Battlecruiser Alamo: Forbidden Seas Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  FORBIDDEN SEAS

  Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 18

  Richard Tongue

  Battlecruiser Alamo #18: Forbidden Seas

  Copyright © 2016 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

  First Kindle Edition: April 2016

  Cover By Keith Draws

  With thanks to Ellen Clarke and Rene Douville

  All characters and events portrayed within this ebook are fictitious; any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Join the Triplanetary Universe Mailing List: http://eepurl.com/A9MdX

  “I am tormented by an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts…”

  Moby Dick, Herman Melville

  Chapter 1

   Lieutenant-Captain Margaret Orlova stood at the heart of the command deck of the Battlecruiser Alamo, looking around at the flight crew as they prepared for the imminent emergence from hendecaspace. At the helm, Sub-Lieutenant Foster had an air of cool confidence as she worked her controls, making the last fine adjustments to their course. Senior Lieutenant Nelyubov, her Executive Officer, watched over her, more for something to do than any real need.

   “All systems show ready, ma'am,” Lieutenant Cantrell reported from Tactical. “Missiles in the tubes, all decks at standby alert.” Throwing a pair of switches, she said, “Emergency systems at full readiness, damage control teams deployed.”

   “Electronic warfare suite on-line,” Lieutenant Harper said with a sigh from her station. “Is any of this really necessary? Three systems in three weeks, and each one as deserted as the last. Nothing but dull red dwarves and barren balls of rock, with the occasional gas giant to break the monotony.” Turning to Orlova, she said, “There might be a reason no one's explored out this way, skipper.”

   “That's not true,” Senior Lieutenant Powell, Alamo's Science Officer, replied. “That last system had a fascinating superjovian. The chemical combinations in the atmosphere were unique. We're still analyzing the probe data.” Looking at Orlova, he added, “Simply on the grounds of basic science, Captain, this expedition has been more than worthwhile, so far.”

   “Come on, Professor,” Harper said. “This system doesn't even have a name. SGSS 21-131. What does that even mean?”

   “That it was the 131st star discovered by the Second Galactic Satellite Survey in 2021,” he replied. “January 19th, if I'm recalling the records correctly. One of the closest stars detected in that sweep.”

   Orlova smiled, enjoying the banter. There was something to what both of the officers were saying. At some point, though probably not for years, a scientific expedition would have been sent out here regardless, one which might have been satisfied by the systems they had found. Alamo was on a far more urgent expedition, a hunt for the not-men, the race that had pledged to wipe out all humanity. The homeworld of their enemy was somewhere out here, lost amid the stars, and with it the route they would use for their invasion, when it came. Unless Alamo could find a way to stop them.

   “Spaceman,” Nelyubov said, looking over to Spinelli at the sensor station. “Once you've completed the usual checks, our first priority is finding orbital ice deposits, ring systems, preferably, or small moons and asteroids otherwise. I want to get the refueling shuttle moving as soon as we've secured the area.” Turning to Orlova, he added, “I don't like sitting around with empty tanks.”

   “Agreed,” she said. “Go and get them moving down on the hangar deck. Have Shuttle One readied for launch, and get a geologic team on standby.” She smiled, and said, “Sub-Lieutenant Salazar can take it out. I think he'd like a chance to stretch his legs.”

   “One minute to normal space,” Foster said. “All systems still nominal, ma'am.”

   “Keep focused, people,” Orlova said. “This is still an uncharted system, and could easily have dangers we can't prepare for. Watch your stations, and keep focused on the task at hand. Spinelli, I want a full sensor sweep of the system within thirty seconds of emergence. Weitzman,” she said, turning to the communications station, “full listening watch for any electromagnetic activity. The whole sweep.”

   “Aye, ma'am,” the technicians replied, almost in unison. Powell manipulated his controls, bringing a projected image of the system into existence over the holotable, a single red dwarf surrounded by a host of planets, all of them a pale, featureless gray. In a few seconds, Alamo would start filling in the missing pieces of the map.

   Turning to the viewscreen, she said, “You have the call, Sub-Lieutenant.”

   “I have the call, ma'am,” Foster replied. “Thirty seconds to go.”

   No matter how many times she transited hendecaspace, Orlova couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness, something deep at the back of her mind screaming that they were somewhere they shouldn't be, in a dimension that could only be understood in mathematical terms, the province of a few cosmologists, many of them long-dead. As the countdown clock ticked down the final seconds, she longed for the stars, her eyes fixed on the viewscreen.

   “Emergence!” Foster said, and Alamo tumbled back into its home reality, the familiar constellations winking on, the sensor display struggling to update the vague predictions based on long-range observations to match the reality of the system all around her, Powell rubbing his hands together as he watched the data flooding in. His joy lasted for barely three seconds.

   “Threat warning!” Spinelli yelled. “Not-man battlecruiser on intercept course, weapons hot, firing range in one minute!”

   “Comm chatter off the charts, ma'am,” Weitzman added. “Multiple contacts, multiple vectors.”

   “Battle stations,” she said. “Foster, give me some speed,” she gestured at the icy world at the heart of the viewscreen. “Make for the planet.”

   “Getting lots of signals from there, Captain,” Spinelli warned.

   “I need something to give us some cover,” she said. “Execute course, Sub-Lieutenant, and initiate random walk in thirty seconds.”

   “Course computed, implementing,” the young officer replied, the words running into each other. “Maximum acceleration. Am I going for orbit?”

   “Flyby,” Orlova replied.

   “Closest approach in ten minutes, twelve seconds. Firing range in fifty-two seconds, combat window of ninety-one,” Spinelli read from his console.

   “Deploying heat reflectors,” Cantrell reported, and on the holo-display that dominated the rear of the bridge, Alamo's mile-wide wings swept out, gossamer thin to disperse the intense heat built up by her laser cannon. “Charging weapons now, missiles in the tubes, and I'm working on a firing solution.” Turning to her, she asked, “Rules of engagement?”

   “Blow then to bloody hell, Lieutenant. Fire at will, fire to kill.”

   “Aye, aye, ma'am,” she replied, a grin on her face as she turned back to her station. All around her, technicians frantically worked to get Alamo ready for the imminent battle, th
e veteran crew keeping the chatter to a bare minimum as they focused on their tasks. Orlova could do nothing but wait, each second a labored eternity.

   “Got a second ship in orbit now,” Spinelli said. “Far side of the planet. Not moving, and power is only at minimum levels.” His eyes widened, and he added, “My God, it's one of ours. Triplanetary Raider, Perseus-class. Can't make out which.”

   “Leave that till later, Spaceman.”

   “Enemy ship is changing trajectory, lengthening the firing window, ma'am,” he said. “We're going to be in the flame for just under two minutes now.”

   “More chance for us to smash chunks out of them, Spaceman,” Nelyubov said, looking down at his monitor. “All decks are cleared for action, ma'am.”

   “Good,” Orlova said, looking at the tactical viewer. The area was dominated by a titanic superjovian, dozens of times larger than Jupiter, a swirling mass of color surrounded by a hundred moons. That was why they used this egress point in the first place, a guarantee that they would find the ice deposits they needed to refuel. Evidently the not-men had followed the same principles.

   There were three Earth-sized moons in orbit, the largest the ice-laden world they were approaching. Data streamed down the side of the screen as Alamo's planetary sensors started to compile their report, unaware of the chaos taking place around them, and she caught Powell sneaking a quick glance at the readout.

   Right now, there were only two lines that mattered, the trajectory plots of Alamo and the enemy vessel, listed by the computer as Target One. Target Two was the Triplanetary vessel, drifting abandoned through space, a mystery for later, and as she watched, Target Three appeared on the planet below, a source of strong heat on the surface, some sort of settlement.

   “Ten seconds to firing range, ma'am,” Spinelli said.

   “Cantrell?” Orlova asked.

   “I'm ready here, Captain. Foster, I'm going to want a line-of-sight pass…”

   “In ten seconds, ma'am,” she replied. “Course already plotted.”

   Everyone was waiting with bated breath, unable to predict what would happen next. At the rear, the Flight Engineer, Petty Officer Erickson, waited, her hands poised over her controls to send damage control teams across the ship on demand. Hopefully she'd have a boring battle.

   Alamo was tumbling across space now, the starfield swinging around as Foster played her thrusters, sending them swooping onto unpredictable vectors. Against a missile, her actions would be worse than useless, but the only way to survive a laser pulse was to be somewhere else.

   “Energy spike!” Spinelli said.

   “Three seconds early,” Nelyubov replied.

   “Multiple in-bound contacts,” he said. “Five, no six missiles in-bound, matching the profile of our Mark V Missiles.” He frowned, then added, “Faster, though. More acceleration. Otherwise appear similar.”

   “Unable to hack them,” Harper said, replying to an unasked question as her fingers flew across her console. “They must have stolen the design but installed their own software. I'm working on it.”

   “Firing salvo in four seconds,” Cantrell said. Looking over at another display, she added, “First impact in thirty-one seconds.”

   “Use our missiles for point-defense,” Orlova ordered. “Offensive with the laser only for the moment.”

   Foster stabbed at the controls, swinging Alamo around like a bird-of-prey, soaring down towards its target, the laser cannon built to full charge. For less than a millisecond, she was directly facing the enemy, thousands of miles distant, but it was enough. Briefly, the two ships were connected by a ruby-red line of laser light, the blast of energy burning through the enemy hull, sending atmosphere venting into space, tossing it asunder as it savaged her armor. Alamo's radiators glowed white-hot for an instant, quickly dimming as the heat escaped into the cold vacuum of space.

   “Direct hit,” Cantrell reported, a scowl on her face. “Didn't get the weapons, though. I think I knocked out their hendecaspace drive. Our blast was further aft than I'd hoped.” Turning to Foster, she added, “A little further and we'd have missed, Sub-Lieutenant.”

   “They're on random walk too, ma'am.”

   “Missile salvo away, tracking onto intercept course,” Cantrell added, the ship shuddering for a moment, rocking back as the warheads raced onto trajectory. “Six for six, all running true. Recharging laser, second shot in fifty-one seconds.”

   Orlova watched the sensor display, the all-too-familiar tangle of interlocked missile trajectories leaping between the two ships as they flew towards each other, close enough that on the magnified image they would almost seem to collide, though she knew they would be hundreds of miles distant. Nothing at all, in celestial terms.

   “Energy spikes!” Spinelli said. “Two more missiles. Damn it, I think they're laser-missiles.”

   “Confirmed,” Cantrell said. “Bearing directly.”

   Nelyubov looked at Orlova, his eyes widening, his face grim. The first wave of warheads were conventional enough, and Alamo could survive an impact. The new missiles in the theater were megaton-yield bombs, slow and lumbering, but able to detonate at a distance and send a pulse of high-powered laser energy at their target. One shot, one hit, and Alamo would be nothing more than a sea of particles floating on the solar wind.

   “Redirect two missiles to intercept,” Orlova ordered. “And Foster, throw the ship all over the stars. If it looks like they're about to take a shot, make sure it doesn't happen. That's your top priority.”

   “Two of the first wave will hit,” Cantrell protested.

   “Better that than a laser blast,” Nelyubov replied, and she moved to obey the order, two of Alamo's missiles changing course, spiraling around to target the laser-missiles, moving onto a collision course. A second later, four points of light briefly flashed on the holodisplay as the first salvos smashed into each other, leaving only two missiles moving towards them, remorselessly tracking towards Alamo.

   “All hands,” Orlova said, stabbing a control, “brace for impact.”

   “Come on,” Cantrell said. “Reload, damn it, reload.” She worked her controls frantically, trying to get the next missile salvo into the tubes, hoping against hope that she could win the race, get something in the air to counter the attack. Foster's hands were a blur on the helm, ready for the last second spin that would make sure that she, not the enemy gunner, selected the point of impact.

   The deck rocked as the two missiles slammed home, Cantrell launching her salvo a second too late. Sirens sounded across the bridge as a sea of red light flashed onto the status holodisplay, Erickson issuing frantic orders to the technical crews as they moved to position, attempting to contain the damage.

   “Report,” Orlova ordered, moving over to the engineer.

   “Underside sensor controls damaged, long-range communication array damaged, and we've got a rupture in our auxiliary water tank.”

   “I'm getting some serious drift,” Foster reported. “Attempting to compensate.”

   “Elevator Control is out,” Erickson said, shaking her head. “Strange. That one went pretty much where they wanted, but there are no combat-critical systems in that area. I've got the damage control teams spread out well enough that we won't need them, not unless things get so bad that we'll have bigger problems to worry about.”

   Frowning, Orlova turned to Cantrell, and asked, “Second salvo?”

   “Running true.”

   “Detonation!” Spinelli interrupted. “The two laser-missiles just lit, ma'am! A second before impact with our warheads. Two clean misses.”

   “Evidently,” Powell replied, “Or we wouldn't be here to hear your report, Spaceman.”

   “Time to impact of our salvo is thirty seconds, ma'am,” Cantrell said. “Laser charge in twenty seconds.” Shaking her head, she said, “Closest approach in thirty-five.”

   “Course change,” Spinelli sa
id. “Altering course to swing around after us, ma'am. Looks like their using the nearest moon for a gravity swing. I now show another firing window in ninety-two minutes.”

   Orlova turned to the holo-display, frowning as she saw the tangled course of Target One, now a figure-eight that wrapped around the icy moon and one of its satellites, gaining speed to track them. The enemy commander was planning for a future he had no guarantee of seeing, as it stood. From what she could tell, Alamo was getting the better of the battle.

   “Foster, see if you can track towards the front of the enemy this time,” Cantrell said.

   “Doing what I can with what I have, ma'am,” Foster replied, struggling with the helm. The damage to the ship might have been superficial so far, but any uncontrolled atmosphere leak was a nightmare for a helmsman, throwing unpredictable course changes at her. “Five seconds.”

   “And the second salvo hits five seconds later,” Nelyubov said.

   “Energy spike!” Spinelli said. “Enemy missile salvo away, ma'am! Heading right for our warheads.”

   “Attempt evasive action,” Orlova ordered. “Cantrell, how long before we get another salvo?”

   “Wait one, ma'am,” she replied, her eyes on the laser display as Alamo spun around towards its target once again, lurching into position as Foster carefully manipulated the guidance thrusters to do her bidding. Once more, the two ships were linked for the briefest of seconds, another angry gouge running down the enemy hull, sending a blast of air racing into space, throwing it off-course.

   “That one hurt,” Cantrell said. “I think we got their bridge, and their primary air reservoir. They'll have fun cleaning that up.” Glancing across at a status monitor, she said, “Next salvo in forty-one seconds.”

   Nodding, Orlova said, “As long as we beat them to the punch.”

   “Wait a minute,” Spinelli said. “Another energy spike, ma'am. Four more missiles launching, but from a different part of the ship. I think they're using their shuttle bays.” Shaking his head, he added, “They're a lot larger than normal, ma'am. Nothing we've seen before.”