Battlecruiser Alamo: Spell of the Stars

by Richard Tongue

   “That's on your conscience, not mine. I'll see you in hell, Colonel. Alamo out.”

   Glancing at him, Harper said, “Don't you think you might have gone a little far?”

   “She wouldn't have expected anything else,” he replied. “Bowman, report status?”

   “No change yet,” she replied. “Waldheim is still closing, and I'm picking up a power buildup to their laser cannon. Preparing for a second strike. We're still a long way from optimum range.”

   “Random walk, sir?” Quesada asked.

   “Oxygen jets only, and make it look like spillage,” Salazar said.

   “Sir, they'll be able to predict that pattern. We'll be vulnerable.”

   “I'm aware of that,” he replied. His voice grew soft, and he said, “Come on, Cruz. Take the bait. You know you want to.”

   “Still closing,” the sensor technician said. “If they're going to fire, it'll be within the next fifteen seconds.”

   “Sir, if they hit us in the right spot,” Fitzroy added, “It's all over.”

   “Ten seconds,” Ballard said, and all eyes were on the screen, watching as Waldheim continued its inexorable advance, smoothly gliding into position. If Salazar had guessed right, they'd be launching their assault shuttles in a minute. If wrong, they'd all be dead in seconds. Without quite realizing it, he held his breath, waiting.

   “Well?” he asked.

   “Maximum build-up, sir,” Ballard said. “Wait one. Change to target aspect.” A smile broke across her face, and she said, “Shuttle launch, sir! Five assault shuttles, bearing directly, three minutes to contact! It worked, sir!”

   Breathing a sigh of relief, Salazar said, “We're not finished yet. Scott, stand by to fire. Max, have McCormack begin full evasive action. Cruz will likely focus all of her defensive armament on the fighters. We're only going to have one shot at this. We've got to make it count.”

  Chapter 20

   Clarke raced through the undergrowth, pouring the fuel behind him, leaving a neat trail on his side of the clearing while Mortimer did the same, running parallel to him. If everything had gone according to plan, Alamo's assault shuttles would be landing in minutes, and they had to give them a clear run to the landing site. Looking on, Webster frowned, his scar harsher than ever in the early morning light. The death of Avdonin had hit him hard. That he'd taken at least a dozen people with him mitigated the loss, but didn't expunge it.

   “Sixty seconds!” Mortimer yelled. “Light them, John!”

   He threw the flash-bang towards the trail of fuel, then raced for cover as it ignited, twin trails of fire roaring on either side of the clearing, the smoke billowing into the air to provide guidance to the shuttle pilots, twisting in lazy spirals through the sky as the wind caught it. Naturally, the enemy, less than a mile distant, would have ample warning of the landing, but there was no way to hide the assault in any case. Once more, speed, not stealth, was their ally.

   “There!” one of the rebels yelled, waving his arm. “Up in the sky!”

   Clarke followed the man's hand, and saw a trio of contrails, flying in tight formation as they raced down to the ground. As he watched, they resolved into tiny arrowheads, the unmistakable roar of a sonic boom as they decelerated. Pulling out his pistol, he turned to the undergrowth, knowing that the enemy would be coming, hoping to overwhelm the landing force before they could organize, their only hope of saving their position on the planet. The stolen communicator in his pocket suddenly roared, and he tugged it clear, flipping the panel open and jamming it against his ear.

   “Blake to Clarke, come in!”

   “Alex?” he replied. “How long until landing?”

   “Two minutes minus!” she replied. “I'm on Shuttle One. We've got the whole platoon on board, and more weapons for the rebels as well. What's the status on the landing zone?”

   “Clear for the moment, but we've certainly got enemy troops incoming.”

   “Understood. We'll be loaded for bear when we disembark. Have your people keep their heads down.” There was a pause, and she added, “And if you ever pull a stunt like this again, Sub-Lieutenant, I'll kill you myself. Got that?”

   “It's nice to see you too, Alex,” he replied with a chuckle. “Clarke out.”

   “They're coming,” Webster said, looking up at the sky as though beholding Heaven. “I can't believe they're actually coming.”

   “We've still got a lot of fighting ahead, Captain,” Mortimer replied, racing over to the two of them. “This battle won't be over until we raise your flag over Cosmograd.”

   With a sigh, Webster, looking older than his years, said, “We never thought we'd win. At best we might have made it difficult for them, spent our lives to hurt their cause. That we might actually beat them back, free our people...”

   “Sir!” the sharp-eyed rebel from before said. “Over in the undergrowth. I'd say we've got company coming, right now.”

   “They must have some orbital observation,” Mortimer cursed. “They're setting us up!”

   “Not yet they aren't,” Clarke said. “Get that machine gun set up. Mortars at the ready.”

   “Into trees?” Webster asked.

   “It'll keep their heads down even if it doesn't hurt them,” he replied, racing for a foxhole, pistol in hand. “Take cover, everyone! And watch out for plasma fire! Our troops will be raining hellfire down on the bastards in a minute!”

   Following his own orders, Clarke dropped into his foxhole, Mortimer sliding in beside him, rifle in hand. Overhead, he could hear the roar of the shuttles on final approach, but the familiar crack of gunfire started to echo through the trees, the attacking force on three sides, closing for the kill. As yet, he couldn't see them, and the machine gunner that unleashed a staccato blast to his side must have been firing on guess and hope, rather than solid information.

   Something moved in the undergrowth, and Clarke snapped a shot, the roar of the landing jets overpowering the gunfire. Mortimer fired twice into the trees, smoke curling from a mortar blast just ahead of him. Already the battle had collapsed into chaos, and the fight had hardly begun. A shape drifted in the shadows to the left, and he turned to see a trio of men racing towards him, flame spitting from the barrels of their rifles. Leaning across, he tried to take a shot, but before he could squeeze the trigger, a ball of green flame raced over his head, enveloping the would-be attackers and reducing them to ashes, the fire hot enough to set the surrounding trees aflame.

   “Clarke?” Rhodes said, sliding down to his side. “Good to see you again. Having fun?”

   “I thought this would be a party you wouldn't want to miss,” he replied.

   Tossing the young officer a plasma pistol and a set of image-intensifier goggles, he added, “We're passing around the equipment right now. Once we've secured a perimeter, we can press on to the camp.” Bullets rippled overhead, slamming into the side of the shuttles as the last of them settled to the ground. “No word from Alamo yet.”

   Strapping the power pack onto his belt, Clarke said, “They're coming in from all around us. Probably their best people. We break them here, it gets easier.”

   Gesturing ahead, Rhodes replied, “Hold the flanks. We'll roll right through the middle as soon as we're deployed. If a few of them break and run, let them. We can mop them up later. Right now, we just need to hit them hard and fast.”

   Sliding on his goggles, Clarke could at last get a clear view of the approaching troopers, moving forward in tight formation, taking full advantage of cover and fire support. These were experts, not the ill-trained recruits that they'd been fighting before, but seasoned warriors. A chorus of screams from the far perimeter drew his eye quickly enough to watch a roaring explosion shatter through the air, engulfing one of the shuttles and burning the remaining occupants alive.

   “Damn it!” Rhodes yelled. “Quiller, to me!”

   As the trooper raced to rejoin his m
en, Clarke checked the power cycle on the plasma pistol, grimacing at the limited energy in the pack. Five shots, six if he was careful, and he'd be out. Another ball of fire raced overhead, this time from the approaching troops, and he quickly turned and fired in the direction of the plasma-armed enemy, hoping to silence their heavy firepower before they could seriously bring it to bear. Smoke filled the sky from a hundred fires as weapon fire rained down all around, a cascade of splinters raining down from the shattered canopy.

   “Good God, John,” Blake said, rolling in beside him. “You really know how to show a girl a good time! Next time, I pick the restaurant.” Glancing at Mortimer, she asked, “Aren't you wearing the wrong uniform?”

   “Deep-cover agent,” Clarke said. “Long story.” A rattle of machine gun fire flew overhead, and he ducked down deeper into the trench. Up ahead, he could hear whistles sounding, saw a fire team charge forward, boots digging into the mud, as their comrades gave them heavy fire support. Rhodes had managed to begin his advance, and all he could do was watch.

   “Webster!” he yelled, but there was no reply.

   “Back there somewhere,” Mortimer said, waving a thumb at a dense thicket of trees. “Face it, Sub-Lieutenant, we're out of this game.” Mud splattered onto her face as a grenade hurled dirt through the air close by. “You want to stick your head up, make sure you've updated your will.”

   Keeping low, Clarke scanned around, trying to get a sense of the battle. Somehow, Rhodes had gathered a couple of squads to push forward the perimeter, trying to split the enemy forces in two and shatter their advance. To the side, he could make out a clump of figures moving forward, the white-hot heat sources on their backs evidence of their firepower. He raised his plasma pistol, then hesitated for an instant.

   “What are you waiting for?” Mortimer asked.

   “No IFF.”

   “What?”

   “I don't know who's side they're on!” he yelled. “If I guess wrong...”

   “On that angle, who do you think they're fighting for?” Blake asked.

   Clarke fired, his finger jerking the trigger, unleashing a pulse of energy at the unsuspecting troopers, a green flame burning the air all around them, trees spontaneously catching light. The air stank of a heady mix of cordite, wood smoke and roasting meat, and Clarke thought for a second that he was going to expel his breakfast into the foxhole.

   “Not yet, you don't,” Blake said, looking at his face. “I just had these boots cleaned.”

   A pair of explosions tore into the ground on either side, and Mortimer grimaced, and said, “Time for a quick stroll. They've almost got our range. The next shot will be right inside.”

   “Go,” Clarke said. “I'll cover you.” At the mutinous expressions of Mortimer and Blake, he added, “Look, dammit, I've got the heavy weapon. Get going!”

   “Give a guy a commission, and he thinks he's master of the universe,” Blake muttered. “You left, Morty. I'll take right.”

   “Morty?” Shaking her head, Mortimer said, “Fine.”

   “Go!”

   Mortimer and Blake raced in opposite directions, and Clarke stood up in his foxhole, firing twice in quick succession at nearby targets before racing forward, charging blindly into the undergrowth. Without any combat equipment, he didn't have any idea where he was going, or even where the rest of the troopers were. As far as he could judge, the main battle had moved to the north, but the constant roar of explosions made it almost impossible to tell.

   Stumbling across the ground, he almost tripped over a corpse on the ground, a rebel, by the rough combat gear he was wearing, and staggered behind a tree, just as a burst of machine gun fire slammed into the ground beside him. Another loud scream cut through the noise, someone dying noisily in the distance, and he looked around, trying to find his bearings.

   More than a dozen men were gathered less than a hundred meters away, hiding in a crater, the aftereffect of one of the first explosions. Taking the gamble that they were Espatiers, preparing for an attack, he raced towards them, weaving from side to side to make himself a difficult target for the soldiers opening up all around him, trying to get a clear shot.

   As he pushed through the undergrowth, he realized that he had guessed wrong, that the occupants of the crater were a collection of enemy troops, all swinging their weapons around to cover him. He had a heartbeat to make his move, and the battle seemed to slow down to a crawl as he squeezed the trigger on his plasma pistol, expelling the last of the energy stored within in one desperate pulse.

   The force of the explosion pushed him back, falling into the trees, knocking him from his feet, as the tremendous heat set off the power packs of the other plasma weapons in the crater, creating a fireball large enough to poke above the trees, silencing the battle before him. His eyes watered from the heat and the grit, and he turned away from the inferno, racing away from the action, struggling to catch his breath in his desperation to get away.

   Hands clutched him, pulled him back, and he turned to see Mortimer looking at him, holding him by the shoulders.

   “Keep it together, kid,” she said. “You know who they were. You did a terrible thing, but you did a good thing. A necessary thing. Don't ever forget that, damn it!”

   He looked up at her, eyes wide, and replied, “I...”

   “You killed twelve men, Sub-Lieutenant, and I guarantee that each of them has done a damn sight more murdering than that. You did it in action, to save the lives of your comrades. They racked up their death toll shooting civilians. Got that?”

   “Yeah,” he said, unconvinced. “I've got that.”

   The last explosion seemed to have taken the fight out of the enemy, and all around, Clarke could see figures fleeing into the distance, racing for cover, trying to pull back to the secure defenses of their base. Blake and Rhodes walked out of the shadows, the latter with a beaming smile on his face as he clapped Clarke on the shoulder.

   “You sure you never trained as an Espatier, kid?” he asked. “That was one hell of a charge.” Gesturing to the north, he added, “We've got them on the run on every flank. They still outnumber us, but we've broken the back of the assault. Sergeant Fox is leading a squad in close pursuit while we come after the survivors.” Gesturing to the rest of the platoon, slowly assembling by the shuttles, he added, “Find yourself something more powerful for the rest of the assault. We've got a few spare weapons now.” Looking into Clarke's eyes, he asked, “Are you all right? Not hit?”

   “He's fine,” Mortimer said. “No problem, Ensign. We're on our way.”

   “Good,” Rhodes said, with a nod. “We've got the opportunity we wanted, and I damn sure don't want to waste it. Not with this high a price tag.”

  Chapter 21

   “This is crazy,” Pastell said, leading the way down the corridor, pistol in hand. “We're both going to get killed. You do realize that.”

   With a shrug, Marshall said, “If it happens, it happens. How far?”

   “Trust me. You'll know when we get there.” He paused, sighed, then added, “Five minutes. There's an inspection hatch at the far end of the corridor. Down about fifty meters, then a short walk to Auxiliary Control. Through three security perimeters and a couple of dozen guards, naturally. This isn't going to work.”

   “We don't have to actually break in,” Marshall replied, glancing at his watch. “This is a distraction, that's all. We're buying time for Foster and the others to free the prisoners. I'll settle for making an awful lot of noise, drawing guards in this direction, then a quick jog to the nearest escape pod.” He paused, smiled, then added, “And in the event you don't make it, where is that?”

   “Very funny,” Pastell replied. “Don't worry about me, Captain. I'm a born survivor. Besides, I took a bronze medal in the sprint back in the '52 Olympics, and I've kept in training since them.” With a toothy grin, he added, “I don't have to outrun the guards. Just you.” Tugging out a
datapad, he scanned through the sensor feeds, and added, “I still don't get what your people on Alamo are up to. We're less than five minutes from contact, and Cruz has assault shuttles on the way. Are you sure he hasn't just surrendered?”

   “Not Pavel Salazar,” Marshall replied. “I don't think he understands what that word means. He's got something planned. Besides, this might help us. The ship was short-handed before, but if she's loaded fifty people on shuttles, the security detachments will have been cut to the bone. We might have a better chance than you think.”

   “Maybe,” Pastell said. “Maybe.” He seemed doubtful, tightening his grip on his pistol as his eyes continued to range around, as though seeking out targets. Jogging to the end of the corridor, he snapped back the inspection hatch, ducking inside.

   Marshall followed him, but his mind was still back on Alamo, riding with his crew. Despite his words, doubt crept into his soul, fear that Salazar had given up, that perhaps the ship had suffered worse damage than he had thought. All of this could still be for nothing. He clambered down the ladder, waiting for the tone of the alert sirens to change, switching to an intruder alert.

   At least the ship was all but deserted. Despite moving through some of the most populated areas, they hadn't encountered anyone. The crew was either at their posts, down on the planet, or on their way across to Alamo. Cruz had spread her resources too thinly, and was suffering for that. A new klaxon jerked him back to reality, and Pastell looked up with a smile.

   “Prisoner breakout from the lower decks,” he said. “I guess Burton and the others made better time than we did. Don't worry, I think this little run will still work. They should be picking us up on their monitors any second now.” Gesturing at the hatch cover beneath them, he added, “There will be guards waiting for us down there. Drop, roll and shoot, or we're as good as dead.”

   “You know what I like best about you, Major? Your unshakable optimism.”