Battlecruiser Alamo: Spell of the Stars

by Richard Tongue

   “I guess not,” Marshall said, a smile on his face, the pistol smoothly sliding into his hand. They drifted past a monitor screen, showing an exterior pickup of the starfield, and for a moment he could imagine himself back on Alamo's bridge. That was where he belonged, preparing to lead his crew into desperate battle, not scuttling through maintenance shafts with a traitor for company.

   Gesturing at a shaft, Pastell said, “That drops down the best part of a quarter-mile, with full-gravity at the end of it. We'll come out just behind the security headquarters. I hope you aren't squeamish, because you're going to have to kill anyone who doesn't immediately surrender, no matter what. We can't afford to take any chances if we're going to pull this off. I should be able to override the locks, then we can run for home.” He glanced at his watch, then said, “If we time this right, we'll only be on the run for a quarter hour before we have to launch our next attack, and Cruz and her team won't even know where to start.”

   “A quarter-mile?”

   “Nothing for a Terran. I keep forgetting how weak you Colonials are,” he said with a smirk.

   “I was born on Earth. As I'm sure you remember from my personnel file. Lead on.”

   Pastell swung down into the ladder, gently pushing himself down, and after a few seconds, Marshall followed. It was easy at first, the gravity only building slowly, but after the first fifty meters he pulled himself in, towards the railings, and started to climb down. They passed lunar gravity without incident, but by the time they'd past Martian gravity, his arms were beginning to hurt from the exertion.

   Down they descended, hand over hand, and Marshall hoped that Pastell had a better escape route planned than this. Dropping down a quarter-mile was one thing, especially with gravity to help, but heading back up the same way would take far too long. Marshall peered down into the darkness beneath, sweat beginning to build up on his forehead, and inwardly promised to himself that he'd spend more time on the high-gravity treadmill when he got back to his ship.

   His shoulders were in agony by the time he dropped down to the deck, shaking his arms to try and bring some life back to them before drawing his pistol. Pastell gave him a smug smile, taking his own weapon in his hand, and held his hand over the release mechanism.

   “Once I hit this,” he said, “We've got no more than a hundred and twenty seconds. For the way out, just follow me. Remember. Two minutes, and if someone gets shot, leave them.”

   “Understood.”

   Pastell slammed his fist on the control, and the door slid open to a chorus of klaxons, droning from every speaker. He sprinted forward, Marshall just behind him, firing wildly into the security control room, only one of the guards recognizing his former boss. Rather than surrender, he joined into the melee, taking out two of his erstwhile companions with precisely aimed shots.

   “Burton, you're with Marshall,” he said, gesturing to the guard. “Formal introductions later.”

   “Right,” the man replied with a curt nod, moving in behind Marshall. Pastell stepped over the dying men on the floor, tapping a series of commands that released the locking mechanism, his fingers rattling across controls as he fought off the overrides coming down from the bridge. Wasting no time, Marshall stepped through the far door and into the maximum security section, firing a shot at a guard racing towards them. The bullet was a near miss, but enough to send the man diving to the deck, rolling into an empty room. He made his way to the nearest door, still locked down, and looked back at Pastell.

   “Come on, Major!”

   “Any second, but we won't have long.”

   Finally, the door slipped open, and Foster jumped through before it could close, Carpenter and Murphy right behind her. Marshall tossed them each a pistol, then turned back to the control room, waving a hand in the air to silence their objections. A series of shots rang out, the remainder of the guards belatedly rallying, and Burton returned fire with cool, calm efficiency, placing his shots on target at his former comrades, knocking one of them to the deck.

   “Let's go!” Pastell said, and the escaped prisoners raced towards him. Instead of heading back towards the shaft, he ran down the corridor, away from the way they had come, while Burton and Rhodes gave them covering fire for their retreat.

   “Where the hell are we going, sir?” Foster asked.

   “After him,” Marshall said, redoubling his pace to draw level with Pastell. After a few seconds, they stopped at another inspection panel, Pastell sliding it open and gesturing inside.

   “Tell me that isn't what I think it is,” Carpenter said, peering inside.

   “Access to Missile Tube Three,” Pastell said. “Runs most of the length of the ship.”

   “And if they fire?”

   “Then we're dead,” Pastell said, as a bullet flew past him. “You choose. But make it quick.” He climbed inside, and Marshall gestured for the rest to follow, shooting over Carpenter's shoulder at an advancing guard. The others piled into the tubes, Marshall waving Burton inside as he emptied the remains of his clip at their attackers, finally ducking into the hatch with the rest of them. Pastell was already climbing down the shaft, and he turned his head to count the prisoners, nodding in satisfaction.

   “Excellent,” he said. “Now for the last part of the plan.”

   “This had better be good,” Foster said. “They'll be on us in a minute.”

   “Oh, it is,” Pastell replied, reaching for a control lever. “Just let yourself go.”

   A thunderclap echoed from ahead, a warning siren sounding as Pastell opened the tube, allowing the air to be sucked out into space. Marshall let go from the floor just in time, the rush of escaping air dragging him away, hurling them along the mile-long shaft. He could make out the end of the tube, seemingly so close, before finally the hatch closed again, atmosphere flooding in to replace that expelled into space.

   Rubbing his elbow, Pastell asked, “Enjoy the ride?”

   “I'm not going to your theme park again,” Foster said. “And I'd like to discuss a refund.”

   “Take it up with Colonel Cruz,” he said, reaching for an overhead hatch. “Later. Right now, we've got to make for the main detention block if we're going to rescue the prisoners.”

   Shaking his head, Marshall replied, “No. Burton, can you take Foster, Carpenter and Murphy down there, have a try at liberating the prisoners?”

   “I guess so,” the man replied.

   With a sigh, Pastell asked, “What death-defying stunt have you in mind this time, Captain?”

   “They're going to need a distraction, and we're going to give them one,” Marshall said. “We're going to attack Auxiliary Control.”

   “You need to see someone about these delusions of grandeur,” Pastell replied. At Marshall's expression, he continued, “You're serious, aren't you.”

   “Deadly.”

   “Fine,” he said. “Burton, get these people where they're going. Come on, Captain. We don't want to be late to our own funerals. I'd start working on some last words if I was you.”

   “I had those figured out years ago,” Marshall replied with a grin, as they clambered into the corridor. “I've been saving them for a special occasion.”

   “Not today, I hope.”

   “Fingers crossed.”

  Chapter 19

   Salazar sat in the command chair, feeling strangely uneasy. He glanced over his shoulder at the office door, expecting Captain Marshall to walk in at any moment and relieve him, throw him off the bridge for his presumption in assuming command. As much as he might want that to happen, for someone else to relieve him of the burden, he knew that the duty was his. Eight pairs of eyes were turning to him to give orders, to tell them what to do, and he couldn't let them down.

   This wasn't his first command. That had been a beaten-up Neander raider, during the Xandari War, a ship that had held only a couple of dozen crew, had such limited combat capability that
he'd barely dared risk her in battle. Alamo was a completely different proposition, a capital ship of the Triplanetary Fleet, and he knew how much was at stake in this fight. He'd placed everything on the table, and could only hope that his gamble would pay off.

   “Three minutes to combat range,” Scott said, turning from her station. “All decks are cleared for action, all stations ready for battle. Missiles in the tubes, set for proximity detonation, and point-defense cannons are good to go.”

   “Laser capacitor at full overload,” Fitzroy added. “Surface charges prepared. Ready to detonate at your order. Damage control teams are deployed.”

   “Thank you, Spaceman,” Salazar replied. “Helm, prepare random walk. We've got to make this look good. You're going to have to make this perfect, Sub-Lieutenant. Those missiles have to come in exactly where we want them, or this won't work. Understood?”

   “I'm ready, sir,” Quesada said, hands gently resting on his controls.

   Turning to communications, Salazar said, “Bowman, please connect me through to the ship.”

   “Aye, sir,” the technician replied, throwing a control. “You're on, sir.”

   “This is Lieutenant Salazar,” he began, Harper turning to watch him. “In a few moments, we will be engaging a superior force in the skies of an alien world. We will be inviting missile impacts, and we already know that Alamo is going to take a hell of a pounding today. Nevertheless, it is my expectation that we will be victorious. More than a hundred thousand people are counting on us to succeed, and I have no intention of letting them down. Trust in your training, in your instincts, and we will make it through the fire. Good hunting.”

   “Not bad,” Francis said, standing by the elevator. “Short and sweet.”

   “Don't want to bore anyone to sleep just before a battle,” Salazar quipped.

   “Ninety seconds to firing range,” Scott said. “Enemy ship is closing at optimum approach vector. Right out of the textbook.” She smiled, and added, “Just as well we've got a copy.”

   “Electronic screens activated,” Harper added. “Firewall firm.”

   Glancing across at a status panel, Francis said, “McCormack is ready to launch on your order. Sir, if something goes wrong, should we...”

   “Negative,” Salazar interrupted. “We've got to have our fighters and their loadouts intact for our strike. If we don't overwhelm their defenses, we lose. They're to launch only at the last second before impact, and proceed to target regardless of the situation here.” Tapping the armrest of his chair, he added, “Alamo's a tough old bird. She's been through worse in the past. One way or another, we will complete this sweep.” Hitting a control, he said, “Bridge to Hangar Deck.”

   “Rhodes here, sir,” the trooper replied. “We're locked and loaded, ready to launch on your order. Any last minute orders?”

   Salazar paused, then said, “Frank, you and I both know what might happen here today. I suspect that sooner or later, another Triplanetary ship will come after us. That said, should Alamo fall, and you think you don't have a chance, I authorize you to surrender.”

   “Sorry, sir,” Rhodes replied. “I don't know that last word. We'll fight to the last round of ammunition, to the last man. That's what we do.”

   “As long as you know you have options. Good luck, Ensign.”

   “And to you, sir.”

   Salazar looked around the bridge, glancing at every station, trying to assure himself that everything was as ready as it could be. On the tactical display, he saw Waldheim approaching, the enemy ship with radiators deployed, swooping down towards Alamo like an angry bird-of-prey seeking a kill. He looked up at the countdown clock, the final seconds ticking away. It would all be over in less than a minute, for better or for worse.

   “In range!” Scott reported.

   “Dance, Quesada!” Salazar ordered, and the ship lurched to the left an instant before the pulse of energy that would have torn her in two raced past.

   “Missiles in the air, salvo of ten, bearing directly,” Scott reported. “Enemy fighters launching, moving to time-on-target strike.”

   “Prepare first retaliatory salvo,” Salazar said. “Hold until the last second. Harper...”

   “On it,” she replied, fingers snapping across her controls as she fought her way into the missile control systems. While she worked, the fighters launched their payloads, burning their engines hot to provide maximum boost. Twenty-two missiles were heading towards them in two packs, both drifting together to form an attack wedge that could smash Alamo to pieces.

   It felt strange beyond belief to be sitting and watching while the wave of devastation swept their way, but there was nothing any of them could do for the next thirty seconds except watch and wait. Scott played with her console, fine-tuning the last second intercept, and Harper grinned with satisfaction as she knocked two of the warheads out of the air, but all Salazar could do was wait, and put his trust in Alamo's defensive systems.

   They were going to take hits. That much was certain, was implicit in the battle plan. They had to survive them, pass through and out the other side, and have enough strength left to smash the enemy ship. He looked across at the status panel, a cluster of amber lights inherited from the previous battle, and at the worried face of Fitzroy.

   “Fifteen seconds,” Scott said. “Launch in seven, going for fratricide.”

   “Got another one!” Harper added. “They're tightening their defenses, though. This is going to get tougher.”

   “Hold it together, people,” Salazar said, eyes fixed on the trajectory tracks. He tried to cast his mind over to the enemy ship, attempting to place himself in the position of Colonel Cruz. She'd be watching the attack with different eyes, believing that all her dreams of glory were about to come true. If the plan was to work, he had to foster that overconfidence, build on it.

   “Missile launch!” Scott said, tapping a control to fire the salvo she had been saving, eight missiles racing away. Alamo's modifications were going to reap their benefits today, the pounding of the point-defense cannons slamming into the incoming warheads. New tracks flashed onto the screen, and Salazar leaned forward, watching as the first phase of the battle came to its fiery conclusion. Fitzroy, a sad frown on his face, threw a series of switches to arm the bombs on the hull, ready to rip through the protective outer skin of the ship.

   “Three seconds!” Scott said, as the missiles dived towards each other, ready to meet up bare meters from the hull. From Waldheim, it would appear as though Alamo had sustained serious damage from a wave of impacts and shrapnel. If this went wrong, all of that damage would be far too real.

   “Impact!” Scott yelled, and Alamo shook and rocked, an angry whine filling the air as the hull buckled under the strain of impacts. The sensor display was a blurred mess, smothered with fragments of molten metal, Ballard struggling to clear the screen, fighting to save her instruments. Red lights bathed the bridge from the damage control console, and Fitzroy looked across with misery in his eyes.

   “Four real hits, sir. It's bad. All of our bombs went off, though, just as expected.”

   “Get me a damage report,” Salazar said.

   “We're out of control, sir,” Quesada replied. “I've lost all but three thrusters. I'm trying to use the oxygen jets to get us into some sort of trim, but...”

   “Let her roll, Sub-Lieutenant. It'll make it look more real.”

   “Right now,” Fitzroy said, “it looks pretty damned real from where I'm sitting.”

   “Commence Phase Two,” Salazar said. “Launch fighters, launch shuttles, jettison escape pods.”

   “Swarm in progress,” Francis replied. “Fighters away, preparing for attack run.”

   “Pods deployed,” Fitzroy added. “Damage report coming in. We've lost the main fuel tank, auxiliary reactor is scrap metal, two fabricators damaged, hull breaches on nine decks, not all of them intentional. Starboard sensor p
ickups, thruster fuel tanks…” He shook his head, and added, “It's a mess, sir.”

   “Combat status?”

   After a long moment, Fitzroy replied, “We'll get one big shot, sir, but that's all I can promise.”

   “Shuttles on descent trajectory,” Francis said. “All as planned. The escape pods will be raining down all around them. Should be quite a show.”

   “Sir,” Ballard said. “Signal from Waldheim. Colonel, I'm sorry, General Cruz wants to speak to you.”

   “General Cruz?” Salazar replied, a faint smile on his face. “I guess they managed to convene a quick promotion board. Put her on, Spaceman. Let's hear what she has to say. Audio only, and throw in some interference. We've got to exaggerate our damage.”

   “I'm not going to have to do much, sir,” the technician replied. “You're on.”

   “This is Alamo Actual,” Salazar said. “If you've got something to say, get it over with.”

   “Lieutenant, your ship is in pieces, your crew are fleeing, and all you have left are a handful of fighters that I am well able to swat out of the sky.” Salazar fought to keep the satisfaction from his face. It had worked, after all. “You're finished, and I know that some of your people are still on board. For their sake, surrender. I will guarantee your safety, and will release all of my prisoners.”

   “I know you want my ship, Colonel,” he said, stressing her real rank, “and I'll tell you now that I would blow it up before allowing you to take it. Under no circumstances will Alamo fall under enemy hands, and my crew and I will fight to the last to prevent you from getting your hands on it.”

   “At the touch of a button, I can end your life, Lieutenant.”

   “Then why don't you go ahead and do just that?” he replied. “If you want this ship, Colonel, then you're going to have to come over here and take it. I have no intention of surrendering. Not in this lifetime.”

   “Then I must regretfully bring it to an end. You aren't just killing yourself, Lieutenant. I will order the immediate execution of all prisoners.”