missiles, which gave a great deal of bang for the buck.

“Oh, piss off,” he snapped, as several of the alien craft swooped around to fire at him.  The little fighters were firing madly at him, unable to predict his evasive manoeuvres, but filling the air with so much fire that they would be sure to score a hit, given time…

“This is Alpha-Two, engaging the enemy,” his wingman snapped, through the radio.  Biggles sighed in relief as the alien craft swooped down on the newcomers to the fight, attacking them with their strange weapons.  Plasma missiles from the humans flashed back at the alien craft…and then the first human craft was destroyed.

“The bastards are learning,” Biggles snapped, firing a plasma missile into an alien fighter that was taking a bead on the humans.  The human craft were dependent upon their missiles; their lasers seemed to be less effective against the alien craft.  He wasn’t sure what the little craft were made of, but it was very resistant to laser fire.

Cursing, he launched his last missile towards one of the alien transports…and saw it destroyed by a point defence weapon.  The aliens were gathering their forces, using their superiority in numbers and speed to blow through the USAF fighters; he saw a transport passing right past a USAF hypersonic, which launched a missile.  The alien craft was speeding up; it just outran the missile.

“That’s fucking cheating,” Biggles snapped, just as a plasma bolt impacted with his interceptor.  Seconds later, there was nothing more of him, but a rapidly expanding cloud of plasma.

The White House Bunker
Washington DC, USA

“The interceptors are hitting them hard,” General Armchair said.  “Unfortunately…”

“Don’t tell me,” the President growled.  “They have yet another secret technological advantage.”

“This is something we’ve used ourselves,” General Armchair said grimly.  “They’ve starting hitting our fighter bases from orbit, hammering them into the dust with kinetic projectiles.  There’s no need for tactical nuclear weapons if they can hit the bases from orbit.  Mr President, they’re knocking out the USAF, simply by destroying the support structure that the fighters depend upon.”

“Reports from Moscow and London suggest that they’re doing the same thing there,” Thompson added, from his display on the wall.  He was in another bunker, several miles from Washington.  “They’re cutting down hard on our ability to resist them.”

The President sighed.  “Exactly what is happening in the air?”  He asked.  “What are we doing to them?”

“Our interceptors have hit the smaller fighter craft quite badly,” General Armchair said.  “Our sensors suggested around forty confirmed killed and several dozen damaged.  We’ve also taken out several of the larger craft, which we think are troop transports, all of which carry plasma cannons of their own.”

He scowled.  “The bad news is that they’re taking bites out of our interceptor force to do it,” he continued.  “They’ve been practicing asymmetric warfare, which is good news in a sense, but they’ve been hurting us pretty badly.  We had a tanker and nearly a dozen fighters as escort and they blew right through and took out the tanker.  That alone limits what we can do for defending the air, but at the same time they’re hammering the ground and air-based radar and sensor stations.”

He took a breath.  “Bottom line, Mr President, is that by this time tomorrow, at the latest, we won’t have an airforce any more.  Or a navy; the ships we had on station have been hit from orbit.  They didn’t stand a chance.”

“You have a curious definition of good news,” the President said.  He felt a small flicker of humour.  “Why exactly is that good news?”

“They’re spending their small craft pretty heavily,” General Armchair said.  “Simple logic suggests that there must be limits to what they have to send against us, particularly with the war ranging over the entire world.  If they didn’t have limits, why accept the risk of sending their fighters in over the mainland, over the ground-based missiles as well as the fighters that can’t reach the high attitude of the hypersonic craft, if they can wear us down.”

“Perhaps they’re impatient, like Hitler,” Thompson suggested.  “Perhaps they don’t want to wait for the Earth.”

“Or perhaps they’re actually weaker than we thought, and are therefore concentrating on wearing down our resistance,” General Armchair said.  “If they take out all of the tankers, and the airbases, they effectively put us back down to the ground.  Why risk their own pilots against ours…when they can just allow ours to become grounded, or fall out of the sky when they run out of fuel.”

The President understood in a rush of cold fury.  “They want the pilots,” he hissed.  “Think about it – all of those young men, trained to work under extreme conditions; the Hive wants them!”

General Armchair stared at him.  “Sir, would they…?”

“Of course they would,” Thompson snapped.  “They’re capable of controlling people; the pilots could have about as much choice as a priest in a whorehouse.  They’ll work for the Hive, and they’ll probably think that it was their own idea.”

“Remind me again why I added you to the ticket,” the President said dryly.  “There are times when you’re a disgrace”

“You missed my charm,” Thompson said, his voice far from serious.  “Seriously, we know that they’re determined to add us to their empire, so why not?  Hell, for all we know, that’s what they’re doing right now to those on the industrial platforms.”

The President looked up at Armchair, who shrugged.  “It’s quite possible, Mr President,” the General conceded, reluctantly.  “We’ve completely lost contact with all of the platforms, and at last report the Soviets have lost contact with theirs as well.  The British lost their platform to one of the attacks from the smaller bastards; the Overcompensator itself seems to have reverted to being nothing more than a carrier for the ships.”

The President shook his head.  “Every year, some Admirals from the USSF recommended that we build a carrier,” he said.  “Every year, the proposal was duly laughed at and binned, and then we built some more corvettes instead.  The Hive has the technology to make the idea work…and we do not.”

“I know,” Armchair said.  “We still have some contact with the Moon, mainly through long-range lasers.  The Hive seems to be content, for the moment, with blockading them; between us we did a damned good job of clearing the way for the bastards.”

The President stared down at his hands.  “Why?”  He asked.  “Why did none of us see it?”

It was Thompson who answered.  “Because we hadn’t seen hair or hide of them for sixty-odd years,” he said.  “Because we allowed ourselves to become bogged down in worrying about our politics here.  Because, in the end, we had lived with the threat for so long it had become a joke, almost; if we’d had a hint…”

“We did have a hint,” the President said, almost savagely.  “We saw the Wanderer, and just by seeing it we got plunged into war.  Why?”

There was an urgent bleeping from a console.  “Radar has detected alien craft moving towards Washington,” General Armchair said.  His voice was remarkably calm.  “I think they know that we’re here.”

The President shook his head.  “This place is the most secure place in Washington,” he said.  “If they can get us down here, they’re unbeatable.”

General Armchair smiled.  His eyes tracked the changes in the display as the alien craft roared in from the sea, travelling at supersonic speed, flying almost too low to be seen by the sensors.  The defensive bases around Washington were coming to life, firing their missiles into the air, trying to hit the alien craft before they destroyed the defences.

“They’re concentrating on our defences,” he commented, after a moment.  The battle was hard to track, but the gravimetric sensors had no difficulty seeing through the electromagnetic chaos.  “They could have made a run for the White House and destroyed it, or any number of other buildings.  Instead, they’re hammering the defences around Washington…that was a missile launch site going up in flames.”

The President closed his eyes.  “They’re clearing the way,” he murmured.  The display adjusted to show much larger alien craft, descending through the atmosphere.  “They’re coming for us.”

Thompson’s face became concerned.  “Mr President, General; what the hell is going on?”

“I believe that only one word covers it,” General Armchair said, as the red icons crawled across the display.  “Invasion.”

Chapter Fifty-One: Blockade Runner

Ceres Base
Asteroid Belt

In the darkness of space, the remains of a once-proud fleet gathered around Ceres, hoping that somehow the commanding officer – the USSF’s sole surviving Admiral – would somehow come up with a tactic that would give humanity some form of chance against the Hive.  Russian, French and British ships joined the Americans, no longer worrying about national rivalries; Earth had been out of contact for nearly a day.

“We need intelligence,” Admiral Westmoreland said.  Captain Howard nodded once; he knew that there was little other choice.  “We have the information that was forwarded on to us from the Moon, before the bastards got to it, but since then…?  Nothing.  We have no idea of what is happening on Earth, and we have to know.”

Howard frowned.  “There has been no communication at all?”

“A handful of radio transmissions, all scrambled,” Westmoreland said.  His grey hair seemed to have gone greyer overnight.  “We have no communication with the Moon or Earth itself.  The last communication included a great deal of tactical information; we did manage to hit the blasted ship, except it’s so big that even a nuke could barely damage it.”

Howard sucked in a breath.  The human race had once considered nukes the absolute greatest in destructive power.  All of a sudden, the superweapon had been proven to be insignificant.  The sheer size of the Overcompensator dwarfed anything that humans had ever built for themselves.

“And the small craft are even more of a problem,” Westmoreland continued, apparently unaware of Howard’s thoughts.  “They seem to defy the laws of physics, which suggest that they too have Procyon Drives; they certainly move like the Lincoln does.  Worst of all, the tactical records we do have suggests that while missiles can kill them, lasers have almost no effect at all.”

Howard swore.  “Then what the hell do we do?”  He demanded.  “How fast can they go?”

“That’s the question,” Westmoreland admitted.  “The Overcompensator itself pulled nothing more than one tenth of light speed, and only when it was entering the system.  Clearly, something of that size needs room to slow down, Procyon Drive or not.”

“It shouldn’t work that way,” Howard said.  Nearly a year in command of the Lincoln had given him a sense of what the drive could or could not do.  “Once the bubble pops, the ship should lose all the speed from the drive at once.”

“Should,” Westmoreland said dryly.  “We know so little about it.”  He paused.  “Anyway, your orders are simple; you are to take the Lincoln to Earth, remaining well outside the Earth-Moon jurisdictional boundary, and remaining well away from Hive activity.  If you see a Hive ship coming your way, run for it.  Understand?”

Howard nodded.  “And once we’re there?”

“At last report, some of the out-system relay platforms had been destroyed,” Westmoreland said.  “If that is indeed the case, then you are to leave a spare platform in place, move to a safe distance, and program it to attempt to raise Earth.  If they relay, fine; if not, you are to deploy the stealth drones and attempt to probe the Earth-Moon system.  Encrypted laser communications only; sent to a second relay platform.”

Howard scowled.  “If they know how to track a Procyon Drive ship, they’ll be able to trace us,” he said grimly.  “They invented the bloody drive.”

“I know, but there’s little other choice,” Westmoreland said.  “If we’re to attempt any sort of attack, then we need intelligence.”

Howard shivered.  He understood the burning fear that was running through all of the humans in the outer solar system; their homeworld was surrounded by a powerful alien race, intent on turning the human race into brain-implanted slaves.  And yet, they were badly outgunned and outmatched at almost all levels; it would be weeks before the fusion drive ships could be brought into play…and they would hardly last long against the alien ships.

Westmoreland read his thoughts.  “I am not going to commit us to a kamikaze attack,” he said.  Howard sighed in relief.  “What we need is intelligence.”

Howard saluted.  “If we can get it for you, then we will,” he said.  “Sir, what exactly do you have in mind?”

“Only a handful of ideas,” Westmoreland said.  It wasn’t exactly an informative answer, Howard realised; Westmoreland probably didn’t have a good plan yet.  “Captain, if they come after you, or even if they move out on their own, how much chance do you think we have of standing them off?”

Howard didn’t have to think.  Only the Procyon Drive ships would be even remotely capable of outrunning the enemy ships, and that – as yet – was unproven.  “We can’t stand them off,” he said flatly.  “Sir, we might lead them back here.”

“They have to know where the base is,” Westmoreland said.  “That said, I do want you to dogleg back here, just to avoid giving them too many ideas.  For the moment, however; we might be in the odd position of cowering for the rest of eternity in our own star system, hiding from the Hive.”

Howard scowled at the thought.  “There is a second problem,” Westmoreland continued.  “There are still nearly two hundred spacecraft of various classes, all civilian, trying to make their way to Mars or the asteroids.  They’re sitting ducks out there…and we might have to send some of the other Procyon Drive ships to recover them.”

“Breeding stock,” Howard said.  He wasn’t sure how to feel about that.  “Sir, if we get them to Mars, the Hive might come for them afterwards.”

“That’s exactly what Captain Ward said,” Westmoreland said.  “He suggested that we take them all to Pluto, or somewhere near there, and set up colonies there.  Some of the bridge ships are already setting their tracks towards Saturn, where the British are based; they’ll add their resources to the colonies there.”

Howard nodded.  All of the space colonies had sought self-sufficiency, simply to keep the costs down; shipping food from Earth to the Moon was bad enough, while shipping it to Mars would have been almost impossible.  Like the Americans and the Russians, the British had built enough farms on Titan to feed far more than the standing population, large as that was.

“That’s Ward for you,” Howard said, remembering a shouted ‘get your head out of your ass boy’ from one of the most bloody-minded Captains in the USSF.  “Are we going to do that?”

Westmoreland nodded.  “The British have room for them,” he said.  “Until then, Captain; good luck with the mission.”

“Hail, Caesar,” Howard said.  He kept his tone as light as he could.  “We who are about to die salute you.”

***
Thande had expected a series of gloomy canyons, but the asteroid habitat was surprisingly roomy, with a massive habitation cylinder to allow the large crew of the base some proper shore leave.  Ceres Base itself wasn’t just on Ceres; there were several more asteroids and free-floating structures, all protected by a major squadron of the USSF.

Which should keep us alive for…oh, around five minutes, Thande thought.  He'd been very impressed by the fabrication modules, however; they were practically self-replicating machines in their own right.  Given enough resources, they would be capable of rebuilding the entire USSF in a few years; perhaps even less if they devoted half of their capability to reproducing themselves as well.

“I assume that you’re now ready to tell me what your idea is,” Sally said.  “Is it something that we would approve of?”

Thande grinned.  Building the machine from scratch had been a real challenge, one of a kind he hadn’t had since the Nazi War.  “Oh, probably not,” he said.  “What about your devices?”

Sally smiled.  “I managed to build a basic directed energy weapon,” she said.  “They were on the verge of the technology anyway; all they needed was a poke in the right direction.  The bastards are power hogs, but they’ll really make a mess of an alien fighter.”

Thande gave her a reproving look.  “Sally, this is not a game,” he said.  “You’re the one who keeps telling me that this is not our world, but there are living people here.  You and the Enemy are just…playing games with their lives.”

Sally’s eyes flashed.  “Yes,” she said.  “We cannot fight openly, not now, not ever, unless we want large chunks of reality to collapse.  All we know is that they’re altering time and space towards their ends – and doing it in a manner that is inimical to dozens of intelligent races, including humanity.  I might add that they have come very close to ensuring the extinction of all life on Earth…and if the Battle of Existence had not been won, all of humanity would have been wiped out of the universe.”

“You said that the Hive should have been wiped out of the universe,” Thande pointed out.  “They clearly survived the experience.”

Sally ignored him.  “When you’re fighting such a war, you cannot allow yourself much in the way of consideration for those who might be caught underfoot,” she snapped.  “Do you know; one of the most important points of divergence in Roman history – the Second Punic War, to be exact – revolves around a love affair?  Move one way, Carthage gets destroyed earlier; the other way, Carthage survives until the Third Punic War.”

Thande took a breath.  “I see,” he said.  “These weapons; can they harm the Overcompensator?”

“Yes, but not very much, unless they hit something vital,” Sally said.  “They’ll cover the ships from the fighters, but we might as well toss more nukes at them as well.”

Thande smiled.  “I had two ideas along those lines,” he said.  “The first one is to shimmer the Procyon Drive field, therefore creating a form of energy shield; one that might be capable of absorbing the plasma balls the Hive use to defend themselves.”

Sally nodded.  “I think that that would pass unnoticed,” she said.  “And the other one?”

“These people can build Portals, but they just never stumbled on the idea,” Thande said.  “My first thought was that we could literally drop the Overcompensator into another timeline, but that…”

“Would just pass the problem onto another timeline,” Sally said sharply.  “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“What is a Portal?”  Thande asked, and then answered his own question.  “A Portal is a rift in space between two universes.  They take a lot of power to form, and you cannot form one within solid matter.”  He paused.  “Which is something of a pity, otherwise we could just drop half of the blasted ship into another universe and destroy the remains.  If it could survive something like that, it’s all over anyway.”

He paused for dramatic effect.  “The weapons they use are direct weapons; somehow, they seem to home in on their targets, perhaps through some form of magnetic resonance.  If we open a Portal in front of a ship, the enemy fires…and the shot flies off into another universe.”

“You were right,” Sally said.  “I don’t like it.”

Thande glared at her.  “Do you have a better idea?”

Sally lowered her eyes.  “None,” she said.  “I suppose there’s no choice.”

Thande hesitated.  “There is a third possibility,” he said.  “A lot of the Procyon Drive technology has other applications, such as bending space-time.  If we could somehow concentrate a lot of energy into a pocket of folded space, we might just be able to deliver a deathblow to the Overcompensator.  It’s not invincible; you hit it, you kill it.”

“It might work,” Sally said.  “We’d have to be careful that we didn’t end up with a micro-black hole, of course…except there’s a very strong Enemy power source powering the Overcompensator.  With that in place, it might be impossible to destroy the ship.”

Thande felt his sprits sink.  “So we can’t destroy the fucking thing at all,” he said.  His face darkened.  “Sally, is there nothing we can do?  Do we have to sit here and watch this timeline die?”

Sally smiled at him.  There was something about her smile that made his heart leap.  “I didn’t say that, did I?”  She asked.  “Professor Thande, of course we can destroy the Overcompensator.  All we have to do is make sure that the ship loses its power core first.”  She paused.  “In fact, if the Overcompensator should happen to lose what’s keeping it and the rest of the Hive here, it might just vanish completely, leaving…well, perhaps fixing the timeline, or just leaving memories.”

Thande stared at her, and then smiled back.  “You mean…”

“Precisely,” Sally said.  “Daring Commando Raid.”

***
Admiral Westmoreland knew that he was one of those people who worked constantly, just to avoid thinking about things, including the possible total destruction of the human race.  There were nearly six million humans off-planet, on Mars or Venus or the outer system, and he was the senior naval officer.  The Russians, for once, were cooperating, even to the degree of allowing some of their ships to go to Ceres, but they were scared stiff of a Hive attack on Mars.

He smiled grimly.  Two weeks ago, they’d been shooting at each other over Mars, and now every Russian ship was needed for the defence of Mars against an enemy so powerful that the entire pre-war combined human fleets would probably be too weak to defeat.  That was the fact that he was trying to refuse to think about, why he had made the decision to fall back on the oldest military maxim he knew; when in doubt, gather intelligence and then decide what to do.

He shook his head slowly.  Tracking had identified dozens of civilian ships fleeing into the belt, many of whom would need a tanker to rendezvous with them before they could even slow down, having burnt up all of their fuel just escaping from the Hive.  Westmoreland, who knew that the aliens could have run them down without breaking a sweat, wasn’t unsympathetic, but he had far too many priorities to juggle.  Did he send tankers from the belt, or did he ask the British or the Israelis to attempt to refuel them?

There was a chime at the door.  “Admiral Professor Thande and Sally would like to talk to you,” his aide said.  “Do you want to see them?”

The honest answer to that was ‘no,’ but Westmoreland knew that they might have some new clue to defeating the Hive, before the Hive came into the asteroids and killed all of them.  He ordered the aide to send them in and the door hissed open, allowing them to enter.

“Good afternoon,” he said, trying to seem pleased to see them and very busy at the same time.  “What can I do for you?”

Thande smiled.  If he’d had a goatee, he would have been exactly like the unlamented Professor Anderson.  “Well, for a start we have improved the weapons,” he said.

Westmoreland sighed.  “On my computer, I have a report on missiles tough enough to be fired up through a fusion plume, missiles prepared for engaging the Russians,” he said.  “Naturally, it will be completely useless against the Hive.  What are your weapons?”

Thande briefly outlined the different concepts.  “And that will provide a shield for the ships,” he concluded.  “We would have a significantly greater offensive capability against the Hive fighters, while we would also be able to get a lot closer to the Overcompensator.”

“I’m starting to think that that was a very bad choice for a name,” Westmoreland said wryly.  “Unless you have a bigger bomb, how exactly does that help us defeat it?”

Thande and Sally exchanged glances.  “We do, as it happens,” Thande said, “but the problem is that the Overcompensator is…well, compensating for the stresses and strains of operating such a large ship.”

Westmoreland frowned.  He had wondered about that; Bridge Ships showed all manner of signs of stress after a few years, and the Overcompensator was many times their size.  Why did the aliens not have such problems?

“The entire ship is held together by a structural integrity field,” Thande said.  “If we can remove or destroy the power source, then we can destroy the ship with ease.”  He smiled.  “The Overcompensator would be literally dead in space.”

Westmoreland considered.  “And how would we get the team on board?”  He asked.  “Through one of those Portals of yours?”

Thande shook his head.  “It’s a lot more complex than that,” he explained, and outlined it.  “It will be tricky, but we might just be able to do it.”

Westmoreland felt real hope for the first time in a week.  “I’ll have to discuss it with the Vice President, who might actually be the President now, and then with the Russians, but after that…you’re asking us to gamble a lot on this crazy plan.”

“I know,” Thande admitted.  “We’re going along too, and I wouldn’t do that if I thought that it was suicide.  It’s going to be tricky, yes, but it can be done.”  He smiled.  “I have a junior coward’s badge to prove my qualifications.”

“We have to move quickly,” Sally said, ignoring the joke.  Westmoreland didn’t get it at all.  “At the moment, the Overcompensator is the centre of the Hive’s efforts in this system.  Once they have Earth set up to their liking, they’ll have another base…and then we might have to destroy Earth in order to save it.”

Westmoreland realised that she was quoting someone, but he didn’t recognise the quote.  “I understand,” he said.  “Still, it’s a political decision, and it will depend on what the Abraham Lincoln finds at Earth, but past then…I think it’s the best chance we have.”

Chapter Fifty-Two: Hell on Earth (II)

Detroit Indusial Complex
North America, USA

For the past day, the soldiers of the 235th Active Infantry had watched the Overcompensator passing high overhead, so far away and yet so intimidating as it loomed large in the sky.  For almost all of the soldiers, it brought awe and crippling terror; there was something about watching it floating overhead, passing on its long path around the Earth, and blocking out the sun that reached into their very souls.  They wanted to duck and cover, to hide from it in bunkers that now seemed pitiful, or to run for a hiding place that no longer existed.

“I just got an update from Continental Command,” Major-General Hartman’s voice said, echoing over the private communications channel.  Hartman, Dyson had been relieved to find out, believed in sharing information with the troops.  “The Greys are coming this way.”

Dyson shuddered.  Apart from the awesome sight in the sky, all they’d seen of the war was the destruction of Detroit AFB, which had been hit from orbit before it could even launch its hypersonic interceptors into the battle.  They’d heard bangs and seen flashes in the sky, but for all they’d seen of the Greys – the aliens – they might as well have forgotten about the industrial complex.

He scowled.  There were supposed to have been alien landings all around the United States, but they’d been steadily losing contact with many places, despite the boast that the communications network was indestructible.  Were the aliens attempting to sabotage the network somehow, or where their agents uploading all manner of unpleasant electronic weapons onto the network?  He hadn’t been able to call his family, even though he’d tried; the network – or what was left of it – had been prioritised for military use.”

“Deploy,” Captain Graves ordered.  “Take up your defensive positions and await orders.”

Dyson saluted and followed his mates out of the bunker, heading towards the industrial complex.  Detroit played host to one of the largest joint research facilities in the world, including – they’d been informed – part of the research into the crashed Roswell ship, which meant that it was a logical target for the Greys.  It was possible, of course, that the Greys might not have known about the complex, but they’d had enough agents in high places to know what they could take from Earth.

Dyson shrugged as he hefted his weapon.  He was partly surprised that they hadn’t simply destroyed the complex, like they’d destroyed the air force base, but Roger had speculated that they were interested in recovering the craft itself.  If they didn’t know exactly where it was – the location of the alien craft was one of the best-kept secrets in the world – they might be running through a list of possible locations.

“We should figure out a way to fly it up,” he muttered, as they marched onwards.  “If we sent that craft into space, they’d let it dock, and then we could blow the mothership to little pieces.”

Dyson snorted.  A cold wind blew across them; the presence of the ship in orbit was playing merry hell with the weather.  He’d half-expected it to start snowing; the sky was grey and cloudy, very appropriate for the coming battle.  He clutched his weapon tightly, wishing that he’d actually managed to join a battlesuit unit; some extra protection would have come in handy.  

“Yeah, that would work,” he sneered.  He didn’t have the energy to be really sarcastic.  “We just fly up to that hulking big bastard” – he pointed upwards towards the shape moving in the sky – “and claim to be their long-lost crew.  In the hull of the Roswell craft, we carry a nuke large enough to destroy something the size of Texas.  Don’t you think that they’d be careful enough to ask some pointed questions before letting us though their defences?”

He chuckled harshly, bitterly, allowing his fear to be seen for a long chilling moment.  “They probably know exactly what happened to the craft.”

Roger refused to be subdued.  “Perhaps they just don’t care,” he said, as a blast of cold wind swept down from Canada.  “Perhaps they just think that there’s nothing we can do to them.”

“Less talk, more moving,” the Sergeant snapped.  He was yet another interchangeable sergeant; they seemed to change before the men even had a chance to learn their names.  Far too many Sergeants had been required to lend their support to other units as the United States military broke down.  “The aliens are on their way…”

A deafening explosion billowed up from a long field, several dozen meters to the west of the complex, as three black shapes flashed past overhead.  Dyson turned to watch as streaks of light rose up from the missile launchers, attempting to engage the alien craft, and cheered when one of them was hit.  It circled around, spinning madly in the air, and then smashed down to the ground.

“Secure that site,” the Sergeant snapped.  Dyson joined in the move towards the site, but it was very clear that there was little point; the aliens had been almost certainly killed in the blast.  They checked it anyway as the hissing blue bolts of alien plasma weapons slammed down from the remaining craft, hammering the missile launchers and their crews.

“Those poor bastards,” Roger breathed, as a series of shattering explosions tore apart the missile launchers.  The alien craft were ranging across the entire region, firing madly into the city and its defenders, suppressing all opposition as they patrolled.  More and more alien ships appeared in the sky, swooping down on the humans, crushing every defender they could see.  Explosions billowed up, in blasts of brilliant red-orange fire, a blast for every defender he knew about, it seemed.  

“Get down,” the Sergeant snapped, as three alien craft zoomed by, so low that Dyson felt that he could have reached up and touched them.  A handful of men with handheld missile launchers had to duck in a hurry as the alien craft fired crackling blue bolts of fire; Dyson saw one of them literally disintegrate under the impact of a direct hit.  A tank exploded as it tried to hit one of the alien craft; several more were just brushed aside, as if they were little inconveniences for the aliens, rather than a serious threat.

He dimly heard screaming over the thunderous racket…and then it stopped.  One moment the skies were full of the little craft, shooting the human defences with their thunderous firepower…and then the skies were clear, except – he turned around and saw them, just as the humming in the air struck at him.  The aliens hadn’t gone at all.

“Shit,” he heard someone say.  Dyson couldn’t disagree with the sentiment; the field, where they had been intended to take up their defensive positions, was occupied by the enemy.  Three massive saucers hung over the air, their weapons still firing the occasional blast towards the human resistance, and powerful blue beams of light shone down from their underbellies towards the ground.  Floating down the light beams were hundreds of little aliens, their hands all adjusted and warped into weapons.  

“Shit,” someone said again.  He was only dimly aware that it was his mouth moving and speaking.  The aliens were coming, in a stream that seemed endless.  Logic told him that there had to be a limit to how many aliens there were in the saucers, but logic seemed to be taking a break as the aliens moved out, taking up their positions with an ease and skill that seemed limitless.

“Shit.”

***
It was the first time that he had seen an alien.  He’d taken a look at the published pictures from Roswell, of course; they were shown regularly at school.  But these aliens were alive, not dead; they moved as if they were truly living beings.  Somehow, he had expected them to march slowly, but they moved with a skittering speed that somehow made them seem like insects, or nervous rodents; their heads moved from side to side as if they were too heavy for their necks to carry them.

His goggles zoomed in on the aliens automatically.  Up close, they looked far more sinister; their inky black almond eyes had no eyelids, they didn’t ever seem to blink.  Their hands were mutilated, making him feel sick; they had lost their left hands and had weapons grafted onto the wounds.  Their legs didn’t seem to move as human legs; they had the ability to move like snakes.  

“Yuck,” he heard Roger said.  “They’re…naked and they don’t seem to feel the cold.”

An alien machine appeared from the saucers, floating down to the ground; a nightmare from the War of the Worlds come to life.  It looked like a small tripod, moving rapidly forward, its weapons moving as it moved.  Three more followed it, spreading out from the landing site; the alien infantry following the tripods as they spread out.

“Open fire,” Major-General Hartman snapped.  Dyson jammed his finger on the trigger as the Mortars and machine guns opened fire, sweeping a hail of fire towards the aliens.  The tripod – he could now see that it was much more of an insect-like machine – leapt forwards like a spider, jumping forwards to reach the human lines.  Its crackling weapons fired, and good men died, swept aside by the attack.

Dyson saw it as its arms lashed out, smashing human weapons as if they were made of wood, and fired madly at the tripod.  He saw the bullets bouncing off the tripod in a shower of sparks, doing nothing, but attracting attention to him.  The tripod swept around, facing him…and then an anti-tank weapon slammed into it.  The explosion blew the tripod into a heap of junk; the body of the alien who had commanded it blown into grey flesh and grey blood.

“Move,” the antitank gunner snapped.  Dyson looked up through the smoke to see a dozen aliens rushing forwards, seemingly having no problems with the smoke at all.  They lifted their hands and fired, sending a hail of blue-green bolts towards the human positions; Dyson unhooked a grenade and threw it as a plasma bolt flashed over his head, ruining his helmet.

“This is one hell of a fuck-up,” the gunner said, as they ran.  “They just blew through us.”

“Worse than that,” Dyson said, as they reached one of the second defence forces.  The men there were more than happy to see them; the commander passed Dyson a new weapon as the aliens finally marched forwards towards the complex, expanding the region of their control.  It was no accident, Dyson realised; they had known where the complex was…and they had known what they would need to seize it.

“I hope that someone has a bomb under the complex,” he muttered, as the first alien appeared.  It moved like greased lightning, flittering from side to side, firing as it came.  Another followed and another, using their weapons to force the humans to keep their heads down.  Machine guns opened fire, spreading a hail of bullets into the path of the aliens, hitting some of them and killing them.  Their blood was grey, Dyson noted; everything about them was grey.

“Tanks,” someone shouted.  Dyson looked up to see the first of the alien tripods moving forwards, almost unhurriedly.  Bullets sparkled off it as it advanced, sweeping the grounds with its weapons.  There was a long burst of red light – it took him moments to realise that it was the tripod that was being attacked – and then the alien machine exploded as the first of the human battlesuits came forward.

He felt his mouth fall open with awe.  The battlesuit units were the pride of the United States Army; they combined an armour and survival capability with superhuman strength and hundreds of weapons to use on the aliens.  He watched as one of them, carrying a shoulder-mounted cannon, opened fire, sweeping through the aliens as if they were made of paper.

“We can win this,” he said, as the first of the battlesuits moved into position, firing from a massive weapon that its driver held as if it were nothing.  The armour was strong enough to pick up a tank; holding a weapon large enough to fire artillery shells was easy.  The second battlesuit jumped forwards, bounding like Superman, and it fired…and then an alien burst of fire opened it up like a tin can.

He crouched low as something emerged from the smoke, firing bursts of blue light towards the ground.  An alien lander was moving forward on a shimmering mass of air, heading directly towards the complex.  The mere pressure of its passing forced men to their knees, all except the battlesuits, which concentrated on returning fire towards the massive craft.

“No,” he said, unable to believe it.  The bullets and lasers seemed to be having little effect on the lander, which was concentrating on clearing the human defenders out of the way.  One battlesuit leapt forwards, attempting to land on the alien lander…and a bolt of plasma fire blotted him from existence.  

An explosion caught him and threw him across the trench into a wall.  He slammed into it hard enough to hurt, feeling his body go numb as one of the combat packages injected him with enough painkillers to tranquillise an elephant.  Explosions could be heard in the distance as the lander moved forwards, clearing the humans out of the way…and then the aliens came.  

He sensed them more than saw them; a strange whispering in the air that accompanied them as they came closer and closer, their small bodies zipping through the air as they swept into the complex.  Some of them were killed by the mines, others by incoming Mortar rounds that proved that there was still resistance; he hoped, through the haze, that one of the blasts would kill him before the pain returned.

Nothing happened, and the rate of fire was slowing.  He saw, somehow, that the aliens were carrying humans back with them, towards their ships; one of their massive saucers was hanging in the air overhead.  They seemed to have ignored him, even though he was in the open; they seemed to be taking prisoners.  Some of the aliens, he was pleased to see, were wounded, but they didn’t seem to be aware of the wounds.  Some humans were struggling, some were simply unresisting, but the aliens treated them the same anyway.  He tried to turn his head, to see where they were taking the prisoners, but it was impossible.  

I should be dead, he thought, trying to catalogue his wounds.  He’d had practice at trying to move while drugged; the fact that he couldn’t move at all suggested serious injuries.  He couldn’t feel any part of his body though the drugs, which wasn’t unsurprisingly, but his body seemed completely unresponsive to orders.  That suggested that the harm was serious, which meant that he was very likely dying.  If he couldn’t move anything more than his eyes, then he might have snapped his spine in the impact.

I should be dead, he thought again.  Death was something that everyone thought about – but it had come as a surprise.  Where in his life had he seen clearly?  When had he even considered dying in a cold place, far from home?

He closed his eyes, wondering what had happened to Maureen.  Had the peace activist been sent to jail, or had she been drafted into the army; where was she when the aliens had invaded?  Where were his parents?  New York would be bound to be invaded by the aliens, as it was a prime industrial centre on the ground; would his father and the other steelworkers have been able to defend it, or would they have been crushed as easily as the soldiers at the complex.  

The whispering grew louder, words just on the edge of his hearing…and then his first alien looked down at him.  Its eyes seemed to blink; he realised suddenly that the lids were inside the iris, flickering like a camera.  He tried to smile at the alien, tried to speak, but he couldn’t do anything.  The alien raised its hand, with the weapon firmly grafted onto its flesh, and fired once.

Interlude Four: Victory Is Theirs

The human resistance, Mission Commander Tak’Char was irritated to note, had been more determined than he had predicted, but it was steadily being crushed.  In Russia, Moscow had been surrounded by Small Ones and their support vehicles, hammering their way towards the centre of the Russian Government.  The Russians had launched tactical nuclear warheads against the landing zones for the occupation force, but in the end the Russian government had simply collapsed.

He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.  Already, masses of humans were being rounded up for brain-implantation, where they would be implanted with the devices that would influence their behaviour towards supporting the growth of the Hive.  Parents would bring their children willingly to be brain-implanted; some would even seek to buy their freedom by selling others into slavery.  Within two weeks, there would be thousands of human soldiers who had once fought in different armies, fighting together to expand the Hive’s area of control.

He checked the reports from Washington and sent a mental command into the system.  The human defenders of Washington had fought with fanatical determination, and Washington was one place where everyone had been checked for implants, after Senator Chapman had been murdered.  The man had been so fanatical that it had been deemed too dangerous to allow him to continue to exist; unlike the President, he would not have made a good figurehead for the Hive’s control.

The Overcompensator rumbled on in its vast orbit and Mission Commander Tak’Char was pleased.  The humans would end up submitting to an elite of brain-implanted Hive workers, while their children would become part of the Hive, taking the place of the Small Ones on Earth’s surface.  Thousands of millions of humans would die as their global systems collapsed; thousands more would try to slip beneath the cracks, but eventually, they too would become part of the Hive.  

Already, the biological computers that would govern the destiny of the human race were being shipped to the surface, where they would begin the long task of taking over the human-designed communications network.  Tak’Char remembered, deep inside, that there had been something like it on their homeworld, before the civil war that had established the Hive.  One by one, over the coming months, humanity would be absorbed, a snowball effect that would spell doom for the human race.

A second report blinked up in front of his mind; the Small Ones had finished implanting the spokesman for the rule of Earth, the one who would give orders in the name of the Hive.  It was just in time; long-range sensors were reporting that a human craft, driven by drive fields, was approaching the Earth.  Tak’Char gave the impression of a shrug; it hardly mattered.  The humans in the asteroids would, in time, be absorbed themselves into the Hive.

“Have the message recorded at once,” he ordered, and the Small Ones scurried to obey.  “We want them to hear the message, so they will understand what we have done – and why.”

Chapter Fifty-Three: Reconnaissance in Weakness

USS Abraham Lincoln
Earth-Moon System

“We’re coming up on the Earth-Moon Jurisdictional Limit now,” Lieutenant Marian Davidson reported.  Her voice was utterly grim, Howard realised; like all of them, she was stressed beyond endurance.  “Five minutes until we cross the line.”

“Take us out of Procyon Drive at one minute,” Howard said.  The Earth-Moon Jurisdictional Limit was a meaningless formality, even before the Invasion; the line had been an attempt to demarcate where the joint space control for corporate purposes actually began.  It hadn’t lasted long, but it remained on the statue books; the courts sometimes used it to swat misbehaving miners.  

“Aye, sir,” Marian said.  “One minute; thirty-seven seconds.”

Howard nodded.  There was something truly obscene about treating Earth as a hostile planet; he had thought that such scenes would remain only in the novels about the Moon declaring independence that had spread across the Solar System during the Lunar Statehood Crisis.  The Lincoln was moving at a slower rate than he felt comfortable with, but the old limit would serve very well for their purposes.

“Sound battle stations,” he said, turning to Jane Hammond.  She had passed all of the tests with flying colours; he had been more than willing to accept her back on board his ship.  “Bring the crew to red alert.”

“Yes, sir,” Jane said.  A dull atonal alarm rang though the ship.  “All stations answering battle stations, sir.”

As if we haven’t been on battle stations, in fact if not in name, for the past four hours, Howard thought coldly.  The crew had known one fact; the Lincoln could outrun anything in the Solar System – until the Overcompensator and its flock of small craft had appeared in the system.

“Now leaving Procyon Drive,” Marian said sharply.  “Helm is at all stop.”

Howard nodded.  “Sensors?”

“No sign of alien activity on passive sensors,” Lieutenant Singh said.  “The passive gravimetric sensors are reporting gravity fluctuations around Earth itself, but no sign of anything closer than the Moon.”

Howard scowled.  Like all passive sensors, the gravimetric sensors depended on the strength of the signal, or the energy, being emitted by the object it was trying to track.  There could be an entire alien armada out there, refusing to use its drives, and it would be right on top of them before they even noticed.

He shook his head.  He knew, all too well, that they would have been tracked to this point; the aliens doubtless knew how to track the Procyon Drive.  “Deploy the first communications drone,” he ordered.

Jane worked her console for a long moment.  “Communications drone away,” she said.  “It’s responding to signals; laser link is established.”

Howard sighed in relief.  There had been so little time to get everything ready that they might well end up with a broken drone.  “Helm, move us,” he said.  “Use the thrusters only; push us well away from the drone.”

A slight sensation echoed through the ship as the manoeuvring thrusters pushed the Lincoln away from the drone.  Howard forced himself to remain calm; it was truly unlikely that they would be detected moving without fusion or the main drive, but alien technology was unknown by definition.  If they had something else in their pockets, something that no human had ever heard of, then…

“We’re at several thousand kilometres and moving,” Marian reported.

“The laser link to the drone is still working,” Jane added.  “Should we begin transmissions?”

Howard nodded.  “Keep the weapons on alert,” he said.  He took a long breath.  “Begin transmissions.”

Jane nodded and started to work her system.  Howard waited, as patiently as they could; it would be several seconds before the laser link could find a target, let alone set up a response.  The presence of the Overcompensator, which was large enough to support an entire country, suggested that the reason why no one had found an FTL drive on the Roswell craft – or the Wanderer – was because there was none there to find, but it was still an unknown.

“Signal sweeping now,” Jane said.  The communications drone was spitting out tiny electronic handshakes, sending out a pulse that read ‘here I am’ and asking for a single pulse in reply.  Standing orders, in case of war, called for the lunar bases to have a set of receivers in place, but under the circumstances…the Moon might have already fallen to the enemy.

He winced.  No human technology could intercept a laser beam, let along crack quantum encryption, but could the aliens do it?  He scowled, remembering some of the stranger books he’d read; one might as well match science up against magic.  

“No response,” Jane said, after five minutes.  There should have at least been a ‘message received’ signal back to the Lincoln, if nothing else.  “Should I repeat the search for an active system?”

Howard nodded.  “Resend the full transmission,” he said.  There was a long pause.  “Any luck?”

“Still probing known sites,” Jane said.  “No response…wait.”

Her voice brightened.  “I got a carrier beam then,” she said.  “They’re linking up to us.”

“Standard safety precautions,” Howard snapped.  He wouldn’t have put it past the Hive to have placed a computer virus in the Moon’s communications network, one that would infect the Lincoln and bring the entire system crashing down, trapping them in their position.  “What have they sent?”

Jane frowned.  “Tactical logs and a plea for help,” she said.  “It’s a recorded message; they’re noting that they didn’t dare stay too close to the transmitter.”

Howard nodded.  “Play it,” he ordered.

The voice of a man echoed across the bridge.  “This is Administrator Lucas, Moon Administrator,” it said.  Jane put the profile of the man on the display without being asked; Howard could have kissed her.  “Do not attempt to approach the Moon; there are around fifty-seven alien craft in orbit, intercepting all attempts to escape the trap.  The Overcompensator remains in Earth orbit, but we have lost all contact with Earth.”

There was a pause.  “Attached to this dumped message are tactical logs from the battle above Earth,” Administrator Lucas continued.  “You may find them of use, but it’s too late for us; do not waste more ships and men in a futile attempt to save the Moon from alien occupation.  Their troops have not yet begun landing, but we’re dug in as best as we can, waiting for them.”

Commander Haircloth, who had been studying the download, coughed.  “There is a lot of information,” he said.  “They must have saved and compressed everything.  I think that the system should have informed them that their signal had been transmitted.  We might be able to establish permanent personal contact.”

Howard felt his blood run cold.  “It’s possible that we might have lasered one of their ships,” he said slowly.  “They might know that we’re out here all ready.”

“No sign of any ships coming after us,” Lieutenant Singh said.  “As far as I can tell, there is at least one large ship – Wanderer-type – in orbit around the Moon, but no pursuit.”

“They’re buttoning up the Moon, while they deal with Earth,” Jane said.  “Captain, we might still have to send in the stealth drones.”

Howard nodded grimly.  “Order the communications drone to continue to attempt to raise someone on the Moon,” he said.  He was mystified; there should have been someone watching the screens.  “Helm, move us into position for the next part of the mission.”

“Aye, sir,” Marian said.  “Moving us now.”

“Keep watching for trouble,” Howard ordered.  “The bastards might catch a whiff of us at any moment.”

***
They crept closer to the earth, slipping into the lunar orbit with ease, remaining on the other side of the planet from the Moon.  The communications drone had finally been able to raise Administrator Lucas in person, but he hadn’t been able to tell them much about what the Hive was doing to Earth.

“We lost contact with Earth a day ago,” he’d said, the laser link relayed through three more drones.  Howard had worried at first; the drones might have provided a trail of breadcrumbs, but then he’d dismissed the concern.  It wasn’t as if there were no other clues to their location.  “The last report we had was of an alien landing – several landings – in America and Russia, and then we lost the last relay platform.”

“I would suggest that you kept your heads down,” Howard said, wishing that he could have said something to encourage the man.  There wasn’t anything to say; any possible attack against the Overcompensator, which they could see in orbit, seemed utterly futile.  The ship hung against the small blue ball of Earth, a black shadow blocking out humanity’s homeworld.  It was mocking him, he was certain; the aliens inside were laughing at the pitiful ship, which was coming to see if there were any chinks in the armour.

“Captain, I have deployed the main communications platform,” Jane said.  “I think we can launch the recon probes now.”

Howard nodded.  “Marian, move us out away from the platform first,” he said again.  “Jane, start deploying the probes, but don’t launch them without my order.”

“Aye, sir,” Jane said.  Unexpectedly, she smiled.  “Sir, it was a hell of a lot easier when we were fighting the Russians.”

Howard laughed.  Some of the tension on the bridge vanished in the sunlight of their humour.  “True,” he agreed.  The display changed slightly as the Lincoln crawled away from the platform.  “You may launch the drones now.”

Jane tapped buttons on her console.  The four drones were all coated in stealth material and constructed out of very lightweight material.  Howard hoped that they wouldn’t trigger any kind of gravity sensor, but it was impossible to know for certain; there was so little they knew about the Hive.

“Drones away,” she said.  “They’re moving now.”

Howard took a breath and waited.  The drones carried some of the finest passive sensors that they’d been able to develop, but their performance was still very much an unknown.  Just like everything else on this damned mission, he reminded himself.  It would take hours for them to plunge towards Earth and burn up or miss the planet, which would give them some time to collect the intelligence they would relay back.

“Shit,” Jane said, as she started to collate the results.  “Captain, I think that you should take a look at this.”

Howard stared down at his display as she forwarded the results to him.  Earth itself was under siege; there were no less than five Wanderer-class ships orbiting the planet, spaced out in such a manner as to ensure that there would be total coverage of the world.  From time to time, they would launch a missile down towards the planet, presumably striking at resistance centres.

He shuddered.  The Overcompensator itself remained in orbit, followed by a massive disturbance in the planet’s atmosphere.  A wave of white clouds seemed to follow it around the world, perhaps even spreading rain across the planet and pulling the tides after it.  The ship was busy; a seemingly endless stream of small craft plied between the starship and the planet, carrying thousands of the aliens to their new home.  The sight was awesome and terrifying; compared to the Hive, humanity had just been playing at space colonisation.

“We’ll match you yet, you bastards,” he muttered, half-unaware that he was speaking aloud.  Jane nodded at him from her position.  “We’ll do that to your system, one day.”

“They’re sending thousands of craft into the atmosphere,” Jane said.  “There don’t seem to be any heading towards the Moon, but they have some working at the industrial stations.”

Howard swore.  “They took them intact?”

“It looks that way,” Jane said.  “Some of them clearly got blown, but the aliens seem to be dumping the debris into the atmosphere.”

“Is there going to be anything left of our world when this is over?”  Howard asked.  “I wonder – is it worth the risk of attempting to communicate with Earth?”

“We can’t stop now,” Jane said.  Her voice was practical, the perfect officer’s pose.  “You never know when we’ll get another chance, sir; we have to make the most of this one.”

Howard nodded.  “Begin the communications sweep,” he said.  “Lieutenant Malady, transmit everything we have so far to the relay station, with orders to push it up the chain as fast as we can.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Malady said.  The relay station would relay what they’d found, even if they didn’t make it back themselves.  “Transmitting now.”

“I’m beginning the communications sweep,” Jane said.  “Sir, we could attempt to hack into the computers on the industrial stations…”

“Too dangerous,” Howard said at once.  He understood the impulse, but it would be too dangerous if the Hive already controlled the stations.  “Keep looking for stations on Earth.”

“There’s hardly any radio noise from Earth at all,” Lieutenant Malady injected.  “There was never very much, because of the laws against constant use of radio, but there’s nothing now.  I thought that I had a Japanese station for a moment, but it seems to have been lost.”

“There’s nothing from my station either,” Jane said grimly.  “It’s like they’ve taken out the entire communications network.”

Howard scowled.  “I thought that was supposed to be impossible,” he said.  “The blasted network was designed to survive a nuclear attack…”

“So is a ship five hundred kilometres long,” Jane said.  “Of course, they might have simply eradicated the laser stations.  If they had spies on Earth, they would have had plenty of time to make a checklist of targets…”

“Communications laser,” Lieutenant Malady snapped.  “Captain, we’re being hailed; standard all-ships protocol.”

Howard spun around as he forced himself back to full awareness.  “From where?”  He demanded.  “Earth?”

“No, sir,” Lieutenant Malady said.  His voice was almost trembling.  “It’s coming from the Overcompensator!”

Howard and Jane exchanged a long glance.  The laser showed one datum quite clearly; the Hive knew exactly where they were.  They were adults, who humoured a child who covered his eyes and pretended that the adults couldn’t see him because he couldn’t see them.  “Let’s hear it,” he said.  “Put it on the display.”

A very familiar face appeared on the display.  “This is the President of the United States of America,” it said.  The voice was dead, atonal; the voice of a man operating only on automatic pilot.  “I now serve the Hive.”

Jane’s voice was horrified.  “They’ve implanted the fucking president,” she snapped.  “Captain, he’s an implanted man; one of their slaves…”

“Quiet,” Howard said.  “Jane, we have to hear this.”

The President was still speaking.  “The Hive has claimed this planet and its technological resources for themselves,” he said, his voice never wavering, his eyes never acquiring the slightest hint of life.  “They are prepared to permit that the human race remains active in the outer solar system, on the condition that tribute be paid to the Hive, consisting of rare asteroid materials.  The mothership will advance to receive the tribute two standard weeks from this message; failure to pay will result in the Hive taking the resources, mineral and human, from the asteroid belt themselves.”

There was a pause.  “The Hive warns that there is nothing that the human race can do to defeat it,” the President’s voice continued.  “Resistance will only result in the death or enslavement of as many humans as choose to attempt to resist.  Earth belongs to the Hive now; we suggest that you accept it.”

The President’s image vanished.  “Sir, we received a data packet as well,” Lieutenant Malady reported.  “It’s a list of rare minerals, ones that the miners must find for them.”

“Human resources,” Howard snarled.  There was something in the dismissal that really got on his nerves.  “Get us the hell out of here, on the planned exit course.”

“Aye, sir,” Marian said.  The Lincoln heeled over and reversed course, heading out away from Earth.  “Course laid in.”

“They’ll permit us to live in the asteroids as long as we work for them,” Jane said.  Her voice darkened as she studied the list of demands.  “This will take years to gather.  Captain, we might end up having to head well away from the solar system, just to live without them.”

Howard sighed.  “They’ve implanted the President,” he said, his voice shocked.  “If they caught him, they might have caught a lot of the senior people on Earth.  If they have them, they might know everything they know about Ceres and the Russian positions – notice that they said nothing about Mars – or the Moon?”

Jane nodded.  “They might have ambitions for Mars as well,” she said.  “It’s not like the Russians can stop them.”

“Can we?”  Howard asked.  There was no answer.  “Lieutenant Malady, transmit a copy of everything to Ceres and the Moon,” he ordered.  “This, I think, is out of our hands.”

Chapter Fifty-Four: Fight or Die

Ceres Asteroid Base
Asteroid Belt

“It seems,” Admiral Westmoreland said, “that we have a decision to make.”

Thande nodded slowly as he looked around the conference room.  The commanders of the main spacecraft remaining, the Procyon Drive ships, sat there, joined by Russian and American colonial administrators.  The Vice President, who had been hastily confirmed as President, was on his way to Jupiter, to get him out of reach of any strike from Earth.

“We have, as I see it, three options,” he continued.  “The first one is that we submit to them.  That means” – he waved a small PDA in his hand – “that we have to find them several million tons of raw material, which will take up the combined efforts of all of the remaining miners – and would also require a great deal of luck.  They haven’t bothered to provide us with any handy tips on where to look, you see.”

There was a long pause.  Thande thought rapidly; belt politics made little sense to him, but apparently the miners and the homesteaders were a pretty independent lot.  If they refused to help mine, they might just jeopardise the remains of humanity, and even if they did, they would have to be very lucky to find all that the Hive was demanding.

“The second option is that we attempt to flee,” Admiral Westmoreland continued.  “If the Overcompensator is coming in our direction, which is what the President’s message implied, then we want to be somewhere else when it comes.  With some effort, we could either set up in the outer system, perhaps joining one of the colonies that far out, or even trying to reach another star.”

He paused.  “I’ll be honest,” he said.  “The USSF has been looking at a fusion-powered asteroid generation ship for some time.  It was concluded that it would be very difficult to succeed, even with a purpose-built ship.  It would take upwards of fifteen years, even with a Procyon Drive, to reach the nearest star – and there would be nothing preventing them from chasing us.  I think that that’s not a valid option.”

Something rippled around the room.  Thande recognised it; the scent of fear.  “There is a third option,” Admiral Westmoreland said.  “We have been working hard on developing new weapons and tactics.  We might just be able to get into position to hit the Overcompensator hard, before it can unload some of the bigger minds on the ship.”

“The Great Ones,” Sally said, from her seat next to Thande.  Her voice was grim, but determined.  “If they get killed, the war is over.”

“That’s all very well,” a man with a Russian accent said, his voice deep and unsympathetic.  “However, so far we have managed to land four hits on the ship; no one can get close to it without being blasted out of space.  Do you have some magical weapon?”

“We have managed to develop some, yes,” Admiral Westmoreland said.  “One of them is a modification to a Procyon Drive ship, which will allow it to use the drive field as a form of shield to interdict their plasma weapons, perhaps even laser weapons.  A second, in effect, is another form of shield, one that might allow us to get closer to the ship before they can hit us.”

He nodded once to Captain Ivana, who smiled at the Russians in the room.  She, Thande had been informed, was descended from a family of Russian miners who had fled Russian mining corporations, twenty years ago.  She looked very young for her post, but Admiral Westmoreland had assured them that she was competent, if a leading member of the American Party in the asteroids.

“According to some of the information we recovered, the Overcompensator is powered by an extremely unusual energy source,” Captain Ivana said.  As she spoke, the image of the alien mothership appeared on the screen, rotating to illustrate the situation.  “We believe that the device is located in the aft section here” – she pointed to the stern of the ship – “as the power fluctuations we monitored over the ship originated from there.”

She paused.  “One thing has been confirmed,” she said.  “The entire ship has one massive weakness; it is far too large to be an effective warship.  The entire hull is surrounded by a force field that holds it together.”

“But it looks like a solid mountain,” one of the American Captains protested.  “The thing seems solid enough.”

“It’s an illusion,” Captain Ivana said firmly.  “Now we had a good idea of what to look for, we were able to track how the field moves.  It would seem that the ship is so large, that it carries so much force – that slowing it down is a hard task, even for them.  That might well explain the gravity waves that were emitting from the ship as it approached Earth.”

She tapped the display and the image of the Overcompensator returned to its normal position.  “We take out that power source,” she said, “and the Overcompensator will no longer be able to compensate for its motion.  We take that out…and the war will be over.”

“If we can take it out,” Admiral Westmoreland said.  “It won’t be easy.  Captain Benton?”

Captain Benton spoke in a slightly Scottish accent.  “We have seven ships here with the Procyon Drive,” he said.  “They are the only ones that can be refitted in time for the mission, particularly if we want to hit the ship in Earth orbit.  In fact…”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” one of the political commissioners said, “but does that not mean that we will be engaging the ship too close to its support craft, and its fighters?”

“We have newer weapons for the fighters,” Admiral Westmoreland said.  “Unfortunately, the Overcompensator will be at its weakest while in Earth orbit; the gravity of Earth will play hell with its ability to push itself out of Earth orbit.  It’s the best opportunity to attack and win.”

Captain Howard spoke from his corner of the room.  “Sir, with all due respect, you’re talking about seven craft against that monster,” he said.  “Can we inflict enough damage to ensure that the Overcompensator is crippled before we are destroyed or driven off?”

“Daring commando raid,” Thande said dryly.

“Exactly,” Captain Ivana said.  Her voice was pleased and worried at the same time.  “Our guests” – she nodded to Thande and Sally – “have volunteered to lead a boarding party onto the Overcompensator, with the intention of destroying the power core and ending the war.”

“If the core is not taken out, then it will fall to the ships,” Admiral Westmoreland said.  “I won’t lie to you, Captain; it could well be a suicide mission.”

He looked around the room.  “We cannot pay the tribute,” he said.  “Even if we didn’t have this plan, it’s impossible to meet their demands; we don’t have any noted asteroids with all of the minerals they have demanded.  We would have to mine and survey under a very slim timetable…and if we didn’t find the minerals, they would come and take us anyway.”

“They might do that, regardless,” Sally said.  “You men have the skills they think they need, and if you’re working for them, then it saves on their resources.”

Howard coughed.  “One final point, then,” he said.  “Why not just try to destroy the power core in the first attack?”

“You will try that,” Admiral Westmoreland said.  “If you succeed, well and good; if you fail, then we will send in the commandos.”

He tapped the table.  “This is it,” he said.  “The last mission of the human race rests on seven ships, and their crews.  Every last resource we have here will be devoted to making sure that the mission works, so…good luck, all of you.”

“Simulations will begin in one hour,” Captain Ivana said firmly.  “We will simulate as much as we can, and then start experimenting.”

***
The original Captain of the Maxim Gorky had suffered from a near-hit by an American warhead.  The burst of radiation hadn’t destroyed the Gorky, which was lucky for the counterattack, but it had killed over half of her crew.  Captain Fursenko, the former commanding officer of the Stalingrad, had suddenly found himself promoted to command of the Gorky.

He sighed.  Under normal circumstances, such as when the time the solar system wasn’t under attack by a massive ship of genocidal aliens, he would have needed weeks to get to grips with the Gorky and its capabilities, very different from any he’d known on the Stalingrad.  The Gorky was a much more advanced and capable craft, in many ways, but its speed and manoeuvres were totally different.  

“Thank you for coming,” Howard said.  The previous Captain of the Gorky had duelled with Howard’s ship, the Lincoln, but Howard didn’t seem to bear a grudge.  “For the moment, I have been appointed commanding officer of our little squadron.  Does anyone have any objections?”

It was so pleasantly informal that Captain Fursenko almost laughed.  “I don’t think I have any,” he said.  “Your probe into occupied territory was skilfully done.”

“As was your attack on Mars,” Howard said, without rancour.  “We don’t have much time; this here” – an image of a small spacecraft appeared on the display – “is the commando ship.  It doesn’t have a name, yet, although informally it’s called the Grey Wolf.”  He shrugged.  “Rather an ironic name under the circumstances, but…

“In any case, the Grey Wolf is designed for stealthy infiltration of a target,” he continued, shaking his head.  “In the event of a boarding party being denied access, the idea was that the Grey Wolf would match speeds and force a docking; the holding clamps are many times more powerful than anyone would expect.”

“It would also need a really incompetent enemy captain,” Captain Fursenko said dryly.  The only possible target for the shuttle before the Hive arrived would have been a bridge ship.  “The Overcompensator, however, is large enough to make it very ungainly.”

“True,” Howard agreed.  “In the event of some of the new warheads failing to do more than blow a hole in the hull, the shuttle will break into the enemy ship and attack the power core.  That’s the plan; the Lincoln will carry the Grey Wolf close enough for manoeuvring thrusters to allow the shuttle time to reach the ship, while the rest of the fleet covers us.”

“Very clever,” one of the other Captains said.  Captain Fursenko didn’t recognise him.  “What’s to stop them simply blowing us out of space?”

“There are two types of shield,” Captain Ivana said.  “The first one is an adaptation of your drive; technicians are working now to ensure that your ships will be able to generate a field that will provide limited protection.”

“Excuse me,” Captain Fursenko said.  “What do you mean by limited protection?”

“The field will absorb energy directed at it,” Howard injected.  He smiled dryly.  “If the levels of energy get too high, the shield will collapse.  If you are unlucky, the collapse will take out the drive as well.”

Captain Fursenko laughed.  “I’m sorry I asked,” he said.

Howard snorted.  “Perhaps…”

“Get your head out of your ass, boy,” an American snapped.  “What about the other shield?”

“Charming as ever, Captain Ward,” Howard said.  Captain Fursenko was impressed; was that angry black man the famous Captain Ward?  Commander of the George Washington, saviour of the Hermes Asteroid, bane of several Russian ships?  “The other shield – well, I don’t pretend to understand it myself, but in effect anything that hits the shield will be gone.”

“Gone?”  Ward demanded.  “Gone where?”

Howard delivered his response in a very deadpan tone.  “Out of this world,” he said.

Captain Fursenko chuckled.  “I see,” he said.  “Now, what about our tactics for the holding stage of the battle?”

“We can expect them to try to swarm us with their fighters,” Howard said.  He tapped the display, showing a silver alien craft sweeping towards an American ship, weapons firing…until a red beam of light blasted it into little atoms.

Captain Fursenko stared at it.  “What the hell was that?”

“Directed energy weapon,” Howard said succulently.  “We’re fitting them on all of the ships; they can fire dozens of bursts every minute.  They hit - they kill, and as they’re light-speed weapons, the bastards cannot dodge them.”

“I think that that would give us an advantage,” Ward said.  He sounded oddly shaken.  “So, how do we handle the attack when the commando team fails, assuming that they do indeed fail?”

“Like this,” Howard said.  “We will each have an energy store on board the ship, pocketing energy.”  He held up a hand.  “We’ll go into the details later; we don’t have time now.  That energy will be enough, we hope, to start a total conversion reaction within the Overcompensator.”

Ward thumped the table.  “Then why in the name of Christ above didn’t you put this idea forward first!”

Howard met his gaze.  “There is the minor problem that it will sterilise the side of Earth facing the Overcompensator.  Some people might regard that as a problem, hey?”

Ward glared at him, but didn’t rise to the bait.  “Very well,” he said.  “Now; tactics.”

Captain Fursenko smiled as they got down to discussing tactics.  They all understood the tactics, if nothing else; they would be able to work together, perhaps even without taking pot shots at one another.

***
Thande had fallen in love with the commando suit at first sight; further experimentation only made that feeling stronger.  It was a small spacesuit, but with powered limbs and armour, enough to make him almost un-killable by anything short of a directed energy weapon or a plasma gun.  He could be punched in the face and hardly notice it; a kick in the groin would barely register.

Sally watched him as he experimented, facing off against a number of robot foes.  The suit had all manner of commando options built in, from fight-enhancing computers to systems that took care of any wounds you might suffer.  He slapped a robot and watched with a childish delight as its head burst off, smashing to the ground and exploding.

“I hope they don’t make you pay for that,” Sally said.  “We have to do some talking of our own.”

Thande sighed, but carefully stepped out of the suit, feeling its molecular bonds relax as he unlocked it.  The suits allowed their users to wear clothes, but he had been informed that many commandos chose to go into their missions naked, just to allow themselves better contact with the suit.  He’d decided that he wasn’t quite ready for that yet, contenting himself with overalls.

“I suppose we do,” he said.  “What do you want from the Overcompensator?”

“The power source,” Sally said.  “If we can get it into the Vale, which we might be able to do, the Turtledove could track it back to where it came from.”

Thande laughed.  “Doesn’t it seem…just a little fantastic to you?”  He asked.  “We’re in a universe so many universes away from ours – mine anyway.  We’re about to take part in a raid on a ship that makes a Super Star Destroyer look tiny and puny.  We’re doing things that most people only dream about.”

Sally smiled, suddenly looking very tired.  “Can’t you feel it,” she said.  “The change in time, in reality itself, is coming closer.  When it happens, everything is going to change.”

Thande frowned.  “Perhaps that’s good news,” he said.  “If we took out the Overcompensator, wouldn’t that cause the change in the timestream?”

Sally sat down suddenly, very heavily.  “I don’t know,” she admitted.  “It could be argued both ways; the problem with changing time is that you can get burnt before you even start thinking about lighting the match.”

Thande looked down at her for a long moment.  “You’re nervous,” he said.  Just realising that she was worried didn’t improve his own morale.  “That…doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.”

“The harmonies are rippling up and down the timelines,” Sally whispered.  Her voice was faint, but growing stronger; she didn’t seem as if she was going to faint.  “Someone is going to twang a string in the fabric of time...somewhere, some-when, and the effects are being felt everywhere.”

Thande sat down beside her, worried.  She had never seemed anything other than strong before, except just before the American-Soviet War had begun.  He placed an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him.  For a long moment, all he could feel was her; the sheer sudden presence of her sexuality, and then she leaned up to kiss him.

“Sally,” he said, after they broke the kiss.  “Are you…?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sally said, kissing him again.  Her eyes were shinning bright.  Thande had always known that she was beautiful, when she allowed herself to be; he felt a rush of pure desire that astonished him.  “We don’t have much time left, and it’s been too long.”

She kissed him again, allowing him to feel her growing excitement, and then she was pulling him with her to the ground.  Thande had only a moment to think of anything, and then he thought only of her.  It was wonderful; fire and harmony and two people, taking what comfort they could in one another.  It was almost like being a teenager again.

Chapter Fifty-Five: We Who Are About To Die

Battlezone
Earth Orbit

Captain Howard, now breveted to Commodore Howard, watched as the ships headed directly to Earth.  The four American Procyon Drive vessels; the Truman, the Lincoln, the Washington and the MacArthur, led the way.  They were followed by the three Russian craft; the Gorky, the Zhukov and the Stalin, moving at a safe distance from the American ships.  The real Comrade Stalin, he knew, had been murdered in the course of a coup against his rule, something that would not have endeared him to the American bureaucrats in charge of picking names for their ships.  

He had to smile.  He’d asked Captain Fursenko, his second, about the Russian tradition, and he’d attempted to explain.  Now that Stalin was safely dead, his image could be rehabilitated safely, without any risk of him coming back to haunt them.  The Russians always loved their strong leaders; part of their character was the eternal demand for a strong leader, even though they feared them at the same time.  

“Prepare to take us out of drive close enough to the moon to pick up the latest data,” he ordered.  Lieutenant Marian Davidson nodded.  “Then we’ll have to engage the Overcompensator, unless the odds really suck.”

“Or at least more than they already do,” Jane said wryly.  She’d been promoted to Captain, just so she could fight the Lincoln while Howard concentrated on commanding the fleet, but he’d refused to leave the bridge.  It hardly mattered; the Lincoln wasn’t fitted out as a fleet control ship anyway.  

Howard smiled dryly.  They’d agreed that there was no real hope of sneaking up on the alien ship; the best that they could hope for was that the Overcompensator would ignore them as they approached.  If Howard had commanded the mighty Overcompensator, he would have made certain that it was escorted at all times; the Overcompensator made the USSF’s cruisers look cheap and expendable.  

Of course, the bloody thing is more than capable of taking care of itself, he thought coldly, as the ship deactivated its drive.  They’d flown in formation, hoping that the exact numbers of the ships would be indistinguishable to the Hive, but he suspected that that too would be wasted.  Speed – speed and human ingenuity – would be their only real hope of success.  

“We’re getting the download from the Moon now,” Lieutenant Malady reported.  “The Overcompensator is still in its position, but its orbit is changing slowly, becoming more elongated.”

Howard shuddered.  The sheer amount of power that the Overcompensator possessed – displayed without a care in the world – was shocking to his trained and disciplined mind.  The USSF, he was sure, wouldn’t have built such ships, even if they had possessed the technology to build them; they were just…too large and wasteful.  He considered some of the theories about what might have happened to Earth, under the growing clouds and endless communication silence, and cursed; whatever else happened, the Overcompensator had to be destroyed.

“Signal the rest of the fleet,” he said.  He scowled; he would have been happier to have had ten more ships, or even better, one hundred ships.  His eyes studied the enemy positions; the five Wanderer-class ships seemed to be still in orbit, hanging and watching humanity.  In its way, it was an encouraging thought; someone was still fighting down there.

“Channel open,” Lieutenant Malady reported.  “They’re listening to you.”

Howard wished, just for a moment, that he had the words that would inspire the crewmen and women on the fleet.  He knew that he didn’t have them.  “All units,” he said.  “All units; form up on the flag and stand by.  We’re going in.”

“The fleet’s responded,” Lieutenant Malady reported.  “They’re standing by.”

“Good,” Howard said.  The ship had been at battle stations for the entire trip to Earth; there was no need to give the order.  “All ships; forward!”

One moment the Overcompensator had been a dull threat against the blue globe of Earth, the next it was right next to them, a looming presence against the planet.  He could see it, every part of the ship, which wasn’t even bothering to respond to their presence.  He was almost angry; did the aliens really consider them no threat?

“Lock weapons on the target,” he snapped.  “All ships; fire!”

“Missiles away,” Lieutenant Krakow reported.  “They’re tracking in on the target now.”

“Contacts,” Lieutenant Singh snapped.  “I have several dozen of the little fighters, launching from the Overcompensator and coming our way.”

“They’re also preparing their point defence,” Jane said.  Her voice was calm.  “Evasive manoeuvres.”

Howard took a breath.  One of the eternal problems with space warfare was that missiles were either extremely obvious targets, because of their drive signatures, or almost completely restricted to ballistic courses that could be predicted and dodged with ease.  Against a target like the Overcompensator, the researchers had worked overtime, designing a missile that would have been laughable in a human missile duel, but – perhaps – just enough to hit the Overcompensator before the alien ship could react.

“Ten seconds to impact,” Lieutenant Krakow reported.  Howard heard the growing excitement and hatred in his voice, praying that the Polish exile wouldn’t open fire on the Russians as well.  “Two missiles down, seven missiles…”

Three brilliant flashes of light burned on the Overcompensator’s hull, blasting chunks of hull matter away from the ship and spilling out into space.  The Lincoln and the other ships went through a long series of manoeuvres to avoid the debris, as the Overcompensator started to show signs of getting very angry.  They were just outside the observed range of the plasma balls, but with the Hive, who knew how many other tricks they had up their sleeves?

“We hit the bastard,” Lieutenant Singh reported.  “Captain, the enemy fighters are closing in.”

“Evasive manoeuvres,” Jane ordered.  Howard took a breath; this was the moment where they would learn if their attack was going to have even a hope of success, or if it would be shot down in ruins.  “Active the energy cannons.”

***
The alien fighters closed in rapidly, almost as if they were unable to believe that the humans posed a serious threat.  They ducked and weaved as they came, moving to make it hard for missiles to lock onto them at all, tactics more adapt for helicopters and VTOL jets than space fighters.  They didn’t fire, but Howard could see them in the display; as soon as they crossed the red line marking their effective range, they would open fire and hammer his ships.

“I’m not too keen on testing the force field concept too far,” he said, into the fleet channel.  “Open fire when they’re just outside their effective range.”

The aliens came on.  He was nervously expecting a response of some kind from the Overcompensator, but the alien mothership did nothing, seeming to be waiting for its daughter fighters to clear away the danger from the human ships.  Time seemed to slow down as the aliens approached the limits of their effective range, and then…

“Firing,” Lieutenant Krakow said.  The lights dimmed as power was transferred to the energy cannons; Howard had nearly laughed himself silly when he’d heard the fantastical name for the weapons, but he had to admit that it was apt.  He watched on the screen as the energy beams reached out and kissed the alien craft, and…

Lieutenant Krakow’s voice was awed.  “We killed seventeen,” he breathed.  “The other craft are firing, sir; we’re slaughtering them…”

“Incoming fire,” Lieutenant Singh said dispassionately.  “Shifting the drive into shield mode…”

Nearly two dozen alien fighters had been destroyed in the first ten seconds, Howard realised, but the survivors were still coming, holding their ground and moving with ever-growing more complicated manoeuvres and stunts, making it harder for the tactical computers to lock onto them, even though the weapons were light-speed weapons, rather than the slower missiles.

“All hands, brace for impact,” Lieutenant Singh snapped, as the Lincoln shuddered violently.  The viewport lit up with an eerie purple haze as the plasma bolts crashed into the shield, time and time again.  It seemed as if the shaking would never stop, but eventually…

“They’re retreating,” Lieutenant Singh reported.

“We whipped them good,” Lieutenant Krakow said, his voice delighted.  “No losses, sir; no losses!”

“The Stalin is reporting some damage to her fusion reactor,” Lieutenant Malady injected.  “The Russians are having problems coping with all of the power demands.”

“It’s going to get worse,” Lieutenant Singh said.  “Captain…”

His voice trailed off.  Howard stared at the display; nearly a thousand alien fighters were rising from the planet, heading directly towards the human ships.  They kept coming, clearly intending to overwhelm the humans by sheer force of numbers, and he had a nasty feeling that they could do just that.

“I think they’re taking us seriously,” he said grimly.  “All ships; form up on the Lincoln for an attack run.  This time, aim for the primary target.”

“We’re taking up point position now,” Marian said.  “The fleet is forming up with us, even the Stalin.”

Howard nodded in relief.  He knew better than to think that the Russian ship could hope to stand off the incoming wave of alien fighters without help, except there was no help that could reach them in time.  The Moon would be putting their own energy cannons into production, but it would be a long time before they could clear enough aliens away to get into their own orbit again.

“Take us into attack formation,” he said.  “Stand by missiles and plasma weapons; stand by Portal shield.”

“All systems are ready,” Jane said.

Howard smiled.  “Then take us in,” he commanded.  “All ships, follow us in.”

The Overcompensator swept closer at astonishing speed, now fully aware of the threat from the tiny human mites that were daring to attack it.  Bolts of blue plasma reached up to challenge the human ships, even though the humans were just outside the range of the alien weapons.

They’re trying to trap us between two fires, Howard thought, as the stern of the ship swept up upon them.  “All missiles, engage the enemy,” he said.  “Fire at will.”

Lieutenant Krakow worked his console.  “Which one of them is Will?”  He asked, as the missiles launched.  “Who should I shoot at?”

Howard didn’t have time to laugh.  “Stand by to stand off incoming fighters,” he snapped, as the first wave of the enemy fighters swooped down on the humans.  He thought rapidly as the energy cannons started to fire again; if they ever had to do it again, having their own fighters would definitely help keep the enemy fighters off the big ships.

“I count four impacts,” Lieutenant Singh reported, as the enemy fighters raced past them, before swooping around to come at them again.  “Sir, we have to launch closer.”

Howard winced.  “Take us in,” he commanded.  “Keep the Portal shield on a hair-trigger.”

The human ships raced down, coming right at the Overcompensator, which was a massive wall, floating in space.  The Hive was suddenly clearly aware of the danger; a hail of blue plasma balls reached out for the human ships as they pulled up, just above the hull, spraying plasma missiles into the Overcompensator’s hull.  Explosions, oh so tiny on the scale of the Overcompensator, blasted out below them, sending up blasts of fire.

“Activating Portal shield,” Lieutenant Hiller snapped.  A strange eerie white light flickered in through the viewport as the Portal activated, sending a shimmering square of white light out in front of the ship, racing forwards as the ship moved forwards, directly towards the incoming fire.  The plasma balls grew closer, and closer…and then they vanished in the Portal’s light.

“We got them…”  Lieutenant Singh started to crow, and then the Lincoln was hit badly, sent spinning end-over-end away from the Overcompensator.  Howard felt space-sick for the first time in years as the ship rotated, somehow feeling the effects of the sudden enforced manoeuvre even though the drive.

He caught his breath, forcing his mind to focus.  “What the hell hit us?”

“They hit us from below,” Lieutenant Singh reported.  “Sir, the Stalin…”

Howard’s eyes whipped back to the main display; just in time to see the Stalin loose its drive, plummeting towards the Overcompensator.  The Russian ship had lost most of its speed when the drive failed, but it was still moving and it was being sucked in by the Overcompensator’s gravity field.  Seconds later, the Russian ship impacted directly with the Overcompensator, sending a blast of shattering light into the alien mothership.

***
For one moment of absolute hope, Howard wondered if the Stalin had struck a killing blow, but sensors revealed that the force field holding the Overcompensator together was still active, containing the damage that the massive ship was suffering.  The waves of fire seemed to slow down, to be absorbed into the field, and finally vanished altogether, leaving a serious breach in the hull.

“We hurt the bastard,” Lieutenant Singh reported, his voice stunned.  The battle seemed to have frozen; the aliens seemed to have stopped shooting at them.  “The power readings are all over the place, sir; it might be having real difficultly holding itself together.”

Howard pulled himself together by an act of will.  “Take us back,” he snapped.  “We need to take out the main target, now!”

“Moving us,” Marian said.

“Sir, the Washington is in serious trouble,” Lieutenant Singh reported.  Howard cursed as he saw the Washington, suddenly surrounded by a massive force of alien fighters.  Burst after burst of energy cannon fire poured from its weapons, but he could see that its shield was failing, seconds before it lunged forwards and rammed one of the alien fighters.

“The Washington has been lost with all hands,” Lieutenant Singh reported.  “The other ships are forming in on us, and the alien fighters are closing in.”

“Begin the attack run,” Howard ordered.  The Lincoln moved forwards, picking up speed as it bore down on the Overcompensator again.  The alien ship wasn’t firing at them, he realised suddenly; they seemed to be having real problems.  “Inform the commandos that it’s about time to release them…”

“Sir, I recommend releasing them now,” Jane said.  “There’s no guarantee that we will survive this run.”

Howard looked at the mass of alien fighters closing in from the rear, and the similar formation forming up in front of them, and understood.  “Drop them in twenty seconds,” he said, as the ships swept up the side of the Overcompensator.  The lights flickered as several energy cannon bursts were fired at the pursuing craft, trying to make them keep a respectful distance.  “Inform them that we’ll cover them for as long as we can.”

“Rear-firing missiles ready,” Lieutenant Krakow said.  “We can fire at your command.”

“Fire,” Howard snapped.  They’d planned the manoeuvre and practiced it; the Lincoln fired two nuclear-tipped missiles back towards the alien fighters, hoping to catch them in the blast.  Even if the managed to dodge the blasts, the alien pilots would have more things to worry about than a single stealth shuttle.  “Launch the shuttle.”

There was a dull clunk echoing through the ship.  “Shuttle away, sir,” Jane said.  “Coming up on primary target…”

“Fire at will,” Howard said.  A thought had struck him; if they cancelled the drive, they would stop right above the target.  He quickly issued the orders to Marian, who looked at him as if he were crazy, but agreed.  “Stand by…now!”

“Cancelling drive field,” Marian said, as the Lincoln came to an almost abrupt halt.

“Launching missiles,” Lieutenant Krakow snapped.  “Missiles away.”

“Here they come,” Lieutenant Singh said, his face sweaty.  “Sir…”

“Get us out of here,” Howard snapped.  Marian gunned the drive as hard as she could, blasting the Lincoln away from the Overcompensator as fast as she could.  A hail of silver shapes slammed past them, more than he could count, none of them colliding with their fellow craft.  Howard scowled; it seemed so dreadfully unfair somehow.

He took a breath.  “Report,” he snapped.

“We scored several major hits,” Lieutenant Singh said.  “At least seven…and we lost the Truman.”

“And then there were four,” Howard muttered.  He hadn’t even seen the ship explode.  “And the shuttle?”

“It’s on its way in,” Jane said.  “Everything is in their hands now.”

Howard nodded.  “Then we cover them for as long as we can,” he said.  “One way or another, it all ends here.”  He sighed, they’d had a good fight, but it wasn’t in their hands any longer.  “Order the remaining ships to form up on us,” he said, concentrating their remaining ships.  Retreat was no longer a possibility, not if they had to shield as well; the aliens seemed never to have thought of generating shields, but they understood about speed.  “Between us, we have some mighty good tacticians.”

Jane saw the resolution in his eyes and nodded.  “It’s been an honour to serve with you, sir,” she said.  He smiled at the fondness, and then the icy fury in her tone.  “Let’s teach those bastards that Earth doesn’t come cheap.”

Howard looked up at the display.  They’d hurt the Overcompensator badly, he could tell; the ship was burning in several dozen different places.  The sensor records from their close encounter revealed that the ship was in serious trouble, but it was still surviving their attack, even the direct collision of a ship.

He shook his head.  Their task had just become simple; survive long enough to be in position to pick up the team, or use the superweapon on the Overcompensator.  He looked at the tactical display as the horde of alien fighters raced down on them, already firing even though they were out of range.

“It’s been fun,” he said, as the enemy came within energy range.  All there was left now was to kill as many of them as they could, before they were finally, inevitably, dragged down and destroyed by overwhelming force.

Chapter Fifty-Six: In the Belly of the Beast

Overcompensator
Earth Orbit

Thande was lost for words as the shuttle flashed toward what he instinctively recognised as a nuclear detonation, his body pushed and prodded by gee-forces as the attitude jets fired madly, keeping the shuttle heading on course towards the nuclear detonation.

“They didn’t hit the power core,” Captain Neumann snapped.  “We’re going in.”

Thande caught his breath as the shuttle performed a complicated series of manoeuvres that left him stunned and appalled – and more than a little sore.  The ground – the Overcompensator was so close that it seemed that they were flying over a planet – flipped madly end for end, and then they plunged down towards the breach in the starship’s hull.  It was miles across, Thande realised, and yet it seemed tiny as they plunged down towards the hole.  Strange lights flickered up at them as they vanished into the hole, revealing a burnt and torn chamber.

He frowned.  “What the hell is this thing made of?”  He asked.  “No human construction could hope to survive such an attack…”

“I have no idea,” Sally said, over the tactical channel.  Her voice was clipped and precise, with no hint of any of their new relationship.  She was watching a small screen on her knee.  “The power core should be further down towards the core…”

“Brace yourself,” the pilot snapped.  The gravity seemed to have gone crazy as they plunged into the ship; Thande realised suddenly that they’d been caught in the Overcompensator’s own gravity field, which would be trying to impose itself upon them and…

“We’re going to crash,” the pilot said.  The shuttle heeled again, making him almost throw up inside his suit, and slammed to the ground.  “Everyone out!”

“Move out, now,” Captain Neumann snapped.  The commandos activated their suits, moving out through the egress ports as they snapped open, moving to surround the shuttle as it lay on the ground.  “Sam?”

“We might be able to lift off again without the gravity,” the pilot said.  “The thrusters are shot to hell; with the gravity we’re stuck here.”

“This just became a one-way trip,” Captain Neumann said, over the communicator.  Thande winced at his tone.  “Can you two turn off the gravity?”

“If we can get to the power core and deactivate it, then the gravity should vanish,” Sally said.  “I think we’d better move.”

“Three of my people will cover you at all times,” Captain Neumann said, reminding them of what had been agreed previously.  “It’s time to move.”

Thande stepped out of the shuttle and caught his breath.  They were in a cavern, one seemingly miles across, walled by melted and torn metal.  Strange lights flickered all over the room, illuminating the surroundings; dozens of showers of sparks descended through the mists.  He looked up, trying to see the ceiling, but it was hidden by the mists around the room.  

“I’ve got movement,” one of the soldiers snapped.  “Several aliens, coming this way.”

Thande winced.  One of the tactical scenarios they’d been put through had included an alien counter-attack, directed right at the shuttle and its crew.  He peered through the mists, finally seeing several aliens, moving…not exactly towards them, he realised, but towards a pile of damage material only a dozen meters away.

“Stay calm,” Captain Neumann muttered.  “My god; what are they?”

Thande stared at them.  There was little of humanity in the aliens; their flesh was bonded into a whole series of implants, allowing them to perform dozens of different tasks without tools.  Their sinister forms took on a new shape in the half-light; they were trying to disassemble the pile of junk, trying to repair it.

“Move out,” Captain Neumann ordered carefully.  A flickering burst of light through the air, burning through the mists, made everyone jump.  “Sally – direction?”

“That way,” Sally said, pointing.  This close, Thande realised that he too could sense the power core, something imposing its will on reality by sheer power alone.  It made his head hurt; it was something that had no place at all in a human reality.

“Squad one, take point,” Captain Neumann said.  “Do not fire unless fired upon.”

They advanced cautiously towards one of the walls.  Up close, they could see that it literally swarmed with aliens – and in fact it wasn’t really a wall at all, but a giant series of construction units, crackling with lights.  The aliens were working hard to repair the damage; they seemed totally unaware of the existence of the human force.

Gravity flipped suddenly and he found himself walking up the machines, towards a Portal-sized hole in the wall.  More than a few of the soldiers stumbled as they were caught by surprise; Thande suddenly realised that it hadn’t surprised him at all, except it should have done.  A line of aliens drifted past, caught in a wave of gravity and antigravity; their black eyes seemingly dull and unseeing.  

“How the hell do we beat something like this?”  Thande asked Sally, over the private channel.  He looked back and suddenly realised that he’d gotten the scale wrong; they weren’t climbing over a machine, but they were in a machine.  Now he saw it, he could see how it worked; it was a machine that seemed to be intended for building something.  He thought of the Earth, helpless below the Overcompensator and the Hive, and shivered; how could they defeat a foe like that?

“Isolated gravity control is not that hard to do,” Sally said, as they reached the far wall.  It was a real wall, more of a framework, this time; the debris of the attack had reached that far inside the massive ship.  The aliens were still working hard, ignoring the humans, as they passed through the framework into a perfectly normal corridor, leading left or right.

“There’s nothing in the right direction,” Sally said.  She worked her scanner for a moment.  “I think we might be better off going left.”

“We could cut through the wall,” one of the soldiers, a young woman called Sarah, suggested.

“No,” Captain Neumann snapped.  “They’re trying to repair their ship.  If we start interfering with the repairs, they might notice us.  Jones, take point; lead the way.”

“This ship must be a fucking honeycomb,” Thande muttered to Sally, as they crept down the corridor.  “It’s more than just a massive starship combined with a colony ship and an aircraft carrier, it’s their home.  He felt a tiny flicker of sympathy for the little aliens.  “Living here must be hell.”

“The Hive doesn’t care,” Sally said.  “As far as they’re concerned, enough to support their excuse for a civilisation is good enough.”

“They should be trying to stop us by now,” Captain Neumann said grimly.  He sounded almost unnerved.  “Why haven’t they seen us?”

“Women,” Jones snapped.

Captain Neumann glared at him.  “This is not the time to be thinking of your sex life, as insignificant as it is,” he snapped.

“There’s a line of women coming our way,” Jones said.  “There’s a lot of the little buggers coming as well.”

Thande caught his breath as the first aliens came around the corner.  In the light of the corridor, they seemed almost unhealthy; he wondered for a vindictive moment if they hadn’t been infected with some human virus after all, no matter what the biologists said.  Their movements were…strange, even for the aliens; they seemed to be prancing, almost dancing, as they moved.

“Oh, you poor bitches,” one of the soldiers said, as the women appeared.  Captain Neumann didn’t reprimand him; Thande understood his horror.  All of the women were naked and clearly pregnant; their eyes were dead, filled with a suffering horror.  “You poor girls.”

“Breeding stock,” Sally said, clinically.  The women kept filing past Thande; he realised that they must have been brought up from Earth.  They showed no sign of being aware of their surroundings; he wondered if they had already been implanted, or if they were drugged.

Captain Neumann swung around to look at her.  “How can you be so calm?”  He demanded.  “We have to rescue them.”

“There’s no point,” Sally said.  Thande could hear the bitterness in her voice; the shame of knowing that there was nothing that they could do.  A flash of light ran down the corridor, throwing the horror into sharp relief; showing them the alien at the end of the parade.  

“If we try to take them home, they’ll try to fight us,” Sally said, unaware of the newcomer.  “Even if we succeed, they’ll have been implanted; they’ll be a danger to everyone else.”

Thande looked up; the alien was looking back at him.  A wave of whispering echoed down the corridor in his mind; he wasn’t sure if he could hear it, or if he was imagining it.  The alien seemed almost astonished to see them; he realised suddenly that the Great One – for it could be nothing else – wasn’t going to ignore them.

“I think we have a problem,” Thande snapped, as the wave of whispering only increased.  He could hear it through some of the modifications the Time Agents had done to his body; the alien was telepathic, attempting to command him through the implants it clearly assumed he must have…except he didn’t.

“Shit,” Sally snapped, as she looked at the alien.  “Shoot it; now!”

Jones obeyed, putting a single round through the Great One’s head.  The alien’s massive head exploded, shattering like an eggshell.  Captain Neumann stared at it, trying hard to understand; Thande understood exactly how he felt.

“What the hell was that?”  Captain Neumann said finally.  “Why did you…?”

“There’s no time,” Sally said.  Some of the little aliens were coming along the corridor, the tools on their arms sparking with blue sparks.  “That bastard was telling them all about us.  They ignored us because they believed that we were implanted, like the women, but now they know better and…”

Some of the women were coming at them as well.  “Forward,” Captain Neumann snapped, firing a long burst towards the oncoming aliens.  “Direct us.”

“We have to get out of this section,” Sally said, as they moved forwards at a fast walk.  The women seemed to be confused; the little aliens were not.  They left the women, staring blankly at the wall, and came after the human force.  “To the left, quickly.”

Jones rounded the corner and fired at once, leading the first squad right at a new force of oncoming aliens.  They didn’t seem to be soldier-aliens; all they had were tools designed to work on the ship.  Thande had a sickening conception of what life under the Hive would be like; independent thought would be stamped out of existence, to be replaced by life in a computer-controlled Hive, just like a real insect hive.

“It’s like a fucking zombie movie,” one of the soldiers snapped, as an explosion tore through a bunch of aliens, marching towards them with expressionless eyes.  “They’re…”

An alien rammed a tool into him.  An arcing burst of electricity tore through him, ripping his body to shreds.  Captain Neumann put a bullet into the alien who had killed him, but it was too late; Thande realised that he had never known the young man’s name.  The hatred overwhelmed him; he jammed his finger down on the trigger and massacred a force of aliens that had appeared, heading for them with weapons raised.

“To the left,” Sally directed, keeping her eye on the display.  Another wave of aliens appeared, dropping down through holes in the ceiling, carrying what Thande suspected was a bunch of laser welders.  Red light melted three suits, before human shots and a rifle barrel brought them down, cracking an alien skull open with ease.  

“Captain Neumann, they’re going to be impossible to move,” the medic said.  Her voice tore at Thande’s heartstrings; the Americans were normally careful to attempt to bring their wounded out with them.  “Their suits have been ruined and bonded to their flesh.”

A line of aliens appeared at the rear of the corridor.  “It doesn’t matter,” one of the wounded said.  “Roll us over so we can shoot, and then get on with it.”

Thande felt a tear appearing in his eye.  “Good luck,” Captain Neumann said, helping them to move.  Even from their prone positions, they could still fire; they shot down three aliens in as many seconds.  “We’ll be back for you.”

An explosion billowed out ahead of them as one of the men used a grenade on the advancing mass of aliens.  “Onwards,” Captain Neumann snapped.  “Sally?”

“We’re close now,” Sally said.  Thande nodded; the sense of…wrongness was only growing stronger.  “I think we have to keep going straight ahead.”

“Left or right,” Captain Neumann snapped.  Thande looked up at a flat scorched wall made of metal.  “Which way?”

Sally hesitated.  “Left,” she snapped finally.  “Move to the left, then head right as soon as we can.”  She paused.  “It’s been left so far, why not once more?”

“Why not indeed?”  Captain Neumann asked.  “Move out.”

The carnage grew as they moved quickly forwards.  The aliens showed no sense of self-preservation, only hurling themselves on the humans with a fury that no human could understand.  A hundred aliens died for every member of the team they brought down; Thande could only sigh in relief that the aliens seemed to have sent all of their soldiers down to Earth.

A flickering wave of power washed up at them as they crossed a massive room, ending in a large corridor, leading down into the ship.  There was something…wrong, and yet tempting in the power flicking up from the corridor, it called to him somehow.  He peered down the corridor; there were no aliens in sight, only a strange light that wasn’t a light.  

“It’s down there,” Sally said.  A bolt of blue light zipped over her head, just missing her.  She threw herself to the floor as a hail of plasma bolts scythed through the team; Captain Neumann jumped to one side as the new aliens appeared, moving with a skill and grace that had so far been lacking in their opponents.

“Those are soldiers,” Captain Neumann exclaimed.  Thande glanced around; only nine of them had survived the attack so far, four had been cut down when the alien soldiers arrived.  Absently, he wondered what the delay had been; the Overcompensator was so large that it might well have simply taken them time to move the soldiers into an attack position.

“I’m afraid so,” Sally said.  “Captain Neumann, you have to be careful here.”

“I think I’d noticed that,” Captain Neumann said.  Sally didn’t seem to take umbrage at his tone.  “Why aren’t they attacking?”

Thande scowled.  He knew little of military tactics, but it seemed a good question.  They were at one end of a corridor; the aliens held the massive room, perhaps even using corridors and walkways the rest of them didn’t know about to attack the humans and gain new positions.  Why weren’t they attacking?

He risked a glance behind him and saw…nothing, just the strange not-light reaching out for him.  It had to be the power core, he realised; reality itself seemed to be twisting around it in the distance.  He felt his head swimming into…something, and then Sally slapped him hard.

“Breathe,” she said.  Thande remembered dimly that she had said that when he’d boarded the Turtledove; it seemed a lifetime ago.  “We have to get down there.”

Thande massaged his head.  “It almost had me,” he said.  “What is it?”

“That’s reality being altered,” Sally said.  “Keep remembering what you are and you should be safe.”

Captain Neumann coughed.  “But why aren’t they advancing?”  He asked again.  “They have us pinned down, so why…?”

“Perhaps they don’t dare come too close to the core,” Sally said.  “We have to get down there, now.”

“You go, then,” Captain Neumann snapped.  “We’ll hold them here as long as we can.”

Thande looked down at him.  “Captain…”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Captain Neumann snapped.  “If you can get down there, it might all be worthwhile; we’ve died to get you this far.”

Sally shook his hand.  “Thank you,” she said.  “Professor, we have to move; now!”

Thande refused to look back as they sprinted down the corridor.  It was longer than he had realised; the glow kept urging them onwards and onwards, right into the heart of the Overcompensator.  The alien mothership was powered from this room, a massive cathedral, surrounding a…perfect sphere of silver metal, hanging suspended in the exact centre of the room.  

“It doesn’t look like a power core,” he said doubtfully.  He could feel the tides of power, but this close there was no way to be sure of where they were coming from.  “Where did it come from?”

“A civilisation from a very long time ago,” Sally said.  Her voice was distracted.  “There’s only one group that could have brought it here; the energies it gives off would have killed the Small Ones a long time ago.”

“The Enemy,” Thande said, just to show that he had been paying attention.  “What now?”

“We disconnect it and toss it into the Vale,” Sally said.  “This close, we should be able to open the Portal and then…”

Something moved on the other side of the room, glinting in the light.  “Ah,” Sally said, as the shape of the…creature became clear.  “I think the Enemy left a guard dog.”  Her voice was very calm.  “I think that we should be very careful.”

Thande stared at it as the creature unfolded itself, taking its time.  He’d seen more than he would ever have expected, out in the Vale, but this…this was too much to take.  Glinting red eyes winked out at him and held him spellbound; he broke free with an effort, wondering if there was any point at all.

He stared.  “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he told the universe.  “What the hell is that doing here?”

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Victory or Defeat

Overcompensator
Earth Orbit

The dragon didn’t hurry.  It didn’t have to.  It uncurled itself like a massive cat, moving in perfect slow motion; its red eyes glinting at them as it moved up.  It unfurled its wings, sending them somehow into the air, spreading them out over the engine room.  Thande could see it; see the energy sparkling around it, pouring out from the…artefact in the centre of the room.

“There’s a gash in reality,” Sally said.  Her voice was level; only someone who knew her well could tell that she was seriously worried.  “They’ve been using that energy to force the Hive to remain present in this space, rather than let it be wiped out of existence; bouncing them off a part of the multiverse with different physical laws.”

“I would be fascinated to know about universes where dragons exist some other time,” Thande said, trying hard to keep his own voice calm.  The weapon in his hand was amazingly reassuring.  “Just tell me how we kill this thing?”

The dragon’s mouth lolled open.  “You don’t,” it said.  “You will surrender now, so that I may be rewarded for capturing you.”

Sally studied the dragon carefully.  “What are you doing here?”  She asked.  “This universe is very hostile to your kind, young dragon.”

“Young?”  The dragon asked.  Its voice was deep and vastly amused.  “I have watched the human civilisation rise and fall.  I am hardly a young hatchling of two hundred of your little years old.”  Its voice changed.  “I wanted to see something new, humans; I was offered that chance, if I worked for them.”

Thande felt a sudden flicker of pure excitement.  “You know who the Enemy are?”  He asked.  “You know where they came from?”

“Of course not,” the dragon said.  They sent agents, who demonstrated their power.  Once I was convinced of their power, I talked to them; might leads, always.  They offered me a chance to travel far beyond the Brass Walls, in exchange for working for them.”

Thande scowled inwardly.  The dragon was toying with them; it seemed convinced that there was nothing they could do to hurt it.  Thande had a nasty idea that it might be right; the dragon clearly believed in the doctrine of ‘might makes right.’  In his experience, that only lasted until the believer met something stronger…and clearly the Enemy had managed to cow the dragon, whatever it might say.

An entire culture built around the concept of demonstrating strength, rather than endless wars, he thought, studying the dragon.  Its armour seemed impervious to anything they had, although he wondered how it would stand up to a laser weapon, and its claws were clearly sharp.  Could it breathe fire?

“Do you have a name?”  Sally asked suddenly.  “Most intelligent beings have names?”

“The dragon race has no need of names,” the dragon sneered.  Its tone took on a high-class accent, almost like a parody of an English accent.  “You may call me Redscale, if you like.” 

“Thank you,” Sally said.  “Redscale; are you aware that your body is sucking in power from the artefact near you?”  The dragon gave her a long considering look, but said nothing.  “Without that power, you will not be able to exist in this dimension.  You will become, at best, utterly crippled, dependent upon human charity.”

“What matters it?”  Redscale said.  “There is magic here, magic winds for me to glide upon.”

“No there isn’t,” Sally said, contradicting him sharply.  “It feels normal to you, because you come from an environment saturated in magic from a magical universe.  When you were in the Vale, nothing changed; you couldn’t die there, any more than we can.  Outside the bubble created by this device” – she waved a hand towards the silver sphere – “you would lose all of your powers.”

Her voice hardened.  “Your wings could not support you in the air,” she said.  “Your belly would explode when you tried to light your fire, even if you could; I think reality must bend slightly to allow that to happen.  You might not be even able to support yourself on your legs for long; you might be too heavy to move.”

Redscale’s eyes glittered.  “And what matters it?”  He asked.  “They will take me back before they leave here.”

Sally pressed forwards.  “Are you sure?”  She asked.  “You’re bound to whatever area they make for you.  What will happen when they decide that they don’t need you anymore?  What will happen when they decide that you’re suddenly too dangerous to have around?  A fully-grown dragon might be a real problem for them.”

“None would dare break a bargain with a dragon,” Redscale said.  “You seek to seduce me; a weak human woman, unable to control her man.  Dragon breeding is so much more practical.”

Sally ignored the insult.  “Why would they consider you important?”  She asked.  “You’re nothing to them; what is a dragon to an entity with powers beyond even my comprehension?  If you cause trouble, they might simply wipe you from existence completely, or just leave you here to die.”

“Really?”  Redscale said.  Its voice was still sneering.  “And do you have an alternative?”

“We can send you back to your homeworld,” Sally said.  “It would be easy to trace you back and put you back there; you would be safe there.”

The dragon laughed, a dull humourless sound.  “But if you could do that, then so could they,” Redscale said.  “They will destroy me if they are as powerful as you suggest.  I can deal with you…and then the choice of breaking the agreement would be theirs.”

“You’re right,” Sally said.  Her tone was grim, but understanding.  “My sympathies, from one cross-time traveller to another.”

Redscale loomed forwards.  “You chose,” he said.  “You may submit to my spell…or you may try to fight and die.  Choose.”

“Fight,” Thande said.  He fired a long burst from his weapon directly at the dragon.  The bullets sparked as they bounced off the dragon’s armour; Redscale’s tail moved faster than Thande would have believed, slamming into his armour and knocking him right across the room.  He crashed into the wall and lay there, stunned.

“Die,” Redscale said.  Thande had the dim impression that his attack had actually hurt the dragon – and that the pain had surprised it.  The dragon blew a long line of fire towards him, which was absorbed by the suit.  “Die, human!”

Thande smiled in pure relief.  “The suit seems to be capable of taking laser fire,” he said.  “Roast human isn’t on the menu.”

Redscale snarled; Thande noted grimly that Sally was working quickly on a console near the sphere and sighed, it was clearly his task to keep the watchdog busy.  The suit glowed under a wave of fire from the dragon – the monster was coming closer, inching towards him – but refused to break.

“I’ll have the tinned human instead,” Redscale said.  Thande concentrated and tried to fire down the dragon’s throat, half-worried that the gun would melt under the heat.  It refused to fire; he saw it starting to look very…weak in his hands.

“You have a sense of wit,” Thande said, trying to quip.  “If you keep going, you might develop a sense of humour.”

Redscale lashed out with a claw, sending Thande flying across the room, right across the sphere.  The dragon bounded after him, its wings extending…and the room changed around him.  Thande felt, suddenly, that he’d passed through a wall, but the dragon was still coming and suddenly he realised what had happened.

“Can’t catch me for toffee,” he jeered, wishing that he could moon the dragon without having his behind roasted.  The dragon roared and leapt forwards, and passed right through the wall…and fell out of the air with a crash.  Redscale howled, but even that was weak; it had passed outside the region where it could have existed safely.

Thande felt almost sorry for it.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  The dragon, once so proud, looked like a dying creature on the deck of the Overcompensator.  “I’m sorry for you.”

Redscale said nothing.  The dragon was trying to move laboriously, but it no longer had the strength to move, or even fly.  One of its wings was trying to move, suddenly limp and lifeless, and could barely twitch.  Thande stepped around it and passed up to the console, where Sally was working.

“This is not good news,” Sally said.  “I cannot close the rift completely.”

Thande stared at her.  “Sally, what happens if we send the…power core into the Vale anyway?”

“I’m not sure,” Sally said.  “I wanted to try to kidnap it onto the Turtledove, or toss it into the Vale, where it would be lost, but without being able to close the rift, I’m not sure what we can do with it.”

Thande thought as fast as he could.  “Then why is the rift refusing to close?”

“Because the rift is stable and attached onto a pocket dimension,” a new voice said.  Thande recognised it.  “I would have thought that a pair of Time Agents could have worked that out.” 

Thande spun around.  Snow stood there, as astonishingly beautiful and chilling as she had been when they first met, seemingly years ago.  Had it only been two weeks?  Her long white hair was pulled into a ponytail, which hung down to her behind; her face was smiling a vague unpleasant smile.

Sally’s hand reached for the console.  “Why?”  She asked, pointing to a piece of Hive technology that had been fused into the far more advanced technology that had produced the power core.  “This thing is holding the Overcompensator in place, but it’s doing awesome damage to space.  Why?”

Snow smiled.  “The Overcompensator,” she said.  “Why did you call it that?”

“Blame Thande,” Sally said.  She nodded towards Thande.  “Is his counterpart going to be working for you now?”

“It looks that way,” Snow said.  “Tell me; does it get any easier to bear over the years?”

Thande blinked.  “I beg your pardon?”

“Your…masters have committed genocide more than a thousand times,” Snow said.  “They have prevented entire legions of aliens from coming into existence; they have even ensured that certain…offshoots of humanity will never come into existence.”

“Like you,” Sally said, her voice hard and icy.  “You’re the last of a group that was destroyed, with very good reason.”

“Dear Sally,” Snow said.  Her tone was mocking, condensing; designed to infuriate someone.  “You make it so hard to do anything nice for you.”

“Your masters came very close to destroying all of humanity,” Sally said.  “That would have wiped you from existence as well.”

“No,” Snow said.  “You never understood what was happening at the Battle of Existence.”

“Enough to know that it must never happen again,” Sally said.  “This thing can’t go into the Vale, because it’s lodged into your pocket universe; the effects of the core being in two places at the same time provided the power and caused the rift.”

“Exactly,” Snow said.  “Enjoy your wait before the Hive comes and adds you to their legions of slaves.”

She vanished in a flash of light.  “Many things about this are not good,” Sally said.  Thande winced as a ripple of energy flooded out from the core.  “She was buying time.”

Thande stared at her.  “Time for what?”  He demanded.  “She came to taunt us just long enough for…what?”

The Overcompensator rocked sharply.  “I have no idea,” Sally said.  She looked down at the console…and swore.  “Damn it; one of them must have told the Hive to lock us out of the system!”

Thande looked up at the power core, spinning silently in the centre of the room.  “What now?”

“I’m thinking,” Sally said.  “The damn thing is in two universes; if that rift could be blocked somehow, then it would lose power, except we have nothing to attempt to block the rift with.”  She paused.  “I don’t suppose you brought a whole Portal-generating system with you?”

Thande shook his head.  “Is there no way that we can destroy the power core?”

Sally looked up at the spinning core, and then down.  “Promise me something,” she said.  “Professor…?”

Thande nodded.  “I promise,” he said.

“There is a way to disrupt the core long enough to destroy it,” Sally said.  “Even that amount of power can’t save the Overcompensator; it’s bending reality into a pretzel all the time.  Except…Professor, promise me you won’t hate me for this.”

Thande stared at her, then nodded.  “If you can destroy the ship, do it,” he said.  “Whatever it takes, do it!”

Sally smiled at him, and then leaned up to face the core.  Thande dimly heard a moan from the dragon, which was still lying there, powerless.  She extended her hand towards the core, feeling it; Thande saw the energy shimmering around her.  It sparked and twisted, moving down her body, making her hair stand on end.

“The ship is not a stable construction,” Sally said.  “If I can use my link to the Turtledove, I can start using the rift as a form of makeshift Portal, one that will drain the power away into the Vale.”  Her hand glowed with light as it reached up to the core and touched its surface.  “If I do that…”

“Then the Earth will be destroyed,” a very familiar voice said.  Thande spun around; Professor Anderson stood there, holding a weapon in his hand.  “Sally – if you do that, the ship will crash into Earth.”

Thande stared at his counterpart, and then at Sally, understanding why she had made him promise.  She had known all along that they might be faced with the decision; destroy the Earth…in order to save the remains of the human race from enslavement to the Hive.

“You,” he snarled.  “Why didn’t I see that you were evil?  I should have taken note of the goatee!”

Anderson shrugged, stroking the goatee in an exaggerated manner.  “We’re not that different,” he said.  “You would no more destroy Earth than I would.”

Thande hesitated, unable to decide.  “I don’t know what to do,” he said.  “Sally – is there no other way?”

“Oh, some elements of humanity will survive,” Anderson said calmly.  “You’ve killed two of the Great Ones; the rest will take years to rebuild their forces properly.  They might be very good at enslaving human drones, but try making a Great One from human material.  By the time they have cloned the missing links, the humans in the belt will have had plenty of time to build new weapons and missiles.”

“The risk is too high,” Sally said.  Thande could tell that she was in terrible pain; she withdrew her hand from the core as if it was burning.  Her body slumped; he caught her and pulled her away from the power core.  “The Hive will make sure to secure the solar system before they do anything else, now that humans can actually harm their ships.  The Hive has to be destroyed, again; there’s no longer any hope of retroactively completing their erasure from history.”

“Come with me,” Anderson said, addressing Thande.  He seemed to have decided not to care about Earth’s destruction any longer; Thande shuddered at the dark reflection of himself.  “They did as they said; they gave me a ship to travel across the timelines.”

Thande looked down at Sally and made his choice.  “No,” he said.  He no longer wanted to meet another counterpart of himself.  “Do me one favour; take Redscale with you and get him home.”

Anderson shrugged.  “I bear you no personal malice,” he said.  “I have worked for them for too long, just to get my hands on something that would allow me to explore the universe at will, without having bothersome stupid excuses for scientists trying to shut down my work, or equally stupid politicians looking to spend money on junk science instead of real science.”

Thande stared at him.  He too had felt the same feelings, but he had never let it push him into madness.  “I know how you feel,” he said.  “I think that six billion dead is quite enough, don’t you?”

“Goodbye,” Anderson said.  He strode over to Redscale and placed one hand on the dragon’s rump.  Seconds later, they both dissolved in red light, vanishing from the universe into another universe, perhaps even into the Vale itself.

Sally looked up at him.  “I’m proud of you,” she said.  Thande wanted to kiss her, wondering if they had time to have one last time together.  “I wish that there was another way.”

The Overcompensator began to shake violently, moving as it started to come apart.  Sally pulled herself to her feet, taking his hand.  The power core was glowing madly, but it could no longer hold the massive ship together.  Thande wanted to cry; he knew what would happen, all too soon, and that there had been no other choice.

“It’s time to go,” Sally said.  She took his hand, and together they vanished in a flash of white light.  Behind them, the power core flickered once…and then vanished also, slamming back into the pocket dimension from where it had come, so long ago.

Chapter Fifty-Eight: We Had To Destroy the Village in Order to Save It

Battlezone
Earth Orbit

The battle was proceeding satisfactory – there were only two human craft left – when the power began to cut out.  Mission Commander Tak’Char ordered drones to investigate – the human sabotage force had clearly been unwilling to enter the power core’s chamber and had all been killed – and then he realised that the ship was in serious trouble.  The power core, the artefact provided by their allies, was no longer providing enough power to power the ship.

He felt a moment of pure horror, harking back to the days before the Hive had become the Hive, and then tried desperately to get the system to repair itself.  It didn’t work; the other conventional power sources within the Overcompensator simply couldn’t provide power on the scale needed to save the ship.

“No,” he said, feeling long-gone emotions as the computers and implants crashed; power was desperately being rerouted to the gravity drive.  The mothership had never been in a stable orbit; without the drive, it would…

An emergency system provided a track at Tak’Char’s command.  The mothership was slowly losing orbit, along with much of its power; there was no power left that could save it.  If full power were not regained within ten minutes, it would no longer be needed; even the power core would be unable to stop gravity from dragging the mothership into Earth’s atmosphere.  

Alarms sounded throughout the remains of the computers, powered by emergency power cores that were simply too weak to add much to the desperate attempt to save the ship.  With implants crashing, humans and drones were suddenly freed of all control; some just sat and cried, others tried to fight their way out of the ship, doing more damage without any way of stopping them.  Other drones were still active, mainly the older Small Ones, and he directed them to the power core chamber, hoping that the core could be saved and…

Something changed in his head.  He remembered…memories from very long ago.  He remembered what he had once been, and then he remembered what had happened to him.  Something had gotten very out of control on the surface of their homeworld, something that had destroyed those who had tried to stop it, and then…there had been a war and his side had lost.  Many had died, Tak’Char remembered now, without the implants guiding his thoughts, and many more had wished that they had died.

And the computers would have enslaved the humans as well, he thought, his mind clear for the first time in ages.  All of the Great Ones had once been as free as the humans, their biological minds providing the Hive the guidance that it needed to be more than an utterly sterile society, but that had come at a price.  Freedom, individuality – all had been destroyed by the Hive.  They had had peace, but at what price?

The computers could no longer maintain any form of control over the ship; it fell helplessly towards the planet below.  Tak’Char tried to access the computers and found to his surprise that he could; the computers were too drained to prevent him accessing their permanent memories.  It was possible, all too possible, that they would survive; they were programmed to survive, whatever else happened.  They might even have started a new Hive on Earth, one that might even survive the coming catastrophe.

“Here,” he said, dumping all of the data towards the moon.  The humans there might be able to understand it, in time; they would be able to use it.  The other ships had their orders; they would defend the Earth from all who would try to approach it.  The computers were failing, one by one; he could no longer reach any part of the ship.

Tak’Char looked up at the main display.  It was flickering, but Earth was drawing closer.  It wouldn’t be long now.

***
“Fire,” Howard snapped, as an alien fighter lunged in towards them, spitting plasma fire at the Lincoln.  He wasn’t sure how they had survived as long as they had; only the Lincoln and the Gorky remained intact, after the long grim battle.

“Two direct hits,” Lieutenant Krakow reported.  “It’s been destroyed.”

“Thank God,” Howard said.  “Jane…anything from the away force?”

“Nothing,” Jane said.  “Captain, here comes one of the bigger ships.”

Howard swore.  The human ships had a speed advantage over the fighters, although not as big an advantage as he would have liked; as long as they stayed outside the range of the fighters, they had a good chance of picking them all off, but at the same time they had to stay near the Overcompensator, which was still floating in orbit.  

But no one knew if they had an advantage over the Wanderer-class ships…and he knew that they were about to find out the hard way.

“Warn the Gorky,” he snapped.  “Tell them to split up; maybe only one of us will be caught.”

The Lincoln shuddered once, viciously, and then shook again.  “What the hell was that?”  Howard demanded.  “How did they get so close?”

Jane’s voice was horrified.  “Captain, the Overcompensator,” she said.  “It’s losing power and it’s going down!”

It took Howard nearly ten seconds to understand.  “It’s going to hit the planet?”

“Yes, sir,” Jane said, pulling a blanket of professionalism around her as the bridge resounded with shock and horror.  “I estimate less than ten minutes to impact.”

“The enemy ships are moving off,” Lieutenant Singh injected.  “They’re returning to Earth orbit.”

“The Gorky is asking for instructions,” Lieutenant Malady said.  “Captain, what the hell can we do?”

“There’s no longer any time to try for a conversion mission,” Lieutenant Krakow said.  His voice was bitter, defeated; Poland was about to be smashed flat by a ship larger than the dreaded asteroid of nightmares.  “Captain, what now?”

“Take us to high orbit,” Howard snapped.  “Where are the alien craft going?”

“They’re settling back into Earth orbit,” Lieutenant Singh reported.  “Some of them seem to be still active, others seem to be having problems.”

Howard watched on the display as the Overcompensator fell down towards the planet.  Time seemed to be slowing down as the craft fell further, falling into smaller chunks of matter as it fell faster, breaking up in its descent.  He hoped – oh how he hoped – that the alien craft would break up completely, but it seemed unlikely; it was too large to come apart in the time they had left.

The massive shape started to glow red as it fell faster, the heat of re-entry burning away at a hull that had absorbed nuclear missiles with ease, failing to do more than warm the chunks.  The ship was still breaking up – the display showed dozens of explosions flickering out as the systems failed – but it still wouldn’t be enough.

“Main screen,” Howard ordered.

The Overcompensator was a black dot, falling towards Earth.  For a long moment, it seemed as if it would have stopped falling, as if its drive was somehow holding it just above the ground, and then it struck.  An evil red glow appeared on the planet, burning brightly in the darkness of space, sending other flickering circles of evil light running across the planet.  Earth burnt in the darkness as other chunks smashed into the world, scattering debris far and wide.

The bridge was deathly silent.  The crew was watching their homeworld die.  Howard knew that some of them would commit suicide in the next few days; others would throw themselves into making a success of the remains of humanity.  He knew, somehow, that humanity would survive this experience, whatever it took.  

“Lieutenant Malady, transmit a copy of our records to the Moon,” he ordered.  “Lieutenant Singh, what are the other alien ships doing?”

“They’re just settling into orbit around Earth,” Lieutenant Singh said.  His voice was trembling; the sheer immensity of the disaster hadn’t quite struck him yet.  “There might still be alien survivors.”

Howard could picture it; shockwaves and earthquakes smashing everything human, whatever it was, but the greys surviving, perhaps even prospering.  How many humans would survive under the impact?  How many would die in the weeks and months to come?  How many of the living would envy the dead?  “Marian, take us out of here,” he said.  “Take us to Ceres.”

Ceres Asteroid Base
Asteroid Belt

“We had to destroy the village in order to save it,” Admiral Westmoreland said.  “That’s what she said to me.”

Howard nodded.  The news of what had happened at Earth had spread rapidly across the solar system; Earth had glowed like a beacon in the darkness.  Every telescope in the belt had been watching the battle, trying to make out what was happening, and all of them had seen the Earth die.  

He sighed, wanting only to sleep; reactions had broken down into three sets.  One group wanted to attempt to re-terraform Earth at once and contact any survivors, a second wanted to concentrate on building up the rest of the solar system…and a growing percentage simply didn’t care.  Those who had been born off-planet mourned Earth, but it wasn’t their homeworld.

“The President will have been killed,” Admiral Westmoreland said.  “So will all of the Politburo; doubtless they will have all been implanted before the ship hit the planet.  It’s absolute chaos out there, John.”

“I know,” Howard said.  “Sir, what are we going to do?”

“There’s around five to six million of us out here,” Admiral Westmoreland said.  “I have a report that some elements on mars have staged a coup against the Communists, seeing that they’re no longer in a position to enforce their rule.  The former Governor of Mars was rather surprised to be greeted with a request for unification, once he was let out of the cell the Soviets had locked him in.”

Howard laughed bitterly.  “So…we just carry on?”

“We have little choice,” Admiral Westmoreland said.  “Administrator Lucas forwarded to me and President Cozort the information from the crashing ship; the aliens somehow…managed to turn themselves into the Hive.”  He shrugged.  “I don’t pretend to understand it myself, but the gist of it is that there are more Hives out there, perhaps even more on Earth under the rolling clouds.”

Howard shuddered.  “Then we have to stay united,” he said.  “Can we do that?”

“That’s in the hands of the new President,” Admiral Westmoreland said.  “Between you and me, the remains of the Red Space Force might just end up asking us for union anyway, so we’ll at least end up with a system assembly.  Point is; the remaining Hive ships have been remaining in Earth orbit and firing on anything that comes too close, so we’re going to need to deal with them, sooner or later.”

“Because there might still be a Hive under there somewhere,” Howard agreed.  “They might be rebuilding, deep under the ground; they could survive vacuum, so they might be able to survive the conditions on Earth as well.”

“Precisely the point that Administrator Lucas was making to me,” Admiral Westmoreland agreed.  “The President is very determined to end up with a united human government, although it will be tricky; we are going to have to build that, while at the same time preparing for war.”

He sighed.  “We have no choice, but to proceed with the program of producing new weapons,” Admiral Westmoreland continued.  “It will take time, more time than we had before, but we can deal with the ships.  And then” – his eyes glittered – “the stars and the other Hives out there, somewhere.  And then…”

Howard blinked.  “Yes, sir?”

“Those…people who came to us,” Admiral Westmoreland said.  “They did it on purpose, I’m sure.”

Howard looked at him.  “Sir?”

“They assured us that the Overcompensator would come apart in orbit,” Admiral Westmoreland said.  “In some ways, I think that the bitch was trying to warn me; destroy the village in order to save it indeed.  Who came up with that stupid saying?”

Howard shrugged.  “I don’t know, sir,” he said.  “It makes little sense.  They didn’t strike me as bad people.”

“They came from another universe,” Admiral Westmoreland said.  “I read the highly classified briefing.  If they come again to our world, we will be ready for them – because I think they mean us little good.”

***
Ceres Asteroid had made a fairly good choice for a centre of operations; the last six months had been filled with activity.  Administrator Lucas had been very relieved when the alien ship had been destroyed, but the destruction and general devastation on Earth, glowing balefully in the Martin sky, had served to concentrate more than a few minds, as amazing as that seemed.

The remnants of communist rule had faded rapidly; the Soviet moonbase and massive settlements had been more than willing to work with the Americans.  Mars would be unstable for a while longer, but as the union of the bases proceeded, it seemed as if capitalism would be triumphant, at least in some ways.  Other colonies, the British, the French, and the Israelis, to say nothing of the black colonies, had been more reluctant to cooperate past the bare minimum, despite the clear dangers from Earth.

It had taken nearly four weeks of haggling to get the final treaty worked out.  It was a heavily American-influenced document, although it had a few minor changes, such as accepting the right of direct democracy in all of the habitats, allowing the entire population to be consulted.  The Americans were astonished by the idea, but the Russians had loved it; few indeed had cared what the common Russian had thought.  Administrator Lucas had heard that the independent Russian colonies had voting events nearly every second day, just to enjoy the experience.  

He dragged his attention back to former Vice President Gavin Cozort, now the President pro tem of the entire Solar System.  Each asteroid, planet and habitat would have its own internal government, although governed under the bill of rights, but electing a proper Solar System President would take time.  Cozort, he had to admit, hadn’t done badly; he’d pulled almost everyone into the union.

“It is time for the vote,” Cozort said.  The representatives straightened up and paid attention.  This was the important matter.  “The Constitution of the Republic” – they’d settled on that as the title – “has been discussed over the last few months, and then created by the committees here.  Will the delegates vote now on approving the constitution and creating a genuine human-wide government, by pressing the keys.”

The control panel lit up under his fingers.  Administrator Lucas reached out and tapped APPROVE, watching as the others made their choices as well.  There would be other matters to vote on, but this – the new constitution – was the most important of all.  The computers, at least, could count the votes impartially.  

“The delegates have voted,” Cozort said.  “The vote is in; the Constitution is approved, 345 to 34.”

Administrator Lucas smiled.  “We’re on our way,” he said, looking down at his dark hands.  “It’s not time to look back now.”

Epilogue

“We lost,” Sally said.  Her voice was bitter.  “We’re not meant to lose.  I’m not meant to lose.”

The strange shimmering possibilities of the Vale rose up around them as the Harry Turtledove slipped away from the Roswell Timeline.  The ship wouldn’t stay there for too long; there was always the dreadful danger of being tracked by the Enemy.  Sally was convinced that the Enemy would have lost track of them in the final moments of the Overcompensator’s flight, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Thande looked ahead, seeing how the timeline looked from the outside; a shimmering line of possibility.  The Vale saw no reason to behave like a normal universe; staring into a universe allowed the observer to see all and nothing of that universe, right up to the points where it split up into two universes.

“We didn’t lose,” he said, and knew that the protest wasn’t quite accurate.  “Humanity is still going strong; six million is enough to rebuild, isn’t it?”

“Not enough to be sure of defeating the wave of aliens in…two hundred years or thereabouts,” Sally snapped.  She paced frantically.  “I told you when you first joined us; in two hundred years, in most timelines, humanity is going to meet an expanding stellar empire.  That empire will be stronger than the humans in the Roswell Timeline; they might well be conquered and occupied.”

Thande stared at her.  “So…what can we do about it?”

Sally sighed.  “Very little,” she admitted.  “The Enemy has succeeded in forcing humanity to concentrate on rebuilding for several dozen years.  It was neat; if the Hive won, they would still be no match for the coming invasion.  Perhaps we could help them, but it hardly matters; humanity is going to be wiped out of that universe, or become a slave race.”

Thande glared.  “We can help them,” he snapped.  “We should help them!”

“There’s nothing we can do,” Sally said.  “We could slip them some help, but would it be enough to tip the balance?”

“We should try,” Thande snapped.  “If it wasn’t for us…”

“If it weren’t for us, they would have been exterminated or enslaved,” Sally snapped.  “History seems to have decided that the Hive can continue to exist – or did exist – in that timeline; the Enemy managed that much.  We just balanced the scales a little, Professor.”

Thande shook his head, almost sadly.  “Sally, are you sure that you’re better than the Enemy?”

“Yes,” Sally said.  She looked down into the Vale.  “We might even have a hint now, from a different survey team; one where the Thande Institute – they named it after you, you might remember – went looking in the wrong timeline – a hint about who the Enemy are.  There’s going to be a grand meeting to discuss it.”

Thande shook his head.  “Not tonight,” he said.  “Sally, I just saw Earth die.”

He walked off alone, back to his room, leaving Sally alone with her thoughts.  Perhaps he imagined it, or perhaps he heard a muffled sob from behind him, but he walked on – alone.

The End

Afterword

We may never know what happened at Roswell in 1947, but I don’t believe that it involved an alien spacecraft.  There has been no large-scale program of the kind required to stand off a possible alien invasion; such a program, involving orbiting weapons and a Project Horizon-style moonbase, could not possibly have been hidden.  It would have required substantial sums of public American (to say nothing of Soviet and European) money to fund and develop any form of defence capability that could defend against an alien race with technology perhaps only ten years ahead of us…but with perfect command of space.

Distance lends enchantment, as WA Harbinson pointed out, but there would be no distance.  If an alien ship crashed at Roswell, one small enough not to explode with the impact of a large asteroid, it would have probably come from a mothership, assuming that the aliens were very like humans.  (I.e. less than willing to be cooped up in a tiny ship for however many years it might take to get to the Solar System.)  That mothership would either have arrived via FTL – in which case we might be facing the resources of a galactic empire – or sublight; either way, the aliens are out there – somewhere.  

I assume that that line of logic would have been followed by the politicians and military leaders of Earth, as I suggested in The War After Roswell.  It would be nothing short of treasonous not to begin a defence program – and such a program could not have been hidden.  Ergo; the ship never crashed, or wasn’t alien.

(Or, I suppose, some idiot within the American establishment was incompetent or treacherous enough to hide the crash, as in Independence Day.  That rather proves my point; what could have been done with sixty years of warning?)

***
There is a curious story behind the development of the idea that grew into this book.  Recently, Doctor Travis Taylor published a book entitled An Introduction to Planetary Defense: A Study of Modern Warfare Applied to Extra-terrestrial Invasion.  I read it and – I should note – agreed with most of it, however I had one major disagreement.  Doctor Taylor insists – and in fact is quite vocal on the subject – that absolute secrecy must be maintained.  I disagree.

As a slight side experiment, consider the following thought experiment.  A crashed spacecraft has just been found on Earth, near a military base, which is pretty much what happened in the prologue.  Consider the implications, and then answer the questions below, yes or no:

Question #1: Should the public be told we have evidence of extra-terrestrial life?

Question #2: Should the public be told we have found alien bodies?

Question #3: Should the public be told we have recovered any alien technology?

Question #4: Does public knowledge create any (even minute) possible threats to national security?

Question #5: Should the incident be kept above Top Secret?  

In particular, Doctor Taylor insists that the answers to the last two questions must be ‘yes;’ the public must not know, simply because that will endanger the world.  However, the fourth question, in many ways, is misleading; it should read ‘Does public knowledge create any (even minute) possible additional threats to national security?’

The public knowing, at least in my view, does not cause any additional harm – simply because the aliens will already have a very good idea of what might have happened to their lost ship.  I find it hard to believe that any alien race we actually had to worry about would be stupid enough to just assume that the craft must have gotten lost, perhaps taken a wrong turning around Jupiter.  We have dozens of ways to track our own aircraft, from radar to IFF; is it totally impossible to assume that the aliens will know – and they will have to assume – that the craft might just have fallen into our hands?

Now what?

The aliens have not yet launched an invasion, although I do have my suspicions about my old math teacher; no one with that hairstyle could be human.  Jokes aside, I think that it is fairly safe to say that an alien invasion would be rather noticeable.  That leaves only a handful of possibilities; the aliens have decided not to tangle with us and have fled (unlikely unless they are somehow incapable of seeing the advantages of dropping rocks on us from a great height) or the aliens are still present in our Solar System, waiting.  Waiting for what?

But back to the argument at hand.  A potential threat exists.  Doctor Taylor’s arguments mean that knowledge of the aliens will remain within a very small circle.  The aliens, in the meantime, will know that we know that they exist.  Nothing significant will be done about the aliens because there is no general acceptance that preparation is required.  Just like at Pearl Harbour; before the attack there was no popular feeling that war was required, afterwards the United States was ready to go to war.  Could we survive an alien Pearl Harbour?

Result; alien victory.

***
Armed with that thought, I started to consider what might have happened if humanity had awoken to a world that had changed overnight.  How much could humanity learn from the alien craft, apart from the sheer chilling fact of its existence?  I reasoned logically that it would be years before anything significant could be found – but that would not prevent the space program of Jerry Pournelle’s wet dreams from being launched.  Armed with clear proof that the alien threat existed, President Truman would have had little difficulty in convincing the United States to head into space – and Stalin, of course, would have to keep up.  With ten-twenty years of massive investment, the curve would just continue to rise, as American corporations jumped on the bandwagon.  Within fifty years, the Solar System could be settled – and humanity would be far better prepared for an alien threat than we are today.

It was something of a surprise to me to discover that the story that was developing would fit into the Multiverse War canon.  As the story continued, it just grew; the Hive – my tribute to another great writer of science fiction – would lack the human imagination, therefore the mysterious Enemy would provide the spark they needed to wait and learn for what humans could develop, and then urge the humans to slip into war.  (The dragon, by the way, was originally intended to be a cameo from The Otherworld War, another book in the series, but reader reaction demanded that it returned.)

Heh – this book took around three weeks to write.  Enjoy – and please let me know what you think.

Christopher G. Nuttall
Edinburgh, June 2006

Appendix: The World After Roswell

In 1947, a force of American servicemen from Roswell AFB responded to a report of a crashed aircraft.  Much to their astonishment, they discovered an almond-shaped craft of unknown origin, far too close to the nuclear research facilities for comfort.  The entire site was cordoned off and thoroughly searched, revealing three bodies of clearly non-human origin.  Although there were suspicions that the craft was from Russia, the bodies dispelled that belief right from the start.

Despite a major security breach in the first hours of the investigation, the entire episode remained secret for several months, during which the newly created Investigation Committee, headed by General LeMay, examined the craft itself, the bodies, and the implications for US defence.  Their conclusions made frightening reading for President Truman; they concluded that the aliens, having been clearly attempting to observe Roswell itself, were trying to analysis US (and indeed global) defence systems.  The simple fact that the aliens had never been detected by any element of the defence network proved that they were hardly friendly.  As one civilian researcher put it, “friends don’t go spying on their neighbours defences.”

Although there was a major security blanket over the entire event, certain elements within the Soviet intelligence system were following the entire Roswell Affair quite closely.  Stalin was frankly terrified of what the unknown aliens might have in mind for the USSR, to say nothing of how far the United States might leap ahead, gaining perhaps a decisive advantage if World War Three broke out.  Certain other elements within the Soviet power structure also saw merit in cooperating with the Americans – who had helped them to win the war against Hitler – particularly as the USSR didn’t have a crashed UFO of their own.  

The diplomatic discussions between the two powers have been highly classified, but the upshot was that the United States agreed to a joint public announcement of the craft’s existence, some limited soviet participation in the investigation of the UFO and considerable cooperation on the ground.  A number of treaties governing military deployments were signed in 1948-51, limiting each side’s commitments to Europe, and restricting further clashes between the two powers.  After Stalin died of lead poisoning in 1950, cooperation blossomed to the degree of a near-alliance, although with some mutual suspicion and distrust.

The news was greeted with shock and dismay by the US public.  President Truman, to his credit, made no attempt to conceal the possible threat to the planet, in doing so alienating some members of his Party and indeed splitting the Republicans as well.  Truman announced a major scientific study of the UFO…and a crash project to develop a major US space effort.  

This led rapidly to massive investment in space and space technology, with considerable sharing of technology between the US and the USSR.  In 1953, the US orbited the first satellite, followed rapidly by the first man in space.  Although ‘Comrade Petrovich’ was Russian, the craft he flew was at least partly American technology and he was hailed as a hero in the US as well as the USSR.  By 1959, both powers were working on space stations and developing plans for lunar bases.  The launch of the first Orion spacecraft (1962) made it possible to lift far more into space; everyone had the space bug, forcing forward investment in everything from materials to computers.  

The cooperation with the Russians had a major effect on American politics.  One faction, which ended up being called the ‘American Party,’ opposed all forms of cooperation.  Their influence, more than anything else, was responsible for holding back the first orbital space station; they insisted that only Americans should man it.  Three political parties formed out of the political catfight of 1963; the Republicans, the Democrats and the Americans.  

This (naturally) had a major effect on civil rights and the black community.  The massive investment in space meant that there were fewer funds for assistance programs, forcing blacks to work or starve, but at the same time the massive boost in the economy and the continued draft for soldiers forced more racial integration on society.  The ‘black-votes’ campaigns happened, voting white control out of existence in some places, while the KKK were declared outlaws and traitors after an attack on a force of black soldiers went badly wrong.

The Lunar Treaty of 1963 made the planting of bases on the moon possible, which was achieved by an American planning force in 1967.  The Russian moonbase followed later in the same year, leading to plans for missions to Mars and Venus, both of which would be settled by both powers.  Asteroids, in contrast, belonged to whoever reached them first; America performed the first asteroid mining mission in 1975.

The period of 1980-90 was one of unhampered growth in the space industry.  US corporations were very interested in expanding into space, forming coalitions to set up more lunar bases and asteroid mining systems.  The USSR preferred to rely on state-owned companies, but the USSR’s economy benefited from space to a degree that made rocking the boat unthinkable.  Even the small ‘China Incident’ of 1980 failed to deter space exploitation, despite claims from the smaller nations that the big powers were simply ignoring them.  

Other fields of technology blossomed as well.  Japan and Britain both made major developments in computer technology (twenty-odd years ahead of our timeline) and American scientists perfected the Fission reactor in time to allow some of the smaller nations access to space.  Medical science leapt forward with space-based research, including research into diseases that were too dangerous to be permitted into Earth-based experiments.  

That period also included some newcomers to the space field.  The British Commonwealth, which had continued research into space flight in this timeline, finally made the investment to get a British presence into space.  The Japanese made a large investment themselves, along with the WEU; France and Germany pulled the rest of the non-Warsaw Pact Europe (except Britain) into a joint space program.  

Both Africa and the Middle East remain backwaters, despite the WEU space program being based in Algeria, which remains a French satellite following DeGaulle’s actions; granting Muslim equality in exchange for Algeria continuing to work within the French empire.  Israel has been investing in an off-world Jewish colony with American aid, although its position is much stronger, vis-à-vis the Arab states, in this timeline.  SPS and a far more developed nuclear industry have seriously reduced the need for oil.  The high-profile Soviet space-based intervention in Iran, after the Iranians started to fund international terrorism, forced prospective terrorists to keep their heads down.  To some extent, Mexico and the rest of Latin America are in the same boat, although American aid and investment are aiding them to climb out of the trap they dug for themselves.

China, in many ways, is the worst-off of the major nations.  Mao’s constant attacks on Stalin and the Soviet Union were annoying; the Chinese development of nuclear weapons far more serious to both superpowers.  The USSR invaded with tacit American acceptance/permission; since then northern Manchuria has remained under Soviet occupation.  In a quid pro quo, North Korea was disarmed and placed under direct Soviet control as well.  Vietnam remains split into two separate nations.

By 2000, off-world population had passed the five million mark, with major settlements all across the solar system.  All of them have a heavy military component, despite there being no sign of the aliens for fifty years, and they have a variety of different political systems.  Some are effectively independent; others are controlled from Earth.  2000 also brought new surprises as the crashed UFO finally began to reveal some of its secrets, allowing the development of new space propulsion techniques and other systems.

It was this, ironically, that started the system on the road to breakdown.  The USSR’s economy had been becoming more and more delicate for years; it was simply very inefficient.  This failure (as in our timeline) had been concealed for years; by the time anyone in power realised what was going wrong, it was too late.  The USSR didn’t have that large a military presence in Eastern Europe, but there were the ongoing costs of China and North Korea…and now the sudden need to reequip the Red Space Force with the new ships.  

Retreat?  Unthinkable.  Ask for American help?  Not bloody likely; the alliance was founded on equality.  Not build the new ships?  That might just tempt the Americans (or one of the USSR’s other enemies) to do something stupid.  So…what?

The situation, by 2009, was a tinderbox.  Only one spark was needed.