Battlecruiser Alamo: Not One Step Back (10 page)

 “Probably not.”

 “Then I assure you I will put her to good use.”

 A long sigh sounded over the speaker, “You’d better. And I want that damn shuttle back, as well.”

 “You’ll get it.”

 “I’ll handle the paperwork on this end, arrange it to look as if I released her into your custody.” Before Logan could object, Marshall continued, “And yes, this time there actually has to be paperwork, though I presume that your cover story was put in place for a reason. No point if you never actually use it. I suppose I should be grateful that you’ve only borrowed one of my crew.”

 “Thank you, Captain. Have a good fight.”

 “Will do. Alamo out.”

 Logan turned to Harper, sitting smiling in the co-pilot’s seat, “See? Easy.”

 “Still a risk.”

 “Possession is nine-tenths of the law, Harper. Remember that.”

 “Is that standard in intelligence?”

 Logan smiled, “Knowledge like that is precisely why I need you where I can at least keep a nominal eye on you. The hacking software?”

 “No, I’m not going to tell you where I got it.”

 “I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking. It’s already a generation out of date, anyway.” He pulled a datacrystal out of a hidden pocket and tossed it to her, “Feel free to make a copy.”

 “Does this mean I’m a spy now?”

 Chuckling, Logan turned back to his console, working on the course, “Oh, yes. A real femme fatale.” He looked back for a response, but the hacker was already leaning over a terminal, basking in the intrusion software, smiling as though Christmas had come early. Shaking his head, he looked back out at the stars.

Chapter 9

 Orlova sat at the Tactical console, her eyes running over the controls and readouts. The amount of sheer destructive firepower at her disposal was awe-inspiring; six missile launchers now, following the upgrade, each of them with a wide-range of scalable death at the touch of a button, and the massive central laser cannon at the heart of Alamo. Billowing reflectors were racing out from the side, ready to spill the intense heat generated by every shot out into the infinite coldness of space.

 Almost as much heat as she was feeling on her now from the rest of the bridge. They’d completed a shift change a few minutes before the battle stations call, and so it was Ryder sitting next to her, McGuire just beyond at guidance control. Marshall was on the bridge, doing his level best not to focus on any one officer for too long, but nevertheless his eyes bored into her whenever they wandered in her direction. Worse was Zebrova; she wasn’t even attempting to hide that she was spending all of her time watching Orlova. Cunningham was at the rear of the bridge, swinging from a handhold by the elevators, quiet and still, content just to watch.

 She tried to focus on the combat environment ahead. Kumar’s gravity well dominated the area, and she’d checked three times to make sure that the control computers on the missiles were bearing that in account – while they should do that automatically, she’d had a long hour waiting for battle stations, and it was just one more thing she was determined to check.

 Ahead, in a slightly broken arrowhead, the enemy formation. The scout at the rear, the fighters in a loose formation ahead, only barely above the atmosphere of the gas giant. The guidance controller had done an excellent job at hunting Alamo in over them, buying them a nice long firing run which would give them the gravity gauge; she couldn’t believe that the pirates wouldn’t try and evade, even as late as the last minute. The atmosphere would likely be their best bet; those fighters were designed to operate in atmospheres that thick, fifty-year-old designs built for dogfighting in high atmosphere as well as space. The scout, on the other hand, was on its own.

 Still three minutes before they entered firing range, and she tried to relax a little. This wasn’t that different from sitting in a fighter, not in terms of what she was actually being asked to do. Indeed, in some ways, this was easier – in a fighter, she was flying the ship at the same time as managing the tactical systems, and the window of opportunity for attack was usually narrower.

 In a fighter, though, the only one who would pay for a mistake was her. This was the key chair during a battle – between her and guidance control, Alamo would live or die. There was a reason that the new configuration had the watch officer sitting between the two of them, her board configured to allow her to take either station at a second’s notice.

 “Two minutes to range,” she found herself reporting.

 “All weapons ready, Sub?” Marshall asked, leaning forward on his chair.

 “All weapons and defensive systems show ready.”

 She ran her fingers down the countermeasure sub-systems, ready to unleash a series of destructive computer viruses at any incoming missiles. She’d spent thirty minutes memorizing the warbook on those vessels, and she was expecting a series of salvo shots, presuming that they would spend their arsenal in the early stages of the battle to allow them to concentrate on defensive maneuvers in the latter stages. Assuming, of course, that there were no surprise modifications waiting for her, and she didn’t intend to take anything for granted here.

 “Any communications from the formation, anything at all?” Marshall asked.

 “Negative, Captain,” replied the crisp accent of Ivanov. “No signals, and if they are transmitting between themselves, they’re doing it on a very tight beam.”

 “Keep sending at all times.”

 “Ninety seconds,” Orlova said. Her mouth was dry, cracking; she reached under her chair for a bottle of water and squeezed a mouthful out while Zebrova gazed on disapprovingly. One more thing to unnerve her. She concentrated on her station, her universe ranging from fingers to controls to displays, with nothing more.

 “Do I let them take the first shot, sir?” Orlova said.

 “Standard doctrine…” Zebrova began, but Marshall broke in.

 “They threatened a Triplanetary-flagged freighter and have ignored all calls for surrender. You may fire at will, Orlova.”

 “Aye, Captain.” Those were the sort of orders she liked to hear, ones that would provide her with additional tactical options rather than limiting her, restricting her moves. She started to line up trajectories, selecting combat yields and targeting specific sub-systems. This couldn’t simply be a shoot-to-kill, not unless there was no other choice; the scout, certainly, could provide an excellent yield of prisoners.

 “Sixty seconds,” she said, as much to herself as to everyone else on the bridge. Another clock stood by to begin its countdown above her, ready to count down the five and a half minutes they would have in firing range. More than enough time given their comparative argument – at least, she hoped it would be enough.

 The seconds seemed to take forever to tick down, her hands resting gently over the missile controls. In her head she had plotted out her opening moves, as if she was about to play a game of chess where she knew every physical limitation of the board and the pieces, but with no idea what her opponent was thinking. She set up to make full use of Alamo’s armament – there didn’t seem to be any point holding back.

 “Guidance,” she began, “I’ll be wanting a straight-line firing solution seven seconds after we enter firing range on the scout. Engines for preference.”

 “Aye, ma’am,” McGuire replied. She glanced across at the young near-officer, and saw her hands shaking a little, slightly uncertain as she moved to set up the maneuver. Before Zebrova could say anything, Orlova cut in.

 “Don’t give them any warning, Midshipman. Execute it as one swing, just set it up for now.”

 “Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

 “Try and relax,” Ryder said. “Twenty seconds.”

 Hastily, Orlova threw on the countermeasure screens, sending confusing pulses of electronic noise out into space, and readied a dozen decoys for launch. She had a few new tricks she was looking forward to trying, and given how close they were going to be – less than a thousand kilometers at closest approach, she marveled – she suspected that she would have ample opportunity.

 “Red light!” she cried, and slammed down the missile release. Six missiles dashed out of their tubes, and automatic mechanisms hastily reloaded from the magazines at Orlova’s direction. They leaped forward as one, before spinning off into a carefully calculated star formation, one rushing towards each of the targets, sending their formation into pieces. On cue, Alamo began to swing down at the scout, the power building up in the laser cannon with every second. Orlova waited for the moment, then fired, an instant behind the computer.

 A lance of light instantly danced through space, only to miss the scout by half a mile. Nothing in cosmic terms, but from the point of view of the scout’s crew, it was as if Alamo hadn’t fired at all.

 “Damn,” Marshall said.

 Glancing up, Orlova replied, “Forty seconds to laser recharge. First wave missiles running true, second wave in thirty seconds.”

 “Leave something in the magazines, Sub-Lieutenant,” Zebrova said, coldly.

 “Energy spike!” called Bryant at the sensor systems. “Incoming missile salvo!”

 “Orlova…,” Marshall said.

 “On it. Countermeasure systems engaged,” she said, slamming down a series of switches, hearing a satisfying array of clicks as the ship’s computers began to duel with the incoming missiles. Warbook images flashed onto her display – these were nothing particularly special, old Lunar Republic vintage, again from before the war. Dozens of generations of hacking software out of date, and it took only a few seconds for all of them to spill wide.

 Alamo’s missiles were still on track, though, and the fighters were ducking and weaving in an attempt to escape. The scout was being bolder, holding its course, and she could guess why; she began to instruct the computer to prepare to hack into the scout’s next missile immediately on launch, but when the flare spilled away into space, there simply wasn’t time before the two missiles collided.

 Three small explosions, and a quick smile from Orlova, “Three fighters destroyed. Ready on second salvo.”

 “Hold,” Marshall replied, turning back to Ivanov. “Patch me in.”

 “You’re on, sir.”

 “Pirate formation, this is Lieutenant-Captain Marshall of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo. I personally guarantee a fair trial and safe passage back to Mars if you surrender immediately; else I will be forced to destroy you.”

 It seemed short and to the point, but no-one really seemed to believe that it was going to work. The only response came a few seconds later as the scout began to accelerate, pulling away from the two fighters. Orlova frowned, and adjusted the programming on four of the missiles resting in the bay. The Mark Fourteens they were using were some of the most adaptable ever known, and she was going to make full use of their abilities.

 “Abandoning their comrades,” Zebrova said, as though personally offended.

 “Orlova,” Marshall began, “concentrate all fire…”

 “Captain, I think I can get all of them.”

 With an approving nod, Marshall replied, “Then by all means, do so.”

 She pressed down a pair of buttons, and four missiles raced from the tubes, turning towards the fighters, a pair of each of them. They were sluggish, slow to move, but she had guessed right; the fighters were diving towards the gas giant, heading into the protective embrace of the atmosphere – which is why she had reshaped the missiles in the tubes, extending their surfaces to provide them with greater control, and slowing them enough that they would be able to spend some time using that maneuverability in the atmosphere.

 Ignoring the fighters for the moment, she turned her attention to the scout, rapidly climbing away as it gained speed. It’s acceleration was far greater than Alamo, and even if the lumbering battlecruiser were to fire at full-burn immediately, it would be unlikely to make much of an impact on the rapidly reducing firing speed. Furiously tapping buttons with her left hand, she smiled.

 “Midshipman, I’ll have a laser pulse ready in fifteen seconds. You have the call.”

 “Me?”

 “You, midshipman, yes. Any time between twelve and eighteen seconds from – now – will be plenty of time.”

 The nervous officer looked over her instruments, playing them with her fingers as Alamo began to swing. She almost spoke out again, but Orlova quickly saw what she was doing – feinting with the scout, forcing it to make its counter-move early so that she could compensate for it. Good flying.

 “No more missiles, Orlova?” Zebrova said.

 “Not until after the laser pulse, ma’am. Don’t want to spoil the shot.” Not a second time, anyway, was her unspoken thought. Another four missiles were dropping into the tracks, but she’d fire with just the two she had if necessary, both of them tightly targeted on the engines. She carefully set up the laser shot, standing back-up to the computer.

 “Ready!” McGuire yelled, and Orlova fired, once again only just being beaten by the computer. This time the pulse of energy briefly connected the two ships, long enough for an angry red gash to appear over the engines, causing all acceleration to cease. Inwardly debating for a second, Orlova fired a single missile after it, setting it to chase towards its target.

 Two more explosions to the rear; the missiles targeted at the fighters had found their target, and those vessels would be on their way down to the core of the gas giant in pieces, slowly compressing to nothing; she hoped that the pilot’s hadn’t ejected. That would be a terrible way to die.

 “Call them again, Ivanov,” Marshall said. “They might be in more of a mood to talk now.”

 “You’re on, sir.”

 “Unidentified vessel, there is a missile on track that will destroy what is left of your engines in less than a minute. At that point I will be launching an espatier force, and the only question at the moment is whether they will be coming to provide emergency relief or to board and storm. I repeat – those boarding shuttles are on the way. Surrender.”