Battlecruiser Alamo: Final Testament

by Richard Tongue

   “That's Captain Kris to you, Pavel. What's wrong? We're a little busy here.”

   He heard the sound of a gunfight behind her, worry stabbing into his mind as he replied, “I'm not exactly having a ball out here. Can you get another salvo into the air in seventy seconds?”

   “Not a problem.”

   “Good. I want to show those Xandari bastards the proper welcome, and we're about out of party favors. We'll swing around after this pass and give you a hand. Help's on the way. I hope.”

   “You hope?”

   “I've never done this before.”

   “Sir, I've got the controls lined up,” Scott said, “but there's a lot of jamming out there, and we've only got a superficial link-up with the Neander missiles. If they weren't using pirated Republic software...”

   “The Lunar Republic has had a ship out here?” Salazar said. “One for the intelligence boys when we get back home.”

   “Anyway, if it wasn't for that, this wouldn't work at all.”

   “What's the problem?”

   “We need to be close if we don't want to risk losing control. Within fifty miles.”

   Lombardo whistled, shaking his head, and said, “We're going to be doing another close pass, aren't we, sir.”

   “Whatever the situation demands,” Salazar replied, flexing his fingers as he began to program the attack run. The trajectory track soared forward, reaching out to infinity, and the ship pivoted around, dropping back from the rest of the formation, slowing to allow it a chance to draw both sets of missiles into it.

   Precisely on time, the Neander launched their missiles, then roared their engines to full thrust in a bid to escape the oncoming vessel, swinging in a wide parabola that the Xandari vessel ignored. They were after greater prey, the unarmed Triplanetary vessel and the civilian ship it guarded. Without any more soldiers to dispatch or shuttles for reinforcement, only a single option remained. Obliteration.

   He glanced at the clock, counting down the seconds, as the ship slid into position between the battlecruiser and the transport, a lone guard holding the celestial pass. His hand rested on the engine controls, preparing to unleash the full acceleration of Daedalus. The ship might be old, but it was certainly fast.

   Harper's missiles surged from the Neander vessel, Scott frantically working her controls to bring them into formation, trying to make the different designs mesh into one unit. Finally, Salazar could get to work, and the force of the engines pushed him back into his couch as he drove the ship as hard as he dared, ignoring the conservative precautionary warnings, focusing instead on the more critical alerts that would herald the imminent destruction of the ship.

   “Energy spike!” Arkhipov said. “Two missiles launching from the Xandari vessel, taking positions on either side of the transport. I think they're laser-missiles, sir.”

   “They've given up taking the ship, then,” Scott said. “I wonder if that might give the traitors a change of heart.” Flicking a switch, she said, “I've sent two of Ausori's missiles to intercept. Five seconds.”

   “Going to be close,” Ingram said.

   Salazar watched the screen, his eyes widening as the tracks tangled together. Even under normal circumstances, that transport couldn't move quickly, but as they had almost willfully failed to complete their repairs, there was almost nothing they could do to protect themselves. Other than to launch a defensive salvo, but he'd already ruled out that possibility.

   Focusing on the task at hand, he trimmed his course as tightly as he could, guiding Daedalus to a close approach that would have had him thrown out of the Academy as a wild maniac if any of his old instructors had seen him. It had to be close, had to be quick. They'd be loading another salvo right now, and inevitably some of their missiles would fail to reach their target. Scott sent them dancing around in front of the scoutship, waving back and forth, ready should the Xandari decide to swat them out of the sky.

   Once again, he could see it, large and looming on the main screen, a malignant gray mass that grew by the second, bearing down on the Neander vessel. Another half-dozen targets clicked into view, Scott reacting before they had even been reported by the sensor operator, more of their precious missiles driving ahead to clear a path for the remaining five.

   Now it was up to him, and the enemy ship began to twist and turn, complicating his final trajectory. He looked down at the guidance computer, setting up for a return to Ausori, shaking his head. It felt as though they were rocketing through space a tremendous speed, but they'd built up precious little velocity with all the course changes over the last few minutes. Getting to their target wasn't going to be difficult, assuming they lived through the pass.

   In the blink of an eye, they swept past the ship, and Scott waved a triumphant hand in the air, whooping as her missiles rammed home, smashing into the rear section of the vessel and sending it tumbling. Alamo, up ahead, surged toward its target, all of the maneuvering edge now hers, the combat advantage well and truly established.

   “Threat warning!” Arkhipov reported as the cheer dissipated. “Two missiles launched at closest approach, on a direct collision course.”

   “Setting evasive pattern,” Salazar said, throwing the ship around in a desperate, futile hope to evade the computers. One glance up at the warbook told him everything he needed to know. These were normal, conventional missiles, nothing special about them, nothing out of the ordinary. They didn't have to be. Two hits to their rear section would kill half the crew, send them tumbling out of control through the cosmos, and that was the best-case scenario. More likely, they'd be wiped from the map in a single spasm of destruction.

   “Out of range of Ausori,” Scott reported. “Even if Harper could get a salvo up, they wouldn't be in time to help us.”

   A flash of inspiration raced across Salazar's mind, and he leveled off the ship, turning towards the approaching Alamo, ignoring the alarms and the warnings once again as he drove the vessel beyond the engineering limits, drawing every ounce of power from the reactor that he could drain. They had to go faster, faster, faster, had to close the range with their mother ship as quickly as they could, buy themselves at least a chance of survival.

   “Alamo reports they have a salvo ready to go,” Arkhipov said. “Thirty seconds, if we can make it.”

   “We'll make it,” Salazar said, his hands a blur on the controls. Flying a starship wasn't simply a matter of picking a direction and pressing a button. That was only the most superficial part of it. Balancing out the thruster loads between the primary engines, running the power distribution to make it as efficient as it could possibly be, making any one of a thousand minute tweaks that made the difference between acceptable and perfect performance, and in Salazar's world, at the helm, only perfection would do.

   Behind him, Maqua watched on, his eyes wide as he received a masterclass in flying from Salazar, the latter's eyes locked on the status boards, knowing that he was heading on the best course, simply trying to force the ship along it as rapidly as he could. Damage reports began to flood in as relays overloaded, backups snapping into place that couldn't last for long, but none of that mattered. Anything that went wrong during this wild ride could be repaired, but that only counted if there was a ship left to put back together again at the end.

   The bridge was silent, everyone watching the viewscreen and the helm, silently willing Daedalus to greater acceleration, greater speed, while the missiles resolutely tracked behind it. Harper launched a salvo from Ausori, a futile gesture but one that Salazar still appreciated. It seemed like years since he'd started the ship on this course. It had been, in fact, twenty seconds.

   Slowly, the time until impact trickled down, regardless of anything he did, but he continued to scramble across the controls, using every trick he knew and inventing more on the spot, trying to coax the vessel to break all acceleration records, ignoring the strain he felt as a new alarm sounded. It wasn't the ship in
trouble now, but the crew, and he could see the all-too-familiar gray mist around his field of vision, his breathing becoming labored as a heavy weight formed on his chest.

   None of that mattered now. He could live with this for a few more seconds, and after that, one way or another, it wouldn't matter anyway. Finally, a green light flashed on, and six missiles tracked out from Alamo, reaching out towards Daedalus like the fingers of a giant, unseen hand, the courses running all the way to the missiles.

   It would have been heartbreaking to fail now, and all on the bridge held their breath for the final seconds, Salazar not pausing for an instant as he drove the ship on, waiting for the warning lights to flash off. Finally, at last, the approaching missiles winked off the display as Alamo's salvo crashed into them, and he threw a few more frantic switches to kill the acceleration, Daedalus' engines resting at last.

   “Engineering to bridge,” an impatient Perry called up. “I know there were good reasons for doing what you did, but if you even try and alter trajectory again until I've had a chance to check everything over, I'll come up to the bridge and hit you with a servospanner. Understood, sir?”

   “Understood, Tech,” Salazar replied, taking a deep breath, collapsing back on his couch. “Between you and me, I think we've earned a little break for a moment.”

   “Alamo launching shuttles, sir, inbound for the Neander ship,” Arkhipov reported.

   “Sergeant Gurung getting his way at last,” Salazar said, nodding. “Now comes the main event.”

  Chapter 24

   “Shuttles away,” Nelyubov reported, looking up from his monitor. “Landing in three minutes, ten seconds. We've managed to set up a data link with Cooper through Harper, and the tactical network will be online shortly.”

   “Good,” Orlova replied, looking up at the monitor. “Looks like the Koltoc have just about cleared the hendecaspace point for us. Contact their commander, Weitzman, and ask...”

   “Course change!” Spinelli said. “Target aspect altering. Curving towards the Neander transport, engines at full. I think they're trying to ram.”

   Her eyes widening, Orlova said, “Damn. Armstrong, get us after them, maximum possible acceleration. Weitzman, see if there is anyone on Ausori able to move the damn ship. One brief burst on their thrusters at the last minute ought to be enough.”

   “Collision course confirmed,” Cantrell said. “Impact in two minutes, twelve seconds. We'll be in firing range in one minute, fifty.”

   “I can trim a few seconds from that,” Armstrong said, reaching down to switch on the acceleration overrides. A low growl rippled through the ship as the superstructure protested the surge of power, warning alarms flashing as the damaged decks fought to keep together. Nelyubov looked at Orlova, shaking his head.

   “We'd better get our shuttles out of the way, and I'll contact our people and tell them to abandon ship.”

   “In two minutes?” Cantrell asked.

   “It won't do any good,” Weitzman said, a dazed look on his face. “I just got through to Lieutenant Harper. All of the escape pods have been locked down, and there's no way anyone in a spacesuit could get out of the blast radius in the time. They're stuck there, ma'am, all of them.”

   “Then we'll just have to smash the Xandari to pieces first. Cantrell, I want missiles in the air the second we get into range, and target the laser to try and throw them off course.”

   “We already hit their oxygen storage,” she protested.

   “Water tanks then, fuel, anything that will send them tumbling. Erickson, find me a weak spot. That ship's heavily damaged, we must have exposed something critical.”

   “Working on it, ma'am.”

   As Alamo raced forward towards the enemy ship, Orlova looked up at the sensor display, trying to find someone who might be able to help. The Koltoc were sitting at the hendecaspace point, watching the fight, and she raged inside for a moment. Not that it would have done any good for them to be on the move. By the time they reached the refugee transport, all they would be able to do was pick up the pieces.

   Daedalus was limping around, but had thrown herself onto a wild course out of the battlespace during their encounter with the enemy vessel. She didn't have any missiles left in any case, and nor did the rest of the Neander ships, though that wasn't stopping them swinging around, trying to race back to their people in time.

   This fight belonged to Alamo, and all eyes were locked on the trajectory plot on the viewscreen as the ship dived towards its target. Two, three minutes, a chance to unleash a half-dozen missile salvos, and she could guarantee ripping that vessel into its component atoms, but they'd only have two shots before they ran out of time.

   The structural projections of the impact didn't off any hope, either. The most likely outcome was an explosion that would destroy both ships, incidentally causing heavy damage to Alamo and most of the Neander squadron as a side effect. A rational plan, a sensible plan, would be to veer off, get out of the impending debris field, and live to fight another day. No one would object to it.

   Except that she'd never sleep again, knowing that she had failed thousands of people who were counting on her for protection. They may have chanted slogans against the Triplanetary Confederation, but now everyone who wasn't fighting over there would be watching the monitors, hoping and praying for a miracle, and it was Alamo's job to provide them with one.

   “Ninety seconds to contact,” Nelyubov said. He paused, then added, “Recommend all non-essential personnel proceed to the escape pods.”

   She looked up at him, nodded, and pulled out a microphone, saying, “This is the Captain. All personnel not Combat Status One will report to the escape pods on the double. Prepare to abandon ship on my order. That is all.”

   “You think anyone will go?” Cantrell asked, flicking switches on her station, locking the firing solution into the targeting computer. “I wouldn't. Stuck out there in an inflatable ball, in a system full of potentially hostile vessels? Not much of a chance, ma'am.”

   “While there's life, there's hope, Lieutenant,” she replied.

   All was quiet as they continued their dive, Weitzman still trying and failing to contact anyone on the transport ahead. She sighed in frustration, tapping in a navigation program to feed to them. One second at low thrust would save them, even with only five seconds before impact.

   “Got it!” Erickson said. “Structural weakness in their mid-section, right by that last series of missile shots. There's an exposed portion of the superstructure, and if we can break through it, the damn ship will snap in two.”

   “With both sides drifting past on opposite sides,” Nelyubov said.

   “Armstrong...” Cantrell began.

   “Course locked into the computer, ma'am. You'll have a firing solution at plus-one second into firing range.”

   “At least we know they won't be trying evasive action,” Nelyubov added.

   “Neither will we,” Orlova said. “Lieutenant, your every effort is to be focused on knocking out that ship. Nothing for defense. Got that?”

   “Aye, ma'am,” she said, her eyes locked on her station.

   Orlova glanced around the bridge, Erickson grim-faced as she ran her hands over the engineering station, routing damage control teams to where they would do the most good. Alamo was a glass dagger at the moment, brittle and damaged, and she was committing them to accepting multiple missile hits with no chance of repair.

   She glanced at the course projection, concerned for a moment that Alamo might end up finishing the job the Xandari vessel had started if they lost navigational control, but Armstrong had thought of that already, throwing them a few hundred meters over the transport, just enough to provide a bare margin of safety.

   Twenty seconds until contact, until they began a brief spasm of activity that would determine whether or not they would live or die. One of the Neander ships, the leader, was sweeping in, and might just
make it in time to do something, and at a quick nod, Weitzman started to transmit targeting data to the vessel.

   Everything seemed to slow to a crawl, the seconds lingering on the clock, time dragging as the crew completed their preparations for battle. The radiators, now battered and pock-marked from debris impacts, swung out on either side, Alamo a huge bird-of-prey swooping in for the kill. Cantrell rested her hand on the missile controls, ready to guide them towards their targets.

   Weitzman was back to a running commentary, switching through frequencies in a desperate hope that he might come up with some solution, find someone who could help, while Spinelli sat back in his chair, basking in the trio of monitors around him, knowing that all that remained for him was to watch the show.

   “Five seconds,” she muttered, stepping forward to the helm, gazing at the viewscreen and the magnified image of the enemy ship upon it, a small red box on the target area. Armstrong's face was a mask of concentration as she lightly tapped the thrusters, trying to get the laser shot into position, the key that would unlock the destruction of the enemy.

   “Now!” Cantrell said, and the laser pulsed its energy at the Xandari vessel, the impact precisely on target as it ripped a huge gash in the hull, bare metal sticking out, the skeleton of the beast exposed to space. Armstrong cursed, and Orlova placed a hand on her shoulder. They might have hoped to finish the enemy off with this shot, but it wasn't realistic. Now the missiles would do their work, and the ship rocked back as the last salvo dived forward, new trajectory tracks flashing into position on the display.

    All was silent again, only the clicking of controls from the tactical station as Cantrell guided the missiles in. The enemy vessel began to move, twisting and turning on its axis, attempting to protect themselves from the impact. A trio of missiles soared up, reaching towards the incoming salvo, but Cantrell had anticipated that, and swung her warheads down low, underneath them, trying to get them past the screen.