“Still working, sir, but someone's fighting me,” she replied, furiously working her console. “Best guess has them back on line in eighty seconds.”
“Sir,” Imoto said, “Course computed and programmed. Egress in a hundred and fifty-one hours, ten minutes, nine seconds, with constant full acceleration. We'll need to begin the slingshot in thirty seconds.”
“Abort options?”
“None, sir.”
“Commit,” Marshall said, taking his chair. “We're out of options. Go for a good, hard burn, Midshipman, and let's see what this ship can do.”
At the touch of a control, Alamo spun on her axis, the trajectory plot changing again as the ship smoothly moved onto a new arc. A series of low whines echoed from the underside of the ship as the fighter squadron settled back into position on the hangar deck, moving with smooth precision into the elevator airlocks, nestled safely inside the hull.
“Course change complete,” Imoto said. “We're committed. I'm going to need one-ten from the engines to pull this off, sir, which officially...”
“Do what you need to do, Midshipman,” Marshall said.
The elevator doors opened, and a blood-splattered Blake stepped out, red-faced from exertion, shouting, “Don't change our course!”
“Too late,” Caine replied. “What the...”
“The saboteur has killed Senior Lieutenant Dubois, sir, and is somewhere down by the aft thrusters. I couldn't contact you from Elevator Control, Captain. All communications in that area are dead.” Shaking her head, she added, “John's heading after him. I've got to get down there.”
“Take the bridge, Deadeye,” Marshall replied, racing towards the medic. “Wait one, Blake. I'm coming with you.”
Caine turned to Marshall, and said, “Danny, one false move, one thruster malfunction, and we don't have a chance. We'll fall into the anomaly, and there won't be a damn thing we can do about it.”
“Do what you can,” Marshall said, the doors slamming shut. “Let's just hope it doesn't come to that.” The last thing he saw before the elevator began its journey were a series of flashes on the screen, the Republic cruiser squadron snapping back into normal space directly into their flight path, just as they had feared. Death waited for Alamo, no matter what path they chose. This way, at least they had a chance to outwit it.
“You any good with a pistol, sir?” Blake asked, handing him a sidearm.
“In a few moments, Technical Officer, I'll be only too glad to give you a demonstration.”
Chapter 22
Clarke swiftly moved along the maintenance shafts, trying to navigate the tangle of tunnels and passages that wrapped themselves around the inhabited modules of the ship, laced with cables, pipes and conduits that jutted out from the floor like teeth, evidence of the haste that the maintenance engineers had faced in preparing for Alamo's departure. He had to keep on the saboteur's tail, couldn't delay for an instant without facing the risk that the blast doors would come slamming down all around him, allowing his prey to escape. Given a moment's notice, he could easily be trapped, but he seemed to be gaining on the shadowy figure ahead, just spotting his target diving around a corner, down to what he thought was a shaft.
He couldn't detect any pattern to their movements. As far as he could remember, and without the leisure to consult the deckplan on his datapad he couldn't be sure, they were somewhere near the aft thrusters, and as he bounced against the wall, he could feel the chill from the fuel tanks at the rear of the ship, the cold of the cryogenics seeping through the insulation into the deck, making his breath condense as he exhaled.
In his hand, he clutched his pistol, his eyes seeking a target. He couldn't simply fire blind and hope for the best, not down here. One thing that had been stressed during even his abbreviated training was the extreme danger of gunfire inside a ship, and in one of the maintenance tunnels, where one severed wire could lead to a catastrophic systems failure, that situation was even worse. Until he caught his target, he had to be patient, wait him out, and know that at least he was preventing any more sabotage.
Somewhere behind him, a crack squad of Espatiers were in pursuit, experts trained for precisely this sort of warfare. He'd had two semesters at the Academy, then three months in a Triplanetary Intelligence training camp that officially did not exist, but that was no substitute for the intensive preparation the troopers had made for exactly this scenario. The very reason that there was a Triplanetary Espatier Corps. And yet, it was all down to him, his limited skills, and a pistol with five shots left in the clip. He cursed his lack of foresight for not taking additional ammunition, something else he would have to do better in the future. Assuming he had one.
In the early stages of the pursuit, he'd called out to his prey, tried to convince him to surrender, but it had been immediately obvious that he was only wasting badly-needed breath, and that this chase would only end in a hail of bullets, one or both of them dead on the deck. No matter what happened to him, the saboteur had to die, before he could do something more serious. Assuming he hadn't wreaked more havoc already, and this was nothing more than distraction to prevent him from finding out the truth before it was too late.
He couldn't think that way. Had to simply keep on pushing, keep on chasing his opponent. At least he knew the lie of the land, after a fashion. Ten days as Systems Officer's Mate, four of them spent wandering around these passages and tunnels looking for sabotage had taught him much, though he couldn't shake the feeling that his enemy knew them better than he did, that he was the one being tricked.
Another corner, and another glimpse of his target, a sweeping mass of hair swinging around. Not a man, then, but a woman, and he cursed himself for his unconscious assumption. That limited the number of suspects a little, nine potential saboteurs on the list he'd prepared for the Captain. Behind him, he could hear noises, the sound of more pursuers, and for a moment dread flooded into his heart, fears that more saboteurs were on board, that he had been lured into a trap.
Shaking his head, he dispelled his doubts. It had to be the Espatier force, catching him. Given their skill and experience, it would be disappointing if they didn't manage to exceed his speed, and with luck, in a matter of moments they would be able to take over the pursuit. His chase would soon come to an end, and as he panted for breath, sweat pouring from his forehead, he knew it couldn't come a second too soon.
It seemed as though he had been chasing his target for miles, all around the twisted tunnels and chambers, and given the sheer size of Alamo, that was far from unlikely. The ship was more than half a mile long, but even that barely told the story, and the interior of the battlecruiser was a tangled mess, the legacy of a dozen refits that had left the original design schematics behind long ago.
Finally, he seemed to be catching up, gaining ground on a long passage running above the primary fuel tank. The chill was really seeping into him now, from the reserve oxygen reservoir to his side, and he shivered as he ran, the thin work coveralls doing nothing to warm him as he ran, head ducked low to avoid the swinging cables in his way. More evidence that this had been planned in advance. All the obstructions should have been carefully bolted to the walls before the ship left dock, even with the hasty departure. That this hadn't been done simply proved that someone had wanted to leave the saboteur a place to hide.
At last, he had a shot, and he took it, the crack of a precious bullet echoing from the walls as he sped towards his prey, the saboteur not even moving as the blast raced past her, coolly choosing to ignore his attack. The bullet slammed into the deck ahead of her, and his heart skipped a beat as he realized he'd fired at the oxygen reservoir, the precious gas stored under such high pressure that any puncture would instantly kill them both.
There was an angry dent in the hull, but the armor held, the saboteur taking advantage of his momentary hesitation to gain ground, ducking down a shaft. Clarke cursed, bounding after her, taking th
e rungs of the ladder three at a time as he chased her, risking a glance back to see if he could spot the reinforcements heading his way, only the dark and the shadows rewarding his attention. This was still his fight, and his alone.
Slowly, they seemed to be creeping towards the outer hull, the outside of the ship, but unless he'd forgotten something critical, they were a long way from any airlocks or shuttle bays. Not that anyone would have a chance for a suit transfer, not with the mass of the anomaly still dragging them down. It would be a speedy way to commit suicide, and a certain one. He fumbled in his pocket for his communicator, holding it before him for a second, sighing as the warning lights flashed on, alerting him that there was no signal strength. The device was dependent on the ship's internal repeaters, and all of them were still out in this section.
He turned another corner, trying to slide his communicator back into his pocket, but his palms were sweaty, and the precious device tumbled to the ground. There was no time to go back for it, and he was forced to press on, knowing now that even if the internal network came back on line, there was no way for him to call for the help he desperately needed.
Another turn, and another glimpse of his target, dancing into a long shaft. At least they were beyond the chill of the oxygen reservoir, but they were getting ever closer to the outer hull, a worse environment at the best of times. He struggled to remember the sensor readings from before, trying to recall what the local radiation environment was. Somehow, he suspected that a long stay in sickbay was in his future, no matter what happened here today.
He risked a second shot in a long corridor, this time at least getting the satisfaction of forcing the saboteur to dive to the side to avoid his bullet, the round ending up somewhere in the gloom, a smashing noise making him wince inside, bracing himself for the klaxons that would alert him to the manner of death he had brought upon the ship. Nothing sounded, but he now only had three shots left, and while the saboteur wouldn't stop to fight him until she had an advantage, he had a suspicion that she'd been counting his shots, would know exactly when he was unarmed and vulnerable. A combat knife still nestled in the holster under his coverall, but if the saboteur was armed with a pistol, he'd never get a chance to wield it.
A loud whine echoed through the corridors, a barking alarm that announced that someone had opened up one of the local access-ways to the hull space, the vast cavern between the inner and outer hull. Under normal circumstances, it was off-limits to all personnel, a mess of components and tangled equipment that was never meant to be accessed or serviced in space, not without special equipment. One hull breach would kill him, and the bulk of the heavy, protective armor was on the inner hull, not the outer. With a battle still in progress outside, he was taking a grave risk by venturing too close.
He followed the saboteur without a second's thought, knowing the damage she could do if he wasn't there to stop her. As soon as he clambered through the hatch, he began to regret his decision, the maze of equipment beyond forming an intricate framework, littered with warning signs, the stink of ozone already filling the air as the saboteur scrambled through the latticework of critical components.
He had a good shot, but didn't dare to take it. One bullet here would be instant death, unless his aim was absolutely perfect, and he didn't trust his limited skills that far. Sliding his pistol into his holster, he reached for his combat knife, and looked down at the fleeing saboteur, finally realizing who she was.
Lieutenant Doyle.
Suddenly, it all made sense. She'd sabotaged the shuttle herself, a perfect way of throwing suspicion away from her, and giving her an excuse to get involved in the investigation. Her position had her reporting to the Systems Officer, giving her all the clearances she needed to go wherever she wanted in the ship, and on paper, she didn't have the skill-set required to wreak the havoc she had wrought. She looked up at him, knowing that she had been identified, and not caring.
Which meant that she knew she wasn't going to live through this encounter, and for some reason, she didn't seem to care. Below her, the long nozzle of Thruster Three stretched out, running from the fuel tank through the double hull, the emergency overrides glistening as the systems activated, noting the proximity of an authorized user and beginning the control sequence.
Deftly, she swung around a strut and dived for the controls, easily catching the panel and reaching across to fire the jets. There was no way Clarke could climb towards her, not in the time, and long before he could reach her, the damage would have been done. Taking a deep breath, knife still in hand, he reached for one of the useless communications repeaters, a long antenna that almost reached the hull, bowing uneasily under his weight, and swung himself out into space, diving towards Doyle, knowing that if he missed, death was certain, the razor-sharp sensor relay below him more than enough to end his life.
His fingers reached out as the saboteur realized he was plunging towards her, and a knife was suddenly in her hand, swinging and slashing towards him, but now it was his turn to ignore the peril he was facing, the danger that she posed to his life. All his attention had to be focused on grabbing the thruster, or he'd die anyway. Time seemed to slow as he dived towards it, hoping and praying for a miracle, the handhold stubbornly out of reach.
Somehow, his fingers slid into position, and he used the momentum of the descent to arrest his fall, swinging acrobatically around the tube in a manner that would have made his instructors proud, easily avoiding the clumsy swings of Doyle, similarly encumbered with one hand on the tube, holding her in place. He inched towards her, swinging his own knife to parry hers, the two blades meeting for an instant before she pulled back.
The controls had been set for a long burn, five seconds that would alter Alamo's course. With the anomaly so close, he didn't dare tarry, knew that the altered trajectory could wipe them all out, but he couldn't quite reach her with his knife, a few inches short. If he moved, he'd open himself up to an easy kill, but she faced the same dilemma, and the two of them briefly thrust and parried with their blades, swinging back and forth from the tube above, hoping to take advantage of any moment of weakness exposed by the other. Neither was a master with the blade, but they were not unskilled either, and neither was going to give the other an easy kill.
Clarke's sweaty palms started to slip, and he glanced down for an instant, regretting his brief look at the tangled equipment below. If he fell, he'd not only kill himself, but likely the rest of the crew, and he tensed himself to dive forward, risking death to press home his attack. Doyle looked into his eyes for a moment, cold hatred where warm friendship once had been, a mask the saboteur no longer had to wear.
A voice called down from above, and the pair glanced up for a split second, Rhodes finally arriving with his squad, Marshall and Blake with him, guns at the ready. Clarke saw the opportunity he had been waiting for, and lunged forward, swinging his knife wildly, slashing into her side, blood splattering to the deck. For an instant, Doyle looked up at him, limply swinging her blade, sending him ducking back out of range, before closing in for the kill.
Before he could reach her, an instant late, she slammed her hand on the control panel.
“You lose,” she said with her last words, before dropping away into the equipment below, a shower of sparks and a column of smoke heralding her fall. Sirens wailed as the thruster fired, sending Clarke swinging to the side, struggling to hold on. He lunged for the panel, trying to reach it with sweat-laden fingers, and managed to tap the control to quieten the boost, scant seconds after it fired.
A snake-like cable dropped by his side, and he gratefully reached for it, allowing himself to be dragged up the deck towards the hatch, Rhodes and Marshall tugging him up. He felt something sticky on his wrist, and belatedly noticed that one of Doyle's swings had found its mark, slashing into his side and ripping his sleeve, blood running down his side from the cut. Hands reached for his shoulders, tugging him to safety, and he rolled onto the
hatch as it slammed shut around him, pressurized pulses of carbon dioxide blasting down to deaden the fire.
“Let me take a look at that,” Blake said, pulling out her medical kit.
“It was Doyle,” Clarke said, while the medic bandaged his arm. “Should have guessed from the start. She managed to give herself a perfect cover.” He looked up at Marshall, his eyes wide, and said, “I failed, sir.”
“We should all fail so well, Midshipman,” he replied, shaking his head. “You did the best you could. The absolute best you could. Nobody could ask more.” Turning to Rhodes, he said, “Get a work crew up here on the double. Hopefully the damage won't be too extensive, but that's not what I'm worried about at the moment. How is he, Blake?”
“Not as bad as last time, sir,” she replied.
“Then we'd better get back up to the bridge and find out just what Doyle did to us. I just hope it isn't too late.”
“Sir…,” Clarke began.
“Midshipman, you didn't fail,” Marshall replied, looking back at the hatch. “I did. I was in command, and you did everything possible to stop her. Now come on. We can talk on the move.”
“What's going on?” Clarke asked, as the group hustled towards the nearest elevator.
“Another Republic task force, setting up an ambush,” Blake replied. “Doyle's friends, probably. We're trying a slingshot maneuver around the anomaly to get away.” She paused, then added, “At least we were.”
“If the thruster fired at the wrong time...”
“Then we're on a one-way ride straight to Hell.”
Chapter 23
Sirens wailed as the elevator raced to the bridge, Marshall impatiently tapping his foot on the deck as he waited for the doors to open. Blake continued to poke at Clarke's arm, neither of them willing to head for Sickbay, both opting to watch the end from the command deck. After what the young officer had been through, Marshall didn't have the heart to refuse. He looked down at his datapad, updates periodically flashing onto the trajectory plot, and shook his head. All he could do was hope that the situation wasn't as bad as it seemed, though somehow he had the feeling that all the prayers in the universe weren't going to get them out of this situation.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Into the Maelstrom Page 21
