Battlecruiser Alamo: Malware Blues

by Richard Tongue

   “More creatures coming, sir,” Hunt said, pointing at a turning. “Down there, I think.”

   “We’ll try the other way. Come on.”

   Hoping against hope that they were on the right path, Cooper raced down the corridor, keeping his rifle at the ready, alert for any sign of activity. A pair of bloody footprints guided them around another bend, the trio pausing at the sound of strange chattering beyond another crossroads.

   “Go now!” Cooper said, racing to the right, where a dozen of the creatures were packed around a doorway, turning to run towards them the instant they saw them. The three troopers fired together, trails of green fire leaping through the air, the beasts burned to death where they stood, a final howl marking their passing.

   “Cooper?” Salazar’s voice yelled from behind the barricade. “Is that you?”

   “The reinforcements are here,” Cooper replied. “We’ve got to move quickly. I’m guessing there are more of those creatures coming.”

   “More and more every minute,” Salazar said, pushing the twin bunks out of the way. Fox followed up, dazed, looking at the three troopers as though in disbelief that help had finally arrived.

   “Either of you hurt?” Hunt asked.

   “We’re fine,” Salazar said. “Did you find the others?”

   “Nine of them.” Cooper replied. “Ryder didn’t make it, I’m afraid.”

   Salazar looked at Hunt, and with a deep sigh, said, “Let’s get the hell out of here. The sooner we’re out of this place, the better.”

   The five of them quickly ran back down the corridor, another series of howls chasing them. Hunt hung back, taking the rear, while Nash moved up to take point, Cooper keeping an eye on the two they had rescued. With a loud crack, Hunt fired, taking out another creature, but the blast carried on into the wall, a series of black lines forming in the material, steam forcing itself through at high pressure.

   “It’s going to go!” Hunt yelled. “Run!”

   Forgetting any thoughts of stealth or defense, the group sprinted down the corridor, taking the twists and turns back towards the submarine lock. The desperate howls were drowned out by the ever-louder hissing, water forcing itself into the ancient structure. As they turned the last corner, they could see Jackson and Rhodes waiting, beckoning them in, but at that second the weakened wall finally gave, sending a tidal wave of water rushing through the corridors.

   Desperately, they tried to outrun it, but the torrent caught them before they’d got halfway there, picking them up and hurling them towards the far wall. Jackson dropped down the hatch, caught off-guard by the first wave, but Rhodes held on, forcing the hatch to stay open as the five of them crashed into the wall. The trooper reached for Nash, pulling her in, then reached out for Fox, but the remainder were too far away.

   “Get out of here!” Cooper yelled.

   “Not a chance,” Rhodes said, tossing Fox down the hatch towards the submarine, the clatter from the bottom suggesting that the crewman had missed every rung in the desperate rush to safety. Hunt reached for the ladder, Salazar giving the trooper a push in the right direction. Water was pouring down the hatch, the veteran caught with it, tumbling down.

   “Some rescue,” Salazar said, Cooper reaching back for him, pulling him back towards the submarine. Rhodes extended his hand to grab them, and by some miracle, managed to drag them in. Salazar was the last to leave, taking a look back at the corridor before slamming down the hatch and climbing down the ladder. Water dripped everywhere, as they dropped into the submarine, they were wading up to their knees.

   “Go, Sergeant!” Cooper said. “Get us out of here!”

   “On our way. It’ll take a few minutes. We’re overloaded.”

   “Just get us back to the surface,” he replied, crashing down on a couch. He looked around at the survivors, huddled together at one end of the cabin, the two medics going through the wounded.

   “I thought there were twenty-eight of you,” Cooper said.

   “There were.”

   Glancing across at the group, he said, “I need to know who to put under arrest.”

   “What?” Salazar said.

   “Some of them must have been among the group that hijacked Wyvern, kept you prisoner.”

   A thin smile creeping across his face, Salazar glanced at Fox, looked around at the battered survivors, nursing their wounds on the deck, and replied, “I suppose it’s possible, but for the life of me, I can’t remember, and somehow I don’t think that anyone else will, either. What do you say, Spaceman? How’s your memory today?”

   “Terrible, sir,” Fox replied.

   Shaking his head, Cooper said, “Crazy.” The submarine lurched down, and with a loud rumble, began its long ascent to the surface. “Less work for me, I guess. It’s already been a long day, and it isn’t over yet.” Gesturing at the surface, he said, “Wyvern’s hanging over us in orbit. Getting back to Alamo isn’t going to be easy.”

   “Story of my week,” Salazar replied, slumping back against to the wall.

  Chapter 21

   The strategic view was a nightmare of tangled rocks and sensor blind spots, Wyvern’s image turning opaque to indicate that the computer was only guessing its current location, reliant on a projected path, rather than relying on any current information. She looked across at Nelyubov, who shook his head.

   “They’re not coming out to us.”

   “Message from assault team,” Weitzman said. “Rescue party is on the way, and they expect to take off in twelve minutes.” He turned from his station, and added, “With eleven survivors. No casualties in the Espatier force.”

   “Eleven out of twenty-eight,” Orlova said with a sigh. “It must have been sheer hell down there.”

   “Change to target aspect!” Spinelli said. “Just had a reading for a moment. I think they’re going for a new orbit.”

   “Not coming out of the field?” she asked.

   “No, ma’am, nowhere near enough of a thrust vector.” He looked across, and said, “They’re going for a low pass over the landing area, in nine minutes.”

   “A targeted orbital bombardment,” Nelyubov said. “If they got low enough, the surface atmosphere is next to nothing. Kline wants to make sure that no-one gets home.”

   “Or he’s raising the stakes, hoping that we’ll give in to his demands,” Orlova said.

   “We’re running out of options,” he replied, glancing across at his station. “Even if the shuttles could launch sooner, they’d never be able to get past the orbital blockade. Maybe we could stall, try to buy some time.”

   Shaking her head, she said, “That wouldn’t work on me, and I doubt it will work on him. Midshipman, how long to intercept Wyvern, assuming a straight-line trajectory?”

   “We can’t,” Foster began.

   “How long?” Orlova asked, interrupting her.

   “Six minutes, ten seconds,” Powell offered.

   Taking a deep breath, she said, “Well, Midshipman, do you want a chance to show off your flying skills?”

   “You want to take Alamo into that mess?” Nelyubov said, shaking his head. “It’s a big enough risk for a shuttle, never mind a battlecruiser.”

   “I can do it,” Foster said, nodding. “I’d like to give it a try, anyway.”

   “There’s no chance we’ll avoid impacts,” Nelyubov pressed. He frowned, then added, “Our missiles are useless against Wyvern anyway. We could use them to try and knock any incoming targets off-course. It might work.”

   “Quinn,” Orlova said, tapping a computer. “I assume you’re monitoring. Is Alamo up to this?”

   “The power distribution relays are being held together with duct tape and prayer, Maggie, so try not to make the ride too rough.”

   “We’ll do what we can. Sit on them, Jack. Bridge out.” Looking around the bridge, she smiled, then said. “Full power to engines, Foster. Take us in
to the planet.” Tapping a control, Orlova said, “Now hear this. All hands stand by for extremely variable acceleration and rapid course changes. There will be no advance warning. Damage control teams stand by for multiple impacts. Bridge out.”

   “Midshipman,” Powell said, “Keep your heading straight and level for the present. I’ll get you a more exact course projection in a minute, but you’ll have to be ready to make second-to-second changes. There are so many sensor ghosts in there that we don’t know where all the fragments are, and we haven’t got much data on their trajectories. Try and stay clear of the larger pieces if you can.”

   “Aye, sir. Full acceleration, direct-line approach to Wyvern.”

   “Laser charged, ready to fire,” Nelyubov said. “Getting a line-of-sight shot is going to be difficult as hell, Maggie. We’ll be lucky to get a tenth of our usual range.”

   “They’ll have the same problem, Frank,” Orlova replied. “This evens the odds.”

   Alamo’s main engines began to fire, the acceleration rumbling through the decks as her course plot changed, the computer switching from green to red, urgent warnings flashing on the monitors, the planned trajectory leading to at least a dozen impacts in the distressingly near future. Spinelli was delivering a stream of readings to Powell and Nelyubov, fishing for the vital pieces of information in a sea of confused data.

   Orlova watched Foster, the helmsman’s face growing pale as she saw the maze of rocks up ahead. Her fingers slowed for a moment on the controls, before resuming again, faster than before, a grin beginning to spread across her face.

   “You’re through the wall, now, Sub-Lieutenant,” Orlova said, stepping behind her. “Try and enjoy it. Not one helmsman in ten thousand will ever get to do what you are doing now.”

   “Sub-Lieutenant?” Foster asked.

   “I’ll file the paperwork once we get through this. You’re ready. Now get to it.”

   “Yes, ma’am,” the newly commissioned officer said with renewed glee, turning back to her controls, her fingers dancing over the thrusters as she began to make pin-point course changes. Over at the holotable, Powell had a beatific smile on his face as he plotted the course corrections, the image of a man completely within his element, master of his domain. He looked across at her for a moment, and smiled.

   “Challenge of a lifetime. Thought I’d missed out.”

   “Keep us on the straight and narrow, Professor.”

   “You know, that does feel a lot better than Lieutenant,” he replied, his eyes switching back to the tangled spaghetti course he was plotting through the broken planet, a many-tentacled monster that swooped and dived around the rocks. At the rear of the bridge, Grogan looked at the status display, the holomodel of Alamo a sea of amber warning lights, trying to predict where the damage would come, where the repair teams would be needed. The Flight Engineer, if all went well, was nothing more than a spectator to a battle, and Orlova would like nothing more than for Grogan to be able to sit back and watch. Somehow, she didn’t think it would be that easy.

   “Incoming asteroid, close aboard,” Spinelli said.

   “Launching missile,” Nelyubov replied, and a dotted line raced towards one of the nearby chunks of rock, part of a cluster of a hundred. The missile flew along the guided track, hitting home. It couldn’t destroy it, not with ten times the power, but the trajectory would now take it a heart-rending fifty meters underneath the ship, rather than crashing into the sensor deck.

   Looking across at their target, Orlova said, “Wyvern hasn’t even twitched, yet. Frank, are we close to theoretical effective range yet?”

   “In twenty seconds, but I can’t line up on them. They’re using some of the fragments for cover.”

   “Warning shot, then. I want them to know that we mean business. And get a half-salvo of missiles heading in their direction as well.”

   Turning, he said, “They won’t be in the air for twenty seconds.”

   “As long as they know we’re after them,” Orlova replied.

   “Foster,” Nelyubov said, “I want a line up in eighteen seconds. As near as you can get. Make sure they see it.”

   “Can’t do it,” she replied. “First opportunity is in thirty-one seconds. It’s dangerous around here.”

   “I’ll take what I can get. You have the call.”

   “Aye, sir,” she said, ducking around a fragment of rock, bringing them close to the surface of one of the larger fragments, soaring high over a jagged mountain range, glistening with ice. For an instant, the ruby laser reflected from the surface, the beam smashing into a fragment of rock, shrapnel flying into the air around Wyvern.

   “Change to target aspect,” Spinelli said. “Wyvern is now on an intercept course, and I’m getting an energy spike.”

   “Missiles in the air,” Nelyubov replied. “I want to try dumb-shot.”

   “They’ll dodge,” Orlova said.

   “They will, but the rocks won’t. I want to make a mess.”

   With a smile, she said, “Make an epic mess.”

   “On it.” Before Wyvern could interfere with the missiles, he threw them onto their new trajectories, sending them diving towards nearby asteroids, taking advantage of any geological instabilities he could find, ready to shower the enemy ship with debris. Abruptly, the scoutship dived, firing its engines at full thrust, skimming dangerously close to the fragment.

   Alamo swung around, slowly ranging in towards the scoutship, Wyvern ducking towards a sensor blind spot. The display kept fading in and out, the computer attempting to match up reality with prediction, struggling to calculate the wildly divergent course plots.

   “If the computer is right,” Nelyubov said, “We’ll have a firing window in three minutes.” “Look sharp,” Orlova said, turning to the viewscreen. The computer would see it long before she did, but her eyes still bored into the display, seeking any hint of the enemy vessel curving around the planet. Nelyubov held his hand over the controls, the targeting systems racing through their checks.

   “Threat warning!” Spinelli yelled. “Four missiles, ranging directly!”

   “Four?” Grogan said.

   “Delayed salvo,” Orlova replied. “Hooke, get them out of my sky!”

   “Trying,” he said. “I think they’re on dumb-shot.”

   “Executing evasive pattern,” Foster said, her hands flying across the controls. Orlova turned to the display, looking at the trajectory plots, then raced back to the helm.”

   “Full power burn, now!”

   “Aye, ma’am,” Foster replied, her eyes filled with doubt as she ramped Alamo to maximum thrust. Sirens echoed throughout the ship, collision warning alarms, and the planetoid below started to loom large in the screen.

   Powell frowned, and Orlova turned to say, “They weren’t shooting at us. That cluster of rocks just behind us. The shrapnel would have smashed our sensor pickups to pieces across half the ship.”

   Nodding, he replied, “I thought it must be something like that.” Glancing across to a display, he said, “We’re out of the blast zone.”

   “We’re below orbital velocity!” Spinelli said. “Impact in two minutes, ten seconds.”

   “Not if I can help it,” Foster said, spinning the ship on its thrusters, the engines still firing at full thrust, hull stress warnings screaming across the bridge as she settled the battlecruiser down to a new trajectory, hurriedly boosting the ship back into orbit. For a second, she killed the engines, and Orlova looked sharply across her, before activating them again.

   “Swinging past a moonlet,” she said.

   “Enemy ship, close quarter!” Spinelli said. “Coming around the curve of the planet, closest approach in ninety seconds!”

   Looking up, Foster said, “If I try and evade, we won’t make orbit.”

   “Frank, take them! Try and knock out those damn particle beams!”

   “If you aren’t
too busy, Foster, I’ll need a direct line in five seconds.”

   “That I can do,” she replied. “Five seconds, mark.”

   Orlova watched as the two ships drew closer together. Wyvern must have spent her fuel like water to get on her new orbit, but it was a nice bit of flying. Every eight minutes, they’d have an interception window of thirty seconds, with a good selection of debris to duck. None of that would be important if they got the first shot home. She glanced up at the clock, and smiled. The shuttles would be lifting from the ground in three minutes. All that now mattered was making sure they had somewhere to come home to.

   “Firing!” Nelyubov yelled. Orlova watched the display, the image of the enemy ship slowly rotating in the center of the room, and saw a narrow scar run down Wyvern’s hull. They’d done damage, that was certain, but had missed the beam array by a matter of meters.

   “Fire missile salvo, dumb-fire,” Orlova ordered. “Give them something to think about.”

   “Enemy salvo in-bound,” Spinelli said. “Intercept in ten seconds.”

   “Clumsy,” Orlova muttered. “Almost forcing us to evade.”

   “They’re moving!” Nelyubov said, “Dodging the missiles. Almost out of firing range.”

   “Whatever it takes, duck!” Orlova yelled to Foster, and she tapped a series of controls, sending Alamo rocking to the side. A blast of energy swept from Wyvern, and all of the lights on the bridge went out, the consoles rapidly rebooting.

   Grogan shook her head, throwing a switch under her console, saying, “Power network. They must have hit a node.”

   The lights snapped back on, and Orlova asked, “What’s the story, Spaceman?”

   “The running repairs failed, the whole damn lot of them.”

   “What about the back-ups?” Powell asked.

   “What do you think we were using?” Grogan snapped. She sighed, and said, “Damage control teams on the way. We’ve got a lot of damage to the outer hull, breaches in nineteen places.”

   “My port thrusters are out again,” Foster said. “If I keep evading to starboard they’ll notice.” A light flashed green on her panel, and she replied, “Orbital velocity attained. That’s something, I guess. We must have crossed the threshold before the main engines died.”