With a sigh, he said, “New course. Maximum evasive.”
“Already got it,” Scott said.
“Hang on,” Salazar replied. “This is going to be close.”
The engines fired again, spilling the remains of their fuel in a final, sustained burn, that took them diving down towards Wyvern, their velocity increasing rather than decreasing, no attempt to match course, only to throw them off in a tangent. A countdown appeared on the heads-up display, thirty seconds and falling, warning alarms sounded as the shuttle drew closer and closer to the crippled vessel.
The damage the ship had taken was astonishing, tears and gouges across the hull, black scars from laser blasts, missile shots, collisions. That it was still moving at all was astonishing, but someone on board was still attempting to change course, as though making one last, desperate attempt to save themselves.
In an instant, the transfer shuttle had flown past the scoutship, engines still roaring, tossing it onto a divergent course that would eventually get it back to Alamo. As the countdown passed fifteen, Salazar turned to face Harper.
“Are you sure about this explosion?”
“It’s an anti-matter bomb, Pavel, and there’s no way to stop it. Three gigatons is a conservative yield. It could be a lot bigger.” Shaking her head, she said, “How far will we be from it?”
“About ten thousand miles. Will that be enough?”
“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” she said, strapping herself in. Salazar turned to face forward, resting his hands on the controls, a red light appearing over the fuel monitor. Not that it would matter in a moment, anyway. Either they would be moving fast enough to outpace the shockwave, or they’d be dead.
“Five seconds,” Salazar said. “Hang on!”
His hands gripped the console until his knuckles bled white, an act of desperation that couldn’t possibly do any good. The final second dropped away, and he clamped his eyes closed, the white-hot blast of the explosion still showing through the filters, even through his eyelids, burning out the aft sensor arrays.
“Three Point Five!” Harper said, looking across at a display. Behind them, the sole surviving camera pick-up showed no trace of the scoutship, only an ever-expanding cloud of debris, one that was heading right for them, the shrapnel from both the ship and the luckless asteroid it had been near, thousands of tons of material tossed away.
The three of them watched silently as the cloud closed on them, the shuttle’s acceleration continuing to build, the speed slowly, slowly rising as they started to outpace the rain of death to their rear. A series of alarms started to ring, radioactive micrometeorites on the rear hull, a hail-storm of fury lapping at them as they struggled to escape, and Harper pulled a patch from the repair kit, ready to seal a breach.
It almost seemed as though the shuttle was giving them one last kick, and then the engine faded, but the track showed a clear trajectory as the cloud fell back behind them, the vessel having accelerated beyond the velocity of the expanding debris swarm. Salazar slumped forward, releasing the breath he didn’t know he had been holding.
“My God, we lived through it.”
Nodding, Scott said, “Course track confirmed. We’ll be well clear of that cloud for at least a hundred orbits, and by then it should be well-dispersed. Alamo rendezvous in nine orbits, but they’ll have to do the fine work themselves or send another transfer shuttle for us.”
Harper shook her head, tapping the screen, and said, “Assuming we’ve got anywhere to come back to. In about two minutes, Alamo’s going to fly right into that cloud unless they change course.”
“The main power grid was out,” Scott said, dejected. “They can’t maneuver.”
With a sigh, Salazar said, “Then all we can do is sit and watch. In a couple of minutes, we’ll know if we’re going to live through this or not.”
Chapter 25
Cooper dropped down to the deck, watching Salazar leap into the transfer shuttle, almost crashing into a surprised Scott, then walked over to Bradley, looking at the chaos in the hangar. Technicians were running about, yelling orders to each other that went unheeded, medics treating a group of crewmen lying on the deck, an acrid smell filling the air.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“We’re dead in five minutes if we can’t get the power grid back online, internal communications died in the last salvo, and we’ve got outer hull breaches that have isolated us from the rest of the ship. Aside from that, everything’s just fine.” She shook her head, and replied, “I’d start making for the escape pods, but I’m not sure there will be any point. There’s a huge shockwave on the way.”
“Can they get the grid going?”
Pulling out a datapad, she said, “The last problem is Relay Station Nine. Three decks down from here, two compartments across. Under normal circumstances we’d could get to it in sixty seconds, but the outer hull in that area is a shredded mess. There’s no way to reach it.”
“There must be another option,” Hunt said, moving over behind Cooper.
“We’d have to fix three other stations to do it, and lots of the outer hull is smashed up,” Chief Kowalski replied. “Relay Nine is the best option. The only option, if we’re going to do it in the time.”
“Then we’ll have to go out onto the hull, and walk around.”
With a sigh, Bradley replied, “Working out on the hull under gravity conditions would be a death sentence under normal circumstances, and we’re in an active combat zone. The ship is surrounded by a halo of debris, enough to tear a suit to shreds.”
“Besides, Sheehan and Desmond tried it.” Gesturing down at the deck, Kowalski added, “Only Sheehan made it back, and if we don’t get him to sickbay in the next half-hour…”
“Can I do the repairs?” Cooper asked.
“Maybe, if I talk you through it,” Kowalski said. “But we just told you, there’s no way to reach them.”
“I’d rather die trying than sit here and wait for the end. Corporal, I need a suit of space armor, on the double.”
“Aye, sir,” Hunt replied. “Jackson, two suits of armor, on the double!” He turned, shrugged, and said, “You’re going to need a back-up, sir. Just makes sense.”
While the two of them hastily suited up, Kowalski raced over to the nearest supply locker, bringing back a pair of small cases. He clamped one to each of their backs, tugging at them to make sure they were secure.
“Two Number Five Toolkits. You’re going to need them.” He looked at them again, their helmet lights flashing on. “You won’t get ten feet out there.”
“Just tell us where to go,” Cooper replied, and the two of them stepped out to the service airlock, Bradley shaking her head as the inner door closed.
“Suit jets, sir?” Hunt asked.
“Only thing I can think of.”
“Not much juice in these babies.”
They stepped out onto the deck, almost tossed clear by the force of the escaping air, and looked out across the battered, ruined outer hull. There were hull breaches everywhere, clusters of debris scattered around outside, teeth-like rips lancing up. A normal spacesuit would be in pieces in seconds, and even their armor wouldn’t survive an impact with the hull.
“Lots of flying crap out here,” Hunt said.
“I’ll take point. You cover.” Cooper kicked off with his suit jets, cursing as he was tossed backwards, their target in the opposite direction as the spin of the ship. More than a third of his fuel went in that initial burst, correcting the first move, and he felt a rattle on his boot, a dent where a piece of debris had rattled off. A fraction larger, and it would have pierced the armor.
A second long pulse pushed him forwards, towards his destination. There was no airlock nearby, but that wasn’t going to be necessary, with a huge gash just by the compartment, more than large enough for him to get through. Ass
uming he made it in time. Hunt kicked off after him, trying to judge his takeoff better, but still burning the same amount of fuel to catch up.
Doctrine called for them to be careful, to use a pair of safety lines, swinging from one to the other, keeping a safe distance from any damage. If he’d paid attention to the manual, he wouldn’t have stepped out of the airlock. His on-board computer attempted to plot a safe course between the debris fields and gave up, the only trajectory tracks laced with warnings of imminent death.
“How long?” Cooper asked.
“Three minutes, fifty seconds,” Kowalski said.
“Full thrust, Corporal. Let’s get this over with.”
He tapped the control for a long, loping burn, swooping across the hull, throwing in a twist at the end to avoid what almost looked like a mountain range up ahead, some interior explosion that had ripped through the hull. A loud crack snapped at his helmet, and he saw a mark on the feed, his head camera damaged by an impact. More dents appeared in his suit, all from fragments of debris too insignificant to register as part of a swarm.
Behind him, Hunt pulsed a burn, trying to keep up with him. Belatedly, he realized that they should have at least had a line joining the two of them, but they were too far apart now to fix his mistake. He could clearly make out his goal now, though, a hundred and twenty meters ahead, and tapped a control to skim him to the left, pushing him away from a particularly large piece of spinning metal, lurching towards him dangerously quickly.
“It’s like driving the wrong way down a road,” Hunt said. “Everyone’s coming from the other direction.”
Hunt had pushed the other way around the debris, sending himself skimming just above a piece of hull metal. Cooper saw, glinting in the light, a long, slender cable reaching out in a loop, but before he could shout a warning, the trooper had managed to catch his foot in it, the force pulling him dangerously down to the hull. He liberally fired his suit jets, trying to pull himself clear, but crashed into the jagged remains of a sensor relay.
“Corporal, come in,” Cooper said. “Hunt, reply at once.”
“Suit breach,” Hunt replied. “And I think I’ve broken my damn leg.”
“Can you get back to the airlock?”
“I’m coming…”
“Don’t make me drag you back! Get back to the airlock on the double.”
“Aye, sir,” Hunt replied, his voice hollow, empty, the fight drained from him. “Returning now. Good luck.”
Cooper paused for a second, watching to make sure that the Corporal had followed his orders, then turned again on his suit thrusters, checking his course. He was drifting slightly away from his target, and frowned as he glanced at his status monitors. No leakage from his suit, and he should be remaining steady on trajectory.
While he tapped a control to correct his path, he glanced up at the external pressure monitor, his eyes widening as he realized he was no longer in absolute vacuum. Air was leaking from Alamo, not enough to have anything but the slightest effect, but at a level that was rapidly increasing.
He glanced down at the hull beneath him, his eyes ranging to seek the fissure that was causing the problem. He was passing over a storage area, usually unmanned, and a low priority for repair work at the best of times, certainly not anyone’s priority now. The level began to rise, growing sharper and sharper, requiring another pulse to push him back on course.
“Gabe! It’s about to go!” his wife yelled, and he instinctively tapped the thruster control, sending him racing forward, desperately attempting to get out of the danger area. Underneath him, a fissure suddenly ruptured across the hull, some weakness in the hull giving way, sending a blast of escaping air roaring towards him.
Tumbling end over end, he struggled for his thruster controls, his suit burning fuel in a desperate attempt to stabilize him, warning alarms sounded as his new course threw him clear of the ship, and towards a cloud of debris large enough for him to see. A red light flashed on as his fuel level dropped below half, and while he was coming back onto a level path, he was still heading dangerously away from the ship.
“Gabe, come in,” Bradley said. “Come in!”
“I’m here. Suit integrity nominal. All go. Hang on.”
“I’m looking at your course,” Kowalski said. “Put yourself onto a vector to take you clear. You ought to be able to navigate through the outer debris field with your fuel, and Orbital Two can pick you up. Sergeant Gurung is in the airlock…”
“How long, Chief?”
There was a pause, and he replied, “Two minutes, thirty seconds.”
“He’ll never do it, not and complete the repairs. Don't worry, I’ve got this.” Tapping an override, disabling the proximity alarms, he twisted around, pointing for his target, adjusting his aim to compensate for the spin of the ship, then fired his jets in a long, sustained pulse.
“What are you doing?” Bradley demanded.
Pulling out his grapple gun, he replied, “Giving myself a chance to test my marksmanship in new and interesting ways.” A long beep told him that his fuel was dead, and his course was going to take him over his target at almost half a meter a second. He wasn’t sure what the strength of the cable he was firing was, though there were warning signs sounding at the back of his head.
Raising the gun level, his heads-up display measured the distance and angle, and with a volley of electronic caveats, advised him to pull the trigger. The grapple raced away, seeming to curve towards the handhold he’d been aiming for, the long gash that would be his gateway to the ship. He willed it on, as though the power of his mind alone would be enough, and it locked into position, tugging him forward for a second as the cable snapped.
“Damn it,” he said. “One chance left.” Another override beckoned, this one requiring three button presses to activate, as though his suit computer couldn’t quite believe that he would be insane enough to do it. With the final command, oxygen began to billow from his jets, pushing him slowly towards the hole.
“Your oxygen level is plummeting!” Bradley said. “Do you have a breach?”
“Negative. When the cable broke, at least it killed a lot of my momentum. I should have enough in my tank to push me inside.” Another warning alarm went off, alerting him that he only had half his air remaining. “Guide me in.”
“A little more,” Kowalski said. “Don’t go too quickly. Two minutes and counting, and Wyvern should be exploding any second underneath you.”
“Reassuring thought,” Cooper replied, reaching out for the gap. His velocity was still too high for his liking, but his fingertips just brushed against the side, close enough that he could inch his way in, the strain almost sending him flying off again. He took another look at his monitor systems, about fifteen minutes’ worth of air left in his suit. Plenty for the task at hand.
Climbing into the ship, he dropped down into the ruined compartment, praying that the relay station would be repairable. He looked around, pulling the toolkit from his pack, playing his helmet camera in all directions.
“Kowalski, are you seeing this?”
“Quinn here, Cooper,” the engineer’s voice said. “I’m two compartments over from you. I’ve got the systems on the monitor, and it looks like pretty good news. I don’t see any serious damage to the primary feed. You see that tangle on the top right corner?”
“I see it.” He looked at a confusing array of splayed wires, a hole in the hull on the far side.
“That’s where the primary relay control should be. The secondary should have kicked in automatically. Go down and tap the master switch.”
“It can’t be that simple, Jack.”
“It won’t be, but I want to try and get a diagnostic report.”
Reaching down, Cooper gingerly touched the control, half-expecting a gigawatt shock to run through his body. A sad green light winked on for a second, before dying once again.
>
“Did you get anything?”
“Circuit malfunction. A two-credit relay, and it pops the first time we need it. I need you to replace the unit. If you look in your kit, there’s an engineer’s datapad. You’ll find a pair of data connectors at the top, underneath some flaps. Just plug in the feed, and the relay should come on again. It won't hold forever, but it'll last as long as it needs to.”
Clanking his glove against the wall, Cooper said, “I’m having a hard enough time fishing out the datapad, Jack. I don’t have any dexterity in these things. Just plug-ins for a plasma rifle.”
“Wyvern blew up on schedule, Gabe. We’re dead in a hundred and ten seconds if you don’t.”
“You must have been absolute dynamic in debate class. I’ll see what I can do. Cooper out.”
Tugging the datapad free, he tossed the toolkit to a corner, then reached down for the control box. He could see the two connections, one of them slightly frayed, and began to try and remove it, starting with the intact one, attempting to get his thick fingers around it. He couldn’t even feel the wire, still less pull it, and any attempt would probably ruin it.
Turning back to the toolkit, he started to rummage through it, then gave up and emptied it out onto the deck, picking through the pieces until he found a pair of tweezers. He picked them up, experimentally tugged at the cable, and started to work it free, placing the datapad next to the box with his other hand.
With a heart-stopping snap, the cable came loose, and he guided the connector into the slot on the datapad, forcing it under the catch until it locked into the correct position. For a second, he thought he might have done enough, a blue light flashing on the datapad, but as it winked out, he turned to the remaining cable.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Malware Blues Page 20