“Stand down from battle stations,” he said. “Maintain standby alert until further notice. I'm heading down to the Hangar Deck.”
“Sir,” Bowman said, a smile on his face, “We just had an update from Shuttle Three. Ensign Rhodes and Senior Lieutenant Francis are both aboard. Critically wounded, but alive, and stable.”
With a sigh of relief, Salazar said, “Thank you, Spaceman.” He turned to face the screen, then said, “Have any Espatiers ready to fight on meet me aboard any shuttle capable of making the transit to the surface standing by. I'm going down myself. Scott, you have the ship.”
“Sir?” she asked. “Lieutenant...”
Taking a quick glance at Carpenter, Salazar said, “You have the ship, Lieutenant. Consider that an order. And let me have status and casualty reports as fast as you can stream them.”
“Aye, sir,” she replied, as he stepped from the bridge. He'd sat up there long enough. Now he had to get into the thick of the action. He owed that to both his crew, and to himself.
Chapter 25
Clarke flew down the corridor, leading Fox and Mortimer through the twisting passages beyond, now almost familiar to him after the battles they had waged along them. He kept one eye on his thruster fuel, heading perilously close to the red line, and forced himself to hold back to careful, precise pulses from his suit jets. Just sufficient to keep him moving forward and to keep him clear of the tangled rocks below, sharp points longingly reaching up to snag his suit.
He checked the clip on his rifle once more, testing that it was secure. He was using the same type of weapon that he had stolen before on the surface of the sphere, and his prior experience was poor enough that he felt comfortable that he still had a sword at his belt, though both Fox and Mortimer had left theirs behind at the control room. Swinging around a tall outcrop, he drifted into the smooth-walled section, knowing that they were getting close to the landing ground and the holding area.
“Left,” he said.
“Likely they're trying to escape, sir,” Fox said.
“If they are, then Petrova and her team from Alamo will be in a perfect position to cut them off. I'm more worried that they're thinking about taking hostages and bartering their way out.”
“They've got a good headstart on us, John,” Mortimer warned.
“All the more reason not to waste time now.” He tapped his thrusters again, racing heedlessly down the corridor, rifle nestled in his arms. His suit sensors were working properly now, and he could pick up moving targets out at extreme range, figures bustling through the corridors. He tapped a control, and said, “Clarke to Sekura.”
“I hear you,” the Neander replied.
“Are there any legends of tunnels leading down to the surface from here?”
“That's eighty miles down,” Mortimer protested.
“And still quite possible to walk, especially if the slope is gentle enough.” He paused, frowned, then said, “Good God, I'm talking about walking down to the surface of a world.”
“This place is really distorting our sense of scale, isn't it, sir,” Fox replied.
“Some legends of creatures descending from the sky,” the shaman said, “though nothing specific. Mind you, that's the whole problem with relying on myths and legends. The truth gets tangled and distorted through all the centuries, until finally you realize that you can have little faith in them at all. Still, there's usually something buried beneath all the superstition, if you look hard enough.” He paused, and said, “One lesson for you, Sub-Lieutenant. Don't let an old man ramble.”
“You think they've got an escape route?” Mortimer asked.
“We'll swing past the holding area first, but I've got a horrible feeling that I know what we're going to find down there.” Drifting carefully through a narrow passage, they came to a plastisteel door, an obvious recent addition to the structure, an airlock clumsily fitting into position. Fox moved to the front, reaching for the panel, and started to enter in code sequences, turning with a grin as the outer door slid open.
“Let me guess,” Mortimer said. “Password.”
“Close,” Fox replied. “Change On First Use.”
“Brilliant,” Mortimer said. “Just brilliant.” The three of them slid into the cramped airlock, their suits hanging limp and flabby by their sides as the external pressure rose, filling with oxygen. None of them made any move to remove their suits. Not only were they the only effective armor they had, but any atmosphere given could be taken away just as quickly.
At least the floors and walls were smooth, and they no longer needed the thrusters to emerge. Turning a corner, they spotted a pile of rags scattered on the floor, the remains of a dozen spacesuits, shredded into pieces. Clarke glanced at Mortimer, then carefully stepped forward to the end of the corridor.
“No doors. Must be concealed,” he said, tapping the metal. “This is hollow.”
“There must be a hidden catch somewhere up there,” Mortimer said.
“We don't have time to find it,” Clarke replied. “Sergeant, tell me you have some armor-piercing rounds with you?”
“Always packing, sir,” she said with a smile, ripping what looked like an old patch from the side of her suit, revealing a trio of bullets carefully stitched into place. “Old covert ops trick. Better stand well back.” She looked over the wall, and added, “There's some heat leak. Looks like a seam. If I can catch it, the force should rip through the plate.” Pounding the surface, she turned her speaker up as high as she could, shouting, “Hit the deck!”
All three bullets slammed into position, and the door jerked open, wide enough to reveal a dozen people lying on the floor, wearing nothing other than their underclothes. Lombardo looked up, disbelief on his face, and pushed himself immediately to his feet.
“They cleared off, John,” he began. “About fifteen minutes ago. Slashed our suits and ran for it. I don't know where.” He paused, and added, “They took Foster with them in a rescue ball. As a hostage. Just her.”
“Alamo's forces hold this base now, near as damn it,” Clarke replied. “We've beaten them in space and it looks like we've got them on the run down here as well.”
“We'll have a look around,” Lombardo replied, “see if we can find some suits and weapons, or at least some command systems. I'll feel a lot happier when I've got the life support systems under control myself.” Gesturing down the corridor, he added, “They turned to the right.”
“Thanks, sir.”
“Good hunting, John.”
Turning back to the corridor, Clarke raced in long bounds for the airlock, Fox and Mortimer struggling to keep up with his rapid pace. He slammed his hand on the control console to activate the cycling sequence, Fox just sliding in before the doors crashed shut.
“Come on,” Clarke said. “Come on. Open, damn it.”
“Harsh language won't make the systems work more quickly.”
“Sergeant, you have not get begun to hear my harsh language.”
She grinned, then pushed to the lead as the doors opened, saying, “I'll take point. You two set your sensors to medium-range. I'll keep mine on short. That way we shouldn't miss anything. I hope.”
Nodding, Clarke hung back long enough to let Fox move ahead down the corridor, covering her with his rifle. He could still pick up contacts out at extreme range, moving into one of the distant access corridors. The network of tunnels and corridors was tangled enough that working out which direction they were traveling was next to impossible, and all the trio could do was push forward on what they hoped was the right path, and hope for the best.
“Petrova to Clarke,” a voice barked in his ears. “You're heading the wrong way, John.”
“They've got another way down to the surface, and are holding Senior Lieutenant Foster hostage,” Clarke replied, dismissing any attempt at an argument. “How many people do you have?”
“Six. Two armed with plasma, the rest conventional.”
“Leave two riflemen to guard your shuttle, the rest of you to advance in our direction. We'll try and catch them in a crossfire. Remember that they've got a hostage, and we don't want any friendly fire incidents. Don't shoot unless you are attacked or I order it. Got that?”
“Where's Lieutenant...”
“Got that, Midshipman?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “We're on our way.”
“Hard on her, weren't you,” Fox said.
“I've meet her,” Mortimer replied. “That's the sort of person who needs to be crunched underfoot a few times until they get the point. Thinks she's God's gift to the Fleet. She's got a few shocks coming in the very near future, now that I'm her direct supervisor.” With an evil grin, she caught her thruster, drifting ahead of Clarke, and for a moment, he almost felt sorry for the hapless midshipman.
Up ahead, the readings were stabilizing, curving away from the landing area. He'd guessed right. There was a hidden way down, leading far enough away that the men they were pursuing believed they could escape. A red warning light flashed on, and Clarke cursed. His thruster fuel was well into his final reserve now, only a few long pulses left. Sliding his rifle over his shoulder, he started to kick out from the walls and floor, nimbly ducking and dodging the outcrops of rock.
“Getting them now,” Fox said. “Less than a quarter-mile, straight run. Watch it, sir. If you get too much momentum, then...”
“If we don't, they'll get away.”
“We've got reinforcements coming,” Mortimer replied, before pausing, then kicking from the walls with equal severity, adding, “Damn it, you're right. They'll know that as well. They must have one last trick up their sleeve.”
“You can't fall eighty miles and live,” Fox protested, but she joined in the pursuit, the three of them bouncing through the corridors, reaching out with arms and legs to any handholds they could find, traveling in a succession of long arms under the microscopic gravity. Any thought of stealth was dismissed in favor of raw speed as they tumbled onward.
Soon enough, they found the answer to the question. A long cable, with a car attached, and a crowd of spacesuited figures herding themselves inside, leading their prisoner. One of them spotted Clarke, tumbling ahead of the pack, and the young officer only just managed to raise his rifle in time to match them.
“Stay clear, or we'll shoot you,” a voice said. “You can inform your commander that we'll be negotiating with him for the return of his officer directly. Our terms will be quite reasonable.”
Clarke looked back at Mortimer, flashed a smile, then said, “You can talk to me right now, if you want. I'm Captain Clarke. Go right ahead and offer your terms.”
The figure looked around, then said, “You will give us two shuttles, and offer us safe passage to the far hendecaspace point. We'll have ships of our own coming soon enough to take us home. I'd suggest you were a long way away when they arrive, but then, your hendecaspace drive was damaged in the attack, wasn't it.”
Frowning, Clarke replied, “Release Lieutenant Foster, and we'll talk.”
“Do you think I am a fool?”
“Then trade me for her.”
“John, what the hell are you doing?” Mortimer hissed on a private channel.
“That's Captain Kid, remember. Call Petrova and get her to hustle.”
“We agree, Captain,” the man said. “One hostage serves as well as another. Get rid of that weapon.”
Clarke tossed his rifle to the ground, and carefully passed his sword to Mortimer, replying, “I'll step forward. So will Foster. We will both keep walking until we've traded places. If you try anything, my people will shoot you.”
“Rest assured the same is true for you.”
Nodding, Clarke stepped forward, trading glances with an astonished Foster, careful to keep his pace as slow as possible, each bound only taking him halfway to the ceiling. He took the chance to take a better look at what looked suspiciously like an elevator, suspended over a shaft heading straight down, as far as he could see. Dozens of miles, certainly. Even if it couldn't take them all the way to the bottom, it could certainly take them far enough to evade pursuit, and until the atmosphere grew too thick, they could travel as rapidly as they liked.
He glanced to the side, Petrova still too far away to help, and with Fox and Mortimer looking helplessly on, stepped into the elevator, the last two guards following. The doors slammed shut, and he fell into captivity, catching a glimpse of the long-awaited reinforcements arriving, seconds too late to save him. Wherever he was going, there was nothing they could do to save him. Not yet.
“You're a fool, Captain,” the man said, as the elevator pressured.
“Maybe,” Clarke replied, pulling off his helmet. “But don't worry. My people will be following in a matter of moments. You don't have a chance. If you want to surrender now, I'll be happy to accept it. Though don't feel you have to. There are a few hundred Neander down on the surface looking for a fight. It would be a shame to disappoint them.”
Chapter 26
“I'm not joking, sir,” Scott said, her voice tinny over the small speaker in the shuttle's cockpit. “We just got a signal informing us that Captain Clarke had been captured, and that we should prepare to satisfy the captors' demands.”
“Cutting in, Captain,” Foster said, as the shuttle dived into range, closing on the portal.
“Val? I thought you'd been captured?”
“Sub-Lieutenant Clarke managed to bluff the guards, sir. I think he was playing for time, but the reinforcements didn't make it. He's in some sort of an elevator, running all the way down to the surface. There was an emergency exit we didn't know about.”
“Can we track them?”
“Clarke left his distress beacon turned on,” Mortimer said. “We're getting a positive track, but it's well away from our reinforcements on the surface. I already contacted Midshipman Koslowski, and she's riding towards their projected emergence point as fast as she can, but it's going to be the best part of an hour before we can get there.”
“Not a problem,” Salazar said. “Send me the location and I'll give them a little surprise. With luck, we might even beat them to the target. Leave a garrison force behind, and follow as soon as you can.”
“That'll be some time, sir,” Foster said. “The one working shuttle we do have hasn't got the range to get down to the surface.”
“What about the shuttles scattered on the outside of the sphere?” Salazar asked. “Have Alamo remote one down to you on the double. Most of them have enough fuel for the descent, and we can always send down emergency tanks if we need to. Get moving.”
“Yes, sir!” Foster said. “Good luck, sir.”
“And to you. Shuttle Three out.” He turned to Corporal Quiller, sitting in the co-pilot's seat, and said, “Up for another party?”
“Always, Captain, you know that,” the trooper replied.
“But?”
With a sigh, he said, “We've just come out of a pretty intensive firefight, sir, and we didn't have a chance to even draw our breath. Or restock with ammunition. Most of us a riding light, and I've got two walking wounded back there. We had a hell of a time on Endurance, skipper.”
“Am I being unrealistic, Corporal?”
Shaking his head, the veteran said, “No, sir, but I don't think we're going to win a war of attrition. Whatever we do needs to be fast and deadly.”
“Sounds like my kind of mission,” Salazar said, deftly guiding the shuttle through the portal, nose down towards the interior of the sphere. Beneath him, he could make out the cool blue atmosphere of the surface, and he burned his engine harder, slamming to full acceleration in an effort to wrest maximum speed from the shuttle. As they passed the gravitational threshold, he pulled up, killing the thrust, and the heat shield immediately sta
rted to glow as they slammed into the atmosphere, warning alarms flashing as the external temperature soared beyond normal safe limits.
A pinging dot appeared on his sensor display, twenty miles west of their first landing. They only had a few low-resolution images of that area, but as far as he could tell, their target was a low hill surrounded by a thicket of trees. Good cover, if he could beat the bad guys to the draw. The scene looked astonishingly familiar, until it became obvious that the horizon curved up, not down.
The ringing klaxons grew more insistent, a wry smile crossing Salazar's face as he realized that the shuttle was going to be one more task for Chief Santiago's crew when he nursed it back to Alamo, the damage to the underside too severe to ignore. On his heads-up display, his altimeter flickered through the miles as the air grew denser, and he glanced across at his fuel gauge, his smile turning to a frown as he saw the rapidly-dropping levels. They wouldn't have much flying time once inside, though with any luck, they wouldn't need much. Though at this rate, they'd probably end up having to walk home.
Finally, the heat died, and Salazar let the shuttle drop, nose down, ready to fire the engines again to kick the ship onto trajectory. A vortex of wind buffeted the ship from side to side, and he struggled to keep her steady, one eye constantly on the rapidly-diminishing fuel gauge. Almost without warning, they dropped through the shaft, and he turned the ship, his hand on the throttle, throwing the engines full-on.
“We're in time, sir,” Quiller said, looking at the sensor plot. “They're still ten miles from the surface. If we're quick, we should catch them by surprise.” He glanced back, and said, “Shuttle One's following. Five minutes behind us. That was fast work.”
“Foster's one of the sharpest officers I've ever known,” Salazar said, briefly remembering the long-ago days when they had been bitter rivals, when he had first arrived on Alamo, four years ago. He looked over the landscape, astonished by the view that rolled out before his eyes, an endless expanse of forest and plain that stretched for thousands of miles, a black desert to the north, rising mountains to the west. And beyond, eternity. Millions of miles of terrain, points of light in the shadowed regions that had to be cities.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Shadows in the Sky Page 21
