Battlecruiser Alamo: Shadows in the Sky

by Richard Tongue

   On the face of it, the problem was simple enough. Two ships entering the system, likely with laser armament, opposing two ships in the system with fighter support. On paper, it should be an easy victory, but Captain Orlova was a skilled tactician. She wouldn't have been defeated easily. As the shuttle slowly cruised between the ships, Salazar looked out at the sphere again, a frown on his face.

   There was nothing he could do for the people trapped down there, not now. He couldn't spare a single trooper. And yet something nagged at him, at the back of his mind. Reaching across for a control, he brought up the newly-arrived schematics from Endurance, confirming his initial suspicions. They had laser-armed cruisers, less powerful than Alamo's weapon. While they'd be lucky to escape sustaining some damage, they ought to be able to smash the enemy force.

   And the enemy commander would know that. Or at least, the people he had in the system would be aware of it. If they didn't think the incoming force could win, then they'd have done a lot more than they did to work against Alamo, timed their attempt to take Endurance more precisely. Rather than preventing a battle, it almost felt as though he was being urged on.

   Tactical doctrine was clear. He had the ability to engage the enemy as soon as they arrived in the system, opening with a fighter strike to disable their primary weapons before moving in for the kill with Alamo and Endurance. It could all be over in seconds. But it could never be that simple.

   It was a trap. It had to be. There had to be something else on the table, something that would allow the incoming ships to overwhelm Alamo. Assume that Endurance alone had originally been the target, assume that the agents on board that ship had sufficient intelligence and autonomy to modify their plan. And that there had to be a reason that their team on the surface had been captured, something they were about to discover.

   “Salazar to Alamo and Endurance,” he said. “Alter course. Proceed as close as possible to the portal. Astrogation to calculate just how close that is without risking being drawn to the surface. Engage as soon as ready, and all fighters are to return to base.”

   “Scott to Salazar. Request confirmation.”

   “My orders stand, Lieutenant. There's an additional factor we don't know about, and my guess is that it's something down in the sphere. We're going to find out what.”

   “And the enemy ships?”

   “We'll have a good head-start on them, and if I'm just being overly paranoid, we'll still be able to attack them at a time and place of our choosing. Start crunching the numbers, Lieutenant. Before our friends can arrive and gatecrash the party.”

   As the ships started to alter course, Salazar worked the controls, adjusting the shuttle's trajectory to ensure that he wasn't left behind in their wake. He looked out at the sphere, strange and serene in the distance, and frowned. Anything could be buried inside, secrets that the Hegemony might be ready to use against them. Though his original fear still held strong. If the builders of the sphere had decided to take sides in the impending battle, no amount of tactical trickery could save them.

   “Transfer One to Alamo,” he said, as the battlecruiser loomed ahead. “Requesting landing clearance.”

   “You are cleared for Airlock Two, sir,” Quesada replied. “Welcome home.”

   “Thank you, Sub-Lieutenant,” he said with a smile, as the shuttle drifted smoothly into position between the docking clamps. To the rear, thirty thousand miles away, the dimensional interference was growing rapidly, ready to disgorge the ships lurking in hendecaspace. As soon as they arrived, the fun would really begin.

  Chapter 16

   Clarke hefted the sword in his hand, the tempered steel blade perfectly balanced for battle. Strange symbols had been carved onto the metal, blessings to ancient gods, according to Sekura. He just hoped they were looking down on him with favor tonight, assuming they had ever existed. As he crept along the tunnel, crouching low, he glanced back at the rest of his team, at Mortimer and Garland, and could hardly stop himself from laughing.

   The situation was absurd. He was an officer on an interstellar spacecraft, trained in the use of automatic weapons, plasma carbines, laser cannons. And he was creeping into an enemy compound, sword in hand, as though the clock had been turned back hundreds of years. He caught a twinkling gleam from Mortimer's eye. She felt it, as well. The same sense that they were out of their own time, had stepped back into history.

   In the flight out here, they'd had half a dozen fencing bouts in Alamo's gym, but that was totally different. Light, thin blades, stylized rules of combat, and protective armor. All he was wearing was his battered uniform, tears in the fabric on his arms and legs, and he knew he couldn't count on any of the guards up above obeying any rules other than those of pure survival. And unlike his party, they were equipped with a cornucopia of deadly and advanced weapons, and would not refrain from using them.

   Still, the swords did give them the advantage of stealth. The designer had incorporated something into the metal to take away the gleam, turning it into a cold, dark blade, and in the total darkness above, there was no danger of a stray beam of moonlight giving them away. Silence and stealth were about the only advantages they had, and they were going to have to use them to the full.

   They'd walked for what felt like hours, down twisting tunnels, at one point waist-deep in the icy waters of an underground lake, before finally starting to curve back up towards the surface. He glanced at his watch and redoubled his pace. Fox and Maqua were somewhere on the other side of the settlement, getting ready to prepare a distraction for the guards, and they would only have a handful of minutes to press their attack home. They had to use them to the full.

   “Almost there,” he said in hushed whispers. “You all know what to do.”

   “We're ready,” Mortimer said. “Let's get this over with.” She held up her sword, then said, “We'll have to match with these when we get back to the ship. Ought to be an interesting bout.”

   “As long as we've got Doc Strickland on standby,” he replied. “Let's go.”

   The three of them raced from the tunnel as a roaring explosion erupted from the far side of the settlement, a handful of stolen grenades carefully modified by Fox to produce the loudest possible report. A pillar of smoke raced into the sky, and the siren call of a warning alarm began to wail, searchlights racing around. In the wrong direction.

   There were three sensor monitoring stations, scattered on the perimeter of the settlement. And a couple of dozen Neander, all armed and ready, waiting for them to be disabled to allow them to launch their attack. Clarke raced into the night, ducking from tree to tree, keeping in the shadows as he made for his target, while Garland and Mortimer dashed in different directions, out of sight in an instant.

   Most of the guards seemed to have been drawn away, just as they had hoped, and staccato blasts of machine-gun fire echoed into the night, shouts and calls as their enemies reacted to the wrong threat. He could see the sensor relay, only a single figure standing guard, rifle at the ready, eyes nervously darting around.

   If he'd had any useful ranged weapons, this would be easy. As it was, he was going to have to trust to speed, and he raised his sword, taking a deep breath as he charged forward, sprinting madly across the open ground. The guard reacted, swinging his rifle around to cover him, but he was too late, and Clarke's sword swept through the air, hacking into the man's side, sending blood streaming down his jacket. Snatching the rifle with one hand, he reached for the sensor panel, quickly glancing around to watch for potential attackers as he began to work.

   It was a familiar design, a much older model of the same systems used in Triplanetary installations, inherited from the days of the Interplanetary War. Without hacking software, there wasn't much he could do to permanently wreck it without explosives, but he quickly started a diagnostic check, disabling it for a critical ten minutes. By then, the battle would be over.

   He heard another explosion, somewhere in
the darkness, and turned to see flickering flames running through the night. That hadn't been in the battle plan. The enemy were regrouping, responding fast. Leaving the sensor station, he sprinted for the nearest cover, hurling himself behind a cluster of bushes, his newly acquired rifle raised and at the ready. Ahead of him, he saw a trio of enemy guards sliding down a tree.

   Three easy targets.

   Leveling the rifle to his shoulder, he squeezed the trigger, a loud report echoing from the trees as his first target fell, slumping to the ground. His comrades attempted to make for cover, but he felled the second one before he could make it, leaving only a sole figure left, transfixed, knowing that he was taking his final breath. Once more, Clarke squeezed the trigger.

   Nothing happened.

   He cursed, looking at the weapon, and struggled with the clip release. Jammed, and beyond his ability to repair without tools. The third guard, unable to believe that he was still alive, charged forward, pistol in hand, taking a wild shot towards him, the bullet slamming into a tangle of tree roots by his side.

   Swinging the rifle in the air, he hammered it down on the man, smashing the butt into his shoulder with sufficient force to dent the metal, a loud crack announcing that he'd broken the guard's collarbone. He looked down for the pistol, lost in the shadows, then tossed the useless rifle away, drawing his sword once again.

   The crack of gunfire filled the night, but there was no order, no rhythm to the shots. This wasn't an organized battle, but a collection of individual firefights, and that was a fight the Neander could win. By now, if all had gone to plan, Garland and Mortimer would have disabled the rest of the sensor network, and Kepteros would be leading his force across the perimeter.

   His assigned mission was over, but he still had a job to do, and he raced towards the tallest tree, looking up at the swinging cells, waving back and force in the breeze, loaded with dozens of hostages. Already, shapes were moving around the treetops, and he feared the worse. That once the occupying force had realized there was no way for them to win, they might attempt to execute a bloody revenge on their captors.

   He took the first rungs of the ladder in a single bound, the sword safely in his hand as he scaled the side of the tree, frantically attempting to reach the top before an atrocity could take place. Beneath him, the battle raged, cordite and wood smoke filling the air, flickering flames all around. Sleek shapes raced below him, and he realized belatedly that they were horses, freed during the combat, stampeding into the enemy lines. Somehow, he detected the handwork of Mortimer in their escape.

   Panting for breath, he struggled ever higher, sweat pouring from his brow, as he tried not to think about the hundred-foot fall beneath him. This ladder had obviously only been intended as an emergency access, the slippery sap forcing him to test each handhold before he dared trust his weight to it.

   Finally, he made it to the top, staggering onto the gantry, and looked around to see two guards, one at each end of the platform, both with knives in their hands. There were two long cords, and if they were cut, the final result would be inevitable. The cages would fall to the ground, killing everyone inside.

   The guards had pistols in their hand, and there was no cover. Just a killing ground, fifty feet long. He'd be target practice if he made the attempt, but if he didn't hundreds of people would fall to their deaths as he watched. He glanced at the nearest cage, half a dozen children nestled against a woman, covered by a blanket. That they were Neander didn't even register to him. A red rage washed across him, and he charged down the gantry towards the nearest guard, sword high, knowing that even if he could delay the guards for a moment, that might be enough.

   His feet ate up the gantry before the guard could notice him, his sword swinging dangerously around, threatening to throw him off-balance. The pistol rose, firing two shots into the night, one of them close enough that he felt the air racing past, but he reached the figure first, the sword slicing into his leg, knocking him off-balance, sending him tumbling from into the darkness below. He tumbled end over end, smashing into the branches of the tree on his way down, facing the fate he had planned for the trapped Neander.

   On the far side of the gantry, the other guard was moving up, anxious to both avenge his comrade and avoid sharing his fate. He had Clarke cold, pistol raised and steady, carefully moving closer to take the shot that would end his life. A bullet cracked through the air, and Clarke looked down at his chest, missing the second guard tumbling to the ground, falling to the side, a bullet neatly ripping into his neck.

   Maqua clambered up to the gantry, a beaming smile on his face, and said, “Great work, Sub-Lieutenant! Damned great work!” Gesturing to the ground, he said, “It's all over down there. Just a few of them fleeing into the woods, but they won't be any trouble.”

   Clarke dropped to the ground, shaking, and said, “I thought I was dead.”

   “Sergeant Fox found a sniper rifle. I think she had the same idea as you, but was planning to use different tactics to achieve it.” Looking down at Clarke, he said, “Hundreds of people are alive because of what you just did.” He reached for him with a hand, and said, “Come on. We've still got work to do.”

   Nodding, Clarke scrambled to his feet, making for the ladder, this time taking his time to descend with care. Up above, eyes were tracking him down, beaming smiles on the faces of the captives, a murmur of conversation as they awaited their escape. Dropping down to the ground, he looked around at the carnage in the village, scattered bodies, human and Neander, being dragged into long columns, groups of erstwhile warriors racing to douse the spreading fires before they could threaten the huts in the trees. Kepteros walked forward, arms outstretched, and hurled himself around Clarke in a tight bear hug.

   “I'm sorry,” the Neander said.

   “For what?” Clarke asked.

   “I shouldn't have doubted you.” Gesturing at the prison tree, he said, “What you did up there was heroic. Epic. We'll be signing your name in ballads for generations.” Tapping the sword, he added, “That belonged to Stoklos. Four generations ago, he led us in battle against the Hill Tribes, recaptured a hundred prisoners that had been taken as slaves. I think it fitting that you should retain it. I know that it will never be wielded against the interests of our people.”

   Holding up the weapon, Clarke looked at Maqua, then nodded, saying, “Thank you. That means a lot.”

   “Sir,” Fox said, dragging a man behind her. “We've got a few prisoners, and some of them seem to have decided to start cooperating.” Looking down at the battered man, she said, “Talk.”

   Looking up, panicked eyes darting about, the man said, “I didn't do anything.”

   “Talk!” Fox insisted. “Tell him about the captives.”

   “Captives?” Clarke asked.

   “Up on the surface. Our people captured about a dozen engineers from Alamo and Endurance. They're being held in the high caverns, to be used as hostages.”

   “Endurance?”

   “A rebel ship. One of our missions was to capture it. We knew they were coming here, and we were to take prisoners and lure them into range of the jammer. Commander Klein is hoping to take both ships as prizes.” He looked up, and said, “Don't kill me. Please. I didn't do anything!”

   “Is that true?” Maqua asked.

   “Sensor maintenance technician. No record of any atrocities, but that doesn't mean he's on the side of the angels,” Fox said. “I found him hiding in the stables after the fighting.”

   “I guess that explains the smell,” Clarke said, wrinkling his nose. “Where are these caverns? Up in the shaft?”

   “Yes,” he replied. “We set up a monitoring station there, years ago. To watch for any other arriving starships. That's how we found your two shuttles.”

   Stepping forward, Maqua said, “What happened to Monitor?”

   “You'll kill me if I tell you.”

   “I'll kill you if you
don't.”

   Looking down at the ground, he said, “Two of our ships managed to catch her by surprise. She was destroyed by our forces when they failed to surrender. I know that some shuttles made it into the sphere, but they headed out into unknown country, away from our territory, before we could capture them. They had better weapons than we did, so Klein ordered us to let them leave.”

   Maqua nodded, then turned to Kepteros, and said, “What are you going to do with them?”

   “There are a couple of dozen that we have specific plans for,” the Neander said with a dark scowl on his face. “Those who committed crimes, atrocities. Most of them seem to have died in the fight. A mercy they frankly didn't deserve. As for the others, we don't intend to allow them to rejoin their comrades.” Looking at the sniveling man, he added, “They will be taken, one at a time, to a spot a hundred miles from here, blindfolded to prevent them from finding their way, and released. With a warning that if ever one of our people sees them again, they will die.”

   Nodding, Clarke replied, “I can't argue with that. I have to admit...”

   “We are not savages, Sub-Lieutenant. We do not murder out of hand, or we'd be no better than they were.” Clapping Clarke on the shoulder, he said, “It lacks two hours until shadow's rise.”

   “We can't wait for that,” Clarke said. “If Alamo is under threat, we've got to take action first. This jamming device,” he asked, turning back to the guard. “It's in the high caves?” Taking a breath, he added, “If you tell us everything we need to know, then I will see that you are given a knife and some food before you are released. That might keep you alive a little longer.”