Chapter 23 - Alien: Colony War

Augustus Trent stood on the bridge of HMS God’s Hammer and appraised the ship filling the frigate’s viewscreen. USC Cronulla, a Bougainville Class Attack Transport. An updated, more compact version of the old Conestoga frigate, the design on which his own ship was based.

It was three hundred meters from hammerhead bow to stern, compared to God’s Hammer’s five hundred. The new model was meant to be more maneuverable. Lighter, and faster at sub-light speeds. The United States Colonial Marine Corps could keep it, Trent decided. He was happier with the heft and weight of the older model, was used to the old girl. There’d been talk of upgrading the entire Royal Marine fleet, but Trent couldn’t see it happening any time soon.

Rubbing his hands together, he instructed the bosun to hail the Cronulla. It had been a long time since he’d had that tingling at the back of his neck, that fluttering in his chest, that stirring in his loins. Like God’s Hammer, Augustus Trent was built for war. Far too much time had passed since either of them had served their purpose properly.

The bosun turned to him. “Captain Trent, sir, channel opened with the Cronulla. Do you wish to begin comms?”

“Aye, bosun,” Trent said, and he nodded. Let the dog see the rabbit, as his old grandad used to say.

Trent straightened up and waited for the connection with the warship to fizz into life. The picture was staticky around the edges, but showed the Cronulla’s skipper well enough: a broad African American, name of Weems. Trent knew him, of course—all the frigate captains from the various factions knew each other personally, or at least by reputation.

“Well, well, well, Augustus Trent,” Weems said, smiling broadly. “I thought I’d heard tell you’d retired, or maybe that they’d given you a cruise liner to captain.”

Trent smiled thinly. He wouldn’t let Weems’ needling affect him, at least not outwardly. There had been a Trent at Trafalgar, at Goose Green in the Falklands, at the battle of Panama, at Australia. He felt the weight of all their ghosts on his shoulder, shaking their heads at the way the Royal Marines had been emasculated by the Three World Empire and their aversion to committing to any conflict.

That was why he had thrown the lot of God’s Hammer with New Albion. Had the 3WE instructed him to attack New Albion for its secession, he would have been happy to do so. But they hadn’t. So after discussion with his crew, Trent had put their money on a horse that might not necessarily win, but would give them the opportunity for a good scrap.

“No, George, still here,” he said with a smile, “on the bridge of the finest frigate in the Weyland Isles.”

“I suppose even a toothless bulldog is still of use to somebody,” Weems said with a shrug. Trent bristled, but didn’t rise to it. Weems continued, “So what brings you out here, Augustus?”

“Just doing our duty, George. You appear to have accidentally found yourself in the airspace of LV-187, which I’m sure you’ve heard is now under the jurisdiction of New Albion.”

Weems sat back in his chair. “And the Three World Empire has sent you to… what? Slap down the handful of New Albion traders who’ve flown a flag down there? I suppose it’s less worrisome than taking on New Albion itself.”

“You’ve got it all wrong, George,” Trent said pleasantly. “God’s Hammer doesn’t serve the Three World Empire any longer. She’s in the service of New Albion, and we are here to respectfully ask you to depart the airspace of LV-187.”

“Are you serious?” Weems leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “You’ve deserted?”

“Switched allegiance, I prefer.” Trent waited a beat, and said, “You here on United Americas business? What’s their interest in this?”

“We’re more of a…” Weems said slowly, “research expedition.”

“For Weyland-Yutani, then.”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Trent considered this. If Weyland-Yutani had an interest in LV-187, what was down there? Everyone knew they were ramping up their bioweapon research. Black goo? he wondered. But they were a long way from where the border bombings were supposed to be happening.

“Have you got a landing party down there?”

“One Cheyenne,” Weems said. He seemed to be weighing up what Trent had just told him. “We dropped them in the middle of a storm. Not even sure they made it in one piece, since all comms were down, but we’re expecting them back in the next few hours, if the conditions improve.”

Trent ran his thumb along the scar on his face, as he always did when he was thinking.

“Captain Weems,” he said, adopting a more formal tone, “I am going to do you the courtesy of giving you one hour to vacate New Albion airspace and depart peacefully. After that I’m afraid I cannot guarantee the safety of you and your crew.”

Weems frowned. “I just told you, Augustus. I’ve got a party down there. They couldn’t make it back up here in an hour, even if I was going to take your threats seriously.”

“They are trespassing on New Albion territory, in contravention of a no-fly order that covers all the colony’s extended airspace. They’ll be apprehended and treated with the full courtesies. One hour, George.”

“Jesus Christ, Augustus,” Weems said. “Are you serious?”

“Blasphemy won’t help your cause now, Captain Weems.” Trent’s eyes narrowed. “I suggest instead you make your peace with God.” He nodded at the bosun, who killed the connection.

* * *

Pastor Donald led the crew in a rousing rendition of “I Vow To Thee My Country,” then read to them from Jeremiah 31.

“The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah.” Captain Trent had handpicked every man and woman who served on God’s Hammer, and only those with the staunchest church values passed muster.

“It will not be like the covenant I made with their ancestors when I took them by the hand to lead them out of the land of Egypt—a covenant that they broke, though I was their husband, says the Lord.”

If a man did not follow God blindly and unquestioningly, how could he be expected to follow orders? That was Trent’s reasoning. Show him a man who had devoted his life to God, and he would give you a man who would die for his country.

“But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says the Lord: I will put my law within them, and I will be their God, and they shall be my people,” the pastor continued. “No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, ‘Know the Lord,’ for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the Lord; for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more. Amen.”

“Amen,” the crew said in unison, gathered on the bridge. Trent stepped forward to address them.

“We do not hate our enemy, we respect him,” Trent said loudly, eyeing each of his crew in turn, “but we know that he has wandered from the true path. They have been seduced by Mammon and by Satan and by a host of devils who present to them riches and show them false masters to serve.”

Trent paced a little. “Just as God did with the Israelites, we shall forgive their iniquity, and we will remember their sins no more. Instead we shall sing a lament for them and guide their souls to heaven.” He stopped and looked at the large monitor on which the USC Cronulla floated in space, framed by the grey globe of LV-187. “When God’s Hammer strikes, Heaven itself trembles in anticipation. Let us strike, brethren. Let us strike at last, after far too long in abeyance. No longer on the sidelines or in the shadows.” Trent walked to the monitor and stood before it, silhouetted against the image of the Cronulla. “Let the fires of Heaven rain down on those who would defy us.”

A huge cheer rose up from the crew and they scattered to their stations, as Trent turned and beheld his enemy, and touched the peak of his cap out of respect.

* * *

The newer Bougainville class transports such as the Cronulla had, in Trent’s opinion, sacrificed one major specification that he would not have lost from his ship for any amount of maneuverability or quicker acceleration to faster-than-light velocity. A double-length cargo hold. In the case of God’s Hammer, that had been converted into a secondary flight-deck—but not for dropships.

This was for Angels. They were called Uriel, Raguel, Sarieli, and Remiel, and they were highly modified Alphatec EVAC-3 Series fighters, flown by the best and most fearless pilots under Trent’s command.

The aft deck doors opened and, one by one, the EVACs roared out, glinting silver in the starlight and executing tight turns to fly over God’s Hammer in their traditional 1-2-1 formation. Draw a line from front-to-back and side-to-side between them, he knew, and you would have a crucifix, shining with divine, pure fire. Trent always felt almost envious of his enemies, to be on the receiving end of his Angels bearing down upon them.

What a sight it must be to behold.

He stood, hands folded loosely behind his back, watching on the monitor as the Angels flew into view, the Cronulla in their sights.

Trent knew full well the Cronulla’s firepower capabilities. Thus, as soon as the Angels were in range they would employ the laser array on the medium railgun turret. The ship was also armed with Short Lance missiles, but only eight of them—unless Weems had seen fit to put more in the cargo hold. It rather depended on what he was expecting to pick up on LV-187.

Of course, like all vessels of its class, the Cronulla was carrying ten tactical nukes. One of them could take out God’s Hammer, but that was what the Angels were for. To harry the enemy, draw its fire, exhaust its armaments, and make sure that in the unlikely event that nukes were deployed, they could be destroyed before they reached their target.

As soon as they were within range, Raguel and Sariel peeled off from the formation, describing wide arcs and zeroing in on the Cronulla from port and starboard. Uriel and Remiel shifted to fly straight for the ship, one above the other. There was a moment’s hesitation, and then the laser array on the stern of the enemy ship burst into life.

Trent smiled. It had begun.

His ideal resolution would be for the Cronulla to hail them and offer their surrender. He had no real desire to see Weems dead, nor any of his eight crew and, potentially, the forty troops the ship had capacity to carry. Though if this was a Weyland-Yutani mission rather than a United Americas one, it was possible the Colonial Marine contingent was not at full power.

He knew Weems of old, though, and doubted he would wave the white flag. The man would believe in the superiority of the Bougainville over the Conestoga, purely because it was new. Trent was more traditional, and believed that if something wasn’t broken, there was no need to fix it. God’s Hammer certainly wasn’t broken. Rather, it was the one that did the breaking.

Trent thought it was about time for Weems to deploy his Short Lances, and right on cue one fired from the turret, locked onto Uriel’s tail. But Uriel was too nimble and the pilot too experienced. He executed a complicated, twisting, Möbius strip of a maneuver that had the entire bridge cheering in admiration and the Short Lance missile flummoxed, its onboard computer momentarily dizzy enough for Sariel to blow it out of the sky.

Weems’s gunners finally started to get their shit together, as they coordinated the laser array with more Short Lance deployments. Remiel narrowly avoided taking a hit that would have blown the EVAC to smithereens, and the crew on God’s Hammer held its collective breath. Trent’s lieutenant tapped him on the shoulder and told him that they were in range. Their own Short Lances were trained on the Cronulla and ready to fire.

The Angels adopted their crucifix formation again and barreled toward the Cronulla, the two wing-ships laying down covering fire while the central two let loose their own short-range missiles. Moments later, they arced up and away from the frigate as their bombs hit home in the gunner turret. The laser array was down. The Angels pulled back and settled into a holding pattern between God’s Hammer and the Cronulla.

“Get me Captain Weems,” Trent said.

The Weems who appeared on the screen wasn’t the wryly smiling man of earlier. He was sweating and harassed and glared at Trent with unbridled fury.

“You won’t get away with this, Augustus! This is a crime, do you hear me? A crime. They’ll hang you out to dry.”

“It is not a crime,” Trent said. “It is an act of war, and believe me, George, there is going to be more of this. The colonies are a tinder box and the flame is being touched to the fuse all across the galaxy. This is just the opening salvo. The first battle in a long, long war to come.” He paused. “You can live to fight another day if you depart now.”

Weems bit his lip and looked off camera, presumably to his subordinates, then turned back to Trent, steel in his eyes. Trent admired that. He would have lost a lot of respect for George Weems had he turned tail and run.

“We’re going nowhere, Captain Trent.”

“Then may God have mercy on your souls, Captain Weems. We shall say a prayer for you and your crew.” Weems looked about to say something, but apparently decided against it, and gave Trent a salute.

“There’ll be hell to pay for this, Augustus.”

“God’s Hammer is more than a match for every demon there, George,” Trent said, then he signaled for the feed to be killed. “Lieutenant Mackenzie!” he called. “Fire when ready.”

“Yes, sir, Captain Trent!” Mackenzie replied.

Trent watched as the monitor showed the Cronulla again, and then moments later four of God’s Hammer’s Short Lances powering toward it. He waited until they hit, and his face was momentarily painted orange by the brief explosion on the screen. Then he closed his eyes as the crippled Cronulla listed and began to fall toward LV-187, flaring into fire as the oxygen in the upper atmosphere fed the conflagration on the ship.

Just as he’d promised, he said a prayer for his fallen enemies.