Battle of Hercules

by Richard Tongue

   The screen went dead, replaced by a tactical overview of the battle; Marshall glanced across to the holoprojector, currently displaying a schematic of one of the battlecruisers ahead. Looking over the unfamiliar lines, he rubbed his hand across his chin.

   “Too much to hope that you’ve found an obvious weak spot, Caine?”

   “Far too much. Given time, we’d probably find something, but with this little notice...I’ve got engines, sensors and missile bays pinpointed, though.”

   Zebrova said, “I would not be surprised if they possessed additional concealed capability, Captain.”

   “Neither would I, Lieutenant.” He frowned, looking up at the countdown clock. Less than a minute to go. “Forget about the enemy ships, Deadeye. Focus on the missiles.”

   Steele turned, saying, “Sir, we should do as much damage as possible…”

   “If this was a last stand, Sub-Lieutenant, I would agree. We’re trying to escape, not go down in a blaze of glory.”

   “Agreed,” Caine said. “I’ll fit the next set of missiles with multiple warheads. I might as well poke at the battlecruisers with the laser, though. That would be massive overkill for a missile.”

   “It’s your console, Lieutenant. Do what you think is best.”

   “Twenty seconds, sir,” Steele said, bracing herself for the battle. Zebrova pulled a strap around her waist, securing her to the wall in the event of any sudden deceleration. Marshall found himself counting down inside, watching the clock as it ticked down, watching the approaching targets, almost longing for the battle to start.

   When Spinelli yelled, “Energy spike,” and the first wave of missiles started to race towards Alamo, it almost felt like a relief. Sixteen missiles were inbound, all of them close together, their tracks converging. There was silence on the bridge; everyone knew what they were doing, and for the present, there was nothing to report. Prentis was watching the incoming missiles with Marshall – if everything went perfectly, the Flight Engineer would hope to sit out the battle.

   Not that everything was going perfectly. Three of the missiles blinked out with the first wave of hacking attacks from Caine, but the rest were stubbornly still reaching towards Alamo. With a flourish, she launched a salvo to intercept them, hoping them in on the approaching tracks, and then resumed working at her station.

   “Another wave heading for Hercules, sir,” Spinelli said.

   Eight more missiles in the sky, these going for the lagging battlecruiser they had come so far to defend. That Hercules was now reduced to the role of a flying decoy frustrated Marshall more than anything else; he’d rather have taken that role himself, allowed the older craft the chance to get clear. As he watched, another series of missile tracks leapt from Hercules, six warheads heading towards the approaching missiles. Orlova was burning her ordinance early.

   Caine kept working, and another pair of incoming missiles blinked out, self-destruct systems preventing them from doing damage to any of their counterparts. Still, it was eleven missiles against six from Alamo as the two groups closed in on each other, and after a brief series of flares on the screen, four missiles held their course.

   “Where are they going, Spinelli?”

   “All of them are targeting our drive systems, sir.”

   “Looks like they want the pleasure of our company for a while longer. Caine…”

   “I’m trying. These are the smart ones,” she said. “Though that’s another one gone.”

   “Mr. Tyler, start random walk. Make sure not to sacrifice speed.”

   The midshipman frantically worked to satisfy the two near-contradictory orders, settling for throwing the ship into a tumbling spin whilst keeping them pointed at the egress point. The missiles attempted to match the spin, but at the last second, Tyler managed to reverse it. The ship shook from the impact, and a couple of the displays flickered before coming back to life.

   “Prentis…”

   “Working, sir.”

   “One hit on Hercules, Captain,” Spinelli said. “Looks like somewhere forward, maybe the communications antenna.”

   “I can’t get anything from Hercules, Captain,” Weitzman said. “We’re out of range of any hand communicators they’re using now. I’d guess they just lost all long-range systems.”

   “Damage report now, sir,” Prentis said. “Significant damage to the rear laser assembly, that’s going to need an EVA to repair. Damage to the aft sensor array, and we’re working on that. Other damage superficial hull, but we have a couple of pinhole breaches. No serious casualties.”

   “That’s something, anyway. Try to keep it that way.”

   “Aye, sir,” Tyler said. “Maintaining course and speed.”

   “Energy spike,” Spinelli said. “More salvos, sixteen at us, eight at Hercules.”

   Marshall looked over at the tactical station; switching the warheads was the right decision to make, but it meant that the time to reload was doubled. A missile dropped from the pack, stuttering to a stop as its engine died, and another three self-destructed harmlessly at the first touch of a hack.

   “Come on, Deadeye,” Marshall said.

   “Going as fast as I can. Only three of those were mine, though, I think they’re having problems.”

   “My heart bleeds for them,” he replied.

   The missile tracks raced in once again; Prentis was shouting orders to damage control teams as he worked to get the aft sensors working. The viewer was fuzzier than normal, some of the images jumping around as the system corrected an increasing build-up of errors.

   “Hercules has fired a full salvo, sir!” Spinelli said. “Six missiles heading out!”

   Zebrova looked over at the technician, “Confirm that.”

   “Double-checked, ma’am!”

   “Way to go, Hercules,” Marshall said, smiling. “With two functioning missile platforms we might get the edge back on this fight!”

   “Missiles away, sir!” Caine said, and Alamo’s salvo lanced out towards the new threats as they closed. Less than twenty seconds before projected impact; this time it was going to be far too close for comfort. Once again the two tracks dived at each other, but when the flares disappeared, there were no tracks remaining.

   “All missiles destroyed.”

   “Debris incoming, sir!” Spinelli said, alarm on his face.

   “All hands, brace for impact,” Marshall yelled.

   He felt the shock, rather than hearing it; the shrapnel from the explosion tore into the hull, and Prentis started shaking his head as reports started to filter into his station. Marshall waited for a few seconds before unstrapping and carefully walking over to him, peering at the status monitors; the hull was a series of amber and red.

   The technician, looking up over his shoulder at him, said, “We’ve got hundreds of pinhole fractures, now, sir, and auto-repair is struggling to keep up. I’ll get a party on it as soon as we enter hendecaspace. Incidental damage to our port-side communications array.”

   “Keep on it, spaceman.”

   “Energy spike! Third salvo incoming!”

   “What about Hercules?”

   “Two strikes from that last impact, somewhere forward. Can’t tell where. They’ve got their share of the missiles coming as well, sir.”

   “What’s the score, Caine?”

   “Sixteen-nothing to them at the moment. They’re getting smarter with each wave. Prentis, how much more damage would another of those shock waves do?”

   A twinge of pain seemed to creep across the engineer’s face as he replied, “How close?”

   “Close.”

   Sighing, he said, “We’ll get more breaches, probably lose communications in one area of the ship, likely another sensor array as well.”

   “Fratricide, Deadeye?”

   “They’re not letting me in to hack now, and it’s going to be touch and go with the missiles anyway�
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   “But if you get them close enough, you’ll catch the lot in an explosion.”

   “And Alamo,” Steele said.

   “Better they explode close to our hull than on it.”

   “Another salvo from Hercules, sir!” Spinelli said. “She’s got some fight in her!”

   Marshall nodded, then sat back in his chair to watch the show, trying to relax. Sixteen missiles – fourteen as two more dropped out – closed in on Alamo, and this time there was nothing they could do to stop them until the very last moment. Caine was setting up the missile strike for the correct second – the correct microsecond – with the occasional comment from Zebrova, and Prentis was pulling all the crews back from the outer hull. Weitzman was the one having the quietest battle now; he didn’t have anyone left to talk to with Hercules’ communication systems out.

   Caine nodded, entering in the final sequence, then sat back, looking up at the hull. Only the computer could manage the timing for the shot she’d worked out, and if she missed it, there was no way of knowing whether there would be enough left of Alamo for it to matter.

   The tracks continued to converge, running down towards single figures, and he caught himself fidgeting with his fingers, his eyes fixed forward. He braced himself for the impact, trying not to imagine what the effect of fourteen missile strikes at the same spot on Alamo would be.

   “Missiles away!” Caine yelled, and the ship shook. The time between missile launch and the flash of impact on the sensors was almost too short to notice.

   “Brace yourselves,” Prentis said, gripping onto his chair. This time he heard the impact, and alarms began to sound; Weitzman quickly worked to silence the ear-splitting roar.

   “We’re still here,” Marshall said, “so I guess it worked. How bad?”

   “Hull breach! Rupture in lower sensor decks. Casualties on the way to sickbay, no numbers yet. Astrogation level is sealed off,” Prentis said. “Starboard sensors are out, and we’ve lost the communications array on that side of the ship as well.” He looked up, “We can’t take much more of this pounding, sir.”

   “Tyler, do we still have the astrogation course plot?”

   “All safe, sir,” the midshipman replied, tapping his console. “Egress point in one minute.”

   “Prentis, my controls are going crazy,” Tyler said. “What the hell’s going on?”

   The engineer shook his head, “I don’t see...oh, damn it, some of the thrusters must have been hit.”

   Alamo lurched wildly to the side, a couple of precious seconds wasted as the midshipman pulled it back on course, carefully nudging a thruster at a time in a bid to regain control. Shaking his head, Tyler turned to Marshall.

   “I don’t dare do any more evasive turns, sir. Not if we want to actually hit the egress point.”

   “Hold your course, then, midshipman. How long?”

   “Fifty-five seconds.”

   “For the record, midshipman, you have the call.”

   “Aye, sir. I have the call.”

   “Energy spike! Fourth salvo away, and, god, all of them are heading right at us,” Spinelli said.

   “How long before impact?”

   “One second after we jump.” Marshall looked at Zebrova; substantial energy release in local space during a dimensional transition was never a good thing, as some ships had in the past learned to their cost.

   Zebrova turned to Marshall. “At least it will take some of the weight off Hercules, sir.”

   “How’s Hercules doing, Spinelli?”

   “Hard to tell. Sensor resolution’s way down. She’s still moving towards the egress point, though, that much I do know.”

   “But is she under power?” Caine said, shaking her head. “This cluster is totally blocking my countermeasures. They learn quickly.”

   “Fratricide?”

   She pointed at the screen, the courses beginning to arc out wide, “I don’t think that’s going to work a second time, sir. They’re spreading out over a much wider area, catching us from all sides.”

   “Missiles?”

   “They’ll be ready in time to get off another shot before we leave.”

   “I think leaving a farewell present to our friend the Commodore would be a nice gesture. Target the carrier, tight salvo shot.”

   “Yes, sir,” she replied with a smirk, turning back to her station.

   Marshall looked at the display, and saw a change to Hercules’ aspect. Before he could ask the sensor technician going on, Spinelli had risen from his seat and was waving his fist in the air, yelling a war whoop.

   “Hercules has fired again! Full salvo at the carrier!”

   “Maggie had the same idea,” Caine said. “I guess she’s been hanging around you too long.”

   “What about the change to target aspect?”

   The smile vanished from Spinelli’s face as he replied, “Hercules has slowed, sir. Looks like the lost an engine, probably battle damage.”

   “We could turn to help them,” Steele said.

   Marshall shook his head, “Not with twenty-four missiles heading for us. There would be nothing left of us to help.”

   “I’d have trouble making the turn anyway, sir,” Tyler said, glaring at Prentis. “Thirty seconds left.”

   “Weitzman, is there any chance that Hercules is hearing us?”

   “Probably not, Captain. I’ve been signaling constantly, no reply. Not even a message laser.”

   Nodding, Marshall slumped back down in his seat, watching the twin clocks over the viewscreen click down a second at a time, one lagging an instant behind the other. The first gave the time at which they would hopefully be escaping this system, the second the time of their destruction if they didn’t. Twenty-four missiles coming from all sides would leave nothing but tangled wreckage.

   Ten seconds to go. Hercules continued to lag behind; they were going to be at least a minute behind Alamo. At least twenty people were still on board, all of whom he was responsible for. The missile tracks converged, diving towards them. The timing was no accident, and as the last seconds ticked away, he decided that this must be one last trick, that something would have been done to sabotage the hendecaspace drive, something to leave them stranded and wrecked.

   “Two, one, jump!” Tyler yelled, and with a welcoming blue flash the universe disappeared, this time interspersed with tangles of orange flame. The space where Alamo had been a bare second ago was the middle of a megaton-level explosion, but all they took with them was a faint echo, a fragment of that power.

   “Transition successful, sir,” Tyler said. “We’re on course as scheduled.”

   Now another waiting period would begin. Hendecaspace was not like normal space, sensors only had a very limited range – but if Hercules was going to jump after them, they’d know about it. The seconds ticked away once again, the bridge still filled with silence. Had it been just Alamo, there would have been elation of another successful escape, Captain Marshall defeating the odds once more, but this time it was different. All of them were still with Hercules in spirit, willing its shadow to appear behind them, a silent ghost to accompany them to their destination.

   Sixty seconds passed. Then seventy. Then eighty. At ninety, Marshall rose from his chair, looking around the bridge. If Hercules wasn’t following them now, it never would. Either they had surrendered, or they had been destroyed, and knowing Orlova, he could guess which option she would have chosen, and her crew would have been cheering her on all the way.

   He tapped a button on his armrest, “Captain to crew. We have concluded a successful transition. All decks, report battle damage and system status to the Executive Officer. Good work everyone.”

   It wasn’t much of a speech, but he didn’t have one in him, and he didn’t think the occasion deserved one.

   “You have the conn, Lieutenant Zebrova.”

   “Aye, sir.” />
   Marshall walked into his office, and sat down behind his chair, pulling open a drawer. Inside was the bottle of vodka he had stashed their earlier. He carefully poured a single shot into the zero-gravity cup, and raised it to his lips.

   “To absent friends,” he said. “Rest easy, Hercules. I know you died well.”

  Chapter 27

   Curls of smoke rolled through the improvised bridge as Hercules shuddered from another impact. The ship lurched to the side, the change to the acceleration almost sending Orlova tumbling; she clutched a nearby console with a hand, the other wiping blood from a cut on her forehead. Carpenter was hovering close by with a first aid kit, but she waved her away.

   “Curry, how are we doing?”

   “Closing on the egress point,” she replied. “Eighty seconds to go.”

   “Alamo’s heading in now,” Mathis said. “With twenty-four missiles on her tail.”

   “Good God,” Orlova replied, leaning over to the sensor console. She could see Alamo, its engines burning white-hot as it struggled to get away, pinpoints of light surrounding it from all side. There was a blinding blue flash and an explosion, and the battlecruiser was gone, a debris cloud in its wake.

   Mathis looked up, his face a mask of horror, “It’s not there. It’s not there anymore.”

   “Did it jump?”

   “Sensor resolution’s shot to hell.” He sighed, “Ma’am, from my console the flash and the explosion were simultaneous.”

   Turning away, her heart a swirling cauldron of rage and anger that she forced herself to suppress, she went over to Nelyubov. He glanced up at her, then back at his station; he was frantically working his controls, but his console was a forest of red lights.

   “All launch tubes jammed, I can’t get another salvo up. Damage control teams are on the way, but…”

   “Never mind,” Orlova said, clapping him on the shoulder, “We’ll be out of the system before they can fix it anyway. Keep working on the countermeasures.” She swung around to Ballard, who looked on the verge of tears. “What’s the news, Corporal?”

   “All bad. We now have eleven hull breaches, too many pinhole leaks to count, our long-range communications are gone, thrusters on the port side out, it just goes on, Sub-Lieutenant.”