Due Diligence continued its dive, sweeping dangerously close to the defense perimeter, with the anticipated result as new trajectory plots appeared on the screen, a dozen missiles on their tail, the escort blazing a trail of fire through the sky in her desperate bid to escape. All was silent on the bridge, the brief mutiny forgotten as the crew worked to save their lives.
“Impact in thirty seconds, aft section,” the helmsman reported. “Two of them, sir. The rest are falling behind.”
“What about Alamo?” Cooper asked.
“Five seconds later,” the sensor technician said. A series of explosions raced across the display as the missile salvos met each other, bright enough to dazzle Cooper for a second, his eyes blinking in a bid to clear the afterimage of the blast.
“Report,” Itzel said.
“Nine enemy missiles running true,” the technician began. “Correction, seven. The laser cannon took down two of them. Nice shooting.”
“Can they get another salvo up in time?” Itzel asked.
“Not a chance, sir. They're going to have to take the hits.”
“And us?” Hunt asked.
“Ten seconds, sir.”
Cooper looked around, eventually sitting on the floor for want of anywhere else, and braced himself against the wall to take the impact, watching as the trajectory tracks settled to their final destination. The ship lurched forward as the missiles slammed home, an angry growl ripping through the hull as the twin explosions cascaded through the decks, perfectly timed to cause maximum damage.
Through it all, the helmsman struggled at his post, the white lights changing to red as emergency systems switched on, airtight hatches slamming into place to seal the hull breaches. Itzel leaned forward, still showing only the barest concern, and scanned the trajectory plot, eventually nodding in satisfaction.
“We're clear, Major. Somehow.” Shaking his head, he said, “Given that you are primarily responsible for causing this mess, I'd appreciate it if you and your men report to damage control stations.”
“Alamo?” Cooper asked.
“It's out of our hands now, Major. Everything is down to them.”
Chapter 21
Orlova pulled on her spacesuit, reaching for her helmet, and sighed as the lights flickered again, damage from the latest series of impacts wreaking havoc on her ship. The damage control report snapped into view as the monitor in the crew room rebooted, showing red lights in a dozen sections, the laser cannon destroyed, most of the outer areas open to space, missile tubes shattered.
At least the hangar was still operational. Everything now depended on her, the bombing run that she was scheduled to begin in five minutes. She looked at the door, shaking her head. Now that the moment was upon her, doubt weighed her down once again. Not the fear of death, strangely enough. Somehow that didn't quite seem real, not yet, and wouldn't until she had her hand on the firing controls. The words of Salazar, of Powell, of Quinn raced through her mind once again, as though attempting to urge her to reconsider at the last minute.
She looked over the flight plan, going over the battle once last time, glancing up as a rumble echoed from below, another missile finding its target. That was the seventh in this salvo, and the lights flickered once again as the power distribution network struggled to bypass the damaged sections. There was only so much damage Alamo could take, and in her current condition, one more impact might finish her.
That meant that her mission was even more important. Her ship would never survive another firing pass, and the enemy fighters could easily swing around and take her as she passed on the far side of the enemy homeworld. Unless she could prevent that from happening, save her ship at the final moment. One last service she could provide her crew.
“Damage control teams to aft engineering section,” Quinn said. “Damage control teams to elevator control. Distribution network, report status.”
“Emergency override initiated,” Harper replied. “Attempting bypass of secondary systems.”
“Hull breaches in sections five through nine,” a distorted voice added. “Evacuating astrogation and auxiliary control.”
The door slid open, and Powell stepped inside, a datapad in his hand and a dour look on his face. He walked over to the locker and picked up her gloves, passing them across to her without a word, moving to block the exit.
“Thanks, Professor. Any last minute changes to the flight plan I need to know about?”
“Just one,” he replied, pulling out his pistol. “You aren't going. I cannot permit it.”
Looking up at him, she sighed, and said, “I didn't truly think that you would go this far.”
“I thought the same as you. For a while I thought this was just a bluff, that you were hoping to trick the Xandari into a surrender, but you are actually planning to do this, aren't you? To wipe out a civilization, perhaps an entire race.” He paused, then continued, “You realize, I hope, that the usual response of the Xandari to defeat is self-immolation? That there is a very real chance that they might commit suicide as a race to avoid what they would perceive as the shame of defeat?”
“Their choice, Professor, not mine. We're just doing what we have to do to save the most lives. If their single-minded philosophy allows them no other alternative, then perhaps this was always inevitable.” Rising to her feet, the gun still leveled on her chest, she continued, “They'll be defeated, sooner or later, and if racial suicide is the outcome, perhaps better it happens before they enslave or exterminate humanity.”
“You don't truly believe that you have a justification for genocide, do you?”
“I believe that we have to consider the lesser of two evils.” Shaking her head, she continued, “I'll be dead in a few moments, Professor, so there will be no one to press charges against you if you simply leave the room now. I'll understand under the circumstances if you are reluctant to wish me luck.” Stepping forward, she continued, “Are you actually intending to shoot me, Professor?”
“Better one than millions, Captain. Or two, given that I will certainly die for my crime.”
“The whole ship, more than likely,” Orlova replied. “Our escape plan is desperate enough, even without the detonation of the bomb to provide us with cover. You're betraying your own shipmates, your comrades, to the Xandari.”
“Or serving a greater good,” he replied. “I cannot simply sit back and watch while you commit mass murder. The only way that evil triumphs...”
“Is for someone to stop good winning the war.” With a sigh, she continued, “I do not have time for this. None of us do. So you might as well get this over with and shoot me. But make sure that your aim is true, Professor, because if you miss, I'll still fly the mission. And if I die, someone will take my place. That bomber will launch in four minutes, no matter what, even if Salazar has to do it one-handed!”
“He's too busy leading us to oblivion himself,” Powell replied. “I had hoped that he would do better once he assumed command, but evidently the power has gone to his head, or he has been corrupted by your warped ideals.”
“Pavel's in command?” Orlova asked.
“Didn't you know?” Powell replied. “It hardly matters, anyway. I don't think you are in as much of a hurry to die as you think. Somewhere deep in the back of your mind, you're hanging onto this as a last chance to save your own life. Not to mention do the right thing, the moral thing.”
Glancing up at the countdown clock, Orlova said, “I'm walking through that door, and there is nothing you can do to stop me aside from killing me. And somehow, Professor, I don't think that you will. I don't think you can pull that trigger. Go ahead and prove me wrong.”
Behind him, the door opened, Nelyubov walking in. Orlova took advantage of the brief distraction, racing forward and felling Powell with a blow to the chin, sending the old man tumbling to the floor, his head slamming into a locker. She looked up at her frien
d, shaking her head.
“That was good timing, Frank. How did you know he was coming after me?”
“I didn't,” he replied, reaching into a pocket.
“Then...”
Before she could say another word, he pulled out a tranquilizer gun and fired into her chest, the drugs instantly taking effect. He caught her, gently lying her on the floor, then walked over to a locker and started to pull out a spacesuit of his own, sliding it into position a piece at a time.
“I can't let you do this either, Maggie.”
“No,” she replied, forcing the words. “Don't...”
“You don't need to worry about the ship. I left Pavel in command, and he'll do a fine job. Young, but one hell of an officer, and he's had more time as a commander than I have. The ship will be fine, and if anyone can save it, he will.”
She shook her head, struggling to fight the drugs that were raging through her system, the tranquilizer making her want to do nothing more than sleep.
Looking down at her, he continued, “It isn't just a question of your life, Maggie. We're both serving officers, and we've both faced death before, but there's more to this than simple physical death. You said it yourself. Whoever is at those controls will be remembered for decades as the man responsible for the death of a civilization. History might not be particularly kind.”
“My duty,” she murmured. “My right.”
“You deserve a lot better than to be remembered that way. I can't let your name, your reputation by destroyed. I don't matter, Maggie. Just another old officer. Competent, perhaps, but I don't have the shining future of an Orlova, or a Salazar, or a Harper. I've been more than content with my lot, but now that we're almost at the end, I find that I cannot permit this. So I'll fly the bomber myself, and die at the controls in your place.”
“Why?”
He reached for his helmet, and smiled, saying, “Perhaps because you've been a lot more to me than my commanding officer. Perhaps because everything I said is true, and that your name deserves more than this bombing run would give it, and I'm going to make sure that I am the one the moralists and historians curse, not you.” He paused at the door, and said, “And perhaps because I've been in love with you for a long time, and I'm following the advice of the man up on the bridge, someone who just might be wiser than both of us. He'll make a fine second-in-command for the ride home, Maggie. Do one thing for me. Have a good life.”
She struggled, tried to get up, but he placed the helmet on his head, stepping silently out onto the waiting hangar deck, the technicians swarming around him as he climbed into the bomber, taking the mission that should have been hers, the sacrifice that was hers to make, not his. With all her strength, she could barely move a muscle, only inch her way to the door, hoping to get close enough that she might reach for the communicator, call for help.
It would do no good. The bomber slid down into the elevator airlock, Nelyubov at the controls, no one questioning the identity of the pilot. As soon as he spoke to the bridge, the deception would be clear enough, but by that point it would be too late. He'd be on his way, and she was lying there, struggling to regain consciousness.
Nelyubov loved her? Enough to give his life, his reputation, everything for her? And somehow, Salazar had known about it, all the time. She ran her mind back over the years she had known him, battle after battle, crisis after crisis where he had always been there for her, more loyal than anyone else, and suddenly it all made sense. With a loud jolt, the hatch slammed shut, Nelyubov leaving the ship for the last time. And she would never have a chance to talk to him.
Taking a deep breath, she felt the paralytic effects begin to ebb, shaking her arms as the feeling returned to her tired limbs, and struggled to the medical locker on the wall, tugging it open and sending its contents spilling across the deck. She fumbled for a stimulant, her stupefied mind selecting one at random and injecting herself, barely comprehending the risk she was taking, but the rush of adrenaline she felt more than made up for it.
She pushed herself to her feet, almost tumbling again as her vision blurred, her eyes struggling to focus, but she pushed off from the wall, managing to stand upright with a great effort, her head pounding from the effects of the clashing drugs. She was going to regret the injection later, assuming she survived long enough, but for the present, the only thing she could think of was getting to the bridge, saving her ship.
Lurching out of the crew room, still half in her spacesuit, all eyes turned to her in astonishment as the woman they believed was on her way to her death walked uncertainly across the hangar bay, tossing off her gloves and throwing them to the floor. She reached the elevator, tapping the control, but one of the technicians walked over to her, shaking his head.
“Knocked out by the last salvo, Captain,” he said. “Didn't you…”
“No, Spaceman, I didn't. What about internal communications?”
“Dead, ma'am. Those last hits ripped into our aft section.”
Nodding, she said, “Carry on,” and walked over to the maintenance hatch, dragging it open with an effort. She looked at the ladder, a quarter-mile up to the bridge in variable acceleration, and stepped onto it, shaking her head. She had to reach the command deck, and nothing was going to stop her.
Chapter 22
“Bomber away, sir,” Scott said, looking up from her readouts. “One minute, twenty-five seconds to the missile screen.” Shaking her head, she continued, “I've only got four missile tubes on-line, Pavel, and I can only reload two of them. The laser cannon is so much scrap metal, and most of our communications antenna are history.” The lights flickered again, Spinelli cursing as his console rebooted.
“Fitzroy, damage report?” Salazar asked, lurching over to the engineering station, Alamo hurled to the right from another hull breach as he walked across the bridge. “Have you managed to get through to engineering yet?”
“No, sir. I can't get Distribution Control either.” Flicking a control, he added, “What hull sensors I have report eighty-nine breaches all over the ship, and I think you can probably double that number. We've got fires in two sections, crews working on exposing them to space, and the secondary oxygen reservoir has been holed.” Shaking his head, he added, “Hendecaspace drive is out, and we've got cascade failure in the power distribution nodes. I think. Without getting a telemetry link, sir, I'm guessing here.”
“Keep trying,” Salazar said, patting the engineer on the shoulder. “Weitzman, internal communications? What's the story?”
“Depressing as hell, sir,” the technician replied. “I've got the speakers working, but someone's cannibalizing the internal fiber-optics as power conduits. It'll be a short life and a merry one for the relay systems, but they should keep things moving for a few minutes at least.” Pausing, he added, “I've had contact with sickbay, sir, and Technical Officer Garland reports casualties backed up into the corridors, all triage facilities overloaded.”
The ship rocked forward again, Maqua struggling with the thrusters, trying to keep the ship stable. Salazar turned to the holodesk to see Foster watching the bomber proceed on its trajectory track, her eyes locked onto the small dot that represented their only real hope of survival. Only four other friendly ships were in the system now, a pitiful remnant of the fleet that had arrived only hours ago. Ryan and Murphy had burned their fuel to place themselves on a safe trajectory, one of the ironies of the battle that those who had taken the greatest risk would likely be the last to die.
As for the two surviving escorts, Due Diligence was following the fighters out of the sub-system, the few sensor readings indicating that they were fighting serious battle damage of their own after their high-speed pass, and Profitable Venture was looping around the moon for a second time, building up furious velocity of its own.
“Bomber is ninety seconds from target, sir,” Foster said. “Now sixty seconds from the missile screen.” Punching
commands into the desk, she added, “As far as I can determine, we'll be exposed to danger for thirty-nine seconds. We might actually live through this yet.”
“I'm having trouble keeping a straight heading,” Maqua reported, his hands gripping the helm controls, knowing that a microsecond's hesitation could send them spiraling through the stars to their death. “Most of my thrusters are gone. I'm trying to use the cargo airlocks to compensate with released expulsions of atmosphere, but the transfer network is in pieces.” Shaking his head, he said, “Wild ride, sir, and it isn't getting any better.”
“Maintain maximum acceleration,” Salazar ordered. “Fitzroy, whatever power you have, send it to the engines. We've got to complete this burn or we don't have a chance. Cut everything else, right down to life support. We can live in the air with what we've got for a couple of hours if we have to.” The lights dimmed again, one of the panels blowing out from the repeated stress, sending a shower of sparks cascading to the floor.
“Fighters responding!” Foster said, pointing at the display. “They're moving into an attack pattern, intercept in two hundred seconds, estimate forty-four missiles in the formation.”
“Doesn't make any difference, not now,” Salazar replied, moving back to the holotable and grabbing it with both hands, struggling to remain on his feet. “We're dead anyway if the bomb fails. If it works, the blast wave should get them. I hope.”
“Sixty seconds to detonation,” Scott said. “Bomber still on track, all systems appear nominal as far as I can tell, but I can't pick up any telemetry.” Turning back to Salazar, she added, “There's nothing we can do to help them.”
“Change to target aspect!” Spinelli said. “Profitable Venture is heading for the planet, moving back for a second pass over the defense network.” Shaking his head, he added, “They must be on automatic. They're accelerating well over their usual maximums.”
“Weitzman, any chance of contact them?”
Battlecruiser Alamo: Final Orbit Page 19