Battlecruiser Alamo: Triple-Edged Sword

by Richard Tongue

   “Let me do it my way,” Tarak said, pushing off down the corridor. “This is too important to take any unnecessary chances.”

   “As you say,” Ortok replied, shaking his head as he settled into the co-pilot's seat, Salazar logging on to the helm, looking at the controls. “Can you handle this?”

   “I've done more than a hundred planetary landings, though never with something this big,” he replied. “Don't worry, I'll get her down.”

   “I hope so,” Ortok replied. “I don't understand what his problem is. I can read these controls well enough. I'll admit that you have the edge on us in that field.”

   “Firing sequence on my mark,” Salazar said, running through the checklist. Everything seemed a lot more sluggish than he would have expected, the controls taking their time to respond. He struggled to set up the burn, frowning as the status indicators refused to flash green.

   “Hey, something else in orbit,” Harper said, hovering by the sensors.

   “That's impossible,” Ortok said. “There must be something wrong with your equipment.”

   “Diagnostic green,” she replied, before shouting, “Threat warning! Enemy vessel, intercept course, coming from the far side of the planet. They must have sneaked in using the planet as a shield.”

   “What?” Ortok yelled, pushing over to the sensors, knocking Harper to the side. “I read it too, but that's impossible. We'd have spotted them if they had been on that vector.”

   “We can debate the situation later. I'm aborting the landing and going for a gravity assist. Maybe we can outrun them and get to Alamo.”

   Shaking his head, Ortok argued, “We'd be safe on the surface. They can't operate in atmosphere.”

   “No chance we'd get there. They'd have us cold, before we could even settle into orbit. Hang on, this is going to be rough.” He set the course, struggling with the unfamiliar systems, frowning as they still failed to promptly respond to his commands. “I wish I knew what was wrong with this damn set-up. Burn in four seconds.”

   He counted down, and slammed the button, waiting for the familiar roar of the engines to kick in, to push them on the new flight path that gave them at least a chance of safety. Nothing happened. Working the controls again yielded the same response, and he started to run the diagnostic checks, conscious of Ortok looking at him with disdain.

   “The board is working, but nothing's happening.”

   “Evidently,” the engineer sneered. “It would appear that your repairs were not so efficient as you believe. Under other circumstances….”

   Ducking underneath the console, Salazar looked at the relays, his eyes widening. Someone had disconnected the primary input feed and attached it to an old datapad, set to run a series of simulations. This wasn't an accident, and it wasn't incompetence. All it could be was sabotage.

   “I'm truly sorry,” Tarak said, drifting into the room, a pistol in his hand. “There isn't any choice. The Outer Colonies need this ship and its crew a lot more than Skybase does.”

   “This is treason,” Ortok replied, “and I guarantee that you will die screaming for your last breath of air when I report this.”

   Shaking his head, the pilot said, “That isn't going to happen, Ortok, and you know it. We'll be heading for one of our settlements now, and there you will be processed for work schedules.” Turning to Salazar, he added, “You and your people will be released, after we have had a chance to explain a few things to you.”

   “All lies,” Ortok said. “They are pirates and thieves, who will see our children starve.”

   With a sigh, Salazar said, “Call off your attack, and I will guarantee that you will have a hearing with Captain Orlova. That's the best I can do.”

   “I don't think you understand,” Tarak replied. “You are in no position to bargain.” Another man appeared at the door, also armed, covering the room, and Tarak pushed forward to the helm. Salazar looked around, taking a quick look at the sensor display. Nine minutes until intercept, time enough to do something, even if they wouldn't be able to escape.

   Ortok stepped forward, drifting towards Tarak, his fists balled, and the man at the door fired, his nerve gun making the engineer writhe in agony, twisting around as he tumbled through the air. Using the distraction, Salazar leapt forward, kicking at the pilot while Harper moved for the man at the door. She was an instant faster than the guard, snatching his gun and turning it on him while Salazar crashed into Tarak, the two of them grappling at each other as they bounced from the wall, before the pilot suddenly grew limp in his arms.

   “Got him,” Harper said. “Now what?”

   “Get me a revised time to contact,” he said, reaching under the console. He gently pulled the connector free of the portable computer, and started to reconnect it in the proper place, pushing the sea of wires aside in a desperate search to find the control circuit. He finally found it on the third attempt, peering up at the console to see the lights finally glowing red.

   “I can't seal off the room,” Harper said. “Contact in seven minutes, nine seconds. Firing range in six.”

   “Status of the communication systems?”

   “Hopeless,” the hacker replied. “The comm laser is working, but the targeting computer isn't. I'd never be able to hold a beam.”

   “How long to send a short text message?”

   “A microsecond,” she said, turning to the console. “I can start hunting for Alamo, fire it off as one pulse, but we'll have no way of knowing whether the message was received.”

   “I'll buy us some time,” he replied. “We're too late for the gravity swing, but any delay will help.” Turning back to the controls, he ran the engines up to full thrust, and this time they responded immediately, the comforting roar of the motor sounding through the hull as their course began to change, out into free orbit, away from the planet.

   Instantly, the enemy ship reacted, twisting around to follow them, and he could make out the same laser as before boosting the sailship towards them, their acceleration far in excess of anything he could manage with the lumbering freighter. Behind him, he could hear Harper at work, concentrating on her controls, ranging across space as she attempted to lock onto Alamo, the computer unable to give her anything but the smallest degree of assistance.

   Disconnecting the safeties, he ran the acceleration up well over the red-line, pinning him to the seat. He still couldn't outpace his pursuer, but he could buy more time, as well as prevent anyone else from joining them on the bridge. Ortok moaned on the floor, mercifully lying on his back, starting to recover from the blast, but the others remained still and quiet.

   They roared past the planet, and he briefly had a close-in view of the surface, large brown areas framed in green and blue, with the sheer white of the ice caps raging down in long, sweeping scythes. As he passed, an area seemed to shine, the sunlight reflecting from the surface, unlike anything he had ever seen before.

   Then the starfield returned, the planet now beginning to recede. The enemy ship was still trailing them, boosting three times faster than the transport, an acceleration that must have rendered her crew all-but unconscious, trusting to their automatic systems to keep them on course. In a matter of moments, they'd find out just how badly they wanted this ship intact, firing range coming up all too quickly.

   “Come on, Harper,” he said.

   “Genius takes time,” she replied.

   “We're running out. Two minutes and all of this is over.”

   “I've got her close, but I can't quite get a firm lock. She's fighting me.”

   “Keep it together,” he said, turning back to his controls. The fuel tanks were beginning to run low, depleting at a rate far faster than they would ever normally be burned, and amber lights were starting to flash across his board as the struggling systems started to fail. He began to run bypass overrides, trying to work around the failing equipment, but it was a battle he was never going
to win, and as a swarm of red lights flooded his panel, the engines stuttered and died.

   “That's it,” he said. “They'll be on us in seconds.”

   “Wait one,” she said. “Got it! Link-up! I managed to send the message twice, I think. Enough that they'll know what's happening over here.”

   Looking up at the sensor controls with a sigh, he replied, “Not that there is anything they can do to help us. Even at full acceleration, they'd be hours getting here on an intercept course. That sailship will be on us in moments.”

   A groaning noise sounded from the floor, and Ortok's eyes flickered open, the grizzled engineer struggling to his feet, saying, “What happened?”

   “We managed to get a signal through to Alamo, but I don't think that's going to do us any good. Contact in forty seconds, and the engines are just about dead.”

   He looked up at the control board, his eyes widening, and replied, “I've never seen as many malfunctions in my life.”

   With a shrug, Harper said, “At least that means they're unlikely to be able to salvage the ship. They'll have to content themselves with taking prisoners. Which, I'm afraid, means us.”

   A loud report echoed through the ship, the enemy vessel locking onto the lower docking collar. The few surveillance cameras that were still working told the tale, boarding parties pushing onto the ship, grabbing anyone they could find and bundling them away. Salazar looked down at Tarak, who was starting to stir.

   “Your friends are here,” he said. “Though we were able to alert Alamo. Help will be on the way, I can promise you that.”

   “It won't make any difference,” the pilot replied. “None of it will make any difference. They'll never catch us in time.”

   Pulling out a pistol, Ortok said, “You won't be there to see any of it, though.”

   “Hold it,” Salazar said, as Harper raised her pistol. “There's no point to that, not now. Unless you want to commit suicide, in which case I will thank you not to take the rest of us with you.”

   A group of green-clad figures appeared in the door, chattering among themselves in an unfamiliar language before one of them turned to the prone gunman on the floor. He looked down for a moment, shook his head, and closed his eyes with the palm of his hand. For a second, a flash of bitter hatred appeared in his eyes as he stared at Salazar.

   Tarak dragged himself to his feet, reaching at a hand-hold, and shook his head, replying in the same strange language. The tone of the conversation suggested that the newcomer was reluctant to accede to the pilot's wishes, but after a moment, turned and left the bridge, muttering something under his breath that in any language had to be swearing.

   “Sub-Lieutenant Salazar, Lieutenant Harper, you are both the prisoners of the Colonial Coalition. We will attempt to contact your commanding officer shortly, but I must inform you that you are both wanted on charges of murder.” Looking down at the dead man, he said, “Grigar snapped his neck, probably during that mad surge of acceleration.”

   “The man tried to steal this ship,” Ortok said. “He deserves everything that he got. It's a cleaner death than the Council would have given him.”

   “I suggest you should be grateful that the Coalition is more merciful.” Looking around the bridge, he said, “A pity we can't go home in style, but the sailship will have to suffice. If you would accompany me, or would you rather be dragged unconscious to detention?”

   “My crew?” Salazar asked.

   “All safe, all well, and my intention is to leave them behind. All we wanted was the two of you. Now, shall we leave? Time and the orbits of the planets wait for no man. Or I may have to reconsider my decision not to take your crew with us.”

   With one final look at the corpse, Salazar nodded, pushing out into the corridor, Harper and Ortok followed, the latter shaking his head, a scowl frozen on his face.

   “There will be a reckoning for this, Tarak. Count on it.”

   “Words are cheap,” he replied. “Move.”

  Chapter 8

   Yorax looked over the declassified portions of Alamo's combat specifications, shaking his head in reverent awe. Periodically, he would pause to ask a quiet question, always astonished by the answer, before finally tearing himself away from the holodisplay.

   “This ship is a wonder,” he said. “And you have more of these?”

   “We do,” Orlova nodded. “More advanced, more powerful versions. You should see the new Ares-Class Battleships, though I'd still choose Alamo in a fight every time.”

   “A commanding officer is always proud of her ship,” he said. “I have to admit that I am jealous. To have the opportunity to command a ship such as this, on a mission of exploration among the stars, would be extraordinary. I wish I was twenty years younger; I'd be signing up with your Fleet in a heartbeat, and I expect many of my officers would be tempted.”

   “Should your Council apply for Protectorate status,” Nelyubov, standing behind Orlova, said, “You might have that opportunity.”

   Shaking his head, he said, “I don't think they would ever choose to relinquish their independence. Perhaps my children might have the chance to see other stars, though somehow, I doubt it.” He looked up, and said, “You could end our war in an afternoon.”

   “I'm not so sure of that,” Orlova replied. “Those defense lasers could be a problem, even for us. If they once got a firm lock on Alamo, we'd be finished.”

   Nodding, he said, “That was what defeated our last big offensive, and led to my recall from disgrace. I have some rather radical ideas, you see, and they elected to pick someone who would follow the guidance of our leaders without question.” He tapped up a display, inserting an old datadisk, and an image appeared of a dozen ships, flying in tight formation towards a barren moon. A beam winked into life, sweeping around to pick off missile volleys as they launched, before finally ripping into the gunships, destroying seven of them before the survivors could escape.

   “Whoever commanded that attack...” Nelyubov began.

   “He died for his sins, I assure you,” Yorax replied. “Though that was scant consolation for the survivors. I was chosen with a mandate to do better, but I've been left with few resources to push an advantage. All we can do is hold on, and hope that we can outlast our enemy in a war of attrition. Our intelligence suggests that it isn't an unrealistic expectation, though I know the Council would prefer me to fight some huge, glorious battle, to win the war with one single action.”

   “Usually, war doesn't work that way,” Orlova replied. “With a convoy system, as well as tighter control of the transports, you ought to be able to starve them out.”

   “I would tend to agree, but again and again, I am overruled. Disaster looms as a result, but I cannot make them see that.” He paused, then said, “You aren't going to help us, are you? I must confess, were I in your place, I would be reluctant to intervene either.”

   “I haven't said anything yet.”

   “You don't have to,” he replied, pulling out the datadisk. “I can see it in your eyes.”

   Before she could reply, the communicator on her desk chirped, and Weitzman's voice called out, “Sorry to interrupt you, ma'am, but we've just received a distress signal from Freighter Twenty-Two.”

   Glancing at Nelyubov, she raced out of her office onto the bridge, moving over to the communications station. Cantrell was already at Tactical, bringing the ship to stand-by, and Foster was plotting intercept courses at the helm, trajectory plots sweeping forth.

   “Details, Spaceman.”

   “It's from Lieutenant Harper, ma'am. She reports that a traitor on board, one Tarak, has attempted to hijack the ship, and that they are now being pursued by another sailship. They will be captured in minutes, and are unable to evade.”

   “Confirmed,” Spinelli said. “I've spotted the other ship. Looks like it came around from the far side of the planet, staying in the blind spot. Contact in one minu
te.”

   “At best speed, how long before we reach them?” Orlova asked.

   Foster shook her head, and said, “Two hours, maybe a little less.”

   “Do it,” she said. “Get us moving. I want all decks on stand-by alert, and all hands informed that we will be going to battle stations in one hundred and five minutes unless the situation changes.”

   “Aye, ma'am,” Nelyubov said, moving over to a vacant station as Alamo's engines fired, the ship slowly moving towards Arcadia, the navigation plot snapping on to show them intercepting the enemy vessel. Yorax stepped forward, frowning as he examined the holodisplay.

   “I'm not familiar with charts of this type, Captain, but I can tell you that this is not their normal procedure. Their ships are faster than ours, if lighter, and they've never needed to use stealth techniques. Nor, as far as I am aware, do they have any stations in that part of the Outer Ring.” Shaking his head, he continued, “This was planned, probably for quite a long time, if I am any judge. They want that ship.”

   “Or the people on it,” Nelyubov suggested, looking up from his work.

   “No, I don't think so. For two reasons. First, that it has taken them longer than you have been in this system to set up the attack, and second, that if they wanted to speak to you, I suspect that all it would have taken would have been a simple message.” He looked across at Orlova, a smile on his face, and added, “In fact, I suspect that you have already attempted to contact them to find out their side of the story.”

   “They haven't replied to any of our messages,” she said.

   “Perhaps they assume that you are our ally, or maybe they are simply watching and waiting.”

   “Docking complete,” Spinelli said. “The sailship has locked onto the freighter. And pulled a substantial acceleration to do it. I think they topped out at eight gravities.”

   “Now they will strip the ship,” Yorax said. “Loot it for spare parts, components, people, and leave it a drifting hulk. Look at the vector your pilot placed the ship on. Somehow he managed to break escape velocity. I doubt we'll ever be able to retrieve it.”