“Not a hope, sir. All external communications pickups are destroyed or damaged. Unless they get within range of one of the hand units, we don't have a chance. Even then, the jamming field is back with a vengeance. They're throwing everything they've got at the bomber.”
“Can they know?” Foster asked, looking up at Salazar with a frown. “Could they have guessed what we're planning?”
“It doesn't matter if they have,” Salazar replied. “There's not much they can do about it now. As long as the bomber hits its mark, and the bomb works as advertised, everything will be fine. If not, then we'd better break out our harps.” Glancing at the helm, he said, “How's she running now, Sub-Lieutenant?”
“A little better, sir. I think all the hull breaches we're going to get have happened already. I hope.” The ship rocked to the side, and he grimaced, adding, “Though I'm still getting a few surprises. Fitzroy, can you get me more power? I'm losing charge on Engine Three.”
“There's no more to give you, Sub-Lieutenant,” the frustrated engineer replied. “We're running on backup systems and overrides right now. If anything else breaks, we're dead.”
“Fifteen seconds to defense perimeter,” Scott said. “Missile salvo ready for launch. Strongly recommend defensive fire.”
“No argument here, Kat,” Salazar said, his eyes now locked with the bomber, watching as it soared through space to its target. Everything for the last eighteen months had been leading to this moment, though they hadn't been aware of it at the time. The outcome of the war, and the fate of billions of lives rested on one experimental piece of technology working as it should, and the skill of the pilot at the controls. He looked around the bridge, a faint smile on his face. He knew it wasn't Captain Orlova flying that ship. As soon as Frank Nelyubov had gone below, he knew exactly what was happening. And that the man had given up any chance of getting back to Alamo again.
As the lights flickered, the viewscreen blanked out for an instant, the camera pickup shifting to a different view, Spinelli stabbing a finger at the controls in an attempt to restore the image. Just one more malfunction to deal with, the aftermath of the missile barrage that had almost smashed the ship in two. He looked across at the status board, the holographic image of Alamo that was bathed in red and black, systems damaged or failing to report. Repairing the ship to a sufficient state to get home would be a monumental project in itself.
“Threat warning!” Spinelli said with a sigh. “Eighteen missiles from the defensive perimeter, bearing directly. Estimate sixty seconds to impact at current rate.”
Alamo rocked back, from the launch of missiles this time, and Scott reported, “Retaliatory strike is in the air, sir, and homing on target. I set the launch sequence to fratricide.” With a sigh, she added, “We're in the hands of the automated guidance systems, sir. I haven't got any ability to control them from here.”
“I'm still losing thrust on Engine Three, Fitzroy!” Maqua yelled, struggling with the remaining thrusters. “Can you at least re-balance the power feed?”
“Primary linkages in the rear section are destroyed, Sub-Lieutenant,” the engineer replied. “I'm trying to bypass, but it's a real mess back there, sir. And I still can't raise anyone at Distribution Control.”
Worry nagged at Salazar, aware that Harper was down there, trying to keep the recalcitrant power network worrying. There had been no reports of damage in that area, other than the same blast wave that had rippled through the ship, but with internal communications out, anything might have happened. There might simply be no one down there to reply.
“Ten seconds to bomb detonation,” Scott said. “Still running true.”
Nothing else mattered now. As the countdown clock on the viewscreen ran down, Spinelli struggling to provide an image of the bomber, all eyes drifted to the tactical display at the heart of the room, the single trajectory track displaying the progress of the vehicle bearing their salvation. The lights flickered again, Alamo's engines still roaring as the ship raced away from the planet, already trying for the safe haven of cislunar space, away from the devastation that was about to begin.
It seemed like a moment for great words, for grand gestured, but Salazar simply couldn't think of any. When Nelyubov tapped the control, the universe would change forever, one horror replaced with an existential threat. A world isolated from the galaxy for decades to come, a mighty civilization brought to its knees.
Scott briefly glanced at her console, then turned to the viewscreen. Only one reading was of interest, the bomber finishing its trajectory. Impotent Xandari fighters desperately attempted to stop it, not even knowing what it was planning but assuming it meant them ill, a halo of missiles swinging into position to destroy it, guaranteeing that there could be no escape.
And perhaps that was the price that must be paid for this atrocity. The price of admiralty, paid in blood. Without realizing it, Salazar was holding his breath, the last second seeming endless, stretching to eternity, as Nelyubov carefully guided the bomber to firing position.
A tiny flash of light appeared on the screen, then a larger one, and a larger, the cascade effect kicking in as the trigger detonation erupted, the planned debris field forming, swirling around exactly as calculated, billions of pieces of shrapnel racing through orbital space, sufficient to cause the tactical display to stutter and fail, the effort of calculating the courses required too much for the computer in its damaged state.
The missile swarm was the first casualty, torn apart by debris traveling at tens of thousands of miles an hour, a million kinetic warheads for each one. Everything destroyed by the growing swarm simply added to the devastation, other clouds of molten slag moving into higher and lower orbits, just as the designers had planned, decades ago for a long-ended war.
Alamo raced onward, the tactical display winking on, the swarm now shown as an abstract menace, the trajectory plots giving up the unequal struggle to calculate them all. Still, all eyes were locked on the viewscreen, watching the ribbon of destruction sweep around the world, destroying everything in its path. With belated concern for their survival, the Xandari pilots that had been harrying the fleet raced to escape the destruction, futilely throwing their ships into wild tangents in a bid to get away, to clear the debris field.
Only a few of them realized that the only true safety was down, into the atmosphere of their homeworld, voluntarily joining their people in their exile from the galaxy, a quarantine that would keep known space safe for a century, ending their menace forever. That few of them were willing to take it was testament to a deep urge within, a desperate hope that their flight through the stars was not yet ended.
A second flash of light appeared on the screen as Alamo pulled away, the spaceport that had housed a dozen enemy battlecruisers under construction, the battle fleet they had feared would unleash horror on their homeworlds detonating under the force of repeated debris strikes, adding still more weight to the carnage. There might have been a brief second when the destruction could have been stopped, but now the fate of the Xandari homeworld was inevitable, and the fate of their empire with it.
“My God,” Spinelli said, his face pale, as he turned away from his station. “What have we done, sir? What have we done?”
Salazar had no words to reply, watching as tens of thousands died without hope of salvation, many of them not even knowing what was happening. Some of those on the far side of the planet might escape, could potentially find a sanctuary in the cold depths of space, but with the communications network wiped away, they were blind to the death that sought them, hunting them with ruthless, cold efficiency, unhindered by sentiment or emotion.
“Pulling away, sir,” Maqua said. “Smooth and steady.”
“Keep her moving, Sub-Lieutenant,” Salazar replied in a monotone, his attention still fixed on the nightmare that boiled below. “We've got to complete this course. The rest of the fleet?”
“Clear,
sir,” Spinelli said, shaking his head. “Both heading into trans-lunar space.” Looking up at Salazar, he said, “Everything in orbit will be destroyed in four minutes, sir. A little faster than calculated.” With a gulp, he continued, “Nothing left. Nothing at all.”
“Hold it together, Spaceman,” Salazar said. “Scott...”
Before he could finish, the lights went out, and this time, stayed dead, replaced a second later with the dull red glow of the emergency lighting. The bridge consoles rebooted, the viewscreen dark, tactical display flickering out. Worst of all, the roar of the engines faded, and Salazar felt himself floating free of the death as the acceleration died.
“Fitzroy?” he asked.
“Power failure. All decks. Systems overload.” Flicking switches, he continued, “There's nothing I can do from here, sir. There might be a chance at Distribution Control.”
“I'm going down there,” Salazar said, kicking to the elevator. “Foster, you...”
“It's no good, sir,” Fitzroy replied, catching him before he could slam into the doors. “The whole system's failed. They aren't working, anywhere. And it's at the far end of the ship. You'd never make it in time.”
“Three minutes, ten seconds to debris impact,” Spinelli said, struggling to bring his systems back online. “Unless we resume acceleration first.”
“Maqua?” Salazar asked.
“Nothing, sir. No power at all. We're drifting.”
“Thrusters, then. Aft burn, give it everything you've got.”
“We won't even make a hundredth-g, Pavel,” the Neander protested.
“Anything is better than nothing,” Salazar replied, slamming a control, praying that the broadcast circuits were intact. “Jack, we need main power back in two minutes or we've had it. If anyone is near Distribution Control, we've got to get the main engines online, now!”
“Thrusters at full, sir,” Maqua said. “We're moving.”
“That might buy us a few more seconds, sir,” Scott said, shaking her head. “Nothing more.”
“Maybe this is what was meant to be,” Spinelli said, still watching the horror that was reaching out towards them. “The price we had to pay.”
“We're not dead yet, Spaceman.”
“No, sir, but I think the mourners are gathering.”
Chapter 23
The dull drone of the siren reverberated through the compartment as Harper dragged herself to her feet, struggling with the tangle of cables and circuits that had fallen on her when the final panel blew, taking out the last distribution node. Deep red lights filled the room, casting strange shadows all around, and she reached for a flashlight, fumbling across the ground.
“Ingram,” she yelled, before spotting the prone figure deeper in the wreckage. She reached over, looking for a pulse, shaking her head as she failed to find one. Too late to help him, but the ship was in dire danger. Alamo's mighty engine spluttered to a stop, and though she couldn't see a trajectory plot, she knew that they were still moving too slowly to escape the wave of debris rushing their way.
She dived for the corridor, floating through the doors, brushing cables away with her hands, and was met by a pair of groaning figures on the far side, drifting helplessly in the air, savage burns on their faces. One of them looked at her, tears in his eyes, but she had to push past him, on down the corridor to Engineering. They'd all be dead in moments if she couldn't find a way to get the main engines back on-line, soon.
“Jack, we need main power back in two minutes or we've had it. If anyone is near Distribution Control, we've got to get the main engines online, now!” Salazar's voice echoed through the corridors, but he wasn't telling Harper anything she didn't already know. Pulling at a maintenance shaft, she cursed as the automated systems failed to engage, pulling the manual release to open it in a series of jerks.
Ducking inside, she pulled herself up the three decks to her destination, the air horribly cold, her breath condensing. A hull breach, and close, enough that the endless chill of space was seeping into the ship. She looked down a side passage, the emergency blast doors sealed, isolating two whole decks. With, if she remembered correctly, a dozen people inside.
She couldn't think about that right now. Had only to focus on the task at hand. Tugging herself through the mercifully open hatch, she swam into chaos, Quinn at the master control board, struggling with a series of switches and panels, technicians working all around him in a desperate hope to bring the master systems back on-line.
“Harper,” he said, turning as she approached. “You only just got out in time. The hull breach worsened. I've had to isolate Distribution Control.” Looking around, he added, “Ingram?”
“He didn't make it,” she replied. “Did you hear Pavel?”
“I did, but there's not much I can do about it from here.” Grabbing a toolkit, he said, “End of the corridor, we've got a breach, and there's a relay junction on the far side that we've got to secure. Right out on the hull. Means a spacewalk, and I need someone to override the relay controls to allow me to get through the blast doors. That means you.”
He dived past her, rushing down the corridor, and she turned to ask, “Where's your spacesuit?”
“I don't have time to get one,” he replied. “It's a twenty-second job if I get it right. I can live in vacuum for long enough to make the adjustments. But if we waste any more time talking about it, the whole situation is going to be moot. Hurry!”
She dived after him, fumbling in her pockets for her hacking kit, a slender datarod containing the distilled work of the best intrusion specialists in the Confederation, herself included. As they raced towards the blast door, pushing from the walls to speed their way, she heard a rattling from the hull. The outermost reaches of the debris field were heading towards them, too small to do any damage for the moment, but the pieces were only going to get larger, and with Alamo in its current condition, one more hit in the wrong place could cost them the ship.
A technician was fumbling at one of the escape pods, panic on his face, and Harper yelled, “Forget it, Spaceman! You'll never get clear of the field in that. Come and give us a hand.”
“We're all going to die!” he replied.
“Not if I have anything to do about it,” she replied.
“Engineering!” Salazar yelled. “I need main engine restart in ninety seconds or we'll never get clear! What the hell is happening down there?”
They reached the bulkhead, Quinn crashing into it, unable to stop in time. He recoiled from the space-cold hatch, then turned to Harper, gesturing for her to operate the override. Tugging the panel free, she slid her datarod into position and started frantically typing instructions, attempting to convince the computer to expose an entire accessway to space.
“Spaceman,” she said, gesturing at the panicking technician. “Seal the next hatch down, and make sure you're on the other side of it. That's an order.”
“But...”
“We'll decompress three decks if we don't, damn it! Move it, on the double!”
Without waiting to learn whether or not he had followed her orders, she continued to work, Quinn impatiently hanging at the door, toolkit in hand. She had a vague idea of the procedure he was planning to attempt, but she wouldn't have wanted to attempt it in a spacesuit, not in the time. Working in vacuum, air escaping all around him, would be a nightmare.
“Crack the hatch one centimeter to vent the atmosphere,” he replied. “Then open it all the way, and hang onto the controls. Close it when I tell you.” With a thin smile, he added, “You'll know when the time comes.”
“Almost got it,” she replied, tapping the last sequence of controls to operate the manual override. Red and amber lights flashed across the panel, a final warning from the safety systems that she was doing something that would almost certainly result in her death, but she progressed through the final stages of the checklist, taking
deep breaths to force air into her system.
“Seventy seconds!” Salazar said. “Come on, Jack, I need main engine start now or we're dead! What's the delay?”
“Now!” she yelled, tapping a control. The hatch cracked open, forming a path for the air to seep out into the ruined corridor beyond, and with a loud report, the next hatch slammed shut, sealing them off from the rest of the ship. Alarms sounded as the air spilled away, and she forced herself to breathe out, releasing the air in her lungs to avoid damage. Her skin tingled as the pressure fell away, her eardrums popping from the rapid atmospheric shift.
Red lights flashed on, and she pulled the lever to open the hatch all the way, Quinn diving out and towards the damaged transfer relay. Her vision blurred, and she watched him work, a simple task that was enormously more complicated by the conditions. Through the twisted gap in the hull she could see the stars, far more of them than usual, and she only slowly realized that she was seeing the debris field, Alamo caught in the outer layers, getting deeper and deeper as the seconds rolled by.
Quinn wasn't even attempting to hold onto his tools, tossing them away as he finished with each one, hunched over the shattered relay as he fought to bring it back online, a last-ditch attempt to save the ship. Green lights flickered one by one, the main lights coming back on, dispelling the crimson gloom through which they were working. Sparks shot across the damaged relays, but they could live with the power drain.
For a second, Quinn staggered at his work, and Harper pushed forward, thinking to help him, only to find herself caught in the tangle of cables she had exposed to open the door. Quinn looked back at her, helpless, trapped eyes, then shook his head, turning to his work, completing the repairs he was giving his life to make. Under shirtsleeve conditions, it would have taken a couple of seconds, but with his strength being seeped with every movement, he struggled to make progress.
She had no way of knowing how long she had been exposed to space. It could have been hours from the feel on the skin, and she felt sharp spasms of pain running through her system as the vacuum took its toll. It would be worse for Quinn, directly exposed, and as the local star shone through the gap, bathing him in its light, she saw him recoil, knowing the effect it was having on him.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Final Orbit Page 20