Secrets of the Sphere (Battlecruiser Alamo Book 27) Page 21

   “Pavel,” Orlova said, “We're willing to make the attempt to retrieve you. I know that the crew would be willing to take the chance.”

   “And I can't let them do that, Maggie, and you know it. Hell, if I thought you were dumb enough to loiter for me I'd bring this little go-cart to a stop right now and wait it out. I guess we're too late to get on the bus this time, but there will be another chance.” He paused, then added, “What's your assessment of the repair time for Alamo? Be conservative.”

   “Eight to ten weeks.”

   “Then I and the others will be back at Base Camp in eighty-two days from now, and we'll wait as long as we dare. If you get a chance to come back, you'll be able to pick us up then. If you don't, then no hard feelings. Get this straight. The ship and her crew come first, over and above anyone else. We'll find a way to survive out here, and with a little luck, we'll be able to find the way home. You get that?”

   “I got it, Pavel. I'll look after Alamo for you. Just look after yourselves. And we'll find a way to make to the rendezvous, no matter what it takes. You have my word.”

   “That's enough for me,” he replied. “Good luck, Captain.”

   “Happy hunting, Captain,” she said, turning to Koslowski. “I presume you have a course programmed in to take us back to Alamo?”

   “I do, ma'am.”

   “Then by all means, Midshipman, execute course change. Get us there.”

   “Aye, Captain,” she replied, swinging the shuttle around, guiding it towards the exit shaft, scant miles distant. The ship raced over the terrain, ducking and diving to keep low, Koslowski sparing all the fuel she could as she hurled it into the vast pit that led to the outside of the Sphere, a hundred-mile tunnel that would see them safely to the surface. She felt the usual sickening feeling as they slid through the gravity field, Koslowski burning the shuttle's engines as hot as she could in a bid to catch up with Alamo, sweeping towards them at maximum acceleration.

   As soon as they burst clear of the surface, the sensor display winked into life, rapidly reaping data from local space, showing the view that Orlova had feared. Two Hegemonic cruisers, bearing directly on Alamo, with a larger ship following, unarmed, bristling with shuttle locks, almost certainly a troop transport. She reached across to the console, bringing up a course projection, and sighed as the computer drew a dotted line towards the target, indicating imminent contact with Alamo. They were going to reach the hendecaspace point first. That much was certain. But Alamo was going to have to weather a missile salvo to do it, and the damage reports flooding into the shuttle filled her with doubt that the battered battlecruiser would be able to handle it.

   “Two minutes to landing,” Koslowski said. “We'll be home about ninety seconds before the battle. I'll have to dock on the first try.” Turning with a faint smile, she added, “Don't worry, Captain, I know what I'm doing.”

   “Probably better than I, Midshipman,” she replied. She looked at the display, trying to work out a way to beat the odds, to get Alamo to safety ahead of the salvo. Or even, despite everything, find some edge that would allow them to stay for long enough to rescue Salazar and the others. The pain in her side ached, the painkillers and stimulants starting to wear off, and she couldn't think of a thing.

   “Ma'am,” Koslowski said. “They're launching fighters!”

   Two dots raced from Alamo's side, diving towards the enemy cruisers, loaded for bear. One look at the trajectory plot made it clear that they were on a suicide mission, that they had no chance of returning to Alamo before it reached the egress point and was forced to leave. They swept past the shuttle as Koslowski brought it into final approach, but Orlova couldn't look away from the two pilots that were risking their lives on the attack, knowing that they faced nothing other than capture or death at the end of the battle.

   “Alamo Actual to Shuttle Four,” Francis said. “Clear for landing.”

   “Roger, Actual,” Koslowski replied. “Here we go.”

   The shuttle slid smoothly into position underneath the battlecruiser, caught on the docking cradle and dragged up into the ship, the elevator airlock cycling to drag it into the battered hangar deck. As soon as the shuttle settled into position, Orlova cracked open the cockpit airlock and raced from the ship, limping in pain as she lurched towards the operations monitor, Chief Kowalski riding herd over the controls in the absence of Lombardo.

   “I need to speak to the fighters,” she said. He paused, nodded, and threw her a headset, and she added, “Orlova to Fighter Flight. Come in.”

   “Little busy right now,” a harsh voice replied.

   “One attack run, then make for the surface. Someone will be waiting for you there. Got that? Get to the surface. We'll come and get you when we can. Alamo out.” Looking up at the screen, she asked, “Is it working?”

   “I think so,” the gruff Kowalski replied. “A slight course change. This is going to be close. Just like old times.” Glancing at her, he added, “Good to see you again, skipper.”

   “Thanks, Chief,” she said, her eyes locked on the sensor display. A warning light flashed on as the enemy squadron drew closer, Alamo burning its engines as hot as they dared in a desperate bid to reach the egress point first, lights flickering as the damaged power distribution network struggled to gather the energy needed to make the transition to hendecaspace. More lights flashed on the screen, a salvo of missiles launched from the fighters, racing towards the cruisers, perfectly timed to blunt the force of the enemy attack. The Hegemonic vessels were forced to fire their missiles to counter those of the squadron, unable to spare them for Alamo.

   “How about that,” Kowalski said. “Mac did it.”

   “All hands,” Francis said, his voice booming over the speaker. “Prepare for transit.”

   Orlova looked around, disappointed faces on the technicians. This was Pavel's crew, his command, and she knew that at a word from her, they'd volunteer to stay back, try and rescue their commander. Yet he was right. They couldn't give them that choice.

   “You heard him,” she said. “We're leaving. But we're coming back.”

   The familiar stomach-clenching feeling of a dimensional transition grabbed at her, and the lights flickered once more, finally stabilizing as they completed the passage to hendecaspace.

   “What are you all waiting for?” she said, looking at the silent crew. “We've got a lot of work to do if we're going to get Alamo back into the fight, and the clock's running. Captain Salazar and the others are counting on us to come and pick them up, and I don't intend to let them down.”

  Epilogue

   The train slowed to a halt, Salazar first at the door as it smoothly glided into the abandoned Base Camp, signs of the too-rapid evacuation readily apparent, equipment too large to move scattered almost randomly in the area. Several large mounds of fresh earth were in one corner of the landing field, the remnants of the battle that had taken place here just a day before, hastily buried corpses left almost were they had lain. A Triplanetary flag flew forlornly at half-mast over the field, silent reminder of those who had briefly lived and worked here, a tide of humanity that had come, and gone.

   About a quarter-mile away, a trail of smoke rose into the air, and Salazar raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes, peering at a burnt, blackened fighter sitting on the ground, forward landing strut half dug-in to the mud, and a figure walking slowly towards them, peering around with the air of one viewing the Sphere for the first time. He turned to Fox, the Espatier standing to attention at his gaze.

   “You think you and Clarke can handle the prisoners?” he asked, gesturing at the huddled technicians and guards at the rear of the train. “Just for a few minutes?”

   “Not a problem,” she said.

   “What are you going to do to us?” Mendez asked.

   “You'll see,” he replied. “Kris, I know you aren't a medic, but...”

   “There's not much more we can
do for the wounded, Pavel. We've done everything we realistically can.” Glaring at Mendez, she added, “Maybe more than we should.”

   “Lombardo,” Salazar said, “please check out the buggies. One and Two look ready for a nice long trip. I want them rigged as we discussed.”

   “Will do,” he replied. Salazar stepped out onto the grassy field, taking a deep breath of air, noting with satisfaction the pile of supplies that had been left in the storage huts. Francis may have been forced to abandon them on the Sphere, but he hadn't left them empty-handed. There seemed to be enough rations to last them for months, medical supplies, communications gear, everything needed to allow a settlement to survive here.

   Not that he had any intending of remaining behind.

   He waved a hand, and the pilot walked forward, the stern face of McCormack greeting him as she grew closer. In retrospect, it was probably inevitable. Landing a fighter in atmosphere must have been a nightmare, especially in the middle of a battle. That she brought her ship down in one piece was a testament to her skill as a pilot, if nothing else.

   “You in one piece?” he asked.

   “Just about. I'm afraid Bryant wasn't as lucky. That means Alamo's lost both flight leaders as well as her squadron leader.”

   “Did the ship get away clean?”

   “I think so, but my sensors were pretty badly damaged. Resolution's lousy. Certainly there was a dimensional transfer.” She paused, looked around the camp, and said, “Don't get any fancy ideas, sir. Alamo suffered severe damage, and she's jumping into a hostile area with enemies on her tail. The Hegemony aren't going to rest until they've brought her down. I'm afraid that we must assume that we're stuck here for the rest of our lives.”

   “You can if you wish,” Salazar said, looking at his watch. “In eighty-one days, twenty-one hours and an odd number of minutes from now, I believe that rescue shuttles will be here for us. My intention is that we should be here when they do.”

   “Then we're going to re-establish Base Camp?” Mortimer asked.

   “No, we're not going to do that, either,” he replied. “Somewhere out there is the secret of the wormholes, the secret we came here to find in the first place. We're going to find it. Not to mention that Monitor left a colony behind, and we haven't had an opportunity to seek them out yet. We've got eleven and a half weeks on the Sphere, and I mean to make full use of them.”

   “What about the prisoners?”

   Lombardo walked across to Salazar, nodded, and said, “All intact, fully-charged for a nine-thousand-mile journey, barring accidents. I've set them as you discussed, though I wouldn't want to go on that ride for a while.” Gesturing at the other vehicles, he added, “Buggy Three is intact as well. Flyer Three can be made operational if you don't mind waiting for a week or so.” Gesturing at the vacuum train, he added, “Doesn't seem worth worrying about, now.”

   “Maybe,” Salazar said, glancing at the components. “How long would it take you to break it down again, back into kit form. I think it'd just about fit in the rear compartment.”

   Frowning, Lombardo replied, “A few hours? We wouldn't have to cut it down all the way, just small enough to get through the door. And I could probably work on some of it in the cabin, if someone else can take over driving.” He smiled, and added, “Plenty of pilots around, I guess.”

   “Fox,” Salazar yelled. “Bring the prisoners out here, on the double. Those too wounded to walk remain in the cabin. I've got something else planned for them.”

   “Wait a minute,” Mendez protested, stepping onto the grass. “You promised us safe passage...”

   “To Base Camp,” Salazar replied, waving his arms around. “And here we are. A site that is a lot less active than it would have been had you not sent your creatures to attack us.”

   “That was Robertson's doing, not mine.”

   “Nice and convenient, that. Everything tied into a nice, neat box, except that I don't buy it. Not for a moment.” Arms crossed, he continued, “Nevertheless, I'm not going to judge you. I don't think I'd be impartial. Instead, I'm giving you a free pass. You all get to leave here without hindrance. I'll even give you some transport.”

   “And if we'd rather stay here?” one of the guards asked, fear paradoxically emboldening him.

   “Plenty more space for graves,” Salazar replied, bluntly. “At one word from me, Sergeant Fox and Sub-Lieutenant Clarke will kill you all. I don't think either of us want to walk down that particular path, do we, son?” When the guard failed to respond, he continued, “I guess not.”

   “Captain,” Mendez said, “We need supplies, equipment...”

   Shaking his head, Salazar gestured to the two buggies, and said, “Between them, both should be able to get you out of here. They've got a range of a little under nine thousand miles, which ought to guarantee that I will never see you again. Though before you get any grand ideas of being master of your own destinies, I need to make a few things perfectly clear to you.”

   “Such as?” Baldwin asked.

   “All of you have been stripped of what equipment you had. That doesn't amount to much. The buggies have enough rations to last you for a couple of weeks, if you are careful, and some first aid equipment. That's all you're going to get. And if you think that you might return, I'll tell you two things. First, the location of Base Camp has been deleted from the on-board computers of the buggies. Second, they have both been set for autonomous control.”

   A murmur of protest rippled through the crowd, and he continued, “You will not have control of the buggies. They've been locked to take you for as far as their batteries last, except that both will stop at the same time. That's about two hundred hours or so. You'll find it a miserable and uncomfortable ride, and at the end of it, you'll be almost out of rations. I'll leave it to you to work out your own salvation, somewhere out there.”

   “What about those too wounded to move?” Baldwin asked.

   “They're going to be left with the local Neander. Given that the Hegemony recently held them as slaves, I'm not sure how that will work out long-term, but their elders have given me their word that your people will not be harmed. Right now, you are in no position to ask for anything else.” Stepping forward, he said, “Understand this. The two options are exile or death. That's all. And if anyone wants to choose the second option, there's a nice long drop about a mile in that direction.” He gestured at the shaft, and added, “I suggest you get it over with. Sergeant Fox, see that our guests leave immediately. Lombardo, Clarke, give her a hand.”

   “With pleasure,” Clarke said, turning to the hesitant crowd, raising his rifle.

   “We'll be killed,” Mendez said.

   “Not if you are half as smart as you think you are,” Salazar replied. “Now you get to see what life in the Sphere is really like. I suppose one day you might make it back here, but it's a hell of a long walk, and I can guarantee you an unfriendly reception if you do.”

   “Move,” Fox said, gesturing with her rifle. “Before the Captain changes his mind.”

   As the prisoners were escorted to their transports, Harper limped over to stand by his side, looked up at him, and said, “Smartly done.”

   “The last thing I want to do is organize a prison camp. Besides, even if I could hand them back to the Hegemony, they'd probably kill them. This way they have a fighting chance of survival. They'll end up in an area were they could just about live off the land. Though I suspect some have rather better odds than others.”

   “Probably,” she replied, turning back to the vacuum train. “What now?”

   “We rest up tonight, load everything we can into the train and offload the rest on the Neander, and head back out again. There's nothing more for us to find here.” Gesturing into the distance, beyond the desert, he added, “That's where our future lies. Out there. And that's where we might finally find the way home.”

   “And if Alamo doesn't come
back?”

   “They will,” he replied, a smile on his face. “Count on it.”

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  The saga returns in Cries in the Dark, available soon…

  If you can't wait, why not try the new Starcruiser Polaris series...turn the page for a free preview of 'Blood of Patriots'...

   Commander Edward Curtis stepped out onto the command deck of his flagship, the Starcruiser Polaris, the two honor guards on either side of the door snapping to attention at his approach, all eyes turning towards him as he stepped across the threshold. Standing to the side, as ever at his monitoring station, his Political Officer, Felix Rojek, nodded, receiving a curt acknowledgment from Curtis as he walked to his position at the heart of the ship, the command chair from which he could survey every station on the deck at will.

   “Situation report?” he asked, turning to his Operations Officer, Lieutenant Cordova. The young man grinned, gesturing up at the strategic display to magnify the central section of the view, showing the three ships of the Republic squadron sweeping towards their targets up ahead. Curtis looked at the flotilla, nodding in approval. His own Polaris at the heart of the formation, flanked by Arcturus and Canopus on either side, sister ships under his command. His first independent command.

   “Any change to our orders, sir?” Lieutenant Elizabeth Diaz, his Tactical Officer, asked, only sparing a brief glance in his direction, away from the gang of sensor and communication technicians laboring under her exacting supervision.