Battlecruiser Alamo: Vault of Eternity

by Richard Tongue

   “Hey,” Blake said, turning to him from the co-pilot's seat. “You awake?”

   “I didn't know I was commanding this mission,” he replied. “Not until I got here.”

   “Isn't that what fancy Fleet officers do?” she asked.

   “I'm not an officer,” he said. “I'm a Midshipman. And a pretty damned junior one at that.”

   With a shrug, Blake replied, “You heard what Lombardo said. You're the only one that can be spared. And if I remember correctly, you are Systems Officer's Mate. Which puts you as second in command of Alamo's engineering team, at least for the moment. Now if that thought hasn't scared you enough, try this one. We're heading to an unexplored moon to try and salvage a wrecked ship with a Dreadnought almost certainly coming for us, and soon. Happy now?”

   “No,” he replied, flicking switches. “You really know how to cheer me up, Alex.”

   “Hey, just call me the ship's Morale Officer. Shall we get on with this? The sooner we get there, the sooner we get back.”

   “Shuttle One to Alamo Actual,” Clarke said. “Requesting launch clearance.”

   “Understood,” Marshall replied. “Clearance on request, Midshipman. Good luck.”

   Shaking his head, Clarke turned to Blake and said, “Everyone's going out of their way to wish us luck. You think they know something we don't?”

   “Almost certainly,” she replied.

   “Great. Just great.” Tapping a control, he said, “Shuttle One to Shuttle Two. We'll move out in line-astern formation. Take position twenty seconds behind me, and do not approach Pioneer until I give the order. No sense risking two shuttles.”

   “Shuttle Two to Shuttle One. I've got a lighter load, and can get there first.”

   Taking a deep breath, Clarke looked at Blake, then said, “Midshipman, I've given an order, have good reasons for it, and expect it to be obeyed. Is that understood?”

   “Understood,” the resentful Petrova said, flicking the channel closed. As Clarke worked the controls, the shuttle dropping through the decks as the elevator airlock cycled, Blake looked at him with a frown on her face.

   “She's going to be a problem. You're going to have to watch her like a hawk.”

   As the shuttle fell clear of the ship, engines firing to throw it towards the moon, Clarke replied, “Petrova is the least of my problems right now. Keep an eye on the sensors, though, and let me know if she decides to creatively interpret my orders.” Flicking a switch to put the ship on autopilot, he turned to the rear hatch, and said, “Sergeant Fox, could you come up?”

   “Of course, sir,” the gruff veteran replied. The bottom part of her face was dominated by a scar that seemed to fix her mouth in a perpetual leer, the legacy of some long-ago battle. Over the last few years, the Espatiers had borne the brunt of the casualties in the non-wars the Confederation had fought. Wounds that might in other circumstances have resulted in medical discharges had become things to live with, to accept.

   “I want you to take the lead for the boarding action, Sergeant. You and your fire team. With half the squad held in reserve if needed. You may proceed, with caution, and at your discretion.”

   Nodding, she replied, “You don't want to be first through the airlock?”

   “What I want is irrelevant, Sergeant. You and your people are trained for this, far better than I. As soon as you've secured a perimeter, I'll come forward with the hacker team.” He paused, then asked, “You have any demolition people with you?”

   “In the second fire team.”

   “Good. While my technical team works on the ship, I want them positioning the warheads. That has to be done quickly, and at all costs. There's enough of that ship left that we can't leave it for Waldheim to scavenge.”

   Fox looked at him, nodded, then asked, “How old are you, sir?”

   “I'm a Midshipman, Sergeant. I don't think I've earned the honorific yet. And to answer your question, nineteen going on ninety.”

   “Interesting,” Fox said. “Interesting. Aren't you going to warn me to be careful, not to take risks, not to mess around with equipment?”

   “I'd assume that your fire team already knows all of that, but if you insist...”

   “No,” Fox replied, raising a hand. “Not necessary. We'll proceed as you direct, sir.”

   “I thought...”

   “Let me decide that, sir,” Fox said, turning back to the cabin.

   Blake glanced back at the trooper, then at Clarke, and said, “I think you might have made a friend back there.”

   “Just common sense,” Clarke replied. “One thing life has been repeatedly teaching me lately is that I don't know everything. We wouldn't be stuck out here if I did.”

   “Wait just a damn minute,” Blake said. “That wasn't your fault, Midshipman. You did everything you could to stop that bitch sabotaging the ship. Nobody could have done any better. So cut out the crap and get your head back into the game. I don't know whether or not you've been paying attention, but we're on a dangerous mission.” Glancing at the sensor display, she added, “Eight minutes to target. No sign of hostile activity. No sign of anything, for that matter.”

   “See if you can get a tight focus on Pioneer,” he replied. “Maybe we can do some of the work before we land. Match it with what we have in our records.” Frowning, he added, “Though if Triplanetary Intelligence has been playing with her, I suppose they might have made some modifications.”

   “I thought of that,” Blake replied. “Lieutenant Harper sent me everything she had on the ship. Rather more up to date than the entries we had in the official database. I wonder how many other little surprises she has hidden away in her files?”

   Nodding, Clarke turned to the controls, looking at the desolate moon ahead, a small, gray rock tumbling through space, barely large enough to have any appreciable gravity. That was going to make salvage operations interesting. Sufficient weight to cause a problem, without any of the benefits of free fall. As they approached, he could see a pair of long streaks running along the equator, blast from the thrusters on landing.

   “I've got a readout if you want it,” Blake said. “Looks like a large captured asteroid. There's a pretty big belt close in to the star, so I suppose this must have been tossed clear at some point. Carbon, mostly, nothing particularly unusual. Less than fifty miles across.” Glancing across, she added, “Nothing interesting here. Maybe they were trying to hide. It would be a bad place to try.”

   “Why here?” Clarke asked. “Why not on one of the larger moons, or try for a Lagrange point in a sensor shadow?” Shaking his head, he continued, “This was an unplanned landing. A crash. They were forced down, maybe by equipment failure or something else. With enough control that they managed to survive the impact.” Tapping a control, he brought up a closer-ranged image of the ship, and nodded. “Intact. After a fashion.”

   “Still reading out-gassing., from a dozen different places. Traces only, though, just the usual leakage. Maybe a little worse than normal. Some heat, more than residual. I'd say the initial guess was right. There's life-support in at least a part of the ship.” Her eyes widened as she looked at the readout, and added, “Good God. The primary engine manifold is missing. Torn away. So is the drive unit. I suppose that writes off any hope of salvaging the ship.”

   “Maybe, maybe not,” Clarke said, frowning. “There has to be something worth salvaging down there, and if nothing else, this is a ready-made surface installation. Check for ice. We might be able to set up fuel refining operations out here.” At her expression, he added, “I remember an old saying about turning lemons into lemonade.”

   “They never mention that you need sugar, water and a pair of suckers, though.”

   “Huh?”

   “One to make it for you, and one to drink it.” Peering at the readouts, she added, “There's been activity. I think I can make out tracks, some sort of vehicle, and footprints a
round the outside. Either we're not the first ones to find this ship, or there were survivors.”

   “If there were survivors, why not set up a beacon?”

   “With the United Nations Space Fleet ready to crash the party?”

   “Good point.” He tapped the thruster controls, bringing the shuttle low over the surface, careful to avoid worsening the damage already caused to the surface. It was just possible that Waldheim had missed it in their first examination of the system. If that was so, the last thing he wanted to do was create more evidence of their presence.

   Not that anyone could have missed the wrecked scoutship, and that thought troubled him. It seemed almost certain that someone would have been here already, and not with friendly intent. He flicked through the sensor images, scanning for hidden missile emplacements, buried warheads, battalions of troops waiting to jump out at them upon their arrival.

   Looking across at him, Blake said, “There's nothing down there, you know. Except perhaps some buried sensors. Why go to serious trouble to wipe out a shuttle-load of engineers? They'll be more interested in gathering intelligence. Assuming, of course, that anyone else is out there at all. For all we know, Waldheim is scattered all over one of those rocks out there, the whole crew wiped out. Looks likely that Pioneer had a bad passage. Maybe we were lucky.”

   “Maybe,” Clarke said. “I wouldn't bet on it.” He looked at the display again, and gestured at a flat piece of rock, adding, “That's the spot.”

   “A quarter-mile from the ship? There's a place just as good a lot closer.”

   “My paranoia's singing to me again. I'd rather have a little distance, and in this gravity, we can make that distance in a couple of minutes with our suit thrusters. We're not going to be able to walk, anyway.” Tapping a control, he added, “Sergeant, I'm sending you an image of our landing site. One change. I want at least one trooper with the shuttle at all times. Two if you think you can spare the people.”

   “Will do, sir,” Fox replied. “Looks like a good spot. Nice and defensible.”

   “Remember,” Blake said, as Clarke prepared for the landing, “you are mortal.”

   “What's that supposed to mean?”

   “Ancient Roman way of telling you not to get cocky.”

   His hands playing the controls, Clarke gently guided the shuttle into position on the surface of the moon, dust flying in all directions around them as the landing struts locked in place. Throwing a series of switches to kill the engine and start the post-flight checklists, he waved back at the cabin, watching as Fox and her team gracefully moved into action, racing for the airlock, suits already in position.

   Unbuckling his restraints, Clarke rose from his couch, making his way to the nearest locker and pulling out two spacesuits, tossing one to Blake. Fighting his eagerness to get out onto the surface, he tugged the components into position, allowing the suit computer to run through the usual checks, confirming that all was well. It was always sobering to realize that only a few inches of toughened fabric would be between him and certain death, and he made his way to the airlock with a feeling of fear and dread running through his mind.

   “Fox to Clarke. We've secured a perimeter outside now, sir, and are proceeding to the ship. You're clear to leave the shuttle at your discretion. I've assigned Webster and Speidel as guards, and they'll follow you out.”

   “Thanks, Sergeant. Will do.” Turning to Blake, he asked, “Fancy a stroll in the sunshine?”

   “I wouldn't mind a chance to stretch my legs,” she replied, and the two of them carefully stepped out into the airlock, cycled out onto the surface with a brief puff of atmosphere to send them clear of the shuttle. As he had thought, there was no way they were going to be able to walk in the low gravity field, and Clarke quickly pulled down his fine thruster controls, a series of gentle taps sending him skimming over the surface.

   The wrecked ship was ahead, fragments of the engine nacelles littering the environment. They drifted over footprints, marks where someone had touched down, long hundred-yard bounces on their thrusters. As improbable as it sounded, it seemed as though someone had survived the crash.

   “Sir!” Fox yelled. “Motion sensors have picked up something, three o'clock, heading our way at speed! Heat signature suggests active plasma weapon!”

   “Take cover!” Clarke yelled, spinning around on his thrusters, disobeying his own orders in a bid to seek out the approaching threat. As a ball of green fire flew past him, racing over the horizon, he saw a figure wearing a Triplanetary spacesuit, wielding a prototype plasma carbine, swinging the barrel towards him. Quickly flicking to the emergency channels, he yelled, “Stand down, Spaceman! We're from Alamo!”

   “Alamo?” a harsh voice replied. “Impossible.” Clarke slowed his pace, looking at the battered, weathered spacesuit. “Identify yourself.”

   “Midshipman John Clarke.” He paused, then added, “Try Ident Nine-Dash-Alpha with my voice-print. You'll see I have Double-Ultra clearance. Try it now.”

   There was a brief pause, and the voice replied, “I'll be damned. Technical Officer Conrad Hooke, Midshipman, and I am extremely pleased to meet you. Shall we take this inside?”

  Chapter 4

   “Pavel, this is crazy,” Foster said, peering out of the viewport at the rocks below, perilously close to the flyer. “Take her up a little. And slow down!”

   “I can't,” Salazar replied. “That satellite will be back overhead in less than three minutes. I've got to gain distance, and I've got to keep us out of the line of sight of the enemy.” Glancing across at the sensor display, he continued, “Just find me a target. Anyone with a damned hand communicator will do.”

   “I'm trying,” she said. “Still no sign of any patrols. Stand by.”

   Salazar nodded, his hands almost merging with the controls. This was flying as he could never know it in space, using the wind to sweep him around, the roar of the engine at his back, low sand dunes and rocks only a handful of feet below. Santiago had designed the flyer to blend into the environment as much as possible, though the engine's heat would stand out like a beacon as soon as orbital observation came back into play.

   The base was fifty miles away, a safe enough distance that should ensure that they couldn't be traced back. Salazar was willing to put himself at risk, but the alien site had to be kept protected for as long as possible. Long enough at least for Captain Marshall to think of something better. He struggled to come up with recommendations, ideas, but nothing came to mind. Even with the full resources of a battlecruiser, he couldn't think of a good solution to their tactical problem.

   Evacuating the planet would be simple enough. Thirty-one stranded crewmen could be picked up with three shuttles on a fast pass, their equipment left for the sand and the dust. Alamo even had enough fighters to escort them home, and it would just be a question of timing their strike. With something on the surface to protect, it became a completely different issue. They'd have to expand and protect the base, and Alamo simply didn't have the ground forces for that sort of an operation. At the back of his mind was a last, desperate option, and without telling Carpenter, he'd arranged for an explosive charge to be positioned at the outcrop, large enough to bury the alien city forever. Or at least long enough to deter the enemy.

   “Got something!” Foster said. “Ten degrees starboard, about fifteen miles out. Looks like a buggy, heading out into the deep desert. Give me a minute and I'll have more information for us.”

   “Coming around,” Salazar replied, a grin on his face. Any second now, the luckless occupants of the buggy would realize that they had been spotted, that they were about to come under attack from the air. Again, it wasn't as simple an operation as it should have been. They had the weapons to smash it to pieces where it sat on the desert floor, a surgical airstrike that would remove it from existence, but they had to capture it intact at all costs.

   Already they'd taken longer than he wan
ted. Almost an hour to get the flyer ready for launch, much of which was dominated by an argument with Quesada that had ultimately forced Salazar to pull rank. The young officer was a good pilot, and knew the terrain, but his prowess with a sidearm had finally ended the battle, a quick demonstration suggesting that Quesada would be spending considerable time on Alamo's firing range when they were rescued.

   A light flashed onto his console, and he saw the buggy up ahead, heard a rattle in the air to the right as the vehicle turned a machine gun on them, trying for the desperate hope that they might bring down the flyer and save themselves. Below, the driver started to weave from side to side, ready to face off the aerial attack he was expecting, not knowing that Salazar had something completely different in mind.

   “You ready?” he asked, quickly turning to Foster, who nodded in response. “Arm missiles.”

   “Armed,” she replied, and a red light flashed on as the arming sequences sought out their target. Salazar tapped a button, and the flyer rocked back for a second as the missiles dropped away, engines roaring as they dived for the ground, flames and smoke bursting from their rear. The two warheads slammed into the desert, twin pillars of fire reaching for the sky on either side of the buggy as it shuddered to a halt.

   Dropping the landing struts, Salazar brought the flyer down to a landing, taking a rifle in his hands as he stumbled out of the cockpit, keeping the weapon leveled on the buggy. Behind him, Foster followed, giving him covering fire as he approached the vehicle. He fired a precious round, the sound of the bullet piercing the silence of the desert.

   “Come out with your hands up, or I'll be forced to kill you all. Nobody needs to die today, but I'll do whatever I have to do.”