Battlecruiser Alamo - 7 - Battlecruiser Alamo: Sacred Honor

by Richard Tongue

   “You’ve been locked up for ten years, and you just accepted that?” Cooper said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it.”

   “How different was it than if I had served on a ship, Corporal? I always knew that there would be a rescue eventually; had the war broken out, I would have been retrieved with the remainder of the Hercules crew. I played the percentages, and I have won.”

   “Not yet, Diego. If that’s actually your name. This isn’t over.”

   “With everything Alamo is going to face, I fear it is. The only sane choice will be to surrender.”

   “You don’t know the Captain very well, evidently.”

   “He will surrender, or he will die. And you, incidentally. I will be unable to rescue you in that circumstance, and for that I must apologize. You may blame your commander.”

   “Do you actually expect me to just walk into captivity?”

   “Not in the least.” Diego fired, and the world went dark.

  Chapter 19

   There was no such thing as stealth in space. Sensor networks could detect the slightest change in the nature of a vacuum, a misplaced molecule of oxygen, and they could certainly pick up a spacesuited boarding party trying to sneak on board a starship. Which didn’t mean that stealth tactics couldn’t work, it just meant that they had to be based on misdirection rather than brute-force technological trickery.

   “This is never going to work,” Nelyubov said as he looked at the crates, six of them all lined up in Hercules’ hangar bay, open and ready for use.

   “Relax, Lieutenant. Didn’t you ever hear of the Trojan Horse?”

   “I certainly did, and I suspect so did they.”

   “Do you want to come or not?”

   Smiling, he said, “That isn’t even a question.”

   Orlova looked around at her hand-picked team, selected from the only members of Hercules’ crew that had actual combat experience. Durman had invited himself along for the ride as well, pointing out that he had at least fired a weapon in recent memory. She looked down at the boxes again, wondering how she had managed to get quite this desperate.

   Wilson walked over with the sealant, shaking his head, “You realize that if you aren’t on board in an hour, you are in for a world of problems. Bad enough for these things to pop open if you are in atmosphere, but during transit...there’s no room for a spacesuit, just a respirator. You’d have maybe thirty seconds to find an airlock.”

   Looking around, Orlova said, “If anyone wants to back out, now’s the time. I won’t object, and won’t think any the less of you.”

   The crew looked around, each of them wondering if anyone else was going to drop out. Shaking his head, Durman started to climb into his box, folding himself into the fetal position and sliding his rifle into the slot.

   “Let’s get this over with. I don’t like being in confined spaces.”

   Nodding, Orlova scrambled into the box, slipped on her oxygen mask, and crunched herself up into a ball as the crate was closed, the whining sound of the sealant gun echoing through the space. Reaching for her watch, she started a sixty minute countdown; if she was any longer than that, she’d have to improvise.

   The problem was that she couldn’t really feel what was going on in zero-gravity. She could just about tell that the crate was moving, but there was no way of seeing outside; there was nothing anyone could think of that wouldn’t be immediately obvious, and there were troubles enough as it was.

   Glancing down at her watch, she realized that only twenty seconds had passed. This was going to be a long wait. She began to mentally picture what was going to happen; Price’s people would collect the crates, place them with the next consignment of stores for the Dumont, and take them outside in suits, dropping them off in one of the cargo bays. Shortly afterward, the crates would pop open and they could begin their work.

   She was definitely on the move, but she tried not to think about it. There was nothing she could do until the sealant popped, and she might as well relax. Starting a series of deep breaths, she closed her eyes, started to count, and tried to clear her mind of thought.

   The beeping of her watch woke her up; glancing at the face, she saw that she had only one minute to go. Against all her expectations, she had actually managed to fall asleep. Trying to stretch out was impossible; she banged her elbow against the side of the crate, wincing; no-one was going to hear her at least.

   With a loud pop, the crate flew open, and she pushed out into open space, not sure what she was going to see. A part of her expected that the plan wouldn’t work, that she’d emerge to see a dozen guns pointing at her. What she actually saw was a worried-looking Neander holding a datapad, her head jerking from side to side as the troopers emerged from their personal plastoform chrysalis. She saw an angry red welt on the side of her head, scars on her bare arms.

   “Don’t worry,” she said, reaching for her gun, “We’re not going to hurt you.”

   “Who are you?”

   “The Triplanetary Fleet. We’re here to help. How many more of your people on board?”

   “Twelve.”

   “Do you know how to use a gun?”

   Nodding, she said, “I don’t want to.”

   Durman sighed, then tossed her a pistol, “I’d rather be sitting around a fire cracking a beer, but we don’t always get what we want. We need to get to critical stations.”

   “Frank,” she said to Nelyubov, “You take Mathis, go grab engineering. Jenkins, you and Scott take life support. I’m heading up to the bridge.” She turned to the frightened woman, “What’s your name?”

   “They call me…”

   “No,” she said, shaking her head. “What’s your name. Your real name.”

   “Ixia.”

   Tossing her a box, she said, “There are four more pistols in here. More in the other crates. Give them to your people.”

   She looked at the pistol in her hand, then up at Orlova, a deep sadness in her limpid eyes, “I don’t want to kill.”

   “No-one does. You have to decide what is more important to you. In two days you can be down on the planet below in safety, and never have to hurt anyone – or be hurt by anyone – again. Isn’t that worth fighting for?”

   Mathis, pushing out of the room and peering into the corridor, said, “Come on, skipper, we’ve got to move!”

   Nodding, she left Ixia with the weapons and pushed up into a maintenance hatch. Price had provided detailed schematics of the ship, and just a few hours ago she’d done this entire journey using the holoprojectors. It wasn’t the same, though, it never was. So many modifications made by engineers over the years, dangling bits of component that made it harder to get through.

   Behind her, Durman swore as he got hung up on a piece of cabling. Giving a tug to loosen it, he grinned in triumph as it broke away, whereupon all the lights went out. Cursing, Orlova clicked a button on her pistol, a beam of light flashing down the tunnel, and kicked off as quickly as she could to reach her destination.

   “Sorry,” Durman said as he followed her.

   “You couldn’t know how lousy the maintenance was.”

   “No,” he said. “I’m sorry. Please put your hands in the air.”

   Turning around, her eyes wide, she said, “Come on.”

   “I’m quite serious.” Gesturing to the right, he said, “The hatch is right there, and there are friends of mine waiting outside.”

   “You had a lot of chances to do this before.”

   “Maybe I’ve decided which side I’m on.”

   Shaking her head, she cracked the hatch open and pushed out into the light of the corridor, blinking as her eyes adjusted. A trio of guards wearing Hydra Station patches, all carrying dangerous looking rifles, were waiting for her, and Durman kept his pistol trained on her as she emerged.

   “The Captain wishes to see you,” one of them said in a clipped accent, snatch
ing her pistol away.” “And Captain Chadwick does not like to be kept waiting.”

   Two of them grabbed her roughly by the arms, pulling her into a waiting elevator; Durman looked after her, a mournful look on his face, and kicked off down the corridor. The guards were silent in their ascent, and she wondered what welcoming parties were waiting for the rest of her assault team; her answer came as she pushed out into an observation deck, and Nelyubov was ruefully looking at her.

   “We didn’t get five decks,” he said.

   “Don’t worry, Frank. We did what we had to do.”

   A tall, gaunt figure pushed into the room, wearing a crumpled white uniform, a pistol in his hands.

   “We have all five of you,” the figure said. “I understand you two are officers in the Triplanetary Fleet.”

   “I am Acting Captain Orlova, of the Battlecruiser Hercules.”

   Nodding, he said, “Captain Chadwick, of the Dumont. I must ask you to immediately surrender yourselves, or face consequences that I am certain you will not enjoy.”

   “I will under no circumstances surrender my vessel.”

   “That is a pity,” he sighed. “Perhaps you will feel differently after the first of the deaths.”

   Her head jerked across to him, “Deaths?”

   “Your Sergeant Mathis is in an airlock now, and the pressure is falling fast.” A view of the man appeared on a monitor, gasping for breath as he tried to work the airlock controls, desperately scrambling at the panels in a bid to escape.

   “He’s going down fighting,” Nelyubov said.

   “Don’t you care about your crew?” Chadwick said.

   “They knew the risks going in, knew that joining the service meant that they might be called to sacrifice their lives. I’m proud of Sergeant Mathis, and I know what he would want me to do.”

   “And what is that?”

   With a smile, she slipped a knife down her sleeve and lunged towards Chadwick, grabbing him by the sleeves and spinning around behind him, the blade of the knife to his throat.

   “You are going to order his release right now, Captain, or you will be the one facing the consequences.”

   “My people will avenge my death.”

   “Frank, can you get that monitor onto the bridge?”

   He worked controls, and an image of the top level of the scout appeared; Durman, weapon out, had a quartet of technicians terrified and cowering in a corner, while working controls with the other hand.

   “Durman, can you hear me?”

   “Loud and clear, Maggie.”

   “Mathis is in one of the airlocks. He’s got seconds; can you get him out from up there?”

   “This isn’t going to work,” Chadwick said.

   “Oh, I think it will,” Orlova replied. “Right now the team that ambushed me is securing engineering and freeing the rest of my people. I expect to have control of this ship in any case in a matter of moments. The only question is whether it is over your dead body or not.”

   He looked her in the face, smiled, and said, “You don’t seriously think that you can secure this ship without my command codes, do you?”

   “I’ve got some excellent hackers,” she replied. “The real question here is at what point will your arrogance irritate me to the point that I will overlook the convenience of keeping you alive.”

   Shaking his head, he said, “You are simply bluffing. My men outnumber yours, and your attempt to take my ship will fail. Go ahead and kill me, if you are willing to do it with a knife, cutting into my flesh, rather than cleanly with a bullet or by the push of a button.”

   Nelyubov said, “If you won’t do it, I will.”

   She shook her head, then said, “No. Dammit. Bind him, and we’ll head up to the bridge.”

   Chadwick made to move, but before he could do anything the door slid open and Ixia drifted in, the unfamiliar weight of the pistol clutched in her hands, pointing towards him. He looked at her, smiling.

   “Freedom for you if you shoot them, slave.”

   Shaking her head, she replied, “Freedom for us all if I shoot you.” There was a loud crack, and Chadwick’s tumbling body smashed against the wall, droplets of blood dripping out across the room. Ixia was pushed back against the wall, and threw the gun away, shaking. Orlova drifted forward, taking her in her arms.

   “I killed him,” she said, eyes wide. “I killed him, and I don’t regret it.” She looked up at her, and repeated, “I don’t regret it. What am I?”

   “The same as you were a few minutes ago. What matters now is what you become.”

   Nelyubov said, “What happened to the rest of the guns?”

   “I spread them around, just as you said.”

   Orlova looked at him, then said, “There’s going to be a bloodbath.”

   “I hate to suggest it, but should we let them have their revenge?”

   Sighing, she replied, “That wouldn’t make us any better than them, would it.” Looking at the screen, she said, “Durman, can you patch me through to the entire ship from here.”

   “I think so,” he replied, poking at switches. “Got it. Say, when am I getting some help?”

   “In a minute.” Changing tone, she said, “This is Orlova. Captain Chadwick is dead, and the Dumont is now under Triplanetary control. Anyone who wishes to surrender should disarm themselves and make their way to the cargo bay. I say to the former slaves who are on board; you are now under the protection of the Triplanetary Confederation, and your freedom will be guaranteed.”

   “That did the trick up here,” Durman said, “We’re all set to go.”

   “Right,” she replied. “Nelyubov and I are on our way.”

   As they headed for the elevator, he paused, saying, “You took a hell of a risk, trusting that Durman wouldn’t switch sides again.”

   “I figured it was worth it, and I figured that the late Captain Chadwick would believe it, more importantly. As for Durman, I trusted my instincts.”

   “Your instincts?”

   She shrugged, “I took a gamble and won. These won’t be the worst odds we’ll be facing, Frank. Let’s go and take a proper look at this ship. We’ve got a hell of a lot to do in the next few days.”

  Chapter 20

   A faint red ring illuminated Sol on the viewscreen of the observation lounge. It seemed so small, just another point of light in an endless galaxy of stars, but for tens of thousands of years its light had been all that humanity had known. Now Marshall was basking in the dull light of another star, one which had never created any light of its own, only shared by the visitors who had wandered this way over the eternity of time.

   He looked at his datapad again, the contents of the message that Cooper had sent to the hidden scoutship. Full details of Alamo’s planned course, jump calculations, everything. Somehow the trooper had managed to complete his mission, though the curse of it was that most of the crew were now convinced that he was the traitor; there had been no way to prevent it from leaking beyond the bridge. Worse, the saboteur was still at large, and Cooper was missing. It briefly flickered through his mind that there was a chance that they were one and the same, but he dismissed it. He knew Cooper, trusted him. Though, of course, that was exactly what the saboteur would have hoped to engender.

   “Credit for your thoughts,” Caine said, stepping into the room behind him.

   “I don’t know if they’re worth that much.”

   “Come on, don’t rate yourself so low. The others are on their way up.” She looked out at the stars, standing by his side, and continued, “Decided whether we’re going to go through with it yet?”

   “We’re proceeding with the mission as planned.”

   “No second thoughts, no hesitation?”

   “Decision made, Deadeye. There’s no point second-guessing it. We’re going to have to face that fleet at some point, and we might as well get it over wit
h.”

   “While there’s life, there’s hope, Danny.”

   “We’re not dead yet.”

   Zebrova and Quinn walked into the room, pulling up chairs at the corner into a rough circle. Quinn made to seal the room, but Marshall shook his head.

   “We’re not all here yet.”

   “Aren’t we?” he replied. “I thought…”

   “Sorry I’m late,” Major Marshall said as he walked in, clutching a datapad. “I had another idea at the last minute and wanted to check it out.” Looking around, he said, “Am I interrupting something?”

   “Not at all,” Caine said, shaking her head, “Our secret meetings are usually open to the public. Danny?”

   “We’re still not all here yet.”

   “Who else did you invite?”

   Lane walked into the room, nodding at Marshall and glancing at Caine. Stepping past Quinn, she sealed and locked the hatch, the space-tight seals clicking into place, and moved to stand by the wall.

   “Good morning, everyone.”

   “Is it?” Zebrova said.

   “That’s enough, everyone. Circumstances have expanded this little group a bit, but the objective remains the same. I need dirty tricks, people, and I need good ones. If we’re going to take on a battle group and come out the other side, it’s going to take every bit of tactical ingenuity in this room.” He tossed a metal disc to the floor, and a hologram of the Gliese 442 system appeared in the air.

   “Our planned emergence point, as recently advertised to the Cabal,” he began, pointing towards a flashing blue dot. “I expect the enemy forces to be picketing the area. They know where and when we are arriving, but naturally not our course; my guess is that they will have a fighter screen in the air in a sphere, reinforced by battlecruisers spread about to catch us. As soon as they see us moving, they can close in and engage.”

   “Good, solid, obvious tactics,” Major Marshall said. “What if they’ve concentrated?”

   “It doesn’t matter,” Caine replied. “The effect will be the same; Alamo will appear at the heart of a lot of firepower. You’re assuming that they haven’t improvised mines, or something of that sort.”