Battlecruiser Alamo: Forbidden Seas

by Richard Tongue

   “That should be all of them,” Salazar said, pulling the throttle back to full, sighing with relief as the engine fired to full power, throwing them back onto a safe trajectory. He looked down at the navigation computer, the systems already guiding them on a course for Alamo, scheduled to intercept just before the ship began its fight to death with the approaching task force.

   “From the frying pan to the fire,” he said, shaking his head, though a part of him was glad that he would share the fate of his shipmates, whatever that might be. As the planet rolled away beneath him, the view fading from blue to endless black as they crested out of the atmosphere, he looked down at the scanner, at the armada of shuttles he'd guided from the surface, most of them heading to the safety of the transport, nestled behind the moon on approach to the hendecaspace point, the others diving for Alamo.

   Daedalus roved around the perimeter of the battlespace, racing back towards the planet on a loop that would sweep it by the side of the shuttles, covering their retreat. He frowned, shaking his head. No matter how hopeless their position, no matter how low the odds, he didn't like retreating, ceding any territory to the enemy. One day they would come back here, and to stay.

   As he started to work through the course to Alamo, fine-tuning the maneuvers in a bid to scrape vitally-needed seconds, the noise of the engines stopped, killing their acceleration, and he heard a loud crack from the rear cabin, followed by a grunt from Rhodes.

   “That's enough, Sub-Lieutenant,” Lostok said, stepping out of the spacesuit locker with a pistol in his hand. “I was hoping that someone would be good enough to give me a ride off that world, and I am especially fortunate that it was you.” Glancing at the wounded Neander on the deck, he said, “And allow me to thank you once more for saving the life of my aide, though he might not be so happy about it once he learns our destination. If you would please set the course for the most distant enemy battlecruiser?”

   “No,” Salazar said.

   “What are you doing?” Maqua asked, glancing from Salazar to Lostok.

   “He's the traitor,” Salazar said, coldly. “All along, he was the one responsible for it all. You delayed the evacuation long enough to allow your friends to arrive, guided me to a docking bay that you knew would be trapped, hoping that it would stop the evacuation. You did everything you could to confuse the situation, to distract us.” Shaking his head, he replied, “I wouldn't be surprised if you were the one that sold your own expedition out to the Xandari, as well as the others that followed.”

   “Very good, Sub-Lieutenant,” Lostok replied. “I suspect you'd have worked it out anyway, given time.” Gesturing with his pistol at the control panel, he added, “None of this talk is computing the course I have requested.”

   Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “Why, Lostok?”

   “Because of him,” he said, coldly, nodding at Maqua. “And others like him. The rights of the Highborn are being ripped from us, one at a time, as we pander to the Undercastes, crawlers in the mud who dare to aspire to that which will always be beyond their grasp. My ancestors worked for a thousand years to claim the stars, worked and bled and died, daring their lives on ancient starships that limped between systems, never knowing if they would see another day, and they presume to demand that we cede that which we earned to them.”

   With a sigh, Salazar said, “You can't believe that the Xandari will permit you to remain in control of your worlds. Why would they tolerate another galactic power?”

   “What do we care who owns the worlds we trade with? All of space is ours, Sub-Lieutenant, ours by right of birth and blood, and I care not for the balls of mud that pollute it. The Xandari will accede to our demands because they have no choice, because they need our ships to support their economy, to supply their empire.” Shaking his head, he said, “For as long as it lasts. Many governments have ruled the worlds we have traded with, empires, confederations, commonwealths and tyrannies, and all of them have faded into dust. Only the Highborn, the Traders, remain, eternal and unchanging.”

   “We're talking about a race who has declared that they will be the masters of all humanity, those they permit to survive at all. One that has sworn that only the strong shall survive, and that the weak will perish.”

   “That is my point,” the Neander said. “The strong. The Highborn control the fleets, the wealth, the space-based industry. We are the strong, and the planet-bound are the weak, and my people are fools to consider their wishes at all. The sheep do not dictate a course of action to the shepherd.”

   “Men are not sheep, Lostok, and neither are your people. Without their labor you would never have ventured into space in the first place, no matter what you might think. You can't just toss them away like the spent stage of a rocket!”

   Shaking his head, Lostok said, “I had hoped you would understand, though it would not improve your situation. None of you will be harmed, I can assure you of that, as long as you follow my orders. Sub-Lieutenant, you will be interrogated for your technical knowledge, before joining your companions in an Extraction Facility in the future. There are others for your race, so you will be at home.” He smiled, and added, “I rather suspect there will be many more of your people in the camps in the near future.”

   Folding his arms, Salazar replied, “We're not quite at orbital velocity. You didn't time this as well as you thought. And if you think I'm going to make a single move to help you, you're very much mistaken.” Shaking his head, he said, “You won't shoot me.”

   “No, but I'm far more willing to shoot your young friend.” Lostok looked across at the co-pilot, who was sternly facing the traitor, and said, “Scum like him are the reason we have been driven to this course.”

   “How about this,” Salazar said. “Put down the weapon and I'll guarantee you safe passage to Alamo. There you will get a fair trial. I suspect that your people would tear you limb from limb if they could reach you now.” Gesturing down at the planet, he said, “You killed hundreds of your own kind today.”

   “No,” Lostok said. “I allowed the lower orders to die. All the Highborn except myself left the planet in good time, and are on their way to safety. When the Xandari board the vessel, they will be spared.”

   “So they say,” Rhodes said.

   “They have always kept their bargains in the past, Private.” He sighed, then said, “I'm getting bored with this exchange. I might not be an expert pilot, but I know enough to increase the thrust of an engine sufficiently to boost us into a stable orbit. Of course, to reach the controls, I would have to kill you all. So you have one choice, and only one. Do you live as a servant of the Xandari, or do you die here, your bodies dumped into space? I don't really care either way.”

   “I don't think so,” Salazar replied, “Or you wouldn't be talking to us now. We're payment to your masters, your side of the bargain.”

   “Wait!” Maqua said, eyes darting nervously around. “I'll do it. I don't need the softskin. Just don't send me back to a camp.”

   “I will consider it,” Lostok said, a grin on his face. “I'm sorry, Sub-Lieutenant, but it looks like you are expendable.” He leveled his pistol, and said, “I'd say that this won't hurt, but there's no point wasting a lie on you.”

   Salazar looked over at his co-pilot with feigned shock, glancing down at the master throttle, and quietly braced himself. With a deep sigh, Maqua entered in a course correction, sending a trajectory plot racing towards the enemy fleet, then threw the throttles full open, the shuttle surging to maximum acceleration, well beyond the usual safe limit.

   Lostok and Rhodes tumbled to the floor, and as Maqua steadied the ship, Salazar jumped from his couch, diving towards the prone traitor, a pair of shots resounding across the cabin, one of them sending a burst of flame running down his arm as he collapsed on the figure, knocking the wind out of both of them. One of the bullets smashed into the panel sending sparks flying, wrecking the communicator.

 
 They tumbled across the floor, the shuttle still spinning out of control as the engine roared, Maqua desperately fighting with the controls as Salazar and Lostok fought on the floor, exchanging futile blows, before finally the Neander turned limp in his hands, falling backwards to the deck, Rhodes holding up a hypodermic with a triumphant grin.

   “Never leave home without it,” he said, before slumping down to the nearest couch, exhausted. Salazar tried to move his arm, only to send a wave of pain running through him that made him feel sick, and looked across to see his blood dripping onto the deck, crimson on the blue-carpeted floor.

   “I've got it,” Maqua said, sighing with relief.

   “I never doubted you for a second,” Salazar said, reaching over to the navigation computer with his good arm, reinstating the original course to Alamo, before his face fell, a deep sigh escaping his lips as red lights flashed on.

   “Does that mean what I think it means?” Rhodes said, peering at the controls as he started to rummage in the shuttle medical kit for bandages.

   “That bastard held us up too long, and the burst of acceleration kicked us in the wrong direction. There's no way we can reach Alamo before it has to jump from the system. We're stuck here.” Looking at the shattered controls, he said, “We can't even call for help.”

  Chapter 22

   The strategic display constantly updated, a confusing tangle of trajectories and ships dancing around each other, Orlova struggling to make sense of the situation. As it stood, the first wave of shuttles would easily reach the transport, some of them already on final approach. That meant two hundred refugees safe and well. The remaining shuttles were another matter. Alamo was already taking six, all it could manage, the last ones leaving the planet, leaving another twelve stuck in the middle, far enough from the transport that they were at risk of attack, near enough that they had a chance of reaching it.

   She looked at the crazy course of Daedalus, sweeping back around the planet like a bird-of-prey, racing to reach the shuttles before the enemy task force could attack them. While she would never admit it to anyone else, she would have done exactly the same thing in her place, used what little strength she had to shield the civilians from attack.

   As she watched, one of the shuttles dropped behind, the last to leave the planet, its engine failing as it began to lose speed, gravity dragging it back to its point of origin. Nelyubov walked around the table by her side, looking down at the passenger list.

   “Salazar, Rhodes, Maqua,” he said. “Maybe they suffered damage in the attack.”

   “Can you raise them?” she asked Weitzman, who resignedly shook his head in response.

   Belatedly, the shuttle's engine fired again, kicking them away from the planet, but they'd fallen too far behind to make contact with Alamo. Nelyubov looked down at the display, trying to work out a modified course, some way of snatching them from their fate, but Orlova shook her head.

   “We can't do it.”

   “If we...”

   “We'd be leaving ourselves open to a second attack. He knew the risks he was taking, waiting as long as he did.” She looked up, nodded, and said, “That doesn't mean I have to like it.”

   With a smile, he turned to Cantrell, and said, “Have Transfer Two ready for launch in...”

   “Belay that order,” Orlova said, turning to Nelyubov. “You wouldn't last five seconds out there, and even if you did make it back to the shuttle, you'd never be able to get on an approach vector. Even if you launched right now.”

   He closed his eyes, then said, “Damn it.”

   “Get your head in the game,” she said, looking at the approaching ships. “We're six minutes from hell, and I need the ship ready to get through it in as few pieces as possible. One, preferably.”

   “Damage control teams are on standby,” Erickson said. “We'll have shuttles coming in on all three elevator airlocks just before we enter firing range. Sub-Lieutenant Bradley has prepared hangar deck for emergency ingress.”

   “Very good,” Orlova said, turning back to the display, while Nelyubov moved to stand over Cantrell, looking down at the tactical console. Despite the confusing strategic view, the battle they were about to fight was really very simple. Alamo had to fly past three Xandari battlecruisers in order to reach the hendecaspace point and flee the system. Even with the acceleration boosted beyond safe limits, they were still going to be in mutual firing range for at least a minute, maybe more if they managed some fancy maneuvers.

   Of course, they didn't have to fight at all. Alamo could still, even now, avoid contact, swing around to the other hendecaspace point and leave the system without firing a shot. Except if they did that, the Xandari would be able to methodically wipe out every Neander in system, every shuttle, the transport, without a single missile fired to stop them. Alamo was a distraction, something the Xandari could not ignore, able to buy the civilians the time they needed to escape.

   She glanced down at the intercom, wondering for a second whether she should make such a speech, but shook her head. This crew didn't need it. They all knew what they were doing, they knew why they were fighting, and nothing she said would spur them to greater efforts than they were making already. All she would do was distract them at a crucial time.

   Three minutes to contact. The tactical board was green, a salvo of missiles ready to fire, the laser fully charged to unleash a pulse of devastating energy at the enemy. With careful management of the power system, they might get two shots during the firing window. Assuming there was anything left of Alamo to take that shot.

   At least the second wave of shuttles were ranging far ahead now, curving away to match Daedalus' track as it moved into a supporting position. Behind Alamo, the third wave was lining up, edging in to dock, three of them a familiar Triplanetary design, the others strange and misshapen, modeled on vehicles from the Collective.

   “I've got the count,” Nelyubov said, looking up from his screen. “It took a while to put it together, but we're getting back fourteen of our Espatiers, and thirty-nine Neander. As well as the pilots, of course. Seventeen casualties, and there are medical teams working to get them to a triage facility in Storage Three.”

   “Who didn't make it?”

   “Price, Donegan, Anghwis and Lloyd.”

   “I thought Lloyd was on the sick list.”

   “He was,” Nelyubov said with a sigh. “Apparently he managed to make his way down to the surface to join the fighting. I guess he thought he could help.” Looking up at Orlova, he said, “It was all kinds of hell down there. Civilian casualties in the hundreds. We might never get an accurate count. One thing, though. No report of Lostok among the survivors.”

   “I'm afraid I can't say I'm sorry about that. They're better off without him.”

   “Ninety seconds to contact,” Cantrell said. “I have a green board, ma'am. Orders?”

   “Fire off your first salvo twenty seconds before firing range,” Orlova replied. “Keep all of your missiles for defense. We're not going to win a shooting war today, and I don't think there's any sense in trying. Our goal is to take the least damage possible and live to fight another day.” She looked around the bridge, and added, “There will be another time, I promise you. Another chance for us to avenge our fallen comrades. Today we make sure that we don't join them.”

   The door opened, and Hooke slid inside, moving over to the defense systems station, and with a brief nod at Orlova he logged into the vacant terminal.

   “Spaceman,” Nelyubov said. “You're supposed to be in sickbay. Something about a fractured...”

   “I'm doing no good lying down there, sir, and I'm just stealing a bed from someone else.” He looked up, his eyes pleading at Orlova, and added, “I don't know what I can do, but anything is better than nothing, isn't it?”

   “Yes it is,” Orlova said. “Take your station, Spaceman.” She glanced at Nelyubov, and smiled, before quickly glancing at every
position, drinking in the status reports and systems checks, making sure that everyone was at their best for the battle, that everything possible had been done to prepare Alamo for the onslaught she was about to face.

   “Thirty seconds,” Spinelli said. “No sign of change to target aspect, ma'am. None at all.” He frowned, then said, “They could be turning to increase the firing time, or beginning their maneuver to intercept the shuttles.”

   “Maybe they're scared of Daedalus,” Foster said.

   “Any ship with Harper in command terrifies the hell out of me, Lieutenant,” Nelyubov replied.

   “First salvo away,” Cantrell reported, and Alamo rocked back as six missiles raced into the air, rendering the strategic view even more complicated. Orlova tapped a control to remove everything not actually involved in the battle, the field of vision zooming down to show four large dots slowly converging, the three battlecruisers ranging towards Alamo, and six smaller tracks pioneering the way into the fight.

   “Ten seconds,” Spinelli said.

   Turning from her station, Foster said, “I've got the hendecaspace plot now, ma'am. As soon as we reach the egress point, we can leave the system.”

   “Very good, Sub-Lieutenant,” Orlova said. “You may initiate random walk at your discretion.”

   “Aye, ma'am,” she said, tapping a sequence of controls to set Alamo's thrusters firing, weaving them around from side to side, giving the Xandari targeting computers something to worry about as they prepared to fire.

   “Five seconds,” Cantrell said. “First salvo running true. Second salvo ready to fire in eight seconds.”

   “Don't wait for the order,” Orlova said. “Fire at will. And see if you can do some damage with the laser. If we can stop some of the missiles launching, so much the better.”

   “Foster,” Cantrell began, but she interrupted.

   “Six seconds, mark, ma'am, at the missile launch tubes of the nearest enemy vessel.”