Battlecruiser Alamo_Cries in the Dark

by Richard Tongue

   She looked up at the sensor display, watched the missiles tracking towards them, their retaliatory salvo moving to intercept. The enemy cruisers were veering off now, dangerously close to the Sphere themselves, struggling to climb onto an escape trajectory before it was too late. They’d play no further part in the battle. Only the missiles mattered now, closing by the second.

   The screen flashed, the missiles slamming into each other in a brief orgy of mutual destruction. For a second, it was clear, and Orlova allowed herself a smile for an instant, hoping that Scott had taken down all the incoming warheads, but one remained, flying through the debris fog. The point-defense cannons rhythmically pounded away, Scott frantically working her controls in a desperate bid to accomplish the impossible, to get another missile up before the enemy warhead could find its target.

   She failed. It did.

   With the all-too-familiar sound of grinding metal, the missile slammed into Alamo’s hull, catching it astern, and Orlova frantically jammed her hands on the thruster controls to hold the ship on course, compensating for the impact as best she could, sirens wailing all around. A loud report echoed from the hull, and she looked across at the engineering console with alarm, thinking that she was about to lead her ship to destruction, before belatedly realizing it was only the ballute, deploying as he had ordered, ready to shield them on their path through the tunnel.

   “Damage report,” Francis barked.

   “Primary sensor controls, port side, astern,” Fitzroy replied. “Compensating with backup systems, but we’ve lost most of our resolution in that quarter. We’ve also got four hull breaches in that area, all on compartments that have been evacuated, but the structure in that part of the ship will be ripped to pieces when we hit the atmosphere.”

   “Keep it together, Spaceman,” Orlova said, making one quick, final adjustment before Alamo dived into the tunnel. Fifty miles. A handful of seconds. No time for any further correction, no time for any changes, and no time to even realize that anything was wrong. The ship began to shudder as it hit the outer limits of the Sphere’s atmosphere, sliding smoothing into the tunnel, the ballute beginning to heat as the friction built up by the second.

   “We’re through!” Scott said. “We’re inside the Sphere!”

   “Altitude, five hundred meters, rising,” Bowman added. “Speed falling fast, ma’am.”

   Nodding, Orlova pushed the engines to full power, then cut in every override she could think of to supply more power to the helm, heedless of the array of amber lights that winked onto the panel as she worked. Her hands moved from one control to another, struggling to keep the systems in balance. If one engine failed, they’d never have enough thrust to reach the wormhole, and already their speed was falling fast.

   “Find that wormhole,” she said, glancing back at Bowman, the technician already peering at his screens. “I need a course, and I need it now!”

   “Picking up gravitational interference, Captain,” he replied. “It’s here. About twenty-one thousand miles up. We’ve got to swing past a couple of moons on the way, altitude about a thousand miles.” He frowned, looked at his readouts again, and added, “One of them’s climbing fast. It’s almost as though they’re trying for an intercept course. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

   “That’s a phrase we’ve been using too often lately,” Scott said. “I’ll be happy to see nice, boring stars again.”

   “Outer hull temperature is rising, Captain,” Fitzroy reported. “Climbing fast. The ballute’s almost gone, and we’re getting burn-through in several areas of the ship, forward. Laser cannon disabled, at a guess permanently.”

   “Nothing we didn’t expect,” she replied. “Give me an altitude reading.”

   “One hundred and five miles, still slowing,” Bowman said. “We’ve lost a lot of the speed we started with, and we’re slowing by the moment. I’m not sure we’re going to make it.”

   Snapping a control, she said, “Orlova to Santiago. Chief, I need all power to the engines, and I mean all. Just keep the sensors running for the wormhole sweep. Switch over everything else.”

   “We’ll burn out every relay junction on the ship if I do that, Captain!”

   “We’ll crash into the surface if you don’t, Chief. Which do you think will be easier to fix?”

   There was a brief pause, and the resentful engineer said, “Initiating power transfer, but I don’t think it’ll hold for very long.”

   “It doesn’t have to. One more push, and we’re home.” She looked down at her controls again, a sea of red lights winking on and off, and a surge of power raced into the engines, giving them greater acceleration once more. The atmosphere was slowing beginning to thin, and she looked across at Scott, and said, “Deploy the radiators.”

   “Are you crazy? They won’t last two minutes!”

   “No, but while they do, they’ll give us lift. Do it!”

   “Two hundred and one miles, climbing. Speed leveling off,” Bowman reported. “That moon is still rising, ma’am. She’s matching our course.”

   Ballard, at the communications station, started to play with the controls, running up and down the frequencies, before saying, “I’ve got a signal! From our people, and they’re on that moon up ahead.” She paused, then said, “I have Lieutenant Lombardo for you!”

   “Lieutenant,” Orlova said, her eyes locked on the helm. “Report.”

   “You’ve got a clear path all the way to the wormhole, ma’am. If you send us your course trajectory, we’ll try and catch up to you.” There was a brief crackle of static, and he added, “...got the Monitor survivors on board. Seventeen in all. The rest are dead, I’m afraid, ma’am, but we’ve got everyone on board except Captain Salazar and Lieutenant Harper.”

   “Lieutenant,” Scott said, “I’ve run the numbers, and if you can launch within the next hundred and ten seconds, you’ve got an excellent chance of making it back to Alamo. Any later, and you’re almost certainly stock on the moon. I recommend you launch at once.”

   “A hundred and ten seconds?” Lombardo replied. “We’re going to give Pavel and Kris as many of those as we can. They’re the whole reason we got this far.”

   Alamo rocked to the side, the lights flickering, and the channel died as a power relay failed, Fitzroy’s hands dancing across the engineering station as he struggled to keep the ship moving, to keep the power flowing where it needed.

   “What happened?” Orlova asked.

   “Structural integrity failure, aft crew quarters. Three whole decks are open to space. No casualties reported, but the whole area’s gone, ma’am.”

   “All hands to emergency shelters,” Orlova ordered. “I want everyone as close to the core of the ship as possible, regardless of their duty. Alamo will have to run itself for the next few minutes. And that order includes everyone on the bridge other than myself.”

   “I’ll have to stay, ma’am,” Fitzroy added. “If I leave, even for a second, the power system will fail. I’m having to reroute systems manually as they fail, and we’re losing the whole network a piece at a time.”

   “Hold it together, Spaceman,” Orlova said. “The rest of you, clear the bridge. Bowman, transfer sensor controls to my station. I’ll have to do the fine-tuning myself.” Glancing to the rear, she added, “Go on, get out of here! That’s an order!” The ship rocked again, and she adjusted the course, trying to gain every scrap of speed and altitude, nursing the wounded Alamo out of the denser layers of the atmosphere. Behind her, the crew logged off their stations, switching them over to automatic control, and filed off the bridge, Scott pausing at the threshold of the elevator for a moment before Francis shook his head, ushering her inside.

   “Secondary relay is gone, ma’am!” Fitzroy said, the lights flickering. “I don’t know how much more of this the ship can take! Outer hull temperature is way past design limits and still rising. We’re getting burn-through in a hun
dred points.”

   “Hold it together!” Orlova repeated. “We’re almost there!”

   “I’ll try, ma’am.”

   “I’ve got it!” she said. “Confirmed course lock on the wormhole. Eight minutes to altitude.”  Fitzroy glanced across at the readouts, and said. “If we miss, we’ll never have enough power for escape velocity.”

   “Guess I’d better not miss, then.”

  Chapter 26

   “It is done,” the girl said, walking back into the apartment, a beaming smile on her face. “The humanoids and the crew of Monitor are free, and have already left the moonlet. Only your Pavel remains.” Shaking her head, she replied, “I don’t think he will leave without you. Perhaps I should bring him into the system, to join us in our dance through eternity.”

   “Can you find a way to make him leave with the others?” she asked.

   “Perhaps.” She swept a hand across the wall, and a view of Alamo appeared, a trail of fire burning from it, miles long, black smoke all around. “Your friends are daring much in their quest to get home. They have a chance of making it. Not a good one. But a chance.”

   “They’ll take it, and I know they’ll make it,” Harper replied.

   Nodding, the girl said, “You want to go home, as well. You do not need to reply. I can see it in your face, in your heart. All that is you is now a part of me, remember. So I do know a way to make Pavel leave, and to give your friends on Alamo the best chance they can. I will release you.”

   Harper stepped forward, and said, “I will stay.”

   “You will.” The girl snapped her fingers, and a duplicate of Harper appeared beside her, fading into existence. “Remember that I have copied your consciousness, stored away in the databanks. I have my companion, and you have yours.” Stepping forward, she continued, “I will never forget you. Maybe you’ve shown me something I have forgotten, and maybe you have given me something that I need. For now, though, you need to go. Your people are waiting on the surface.” A soft smile danced across her face, and she added, “It seems that you and Pavel are needed by your friends more than I, but never forget, that you will live on here, by my side, when the galaxies are but a forgotten memory in the distant past.”

   Harper’s eyes snapped open, the cables releasing her from her grasp, and she collapsed forward into the arms of Salazar, waiting for her in the storage room. She looked back at the nest of wires from which she had emerged, dropping away to the floor, and shook her head in wonder at what had happened.

   “We’ve got to go,” she said, looking up at Salazar. “We’ve got to go now. Alamo’s on the way up, and the shuttle is waiting for us on the surface.”

   “No argument here,” Salazar replied, and the two of them ran, the moonlet vibrating all around them, dust and debris raining down from the ceiling, gaping cracks appearing in the walls. “This place is falling to bits! Is the AI planning to self-destruct?”

   Shaking her head, Harper sprinted faster, racing down the corridors, somehow knowing the best way to get back to the surface, and replied, “It doesn’t need this place, not now it has released the Angels. It’s got cores scattered all across the Sphere.” Turning to him, she added, “It’s trying to keep pace with Alamo.”

   “Why?” he asked. “If it’s planning to try a collision course, then we’ve...”

   “No, no,” she replied, shaking her head, the two of them turning a corner to a long, jagged tunnel, rocky projections erupting from the floor. “That’s not it at all. She’s trying to help us. Giving us every chance she can to let us get back to the ship. The faster we’re moving, the easier it will be to intercept, even if it means this moon collapses to rubble in the process.”

   An earth-shattering crack came from underneath them, and the moonlet lurched to the right, sending the two of them slamming into the wall, briefly knocking the breath from Harper’s body. Not waiting for an argument, Salazar grabbed her, pulled her free of the rocks, and raced on, her legs struggling to keep pace.

   “I haven’t waited around this damn long to lose you now!” he yelled. “Either we both make it out of here, or neither of us do!”

   The shaft was up ahead, the cable still attached, wildly dangling back and forth as the moonlet shook itself to pieces all around them. Harper leapt for the cable, snatching at it with her hands, and started to drag herself up, hand over hand, struggling for the surface. Salazar followed a heartbeat behind, the belay creaking and groaning from the weight, threatening to collapse completely. A hand reached down to Harper, and she looked up to see Lombardo, dragging her to the surface, placing her carefully by the shaft as he stretched down towards Salazar.

   “Come on! We’ve got about twenty seconds to get out of here! Alamo’s on the way, and the shuttle’s cleared for launch!”

   The three of them sped across the rough terrain, Fox waiting at the hatch, gesturing for them to hurry, steam already rising from the jets as the pilot prepared for liftoff. Lombardo was first inside, passing through the hatch with a single bound, and Salazar next, waiting at the threshold for Harper, who glanced back for a split second, taking a last look at the crumbling moonlet.

   “Come on!” Lombardo yelled, and she stepped inside as the door locked too, Salazar sprinting for the cockpit, the engines already roaring to hurl them into the sky. Harper followed, sitting at a station beside Mortimer, the two of them running through a quick launch sequence. On the viewscreen, she could see Alamo, a burning bolt racing into the sky.

   “Full thrust,” Salazar said, sliding into the co-pilot’s seat. “What the hell is this thing?”

   “Wrecked the shuttle, sir,” Clarke said. “I had to pick up a rental. We’re three seconds late, sir, but I’m giving it everything she’s got.” Turning to Harper, he asked, “Can you try and get Alamo, ma’am? If they’ll trim their course a little, I think we can make it.”

   Nodding, she tapped a control, and said, “Harper to Alamo, Harper to Alamo, come in, please. Harper to Alamo, Harper to Alamo, come in, please.”

   “Alamo here,” the harried voice of Fitzroy replied. “I know what you’re going to ask, Lieutenant, but there’s nothing we can do for you up here. We’re struggling to hold course as it is. If we cut the engines, we’ll never get them restarted.” He paused, then added, “All elevator airlocks are open. Pick whichever you want. There’s a skeleton crew standing by in the hangar deck for you.”

   “Roger, Alamo, and thank you,” Harper said.

   “John,” Salazar said.

   “I heard him,” the young man replied, straining over the controls. “See if you can trim out the power feed, Skipper. The controls are labeled. It isn’t that different from a standard shuttle.”

   “On it,” Salazar said. Harper turned to look at the screen, the shuttle smashing through the thin, tenuous clouds of the upper atmosphere, straining for all the acceleration it could muster. She could see their goal, see Alamo, moving up to meet them, Clarke struggling to guide the shuttle into an intercept course. She looked across at Mortimer, tracking Alamo, and the dotted line of the shuttle’s trajectory was finally sliding into place.

   “Fuel down to ten percent,” Salazar said. “You’re only going to get one chance at this, John. Make it count.”

   “Aye, sir,” he said. “I’m coming in hot. We’ll probably wreck the ship and the airlock doing it, but whatever it takes, I’m going to bring her in.”

   “Just once,” Mortimer said, “just once, I’d like to step on a shuttle with you and know that we’re not going to end up with a pile of debris at the end.”

   “Any landing you can walk away from,” Clarke said, his face a mask of concentration. Alamo was growing larger in the screen by the second, the familiar lines of their ship visible through the thinning halo of fire that surrounded it. The air was thinning out now, progress easier than before, but Harper’s face fell as she saw the condition of the weary battlecruiser, burned and
pitted, breaches all along the side of the ship, sensor relays melted and torn.

   “She’ll get us home,” Salazar said. “Thirty seconds to landing. I hope.”

   “I’m going for Airlock Two,” Clarke said. “Right down the middle.”

   “Two percent fuel,” Salazar said. “More than enough.”

   “Might even have a little left at the ending,” Clarke said. Harper looked across at the sensors, then at the ship growing larger, ever larger. She could make out the hatch now, inviting them inside, and with a last effort, as the shuttle’s engines failed, they slid inside, the ruined mechanism somehow bursting into life to close the aft hatch behind them.

   The shuttle slammed into the wall, a horrible crunching noise as the hull ruptured, and the elevator mechanism groaned to a halt. The upper hatch opened, and a second later, a dull whining noise came from the roof, laser cutters working to free them from the ruined shuttle, the metal melting red where the deck gang labored to cut them out.

   “What a mess,” Kowalski said, kicking the hull clear. A ladder dropped down beside him, and he said, “Sickbay’s waiting for you, and I’ve got an elevator on standby for the bridge. Captain Orlova’s ordered the crew to the storm shelters. Me and Murdoch are the only ones left this close to the hull, and I don’t like the noises it’s making.”

   Harper reached for the ladder, pulling herself up, and said, “Hot in here, Chief.”

   “Outer hull topped out at a thousand degrees. She’s not meant to take anything like that sort of heat, Lieutenant. I don’t know how much more of this she can take.”

   “She’ll hold together,” Salazar said, next up the ladder. “Lombardo, you’d better find Chief Santiago. If the rest of the ship looks like this, my guess is she’s going to need all the help she can get. Clarke, take charge of the Monitor survivors and get them to Sickbay on the double.” The hull creaked as they climbed to the deck, and one look at the inner hull convinced them to race for the elevator, the door waiting and ready for them.