Battlecruiser Alamo: Triple-Edged Sword

by Richard Tongue

   “Where's the second shaft,” he said.

   Pointing to a dark spot on the side of the corridor, she replied, “Right there.”

   “Pavel,” Valya said, reaching forward. “You don't have to do this.”

   Shaking his head, he replied, “You three all have skills that are needed. I don't. Relax, I don't do suicide missions. Keep an eye on the door, and wait for me to make it home.”

   With one last glance back, he dashed down the corridor, tumbling end over end down the shaft as he lost his footing, crashing through the brittle plastic hatch with enough noise to alert half the station to his presence. As he crashed to the deck, dazed, sirens rang out, loud enough to deafen him. Though the room was empty for the moment, the sound of rushing footsteps warned him that it would not remain so for long, and he struggled to stand, grabbing onto a nearby crate.

   The door slid open, and he charged towards it, arms reaching out, throwing himself at the man standing in the threshold. A pistol dropped to the deck, and he rolled towards it, snatching it from the floor and firing a pair of wild shots, the crack of the blast echoing around the hall. The guard dived for him, and with a swift kick Pavel pushed him away, sending him flying into the wall, staggering for position, before finally crashing down to the deck, unconscious.

   With no time to lose, his ribs aching from the fall, Salazar sprinted out into the corridor, looking around, waving his stolen pistol dangerously around. The laser control room was four doors down, a guard still standing in front of it, and he raced towards it, screaming a battle cry, charging into the man. The door opened, and two more guards stepped out, pistols in hand, leveling their weapons at him. He dropped and rolled to the side as they fired in unison, returning fire with a shot that he knew would be ineffective.

   It was three guns against one, no-one having any time to get to cover, a standoff that Salazar was going to lose. With a wild scream, he charged forward, firing a blind shot that rattled off the wall, slamming into the nearest figure, bullets flying all around him. Somewhere in the melee, he heard the sound of another hatch opening, three doors up, but the noise was unheeded as the fight raged in the corridor, the guards grabbing at him, attempting to pin him to the deck.

   He managed to work his finger around the trigger, firing again, and one of the guards tumbled backwards, falling away, blood spilling from his arm onto the floor as he staggered towards the wall. The others hesitated for a moment, and he tackled another, sending him crashing against the floor, a loud crack from his arm.

   The last of the guards looked at him, his hands shaking, before turning to sprint away down the corridor. Salazar let him go, panting for breath, then heard footsteps echoing on the deck. He turned to see five more guards rushing towards him, led by Tarak himself, an angry grin on his face. He raised the gun to at least bring down the traitor, but pulling the trigger only resulted in a depressing click, and as he cursed the fool who had gone into battle without a fully loaded pistol, he set himself to meet the charge.

   A hand grabbed him on the back, dragging him away, and he turned to see Ortok, a pistol in his hand, taking shots at the approaching mass, sending them flying in all directions in a bid to seek the protection of cover, while Harper guided him into the control room, Valya already at the controls. Still keeping up his covering fire, Ortok continued to shoot until he ran out of ammunition, then threw the pistol away as he stepped inside.

   As Ortok locked the hatch behind them, Valya said, “We decided we weren't ready to give up on you quite yet. Besides, you've got the tactical training. We might know how to shoot, but you've got to tell us what to aim at.”

   Rubbing his aching hand, he replied, “What's the situation?”

   “Alamo is surrounded on all sides, sailships and gunboats. There's something strange, though. As far as I can tell, our ships and those of the Council seem to be moving into positions of mutual support.” She paused, then added, “Alamo's on the move, heading for a higher orbit. The other ships are responding, moving to pursue. They'll be in firing range in one minute.”

   “I can see what they are doing, but I don't quite believe it,” Salazar said. “As far as I can see, both of them are working together, getting into position for a single salvo, probably time-on-target. It'll rip Alamo to shreds.”

   “Is there anything they can do to stop it?” Ortok asked. “That much firepower?”

   Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “Not a thing. Even if they could get a full salvo into the air, take a shot with their laser cannon, they'd never take down more than a couple of dozen.” Looking at the controls, he smiled, and said, “What can we do?”

   “Wait a minute,” Ortok said. “We can't fire on our own ships.”

   Frowning, Valya replied, “There's a chance. I think we could knock down the missiles in flight, or at least render them inert. If I set the laser correctly, and we get a good shot, I think it would work.” Turning to him, she said, “Pavel, if I miss, I'll almost certainly hit Alamo.”

   “Can we contact them from here?” he asked, turning to Harper.

   “Hold on a moment,” she said. A rhythmic pounding sounded from the door, the guards outside recovered sufficiently to attempt to get in. He glanced at the metal, sizing up the design. They'd never get through with their hands alone, but as soon as they thought to deploy cutting tools, they'd lose the safety of their refuge.

   “Forty-five seconds to firing range,” Ortok said, moving over to the sensor screen. “I won't let you fire on our gunboats, but the missiles are fair game. I don't understand what is happening.”

   “It's quite simple,” Tarak said, his voice echoing through the room from the speaker. “The Council and the Coalition are no more. The military has taken control and will impose order and unity on the system. You all know that the politicians would never have compromised, would have argued away our final chance. Now we're going to make sure that we can better world, free of interference, and with the technology on Alamo, we'll be stronger than we ever were before.”

   “That's crazy,” Salazar said. “Why attack us?”

   “If Alamo doesn't return from its expedition, it might be years before another is sent. Time enough for us to rebuild, to become a power once again, one that can secure our future both here and among the stars. I'll make you an offer. If you surrender at once, I'll guarantee your safety, and give you safe passage down to Arcadia. You can live with the natives, breath fresh air, drink real water. That, or we'll have no choice but to kill you.”

   “Pavel!” Harper said. “I've broken through the interference. We have contact with Alamo.”

   “Make your choice,” Tarak said. “If you use the laser, all of you will die. Even if you shoot down the first salvo of missiles, there will be another, and another. Alamo is doomed. Why throw you lives away? Ortok, you're not one of them. What...”

   The engineer smashed his hand into the controls, turning off the communicator, and said, “I was getting sick of the sound of his damned voice. Let's get this done.” He moved over to the power distribution board, funneling energy into the laser cannon, while Valya lined up the shot, beads of sweat forming on her forehead.

   “Salazar to Alamo,” he said, “Salazar to Alamo. Urgent!”

   “Alamo here,” Weitzman said. “What's happening?”

   “Get me the Captain. I can save the ship from the first salvo.”

   “Actual here,” Orlova said, “What's the story, Pavel?”

   “We've taken control of the laser, and I'm lining up a shot to knock down the missiles. Keep your evasive maneuvers low, make sure that you fly a straight-line course, and cross your fingers.” A curl of smoke came from the door, a loud whine that announced the arrival of a cutter outside. “And take full advantage of this. We're only going to get one shot.”

   “If this goes wrong, Alamo will be hit astern by seventy missiles.” She paused for a half-second, then said, “What the hel
l. We don't have a better plan on the table. Good hunting, Sub-Lieutenant. Alamo out.”

   “I wish she had come up with something better,” Valya said, running her hands over the controls, indicators showing the power build-up. “I've never done anything this fine before.”

   “I thought you said that this network was designed for missile defense,” Harper said.

   Nodding, she replied, “I also told you that it didn't work. Let's hope we can do better on the second try than we did in the first.”

   “Fifteen seconds to firing range,” Ortok said, tapping controls. “Combined fleet is moving into launch position.”

   Salazar turned to the door, the smoke beginning to billow out, a loud whine coming from the life support system as it struggled to cope with the contaminants in the atmosphere. He watched as the line slowly dropped down the side of the door, running with alarming speed. Drawing his pistol, red-faced with fury, he stood ready to fell the first person through, anything to buy some time.

   “Missile launch,” Ortok said, with a strange calmness. “Seventy-two launches, simultaneous, time-on-target. They've emptied every missile tube at Alamo.”

   “One more second,” Valya said, making fine adjustments to the pulse. “One more second.”

   The missiles sped towards Alamo, inexorably flying through space, building up into a huge wave of death that would shortly rain down upon the hull. Salazar attempted to imagine the damage that many impacts could cause, and shook his head.

   “Take the shot!” he urged.

   “One more second,” Valya said.

   “We're out of time, and they're dead either way. Take the damn shot!”

   Valya lightly tapped a control, and a thin beam flashed onto the sensor display, tearing and ripping into the approaching missiles, the pulse of energy burning out sensor pickups, communication arrays, guidance thrusters, and finally detonating the warheads one after another in a cacophony of explosions, brief flashes on the screen until all that remained was a fine screen of debris, Alamo easily pushing clear of the last trace of the enemy. As he watched, six more dots appeared on the screen, this time from the battlecruiser, heading back towards the fleet that had almost destroyed it. Now the battle would really begin.

   Before he saw anything more, the lights went dark, all the monitors died, the only illumination coming from the dull red patch on the door where Tarak and his men were burning through. He tossed his pistol away, the useless gun clanging to the deck.

   “I was expecting this,” Valya said. “I'm almost surprised we got that shot off before they thought of it.” Shaking her head, she added, “They must have had to knock out the whole level to shut us down.”

   “At least we got our shot,” Harper said, a smile creeping across her face.

   “It's over, Tarak!” Salazar yelled. “The first one through the door dies. Is that going to be you, or does someone else want to be killed for nothing today? Why don't we wait and see who wins the battle.” A murmuring outside suggested that his point was getting home. “Do any of you want to die for a worthless room and a broken laser?”

   He could hear shouting outside, and glanced around, adding, “If we lose the battle, we'll give ourselves up, and you can do whatever you want to us. If we win, well, that changes the whole picture, doesn't it.”

   “Very well,” Tarak said. “Have it your way. We'll let you know when your ship gets blown up, and then we'll finish the job.” Silence reigned as the cutter died, only a low murmuring as evidence of the crowd outside.

   “I guess we wait,” Salazar said, sitting down on the floor. “And pray.”

  Chapter 23

   “He did it!” Nelyubov yelled, turning back from his station. “All seventy-two missiles, wiped out with one shot. Not even much of a debris field to worry about, and the blast was well clear of the hull.”

   “Don't celebrate yet,” Orlova warned. “They're still hard on our tail. Weitzman, contact Salazar and ask him if he can manage a second shot. Frank, fire at will, missiles only. Keep the laser charged, but I want to open up the range with that fleet as fast as we can.”

   “Ceasing evasive maneuvers,” Foster said from the helm. “Stepping up to full speed. I'm going to try and notch her past the red-line.”

   “At this rate we'll be out of firing range in seventy-one seconds,” Spinelli said.

   “Long enough for another salvo,” Orlova replied. Alamo rocked as the missiles raced from the tubes, turning back towards the approaching ships, Nelyubov carefully monitoring their progress as he guided them in.

   “I can't raise Sub-Lieutenant Salazar, ma'am,” Weitzman said.

   “Try the other ships again,” Poltis said, looking at the tactical display. “They've got to see sense at some point, stop this attack. Without the element of surprise, they'll be smashed to pieces.”

   “Still nothing,” the communications technician said, manipulating his controls. “I can't get any response from anyone. They must be receiving us, but they aren't listening.”

   “If we gain enough speed, that might not be a problem,” Powell said.

   Orlova looked at the tactical display, watching the missile tracks lance back towards the ships to their rear. Both the sailships and the gunboats had moved into a tight formation, slowly falling away as Alamo accelerated past them, gaining speed faster than they could. The warheads danced back towards their targets, gathering velocity with every second, the enemy ships unable to turn in time to prevent an impact.

   Stoically, Poltis watched as two of his sailships were struck amidships, the blast of ruptured decks and escaping atmosphere tossing them around, their sails a hopeless tangle. Three gunboats suffered hits, Nelyubov expertly guiding the missiles into the rear sections, wrecking their engines and sending them falling out of the formation.

   “I'm sorry,” Orlova said, looking at the politician, who somehow looked twenty years older than he had when he first came on board. At the rear, Trant, still in the grip of two of the Espatiers, looked on, unable to stop watching the horror that was unfolding on their screens.

   “You're doing what you have to do,” Poltis replied. “It's some sort of sickness, a disease that has infected our people. Maybe it will only burn itself out when the last one of us dies.”

   “They're still coming hard,” Spinelli said. “Not even stopping to launch rescue shuttles. From what I can guess, we've crippled five ships, but we've still got twelve on an intercept course.”

   “They have time to fire again,” Trant said. “Make no mistake, we will still win this battle. All that you are doing is delaying the inevitable.”

   “Why, damn it?” Orlova asked. “Why do this?”

   “Second salvo ready to fire, ma'am,” Nelyubov said. “We'll still be in range for another forty seconds.”

   “Let them fly,” she said. “Prioritize the gunboats over the sailships. With one of the lasers disabled, the Council ships are a greater threat than the Coalition vessels.”

   Alamo rocked again, six more missiles racing into the void, slewing around as they locked onto their targets in the approaching flotilla, now diminished. Even as they were, they could still launch forty-eight missiles at Alamo, more than she could ever hope to withstand, more than they could knock down. Hooke frantically stabbed at his electronic warfare console, desperately trying to hack into the enemy systems, but it was a futile gesture. Hard enough to break through the computers of a hostile power with a shared technological heritage, impossible when the cultures had divided at the stone ax and fire level.

   “Energy spike, all enemy ships!” Spinelli said. “Missile launch, full salvo, forty-eight warheads bearing directly.” Looking across at another monitor, he added, “One minute, twenty seconds to impact.”

   The words resounded grim finality, and Nelyubov replied, “Our second salvo will hit their targets five seconds sooner. I can have another salvo ready in the time. Mayb
e we can try fratricide.”

   “Not at that range, not that many missiles,” Orlova said. “What's that going to do to our aft section?”

   “Rip it into pieces, along with the rest of the hull,” he answered, shaking his head. “Not even any point launching escape pods or shuttles. They'll never get out of the blast radius in time.”

   Poltis sighed, and said, “Perhaps it is better that I die here, now. I don't think I want to live to see the sort of world these people will create.”

   “We're not dead yet, Coordinator,” Orlova said. “Weitzman, can they hear us over there?”

   “They can't be missing us, ma'am.”

   Snatching up a headset, she said, “This is Captain Orlova to the ships in the pursuing fleet. In about seventy-five seconds from now, you're going to destroy the last, best hope that your system has for a lasting peace. Even if you do salvage worthwhile technology from the ruins of this ship, how long before you start to fight among yourselves for the scraps once again.”

   Turning to face the holodisplay, the tracks of the missile trajectories steadily converging on Alamo, she continued, “In the process of destroying this vessel, you will lose at least four, possibly six more of your ships. Ships that you are vitally dependent on for resource transfer, without which your people will starve, die of thirst. Our laser could destroy another.”

   With a deep breath, she continued, “You might be willing to let your people suffer for your greed, your arrogance, but in all good conscience I cannot make the situation any worse than it has to be. I am ordering that our missiles self-destruct. I call upon those of you in the fleet to undertake the same action, and note that your leaders must have known about the atrocities on the surface, by the admission of the agent they sent on board this ship.” She glared at Trant, who looked down at the deck. “Should you decide to destroy my ship anyway, at least this way, your people have a slender chance of survival. But that's what this was all about, wasn't it.”