Battlecruiser Alamo: Forbidden Seas

by Richard Tongue

   “You're not going to need me at this rate, Sub-Lieutenant.”

   Taking a deep breath, Orlova said, “Here we go,” as Alamo crossed the invisible line in space that made then vulnerable to attack. Instantly, a series of alarms sounded as the Xandari launched their full force against them, eighteen conventional warheads flying on an intercept course. Alamo swung around, and her laser ripped through the hull plating of the nearest battlecruiser, sending it stumbling to the side. Cantrell slammed her hand on the console, a triumphant smile on her face as she looked across at Orlova.

   “Right on the nose,” she said. “Four missile tubes knocked out. That should help even the odds a little!”

   “That still leaves eighteen heading in our direction,” Nelyubov reminded, looking grimly at the tactical display. Alamo's missiles ranged towards the incoming swarm, ducking and weaving as they attempted to do maximum damage, trying to take out multiple warheads at once. The ship rocked again as six more missiles raced out to join their comrades, Cantrell frantically working to reload the launch tubes, trying to even the odds any way she could.

   As the first salvo reached its target, fifteen tracks disappeared from the display, leaving six Triplanetary against nine Xandari missiles, ranging closer and closer to the ship despite Foster's best efforts at the helm. At the rear, Erickson's eyes were locked on her status holodisplay, waiting for the inevitable impact. The enemy force had found sufficient time to navigate into perfect position, surrounding the ship before diving for the kill, and despite the best efforts of Cantrell, there was no way to stop them all.

   The hull seemed to scream as two missiles smashed into Alamo amidships, the bridge bathed in red as the damage reports flooded onto the holodisplay, Erickson hurriedly directing the engineering teams to their stations.

   “Not too bad,” she said. “Underside communications array, Storage Three, and Construction Module One. No reported casualties, engineering teams moving in to repair hull breaches.”

   “Energy spike!” Spinelli reported, and Orlova's heart dropped as she saw six sluggish missiles lumbering towards them, moving to surround the battlecruiser as it flew through the heart of the enemy formation. She didn't need the database to tell her what they were. Laser-missiles, once again, each one more than capable of ripping Alamo to shreds if they made contact. Glancing at the helm, she saw Foster redoubling her efforts, pushing the ship to the limit and beyond in a bid to remain clear, stress warnings running down the side of the viewscreen.

   Cantrell tapped a control, and a third salvo raced from the ship, each missile heading towards one of the enemy, but they would spend precious seconds on their flight, while the Xandari commander set them up for the kill. The only defense against a laser blast was not to be in its way, and with six shots available, the odds were that one of them would impact.

   Looking up at the strategic display, there was some good news at last, as they raced past closest approach on their escape from the system. At this point, they'd even beat the transport to the hendecaspace point, the lumbering Neander vessel trailing a couple of minutes behind them, but assuming they survived this run, there was no way for the Xandari task force to intercept the civilians in time.

   The ship danced through space to a manic tune that only Foster could hear, her hands a blur as she worked the controls, fighting a silent battle with the enemy tactical team. There was nothing Orlova could say to help her, no advice she could give. All she could do was watch and wait, as Alamo's missiles raced in a desperate bid to safe the craft.

   “We've got a spike!” Spinelli said. “One of them just detonated. Miss by three hundred meters.”

   “That'll do,” Orlova said. “I guess they thought they might get lucky.”

   “Got one,” Cantrell said, as another laser-missile disappeared from the display, Alamo's warhead slamming into it and blotting it from the map. That just left four, each of them moving to surround the ship, turning ominously towards them as they prepared to fire, the incoming missiles seconds too slow. Foster tried a last, desperate turn, then killed the acceleration for a second, the ship's engines stuttering to a stop as four laser bursts fired as one, terawatts of energy briefly occupying the same part of space at the same time, a space where Alamo should have been.

   The battlecruiser cruised serenely on, passing through the battlespace as though there had never been anything there, and Foster turned to Orlova, disbelief on her face, her hands shaking over the controls.

   “I didn't think it would work,” she said, shaking her head. “I didn't...”

   “Frank, take over,” Orlova said, gesturing Nelyubov to the helm. Foster rose with a nod as the older officer took her place, standing over by the viewscreen, her face pale. Orlova walked across to her, resting her hand on her shoulder.

   “Good work, Sub-Lieutenant. Damn good work.”

   “Energy spike!” Spinelli said, shaking his head. “Fifteen missiles, incoming, seventy seconds to impact.”

   “I've got the laser back,” Cantrell said. “Sir, give me a shot and I'll reduce the odds.”

   Alamo spun around, lining up on the incoming missile swarm, and at the correct nanosecond a beam of energy raced through empty space, lining up on three of the approaching targets, vanishing from the display as the blast tore them to pieces. Once again, Alamo rocked, six missiles firing from the launch tubes to duel with their fellows, the battlecruiser mercifully pulling out of combat range.

   “They're improving,” Cantrell replied. “This is going to get tougher.”

   Nelyubov worked the controls as Foster looked down at the helm, the ship surging to greater speed as he raced for the hendecaspace point, trying to extend the time before impact as long as possible, to give Cantrell another chance to launch a salvo. Orlova glanced at the status board, all the amber lights showing the damage they had taken in the first battle. A few hits to the surface armor they could handle, but any serious impact could finish them, leave them dead in space, an easy target for the pursuing ships. The enemy battlecruisers altered course, swinging down towards the planet, trying for a gravity assist to speed them towards Alamo, but there was no chance they could reach them in time.

   Alamo's salvo reached the approaching missiles, and a series of flashes briefly appeared on the sensor display, only five tracks continuing through the devastation, still on a collision course with the ship. Orlova looked at Cantrell, doing everything she could to launch a final counter-strike, and at Nelyubov at the helm, urging maximum acceleration from the ship, the acceleration triggering a series of alerts as the strained superstructure protested.

   Ten seconds. Orlova looked at the projected impact areas, with one prominent, and obvious, target. The hendecaspace drive. If they couldn't flee the system, then they would be destroyed. As the final seconds ticked away, Cantrell slammed down a sequence of buttons, the ship rocking as the last salvo raced away, tracks quickly locking onto the closing enemy warheads, smashing into them with less than a second to go.

   “Secure to normal acceleration,” she ordered with a sigh of relief.

   “Hendecaspace in four minutes, ten seconds,” he said, looking at her. “I can...”

   Shaking her head, she said, “We've done all we can do here. The transport will be less than a minute behind us.” Glancing back at the tactical display, her eyes widened, and she asked, “What the hell is Daedalus doing?”

  Chapter 23

   “They're in the clear!” Salazar said, looking at the sensor display. “Right through the middle of the enemy formation, and only two missile impacts.” Glancing at a readout, he said, “They'll be out of the system in a little over four minutes.”

   “Great,” Rhodes replied, sitting in a rear couch, looking down at the unconscious Neander on the deck. “How does that help us, exactly? Can they send someone back to get us, slow down to let us catch up?”

   “I wouldn't order it,” Salazar replied. “Neither
will Captain Orlova. She won't risk a hundred -plus lives for four.” Glancing at the slumped, snoring figure, he amended, “Five.”

   “Then what do we do?” the trooper asked, wincing from the pain in his leg. “We're in no condition to mount a guerrilla campaign, just the three of us, and I'm not happy with the idea of surrendering.”

   “Well,” Salazar said, “I was thinking about that. I can easily manage an uncontrolled re-entry.” With a sigh, he added, “It would all be over in seconds, and there are plenty of things on board we could take to make it painless. Or I could just turn down the oxygen levels, knock us all out that way.”

   “We can't give up,” Maqua said. “What if we tried to evade. Make for another hendecaspace point. There are hundreds in the outer systems.” He paused, then said, “And there are other bases in the system, supply depots. I helped set up a couple of them, they liked to use us for the heavy labor.”

   “And we'd be spotted in a second, and someone would be there to meet us when we arrived,” Salazar replied. “Assuming, of course, that the battlecruiser didn't try and overtake us.”

   “Lostok?” Rhodes asked. “A bargaining chip?”

   “I doubt it. He failed, and disastrously. I doubt they'd trade a cup of coffee for him.”

   “Sir, we've got to do something,” Maqua pressed. “We can't just give up.”

   “We tried our best,” Salazar said, “and we haven't quite made it this time. That's all. At least...” He looked at the sensor display, breaking off for a moment, then said, “Wait a minute. Look at Daedalus. She's cresting around the planet, altering her trajectory.” Shaking his head, he said, “The crazy...”

   “An intercept course,” Maqua said, eyes widening.

   Glancing at the system readouts, he said, “This is going to be fun. If I'm reading it right, then we're heading right into the heart of the enemy formation on our way out.”

   “Brilliant,” Rhodes replied. “So rather than force them to come after us, we're going to be bringing the fight to them.”

   Salazar tried to move his left arm, a savage burst of pain running down his side at the slightest twitch, and shook his head, turning to Maqua and saying, “You've got the helm.”

   With panicked eyes, the Neander replied, “I can't! I've only got a dozen hours, and none of those as pilot-in-command. Just a ten-minute solo.” He looked at the sensor display, and said, “I just don't know how to do it!”

   “Well, we're dead if you don't,” Salazar said, “so I suggest you learn quickly. I think I can plot your course for you.” Straining his working arm to the controls, he entered a series of sequences into the navigation computer, a long, thin line reaching out towards the battlecruisers, sliding through space towards the fleeing scoutship. He saw a pair of flashes up ahead, Alamo and the Neander transport reaching the egress point, and smiled.

   “Getting lonely around here,” Rhodes said, shaking his head.

   “Course computed,” Salazar added. “Implement at your discretion, Maqua. You've got the chair.”

   With a curt nod, the Neander tapped a control, and the engine roared into life once again, pushing them onto a trajectory that would get them at least close to Daedalus in a matter of minutes. Salazar shook his head as he looked at the approach speed, far higher than the usual safe limits for a docking. Daedalus couldn't afford to slow, not if it was to have a chance of surviving the fly-through, and the shuttle could only fly so fast. Not quite enough to make it. They'd have one chance to get on board, no more than that.

   At the moment, that was information that Maqua didn't need to know. The Neander worked the controls, engaging systems and bringing the thruster suite on-line, fine-tuning the course to gain any advantage they could. Going through the enemy formation in a battlecruiser was dangerous, risking it in a raider insanity, and Salazar couldn't immediately think of an appropriate word for riding the gauntlet in an unarmored shuttlecraft.

   Rhodes watched intently as the two of them worked, Salazar switching all of the active controls over to his co-pilot, running his eye across the gauges and systems to make sure he had the smoothest possible ride. He glanced across at Maqua, the Neander intent on his controls, and fought the temptation to provide him with a running commentary. Flying was a one-man job, and though a co-pilot could assist, any distractions could prove disastrous.

   As it was, Maqua was doing an excellent job, nursing the shuttle to maximum acceleration and a little beyond, the force pushing them back on their couches as the engines roared to full power. Lostok, slumped on the floor, groaned as he rolled to the side, bare deck under him rather than a crash couch, but neither Salazar nor Rhodes were in any condition to do anything about it. Nor, in all honestly, did he care. Lostok would live through the flight, and if he sustained a couple of broken ribs along the way, he had brought it all upon himself. The blood of hundreds, thousands of his people was on his hands. A little discomfort didn't seem too much to ask.

   It felt strange to be riding shotgun while someone else did the work, guiding the shuttle smoothly along its trajectory towards the enemy ships ahead. He looked around at the physical countermeasure panel, or at least, where it was meant to be, only to find a blank sheet of metal in its place. Either they had never been installed, or they had been removed. Not that they would have provided much more than a psychological boost in any case.

   The electronic warfare suite was in place, and he reached up with an effort to turn the systems on, a loud series of bleeps as the panel booted into life, but aside from providing more information about the exact moment of their death, there didn't seem to be anything else they could do. The shuttle wasn't armed, and didn't even have anything they could jettison as a decoy. Frustrated, he shook his head, turning to look at the pilot once again as he worked his controls like a veteran.

   “One minute to contact,” he said. “One hundred and thirty seconds to rendezvous with Daedalus.” Salazar called up the docking computer, the reticule sliding into position on the heads-up display, a mass of confusing data streaming along the side of the screen, a green light that washed information over the cabin, almost too fast to read it. Maqua glanced up at it, nodded, then returned to his work, adding a slight pulse of thruster to send them further to the side of one of the approaching battlecruisers.

   “Maybe we could pretend that we're surrendering,” Rhodes suggested, but Salazar shook his head.

   “At this velocity? We're coming in like a missile.” Gesturing at the blinking red lights from the communications panel, he added, “Besides, our unwanted guest smashed the transmitter. We can't send a signal, even if we wanted to.” He cursed Lostok once again, muttering under his breath. Docking was difficult enough when both computers could talk to each other, make minute adjustments to slide together. Without communication, that was only going to make it harder.

   “Engaging docking clamps,” Maqua said, starting the checklist far too soon, going down as far as he could before they entered firing range. Salazar nodded appreciatively, flicking the few controls he was able to reach, keeping one eye on the scanner for signs that the enemy vessels had fired.

   “Daedalus will be twenty seconds behind us, going into the battlespace,” Salazar said. “That means they're going to take first crack at us, but with a little luck, they won't launch a full salvo.” Glancing at the course projection, he added, “They'll have all the time they need to fire a second round, though.”

   “And what do I do, sir?”

   “Run your random walk, Maqua, and hope like hell that it confuses the enemy targeting computers. That's about the only chance we've got.” Bringing up a schematic of the missile, hard-won data reaped from earlier encounters, he added, “You can't outrun them, but you might be able to out think them. Or whoever is controlling them at the other end.”

   “Aye, sir,” the Neander replied. “Out think them. Got it.”

   “Firing range,” Salazar said, and as thr
ee lights winked onto the display, he added, “Energy spike. Incoming missiles from the lead ship, three in number, bearing directly. Impact in fifty-two seconds.”

   “Can't we do anything?” Rhodes asked.

   “Initiating random walk,” Maqua said, tapping a series of controls that sent the shuttle swirling through space, the missiles still remorselessly flying towards them. One would be overkill. Three an apocalypse. Behind them, Daedalus drifted into the firing line, and another half-dozen missiles flashed onto the display, surging towards the pursuing ship, ignoring the shuttle completely. For a moment, Salazar thought of moving between them, drawing their fire, shielding their would-be rescuer, but the raider launched a missile spread of its own, four missiles diving forward towards the enemy salvo.

   “This isn't working,” Maqua said, looking at the sensor display. “I've going to try something.”

   “God help us,” Rhodes said, as the Neander spun the shuttle around, lurching it to the side, sending the trajectory plot sweeping out of the projected path, Daedalus hurriedly maneuvering to catch up. Far from moving away from the battlecruisers, he was now diving towards the nearest, an echo of the maneuver Salazar had undertaken when they had first entered the system.

   Shaking his head, Salazar said, “That trick won't work twice.”

   “It will, sir,” Maqua replied, a smile creeping across his face, an expression Salazar had occasionally seen in the mirror. “They're still on my tail. Mutual collision in thirty-one seconds.”

   Almost on cue, the enemy missiles veered off, ignoring the risky, helpless shuttlecraft and turning around to sweep towards Daedalus, joining the incoming warheads. Salazar closed his eyes, with a deep sigh, then looked again at the scanner, watching all of the missiles diving towards the same point in space. That maneuver had drawn the missiles close enough to Daedalus' salvo to give them a chance of fratricide, and whoever was at the tactical controls used that opportunity to the full, an explosion washing across the screen for a second, leaving nothing but vacant space in its wake.