Battlecruiser Alamo: Pyrrhic Victory

by Tongue,Richard

   “Terrorists and pirates?” Arkhipov said, shaking his head. “No one can seriously believe that rubbish, surely.”

   “People believe what they want to believe, Spaceman,” Harper replied. “Let's prove them wrong. Helm, alter course to take us into contact with those fighters. Kat, fire at will, but don't waste a missile.” She frowned, and added, “Those are Koltoc interceptors, aren't they?”

   “Yes they are,” Scott replied, nodding. “Which means we should have full specifications in the computer.” Turning to Harper, she added, “And local pilots flying them, more than likely.” Looking back at her console, she said, “Contact in three minutes, ten seconds, with ninety seconds in the firing window. Alamo encounter nine minutes after that.”

   “Profitable Venture just jumped into the system,” Arkhipov said, a relieved smile on his face. “And we're getting sufficient dimensional instability that Due Diligence must be right on their tail.”

   “Good. Ingram, hail those fighters. Maybe we can get them to change sides.”

   “Worth a try,” Scott said, nodding.

   “This is Lieutenant Harper, commanding the Triplanetary Destroyer Daedalus, to the pilots in the interceptor squadron ahead. I call upon you to alter course, and join with us in the liberation of this system from the Xandari. We're here to save your people, damn it. We should be on the same side, not fighting each other.”

   Shaking his head, Ingram said, “No response, Captain.”

   “No change to target aspect,” Arkhipov added. “Combat range in two minutes, forty seconds.”

   “Damn it,” Harper said, “You're on the wrong side, Intercept Squadron. Can't you see that you're fighting the last chance your people have for freedom? Even if you won't join us, cut your engines and avoid battle. Stay out of the fight.”

   “This is Commander Weinberg,” a cold voice replied. “We know what plans the Confederation has for our system, and we would rather die than be conquered by you. Unless you surrender at once, we will destroy you, as well as your Koltoc lackeys.”

   “Captain,” Arkhipov said. “Someone disagrees with him. Two fighters are altering course, changing trajectory...” He paused, eyes widening. “My God. They just exploded.”

   “The Xandari killed them, rather than let them change sides,” Harper said, shaking his head. “Damn it, Weinberg, your friends just killed two of your pilots!”

   “Cowards and traitors who we're better off without. Weinberg out.”

   Shaking her head, Harper said, “Can you work out which fighter that bastard is flying?”

   “Not a problem, ma'am,” Ingram said.

   “Good. Kat, I want Weinberg taken down. It's possible the rest of the squadron will see sense once he's dead.”

   The sensor display updated again, the third ship now entering the system. Daedalus drew back, Armstrong reducing their acceleration to allow the Koltoc ships to catch them, moving to a line abreast formation with the fighters ranging ahead. The bridge was eerily silent as the crew worked their controls, the need for communication limited to occasional terse command.

   Back in orbit, the Xandari ships waited, content to allow the Copernicans to take the first blows from the incoming ships. Their plan was almost depressingly simple. Harper's squadron had forty-two missiles in total, and the battle with the fighters would soak up at least twenty of them, even optimistically, leaving only two full salvos left for a later engagement with the battlecruisers. She looked down at her electronic warfare console, and frowned. The missiles were Xandari, not stolen. The technology was far more primitive, slower and with a lower yield, but there was no way she could knock them out of the air from here.

   “Closing to target,” Armstrong said. “One minute to go.”

   “I have a time-on-target firing solution with the Koltoc ships,” Scott added. “First wave offensive, second wave defensive.” Turning to Harper, she said, “We should think about an evasive maneuver at the end of this engagement, turn away from the planet. On our present course, we'll hit the defense network in ten minutes.”

   “Hold present trajectory,” Harper ordered, fixing her gaze on the screen, resting her hands in her lap to avoid fidgeting. The tactical display zoomed in, showing three contacts moving towards ten, wide spheres illustrating the range of their missiles. The seconds counted down, one after another, Scott's hand poised over the launch controls, ready for action.

   Harper glanced back at the communications console, Ingram shaking his head as he continued his efforts to contact someone, anyone on the planet on their side. The whole plan would fail unless there was an uprising on the planet's surface, a force ready to wrest control of the missile satellites Daedalus was heading for.

   “Firing range!” Scott yelled, and the ship rocked back as the missiles raced away, joining with those launched by the Koltoc ships to form a wave of death heading for their adversaries, one for each of the enemy fighters. Two seconds later, the interceptors responded, unleashing their full missile complement before turning away, trying to fleet the warheads that were already locked onto them.

   Now the screen was flooded with tracks, thirty missiles joining the thirteen ships on display, and Harper shook her head as Scott labored with her controls, trying to get the critical second salvo into the air. Even as it was, they'd only be able to knock down half of the missiles, and she knew the terrible toll they would wreck on the fragile warships under her command.

   “Come on, come on,” Scott said.

   “First hit!” Arkhipov said. “Weinberg's on his way to hell, Captain.” After a second's pause, he added, “Two more! We're getting them!”

   “Second salvo away,” Scott reported, the ship rocking again as four more missiles raced into the confusion, targeting the incoming Copernican warheads. “Talk about a target-rich environment!”

   Harper leaned forward, no longer caring about the interceptors, knowing that they would have no further part to play in the battle. Without waiting for the order, Scott swung the first salvo around, the five surviving fighters granted a reprieve as the missiles found a better purpose, the defense of her squadron. The first attack had only been a diversion, albeit one she couldn't risk ignoring. Soon the real battle would begin.

   Scott's hands danced across the controls while Armstrong threw the ship into a wild series of maneuvers, desperately attempting to avoid the enemy warheads. As the two sets of missiles crossed paths, the screen abruptly became a lot clearer, the five fighters streaming out of range while a series of explosions flashed across the heart of the display, patterns of debris scattered across the sky. As the view cleared, only three missiles remained, one of theirs drifting aimlessly through the sky, and two from the enemy fighters, still diving towards the squadron.

   “All hands, brace for impact,” Harper said, gripping to the armrests of her seat, watching helplessly as the two trajectories converged. At the last second, Armstrong fired the thrusters, swinging the ship in a bid to control where the blow fell, but despite her efforts, the angry squeal of ruptured deck places echoed through the ship, warning alarms ringing as Kowalski frantically directed repair teams into position.

   “Damage report,” she said.

   With a sigh, Kowalski replied, “Remember that plan we had to retreat from the system?” Turning to her, he added, “Hendecaspace drive destroyed. No other combat-critical damage, but we've got hull breaches in three decks. Repair team on the way.”

   “No drive,” Armstrong muttered.

   “We all knew this was a one-way mission,” Harper said. “This doesn't change a thing.”

   “Six minutes to Alamo,” Ingram said.

   “Come on, Cooper,” Harper muttered. “What are you waiting for?”

  Chapter 17

   A cell, once again, not very different from the one she'd spent three months confined to. Orlova looked out of the window, a scowl on her face. By now, everything should be starti
ng, but there was no sign of activity out in the city, no explosions heralding the launch of the revolution, no protesters chanting on the streets. She looked up at the sky, wishing it was night. Even from down here, she'd be able to see something.

   The door opened with the rattle of a key, and Commander Ryan stepped through, wearing a combat jumpsuit, a pistol in his belt. Behind him, out in the corridor, Captain Kalb stood at parade rest, rifle in hand. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and fear as Ryan walked into the room, sitting down on the bed.

   “It might interest you to know,” Ryan began, “that your Scoutship Daedalus jumped into the system three minutes ago, and that she and a pair of Koltoc Monitors are currently engaged in battle with elements of our orbital defense force.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Three small ships against nine satellites and four capital ships, including your Alamo. They haven't got a chance.”

   “Don't write off Harper,” Orlova said. “The battle isn't over until the last ship falls.”

   “Perhaps. Though the evidence suggests that you are on the losing side. It isn't too late to change that, though.” Lounging back on the bed, he continued, “If you were to broadcast a surrender, I'm sure your people would respect it. You'd save countless lives, including the civilians that will inevitably die in a revolt. And you know you can't win. They're being condemned to death for nothing. Which of us is the monster here?”

   “They're dying for their children, that they may live in a free world, not one ruled by a tyrant race and their puppets. You've both fought the Xandari, damn it, you know what I mean.”

   “I know that our place in the universe will be strengthened by being on the winning side. They're going to conquer the galaxy, Captain, one way or another, and we're going to live through it.” Glancing out of the window, he added, “We live in paradise. Why should we need anything more?”

   “Ask your people that, if you dare,” Orlova replied. “Ask if they want to live in a world where the most basic right of any living thing, the right to live and die free, is stripped from them.”

   Shaking his head, he replied, “I am responsible to protect them, not to throw their lives away in a futile war, and if you truly cared about the people of this planet, you would do as I asked. Instead, you will die, Captain. My orders are to execute you by firing squad as soon as the current battle is over.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “My expectation is that it will be within the hour. If you have any thoughts about your last meal, Captain Kalb will be only too glad to provide them for you.”

   “I'll have a service revolver, please, with three bullets as the chaser.”

   “I should have expected as much.” Looking up at his comrade, he continued, “What do you think you have to gain from this? Time? Your forces have wasted it by failing to bring your vaunted reinforcements forward. The Xandari have assembled a fleet strong enough to counter anything you could launch at them, and within the year, they'll have control over industrialized worlds all over this part of space. A resource base that you can never hope to match, one that they will ruthlessly utilize...”

   “At least you admit that,” Orlova interrupted.

   With a frown, he continued, “To wipe your Confederation into the dust. Your worlds will be smashed, your people killed or sent to resource worlds. They want Earth, you see, want to reclaim their ancient homeland, and I suppose I cannot find it in myself to blame them.” Looking up at her, he added, “You could stop that with a word. Offer to help the Xandari, to help them take down your fleet, and they'll accord Mars, Callisto and Titan the same status as Copernicus.”

   “As slave states in their empire?” she asked. “No thank you, Commander. We fought a decade-long war for our freedom, and tens of thousands died to make our independence stick. I think both you and the Xandari will find us a far harder nation to bring down than you realize. We'll fight to the last ship, to the last man, and give you a battle that you will never forget.” A smile crossed her face, and she added, “And we'll win. One way or another. I don't even need to live long enough to see it. I know it. And so do you, somewhere down deep in your soul, or you wouldn't be here talking to me.”

   Taking a step forward, she continued, “Why are you here, anyway? Surely a man such as yourself ought to be supervising the defense of your planet, except that the Xandari have usurped that role from you. You're left to nursemaid the prisoners.” Glaring into his eyes, she said, “Or is it that I'm more important than you are letting on, that your glorious masters aren't so certain of victory that they're seeking any advantage they can get.”

   Ryan looked at her, his face reddening, and said, “There's no reason to wait for your death, Captain. I suppose it's only fitting that you should die with your crew.” Shaking his head, he added, “I had hoped that we could reduce the scale of the butcher's bill, but if you are determined to bring so many people down with you, then so be it. Captain, kill her.”

   “Why not do it yourself, Ryan?” Orlova asked. “Don't you have the guts to take a life?”

   Kalb rose his rifle, leveled it at Orlova, and said, “I'm sorry. I'm so damned sorry.”

   The words were familiar, a message hidden in the phrase, but before she could respond, Kalb pointed the gun at Ryan and fired, two shots in quick succession, then turned to the corridor and fired again. The dying man looked up at her, blood spilling out onto the sheets, his eyes wide as he tumbled to the floor.

   “We've got to get moving,” Kalb said. “They're waiting for you outside.”

   Orlova reached down, snatching the pistol from Ryan's belt, and asked, “What made you change your mind?”

   “What makes you think I did?” he replied. “Who do you think the Underground was signaling in the prison?” Glancing down the corridor, he added, “I managed to strip most of the guards away, but we've got to get moving if we're going to free the rest of your people. Master control is on the ground floor.”

   Frowning, she followed him, replying, “How are we going to unlock a hundred doors?”

   “We won't have to,” he said. “Most of the doors are magnetic. We only use old-fashioned keys for the special prisoners, largely because I've yet to hear of any hacker managing to crack into a mechanical lock.” The two of them sprinted down the corridor, leaping over the dead guard on the floor, and Orlova looked around at the other cells.

   “How many people are in here?”

   “A hundred and nine, mostly on the upper levels. There are a few political prisoners here, but we'll have to worry about them later.” He glanced at a clock on the wall as they turned a corner, sliding into the stairwell, and added, “Any second now, the alarms will go off. I've got a few friends here, but most of the guards are Xandari loyalists.”

   General Kelot, a bandage wrapped around his leg, was waiting for them at the next landing with a pistol in each hand. Clapping Orlova on the back, he stepped aside to allow them to take the lead before following, his wound obviously slowing him, his forehead beaded in sweat.

   “Don't wait for me,” he said. “Get moving. I'll cover you.”

   “What's going on outside?” Orlova asked.

   “Flannery's got people stationed all across the city, ready to move. We're going to have to send the signal ourselves.” He smiled, and added, “As soon as we open the doors, they'll hear the alert sirens for miles. That's when we move.”

   Knowing that her people were dying in orbit, Orlova took the steps three at a time, racing to the lowest level, leaving even Kalb trailing in her wake. She burst through the doors at the bottom, almost crashing into a guard, sending the two of them sprawling to the floor. He reached for his pistol, but before he could move, a bullet smashed into his shoulder, bone and blood spilling out onto the floor, a wailing scream as he cried for help.

   “Just ahead,” Kalb said, panting for breath. He raced to the door, slamming his palm on the lock, anxiously looking at the monitor as the system sluggishly conf
irmed his identity. Every second counted, and the computer seemed to know that, the lock finally releasing to allow them into the control center. Inside, a technician waved them in with a smile, pistol at the ready, and Kalb walked over to the console.

   “It'll take a minute to activate the release mechanism,” he said, holding his hand over the controls. “When I hit the button, alarms will go off everywhere. We'll get every guard in the place trying to take them.” He paused, his eyes suddenly very tired, and added, “My men were well-trained. They won't go down easily.”

   “Friendly fire?” a gasping Kelot asked.

   “Everyone on our side will stay well clear. You can fire at will. Ready?”

   “We're ready,” Orlova replied.

   “Here we go.” He tapped a control, entered a ten-digit code, and an ear-splitting siren sounded, the pulsing waves of noise echoing through the corridors, streams of data running up the monitor screens as the locking mechanisms began the long process of disengagement, slowly releasing the prisoners from their confinement.

   The first wave of guards were on them in seconds, a trio of men racing towards the door with weapons at the ready. Orlova's pistol barked three times in quick succession, one of the guards staggering to his knees, clutching his leg, while the others dived for cover, returning fire. The stink of ozone filled the air as a bullet smashed into the monitor screen, shards of glass raining over the technician at the controls, but the mechanism continued its work, the sirens still droning.

   A second squad, more cautious than the first, moved forward in support and Kelot fired wildly in a bid to pin them down. One of them decided to try and be a hero, racing forward, wild shots from his pistol as he tried to provide a distraction to allow his comrades to advance, but Orlova felled him with a shot to the shoulder before he could get close.

   “How long?” she yelled.