Battlecruiser Alamo: Ghost Ship

by Richard Tongue

   The four of them followed Vorzan through the door into a small room, obviously some sort of quarters section. Their attention was immediately drawn to a far corner, where a short, four-foot tall green figure floated behind a transparent screen. She – her sex was immediately obvious from the twin bulges under her cloak – had four arms, and five digits on each, and seemed slender. Her toes were slightly crooked, and she was using them to hang onto a bar on the floor to keep herself still.

   “Can she talk?” Carpenter asked.

   “We’ve never deciphered the Enemy’s language.”

   “You managed English easily enough,” Quinn replied.

   “This is a totally alien language,” Vorzan said. “Don’t think we haven’t tried. Our best computers have been working on the problem for decades. I dare say one day we will solve it.”

   Orlova looked at the woman’s face, locking eyes. She didn’t need a translator to tell her that she was lonely, desperate, longing to escape. There was a fierce determination there, but it was crumbling. Despite everything, she actually felt sorry for her.

   “How long has she been in there?” she asked.

   “About a year. Two hundred and ninety-one of your days, as far as we can determine. We were very fortunate to capture this ship intact, though fifteen people died capturing it. Some of the systems are repairing themselves, albeit slowly. She might be doing it.”

   “She has an implant?”

   “Her cell doubles as a jamming device. Don’t worry, she can’t tell the life support system to kill us, or anything like that.”

   Quinn caught Orlova’s eyes, and she replied, “I’m pleased to hear it.”

   The woman looked at Orlova again, and started to speak, a long, mournful chant. Instantly, Carpenter had her datapad out, holding it close to get maximum definition. After a second, the captive caught on, and started to change the pitch and tone of her words.

   “She’s helping us, Maggie,” Carpenter replied. “Maybe she’s running through her alphabet or some sort of vocabulary.”

   “Come on,” Vorzan said. “Don’t you want to see the rest of the ship?”

   “Quinn, you and Cooper go. We’ll stay here.”

   “I really can’t leave you alone with the prisoner. Anything might happen. I can arrange for you to receive all the language files you want.” Looking at her, he said, “You don’t think you can trust anything she tells you, do you?”

   “Without hearing it, I couldn’t judge.” She was interrupted by a discordant whine running across the ship, and a pair of guards drifted into the room, rifles in their hands, babbling at Vorzan.

   “We must get to emergency stations at once,” he said. “The Enemy are launching a raid here, at our orbital yards. They will be on us in twenty minutes. I must insist that you return to your ship immediately.”

   Looking at Quinn, Orlova said, “We’ll stay and help with the fight.”

   “No, I will not be responsible for anything that might violate the terms of our alliance. You must leave, now.”

   Carpenter picked up her communicator, and shook her head, looking at Orlova, “We’re being jammed, Maggie.”

   “It is overspill from the dampening field,” Vorzan replied. “You’ll have all the time you want to talk to your ship. Quickly, it is a fifteen minute flight.”

   Orlova looked from the tour guide to the guards, then back at the woman, still frantically talking into Carpenter’s microphone, giving her as much information as she could.

   “We’ll be back,” she said, knowing full-well that the alien couldn’t understand her, but hoping that the meaning of the words might get through, despite everything. Reluctantly, she pushed away from the room, the woman growing silent as Carpenter was forced to replace her datapad in her pocket. She spotted her surreptitiously tapping a control; as soon as they left the jamming field, everything she had recorded would be transmitted back to Alamo.

   Harper was floating in the middle of the bridge, looking around the room at different displays, the glasses placed carefully on her face. She gestured over at Orlova, and Vorzan moved over to her.

   “Didn’t you hear the alarm?” he asked.

   “I thought you guys just had bad taste in music.”

   “You must return to your shuttle, at once.”

   She shrugged, took the glasses off and placed them in his pocket, then dived out of the room, just ahead of one of the guards. The rest followed her, down the path back to the waiting shuttle. After a few moments, Orlova’s communicator began to chirp.

   “Alamo to Orlova,” Caine’s voice said, insistently. “Come in, please.”

   “I’m here, and we’re on our way back to the shuttle.” She looked at the red-faced Vorzan, and said, “What’s the status of the incoming fleet?”

   “Ten Enemy ships, heading directly. Captain’s put the ship on battle stations. If you leave now, we think you’ll be back on board before they get to us. Probably.”

   “You’re filling me with confidence. We’re on our way.”

   The five of them scrambled for the airlock, then ducked into the shuttle, hastily strapping themselves in. Vorzan and the guards remained outside as the lock closed, and with a loud crunch, the shuttle detached.

   “I don’t get it,” Carpenter said. “There are enough extra couches that some of them could get away.”

   “They never planned to,” Quinn replied. “All they wanted to do was get us off the ship before we could make contact with the alien.”

   Orlova glared at him, then said, “At least we’ve got the recordings. We should be able to make use of them later, maybe even translate them.”

   None of the others replied; they’d obviously got her not-so-subtle message. If a group of recently-encountered humans had been traveling on one of Alamo’s shuttles, she’d have taken steps to make sure that they were under surveillance at all times. She peered out of the viewport, trying to see what was going on outside, but it was a futile gesture.

   Her datapad was a far more valuable tool. Immediately she was able to call up a tactical projection of orbital space, and saw the tight cluster of ten ships diving towards the captured vessel. It didn’t make sense, though. Not after the message that the aliens had sent to Alamo; in her position, she would have at least waited for a response, hoped that it would be favorable, before launching an attack.

   She felt completely helpless, sitting in her seat, at the mercy of the two pilots sitting in the cockpit up ahead, unable even to urge them to move faster, try and shave a few corners. Instead, she fixed her attention on the datapad, watching the vessels inexorably move closer. Carpenter was buried in her notes, as well, starting work on decoding the language. A burst of noise came from Harper’s datapad; she seemed to be watching a movie.

   For a second, she thought about telling her to take the current situation more seriously, then smiled. Her obsessive focus with the scanner telemetry was making no greater difference to the situation than Harper’s film, except to raise her blood pressure; such an ability to switch off was to be envied, not discouraged.

   The time dragged, seconds seeming like minutes as the shuttle drew closer to Alamo. The pilots didn’t seem to need much encouragement, but as fast as they were traveling, it began to appear that they were going to fall short. Then a burst of energy erupted from Alamo; the ship was coming to intercept them.

   “Landing in one minute,” Caine’s voice echoed. “We’re going to bring you into one of the elevator airlocks. It might be a little bumpy.”

   She could just make out the comforting lines of the battlecruiser up ahead, the image rapidly growing larger as the shuttle approached. The laser radiators were deployed, the ship at combat readiness. The final few seconds ticked down as the shuttle settled underneath Alamo, then rose up into the hangar bay, the airlock doors finally opening.

   Hastily throwing off her restraints, Orlova said,
“We’d all better get to battle stations.” “Just a minute,” Harper said, reaching into her pocket. “Better get this analyzed, Jack.” She tossed something small to Quinn, who held it up to the light.

   “Is this what I think it is?” he asked.

   “You swiped the implant from the glasses!” Orlova said.

   “We asked, and he said no. I decided we needed it more than he did.”

   “What do you want to do?” Quinn asked.

   With a smile, she said, “I guess the damage is done, so get it into analysis. After the battle. Harper?”

   “Yes?” she said with a smug grin.

   “Next time you want to risk starting a war, ask first.”

  Chapter 11

   Marshall drummed his fingers on the arm of his command chair, knowing the effect it was having on the rest of the crew, and in fact counting on it. It seemed as if everything was moving in slow motion; some of the alert lights were taking too long to flash red, more than six minutes now since he’d called the crew to battle stations.

   “Zebrova?” he barked.

   “I’m on the line with Life Support and Elevator Control right now, sir. Any second.”

   “That would have been fine three minutes ago. It’s less fine now. Bryant, how’s the shuttle doing?”

   “Just entering the elevator airlock now, Captain. We should have hard dock in a minute, and can proceed to full battle readiness.” Anticipating his next question, she continued, “I now have confirmed tracks on twelve incoming spacecraft, sir, with engines burning at what the Haven records indicate as maximum acceleration.”

   “Finally got their warbook to work,” Caine grumbled. “We’re looking at two missile tubes in each, sir, with a reload time of a hundred and nine seconds. A lot more maneuverable than we are, but we can crank up the acceleration faster. Best guess that these are some of their cutting-edge craft.”

   “Can we take them?”

   She replied with a hurt look, and said, “It’s all down to what they are firing. Our missiles are a lot faster with ten times the explosive yield. They’d need a lucky shot to do any damage at all.”

   “Sir,” Ivanov reported from the communications station. “Lieutenant Ryder reports that the Buchanan is at battle stations…”

   “A damn auxiliary beat a battlecruiser to the punch!” Marshall said. “Zebrova, get those technicians moving, on the double!”

   “And is requesting instructions.”

   The elevator doors opened, and Cunningham and Logan walked onto the bridge, taking positions either side of Marshall; Zebrova quietly stepped back, still talking into a headset with ever-increasing volume.

   “What are you going to tell her, Danny?” Cunningham asked.

   “I need some guidance too, skipper,” Caine said. “Lasers are deployed, and we’ll be in firing range in a hundred and nine seconds. Best guess is that we’ll have an advantage of thirty-one seconds, and I’d recommend taking full advantage of it.”

   “We’ve got to be careful,” Logan said. “We can’t pick a side, but we can’t afford for Haven to think we’re not on their side, or we could lose them.”

   Pulling the headset down, Zebrova said, “I’d recommend against making a snap decision. We’ve got our people back, and can pull away into a higher orbit…”

   “So we can watch the people who defended us be shot out of the sky by the people who attacked both us and the Buchanan when we entered this system. They can’t muster enough strength to stop them, Danny,” Caine said. “We’d get a front-row seat at a military disaster.”

   “Whatever you do, I’ll back it,” Logan said.

   “Shuttle is secure, sir,” Reid reported from the watch officer’s station. “Lieutenant Orlova is on her way to the bridge, and Lieutenant Quinn is heading down to co-ordinate damage control stations. Ensign Cooper is standing the Espatiers too.”

   “For what?” Cunningham asked.

   “Boarding action, sir.”

   “That could be one way to gather intelligence,” Caine said, half-seriously. “Maybe…”

   “Guardian Station is transmitting tactical, well, requests, sir. Positioning us in their battle lines,” Ivanov said, turning to face Marshall.

   “Take a look, Deadeye, and make it quick. Ivanov, try and hail the alien spacecraft. Offer a ceasefire. Given them three tries, and transmit on all languages in the database.”

   “Do they know English?” Reid asked.

   “They must do. Their prisoners spoke in English, and I don’t think they would have trusted with an open microphone if they didn’t know exactly what they were saying,” Logan replied. “They’ll understand you.”

   “Message sent, sir.”

   With a barking laugh, Caine said, “They’re making us the lynch-pin of their defense, and the rest of their ships are moving on the assumption that we are going to accept their plan. It’ll be a slaughter if we don’t, Danny.”

   “Damn them for putting us in this position,” Marshall said. “We might as well be hung for a sheep rather than a lamb. McGuire, follow the plan as outlined. Deadeye, fire at will, but shoot to disable if you can, assuming the sensor data we’ve been given is accurate enough.”

   “Dampening field all around us, sir,” Bryant said. “I think they’re giving us the benefit of their electronic countermeasures.”

   “Generous of them,” Logan said. “The only question is whether they work or not.”

   “We’re about to find out.”

   “Got it!” Zebrova said. “All decks have finally reported clear for action, Captain.”

   “About time. I want heads to roll for this, Lieutenant.”

   “Yes, sir.”

   “Random walk, McGuire. Ivanov, inform the Buchanan of my intentions, and order them to stay clear of the battle in a lower orbit. Under no circumstances are they to get involved.”

   Rising from her work, Caine said with a frown, “The plan assumes that the Buchanan will be forming the rear guard, Danny.”

   “They are, just rather further back than they are intending. They’re already getting the forces of hell unleashed on their enemies, they can’t complain. Make this happen.”

   He sat back in his chair, looking out across the bridge, then glancing up at Cunningham, leaning over his shoulder. The older officer shared his look of concern; neither of them wanted to be committed to such a course of action at this stage, without even the opportunity to negotiate any sort of terms. After this, Haven’s leaders would know that he’d been forced to make a choice, and could have some sort of position of strength as a result.

   Logan drifted over to the communications station, pecking with a pair of fingers at one of the display consoles, while Caine prepared the missile tubes for action with her usual consummate skill. She was ignoring the countermeasures section completely; none of their electronic tricks would work, and they wouldn’t have a package they could deploy until the relevant files were provided to them by Guardian Station. Something which was taking far longer than it should.

   Alamo started to swing back and forth as McGuire began her random walk pattern, anything to throw off the targeting sensors of the Enemy spacecraft. Looking over to one side, he glanced at the Flight Engineering station, watched the wary Makala positioning damage control teams, Quinn’s face flashing up on a monitor to give directions.

   Unlike normal, he felt he needed to double-check everything; his crew were experienced enough that he should be able to almost sit back and enjoy the ride, but his own natural caution and inability to withstand boredom would prevent that. Now, though people were beginning to get lax, a combination of a foe that ought not to present any difficulties, and a crew that had been out on patrol for too long.

   “Haven formation moving in on either side of us, sir,” Bryant reported.

   “We’re getting some message traffic, Captain,” Ivanov added, “but I
haven’t got the first idea what it is. The system doesn’t have the local language in the database yet.”

   One more detail that should have been ironed out by now; by all accounts, the Dumont had been in-system long enough that they ought to have been able to iron out these problems, and even lacking the data that had been stored on the captured scoutship, the locals should have kept copies at the very least.

   Cunningham moved over to stand by the side of McGuire, gesturing at controls to quietly suggest course changes to the recently-promoted officer, while Logan was still standing in the corner, engrossed in his work. Caine glanced across to him, resignation on her face.

   “Firing range in nine seconds, sir. Lasers, then missiles. Have I clearance to fire?”

   “You may fire at your discretion, Lieutenant.” At her frown, he asked, “Something wrong?”

   “It feels too much like overkill. Like we’re not giving them a chance.”

   “Better that than to be on the other side,” Zebrova said.

   “Probably, but I still remember what it was like on the other side. McGuire, give me a firing solution on the lead craft in six seconds.”

   “Aye, ma’am,” she replied. “Setting it up now.”

   At his heart, Marshall knew exactly what she meant. Those ships could easily have been Triplanetary fighters, lining up for an attack on a United Nations cruiser that they knew they were no match for, hoping to get a lucky shot in before they were shot down by the defenses. Too many of his friends had died on doomed operations like this; he took no solace at all in being on the other side for once.

   Deftly working the controls, McGuire tipped Alamo end over end, spinning it around on the thrusters with unnecessary – but satisfactory – panache, and Caine stabbed a finger on the control, a laser leaping across the void to briefly connect the two ships, ripping an angry gouge out of the forward section of the leading Enemy ship. Instantly, it broke away from the formation as escaping air tore into space, sending it spiraling out of control. A few seconds later, there was a brief flash, and the ship disappeared.