Battlecruiser Alamo: Forbidden Seas Page 5

   “Aye, ma'am,” he said, making for the door.

   “Good luck, Frank. Be careful.”

   “Always,” he replied, as the door closed behind him. She stared at it for a long moment, longing with all her heart to go with him, to be at the center of the action herself. A year ago, she'd have been the one making the same demands to her predecessor as Captain. Now, the rank tied her to her ship. With a sigh, she sat down at her desk, and started skimming through the casualty reports, praying that the fighting on the surface wouldn't add to the list.

  Chapter 5

   Salazar looked over Hooke one final time, making sure that he was comfortable, and that his only injury was his broken nose. He smiled, shaking his head, as the hacker gave off a loud snore, once again. All the crash had done was make his name more appropriate, though Doctor Duquesne would likely deal with that when she fixed him up.

   Pistol in hand, he made his way to the rear entrance, peering through the window at the approaching vehicle. The outside pickups had been badly damaged in the crash, and he could only see blurred shapes moving through the snow towards him. He couldn't assume they were hostile, though, and took cover behind the nearest couch, raising his gun to cover the entrance.

   After a second, the door jerked open, sending a torrent of snow rushing into the cabin, a cold wind sweeping around, chilling him to the bone. A short, gray-haired man, lean and hard, stepped inside, leading a group of Neander, all of them armed with improvised weapons.

   “Identify yourselves,” Salazar said.

   “Alexander Perry,” the man said. “And these are Molpa and Kelot. Are you from Alamo?”

   Nodding, he replied, “You've made contact with the ship?”

   “After a fashion.” Gesturing at the armory, he said, “We're both fighting the Xandari. Your ship has marines heading down right now, but they're not going to get anywhere if we can't clear the field. I thought you might be able to help.”

   “Prove it,” Salazar replied.

   “Your commanding officer is Lieutenant-Captain Margaret Orlova, you just smashed one of the Empire's biggest warships in orbit, and you came from Mars.” He paused, then said, “Come on, at least give me your name.”

   “Sub-Lieutenant Pavel Salazar.” He rose to his feet, still keeping the pistol leveled, and added, “Security Officer, Battlecruiser Alamo.”

   “Technical Sergeant Alexander Perry, formerly missileman's mate of the Daedalus. We can handle the proper introductions later, but we've got bigger problems right now.” The rattle of gunfire echoed from outside, and he added, “If you'd rather, there's a Xandari hunting troupe coming here right now, and you can try and make a better deal with them.” Slapping his club, he said, “If I must, I'll take them down with this thing. Better dead than to be a slave again.”

   Nodding, Salazar replied, “Take them, Sergeant. Four pistols, armor-piercing and light ammunition. You want the blue clips, not the red.” Patting his pistol he replied, “I'll keep the plasma pistol myself. It'd take you too long to learn how to use it.”

   Perry's eyes widened, and he asked, “You can make plasma weapons that small now? Astounding.”

   “Alex,” Molpa said. “They are coming.”

   “Then let's move,” Perry said, running to the back of the shuttle and pulling out a pistol, sliding the clip into position with practiced ease, dispelling Salazar's final doubts. The design of the emergency pistol hadn't changed in half a century, and he'd obviously used one before. He tossed the others to the Neander, then led the way through the hatch, Salazar following with one last glance at Hooke. As he left, he entered a four-digit code to seal the door, giving his wounded comrade at least a measure of security, before following the old veteran on his charge.

   It was freezing outside, and he shivered in his uniform. Kelot tossed a thick jacket to him, and he quickly slid it on, tugging the fastenings into position as he moved across the terrain, following Perry to a dark, rocky outcrop. A loud roaring echoed to his left, and he saw a wheeled buggy bouncing over the landscape towards him, half a dozen not-men inside.

   “They're the Xandari?” he asked. “We call them the not-men.”

   “Not a bad name for them, at that,” Perry replied. “Young man,” he paused, smiled, then said, “Sir, you're on Cyndar, one of the outlying planets in the Xandorian Empire, ruled by our friends out there.” Pointing at the plasma pistol, he added, “If that thing can do what I think it can, you might want to get it powered up.”

   Nodding, Salazar clipped the pistol to the power pack, fumbling in the cold, and watched the charging sequence begin as the weapon primed itself, lights running up the side. Noting his discomfort, Molpa passed him a pair of gloves, and he gratefully slid them on.

   “Forget that you softskins don't have anything keeping you warm,” Molpa said, with a smile. “Are you really here to help us?”

   “That's the idea,” Salazar said, reasoning that it was a logical enough interpretation of their mission, especially with Captain Orlova sending the Espatiers down from Alamo. He anxiously waited for the pistol to climb to full charge, lining up his shot, as a rattle of machine-gun fire echoed around the outcrop, a sound that both chilled and cheered him. Whilst it was never much fun to be shot at, he'd expected to face far tougher opposition.

   At last, the power level built up to the minimum, and taking a deep breath, steadying his aim, he pulled the trigger, sending a ball of green flame racing across the landscape, smashing into the vehicle and tearing it and its occupants apart, one of the Xandari falling into the snow, covered in flame. A plume of black smoke smashed into the sky, and the Neander looked at him with awe, and at his weapon.

   “A man-portable plasma weapon,” Kelot said. “I wouldn't have believed it possible.”

   “They were cannons, in my day,” Perry said. “We had one on Daedalus, but I don't think we ever used it. Tripod-mounted.” Shaking his head, he added, “I see things have improved a little over the years.”

   “Just about,” Salazar said. “You know what's happening, gentlemen, so if you care to tell me where we're needed, we can get moving.”

   A bright explosion lit the sky, one of the domes erupting in smoke and flame, and Kelot cheered, clapping Molpa on the back, the two of them hugging each other as Perry looked on with a benign smile.

   “That was the Security Dome,” Perry explained. “Vengeance has been served for a lot of friends today.” Pointing towards the smoke, he said, “We've got to take at least one of the landing pads if your troopers are going to make it down. There's no working anti-aircraft, other than a few shoulder-mounted missiles, but the main problem are the bunkers on either side. If we can take out one of them, it should clear enough ground for your shuttles.” He smiled, adding, “With that plasma pistol of yours, I'd expect it should be simple enough. I was rather hoping that you'd have something that could help.

   “They aren't using plasma weapons here?” Salazar asked. “The last time I fought the not-men, sorry, Xandari on the ground...”

   “This isn't a front-line installation,” Perry said.

   “Though their weapons are lethal enough,” Molpa added, “as a lot of friends of mine can testify.” Looking over the outcrop, he said, “We've got them on the run, if we can just take the advantage, we'll be free of those bastards in an hour.”

   “What are we waiting for, then?” Salazar asked, moving around the outcrop. “I think I'm going to need a ride back to Alamo anyway!”

   The group sprinted across the snow, racing past the ruins of the Xandari vehicle, the smoking remains stinking the air, towards the forest of domes on the horizon. They passed another group of Neander on some other mission, half a hundred of them chasing off towards the cliffs, waving and cheering as they went. Whatever else, it looked as though Alamo had chosen the winning side.

   Quickly, the ground grew firmer, and Salazar realized that they were running across ice-
covered plasticrete, his boots rattling on the surface. The others carried on sprinting, edging ahead of him, and Salazar looked down at his watch, trying to work out how long they had. If Alamo was on its original course, curving towards the planet, they had ten minutes before the shuttles would have to make a landing. In this dense atmosphere, they couldn't loiter for long, not if they wanted to return on the same tank of fuel. Even then, it was going to be chancy.

   A burst of machine gun fire sent them tumbling to the ground, Kelot firing a couple of shots with his pistol towards a Xandari soldier running towards them. Perry, as calm as though he was on a firing range, leveled his pistol at the approaching figure, placing a bullet squarely between his eyes, then looking across at Salazar with a hunter's grin.

   “Just like riding a bicycle,” he said. “You never forget. That felt damn good.”

   Something about the old man's expression terrified him to the core, but he pushed his feelings down and replied, “Which way?”

   His response punctuated by another explosion, Kelot replied, “Over to the right. We've drifted out towards the outer pads. Most of the fighting is concentrated in the domes at the moment, in the agricultural modules.” As an ear-shattering scream filled the air, he continued, “Lostok's idea. He wanted to draw the Xantari away from the landing fields, give your people a chance to form up before taking heavy fire. How many are you sending?”

   “One platoon, I guess,” Salazar said.

   “What?” the Neander said, grabbing him by the shoulder. “You contact your commanding officer and tell her to send everything she's got! We haven't got any time for caution.”

   “That is everything we've got,” Salazar replied, pushing his hand clear. “Fifteen minutes ago we were in the middle of a major battle. It's a damn miracle that we're able to respond at all.”

   “Leave it, Kelot,” Molpa said. “If you'd been told a cycle ago that anyone would come to our aid, you would have laughed it off as the ravings of a lunatic.”

   “How come you all speak English?” Salazar asked, panting for breath, desperate for a moment's rest and silently pledging to double his time on Alamo's treadmill in future.

   “It's a long story,” Perry said. “But I wasn't the one who taught them.” He smiled, and said, “Though I might have corrected a few of the more amusing malaprops.” Glancing over to the right, the rattle of machine gun fire filling the air once again, he said, “Come on, Sub-Lieutenant. Let's go and find the war.”

   Curving to the right, they resumed their dash towards the landing pads, running past a stacked pile of crates, rising a hundred meters above the surface, heading for the waiting shuttles. A group of Neander were waving an improvised flag over the body of a dead Xandari, chanting in an unfamiliar language, and Perry shook his head as they dashed past, Molpa urging them to abandon their celebrations and join them in the attack.

   “Too soon,” he muttered. “We haven't won yet.” Pointing at a blocky structure to the north, he said, “That's what we've got to knock out. There are maybe twenty, thirty of those bastards in there, and if we can silence them, you'll be able to get the marines into position.”

   Nodding, Salazar said, “Any inspired plans you want to tell me about?”

   “Blow a hole in the wall and charge inside?”

   “Great,” the pilot replied, shaking his head. “Just great.” He looked up at the sky, and saw a trail of fire ahead, then another one erupting in its wake. Alamo's shuttles, in the early stages of re-entry, minutes before he'd expected them. With a deep sigh, he raced towards the bunker, weaving from side to side as Cooper had taught him, gunfire sweeping around in wide arcs on either side of him. His goal was a low pipe, running along the ground, heading towards the nearest landing pad, connected to a strange, cylindrical shuttlecraft.

   Behind him, Perry yelled something, charging after him, leading a dozen Neander, bullets flying wide all around them. Some of their new allies fell to the ground as the defenders of the bunker found their targets, but Salazar was able to slide into safety, crashing into the pipe. He pulled out his plasma pistol, reflecting that this was a target he couldn't fail to hit, and squeezed the trigger, a bolt of flame smashing into the armored wall, gouging out a hole almost big enough to walk through, sending purple and green smoke rising, joining the thick clouds gathering overhead from a thousand pocket fires. Another explosion roared to his side, and he turned to see one of the larger shuttles blow up, scattering debris all around, the screams of those who were too close filling the air.

   “You've got to be out of your mind!” Perry yelled, diving in beside him, dodging a stream of bullets that caught one of the Neander, blasting him to pieces. “Haven't you ever been on a battlefield before?”

   Shaking his head, he replied, “Too many times to count, Sergeant.” He glanced down at his plasma pistol, waiting for the charge cycle to complete once again, and turned to the others, saying, “Everyone ready to charge. I think my next shot will bring down the wall.”

   He heard a muttering behind him, presumably his orders being translated, and lined up for a second shot. No one seemed to move in the bunker, just the occasional rattle of fire to convince him that it was still occupied, still dangerous. There was an easy way to deal with that.

   Squeezing the trigger, the world erupted in smoke and flame as the side of the bunker collapsed, exposing a chamber within, a secondary explosion as some munitions blew up. A pair of dazed Xandari stumbled free, easy prey for Perry's dead-eye aim, and Salazar charged forward, screaming a war cry as he raced towards the bunker, waving his now-spent pistol around dangerously, hoping that intimidation and bluff would carry the day.

   Jumping over the first pile of rubble, he saw a wounded figure on the floor, a Neander, who looked up, eyes pleading for mercy, only to receive a bullet in the head from Kelot, who spat at his corpse.

   “Stinking trustee,” he replied. “Damn dirty traitor.”

   “No more,” Salazar said, grabbing the Neander's wrist. “Do that again and we'll leave you all to rot down here.”

   “You haven't suffered down here, softskin. We've labored, bled, and died for years. Don't you dare tell me what I can and can't do.”

   “He's right,” Perry said. “I've been here longer than you, old friend.”

   “I'm not surprised you side with him,” Kelot said. “Though I'd hoped better of you.”

   “Come on,” Salazar said, running towards the second door. He could hear noises behind him, weapons being prepared for battle. “We don't have time for this. Alamo's forces will be down in two minutes.” Reluctant to give any opportunity for more argument, he kicked at the door, the damage it had already suffered dropping it from its mount, and jumped to the right a second before the bullets cracked through the air where he had been.

   Perry yelled, “Charge!” and sprinted forward, Molpa and Kelot behind him, Salazar a second later. A dozen Xandari were in various stages of readiness, guns aimed to fire, but the fury of the Neander was too great, and the death screams of the defenders of the bunker filled the air as they completed their lethal task, mowing them down where they stood.

   “Communicator,” Molpa said, moving over to an undamaged piece of equipment, kicking a corpse out of the way. He started to adjust the dials and switches, then pulled out a headset, passing it to Salazar. “I think we can contact your people.”

   “We're secure,” Perry said, nodding. “Search for weapons, Kelot, and more ammunition. We're running low.” He waved his pistol around, and said, “This thing is about as useless as I remember, I'm afraid. Couldn't they come up with something that has real kick to it?”

   “You seemed to make good use of it,” Salazar replied, sliding on the headset.

   “Don't think I'm not grateful,” the old man said, shaking his head. “Without that gun of yours, we'd still be sitting out in the snow.”

   “Sad to hear you only love me for my sidearm, Ser
geant,” Salazar replied, fiddling with the dials, Molpa making careful adjustments, trying to find the right frequency. “Come in, Shuttle Two. Salazar to Shuttle Two. Come in, please.”

   “Oh, you wielded it well, sir. No question about that.”

   “Thanks,” he said with a smile. “Come in, Shuttle Two. You up there, Bradley?”

   “Pavel?” Nelyubov's voice replied. “We thought you were dead! That your shuttle had burned up on re-entry!”

   “I've come rather too close for comfort in the last few minutes, sir, but I'm alive and well. So is Hooke, other than a broken nose.” He looked out the smoke-laden field, and said, “Lock onto my signal. You can land right opposite this bunker. It's in friendly hands.”

   “That was you?” he replied. “Good work, Sub-Lieutenant.”

   “I had a lot of help,” Salazar said, looking around at the cheering Neander.

   “We'll be down in a minute. Entering final approach. Shuttle out.”

   Passing the headset back to Molpa, he peered out of the window, looking at the beautiful sight of two Triplanetary shuttles descending to the field, thrusters carefully firing to allow a simultaneous landing. To his left, he heard a sob, and saw eyes streaming down Perry's face, the old man trying and failing to wipe them away with his sleeve.

   “All these years,” he said. “To see a Martian shuttle again. I never dreamed I'd see the day. I never dreamed.” Shaking his head, he added, “It's over. All of this is over.”

   Clapping him on the shoulder, Salazar replied, “Welcome home, Sergeant.”

  Chapter 6

   As the shuttle dropped to the ground, Cooper was already standing at the hatch, plasma rifle in his arms. He glanced back at the squad behind him, the remnants of Second Squad mashed together with some of First, Walpis standing at the front, followed by Akjes and Anghwis. A green light flashed on as the engines died, and the door slid open to send a blast of cold air into the cabin, revealing an icy battlefield, smoke and flame everywhere, the cries of the dying singing on the wind.