Battlecruiser Alamo: Spell of the Stars

by Richard Tongue

   Pastell reached down to a lever, firing a series of explosive bolts that ripped the lower hatch clear, then dropped through the gap to the floor, a salvo of bullets flying through the air all around him. Marshall waited for the count of three, then dived after him, pistol in hand, firing wildly as he scrambled for the deck.

   Four guards, charging towards him. One of them clutching his shoulder from a recently acquired wound. Behind them, blast doors were slamming shut, sealing the corridor against further attack. Marshall fired, dropping one of the attackers, Pastell taking down another, leaving two of them to shoot back. Both bullets found their mark, the first catching Marshall in his trailing foot, the second sliding into Pastell's shoulder.

   Fighting through the pain, Marshall managed two quick shots, taking down each of them, then turned to a white-faced Pastell, his mouth twisted in pain.

   “Can you move?” Marshall asked.

   “We don't have a choice,” Pastell said, gasping for breath, reaching into his pocket. He fished out a hypodermic, jamming it into his wrist, then nodded. “That'll hold me for a few minutes Long enough to finish.” Glancing at Marshall's foot, he added, “You?”

   “I'll survive,” he replied, struggling to his feet, the pain lancing through him, sending waves of agony cascading through his system. He felt a pinprick in his side, and looked at Pastell waving the hypodermic around. “Thanks.”

   “You'll regret it later, but we've got to make it through.” Gesturing ahead, he added, “Security barrier. Unmanned, by the looks of it. I can crack through it, but it'll take time.” He paused, then said, “If it was just a distraction, we've probably done enough. I didn't expect the next level of security to be open.”

   “Meaning that we might actually be able to make it inside.”

   Nodding, Pastell said, “And bring down all kinds of hell on Colonel Cruz.”

   “Sounds like a plan.” Limping after the struggling Pastell, Marshall slid a fresh clip into his pistol, discarding the empty one to the deck. A transparent hatch covered the sealed blast door. Pastell dragged down a control panel, entering command codes into the system in an attempt to free the lock. Marshall turned to the corridor, leaning against a wall, aiming the pistol uncertainly back the way they had come. There would be guards racing towards them, would be there any second. He glanced to the side, spotting the hatch of an escape pod. In seconds, the two of them could be away from here, safely outside. They'd completed the mission, as far as they'd originally planned. They hadn't expected the bonus of being able to actually disrupt command functions. Something they simply couldn't pass up.

   Marshall's stolen communicator crackled, and he pulled the unfamiliar device from his pocket, fiddling with the controls as he raised it to his ear.

   “Marshall here.”

   “Foster, sir. We've reached the primary detention level and secured the central command area. All the prisoners are free, and making for the escape pods. Burton's leading another group to the shuttles, and reports minimal resistance in that area. As far as we can tell, Cruz has concentrated everything into the control levels. You can expect a lot of company in the near future.”

   “Thanks for the warning,” Marshall replied.

   “Sir, I have ten volunteers ready to move to your support. We can be with you in...”

   “That's a negative, Lieutenant, though I appreciate the offer. You've done your job. We're still working on ours. Try and contact Lieutenant Salazar, see if you can provide him with any tactical assistance, but get the hell out of here at all costs. You understand? Right now, your top priority is the safety of the prisoners.”

   “Captain, I...”

   “I'm a big boy now, Lieutenant,” he replied, wincing as a fresh wave of pain rippled through his system. Either the painkiller was wearing off, or he'd been hurt worse than he'd thought. Either way, he wasn't going far, not with his foot the way it was. “I can take care of myself. Now get the hell out of here. That's an order!”

   “Aye, sir,” she replied. “Don't wait too long. Good luck.”

   Nodding, he slid the communicator back into his pocket, turning to look at Pastell, and asked, “How long?”

   “It'll take as long as it takes,” he replied. “We've still got four minutes until Alamo's in real trouble. Keep watching the corridor.”

   Footsteps rang on the deck towards them, and Marshall fired a shot at a shape that ventured around the corner, the enemy instantly retreating. They were too smart to simply charge him, not without vastly superior numbers, and he regretted his snap shot. Better to let the man get closer, get a guaranteed kill. Now, this was going to get tougher.

   “Give it up!” the voice of Colonel Cruz said, echoing from the ceiling speakers. “My troops will be on board Alamo in minutes, and I've got a hundred people heading your way. Surrender.”

   “Not a chance,” Marshall said, spitting onto the deck.

   “Almost there,” Pastell said. “Almost there.”

   A hand reached around the corridor, clutching a grenade, and Marshall fired three shots in quick succession, the third finding its mark, shattering the attacker's fingers. The grenade fumbled to the deck, erupting in a flash of light before releasing a cloud of green gas. He could feel a tingling in his throat as, finally, the inner hatch slid open. Pastell dragged Marshall with him, racing into the control center, terrifying a group of technicians sitting at the controls. One of them, a boy who looked barely old enough to shave, turned with a pistol loosely held in his hand.

   “Drop it,” Marshall said. “Get your people out of here, right now! Anyone still in the room in five seconds gets a bullet in the gut. Move.”

   Pastell took a step to the side as the crew rushed from the room, the young officer the last to leave with an uncomprehending glance at Marshall. Shots rang out in the corridor, and the boy crumpled to the ground, eyes wide, collapsing at the deck. Marshall stood, numb for a second, while Pastell worked the lock, slamming the security door closed.

   “They killed them in cold blood,” Marshall said, shaking his head. “They must have known that they weren't on our side.”

   “That didn't matter,” Pastell said. “They surrendered, and Colonel Cruz would have considered them expendable. And an example to the rest of her crew.” Crashing into the flight engineering console, he added, “You did what you thought was right.”

   Dragging himself to the helm, Marshall brought up a tactical display, the image appearing on the viewscreen. As far as he could see, everything was going Waldheim's way. Alamo was drifting in space, tossed from side to side on erupting fountains of air from hull breaches, the ship staggering into a parking orbit. At any time, Waldheim could destroy her.

   “Fighters,” Pastell said. “From Alamo. There might be something we can do about that.” He reached down to the controls, and said, “There's nothing we can do about the shuttles, but I can throw a maintenance cycle on the missile tubes. Delay launch for a few seconds. It might give them the chance to press an attack.” Glancing at the controls, he continued, “Though they'll still be in the firing line long enough for Cruz to finish them.”

   “Do it,” Marshall said, sliding on a headset and reaching for the communications controls. “Marshall to Alamo. Marshall to Alamo. Come in, please.”

   “Alamo Actual here!” Salazar said. “Captain?”

   “It's me, and I'm unrestrained. In fact, I'm sitting in Waldheim's Auxiliary Control right now.” A low whine came from the door, and he continued, “Though I don't know how much longer I'll be sitting in here for. Seems there are some people outside who want to talk to me. What's your status?”

   “Is this a secure line?”

   Pastell nodded, and Marshall replied, “It is. Go ahead.”

   “If you've got a sensor display, sir, watch the show. It's going to be pretty impressive. And you'd better strap yourselves in.”

   “Pavel, in a matter of secon
ds, you're going to be seeing a few dozen escape pods and shuttles leaving Waldheim. Foster, Carpenter and Murphy have managed to free the prisoners from the surface, and we're working to get them out. They'll probably try and contact you, but whatever it is you are planning, make sure you leave them clear. If they stick to the plan, they'll be heading for the surface.”

   “For the surface. Understood. What about you, sir?”

   “We're sticking around for the moment,” Marshall replied. “We don't have much access, but we've got enough to give Cruz a few things to think about. With a little luck, we'll be able to get out before the real shooting starts. There's an escape pod on standby.”

   “Sir, I can have a shuttle and be over there in...”

   “You've got a battle to fight, Pavel. Focus on that.”

   “Aye, sir. Good luck.”

   “Good hunting.”

   Pastell's fingers worked across the controls, and he said, “They're putting up a hell of a fight. I hope Lieutenant Salazar has something pretty damned special in mind, or we're wasting our time.”

   “He's got something, Major, I promise, it will be good.”

   The image on the monitor screen winked out, replaced by the leering face of Colonel Cruz, lounging in Waldheim's command chair.

   “Captain Marshall, whatever it is you are planning, it won't work. In a matter of moments, my people will have broken through the security hatch, and they've got orders to kill everyone in the room on sight.”

   “Just like you did to the duty crew?” Marshall replied.

   “The fortunes of war,” she said, shrugging. “These things happen. I will, however, give you one chance to save your lives. Only one. Surrender at once, convince Lieutenant Salazar to surrender, and I will forebear from destroying Alamo and your crew. If you fail to do so, I will ensure that you and all of your people die, Captain. And it will not be quick.”

   Looking up at her, Marshall said, “I'd tell you to go to hell, but I think you've already booked yourself a one-way ticket.” Stabbing at a control, he brought the tactical display back up, throwing a switch to block any further interference.

   “Damn,” Pastell said. “She's blocked me. I've only held back three of the launch tubes.” He frowned, then added, “Wait a minute. What's Alamo doing?”

   Marshall smiled, looked up at the monitor, and said, “I think we're about to find out.”

  Chapter 22

   Waldheim gently drifted into position, Alamo still slowly rolling, Quesada doing a masterful job of making the ship appear out of control, while smoothly drifting into position for a laser pulse. The fighters continued their assault, drawing what little enemy fire was heading their way, and the assault shuttles held their course.

   “Almost there,” Salazar said, turning to Tactical. “Kat, this is going to have to be the best shot of your life. Laser, missiles, everything. We're only going to get one chance at this, and it has to count. Having said that, relax.”

   “Sure, boss,” she replied with a smile, her hands poised on her console.

   “Ready for power transfer on your order,” Fitzroy said. “Chief Santiago has teams deployed to deal with the damage. We're going to lose at least half of the transfer links when we do this.” Frowning, he added, “The clean-up after this is going to take weeks. At best.”

   “Better than the clean-up if we lose, Spaceman. Ballard, any change to target aspect?”

   “Nothing, sir. Holding course. All nominal. They're just slowly cruising in. Enemy laser is charged, ready to fire, and they have a firing solution.”

   “Don't worry,” Scott replied. “I'll have them before their trigger finger can so much as twitch.” Looking up at her monitors, she added, “Whenever you're ready, sir.”

   “Wait one,” he said. Rising to his feet, he walked towards the helm, eyes locked on the viewscreen, watching as the trajectory tracks seemed to merge into each other, a strange pattern that danced and drifted. At last, it was time.

   “Fire.”

   Fitzroy moved first, funneling the power hoarded in the laser cannon to the ship's primary systems, status lights briefly winking from red to amber, warning alerts flashing on the viewscreen to inform the crew of the imminent failure of the ship's systems. With control restored, Quesada tapped a control, and Alamo drifted into position for just long enough for the laser cannon to pulse, a beam of light tearing into the fragile primary weapon of the enemy, leaving her radiators a tangled, twisted mess.

   Alamo rocked as eight missiles raced forward, the fighters launching at the same instant to surround the enemy craft, and the point-defense cannons pulsed a series of rhythmic pounds as they sought their targets, the incoming shuttles desperately turning away, trying to escape the fate to which their commander had doomed them, a series of explosions rushing across the sensor screen.

   “Power buildup!” Fitzroy said. “We're heading for an overload! Cascade effect!”

   “Shut her down, Spaceman!” Salazar yelled, and the engineer scrambled to work his controls, fighting to beat down the surging power before it was too late, but it was a race that he couldn't win, and the lights flickered as half the bridge panels died, text flashing error messages in place of status reports.

   Raising her hands in the air, Scott said, “I've got nothing, sir. No control at all, no contact with our missiles. Last I saw, they were running true, but they still had forty seconds to go.”

   “Then we don't even know whether we've finished off the enemy,” Harper said.

   “Sir,” Ballard replied, “Two of the assault shuttles were still in the sky when we lost power. I can't get any of the exterior pickups working, but...”

   “They'll head for here,” Scott said. “When the point-defense guns ceased. And with half their attack force gone, they'll try for a decapitation strike.”

   “Arm yourselves!” Salazar said, racing for the weapons locker on the wall. “Kris, you're with me. Scott, you've got what's left of the conn. Do what you can to get the main systems on-line.” Gesturing at the door, he added, “They'll try for the nearest airlock. We've got to hit them before they can get a toehold, or we'll lose the ship.”

   “Ready,” Harper said. Behind her, Bowman reached into the locker, tossing the pistols inside to the bridge crew before moving to follow them. “What are you doing, Spaceman?”

   “I did three weeks of Espatier training before I washed out,” he said. “Be nice to get to use it for something.”

   “Fine,” Salazar said. “Come along.” He pumped the handle of the manual release, easing the door open, the stubborn gears resisting his efforts. Finally, he forced it far enough for him to step through into the dark corridor beyond. “Fitzroy,” he said, “See if you can get power going out here.”

   “Trying, sir, but I can't even raise Engineering at the moment. Internal communications are out. So are the elevators.”

   “Ungood, Pavel,” Harper said. “We can't call for help, and if they manage to take the bridge without anyone knowing about it, Santiago could end up gifting them control of the ship.”

   “Then we're just going to have to stop them getting that far,” Salazar replied, walking towards the far airlock. His mind raced, trying to put together a battle plan. Assuming a normal load-out, there would be twelve people on the approaching shuttle, most of them wearing protective armor. No plasma weapons, not this close to a critical area, but they'd be far better armed than they were.

   Gesturing at a side door, jammed half-open, he said, “In there, you two. Wait for them to come past, and then hit them in the rear with everything you've got.”

   “Where are you going?” Harper asked.

   “I'm going to make sure they get a suitable welcome. We've got to be hospitable.”

   “Pavel,” Harper rumbled, “This sounds suspiciously like one of your crazy ideas.”

   “Relax,” he said with a smile. “I've got this. Ju
st make sure you shoot straight.”

   Shaking her head, she stepped into the office, Bowman following, while Salazar walked down the corridor in the gloom of the emergency lights. Up ahead, he could hear locks sliding into place while the assault shuttle docked. Under normal circumstances, it would have been easy to throw them clear, stop them making contact in the first place, but their timing had been perfect, their pilot skilled. He glanced around, then tugged free a fire extinguisher from the wall, rolling it towards the airlock, then leveled his pistol at the target, waiting for the hatch to open.

   A green light winked on, and he fired a snap shot, catching the extinguisher dead center. The pressurized canister exploded with a loud report, a cloud of gas erupting into the air, and the first invader paused for the split second Salazar needed. Even the best armor had weak spots, and he'd been extremely well-briefed on their location. The joint between the helmet and the neck guard, vulnerable to a perfect shot. Two quick tugs on the trigger, the second one unnecessary.

   The first attacker collapsed back into the shuttle, falling on his comrades, and Salazar fired again, blind this time, hoping at least to slow them down, to make him an obvious target. Wasting no more time, he turned and ran down the corridor, bullets tearing into the carpet on either side as he weaved from one wall to the other, trying to throw off their aim. He still had ten meters to go, and it seemed like an eternity before he raced past the open office door, hurling himself behind a suit locker, pressing himself flat to provide cover.

   Bullets rained into the locker, rending deep dents in the metal, shrapnel flying in all directions around him. He didn't dare return fire, didn't even dare move, knowing that he was millimeters from death. The enemy soldiers started their advance, moving past the door, and just as they were about to reach him, Harper and Bowman opened up, a barrage of shots that caught them off-guard, one of them falling to the floor, clutching at the wound in his neck, blood spurting free, while the others scrambled for cover.

   Now Salazar could make another move, leaning out from behind cover to take a shot, picking off one of the attackers while they were floundering. The remaining soldiers, eight of them, managed to turn, opening up with bursts of well-aimed automatic fire that sent him diving back behind his shelter, before three of them turned to the office, filling the air with bullets, recklessly expending their ammunition.