For aliens, he suspected from a later briefing paper, it would be even worse. English’s idiosyncrasies, hard enough for humans to follow, would be completely impossible for aliens to understand. Certain forms of data — mathematics, for instance — might well be universal, yet it would be very difficult to hold an open conversation with one of the aliens. And, given that the aliens lived underwater for the most part, it was unlikely that any such conversation could be held without a technological bridge being established.
“Send back our own protocol,” he ordered, “and then try to decipher their message.”
He cursed their luck under his breath. A modern carrier’s analytical staff would have been able to decipher the message, given time, but his ship carried no analysts. Hell, it would take weeks to build up a common understanding even with formal analysts. And they didn’t have time…
You’re supposed to be decisive, he reminded himself. It might well be a trap, but it seemed remarkably pointless. Luring Primrose’s fighters out of position was hardly worth the effort, not compared to the sheer level of firepower the aliens could throw at them. And this could be the chance everyone’s been waiting for.
He keyed his console. “The fighters are to engage Enemy Two,” he ordered. It was going to be bloody. He knew, far too well, just how many point defence weapons an enemy starship carried. “Enemy One is to be watched, but not engaged unless she does something threatening.”
“Aye, sir,” the CAG said. “Fighters on their way.”
He sounded surprised. Tom didn’t blame him. If it was a trap, he was giving Enemy One a free shot at his hull. Not, he had to admit, that the aliens needed it. They had to know he couldn’t avoid engagement, not if they chose to press the issue. He gritted his teeth again, feeling pain shooting through his gums, then forced himself to relax. They were committed now.
“Enemy Two is closing into engagement range of Enemy One,” the tactical officer warned. “I think they’re locking weapons on her hull.”
Tom found himself praying for the first time in a very long life. His forces were closing in on Enemy Two, but she had enough weapons to hammer Enemy One and fend off his starfighters at the same time. It was going to turn into a nightmare, he realised grimly; he didn’t dare risk taking Primrose closer to either ship. The starfighters would have to hold the enemy ship off on their own.
At least they don’t seem to have missiles, he told himself. They don’t seem to have any long-range weapons at all. Why not? They’re well within their capabilities.
“Shit,” the tactical officer breathed. “Enemy Two has opened fire; Enemy One is returning fire.”
Tom sucked in his breath. The two ships were throwing blasts of plasma at each other, each blast capable of doing real damage to his ship if they struck home. The aliens didn’t seem to have superior armour, he realised numbly; they were inflicting horrific damage on one another, even if they weren’t using the super-cannons some of their frigates carried. But then, if the analysts were correct, those weapons had a very limited range and nothing else.
“Interesting,” the tactical officer mused. “Their plasma blasts seem to be deteriorating as they reach their hulls. Some form of countermeasure?”
“Unknown,” Tom said. It didn’t seem to matter. The aliens were still taking a beating. “But if they have a way of breaking up the plasma containment field before it reaches its target, I want to know how they do it.”
On the display, his starfighters were closing in on Enemy Two. The alien didn’t bother to wait for them to get into attack range before opening fire, spewing out countless bursts of plasma weapons fire towards them. Tom winced as two of his fighters vanished in flashes of light, their comrades ignoring the losses and diving into engagement range.
“Picking up a second message from Enemy One,” the tactical officer snapped. Red lights flared up on the display as he spoke. “She’s sending us a shitload of data.”
“Store it in a secure dump,” Tom snapped. Trying to sneak viruses or malware into the enemy’s computer systems was a well-known trick and, if nothing else, Ark Royal’s last operation had proved that some human and alien systems could be spliced together. Hell, the aliens had certainly captured enough human computers to work out plenty of ways to slip unwanted programs into their systems. “And then…”
He broke off as the display changed. Enemy One seemed to stagger, then blew apart into a colossal fireball. Moments later, Enemy Two altered course and started heading back towards Tramline Four, rather than attempting to engage Primrose. Tom watched her go, shrugging off the attempts by his starfighters to slow her down, then sighed bitterly. Whatever Enemy One had in mind, it was lost forever now… along with the enemy ship itself. Unless, of course, the final desperate message could be deciphered…
“Recall the fighters,” he ordered. It didn’t look as though they were going to succeed in taking down the battlecruiser and he’d already lost seven starfighters in the attempt. “And then send the Admiral a complete update. Tell him that we will return to Target One at best possible speed.”
He sat back in his chair, then pulled up the records from the engagement and started to go through them, one by one. The Admiral might be understanding, but he knew what the REMFs on Earth would do when they saw the records. They’d probably accuse him of failing to protect Enemy One, even though there had been no way to know that Enemy One might be friendly. The only real proof they had was the simple fact that one enemy ship had fired on another… and blown her into flaming debris. Offhand, Tom couldn’t think of a realistic situation where the Royal Navy would sacrifice a modern ship just to bait a trap.
But these guys are alien, he thought. If there were human cultures that were downright weird to his eyes, how weirder might an alien culture be? There were human societies that thought nothing of placing form over substance, men over women or even vice versa. They might have a different idea of what constitutes acceptable losses than we do.
It was a worrying thought. Losing Roosevelt alone had dented the Admiral’s fleet quite badly, even though most of her starfighters had survived. She was only an acceptable loss if they inflicted comparable — proportional — damage on the alien fleet. And there was no way to know if they’d done that… or if the aliens could absorb all the losses they’d taken so far without wincing.
The Admiral will be the one to decide what to do, he thought, finally. All I can do is keep my ship ready for operations.
“Keep a sharp eye on the data,” he added. “If they did try to sneak programs into our computers, I want to know about it before they can do any real damage.”
“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said. There would be no argument, not when the dangers were all too clear. “I won’t do anything with the data until we get it to the fleet.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“You know,” Charles remarked, “this is really very creepy.”
The Rhino snorted. “You wouldn’t be one of those people who think that dolphins are actually intelligent?”