Battlecruiser Alamo: Forbidden Seas

by Richard Tongue

   “My men stay while yours do, Ensign,” he replied, reaching forward to clasp his hand, a thin smile on his face. “Do you think we're going to let a bunch of softskins show us how to fight?”

   “Take Lance-Corporal Akjes with you,” Cooper ordered. “Liaison. And he's a damn good shot, as well. Pavel, you'd better head to a ship.”

   “I can't,” he replied. “I've still got a job to do down here. In a few moments, we're going to have ninety-plus shuttles launching at the same time, all heading on a similar trajectory. If we can't get some sort of flight control organized, we might as well shoot them ourselves. It'll be quicker.” Looking over the field, he saw one of the communication bunkers still intact, and said, “That should do.”

   “Sir,” Rhodes said, looking at the firefight. “Request permission to accompany the Sub-Lieutenant. It's looking dangerous around here.”

   “You realize we'll be the last ones off the surface, Private,” Salazar said.

   With a smile, the trooper said, “Wouldn't want to share a transport with a bunch of civilians, anyway, sir.”

   Shaking his head, Cooper said, “Go.”

   Clapping his friend on the shoulder, Salazar raced across the field, almost knocked from his feet by an explosion nearby, some sort of artillery attempting to find its mark. Rhodes was running after him, rifle in hand, and he belatedly saw a third figure following. Maqua.

   The group weaved across to the bunker, smoke filling the snow-laden air, a black soot drifting over everything, the roar of battle punctuated by bursts from shuttle engines as they warmed up, preparing for flight. He reached down for his pistol, then shook his head, realizing that it was now just a scrap of debris in a corpse-strewn crater, glancing back at the racing Neander who had succeeded in wreaking such havoc.

   Rhodes shot the Xandari guarding the entrance to the bunker with a crack shot to the side of the neck, sending blood spurting across the wall as his convulsing corpse noisily died. Salazar raced in, looking around at the equipment, throwing on a view of the landing field as he reached for the transmitter.

   “Thanks for the escort, Maqua, but you really need to get to a ship.”

   “No, sir,” he replied. “I'll do more good here. Two people guiding shuttles to orbit are better than one.” He looked across the instruments, and said, “I can talk them through the launch procedures, help troubleshoot problems, while you deal with guidance and tracking.”

   Another explosion shook the walls, near enough to send dust dropping from the ceiling, and Salazar replied, a smile on his face, “Misery loves company, Maqua. Take a seat. Private, make sure we don't get any uninvited guests. I'm really not in the mood for a party right now.”

   “This is a party, sir?” Rhodes replied. “Next time, I'll lose my invitation.”

  Chapter 19

   Something died inside Harper as she watched Transfer One explode, killing the officer who had been sent to replace her, a man she had known and worked alongside for five years. Strangely, she almost felt worse about the pilot, a name on a monitor whose face she could barely recall. Her eyes were locked on the screen, watching the disaster unfold, the rest of the bridge crew looking around in confusion, unsure of what to do next.

   She looked at the sensor display, shuttles tumbling through space, recklessly burning their engines to get to safety as rapidly as they could, either back down on the surface or towards the transport, still hanging close to the hendecaspace point. Anyone attacking right now would find a host of easy targets, unable to defend themselves. Frowning, she reached down to her console, playing the last few seconds of Transfer One's existence, watching the Neander shuttle swing around to crash into him three times, finally shaking her head. This was no accident, and could only have one purpose. A distraction.

   “Action stations,” she ordered, turning to Perry at the weapons console. “Bring our new missions on-line and call up the e-war suite. Scott, I want a course to follow those shuttles to the transport, and I want it right now. Set for a loop around the moon to return us to the planet as fast as you can. We're going to have to escort them in.” Turning to the rear, she said, “Ingram, try and get Salazar and Cooper if you can. Warn them that I expect the arrival of an enemy fleet in-system momentarily. Then try and raise Alamo, though I have a feeling Maggie will have worked it out as well.”

   Nodding, Ingram said, “I just got word, ma'am. Alamo has gone to alert stations.”

   “Not battle stations?” she replied.

   “No, ma'am.”

   Turning, Scott said, “Kris, maybe we should wait for orders before...”

   “There's no time for that,” she snapped, finding something buried inside that she hadn't known was there, a voice that she had heard her father use on numerous occasions, but one that she had never found within her until now. A voice of command. “Initiate the course change as instructed, Sub-Lieutenant, and get a move on.”

   “Alert,” Perry said. “All decks, alert. Battle stations. Battle stations. This is no drill.” He turned to Harper, and replied, “Missiles loaded and ready to fire, ma'am. All systems coming on.”

   Daedalus' engines roared as a trajectory track sprang into life on the display, showing the old starship curving towards its new target, right through the cluster of the shuttle formation for a fast flyby of the transport, hanging over the moon. The pressure pushed Harper back into her couch, and she looked around the bridge at the officers as they worked. Her officers. Her bridge.

   “Course engaged, ma'am.”

   “I can't get anyone,” Ingram said. “Nothing from either Ensign Cooper or Sub-Lieutenant Salazar, not on any frequency.”

   “Then get me Captain Orlova, right now.”

   Nodding, the technician replied, “She's hailing us, ma'am.”

   Orlova's face appeared on the screen, technicians swarming across the bridge behind her, a low alarm sounding in the background as she asked, “Where the hell are you going?”

   “We're going to have an enemy fleet in the system in a matter of minutes. The death of Transfer One was a distraction, Captain. It can't have had any other purpose. They probably didn't even know who was on board.” Glancing across at another display, she said, “I'm going to fly escort on those shuttles. If an enemy battlecruiser turns up now, they'll have a fun time wiping out shuttles until Alamo can move up.”

   “You aren't even armed, Kris. Not with anything that can do any damage.”

   “They don't know that,” she said, “and we've got a few little tricks up our sleeve.”

   “From what we can see, all hell is breaking loose on the surface. There's a full-scale battle around the settlement, and...” Orlova paused, looking off screen.

   “Dimensional instability!” Arkhipov reported, while Harper caught the trace of Spinelli yelling the same warning over on Alamo. “Something's coming through the near hendecaspace point, and it's pretty damn big, ma'am!”

   “We have it too,” Orlova said. “I read three battlecruisers.” Shaking her head, she replied, “Get Daedalus to safety. You should have a clear run to the far egress point.”

   “I will,” Harper said, “Eventually. Right now, ma'am, we have work to do, and this ship is the best placed to do it. Those shuttles are sitting ducks unless we can do something to save them.”

   Orlova paused for a moment, then said, “And if I make it an order?”

   “Then we'll have a very interesting meeting in your office once all of this is over.”

   A faint smile crossed Orlova's lips, and she replied, “I'll be damned. Give 'em hell, Harper, and keep your collective heads down.” Turning away for a second, she said, “We're on our way to intercept the enemy fleet. Five minutes after you.”

   “We'll try and save something for you,” she replied.

   “I'll hold you to that. Alamo out.”

   Harper looked around the bridge, and said, “You heard the word, so le
t's do the deed. Scott, we're going to be coming under heavy fire in a couple of minutes, and I want us to make the most tempting target you can find. Turn towards them, and make it look as though we're launching an attack run on the nearest vessel.”

   “You want me to play chicken with a battlecruiser?”

   “Something like that. Sergeant, remember those insults you used last time?”

   “Same again?”

   “Try and throw some more passion into it, but basically, yeah.”

   “Aye, aye, ma'am,” he said, glancing back at her for a second. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

   “Get to it, Sergeant.” Turning to the rear, she said, “Ingram, contact the shuttles, and tell them to use every ounce of fuel they have to get themselves to the transport. We're going to try and keep the fleet off their back for a few minutes, but they're not going to have long.”

   “Transport's on the move!” Arkhipov yelled. “Curving behind the moon, taking the long way to the hendecaspace point. If they get it right, they ought to avoid contact.”

   “Good for them,” Scott said, “Not so good for us. The shuttles are going to have further to go.” Turning to her station, she added, “Ingram, assuming we survive this run, they can follow us around to the far side on our swing-round. Send them our trajectory.” Shaking her head, she added, “I hope Pavel did a good job training those pilots.”

   Harper looked around the bridge, panic beginning to set in as the reality of her situation dawned on her. They were heading towards an infinitely more powerful enemy fleet, and were deliberately setting out to goad them to battle. As the crew raced to follow her orders, making final preparations from the fly-by, she took a deep breath, hoping that no one noticed how she was feeling.

   “Enemy task force changing course,” Arkhipov said. “They're still moving towards the shuttles. Current projection has them wiping them out before swinging around to deal with the transport. I don't think Alamo can get to them in time.” Shaking his head, he added, “We're going to miss contact altogether.”

   Frowning, Harper tapped a button, and said, “Lombardo, how are the power relays?”

   “All nominal,” the harried engineer replied.

   “Good. I need a power surge in the forward section of the ship, a big one.”

   “What?”

   “Can you do it?”

   “I suppose, but we might blow out...”

   “Never mind that. Set it up for,” she glanced at the tactical display, “forty seconds from now.”

   “But...”

   Turning off the channel, she continued, “Scott, when he hits the power surge, I want you to point the ship at the nearest enemy vessel, and make a big deal about doing it.”

   Shaking her head, she replied, “Yes, ma'am, but nothing's going to happen.”

   “Then we hang dead, cutting all power, and let us drift for a moment.”

   “Risky…,” Perry said, looking at the trajectory plot. “We'd be heading right into them at top speed.”

   “Making a target that I think they'll take full advantage of.”

   Scott glanced at Arkhipov for a long second, then nodded, replying, “I'm setting up the maneuver, ma'am.”

   “Good,” she said, settling back into her couch. They had to hold off the enemy vessels for long enough to buy Alamo time to get into the fight. The battlecruiser was on the move, following their trajectory, but were critical minutes behind. As she counted down the seconds, she tried a confident smile, Perry giving her a confirming nod.

   He knew. Knew that inside, she was terrified, that she didn't know what she was doing, was improvising as best she could. She'd sat on the bridge of Alamo for a lot of battles, had watched Captain Marshall and Captain Orlova in the past, but this was different. Now all of these lives were on her shoulders, both on Daedalus and those shuttles ahead. She longed for someone to tap her on the shoulder, Kibaki returning from the dead to take over, remove this burden, but there was no one to do it.

   “Now!” Scott said, and the lights flickered as Lombardo scrambled the power network, warning lights flashing across the monitor boards as systems blew out in the forward section. The engine died, and the starfield began to roll as the ship tumbled through space, turning on its axis as it spun towards the enemy ship.

   “Course change!” Arkhipov said. “Enemy task force now heading in our direction. You've done it, skipper!”

   “Should I gun the engines?” Scott asked.

   “Not yet,” Harper said, watching the screen. “Not yet. Not until they're committed to the maneuver. They could still change course on us for thirty seconds yet.”

   “That's going to put them awfully close to weapons range,” Ingram said, his face pale.

   Scott started to set up an evasive course as Harper watched the screen, the three vessels moving towards them, trajectory tracks locked for a smooth path in. Alamo would have to move to get a shot at them before they could attack the transport, but Quinn seemed to be urging greater than normal speed of the engines, the ship majestically soaring into the fray.

   On board the enemy vessels, they'd be locking on firing solutions, preparing to unleash a hail of death in their direction. She glance ruefully across at the useless e-war panel, shaking her head before her eyes lit up, a smile creeping across her face.

   “Ingram, I need a direct data link with Alamo, and I need it right now.” She paused, then added, “Tap into the gravitational database.”

   “We've got all the information we need for a course out of the system,” the confused technician replied.

   “Just do it, Spaceman,” she said, sliding out of the command chair and over to the cramped defense systems console, quickly booting up the controls. “Sergeant, I want you to fire three missiles as soon as they are within range, targeted at the incoming salvo we'll be getting in a moment. Scott, hold your course change until they fire.”

   Turning in her chair, Scott replied, “Lieutenant, that's insane. We won't have a chance.”

   “They'll be wasting eighteen missiles that they would otherwise be using on Alamo, or on that transport. There are thousands of people waiting for us to find a way to save their lives, Sub-Lieutenant, and I have no intention of letting them down.” She took a deep breath, and added, “I don't do suicide missions, Kat. I've got a plan.”

   Harper thought that Scott was going to refuse the order, but after a long pause, she turned back to her station, resting her hands on the controls, postponing the programmed firing time. Now Daedalus' trajectory track arced through the red oval that represented weapons range for the enemy ships, red warning text streaming down the viewscreen, the ship's computer protesting as loudly as Scott.

   “Missiles ready to fire,” Perry said. “If you're hoping that we can shoot down the enemy salvo, I don't think we've got anything like the explosive yield. We might stop a few of them...”

   “Don't worry, Sergeant, we're going to stop them all. Spaceman, do I have my data feed yet?”

   Nodding, the communications technician replied, “I've got a comm laser lined up, ma'am. I don't think I'm going to be able to keep it in place for very long, though.”

   “I only need a couple of minutes,” she replied.

   “Energy spike!” Arkhipov yelled. “Eighteen missiles, bearing directly, conventional type!”

   “Launch ours, Sergeant,” Harper ordered, “and Scott, full-burn. Get us the hell out of here!”

   Daedalus' engines roared to full power, throwing her back in her seat, and she struggled to work the controls of her station. Their three missiles flew forward to duel with their enemy counterparts, fearless in the face of six-to-one odds, but for the first time, Harper had an advantage that the enemy didn't. She might not be able to hack deep into their systems, not yet, but she might be able to handshake at the most basic level.

   Her fingers flew across the console, finally
returning to her element as she ran through the outer firewalls. She wasn't out to change the course of the missiles, just to confuse the hell out of them, and the approaching missiles under her control gave her a critical advantage over the enemy missileman. Time. Already her missiles were closer to those of the enemy than the approaching battlecruiser, and every nanosecond counted in the battle she was waging. The Xandari liked to use distributed networks to boost the strength of their attack, a potential flaw that she was able to exploit.

   Finally, she was in, with access to the data network, and she switched over the feed streaming in from Alamo, forcing it on the basic enemy warheads, drowning them with superfluous information. These were Triplanetary missiles, albeit perverted with alien software, but she'd studied the designs and knew how they worked, knew their capabilities and more critically, their weaknesses. And with at least some understanding of their programming language, she could finally have an element of access.

   The flaw with this plan was obvious. It would only work once, a weakness that would be all-too-easy to correct, but one by one, the enemy missiles dropped out of view, falling from the command net as the systems crashed for the crucial seconds that gave Daedalus a chance to evade, Scott using every trick she knew to fly them clear, guide them to safety.

   As they passed closest approach, she tensed up, expecting another salvo of missiles, but the enemy fleet commander wasn't going to be fooled twice, drifting serenely past as though the small raider was somehow beneath them, though the duel between the missiles ranging to their rear suggested otherwise.

   Only five enemy missiles remained, and the enemy gunner had switched their incoming feeds off, allowing the on-board computers to guide themselves without interference. Now the trajectories stabilized, locking onto their rear, sufficient firepower to wreck them if they were allowed to hit.

   “All yours, Sergeant. Knock them down.”