Battle of Hercules

by Richard Tongue

   “At least you’ve left my father in the captain’s chair.”

   “There is no reason to believe that he cannot command a crew for the flight home; however, I feel that Lieutenant Caine would be far superior choice to support him as Executive Officer. Likewise Sub-Lieutenant Orlova to handle tactical duties, Sub-Lieutenant Steele…”

   “Stop,” he said, raising his hand. “I’m guessing you’ve only shown this to me.”

   “As senior officer, the decisions will be yours in any event.”

   “Haven’t they earned the right to fly their ship home, Lieutenant?”

   She looked up at the picture of his father on the wall, then said, “I don’t know if the Cabal will agree with that sentiment. In the event of a serious confrontation, their skills will be lacking, sir. It isn’t a question of what they have earned or their abilities as officers, simply a lack of recent practice.”

   Sighing, he paused for a moment. “Lieutenant, maybe this is just weakness on my part, but I can’t do it to them. Besides, there’s a factor you haven’t considered – Hercules is an older ship, and presumably has not received any of the upgrades Alamo has received over the years. They know their ship better than we do.”

   “That is certainly a factor, and I do think that Hercules personnel should be on board – but Alamo crewmen will be required, sir. Effectively, we’re going behind enemy lines, and are going past the point of no return for fuel. That situation requires the crew to be at their best.”

   Marshall looked down at the datapad again, scanning the list. Implementing it would leave Alamo without a lot of key people, that was unquestionable, and he’d have some concerns about stripping the ship that far in the event of a battle.

   “Lieutenant, we probably need to talk about the mission itself.”

   “As your Executive Officer, I completely support your decision, sir.”

   “Would you be doing it differently?” He paused, then said, “Speak freely.”

   “I don’t think I’d have risked it, sir. That doesn’t mean that the decision is wrong, nor does that mean that I disagree with your reasoning, it just means that our thresholds of acceptable risk are different. I do not believe that – given the time constraints – there is any other way of undertaking the mission than to follow Major Marshall’s plan.”

   “But you’d be going home.”

   “Probably.” She smiled, saying, “I’m not a battlecruiser commander, though. It doesn’t really matter what I think, for all you said in the briefing room.” Leaning forward, she continued, “If I can speak freely, I suspect that you are the one with a problem about this decision.”

   His eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

   “You have sought reassurance from both Lieutenant Caine and myself. We are both serving officers; we will obey your orders. The reason you are talking to me in this manner is that you are uncertain whether this decision is the correct one.”

   “Even I know that a Captain can never be indecisive…”

   “In public, sir,” she interrupted.

   “Or in private. Normally I don’t second-guess decisions.” He shook his head, “The potential rewards are so great this time, the databank of a ship that has been inside the Cabal – and no way for the enemy to delete their files.”

   “The coup of the century. You are correct about that. If it was just a matter of getting your father’s ship back…”

   “Then I’d be heading home. Keep a few of the Hercules crew on board as advisors, and make sure to send them back in such a way that Alamo could head back out again to continue its mission.”

   Nodding, she replied, “That would have been my suggestion.”

   “I see I’m learning,” he said with a smile.

   Pausing, she said, “Sir, for whatever it is worth, I believe that this plan has every chance of success.”

   “I certainly hope so. I’m betting both crews on it. I want you preparing contingency plans every step of the way, Lieutenant. Be alert to anything that comes up.”

   “I will, Captain, I assure you of that.”

   Passing the datapad back to her, he said, “As to the original discussion, go back and write up another version of the Hercules crew list. We’ll act on the assumption that Alamo will be doing all the heavy lifting for this operation – given that we have no idea what condition Hercules is in, that seems like the most sensible option.”

   “Yes, sir.”

   “However, I agree that some Alamo crew should go over to support. No-one we can’t manage without, but I think some junior officers and crewmen. Keep it to what they actually need. Liaise with Major Marshall, see what he wants.”

   “I will, Captain,” she replied, frowning. “I think I have some ideas.”

   A voice echoed over the speaker, “Matsumoto, sir. Two minutes to jump.”

   “Right, on my way,” he said, turning to Zebrova, “How’s she working out as a shift commander?”

   “Satisfactorily, sir, as expected. I suspect she finds it easier than managing your paperwork.”

   Grinning, he said, “I really should start on that at some point.” He stood up, walking around his desk out of the room and onto the bridge. With careful poise, Matsumoto rose from his chair, nodded, and returned to her station, glancing across at Midshipman McGuire at the helm.

   “All systems go, Sub-Lieutenant?”

   “Everything is nominal, Captain, she replied. All stations report ready for the hendecaspace transfer.”

   The doors behind him opened, and his father stepped out, flanked by Diego and Lane, looking beyond him through to the viewscreen. He took three paces to stand behind his son, resting his hand on the back of the command chair.

   “Do you mind if we watch?”

   “Not at all, Major,” Marshall replied, as he relaxed in his chair. “Take Tactical if you want.” He gestured towards the currently vacant station, noting Zebrova tensing slightly, but his father eagerly stepped forward, looking over the controls and nodding.

   “I think I remember what most of these buttons do.”

   Smiling, Marshall relaxed, looking at the course projection playing on the viewscreen. They seemed almost to be flying towards the dull red star at the heart of the system, the planet just visible at the bottom of the image.

   “Six years,” Lane muttered.

   McGuire looked up, “Do you want to see the planet, ma’am?”

   “Please.”

   A flick of a switch, and the planet appeared full in the screen, now a receding sphere. Soon it would be a distant memory, just another empty world used as an occasional transit point for starships heading out this way. Hopefully, Alamo would be one of them in about a month’s time, though he doubted that anyone was going to seek shore leave on the planet below.

   Just over a minute to go, and they would be shrouded in hendecaspace once again, the first leg on their journey. He started to glance at his datapad, looking at the long list of reports he had still to complete – the system was flagging that apparently he had to complete twelve years of annual assessments for the Hercules crew, and he rejected the ‘suggestion’, with a stab of a finger, before being distracted by Bryant at the sensor station.

   Stepping over to her station, he looked down at the readings, then at her raised face; they looked worryingly familiar to him, and she confirmed her suspicions with two words that chilled him.

   “Dimensional instability.”

   “Damn,” he replied.

   “That’s impossible,” Lane said. “The guardship isn’t due in for weeks!”

   “Don’t jump to conclusions,” Marshall said. “For all we know it’s someone out from the Confederation.” Turning back to the sensor operator, he continued, “Where?”

   “The far hendecaspace point.”

   “Hmm.” He turned to his father, “As a precaution, take us to standby alert.”


   “Right.” He looked down at the panel, and tapped a button, “Tactical to all hands. Standby alert. All hands to standby alert. Report status to bridge.” Glancing across at his son, he continued, “Did I get it right?”

   “Spot on.”

   “Ship emerging,” Bryant said. “Not that big, about half our size, and not listed in the warbook.”

   “Try to raise them, Ivanov,” Marshall said to the communications technician. Walking over to his father, he said, “Well?”

   “It’s the guardship.”

   “Three weeks early,” Lane said, shaking her head.

   “Anything, Spaceman?”

   Ivanov, glancing at his console, replied, “Nothing, Captain. Complete communications silence.”

   Rushing over to Tactical, Lane peered at the monitors, “Recommend we engage the guardship, Major.”

   “Not my call,” he replied turning to the Captain.

   Looking up at the strategic display, Marshall shook his head, “Proceed with the jump as planned, Midshipman.”

   “Damn it, we’ve got a chance to nail them now!”

   “All we have is a chance to dance around the system with them,” Marshall snapped. “I know you are anxious to strike the enemy, but this is neither the time nor place to do it. Time until jump?”

   “Twenty-two seconds, sir.”

   “Enemy ship is on the move, Captain,” Bryant said. “Heading towards the planet; I reckon they’re making for orbit.”

   “Fifteen seconds.”

   “We can’t just leave them here,” Lane said.

   “We haven’t got the time to waste in engaging them, either,” Marshall replied.”

   “Major?” she said, turning to his father.

   “Captain Marshall is in command. What he says goes.”

   Only slightly reassured, Marshall returned to his seat, scrutinizing the status board. At the very least, this was an opportunity to gather some information about their impending foes. Lane was still fuming at the front of the bridge, and it was a relief when the clock finally counted down to zero, and McGuire worked the controls. A brief blue flash, and the viewscreen winked out.

   “Transition successful, sir,” she said.

   “Very good, Midshipman. Major, Captain,” he turned to Zebrova, “Lieutenant, my office, now. Matsumoto, you have the deck.”

   “Aye, sir.”

   He rose from his chair, looking around the room; Diego was still standing at the rear, apparently unperturbed that he had not been invited to the meeting. Walking into his office, he stood behind his desk as the others filed in, staring at them as they approached.

   “Captain Lane, your behavior on the bridge was totally unacceptable.”

   Her eyes narrowing, she replied, “Cowardice in the face of the enemy…”

   “Captain!” he shouted. “I am aware that you are on active duty for the first time in nine years, and that you have been through a lot, and as a result I will overlook this incident.”

   She glanced across at the Major, who shook his head, then turned back to Marshall. “I apologize, Captain.”

   Rarely had Marshall heard such an insincere reply, but he simply said, “Accepted. Dismissed.” As she left his office, he sat down in his chair, gesturing for the remaining officers to remain.

   “Well, Lieutenant,” he said to Zebrova, “What do you think?”

   “I think our window to accomplish this mission has been significantly reduced.”

   Nodding, he replied, “Agreed. Doubtless their first course of action will be to report our presence and the escape of their prisoners, and I suspect that means alerting Hercules.”

   “This is a first,” his father said. “They’ve always appeared like clockwork in the past; I’d assumed they were running on a standard schedule.”

   “That schedule appears to have changed,” Zebrova said.

   “Possibly it is as simple as that; a change to an established schedule.”

   Marshall shook his head, “Too big a coincidence for me.”

   “The word exists for a reason, son.”

   “So do patrol ships.”

   “There’s no way they can have known we’d be here, though,” Zebrova said, frowning. “There just hasn’t been time for a ship to get from Sol to anywhere they might be able to report.”

   Rubbing his hand across his chin, Marshall replied, “You realize that you are implying that they are expecting us for some other reason.”

   “I know that.”

   “How?” his father said. “There’s no way that they could have received any warning.”

   “Perhaps. I don’t like having enemy forces in my rear, though.”

   There was a long pause before his father leaned forward, saying, “Are you thinking of aborting the mission?”

   His father’s eyes had a thin measure of desperation in them, his hands gripping the table and bleeding his knuckles white. Finally, Marshall shook his head, and his father breathed a deep sigh.

   “No. Not just for this. If I had some evidence other than circumstantial, I might have a different opinion, but as it stands, we continue the mission as planned – but Lieutenant, I want every atom of Hipparchus analyzed. If there is the slightest sign of Cabal activity, we’re running for home. Is that clear?”

   “Perfectly, Captain,” she said.

   “Fine. Dismissed.”

   His father remained as Zebrova walked out of the room, turning in his chair to watch her depart before looking up at his picture on the wall, smiling with recognition.

   “I still remember when that was taken.”

   “I always took it with me, whenever I changed assignments. Dad…”

   He nodded, “You have to think of the ship first, son. I know that much. If it looks like you are going to put Alamo at undue risk, turn around and go home.” Smiling, he continued, “And I know that you hardly need my blessing to do that.”

   “I’m glad to have it, anyway.”

   “I don’t know what came over Claudia…”

   “Frustration. As long as she remembers who is in charge, the rest doesn’t matter – at least, not for the moment. She’ll be your problem again before long.”

   “I hope so.” He looked up at the picture again. “Maybe we should get a new picture taken for your wall. It’s about time you had a new one.”

  Chapter 10

   The viewscreen in the Observation Lounge had been set with the maximum possible filter, and still the huge red sun burned brighter than Sol ever had, filling the entire screen and bathing the room with an eerie light. Orlova had never been anything like this close to a star before, less than half a million miles, and though she knew it was simply subconscious, sweat beaded up on her forehead.

   “I swear I feel as though I’m getting a suntan,” Carpenter said, shaking her head.

   “If there’d been another egress point in this lousy system, we’d have used it.” She looked over at her friend, continuing, “I guess you had no luck with the Captain, then.”

   “I’m supposed to be the damn Science Officer, aren’t I? The first time I give him any sort of recommendation, and he just ignores it. Not to mention that some brain-dead bureaucrat back home decided that the only paleontologist in the fleet didn’t have a ‘need to know’ about the discovery of a Neanderthal Man on one of the moons of Uranus.”

   “It is being researched…,” Orlova began.

   Pacing to the far side of the room, Carpenter interrupted, “By astroarchaeologists! That’s even worse! I should be back there, running a dig, not out here in the middle of nowhere.”

   With a wry smile, she replied, “Don’t you think this is important enough to merit your attention, Susan?”

   “That’s the whole point! I’m no use here, Maggie. You need an expert in computer systems, a tactician, another espatier, hell, a low-grade food tech
nician would be more use than me! I’ll be spending battle stations hanging around in sickbay again, putting my four-day first-aid course to use.”

   “Medics are useful.”

   “More so if they have medical training.” Shaking her head, she flopped down on one of the chairs, “I’m ranting, and I’m sorry.”

   “Feel free,” Orlova replied, taking another chair. “Get it out of your system.”

   “The discovery of a lifetime, Maggie. Of a hundred lifetimes. Justification for everything I’ve ever done.”

   “You’ve got the body, haven’t you?”

   She nodded, smiling, “I’m getting to the limits of what I can do with the equipment I’ve got here, but I've got material for a dozen papers. It’s at least ten thousand years old, maybe more, and the suit...well…”

   “Go on.”

   “Any of us could wear it. The design is fundamentally different, but it does exactly the same thing. Less rugged than our designs, but a lot more mobility. I don’t think they were expecting a battle.”

   “Or whoever was employing them wanted them to die easily if needed.”

   Carpenter fixed Orlova with a stare, “You aren’t serious.”

   “Totally serious. You’re assuming that they were there of their own volition.”

   “Yes, actually.”

   “Why?”

   “Because of what they were doing. Look, an interstellar-capable culture has far better ways to extract underground ore than sending people to smash rocks into the ground. The only explanation is cultural – some sort of religious act, or something like that. Their equivalent of a pilgrimage, perhaps.”

   “Your point?”

   “They’d have to be given the freedom to do it.”

   Nodding, Orlova replied, “I see your point. Slavers wouldn’t go that far out of their way to allow their captives to complete a religious ritual. Unless they were based there?”

   “No evidence of that. The mine is the only sign I saw, and believe me, I went over the whole planet. That’s what is so strange, though the stones look nice, there isn’t anything special about them.”