Battlecruiser Alamo: Into the Maelstrom

by Richard Tongue

   Marshall looked around the bridge, at Caine, Salazar, Doyle, hoping that someone would have the insight he lacked, would think of some way to save the situation, rescue the doomed ship, but only sorrowful silence met his gaze, and he turned back to the screen just in time to see Waldheim alter course, turning on her thrusters to meet the singularity nose on, now diving towards it at full speed, as though unwilling to cheat death any longer, opting instead to meet it with resolve, rather than fear. The end was inevitable, and swift, and the ship vanished from the display, winking out into nonexistence.

   “My God,” Caine said, speaking for them all. “All sensor contact lost.” She paused, then said, “Pavel, we're slipping.”

   “I know, I know,” Salazar said, reaching for a control. “Dubois, I need more power, I need it now, and I don't want to hear any more damned excuses!” He tapped a button, unwilling to wait for the reply, and nodded as the engines surged, Alamo's hull rumbling from the increased acceleration, carefully balancing the systems to avoid an overload from the increased power. “Tricky, sir. I'm running at one-oh-five, and that's just breaking even.” Shaking his head, he added, “According to the specifications, we should be able to do that for a few days without too much trouble, but if we have one brownout, we're dead.”

   “Doyle, I want you to start working on an escape trajectory,” Marshall replied. “If we stay in our current orbit, we ought to be able to get to a hendecaspace point in relatively short order. Assuming we don't have any systems failures, Alamo can leave the system in six days minus.”

   “Confirmed,” Salazar said. “I don't like putting this much strain on the engines, though, sir. Especially not with a saboteur on the loose.”

   Nodding, Marshall turned to Rhodes, standing at parade rest by the elevator, and said, “Ensign, I want your men on round-the-clock duty guarding all critical power and engine systems. Don't leave them unguarded for a second, and I want patrols of the lower decks also. Liaise with Lieutenant Salazar and Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo.”

   Frowning, Rhodes replied, “Not Senior Lieutenant Dubois?”

   “I'm sure our Systems Officer will have his hands full keeping the power overload balanced,” Marshall said, attempting to be diplomatic. “Naturally, I expect you to keep him informed of any progress.”

   “Understood, sir. I'll get on it right away.”

   “Waldheim's shuttle is clear, sir,” Caine said. “She's on her way in our direction, but she must have totally empty fuel tanks. That means an intercept at some point.” Turning to Marshall, she replied, “We can't risk the ship.”

   “A shuttle could make it,” Harper said. “Stripped down, with a small crew and additional fuel tanks. If we get started right away, we could have a ship ready for the intercept window.”

   “By all means, Lieutenant, make it happen,” Marshall replied. “Doyle, I want all of your people conducting a full investigation of this phenomenon. We've never got this close to a singularity before, and I have a feeling that a return visit is going to be a tough sell to the Combined Chiefs, so gather all the information you can, and feel free to use any probes you wish to deploy.”

   “Captain,” Francis said, “I'd like permission to launch a missile.”

   “You want to attack the singularity?” Caine asked, raising an eyebrow.

   “Humor me, sir,” he said.

   “Very well,” Marshall replied. “Go ahead and fire a missile, Deadeye, right into the heart of the beast.” Turning to Francis, he asked, “Why not a probe?”

   “That'll be the next step, sir, but I want to prove a theory based on my examinations of the descent of Waldheim. The missile will do what we need.”

   Alamo rocked for a second as a missile raced clear of the ship, diving towards the invisible menace at the heart of the system. While it descended, Marshall glanced across at the strategic display. Local space had long ago been swept clean, only the presence of the singularity allowing the formation of hendecaspace points at all. This system was a hidden binary, and judging by the proximity of the brown dwarf its companion, not destined to remain one for long. In a few thousand years, the star would lose its battle, disappearing forever, to whatever nightmare Waldheim had discovered.

   The missile slid along his track, and Marshall shook his head as it dived to its doom. Monitor had been here, and Pioneer, and the other ships that Salazar had learned about on Leonov Station. And now Waldheim. Five different commanders had sat in his place, watching the witch in at the bottom of the well, and only one had lived to tell about it, a freighter captain who had the good sense to stay clear. At least that gave him some hope that they could survive all of this, could find a way to escape the system and return to normal space.

   Shaking her head, Caine said, “Retrieving that shuttle is going to be risky as hell, Danny, even with a modified shuttle. Are you sure it's worth it?”

   “Even with the information it holds,” Marshall replied, “explaining how Waldheim died is going to be a tough sell for our diplomats. You think the Combined Chiefs would believe a story like that with no corroborating evidence? I wouldn't.”

   “Missile approaching threshold, sir,” Doyle said. “And there it goes. Just like Waldheim.”

   Nodding, Francis replied, “That confirms it, sir. This can't be a singularity. I don't know what it is, but that's not a black hole. Otherwise we'd still be getting readings from the objects trapped within it.” Stepping over to the viewscreen, he continued, “That's a gateway, a portal. Waldheim went somewhere.”

   Salazar added, “That's why they changed course at the last minute. They must have worked it out, decided to try and survive the passage.”

   “If it is a gateway,” Caine said, “where does it lead?”

   “I only know one way to find out,” Marshall said, “and I'm not that desperate to satisfy my curiosity.”

  Chapter 18

   “See the wonders of the universe,” Corporal Hernandez groaned, holding up the flashlight for Clarke as the midshipman forced open a service panel. “Strange new worlds, unknown stars, alien civilizations. The recruiting poster never mentioned wandering through maintenance shafts. If I'd wanted to do this, I'd have gone to work with my father at Applied Mechanics.”

   Reaching into the bowels of the system, feeling his way along the cables with his magnetic glove, Clarke replied, “It could be a lot worse, Corporal. You could be the one getting grease all over his uniform. Make a notation that this conduit was improperly sealed, and that it needs to be a maintenance priority.” Passing his hand deeper inside, he said, “No circuit breaks, though.”

   “Maintenance priority,” Hernandez muttered, tapping a sequence of commands onto his datapad. “Twelve months of basic training, six months of advanced planetary combat training on Ragnarok, and believe me, it gets damn cold down there. Three years on Mariner Station working security, then NCO School. And after all of that, I'm sitting here with a flashlight and a datapad, looking for circuit breaks.”

   Pushing himself to his feet, Clarke brushed his hands on his coverall, then said with a smile, “Cheer up, Corporal. We've only got a hundred and ninety-four of these to go.” He walked down the crawlspace, hunched over, toolkit in his hands. “One deck up next, right by Elevator Control.”

   Shaking his head, Hernandez followed, tapping the pistol in his holster, replying, “I suppose it could be worse, at that. Most of the platoon is stuck on guard duty. Boring as hell.”

   “See,” Clarke replied. “They're wandering around the corridors, and you're having fun in the maintenance shafts with me.”

   “I think we've got different interpretations of that word.” The Espatier paused, then replied, “You've seen action, haven't you? Been in a real firefight?”

   “Too many times,” Clarke said, looking back at the trooper. “You haven't?”

   “Not for real,” he said. “I was meant to ship out on Alamo last time, but I got wo
unded during the last phase of our surface warfare training.” He patted his leg, and said, “Bad enough that this bone's mostly titanium, these days. By the time I'd recovered, the ship had left without me, and I ended up stuck on station security detail again.”

   “Given the casualty rate Alamo's Espatier platoon experienced last time, you might have been luckier than you think. What was it, seven out of thirty-two made it back?”

   “All of whom are now either Ensigns or Lance-Sergeants,” Hernandez replied. “That's not the point, though. I joined up to see some action.” Picking his way over a series of trailing cables, he continued, “I meant all that stuff about the recruiting poster. So far I've managed to miss the fight against the Cabal, and the Xandari War. I don't want to get left behind again.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Word is that the ship is heading out into deep space. Some sort of strange signals coming from out Altair way.”

   “You know better than me, then,” Clarke replied, pulling a hatch open to reveal the ladder beyond, a shaft seemingly dropping to infinity. “As far as I know, the Captain's still putting together the formal plan for the next phase of the mission. Assuming we don't get stuck out here for a while.”

   Following the young officer up the ladder, Hernandez replied, “You're close to the top brass, right? I mean, you're in a lot of the big staff meetings, and the word is on the ship that you're some sort of Intelligence operative. I know you couldn't talk about it...”

   “What's your point, Corporal?”

   “Well, I wondered if you could put in a good word for me with Ensign Rhodes. See if you can arrange for me and my boys to be in on the next ground mission. First Squad's the best in the platoon anyway.”

   “Then I'd imagine you have nothing to worry about.” He tugged at the lever to open the access-port to the upper deck, and cursed. “They've left the seals intact. This is going to take a minute.”

   “That's odd,” Hernandez replied. “They all should have been taken off before we left port.”

   “Remember that we left two weeks early, Corporal, but I agree with you, this should have been dealt with.” Tapping the panel, he added, “This is a vacuum release shaft. If we had a fire on this deck, with these seals in place, we'd have to organize a bucket brigade to deal with it.” He reached into his toolkit, pulling out a knife. “Old fashioned, but this will do the job for the moment. You'd better...”

   “Make a note that this section is a maintenance priority, and that a work team should be brought up here as soon as possible.” While he was poking his datapad, danging from the ladder by one hand, he added, “Why didn't you bring a real technician with you.”

   “Two reasons. First, the Captain seemed to think that I needed a bodyguard, and you're the best shot in the platoon. Second, everyone else is busy with the engines, making sure we don't have a burnout. One power fluctuation, and we go the same way as Waldheim.” Ripping away at the seals, he added, “These seals are recent. The adhesive's supposed to wear off in thirty days anyway. They're tough. Too tough.”

   “Then someone's trying to make this area look as though it hasn't been touched since the refit,” Hernandez said, shaking his head. “Maybe I should call in for backup.”

   “Not yet,” Clarke replied. “If it's just another case of sabotage to the power network, then we can handle it ourselves.” He paused, then said, “Check where the nearest guard patrol is, though. Just in case we need somebody in a hurry.” Finally, he ripped through the last of the seals, and the hatch slid open, revealing a shower of sparks beyond, cables dangling from the ceiling.

   “What a mess!” Hernandez said, shaking his head. Looking down at his datapad, he added, “Nearest patrol is five decks from here, ten compartments back, but they are heading in this direction anyway. Third Squad's Fire Team Bravo.”

   Reaching tentatively inside, Clarke fumbled for the emergency cutoff, tugging the lever into position and isolating the local power grid. The sparks ceased, and he cautiously clambered into the passageway, shaking his head as he saw the destruction that had been wreaked to the overhead systems. Power conduits had been torn and ruptured, as though by a madman, and fiber-optic cables littered the deck, shards scattered all around.

   “Something this serious should have shown up on the master damage control board,” Clarke said, shaking his head. “This isn't one severed connection. The primary feed is out across the entire deck.” Crawling forward, he looked up at a control relay, and said, “That's it. Someone's isolated the whole network. Rigged a temporary bypass.”

   “Temporary?” Hernandez asked.

   Nodding, Clarke said, “There's a time-delayed switch built into the system. At some point over the next few hours, it would have failed, and we'd have lost thrust. Enough to send us crashing down into whatever is out there.” Looking back at the remnants of the seal, he continued, “That hasn't been in position for more than a few days. Maybe even hours.”

   Turning back to the passage, Clarke peered into the gloom, and could see a figure lying in the darkness, slowly rolling to the side. Gesturing for Hernandez to follow him, he crawled over the tangled mess on the deck, making his way forward to the prone man on the ground. Behind him, he could hear the trooper already calling in for a medical team. Peering down to the gloom, Clarke confirmed his suspicion.

   “Dubois,” he said. “Call it in, Corporal. We've found Senior Lieutenant Dubois, and he's in a critical condition.” Looking down his body, he added, “Severe burns on his hands and face, and difficulty breathing.”

   “Right,” Hernandez said. “I guess we finally found our saboteur.”

   While the trooper continued his report, Clarke looked around, shaking his head, trying to work out what was missing. He glanced back at the dangling cables, then back at the trembling figure of the engineer. A toolkit was further up the passage, equipment scattered across the deck, as though it had been tossed clear in haste.

   “Medic's on the way,” Hernandez reported. “Two minutes. Someone was close by.”

   Shaking his head, Clarke tipped Dubois into the recovery position, and said, “This doesn't make sense. For all his sins, Dubois isn't stupid enough to do something like this, not and get himself half-killed in the process.”

   “If the sabotage had worked, we'd have been dead anyway,” Hernandez said with a shrug. “Maybe he didn't expect to get off the ship in time, now that Waldheim is out of the picture.”

   “Maybe,” Clarke said, unconvinced. He looked down at Dubois, shook his head again, and said, “I don't think he's going to make it. If he got burned from the power conduit, God knows what happened to his internal organs. We don't even have a medical kit up here.” He gestured at the wall, then said, “Never fitted.”

   “Anything about this ship work right?” Hernandez asked. From behind them, Clarke heard the sound of someone climbing the ladder, and the trooper pulled out his sidearm, aiming it into the shadows. “Identify yourself!”

   “Technical Officer Blake, you moron, and if you don't want a medic, just say so.”

   Holstering his pistol, a chastened Hernandez said, “Sorry.”

   “Don't apologize,” Blake replied. “Just focus that paranoia on someone other than me.” Climbing to the deck, she looked at Dubois, and said, “Corporal, call in and chase up the follow-up team. There should be an emergency party a few minutes behind me.” Looking at Clarke, she continued, “You're damn lucky I was on my way to the hangar deck when this kicked off. Though I guess the shuttle's going to have the launch without us.”

   “Us?” he asked.

   She looked up from her patient, and said, “We're both supposed to be on the team heading out to the shuttle from Waldheim. I was paged ten minutes ago. Didn't you get the message?”

   “No, I didn't,” Clarke said, reaching for his communicator. He frowned, playing with the controls, and said, “No signal. None at all. Corporal?”

   “Mine's ju
st died,” the trooper replied. “Full strength to no strength, in a split-second. More sabotage, equipment failure from one of the signal boosters? We're pretty deep inside the ship.”

   “Not that deep,” Clarke said, pulling out his pistol. He took a step down the corridor, carefully passing the prone Dubois, and added, “Guard the rear, Corporal. I'm going to take a look. There something about this I don't like.”

   “I think Dubois will agree with you,” Blake said. “He's dead.” With a frown, she said, “Corporal, hold that torch up again. On his neck.”

   “Sure,” Hernandez said.

   “Thought so,” the medic replied. “The burns didn't kill him. Someone's injected him in the neck. Could be any one of a hundred drugs.” Looking at the dead man's hands, she said, “Those burns are pretty damned extensive.”

   “And why would he work on the cables without gloves, anyway? Even if he'd temporarily isolated the power, he wouldn't take that sort of risk.” Moving down the passage, he continued, “There's a shaft opening directly into Elevator Control, a hundred meters away. We need to move.”

   “But…,” Hernandez began.

   “Our communications are out, and I'd bet that someone has knocked out the repeaters on this deck to isolate us. Elevator Control is a priority area, especially during an alert. We can call the bridge from there.” Looking back at the cables, he added, “Then come back to clean up the mess and deal with the body.”

   “Wait a minute,” Blake said, fumbling in her medical kit. “I want to get a blood sample.”

   “We don't have a minute,” Clarke protested.

   “The compounds will degrade if I don't,” Blake replied. “I'll only be a moment. Cover me.”

   Shaking his head, Clarke watched impatiently as Clarke stabbed a needle into the dead man, drawing out a sample of blood from his arm. Behind them, Hernandez looked on, pistol in hand, nervously looking into the gloom. With the main power systems out in this part of the ship, they were reliant on the dim emergency lighting, far from sufficient to ward off the fears of what might be lurking just out of sight.