Battlecruiser Alamo: Vault of Eternity

by Richard Tongue

   One look at the trajectory plot brought a smile to his face. The ship was going to have a difficult enough time simply getting under control, had no chance of making contact with the battlecruiser. Alamo was safe, and he could start to consider his own salvation, firing the last of his thruster fuel to place him in a stable, if dangerously low orbit. Long enough for him to think of something else.

   There was still a chance that a shuttle from Alamo might reach him. Certainly there was less urgency in fleeing the system now, and he'd have a clearer conscience calling for help. Before he could open a channel, he looked across at his heads-up display, a proximity alert winking into life as a swarm of small contacts appeared on his short-range sensors.

   Shrapnel from the impact, moving at high speed. Far too fast for him to evade, even if his thruster tanks had been full. He looked at Waldheim, shook his head, and reached for his atmospheric controls, ready to tap in the one sequence he'd hoped never to use, the quick command designed to terminate his life quickly and painlessly, in the event the wearer of the suit was placed in an irretrievable position.

   Before entering the final command, he stopped, smiled, and lowered his hand. He was an officer in the Triplanetary Fleet, and was going to go down fighting, right to the last. Even if nobody would ever know how he died. He could just see the debris now, closing on him, a thousand shining fragments of metal gleaming in the white-hot sun.

   “Beautiful,” he whispered. “Beautiful.”

  Chapter 24

   “I'll be damned,” Caine said, turning to Marshall. “He did it. The son-of-a-bitch did it! I'm reading multiple hull breaches on Waldheim, crippling damage to their aft control systems, and I think I'm registering internal fires. She's out of commission, sir. They'll be lucky to avoid crashing into the third moon on their current course.”

   “McCormack to Marshall,” the overhead speaker crackled. “Request permission for immediate scramble. We can make an attack run and finish them off.”

   “Negative,” Marshall replied, as Salazar raced onto the bridge, Harper and Foster right behind him. “We can't take the risk. They still have fighters in the air, and one of their hangar decks is still open. You'd be flying right into them.” Turning to Salazar, he added, “They're no threat to us now, not if we get out of the system in a hurry. There's nothing here left worth dying for.”

   “Five minutes to hendecaspace point, sir,” Imoto said. “Captain, is there nothing we can do for Clarke? We saw a suit flying away from the ship just before impact...”

   “Right into a debris field, before he went around the far side of the moon,” Caine replied. “And the fighters will be launching in minutes to hunt us down. We've got to get out of the system, and we've got to get out of here now.”

   “Agreed,” Marshall set. “Put the ship...”

   “No, Captain,” Harper said, moving to the sensor station. “Give me a couple of minutes.”

   “Lieutenant...”

   “Let her work, sir,” Salazar replied. “We found what we were looking for. The age of the alien base. Lieutenant Carpenter managed to narrow it down to less than a century.” As starfields and charts flashed onto the viewscreen, he continued, “That means that we can work out the positions of the stars that were close when this base, and perhaps this wormhole, were built.”

   Nodding, Francis said, “And we can assume that at the very least, there will be traces of the race that constructed them out there somewhere, clues to a wormhole that could take us home.” His smile curved to a frown, and he added, “Though all of this is still guesswork.”

   “Carpenter to Salazar,” the speaker barked. “We were right! Nautilus did make it back, and it does match with the information we got. There are even three people with the last name of Bigelow listed among those picked up. I guess he got around to having kids before he died.”

   “One day, Susan, I'll have to look them up and tell them about their ancestor.”

   “Pavel, what the hell is all of this about?”

   “Coming up with the course projection, sir!” Harper said. “One more minute. Midshipman, you can hold your current trajectory, and get ready to implement the fastest hendecaspace course plot of your life.”

   “Ready and waiting, ma'am.”

   “Nautilus, sir,” Salazar said, walking over to the command chair. “We found a body, a human body, down there, from the USS Nautilus. A human ship whose descendants established a colony back home, back in our galaxy.” Looking around the bridge, he continued, “Don't any of you get it? More than a century ago, they found a way home!”

   “Meaning if they did, so can we,” Marshall said, nodding.

   “Got the nearest star, sir,” Harper said. “Dull red dwarf, five light-years away. Four hendecaspace points, a nice, easy system. Gravitational data is being fed through to the helm right now, Midshipman, so you can begin your calculations.”

   “Yes, ma'am,” Imoto said with relish, bending over his console, his fingers a blur. Francis moved up beside him, looking over the young man's calculations, nodding with satisfaction at the quality of the work. “Ready for transition in four minutes, eight seconds, sir.”

   “The information didn't come cheap,” Salazar said with a sigh. “Too many people died here, sir. Far too many.”

   “One would have been too many, Pavel, but at least they died for something,” Marshall replied. “You gave them that.”

   “I've just about finished the stellar projection, sir,” Harper said. “It runs down as eight stars that were within hendecaspace range at the time of the construction of the alien city. Three of them are still within range now, and the most distant is thirty-one light years.”

   “I like that a lot better than four hundred thousand,” Caine replied with a smile. “We'll start work on a search pattern as soon as we get back to normal space, Danny. Assuming that we don't find what we're looking for when we reach...”

   “Threat warning!” Ballard said. “Enemy fighter launch, the whole squadron!”

   “Don't those bastards know when to quit?” Francis replied. “They haven't even had enough time to properly refuel yet. They'll be drifting around the system for hours after the battle.” Turning to the sensor station, he asked, “Can they make contact before we leave Dante, Spaceman?”

   “Borderline, sir,” she replied.

   Reaching to a headset, Marshall said, “Engineering, I need to run hot on the engines.”

   “How hot?” a frustrated Santiago replied. “Go too hard, and we could crack the ship in two. We haven't had time to finish working on the superstructure yet. Hell, we've barely had a chance to start.” She paused, then added, “Thirty seconds at full power, in two minutes. That's the best I can do, and even then, we could rip open all the breaches we've patched doing it.”

   “Helm, recompute course and speed,” Marshall said.

   “Aye, sir. Do I execute evasive pattern?”

   “Negative. Go for full speed.”

   “Course change is computed, trajectory profile revised, implementing now.” Imoto's hands worked the controls, and all eyes were once more on the tactical display as the hope that had flooded the bridge a moment before began to disperse, the realization that they still might have a battle to fight starting to sink in.

   “Final missile salvo ready to fire,” Caine said. “Setting for defensive pattern. Point-defense turrets are charged and ready.” Glancing up at a high monitor, she added, “First sensor data indicates that all fighters are fully-armed. Light on fuel, but that might actually be an advantage. Less weight, more acceleration.”

   “Time to intercept?”

   “Two minutes, fifty seconds.” She turned with a smile, and added, “Fifteen seconds before hendecaspace transition.”

   “Damage control teams are deployed,” Fitzroy said. “Chief Santiago requests in rather robust language that you don't do anything to hurt her ship.”
>
   “She got possessive pretty damned quick, didn't she?” Salazar replied.

   “Usually a good sign for an engineer,” Marshall said. “Helm, hold that last boost until the final possible moment. I don't want to give the fighters any chance to compensate. They could still alter their trajectory.”

   “Aye, sir,” Imoto said.

   Alamo surged onwards, racing towards the hendecaspace point that promised escape from the system. Marshall looked out at the unfamiliar constellations in the sky, and struggled to mask his emotions, his feeling of dread. Even if they got away from Dante, they were still stranded in a strange and unfamiliar part of the universe, their only hope of getting home following a century-old flight path, with only the remains of a dead man to guide their way.

   Behind them, the fighters raced to execute their vengeance, as though their commander was determined that if his ship couldn't leave the system, Alamo couldn't either. At this point, they held the only clue to a return to the Milky Way, the only potential route home. The most precious secret imaginable, and if their situations were reversed, Marshall didn't care to think what he would do to secure it for his crew.

   For a second, he turned to the communications station, ready to send a signal to Estrada, to give him at least the first part of the puzzle, but at the last instant, something stopped him. The enemy ship had murder on its mind, and he had to think of his own ship, his own crew first and foremost. Unfair perhaps, but there wasn't any other choice.

   “One minute, sir,” Imoto said. “Preparing for full-power burn.”

   “Enemy formation still closing,” Bowman said. “Waldheim is dropping back. Trying to regain attitude control.” She turned back to the bridge, and added, “We've got a clear view of the far side of the eighth moon now, sir. No sign of any survivor. If someone did jump away, then he must have been caught in the debris field. He never had a chance.”

   The screen flicked to show the unfamiliar stars once again, leaving the system behind. A dull red dwarf star beckoned, one among uncounted millions in this galaxy, hopefully the first leg of their journey home. As the engine surged into life, amber lights flashed as the strained hull protested once more. Looking around, Marshall saw something on the faces of the bridge crew that had been missing for days.

   Hope.

   “Stress levels over safe limits,” Fitzroy said. “No breaches, but I'm picking up a lot more micro-fractures. Evacuating lower storage sections. Pressure bulkheads are ready to contain any air loss.”

   “Missile launch!” Caine yelled. “Twenty-four birds, heading right for us.” Alamo rocked back, and she added, “I've fired our response.”

   Thirty new tracks on the screen, missiles racing towards their destination, smoothly holding their deadly course. Seconds later, a ripple of explosions washed over the display, leaving only thirteen missiles on trajectory, diving towards the battlecruiser.

   “My lucky number,” Harper said, reaching over the shoulder of the defense systems technician, attempting to push into the enemy control systems. The tracks converged on the hendecaspace point, Alamo and the missiles, and Imoto tensed over the manual override, hoping to perhaps gain the quarter-second that might make the difference between life and death.

   “Now!” he yelled, and a flash of blinding blue light bathed over them, an instant before the missiles could reach them. The screen faded to neutral gray, and Marshall sat back in his command chair, a relieved smile on his face.

   “That, everyone, is how we do that,” Marshall said.

   “Hendecaspace transition successful, sir,” Imoto said. “Egress in one hundred and nine hours, five minutes and ten seconds. Countdown clock has started.”

   “Bowman,” Marshall said, turning to the communications technician, “Connect me through to the ship, please.”

   “Aye, sir,” he said, working his controls. “You're on, sir.”

   “This is the Captain. We have just completed our first hendecaspace transition in the Andromeda Galaxy, and what we hope is the first step on our journey home. I won't hide anything from you. This will be a long, and dangerous trip, and we will be traveling through space that is totally alien to anything we have ever experienced before. Nevertheless, I have the utmost faith in this ship and its crew to meet the challenges that lie ahead, to brave the dangers of unknown space with the same stalwart determination that you have always shown in the past.”

   He paused, smiled again, then continued, “I don't know about you, but one of the reasons I signed up was to see the strange, unknown reaches of the universe for myself. I know that's what the recruitment team promised. Now, uniquely in the history of the Triplanetary Fleet, we're going to collect on that promise, and will see wonders hitherto undreamed of.”

   “It's going to be a long, and uncertain journey home, but thanks to the sacrifice of those of us who lost their lives on Dante, we now have a path to follow, and the knowledge that it has been walked in the past with success. There is a way home, and we are going to search until we find it, no matter how long it takes. We're going home, ladies and gentlemen, and we're going to have a lot of astounding stories to tell when we do. I'm proud to serve with each and every one of you. Marshall out.”

   “Poor Clarke,” Imoto said, his face the sole frown on the bridge.

   “He died to save his ship and his crew,” Salazar said. “There are far worse ways to go. He'll not be forgotten. Not while a ship named Alamo sails the stars. If we do make it home, it will be thanks to the sacrifice he and Hooke made.”

   “Not if, Lieutenant,” Marshall said. “When.”

  Epilogue

   Pain. Pain was the totality of his universe, a thousand agonies running through his limbs, his nerves burning like fire as the shuddering nightmares wracked his body. He writhed on the rack, screaming and crying, not caring who heard him, struggling to hold on to the tattered remnants of his soul. Two figures stood in the shadows, a man and a woman, both of them staring at him, the woman's lips curved into a bitter smile.

   The pain ceased. For a moment, he could breath again.

   “All of this can end if you simply tell us what we want to know,” the woman asked.

   “I am Sub-Lieutenant John Clarke, an officer of the Triplanetary Fleet.”

   With a sigh, the woman reached across, and the waves of pain surged through his system again, the sonic stimulation of his nerves bringing bitter tears to his eyes that flooded down his cheeks. A tiny voice in his head begged for the pain to end, demanded that he talk, that he told them what they wanted to know, no matter the consequences. He was alone out here, abandoned, and had to save himself.

   “I am Sub-Lieutenant John Clarke, an officer of the Triplanetary Fleet!” he screamed. “I am Sub-Lieutenant John Clarke, an officer of the Triplanetary Fleet!”

   “We're wasting our time with this one,” the man said.

   “Our source told us that there were strange discoveries on the moon, and this officer was in command of that base. If anything interesting was going on down there...”

   “And I still say it was nothing more than a decoy, an attempt to draw us into a trap. One that worked.” With a faint sigh, the man said, “Colonel, I don't think he can tell us anything. The other captive has far more potential.”

   “She has shown more resistance than he.”

   “All the more reason for you to concentrate your efforts where they are most needed, surely. This one will not provide you with any real challenge.” The figure turned to him, and added, “I think he is already on the verge of a complete breakdown. He'll tell you what you want to hear, not what you want to know.”

   With a snort, the woman said, “Spare me your bleeding heart. My techniques work.”

   “As you say, Colonel, as you say, but I still maintain that you are wasting your time with this man. Allow me to take charge of this prisoner, and it is possible that I can...”

   “You
think you can succeed where I have failed?”

   “Push him any further, ma'am, and he'll lapse into total psychosis, and be of no use to anyone. A madman's testimony is of no use. Give me time, a few hours at least, and perhaps I can come up with something of value, while you focus on the other one.”

   There was a long pause, and finally, the woman said, “Very well, Major, but I will expect positive results, and quickly. The General is furious over this attack.” Turning to Clarke, she added, “His life will be forfeit in any case within a few days. On charges of murder and sabotage. I shall very much look forward to commanding the firing squad.”

   “I should have thought that you would have simply thrown him out of an airlock.”

   “He might be a traitor and a rebel, but he is still an officer, and the General insists that he be treated as one. Though I suspect that an accident might be arranged at some point in the future. Certainly most of the crew are looking forward to watching him die. Perhaps we should have invited some of them to watch his cretinous performance.” Turning to the door, she added, “Get me what I want, Major, or I will put you on the rack in his place.” She stalked out, and after a moment, the hatch locked shut behind her.

   The man walked over to the wall, throwing a control to dim the lights, then pulled a box out of his pocket and rested it on the floor, a series of winking indicators running back and forth. Taking a handkerchief out of his pocket, he ran it across Clarke's forehead, shaking his head.

   “Who?” Clarke asked.

   “Major Pastell,” he replied. “We have met. There is still a chance for you to save your life, Sub-Lieutenant, but only if you do what I say.”

   “I am Sub-Lieutenant John Clarke, an officer of the Triplanetary Fleet.”

   “I know,” he said, with a sigh. “I know.”