Battle of Hercules

by Richard Tongue

   In the distance, down a twist in the path that they had ignored on the way in, he caught sight of something white, reflecting from the beam of his light. He stopped abruptly, Carpenter careening into him, almost sending him tumbling to the ground.

   “What’s up?” she said.

   “Something. Down there,” he replied, trying to see it again. He played his helmet beam around, and was rewarded with a reflection after a moment’s searching. Cautiously, holding his rifle tightly, he worked his way down the corridor, hugging the wall. Carpenter followed, silently, her helmet light spilling around as she tried to look past him.

   He stood over the object, kneeling down; most of it seemed to be buried in some sort of roof collapse, but he could make out a curved white shape in the ground. Carefully, he knelt, running his hands around it.

   “Wait a moment, Private,” Carpenter said. “This needs to be properly documented.”

   His fingers continued to work, and as he worked his way down, his finger ran into a hole, and his eyes widened as he realized that he was running his hands over a skull. There was something wrong about it, though; the shape didn’t feel right. Pushing the dirt away to the side, he came to a harder surface, a spacesuit.

   Just a few hours ago, he’d looked at a human body in a spacesuit, but this looked different. The suit was ancient, what he could see of the helmet totally unfamiliar. He turned to Carpenter, who was looking back in awe at his discovery.

   “What do you think?”

   “We’ve got to get a proper team down here,” she said.

   He shook his head, replying, “It’s your decision, ma’am, but I don’t know if the Captain will authorize that. Why don’t we call the rest of the squad down and get him out, back up to Alamo.”

   She frowned, but finally nodded, “Go up to easy communication range and bring them down. We’re not leaving without this body, and the shuttle can wait a bit if that’s what it takes.” She looked around the room, smiling, “This might be the xenoarchaeological discovery of the century.”

  Chapter 5

   Orlova walked down the unfamiliar corridors, datapad in hand, trying to work out where she was. A man walked up to her, lieutenant’s bars on his shoulders, frowning as he looked her over.

   “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m trying to find the officer’s mess.”

   Shaking his head, the man replied, “They putting children in uniform these days?”

   Sighing, she said, “If you aren’t going to help, kindly let me by. The Captain’s in a hurry to get you out of here, if you hadn’t noticed.”

   “Two decks up, you walked past the ladder access about a minute ago. On the left.”

   “Thank you.”

   He didn’t reply, walking on down the corridor as Orlova followed him to the shaft; the door had been closed and locked shut, and it took an effort to pull it open. It was in the less-used areas that she really got a feel for how old this ship was; the stranded crew had evidently done everything they could to keep it in good order, but Discovery wasn’t really fit for long-term human habitation. She still couldn’t get used to the smell.

   There was no sign that this shaft was particularly well-used; she almost stuck her hand into a discarded food wrapper, the contents long abandoned, and there was a green mold growing along the wall underneath a dripping pipe, illuminated by a dull yellow light that cast strange shadows around the room. Finally, she reached the top of the shaft, and using her shoulder, she managed to get the hatch open.

   Brushing the dust off her uniform, she emerged at the end of another corridor, but this time she could hear signs of activity ahead of her, an argument appeared to be in progress. Frowning, she hastened towards the mess, pushing her way through the doors; there was a crowd of about three dozen people, most of the survivors. Those nearest the door turned to look at her as she entered, but the ones nearest the front simply continued their argument.

   “Damn it all, Sandy, can’t we just go home?” a woman wearing battered overalls said, plaintively. “My kids will be in college now, but they’ll at least remember me when I get back. Not all of us are like you.”

   A tall, aristocratic-looking woman wearing a flight jacket replied, “Sergeant, that is not for either of us to say. Major Marshall’s calling the shots, and we’re going to get Hercules. We’re getting our ship back.”

   “Let the Cabal have it,” a man grunted from the front. “They’ve had it for nine years.”

   “Excuse me,” Orlova said, pushing her way through the crowd, “But I can tell you now that no decision on whether to retrieve Hercules has yet been reached by Lieutenant-Captain Marshall.” She took great care to stress the rank.

   The man, a dark-skinned figure with a twisted scar running down the side of his face, replied, “You trying to tell us that he won’t do what Daddy wants?”

   An unknown voice said, “How’d he make Captain anyway. He’s just a kid.”

   “Captain Marshall will do what he thinks is best for the ship, the crew, and the Confederation. That has always been my experience of him. And whatever decision is taken will not be made here.”

   The jacketed woman replied, “Don’t you think we’ve earned a say?”

   “Maybe we should have a vote!” another voice yelled.

   Shaking her head, she replied, “I’m hear to co-ordinate your evacuation to Alamo, not to engage in a pointless argument.” Glancing over at the wall clock, she continued, “We have something like twenty-four hours to get you all away from here if we’re going to meet the deadlines of our mutual commanding officers. Who’s in charge here?”

   The woman looked around, and nodded. “I am. Captain Claudia Lane, Systems Officer.”

   “Sub-Lieutenant Margaret Orlova, Alamo’s Security Officer. I was told that you already had an evacuation plan.”

   “We do. Everything’s in hand, Sub-Lieutenant, so you can go back up to that ship of yours and let us handle it.”

   Taking a deep breath in an attempt to steady herself, she replied, “Unless you’re planning to fly up there with wings, you’re going to need a shuttle schedule – and that’s what I’m here to get. Personnel aren’t a problem, but I understand you have some other material that needs transporting?”

   “Personal items, some equipment that might be useful.” Lane turned to the two crewmen who had been arguing with her earlier, “Mathis, Ballard, why don’t you show her around.” She looked around the room, seeming to see past Orlova. “Don’t make any mistake, ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to get our ship back, and fly her back to Mariner Station with pride.”

   Orlova, shaking her head, walked out of the room, the two crewmen following her into the corridor. She began to make her way to the ladder, but the man’s arm stopped her.

   “Why are you going down there? No-one uses that shaft, we got the elevators working years ago.”

   “An officer I met told me that was the best way to go.”

   The two crewmen looked at each other, then back at Orlova, “Frank Nelyubov. Ignore him; he’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of Olympus Mons.”

   “Come on, Win,” the woman replied, “It’s not his fault.” She turned to Orlova, “He was up for a promotion when we got back. Always went on about it. Poor bastard’s been stuck at Second Lieutenant for nine years.”

   “I see.”

   “Look, we’re not all crazies down here. I’m Clara Ballard, and this is Win Mathis.”

   The man paused for a second, then extended his hand, “It is good to see a new face. I’m looking forward to seeing a lot more of them when we get back and I can take what remains of this uniform off.”

   Ballard chuckled, “In public, Win?” She hugged Mathis with an extended hand, and Orlova smiled.

   “I guess after nine years…”

   “Longer than that, Sub-Lieutenant. Major Marshall had us hunting for his mysterious empire for a
year before we went missing. We were already overdue when the Cabal grabbed us,” Mathis said.

   “Say, you’re Orlov’s daughter, aren’t you,” said Ballard with a flash of recognition. “I heard you managed to rescue him.”

   “We did, about six months ago. Last I saw, he was fine and well. Married again.”

   “That’s fantastic.”

   Mathis shook his head, “I think he got the better end of the deal. At least he could breathe the air and go for a walk whenever he wanted. We’ve been stuck in these walls for six years. Couldn’t even go outside; you’d be surprised how small this ship is.”

   They stepped into the elevator, and Mathis tapped for the lowest intact level of the ship. Reluctantly, the elevator started to descend, slowly grinding its way down the decks. Abruptly, it jerked to a stop, and the doors opened to admit the surly lieutenant from before; Mathis and Ballard snapped reluctant salutes.

   “I see you found the elevator, then,” he replied.

   Biting back an acerbic reply, Orlova said, “In the end. You must be Second Lieutenant Nelyubov.”

   He reddened slightly saying, “That’s right. Though I hope that will change when we get back.”

   “I’m sure those wishing to stay in the service – or transfer to the Triplanetary Fleet – will have the opportunity to do so.”

    Ballard said, “You don’t think it will be mandatory, do you?”

   “Your term of required service must have run out years ago,” Orlova replied. “I’m sure you’ll be given an honorable discharge when we get back to Mariner.”

   Nelyubov replied, “I don’t think you can be quite as confident of that. The Cabal’s a clear and present danger…”

   “No state of war exists, Lieutenant. Until and unless such a situation develops, the service can’t hold you.”

   “That’s a relief,” she replied, looking up at Mathis; Orlova noted a scowl running across Nelyubov’s face. “We want to go traveling, see a few different places.”

   “Maybe spend a few weeks at High Vegas,” Mathis said, grinning. “We must have a hell of a lot of back pay due. I think we can afford to waste some of it.”

   “After we see my kids, of course,” Ballard said.

   “How old are they?”

   “Jack will be nineteen, and Susan seventeen. He wanted to go into the fleet; I wonder if he ever did,” she said, wistfully.

   Mathis gave her a little squeeze, “He was nine, Clar. Kids grow out of it.”

   “It won't be hard to check,” Orlova said, pulling out her communicator. “Alamo, this is Orlova. Can I get a check on a Jack Ballard? Look in the military admissions file.”

   There was a brief pause, and Weitzman replied, “Got him. Spaceman Second Class, joined at the formation of the fleet two years ago. Looks like he’s serving at Shakespeare, shuttle tech. I’ll send his file down to your datapad; there’s a recent picture attached.”

   Ballard’s eyes lit up, and Orlova replied, “Thank you, Otto. I owe you a drink. Alamo out.”

   “Don’t your bridge crew have better things to do than run personnel searches, Sub-Lieutenant?”

   Orlova looked at Ballard, who seemed on the verge of breaking into tears as she passed her datapad over to her, an image of a copper-haired man with a thin attempt at a mustache filling the screen. She hugged it with both hands.

   Mathis, shaking his head, said, “Officer or no, Frank, you really are a world-class bastard.”

   “I’ll have you on report for that,” he replied.

   “What are they going to do, throw me out of the fleet?”

   “That’s enough,” Orlova said. “I think Ballard probably needs some time alone – feel free to keep the datapad for the moment, I’ve got a spare. Sergeant Mathis, would you show me to the cargo bays?”

   He started up at the red-faced Nelyubov, “Yes, ma’am.”

   The elevator came to a stop, and Ballard and Nelyubov walked out, immediately going in separate directions; with an effort, Mathis managed to start it up again, and they continued on their way down to the lower decks.

   “How would the crew feel about going after Hercules?” she asked.

   He looked at her, frowning. “Some of them are gung-ho to do it. The officers, some of the unmarried hands. Hell, there’s a part of me that would love it. But there’s a bigger part of me that just wants to go home, and the risk involved is too rich for my blood.”

   “Will there be trouble?”

   “You think your Captain will go for it?”

   “He might.” She shook her head, “Hell, I’m pretty sure he will. And not because his father wants it, but because it would be a hell of a thing to pull off.”

   Nodding, Mathis replied, “No-one’s going to mutiny, that’s for sure. Major Marshall’s far too well-liked for that; he’s kept us going these last six years. It was easier on Ghawar, there we were working towards an escape, we could think about going home, about what we might do. Here...well, I think we were beginning to believe we were going to die here.” He paused. “That skeleton. We knew it was there, of course, sitting outside. I think they left it there on purpose. They meant us to think that that would happen to us, that maybe we’d be found like that one day.”

   Placing her hand on his shoulder, she said, “You’re going home, Sergeant. One way or another. Captain Marshall’s pulled off tougher missions.”

   “So has the Major. I just hope he isn’t out of practice.”

   The doors slid open, and the two of them walked out onto a huge, open deck, half-empty crates and boxes scattered around, a couple of people in the far corner sorting their contents into piles that looked on the verge of toppling. Before she proceeded further, Mathis turned.

   “Tell me one thing, Sub-Lieutenant. Would you go for it?”

   “Fly out beyond fuel range? Gamble on being able to refuel after fighting a battle against unknown opposition to try to get that ship of yours home?” She smiled, “Hell, yeah.”

  Chapter 6

   Marshall looked around the briefing room at his assembled officers, all of them waiting for him to speak. Every datapad in the room had the same report displayed on it – his father’s plan for the recapture of Hercules and its return to Triplanetary space. He’d spent the last four hours going over it, and though it was vague on some of the details, it sounded plausible enough, though the looks on some of the faces at the table suggested that his viewpoint was not universally shared.

   “There is really only one topic for discussion here today,” he said. “You’ve all had a chance to look at Major Marshall’s plan, you’ve all had an opportunity to think it over. Let’s start with ways and means. Mr. Quinn, is Alamo up to this?”

   The engineer smiled, “Alamo’s up for anything you care to ask of her, sir. All systems are in good order, and we can even cope with the over-strain on the life support systems for at least three months. Aside from the obvious problem, we’re as ready as it is possible to be.”

   “Mr. Mulenga, the course projection?”

   The astrogator nodded, working the table controls as a projected starscape appeared, a series of red lines dashing from star to star, indicating the projected course of Alamo on its leap into the unknown.

   “The first jump will be to Hipparchus 54298; the system has a single planet in close orbit according to observations, but it has never actually been visited – at least, not by anyone who has been willing to tell us what they found. Then the big one, to Gliese 480.1.”

   “Point One?” Orlova said, shaking her head.

   “Blame the discoverer,” Mulenga replied with a smile. “This one has three planets, and according to the report, the one we’re interested in is the innermost, a sub-jovian with two large moons. The station is close into the gas giant, presumably for scooping.”

   “Not more aerostats,” Caine said.

   “I hope not.”

>    “Everything seems to match the report, Captain, and Alamo is in good condition for the jumps required if we pursue this option.”

   Placing his hands on the table, Marshall said, “Now we need to talk about the elephant in the room. To execute this mission, Alamo will have to make five jumps, and we only have fuel for three. According to the information we have, there is a fueling station similar to that we encountered at Jefferson. We would need that fuel to get home.” He looked around the table. “Comments and opinions are invited.”

   Zebrova, sitting at his left, spoke first. “It’s tempting, I won’t deny it, but I think it is far too risky.” She turned to Marshall, “I am aware of the time constraints and the imminent arrival of the guardship, but we should return to Spitfire Station. Even a single tanker would make this mission practical.”

   “What about ambushing the guardship when it arrives?” Orlova said. “That might buy us some more time. We know it’s base is two jumps away, so they won’t be expecting it back for a fortnight.”

   “Too risky; we don’t want to start this mission with a battle,” Caine replied. “If we do this, we need to be at maximum preparedness for the mission. We’re heading up against another battlecruiser, remember.”

   “What about the fail-safe?” Marshall said.

   “What guarantee have we that they haven’t taken it out?”

  Quinn shook his head, “They might, but I doubt it. I've gone over its specifications, and it was placed really deep in the system. To the point that they’d need to replace the operating system – but the Major said that they destroyed the backup files before capture. They’d have to write a whole new one.”

   “Or obtain it by other means,” Mulenga said.

   Orlova’s eyes widened, “That would be a security breach to beat them all; the details of military operating systems are some of our best-guarded secrets.”

   “Nevertheless, given some of the other things the Cabal have pulled off, I would be wary of underestimating them.”