Secrets of the Sphere (Battlecruiser Alamo Book 27)

by Richard Tongue

   “This stopped being a stealth raid when the first sonic boom sounded,” Clarke replied, picking up one of the weapons, hefting the weight in his hands. “This is search and destroy, now. We haven't got time for anything else. Recharge systems?”

   “Not a hope,” Lombardo said. “You know how much a plasma charge generator weighs? And before you suggest it, I don't have the first idea how that train is powered. Magic space pixies for all I know.”

   Picking over the equipment, Clarke slid on an armored vest, struggling to get his arms through the gaps, and snatched a helmet from one of the holdalls, clipping it into position as the heads-up display fired up, quickly connecting to the computer on the plasma rifle in his hands. Fox looked at him, nodded in approval, then turned to Harper.

   “Ma'am, I'm afraid I'm going to have to commit insubordination.”

   “Why?”

   “You're not going with Lombardo to find the Captain. I am.” Gesturing at the equipment, she added, “Someone has to stay behind to keep an eye on all this, and you're the obvious choice. Not to be blunt, but you're having trouble staying on your feet. With your skills, you're better off staying here and working on the combat network. All the gear you'll need is in the second holdall.”

   “Sergeant...”

   “Please, Lieutenant, take a long look at yourself, and tell me that I'm truly wrong? You came here, and you're going to be needed, but I'm the combat specialist. Let me do my job, and you do yours.”

   Attempting to stifle a laugh, Lombardo said, “She's got you there, Kris.”

   “I still think...”

   “She's right, Lieutenant,” Mortimer said. “And you know it.” Gesturing at the ladder, she said, “That go up to the complex?”

   “All the way.”

   “That's quite a climb.” Looking at Clarke, she added, “We'd better get started.”

   Moving to the ladder, Clarke said, “Give us four minutes, then follow. We'll do our best to maintain communications contact, but it can get pretty wild up there. Lots of rock and metal that will get in the way.” He paused, then added, “If we find the charges, I'll set them to detonate in one hundred and thirty minutes from now. That should give us time to get clear.”

   “You realize it gets dark in less than an hour,” Mortimer said. “If you're right about that biological imperative, then the savages will be swarming long before we make it back. And we only get four or five shots with these babies.”

   “We're going to have to make them count, then,” Clarke said, taking the first rung of the ladder. He started to climb, and after a few seconds, Mortimer followed, grunting her way from one rung to the next while the others watched him climb, Harper glowering at the others, knowing that they were right, that she had to stay behind, but hating every second of it.

   “Communications test,” Clarke said. “One, two, three...”

   “Four, five, six,” Harper replied. “I can't do much to the local network, but if I see anything, I'll let you know. Just watch what you're shooting with those things.”

   “Don't worry, ma'am,” he said. “I'm sure the Captain is already loose up there. He'll probably find one of our teams before we can find him.” Looking down at Mortimer, he continued, “How're you doing, Ronnie?”

   “Oh, I'm just loving every moment of this,” she replied. “Do you have a plan?”

   “Of course not,” he said. “Why'd you ask?”

   “Figured there was a first time for everything,” she said.

   “Why mess with tradition?” he replied, stepping out into a crawlspace. “This way. I think it leads up to the secure stores.”

   “You think?” With a sigh, she said, “This just gets better and better.”

   “You got a better idea?”

   Shaking her head with a faint smile, she replied, “Lead on.”

  Chapter 21

   A loud rumble echoed through the ship, and Orlova reached across to the control panel by her bed, trying to bring up a damage report. A second rumble followed, wailing sirens filling the air, and the door slid open to admit a stream of wounded, Strickland and the medical staff guiding them to the beds. She looked up at one of them, a familiar face, Spaceman Fitzroy.

   “John?” she said, the crippled engineer turning at her call.

   “Captain?”

   “Was the bridge hit?” she asked.

   Shaking his head, he replied, “Accessway. All power lost, and the network's down in that region.” He frowned, and added, “I don't know what's happening up there, but we're not getting any command inputs. I was on my way up when the missile struck home.” He slumped down to the floor, defeated, and said, “Two of them, Captain, and we're damned near finished.”

   “That'll be the day,” she replied, struggling to her feet, weary fingers pulling off medical monitors. Strickland raced over, rage on his face.

   “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

   “Freeing up a bed for someone who really needs it.”

   His eyes widened, and he replied, “What the hell is it going to take, Captain? You've been shot! Now get your butt back into bed where it belongs, and...”

   The ship lurched to the side, almost sending Strickland tumbling to the floor, and she said, “No dice, Doctor. Command controls are out in the bridge. And I'm guessing that Francis, Foster and Scott were both up there. Right, Spaceman?”

   Fitzroy nodded, and said, “I guess control functions were switched over to Auxiliary Control.”

   “You see, Captain, it's all…”

   “And who is in command up there?”

   “Midshipman Imoto. I think.” He took a deep, weary breath, his eyes drifting in and out of focus, and he added, “Or is it Quesada? I don't know.”

   “Not another word, Spaceman,” Strickland said. “Blake, check him out. Probable concussion.” Turning to Orlova, he continued, “You are in no condition to walk, never mind assume command of a starship!”

   “I've got news for you, Doctor. We're under attack. And have obviously suffered serious damage. Meaning that if I don't assume command, right now, Alamo is lost, and everything you're doing here will be a waste of time. Unless you want to hang your shingle out on the Sphere. Give me the strongest stimulant you've got, and I'm heading up to Auxiliary Control. With or without your help.” She ripped the last sensor clear, and Strickland looked at her for a moment, another rumble echoing through the decks.

   “Garland,” he said, “Dextroline. Full dose. On the double.”

   “On it, Doc,” the paramedic said, pulling a hypodermic from the supplies rack and jamming it into Orlova's arm. “You're going to really regret this tomorrow, Captain, but it should keep you on your feet for a couple of hours.”

   “As long as we have a tomorrow to regret,” she replied, lurching to her feet, a surge of energy burning through the savage pain from her side. “Are the elevators working?”

   “Just about,” an Espatier said, his arm swathed in bandages. “I'm walking wounded, Doc. I'll get her there.”

   “Far be it from me to insist my patients clutter up the ward,” an exasperated Strickland replied. “Go, both of you, before I change my mind. Or insist on a psych evaluation for you both.”

   With a cheeky grin, the Espatier offered Orlova his arm, and said, “Come on, Captain.”

   “Thank you, Corporal.” She frowned as the two of them walked through the door, stepping into the corridor as a pair of medics rushed past, a groaning midshipman sprawled on a stretcher. “I don't think I've had the pleasure.”

   “Jack Quiller,” he replied. “And the pleasure's all mine.” They stepped into the waiting elevator, and he tapped the control sequence for Auxiliary Control, out at the far side of the ship. There was an agonizing wait before the mechanism kicked in, sending them lurching towards their destination. “Guess Elevator Control was hit.”

   “How bad is it?
I couldn't get a damage report.”

   “Three lucky hits at the start of the battle. We lost most of the internal communications network. Could be that everyone's fine up on the bridge, but their commands just aren't getting through.” He reached over to a wall monitor, tapping for a tactical view, only to receive a flashing error message for his troubles. “I just hope Auxiliary Control's still functioning. They don't seem to be doing very much.”

   The elevator stopped, and the doors slid open on a blackened corridor to admit Lieutenant Maqua, an angry gash on his forehead, his jacket stained with a mix of grease and blood. He was walking with a limp, using a piece of reinforced conduit as a crutch, but smiled as he saw Orlova inside.

   “I think we've had the same idea,” he said, as the elevator began to move again. I was down on the hangar deck when the first missiles hit. It took me five minutes just to work my way through the corridors.” He gestured at his forehead, and said, “Shrapnel. Blast doors closed a half-second too late. Don't worry, I'm fine.” Looking at Orlova's bandages, he added, “In comparison.”

   Once more, the doors slid open, this time onto the familiar Auxiliary Control. When Orlova had first served on Alamo, years ago, this had been the original bridge, and she briefly looked from station to station, looking at the tales of disaster being displayed on the consoles. A young man sat perched on the command chair, his panicked eyes wide, thrust into a situation he hadn't the training or experience to deal with. He turned to Orlova, and the smile of a desperate man appeared, clutching at a straw that had suddenly stepped into the room.

   “I have the conn,” Orlova said. “Midshipman, take over the helm. Maqua, take Tactical. Quiller, see if you can patch me through to Engineering and get some sort of a damage report.”

   “On it, ma'am,” the Espatier said, staggering over to the vacant communications console.

   She looked up at the tactical display. Alamo was cruising over the surface of the Sphere, her trajectory spiraling away as she lurched out of control, with a pair of Hegemonic cruisers closing on them, evidently setting up for a final attack run. A series of small dots swarmed about, Alamo's fighter strength flying shotgun, but their status indicators reported that they were all but out of ordnance, and that they would soon be forced to return and rearm if they were to take any meaningful part in the battle.

   “Laser's operational!” Maqua said, surprise running through his face. “Power built up for one good shot, Captain. I have six out of eight missile tubes working, and the countermeasures systems are firmed up.” Glancing across at his controls, he added, “Enemy cruisers will be in firing range in forty seconds, ma'am. Flying in close formation.”

   “Close formation?” she replied. “Interesting. Midshipman, er...”

   “Imoto, ma'am.”

   “Imoto, I want you to play dead. For the next thirty seconds, swing around and make it look as though Alamo is out of control. Then I'm going to need a precision shot on the starboard side of Target One. Do you have enough data to know where their oxygen reservoir is?”

   “I think so, ma'am. You want a laser shot into that part of the ship?”

   “I do indeed,” she replied. “Maqua, missile salvo as soon as we get within range, go full-defensive for the moment. Contact our fighters, and order them to launch an attack run on Target Two right away, focused in such a way as to keep them in that tight formation with Target One. If we can keep them that close, we've got a chance.”

   “Captain,” Maqua replied, “They've got two missiles across the entire squadron.”

   “True, but they can still attack them with their Death Rays, Lieutenant.”

   A frown spread across the Neander's face, and he replied, “Captain, they don't...”

   “No, but the commander of that enemy formation doesn't know that, does he? I want him confused, Lieutenant, and I want him to keep nice and close. I know what his idea is. They've locked their defensive systems together. Nice and smart if you're playing a missile duel, but we've brought a laser cannon to this gunfight.”

   “Squadron coming around,” Maqua replied. “They're running low on fuel, ma'am, and we're going to struggle to stay on-station at this rate. We might have to launch the tanker shuttle to bring them in.”

   “One way or another, Lieutenant, this battle has to be over, and soon, or we're dead.”

   “Aye, ma'am,” he replied.

   “Corporal, anything from Engineering?”

   “Internal channels are swamped, Captain,” he said. “I can't get a clear signal through.”

   “Keep trying. And listen out for anything from the Sphere. Not much we could do if Salazar and the others did get back right now, but at least we could let them know what was happening.”

   Alamo lurched to the side, and Imoto said, “That wasn't me, ma'am. We just lost the auxiliary water reservoir. I've got hull breaches on ten decks, and we're spilling atmosphere out into space.” Turning to her, he said, “She's almost out of control, Captain.”

   “Midshipman, I don't care how you do it, we've got to get that shot onto target. Do anything you can. Ride with the breaches. Don't try to fight them. Use them. You understand?”

   “Yes, ma'am,” he said, turning back to his station, his hands dancing over the controls. The young officer's face suggested that he didn't know what he was doing, but his nimble fingers told a different story, gently guiding the lumbering battlecruiser into position.

   “Laser cannon ready,” Maqua said. “Missiles will launch in ten seconds. Combat fabricator still on-line.” He paused, then added, “It's strange, ma'am. Almost as if they've gone out of their way to leave our critical equipment intact. They could have done a lot more damage than they have.”

   “They want us intact,” Quiller said. “Boarding parties will be next, and with internal communications shot to hell, the first we might know of it is when they knock on the door.”

   “Then we will make sure to show them the proper welcome, Corporal. Until then, we hold the line.” She looked up at the countdown clock, Alamo still lurching around like a drunkard as Imoto desperately struggled to hold her onto course, finally swinging her nose around to deliver what she hoped would be the knockout blow. The lights dimmed as a pulse of laser light raced between the two ships, burning a neat hole into the side of the enemy cruiser's hull, a fountain of air explosively erupting from the hull, sending a cascade of shrapnel and debris raining into its companion.

   As she had hoped, the other enemy ship raced in the other direction, Alamo's missiles swarming into the duo, supported by the remaining firepower of the fighters as they dived into their attack run, delivering a final punch to Target Beta as it attempted to veer away. Target Alpha swung to the side, helplessly out of control, her helmsman not even trying to correct its course as escape pods raced from its flanks, the ship diving inexorably towards the Sphere.

   “It's going to crash!” Imoto said, and all eyes were on the viewscreen, watching as the cruiser began its final dive, a cloud of debris spilling across space as it raced towards the endless wall underneath it, engines roaring one last time in a failed attempt to alter its trajectory. Just as it seemed that the enemy ship was destined to slam into the Sphere, a bright bolt of light raced out towards it, carving up and down the sides of the ship like a master chef with a roast, finally seeking out the main reactor and detonating it with a final pulse of energy. A blinding explosion filled the screen, and Orlova blinked as her eyes watered, the afterimage remaining, visual filters failing to compensate in time.

   “All-Mother,” Maqua gasped, looking up at his controls. “Total destruction, Captain. And whatever that was, it forced that explosion to guide the debris away from the Sphere. I've never seen anything like it. My projected power readouts are off the scale. Way off the scale.” Shaking his head, he said, “If we fell that close….”

   “Midshipman, alter our trajectory as best you can. Make sure we keep well c
lear of the Sphere. I don't want to run the risk of Alamo suffering the same fate. What about Target Beta, Lieutenant?”

   “Moving back under power, ma'am. She's hurt, but not as badly as we are. I'm picking up some hull breaches on the port flank, some biological debris, and I think two of her missile tubes are out as well.” With a satisfied smile on his face, he added, “They're no match for us, Captain, even damaged as we are.”

   “Captain,” Quiller said, “I now have Chief Santiago in Engineering for you. Not my work, hers. I think she must have managed to run a relay system forward.”

   “As long as it worked,” Orlova replied. “Auxiliary Control here.”

   “Engineering here. You planning on ripping the guts out my ship some more?”

   “What's the damage, Chief?”

   “It'd be faster to tell you what's working. We still have main reactor and hendecaspace drive, but the power relays are shot to the laser cannon. I hope that last shot did what you wanted. There isn't going to be another one any time soon. Some shrapnel damage to the radiators, as well. Internal communications are mostly fried, but I can bypass through the power network. Except where that's out, which is about a quarter of the ship. We've got a few hundred hull breaches, nothing that we can't handle, but...it's a mess, Captain. I can fix her, but it'll take the best part of a month before we're anything like combat-capable again.”

   “What about the Bridge?”

   “Don't know. A damage control team is trying to cut its way through now. Best guess is that they're intact, but with no connection to the rest of the ship. Who needs them, anyway. More concerned about the auxiliary reactor. She's running unstable, and I might have to dump her. And we lost a lot of the storage batteries when they breached the rear hull. Like I said, it's a mess. I'll try and give you a more updated report when I can.”

   “Right, Chief. I'll try….”

   “Captain!” Maqua interrupted. “Dimensional instability at the near hendecaspace point! Looks like two more Hegemonic cruisers, heading directly, firing range in twenty-five minutes!”