Chapter 4
“Primary systems coming back on-line,” Erickson said, breathing a sigh of relief as the telltales on her panel winked from red to amber, the damage control teams responding one after another as they frantically worked to repair the power linkages. “Defense systems and helm control should be back.”
“Confirmed,” Foster said, nodding in satisfaction. “Returning to random walk.”
“Laser charge cycle resumed,” Cantrell added. “Foster, in about ten seconds I'm going to have power for a shot.”
“I'll see what I can do, ma'am.”
“The shuttle, Spinelli?” Orlova asked.
Shaking his head, the sensor technician replied, “I lost it just as it was going around the curve of the planet, ma'am, but it was on an uncontrolled re-entry path, and had sustained a lot of damage.”
“I'm not getting her beacon, ma'am,” Weitzman added.
Turning wordlessly to the holotable, Orlova looked at the strategic overview. Salazar had done wonders in drawing the enemy fire for the crucial minutes they had needed to restore Alamo's systems. Now they were well past closest approach, the two ships moving away before a later rendezvous, the enemy vessel gathering speed to delay the second battle, fighting to buy time.
“Foster, change course. Slow the ship. I want a longer firing window.”
Snapping her head back for a second, the anxiety showing in her eyes, she replied, “Aye, ma'am.”
“Is that wise?” Nelyubov whispered. “There'll be another time.”
“Line her up, Foster!” Cantrell yelled, and Alamo swung around, the thrusters responding to her gentle touch, the ship running on a smooth arc that lined her up with the enemy battlecruiser, a brief pulse of energy slamming through space, cutting a long swathe of black death across the not-man hull. Nodding with satisfaction, Cantrell said, “Missiles ready to launch.”
“Right now, we're winning,” Orlova said. “We're going to press that advantage now and finish them off. If we let them go, they'll have a chance to repair the damage, and with the facilities they have here, they'll be back to fighting condition before we are.” Turning to Cantrell, she ordered, “Fire.”
Six more missiles sped from Alamo's launch bays, running back towards the enemy vessel, parallel trajectories to cause maximum damage on impact. As she watched, four more trajectory tracks flashed into view, a limited retaliatory strike that demonstrated the carnage she had already wrought on the enemy. At a nod to Cantrell, four of Alamo's salvo turned, ranging towards the incoming attack wave, canceling them out to the advantage of the Triplanetary ship.
“We'll get one more good shot with the laser, ma'am, and one more salvo,” Cantrell said.
“Make them count, Lieutenant. I want that damn bastard out of my sky.”
Nelyubov looked down at his panel, his face stoic as he flashed through the casualty and damage reports as they streamed in. One glance told Orlova that the news was grave. She looked back at the holodisplay, the damage to Alamo's hull clearly visible, air leaks from a hundred hull breaches, fires raging across the lower habitation levels, storage modules exposed to space, sensor relays damaged beyond repair. Despite all of that, the ship was still flying, and fighting.
“Final salvo away,” Cantrell said, as the previous wave of missiles made contact with their enemy counterparts, two of them remaining to crash into the side of the not-man vessel, a chunk of the hull armor smashed to pieces, exposing a hive of compartments underneath. The image briefly magnified, and she could see bodies drifting out into space, crewmen who would have been killed before they knew what had happened.
“Weitzman, any signal from the enemy craft?”
“Not a thing, ma'am, not to us. Some signals down to the surface.”
“Offer them a chance to surrender.”
“Aye, ma'am,” the technician replied, beginning his hopeless errand. Foster swung the ship around with the laser, one more pulse that slammed into the rear section, destroying the primary engines and sending the ship spiraling out of control, the few remaining thrusters firing sporadically, brief pulses having no visible effect.
She could only imagine what the conditions were like over there, whole decks exposed to vacuum, the crew dying by the dozen from lack of air, radiation, shrapnel blasts, or a hundred other ways. If that had been a Triplanetary ship, escape pods would have long since been spilling out all around, desperate men seeking sanctuary, but the not-men never surrendered. The philosophy they lived by would not permit it, and they would rather die than show their weakness. Arrogance that was going to kill them, within a few seconds.
“No response, ma'am,” Weitzman said, with a sigh. “I know they can hear me. They're still transmitting.”
“Final salvo impact in thirty seconds, ma'am,” Cantrell said. “No response, so far.”
“Put it up on the viewscreen, Lieutenant,” she said, “Maximum magnification.”
Stepping forward to stand behind the helm, she watched the enemy ship tumbling, still proud even in its death throes, making one final attempt to steer to safety, to find refuge behind the nearest moon, her pilot frantically correcting her course. Given time, he might even have succeeded, and the ship could have fought again, but Orlova wasn't going to allow them the chance. Too many people had died already, on both sides.
Six flashes swept across the hull, and the damage to the superstructure was too great to surpass as the ship cracked in half, the two pieces tumbling into each other with an explosion that briefly flashed in the darkness, leaving a million pieces of jagged metal drifting through space. Somehow, she couldn't bring herself to celebrate, even given the circumstances. The death of any ship was a sad thing, even if belonged to the enemy.
Turning back to Nelyubov, she asked, “What's the butcher's bill, Frank?”
Taking a deep breath, he replied, “Ten dead, including Salazar and Hooke on Shuttle One.” He shook his head, and continued, “Most of them were in the Battle of Life Support, I'm afraid. Seventeen wounded, though Doctor Duquesne is about as hopeful as she ever is.” Looking up at the monitor, the tattered remains of the enemy vessel still shining on the screen, he added, “Could have been much, much worse, Captain.”
“Damage report, Erickson?”
“I'm not sure where to start, ma'am,” she replied, not looking away from her monitors. “We're in no immediate danger, though Senior Lieutenant Quinn requests that we not accelerate at any greater than one-tenth gravity until he's had a chance to inspect the superstructure. Hendecaspace drive is functional, and we've got the power network stabilized again, though only at two-thirds normal capability. I'll have a more complete list for you in a few minutes, Captain, though it could be hours for us to check everything.”
“Thanks,” she replied. “Foster, take us into stationary orbit over Target Three on the surface of the planet ahead.”
“Moon,” Powell noted.
“It's big enough for a planet, Professor. Bigger than Mars. And I don't think we're going to mix it up with the gas giant, are we?”
“No, ma'am,” he replied. “I've got crews working on the sensors, but I can give you my report on the system now, if you want it.”
“You carried on gathering data, right through the battle?” Nelyubov asked.
With a shrug, he replied, “I assumed you'd want it right away after we won.”
“I wish I'd been so certain of our victory,” Orlova replied, as Foster started to work her controls, Alamo slowly easing into the selected orbit, drifting away from her original course. She moved over to stand next to Powell, looking down at his readings.
“I'm picking up monitoring satellites at all hendecaspace points in this system, linked to Target Three down on the surface, but there was no change in transmission frequency after an initial spike on our arrival. My guess is that we're looking at an unmanned surveillance network.”
“Seems logical,” Nelyubov said.
“And extremely extensive,” Powell replied. “We're looking at a hundred and four satellites, Captain, all very carefully positioned. The maintenance requirements alone would be extraordinary.” He tapped a control, and portions of half a dozen other bodies in the system flashed green. “Point-heat sources on the surface in these locations, but no sign of transmission. Probably supply depots or secondary installations, but none of them is close enough that any ship based there could present any threat. I can't spot anything larger than a small shuttle stationed at any of them.”
“Not worth worrying about, then,” Orlova said.
“As for Target Three, that's something very interesting.” He tapped a control, and an orbital shot of the base appeared, fifteen domes connected by tunnels, surrounding a huge landing pad, littered with shuttlecraft. “My team projects a population in the thousands, Captain. A significant installation, and at a guess, the reason for the settlement of this system.” Turning to her, he continued, “I think we've found what we were looking for. The outermost limits of not-man space.”
“Why build a base down there, though? There are better sources of fuel in orbit.”
“I have no idea,” Powell replied. “Give me time, ma'am, and I'll work it out.”
“Ma'am,” Spinelli said. “I've been looking at Target Two, and I've got an identification for you. Definitely one of our ships, the MSS Daedalus. Lost in 2148, right at the start of the Interplanetary War.” Glancing across at a readout, he said, “Listed as missing in space with all hands, after being dispatched on a reconnaissance flight to the Omicron Eridani region.”
“She was a long way off course,” Orlova said, shaking her head. Looking around the room, she continued, “Your performance in the battle today was exemplary, and I mean to recommend commendations for all of you. Department heads to make any other recommendations they feel appropriate.” With a sigh, she continued, “Frank, you have the bridge. I'm going down to Sickbay, and then to Engineering.”
“Aye, ma'am,” he replied, and she started to move to the elevator.
“Wait a moment, ma'am,” Weitzman said, frowning as he adjusted his controls. “I'm picking up something.” He nodded, then continued, “It's a distress signal, ma'am. One of ours.”
“Salazar?” she replied.
“No, ma'am. It's old, very old. Martian Space Service in origin, dating back to the 2140s.” Turning to her, he said, “I have a weak visual transmission coming from Target Three.”
“It's a trick,” Nelyubov said.
“Put it on, Spaceman,” Orlova said, turning back to the viewscreen. Through a haze of static, she could make out the figure of a Neander standing in a small room, wearing plain brown fatigues, a rifle in his hand and a bloody bandage wrapped around his head. There was an incessant roar in the background that she thought was interference for a moment, before she realized it was the sound of a battle taking place, somewhere off camera. The man looked off-screen for a second, before turning back to the pickup.
“If you are a Martian vessel, or another ship associated with the Triplanetary Confederation, I urgently request your assistance. My people have been enslaved by the Xandari, and are currently in the process of overthrowing them.” A wry smile crossed his face, and he added, “Any help you could give would be greatly appreciated. Shovels and picks against guns is proving somewhat imbalanced.”
“This is the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo, Lieutenant-Captain Margaret Orlova in command,” she replied. “Who am I speaking to?”
“Lostok, Guild Leader of the Interstellar Collective. At least, I was, before I was captured. Captain, our need is grave. Are you in a position to assist us?”
“Understand my position, Lostok. I need proof that this isn't some sort of a trap.”
Nodding, the Neander replied, “I'll switch to the external pickup.” Tapping a control, Orlova saw scenes of battle raging outside, a pack of Neander charging a group of not-men, being wiped out by plasma fire before they could even get close, before an explosion enveloped the screen, the image briefly switching to static before returning to Lostok.
Looking across at Orlova, Powell said, “It's the right time of day, from what we can tell, and the weather conditions seem to match the images we took during our first pass.”
“We're telling the truth, Captain. Can you help us?”
Glancing at a frowning Nelyubov, Orlova replied, “Help is on the way, Lostok. We'll have our people on the ground in fifteen minutes. Try and clear a landing zone for them, and keep someone on this frequency to talk them in.”
With a beaming smile, Lostok replied, “My thanks, Captain. I'll be waiting for your people on the ground. Cyndar out.”
“Captain,” Nelyubov said, “You should know that three of the dead were Espatiers. Five of the wounded. They just fought a major battle...”
“I know,” she said, tapping a control. “Cooper, do you read me?”
After a few seconds, he replied, “I'm here, ma'am. We're cleaning up some of the mess in Life Support right now. I want to get a team to look at the boarding missiles when they get a chance. We might be able to use the technology ourselves.”
“Never mind about that now, Ensign. What is your current combat readiness?”
Cooper paused for a second before responding, “I have twenty effective, counting myself, ma'am. Do we have prisoners from the enemy ship?”
“I'm afraid not, Ensign.” She looked at Nelyubov again, then continued, “I don't like to ask you to do this, Gabe, but we've just learned of a full-scale slave revolt taking place on the surface, and they've asked for our immediate assistance. From what we can see, a single intervention at this moment could make the difference between victory or defeat.”
“We're on our way to the Hangar Deck right now, ma'am,” Cooper replied. “Have Shuttles Two and Three cleared for immediate launch. Rules of engagement?”
“Try and keep the collateral damage to a minimum, but do everything you have to do to secure the colony. If everything goes bad, evacuate as many people as you can. Alamo will be in stationary orbit in,” she paused, looking at Foster, who held up ten fingers in response, “ten minutes, so we'll give you full tactical support.”
“We're on the way, ma'am. Cooper out.”
“Can I see you for a moment, Captain?” Nelyubov said, as she disconnected the channel.
“Of course. Powell, you have the bridge. Continue to co-ordinate damage and casualty reports.” She stepped into her office, Nelyubov just behind her, a frown staining his face. He waited before the door closed behind him, then sighed.
“I think this might be a mistake, Captain.”
“What choice do we have, Frank?”
“Let them fight it out on the surface for themselves. Without support, the not-men haven't got much chance in the long-term, anyway. We're in no shape to continue offensive operations, and it isn't fair to ask Cooper and his men to go back into action again so soon.” Raising a hand, he continued, “I know, I know, fair has nothing to do with it, but I'm talking about combat effectiveness. And Cooper's opinion doesn't count for a damn thing in this. He'd volunteer to go in even if he knew he was walking into a meat grinder, and so would everyone under his command.”
“But you don't think I have the right to ask it of him?” she replied. “You might be right, Frank, but down there on the surface are representatives of a star-faring civilization that we have never encountered before, one that is obviously engaged in conflict with the, what did he call them, Xantar?”
“Xandari.”
“Nice to have a name for them at last, anyway. Frank, we only get one chance at a first impression. If we can make it clear that they can expect us to ride to their rescue if asked, support them in battle, help to liberate them from their oppressors, then it'll only make things easier in the future.”
> “And the risk?”
“I'm aware of the risk,” she said. “And I know full-well what sort of hell I'm sending Cooper and his platoon into, but I can't sit back up here in orbit while people are fighting for their lives against an enemy we helped to unleash, in a revolt that we helped inspire. You don't think it's a coincidence that they decided that today was the day they should free themselves, do you? We wiped out the guard ship, and gave them the opportunity they need.” Shaking her head, she said, “This might not be the safe thing to do, Frank, but it is the right thing to do, and you and I both know it.”
Nodding, he replied, “Very well. In that case, I'm going down to the surface. I can fly Shuttle Two.”
“Frank...”
“A senior officer needs to be down there to help coordinate our attack, and I'm the best-qualified for the job.” With a smile, he added, “If we're going to do this damn stupid thing, Maggie, at least let us do it right. And besides, we both know that you were thinking about going down there yourself.”
“There's more truth than I'd like to admit in that.” Nodding, she continued, “Fine, on your way, Frank. Report in as soon as you get down to the surface, and try to set up some sort of tactical network. We'll get every sensor focused on the battle site and give you as much intelligence as we can. And if you can rustle up any surplus weaponry, take it with you. We'll worry about the rules on technology transfer after we win the battle.”
Battlecruiser Alamo: Forbidden Seas Page 4