Battlecruiser Alamo: Spell of the Stars

by Richard Tongue

 “Very good, Sub-Lieutenant,” Sokolov replied. “Very good indeed.” Folding his hands behind his back, he added, “What are you planning to do with me?”

   “Maybe...”

   Clarke's pistol barked twice, and Sokolov's body dropped to the ground, his eyes rolling back as blood ran down his forehead. Mortimer looked down at the corpse, then up at Clarke, mouth wide from shock.

   “But...” she began.

   “What did you expect me to do?” he asked. “We can't carry a prisoner around, and my guess is that he had friends down here on the surface that he would have made contact with. In an ideal world I've have turned him over to someone for interrogation, but we don't have the luxury of that. Besides, there's probably a subcutaneous transmitter as well, and I haven't got the training or the equipment to remove it.” Looking down at the body, he added, “You called him a traitor. That fits. I suspect the local resistance would have done something similar if they'd caught him. Assuming he didn't try to kill us to save his own skin.”

   Nodding, she replied, “I wouldn't expect ruthlessness like that from a Colonial.”

   “Don't think I particularly like the idea. I just don't think we have a choice.” Sliding his pistol into a pocket, he stepped towards the body, reaching under his arms. “Give me a hand. We're going to bury him at sea.”

   Taking his legs, she helped him to the side of the cliff, and the two of them hurled the dead traitor over the side, watching as he fell, joining the tattered remnants of the escape pod at the bottom of the cliff. Wiping his hands on his trousers, Clarke gestured into the forest.

   “This way. Roughly, anyway. I guess we'll find trails when we get nearer town.”

   “We're going to walk a hundred miles?” she asked.

   “Hopefully we won't have to. There are a lot of outlying settlements, and we're bound to run into one of them, sooner or later. Do you have a datapad?”

   “I left it in the pod. Didn't see much point in being tracked.”

   “Smart. As far as I know, I'm not carrying anything on me. I'm going to have to trust that I can say the same of you.” Running his eyes over her, he added, “Do I need to make the obvious threats, or can we just assume that I've already made them?”

   “I think we can get that unpleasantness over with.” Walking by his side, she continued, “You were about right when it came to my orders. Sam wants to help the rebels. Not out of altruism, just logic. Colonel Cruz has the General beguiled with possibilities of setting up some sort of pocket empire out here, with this world as the capital. That, and there's some sort of secret operation taking place down here.”

   “Secret from the Major?”

   “Cruz has taken personal command of all surface operations. Only personnel she trusts are being allowed down here. This is the first time I've made it down to the ground.” She paused, then asked, “He thinks that you're more than your service record suggests.”

   “I'll trade a question for a question. Why does he trust you?”

   “I've been sleeping with him for the last three years.”

   “What a fleet,” Clarke said, shaking his head. “You're in real trouble the next time we go to war. You realize that.”

   “Some of us do,” she replied. “Now...”

   “Let's just say I've done some work for Triplanetary Intelligence in the past. Nothing that need concern you for the moment, but I've got a somewhat unusual skill set.” Looking back at the cliff, he added, “Would you believe I'd hoped I was wrong about Sokolov?”

   “You weren't,” she said. “Colonel Cruz must have managed to turn him. He was one of a dozen we captured when we took their space station, a fortnight ago. They surrendered without a fight.” Looking around the forest, she added, “I suppose I can't blame them for that. They never had a chance.”

   “You didn't give them one.”

   “Life isn't always fair.” She paused, then said, “Not that I understood why we acted the way we did. We're meant to be trying to find a way home, not setting up an empire out here.” Glancing to the right, she added, “There's that trail you were looking for.”

   Nodding, Clarke turned down a narrow path, a shiny piece of reflective fabric draped across a tree to mark the way. He walked over to it, running the material through his fingers, then took the lead, his hand dropping into his pocket, reaching for his pistol.

   “I didn't see a settlement when we came in,” Mortimer said.

   “Doesn't mean anything. We didn't have time for an aerial survey, and there's so much cover around here, you could hide a city in the undergrowth without too much trouble.” He paused, then added, “Though we want to keep clear. Your people will know this place, and someone's going to come down here to take a look in the near future.”

   “Will they?” she asked. “If both Sam and Cruz are trying to play a game...”

   “For form's sake, if nothing else. Remember that both of them think they've got me fooled.”

   She looked at him, frowned, and said, “I'm curious.”

   “About what?”

   “Why am I still alive?”

   “If you were going to kill me, you'd have done it on the ship. That means that for the moment our interests coincide. Major Pastell wants an ace in the hole in the event Alamo wins the battle in orbit, enough that he's willing to take a chance on me. You want to make contact with the resistance, and so do I.” Slowing his pace, he added, “Watch out for a vehicle, something we can take.”

   “In this terrain?”

   “A bicycle, perhaps. Something like that. Anything that will speed our progress a little.”

   “Just out of academic interest, do you actually have a plan?”

   Stopping, Clarke turned to her, and said, “You remind me of someone. And yes, I do have a plan, but for the present that's going to have to count as need-to-know information. You don't.” As they walked along the trail, evidence of human presence increased, discarded food wrappers and footprints on the path. For more than a mile, the two of them silently walked, following the slow, lazy curve, the trees thinning out.

   “Wait a minute,” Mortimer said. “We must be getting close. What's missing?”

   “Noise. People,” Clarke replied. “It's a nice day, and this is a well-used path. Probably to the cliffs. We should have run into someone by now. Where is everyone?”

   “I think we'd better leave the trail.”

   Nodding, Clarke led the way into the undergrowth, careful to stay out of sight, watching the ground to ensure he made no noise, no sign of his presence. Behind him, Mortimer moved with greater grace, the familiarity of one used to her environment evident. As the trees thinned still further, they caught their first sight of a structure, a wooden hut at the perimeter of the settlement, cold and silent. With a quick glance at Mortimer, Clarke stepped forward, quickly and quietly running to the hut, waiting for a noise, someone to raise the alarm.

   Nobody did, and no noise filled the air. Just the faint bird song in the background, the rustling of leaves in the wind. Clarke looked out to a deserted street, a dozen houses on either side, a large building that advertised itself as a lumber mill at the far end. The only evidence that anything was wrong was a trio of burned-out trucks by the side of the mill, and an abandoned doll lying forlornly on the road. Mortimer, heedless of the risk, walked up to the toy and picked it up, holding it in her hands.

   Pulling out his pistol, Clarke aimed it at Mortimer, and asked, “What happened here?”

   “I don't know,” she said, looking down at the doll. “They're all gone.”

   “Scorch mark on the road. A shuttle landed here, maybe more than one.” He counted the houses, then said, “Twelve houses. Anywhere between twenty and fifty people. No sign of bodies. We'd smell them, and there would have been predators in here by now. Which means they were captured, and I want to know where they were taken, and why.”

   “Good question,”
another voice said, and a figure stepped out from behind the mill, assault rifle in hand. “Very good question, and one I think we want an answer to. You are covered by six men, all armed as I am, all ready, willing and pleased to end your lives.” Looking at Mortimer, he added, “A United Nations trooper. I ought to kill you where you stand.”

   “Wrong,” Clarke said. “I'm Sub-Lieutenant John Clarke, of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo. This is Corporal Veronica Mortimer, one of our deep-cover agents. We managed to escape captivity on Waldheim, and I'm trying to get to a communicator to contact my ship when it enters the system.”

   “Can you prove what you say?”

   “Why else would I be here? I'm assuming we've been under observation since we landed.”

   Nodding, the man said, “We saw your escape pod coming in.”

   “Then either I am telling the truth, or this is some sort of elaborate deception. You're going to have to make the choice.”

   Another man walked over to the first, holding a battered tablet in his hand, and said, “I've called up the images from the deep satellite.” Turning it to show Clarke, he asked, “Is that your ship?”

   A smile spread across his face, and he replied, “It is. When did they arrive?”

   “About an hour ago.” Turning to the first guard, he added, “Yuri, the first thing this ship did was launch an attack on an enemy fighter formation. It took down six of them. If this man comes from that vessel, then he's got to be on our side.” Running his eyes over Mortimer, he added, “And perhaps it is as he said. That database we hacked mentioned a Triplanetary Confederation.”

   Stepping forward, Clarke said, “We're here to help. Any way we can. If I can make contact with my ship, then I can arrange for supply drops, tactical support, even reinforcements. At the very least we can start to coordinate our operations to kick the bastards from Waldheim off this planet.”

   “And you,” the man asked Mortimer. “You don't seem happy with this turn of events.”

   “I don't enjoy having strangers pointing assault rifles at me,” she replied, looking him in the eyes. “Either accept our story or shoot us now, and risk losing the only realistic possibility of liberating your planet at the same time.”

   “Wait here for a moment,” the man said. “You will be watched and monitored at all times. If you attempt to leave the area, or if someone turns up to rescue you, I will make sure that you die.”

   “Fine,” Clarke said, “but hurry up.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “By my reckoning, there will be a surveillance satellite overhead in about eight minutes, and I think it is in all of our best interests to be well away from here by then.”

   The two men retreated to the shadows, and Mortimer walked over to Clarke, confusion on her face, and asked in a whisper, “How did you know my first name?”

   “You should also ask how I knew you were sleeping with Major Pastell.”

   “How the...”

   “Triplanetary Intelligence is very efficient, and I was able to get a complete run-down on Waldheim and her crew before we even fell through the wormhole. You were flagged as a potential target for blackmail months ago, though I don't think anyone ever made any attempts along those lines.” He shrugged, and added, “As I said earlier, I was taking a gamble, but I had a good idea of the cards in your hand before I sat down at the table.”

   “Sam was right,” she said. “There is more to you than meets the eye. Under other...”

   The rebel stepped forward, and said, “We've made our decision.” He raised a pistol, and said, “I'm sorry,” before squeezing the trigger twice. Clarke collapsed to the ground, a faint smile on his face as he fell. No gunshot. A tranquilizer dart. He managed a brief flicker of satisfaction before the darkness took him.

  Chapter 7

   Marshall sat behind the desk in his office, going through the reports that were beginning to stream in from across the ship, sensor crews harvesting data and information from Salyut Station, the hidden asteroid base, adding to the mass of material. He looked up at the strategic plot once again, a frown on his face. Their options were limited in this battlespace, the enemy gifted plenty of time to prepare for their attack. He'd managed to cut down their fighter strength again, leaving it at half what it once was, but that still gave them an advantage.

   There was an answer, buried in there somewhere. There had to be.

   The door slid open, and Salazar, Harper and Francis walked inside, the remains of his senior staff. Chief Santiago had made it clear from the outset that whatever her official rank was, she didn't consider herself qualified to discuss tactical matters, though Marshall thought it more likely that she really considered it a waste of her time. At least the ship was running smoothly now, ready in all respects for the battle that was to come.

   “Be seated,” he said, and the three of them took their places. He paused for a moment, remembering the original cramped office he'd had to endure on his first tour on Alamo, before the extensive interior remodeling after the fight against the Cabal. Then, there was barely room for two people to stand in front of his desk. Now, he could easily bring all of the senior staff inside with space to spare.

   “I've talked to Colonel Volkova on the secure link,” Salazar said. “She's happy to follow any orders you wish to give, though wishes to retain a veto on long-term strategic objectives.”

   “Can't blame her for that,” Harper said. “It is their system.”

   “As long as she'll obey orders in the middle of a firefight,” Marshall replied. “That's all we need to know right now.” He gestured up at the strategic display, and added, “Our problem, people. An enemy battleship hovering over the most valuable piece of real estate in the system, and no obvious way to bring it down. General Estrada isn't a fool. He's not going to leave station, not at this stage, and I can't see any way to lure him out here.”

   “I hate to say it, but for the record I must,” Francis said. “We don't really need to stay here at all.” Turning to Salazar, he added, “I know you've found evidence of more artifacts out here, but there are probably other avenues we should explore. Don't get the wrong idea, sir, I'm in favor of launching an attack, but there is a strategic argument for sitting this one out.”

   “We're going in,” Marshall said. “That's my decision, and it is made. We're talking about ways and means now, nothing more than that, and I want ideas.”

   Frowning, Harper replied, “I'm not sure we've got any, sir. Orbital space is clear, and the only moon that planet has is distant and large. We can't do anything with that. And they'll have at least twenty hours warning of our arrival. More than enough time for them to position themselves to meet us.”

   Glancing at Harper, Salazar added, “At least we could pick the time and place of battle, though. They wouldn't come out to intercept us. Not and risk exposing their operations on the planet. If we had orbital space for even ten minutes, we could put the entire Espatier platoon onto the surface, completely change the picture. We did them a hell of a lot of damage on Dante, sir, enough to give us tactical parity on the ground.”

   “Then the battle will be fought in orbit,” Marshall said. “How can we use that?”

   “They'll be expecting us to dip into atmosphere,” Francis said. “We've tried that trick before. Likely they'll have atmospheric missiles loaded and ready to fire on our approach. Fast enough to switch and reload when they work out that isn't a problem. And they've had uncontested control of the surface for long enough to install surface-to-air missiles. I would, in their case, and we know they have access to them.”

   “I wasn't thinking of that. Max, how long would it take us to construct an orbital defense network?”

   “Weeks,” he said. “Unless you want to cannibalize critical elements of the ship's tactical systems, and I certainly wouldn't recommend that at the moment. Not with Waldheim out there, ready to strike.”

   “We could wait,” Har
per said. “Hold off here, in the Belt, and build the satellites. If we need any material resources, there are plenty of places to top them up, and supplying Salyut Station won't be a problem any more.” Turning to Salazar, she added, “We've got the Colonel's shopping list. Three shuttle flights should see it completed.”

   Nodding, Salazar replied, “As a minimum, sir, we need to make sure that the base is as self-sufficient as possible. If everything goes wrong, it'll be our last stand.”

   “Agreed,” Marshall said. “See to it. Returning to the satellites. What would we do if we had them?”

   Frowning, Francis replied, “At the last minute, we'd alter our approach into a new orbit, seed them behind us, and try to lure them in. Not that it would work, sir. They'd scramble their fighters and engage us in a second, knock them out of the sky before they could even complete deployment. Waldheim has control of orbital space, and you can bet they'll have their entire fighter complement in the air long before we arrive.”

   “Which is?”

   “If our estimates are right, fourteen fighters. Assuming the two squadrons and two spares. There's a chance that it could be anywhere up to sixteen, sir,” Harper said. “Hard to tell.”

   “Which means that we've got to deal with the fighters first.”

   “Seven against sixteen isn't a battle I'd like to fight, sir,” Salazar said. He paused, then added, “About the squadron command...”

   “In a minute.” Leaning forward, Marshall said, “You've told me that it would take weeks to put together the satellites. How long would it take to rig decoys? Say, the shell of an orbital defense satellite with a nice big warhead inside, programmed to launch at the nearest target.”

   Nodding, Francis replied, “Less than a day. If you're just talking about the shell and putting a normal missile inside, that should be simple enough. How many would you want?”

   “Eighteen.”

   “Not twenty hours. More like twenty-four.”

   “Close enough,” Marshall said. “Close enough.”

   “Won't they assume that something is wrong when they see us launch them, sir?” Salazar asked. “They'll know how long it takes to put together the satellites.”