Battle of Hercules

by Richard Tongue

   “They know their stuff, sir! All of those are aimed at key systems,” Caine said. “Countermeasures working.”

   “Random walk, Mr. Tyler. Let’s confuse them.”

   “Missile salvo ready, sir,” Caine continued, breaking in.

   “Fire at will, Lieutenant.”

   Alamo rocked as six missiles raced away, the first of their retaliatory shots. Caine furiously worked at her controls to guide the missiles into their targets, whilst supervising the defensive systems as they pounded at the incoming missiles. Three of them started to twist off onto different tracks, but the fourth was still bearing right down on them.

   “Second salvo launched!” Caine said, “First missile impact in six seconds.”

   “All hands, brace for impact,” Marshall said as the ship rocked, the missile tearing into the hull plating. Prentis started to work his engineering board, sending damage control teams running to the site of the impact. Four new stars joined the sky as Caine’s salvo hit home, and the incoming missiles started to deviate from their course, now absent their control computers.

   “Second fighter wave in eight seconds.”

   “Picking up three suits drifting near the wreckage of the fighters,” Spinelli said. “Looks like they managed to get away.” He smiled, “Hercules just launched a shuttle on their track, best guess a search-and-rescue craft.”

   “Damage report, sir,” Prentis said. “Outer hull breach, inner hull secure, secondary sensor array is out. Repairs in progress.”

   “Watch that section, Tyler,” Marshall said. “Keep that part of the ship away from the missiles. Spread the impacts.” He continued, smiling, “Though avoiding them would be better.”

   “Launching salvo,” Caine said, sending her next wave of missiles into the air. She looked at Marshall, grimacing in frustration. This was classic fleet tactics; send the fighters in to poke at the approaching ship and wear it down, forcing it to spend its ammunition. Wasteful on fighter pilots if they couldn’t evacuate in time.

   “Missiles incoming, eight of them this time!” Spinelli said.

   “They’re using them while they’ve got them.”

   All he could do was watch as the missiles ranged in; one by one, Alamo’s defense systems swatted them out of the sky, but three of them were still closing on his ship, too close to stop them. Projected impact sites began to flash in red, and Marshall held his breath, hearing the all-too-familiar tearing sound from the hull as they smashed into his ship. At least Caine’s missiles had knocked out the fighters, only four living through the assault.

   “Prentis?”

   “Nothing serious, sir,” he said, surprised. “Outer hull damage in three areas, refueling systems disabled and we’ve lost some of the emergency airlocks.”

   “That’s all?”

   “Yes, sir. No casualties reported, no battle-critical systems affected.”

   “Last wave of fighters is slowing, sir,” Spinelli said. “Looks like they’re going for a co-ordinated strike with Hercules – which will be in range in ninety seconds now, sir.”

   “Dad…,” he said, forgetting decorum. “Where’s that code!”

   “Coming, coming, we’re almost through the firewall.”

   “Caine, stand by on laser array. If that code doesn’t work, I want that ship disabled.”

   “If you damage it too much...” his father started.

   “If they damage us too much none of us get back,” Marshall snapped in reply. “Laser for Hercules, missiles for the fighters, Deadeye.”

   “You took the words right out of my mouth, skipper,” she replied, eyes locked on her screen.

   “Sixty seconds to firing range,” Spinelli said.

   Tyler turned to Marshall, “I can slow the ship, buy more seconds…”

   “And we’re in firing range for twice as long. Maintain course and speed, Midshipman.”

   “Forty-five seconds. Hercules missile bay doors open, fighters moving to flanking position.”

   “Targeting Hercules bridge,” Caine said. “Maybe I can beat them to the draw with the laser.”

   The seconds counted down, Marshall’s father furiously working his controls in a desperate attempt to save his ship, to save both of them. Finally, with a triumphant grin on his face, he turned to his son.

   “We’re in! Code deployed!”

   “Energy spike from Hercules,” Spinelli said. “Four missiles, ranging.”

   “Hold fire, Deadeye,” Marshall said. “How long should it take to work?” he asked his father.

   “Seconds, I hope.”

   All eyes were on the approaching battlecruiser, the missiles dueling with Alamo’s countermeasures as the fighters began to surge forwards, ready to unleash their own deadly payloads. Then, slowly, Hercules began to drift off course, and her engines faded out.

   Spinelli waved a fist in the air, “Hercules power systems are down, sir!”

   “I’m getting a lot of communications traffic, weak as a kitten,” Weitzman added.

   “Missiles are deflecting, I guess they got a dose of the virus as well,” Caine said.

   Marshall relaxed, sighing with relief. “Try hailing Osborne again. Maybe he’ll be in more of a mood to talk after this. Though the only safe passage I’ll offer him now is to the brig.”

   The fighters curved off, spending the last of their fuel to put them safely out of range of Alamo. Now that the battlecruiser could concentrate on them, the chances of their sacrifice doing anything useful were almost non-existent, and the pilots didn’t want to throw their lives away.

   “Search and rescue shuttle in firing range, sir,” Spinelli said.

   “Let them do their job,” he replied. “Anything from Hercules, Weitzman?”

   “Nothing, sir. I’m not even sure they can respond, though.”

   His father poked at the console, “I’ve got almost total system access now. The virus is pretty much everywhere – all they have are a few manual backups.”

   Tapping a button on his chair, Marshall said, “Hercules neutralized, return to stand-by alert. Repeat, return to stand-by alert.”

   Almost as if the fates had heard him, Spinelli yelled, “Energy spike from Hercules, aft.”

   “Missiles?”

   “No, sir, shuttles. Four, five, seven, eight...I’d say they’re abandoning ship, Captain.”

   Shaking his head, Marshall replied, “Heading for the station, I presume.”

   “Mostly. Two of them seem to be trying for the surface of the moon.”

   Weitzman added, “There’s some message traffic, but it’s in a code I can’t decipher. Computers are working on it now.”

   “Looks like we managed to pull this one off after all,” Caine said.

   “I never had a doubt.”

   Marshall stood up, turning to his father, “There it is, Major.”

   Tears were welling up in his father’s eyes, and he shook his head in a vain attempt to dismiss them. “Nine years. I’d almost given up hope of ever seeing her again.”

   Turning to the front of the bridge, Marshall said, “Steele, are the transfer shuttles ready?”

   “Ready to go, sir.”

   “I don’t think we need the espatier boarding teams now, Captain,” Caine said. “She’s tumbling, drifting dead in space. I suspect they were able to evacuate the entire crew.”

   “Agreed. Have the espatiers stand down for the moment, and prepare to assault the fueling station.” He looked around the bridge, “We haven’t won this one until our fuel tanks are full and we’re on our way home, people. Let’s make the magic happen. Mr. Tyler, plot a course for the station and execute at best speed.” He turned to his father, “Major Marshall, if you would assume the bridge of the Hercules?”

   “It would be a pleasure, Captain,” he replied, sprinting to the elevator as though afraid the shuttles would leave without
him. Marshall smiled, then returned to his chair, Zebrova moving to his side, swaying slightly in the lower gravity.

   “Well, we pulled it off, sir.”

   “Half-off, Lieutenant.”

   “I just hope the other half goes as smoothly, Captain.”

   “You and me both.”

  Chapter 12

   Orlova watched as Hercules grew closer and closer, gently playing her shuttle’s thrusters to provide Major Marshall the best possible view of his old ship as she approached. She looked very much like a smaller version of Alamo, sleeker fuel tanks in the central core, and lacking the complicated latticework of the central laser, but still recognizably of the same family of ships.

   Lights were blazing from all the docking ports as the ship tumbled end over end, the occasional random twist from a misfiring maneuvering jet giving Orlova real problems as she lined up for docking, easing ever nearer. She was aiming for a spot on the top-side, forward; a small emergency airlock behind the bridge used for emergency evacuation, with a half-sized docking bay just large enough for her to settle the shuttle down.

   “Enjoying the ride, sir?” she asked.

   “The view’s just beautiful, Sub-Lieutenant. Just beautiful.”

   She glanced up from her controls for a second to see him staring at the lines of his ship, his face rapt, fixed forward, his eyes glowing brighter as they approached, lips curled in a wide smile. She could swear there was a trace of moisture running down his cheek, but decided not to notice it; Captains never cried, at least not in public. Even when there was more than sufficient cause.

   “Hang on, everyone,” she called back to the rear compartment. “When we dock, it might be a little rough.”

   The computer track resembled a tight spiral, weaving gently in, but she decided to push for an immediate lock; it had not escaped her that Alamo was getting further away with every second, and that they were going to need their shuttles back if they were to launch their espatier assault on schedule. She grimaced; under other circumstances, she’d probably be leading that raid. Glancing up, she saw the white-hot tail of Alamo in the distance, pulling ahead, then focused back on the task at hand.

   “Closing for docking. Ten seconds.”

   The faintest tap on a thruster, and the shuttle settled into its position, and with a longer burst, slid down onto the latches. She waited for something to go wrong, then heard the clang-and-rattle of the clamps engaging, the extendable airlock coming out to connect the two ships together. The lights on her board were green, and she turned to the Major.

   “Docking complete, sir.” She began to stand, but he placed a hand on her shoulder.

   “What are you doing?”

   She looked across at him, “I should go on board first, sir. In case the mutineers left some surprises for us.”

   “I’ll take that chance. You finish your post-flight.”

   “Sir…”

   Snapping her with a stare, he said, “Your concern for my well-being is appreciated, but following orders would be more so. Clear?”

   “Yes, sir.”

   Nodding, he stood up, pulled a pistol out of the overhead locker and snapped it into a holster, and walked over to the door, while Orlova hurriedly switched the on-board controls over to remote operation from Alamo. While one hand worked, the other was reaching for her own sidearm; while she wasn’t going to disobey an order, neither was she going to let her new commander walk along into what could easily be a trap.

   The door slid open, and the Major walked out into the corridor, his hand hovering over the door control. Orlova scrambled out of her seat after him, one last look at the control panel, a trio of crewmen behind her.

   “Strange,” he muttered. “After all this time…” He turned, saying, “That was a hell of a quick systems check, Sub-Lieutenant.”

   “Didn’t want to miss anything, sir.”

   He smiled, nodded, and tapped the button, the door sliding smoothly open onto Hercules’ flight deck. His eyes wide, he stepped out onto the bridge, Orlova following with her hand resting on the butt of her gun, ready for anything. It looked completely different to Alamo’s bridge; a single chair at the heart of the control room, monitors on the ceiling flashing systems status and tactical information.

   Four stations were arranged around the chair, a large viewscreen ahead; flight engineering, guidance, tactical, and a combined sensor/communication station. All the equipment was old, and worn from more than a decade of use; a large coffee stain spread across the carpet by the captain’s chair, one of the lights in a corner of the bridge taped over for some long-forgotten reason. The occasional replacement panel stood out from its companions, gleaming white amid gunmetal gray.

   The Major walked forward, resting a hand on his chair, and said, “Old friend, it’s been far too long.” Turning it to face him, he sat down, running his hands down the chair’s arms, relaxing into the cushions, then turned to face the four others standing on the bridge; Orlova and the current watch crew – Mathis and Ballard, as well as the duty officer.

   “Lieutenant Curry,” he said to the dark-skinned officer standing next to Orlova, “Enter in the ship’s log, this time and date, that I, Major Marshall, have assumed command of this vessel.” Turning to Mathis, who was still in the corridor as though afraid to return to his post, he said, “Try to get the communications systems working. I want to make contact with Alamo at the earliest opportunity.”

   “Aye, sir,” he said, finally walking over to his console. Curry walked to the forward station, easing into the helm position with a beaming smile, running her hands over the barely-remembered controls. Orlova heard a loud rattle from the airlock, turning with a start; the shuttle had disengaged, and begun its long journey back to Alamo – without her.

   “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Ballard said. “I brought your kit out with mine.” She gestured towards a small pile of holdalls in the corner, then walked over to her engineering station, throwing switches. The Major was tapping a series of commands into the panel on his right armrest, nodding with each green light.

   “It’s accepting my command codes. We’ve got complete access.” Glancing up, he said, “Take Tactical, Orlova. Full weapons systems status, please.”

   “Yes, sir,” she replied, walking over to her station, looking over the unfamiliar panel. She’d studied the systems in her room back on Alamo, even looked at holographic representations, but that wasn’t like looking at the real thing. Calling up a quick status report, she began the laborious process of arranging the panels to suit her needs.

   “Hercules responding to flight controls now,” Curry reported. “Computing a course to the station.”

   “Weapons systems show ready, sir,” Orlova said. “There’s a salvo of missiles already in the racks, magazines otherwise full. Countermeasures systems are out, but I should be able to get them back fairly quickly. Combat fabricators aren’t working at the moment, so we’re limited to twenty-four missiles until engineering can get them back on-line.”

   “Prioritize those countermeasures, Orlova. Alamo can provide the heavy support, but I want to be in a position where we can at least look after ourselves.”

   “Aye, sir. I’m working on the ship’s logs and records as well. As soon as we have external communications we should copy the whole lot to Alamo.”

   “Good idea, Sub-Lieutenant. Work on that.”

   She started to get to work, still trying to get used to the systems; everything seemed to take longer than it did on Alamo, and though it was only a matter of milliseconds, it was still somehow noticeable. A lot of the systems were simpler, missing the developments and improvements of the last decade; some of the shortcuts she was accustomed to weren’t in place.

   “Captain Lane to Bridge,” a voice echoed around the room; that was good news, at least internal communications were working again.

   “Bridge, aye,” the Major replied.
r />    “Engineering and life support secured, all looks good down here.”

   “Good. See if you can get someone to the combat fabricators; they’re showing up here as non-functional. Have you found any sabotage?”

   “Nothing serious. Lots of things turned off, a few cut cables, that sort of thing. They were probably in too much of a hurry to get out to do too much damage.”

   “Diego here,” a voice broke in. “I’m at the armory, and it’s been stripped bare. All the racks are empty. I’m going to start a search of the ship, make sure no-one was left behind.”

   “Focus on essential areas only, and close the blast doors on anywhere you can’t get to. We need to get this ship ready for action as quickly as we can.” He turned to face Tactical, “How are my countermeasures, Orlova?”

   A green light winked on as he spoke, and she replied, “The electronic shields are back up again – we’re the ones who smashed those down, to get the virus in – and the decoy and flare controls are ready as soon as the fabricators come back on-line.”

   “Good.”

   “Ready to initiate course change,” Curry said. “I hope.”

   “Let’s see if she still works. Punch it.”

   The ship rotated on its axis, the stars sliding past the viewscreen as it turned to face the planet ahead, then Orlova felt herself being pushed back into her chair by the acceleration as the engines fired. A series of amber lights flashed onto the flight engineering station, but Ballard quickly switched them back to green with some quick manipulations of the controls.

   “On course, Major,” Curry said. “We should arrive at the station about fifty-three minutes after Alamo.”

   “Excellent. See if you can shave some time off that, Lieutenant.”

   “I’ll do my best, Major.”

   Having prepared the ship for combat, Orlova began to dig into the files of the ship, starting with the Captain’s log. A long list of files ran down the screen, and she selected the most recent, jumping slightly when the voice of Major Marshall spoke from a hidden speaker.