“You can brief Scott, Lombardo and Strickland,” Logan said. “As soon as you enter hendecaspace.”
“The number two officers at Tactical and Systems, as well as the Medical Officer,” Harper replied, frowning. “Logan, can't we...”
“No,” the intelligence chief said. “This order comes right from the top, all the way from the Combined Chiefs. No information regarding the existence of Monitor or her disappearance can be released to unauthorized personnel, no matter what. If, and only if, in your judgment the situation requires it, you my brief Captain Marshall at that time.”
“And if we don't have time for a prolonged briefing while United Nations dreadnoughts are bearing down on us?” Salazar asked.
Pulling out a datarod, Logan handed it to Salazar, and said, “These orders give you the authority to do whatever is necessary to ensure the success of the mission and the safety of the crew. I don't need to tell you to use these with the utmost discretion.”
“You're putting me in an impossible situation,” Salazar pressed.
Nodding, Logan replied, “I know, Pavel, I know. All I can say is that Triplanetary Intelligence will back you, whatever happens.” He paused, then added, “Lieutenant Bailey is our liaison at Leonov Station, out at Proxima. I suggest you contact him as soon as you arrive. He'll have some updated information for you.”
“Without telling the Captain, I presume,” Salazar replied.
“Sometimes, this job requires us to do things we personally find distasteful, but I assure you that they are in the best interests of the Confederation.” He pulled the box from the wall, stuffing it into a pocket, and the doors slid open on a darkened deck. As Logan stepped out into the corridor, he added, “Naturally, I was never here, and this conversation never happened.”
“Naturally,” Salazar said, shaking his head as the doors closed. “I just wish that was true.”
Chapter 2
Midshipman John Clarke raced for the shuttle, his holdall swinging back and forth in his hand, heavy enough that he was almost tempted to toss it away in a bid to gain speed. Waiting at the airlock, Technical Officer Alexandra Blake, wearing her uniform with an air of obvious resentment, held the safety release to prevent it from closing, shaking her head as he sprinted towards her.
Clearing the airlock with a single bound, he said, “Made it.”
“Only just,” Blake replied. Inside the cabin, a single passenger looked up from her datapad, a wry smile on her face.
“Running a little late, Midshipman?” she asked.
“Sorry, ma'am,” he said, saluting with his free hand. “Hold-up at the baggage area. My...”
“Never mind,” she said, shaking her head. “Feel free to blame me. I'm running behind anyway.” Looking at the two of them, she continued, “Lieutenant Diana Doyle. Science Officer.”
“This is Midshipman Clarke,” Blake said, gesturing at the panting ex-cadet. “I'm Alex Blake. Surgical Assistant.”
“I take it you are the assigned pilot?” Doyle asked. “No one else has shown up.”
With a frown, Clarke glanced at Blake, and replied, “I suppose so, ma'am.” Glancing at his watch, his eyes widened, and he added, “Alamo's departing in forty minutes.”
“Then I suggest we leave at once, Midshipman,” Doyle said, returning to her reading. Clarke turned to the cockpit, sliding into the pilot's couch with confident ease, running his hands across the controls as the displays drifted across the console, customizing itself to his normal profile. Blake dropped down into the co-pilot's seat, looking across at Clarke with a frown.
“Tell me you've taken flying lessons since the last time you sat in one of these.”
“Top of the class,” he replied. “Had to do something while I was waiting around on Mars.”
With a thin smile, she said, “I hope this time means you've flown something other than a simulator.”
“Relax,” he said, throwing a trio of switches, reaching for a headset. “This is Transfer Nine-Two, requesting departure clearance for priority transfer to Alamo.”
After a second, a tinny voice replied, “Roger that, Nine-Two, proceed at your discretion.”
“See,” Clarke said, disengaging the docking clamps with the touch of a button. “Nothing to it.” The centrifugal force of the station tossed the shuttle clear of the hull, and the thrusters fired a series of steady bursts to stabilize them while he plotted his course to the battlecruiser, barely thirty miles distant in its parking orbit.
“One-twentieth power, engaging primary engine,” he said, and with a brief rumble, the shuttle began to drift steadily towards its target, Clarke firing another careful pulse of the aft thruster to set them on trajectory. “I could do this with my eyes closed.”
“Sounds like a good way to have a horrible accident.” Looking across at the sensor display, she added, “Lot of traffic flying around out here. I make fifteen cargo shuttles, another three transfer pods, some tankers.” Shaking her head, she continued, “I guess they're in a hurry.”
“You know how it works. Wait around for months, then all of a sudden we get twenty-four hours notice for departure.” He frowned, then added, “We weren't meant to leave for a fortnight. I wonder what the rush is?”
“Probably some administrative Charlie Foxtrot,” she replied. Shaking her head, she tugged at her uniform, and added, “I've already seen far too many of these while I've been wearing this thing.”
“You volunteered, remember.”
“Two years, Midshipman,” she said. “Two years, then the Fleet pays my way through Medical School. I'm not one of your mighty space heroes. My motivations are as mercenary as they come, and don't you forget it. If we have a nice, quiet cruise, that will suit me nicely.” Looking over his side, she added, “How is that scar of yours, anyway?”
“Want to take a look?” he asked.
Shaking her head with a scowl, she glanced across at the systems monitor, and said, “Wait a minute. There's a red light on thruster three. Are you getting any problem with the flight controls?”
Frowning, Clarke looked down at the console, and replied, “Everything seems fine here. Run a diagnostic check. Maybe we're getting a false reading.” Reaching across to the navigational controls, he continued, “Just in case, I'll...”
Before he could finish, the shuttle lurched to the side, flying into a spin, throwing him into the hull, his restraints snapping free. He reached for the controls, desperately stabbing the emergency overrides, trying to kill the rotation. With a rumble, the main engine snapped back on, and the trajectory plot on the viewscreen became a confused tangle, the shuttle spiraling out of control.
“What's happening up there?” Doyle yelled.
“Systems malfunction,” Clarke replied, pulling himself into his couch. “Overrides aren't working. Alex, try the auxiliary.”
“I did,” she yelled, turning from her station. “Nothing happened.” A series of red lights flooded across the display, warnings that the shuttle's hull was being stressed beyond capacity, and she said, “We're out of control. She won't take this for long before we get a hull rupture.”
Clarke struggled to his feet, dragging himself towards the suit locker, and said, “I've got to go outside. The safety interlocks should still work.”
“Are you out of your mind?” she replied. “You'll be thrown clear in a second! And how the hell are you going to put on a spacesuit with the ship in a spin?”
Stumbling to the wall, Clarke replied, “Don't worry, I've got a plan. Keep trying the overrides, and see if you can contact someone for help. Maybe the external overrides will work.”
Looking at the communications display, Blake said, “The antenna can't keep up with the spin.” The shuttle lurched forward, end over end, a second thruster adding to the confusion. “John, we should think about abandoning ship.”
“Not yet,” he replied.
“We can save her. But try and get the rescue balls ready, just in case.” Belatedly, he realized there was a senior officer present, but when he looked into the cabin, he saw her lying on the floor, blood running from a cut in her forehead, one hand reaching for a rescue ball. Quickly, he placed his fingers on her neck, checking for a pulse, then stumbled forward as the shuttle lurched once more, sending him collapsing to the deck.
“This plan of yours had better be something pretty damned special!” Blake said.
“You aren't the only one hoping that,” he replied, struggling into the airlock as the shuttle lurched again, drifting to the side. He reached for a spacesuit, pulling open a rescue ball and tossing the parts inside, then strapped a dozen safety lines to the ball, locking it into position. With one last look around the airlock, he slid inside, reaching up to the emergency release before tugging his hand inside, sealing the ball before the atmosphere could drain into space.
Sirens sounded as the ball inflated, the suit's component pieces scattered inside. As the outer hatch of the airlock opened, he was hurled clear of the shuttle, slamming into the wall, but at least the sudden movements had stopped, calm stability restored. The flash of the emergency alarms warned him that this sanctuary would only be temporary, his haven thrown around the sky, still attached to the shuttle, the cables wrapping around the hull, securing him still more tightly.
The space was cramped, but he was still just able to struggle into his spacesuit, pulling the pieces into position one at a time, the suit computer loading as he placed his helmet over his head, locking it with a loud click. At once, a whining drone filled his ears, the noise of the rescue beacon sounding.
Someone would be on their way by now, moving to provide what help they could, but with the shuttle spiraling around, docking would be out of the question. Almost certainly, the deck crews on Alamo were already working to bring the shuttle back under control, but as the ball soared closer to the hull, it was obvious that they were failing. All of this was down to him, and as the last green light winked on, he snapped another safety line into position, then tugged a knife from his pocket, bracing himself for the next step.
Taking a deep breath, he made sure that the line was secure with a quick tug, then stabbed at the inflatable wall of the bubble, tears ripping down its sides as he flew out into the vacuum beyond, tossing and turning as the air sped out into space. The suit thrusters quickly began a futile attempt to stabilize him, but the tangle of the cables was too much for the computer to correct, and he stabbed at the override control, allowing himself to spin..
He could see the shuttle below, still spinning on her thrusters, the main engine idling at its lowest power. His heads-up display flashed an alert, a ship on an approach vector, a rescue vehicle from Alamo. At least help was close at hand should his plan fail. As he cautiously fired his thrusters to approach the ship, he tapped a series of commands into the controls on his wrist.
“Clarke to any station, any station. Distress priority, repeat, distress priority.”
“Alamo here,” a gruff voice replied. “What the hell is going on out there?”
“Thruster malfunction, control systems malfunction, engine malfunction,” he recited. “I am attempting EVA repair. Request rescue craft stand by to evacuate shuttle as soon as she's stable. I doubt the safety interlocks will hold for long.”
“Stand by, Midshipman,” the voice continued. “We've got a team on the way.”
“Negative, sir. The shuttle won't take the stresses much longer. I'm surprised she's still in one piece now. Proceeding with repairs. Clarke out.” He closed the channel, knowing that his superior would be ordering him to hold back, an order he had no intention of obeying. Slowly, the shuttle grew, the tangle of cables dragging him along, sending him into a stomach-churning spiral. Again and again, his suit began the impossible task of stabilizing his roll, leveling him out, as though unwilling to believe that the occupant would seek out insanity such as this.
Then the collision alert sounded, the wail of the siren ripping through his ears before he could silence it, a series of course projections flashing onto his field of vision, recommendations calling for him to run to safety. If he was careful, he could just about reach Alamo on his suit thrusters, even without the help of the waiting rescue shuttle.
A hundred meters to go, and the seconds seemed to crawl. He reached down for his final safety line, the shortest he had, knowing that he would have only one chance to lock onto the shuttle before being tossed way. Already he was bracing himself for the impact, his eyes roving over the spinning hull to find somewhere to lock on, carefully pulsing his suit jets to avoid the plumes from the thrusters that continued to fire, twisting the shuttle on a roving path through the sky.
Almost before he realized it, he reached the hull, clamping on with a hook. Suddenly he had a brief flashback, a memory of his first real mission, drifting across miles of space to reach his target, the largest space station ever built. Then, he'd been in no immediate danger, knowing that only capture would result from his failure. Today, the odds were higher. He could see faint puffs of air already leaking from gaps between the hull plating. Catastrophic containment failure could be only minutes away. Maybe seconds.
“Alamo to Clarke!” the gruff voice repeated. “If you're going to do this damn stupid thing, at least listen to instructions. And don't try and cut me off again, I've engaged an override. You'll not only have to shut down the interlocks, but you'll have to wreck the main engine. Rear section, maintenance hatch three. Interlocks first, though.”
“Roger, Alamo,” he replied, the force of the shuttle's spin still threatening to throw him clear. “Approaching Thruster Three.” He crawled over the hull, reaching from handhold to handhold, forcing himself to take his time, to be patient, knowing that he couldn't make a mistake, that the safety line was already being asked to perform a task far beyond its normal tolerance. He glanced up, spotting the tangle of cables, the remnants of the escape pod being towed behind the shuttle, looking like some sort of impossible parachute.
After what seemed an eternity, he reached the first thruster, and pulled free the servicing cover, tossing the piece of metal away in his haste. His gloved hand reached around the controls, twisting it twice, and a green light winked on, the interlock engaged, the thruster dying. With sweat dripping down his face, he climbed around the perimeter of the shuttle to the second thruster, down on the underside.
Movement flashed across his field of vision, and he saw the landing struts drop down. A smile crossed his face as he realized that it had to be Blake's work, the nearest strut perfectly positioned for him to anchor himself while he engaged the final interlock. At least the shuttle would be stable now, though if anything, the roar of acceleration seemed to be increasing, the effort of holding on growing tougher.
“Clarke!” Blake yelled, finally able to reach him. “We're building to a reactor overload! Engine thrust building, and I can't shut it down! None of the controls are working.”
“Bail out,” the voice from Alamo yelled. “Bail out, and we'll pick you up.”
Clarke looked at the tangle of cables wrapped around the shuttle, shook his head in despair, and said, “That's a negative, Alamo. The airlock's obstructed. There's no way anyone could get out in time, and I don't have any cutters with me. Tell me about shutting down the engine.”
He swore he could hear a sigh, as the voice replied, “Make your way down to Maintenance Hatch Three. It's just aft of the rear landing strut. You should be able to reach it without much trouble. Move quickly, before the acceleration exceeds the ability of your cable to withstand it, and watch out for any more trouble with the thrusters.”
“On it, sir,” Clarke replied, starting his way down the underside of the shuttle, but after a few seconds, he was jerked to a halt. He looked back at his cable, and cursed under his breath at the tangled mess behind him. The line was a mess of knots, twisted around t
he forward landing strut, secured in position underneath three other cables, a relic of the thruster misfiring.
“Report progress, Midshipman. I didn't quite hear your last message.”
With a thin smile, Clarke replied, “Obstructed, sir. One second, and I'll be there.”
“Be careful, Midshipman. We have the rescue team on the way. They can be with you in four minutes.” Clarke shook his head, knowing that at the rate the engine power was increasing, rendezvous would be impossible long before then. He could see the rear landing strut, only twenty meters away, and started to calculate his speed, reaching out with his hand. If he was going to pull this off, he had to be quick.
Tugging at his belt, he released his cable, removing his last connection to the shuttle, and fell behind, his hand slipping over the hull, his fingers desperately reaching for his goal, missing the strut by inches. He felt something brushing against his legs, and scissored his ankles together around an aft communications antenna, using the brief contact to swing into position, gripping onto a handhold.
Immediately, the strain on his wrists was agony, but he managed to hold on, sliding ahead of the maintenance hatch, rising a hand to pull it free, the cover immediately falling behind him as the engine continued to roar. He looked down at the complicated mess of components inside, shaking his head as he struggled to recall his classes in engine maintenance.
“Clarke to Alamo. I've got the cover free.”
“Nice and simple from here, Midshipman. Make as big a mess of it as you can, but whatever you do, don't touch the CCR relay. There's enough voltage running through that to kill a hundred morons like you, even through your gloves. Hurry.”
He saw the long black cylinder of the CCR relay, just creeping around the edges of the exposed machinery. At least, he thought that was the CCR relay, but there was only one way to find out, and he reached in with his hand, tugging at components, pulling circuits away, ripping at fiber-optic cables, anything to savage the fragile machinery. These transfer pods were never meant to face any serious danger, were built quickly and cheaply, and he silently thanked government parsimony as he dug deeper and deeper.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Into the Maelstrom Page 2
