Secrets of the Sphere (Battlecruiser Alamo Book 27)

by Richard Tongue

   “Then you'd better get out of that uniform and open up a shop somewhere, because as long as you are wearing it, that's the risk you take, and that's the currency in which we trade. We buy the safety of our people and our country in the most expensive coin of all, human lives. And everyone who signs up knows that, Kris. You know that. You've put yourself on the line, time and again.”

   Shaking her head, she replied, “I commanded a ship of my own, for six months. During the Xandari War. A beaten-up old scoutship.”

   “I know,” he said. “And those records indicate...”

   “I hated every damned moment of it. And swore that I'd never do it again.” Gesturing at her rank insignia, she continued, “I'm sticking at Lieutenant. I told Captain Winter that if he ever tried to promote me any higher, I'd quit, and I told Pavel the same thing. I don't like leading people to their deaths, Max, and I don't like having their souls on my conscience.” She paused, then added, “I'm thinking about doing as you said. Resigning.”

   “Leave the service?” he asked. “What about Pavel?”

   “That's his choice...”

   “Bull. You know that he'll go with you, no matter what. So what are you planning to do, get a job selling ship insurance?”

   “We've got a couple of friends operating a shipping line, out at Copernicus. They offered us a chance to buy in when they got started, and when we left, that offer still stands. I know Pavel was tempted. I was the one who wanted to stay in the fleet, more than him.” She smiled, then added, “For the youngest Captain in the Fleet, I've never met anyone with less ambition.”

   “That's one of the things I like about him,” Francis replied. “I did, right from the start. There's no arrogance there, just good old-fashioned grit and determination.” Rising to his feet, he added, “Which means that I don't think he's dead. Not yet. That man has lived through battles and wars that would have killed a hundred, a thousand other people, and he's not only managed to get through to the other end, he's dragged his crew with him.”

   “Not all of them,” she replied.

    The communicator chirped, and Francis reached over to the wall, saying, “Go ahead.”

   “Sir, long-range sensors are picking up more activity in the outer belt. Looks like a...” there was a pause, and then the technician continued, “Confirmed. The ship's left the system, sir. Conventional hendecaspace egress. We'll crunch the data, but I don't think we're going to learn any more than we already know.”

   “Get working on it anyway, Spaceman,” Francis said. Turning to Harper, he continued, “I don't buy for a moment that they're just pulling out. If they've withdrawn their scout, that just means they're getting ready to escalate to the next level. We could be under attack at any moment.” Looking out at the Sphere, he said, “Kris, I know that I said...”

   “I know,” she replied, softly. “We're out of time, and that's all there is to it. And even if Pavel's alive, we don't have any way to reach him. Not until Flyer Three is finished, and that could take a week, at best. After what happened at Base Camp, risking a trip by buggy would be a level of insanity even I don't think I can muster.”

   “That's a pretty big admission, Kris,” he replied, rising to his feet. “Corporal Quiller is scheduled to return to the ship in an hour. I'll get them on the ball, and we can pull out. Before she left, Lieutenant Carpenter prepared a contingency search pattern. We're not done yet. And there's still a chance that we can return, once the situation is safe. I've got...”

   “Sir,” the speaker barked again. “Signal from the surface, Lieutenant. Corporal Quiller wants to speak to you at once.”

   “Put him through,” Francis replied.

   “Quiller here, sir. We've picked up something strange. Those ruins, north of here, the original target of Lieutenant Foster and her team, are showing signs of low-level seismic instability, like nothing I've ever seen before. I've got sensor data, sir, and I'm sending it up to the ship now.”

   Harper tapped a control, throwing the feed onto a monitor, and said, “Look at that. It's a straight line, running out from the desert towards those ruins.” Life seemed to flood back into her, and she leapt to her feet, saying, “The transit system! We knew there had to be one, somewhere, and I'd bet that's the same route that those beasts used to attack us. That's how they turned up so quickly, and that's where they must have gone once the battle was over. It's the only explanation that makes any sense, sir.”

   “If that's right,” Francis said, “then we're about to come under attack again.”

   “There's another possibility,” she replied. “What if Salazar, Clarke or one of the others has managed to reach the network. If they can't make it to the flyer, or if it has some damage that isn't showing up on the telemetry feed, they'd have to improvise another way back.” Looking up at the view again, she added, “Why would they launch a second attack? They must know that we evacuated Base Camp, and they wouldn't send in another wave just to deter a few Espatiers who could pull out at the first sign of trouble.”

   Frowning, Francis replied, “You're guessing, Kris. Clutching at straws.”

   “I don't think so, sir. If I'm right, then our people are on their way home, and we've got to go and get them. Eighty miles can be transited in a few hours with one of the buggies.” Hastily flicking through the reports, she added, “Quiller's team reported that two of the vehicles are operational. Ready to go. And we can be there and back before nightfall. All we'll need is to have a shuttle on standby, ready to pull us out when we get home. If anything goes wrong, then they leave without us.”

   “You know that I'll have no compunction about giving that order,” he said.

   “In your place I'd make the same decision, sir. Hell, I'm telling you to go ahead! We'll keep the team light. Me and a medic. I'm sure I can find someone willing to volunteer.”

   Francis looked at her for a moment, then said, “If anything goes wrong, at the first sign of trouble, I expect you to pull out. I don't mind risking the surface equipment. We'd written it off anyway. I do mind risking members of my crew.” Looking up at the monitor again, he added, “Take plasma weapons with you. If you run into trouble, that might give you a chance of living through it. We'll have drones watching you all the way to your target. If we see any sign of trouble, then the shuttle won't wait. It can't. I don't dare take the risk. You'd be stranded on the Sphere.”

   “I'm aware of that, sir.”

   “And if any enemy forces show up, I'll almost certainly have to pull out. If they turn up with a force I think Alamo can take, I'm willing to commit to a battle, but nothing more than that. I won't fight against superior odds, not this far from help.”

   “Of course, sir.”

   “And you still want to go?”

   “I do, sir.” She paused, looked up at the screen again, and said, “I must, sir.”

   “Then get going. I'll have Shuttle Two ready for launch to take you down to the Sphere, and make sure a volunteer crew is on standby. Move quickly, Lieutenant. We're already running out of time.”

   With a smile, she stood to attention, snapped a salute, and walked out of her cabin as fast as her wounded leg allowed, grimacing in pain as she stepped into the elevator, now with a sense of purpose again for the first time in days. Her leg had kept her back twice, first from Clarke's initial probe, then later from Salazar's presumably abortive rescue mission.”

   The doors slammed shut, sending her shooting down to the hangar deck, and she pulled out her datapad, looking at the sensor feed again. Somehow, she knew that she was right, that it was their people on their way back, escaping whatever trap had caught them. She had to go and get them. There was no conceivable way that she could sit in her quarters, or up on the bridge, knowing that her friends were in trouble, stranded without help.

   After what seemed an eternity, the doors opened again, and she stepped onto the deck, limping over to the nearest shuttle. A pale-f
aced Garland stood at the threshold, medical kit in hand, throwing her a curt nod as he stepped into the cabin, settling down in one of the aisle couches, his face locked forward.

   “Are you sure you're up to this?” she asked.

   “No,” he replied, “But if I don't go, I don't know if I'll ever get my nerves back. I've got to face it, Lieutenant, sooner or later, and I figure it's better to get it over with.”

   “Pilot to Cabin,” the familiar voice of Midshipman Koslowski said, “We're good to go, ma'am. Ready on your order.”

   “Get us there, Connie,” Harper ordered, and the shuttle's engines roared into life as it slid through the elevator airlocks. It dropped clear of the hull of the ship and began its swift journey towards the Sphere, a wall of metal that ranged as far as she could see.

   Her communicator chirped again, and she reached into her pocket, throwing the channel open with the click of a button.

   “Go ahead.”

   “Quiller here, ma'am. The seismic activity has stopped, and we're picking up a faint beacon signal. If I'm reading it correctly, it's Monitor's distress code.” He paused, then said, “Wait one. It just switched to Alamo's. It's alternating between the two, at thirty-second intervals, and it triangulates right on top of those ruins.”

   “Thank you, Corporal. We'll be down in a few minutes. Have one of the buggies prepared for a trip. We're going to investigate.”

   “Yes, ma'am,” he said with evident satisfaction. “It'll all be ready when you land. Quiller out.”

   A smile curling on her lips, Harper looked up at the Sphere, growing visibly closer by the second, and muttered, “Just hang on Pavel. The cavalry's on the way.”

   “Is that what we are?” Garland asked. “The United States Cavalry?”

   “Of course, Spaceman,” she replied, her smile growing. “Our job is to turn up at the last minute and save the day. And that's exactly what we're going to do.”

   “I hope so,” the grim paramedic replied. “I hope so.”

  Chapter 16

   “This way,” Jimmy said, gesturing at the mountain. “There's a cave, a fissure in the rocks. It's not as far as you think, but the drop is a good two hundred feet. That'll get you most of the way into the complex, but you'll have to force your way through the outer security perimeter. You understand?”

   “Got it,” he replied. “Keep watch here for as long as you dare. I might need covering fire on my way back out.” He paused, then reached into his pocket, pulling out a piece of paper. “Command codes for the flyer. The controls are straightforward enough. Just engage the autopilot on a reverse course, and it should get you back to Base Camp in about twelve hours.”

   Holding the paper as though it was an ancient, precious artifact, Jimmy replied, “You're giving me a ticket out of here? What makes you think I won't just pack up and leave?”

   Shaking his head, Clarke replied, “You won't. Don't ask me how I know. I just do. But if I don't make it back, if something goes wrong, then I've still managed to keep my promise to get you out of here, and that means something to me.”

   Nodding, Jimmy slid the paper into his pocket, and said, “I'll wait until half an hour till nightfall. Then I'll head for the flyer. That's about five hours from now.” He paused, and added, “If anyone else shows up, I'll try and lead them as merry a chase as I can for a while. You sure you've got the layout down?”

   “I'm sure. All the way to the detention block.”

   Clasping his hand, Jimmy said, “Good luck.”

   “And to you.” Hefting the rope over his shoulder, Clarke turned to the mountain, instantly spotting the fissure that seemed carved into the rock, somehow artificial, not natural. All around it, he could make out faint markings, oddly familiar, but ignored them as he ducked inside, reaching up to turn on his helmet torch, the red light flashing into the gloom, preserving his night vision while illuminating his surroundings.

   The first passage was almost anticlimactic, a twisting tangle through the rocks. The floor was smooth, and there were more markings on the wall. Perhaps not completely artificial, but in the distant past, someone had expanded this fissure, made it accessible. He looked around, spotting the remnants of equipment attached to the walls, high up, perhaps some long-disabled light fixture.

   After only a few hundred meters, he came to the pit, a round hole descending into the gloom. Reaching into the pouch at his side, he pulled out a trio of pitons, pounding them into the ground, then wrapped his rope around them, tugging it with his full weight to check the strength before tossing the other end down into the darkness beneath. His torch didn't even begin to shine down that far, lost in the shadows below.

   He paused for a moment, hardly daring to breathe, listening for any signs that someone was below. The back of his mind was screaming of the danger he was in, sensing figures in every shadow, eyes glaring at him out of the darkness, but he dismissed them with an effort, tugging the rope one more time as he started his descent.

   Under normal circumstances, this would have been easy. Back on the ship, there was climbing equipment that would have made his drop safe and swift. Jimmy hadn't anything even remotely as useful, and he was struggling with the remnants of a survival kit, a long rope that he was reluctant to trust himself to, and a collection of aging pitons secured with a mallet. Nevertheless, this was the only way down, and somewhere in that darkness, his friends were waiting for him, probably in dire need of help. Checking one last time that his holster was secured by his side, he swing down on the rope, and started his cautious descent.

   The rock face was slick, melted to a sheen, giving him nothing to use, and he grasped the rope for dear life, slipping down in long bounds, careful to protect his hands as he dropped. The line creaked alarmingly with every move, and as he slid down the shaft, he waited at every second for it to fall, knowing that the drop would kill him. He had to reach the bottom quickly, for his own safety, if nothing else. The ascent would be another story, but he could leave that for later. He'd already determined that he'd almost certainly have to find another way out.

   He glanced down again, and this time could spot the floor beneath him, seeming to approach far too rapidly. His palms were burning, the lack of protective equipment taking its toll, and once more his subconscious was cringing in fear, warning him that there was something in the shadows, waiting and watching. Bending his knees for the drop, he let himself go with ten feet left, falling to the ground and rolling into a corner, his hand close to his pistol.

   For a hundred heartbeats, he waited for the sound of sirens, of rushing feet, but the silence continued to reign. He glanced back up the way he had come, tugging at the rope once more, and this time heard an ominous crack from above as the pitons gave way, the rope rushing down to him, dropping to the floor. It had lasted just long enough, but his fears were now confirmed. He was trapped.

   Taking a deep breath, he walked along the nearest passage, the route to the detention block committed to memory. He took the twists and turns, and after a few moments, made it to the cold metal door that blocked the passage, a keypad by its side, the light blinking red. Again, he was severely under equipped for his mission; no hacking tools, no datapad, not even any explosives. Instead, he was going to have to improvise, and with a faint smile, he mashed his hand on the keypad, the lights urgently winking red. He stepped back to the wall, keeping out of the range of any surveillance equipment that might have covered the door, then reached across and slammed the controls again, as randomly as before.

   Glancing at his watch, he repeated his work ten more times, then moved back into cover, waiting for someone to come. There had been no siren, no alert, but someone would come to check out what appeared to be a malfunction with the security systems, especially if the base commander knew that there were hostile forces in the area. If he'd been in command, a small army would be descending upon him from all sides, but the security forces had already appeared lax
enough that he could trust them to be under-cautious.

   His hopes were rapidly met, the door sliding open to reveal a balding, portly man in a maintenance jumpsuit, a toolkit in his hand, who myopically peered out into the gloom before turning to work on the keypad.

   “Hold it,” Clarke said. “Stand still. Stand perfectly still.” He gestured at the tunnel, and said, “Empty your pockets and move away from the door, or I will kill you.”

   “Wait a minute,” the technician replied. “I haven't done anything, I just...”

   “Save it for the judge,” he said. “We've come to clear up this facility, and the rest of my team will be along in a moment.” He paused, then added, “I haven't got time to guard you. I'm going to have to accept your parole. I suggest you sit tight and wait for my friends to arrive. Then I might, I just might, speak up for you at your trial.”

   The frightened man nodded jerkily, tipping the contents of his pockets to the floor, pieces of electronic equipment, half-eaten snack bars, and a communicator. Clarke snatched the latter, stuffing it into his pocket, then turned back to the corridor, watching as the technician edged away. If he was masking courage with fear, then he'd likely find a way to raise the alarm. If he was as scared as he looked, then he'd be on his way up to the desert in a matter of moments, trying to get away before nightfall. Possibly even to the flyer, but Jimmy could deal with him if he did. Either way, he'd obtained his goal, and he stepped into the base with a smile on his face, immediately turning left on his way to the detention block.

   That trick had worked once. It wouldn't work a second time. As he stalked the corridors, he quickly realized that he'd been correct to trust to the cowardice of the technician, no alarms raised, no sirens screaming from every loudspeaker. He was safe, for the moment. Relatively speaking, at least.