“Two to three hours, sir, before we're back to full definition,” the engineer said. “I've got teams on the hull right now, but it's slow, painstaking work. Nothing we can't handle, but it's going to have to take as long as it takes, I'm afraid. Once they're fitted, they've got to be calibrated, and that takes a good eighty minutes right there.” Anticipating the next question, he continued, “And I've already shortened the process as much as I dare, Captain.”
“Do what you can, Spaceman,” he replied, turning back to the viewscreen. The little sensor data they had was gradually building up an image of local space, dominated by a desert world surrounded by a cluster of moons, dozens of them on a wide range of orbits, enough to generate a score of hendecaspace egress points, and produce hundreds of sensor blind spots. This would be a lousy planet to attempt to defend, and under normal circumstances, he'd have been on his way out of the area at once.
Circumstances were far from normal. Less than half an hour ago, his ship had passed through a wormhole into an unknown region of space, and from everything they could tell, it was a one-way trip. Certainly there was no evidence of a wormhole terminus in this system, and they'd fired a dozen probes back the way they had come to no effect.
Marshall looked at the starfield, unfamiliar constellations ahead. The principles of celestial navigation dated back to the early days of spaceflight, reliant on the triangulation of a series of stars to fix their position down to the meter. Usually, it was a matter of simplicity, a training exercise that formed a part of basic training. A first-year cadet should be able to handle it, even with only limited equipment, but Ballard was being painstakingly careful with her analysis.
“I've finally coaxed out a damage report, Captain,” Francis said. “Good news, mostly. No damage to the reactor or the engines, and all weapons systems appear to be intact. The only damage was to the ship's outer areas, and that seems superficial. The worst of it was from the knife fight Midshipman Clarke took part in, between the decks, and we've got a work crew in there right now.”
“Any estimates?”
“Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo reports that he should have the ship back to full operation in six hours, but requests permission to conduct full stress tests on the hull before we attempt to enter hendecaspace. We're not sure what sort of effect passage through the wormhole might have had.” Stepping to the helm, he added, “Nice flying, by the way, Midshipman.”
“Thank you, sir,” the duty helmsman replied. Marshall looked at the young officer-in-training, wondering what was running through his mind. This was something outside anyone's experience, the exploration of a star system without any previous information. No long-range astronomic data, no gravitational charts, nothing. They were going back to the earliest days of interstellar exploration, and the catastrophic losses of those early expeditions kept running through his mind.
Of more immediate concern was UNSS Kurt Waldheim. The Dreadnought had preceded them through the wormhole, with enough of a head-start to allow them to take a strategic position somewhere here, watching and waiting to see what Alamo's first move would be. If they'd been in a normal orbital track, they'd have spotted them instantly, even with their limited sensor capabilities. Which meant they were hiding somewhere, and that didn't bode well for the future.
“Anything from the planet?” Marshall asked.
Caine looked up from her readouts, and said, “Breathable atmosphere, gravity a little heavy, hot as hell. Not a good place to visit unless you like endless wastelands.” She paused, then added, “You're thinking about Pavel, aren't you.”
“He's out there somewhere, Deadeye.”
“Assuming he survived the passage.”
“If he did,” Marshall pressed, “then he'd want to set down as fast as he could. A world with breathable air, no matter how inhospitable in other ways, would give him time to think of something else, or wait for a rescue attempt.”
Bowman turned from the communications station, and said, “We're not picking up any beacon signals, sir, and we've been monitoring all channels since our arrival.”
“With a United Nations Dreadnought in the area, he might not turn on his beacon unless he knew there were friends in the system,” Harper replied. “We're going to have the make the first move on that. Request permission to take a shuttle for a closer look.”
Shaking his head, Marshall said, “Not until the ship is back to full fighting trim, Lieutenant, but as soon as it is, I'll be taking Alamo into close orbit.” He frowned, then added, “Unless we can find some other way to get home.”
“Good God,” Ballard said, her face pale, hands trembling. “I thought I must have made a mistake. That there was an error somewhere in my calculations, something basic I'd messed up.” She looked up, tears in her eyes, and added, “I was going to get married in nine months. I'm never going to see him again.”
“Hold it together, Spaceman,” Francis said, moving over to the sensor controls. “And have a little faith. No matter how bad it seems, we'll find a way out of it. A way back.”
“No!” she yelled. “No, we won't!” Taking a deep breath, she continued, “I've completed the system checks, and run all the calculations ten times. I'm certain, to within a hundred and twenty light-years. Which given the circumstances, is more than good enough.”
“Spaceman,” Marshall said, keeping his voice soft, “Where are we?”
“As best I can work out, sir, we're on the far side of Andromeda.”
Silence reigned across the bridge, all eyes on Ballard, and Marshall asked the question on everyone's minds. “Are you sure?”
She nodded, and said, “As far as I can determine, Captain, we're a little under four hundred thousand light-years from home. With an intergalactic void in between us and the Confederation. Even if we could trace a route back, it would take centuries, millennia to traverse such a gap.”
“Four hundred thousand light-years,” Caine muttered. “It's inconceivable.
Marshall looked around the bridge, then said, “The wormhole, Spaceman?”
“If it's still there, sir, then I can't find any trace of it, and none of our probes have passed through. Our sensors aren't working well enough for me to make any better determination yet, but that doesn't seem to be set to change in the near future. I don't know much about the theory, but if you want a guess, I'd say it was one-way.”
“Never mind the theory,” Francis said. “We just got more practical experience than anyone would ever want to have.” He paused, then said, “Maybe...”
“Spaceman Bowman,” Marshall said, “are the internal communications working?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then please connect me through to the entire ship, and alert all hands to stand by for a special announcement from the Captain.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Bowman replied.
“Danny,” Caine warned, “you can't tell the crew, not yet. Not until we know more, or until we have a chance to work out...”
“One look out of a viewport will let them know that we're a hell of a long way from home, Deadeye, and how long do you think we're going to be able to keep this a secret? The calculations are simple enough, and I'd bet my next month's pay that lower decks already know that we've gone astray. They already know most of it, and all it takes is one sensor technician to put the pieces together, and we'll have a panic on our hands.” Turning to Bowman, he continued, “Well?”
“You're on, sir.”
Sliding on a headset, Marshall said, “This is the Captain. As you all know, this ship has passed through a wormhole, a gateway connecting two parts of the universe, potentially, distant parts. We have sustained light damage, and will be at full operational readiness shortly.” He paused and looked around the bridge, trying to find the words.
“Our best projections indicate that we have completed a journey far longer than any taken in the history of spaceflight. Although
we have yet to perfectly fix our position, our calculations put us four hundred thousand light-years from home. On the far side of the Andromeda Galaxy.” He paused again, unable to quite comprehend the words he was saying. “Far beyond the range of our hendecaspace drive. Therefore, we will be unable to effect a return to the Confederation under normal propulsion.”
“Nevertheless, Alamo is in good condition, has recently completed a refit, and is more than a match for anything in this part of space. Our life support systems and power network are fully operational, and we have sustained no serious damage. We are in no, repeat, no imminent danger, and one way or another, we will find a way to get home. Have courage, have faith, and have hope. Bridge out.” Turning to Francis, he added, “You'd better get in contact with Doctor Strickland. Tell him I'll have no objection to any sedatives he hands out tonight. And tell the department heads that I won't be watching attendance too heavily for a day or two, and to use their judgment regarding personnel.”
“I'd keep everyone busy, sir, stop them from having time to think,” Francis replied.
“Agreed,” Harper said. “There's a Dreadnought out there somewhere, and no diplomatic ties to hold them back from an attack.”
“I doubt General Estrada…,” Marshall began.
“He probably wouldn't launch an unprovoked attack, but Colonel Cruz probably would, and if it's the only way to get home, who knows how far they'd go.” She paused, then said, “Recommend we proceed to full alert condition.”
“Very well,” Marshall said. “Deadeye, stand the crew to alert stations.” Looking at the officers, he continued, “Short-term palliatives are one thing, ladies and gentlemen, but we may have to face the reality that we're going to be stuck here for some time. Lieutenant Francis, as soon as the dust starts to settle, I want a full report on Alamo's capability for long-term flight. Plan for the worst-case scenario, and let me know what our options are.”
“Aye, sir,” Francis said, nodding. “We've got all the reports from the refit, and we've only been out of dock for a couple of weeks, so I suspect I can draw everything together quite quickly. I'll touch base with Chief Kowalski and have something on your desk in twenty-four hours, even if it is just a preliminary estimate.”
“Does it matter?” Ballard said. “We're not going home, so all we can do is find some planet to settle. And know that we'll die without anyone back on Mars knowing what happened to us.”
“Enough of that talk, Spaceman!” Marshall said. “In this Fleet, we don't accept that anyone is dead until we've seen the body. We found a way to get here. There will be a way to get back. Out there, somewhere, is another wormhole that will take us home. Or some other propulsion system that provides the same options.” Looking around the bridge, he continued, “It might take longer than we had anticipated, but one way or another, we will make a return to Confederation space. I want that clearly understood, and as bridge personnel, I expect you to set an example to the rest of the crew. Assuming you wish to remain at your posts. You read me, Ballard?”
“Aye, sir,” she said, her eyes still laden with doubt. “I'm sorry, sir.”
Nodding, Marshall walked over to her, placed his hand on her shoulder, and replied, “It's fine to be scared, Spaceman. We're all scared. You just have to learn to master your fears, don't let them control you. And have a little faith. There are some damn smart people on this ship.”
“Danny,” Caine said, turning from her station. “I think I've got something. Coming from the nearest moon.” She tapped a series of controls, and added, “Blind luck that was one of the first sensor pickups to come back up. I'm picking up what looks like a ship on the surface.” She paused, then said, “It's Pioneer, Danny. Or at least, a Mariner-class scoutship, but I don't know of another one in this part of space.”
“No beacon signal?” he asked.
“Nothing. Which means that they're doing their best to keep concealed.” Flicking a switch, she added, “Some residual heat, and oxygen out-gassing. There could be working battery power, maybe even environmental controls.”
Tapping a switch, Marshall said, “Ensign Rhodes, I want an Espatier team ready to move out in five minutes. Mission profile to follow.” He paused, then added, “Take Midshipman Clarke with you as pilot. Blake as medic. On your way.”
“Clarke?” Francis asked.
“He's second in Systems until we fill that gap,” Marshall replied, “and I can't spare anyone else until we get Alamo back to full strength.”
Caine looked up at him, and said, “With an enemy ship in-system, we're taking a big risk, Danny. Maybe we should wait until we know where Waldheim is, and our sensors are back to full strength. Anything could be waiting out there.”
Shaking his head, he said, “No, let it go. Right now, we need all the information we can get, and that's the only place in the system we might find some. Besides, if we know about it, so does Waldheim, and we've got to get there first.”
“Unless they already have,” Francis warned, “and it's a trap.”
“That's just a risk we're going to have to take.”
Chapter 2
The wind battered at the sand-blasted dome, as Salazar looked out at the desolation beyond. A pair of guards wandered the perimeter with wary eyes, keeping their rifles in their hands, waiting for an attack. The two missile emplacements slowly rotated, the sensors tracking the sky, watching for targets, ready to launch at a second's notice.
Miracles had been worked here, the contents of a trio of battered shuttles and a host of escape pods thrown together to create a temporary haven for the stranded survivors, but one look at the empty storage modules and the failed hydroponics plant told him everything he needed to know about the long-term prospects of the base. This settlement was doomed, and soon, and he'd heard some of the junior enlisted muttering about the possibility of a surrender, for the sake of survival, something that they'd have to contemplate sooner or later.
He walked around the base, waiting for the senior officers to return from their errand, offering words of sympathy and support to the crewmen, many of them familiar faces from past missions on Alamo. They'd looked to him for comfort, the vanguard of the rescue mission that they longed for, prayed for, but he couldn't find any words to ease their misery.
It seemed like years since he'd flown his fighter down to the surface, bringing it in for a crash landing, but less than two hours ago, he'd been up on Alamo, getting ready to launch a strike on the Republic carriers. Thoughts of Harper flashed into his mind, and he hoped with all his might that he'd been successful, that his efforts had prevented Alamo falling into the wormhole. They might already be on their way home.
Which would almost certainly doom everyone here to death or surrender, and given the nature of their potential captors, death might almost be the preferable choice. Everything here was improvised, rapidly wearing out, none of it designed for the planet they had been deposited on. The dome, already battered and pitted, was only the most obvious sign. Designed for an airless world, in such conditions it had a life-expectancy measured in years, maybe even decades. Here, in this hostile environment, it would only last for weeks, and when it failed, their last shelter would go with it, exposing them to the ever-burning sun.
He'd run a quick check of the local systems as soon as he'd arrived, asking careful questions of some of the maintenance technicians, and unless he was missing something obvious, they'd be out of food in six weeks at the outside. Rationing could extend that by a few weeks, but nobody had made the effort, and he couldn't fault the decision. It didn't seem likely that it would make any appreciable difference. Quesada walked over to him, waving an arm, and Salazar nodded in response, walking over to the young officer.
“Where's Santiago?” he asked.
“With Lieutenant Carpenter,” the pilot replied. “I'm sorry to be so mysterious, but they'll be along in a couple of minutes to brief you.” He paused, then
asked, “Is help on the way?”
“I don't know,” Salazar replied. “But there will be someone coming.” He struggled to conjure hope out of desperation, and continued, “If Alamo made it out of the system, then in a few weeks the Combined Chiefs will know about the wormhole. They'll send someone to secure it. And if Alamo fell through, then, well, there's a friendly battlecruiser somewhere up there.” He paused, then asked, “Don't you have good sensor images?”
“We're on the wrong side of the planet at the moment,” Quesada replied. “Turned away from the wormhole exit. If Alamo, or anyone else, is out there, then it could be a while before we know about it. We daren't use long-range communications without risking giving away our position, and we can't use active sensors for the same reason.” He shrugged, then added, “Not that it might make much difference in the long run. The dome's pretty well camouflaged from orbit because of the sand, but they're bound to track us down, sooner or later.”
“What happens then?”
“We die, I suspect. Or give in. We've got four missiles, which I suppose would deal with an aerial assault, but there are only four rifles, and less than a dozen rounds of ammunition each. A couple of sidearms, but even more limited ammunition for those. After that, we're down to throwing rocks at the bastards, and I don't think stones against plasma rifles is a fair fight.”
Nodding, Salazar said, “How bad are the sandstorms?”
“Bad enough to fill in our trenches pretty damned quick. We thought of that, wasted a couple of days trying to put together some fortifications, but it all comes down to the same thing. Besides, that would just increase our aerial footprint.” He paused, then added, “We're going to have to surrender, aren't we, sir.”
“Unless the situation changes, I suspect so.” Clapping his hand on the pilot's shoulder, he continued, “Though I've been through a lot worse than this and come out the other side, Sub-Lieutenant. There's always a way. Sometimes it just takes a while to find it.”
Battlecruiser Alamo: Vault of Eternity Page 2
