Battlecruiser Alamo: Into the Maelstrom

by Richard Tongue

   “I suggest, Lieutenant,” Marshall replied, “that you follow orders. If you have to work extra time to get the job done, then do it. The missiles can wait for a day. We're not going to be using them in hendecaspace anyway, and Sub-Lieutenant Scott's team can keep going while you handle this other problem.” Turning to the engineer, he added, “And for the record, Lieutenant, that is the last time you get to question my orders. Is that understood?”

   “Yes, sir,” the sullen engineer replied. “I will naturally...”

   “File a formal report,” Marshall said, shaking his head. “I somehow had a feeling we'd be getting there at some point. Don't get too comfortable, Lieutenant. You won't be staying on this ship for very long. As soon as we get back to Mars, I intend to file for your transfer, with a recommendation that you no longer be considered for starship duty. I don't think you have the temperament. You can send a work team up to finish the repairs. Dismissed.”

   “Sir...”

   “Dismissed!”

   Turning away, Dubois moved back down the crawl-way, squeezing past Marshall on his way back to the corridor, leaving the two of them alone in the empty space. Marshall moved closer to Clarke, looking up at the damaged systems, shaking his head at the destruction the saboteur had wreaked.

   “What a mess.”

   “Yes, sir,” Clarke replied, “but it should have been worse. They didn't try to camouflage it, and this is one of the most frequently-serviced parts of the ship. Anyone with even basic engineering training could have done a much better job if they'd wanted to.” Shaking his head, he continued, “I think they wanted us to find this, sir.”

   Nodding, Marshall replied, “Dubois was right about something. Checking all of the distribution nodes is going to take time, and that's going to pull us away from other critical tasks. Perhaps that's the whole goal here, to keep us off-balanced and confused.”

   “Maybe, sir, but I don't think that matches with the attempt on the life of General Estrada and myself. I'm reasonably sure that he was the target, not I, and that it was an attempt on the part of Colonel Cruz to eliminate her superior.”

   “And kill herself into the bargain?”

   “Back on Leonov Station, when I stabbed her, she was wearing an auto-med. Something more sophisticated than anything I've seen. It seems reasonable that it could have supplied the chemical stimulation required to keep her alive longer than the General or myself.” Shaking his head, he added, “There's something bigger going on here, sir. There are so many ways the saboteur could be covering their tracks.”

   “I suppose we don't dare assume an incompetent saboteur.” Gesturing at the dangling cables, he added, “Given all of the damage that has been done, the damage must have been caused by someone with access to all areas of the ship, and someone who has good reason to be seen anywhere. Which presumably means someone with seniority.”

   “And someone new to the ship, sir.”

   “What makes you say that?”

   “The damage to the shuttle was undertaken at Mariner Station, and unless we're assuming a much larger sabotage network, it had to be someone over there who did it. With the exception of Lieutenant Salazar and Lieutenant Harper, most of the crew were already on Alamo, and their movements would have been logged.”

   With a faint smile, Marshall said, “I presume you've already pulled a list of personnel who fit that criteria.”

   “I have, sir,” the young officer replied, reaching into his holdall for a datapad. “Twelve names, those of the rank of Senior Spaceman or higher, working in the engineering department.” He paused, then added, “There are three officers on that list, sir. Dubois, Doyle and McCormack.”

   Frowning, Marshall said, “If you are making an implication, Midshipman, feel free and make it clearly. I'll give you permission to speak your mind.”

   Taking a deep breath, Clarke replied, “Senior Lieutenant Dubois signed off on the shuttle, and his work schedules seem almost designed to make sure that the sabotage went undiscovered through routine maintenance. I know that he's using the standard rotation plan, sir, and that it's easy enough to find, but I remember on Monitor that the Systems Officer told me that they were usually changed, and frequently, specifically to guard against sabotage. Now maybe they were being unusually cautious, but...”

   “No, Midshipman, I know Jack Quinn used to do the same thing.” He paused, then said, “You heard what I said to Dubois. That doesn't mean that he's a traitor.” Looking down the crawlspace, he added, “All you are talking about is circumstantial evidence at best.”

   “To be clear, sir, my name is also on that list.”

   Turning back to Clarke, Marshall said, “You've got Double-Ultra clearance, Midshipman. If you've turned traitor, we really do have a problem. I'm willing to concede that you are on the side of the angels.” A frown spread across his face, and he continued, “You're supposed to be Systems Officer's Mate. No matter what Dubois says, that's your assignment, and I think that's going to be useful. I want you to take personal charge of the investigation into the power relays. Pick a work crew that you trust, and make sure you have an Espatier with you at all times.”

   “You want me to keep everyone else out of the loop?”

   “No, Midshipman. You will take no special precautions, and you will make sure that all paperwork is properly filed while you conduct the investigation. Stick rigorously to normal procedures.” A part of Marshall hated what he was doing, but Clarke simply nodded, immediately understanding what was being asked of him.

   “I guess I'm going to be the decoy again, then, sir,” he replied, with a nod. “I take it you will have no objection to my carrying a concealed firearm?”

   “None at all, Midshipman. In fact, I think such a step extremely wise.” He could hear footsteps coming towards them up the crawl-way, and said, “Tell nobody of your suspicions, and report any anomalous behavior on anyone's part to me at once. The safety of the ship and the completion of our mission could be depending on you.” Clapping his hand on the young man's shoulder, he added, “No pressure.”

  Chapter 17

   The bridge was far more crowded than regulations usually permitted for the approach to the brown dwarf, anyone with an excuse present to watch the ship emerge from normal space. An unnamed star in the middle of nowhere, hitherto destined to be a footnote in the history books, and now two major stellar nations were on the verge of war because of it. Marshall looked around the bridge, Salazar standing next to Harper at the electronic warfare station, and Doyle replacing Ballard at the sensor controls, the fidgeting technician hovering over her shoulder, periodically reaching down to make minute adjustments to the pickups.

   “Four minutes to emergence,” Imoto said.

   “Very good, Midshipman,” Marshall replied. “You have the call. Deadeye, all hands to battle stations. I want to be ready for anything when we leave hendecaspace, up to and including a full-scale fleet action.”

   “Aye, sir,” Caine said, reaching for a headset. “Executive Officer to all hands. Battle stations. I say again, stand by your battle stations. This is no drill. Repeat, this is no drill.” Glancing behind her, she continued, “Report systems status to the Second Officer.”

   Marshall waited for the angry glare from Francis, standing by his side, but instead he simply offered Salazar a curt nod as the young officer walked over to the engineering station, throwing a control to bring a ship status report onto the holographic display, datapad in hand. All across the bridge, a low murmur of conversation rippled as the crewmen coordinated their emergence, getting the ship ready for action.

   If they fought, it would be war. The chances of destroying Waldheim outright were negligible, a tactical victory the best they could hope for. Allowing the enemy to take the first shot might give them the moral high ground, but that would be unimportant in the long run. He'd still have started the Second Interplanetary War. He looked around the bridge again,
watched the command staff coolly at their posts, only Imoto showing a hint of emotion at the helm as he started to execute the emergence routine.

   “Come on, Engineering, give me a green light,” Salazar said. “You're way behind the rest.”

   “Dubois again,” Francis muttered. “Captain, permission to leave the bridge.”

   “Denied,” Marshall replied. “I want you here, Lieutenant. Pavel?”

   Nodding, a frustrated frown on his face, he replied, “All decks are cleared for action, sir. All systems ready, all bulkheads sealed. And I'll be having some words with Senior Lieutenant Dubois as soon as the screaming stops.”

   “I think I'd like to sit in on that,” Francis added.

   “Good cop, bad cop?” Salazar replied with a smile. “Anything's worth a try.”

   Marshall looked at the two of them, shaking his head before turning back to the viewscreen. He'd expected Francis to complain for days about being passed over for Second Officer. That he seemed to be getting closer to Salazar was a surprise, to say the least, and for a moment Caine's words from Leonov Station, about the command structure, echoed through his mind. He'd given Salazar the job because he was the best man for it, and unleashing his potential was already yielding dividends. One day, maybe soon, he was going to make a fine commander. But not today.

   “One minute to emergence, sir,” Imoto reported.

   “Deploy radiators as soon as we arrive in-system,” Marshall said. “Never mind a defensive posture. I want a firing solution on the Waldheim as soon as you can. Sensors, I want a full active sweep of local space once we emerge. Don't bother to hide it. They'll be expecting it anyway.”

   “Captain,” Salazar said, turning from his monitor, “May I recommend a more conciliatory approach? Technically, this is unclaimed territory, and we have no special rights here.”

   Shaking her head, Doyle said, “I disagree, sir. They could be waiting to ambush us as soon as we leave hendecaspace, ready to attack before we can orient ourselves. I would in their place.”

   “You're assuming that they want to start a war,” Francis replied. “That's a damn dangerous assumption to base our decisions on. Captain, this could escalate extremely quickly if we're not very careful. I recommend we hold back radiator deployment until the situation is more clear.”

   “Thirty-five seconds, Lieutenant,” Caine replied. “And if things are bad on the far end, that's time we simply won't have. Captain, I recommend we proceed as planned.”

   Nodding, Marshall said, “Deploy radiators on exit.” Turning to Francis, he said, “Don't worry, Lieutenant, Alamo won't fire first. But if they start a fight, we'll finish it.”

   “Ten seconds, sir,” Imoto said. “Random walk course prepared for immediate implementation upon exit.”

   “Negative,” Salazar said. “Build up some speed first, Midshipman, or we'll be a sitting duck when we enter the system. Go for a long burn, sixty seconds at full acceleration.”

   “You heard the man,” Marshall said. He paused, then added, “If sensors pick up anything in our way, don't wait for the order, Midshipman. Do what's necessary.”

   “Aye, sir,” the nervous Imoto replied. “Egress!”

   With a blinding blue flash, Alamo dived through a rip in the very fabric of reality to emerge into normal space, returning to its home dimension. The stars returned to the viewscreen as Alamo's radiator wings swept clear of the side of the ship, the laser cannon completing its final charging sequence. The refit had seen a significant increase in the power their main weapon could put out, and there was a part of Marshall that almost wanted to see how the new systems would perform in battle.

   Emergence was almost an anticlimax, as the ship soared into the unexplored system without hindrance, sensors rushing to gather all the data they could. Francis moved to join the double-act at the monitoring station, peering at the displays.

   “Threat warning!” Doyle said. “Waldheim, sir, dead ahead.” She frowned, then added, “Not on an intercept course, sir. I don't understand her trajectory.”

   “Show me,” Marshall said, and the ship appeared on the screen, instantly flicking to maximum magnification. The engine complex was burning white-hot, systems overloading in a desperate attempt to gain distance, but the trajectory plot showed the ship barely moving, tied to some invisible force that was holding it back, preventing it from making its escape. He looked across at Caine, who shook her head.

   “They've got bigger problems than us right now, Danny,” she said. Frowning, she added, “Midshipman, change your course. We're heading directly for them, and that's the last place we want to go.”

   “Trying, ma'am,” Imoto said. “That's not the course I programmed.”

   “Pavel, take the helm,” Marshall said, and Salazar raced across the bridge, sliding into the vacated pilot's position, running his hands across the controls. “Alter course. I want to keep well clear of whatever is happening over there.”

   “We're in a gravity field, Captain,” Salazar said. “Doyle, check these readings. They can't be right.” Reaching down to a bank of switches, he added, “Moving to full power, sir, maximum acceleration. Tell Dubois that I might need more in a minute, but I think I can keep us at this distance.”

   “Singularity, sir!” Doyle replied. “That's all it can be. The sensors are having a nightmare tracking it, but there's a field of intense gravity dragging Waldheim down.” Shaking her head, she said, “They can't maintain that level of acceleration for long, not without a burnout.”

   “Bowman, contact General Estrada, and inform him that Alamo is ready to provide any assistance needed to evacuate that ship.”

   Turning to the rear, Salazar said, “Get Corporal Burgess up here, on the double.”

   “The UN technician we rescued?” Marshall asked.

   “I can't think of anyone on board who knows Waldheim better than him. He's an engine specialist.” Shaking his head, Salazar added, “I think I'm going to have to shoot for a high orbit, Captain. We're not going to break away, not at this stage.”

   Nodding, Caine said, “And lucky to do that. Danny, I don't know if there's anything we can do for Waldheim without falling into the hole ourselves.”

   “There are eight hundred people on that ship,” Doyle said. “We can't just write them off as lost.”

   “You were happy enough to see them shot out of the sky a moment ago,” Caine rebutted.

   “Signal, sir,” Bowman replied. “Faint, voice only. Minimal power.”

   “They're throwing everything they've got to the engines,” Marshall replied, nodding. “That's a game they can't play for very long. Put the General on the overhead speaker.”

   A second later, the voice of Estrada barked, “Waldheim to Alamo. Recommend you go to maximum acceleration to reach escape vector, at once. Don't come any closer, and don't try and do something foolish. We're falling into the well, and there's nothing we can do about it.”

   “General,” Marshall said, looking at Salazar, “if you can execute a slingshot maneuver, you might be able to reach a hendecaspace point and get clear of the system.”

   “That's what we were trying when you arrived,” Estrada said. “I'm going to load all of our information onto a shuttle. There's a chance it might be able to fight its way clear.” He paused, then added, “I've got no way of enforcing this demand, but that shuttle will also have last messages from my crew to their families.”

   “I'll see they get back to Sol, General, as well as any information you've gathered up to this point. It seems only fair.” Turning to Caine, he asked, “Is there anything we can do?”

   “I don't see what,” she replied. “We can accelerate faster than they can, but that will only help us up to a point. Even if we could get close enough for crew transfer, Alamo can't hold that many people.” She paused, then added, “We might be able to take some shuttles, if they want to risk the flyby.”

&
nbsp;  “Save yourselves, Alamo,” Estrada said. “And good luck. You're going to need it more than we do, I think.” As the channel broke, a series of lights winked onto the screen, and Marshall rose from his chair, turning to the sensor station.

   “Waldheim just lost thirty percent of her thrust, Captain,” a morose Doyle said. “They're slipping, and fast. I don't think they have a chance of breaking away now.” Shaking her head, she continued, “Maybe they never did.”

   “Can you estimate a time to entry into...whatever it is?”

   “One minute, sir.” She paused, then added, “Waldheim has launched her shuttle, sir, on a wide trajectory.” Her eyes widened, and she continued, “They're running her hotter than anything I've ever seen. She's pulling twenty gravities. If there was anyone on board...”

   The elevator doors opened, and Burgess walked onto the bridge, followed by Ensign Rhodes, his eyes widening as he saw Waldheim on the viewscreen, falling into the gravitational abyss, still burning her engines as hard as she could in a last, desperate hope that they might win the war against Newton, break the cold equations that were dragging her down to her doom.

   “No!” Burgess yelled, stepping forward.

   “There's nothing we can do, Corporal,” Francis said, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

   “Forty seconds, sir,” Doyle said, and all eyes on the bridge turned to the viewscreen, watching as the mighty dreadnought seemed to slide backwards, falling into the darkness beyond, into something that the monitor was unable to resolve, a pit that light itself could not escape. Frowning, Francis leaned over the sensor station, tapping a series of commands into the computer, the only man not enraptured by the view on display.

   For an instant, Waldheim's engines flared, arresting the fall into death, her engineers finding one last, brief spasm of power to run through the overstressed systems, but it could only last for a few seconds, and despite the best efforts of her helmsman, the ship continued its descent, the trajectory plot showing a terminal end at any time. Eight hundred people were on board that vessel, eight hundred lives about to be snuffed out.