“Watch for records,” one of the mob yelled. “We want everything nice and legal when we hang the bastards.” Orlova locked eyes with Flannery, sad desperation filling the priest's eyes, then turned for the stairwell, Ricardo moving a nervous step ahead of her, his eyes darting around, waiting for the bullet he feared to reach him.
“How many floors?” she asked.
“Twenty-One,” he replied. “They were planning to make their stand up at the top, somewhere. I think there's a helicopter on the roof as well, just in case.”
“That won't do them any good,” Sergeant Hunt said, a stolen Xandari rifle nestled in his hands. “They don't have anywhere to run, not on this planet.”
Nodding, Orlova said, “Sergeant, organize groups of men to stop on each floor. I want them to search for any hostiles, make sure no one is stuck in our rear. Use locals where you can.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he said, as she turned to the stairs, Flannery chasing after her.
“You're keeping them out of the way,” he said, nodding. “Making sure they don't do something that we're all going to regret tomorrow.”
“That, and they're civilians, Father. We're the soldiers. We're meant to take the risks to keep them safe.” Shaking her head, she added, “If this had gone to any sort of plan, they wouldn't be up here at all.”
“This is their world, Captain,” Flannery said. “They have the right to fight for it, and to die for it, if that is their choice.” With a sigh, he added, “Half of the commercial district is still on fire from that idiot last stand. I think the fire brigade is responding, but the streets are so crowded, I don't know whether they will get through.”
“You should be out there, Father, not at the head of the assault.”
“I go where I am needed, Captain, and I venture that this is where I am meant to be.”
The group raced up the stairs, the combat training of the Triplanetary veterans rapidly showing as they outpaced the civilians, passing one floor after another, clusters of men sweeping to the side at Hunt's command to search the bypassed rooms. Only Flannery stayed with them, red-faced and panting but determined to be there for the end.
“Signal, Captain!” Nelyubov said. “Cantrell, I think, though it's garbled as hell. They've taken Planetary Defense Headquarters.”
“Then it's over,” Orlova said, with a happy sigh.
“No,” he added, “They're under heavy attack. Not expected to hold out for long. That's a spaceport as well, Maggie, and if that helicopter's going anywhere, my guess is that's the destination.”
“On the double!” she yelled, finding more energy, digging deep into her reserves as she pushed on, Ricardo falling back as she took the lead, borrowed rifle in her sweat-slick hands. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a figure moving out of the shadows, and she dropped to her knees, dragging Nelyubov and Flannery down with her, as a pair of bullets raced overhead, gouging holes into the wood-paneled wall.
She pulled the trigger, and watched with horror as young man fell out of cover, terror in his eyes, a gaping wound in his chest. He looked up at her, his mouth wide, a silent scream as the weapon tumbled from his hands, dropping down the stairs. He couldn't have been older than sixteen.
“My God, they're arming kids,” Nelyubov said. “Throwing them into the battle, more meat for the grinder.” He looked at Orlova, and said, “Maggie, you didn't kill him, they did.”
“I pulled the trigger,” she said, tossing her rifle away as though it was on fire. “All of you stand back. I'm going up by myself. I'm going to end this.”
“They'll kill you,” he said.
“Frank, you are ordered to wait here.” She gestured at the stairs, and said, “There's enough blood on the hands of this mob to last them a lifetime. If we can end this without spilling any more, that's worth rising my life.” Before he could protest, she added, “I have to do this, Frank.”
Shaking his head, he said, “If I hear so much as a gunshot, I'll be up there with a squad before the echo dies. Is that understood?”
“Of course,” she said.
“I'm coming with you,” Flannery said, looking at the dead boy on the floor. She nodded, and the two of them climbed the stairs, hands out wide, leaving their weapons behind. The mob tried to surge forward, racing after them, but Nelyubov held them back, her people linking hands to block their passage. They had a little time, at least, to try and end this without more death.
At the top of the stairwell, two crimson-uniformed guards looked down at them with contempt, one of them raising his rifle to shoot them before the other stopped him with a glare, picking up his communicator and muttering something unintelligible into the pickup. After a brief pause, he gestured for her to come up.
“The President will see you now. She's willing to discuss terms of surrender.” The sneer grew, and he added, “Yours, naturally.”
“At least that's a starting point for negotiation,” Flannery replied. The priest looked at the man, frowned, and said, “Raoul, isn't it? How's your father?”
The guard's face reddened, and he said, “I don't know.” Glancing out at the city, smoke rising from a dozen fires, he added, “I haven't heard from him since you bastards launched your attack.”
“Have faith, Raoul. All will come well in the end.” Turning to Orlova, the indomitable priest said, “Come on, Captain. I don't think we want to keep the President waiting, do we?”
The corridor above held a dozen more guards wearing the same distinctive uniforms, who were setting the finishing touches to a defensive fortification, a pair of plasma rifles set to cover the staircase. Orlova looked at the weapons in horror, knowing that one blast would likely kill everyone on the stairs, the backwash having an excellent chance of killing the gunner.
Another guard stood at attention in front of the final door, pushing it open to allow the two of them to enter. Sitting behind her desk in an unnervingly normal way was the President, the only consideration of the battle being waged a guard standing in the corner of the room at parade rest, rifle by his side, and a shattered window behind her, destroyed in one of the explosions that had wracked the capital.
“Captain,” she said. “I'll get right to the point. If you surrender immediately...”
“No,” Orlova said, stepping over to the desk, towering over her. “You're going to die, Madam President. I think we both know that. The only thing you can do is save as many of your people as you can.” Pointing at the window, she said, “They're dying down there, dying by the hundreds, fighting the last death-throes of your regime.”
“It's true, Magda,” Flannery said. “It might cost us a hundred lives to take this little enclave, but we will, no matter what the cost. And how many people will die in the process?”
“Don't think your Xandari friends will help you,” Orlova added. “They got out of here as soon as they realized the game was up, and my fleet is winning up in orbit.”
Shaking her head, Wulf replied, “You don't believe that, do you? The Xandari still have overwhelming odds, and the missile satellites have been destroyed. That means three battlecruisers against your Alamo, and the last time such a battle was waged, you lost.” Looking up at the two of them, she added, “I was trying to save them, don't you understand? Save them from the very war that you have brought down upon us.”
“They made their choice,” Flannery said. “It wasn't hard to gather recruits. Thousands of our people volunteered for the Underground. They'd rather die than live under the heel of the Xandari.”
“It would not have been like that!” Wulf yelled. “They'd have had their war, and they would have moved on. We'd have sent them a tithe every year, and been left to ourselves. We don't need to roam space, not when we've found our paradise right here on Copernicus.”
“And every year the tithes get harder to raise, and the Xandari put more and more pressure on the government, until soon eno
ugh they are the government, and your people are forced into greater and greater squalor. Finally they're left to grub in the dirt for their overlords, their paradise a forgotten dream. That's what waits for your children, Madam President,” Orlova said.
Closing her eyes, Wulf replied, “It could have been so different. We could have lived in peace. Now the fighting will begin again, and Copernicus will be the battlefield...”
“The fought was not in ourselves, but in our stars,” Flannery misquoted. “Our ancestors happened to pick a strategically important world to live on. They couldn't have known, and neither could we.” Reaching down for a communicator, he said, “End this now. While you can.”
With a curt nod, Wulf looked across at the guard, and said, “Tell the men that I'm ordering them to stand down. They're to get rid of their weapons and allow Captain Orlova's forces up here. Instruct all forces in the city to surrender.” As the guard left the room, hastening to give the orders, she rose from her desk, looking out of the window, her hair fluttering in the breeze. Before Orlova could reach her, Wulf ducked through it, hurling herself out into space.
“No,” Flannery said, shaking his head.
“What else could she have done?” Orlova said, with a deep sigh. She turned to the President's computer, still operational, and entered a series of commands. “If she'd lived, the mob would have torn her to pieces.” Text flashed on the screen, the computer asking her to confirm her instructions, and as she pressed 'enter', the display blanked out.
Looking at the monitor, Flannery asked, “What did you do?”
“Deleted all files relevant to the Occupation,” she said. “That might not stop all the bloodshed that will hit this world in the next few months, but it might save a few lives. Most of those who collaborated didn't have a choice.”
Outside, the crowd was singing, flags waving in the air, and the gunfire slowly crept to a halt, the battle coming to a silent end. Flannery looked out at them, shaking his head, then sat down at the desk, lines on his face of a man old before his time.
“It's over,” he said.
“Not yet,” Orlova replied, looking up to the sky. “We might have won the battle down here, but if Harper and Salazar don't beat the Xandari up in orbit, this could be a very short celebration.”
Chapter 24
The thirty-six missiles arcing through space towards the Xandari battlecruisers were the most beautiful sight Harper had ever seen, a wave of trajectory tracks curling into position. The enemy commander had thrown up a full salvo in response, but the Triplanetary missiles were smart enough not to die easily, or quickly. Instead of a straight-in approach, they were taking their time, forming a globe around the perimeter of the Xandari formation, readying to attack in one devastating mass. From a tactical point of view, it was a perfect attack strategy.
And one that would take at least thirty seconds too long. The three ships were moving towards Alamo, weapons hot, and seemed far less concerned with defending themselves than with seeking vengeance for their impending death. It wouldn't even be a bad idea, strategically. Even if the Xandari were defeated, leaving only a scattered collection of small ships behind would negate everything they had accomplished. If Alamo survived, it could rebuild the defense network in a matter of days. Daedalus could never manage it, would struggle even to make it home to the Confederation.
Throwing a control, she expanded the image to show the whole of the battlespace, the view far simpler than it had been at the start. She'd entered the system with ten ships, facing an enemy interceptor squadron and four battlecruisers, including Alamo. Now there were only five ships left of those she had brought into the system, the others little more than expanding clouds of debris and drifting escape pods. She hated to think of the casualties they had suffered, but for the present, all that mattered was that only one ship was in a position to do anything to help Alamo. Daedalus. All the others were scattered across local space, the Koltoc ships almost out of fuel, the Neander out of position.
Armstrong had placed the ship on a low, loping trajectory to bring them underneath the enemy formation, hoping to coordinate with Alamo, but with a few quick course changes they would be able to drive into the heart of the battle. She looked down at the status monitor, shaking her head. No missiles, and even her crew wouldn't be able to improvise a new weapons system in the hundred-and-two seconds they had remaining.
“Scott, what's the status of our missiles?”
“Running true,” she replied. “I can't get into them, though. Cooper's team must have set them for autonomous operation, and unless we got a lucky shot with a message laser, we wouldn't be able to crack into the system.”
“No message laser,” Ingram added. “Damaged in that last missile strike.”
“So much for that idea,” she said. “Midshipman, alter course. Take us towards the enemy.” Taking a deep breath, she added, “Collision course.”
Armstrong turned to her, and replied, “Captain...”
“Collision course on the nearest enemy battlecruiser. Alamo's going to take some hits, no matter what, but we might be able to reduce the odds a little.” Looking around the bridge, she added, “All hands, prepare to abandon ship. That includes the bridge crew.”
“Captain,” Scott said, as Armstrong worked the controls, swinging the ship around, the enemy formation now centered on the screen. “There must be...”
“If you can think of an alternative, Kat, I'll be only too happy to take it. Armstrong, clear the helm. I'll take it.”
“No, ma'am,” Armstrong said. “Last time I checked, you weren't qualified to fly a starship.”
“Midshipman…,” she began, before adding, “Very well. The rest of you, get out of here.”
“Ninety-five seconds to collision,” Scott said, alarms ringing across the ship. Behind her, the crew slowly filed out, Arkhipov and Ingram leading the way, Kowalski loitering at the hatch. He turned, as though about to say something, then shook his head and stepped out of the room. She glanced back, a smile on her face, as she settled down into the command chair. They'd have a good chance if they could get to the escape pods quickly enough.
“Change to target aspect!” Scott said. “Six missiles heading right for us. Forty seconds to impact.” Shaking her head, she added, “There's nothing we can do about it.”
“Get out of here, Kat,” Harper replied. “You've done everything you can do.”
“Like hell,” Scott said.
“I'm disengaging all safety overrides,” Armstrong added. “And initiating final course changes. Technically neither of you have to stay here. I don't need anyone watching over my shoulder.”
Turning to Scott, Harper said, “Warm up the shuttle, then. We can get out of here on that at the last minute. One full burn and we should be able to escape the debris field.” Scott nodded, finally heading from the bridge, and Harper added, “If we don't get there in time, detach and get to safety.” Before her friend could protest, she said, “That's an order, Sub-Lieutenant.”
Scott replied, “If that's the way you want it. Captain.”
Harper turned back to the viewscreen, watching as the formation visibly grew, the points of light beginning to resolve themselves into shapes. Warning alarms sounded across the bridge, collision alerts from the automatic systems, a droning whine that seemed to seep through her head. Fumbling with her controls, she found the manual override, and silence reigned at last.
She looked around the bridge, each console still flashing data for their absent operators, automatic controls kicking in as the systems detected the absence of the crew. Only Armstrong remained at her station, frantically playing the thrusters in an attempt to at least mitigate the impact of the approaching missiles. Idly, she realized that six hits would stand an excellent chance of tearing her ship to pieces, but at that range, it wouldn't matter. Enough of the hull would get through to rip into the enemy warship, giving P
avel a chance to live through the battle.
Glancing down at the communications controls, she tried to open a channel to Alamo, but too many systems were damaged, too much electronic interference blocking the signal. She settled down in the chair with a sigh. He knew what she would have said, if she'd had a chance. At least her crew was safely away, the last of the escape pods drifting clear. She reached down to another control, and with a smile, released the shuttle from its docking cradle, tossing it from the side of the ship. Scott would be furious, but there was nothing she could do.
“Five seconds to impact,” Armstrong said.
“Midshipman, it has been an absolute pleasure to serve with you,” Harper said.
“All mine, ma'am,” she replied. “Two seconds. One. Impact.”
The whole world seemed to shake as the six Xandari warheads found their targets, slamming into the side of the ship in a carefully designed pattern to do maximum damage. At the final microsecond, Armstrong had fired all the thrusters, spinning the ship just enough to wreck their fine targeting, but she couldn't stop the impact.
Daedalus lurched forward, the hull plating cracking in a thousand places, the familiar whine of decompression sounding right on the bridge. Sparks flew through the air, and before she could even move, a ceiling spar crashed down from the ceiling, part of the wrecked superstructure, catching Armstrong on the back. The young officer gasped in surprise, briefly struggling before falling limp, and Harper jumped forward trying to free her.
It took a second to register that she was still alive. Somehow, she had lived through the impact. The acceleration had stopped, and she was floating free, debris drifting around her as she pushed for Armstrong. A rattling noise pounded from the rear, and none of the telltales from the aft section were reporting. One glance at the surviving monitor told her why. Daedalus had been ripped in two, the force of the explosion neatly severing the engineering section away, hurling the two pieces onto separate trajectories.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Pyrrhic Victory Page 20
