Battlecruiser Alamo: Shadows in the Sky

by Richard Tongue

   “The bodies?”

   “Plenty of scavengers around here. I doubt carrion would remain where it fell for very long, even if it was human.”

   “That's disgusting,” Clarke replied. “Though you've probably got a point, I must admit.” The terminal winked twice, the data download complete, and he rose from the chair, looking around the cabin again. “We'll know more once we've analyzed the data. Maybe they left a log entry, or recorded some of their explorations. That ship was in orbit for weeks before the attack. They must have managed to find out something we can use, even if it just rules out a few dead ends.”

   “Diagnostic check complete,” Mortimer said. “About as I said. Give me a few hours, and we could maybe fly it back to Alamo, but I certainly wouldn't want to risk it. I think we're better off just leaving it abandoned in place. Someone's already made sure that the critical items have been removed. No need to consider setting charges or anything like that. Besides, it might make a good forward base for us. Once someone's cleaned out the livestock.”

   Peering out through the hatch, Clarke saw the light levels falling, the shadows creeping in, and said, “We'd better make a move. Sergeant, we're moving out.” He looked around, stepped out of the shuttle, and said, “Sergeant?”

   A pinprick of agony caught him in the side, sending him tumbling to the ground, limbs twitching as a surge of fire swept through his system. He longed to scream, but he couldn't find the breath, drifting in and out of consciousness with momentary flashes of clarity. First a bouncing buggy, glimpses of trees, then a face peering down at him, a mask of concern. Finally, what seemed like hours later, he opened his eyes, at last able to focus once again.

   “What the hell happened?” he asked, looking around. They were suspended in the air, in a cage made of wood, swinging from the branches of a massive tree, hundreds of meters up. A dull green globe, some sort of bio-luminescent light, provided strange illumination, and he could see dozens of others scattered around, rocking back and forth. He looked up, saw Koslowski, and cursed. “They got you, as well?”

   “I'm afraid so, sir,” she replied.

   “Don't blame her too much, John,” Mortimer replied. “It's been six hours since they got us. There were a couple of dozen of them, mostly on horses, with a buggy following up.”

   “We'd already been taken before they reached you,” Fox said, her face a fixed scowl. “They sneaked in from the far side of the ruins. Or maybe they had a few people waiting in ambush already. Garland and I bought a dart each before we could warn you.”

   “Did they get you?” Clarke asked, looking at Mortimer.

   “I surrendered,” she replied. “I was outnumbered about twenty to one, and I'd already seen what they'd done to the rest of you. I figured it made more sense for one us to be conscious while they took us to wherever it was we were going.”

   “Did it?”

   “We came about a hundred miles...”

   “A hundred miles?” Clarke said, eyes wide.

   “About that, about ten miles into the forest. I've no idea how deep it is.” Gesturing through the bars, she added, “It's a substantial settlement, lots of structures, all of them built high up, off the ground. And Neander, as well. There are a lot of them down there, working in what look suspiciously like slave labor gangs. Under humans. Like us, I mean.”

   “Great,” he replied. “We stumbled into a nice little tyranny. What's your story, Koslowski?”

   “After an hour, I still hadn't made contact with Alamo, or with anyone else. I locked down all the systems on the shuttle, and went out to have a look. I got about a third of the way to the ruins before they got me.” Looking down at the ground, she added, “I'm sorry, sir. I screwed up.”

   “Don't be,” he replied. “Do they know where the shuttle is?”

   “They must have seen it land,” Fox said. “They probably set off as soon as they saw us. Even then, they had to have moved damn fast, but this is their home ground. They know the terrain.”

   Patting his pockets, Clarke said, “I take it everyone else was thoroughly searched?”

   Nodding, Mortimer said, “No communicators, datapads, weapons, or anything else. I didn't even have any covert bits of pieces with me, but they did a very through job of searching, so it might not have mattered in any case. We're on our own.”

   “Help me up,” Clarke said, reaching for Fox, who dragged him to his feet, setting their cage swinging back and forth more violently than before. “Any sign of our captors?”

   “Don't look now,” Garland said, gesturing at the central trunk, “but we've got people heading our way.” Turning to Clarke, he asked, “Orders?”

   “Name, rank and serial number, Spaceman. And Alamo will send someone after us. By then I mean to be well away from this place.”

   “Bold words,” a sneering man said, looking down. “Shame you don't have anything to back them up with. Though if you want to leave, feel free.” Gesturing at the surface, hundreds of feet below, he added, “Just watch out for that first step. It's a killer. Quite literally.”

   “Sub-Lieutenant John Clarke. Serial number...”

   “Spare me. What ship are you from.”

   “HMS Pinafore.”

   Shaking his head, he replied, “I'm not interested in musical numbers right now, Sub-Lieutenant. I'll make a deal with you. If you tell me what I want to know, I will see you safely back to your shuttle. All of you.”

   “I've got a better idea,” Clarke said, looking up at the grim-faced man. “If you release us immediately, then I will offer you a fair trial, rather than simply killing you where you stand.” Fixing a scowl on his face, he continued, “Don't think I don't mean it.”

   “Crazy,” he said. “Sometimes the darts...”

   “I'm deadly serious, and quite sane.”

   “That offer applies to all of you, of course,” he said, looking at the others. “If any one of you decides that you want to live through all of this, then I'll be only too happy to release you. Even the madman there.”

   Nodding, Mortimer moved over to him, and said, “I'll tell you what you want to know.”

   “Good,” the man replied, as the others glared at her.

   “Outside that hatch is a ship loaded with very dangerous people, all of them heavily armed, and by now they are already looking for us. Soon enough, they will find us, and then you will die, probably from a plasma bolt between the eyes, and when I see your corpse, I will smile. Does that help?”

   Looking daggers at her, he replied, “If you change your mind, tell the creature bringing you your food. These savages aren't good for very much, but they can pass messages. Better keep them simple, though. Not much brain capacity. Though probably infinitely superior to yours.” As the man walked away, Clarke looked at Mortimer with a smile.

   “You had me worried there for a second.”

   “No worse than he was,” she replied. “Moving to more practical matters, we still have a rather major problem waiting for us. How exactly are we going to get out of here?”

   “These bars are tight,” Fox said.

   “Good,” Garland replied. “I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm way behind on my flying lessons, and I don't even have a medical kit with me.” He frowned, then said, “Maybe we could rush whoever is bringing us the food?”

   “Even if we did get out of here,” Clarke replied, “We've got to pick our way through the forest.” Looking at Mortimer, he asked, “How confident are you of making your way back without getting hopelessly lost along the way?”

   “Not very, if I'm honest. There aren't any good landmarks to use, though we might be able to follow the ruts of the buggy.” She smiled, shook her head, then continued, “Which, of course, they will immediately use to follow us. That isn't an option either, is it?”

   “Let's just say that our escape plan is going to need a little bit of work,” Clarke said,
rubbing his head. “Speaking purely personally, I still have one hell of a hangover from whatever it is they shot us with. There's nothing we can do for the moment. Just wait and watch.”

   “Check the guard schedules, and see if we can find a weakness,” Fox agreed. “There's bound to be something we can exploit. There always is. And Alamo will be looking for us.”

   “He spoke English,” Garland said, “And like a native. That means he's found his way here, just like us. I didn't recognize the uniform, though.”

   “Plenty of ships have gone missing over the decades,” Mortimer said. “Maybe one of them decided that this was a good place to set up housekeeping. Though for the moment, does any of that matter?”

   “Sir?” Fox said. “Someone's coming along the branch. A Neander.”

   “Probably bringing supper,” Mortimer said, looking up. The figure approached, peering down at them, then a smile burst across his face, eyes registering disbelief.

   “I don't believe it!” the Neander said, in perfect English. “You're Fleet! After four months!”

   “Who are you?” Clarke asked.

   “Lieutenant Maqua, Security Officer of the Starcruiser Monitor.”

   “Sub-Lieutenant Clarke, Security Officer of the Battlecruiser Alamo.”

   “Alamo?”

   “She's outside the sphere.”

   “I'll be damned.”

   “I'll make a deal with you,” Clarke said. “You rescue us, and we'll rescue you. Sir.”

   “You're on, Sub-Lieutenant. You're on.”

  Chapter 9

   “Still no sign, sir,” Ballard said. “The interference is growing steadily, but so far it hasn't reached a threshold level. Best guess is that it will end up as a capital ship of a size similar to our own, but I don't have any hard figures on how long that is going to take. Could be seconds, could be hours.”

   “I still recommend adopting a full-defensive posture, sir,” Scott said. “To keep our options open.”

   “We're well clear of the hendecaspace point, Kat, and we'll have plenty of time to get to battle stations if necessary. Until we know what we're facing, there's no point rising attracting any unwanted attention. Bowman, contact Shuttle Three again. I want an updated report.”

   The technician worked her controls, and after a second, Lombardo's voice echoed from the overhead speakers, saying, “There's still nothing more to say, sir, just like the last three times I've tried. The controls aren't working, and I'm no further working out why, or even how they work. I can't get at the connections because of this damned repulsion field. Right now I've got teams moving around the local area to see if we can find another way in. Request Transfer One be dispatched to provide a higher-orbital pass.”

   “Negative, Lieutenant,” Salazar replied. “Not with the possibility of hostile forces approaching the system. We don't dare take the risk, not yet. And be prepared to pull out yourselves at short notice. We might have to leave in a hurry.” Looking at Harper, he said, “We've lost five people. I don't want to lose any more.”

   “Agreed,” she replied. “We're no further along in our analysis, but I don't think we can expect any quick results. This is going to have to take about as long as it takes. At least there aren't any concerns about consumables. They can live off the land down there, probably indefinitely.”

   “Sir,” Ballard said, “Tachyonic spike. I think we might be able to get something.”

   “Focus all sensors on the incoming ship,” Salazar ordered. “Bowman, hail them as soon as they enter the system, and ask for their intentions.”

   “Will do, sir,” he replied. “Same set up as before, ready to transmit automatic messages in nine languages, with translation available on request.”

   “Here it comes!” Ballard said, and a bright flash filled the screen, far larger than normal, as a new ship tumbled into the system, end over end just as Alamo had the day before, struggling to manage their return to normal space. The screen zoomed in to get a clear picture of a brutal, dull-brown ship, with turret weapons mounted along the hull. This was no scientific ship, but a warship in its own right. Though, of course, so was Alamo.

   “No sign of energy spikes, sir,” Scott said. “They're just sitting there, trying to orient themselves. Best guess is that those turrets are mounting mass driver cannons. I can't see any launch tubes for missiles, and no sign of laser weaponry either.”

   “Interesting, given what happened to Monitor,” Francis noted.

   “Any response to our signals, Spaceman?”

   “Wait one, sir,” he replied. “Got them. In English, as well. Request to speak to our commanding officer on a matter of grave and immediate importance.”

   “Put them on the screen, then,” Salazar said. “Let's hear what they have to say.”

   The image of the new ship disappeared, replaced by a bridge that looked like something out of the last century, chairs hanging from the ceiling, technicians floating between antiquated consoles with bulky datapads. At the heart of the command center was a thin-cheeked woman with a halo of red hair around her head, wearing a uniform bearing an urban camouflage pattern.

   “This is Major Moran of the Hegemonic Cruiser Endurance. Identify yourself.”

   “I am Lieutenant-Captain Salazar, commanding the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo.”

   She nodded, and said, “I take it that you've lost a team inside the Dyson Sphere as well.”

   Glancing at Francis, Salazar replied, “We have. And the wreckage you can see is the remains of one of our ships. Our mission was to locate her.” He didn't see any need to add the detail that they weren't in their own galaxy. “I guess we succeeded.”

   “We share the same problem, Captain. One of our ships is missing as well, though we've seen no sign of debris.” She frowned, then replied, “Naturally, your first thought is that we might be responsible.”

   “You'll understand why I would come to that conclusion, though I suppose the same could be said of you. Might I suggest that the best course of action is for us to meet on neutral territory?”

   “I don't believe that to be necessary. I'm willing to take the leap of faith, Captain, and offer to come on board your ship with a single aide, both of us unarmed. I'll even agree to make the last mile of the journey in my spacesuit, rather than one of our shuttles. Would that be acceptable?”

   Salazar glanced at Francis, then turned back to the screen, and said, “In fifteen minutes?”

   “Very well. I'll see you then. Endurance out.”

   “Scott, you have the deck. Harper, Francis, you're with me. And have our Espatiers on standby for an honor guard. Let's show the flag a little.” He moved into the elevator, the others following, and tapped the control for the hangar deck.

   “This is all rather sudden, isn't it?” Francis asked.

   “No point giving them time to prepare a cover story. I want them on the run.”

   “And if their story is true?”

   “Then it's always nice to make a few new friends, and for that reason we will treat them with all appropriate honors. Even if we don't have time to change into our dress uniforms for the occasion.”

   “What a pity,” Harper replied with a grin. “Hopefully they won't know the difference anyway. She seemed rather eager to meet us on our own terms.”

   “I'm not surprised,” Francis said, holding up his datapad. “First tactical impressions have us seriously outmatching them. Alamo would be able to bring them down without working up a serious sweat, and they must know that. I've only seen military mass drivers in museums.”

   “Unless they've found a better way to make them work,” Salazar warned. “Let's try and avoid another desperate battle to the death unless we truly have no other choice.”

   “Not a problem for me,” Harper said, as the doors slid open onto the deck. The trio walked out, Rhodes already rushing his platoon into position, the t
roopers struggling to tug on their dress uniforms as they made their way to the airlock. Salazar calmly walked over to the hatch, the others beside him, and glanced up at the monitor screen, watching as the shuttle from Endurance approached.

   “Conventional type,” Chief Kowalski said. “Looks like an evolution of the Puffin. Good little lighter in its day.” Turning to him with a smirk, he added, “Of course, that was a good eighty years ago.”

   “I flew one once,” Salazar replied with a nod. “Some of the cadets restored it. Special project. I think it was carried on the first mission to Triton, or something like that.” Memories of simpler times flooded into his mind.

   “They're coming to a relative stop,” Francis said. “Just as instructed. They're really making a move, though. Well ahead of schedule.”

   “I guess we're not the only ones hoping to catch someone by surprise,” Harper replied. “To be fair, they have no more reason to trust us than we have to trust them.” Glancing around the deck, she added, “Not much they can see that will be of any tactical use, but we ought to get them into a side office as soon as possible. I've already locked the network down as tightly as I can.”

   Pulling out his communicator, Salazar said, “Hangar deck to bridge. Anything else on our friends out there?”

   “Endurance is a human-derived starship, sir. Same drive design as we use, but not quite as advanced. Some commonality with designs from the turn of the century, but our scans suggest that it's a lot younger than that. Maybe five, ten years at the most. One more thing, though. She's been patched up a lot of times. Signs of hasty repairs all over. For whatever that's worth.”

   “Tough little ship, then,” Harper said.

   “Prepare for boarding,” Rhodes said. “Present arms!”

   The platoon snapped into position as the airlock cycled, Salazar, Harper and Francis standing at parade rest to welcome the visitors. The hatch cracked open, and Moran walked out, a short, stout man in the same uniform by her side. She seemed confident, self-assured, but his eyes roamed suspiciously around the deck, as though looking for invisible snipers.