“All part of wearing the uniform,” Clarke said, forcing a smile. “Now if the two of you have quite finished arguing, I think I've spotted something.” Gesturing at some scrawled text on the wall, he said, “My Russian isn't up to much, but doesn't that say something about shuttlecraft?”
“Specifically,” Koslowski said, peering into the gloom, “the writing suggests that the manager of the repair facilities has dubious parentage. We're on the right track.”
“Can we keep the chatter down?” Blake said, shaking her head. “Stealth means silent in my world. I don't know about yours.”
Nodding, Clarke continued down the shaft, his stomach lurching as the gravity changed, a trace of bitter bile in his mouth. Moving between gravity fields was something he usually accompanied with the requisite pills, and he hadn't thought to bring any with him when he'd left Alamo. Something else to remember for next time. Assuming there was a next time.
More text along the wall testified that at some point in the past, this tunnel had seen frequent use, and as the unsettled churning in his stomach grew, so did his confidence that they were heading in the right direction. He felt his datapad in his pocket, longing for a deckplan, but knew that the device was worthless without data transmission, and even if he could find a way to access the local network, it would telegraph their presence to anyone seeking them out.
A loud rattle sounded from above them, the trio freezing for a second, waiting for the raised voices and echoing gunshots that would herald their discovery, but after a heart-rending moment, the noise passed, unrepeated. As far as Clarke could tell, it was movement in the corridors beyond, in the main accessway of the docking area, and it seemed likely that some technician had dropped his tools on the far side of the wall.
The sirens had died minutes ago, as had the proclamations that Station Security was on their tail. He didn't have any real fear of them catching up with them, the local police having a rather dismal reputation, but their incompetence would only make it easier for the undercover United Nations operatives to cover up any moves they chose to make. Three junior officers could disappear very easily, and he wasn't sure whether Captain Marshall would elect to start a shooting war to ensure their safe return. Under the circumstances, he knew he would have to choose to sacrifice the lost officers and move on.
That he was one of the officers in question didn't reassure him in the slightest, though he forced a smile to his face as he glanced at the nervous Koslowski, scaling the long ladder behind him. She was three years his senior, a graduate of the Triplanetary Fleet Academy, one of the best and the brightest the Confederation had to offer, but for the present at least, he had something she lacked. Field experience. Even if he would have given a great deal to have missed out on that particular opportunity.
Another turn, and now they were falling, the gravity dropping to insignificant levels as they reached the core of the station. Now it was a question of flying, not climbing, and their progress grew faster as they slid towards their target, periodic glances to the rear to confirm that they were still safe, that nobody was pursuing them directly. Every time they passed a sensor relay, Clarke looked up with a frown. For all their care, he had to trust that someone was watching out for them, hiding them on the internal sensors.
One brief signal to Alamo would have served to resolve his uncertainties, but they had no real way to call out, and even if they did, the message would only end the anonymity they were depending on for survival. Not that the odds were favorable in any case. Between the three of them, their weapons consisted of two used obsidian knives, both of them already growing dull, and a long piece of bent metal tubing. Against any significant defenses, they wouldn't stand a chance, and they all knew it. Finally, they came to a set of large, double doors at the end of the corridor.
“This must be it,” Clarke said. Looking at Koslowski, he continued, “You get to take the pilot's seat today. Head for the nearest shuttle, get inside, and start the shortest pre-flight in history. Blake and I will see to the elevator airlock and join you.” He paused, glanced at Blake, and continued, “Get this straight. If we get caught, and you have a chance to escape, take it. And see that those datacrystals you managed to lift go to either Lieutenant Salazar or Lieutenant Harper. Not the Captain. Understand?”
Shaking her head, she said, “I don't take orders from you, and we're not...”
“Damn it,” Blake yelled, “What is it with you people? That information has to get back to the ship, or the three of us die for nothing. Or do you think they're going to be taking prisoners today?” Looking at the hatch, she continued, “Not that it matters. The only reason we've made it this far is that those bastards know exactly where we're going. There will be an ambush waiting for us on the other side, I guarantee it. So move quickly, and don't look back. Got it?”
“Got it,” a resentful Koslowski said. “We're going to have words later.”
“As long as I live to listen to your lecture,” the medic said, drifting across to the hatch controls. “Here we go.”
The loud, grinding noise from the little-used hatch made Clarke scowl, frustrated that their stealth had been mitigated by the thunderous advertisement of their arrival. Much to his surprise, the shooting didn't start as soon as the double doors opened, and he kicked inside the cavernous maintenance bay, looking for anything that resembled controls for the elevator airlocks built into the wall.
Dozens of scattered shuttles littered the room, many of them in various states of disrepair, but the most prominent, and one of those nearest the hatch, was a Triplanetary Fleet shuttlepod of familiar design, with the name 'Pioneer' resplendent down her side, livery fresh. Without a second thought, Koslowski kicked towards it, slamming into the hatch in her haste, while Clarke dived for the nearest control panel, Blake a heartbeat behind him.
The first crack caught him by surprise, a bullet flying through the air to his side, the gunmen moving in through an overhead hatch. Three of them, all wearing the McAllister uniform, confirming his suspicions about the technician from earlier. This had been a trap, right from the beginning, but with a loud report, he saw Koslowski scramble on board the bait, her security overrides still working well enough to grant access to the shuttlepod.
A hand reached out, dragging him into cover behind the shattered remains of an old civilian landing craft, spidery legs sticking into the air to provide handholds. Already a trio of punctures had ripped through the fragile hull, and he knew instantly that they couldn't stay here, couldn't risk lingering for more than a few seconds. He glanced at Blake, and words were unnecessary. The control panel was less than forty meters away, but it might as well be as many miles with three gunmen in their path. One of them might make it, might be able to operate the controls, but the odds of that person getting from there to the shuttlepod were poor at best.
Taking a deep breath, an instant before Blake could take the decision from his hands, Clarke pushed off, using his friend to give him the initial boost, sending her deeper into cover at his expense as he dived across the open space, bullets slamming into the rocky walls on either side of them, hacking off fragments of stone that tumbled into the air all around him.
He reached out with his hand, tapping the control, hearing the mechanism burst into life as he drifted clear, knowing that he would be an easy kill for the three pistols trained on him, only hoping that Blake and Koslowski would take full advantage of his sacrifice. As he'd expected, three shots rang out, echoing around the cavernous chamber, but much to his surprise, he wasn't dead.
“Get into cover, Clarke!” Salazar yelled, with Harper and a pair of men he didn't recognize behind him. “We'll handle the rest.”
Swinging around a long antenna, Clarke smoothly slid into position behind a General Dynamics Starcharger, a hot rod of the previous decade currently being stripped down for parts, with a tough hull that would give him more than enough protection. He watched as Salazar div
ed for the shuttle, Harper and the two strangers providing covering fire as the trained pilot moved to relieve Koslowski at the controls, while the elevator airlock slowly slid open to the side.
Taking advantage of Salazar's distraction, Clarke threw himself towards the nearest gunman, knife in hand, catching the man by surprise and knocking the wind from him, sending the two of them tumbling into the nearest wall. The gunman moved quickly, but Clarke was faster, slamming his elbow into the man's wrist, sending his pistol drifting clear.
There was a race to snatch it back, and with a carefully planted kick in the gunman's solar plexus, Clarke won, easily reaching for the handgun and leveling it at his opponent's face. Above him, he heard two more shots, and all was calm in the maintenance bay, the battle over, at least for the present.
“Looks like we have a prisoner,” Clarke began, but he was interrupted by a bullet slamming into his captive's forehead, sending him tumbling end over end, blood flooding out of the dying man in drifting globules. Clarke looked up and saw one of the strangers, his pistol still in the air, and raised his own weapon to cover him. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”
“No witnesses,” the man said. “You know this man, Lieutenant?”
Harper looked at the stranger, disgust on her face, and replied, “I do, and you'd better put that weapon back in its holster, Major, or you and I are going to exchange bullets.”
Shaking his head, the man holstered his pistol, and said, “This is why, ultimately, we will win. You don't have the toughness to survive in a galaxy where everything seeks to do you harm, and we have the strength to triumph, no matter what.” Looking around at the mess, he said, “Nothing here has been monitored, and I will deny any story you give. I suggest you leave immediately, before the good Colonel arrives with reinforcements.” Turning to look at Clarke, he added, “My complements, by the way, Midshipman. Few have bested Colonel Cruz in hand-to-hand combat. There will come a day when she seeks a rematch. For your safety, I would decline.”
Clarke watched as the man silently made his way for the nearest exit, then turned to Harper, and said, “Who the hell was that bastard?”
“Major Pastell. United Nations Intelligence. And for today, the enemy of our enemy, much as I might want end his miserable existence.” A low whine came from the shuttle, and she said, “We'd better get the hell out of here while we still can. He wasn't kidding about the reinforcements, and the next time we meet, he'll be shooting at us.”
Still fuming, Clarke looked at his erstwhile prisoner before turning for the shuttle, drifting through the hatch into the rear compartment. Salazar had already taken the helm, drafting Koslowski to the co-pilot's seat, and he made his way for the rear engineering monitor, strapping himself in next to a red-faced Blake and the other stranger, a young man looking as though his whole world had just collapsed.
“These are the sort of people we work with now?” she asked.
“Not me,” Clarke said, shaking his head. “If I ever meet Pastell again, I'll end him.”
“Watch it, Midshipman,” Harper warned. “We can't let personal feelings get in the way of doing our job, no matter how strongly we might feel about it.” She paused, then asked, “Though if we have any excuse, I'll join you in his firing squad.” She looked around the cabin, then added, “See if you can find anything in the shuttle's logs, Midshipman. We might just have got lucky and stumbled across the evidence we were looking for.”
“Koslowski has everything we need, I hope,” Clarke replied. “A box of datacrystals with the last log entries of one of our ships. I don't know which one, though the note was signed with an 'O'.”
“An O?” Harper asked. “A wild scribble?” At Clarke's nod, she turned to the cockpit, and said, “Koslowski, give me that box, on the double!”
Clarke smiled, then turned to the engineering monitors, only for his good mood to dissipate as he looked at the structural status readouts. He tapped the controls, barely able to believe what he was seeing, running a second full diagnostic check to confirm his worst suspicions.
“Lieutenant!” he yelled. “Keep your thrust down to one-tenth power, or the ship will be torn apart!”
“What?” Salazar replied. “We're clear for launch, Midshipman. Are you sure?”
“The outer hull has been seriously stressed, sir. Exposed to an extremely high-gravity field, more than a hundred and fifty G. I'm surprised she's holding together at all, but I'm getting failure warnings from the superstructure sensors.” He paused, then added, “Internal systems seem fine, though. I don't understand it.”
“Maybe we should switch to another shuttle,” Blake suggested, but the rattle of gunfire on the hull sent her racing to the nearest viewport. “Damn. Looks like the Major's friends have arrived. Correction, the Colonel's. She's here, and she looks mad.” Turning to Clarke, she added, “Want that rematch?”
“Not today, thank you,” Clarke replied. “As long as we take it easy, sir, she should hold together long enough for us to reach Alamo.”
“Besides, if this shuttle has been to the brown dwarf and back, we need to subject her to a full analysis,” Harper added.
“Agreed,” Salazar said. “I don't think a walk out there would be particularly healthy, anyway. Initiating launch thrusters. Clarke, contact Alamo. Patch in to the shuttle's signal boosters.”
As the shuttle roared into life, he tugged his communicator from his pocket, running a cable into the nearest dataport, and said, “Clarke to Alamo on Emergency Frequency Nine, full scramble. Come in, please. Clarke to Alamo on Emergency Frequency Nine, full scramble. Come in, please.” He fiddled with the controls for a moment, and began, “Clarke...”
“Alamo here,” the voice of Francis replied. “What's going on over there, Midshipman? We have reports that you are wanted on a charge of murder. Turn yourself into the local authorities at once.”
“Hurry up!” Blake yelled. “The bastards are planting a charge on the hull!”
“I must speak to the Captain, sir, right away,” Clarke said. “We're under attack over here.”
A softer voice broke in, and Marshall said, “Go ahead, Midshipman. I'm on the line.”
“We're in a stolen Triplanetary shuttle, sir.” As the vehicle lurched towards the elevator airlock on her launch thrusters, scattering their attackers around the bay, he continued, “She can't do more than one-tenth acceleration, but we've got to get her back to the ship. Salazar, Harper, Koslowski, Blake and I are on board.”
“Trouble seems to follow you around, Midshipman,” Marshall replied. “Waldheim is moving into a potential position to intercept. Can you delay your launch until we're in a more favorable position?”
“I don't think Colonel Cruz and her friends will let us, sir.”
With a sigh, Marshall replied, “Message understood, Midshipman. We'll do what we can to keep those bastards off you. Good luck. Alamo out.”
“I'm glad he said that. I think we're going to need it.” Salazar said, as he guided the shuttle into the elevator airlock, out into the hostile vacuum beyond.
Chapter 12
Marshall sat in his command chair, watching the tactical situation devolve into a nightmare as Waldheim moved into position to intercept the shuttle, far ahead of Alamo. The limping escape craft crawled onto approach trajectory, and even the most optimistic projection had them being snatched out of the sky long before they could reach safety. He glanced across at Caine, sitting at the tactical station, then back at the viewscreen again.
“I'd say you've got about a minute to make a decision, Danny,” Caine said. “We can put ourselves onto a course to intercept Waldheim, if we do it right away, and we ought to get a good salvo into the air before they reach the shuttle.” Turning to look at him, she added, “It would at least give them a chance, and allow us to knock down anything they launch.”
“If we do that,” Francis replied, “the
n we're committing what they will consider to be an act of war against the United Nations. Against an opponent that significantly outguns us.” Shaking his head, he replied, “I recommend we hand them over. Station Security claims that Midshipman Clarke murdered one of their people in cold blood. We're in the middle of a diplomatic incident, sir, and anything we can do to calm the situation down...”
“Mr. Francis,” Marshall said, coldly, “Under no conceivable circumstances will I hand over a member of this crew to the theoretical justice of a United Nations court on the say-so of a bribed local official. I hope that is clearly understood. I don't believe that report for a moment.”
“Are you willing to start the Second Interplanetary War today, Captain?” Francis asked. “Because that is precisely what is at stake here if we make the wrong move.”
“And if we yield,” Caine replied, “we send just as important a message to them.”
“Energy spike!” Ballard reported. “Looks like a fighter launch from the Waldheim. Three birds in the air, heading on an intercept course to the shuttle. Time to target, three minutes.”
“Squadron scramble,” Marshall ordered, without an instant's hesitation. “Orders to escort the shuttle to Alamo, but to not engage the enemy unless fired upon.” Turning to Caine, he added, “Make that quite clear to McCormack. If I have anything to say about it, she isn't going to get her fifth kill today.” Tapping a control, he continued, “Bridge to Engineering.”
As the hull rumbled from the launch of Alamo's strike wing, seven fighters racing into the air, Dubois replied, “Here, Captain. All decks are cleared for battle.”
“Lieutenant, I need more acceleration. Red-line the reactors, and watch the power transfer network like a hawk. If I call for the laser cannon to be charged, I expect it to be ready in twenty seconds. Understand?”
Battlecruiser Alamo: Into the Maelstrom Page 11
