Battle of Hercules Read online

  BATTLE OF HERCULES

  Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 6

  Richard Tongue

  Battlecruiser Alamo #6: Battle of Hercules

  Copyright © 2014 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

  First Kindle Edition: April 2014

  Cover By Keith Draws

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

  Join the Battlecruiser Alamo Mailing List: http://eepurl.com/A9MdX

  With Thanks To: Mark Berryman, Jon Clivaz and Peter Long

  And With Thanks to Martha and Mary at Swiss House, where this book was completed.

  The stars, a jolly company,

  I envied, straying late and lonely;

  And cried upon their revelry:

  "O white companionship! You only

  In love, in faith unbroken dwell,

  Friends radiant and inseparable!"

  Light-heart and glad they seemed to me

  And merry comrades (even so

  God out of heaven may laugh to see

  the happy crowds; and never know

  that in his lone obscure distress

  each walketh in a wilderness).

  But I, remembering, pitied well

  And loved them, who, with lonely light,

  In empty infinite spaces dwell,

  Disconsolate. For, all the night,

  I heard the thin gnat-voices cry,

  Star to faint star, across the sky.

  The Jolly Company, Robert Brooke

  Chapter 1

   Lieutenant-Captain Daniel Marshall gently played the landing thrusters of his shuttle, bringing it down beside the ruined starship that was the only landmark Alamo had been able to make out on the gray, dusty world it was orbiting. Debris filled the crater, likely the only one on the planet that was artificial in origin, making it hard to find a flat patch of ground; his eyes caught a flash of white, and he spotted a bare area just large enough to bring the craft down.

   “I’m bringing her in over there,” he said to Lieutenant Caine, his tactical officer and co-pilot, sitting next to him in the cramped cockpit.

   “Not much of a vacation spot,” she replied, flipping switches with one hand and typing in a series of commands with the other. “I’m not seeing any signs of life, but there is residual heat coming from that craft.”

   “That’s something, anyway.”

   “Just because they crashed the ship doesn’t mean your father isn’t alive, Danny.”

   “I know.” He paused, pursing his lips. “Let me concentrate, this isn’t going to be easy. I think I’ve got about an inch of clearance on either side.”

   His eyes focused on the landing sensors, while he tipped the ship from one side to the other – there was just enough atmosphere to be annoying, not enough to actually be useful – and watched as his landing jets kicked up a brief dust storm underneath. The landing legs grabbed the dirt, and with a sigh of relief, he switched the engines off.

   “We’re down.”

   “God, Danny, look at that,” Caine said, pointing at the object that had attracted Marshall to the landing spot. The white was unmistakably a skeleton, showing through the tattered remnants of a spacesuit.

   Shaking his head, he replied, “Let’s go out and take a look. The sooner we’re done with this the better.”

   He stood up, clambering over to the spacesuit locker, reaching for his helmet. Caine made to follow him, but lingered for a second over the external sensors, frowning. She started to tap buttons, her eyes narrowing at the result.

   “What is it?” Marshall asked.

   “Atmosphere readings are a bit different than we spotted from orbit. Trace elements of oxygen out there.”

   “Oxygen? I thought this place just had an argon-helium mix.”

   She pointed at the screen. “Well, here it has oxygen as well. I can’t think how.”

   “Perhaps something’s wrong with the sensor. It isn’t critical, anyway; we can’t breathe that thin a mix. Set it for auto-diagnostic and we can get out of here.” Tapping a button on the panel, he said, “Time to earn your pay, Second Squad. Deploy and set up a perimeter. Watch out for traps.”

   Clipping his helmet into place, he watched a series of green lights flash across his heads-up display, and then stepped into the pilot’s airlock, cycling the hatch to get his first real look at the outside. It was a desolate wasteland, bleak and gray, the occasional patch of black and brown to break up the monotony. The walls of the crater were rounded off at the top, already showing some signs of weathering, and shattered pieces of hull metal were scattered around.

   Behind him, a trio of spacesuited figures carrying plasma rifles emerged from the passenger airlock, moving into position to protect the shuttle from whatever phantoms might be present. He looked across at the ship, running his eyes along its battered, twisted lines. The aft section was a complete mess, the wreck’s back broken, but the forward compartments looked as if they might be intact. He couldn’t see any obvious hull breaches. Nor were there any signs of life; no footprints on the ground, no discarded equipment. Just the body.

   He made his way over to the figure, lying on the ground staring sightlessly up at the stars through its shattered faceplate, and knelt down beside it. Caine walked over to join him, placing her hand on his shoulder while he reached down to the suit.

   “I think there are some identity tags down there. At least we can tell his family what happened to him.” He pulled out a thin disc, held on a wire that was still clutched in the spacesuit’s hands. “First Lieutenant Kim Carter, United States Space Force.”

   “United States?”

   He passed her up the disc, “Read it for yourself.” He switched frequencies on his suit, “Marshall to Alamo, do you read?”

   The voice of his executive officer, Senior Lieutenant Zubinsky, replied, “Alamo here. Go ahead.”

   “We’ve found a body. Run a search for a First Lieutenant Kim Carter, United States Space Force, and yes, you heard me right.”

   “Will do. Alamo out.”

   Caine replaced the disc in the figure’s hand, shaking her head, “What a place to end up.”

   “We all have to die sometime, Deadeye. This isn’t that bad a place for a spaceman to be. At least he can see the stars.”

   “You’re a romantic, Danny.”

   With a thin smile, he replied, “Have you only just noticed?”

   A figure bounded over to him, rifle loose in her hands, “No sign of any activity, sir.” She pointed to the ridge, “There are a few helmets on the ground over there, disturbed earth. I’d guess someone made an impromptu cemetery.”

   “Maybe this one had time before she died.”

   The corporal glanced down at the body, “Orders, sir?”

   “Keep a fire team with the shuttle, the rest of them follow me.” He looked over at the unbroken forward section, “We’re going to try to board that ship.”

   “Sir, that’s our job.”

   Marshall shook his head, “I don’t think this is a hostile base, Corporal.”

   “Famous last words, Danny,” Caine said.

   Turning to her, he replied, “We’re rescuers, not raiders.”

   A voice echoed in his helmet, “Alamo to Marshall.”

   “Go ahead.”

   “I’ve got the information you wanted. Deep in the historical files; First Lieutenant Carter was Science Officer on the Discovery.”

   Caine whistled, “She’s been there for eighty years.”

   “Are you sure, Lieutenant?” Marshall said.

   “Only officer of that
name to serve in the USSF, sir. It has to be her.”

   He looked over at the ship, “So this isn’t Hercules.”

   “No, sir. There were some superficial similarities in hull design, especially in the forward section, but I’ve taken some readings on the hull fragments. Different alloy composition.”

   “Thanks for that, Alamo. At least we’ve solved one mystery. Marshall out.” He turned to Caine, “Eighty years ago this ship vanished on its maiden voyage. Eighty years – before any human settlements can possibly have made it out this far.”

   “I know what you are thinking, Danny.” She shook her head, “This is a dangerous business. Accidents happen, and those early expeditions were all blind shots into the dark. Discovery wasn’t the only lost ship out there.”

   “Hey, I’ve seen something!” a voice echoed from the side; Marshall and Caine bounded over to the private. He’d wandered off around the rear of the ship, and was pointing at the ground by the engine section; Marshall’s eyes widened as he saw the deep gouges torn out of the side of the ship.

   “That’s not crash damage, sir, is it?”

   Shaking his head at the smooth edges, he replied, “No it isn’t, Private. Take some pictures and get them up to Alamo – I want to find out what part of this ship has been taken. Looks like someone tried to salvage parts after all.”

   Caine tapped him on the shoulder, pointing up to a narrow strip on the side of the ship; an eerie green light was glowing from the viewports on the upper hull, underneath an overhang that would have prevented them spotting it while flying overhead.

   “What the hell is that, Danny?”

   He grinned, “The sign of life we’ve been looking for.”

   “After eighty years? The crew would be dead of old age, long ago.”

   “Maybe they had kids?” the private offered.

   Cautiously weaving around the wreckage, Marshall walked across to the side of the hull, towards the nearest airlock. A thin layer of dust coated it, but even at a glance he saw that there was a piece of equipment placed over the locking mechanism that was obviously out of place, jutting out to cover the controls. He pulled at it, trying to remove it, but whoever positioned it had intended it as a permanent feature.

   “Interesting. Someone really didn’t want anyone else to be able to get into this ship.”

   “I take it you aren’t going to assume they had a good reason.”

   “My father’s message said that they were here; what better prison.” He pulled his plasma pistol clear from his holster, turning the power all the way down as he steadied his aim on the mechanism. “Stand clear.”

   “You could breach the hull.”

   “The outer hull. That’s not a problem.”

   “I hope you’re right.”

   With the thinnest possible pull of the trigger, Marshall fired, and the mechanism disappeared in a flash of green light. The plasma gash ripped a hole across the hull, but not deep enough to do any serious damage. He poked at the charred remains with his hands, looking for the remnants of the entry mechanism.

   “I think you probably did a bit too much damage, Danny.”

   He cursed, then glanced up; he could see the remnants of an antenna complex, tattered and twisted, high up on the hull. Turning back to Caine, he grinned, and gestured up.

   “That’s got to be twenty feet up, and there aren’t any hand-holds.”

   Pulling a wire from around his belt, Marshall shook his head, “Not a problem.” It took four tries for him to hook his line around a nearby piece of equipment, and he gave it a hard experimental tug to test its weight. Grinning as it held, he took out his communicator, pulling out the data lead.

   “Alamo, this is Marshall. In a moment you’re going to get a data interlink into the spacecraft; have Orlova standing by with her spooks to hack the systems. Specifically I want the outer airlocks open, and ideally without warning anyone inside.”

   “Don’t you want them to know they are being rescued?” Caine said.

   “Just being careful.”

   She looked up at the side of the ship, then looked back, still shaking her head, “I think I was taught a different definition of that word in school. Be careful.”

   The climb was easy in the low gravity; he ascended the side of the ship in leaps and bounds, being careful not to put any more stress on the line than necessary. As he climbed, he drew close to one of the green viewports, and risked peering inside; the deck within contained nothing but thick vegetation, as if a hydroponic plant had run amok.

   He grabbed onto the communications array just as his line snapped, reaching with one hand to stop himself tumbling unceremoniously back down to the ground, watching his cable twist and turn its way to the dust. With his free hand, he slid his communicator into the data outlet, thanking the designers for the foresight to develop a universal socket, and activated it.

   “Alamo, you should have access now.”

   A different voice came on, “Orlova here, sir. One minute and you’ll be inside.”

   Twisting himself around, he tried to brace himself for a jump. Smiling, he turned on his suit jets; they were nowhere near enough for him to just fly down, but in gravity this low they would certainly arrest his fall. With a huge grin, he pushed away from the side of the ship, stabbing at his thrusters, kicking up a dust storm around both Caine and the troopers. As he dropped to the ground, almost on cue, the airlock opened.

   “You enjoyed that, Danny,” Caine said, mock-accusingly.

   “Every damn minute of it.” His pistol back in his hand, he stepped into the airlock; Caine managed to beat the Corporal to stand next to him. The mechanism was old, and not well maintained. He had to brush a thick layer of grime from the controls before he could read them, and all the telltales had either been smashed or removed, long ago. With a shrug, he tapped a button, and the outer door closed; the hissing noise that sounded through his suit fabric told him that at least something was happening.

   “Pressure rising, oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere. Everything seems fine,” he said.

   “Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly…,” Caine replied.

   Experimentally, Marshall unlocked his helmet, and when no warning alerts sounded, he took his helmet off, taking a deep breath of the air; he couldn’t help but cough at the harsh bitter taste. The support systems had obviously not been properly maintained for years, all the impurities building up. Caine looked down at him, but he waved his arm.

   “I’m fine. Tastes like crap, though, and I mean that literally.”

   “I’m scared to ask how you know that,” she replied, pulling her own helmet cautiously off, and gagging herself at the air. “How could anyone live in this soup?”

   “You can get used to anything in time.” He pulled his gloves off and strapped them at his belt; with helmet in one hand and pistol in the other, he tapped the button to open the inner door. They emerged into a rusty, battered corridor, lights flickering on and off, some of them burned out altogether. A pair of brown-stained cups sat on a workbench by an open panel; peering inside, he saw cables dropped down from the guts of the mechanism. He could hear a tapping noise on the deck – footsteps, heading their way.

   A figure walked around a bend in the corridor, a man wearing a tattered engineer’s jumpsuit, a flask limply held in one hand. Stubble reached across his face, and his mouth opened wordlessly in surprise. Sergeant’s stripes were sown onto his sleeve, somehow brighter and cleaner than the rest of the uniform.

   Before Marshall could reach him, the figure had turned and was running away. Snapping his pistol back into his holster, he gave chase, Caine hard on his heels, the lock cycling behind him as the rest of the landing team made their way inside. He turned around a corridor to see the figure fumbling at a control panel; his efforts were rewarded as a siren sounded throughout the ship, echoing through the corridors.

   “Damn it, w
e’re here to rescue you!”

   “What?”

   Caine, panting by his side, said, “Who are you?”

   He looked at the two of them, eyes darting from one to another, “Roland. Sergeant Roland Wilson. I don’t believe it. This can’t be real, not after all this time.”

   “It’s real,” Marshall replied. “I’m Lieutenant-Captain Marshall, commander of Alamo.”

   Wilson’s eyes widened, “I’m dreaming. I must be.”

   More footsteps sounded, and a trio of figures ran forward, all of them carrying improvised weapons, pausing at the threshold of the room.

   “Roly? What the hell is going…,” the newcomer’s voice stopped dead in its tracks as Marshall turned. The voice was familiar, though it had been twelve years since he had heard it last. He looked at the leader of the trio, as if into a time-distorted mirror, and started to race forward.

   His face a mask of disbelief, Major William Marshall extended his arms, and embraced his son.

  Chapter 2

   Cheers sounded across Alamo’s bridge as Weitzman relayed Caine’s report. Zebrova sat at the heart of the storm, shaking her head, while Orlova clapped the communications technician on the shoulder. She guessed that the whole crew would feel to same way; to an extent, Marshall’s search for his father had been adopted by all of them, and his decision to take Alamo out to Innes’ Star to find him had been one of the most popular orders he had ever given.

   Caine, heedless of the mayhem, continued to speak, “...forty-one persons, eight of them officers. You’ll need to set up living accommodations for them as soon as possible, and check out the supply situation. The shuttle is on its way back up now with the espatier squad; get a medical and engineering team down here as fast as possible.”

   Tapping a control on her chair, Zebrova replied, “Will do, Lieutenant. Pass on to the Captain that everyone up here is celebrating.”