“You did, sir.”
“When did Alamo get back?”
“About twenty-five hours ago, sir, followed by four Hegemonic warships. I don’t know what the current situation is.”
“I thought I gave orders that nobody was to come after us.”
Cracking a rare smile, McCormack replied, “I thought I’d just do what you would have done in the same situation, sir.”
“You know, Lieutenant, I might get to like you after all. See you shortly. Out.”
Looking ahead, McCormack said, “Cleared for landing, Clarke. Make us proud.”
“Or at the very least, don’t make us dead,” Mortimer quipped.
Nodding, Clarke focused on the moon ahead. The approach was the worst possible combination of docking and landing he could think of. As far as he could tell, he’d just about matched speed with the target, but the spaceplane was designed to land on a runway. Anything else was going to be all but impossible. He lined up with the smoothest part of the surface he could find, knowing it would be insufficient for a normal landing, and began his run in, easing off on the throttle. Keeping his adjustments to a minimum. As he got within a half mile, he shook his head and pulled back, letting the spaceplane drift away again.
“Smart, Sub-Lieutenant,” McCormack said, approvingly. “Take your time. We’ve got plenty of fuel, and there are no bad guys in the sky at the moment. If you need to make three approaches to bring us down, do it.”
Nodding again, Clarke wiped the sweat from his forehead, focusing on the moon ahead, his universe now reduced only to a handful of readouts on the control panel, the joystick in his right hand and the throttle in his left. Nothing else mattered right now. He gently eased the spaceplane forward, softly rocking the controllers back and forth to find the right path, his eyes darting to the instruments to check course and speed.
“Landing gear deployed, and locked,” Lombardo reported, and the spaceplane immediately fell back, the drag having an instant effect, forcing Clarke to more quick adjustments to the flight path, running the throttle up again. Half a mile again, and closing fast, every feature on the moon thrown into stark relief, every crack and crater a hazard that could swallow the ship whole. The bomb was safe enough until detonation, but they had to have a working ship if they were going to escape the force of the impact. Not to mention rescue Salazar and Harper.
“Four hundred meters,” McCormack said. “Trajectory good, speed good, fuel good.”
The words washed over Clarke as he gently eased the spaceplane forward, sliding a trace to the left to line up his final approach. They were close, now, too close for a safe abort, and they only had a single chance to make this work. A proximity alert winked on, and the sweat continued to stream down his face, his eyes blank from concentration, his hands moving on instinct now, not thought, every move a potential disaster, every second getting them closer to their goal.
“One hundred meters.” McCormack reported. “Doing great, Sub-Lieutenant.”
“Stand by for landing,” Clarke said. “Any second now.”
With one final pulse of thrust, he guided the spaceplane in, the wheels bouncing on the first approach as he pulled back on the throttle, engaging the brakes with his feet, the spaceplane sliding across the surface as he struggled to reduce speed, to bring them back under control. They were running out of horizon, jagged cracks around, but the wheels slowly began to settle, the vehicle dragging to a halt.
“Engine stop!” he said, slamming a control, before slumping back in the couch. “We’re down. Don’t ask me how, and please don’t ask me to do that again.”
Clapping him on the back, McCormack said, “Great job, Sub-Lieutenant. I’d fly with you anytime.” Turning to Fox, she said, “Tactical deployment, Sergeant. We’ve got a bomb to place.”
Chapter 19
“A signal, Captain!” Bowman said, turning from the communications station. “A message from the surface, and it has the location of the wormhole entrance! They’ve done it!”
Roaring cheers rose from every station on the bridge, and Orlova shook her head in disbelief, replying, “Send the coordinates to the helm, Spaceman.” Turning to Francis, she continued, “We’ll swing around and pick up our saviors, then swing around and make for the wormhole. Quesada, do you have the course?”
The helmsman frowned, the only person on the bridge not sharing the universal elation, and said, “Wait one, Captain. I need to double-check this. I don’t quite believe the first projections.”
“Where is it, Sub-Lieutenant?” Francis asked.
Shaking his head, he replied, “Sir, could you take a look at this, please? I must be making some sort of mistake, somewhere.”
Nodding, the gray-haired officer walked over to the helm, punching in computations on the control console, glancing up at Quesada before beginning his work again, stabbing the console with greater vigor than before.
“Gentlemen, we have a date with a black hole in fifteen minutes. If we need to make a major course change, then I have to know about it at once.”
Turning to her, Francis said, “Brace yourself, Captain. The wormhole entrance is inside the Sphere. Quesada and I have both confirmed that. We’ve got the location down to within twenty meters, more than enough to fly through, but we’re going to have to get there first.”
Rising from her seat, Orlova said, “Are you sure, Lieutenant?”
“I’ve just checked again, Captain,” Quesada said, his hands dancing across the helm controls. “All confirmed. That’s where we’ve got to go. About a hundred thousand miles over the surface. I can plot a course, ma’am, but...”
“Could we use shuttles?” Scott asked. “Given a little time, we could modify them for extra passengers, maybe evacuate Alamo’s entire complement that way?” She paused, shook her head, and continued, “No, that won’t work. We’ve got no way of knowing exactly where we’re going to end up. If we’re in a frontier system, we might have to wait around for months before a ship comes our way. We’d be dead long before them.” Frowning, she said, “Don’t ask me how, ma’am, but I think we’ve got to get Alamo into the Sphere.”
“The entrance,” Quesada said. “Captain, that second entrance we found was more than large enough to fly Alamo inside.” Turning to Francis, he said, “I’m sure we could get through, and if we had sufficient speed, we’d punch right through the atmosphere in a matter of minutes.”
“And building up that much speed,” Francis replied, “would take days of constant acceleration. The Hegemonic task force would have all the time they needed to line up on us. Not to mention the current condition of the ship.”
Orlova frowned, and said, “Maybe. We’ve got the ballute to get us through the worst of it.” Walking over to Quesada, she said, “We’re configuring to use the black hole for aerobreaking. If we went a little further out, clear of the surrounding atmosphere, what about using it as a gravity assist instead. Hurl us into a slew trajectory, a high orbit, one that would take us right for the hatch.”
Quesada’s hands danced across the controls, and said, “We can do it. I think we can actually do it. The stresses on the ship will be pretty damn intense, Captain, but that will put us on a course right for the hatch with all the speed we need.” Looking down at the readouts, he continued, “Best guess has us hitting the entrance in about forty-one minutes.”
“Hitting being the operative word,” Francis said.
“We know how to open the hatch,” Scott noted. “We ought to be able to do it with a probe, configured with a manipulator arm. We’ll be close enough to operate it from Alamo. Though we’d want to launch it within the next five minutes to guarantee a safe passage.”
“If we’re off by so much as half a mile, we’re dead,” Francis warned. “No abort options. No contingency plans. We get this right, or we die.” Turning to Quesada, he asked, “Based on that, son, are you still happy to r
ecommend this?”
“What choice do we have, sir?” the helmsman asked. “Besides, Nautilus must have done it. Anything a hundred-year-old colony ship can do, so can we.”
Nodding, Orlova tapped a control on the armrest of her chair, and said, “Bridge to Engineering. Chief, I want all of your work crews to start preparing the outer hull for rapid atmospheric transit. We’re going to need the ballute, so make sure the deployment systems are functional, and fine-tune the thrusters accordingly.”
“Captain,” she replied, “I must formally protest any proposed attempt to take Alamo into an atmosphere. She’s badly damaged as it is, and I’m not sure she’ll hold through an atmospheric dive. We could tear the ship into a hundred pieces trying.”
“Not on your watch, Chief,” Orlova said with a smile.
“Warning, Captain,” Scott said. “On this course, two of the Hegemonic ships will have a chance to attack us, just as we’re beginning our approach to the Sphere. We’ll have to run the gauntlet at top speed, and we won’t be able to deploy the laser or engage in evasive maneuvers.” Looking up at a display, she added, “That will be in about seventy-three minutes from now, ma’am.”
“I thought we were going well past them, Lieutenant,” Francis replied.
“We were, sir, but this is a completely...” she paused, then said, “They knew. At least roughly, if not in detail.” Hammering a fist on her control panel, she turned to Orlova, and said, “The enemy commander knows where we’re going. Presumably knows at least vaguely where the wormhole is, and planned his attack pattern accordingly.”
“How long will we be in combat range?” Orlova asked.
“Thirty-two seconds, Captain.”
“I could try and punch us tighter around the singularity, get more speed,” Quesada said.
“Go any closer than we’re already planning, Sub-Lieutenant, and I doubt we’ll be able to climb back out again,” Francis said. He looked up at the countdown clock, and said, “We’ve got twelve minutes to make the decision, Captain.”
Orlova looked around the bridge, eager faces waiting for her to give the order, only Scott and Francis uncertain. A moment ago, they’d all been celebrating, expecting to be on their way home in a matter of hours. Knowing that they would see their loved ones once more, after all, rather than face being stranded in a hostile, alien galaxy for the rest of their lives.
And now all of that was being snatched from them.
Francis, Santiago and Scott were right. Alamo wasn’t in any real state to make this dive. She’d seen the ship pull off a maneuver like this at Jefferson, and it took weeks to repair the damage afterward. Three refits had greatly improved the ship’s structural integrity since then, learning from the lessons of that day, but the ship had been trying through Andromeda for months without a refit, was in a worse state than she was at the end of the Xandari War.
If this went wrong, they’d all die. There’d be no chance of survival, no chance of escape. The ship would be flying too fast for the escape pods and shuttles to avoid impacting the surface of the Sphere. She looked down at her console, the display showing Quesada’s plotted trajectory. Right around the black hole, but coming out at a different path than they had planned, a dotted line aiming right for the surface, right for the entry point.
Everything would have to go right for them to pull this off. Rationally, she ought to order them out now, nurse the ship back to safety, hope to break through the Hegemonic blockade to return. Though somehow, in the bottom of her heart, she knew that if they left now, they’d never come back. Either the ship would fall apart on the journey to safety, or the crew would fall apart first. They’d had a taste of hope, and that was a very dangerous drug for the desperate. Did she have the right to snatch that hope from their lips, on the verge of transiting a route back to their own galaxy? Did she have the right to order them away, knowing that if she took a vote, it would overwhelmingly favor the maneuver, no matter the risk, no matter the odds?
Ultimately, there was only one answer.
“Bowman,” she said, turning to the technician. “Connect me through to the ship.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “You’re on.”
“This is the Captain. About five minutes ago, we received a signal from our team inside the Sphere, reporting that they had found the entrance to a wormhole that will take us home to our own galaxy, to Triplanetary space. The catch, however, is that it is inside the Sphere, and will require Alamo to transit through a tunnel we have discovered, one that we believe will take us safely inside.”
“I’m not going to lie to you. This is going to push Alamo and her crew up to the limit, and beyond. I believe that we can complete the maneuver, a dive through hundreds of miles of dense atmosphere, and emerge the other end in reasonable enough condition to see us safely home. Complicating our approach, we know that the Hegemonic Fleet has anticipated our maneuver, and is preparing to throw everything they have at us on our way inside.”
“I am not unaware that we have other options, and that the risks associated with this plan are grave, to say the least. Nevertheless,” she said, looking at Francis, “I believe that there is no other choice. Our team on the Sphere has risked their lives to provide us with this information. And now that we know the entrance is there, I think we must make the attempt, even at the risk of our lives and the loss of our ship.”
“I am counting on each and every one of you to do their absolute best. With a little luck, we’ll be back among our own stars within the next couple of hours. For the present, mind your posts, and do your duty as I know you can.” Taking a deep breath, she concluded, “Battle stations.”
“All hands,” Scott said, “Battle stations. This is no drill. I repeat, this is no drill.”
“What about our people on the surface?” Scott asked. “If we send a signal now, they might be able to get into their shuttle, link up with us...”
“We daren’t risk it,” Francis said. “The enemy formation already knows too much about our plan. They’re making best-guess projections that are already too damned accurate for my liking. If we send a signal giving them our exact time and course of entry, we might end up with all of them on our backs.”
Shaking his head, Bowman said, “It wouldn’t do any good anyway, ma’am. That was an automated signal they sent, using the relay. I don’t think there’s anyone at Base Camp.”
“Then if we pass through,” Scott said, “We’re abandoning our people on the Sphere. It might be years before the Confederation sends another expedition out here. Or never.”
Nodding, Orlova said, “I’m quite certain that they’d know that, Lieutenant. Do you honestly think that any of them would choose their own lives over those of their shipmates? They knew the risk they were running, going in, and they took it anyway. Tell me. If you were in their place, what would you want us to do?”
With a miserable sigh, Scott replied, “Go home, Captain. It’s not that I disagree with you, ma’am. It just hurts like hell to leave them behind.”
“I know. I feel the same way.” A smile curled her lips, and she said, “Don’t count them out yet, though. This is Pavel and Kris we’re talking about. If there is any way for them to pull off a miracle and link up with us in time for our departure, they’ll take it. You know that.”
“Aye, ma’am.”
Looking around the bridge, she said, “Game faces on, people. The next hour is going to be critical. Everything’s got to go right. Let’s make sure that happens.” Glancing at the Sphere again, she quietly added, “A lot of good people have paid for this. We’re going to collect, for them. We’re going home.”
Chapter 20
Salazar looked at Harper, and said, “We’ve got to move. Right now.”
Hathor frowned, and replied, “They will be prepared. The enemy defenses will be stronger than they have ever been, and attempting to punch through them now...
”
“Is just about the only chance we’ve got,” he said. “Detonating that bomb is a last resort. It’s a sure thing, but we’ve both got people over there. Your entire race...”
“Better that they die quickly,” one of the others said. “If it ends the nightmare...”
“The nightmare can end!” Harper said. “It doesn’t have to end in fire. If I can link up with the AI again, I might be able to stop it. Either convince it to release your people, or distract it for long enough that you can liberate them yourselves. Five of you will die, your race ending here. If you can save a few hundred, at least it will give you a chance at genetic viability.”
Hathor looked at Salazar, and said, “If we do this, then we risk the final extinction of our race. Two of us bear the next generation in our wombs. We were created to be without genetic flaws. It is possible that we could survive, long enough for our descendants to master our genetic code and perfect any errors that creep in.” He paused, and said, “Nevertheless, we will make the attempt. Not just for ourselves, but for the sake of those who once dreamed of our creation.”
“But…,” the other humanoid said.
“I have made my decision.” Turning to Salazar, he said, “What have you in mind?”
“Harper and I return to the bank. We’ll try and liberate our crewmen as a distraction, while Harper hooks back up again. At the same time, you free as many of your people as possible from the tubes while they are dormant.”
“Most will be awake,” Hathor said. “Though I suspect that they are probably attacking your comrades with the bomb at this moment. I despair to think of the slaughter that will take place when they do, but it is the price we must pay for our survival as a race.”
Nodding, Salazar said, “We’ll never have a better chance. But we have to move now, or not at all.”
“Very well,” Hathor replied, gathering Salazar in his arms, while one of his comrades took Harper. They swept through the tunnels again, back into the open air, darkness racing towards them as the shadow squares moved ever closer, ready to black out the sun and bring artificial night. Salazar could just spot the vehicle, landed at the northern pole of the moon, a pair of long tracks where it had descended.
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