Finally, the doors slid open, and he grimly stepped onto the deck, desperate eyes looking at him from every station as he took his position at the heart of the bridge, sitting in the command chair. One glance told him that his worst fears were true, no need for a status report to tell him what he already knew. That one pulse from the thruster had been timed to perfection, swinging them just the fraction necessary to doom them to a descent into the gravitational maelstrom that awaited them.
Behind him, Clarke looked stricken as he watched the trajectory plot, and Marshall turned, trying and failing to find words to comfort the young officer, to assure him that it wasn't his fault. In truth, it wasn't. He'd done his best, but Doyle had been too quick for them, for all of them, himself included. His mind flashed across the last fortnight, trying to put the pieces together, wishing that he'd pressed the investigation even further, that he had taken Salazar's warning and run for home, instead of leading his ship and his crew to their doom.
“Damage report, sir,” Fitzroy said from the engineering console. “Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo reports that we've lost the aft sensor array, as well as all long-range communications. He's got a work crew standing by to make repairs, but warns that radiation levels in the outer hull are rising.”
Nodding, Bowman added, “Technical Officer Strickland has recommended that the outer decks be evacuated, and that all crewmen should report to the core shelters if possible.”
“See to that, Clarke,” Marshall said, and the young man nodded, making his way to one of the wall consoles, obviously desperate for something to distract him from the nightmare they were facing. Turning back to the helm, he said, “Midshipman, recompute escape course.”
“I have, sir,” the young man replied. “Theoretically, it still might be possible to break away from the anomaly, but we'll need to push the reactor a long way over the red line to do it.”
“How far?”
“One-Thirty-Two. For six minutes.”
Caine whistled, and said, “Not to mention that we'd be pulling twenty-plus gravities for most of that. Danny, I doubt any of us would be alive to tell about it, and even if we somehow managed to live through it, the Republic task forces have the system interdicted. I don't see any practical way of getting out of this one.”
Turning to Bowman, Marshall said, “Spaceman, I want you to load a full copy of the log into a probe, with everything we've learned up to this point, and set it up to broadcast full details in the clear to every ship that visits this system. I doubt the Combined Chiefs will let us be the last Triplanetary vessel to visit, and I want to make sure that our loss isn't attributed to the wrong people.”
“They'll stop it,” Imoto said, shaking his head.
“No they won't, Midshipman, because you're going to compute a high-speed course that throws it on the same slingshot trajectory we tried, with enough velocity that nothing can catch it.”
Nodding, the young officer replied, “Aye, sir.”
“You're going to start a war between the Confederation and the Republic, Danny,” Caine said, sorrowfully shaking her head.
“I doubt that,” Harper replied. “Everything connected with this system will remain Ultra-classified for years, maybe decades. It'll hurt, but I suspect the same armed standoff will continue, though with three nations dancing around each other now, rather than two.” Forcing a smile, she added, “Though at present, I'd say that represents the least of our problems.”
Tapping a control, Marshall said, “Lombardo, how hot can you run the reactor?”
“Not at the levels Midshipman Imoto wants.”
“What can you give me?”
“One-Fifteen, for no more than five minutes, and we'll need to do a full shutdown as soon as we finish. That's the best I can do, sir.”
“Thruster status?”
“Nominal. They weren't damaged by Doyle's dive.”
Nodding, Marshall walked towards the helm, and said, “Let me take her, Midshipman.”
“Sir?” Imoto asked.
“I know where she needs to go, son, and I don't want you to be the one to take her there. This is my decision, and I'm the one who needs to live with it.” Pulling on a headset, Marshall turned to the frantic Bowman and said, “Connect me through to the ship.”
“Aye, sir,” the technician replied. “I'll be launching the probe in eighty seconds, sir.”
“This is the Captain,” Marshall began. “As you know, we attempted to evade the blockading force in a bid to escape the system. I must reluctantly tell you now that our attempt has failed, due to the work of an enemy saboteur. There is no way for us to escape the anomaly, but I believe there remains one last chance for survival. Ironically, Waldheim has shown us the way.” Looking back at the bridge crew, he said, “We're going to try and traverse the anomaly.”
A series of gasps rose from behind him, and he continued, “All our evidence suggests that we have found a passage to some unknown destination in space and time. I would never have voluntarily taken the ship through it, but I do not believe we have any other choice. At least this way, we have a chance of survival. I intend to take it, if we can. All personnel will proceed immediately to radiation shelters. Good luck. Bridge out.” Glancing back at the bridge crew, he added, “That means you, people. As soon as the probe is clear, the rest of you need to get out of here.”
The technical staff began to rise from their stations, Bowman reaching down to launch the probe with the flick of a switch before moving to the elevator. Caine simply remained at her post, as though she hadn't heard the order, and after a second's hesitation, Clarke walked back to the heart of the bridge.
“You're going to need someone to monitor hull stress, sir, and I think I'm the man for the job.”
“If this is based on some misguided feelings of guilt, Midshipman...”
“No, sir,” he replied, glancing at Fitzroy. “Nothing like that. Except that I think I've earned the right to see this one through to the end, wherever that might be.”
“He's got a point, Danny,” Caine replied, “and don't even think about ordering me from the bridge. I'll take the same risks you do.”
Shaking his head, Marshall said, “The rest of you, get out of here and lock down the hatches behind you. Make sure you have plenty of anti-rad drugs on hand, just in case. Deadeye, inform Senior Lieutenant Francis that the ship is his, should it come to that.”
“Already done,” she replied. “He's standing by in Shelter One.” Looking up at her screen as the door closed, locks snapping into place, she added, “Terminal entry in one hundred seconds.”
Marshall turned back to the helm, setting up for the transition, knowing that he was going to have to use all the skill and experience he possessed to survive the passage. The computer would be no help at all, the navigation systems seemingly unwilling to believe what he was about to do, screaming a sequence of demands for aborts before he silenced the alarm system with the touch of a button. He tapped a sequence of commands, bringing up a sensor display, keeping the controls required to a minimum.
Spinning the ship on its axis, he pointed her directly at the target, trusting in the immense gravitational field to drag the battlecruiser down, contenting himself with periodic pulses from the thrusters to hold their course. Now the viewscreen was filled with inky blackness, the stars blotted out by the anomaly ahead, providing no clue about their ultimate destination. If, in fact, they had one. This could still be a mistake, but their options had reduced to none.
“Stress readings nominal,” Clarke said, wincing as he settled down at his station. “All systems show ready for the transfer.”
“We hope,” Caine replied. “All sensors are trained for proximity readings, Danny. Last checks showed the Republic ships remaining well clear, and that the probe has managed to break through the perimeter on its way to the outer system.” She smiled, then added, “Anyone coming here f
or the next few years will know everything that happened.”
“At least we're leaving a legacy,” Marshall said. “And a warning to any other ships that find this place.” He reached across to a screen, quickly replaying Waldheim's passage into the anomaly. General Estrada had come to the same conclusion that he had, albeit at the last moment, and all indications suggested that they had at least left the system successfully.
“Radiation levels rising,” Clarke reported. “Systems logging for later decontamination. We're still at safe dosage here, at least for the moment. Hull stress levels rising, but still within safety limits.”
Marshall nodded, focusing all his attention on the helm, the limits of his universe reduced to the sensor monitor on the panel before him, the throttle to his side and the thruster controls under his palm, his fingers gently rocking from one to another in a bid to keep the ship on trajectory. He quickly glanced at the power readings, nodding as he saw that Lombardo had kept his promise, Alamo ready to unleash the full potential of her new engines at his command.
He pulled back on the throttle, saving the overload until he truly needed it, watching as the velocity readings continued to rise higher and higher, surging beyond anything Alamo had ever managed before, the weight on his chest reminding him of his days as a fighter pilot. The ship struggled to hold course, the thrusters laboring harder to keep them on trajectory, the sensor displays flashing readings that should have been impossible.
Blackness, endless, eternal, and his ship poised on the threshold of infinity. For a brief instant, he fancied he saw a tunnel, reaching out into the stars, the gateway at the heart of the anomaly, surrounded by bursts of intense gravitation that would tear Alamo apart if he permitted. He had one chance, and he took it, throwing the throttle full open for a raging second, the engine whining in protest.
“Hull stress levels exceeding design tolerance!” Clarke reported, out of breath. “Radiation levels exceeding safe limit!”
“Sensors failing,” Caine added.
“Come on, old girl,” Marshall muttered, forcing himself to be gentle on the thrusters, to take care as he guided his ship into the target, working more by feel than instrument now, all the readings fading to gibberish. The computers could only comprehend to the limits of their designers, and those limitations had been left far behind. If they survived this, they'd have information that would produce a new revolution in astrophysics, assuming they were able to pass on their new-found wisdom.
Alamo felt as though she was hanging on the edge of a precipice, ready either to topple to her death or to fight her way through the passage to whatever lay beyond. Red lights flashed across the helm as Marshall rode the throttle, one hand on the thruster controls, trying to urge her in the right direction, the pressure building as the acceleration continued to rise.
One last try, and he threw the thrusters to full ahead, the last surge of boost tipping them into the passage, a pulse of acceleration that abruptly died, sending him lurching forward into his panel, the restraints barely holding him back. The velocity meter bolted from the scale, sensor readouts winking off, one after another, and the acceleration continued to rise, out of control, forcing the breath from his lungs, the edges of his vision graying out as his body gave up the fight.
“Hull stress…,” Clarke tried, but he couldn't force out the words, and Marshall focused solely on staying awake, trying to keep his eyes open, the roar of the engines raging in his ears as flashing lights danced on the viewscreen. The computer was trying to project the unimaginable, and failing. The last thing he saw was an intensely bright geometric pattern flashing on the screen, and the darkness swept over him.
An eternity later, his eyes flickered open. The roar of the engines had ceased, sending his hand reaching down to the throttle in haste to realize that someone had shut them down. He glanced back at a red-faced Clarke, standing at the sensor controls, Blake stabbing him with a hypodermic.
“I'll get to you in a minute, Captain,” Blake replied. “And to answer your next question, I was in your office the whole time. I wasn't about to let you go through that without a medic.”
Caine looked up from her console, hair rumpled over her shoulders, and replied, “Trying to get systems back online. The analysis routines all failed during the passage. Not surprising, given the overload they were being subjected to.” Shaking her head, she added, “Could have been a lot worse.”
“Clarke, can you get me a damage report?” Marshall asked.
“Trying, sir,” he replied, stabbing at the controls. “I've almost got the forward sensors online. At least we'll be able to work out where we are.” The viewscreen snapped on, revealing a sight Marshall never thought he would see in his lifetime. A huge, blue giant star, prominences lancing from its surface, dead center. A star unlike any in known space, or any for hundreds of light-years beyond.
“Where the hell are we?” Marshall asked.
Epilogue
The incessant beeping from the cockpit alarm dragged Salazar roughly into consciousness, his eyes struggling to focus as he attempted to read his instruments, hand reaching on instinct to silence the alarm. Shaking his head, he looked up at the stars, and his mouth dropped open. Even at his farthest flight from Sol, back during the Xandari War, there had still been some recognizable constellations, even twisted and distorted. Here, there were none.
His on-board sensors were just as bemused by the situation, flashing a series of warnings that they were unable to determine their location, the navigation computer abruptly crashing and rebooting, trying to make sense of the inconceivable. He'd survived his passage through the anomaly, much to his surprise, but his life expectancy could still be measured in hours, days at the most. His fighter wasn't equipped for long-term habitation, and his life support system was giving him depressing news.
Another alarm flashed, a light winking on to reveal that he was sinking into a gravity well, and for a second he feared that he was falling back into the anomaly, a passage that the red lights on his hull stress monitors suggested he could not survive. Then he glanced to his side, and saw a huge, brown world beneath him, a halo of atmosphere glistening in the electric blue starlight. He'd fallen below orbital velocity, and even if he had anywhere to go, didn't have nearly enough fuel to escape.
A quick glance at the sensors brought a smile to his face for the first time since he'd awakened. That world had an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere. Pressure and gravity a little heavy, temperature a little high, but he could survive there, at least for a time. Time enough for him to work out where he had arrived, perhaps to determine a means of his salvation.
He ran his hand across the communications controls, not really expecting an answer, his eyes widening as he heard the familiar pulse of a Triplanetary rescue beacon. There was life down there, friendly life, and one last chance of survival. Using the last of his thruster fuel, he set his ship into a re-entry attitude, thanking the designers for giving the fighter an option for emergency atmospheric entry, wingtips that might give him a chance of making a safe landing, even with the limited fuel at his disposal.
Thirty seconds to atmospheric interface. His long-range sensors were still only intermittently working, the external pickups obviously damaged from the passage, but he was getting enough information to give him at least some encouragement. A dense atmosphere meant that escape would be out of the question, but would give enough bite for his wings to give him at least some control, the chance of a glide landing. The surface was flat, baked dry, only a few battered mountain ranges punctuating the endless desert. Plenty of room for landing.
With one eye on the fuel gauge, another on the hull stress indicators, he settled into position for re-entry, temperature rising on the heat shield underneath him, the battered metal glowing red, then white as the atmosphere ripped into the fighter, buffeting it about. He struggled to keep his ship level, knowing that any failure would doom him to certain death,
no hope of rescue, no hope of survival. No hope of anything at all.
One after another, sirens sounded as systems failed, leaving no doubt that his fighter was making its final flight, and he felt a brief pang of guilt at the damage he had wrought to Murphy's ship. Assuming she was still alive. Assuming any of his friends, back on Alamo, were still alive. That he would ever see them again seemed vanishingly unlikely, but his ambitions now were limited to surviving to see another dawn, and the prospects grew more promising with every moment, as the fighter swooped deeper into the atmosphere. The heat shield cooled as the ship slowed, finally banking down as he reached for the throttle, throwing it as low as he dared to give him more control.
He had a matter of minutes to find a safe landing spot, and he had to reach the source of the beacon, no matter what. A cursory glance of the desolate wilderness revealed no trace of civilization, and the repeating pulse was the only sign he could find that there was any sign of life on the planet.
Scanning the horizon, he failed to spot any sign of the beacon, was forced instead to trust to the half-ruined sensors on the outer hull. The resolution on the display was terrible, static rippling across the screen, flashing text warning him that the bulk of the data was based on uncertain projections rather than true reports. Another siren alerted him that he had sixty seconds of fuel remaining, barely enough to make a landing. If he was going to bring his fighter down, it had to be now.
With one hand on the throttle, he banked to guide his ship down, deploying the landing struts with the tap of a button. He didn't dare risk a glide landing, not on sandy ground. A vertical descent would have to do, though the amber lights on the deployed struts did little to fill him with confidence that he could survive the descent.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Into the Maelstrom Page 22
