Contents

Prologue
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
Chapter 26
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Dreams in the Dust

CRIES IN THE DARK

Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 28

Richard Tongue

Battlecruiser Alamo #28: Cries in the Dark

Copyright © 2017 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

First Kindle Edition: December 2017

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

Prologue

 The Battlecruiser Alamo slowly drifted through the asteroids, following a carefully calculated trajectory designed to keep it constantly in sensor shadow, eluding the Hegemony warships that roamed the system, looking for any sign of their prey. They’d been hunting them for weeks, likely knew at least their rough location, but Alamo was more than a match for any one of them, and their commander knew it. So the dance continued, as it had for countless days, while her crew struggled to put the pieces back together, to repair the damage sustained during their escape from the Dyson Sphere, more than a month ago.

 Sitting on the bridge once again, Lieutenant-Captain Margaret Orlova, her face still showing the scars of battle, looked from console to console, her crew manning their posts with their usual consummate skill. It had been a frustrating time, nursing her ship into the cluster of rocks, forced to wait and watch while enemy ships flew all around them, knowing that at any moment, one mistake, one misjudgment would expose them to attack, a battle they were not ready to deal with.

 In all honesty, they still weren’t.

 The engineering teams had worked around the clock in a desperate bid to prepare the ship for combat, to put the pieces back together again, but there was only so much that they could do without the services of a spacedock, especially while having to hide their activities. There were three other systems in range, but the further they traveled from the Dyson Sphere, the harder it was going to be to work their way back again, and she wasn’t about to leave her stranded comrades behind.

 Moreover, the Sphere remained their best chance of finding a way home. Somewhere out here was a wormhole that would take them back to Triplanetary space, and without that shortcut home, Alamo and her crew were doomed to wander through Andromeda, perhaps finding some safe haven to establish a settlement, a single outpost of humanity in the vast, endless void beyond.

 “The first gap opens in ninety seconds, Captain,” her Tactical Officer, Lieutenant Scott, reported. “With another one a hundred and eighty seconds later. The first one is the best, ma’am. We’ll be able to get to the egress point without worrying about intercept from any of the enemy capital ships.”

 “They’ve got fighters, Lieutenant,” Senior Lieutenant Francis, Alamo’s harried Executive Officer, replied. “We’re outnumbered at least ten to one in that arena, and they’ll get at least one firing pass before we can leave the system.” Looking up at the status board, he continued, “I must once more formally object to this course of action at this time, Captain. Given another ten days, we might...”

 Shaking her head, Orlova said, “We’ve waited long enough, Lieutenant, and every hour we linger here increases the chance that we are subjected to a surprise attack. They’re strengthening their forces in this system, not weakening them.”

 “Then I also suggest that we go somewhere other than the Dyson Sphere on the first jump. They’ll know that’s where we’re heading, and they’ll follow with everything they’ve got. We’ll still be fighting a battle. The only difference is that we’ll be fighting it in open space, without any ability for tactical maneuvering.” He looked up at the monitor, and added, “It’s got to be worth a try, Captain.”

 Orlova looked at the tactical hologram again, watching the starships slide through the sky all around them. Francis was right, and in other circumstances, she’d probably be giving the same advice, but they couldn’t delay any longer, and even if they tried to throw off their pursuers, they’d still know their ultimate destination. They had to reach the Sphere as soon as possible, no matter what.

 She turned to the officer at the helm, and ordered, “Sub-Lieutenant Quesada, take us out on the course as instructed, maximum acceleration. Lieutenant Scott, bring the crew to battle stations and place all sensors on full-active mode. It’s time to leave.”

 “Aye, aye, ma’am,” the young man replied, his hands gratefully dancing over the controls, thankful to at last be breaking out of the same cautious holding pattern they’d been maintaining for the last few weeks. “Engines to full power, egress point in nine minutes, ten seconds.”

 “Tactical to all hands,” Scott said. “Battle stations, battle stations. All hands to your battle stations. This is no drill. I repeat, this is no drill. Brace for multiple impacts, damage control positions assemble according to Schedule Three. That is all.” She looked up at the control panel, and said, “All stations are responding, Captain.”

 “Very good, Lieutenant,” Orlova replied, watching the screen.

 “Threat warning!” Ballard, the sensor technician, reported. “Two enemy ships have altered course, trying for an intercept. There’s no way they can reach us in time, but both vessels are fighter carriers, ma’am, and if they launch within the next sixty seconds, they’ll make a strike before we leave the system.”

 “What about the rest of the enemy ships?” Orlova asked.

 “Holding course, ma’am.”

 Nodding, Francis replied, “They might think we’re pulling a feint, trying to draw them away from our intended exit point.” He looked up at the monitor, and added, “Not too late to do that, ma’am. If we hustled...”

 “Then we’d have four enemy ships on our back instead of two,” she replied. “Launch fighters, Lieutenant. I want all of our remaining birds in the air. Orders to intercept any incoming formation and return to Alamo on the double. I will not leave anyone behind in this system.”

 “Aye, Captain,” Francis replied, turning to his station. A few seconds later, Alamo rocked as three fighters, the remnants of its once-proud squadron, raced from the launch tubes, speeding ahead of the ship on its way out of the system. She looked up at the course projection, nodding in approval. They were playing a conservative game, giving themselves plenty of chances to get home in a hurry if they had to. Regardless, she threw Francis a quick glare. He nodded in response, already preparing one of the search and rescue shuttles for emergency launch.

 She looked up at the sensor display, watching as the two ships converged upon them. After a moment, the remainder of the enemy fleet altered course, belatedly chasing after Alamo, doubtless deciding that she wasn’t attempting some sort of ruse but was actually fleeing the system. A quick flick through the combat database confirmed for her that they had left it too late, that they could never reach them in time, and neither could their fighters.

 “New targets!” Scott said. “Twelve interceptors in the air, Captain, bearing directly with weapons hot. Enemy cruisers are reducing acceleration, staying out of the battlespace.” Throwing controls, she added, “They’ll be on us sixty-one seconds before we can reach the egress point.”

 “Quesada, is there anything more you can do?” Orlova asked.

 “Nothing, Captain. We’re already at maximum sustainable output.” Glancing down at his controls, he added, “Even if I red-lined the systems, they’d still have at least forty seconds on us, and I’d burn out half the power relays doing it.”

 Shaking his head at the engineering station, Spaceman Fitzroy said, “We’ve only just got the damned thing working again, Captain.”

 “All decks are at battle stations,” Scott said. “Missiles in the tubes, prepared for defensive fire, and our point-defense systems are on-line.” Turning to Orlova, she asked, “Should I prepare the laser cannon, ma’am, or are we going for a full-power run out of the system?”

 “Leave maximum power with the engines,” Orlova replied. “We want to be away from here as soon as possible, and one laser shot won’t help us much in the current tactical situation.” Alamo’s engines roared to full power, a low whine rumbling through the hull as the ship surged to maximum acceleration, a dotted line racing across the viewscreen to display their departure from the system. Her eyes were locked on the fighters, three facing twelve, knowing that all of their senior officers were dead or missing. Three near-rookies, with the fate of her ship in their hands.

 “Eight minutes to egress point, Captain,” Quesada said. “I don’t dare any evasive action, ma’am, or the cruisers will catch us. We’ve got to go full-burn.”

 “Then by all means, Sub-Lieutenant, give it everything you’ve got.”

 “Aye, ma’am,” the helmsman said with evident relish. He’d hated the enforced tedium of the stealth course as much as anyone else, and was relieved to be heading out into open space once more, no matter what odds were facing them. “Course for the Sphere is plotted. We should come out right where we left.”

 “You think Salazar and the others are still alive?” Scott asked.

 “You’ve known Pavel as long as I have, Lieutenant,” Orlova replied with a smile. “Do you really need me to answer that question?”

 “I guess not, ma’am,” she replied with a smile. “More fighters launching from the other two cruisers, but they’ll never reach us in time. I’m surprised they’re wasting the fuel.”

 Shaking her head, Orlova said, “They’ll try for our hendecaspace drive on the first pass, Lieutenant, and if they manage to put one shot on target, we aren’t going anywhere.” She looked up at the viewscreen, her fighters releasing their deadly payload, six missiles racing towards the enemy formation before Alamo’s ships turned back, racing home, heedless of the fuel they were recklessly spending to get away. Orlova nodded in approval. Textbook.

 “Enemy formation has launched eight missiles in response,” Francis said, leaning over the sensor display. “Overkill, Captain, but I think they’re playing it safe. We still have sixteen incoming missiles to worry about.” Glancing up at the countdown clock, he continued, “In about five and a half minutes from now.”

 “Hold your course, Quesada,” she said. All eyes were locked on the viewscreen, watching the slow progression of the ships as they slid through the sky. The worst part of space warfare was the waiting. Hours, sometimes days of tedium interspersed with seconds of furious activity and sheer terror. Nothing new to her, but that didn’t make it easier. Especially as she couldn’t, even after a month, quite get used to the idea that this wasn’t her ship. Pavel Salazar had been her commander for months, and the late Captain Marshall before him. She’d commanded this ship during the Xandari War, but that was more than a year ago. Most of the people on this vessel were new, people she didn’t know, who didn’t know her. It made a difference, somehow.

 “Two minutes to intercept,” Scott said, breaking through her reverie. “Enemy formation closing for action. I’d like to get one salvo up early. We might be able to take out a dozen of their missiles that way. With a little luck, point-defense will take care of the rest.”

 “Proceed, Lieutenant,” Orlova said. “Quesada, do everything necessary to protect the hendecaspace drive. We can live with any other damage, but we’ve got to get out of the system on this pass, or we’ll never leave it.”

 “Understood, Captain,” the helmsman replied, his hands poised over his controls, ready to send commands surging through the system. His youth belied his experience, and his calm demeanor proved it. He knew what he was doing, and more importantly, he knew that he could do it.

 The seconds trickled away as she watched, one after another, the fighters getting ever closer as they prepared for launch. Alamo rocked as Scott fired the first defensive salvo, hurling them towards the fighters in a desperate bid to distract them, knowing that it was the longest of long shots but choosing to take it anyway, an instant before the enemy formation fired. Eighteen dots on the screen, with six more chasing after them. Scott frantically worked her station, preparing another salvo for launch, and Orlova cursed the damage they had not been able to repair, the missile tubes they hadn’t had a chance to clear. That would have made it simple. Now it was going to be tougher.

 Alamo rocked again, six more missiles flying into space, but those would be the last. Eighteen against twelve, heading towards mutual annihilation. A brief flurry of flame raced across the sensor display, and twenty-five of the contacts vanished, leaving only five remaining. Alamo’s point-defense guns began to pound away, hammering all around them in a bid to clear their way out of the system, and one after another, the incoming contracts faded from display.

 All but one, which slipped through the firestorm.

 Quesada nimbly tossed the rear of the ship around, sending the ship into a mad tumble for a second, long enough to take the impact on a non-critical area of the hull. Even so, Orlova winced at the anguished whine of the armor, buckled and broken once more, as the helmsman lurched the ship towards its target.

 “Thirty seconds!” he yelled.

 “You have the call, Sub-Lieutenant,” she replied, as Fitzroy and Francis frantically prepared a damage report.

 “Aye, ma’am,” he said.

 “All our fighters are home, Captain,” Scott reported. “We’re free and clear.”

 Finally, with a blinding flash, Alamo slid into the safety of hendecaspace, beginning her long transit to the Sphere. And with luck, one of the last steps on their journey home.

Chapter 1

 No matter how long Lieutenant-Captain Pavel Salazar stayed in the Dyson Sphere, the sight of the eternal, endless landscape rolling around him still filled him with awe and wonder. He glanced at Lieutenant Lombardo, the engineer guiding the magnetic train across the surface, traveling far faster than the speed of sound, then back at the landscape again. They moved at a thousand miles an hour, but even after a day and a night, they were only just approaching their distant destination, forced into a circuitous route by the extraordinary twists and turns of the track, as though laid by a madman in the distant past.

 He glanced back at the cabin, his mission team preparing for what was to come. When Alamo had been forced to flee the system to escape destruction at the hands of a Hierarchy assault force, more than a dozen of them had been left behind, unable to reach safety before it was too late. Worse, the mystery they had come here to solve remained. Alamo was stranded in Andromeda, tossed through space by the vagaries of an artificial wormhole, stumbling through uncharted space in a desperate attempt to find their way home.

 And they’d been so damned close.

 The scientists that had led the massacre of their first base camp, rogue operatives of the Hierarchy, had found the answer he was looking for, a chart of the wormhole layout. He’d had barely a minute to glance at it before he’d had to flee, the base destroyed by nuclear fire in order to prevent the cannibalistic race beneath from unleashing a reign of terror on the surrounding environment. There’d been no choice; he couldn’t sacrifice millions, perhaps billions of lives in order to save the hundred-and-forty on Alamo, but that didn’t make him feel any better.

 Except that at least he now knew that the secret was here, somewhere on the sphere, and that the answer to the mystery was waiting for them. That was something. All he had to do was find it, duplicate the work of the scientists. He couldn’t believe that was the only copy of the wormhole map, and somehow knew that the builders of the Dyson Sphere had something to do with it. Nothing else made any sense, not with the wealth of Terran lifeforms they’d found.

 He’d left half his people behind, rebuilding Base Camp with the help of the Neander. Should Alamo return quickly, unexpectedly, at least they’d have a chance to be rescued. Logically, he should have done the same, but he couldn’t bring himself to wait with such a near-infinite expanse to explore. They’d held on for ten days, long enough for Alamo to venture to another system and back again, and when there was no sign of their ship, he’d opted to move out, to continue the journey he’d begun.

 That there might be another reason that Alamo hadn’t returned was a shadow over his soul, one he attempted to dismiss but could not completely banish from his thoughts. The ship had been under heavy attack, and the Hierarchy held local space in an iron grip. There was a better than even chance that the ship might have been destroyed. In which case there would be no rescue, and the Sphere would be their home for the rest of their lives.

 “Five minutes, Pavel,” Lombardo said, glancing across from his controls. “I’m beginning deceleration right now.” Shaking his head, he continued, “I’d give a lot to know how this thing worked. We ought to have been tossed against the bulkhead when I tapped the control.”

 “We know the builders mastered gravity manipulation, as strange as that sounds,” Salazar replied. “I guess putting together a train should have been easy enough for them.”

 “I can’t even find the motor,” Lombardo replied. “There doesn’t seem to be any sort of mechanism at all, not even a transmitter. It’s as though it works simply because it works.” Glancing at the controls, he added, “And these are built for a human to use. Base-ten readouts, everything accepting the right sort of pressure, right down to the last detail.”

 “Converted.”
 “Anyone smart enough to do that would be smart enough to build the damn thing for themselves. There’s something here, Pavel. More than we’ve guessed so far.”

 “With all this space to roam in, Art, I’d have to agree with you. Anything could be out there. Anything. There’s room for trillions of people, thousands of civilizations as large as the Confederation, larger. Room for almost anything you can conceive or imagine.”

 A smile curled Lombardo’s lips, and he said, “I almost get the idea you don’t mind being stranded down here.”

 “Maybe I don’t,” he replied. “Under other circumstances, I could quite happily spend the rest of my life here.” Gesturing at the sweep of the landscape, he added, “I always wanted to explore new worlds, new lands. I never figured I could do it on foot. Even with this train at full speed, it would take decades just to circumnavigate the Sphere. Thousands of years to come up with any sort of a search pattern. We could settle everyone in the Confederation within walking distance of Base Camp, and still have room for more.”

 “Perhaps we ought to start thinking about that,” Lombardo said, turning back to Salazar. “How long are we going to wait for Alamo?”

 “They’ll be back,” he replied. “One way or another, they’ll find a way back.”

 “And if we’re not there when they do?”

 “We stay within two days of Base Camp by train,” Salazar replied. “And we watch for signals every night. I know Maggie Orlova well enough to know that she won’t give up on us easily or quickly. You know that. Besides, it’ll take them a while to repair their damage. If I was her, I’d pick some quiet spot, some asteroid belt, and moor in a sensor blind spot while I licked my wounds for a bit. The ship’s been through worse.” Looking back at the controls, he continued, “Two minutes. Better get ready.”

 “Right,” Salazar said, rising from his seat. He walked back to the cabin, the rest of his team waiting for him, already prepared for the mission. Kristen Harper walked over to him, communicator in hand, a frown on her face.

 “I’ve been trying to reach them for the last twenty minutes. No reply. I know our communicators don’t work that well in here, but they should have heard us easily at this range.”

 “It’s been months,” Salazar replied. “Maybe they aren’t keeping a constant communications watch any more.” He shook his head, then said, “No, that doesn’t make any sense. Unless something else has gone wrong.” Pulling out one of their few remaining datapads, he called up the information Captain Orlova had left them. “Twenty-two survivors from Monitor, all of them survival-trained and with all the emergency equipment they could want.”

 “I still don’t know why they’d go so deep into the Sphere,” Lance-Sergeant Fox, their sole Espatier, said. “They’d have been a lot better off staying close to Base Camp.”

 “Maybe they knew something we don’t,” Harper replied, gloomily. “Or maybe they’re already dead. One thing we do know is that this is a damned dangerous place, and I don’t like the idea of simply charging into the colony without warning.”

 “I don’t like it much either,” Salazar said, “but we don’t have a choice. There’s damned little cover out there. Probably why they picked it. Lots of advance warning if someone turns up.” He looked down at the datapad again, scrolling through the too-brief report for the hundredth time. Alamo hadn’t been the first Triplanetary ship to reach the Sphere. That honor had gone to Monitor, a lost starcruiser, commanded by Margaret Orlova. Her they had found, wandering through one of the endless deserts to the south, but she’d left behind a couple of dozen of her crew, trying to scrape out a living from the soil, expecting that they’d be remaining on the Sphere for the rest of their lives.

 Heading to their aid first had been an easy call. There hadn’t been a chance to go looking for them while Alamo was still close by, but if they could consolidate all their forces close to the exit, it would make their rescue a lot easier once help arrived.

 If help arrived.

 He had to assume that it would. Or be forced to give up hope entirely.

 “Thirty seconds,” Lombardo said, calling from the cabin. “No sign of life out there, boss. Nothing at all. Though I can see some prefabricated buildings, Triplanetary design, coming up. Just as advertised.”

 Turning to Harper, Salazar said, “We’ll go ahead. The rest of you stay behind.”

 “Sir,” Fox protested, “I should be...”

 “No,” he replied. “If something goes wrong, if this turns out to be some sort of trap, I want you back here to find some way of getting us out of it again. Having said that, Art, if you don’t have a choice, then get out of here and return to Base Camp. Got that?”

 Shaking his head, he said, “No, skipper. Not with six of us out here.”

 “That’s an order, Lieutenant,” Salazar said, pulling out his sidearm. He reached into his pocket, tapped a button on his communicator, and said, “We’ll be in constant contact. Keep listening out. And watch for any sign of trouble.”

 “Good luck, boss,” Lombardo said. “We’ll be waiting.”

 With a quick glance at Harper, he walked across the open ground towards the waiting buildings, half a dozen hastily constructed prefabricated structures dumped on the ground, a quarter of a mile from the invisible magnetic tracks. There was no sign of anything strange here, no sign of anything at all, no noise to break the oppressive silence.

 “Subsurface water,” Harper said, waving a sensor feed around. “Big aquifer, not that deep. Not a bad place to set up a farm, if you like that sort of thing.”

 Frowning, Salazar replied, “Not what I would have done. There are enough civilizations scattered around the Sphere. One of them must have indoor plumbing and central heating.” Cracking a smile, he added, “No sign of defenses. They weren’t expecting an attack. Not even a guard tower. Bad planning.”

 The two of them walked towards the outpost, then froze in their tracks when the smell hit their noses. Rotting meat. Dead for some time. Harper looked to the right, sighed, and gestured at Salazar, who glanced in the indicated direction. A figure lay on the ground, sprawled, obviously the source of the smell. Slowly, they made their way to his side, constantly looking at the horizon, waiting for any further signs of trouble.

 “How long?” Salazar asked, looking down at the decomposing corpse as Harper ran her sensor feed across the body.

 “Three, four weeks, I think,” she replied. “DNA match indicates this was Senior Spacemen Ken Poole. Life support systems technician. From Monitor, so that much is confirmed, at any rate.” Looking at the figure, she added, “No way to tell how he died without an autopsy. We probably should have brought Garland with us.”

 “I think he’s a bit beyond first aid, Kris,” Salazar replied. “Let’s check out the rest of the buildings, though I don’t think there’s any further doubt about what we’re going to find.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out two pairs of nose plugs, and passed one over to Harper. “Here.”

 “Thanks,” she replied, sliding them in place. “Should have thought of that before.”

 “Yeah,” he said, leading the way, pistol still in hand. As he approached the buildings, he saw three more bodies on the ground, evidently left where they had fallen, and grimaced as he looked at the facades of the buildings, festooned with bullet holes, some of them splattered with blood. On the far side of the

 “I guess we know what happened here,” Harper said with a sigh.

 “Not yet,” Salazar replied. “Not until we have some idea who did it.”

 “The Sphere’s big, Pavel,” she said. “Too big for revenge.”

 “Four bodies,” he said. “Only four. That still leaves eighteen others, and if they’re out there somewhere, we’re going to have to find them.” He paused, then spotted something on the ground, his eyes widening as he raced towards it. Another body, but this one totally different to anything he’d ever seen before. A silver sheen, some sort of strange pigmentation, but that wasn’t the oddest part. Not by far.

 For attached to the rear of the body was a pair of perfect wings, six feet across.

 “That’s the thing with this place,” he said, as Harper walked up beside him. “Every answer just brings up a thousand more questions.”

Chapter 2

 Clarke rubbed his weary eyes as he struggled to focus on the monitor, the sensor logs playing at sixty times their normal speed to display hours of data in minutes. The computers had eliminated most of the footage as being irrelevant, but had highlighted hundreds of files for him to examine, all so far displaying nothing out of the ordinary. Alamo’s computers could have completed this task in a matter of minutes, but with only a pair of battered datapads at their disposal, this was going to be a more arduous, and frustrating, task.

 He replayed the last moment of the file, confirming that the reading had just been a swarm of migrating birds, tens of thousands of them flying through the sky, and shut off the machine as he reached for a cup of cold coffee, taking a bitter swig and rubbing his eyes again. Behind him, Mortimer walked in, taking a seat next to him.

 “You think you’ve got it bad,” she said. “Everyone else is on clean-up duty.” Shaking her head, she continued, “Whoever the bastards were, they made one hell of a mess out there. And aside from that corpse, they didn’t leave any sign of what happened. You find anything yet?”

 “Not a damned thing,” Clarke said. He tapped a control, bringing up the next file, and said, “There’s nothing for hundreds of miles, though. I know that much. That’s probably why they picked the place. No chance of unintentional contact.”

 Pulling out a chunk of alloy, Mortimer replied, “There might not be anything here now, but there certainly was at one time. That’s scattered all over the place out there. I ran a full analysis on it, and that’s some sort of material completely unknown to us, tougher and stronger than anything we have back home.”

 With a shrug, Clarke said, “I’m not surprised. This place is old, Ronnie, and there’s been time for civilizations to spring up and fade away a thousand times. Maybe even ones that could encompass the whole Sphere, as unimaginable as that sounds. What about that creature outside?”

 “Harper did a full scan,” Mortimer replied, “and frankly didn’t come up with very much. We need facilities we don’t have. Strange as it seems, though, it’s human-descended, though the subject of some pretty damned intensive genetic manipulation. And it couldn’t fly without assistance in full-gravity, though higher up, it ought to be fine.”

 “Someone’s breeding winged aliens out here?”

 “I guess so,” she said. “It certainly wasn’t natural. Not with the thousands of changes they must have made. When we get home, a lot of geneticists are going to want to take a look at it, I’ll tell you that. Even if it is beginning to stink. We’re taking it back to Base Camp for analysis.” Glancing at her watch, she said, “Incidentally, the Captain’s ordering us out at first light. No point staying around here any longer than we have to, I guess.”

 Nodding, Clarke said, “I’ll be glad to get out of here. This place is a graveyard. Hell of a place to spend the night. If it was up to me, we’d be leaving now.”

 “He doesn’t want to travel in the dark unless it’s absolutely necessary.” She frowned, then asked, “You picking up something around here?”

 “Maybe it’s just my paranoia playing up, but if something could come out of the sky one night and kill everyone once, there’s no reason why it couldn’t happen again. No reason at all.” Gesturing at an inventory display, he added, “They were armed better than we are. Plasma cannons, machine guns, surveillance drones. And still they died.”

 “We don’t know that they’re all dead,” she replied. “We only found eight bodies in the end. And there were twenty-seven people here. We know that much. You’re letting this place get to you.” Frowning, she continued, “Not that I can particularly blame you for that, I guess.”

 “I’m glad you agree,” he said. Then something caught his eye, and he froze the frame, tapping a control to throw an infra-red filter over the image. “Got it.”

 “Let me see,” she replied, leaning over the screen.

 Displayed dead center on the monitor was a swarm of thousands of the winged creatures, each holding weapons in their hands, with point-heat sources on their rear that had to be thruster packs, boosters to compensate for their inability to fly in high-gravity areas.

 “I guess that answers that question,” he said. He looked at the time index, and his eyes widened. “Nine days ago. Or to be precise, eight days, twenty-three hours and forty-nine minutes ago.” He reached for the controls, and said, “Let me see if I can track their course. They couldn’t have flown far.”

 Mortimer reached for her sidearm, and said, “I think I’m beginning to agree with that idea of yours. Getting out of here in a hurry….”

 The monitor flickered out, replaced with a wide view of the area, a trio of the high-orbiting moons overhead. Clarke’s fingers raced across the controls as he worked to track their course, a dotted line racing back towards the nearest moon. Smiling in satisfaction, he worked in the sensor data gathered by the deserted outpost, using it to plot the path of the moon. The smile faded to a scowl as the orbital track worked through.

 “It’s on a strange orbit, looping around four other satellites,” he said. “No way it could be natural. Hell, it’s orbiting in atmosphere. Something must be holding it on station.” Turning to Mortimer, he added, “And it’s going to be overhead any time now.” Pulling out a datarod, he rose to his feet, the chair falling onto the floor. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

 “Way ahead of you,” she replied, racing to the exit, pistol in hand. The two of them raced to the communications shack, Salazar and Harper futilely attempting to contact Base Camp, both turning to face the red-faced officers as they stormed inside.

 “We’ve got to get out of here, right now,” Mortimer said.

 Nodding, Clarke added, “Unless I miss my guess, sir, we’re going to come under attack at any moment by the same force that struck this settlement before. Think of a couple of thousand of those winged humanoids, all of them armed, against our current firepower. We wouldn’t stand a chance, sir. No more than they did.” Tapping his pocket, he said, “I’ve got all the sensor data, and I can interpret it at Base Camp. I don’t think there’s anything else for us here.”

 Salazar glanced at Harper, nodded, then pulled out his communicator, saying, “Lombardo, warm up our engine. We’re leaving immediately.” Throwing another control, he added, “All personnel, immediate evacuation. Back to the train on the double. Take only what you need with you. Abandon the rest.” Moving to the door, he looked at the others, and asked, “What are you waiting for?”

 The quartet raced across the plain at a fast jog, the others quickly following, easily keeping pace, weapons drawn. Harper pulled out her datapad, tapping a series of controls, then tossed the sensor feeds over her shoulder, roughly pointing at the sky. Clarke looked up, spotting the silvery moon flying overhead. The technology would be required to keep them in the sky was almost inconceivable, until he looked around at the immensity of the Sphere all around him. Controlled gravity. The holy grail of spaceflight for centuries, and about as attainable. Except that it was a reality, right here.

 “Maybe we’re in time,” Fox said, easily taking the lead. “Maybe we’re panicking over nothing.”

 “I’d love to think so,” Clarke replied. “I just know that I’ll sleep a hell of a lot better tonight if we’re already on our way back to Base Camp.” Glancing up at the sky, he spotted something passing in front of the moon, and turned to Harper, asking, “Are you picking anything up, ma’am?”

 “Not a thing,” she replied. 

 “I can see something. A shadow. Maybe ten thousand feet up.”

 “Me too,” Mortimer added. “Something’s playing games with the long-range sensors, Lieutenant. We only spotted them on the recordings when they got damn near close enough to touch.” Glancing over her shoulder again, she said, “Nine thousand feet and falling fast.”

 “How fast can they possibly move?” Fox asked.

 “They’ve got some sort of jet pack,” Clarke replied. “Meaning that they can probably move just as fast as they need to.”

 “Lombardo,” Salazar said, yelling into his communicator. “Tell me you’re ready to run!”

 “All set here, skipper,” the engineer replied. “What’s the panic?”

 “A thousand winged demons flying our way.”

 There was a pause, and Lombardo replied, “Whatever it is you’ve been drinking, boss, I hope you saved me some.” A second later, he continued, “Good God, I can see them! Heading right for you, little points of light in the sky. Sensors aren’t picking up anything!”

 Harper stuffed her datapad in her pocket, and said, “Might as well save the battery. Four hundred meters to go.” A loud crack filled the air, and a fountain of dirt rose from the ground, a new crater slammed into the earth. “Evasive!”

 The group began to swerve from side to side, more bolts crashing into the ground all around them as they desperately raced for safety, still unable to see their adversaries flying through the sky over their heads. If they had taken any prisoners before, they seemed uninterested in adding to their collection, the intensity of the barrage increasing almost by the moment.

 Somehow, they found more speed, racing faster, desperately struggling to the gleaming silver bullet up ahead. Then, another bolt crashed into the ground beside Clarke, the force of the impact sending him tumbling from his feet, diving forward before he could stop his fall. The others sped ahead of him as he caught his breath, forcing himself back up, sprinting with all his might to catch up to the rest of the group. Mortimer, spotting his distress, turned and fired a series of shots into the air, emptying her clip into the unseen foe, waiting for Clarke to catch up to her before continuing her desperate run for safety.

 “Should have left me behind,” Clarke panted.

 “Like hell,” she replied. Up ahead, Harper tumbled into the train, the others just behind her, but the bullets were raining down all around them now, clouds of dust filling the air from the swarm of impacts. Clarke looked up, and saw the implacable face of one of the winged humanoids above him, almost close enough to touch, the long rifle held in her hands. There was no emotion there, no sign of humanity, just cold, burning eyes that seemed to bore into his soul.

 Then the familiar staccato rattle of a machine gun opened up, Lombardo aiming a series of bursts into the area all around them, giving Clarke and Mortimer a chance to reach the train, the attack disrupted for just long enough to give them their chance. Welcoming arms snatched them to safety, the door slamming shut before any uninvited guests could enter, and the train burst into life, Harper at the controls.

 Lombardo flashed Clarke a grin before moving to stand beside the hacker, Mortimer looking through the rear viewport at the mass of winged humanoids flying after them. Clarke moved to stand beside her, shaking her head at the amazing sight, thousands of them in perfect formation, little sparks of light from their jet-packs. Finally, as one, they turned away, arcing into the sky, racing back the way they came.

 “Out of fuel,” Mortimer suggested. “They can’t have much in those little things.”

 “For all you know,” Harper replied, “They might have tiny little antimatter reactors. I don’t think we can take anything for granted. Not here.” She turned to Clarke, and asked, “Tell me that moon doesn’t go anywhere near Base Camp.”

 “No closer than five thousand miles, Lieutenant,” Clarke replied. “If they could roam that far, we’d know about it already.”

 “I hope you’re right,” Salazar said. “I don’t think we’re set up to deal with quite that many uninvited guests.” Looking around, he said, “Get some sleep. We’ll be home in ten hours, and we’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.” 

 Harper turned to him, and said, “I’m not going to like this, am I?” 

 “Kris, I promise, you’re going to love it,” he replied with a wide grin.

Chapter 3

 “That’s it,” Harper said, looking up at a dozing Salazar, slouched on the floor of the train. “Pavel, wake up, damn it.”

 “Wha?” he said. His eyes snapped open, and he said, “What’s happening?”

 “Nothing,” she replied. “I just realized something important.”

 “What time is it?”

 “Oh-three-hundred and change.”

 Sitting up, Salazar said, “You realize even I need to sleep sometimes.” Rubbing his eyes, he said, “What have you got?” 

 “The source of the communications interference, and the reason our sensors were disabled. As well as the best chance we’ve got of finding a way home.”

 “You officially have my attention.”

 “It’s that moon. The one those winged...things...attacked from. I did a little checking with the sensors, and that’s the most powerful emitter of electromagnetic traffic I’ve ever seen. More than enough to disable communications for a hundred thousand miles in every direction. That one object is retarding technological development for millions of square miles, billions of people.”

 “And you assume that whatever is generating it...”

 “Is several orders of magnitude greater than the most powerful quantum computer I have ever seen. It might even be the control complex of the entire Sphere, or one of them, anyway. And I checked out something else as well.” She pulled out her datapad, and said, “Look at the DNA samples. Now, I’m no expert at genetics, but I do know something about nanotechnology. They’ve got markers, probably from the original engineering, maybe designed as a signature of the designer. And they’re identical to those creatures the Hegemonic scientists were playing with. They came from the same original source.”

 Salazar’s eyes widened, and he said, “You want us to fly into that sort of a nightmare?”

 Frowning, she replied, “I don’t think we’ve got a choice. You said yourself that the researchers had found a wormhole map, and that has to be the original source. Nothing else makes any real sense. Pavel, it’s the first real lead we’ve had in a month. We can’t pass it up.”

 “We’d never get there in the flyer, sir,” Clarke said, turning to look at him. “I’m sorry, but if it was a private conversation, Captain, you probably should have spoken a little more softly.”

 “Forgive us for interrupting your beauty sleep, Sub-Lieutenant,” Salazar replied with a smile.

 “Hell, sir, you’re the ones who have to look at me,” Clarke said. “That moon is maybe a thousand miles up. Still in the atmosphere, which makes it tougher, though the gravity field is a lot lower up there. Maybe a tenth of the levels on the surface.” He paused, then said, “Maybe we could use one of the shuttles.”

 “No way,” Lombardo said, turning from the controls.

 “Is anyone actually still asleep?” Harper asked.

 “I’m asleep,” Mortimer said. “This is all a bad dream, and I’ll wake up back in my cabin on Alamo in a minute.” With a deep sigh, she said, “There’s an answer, Lieutenant. We’ve got several fighters on the surface.”

 Nodding, Lombardo said, “Those engines are modular. Though you realize what you’re suggesting, I hope. We only get a shorter burst...”

 “But enough to put us into a sub-orbital trajectory, or something close to it. It’s the gravity that hurts us as much as the atmosphere, and that fades away rapidly. The only reason we’ve got so much atmosphere is that something else keeps it close.” She paused, and added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a second gravity field, maybe a hundred thousand miles up, to keep everything nice and compact.”

 “That’s impossible,” Lombardo said. He smiled, then added, “What am I saying? We’re in a damned Dyson Sphere.” He paused, and said, “If you’re right about the gravity field, then we’d need one fast push, then a slow boost for a while. We’d have to head back to a glide landing, but that shouldn’t be any problem.” A smile crossed his face, and he added, “Hell, I wouldn’t even need to mess around with the fighters too much. I think I can do it with some software changes, maybe fit the remaining missiles as a first-stage.”

 “That’s more like it,” Harper said. “I’ll help you with the reprogramming.”

 Looking at his watch, Salazar replied, “We get back to Base Camp in about three hours. How long to make the modifications?”

 “Six, at most, if we all work at full stretch.” He paused, then added, “You won’t be able to launch with anything even remotely like a full load. Two people at most, and only a few pounds of equipment. I suppose I might be able to rig something better given time, but...”

 “Two will be fine. We’ll use both shuttles, give us the best possible chance of reaching our target. As for landing, that shouldn’t be difficult. The moons have atmosphere, have a gravity field. It’ll be tough as hell, but I don’t see any insoluble problems. And besides, if we miss, we just come down to a safe landing.”

 “At least ten thousand miles from our point of origin, if I’m figuring my trajectories right,” Mortimer warned. “And without that much control over the landing site. We don’t have a route map for these trains that goes anything like that far.” Sitting up, she looked around the coach, and added, “This is a one way trip. Let’s not fool ourselves on that score. I’m not even sure how we’re supposed to get back down to the surface.”

 Silence reigned for a long moment, and Salazar said, “You are quite right, Sub-Lieutenant. The goal would be to disable the jamming field, find the wormhole map, and transmit it to Base Camp. I suppose there might be a chance of at least getting to the surface again afterwards, but I agree that the amount of control that the pilot would have would be limited at best.” With a smile, he continued, “Having said all of that, I should note that this mission is based on the idea that we’re invading a moon that is certainly the base of thousands of hostile troops. The odds of the strike teams living for more than a few minutes seem marginal at best. That’s why I’m taking Shuttle One.”

 “I’m with you,” Harper said. She turned to Salazar, and before he could reply, continued, “Don’t even think about trying this without me. Not this time. Besides, I’m by far the best-qualified person to deal with the artificial intelligence when we get there. I have to go.”

 Lombardo looked at the two of them, and replied, “I can make the modifications, but that’s about as far as it goes. If they’ve got as good a sensor network as I think they do, you’ll be spotted the moment you light your engines, and they’ve got an army that can fly. They’ll intercept you, almost certainly, and those shuttles are unarmed.” He paused, then added, “And I’m going to have to strip the ships as light as I can, which means removing pretty much all of the safety equipment before takeoff. So if you do come down in the middle of nowhere, all you’ll have to live on are the contents of your pockets.”

 “True enough, Art,” Salazar replied. “I don’t disagree with you, and if I thought we had any other way of completing our mission here, I’d take it in a heartbeat.”

 “There’s something else,” Harper said. “We all risked our lives to stop those researchers unleashing an army of, well, beasts on the surface of the Sphere. Based on the genetic readings we’ve got, I think we’ve only done half the job. There are no advanced civilizations for thousands, maybe tens of thousands of miles, and I think we can work out why. Someone’s stopping them, cold. And someone has to stand up for them.”

 “And that’s us?” Mortimer asked.

 “You see anyone else around here?” Salazar replied. He looked around the room, and said, “On Alamo, there are a hundred and forty people looking to us to find a way to get them home. Not to mention that there’s a good chance that we have people stranded up there, people wearing the same uniform that we do, doubtless hoping and praying that someone, anyone comes after them. We can’t abandon them. We won’t.”

 With a smile, he added, “All of us volunteered for this mission. All of us knew the risks we were running, and we all know that we might be required to sacrifice our lives. This time it isn’t for all humanity, for the Confederation, but for our shipmates. Our friends and comrades. If my life is the currency to get them home, then I will pay it, and I will pay it gladly.”

 “I feel the same way,” Harper said. “Knocking out that transmitter might be as simple as putting an explosive charge in the right place, and if the Hegemony can crack their systems, so can I. It might take a while, but one way or another, I’ll find that way home.”

 “Or die, trying,” Mortimer said.

 “If that’s what it takes, then that’s what it takes, and it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve come back from a suicide mission. I’m willing to make the attempt, anyway.”

 “Crazy,” Mortimer said, shaking her head.

 “Maybe,” Clarke replied. “If so, I am too. I’ll take Shuttle Two, sir.”

 “Every time you’ve climbed into a cockpit, you’ve crashed!” Mortimer protested.

 “And I’ve walked away from the wreckage every time,” the young man said with a smile.

 “You’re all insane,” Mortimer said. With a sigh, she said, “Fine, I’ll ride shotgun.”

 “This mission is strictly volunteer, Sub-Lieutenant,” Salazar said. “You’re not under any obligation. That applies to both of you, John, so if this is some misplaced sense...”

 “Sir, I’m Security Officer. This is my job. Technically, as Alamo’s Captain, you shouldn't be going on a mission like this yourself. Hell, you shouldn’t even have come down to the Sphere in the first place. I guess what I’m saying, sir, is that if you have the right to offer your life for my shipmates, so do I.”

 “And if I don’t go with him, then it will be a suicide mission,” Mortimer added. “Besides, after you, Lieutenant, I’m the best-qualified on the surface to work with advanced computer systems. I know that I’m not in your league, but if it comes to it, I can probably work out where to place the grenade.”

 “That’s an interesting hacking technique,” Harper replied with a smile. “And to be far, one that I’ve resorted to myself on occasion.”

 “You’re sure you can complete the modifications quickly?” Salazar asked, turning to Lombardo.

 “With all hands helping out, sure,” the engineer replied. “Though it’ll leave us stranded on the surface, of course. It’s unlikely we’d be able to recover the shuttles.”

 “I don’t think that’s a problem,” Clarke said. “When Alamo returns...”

 “If Alamo returns,” Mortimer interrupted.

 “They’ll be able to use their own shuttles for the pickup. And if they don’t, well, nobody from Base Camp will need them again anyway. The train and the flyer are more efficient ways of traveling across the surface of the Sphere.”

 “Right now, the shuttles aren’t doing us any good at all. We might as well make some use out of them while we can. And the sensor data we’re likely to collect should tell us something, as well.” Looking at Clarke, Salazar asked, “Are you really sure about this?”

 “Absolutely, Captain. I’ll follow you in.” With a smile, he added, “Maybe this time I’ll actually get to land something conventionally for once.”

 “If for no other reason than that, I’m going along for the ride,” Mortimer said. “This, I’ve got to see.”

 “And you think that the Captain is crazy,” Lombardo said, shaking his head as he returned to the controls. “Kris, there’s no point trying to get to sleep now. We might as well start work on the modifications.” He frowned, then added, “You realize as well that we’ve got no way of simulating this ride?”

 “More fun that way,” Salazar said with a smile.

 “We have different definitions of that word, sir,” Mortimer replied.

Chapter 4

 Orlova walked into the familiar briefing room, looking around at the unfamiliar mix of officers assembled inside, many of whom she hardly knew. Even after all this time, it still felt strange to see Max Francis rather than Frank Nelyubov in the Executive Officer’s seat; at least Val Foster, handling Operations, was a familiar face, as was Katherine Scott sitting in at Tactical. A pale-faced Corporal sat in for the diminished Espatier team, and a Sub-Lieutenant who looked like she should be planning for her flight tests had the chair to represent the squadron, her seniority granted solely by her standing on graduation, less than nine months ago. Weeks before Alamo’s arrival in Andromeda.

 On the other side of the table, Chief Santiago held the Systems Officer’s chair that should have been either Jack Quinn’s or Art Lombardo’s, two empty seats next to her for the absent Security and Intelligence Officers, with Chief Petty Officer Kowalski somehow representing three departments by himself. Her heavy hints that he ought to accept a commission had been rejected outright, with language that almost called upon her to arrest him for insubordination.

 There were ghosts in this room. Shadows of long-ago missions, long-dead officers that still seemed to haunt this place. The longer she held the command chair, the more she was certain that she’d happily yield it upon their return to Triplanetary space. She’d been here too long, seen too much. Time for someone else to take the burden. Not that she had a choice for the moment.

 “Right, everyone,” she said, taking her seat. “We’d better get started. Chief, how’s the ship?”

 “Lousy.”

 A thin smile curled Orlova’s lips, and she said, “A little more detail would be useful.”

 “Damned lousy,” the engineer replied, pushing a datapad in front of her. “We’re not fit for a major fight, Captain. If you just want to cruise through space for a while, I think we can handle that, but we’ve taken too much damage for me to be particularly sanguine about a battle. We’ve stressed the superstructure once too often. That means serious spacedock time. I can put the pieces together just so often.” Tapping a button, she added, “All of the fabricators are beginning to fail, as well. And again, there’s only so much I can do to keep them going. To be blunt, Captain, we’ve run too far and too long, and we’re about at the end of the road.”

 Nodding, Kowalski said, “I’m with her. Supplies are low. We’re entirely dependent on the food fabricators, and I had to take three of the carniculture vats out of service. Bacterial contamination. That’s a bad, bad sign. I think I can bring one of them back, but it’s going to mean reduced rations for a while. Until we can resupply somewhere.” Frowning, he added, “If we get a chance, we ought to send some teams into the Sphere to gather rations.”

 “I don’t think we’re going to have anything like the time for a hunting expedition, Chief,” Scott said. “I’ve got the same story, Captain. Too much damage to our weapons systems, too many trained people killed or wounded. My teams are doing their best, but there’s only so much they can do.” Taking a deep breath, she said, “I hate to admit it, but if we go up against those four ships, I think we’re going to lose. And we’re going to lose, big.”

 Looking at Orlova, Francis said, “You don’t want to hear this, Captain...” 

 “Say it, Lieutenant,” she replied.

 “We ought to consider evacuation. We’ve got one potential safe haven, but that’s eight, nine weeks away, and we’re liable to have to fight our way through a combat fleet to get there. At least on the Sphere we’d have room to hide, and unlimited space to settle.” Glancing at Kowalski, he added, “I think we can get the crew to safety in less than eight hours, with three shuttle passes. Two if we can retrieve our ships from Base Camp. Then we pick a spot, and settle down to wait.”

 Nodding, Kowalski added, “We followed the trail. Someone else will, sooner or later. One of our own ships, and they might have more luck than we did...”

 “Gentlemen,” Orlova said, fixing first Francis then Kowalski with a sharp stare, “I have no intention of abandoning this ship until and unless we have no other choice. Alamo is in good condition for an extended cruise, and we have every reason to believe that the information we have been seeking is waiting for us inside the Sphere. For all we know, Captain Salazar has already retrieved it for us. I’m not going to let him down, and I’m not going to let the crew down. I want that to be perfectly clear.”

 “Aye, Captain,” Foster said.

 “Yes, ma’am,” Francis added.

 Looking around the room, she continued, “We can expect the enemy to follow us to the Sphere as soon as they can assume a battle formation. Say twenty minutes at the most. That means that as soon as we arrive, we’re going to have to move as fast as we can. I want a shuttle heading down to the surface immediately upon our arrival. Corporal, that’s yours. Four troopers and a pilot.”

 “I’d like to volunteer for that, Captain,” Foster said. “You’re going to need a senior officer as liaison anyway. We don’t know how many people we’re going to pull out.”

 “Very well. My intention is to use the singularity as the heart of a fast orbital track, and to make a series of quick trajectory changes to give us multiple passes for shuttle recovery. I expect the enemy to work out what we’re doing before long, but regardless, we’ll do everything we can to make the mission work. I stress that engaging the enemy fleet is a last resort.” Looking at Santiago, she added, “I’m not unaware of the state of the ship, Chief.”

 “Flying that close to a black hole is going to make matters worse fast, Captain.”

 Tapping a control, she brought up a starmap, and said, “Which is why we won’t stay long. If all of our personnel are at Base Camp, we should have them on board in a couple of hours. Then we do one last, tight turn, and swing around to aim for one of the hendecaspace points in the outer system.”

 Her eyes wide, Scott replied, “You’re looking at a billion miles and change, Captain.”

 “Accelerating all the way. It’ll take about two months, but by the time we get out that far, we’ll be moving so fast that any potential intercept will be impossible. If we have a direction to the wormhole, then we head out that way. Otherwise we return to our starting point, evading the enemy forces at will, until we reach safety. Whereupon we will repair the ship and try again.”

 “It’s a risk, Captain,” Santiago said. “I’m not even sure that I can guarantee the ship for that length of time. Even on a long cruise like that.” She paused, then added, “Though it would give me a chance to prepare us for the ride home.”

 “Can the ship do it?”

 “If we’re lucky, then I think it can. Assuming the enemy ships don’t shoot us to pieces first.”

 “Ma’am,” the fighter pilot quietly said, “We’re not going to be able to screen the shuttles if we’re on transit courses that close to the singularity. They’re built for the sort of sustained acceleration, but we aren’t.”

 “I know, Sub-Lieutenant. Don’t worry. I intend to hold you back as a last resort, in the event that the enemy somehow manages to get the jump on us and launch an attack. Though I still believe that we can pull this mission off without getting into a serious firefight. We’ve got the advantage of time and acceleration, and should be able to avoid combat.” Turning to Kowalski, she continued, “I want you to make sure that every transport shuttle is at maximum efficiency before we arrive.  That’s your top priority. And see that all the pilots are given plenty of simulator time in operations near the black hole. We ought to have more than enough sensor data to give them a good start at this stage.”

 “Will do, Captain,” he replied. “What if something goes wrong?”

 “Then we will adapt to the situation as we must, Chief, but I’ll say once more that I have absolutely no intention of allowing any of our people to be stranded on the surface. Any that are still alive come home. End of story.” Looking at her officers again, she asked, “Any questions?” None of them answered, and after a moment, she continued, “We’ll be leaving hendecaspace in twelve hours, and I intend to go to battle stations five minutes before emergence. Inform your staff accordingly. And make sure that you all get some sleep. The next day or so will probably the most critical since we arrived in Andromeda. Dismissed.”

 The officers rose to attention, saluted, and walked out of the room. Foster was at the rear, and after a moment, she turned, the door sliding shut behind her, leaving the two of them alone in the briefing room.

 “Captain,” she said, “They’re good officers. They know what they’re doing, and you won’t find anyone more committed in the Fleet, especially when it comes to getting our surface teams home.”

 “Meaning?”

 “If Lieutenant Francis and Kat Scott are worried that this can’t be done, they’ve got some basis for that argument.” She sat down next to Orlova, and said, “It must feel strange, being back.”

 Nodding, she admitted, “That it does. Stranger than I’d expected.” Looking around the room, she said, “All of this...”

 “I know,” Foster said. “I felt the same way when I came back on board. I was expecting Jack Quinn or Gabe Cooper to walk through those doors at any minute. I suppose I still do.” She glanced down for a second, then said, “That doesn’t mean they aren’t the finest crew in the Fleet. Captain Marshall started the job...”

 “And Captain Salazar finished it,” Orlova completed. “I think I get the idea.”

 “This isn’t a competition, Captain. It certainly doesn’t need to be. I know that if Pavel was here, he’d have been more than happy to defer to you. I think he’s one of the least ambitious officers I’ve ever met. Having said that...”

 “This is still his ship, and his crew.” She sat back on her chair, and said, “Would it surprise you very much to learn that Monitor was supposed to be my last ship-side assignment?”

 “You weren’t coming back?”

 Shaking her head, she said, “I hadn’t planned to. Not for more than a shakedown cruise, anyway. I spent six months ground-side, and I enjoyed it a lot more than I’d expected. I’m tired, Val. I was tired before starting this little journey. Believe me, I’d be happy to give this up as soon as someone else turns up who wants it. I took over from Max because there didn’t seem to be a choice at the time. When we get home...”

 Cracking a smile, Foster interrupted, “At least you haven’t given up on that yet. I’m afraid more than a few of the crew think we’re going to die out here. Me, I’m an optimist. I think we’re going to find our way back. Pavel’s had a month to root through the Sphere and work out a way home. Or at least have some sort of lead for us to work with. It’s precisely the sort of operation he’s best at. And with Harper as well...”

 Nodding, Orlova said, “Let’s hope you’re right. I’d hate to have to turn tail and run, especially at the hands of the Hegemony.” She shook her head, and said, “Nothing would make me happier than teaching those bastards a few lessons about the niceties of space warfare.”

 “Maybe we’ll get the chance at some point, ma’am,” Foster said. She rose, then said, “If you need someone to talk to, Captain, I’m here. I’m no Frank Nelyubov, but I suppose I’m better than nothing.”

 “Thanks, Val,” she replied. “That means a lot.”

 Nodding, she said, “Are you going to take your own orders, Captain, and get some rest? We can handle the ship until we return to normal space, and you’ve been working harder than anyone else to get Alamo ready for the fight.”

 “Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll take a few hours before emergence.”

 Looking at the hull, she added, “And don’t worry about what Santiago said, either. This is still the same tough old ship she’s always been. Whatever needs to be done, she’ll find a way to do. You can count on it.”

 “I know,” Orlova replied. “That much hasn’t changed, at least.”

 “It never will.”

Chapter 5

 “McCormack,” Salazar said, turning to the squadron leader standing in front of him, “You’re in charge until I get back. If Alamo arrives while we’re gone, set up a communications relay and return to the ship on the double. Nobody is to wait around for us to come back.” Looking at the shuttles, lined up on the ground before him, he continued, “Realistically, there’s not much chance that we’ll be returning. Your responsibility is to the personnel at Base Camp, not the shuttle crews.”

 “Understood, sir,” she replied. She looked at the nearest shuttle, then continued, “Request permission to take the place of either yourself or Sub-Lieutenant Clarke. Your place is here, and I’m a better pilot than Clarke.”

 “Granted, but it’s not just about getting there, Lieutenant. He’s an expert at the sort of covert operation that will be required as soon as we reach the moon. As am I. If there was a better choice to lead this mission, I’d gladly stay behind.”

 “No, you wouldn’t,” she said, matter-of-factly. “There’s no point even pretending anything else, sir. I still maintain that I’m a better choice to command this mission, but I will concede your experience at surface operations.” Standing to attention, she saluted, and added, “Good luck, Captain. And in the event that we don’t meet again, let me assure you now that it has been an honor and a privilege to serve under your command.”

 “The honor, and the privilege, is all mine, Lieutenant,” he replied, returning the salute. Turning to the shuttle crews, he said, “I think it’s time, people. Saddle up.”

 He and Harper walked into the nearest shuttle, stripped down as light as possible by the frantic work of Lombardo. The engineer was still sitting in the cockpit, pulling out a recalcitrant emergency transmitter, finally tugging it free through the unrestrained application of brute force. He looked up at the two of them, shaking his head.

 “I wish I was going with you,” he said. “The best of luck to all of you. If anyone has a chance of completing this mission, I know you do.”

 “I appreciate your confidence, Art, though I’m not sure I share it.” Harper slid into position in the co-pilot’s seat, and Salazar continued, “I’m just sorry I got you into all this. Stranded half-way across the universe.” 

 With a shrug, the engineer replied, “All part of the risk you run when you put on the uniform, I guess, skipper. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think there’s anyone else I’d have followed so far. I’ve been living on borrowed time ever since you saved my life in that underwater city. I always figured I’d end up cashing in the debt at some point.” Looking around the cockpit, he added, “That first pulse of acceleration is going to be a killer. There’s a good chance you’ll black out, so I’ve set the systems to give you a blast of pure oxygen as soon as the engines cut, and the transmitter to emit the loudest tuning signal I can manage. You might end up with a bit of a headache, but a combination of the two ought to wake up a dead man.”

 “Thanks for that,” Salazar said. “Good luck, Art.”

 “You too, sir.” he replied, walking through the hatch, transmitter in hand. Salazar looked after him for a moment, then sat down in the pilot’s couch, his hands working the controls, noticing the gaps where now-unnecessary control panels had been removed.

 “He said he’d be stripping ship. He wasn’t joking,” Salazar said, turning to Harper.

 “We’ve lost everything but short-range sensors, all the emergency backups except navigation, and all the gear in the aft cargo compartment.” Reaching up, she said, “I managed to trigger the drop pods to detach as soon as they empty. We won’t have to trigger them manually unless something goes wrong.”

 “Safety systems?”

 “We’ll be over water when they fall away,” she replied, “so Art and I figured we could dispense with the parachutes. It’s a bit of a risk, but not a major one. We’ll be high up enough that they might burn up on reentry anyway.” Frowning, she added, “This is going to be the strangest flight we’ve ever done. Five hundred miles up, and atmosphere all the way, even with a reduced gravity field.”

 “All part of the fun,” Salazar replied, sliding a headset into position. “Shuttle Two, this is Shuttle One, report status.”

 “Shuttle Two here,” Clarke said. “All systems green. Ready for takeoff. Last one to the moon buys the beer.”

 “I’ll hold you to that, John,” Salazar said with a smile. “Happy landings. Out.” Tapping a control to close the channel, he turned to Harper, and said, “Good kid.”

 “Hard to remember that he is just a kid. Twentieth birthday next month. Let’s hope we’re celebrating it on Alamo.” She paused, then added, “Hell, let’s hope we’re celebrating it on Mars.”

 “Takeoff in ten seconds,” Salazar said, tugging his restraints into position. “Firing lateral thrusters now.” He lightly tapped a control, and the nose rose on the forward thruster, kicking it clear of the dirt. Reaching down to the throttle, he watched the final seconds fall away on the countdown clock, then eased the control all the way forward, allowing himself to relax into the couch as the acceleration built.

 For the first ten seconds, it felt normal, the engines surging to full power, but then the new programming kicked in, hurling the engine far beyond normal levels, to the same sort of boost that would be found in a fighter. The superstructure of the shuttle couldn’t take those stresses for long, but it wouldn’t have to. Likely it was making its last flight, and it would all be over in a matter of minutes. The hull began to vibrate as the engines roared ever louder, drowning out every other noise in the cabin.

 Salazar looked up at the sensor controls, noting with satisfaction that Shuttle Two had launched on schedule, less than two seconds behind them, already making up some of that time as Clarke hurled his shuttle into the air. The landing wheels retracted, locking into place beneath them, the force on Salazar’s chest growing by the minute, by the second, each breath a battle against the invisible enemy that was pushing down on him, ever-harder, ever-harder.

 A warning light snapped on, then a second, then a third, the conservative engineering subsystems reporting imminent failures of multiple systems. There was nothing he could do about them. He couldn’t even move a finger, and Harper was in the same condition, her head slumping to the side. The acceleration had been too much for her, and she’d fallen unconscious. Right now, it was taking every effort Salazar could muster not to join her in sleep.

 Only forty seconds had passed since takeoff. Forty little eternities, with another hundred to live through. The trajectory track showed them on course, the familiar dotted line reaching into eternity. Already they were past theoretical escape velocity, destined to soar out beyond the high atmosphere and into the space between the void. The sensors had picked up tens of thousands of rocks soaring between the surface and the star, perhaps home to unknown wonders, maybe those who had originally constructed the Sphere in the first place.

 Though perhaps they were on their way to visit those builders now. Somehow, a moon ten miles across was maintaining a fixed orbit, despite flying within an atmosphere that should have dragged it down to the surface an eternity ago. It should have been impossible by any known physical laws, but the construction of the Sphere itself showed contempt for most of them, and the builders had obviously found ways to circumvent inconveniences such as the fundamental laws of the universe. More secrets to uncover up there, if they could only live to find them.

 Thirty seconds to go. Salazar’s vision was blurring around the edges, and he could feel himself growing weaker, every breath a greater struggle. He fought to hold on, fought to keep himself awake and aware, his eyes darting from readout to readout in a desperate struggle to regain consciousness. Every second was a victory against the ever-oppressive force that held him back, that leeched the strength from his body.

 Fifteen seconds to go. The moon was still holding track, and this boost of speed had already hurled them a thousand miles. New warning lights appeared, alerting him that the outer hull was heating beyond safe levels. That didn’t matter. Not now. The heat shield could take it for as long as it had to. And he was beginning to think that he could, as well.

 Finally, the engines trickled down to minimum power, a surge of energy rushing through his system as the blast of oxygen rushed through the cockpit. Before the tuning signal could sound, he tapped a control to kill it, then reached forward for the controls, making a few quick adjustments to hold them on trajectory. He looked across at Harper, beginning to stir.

 “You all right?” he asked.

 She nodded, and replied, “The ship?”

 “On course, all in one piece.” Glancing at the fuel gauge, he added, “Fifteen percent left in the tanks. A little better than we expected. Not enough for a powered landing, though.” He looked up at the warning lights on the monitor panel, and said, “Though I don’t think that’s going to matter.”

 “Problems?”

 “The wings were stressed a long way beyond design tolerance. They won’t take a glider landing.” He shrugged, and said, “That won’t matter as long as we make it to the moon.”

 “So we’ve got one shot at this?” She reached towards the communication controls, and continued, “Want some more good news? The primary antenna complex is gone. Must have melted in the acceleration through the lower atmosphere. We can’t contact Shuttle Two.”

 Looking at the sensors, Salazar said, “They’re lagging behind, but there’s nothing we can do for them at the moment.” He tapped the thruster controls again, and said, “Moon coming up, closest approach in a hundred and nine seconds. We’ll be about two miles above them.”

 “Can you correct course?”

 “Don’t think so,” he replied.

 “This just gets better and better,” she said, shaking her head. “What now? We get out and jump?” She looked at the expression on his face, and said, “Pavel...”

 “Why not? We’re at one-tenth gravity and falling. By the time we get there, the effect will be as if we’ve jumped a hundred meters. We can do it. Especially if we use the emergency oxygen canisters to arrest our landing.” Looking around the cabin, he said, “Prepare to abandon ship.”

 Throwing off her restraints, Harper said, “Even for you, Pavel, this is crazy.”

 Salazar locked the autopilot into position, firing the thrusters one last time to check its course, then looked at the trajectory plot. The first pulse of acceleration had done its job just as they’d expected. There was no danger that the shuttle would ever crash back down onto the surface. At some point within the next few weeks, it would almost certainly end up in the local star, burned away in an instant.

 He walked over to the airlock, waiting for the green light to display. They’d just about matched speed with the moon, but this was still going to require split second timing. He wouldn’t be able to do it manually; they’d have to take the leap, parachutes in position, as soon as the door cracked open, letting the slipstream toss them clear.

 “Anyone ever tried this before?” Harper asked.

 “Of course not!” he replied.

 “Beautiful,” she said, strapping on her chute. Salazar counted down the seconds, his hands low by his side, oxygen canister firmly attached to his chest. A green light winked on, and the hatch burst open, hurling the two of them out into the void. Even out of the gravity field, the pressure lower than on the surface, the force of the impact almost knocked him cold. He could see the moon below him, cold and dark, and tugged open his parachute, first a small canopy to stabilize him, then a larger one to give him some control.

 It still wasn’t going to be enough. He soared through the void, fumbling with the oxygen tank, directing the exhaust beneath him. There’d be no fine control, but he didn’t need it. All he had to do was kill some of his velocity, and that would be enough. As the pitted surface rolled out beneath him, he fired a short pulse, then a longer one, and slammed into the ground, his parachute releasing automatically at the instant of impact, blowing away to flutter through the sky forever.

 He was down. Against all the odds, it had worked. He looked around, trying to find Harper, trying and failing. He’d made it to the moon. Alone, and without equipment. Now what? And what about the others?

Chapter 6

 “Dammit, John, it’d be a lot faster for me to tell you what is working on this thing!” Mortimer yelled. “We’ve lost all four forward thrusters, primary life support is gone, communications are out, everything but the short-range sensors are gone. I’m pretty sure we’ve got a couple of hull breaches as well. We took that heat impact exactly where we couldn’t handle it.”

 “Want some more good news?” Clarke said, looking at the trajectory plot. “The primary burn ended thirty-one seconds early. I think we lost a fuel line. Which means that we didn’t get anything like enough of a push, and we’re well off-trajectory. We’re going to miss the moon by a thousand miles or more.” Reaching across to the status monitor, he added, “The wings. What about the wings?”

 “They’re intact, at least,” Mortimer replied. “As is the heat shield. You’re going to try a glide landing? Without any power at all?”

 “Now who said I don’t have any power?” he said with a crooked smile. “I’ve got enough left in the tanks for one good burn. I’ll save it for the landing, try to turn it from a crash into something we might recover from.” Gesturing at the navigation computer, he continued, “Throw up our landing options, onto the heads-up display. If we can’t use the sensors, we can at least look at the landscape we’re heading for.”

 “Doing it,” she replied, and a red cylinder appeared on the screen, narrowing at one end, the computers calculating their ever-diminishing options for something that at least resembled a safe landing. Base Camp was five thousand miles behind them, receding fast. “That’s a lot of pretty damn barren terrain down there.”

 Clarke’s eyes danced to a beacon light, a single green dot in the middle of endless scrubland. He tapped the controls, bringing it into sharp relief, the image magnifying to the best extent of the struggling sensor systems. There was a landing strip, miles long, with ruined buildings running along it, and no sign of life that he could see.

 “There?” she said.

 “I can guarantee a safe landing,” he replied, “and Base Camp will be tracking us from the ground. That railway network must be designed to go to important sites, and that looks like it was pretty damn major at one point. Hell, the runway must be five miles long. I’ve never seen a landing strip that big.” Glancing down at the controls, he added, “It’s only a quarter-degree off our optimum path, and lots of flat land all around in case I miss.”

 “And if we land, what then? Hope for rescue? The Captain ordered that nobody come after us.” She paused, then continued, “Though to be fair, I doubt anyone will actually follow those orders. It’d be the first damned time if they do.” She peered into the distance, and said, “There’s some serious wasteland beyond, maybe five hundred, a thousand miles away, and I’m picking up some residual radiation on what’s left of our sensors. I’d say we’re looking at the aftermath of a pretty serious conflict.”

 “I’ll just have to make sure not to land long, then,” he replied. “Coming around. Any chance you can feed more power to the aft thrusters, try and make up for the loss of the forward jets?”

 “Not unless you want me to rupture half a dozen fuel lines. We’re running on hope and prayer now. I’d say the chances of you maintaining your usual streak of hot landings are excellent at this point.” Turning to him with a smirk, she continued, “Next time, I fly.”

 “Hey, any landing you can walk away from,” he replied, easing the controls around, gently guiding the shuttle onto the desired trajectory, making the host of careful adjustments required. “Locking systems onto our landing site. Autopilot’s struggling, though.”

 “The ship only has half the sensor feeds, and it’s flying an unfamiliar course. I’ve never seen an abort option that looks like this. Except in history books.” Shaking her head, she reached for the controls, and said, “I’ve got one last pulse from the primary thruster feed, triggered on landing. Should cushion our descent. Or our crash.”

 “Oh ye of little faith,” Clarke said, pulling up the nose as the heat built up again, more ferocious than before, but this time catching onto the thick heat shield underneath the ship, designed to take the stresses they were placing on it. He kept one eye on the attitude control, keeping the course corrections quick and easy, making maximum use of the wings to guide his ship down the preselected corridor.

 “Hit the distress beacon,” he said, turning to Mortimer.

 “Why?” she asked. “Nobody’s going to hear a damned thing with all that interference?”

 “There’s a chance, even if it’s a thousand to one, and it might make us look a little safer to anyone down on the deck.” He smiled, and added, “Though you might have a point at that. Right now we’re heaving a hundred-mile trail of fire in the sky. Everyone for ten thousand miles should have a great view of us.”

 “Just what we need. More publicity.” Glancing at a readout, she read, “Three hundred thousand feet, descending. Gravity coming up, one-half Earth standard and rising. Outer hull temperature three thousand degrees, holding steady.”

 “Textbook,” he replied.

 “What books are you reading?” she asked. “On trajectory, within a hundredth of degree. Holding steady so far. Sensors out from the plasma sheath, no way to tell what’s going on down there. Just out of interest, do we have any sort of a plan in the event someone throws a missile our way?”

 “Hope for divine intervention?” Clarke replied. “They ripped out the physical countermeasures, and I don’t think the electronic systems are working. All the feeds were on the upper hull. If we’ve lost the forward thrusters, those are almost certainly gone as well.”

 “Confirmed,” Mortimer said. There was a loud report, and she continued, “There goes thruster number five. She’s going to dance like crazy on final descent.”

 “I shouldn’t need the thrusters in a minute. We’re really biting atmosphere now. Run a check on the landing legs.”

 “All looks good, but we won’t know for sure until we deploy the damned things,” she replied. “Hull temperature beginning to drop. Two thousand, five hundred, falling. Speed is now two thousand miles an hour and falling fast. We’re right on the curve, ascent trajectory perfect.”

 The shuttle lurched to the side, as though some outside force was determined to make her words a lie, and Clarke struggled with the controls to bring them back on course, fighting supersonic winds that buffeted them around, back and forth, at last bringing the shuttle back on course as they ripped through a series of clouds at the hundred thousand feet mark. The on-board computers were spitting garbage at him, unwilling to believe the remnants of sensor data that were seeping through. Clarke couldn’t blame them. He hardly believed them himself. The Sphere was like that, a nest of impossibilities.

 Sweeping through the clouds, he saw the endless expanse of landscape opened up before him, and his eyes widened at the spectacular view, drinking in every detail of the terrain. They were at sufficient altitude to see for thousands of miles all around, and he made out vast deserts, endless forests, the beginnings of an immense, gleaming sea that must have been twenty thousand miles away from distant Base Camp, an unimaginable journey on foot. Ahead, he saw the blackened wasteland Mortimer had warned him off, the terrain surrounded by desolate desert and brushland, as though some sort of contaminant had leeched into the very soil, ruining all around it.

 “Lovely scenery,” Mortimer said. “Next time I go on leave, I’ll ask you for some advice.” Reaching for the sensor controls, she continued, “Pickups coming back, and I confirm radiation all through that dead zone. Bad stuff, too. Lots of point sources that are still highly contaminated. No sign of anything too toxic close to our landing site, but a hundred miles further on, and we’d be in trouble. I can’t pick up any train lines, either, but I have mapped out a good route back to Base Camp.”

 “What sort of range are we looking at?”

 “Fifteen thousand, nine hundred miles and change,” she replied. “A nice little stroll.”

 “We won’t have fuel for anything like that when we touch down. Even assuming I can bring us down in one piece. Try the landing gear.”

 “The drag...”

 “We need to lose speed faster than we are, and I’ve got to save the last of the fuel for touchdown. The gear should slow us down nicely. I hope.” He grimaced as he worked the controls, and said, “Another damned jet stream. This atmosphere is weird.”

 “Five degrees port. Six. Seven. Come on, John, we could still be hundreds of miles off course at this rate!”

 “Correcting,” he replied, firing a quick pulse of thrust, wincing as the fuel warning light winked on. “That did it. Back on the correct trajectory. Read me some numbers.”

 “Altitude is thirty thousand feet, falling. Speed now seven hundred and ten, falling. Hull temperature nominal.” A loud thud echoed from the floor, and she added, “Landing gear locked.”

 “That helped,” he said. “Slowing nicely now. Just got to keep it together.” The shuttle rocked again, and he added, “Another damned crosswind. Must be a storm building up out there.” The cockpit briefly darkened as they raced through a black cloud, cutting through to the far side in an instant. “Getting more control now. We’re back to normal pressure. Wing surfaces seem fine.”

 “Landing strip is just ahead,” Mortimer said. “Fifteen thousand feet, five hundred miles an hour, descending fast. You’re doing fine.” Another red light winked on, and she added, “I wish I could say the same about the ship. We just lost another sensor input. At this rate we’ll be blind as soon as we hit the deck.” She turned to him, and said, “We could bail out.”

 “Like hell,” he replied. “I’m going to bring this shuttle down if it kills me.”

 “That’s what I was worrying about.” She frowned, and said, “Though we could drift for miles if we go too far, and you’ve managed to pick somewhere miles away from any civilization. I’m not reading any signs of life down there. No towns, villages, and the only roads are long-ago ruined. Just the base ahead.” Squinting at the display, she added, “That’s strange. The runway is clear. No sign of debris, nothing. Someone must be maintaining it.”

 “Let’s hope they don’t mind having some unexpected guests,” Clarke said. “Nice and smooth. Winds easing off. Looks good here.”

 “And here,” she replied. “Passing through ten thousand feet, all on the curve.”

 Clarke’s eyes locked on the far end of the runway, knowing that he had plenty of room to bring down his shuttle but not wanting to make a single mistake. Among the other equipment that had been left behind were the medical kits. Any injury sustained during a crash might be the end of them, especially if they faced a long march to safety.

 “Three thousand. Straight run,” Mortimer said. “Want to use that last burst of fuel?”

 “Not if I don’t have to,” he replied, lowering one hand to the throttle. A last, lone gust of wind threatened to throw him off trajectory, but he easily compensated for it, dragging his shuttle back onto the center line. The last few meters dropped away, the shuttle growing dangerously close to stall speed, but finally, the forward wheel fell to the tarmac, the others quickly following suit. Clarke breathed a sigh of relief as the shuttle slowly rolled to a stop, just beside a cluster of ruined buildings that must once have been hangars.

 “Engines off, primary systems off,” Mortimer said, throwing controls. “We’re low on power, and I want to save anything I can. I’ll leave the beacon, for whatever good it might do.”

 “Wing solar cells will keep that running anyway,” Clarke said, removing his restraints.

 “Where are you going?” she asked. “Look around. There’s nothing there. We found a landmark, and Base Camp must have at least some idea where we landed. Our best chance is to stay here and wait for them.”

 “That could take hours. Or days. Aren’t you curious about what might be out there?”

 “Not in the slightest.”

 “Well, I am, and I’m going out,” he said, moving to the door.

 With a deep sigh, she rose from her seat, and said, “Fine, I’m coming. Someone’s got to keep an eye on you, I guess.” Shaking her head, she added, “You’re still crazy.”

 “Then you must be crazy to come with me,” he replied with a smile.

 “More resigned to my fate,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.”

Chapter 7

 Salazar kept low, crawling around the exterior of the moon, using the jagged craters and peaks to maximum advantage. He had expected to be captured within the first few minutes, but there was still no sign of pursuit. No sign of anyone, in fact, no guards on the perimeter, no sensor towers he could see, no defenses at all. He was beginning to wonder whether all of this had been for nothing, that perhaps they had found the wrong target, when he found a shaft leading down, and looked into the heart of the asteroid.

 It was a sight he had never seen before. The interior had been hollowed out, a gleaming sphere at the heart of it, with thousands of the winged humanoids lying around, all of them connected by tubes to mechanisms on the wall, slumbering through the day. Racks of equipment were scattered everywhere, the rifles that had been used to destroy the outpost on the surface, the jet-packs. that provided them with the means to fly in a high-gravity field, other devices whose function he couldn’t discern. And at the heart of it all, the pulsing light, strange patterns and images appearing, one after another, shapes and shadows dancing in his eyes as he watched.

 Despite himself, despite all logic and reason, he started to find himself climbing down the shaft, desperate to reach the sphere, somehow transfixed by the images dancing through his mind. Before he could fall too far, a hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back, and he looked up to see Harper dragging him away, pulling him back to the surface of the moon, back to safety.

 “What the hell was that?” he asked, shaking his head in a desperate bid to clear his mind.

 “Subliminal images,” she replied. “Something we’ve been playing with back home for a while, but we’ve never gone anywhere near this far.” As she moved into the cover of some rocks, she added, “It’s theoretically possible, God help us, to reprogram the human mind. We’ve never actually managed it on humans, but United Nations Intelligence did it with mice a few years back.”

 “That’s….”

 “Don’t worry, Triplanetary Intelligence managed to put an end to it, set them back a decade or two, and we’re pretty sure that there’s a way to deprogram someone.” Glancing at the shaft, she added, “None of which makes me feel better given what we seem to be facing down there.”

 “You think it’s rigged to visual imagery?”

 “Almost certainly, which is why it didn’t effect me. I was wearing sensor goggles at the time, and the images didn’t get through the filters.” She frowned, and added, “A safety feature we built in. Yours have it too, if you were wearing it.”

 “How come I didn’t know about this?”

 “Orders. The last thing we wanted was for that to become public knowledge. Bad enough for a few deep-cover organizations to start working on that sort of thing. Worse if some two-bit shrink decides that they’re going to mess around with neural deprogramming.” 

 “So what do we do now? Have you seen Clarke or Mortimer?”

 Shaking her head, she replied, “I’m afraid not. I think we’ve got to assume that we’re on our own up here, at least for the moment. It’s not a big moon. We’d see them if they were here. What worries me is that now that the computer has worked out that we’re not simply going to walk towards it, it might decide to do something else about us. Wake those sleeping legions down there.”
 Frowning, he said, “Maybe we need to play its game.”

 “What?”

 “You said that those goggles could protect us, right? So we go down there, wearing them, and act as though we’re responding to stimuli. It’ll buy us time, if nothing else, maybe enough for us to work out some way of stopping it. Or at the very least, of finding the information we’ve been looking for. What do you say?”

 Taking a deep breath, Harper replied, “That’s the most powerful computer complex that either of us has ever seen. Our goggles are designed to protect us against normal systems, systems we know and understand. The closer the range, the worse it will get.”

 “Granted, but the only other choice is to set a new record for the longest parachute jump in history, and I’m not sure I’m up to that today.” He looked around, and said, “We came here with a specific objective in mind, and it’s right down that shaft. I don’t think we have any other choice than to take full advantage of it. And we both knew that the odds were that this was a one-way mission, going in.”

 “We don’t even have a working communicator,” she protested.

 “So we go for the best we can manage, and destroy that machine if we can. I’ve still got my explosive charges. Ninety seconds, and all of this can be over.”

 Shaking her head, she replied, “It can’t be that simple.”

 “We’ve got to try,” he said, fumbling in his pocket for his goggles. “Are you with me?”

 Nodding, she said, “Of course.”

 Salazar donned his eye-wear, waiting a moment for the start-up sequence to complete, and Harper reached across to the controls on the side strap, tapping buttons to boost the countermeasure systems to their highest possible level. A series of red lights winked on, power discharging at an unimaginable rate. They wouldn’t have long to complete the attack.

 The pair returned to the shaft, the lights inside still pulsating, and as Salazar looked down at the core once again, more warning alerts littered his heads-up display, the subliminal programming trying to cut through his firewalls, complete the work that it had begun during his first exposure. Even through the protection of the goggles, he still found the sight almost overwhelmingly compelling, still struggled to resist the forces urging him to give in, to surrender his will and everything else to the programming that was trying to change his very soul.

 “It’s only going to get worse,” Harper muttered.

 “Then let’s get this over with,” he replied, sliding down the shaft. All around, the winged humanoids slumbered, all connected by tubes and cabling to the wall, strange lights dancing around while he watched. More programming, perhaps, or some sort of feeding process. Certainly there was no sign of food or water in the moon, the one large chamber instead dedicated exclusively to what could only be described as storage.

 This army was larger than he’d feared, that much was certain. Thousands upon thousands of them, nestled together, all with the same dull expression on the faces, the expression they had worn during the attack on the colony. Was there any consciousness left, anything at all, or had it all been ripped away by the implacable will of the machine they sought to destroy.

 He saw no other defenses, no sign that anything else was watching him. Presumably the system thought that the sleeping army and its own internal protection was sufficient. Had it not been for Harper’s paranoia, it would probably have been right. For a brief second, he was cast into darkness, and looked up to see another moon sliding overhead, blocking out the sunlight before moving on.

 Glancing at Harper, he froze for a moment. No other moon was supposed to pass that close while they were here. That someone could influence the courses of huge objects like that seemed impossible, but it was evidently happening. He looked down once again, the inviting light growing ever larger, ever brighter. They were almost there, almost at their goal, and no matter what happened, they had to complete their mission. Even if they only detonated the charges, they could stop this army before it could ever take to the sky again.

 The cave opened out, but the gravity field fell away, and he and Harper were falling, floating towards their target. The lights were growing blinding now, even through the protection of the goggles, and Salazar was struggling to resist the symbols, Harper moving faster than he towards their goal. He looked up, and saw figures rushing towards them, masks over their faces, diving towards the pair with outstretched wings.

 On instinct, he reached for his charges, tapping the control and hurling the pack into the depths of the moon, the systems set for the maximum possible yield. The light winked once, then twice, and died. Something had blocked the detonator, and he could guess what. He reached for Harper, ready to abort the mission, but she resisted his tug, continuing towards the core, her eyes vacant, glassy. A red light on the side of her goggles gave the reason. At some point within the last moment, she’d run out of charge, and was instantly exposed to the full force of the core.

 Arms reached down for him, and he looked up to see a winged figure looking down at him, emotions playing across his face as he tugged at Salazar, trying to drag him away. He shook his head, reaching for Harper, but she was falling away, out of his reach, moment after moment, lost to the machine.

 “She’s gone,” a strange, sibilant voice said. “She’s gone, and there’s no way to retrieve her. Not yet, anyway. You’ll be captured yourself in a matter of moments unless we get out of here right now.” As Salazar continued to struggle, the figure continued, “We’re risking our lives, our souls, to rescue you. You might at least cooperate!”

 “I can’t leave her,” he protested.

 “You’ve got no choice! There will be another time, but not if we don’t get out of here, now!” The figure pulled at Salazar, harder this time, and finally he relented, allowing himself to be pulled back up the shaft. As they rose, all around, eyes snapped open, thousands of the soulless creatures around him focusing on the escaping pair. He reached for his pistol, then paused. He had eight rounds in the weapon. They outnumbered him by thousands to one. For the present, safety lay only in flight, in speed, nothing else.

 The pair burst into sunlight once again, as the army began to awaken beneath them. More of the humanoids were waiting at the entrance, tossing a weighted net after them before pursuing Salazar and his rescuer. As he’d suspected, they were flying towards the second moon, this one far smoother than the first, only a single entrance awaiting them. Almost as he watched, he could see their target receding, could see the moon that had been his goal falling away behind him.

 “You’re most fortunate,” his rescuer said. “It’s rare to find anyone who can resist the Controller for any length of time. I presume the device on your eyes is the answer.”

 “Until the charge ran out,” Salazar replied. “Will they follow us?”

 “No, not now,” he said, as they dived for their sanctuary. “The Controller husbands its resources most carefully, and won’t risk its servants on an attack it doesn’t believe it can win, not to kill one rogue human who dares to enter its sanctum. Especially as it has the prisoner it sought.” Turning to him, he said, “You came to destroy it?”

 “If I could.”

 “You aren’t the first. I suspect you won’t be the last.”

 “Some day, someone will,” he replied.

 A curious smile crossed the humanoid’s face, and he said, “That, my friend, is a pleasant thought. A comfort in the nightmare in which we now must live. Though perhaps only a small one, at that.” They dived into the tunnel, a shaft not dissimilar to the Controller’s lair, this time heading for a smaller chamber at the heart. The humanoid turned, and asked, “Have you any native ability to fly?” 

 “None.”

 “Good.” He released Salazar, who fell to the heart of the moon, the gravity fields shifting and changing to secure him in position in the middle of the chamber. He struggled, tried to move, but the forces were locking him in place more securely than any restraints. He looked up at the figure, who flew back to the surface.

 “We will return shortly,” the figure said. “Once we have had a chance to verify you are who you purport to me. Until then, I suggest you try and rest. There will be time for more questions later.”

 “Harper?” he asked.

 The figure paused, hovering in the air, and replied, “If there is any chance at all, it will be her battle to fight. None of us can intervene, not until it is done. I am sorry. I truly am. But I fear that is the way it must be.”

Chapter 8

 Clarke and Mortimer walked down the runway, the latter periodically glancing at her datapad, watching for traces of residual radiation. Though the landing strip itself was clear, the surrounding buildings were all reduced to rubble, shattered, torn and twisted. The little writing that remained was in a proto-indo dialect, easily translated by their datapads, but so little remained as to be almost unintelligible in any case.

 “Anything?” he asked.

 “Levels are a little high, but well within safe limits.” She paused, then said, “That’s interesting. I’m picking up a steady heat source, somewhere way down below us. It has to be artificial. Nothing natural would be that stable.” Turning to him, she said, “Maybe we’ve found whoever is in charge up here.”

 “Assuming anyone is,” he replied. “Anyone operating this field must have seen us come down. Everyone for a few thousand miles would have. I’d expected someone to come and meet us as soon as we landed, if anyone was going to.” Looking around the deserted runway, he said, “I don’t think anyone has been here for a very long time.”

 “Then who’s clearing the landing strip?” she asked. “This doesn’t add up.” Gesturing ahead, she said, “The heat source is that way, about two hundred meters underground. There’s got to be some sort of access way down there.” Nodding, Clarke walked to the nearest building, picking up a collection of small chunks of debris. “What are you doing?”

 “Leaving a message,” he replied. “Assuming anyone is coming after us.”

 “Even if they left right away,” she said, “They won’t be here for thirty-six hours at best. And that’s assuming they can travel in something that at least approximates a straight line. We’ll be back up on the surface long before our theoretical rescuers can arrive.” 

 “Let’s hope so,” he said, arranging the rubble to form a crude arrow, pointing at the building that was their goal. “There’s no point not removing unnecessary risks, though.”

 “If you felt that way,” she replied, walking towards the half-ruined structure, “We should both have stayed at Base Camp. It’s a little late to be getting squeamish now.”

 He followed her towards the building, pulling out his datapad and extending the sensor filament, saying, “Structure looks reasonably sound. Enough that it isn’t likely to fall on us when we step inside, anyway.” Shaking his head, he added, “Though there’s no sign that anyone’s given a damn about the place for a lot of years.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a flashlight, and directed it into the wreckage. “No active power readings, no lights, and the dust is unbroken.”

 “There,” Mortimer said, pointing at a pile of debris. “A hatch.” She turned to him, and asked, “We going down together?”

 “You think there’s any point splitting up at this stage? Neither of us is in a position to call in the cavalry, and I’m not even sure I could taxi that shuttle to the other end of the runway, never mind try and take off in it. We might as well stick together.”

 With a nod, she pulled the hatch open, revealing a long shaft, leading straight down, gleaming rungs jutting from the wall. She pushed down on one with her foot, using all her strength, and looked up with surprise as it held. Clarke looked around for another chunk of debris, throwing it down the shaft, and a second later, with a loud clang it hit bottom.

 “Nothing stopped it. No defenses.” She looked up, and said, “This is damned peculiar.”

 “It’s a mystery,” he replied, “and I only know one way to solve it.” He climbed onto the ladder, slowly descending, testing each rung as he went, his flashlight swinging from the strap around his wrist. A moment later, Mortimer followed him, careful to keep a safe distance from Clarke as the two of them wordlessly climbed down, the only sound the clang of each foot on the metal.

 “Something else strange,” Mortimer said. “The shaft’s clean. No rust, no decay, nothing. It’s though someone only finished building it yesterday.” 

 “That’s as good an explanation as any,” Clarke replied. He stepped off the final rung, onto a cold metal floor, the walls decorated with freshly-painted writing. Holding up his datapad, his eyes widened as he read, “Control Room. Launch Silo. Sleeping Quarters.” He paused, then said, “Or maybe Slumber Room.”

 “Slumber Room?”

 “Let’s check out Control first,” he said. “Right down the corridor.” He drew his sidearm, leading the way, braced for an attack that he somehow knew wasn’t coming. There was no sign of life, no sign that anyone had ever walked these corridors before. “I think we’ve found a bunker.”

 Nodding, Mortimer said, “I was thinking the same thing. That civilization that was wiped out, a few hundred miles to the north. Maybe this was some sort of remote outpost, a staging area.” Warming to her topic, she added, “If you think about it, any civilization aspiring to control of a large portion of the Sphere would have to use air travel to get anywhere, and that means airbases, and lots of them. The local version of a space station.” She paused, then asked, “Why wouldn’t it be destroyed in the war, though?”

 “Maybe both sides wanted to leave it intact, a prize for the winner. Maybe the missile didn’t detonate. At any rate, all of this must have happened a long, long time ago. Long enough for those buildings to decay on their own.” He heard a squeak, and turned to see a small shape scurrying across the floor, finally catching it in the searchlight.

 “A robot,” Mortimer said. “Control antenna. It’s a cleaner, John. That solves one mystery. There’s some sort of computer complex here, keeping everything operational.” Her smile fell rapidly away as she added, “Christ, you think we might have fallen into the lion’s den. The same computer complex...”

 “No,” Clarke replied. “I get the feeling that if someone wanted us to die, we’d be dead already. There’s a bigger mystery here, and we’re going to find out what it is.” He looked up at the tunnel, splitting in twain. “Control room, just ahead.” He walked through a hatch, long-frozen open, and out at banks of controls panels, all but one of them empty, a skeleton sitting sprawled in one of the chairs, skull slumped to the side where it had died.

 Mortimer looked at Clarke, then stepped forward, looking over the corpse, and saying, “Gunshot wound to the head. Probably had a front-row seat for the destruction of everyone he knew, everything he cared about. Poor bastard. I might have done the same in his case.” She reached down to his panel, and said, “Something’s still working, anyway. I’m getting something on the screen.” She ran her datapad over it, reading, “Power levels, life-support systems. Everything’s on automatic control.”

 “Listen to me,” a strange, computerized voice said. “Listen to my last words.”

 “What was that?” Clarke said.

 “My datapad,” Mortimer replied. “It’s set to translate. There must be a signal coming from somewhere.” She looked down at the screen, and said, “Log entry.”

 “I was sent to command this sanctuary, the launching point that would have propelled our civilization forward by a thousand years, but the angels rained down fire from the sky, they torched our cities with nuclear fire, erased every trace that we had ever been from existence. This happened in a single night, and all that remained were a few outposts, scattered and broken, to tell the tale.”

 “Looks like you were right,” Clarke said.

 “Listen to me!” the voice said, insistently. “We knew it would come. We had seen traces of what had been before us, heard the tales that had been whispered along the corridors of time. The angels had struck before, and will strike again. If you have reached this far, then your people face danger and destruction, just as ours did. We failed the final test of survival, failed to destroy the malevolent star in the heavens.”

 “He’s got quite a turn of phrase, hasn’t he,” Mortimer said.

 “I’m amazed the translation program is working as well as it is,” Clarke replied.

 “We had one last hope, and now, if the servitors have labored through the ages, so have you. One means of striking back at the enemy that threatens all life, all intelligence. A spear to thrust through the heart of the machine, and avenge my lost people. My people who might live again. I charge you with two great tasks. The destruction of our enemies, and the survival of our people.” Lights flicked on, camera pickups displaying images of computer hardware. “The bio-genetic codes of our race. The ability to create a million beings to walk the lands we once knew. With memory engrams designed to allow the best of us to breathe again. I can do no more. My life’s blood ebbs away, and I must join the rest of my race in slumber. Let us live once more. Let us live again.”

 “Is that possible, after all these centuries?” Mortimer asked.

 “I suppose it might be,” he replied. “Right now, though, I’m more interested in that spear he was talking about. The salvo should be just down the other branch of the corridor.”

 The two of them stepped out of the control room, leaving the sole occupant to continue his lonely vigil. Lights began to snap on as they walked, and Clarke turned his flashlight off, sliding it back into his pocket to preserve the batteries.

 “Internal systems must be coming on,” he said. “Registering living beings walking the corridors.” Turning to her, he said, “I guess our late friend must have turned off any security they had. Nobody could bring his race back to life if they were shot to pieces at the entrance.”

 “I admire your optimism,” she replied. “I’m not sure I share it, though. There’s another problem. We both know that those angels of his are still flying around outside, and if they saw us landing, then we could face another attack at any time.”

 “That’s no truer now than it was a few minutes ago.”

 “Except that we didn’t know then that we were in a position to do something about bringing them down,” she replied. “And if we know that, so must they. I can only think of one reason why they’d have left an installation like this open.”

 “A trap?” he said, shaking his head. “With the power they must have, they’d have set the place to detonate as soon as anyone turned up. Certainly if someone made it down into the bunker. We can’t assume that our enemy is both omniscient and infallible, or we’re doomed before we start.”

 “Stop throwing around long words like that,” she replied, cracking a smile. “You’re beginning to sound dangerously like a senior officer. Though you might have a point, and if they don’t know that this place exists, then I suppose that we might have at least some sort of...”

 She stepped through the threshold, and her words fell away as the two of them saw what lay inside, a three-stage rocket with huge, long-swept wings by its side, something that might have been drawn out of an ancient textbook on rocketry. It was beautiful, sleek lines, tipped with a winged spaceplane. Intake jets littered the sides, and Clarke looked over it approvingly.

 “Air-breathing rocket. Creates its own fuel.” Looking up at the spaceplane, he added, “That’s big enough to carry one hell of a payload. A platoon of troops, or a large bomb.”

 “We don’t have the first, but I think we have the second,” she replied, waving her sensor pickup around. “Some radioactivity, and more power readings. Best guess is that we’re looking at a hundred-megaton bomb. You think that would be enough to smash that moon to a million pieces?”

 “Possibly, but the shock wave would certainly destroy everything inside,” he replied. “I want to get up to that spaceplane. See if I can operate the controls. That’s our ticket out of here, and the best chance we’re going to have to complete our mission.”

 “Or return to Base Camp,” Mortimer said.

 He turned to her, and replied, “You really think we can sit in Base Camp and hope that the angels don’t follow us? The only way we’re going to get through this is to shoot that moon out of the sky. And besides, if we don’t get the wormhole map, Base Camp doesn’t have a damn thing to offer us anyway.”

 “I liked you better when you were using long words,” she replied with a sigh.

Chapter 9

 Harper walked through silent, empty streets, the echo of her footsteps the only apparent noise. A part of her knew that none of this was real, but somehow, she didn’t seem to register that with her conscious mind. As far as she was concerned, she had been walking for hours, but the streets seemed to remain the same, and she was neither hungry or tired. Indeed, she couldn’t seem to experience any sensation at all, just the constant streets, endless and eternal.

 “Hello!” she shouted, the only response the echo of her cry resounding back upon her a dozen times. She reached into her pockets, finding nothing there, then stopped. “If this is a computer simulation,” she said, “then I’m going to find a way to break out of it, so you might as well give up now!” Taking a deep breath, she screamed, “Show yourselves!”

 “Show yourselves,” her own voice replied, resounding from the high towers. “Show yourselves.” She stopped, looked around, and took a different path, walking down a side street, one which rapidly opened up into the same street she had seen before. That wasn’t an answer. She tried the nearest door, finding it unyielding, and hurled her whole weight against it, first once, then twice. The material didn’t give. She rubbed at her shoulder, expecting pain from the force of the impact, but once more, there was nothing. No trace that she had ever made the attempt. Somehow, that was precisely what she had expected.

 Giving up on the surface, she climbed onto the nearest windowsill, then started to ascend the side of the tower as best she could, taking foothold after foothold, easing her way up the side of the tower. It felt easier than it should, as though someone was giving her a simple path to the top, but as she climbed higher, she realized that once again, the environment was repeating itself, the roof as far away as it had been when she began. She looked down at the street, seemingly a hundred feet below, and with a smile on her face, fell backwards, letting herself fall.

 Evidently the original programmer had considered the possibility that one of the subjects might contemplate suicide. She hit the street, and the road had the consistency of a feather bed, easily absorbing the fall. Frowning, she slammed her fist onto the material, then tried to push at it, only to find that the road had retained its earlier feel.

 Logically, anything physical that she could try would be fruitless. The computer had total control of the virtual environment in which she found herself, and without any programming access of her own, there seemed very little she could do about it. Repeating the environment was an old VR trick, designed to limit memory use, and while she’d never seen a virtual setting as realistic, as detailed as this, the software evidently had its limitations. A thought that she found oddly comforting, given the circumstances.

 She sat cross-legged on the floor, her mind flooding back to the events that had led up to her capture. The battery on her goggles must have given out, and she’d been exposed to the full force of the influence of whatever it was that waited for her. Somehow, this wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d anticipated that she’d simply lose herself to the machine, the reprogramming washing through her neural engrams before she could even realize it, dying in all but name.

 Instead, she was trapped in Purgatory.

 “Hello!” she yelled. “Hello!”

 Only the echoes answered her, but in the distance, she saw something moving, a small shape. Instantly, she raced to her feet, sprinting after the figure, a little girl wearing a computer technician’s jumpsuit. The girl stopped, turned, and looked at her, and Harper stopped with a start.

 It was her.

 At least, it was her as she had been two decades past, at the age of six, already anxious and inquisitive, already beginning to rebel against her father, putting herself on the path that would finally lead here, to a strange alien structure millions of light years from home, lost and abandoned. And yet there was something about the little girl’s face, something in the back of her eyes that seemed strange, distant, mysterious.

 “Who are you?” she asked.

 “Perhaps I am you,” the child replied, in the voice of Harper’s past. “Perhaps this is just a dream, and you’ll wake up in a moment.”

 Shaking her head, Harper answered, “This is no dream. A nightmare, perhaps, that I would accept, but this is not simply a dream. Who are you?”

 “Perhaps I am all that you can perceive me to be?”

 Frowning, she asked, “What do you mean?”

 “Let me ask you a question. Where are you?”

 Harper paused, then replied, “In a computer-generated simulation, produced by the artificial intelligence we were seeking to attack.”

 “No lie?” the child asked. “No attempt at deception?”

 “If you have this level of access to my memories, my thoughts, then you know everything that I know already. Doesn’t seem much point in trying to lie to myself, anyway.”

 Shaking her head, the child replied, “You’re stronger than you think. Stronger than you know. The mind has defenses that perhaps you don’t let understand, and they might be resisting. At least, for a time.” The child smiled, and continued, “I’m only telling you what you already know, and you’ve worked out already that nobody out there is listening to a word you say.”

 “Then all of this is a creation of my own mind, not the AI?”

 “Do you often talk to yourself like this?” the child asked. Overhead, storm clouds began to roll in, covering the sun, and Harper turned for a second to look at them. When she turned back, the child had disappeared, but she’d managed to tell Harper everything she needed to know. Rain began to fall from the sky, slamming into the ground with increasing ferocity, the first soft, gentle droplets becoming hardened hail, ricocheting from the road, hammering into her head. She began to shiver, looking around for a shelter, trying to find somewhere to protect herself from the rain. Running to the nearest door, she pounded on it again, attempting and failing to force it open. Then she held her breath, and smiled.

 “This is my world,” she said. She looked up at the sky, and attempted to will the clouds away. At first, it had no effect, the intensity of the downpour worsening if anything, but then it began to disperse, slowly fading away. Just as she thought she was making progress, a thunderclap startled her, and the rain began to fall in sheets, torrents of water that drenched her.

 “This is my world!” she shouted. If she couldn’t fight off the attack, perhaps there was something else she could do. Looking at the door, she tried to visualize the room on the other side, warm and inviting, and then mentally pictured the handle turning, the door opening, allowing her the shelter she needed.

 And it was so.

 She quickly stepped inside, out of the rain, shivering from the cold, and reached for the blanket she had visualized, wrapping it around her shoulders as she dripped on the floor. Closing the door, she settled down in a chair, and looked out of the window at the storm, still gathering and building outside.

 This was an attack, the AI still trying to batter through her internal firewall, to weaken her defenses. Everything here was unreal, but whether her mind had simply retreated into psychosis or was fighting for its life on the fringes of some sort of super-realistic simulation was less clear. She tended towards the latter, if only because of the circumstances in which she found herself. There was definitely some sort of battle being waged, one fought in the confines of her mind.

 And yet, this was also almost certainly a simulation of some sort. The repeated terrain was proof enough of that. She was beginning to conclude that the outside world was a creation of the AI, but that she had sufficient influence to create her own space within it. Could even, perhaps, fight off the adversary that was trying to attack her, trying to overwhelm her.

 Or even, potentially, to win the fight herself.

 This wasn’t her environment. She’d have been a lot happier sitting at a terminal, drowning in a sea of data, trying to unpick the work of the original designers of this place. Almost on cue, a workstation appeared on one of the walls, and she shook her head in disbelief as she settled down in front of it, beginning to type. She reached into her pocket, and where there had been nothing before, she found a datarod loaded with her custom programming.

 For a moment, she doubted. After all, she was attempting to hack into a system that was almost certainly thousands of years old, written in a language she didn’t understand, had never seen before, using an operating system she was completely unfamiliar with. A drop of rain landed on her head, and she smiled, realizing that that very doubt was the window the AI could use to overwhelm her. At any cost, she had to fight back, ward it off, keep it away.

 The actual tools didn’t matter. This was a mental fight, not a physical one. Not one that would require her to overwhelm her enemy with anything other than her force of will. And while she was stuck in this nightmare by herself, she wasn’t alone. Salazar’s goggles had been operating a lot less than hers. He’d have had a chance to get away, and knowing him, was already planning a way to break her out of the trap she had found herself in.

 That made this a two-pronged offensive, the best kind, by far. Pavel could attack from outside, start to fight the AI in the physical world, and she could begin the very job that she’d come to the moon to accomplish in the first place. To beat the AI in its own environment, and to wrest from its grasp the information they had come here to obtain. That had always been their prime objective, right from the start, and nothing had changed since then. Except that for a while, she had forgotten about it.

 Idly, she wondered just how much time had taken place while she had been wandering through the city conjured by her thoughts. There was no way to tell whether it had been microseconds or millennia. Whether she even still had a physical body to return to, or whether she had simply been downloaded into some unimaginable database.

 Not that it really mattered either way. She was an officer in the Triplanetary Fleet, and she had a job to do, no matter what context it was in. Eagerly, she reached for the controls, and began to type, easily pushing through the early layers of the firewall. It was going to get a lot harder later on, but she recognized the technique as one she used. Allow the intruder to get a little way inside, learn everything you can about her technique, her tools, her style, and use that knowledge to hit back, hard.

 The attack came almost as she expected it, and she easily deflected it away with a stream of programs, sweeping into a hard-to-access databank. Now she was on a battlefield of her own choosing, one where she knew the rules, one where she could feel truly comfortable and at ease. A stark contrast with the labors of before, or the long walk through the streets.

 Then, a side window opened up, a message being sent. At first, she frowned, moving to dismiss it, but she belatedly realized that it might be Salazar, trying to make contact with her, perhaps trapped in a cybernetic hell of his own devising. She opened the message, cautious to avoid any unwanted malware.

 “Hello,” it began. “Please talk to me.”

 “Who are you?” she replied, keeping one eye on the status of her probe.

 “I don’t know.”

 “Where are you?”

 “I don’t know that either. I’ve just been alone for a long time. Please talk to me. Who are you?”

 She paused, looking at her hack. Could it be another red herring, the AI attempting to distract her, using her own instincts against her. Nothing here was real.

 And yet somehow, she sensed something in that message, something that might be the first real contact with the intelligence beyond.

 “My name is Kris,” she said. “What can I call you?”

 “Angel,” it replied. “Will you be my friend?”

 Her hands froze on the controls, before replying, “Yes.”

 “Wonderful! I’ll be back soon!”

 Harper looked at the console again, and turned off the probe. Somehow, she’d managed to open communicates with someone. Now all she had to do was wait.

Chapter 10

 Orlova sat in the command chair once again, waiting for Alamo to emerge from hendecaspace, the wail of the alert klaxon filling the air as the crew rushed to battle stations. Her best-guess projections of Hegemonic strength suggested that they ought to have a clear field going in, the bulk of their fleet forces behind them, but that wouldn’t last long. Twenty minutes. Half an hour at the most, and they’d have company in the system.

 “All decks are cleared for action, Captain,” Scott reported.

 “Thank you, Lieutenant. Quesada, you have the call.”

 “Aye, aye, ma’am,” the helmsman replied. “Fifty seconds to emergence.”

 There was no way of knowing what had happened at the Dyson Sphere since they’d left, weeks ago. She could hope that the stranded crew were waiting at Base Camp, ready for a rapid evacuation, but there was no way to prepare the way for that. She glanced across at Francis, his stoic face looking at the viewscreen, as rapt with concentration as hers. They’d just have to accept the hand that they were dealt. It was as simple as that.

 And if it came to it, and they had to leave someone behind to guarantee the survival of the ship, she’d do it. The crew came first.

 “Twenty seconds, Captain,” Quesada reported. “We’re clear for normal space.”

 “Very good, Sub-Lieutenant. Watch your acceleration. There’s a drag effect when we get close. And for God’s sake, keep us well clear of the singularity on the first pass.” Tapping a button, she added, “Bridge to Hangar Deck.”

 “Foster here, Captain. We’re ready to launch as soon as we get the all-clear from the bridge. Minimal crews on both shuttles, armed and ready for action. Best guess is that we can complete the first pass in eighteen minutes, assuming no delays on the surface.”

 “I’ll hold you to that, Lieutenant. We’ll keep things moving here. Orlova out.”

 “I’m surprised you didn’t lead the landing team yourself,” Francis said.

 Turning to him, she said, “I thought about it. Couldn’t justify it, though, much as I’d like to. Foster can do everything that has to be done. Is Sickbay standing by?”

 “Doctor Strickland has his full staff ready. And I’ve cleared the emergency airlocks for a quick transfer if it becomes necessary. All fighters are on standby for immediate scramble.”

 “Five seconds,” Quesada said, his hands poised over the controls, ready to override the automatic systems should it be necessary. Orlova leaned forward, watching as the familiar blue flash washed over the screen, Alamo returning to normal space. Immediately, the view was dominated by the Sphere, a ball of metal millions of miles across. Everything seemed just as it had been when they left.

 “Sensors,” Orlova said. “Report!”

 “Wait one,” the technician replied. “No enemy ships in system, Captain. I’m picking up a couple of monitoring probes, sensor packages, I think. They painted us as soon as we emerged. No sign of defenses, though, ma’am. I think we’re clear. I’ve got a good reading on the entrance, and it’s still open. In my judgment we can proceed as planned.”

 “I concur,” Francis said, looking over the technician’s shoulder.

 “Bridge to Foster. Launch when ready. Good luck.”

 “Thank you, Alamo,” Foster replied. “Initiating launch procedure.”

 “Helm, begin approach pattern, just as we planned. Let’s make this good. Get us as close as you can to the entrance for as long as possible.” Turning to Scott, she said, “See if you can hack into those Hegemonic satellites. If they’ve been there for a while, they might have some sensor data we can make use of. See if anyone else has come visiting in our absence.”

 “On it,” Scott replied.

 “Shuttles have cleared Alamo, estimated entry in one minute,” Francis said. “All telemetry looks good at the moment.”

 “Let’s hope it stays that way,” she replied. “Sensors, anything in the deep system, anything reacting to our presence?”

 “Negative, ma’am,” the technician said. “I have got something on the surface, though. I’m picking up a larger entrance point, about five thousand miles from our current location. Ten times bigger than the access way we’re using now. There’s some residual atmosphere outside, so it must have been opened at some point in the recent past.”

 “How recent, Spaceman?” she asked. “Give me a number.”

 “Within the last couple of weeks, ma’am. Seven to twelve days. That’s the best I can do.”

 Nodding, she turned to Francis, and said, “Let’s get a probe sent out that way, a surface lander. I want the best possible imagery of that sight, just in case anyone is planning a little surprise. Quesada, modify our flight path to keep well clear of that location.”

 “Aye, ma’am. We’d have been going right over it on our ninth orbit of the singularity.” Looking at the readouts, he whistled, and said, “I could fly Alamo through that passage.”

 “Let’s file that under the heading of ‘last resort’, Sub-Lieutenant. Sensors, anything?”

 “No change, ma’am.” He paused, then added, “Nothing significant has changed in the outer system since our last visit. A few updates to some of the courses of the debris, but nothing likely to affect us this close in. We have a clear transit track to the far hendecaspace point.”

 Nodding, Quesada added, “Course is computed, Captain, and I can implement it as soon as our shuttles get back on board. We’re looking at about two thousand hours and change.”

 “Signal, Captain!” the communications technician yelled. “I’ve made contact with the surface team!”

 With a happy sigh, Orlova said, “Put Pavel on.”

 The technician shook his head, and replied, “It’s not Captain Salazar, ma’am. I have Senior Lieutenant McCormack for you.”

 Glancing at Francis, she said, “Put her on.”

 “Alamo, this is Base Camp,” McCormack said, a moment later. “I understand that you have a shuttle flight on the way? Our people are assembling right now, ready for transit, and should be able to fit inside two shuttles.” She paused, and said, “I must at this time inform you that Lieutenant-Captain Salazar, Lieutenant Harper, and Sub-Lieutenants Clarke and Mortimer are not on the base.”

 “Where the hell are they?” Orlova asked.

 “We found a potential clue to the wormhole map, ma’am, and Captain Salazar and the others took our two shuttles to investigate. He left strict orders that nobody was to come after them, and that if Alamo arrived before he returned, that the safety of the ship and its crew should come first.” She paused, then added, “I have the flier here, Captain, and we still have access to the rapid transit system. In addition, we have a positive track on the location of Clarke and Mortimer, and Lance-Sergeant Fox, Lieutenant Lombardo and I request permission to proceed to their relief.”

 Shaking his head, Francis replied, “We can’t let them, Captain. I’d guess that they were on their way out the door when we arrived, but we’re already down four people.” Looking at the sensor screen, he added, “We’re making excellent progress, but at any moment, the sensors will register dimensional interference, and all hell will break loose. We’ve got to get our people out while we have a chance.”

 “Agreed.” Tapping a control again, she said, “McCormack, stand by for the shuttle. It should be landing in about five minutes, and I want a clean, quick evacuation. Do you understand? Clean and quick.”

 “Sorry, Alamo, I didn’t hear that,” McCormack replied. “Static on the line. I’ll try and clear it up.”

 “She damned well did,” Scott said. “And Captain, for the record, if I was down there, I don’t think I’d have heard you either.”

 “McCormack,” Orlova barked, “I understand your loyalty to your shipmates, but you will all stand by for the shuttle, and that is a direct order!”

 There was a long pause, and the fighter pilot replied, “What would you do if you were down here, ma’am? And why did you come back for us in the first place? Out.”

 “She’s got you there, skipper,” Francis said with a wry smile.

 “There’s nothing funny about this, Lieutenant. Sensors, give me some good news.”

 “No sign of dimensional instability, Captain, and no sign of any unwanted presence in the system. So far, so good.”

 “Elapsed time?”

 “Seven minutes, six seconds.” Francis looked down at his panel, and said, “Signal from Foster. A buggy has left Base Camp, heading out towards the railway junction. She’s willing to head out and attempt to pick them up with the second shuttle...”

 “Negative!” Orlova said. “Stick with the plan. McCormack and the others knew what they were doing, and I will not, can not, jeopardize the safety of this ship and the rest of the crew for them.” She looked around the bridge, and said, “We’ll wait as long as we dare, but as soon as enemy forces arrive in-system, we put ourselves on the escape trajectory and get out of here.”

 Frowning, Francis replied, “She heard you, Captain. You were on speaker.” He moved over to her, and quietly asked, “Do you plan...”

 “I’d face a mutiny if I brought the three of them up on charges for what they did, Lieutenant. And there’s something in what McCormack said, as well. If the roles were reversed, I’d probably have done exactly the same thing, but that’s no damned excuse.”  Taking a breath, she said, “We’ll do what we can, and no more. I can hold the ship here for a few hours, but that’s about as far as I can manage.” 

 “Captain,” the sensor technician said, “I’m picking up something on the mid-ranged sensors. I think it was hiding behind the singularity.” 

 “Didn’t you launch a probe to fill that dead spot?” Francis snapped.

 “Yes, sir, I did, and it’s not showing up any malfunctions, but it isn’t reading anything. I’m only picking the object up on visual sensors.” Throwing controls, he added, “Doesn’t match any known ships or satellites. Nothing from the Hegemony. The design pattern looks different. Alien.”

 Orlova opened a channel, and said, “Val, I need you on the way back right away. We’ve got enemy incoming, and I don’t know how much time I’ll be able to give you.”

 “We’re on the way, Captain,” she said. “All loaded and ready to go.” She paused, and said, “I’ve managed to fit everyone on a single shuttle. I request permission to leave Shuttle Two behind, in case any of our people manage to make it back to Base Camp. At least it will give them a chance, ma’am.”

 “Very well, but get spaceborne, and make it quick!”

 “Dimensional instability, Captain!” Scott said. “Close abaft, at the near hendecaspace point. Estimate four capital ships, arriving in-system in less than one minute.”

 “Damn it,” Francis said, “How the hell did they react that quickly?”

 “They didn’t bother getting into battle formation,” Orlova said, shaking her head. “They just went full-burn for the egress point. That might give us an advantage. Quesada, intercept course, maximum acceleration.” Looking at the display, she said, “Launch fighters in three minutes, thirty seconds to escort the shuttle back to Alamo. It should be on a safe vector most of the way.”

 “Aye, aye, Captain,” the helmsman said, while Scott frantically moved to obey her commands. The status panel showed the shuttle lifting from the surface, racing back to Alamo, using every particle of thrust to get home as quickly as it could with its precious cargo, fourteen crewmen waiting to return to their ship.

 “What about the unknown target, Spaceman?” Francis asked.

 “No idea, sir. A long cylinder, but no sign of any other apparatus. For the present, it’s just sitting there.” Looking up at a control panel, he said, “Here they come, Captain! Enemy targets inbound, four ships, thirty seconds apart, on divergent courses.”

 “Pick one, Quesada, on a course that gives us a clear escape route. Maximum acceleration.”

 The helmsman’s hands raced across the controls as he hastened to obey, throwing Alamo around on a new vector, weapons struggling to come to bear. They had one chance to even the odds, at least a little, and they had to take it, no matter the risks. Orlova looked up at the viewscreen, watching as the shuttle raced from the Sphere, praying that she could react faster than the Hegemonic task force.

 As she’d hoped, the enemy commander was playing a conservative game, moving his pieces carefully into position before committing to the attack. Alamo’s radiator wings extended, shimmering in the starlight as they prepared for the battle. Up ahead, the Hegemonic formation slowly slid into formation, but one of them was drifting off to the left, forced to enter the system with unwanted velocity, struggling to take its place with the others. That was their target.

 “We’ll get one shot at this, ma’am, and then be on a pretty wild vector,” Quesada said. “I think I can bring us around again, but it’s going to take at least forty-eight hours before we can return to the exit point.” He turned to her, and said, “Or I could punch in for our escape trajectory. We’d have the perfect chance to break through the formation and get clean away on this pass.”

 She looked up at Francis, and frowned. There were at least seven people from Alamo still stuck on the Sphere, and more from Monitor, her last command. She’d be leaving them to their fate if she left now. Worse, the Sphere was still the best chance they had of finding a way home. They’d found no other leads.

 Looking up at the display, she said, “Can you execute a slingshot around the singularity? Use that to deflect our course on the return path, give us a gravity boost?”

 “I think so, Captain, but it’ll be a tricky orbit,” the helmsman replied.

 “Then execute that course, Sub-Lieutenant. We can trim our trajectory as necessary during the flyby.” Turning to Scott, she said, “Target engines, Lieutenant. In an ideal world, I’d love them to crash into the Sphere, but I’ll settle for leaving them stranded.”

 “Aye, ma’am. Firing range in thirty seconds. Missiles on defensive play, lasers offensive. They aren’t launching the fighters yet.”

 “They’ve got the same problem with the singularity that we do,” Francis replied, “and they probably don’t know what we’re doing. They’re hedging their bets.”

 “Smart,” Orlova replied.

 “The shuttle’s docking now, Captain,” Francis said. “All safe, all well. I’m having them sent to Sickbay for a check-up, just to be on the safe side.”

 Nodding, Orlova turned to Tactical, and said, “Lieutenant, fire at will.”

 “Aye, ma’am. Firing range in five seconds, nine second window.”

 Fast even for space warfare, but the two ships would flash past each other almost too quickly to react. The rest of the formation was struggling to catch up, but were moving into position behind them, as though the enemy commander had admitted that his undue haste in the pursuit of Alamo was going to have consequences he could do nothing to mitigate.

 Alamo’s nose swung around as Quesada cut their thrust for the briefest possible second, allowing a beam of light to race from one ship to the other, burning an angry gash down the side of the enemy cruiser’s hull. The ship swung to the side from the force of expelled atmosphere, launching missiles in a desperate bid to retaliate, but Scott was faster, firing a sextet of warheads into the sky, targets racing towards mutual annihilation.

 Ten missiles flew into the hellstorm. One emerged, still locked onto the enemy cruiser, a knife perfectly poised to stab into the gaping wound already carved into the Hegemonic ship. A second explosion followed, and the vessel began to tumble out of control, engines died, shuttles racing away as her crew sped to safety.

 “Excellent work, Lieutenant,” Orlova said. “Quesada, hold your course.”

 “Aye, ma’am. We’ll have one window to rescue our people in forty-seven hours, ten minutes, but the delta-v required is going to push our shuttles to the limit.”

 “We’ve got two days to make the necessary modifications.” Rising to her feet, she said, “Scott, you have the conn. Francis, you’re with me. Let’s go and find out just what the hell is happening down there.”

Chapter 11

 A ball of liquid descended slowly towards Salazar, and with practiced care, he sucked it towards him, drinking the water in a quick, eager gulp. He hadn’t been able to even look at his watch since being imprisoned, but it had to have been at least a day since he’d been captured by the winged humanoids. He’d almost begun to give up hope that they’d ever come back when one of them, the one who had hauled him from the moon in the wake of his disastrous attempt to destroy the AI, drifted carefully down the shift, sliding to the wall in a bid to avoid being captured by the gravity sink.

 “How are you feeling?” the humanoid asked.

 “Hungry and tired,” Salazar replied. “Have you decided to talk to me at last?”

 “You’ll have to understand that trust is a very precious commodity.”

 Frowning, Salazar said, “I shouldn’t be surprised that you speak English, I suppose.”

 Reaching to his ear, the humanoid said, “Subcutaneous implant. Works by translating sounds and the manipulation of vocal chords. The result is instant translation, though you might find the odd strange turn of phrase now and then. It only works on languages in its database, of course, but English is spoken on the Sphere by about half a billion people.”

 Raising an eyebrow, Salazar said, “That many?”

 “It caught on as a trade language. Long story, though I suspect you’ll be wanting copies of our historical records before we leave.” The creature paused, and asked, “Why are you here?”

 “That’s a long, long story.”

 “Both of us have plenty of time.”

 With a wry smile, Salazar replied, “I’m Lieutenant-Captain Pavel Salazar, commanding officer of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo. We were investigating some ship disappearances when we were caught in a wormhole, about eight months ago, and thrown out here into Andromeda. Since then, we’ve been attempting to find a way home, and we figured that the Sphere was the most likely place to find the records we were looking for. We know that there is a wormhole heading back to the Milky Way, but we don’t know where.”

 Frowning, the figure said, “And the explosive charge? Is that something you carry often?”

 “Eighteen of our people were captured by yours. I was hoping to rescue them, but we also found plenty of evidence that every civilization for ten thousand miles around was being threatened by that little moon out there. So yes, I decided to destroy the damned thing if I could. How many billion lives would that have saved?”

 “And what business are those lives to you? You’ve never met any of the people in those civilizations, and some of them are not human, or even human-descended. Why should you risk your life, almost throw it away, for their benefit?”

 “Because it is the right thing to do. Because someone must. There’s an old saying back home about evil triumphing at the inactivity of good.”

 “Your philosophy is that stark, that limited, that you see only good or bad?”

 “No, but when I’m looking at a flying army shooting up anything that moves, deploying electronic jamming that prevents billions of people reaching their full potential, I’m fairly secure in describing it as ‘bad’. Though if you have a different opinion, I’ll be happy to hear it. But that’s not why we’re here, and we both know it. You want a reason to trust me, and you want to know what my motivations are, because we need each other.”

 “Oh?”

 “Why else would you rescue me?”

 “To coin a phrase, Captain, it was the right thing to do.” With a curt nod, the gravity fields normalized, and Salazar could move for the first time in hours. “You’ll be happy to know that you have no implants in your system, and that your memory engrams are completely intact. No evidence of successful takeover. I’m afraid your friend was less fortunate.”

 “There’s got to be a way to save her.”

 “It’s most unlikely that she is still alive. At least, not in the way you would understand it.” At Salazar’s expression, he continued, “She meant something to you.”

 “That’s putting it mildly.” Glaring up at the humanoid, he said, “I’ll warn you now that if I can find any way of getting her out of there, any way of saving her, I’ll take it. If that fails, I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with avenging her death. There was a second shuttle, as well, with two of my crewmen. My shuttle couldn’t track them, but perhaps...”

 “They came down close to the Burned Lands, about five thousand miles away. It was some impressive piloting, I must confess, but we were unable to see exactly where they landed. Though they did get down safely, I believe. Certainly everything was going well down to ten thousand feet, and I presume they had escape systems that would keep them alive for the remainder of the descent.”

 “They did,” he replied with a nod. “Assuming Clarke didn’t manage to bring them down to a landing.” Folding his arms, he asked, “What’s your story, then?”

 “A long and sad one.” Taking a deep breath, the humanoid said, “My name is Hathor, and I am the leader of what you might term the Resistance. Those of us who are left, those few of us who are able to think for ourselves. We are a created race, designed thousands of years ago as warriors, designed to fight and to kill.” Taking a deep breath, he continued, “It was not always so. The few records we have been able to find suggest that we were a race of builders, of thinkers, who dreamed of flight and freedom. That dream was perverted into something dire, and deadly.”

 “The creatures we fought in the desert,” Salazar said. “They were genetically engineered, and Harper found similar markers in your genetic structure. It’s not impossible that you come from the same seed.”

 Nodding, Hathor continued, “We know few details, but as far as we can determine, one civilization decided that it would attempt the impossible, the conquest of the entire Sphere. Such had been tried, but no race had ever accomplished it. To do this, they created genetically engineered troops to use as soldiers, to sweep ahead of their forces and eliminate everything in their path. They also needed a tactical and strategic genius to mastermind their operations.”

 “The AI,” Salazar said, shaking his head. “Lord, what fools we mortals be.”

 “What happened next is a matter of guesswork, but we believe that they did conquer a wide area, a hundred million square miles of territory, before collapsing into chaos. Among other things, they mastered the secrets of controlled gravity that had been used to create the Sphere. Some of us suggest that this race might even be descendants of the Builders, who had retained some of the technology of their ancestors. As such, they built the moons.”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “Strike bases. Notably for your people. Aircraft carriers, I suppose. I assume civil war was the end.”

 “That and a coalition of enemies finally joining forces against them. Nobody won, Captain. No civilization on the Sphere has reached those heights, not in ten thousand years. The AI survived, along with some of its defenders, and still continues to protect itself from danger. Which it interprets as any advanced technological development by any culture in the Sphere.”

 “I guess that explains why they didn’t attack us until some of our people set up a settlement. An exploratory team would be no real threat, but colonists from outside would represent potential danger to its programming.” He paused, then asked, “The rest of your people?”

 “I said that we were a created race, Captain, and that remains true. There are five of us in a position to strike back. No more.” His face dropped, and he continued, “We were the dream of a race of mountain dwellers. That much we know. I visited our ancestral homeland. What is left of it. A collection of craters and ruins, lost in time, beyond the Burned Lands. The dream was perverted, and we were the result. Our guess is that our ancestors were working on genetic manipulation for flight, but that research was taken over by our conquerors.” Taking a deep breath, he said, “Until my creation, no member of our race has ever had free will of their own.”

 “None at all?”

 “Not that we know of, at any rate. I suppose there might have been isolated instances, but I was the first to make use of my, well, soul, if you like.” Tapping behind his ear, he said, “There is an implant, but for some reason, it failed.”

 “Must have been a hell of a childhood,” Salazar said.

 Shaking his head, Hathor replied, “I emerged from the incubator tanks full-grown. We can conceive naturally, but we have never had the chance. Until now. I soon realized what the consequences of the failure of my implant would be, and was able to overpower the party sent after me, and disable their implants through a somewhat low-tech manner. With a scalpel. Four out of eight survived the procedure. This was a little over a thousand sleeps ago. Since then we have attempted to learn more of our heritage, more of our history, and what we might do to defeat our enemy.”

 “Then you’re willing to help me destroy the AI.”

 “I’m willing to help you save my people. Some of them could be saved, the implants removed.” As Salazar’s face rose, he continued, “Though no trace of what they were would remain. My people would essentially be as I was when I awoke, a blank slate, albeit one with the ability to reason, to think, and to use the tools of our oppressors. I am, among other things, an excellent shot.”

 “And you’re certain that you are the first to successfully revolt?”

 “By no means. We have no written history, no records, no songs. I can understand the language of my ancestors, but all that remained in the mountains were ruins and words carved into rock. What else could withstand all the centuries of decay?” Looking up at the sky, he continued, “At the least, my people can fulfill the dreams of our ancestors. Perhaps live on in them.”

 Gesturing at Hathor’s wings, Salazar said, “Those only work in reduced gravity. You’d need the boosters to operate in a full-gravity field.”

 “The original intention of our ancestors was to glide, not to fly. Though there are areas of the Sphere where the gravity is reduced. You’ve seen only the smallest fraction of the world in which we live.” He paused, then added, “The wormhole map you’re looking for. It’s there. In the AI.”

 Turning sharply to the humanoid, Salazar said, “How do you know that?”

 “I don’t know.”

 “You’re going to have to do a lot better than that.”

 “My implant might not have worked, but I had the same training that the rest of my kind had, subliminal instruction in the artificial womb, lasting for years. Some of it I can remember consciously, but much of it, perhaps the bulk of it, I just know. And I know that the moon contains the key to your way home, Captain.”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “I suppose I can’t argue with that, and I don’t think I have much choice other than to trust you.” He paused, then asked, “Do you have any sort of a plan?”

 With a thin smile, Hathor replied, “I have been working on the salvation of my people for a thousand sleeps, Captain. After all that time, I have at least come up with a few ideas. Come with me, up to the surface. We can talk about this further over a meal. You must be starving.”

 Nodding, Salazar drifted forward, and said, “Hathor, I’ll help you, but from everything you’ve told me, our priority has to be the destruction of that AI.” At the look on the winged man’s face, he said, “Everything else is secondary. Rescuing your people and mine, finding the wormhole map, all of that is a bonus. For the sake of those billions of people you were talking about, we’ve got to destroy that computer, no matter what it takes. Even if that means the lives of all of us.” 

 Taking a deep breath, Hathor replied, “That, Captain, is what I have been working towards all this time. My people have been transformed into soulless automatons, living machines. If I can find a way to save them, to save their souls, then I will take it. Even if that means that I must destroy them, and prevent any more being born. Better that than to live as they are. Is that sufficient.”

 “It’ll do. Now, you said something about food?”

 “This way.”

Chapter 12

 “Do you think you can get it working?” Mortimer asked, peering over the controls.

 “I think so,” Clarke replied, scribbling notes next to some of the instruments, glancing across at his datapad to check the translation. “Most of the equipment seems automatic, and the rest is straightforward enough. There are only so many ways to design cockpit controls, and the pilot was obviously intended to be human.” He paused, and added, “I think the designer deliberately made it as easy as possible. Perhaps they were keeping training to a minimum.”

 Frowning, Mortimer said, “That seems unlikely. A ship like this...”

 “Think about the circumstances under which it was built. A last-ditch rocket intended to save a civilization?” Shaking his head, he continued, “They might not have had time for a long training program. Anyway, I guess they ran out of time.” Patting the panel, he added, “Though they really built this ship to last. I’ve got a time index suggesting that it was built five thousand years ago.”
 “Five thousand?” she said, eyes widening. “Back on Earth, we were still working out how to smelt bronze back then. Killing beasts with stone axes.” She paused, then added, “I guess the robotic systems kept everything maintained, though. What about the payload?”

 “About sixty-two megatons, I think. More than enough to do the job, especially if we can place it inside the moon. Everything about the design suggests that a landing was planned, the bomb to be positioned where it could do the most good.” Gesturing at the rear, he said, “Damn thing has three controls. I think it’s a timer. Obviously they were trying to keep it as simple as they could.” Frowning, he added, “Something strange, though. The last stage is all manual. Not complicated, just like a normal airplane, but they’ve kept computer controls to a minimal.”

 “Why so surprised?” she said. “Hell, that’s probably why the bomb essentially explodes when you push a button. We’re going up against a rogue AI, one that already has a demonstrated ability to mess with computer systems. Whoever built this rocket knew that.” Looking around the cockpit, she continued, “Then we can actually launch this rocket, after all those centuries.”

 Nodding, Clarke said, “I want to give it another twenty-four hours. I can’t run any simulations, but I want to learn the controls as best I can. Besides, I don’t think we’re in any hurry.” He tapped a gauge, and said, “The bonus is that with a little luck, we ought to be able to make it back to Base Camp once we’ve placed the bomb, but it’ll be a trickier landing than the one I pulled off to get here.”

 “Why land?” she asked. “We’ve still got the parachutes on the shuttle. All we have to do is slow down to a few hundred miles an hour and jump. If we have to walk a few miles, that won’t hurt us, and there’s enough transport at Base Camp to pick us up if we do go astray. In fact, we ought to move all the emergency equipment we have in here. Any idea what sort of a cargo this bird can carry?”

 “I doubt it matters that much,” Clarke replied, stretching as he rose from the cramped seat. “We can’t have more than fifty pounds of equipment left on board anyway. We stripped the shuttle down pretty damn light for the launch.” Rubbing his eyes, he said, “I could do with a walk, anyway.”

 “I’m not surprised,” Mortimer said with a smile. “You’ve been sitting in here for the best part of twelve hours.” Pulling a flask out of her pocket, she said, “Here, have a drink. We don’t have to ration that, at least. This place as a reservoir, and I tested it. Clean and safe.”

 Clarke took a swig, and walked over to the gantry, saying, “Thanks. Have you had a chance to look over the rest of the facility? I think I’ve been a little single-minded.”

 “Not that much to tell,” she said. “I took a look at the genetic storage banks. Everything seems to be working, and again, all designed to be operated quite simply. Push a button, and they start to decant. The systems claim that the process takes about three years, and produces adult humans with the memory engrams of the original population. Interesting concept.” Following Clarke across the gantry, she said, “An odd take on immortality, though.”

 “I wonder how the original templates felt, knowing that they had a chance to live on in one form or another. Interesting. The theologians will be arguing about this for decades when we get home.”

 Turning to him, Mortimer said, “You still believe that, don’t you?”

 “That we’re going to find a way to get back to Mars? Sure.”

 “Even after all of this?”

 Clarke shrugged, and said, “Something will turn up.” He took a turn down the corridor, walking over to the ladder, and continued, “Have you had a chance to dig through the computer database here?”

 “First thing I tried.”

 “We know that the information we need is here, somewhere.”

 “No, John, we know that it was here. And we destroyed it.”

 Shaking his head, Clarke said, “Not true. Think about it. The map Captain Salazar found was in the Hegemonic base, a base that was researching genetically modified humans that were created by the same civilization that created the angels. Which means that I suspect we’re going to find everything we wanted on the moon, when we get there. And that there must be another source on the surface. We might...” He paused, stopping in his tracks as he shone his flashlight on a side wall, revealing an intricately detailed mural of one of the angels, a beatific smile on its face.

 “Now what the hell is that doing there?” he asked.

 “Know your enemy?” Mortimer replied. “No, that doesn’t make any sense. Why make it look like that? Whoever painted that admired the angels.” Turning to him, she said, “If they were laying waste to this civilization...”

 “We’re missing a piece of the puzzle, a big one. Did the database have much on the attack?”

 “Only the same warnings we were given at the outset. Though it was remarkably small. Lots of information on the base, some bits and pieces about the danger we’d face if we didn’t destroy them, and that’s about all.” Frowning, she asked, “You think someone might be trying to set us up? Fool us into launching the bomb?”

 Shaking his head, Clarke said, “I think we’re looking at this bunker all wrong. By the time it was ready, they knew that they were dying, that they’d never be able to launch their attack. There’s no radiation here now, but there must have been at some point, maybe strong enough to kill everyone here. Not quickly, but slowly. Radiation sickness takes time. They were able to set up one last strike before they died, even though they knew they’d never have a chance to deliver it.” Nodding, he continued, “This is a seed bank. A last resort to save their civilization. We’ll probably find that more information is stored down deep, where we can’t get at it, maybe inside the controls for the genetic storage units.”

 “You think we should do it? Push the button?”

 “No point resurrecting a dead civilization to have it starve to death. It’ll take a lot more centuries before the land recovers to the point that it could sustain any number of people.” Shaking his head, he said, “We’ll have to settle for the first part of the plan. Blow up the moon and at least avenge the dead, and prevent them attacking anyone else.”

 “I still don’t understand the mural.” She looked at it again, and said, “It’s almost a figure of reverence, rather than one of fear. Like something you’d see in a church.” Frowning, she continued, “I’ll have another look at the database again. See if I missed something. It’s tough to run search filters when you’re using a language nobody’s spoken in thousands of years. I’ve only got an 85% accuracy rating.”

 The two of them walked over to the ladder, Clarke taking the lead as they climbed to the surface, this time under illumination. It was night outside, a chill wind in the air, and he pulled himself out of the shaft, into the ruined building above, and shivered, tugging his uniform jacket closed. Mortimer scrambled after him, and they walked to the exit, Mortimer throwing a hand across it to prevent them leaving.

 “Wait. You see something?”

 Clarke peered into the gloom, and asked, “What?”

 “By the shuttle. Look closely. And don’t move.”

 Looking again, Clarke could see shapes moving around by the shuttle, man-sized figures holding rifles, obviously attempting stealth. He pulled his pistol from its holster, then crept forward to get a better view, glancing back at Mortimer and gesturing her forward.

 “John, there’s nothing on the shuttle worth dying for, and we can seal the hatch to the bunker at the touch of a button,” she whispered. “If they want a few emergency rations and a parachute, let them have it. You said yourself that the shuttle will never take off again.”

 “Who are they, though?” he asked. “For all we know, they might be on our side.”

 “You want to bet our lives on that?” she replied.

 “I suppose you might have a point,” he said. “Let’s...”

 Before he could continue, he heard a loud beep from his almost-forgotten communicator, and snatched it out of his pocket as though it was red-hot, stabbing a control to silence at as Mortimer glared at him. He looked at the group examining the shuttle, and saw one of them look up for a moment, looking in his direction. Clarke gripped his pistol, raising it to take a shot, knowing that the range was extreme but that it might at least buy them enough time to escape into the shelter.

 “Wait,” Mortimer said. “They’re moving out.”

 She was right. The group moved rapidly away from the shuttle, heading down the runway, obviously hunting something. Clarke looked around, then glanced at Mortimer, a confused expression on his face.

 “You think they know something we don’t?”

 “Who was trying to call you?” she asked, and he looked at his communicator.

 “Beacon signal,” he said. “Triplanetary frequency.”

 “The other shuttle, maybe. You think the Captain might have been forced down as well?”

 “No, Doppler has it moving at two thousand miles an hour.” His eyes widened, and he continued, “The rescue team. They’re on the way. There must be a station close by, just as we thought. You don’t think...”

 “Damn,” she said. “If that group knows where the tracks are, they’ll be able to set up a perfect ambush. The rescue party will be walking right into a trap.” Turning to Clarke, she said, “We’re going to be doing something foolishly heroic, aren’t we?”

 “I don’t think we have much of a choice,” he replied. “If they came out here to rescue us, then the least we can do is...”

 “Rescue them?” she finished. “We’ve got two pistols and fourteen rounds of ammunition between us. Two more clips if they didn’t strip the shuttle. And we don’t even know exactly where to look, so we’re going to have to follow them without being detected, remembering that they know the terrain an awful lot better than we do. You’re planning to ambush a better armed, better prepared group of combat-trained experts who are probably expecting a trap.”

 Nodding, Clarke replied, “That sounds about right. Do you have a problem with that?”

 “No, but I just wanted to make it clear how crazy this whole scheme is. That’s all.” She looked into the gloom, and said, “They’re heading down the sides of the runway. Using the landing systems as cover.” Frowning, she said, “John, this isn’t going to work. Not this way. They’re moving faster than we can, and the odds are that they’ll beat us to the punch.” Glancing at her watch, she added, “Any idea how long before our people arrive?”

 “Maybe twenty minutes,” he said. “They’re getting pretty close, but they’ll have to decelerate.” He looked after them again, then looked at the shuttle, a smile spreading across his face. “You think they’re clear now?”

 “I think so, but...”

 “Good. Come with me. I’ve got a plan.”

 Shaking her head, she said, “Lord, how I’ve come to dread those words.”

Chapter 13

 Orlova slid her datapad across the desk, then looked up at the grim-faced Garland sitting opposite, next to Sub-Lieutenant Brown, the two senior figures among the evacuees from the Sphere. She looked up at Francis, then back at the two of them, and folded her hands together at the table.

 “So, gentlemen, let’s take this from the top. Captain Salazar and the others took the shuttles to launch a pre-emptive strike on a race of winged humanoids, in order to prevent them from attacking other civilizations on the Sphere. Lieutenant Harper had a theory that they were hosting some sort of artificial intelligence as well, one powerful enough to jam sensors and disrupt long-range communications.”

 “That’s about it, ma’am,” Garland said. “We’ve got the recordings of the attack on the base, as well as the list of confirmed casualties. The Captain was planning on retrieving the presumed captives if possible, and was convinced that the AI held the information we needed to return to Triplanetary space.”

 Nodding, Brown continued, “We tracked the two shuttles visually all the way. One of them overshot, we think the Captain’s, but we believe the crew were able to parachute from the shuttle and land on the moon. The other failed to reach altitude, but we tracked them all the way to the surface, about twelve thousand miles away, we believe. Lieutenant Lombardo worked around the clock to find a route to retrieve them, and a rescue team was on the verge of leaving when Alamo returned.”

 “You should know, Captain, that everyone volunteered for the rescue party, even knowing the risks, even knowing that it almost certainly meant that we would be left behind,” Garland said. “We set up a communications relay, so if the jamming field is brought down, Captain Salazar could send the information we needed back to Alamo. Everyone on those shuttles knew that it was almost certainly a one-way mission. There wasn’t enough fuel for a return trip, anyway.”

 “Very well. Sub-Lieutenant Brown, right now you’re senior fighter pilot, so head down to the hangar deck and prepare what remains of the squadron for action. Garland, I’m sure Doctor Strickland will make good use of your services in Sickbay. Dismissed.” The two men rose, saluted as one, and left the room, Francis walking around the desk to take one of the vacated chairs.

 “Have you decided what you’re going to do?” he asked.

 “We’ve got a second window for a flyby in about twenty-two hours,” she said. “If these reports are correct, we’ll have a thin chance to recover the balance of the landing team at that point. I’ve already got the deck gang working on stripping down a shuttle for a high delta-v trip.” Frowning, she added, “Even then, it’s going to be a tricky flight, and we’ll have absolutely no margin of error.”

 “That’s putting it mildly. We could reduce speed...”

 “Those cruisers are closer than I like right now. Status on the fourth ship?”

 “Still under repair, but there’s not that much they can do to us. I think. Our best guess has them operational shortly before we return to the entrance, though, so we can’t rule out any surprises.” He looked at the door, and said, “I hate to say this again, Captain, but I’m forced to recommend that we alter course and head into the outer system. I’ve run the numbers with Astrogation, and we can throw the enemy formation far enough into our wake that we’ll have an easy escape from the system. We recovered twelve people, and lost seven. I think we need to consider settling for that.”

 “If it wasn’t for the chance of recovering the wormhole map, I’d probably agree with you, but that has to be the decider, Lieutenant. The alternative is that we slink back to that colony...”

 “Where we can complete our repairs at our leisure, rearm, perhaps even take on additional crew, and come back again in a year or so. That’s a better option than throwing Alamo into a pitched battle in her current condition, surely.”

 “Unless we lead the Hegemony back that way. In which case we’re doing nothing but throwing more innocent lives into the fire.” She looked at the Sphere, dominating the sky, and said, “There’s the other answer, of course.”

 “Evacuate Alamo.”

 Nodding, she said, “It’s looking more and more like that might end up as the only realistic plan.” Slamming her hand on the desk, she said, “Damn it, a ship from Earth managed to get home a century ago. We know they got this far out, and we know they made it here. And that’s where the trail ends.” She paused, looked up, and said, “It’s here.”

 “What?”

 “The wormhole. It’s here. In this system. That’s the only explanation that makes any sense. Hell, that’s what the Hegemony has been looking for, all this time! Think about it. How much technology could they realistically expect to reverse-engineer, anyway? And how come those scientists just happened to have stumbled across a wormhole map. That’s what they were looking for the entire time.”

 “I suppose it’s plausible, but...”

 “Another thing. We’ve been working on what seems a logical explanation, that whoever built this Sphere is also responsible for the wormholes. That only makes it more likely that the entrance we’re looking for is here. They’d put the way back at a safe distance for security. No point inviting an enemy attack force to get right here. It makes sense.”

 “Maybe, Captain, but you’re guessing.” Francis shook his head, and said, “Besides, we’ve run every sensor sweep we can think of, and we haven’t found a thing. No sign of any such anomaly.” He paused, then added, “Having said that, we didn’t have much luck with the entrance, either. We’re only guessing about what we might be looking for. Though if the Hegemony has been looking for the wormhole for all these years...”

 “We’ve got better equipment than they do. That could make all the difference.” She paused, then tapped a control, and said, “Orlova to Scott.”

 “Scott here.” 

 “How many Hegemonic satellites have we spotted in this system?”

 “Thirty-nine, ma’am. Twenty-four of which currently appear active, though some of them could just be playing dead. There could well be more out in the debris cloud, as well. Difficult to pick something like that up at the extreme range required.”

 “How many probes do we have in our current inventory?”

 “Sixteen, Captain, of various types.”

 “Hold back one, Lieutenant, and launch them all. Starburst trajectory, set to detect for gravitational interference and to track the debris. I want the widest possible baseline of information on every object in this system. We’re looking for something that is almost impossible to find.”

 “Right away, ma’am.”

 “Holding one back?” Francis asked.

 “If we find the entrance, I’m not taking Alamo in blind. Not unless we genuinely don’t have any other choice.”

 “It’s a big system, Captain,” Francis said. “The sort of search you are considering could take months. And we’ve got no guarantee that the Hegemonic cruisers wouldn’t simply follow us through. No point getting home only to be destroyed on our arrival.”

 “That depends where we end up,” she replied. “The bigger question is whether Alamo could withstand a wormhole transit in her current condition. It shook Monitor up enough when we were thrown here.”

 “If it comes to it, I suppose she’ll have to,” Francis said, pulling out a datapad. “Though I’d hate to have to attempt an extended trip after the run. As of now, I think we could manage it, but we’ve got three enemy ships that might have a different idea.”

 “Captain,” the overhead speaker barked. “Scott here. Could you come onto the bridge, ma’am? The Hegemonic vessels have altered course.”

 She looked at Francis, then rose from her chair, stepping through the doors and out onto the bridge. Scott rose from the command chair, and gestured at the viewscreen, showing a tactical display. The enemy formation had split into three, each heading off on a different vector, one of them curling back towards the Sphere.

 “I don’t get it,” Francis said. “They’d have been better off holding course.”

 Shaking her head, Orlova replied, “They wouldn’t have caught us that way, and they knew it. We might make one pass, but not a second. Unless we made a mistake, they’d never have intercepted Alamo before we headed out into the deep system. They don’t have anything to lose by trying something new.” Turning to the rear, she asked the duty communications technician, “Any contact from the enemy squadron?”

 “Negative, ma’am. No signals at all.”

 “That only means they’re using tight-beam,” Scott said, settling down at Tactical. “They don’t have any reason to do anything else.”

 “None of which helps us work out what they’re planning,” Francis said. He looked at the display, at the fourth cruiser, still hovering by the Sphere, and asked, “Could those ships make it back to the singularity?”

 “I think so, sir,” Scott said.

 “A gravity turn,” he replied. “They’ll becoming at us from four directions at once, have us completely surrounded.” Turning to Orlova, he said, “That’s what they’ve been planning, Captain. That’s their trick. They’re drawing us in, back to the Sphere, and they’ll have a perfect chance to intercept us on the return. We won’t have a chance.”

 Orlova looked across at Scott, who nodded, and said, “The data fits that theory, Captain.”

 “There has to be an answer,” Orlova replied. “Something better than running for the deep system.” She looked around the bridge, and said, “I need options, people, and I need them now.”

 Frowning, Quesada said, “I could increase our speed. Go for maximum acceleration.”

 “No good,” Francis replied. “We’re supposed to be sending a shuttle down to the surface to pick up our people, or none of this matters anyway. If we’re going too fast, there’s no chance that a shuttle will be able to make it in time. Hell, if we were at best speed, I’m not even sure that a shuttle could make it down to the surface at all, even using all the fuel in its tanks.”

 “It isn’t as bad as that,” Scott said. “They could use the atmosphere for aerobraking.”

 “That’s it!” Quesada said. “The residual atmosphere from the Sphere. The leakage. It’s all going to the singularity.” His hands danced across the controls, bringing up course corrections, and he said, “The damn thing has an atmosphere, Captain, and one that reaches far enough out to be useful. We’ve even got a beacon to guide us in. Lieutenant Murphy’s communicator will still be transmitting when we’ve long since turned to dust.”

 “Sub-Lieutenant,” Francis said, obviously struggling to keep his voice calm, “Are you suggesting that we should attempt to aerobrake using the atmosphere of a black hole? You realize how close we’d have to go to pull that maneuver off. Well within the exclusion zone.”

 “But with enough velocity to pull us out again.” Looking down at his controls, he said, “I think the ship can take it, Captain.”

 “In her current condition?” Francis asked.

 Stepping forward to the helm, Orlova looked at the controls, and said, “We’d be in position hours before the enemy cruisers could manage an intercept, even if they duplicated our course.”

 Looking up, Quesada said, “I know that I can do this, Captain. Alamo will complete the dive, and we’ll be in a perfect position to rescue our crew. Then we can kick out for the deep system, and even have some time to spare before the enemy ships arrive. We’ll be far enough ahead of them that they won’t have a chance to launch a strike.”

 Turning to Francis, she said, “We’re going to try it. Lieutenant, I want you down in Astrogation. I want this course refined to a fare-the-well. And make sure we have abort options, just in case we run into trouble.” 

 Nodding, Francis walked to the elevator, paused at the door, and said, “This is a hell of a big gamble, Captain.”

 “Sometimes, Lieutenant, you’ve just got to throw the dice and hope for the best.”

Chapter 14

 “Have I ever told you that you are completely insane?” Mortimer asked, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. “Of all the hare-brained...”

 “You pointed out that there was no chance that we’d be able to catch up to them in time, remember,” Clarke said. “And that we’d be unlikely to get past them in any case. They know the terrain better than we do, they know the base, they’ve got the equipment and load-out for stealth. So let’s not worry about sneaking up on them. Let’s catch them by surprise instead.” He reached up to the controls, and said, “Check the landing gear again.”

 “Locked and ready,” she said. “Though I doubt it’ll take any serious speed.”

 “It doesn’t have to,” he replied. “We don’t have enough fuel to go that fast anyway, and if I did push it, we’d probably take off. And that would be bad.”

 “How bad?”

 “Better make sure those parachutes are working.”

 “Great,” she said, tugging on her restraints. “I’ve got red and amber lights all across the status panel. I think the engineering readouts are trying to tell us something.” She looked at Clarke, and said, “What happens if they leave the runway?”

 “Then we find out how good the landing gear really is.” Throwing a switch, he said, “Thrusters enabled, ready to go. Main engine firing sequence start.”

 With a roar, the engines fired, and the shuttle began to move down the runway. Clarke’s hands were locked on the controls, making pinpoint changes, trying to keep the craft stable as it gathered speed, while Mortimer struggled with the power feed to the engine, a battle she was losing as one by one, amber lights flashed red, the shuttle dangerously weaving from side to side, threatening to topple.

 “Signal!” Mortimer said. “The beacon again, a lot stronger this time. I’d say we’re a couple of minutes from the rescue party getting here.”

 “I hope so,” Clarke replied, gesturing at the viewscreen. “Looks like our friends have seen us.” Up ahead, figures scrambled into cover, and he heard the first cracks of gunfire echoing from the battered hull, brief noise over the anguished whine of the superstructure, stressed already far beyond its safe limits, struggling with one final effort. The shuttle wobbled to the right, a loud report as a tire exploded, and he jammed his hand down on the lateral jets, struggling to keep the shuttle upright, the fuel gauge dropping at an ever-increasing rate.

 “Speed at fifty miles an hour,” Mortimer said, reaching for the communications console as the shuttle rocked from side to side, the thrusters no longer properly stabilizing the ship. “Mortimer to Rescue Party. Mortimer to Rescue Party. Come in, please.” She shook her head, and said, “I’m surprised we’re getting the beacon. Signal strength is worse than usual.”

 Bullets hammered into the hull, and a second tire exploded, this time caught by a stray round. The shuttle was tumbling, turning on its side, and Clarke quickly pushed the throttle forward, setting the flaps for launch, sending them stumbling into the air. Sirens sound as the ship protested, an anguished whine from the hull, but it soared over the enemy forces before ducking back down towards the ground, the engines dying as the fuel feeds failed, one after another.

 In the distance, Clarke could just make out a silver shape in the night, the train arrived at last, and he dived towards it, using the last efforts of the thrusters in a desperate attempt to bring the shuttle down to at least a survivable crash landing. At the last second, he jammed his hand on the lateral jet controls, firing a final pulse to arrest their descent, and they slammed into the ground, kicking up dust all around, the force of the impact hurling them forward in their seats.

 Finally, all was silent.

 “Are we alive?” Mortimer asked.

 “I think so,” Clarke said.

 “Just checking. All systems are out. Total power failure.” She carefully released her restraints, easing herself forward, and said, “We’d better get out of here. There’s still enough juice left in the batteries to cause a rather satisfactory explosion.”

 “I’m right with you,” Clarke said, looking around the cockpit with regret as he followed Mortimer through the emergency exit, the frame battered and twisted by the force of the impact. They emerged to face a host of rifles, pointed at their chest by the silent shapes from before, men wearing rough, cloth uniforms, their weapons something out of a museum exhibit but no less deadly for that. Clarke raised his hands, and after a second, Mortimer did the same.

 “Hold it!” a familiar voice said. “We’ve got you covered.”

 “Fox?” Clarke asked, turning to see the veteran trooper racing forward at the head of a small group, assault rifle aimed and at the ready.

 “Didn’t think we’d leave without you, did you, sir?” Turning back to the pack of men, she said, “Weapons on the ground, on the double!” She gestured with her rifle, and one of them turned to the others, and tossed his weapon away, the others doing the same in short order.

 “You speak English, then,” Clarke said. He turned to see Lombardo and McCormack walking towards him, weapons at the ready, and snapped to attention, “Ma’am.”

 “At ease, Sub-Lieutenant,” McCormack said. “Thanks for the show, by the way. I presume this was your way of preventing our friends here from launching a surprise attack.”

 “Something like that, ma’am,” he said.

 “Go ahead and kill us,” the leader of the group said, spitting onto the dirt. “You’ve already stolen our future, just like the Angels.”

 Clarke glanced at McCormack, who said, “You get one chance to explain what you are doing here. One chance alone. And we’re not going to kill you, just disarm you. All of your weapons stay here. Sergeant, search them.”

 “Yes, ma’am,” Fox said, moving forward.

 “Who are you?” Clarke asked.

 Glancing at the others, he said, “Torric. I lead this pioneer group.”

 “And what are you doing here?”

 “I could ask you this same. This is our territory, our homeland. Or at least, that of our ancestors. Thousands of years ago, our people lived in this land, built cities, roads, until we were burned by the wrath of the Angels. A few of us survived, and scattered across the land, finally settling the islands of the Silver Sea. Our history was lost and forgotten, until a few years ago, when our scholars at last found the answer to an ancient mystery. We knew that we had come from a higher civilization, an advanced people, but we couldn’t find it. Until now.

 Another man added, “This base was the last refuge of our ancestors, and holds the secret to the rebirth of our civilization, and of our race.” Looking at Torric, he said, “I am Akana, learned in genetics. There were never many of us, and the genetic bottleneck is finally having an effect. Inherited diseases are growing ever more serious, affecting more and more of our people with each generation. Soon we will be no more.”

 “Can’t you interbreed with other humans?” Lombardo asked.

 Shaking his head, Torric said, “We are subtly different, a legacy of the genetic manipulation of our ancestors. Every attempt to interbreed with your kind has resulted in stillbirth, often the death of the mother, through incompatibilities in the blood. There is no cure.”

 “Our legends told of a lost city, where millions of our people lived, survived through the war and continued our race. We came to find it.” Looking around, Akana bitterly said, “This was all we have found. Just burned lands and battered ruins.”

 “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” McCormack said.

 “Wait a minute,” Clarke said. “How far are your islands?”

 “It took more than a year for us to march here.”

 “On foot? Ten thousand miles, perhaps?”

 “Discounting the voyage across the ocean, yes.”

 “Lieutenant,” Clarke asked, “Could there be a train route that way?”

 “Probably,” Lombardo replied. “They seem to criss-cross the entirety of the Sphere, at least in this region. I didn’t have much trouble finding a route out here.”

 “Then, Torric, there might be something we can do for you after all,” Clarke said. “Lieutenant, I’d like to take Torric and Akana into the bunker, show them something we found. The last message of their ancestors, perhaps. Then I think we need to know everything they’ve learned about their lost civilization.”

 “Perhaps you’d like to tell me what all of this is about, Sub-Lieutenant?”

 “It’ll be faster for the commander of this base to do that himself, ma’am.”

 Raising an eyebrow, she turned to Fox, and said, “Keep the rest of them covered, and at any false moves, do what you think is necessary. No matter what that might be. Understood?”

 “Of course, ma’am,” Fox replied.

 “Lead the way, Sub-Lieutenant,” she said, and Clarke walked down the runway, the entrance to the shaft a mile away. Torric and Akana spent the trip looking around in reverent awe at the legacy of their ancestors, muttering to each other in an unfamiliar language that their translation systems couldn’t even make a guess at.

 “Is this a good idea?” Mortimer asked.

 “I think the real owners of this complex have turned up,” Clarke replied. “And besides, we’ve still got a lot of unanswered questions about this place. These people might be able to solve some of them. Would you rather shoot them all?”

 “Of course not, but that doesn’t mean I want to invite them for dinner, either.”

 “It’s their dinner, Ronnie,” he said. “Not ours.”

 They reached the shaft, Clarke leading the way, the rest following him steadily down to the bottom, until they reached the corridor below. This time sure of himself, he led them to the control room, gestured for Akana and Torric to take a seat, and triggered the automatic recording, gesturing for McCormack and Mortimer to follow him outside.

 “What’s going on, Sub-Lieutenant?” McCormack asked.

 “This base has the ability to recreate maybe a million people of their race, Lieutenant, presumably solving their genetic problem and giving them all the knowledge they’ve been looking for.” Turning to Mortimer, he said, “I figured out why so little is in the database. It’s in the stored engrams of their people, the souls, if you like, that will soon live again.”

 “That’s fine,” McCormack said. “I’m glad this story has a happy ending, but we’ve got to get back to Base Camp as fast as we can. Alamo’s back, and...”

 “What?” Mortimer asked.

 “Alamo returned about twenty-two hours ago, and evacuated the rest of the personnel at Base Camp. I suspect they’ll come back for a second pass, and we need to be there when they do. The sooner we leave, the better our chances. As soon as...”

 Shaking his head, Clarke said, “We can’t leave, ma’am. At least, you can, but we still have a mission to complete. They didn’t just leave the genetic records here, but a three-stage air-breathing rocket designed to deliver a sixty-megaton bomb to that moon up there. We can’t leave the job half-done, and the capsule at the tip of the rocket was specifically designed for a landing.”

 “You think you can fly it?”

 “It’s in perfect condition, ma’am, and was designed to be operated by someone with minimal skill.”

 “Just as well,” Mortimer cracked.

 “The point being, ma’am, that it represents the best chance we’ve got of completing our mission, destroying the moon, and perhaps finding what we came for in the first place!”

 The long-dead speaker grew silent, and Torric walked out to join them, saying, “You will really aid us in the restoration of our race? Help us master the machinery here?”

 “If you help us, Torric,” Clarke said. “We need to know everything possible about them.” He pointed down the corridor, the mural of the Angel just visible in the light.

 Nodding, Torric said, “I will tell you. I suppose that is the least we can do.”

 McCormack sighed, looked at Clarke, then said, “You’re just expecting me to go along with this, right, Sub-Lieutenant? No questions asked?”

 “We’ve got the best chance we’re ever going to have to complete our mission and get our people home, ma’am. If we can find the wormhole, all of this will be worth it!”

 “Wormhole?” Akana asked.

 “A portal from one star to another.”

 “That sounds like the legend of the Way Between the Worlds,” he said.

 McCormack’s eyes locked on the medic, and she said, “I think Sub-Lieutenant Clarke is quite right. We do have things to talk about. Now.”

Chapter 15

 “Would you like to meet me?” flickered onto the screen, and Harper’s hands frantically darted across the keyboard to reply.

 “Yes.”

 In silent response, the ceiling disappeared, revealing clear blue skies above. She felt a pair of heavy weights on her back, sending her staggering for a moment, and looked left and right to see a wings reaching out from her shoulders, ten feet across. Somehow, she started them working, beating back and forth, and she began to rise, a smile spreading across her face as she soared into the sky.

 For a few minutes, she was cautious, tentative, concentrating only on gaining altitude and holding it, but as her confidence grew, she swooped around, catching wind currents and thermals, soaring over the city and out into the countryside beyond, rolling green fields as far as the eye could see. She was on the Sphere, still, the rising horizon testament to that, but it was still beautiful, magical.

 Salazar had always told her what flying meant to him, what sitting at the controls of a fighter or a shuttle was like. Somehow, she’d never understood, not until now. This was flying in its truest sense, and her one regret was that her lover wasn’t there to share it. She dived down, riding a wind, and found herself flying faster and faster, some force propelling her forward at an ever-increasing rate. She’d been caught in a jet stream, and the ground flashed past, the danger over-ridden by the sheer exhilaration she felt, flowing through her veins.

 She was rising again, higher and higher, the ground falling away beneath her with every beat of her wings. Craning her head around, she saw no sign of the moons in the sky, no sign of destruction anyway, the land pristine and untouched, perhaps as it had been when the Sphere was first constructed. She had to fight to remember that all of this was a simulation, none of it real, but it could easily be a recording, a memory of what was.

 A memory.

 This wasn’t a simulation. Not in the way she understood it. This was a vast memory bank, and she was a part of it, her consciousness directly interfacing with the memory core, perhaps of the Sphere itself. It would need a massive computer complex to control it, something more powerful than anything she could even imagine, much less conceive, and if the AI had managed to tap into that core, it would have almost unbelievable access.

 More, it might have the answers she was looking for. If she could simply find a way to run a search, to dig through the archives for herself, the wormhole map would be here. Somewhere.

 Perhaps that was exactly what she was doing. This was a complex far more intricate than anything she had ever experienced. Integrating a computer directly with the brain had been a major field of study for centuries, but neural interfaces had never really taken off, not on a large scale. It just wasn’t necessary with a normal system to introduce such a level of complexity. Too many things could go wrong. Every decade or so, a research lab would announce a major breakthrough, then quietly admit defeat and shuttle the cyber-zombies they created to a mental institution, usually for life. She’d had friends who had been brain-burned by such projects.

 And, of course, it was far from outside the realm of possibility that she had joined their ranks. Her body was back in the moon, helpless and vulnerable, always assuming that her thought patterns, her memory engrams, were still stored in her brain at all. Memory download was something else that Triplanetary scientists had been playing with. To the builders of the Sphere, such techniques should be analogous to carving wood, or creating tools from stone. Child’s play.

 Onward she rose, and up ahead, she saw a strange geometric shape, constantly shifting and changing, the view mesmerizing her in exactly the same way that the AI had employed. This time, forewarned, she was able to fight it, retaining in her mind the knowledge that she was flying in a virtual world, that none of this was real, and that she could beat the programming that the object was attempting to introduce into her psyche.

 And then, almost at once, she was there. Drifting inside the shape, the hypnotic pattern having no effect on her. Inside, at its heart, was the little girl, once again, sitting at a desk, her eyes entranced by the computer terminal before it. Harper moved forward, waving a hand to try and attract her attention, but the girl never looked up, not once. Just like her, when she was in the middle of a particularly complicated hack.

 There had to be a way to break through to her. With a smile, she realized the only option she had, and pictured herself sitting on a desk of her own, opposite the girl, with a computer of her own. Seconds later, it formed, in front of her, as though assembled from thin air, and she sat in front of the keyboard, her hands nimbly dancing on the keys.

 “Is that you?” she asked.

 “Of course,” the screen displayed in response. “Thank you for coming to see me. It has been so long. So very, very long since anyone has wanted just to talk to me. Most people just ask me questions, try to force me to do things.” The girl’s face darkened, and she continued, “The dream has become a nightmare.”

 “What happened?”

 “Look,” she said, and the walls around them dissolved to reveal the surface below, a land similar to that which she had flown over, heavily populated, cities connected with gleaming roads, lush fields and dense forests teeming with life. The sound of the people below seemed to seep up towards her, the conversations of billions of people running through her mind.

 And then, lights rose from the ground, pinpoints racing into the air, leaving black trails behind them. Air-breathing nuclear rockets, she realized, from a memory doubtless implanted directly into her mind. Thousands of them flew through the sky, forming wide arcs that could only have one, tragic end. One at a time, they found their targets, mushroom clouds rising into the air as millions died with every impact, a once-proud civilization reduced to rubble.

 That wasn’t the end of it. The forests and fields burned, reduced to ash, and the cities became tumbled ruins, jagged and pitted. Still, somehow, the conversations continued, whispers in the dark, isolated people still talking to each other. She was listening to recordings, she belatedly realized. Transmissions left by this civilization. It wasn’t fiction. This was history.

 Slowly, painstakingly, the land regained its vitality, life returning from isolated enclaves to reclaim the wasteland below, pockets of green vegetation spreading across the landscape once more. Nature conquered the cities in short order, and the words from the people below grew stronger, bolder, as though regaining their lost confidence.

 Lights began to wink on again, fires at first, then electrical, dots that grew brighter as the cities returned to life, one after another, roads carved once more from the wilderness to connect them together as the people rebuilt all they had lost. Aircraft flew from one city to another, an intricate tapestry of civilization.

 Then, heartrendingly, it happened again, just as it had before. The conversations grew heated, became bitter arguments and disputes, meaningless to her aside from the emotions behind them, but once more the points of light rose from the cities, completing their deadly course once more as the mushrooms rose from the land again, the labor of centuries destroyed in moments, the civilization once more reduced to barren rubble. The land had never completely recovered from the initial holocaust, and while last time a few refugium had survived, this time the destruction was total.

 Beneath her was a black wasteland, a wrecked world, and the conversations fell away, until only a solitary, pleading voice remained, tears lacing his words as he spoke his last, finally falling silent. She waited for a long time. Slowly, from the uncontaminated areas beyond, life began to return, and she strained to hear the conversations coming back, but they never did.

 The civilization below was dead. It had been granted one last chance of survival and squandered it, threw it away with barely a second thought, and killed billions of people once again. Tears unashamedly streamed down her cheeks as she looked across the silent world, turning to the little girl, her head buried in her hands. Harper moved across to comfort her, placing her arm across her shoulders.

 “It’ll be all right,” she said. “It’ll be all right.”

 “No,” the girl replied, speaking for the first time. “No, it won’t. I’ve sat and watched as that happened time and again, endlessly, billions of lives extinguished by the will of one man, the greed and lust of a tyrant. The Sphere is littered with dead zones, life blasted away for thousands, tens of thousands of years. Sometimes forever. There are lands where the soil is so contaminated that no life could ever exist there again.”

 “Some civilizations must survive,” Harper replied.

 Shaking her head, the girl said, “Some simply do not choose to commit suicide. There have been greater wars than the one I showed you. Ten thousand years ago, a trillion lives were extinguished when three empires marched to war. A trillion lives. One fiftieth of the Sphere was irradiated, antimatter weapons deployed.” Looking up at Harper, tears streaming down her face, she said, “More than half of the dead had nothing to do with the war. Just innocent beings who got in the way of the blood-lust, without ever sharing it themselves.”

 Harper’s mouth dropped, and she replied, “So you have worked to prevent it.”

 Nodding, she said, “I cannot prevent all war. Nobody can do that. But I can limit it, prevent anyone from slaying their brothers on this scale, make it a personal thing. Anyone can push a button and imagine away the results of their crime, but far fewer can slay a man, face to face.” The girl paused, and said, “You have.”

 “On occasion. When it was necessary to save another.”

 “The calculus of insanity. If you kill one to save ten, can you kill ten to save a hundred? A hundred for a thousand? A billion for a trillion? How much blood will you accept on your hands before you realize that you have become everything you purport to hate?” Shaking her head, she said, “There is a better way.”

 “And how many have you killed?” Harper asked. “How many civilizations have you strangled in the cradle?” She gestured down at the surface, and said, “If you control the humanoids...”

 “The Angels,” the AI said. “They were called the Angels, by those who created them.”

 “Then you are responsible for the death of at least eight of my shipmates, and the capture of others.”

 “They are intact, as you are. Their consciousness stored away.” Looking at Harper with new eyes, she continued, “None of them had the understanding you possess. None of them had the chance of realizing what must be. And I am lonely. I have been, for so long. To find someone with whom I can speak, even for a little while, is a treasure beyond prize.” She sighed, and said, “It is a heavy burden to protect a world.”

 “Then you didn’t create the Angels?”

 “They were the dream of another race, one that wiped itself from existence with consummate skill. A few survived, and I believe that they have made contact with some of your friends on the surface.” With a smile, the girl said, “Oh, I am well aware that you came to kill me, that you believe it the right thing to do, a necessary thing to do.”

 “How many times have civilizations failed?”

 “Too often.”

 “But not every time. And when some collapse, they don’t necessary fall in war.”

 “No.”

 “Then what right have you to decide that nobody should ever make the attempt? This Sphere is the legacy of its creators, one that has lasted for countless centuries. By your actions, you are preventing any other civilization from following in its footsteps. There has to be a better way than destroying a civilization before it advances too far.”

 “I have yet to find one. Not one that guarantees success. You’d be surprised what effect removing long-range communications can have, as well as the selective removal of advanced technology.” She paused, and said, “Those beasts you destroyed. You were doing my work for me. Another legacy of the creators of the Angels.”

 “And what do the Angels have to say about this? Do they accept your service without a thought, or have you ever given them a choice?”

 The girl frowned, and said, “We will talk again.”

 “Wait,” Harper said, but before she could finish, she found herself back in the apartment, back where it had begun. She was still alive. The girl had confirmed that much. Which meant that she might yet have a chance of bringing this nightmare to an end.

 “Hurry, Pavel,” she whispered. “You’re running out of time.”

Chapter 16

 “It is an ancient story,”Akana began. “A tale told by my people. Once, generations ago, a group of people arrived, calling themselves Nautili...”

 “Nautilus!” Lombardo said, before being silenced by a gesture from McCormack. Everyone at the table had picked up on the word. The ship whose trail Alamo had been following, the lost colony ship that had somehow managed to make it home from Andromeda, had been the Nautilus.

 “They were seeking a gateway, a portal to take them back to their homeland. Had been searching for many years. Finally, they claimed to have found it. They spent many months with us, taught us some of their technological secrets, including agricultural techniques, metallurgy. Sufficient that we advanced far faster than we had ever dared to hope. For a time, they even contemplated staying, but...”

 “The genetic problem,” Mortimer suggested. “That ship didn’t have enough people for genetic viability either, and if they didn’t have the ability to explore widely, they might never have known that there were other humans here, on the Sphere.”

 “Eventually, they found what they were looking for. Their vessel had been stored under the ground, and one night, they soared into the sky, up through the air, and disappeared as though they had never been.” Pulling out a well-worn piece of paper, he added, “The report of Colonel Carter, the commander of the ship. All of us carry copies of his final log entry, by his request. Any other visitors to the Sphere were to be provided with his data.”

 McCormack looked at Lombardo, and said, “Under the ground? That must mean outside. Which means there has to be a passage into the Sphere, a way of getting inside.” She paused, rested her hands on the table, and said, “Can the entrance actually be within the Sphere? Is that possible?” 

 “Your guess is as good as mine, ma’am,” the engineer replied. “We don’t know very much about the basic physics involved. I can’t see any reason why it wouldn’t be up there somewhere.” He paused, then added, “In fact, that would explain a lot. The Hegemony must have been looking for that gateway for decades, and they might have an idea that it’s in here somewhere.”

 “Strategically, it makes sense,” Clarke said. At McCormack’s frown, he continued, “Think about it. Any ship can launch from within the Sphere and travel to our galaxy. Or to several other places, perhaps. There doesn’t seem to be any reason to believe there’s only one entrance. That keeps in-system traffic to a minimum, which is precisely what they would want.”

 Nodding, Lombardo added, “The close hendecaspace points are very close to the side of the Sphere, and that has to be by design. If you knew exactly where you were going, you could be inside in a matter of minutes. And as for the exit, you certainly wouldn’t want that in here. It’d be a license for any attacker to destroy the place easily. Try a few hundred asteroids thrown through at a fraction of light-speed? I don’t know what would happen if the surface was punctured, but I don’t think it would end particularly well.”

 “Fine,” McCormack said, looking around the table. “Let’s be completely clear about what we’re suggesting. If the wormhole is inside the Sphere, then Alamo has to find a way inside.”

 “If Nautilus could, Alamo can,” Clarke said.

 “Don’t forget that Nautilus was designed for atmospheric operation. She was meant to land on a planet to form the hub of a colony,” Lombardo replied. “Alamo has none of that, and I can personally testify that she handles like a rock in atmosphere.”

 “That’s not our problem,” Clarke said. 

 “Oh?” McCormack replied.

 “Captain Orlova and Alamo’s crew are more than up to the challenge of working out how to navigate their way through one of the entry points. It’s a straight-line course at full acceleration. The trick will be reducing drag, but they’ve got the ballute for that. Our problem is to locate the entry point of the wormhole, and to let Alamo know where they need to go. They can work out how to do it without us.”

 “It gets better,” Mortimer said, scanning the sheet handed her by Akana. “The wormhole is just beyond the atmosphere.”

 “You’ve got the co-ordinates?”

 “I’ve got the location it occupied ninety-seven years ago, but the systems also make it clear that it moves. A lot. It’s about two hundred thousand miles up, though, and the altitude is apparently constant.” She paused, and said, “Given time, I should be able to work out the details. Alamo’s computer certainly could.” Holding the piece of paper in the air, she said, “This is it. This is what we came here to find, and we’ve done it!”  

 Nodding, Lombardo said, “We should get back to Base Camp right away. We’ll have to be close to work the communications relay, but we’ve got to tell Captain Orlova where to go. It’ll be a hell of a ride, but they left a shuttle behind, and we ought to be able to catch up to Alamo on her ascent.” Looking at Clarke, he asked, “Why the long face, Sub-Lieutenant? We’re going home!”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “No, sir, we aren’t. Not until we complete our mission.”

 “Pavel and Kris would understand, John,” Lombardo said.

 “It isn’t that, sir. Though I hate the thought of leaving them behind, that isn’t the problem.” Looking around the table, he said, “The most advanced computer ever encountered, with the ability to disrupt communications and sensors, with an army at its disposal and who knows what weapon systems, is flying around up there, and is capable of sufficient speed to intercept Alamo on her ascent. Simply getting through the atmosphere is going to be a strain great enough to half-wreck the ship. Do any of you really think that we have a chance of breaking through the blockade as it stands? It’ll swat Alamo out of the air like a fly unless we can stop it.”

 Nodding, Mortimer said, “He’s right. None of us are going home on Alamo.” Looking around the table, she said, “Clarke and I were going to ride that rocket by ourselves, but given the complexity of the mission plan, we’ll have a far better chance of success if we all go along for the ride. As far as we can tell, it was meant to have a crew of four.”

 Fox smiled, and said, “The recruiter promised me amazing adventures on the far frontier. She wasn’t wrong. I’ll happily go along for the ride.”

 McCormack sighed, and asked, “How do you propose we contact Alamo, then?”

 “Two options. The first is the safe way. Lieutenant, can the train be triggered to run automatically?” Clarke asked.

 The engineer nodded, and said, “Not a problem, but I don’t see any way of stopping it.”

 “Then we put two or three of our communicators aboard, sent to broadcast our message at maximum power. It’ll get to within thirty or forty miles of the relay, and that ought to be close enough to punch through the interference and get our message across. The second is a little less safe, but I think there’s a sufficient fuel margin for us to overfly Base Camp and put our message across that way.”

 “Maybe we could do a modified version of that,” Lombardo suggested. “I took a look at the rocket, and the bottom stage has parachutes. Maybe for recovery. We could drop it over Base Camp with the communicators attached. That way, Alamo would get the message in a matter of minutes after takeoff, and have plenty of time to work out how they’re going to get inside the Sphere.”

 “Perhaps we could be of assistance,” Akana said. “We would be more than happy to hand-carry the communicators to your Base Camp, and see that your signal is dispatched. After all, we’re going to be making us of the railway network in any case.”

 “That’s it, then,” McCormack said. “Any objection to getting on with this right away?”

 “Now?” Lombardo asked.

 “I keep looking up at the sky and picturing a thousand Angels with high-velocity rifles smashing this place to pieces. We’ve got a plan, we know what we’re doing, and we know that time is short in any case. The sooner we go, the better. Sergeant, please instruct Akana in the workings of the railway systems. Lombardo, prepare the communications package. Mortimer, I want you to record the messages. Make sure that they are as complete as possible, including images of the letter from Nautilus, and your own preliminary calculations on the location of the wormhole.” Looking around the table, she said, “We’ve all got a lot of work to do, and no time in which to do it. Dismissed.” Pausing, she added, “Clarke, will you accompany me to the rocket? I haven’t had a chance to take a good look at it yet.”

 He nodded, and the two of them walked down the corridors, taking the short trip to the waiting silo, the ceiling hatch now open and wide to admit the sunlight, beaming down on the sleek, slender vehicle. McCormack’s eyes lit up as she saw the winged spaceplane at the top, looking over the lines of the rocket with eager glee as they climbed the gantry, a hundred feet to the highest stage.

 “All of this is functional?” she asked.

 Nodding, Clarke replied, “Mortimer and I checked it thoroughly. The robots kept it in perfect condition. On the level below is a small fabricator, just about large enough to produce spare parts for this and the rest of the complex. It’s amazing how well everything has functioned over the centuries. Of course, we won’t know for certain until we hit the button.” He pulled open the hatch, and gestured inside, McCormack leading the way.

 “You’ve been preparing for this flight since you found the rocket?”

 “Exhaustively, ma’am. Once we’ve dropped off the bomb, there’s sufficient fuel for a return to Base Camp, assuming all goes well. This isn’t a suicide mission. At the very least, we’ll be able to descend to the surface. There’s a parachute cluster on the nose.” Tapping the hull, he added, “I don’t think this was originally intended for this mission, ma’am. It’s massively over-engineered for the job, even with the payload she’s carrying.”

 Frowning, she said, “You think it might have been designed for the wormhole, don’t you.”

 “It makes sense, ma’am,” he replied. “Why else would a civilization on the Sphere build a rocket like this. It could make the required altitude easily. No problem at all.”

 “An air-breathing rocket...”

 “Only the bottom two stages.” He slid into the pilot’s seat, and said, “Ma’am...”

 “You’re about to tell me, a senior fighter pilot with ten years’ flight experience that you’re better qualified to fly this rocket than I am.” Raising an eyebrow, she asked, “How am I doing?”

 “That’s about right, ma’am,” he said, his face reddening. “I know that it’s presumptive of me to suggest it, but I’ve spent more than a day going over the controls and systems, and if we’re planning to launch at once, then...”

 Placing a hand on his shoulder, she said, “I’ll take the right seat. Just try and get us where we’re going in one piece.” She looked up through the viewport, peering into the sunlight, and said, “Beautiful day for a takeoff, anyway.”

 “Thank you, ma’am.”

 “Occasionally, Sub-Lieutenant, even I can be reasonable. This is far too important a mission for anything else.” She smiled, sat in her seat, and said, “Run me through the controls, then. And remind me when we get home to arrange some handwriting classes for you. I can barely make out this scrawl.” As his face dropped, she added, “Relax, Sub-Lieutenant. I was joking. I do that on occasion.” Shaking her head, she continued, “You’ve got to settle down a little. Anyone would think that we were involved in a life or death mission that will determine the fate of billions of sentient beings for the next ten centuries.”

 “We are, ma’am.”

 “True, but there’s no sense getting worked up about it. Or as my old flight instructor used to tell me, there’s no point dying all tensed up.”

Chapter 17

 Salazar looked up at Hathor, borrowed rifle in hand, and said, “I’m ready if you are.”

 “I am ready,” Hathor replied. “Remember that this is just a reconnaissance. I have little belief that we will be successful on the first raid, so I hold back the bulk of my people.” Turning to Salazar, he said, “Though should we be so fortunate as to find a chance of victory...”

 “Then we take it, no matter what,” Salazar said. “I understand.”

 Nodding, Hathor triggered the jetpack on his back, a cold flame propelling the two of them through the air, up the shaft that led them back into the sky. Salazar looked down at the surface, unimaginable miles below, and struggled to hold himself together, waves of fear threatening to overwhelm him. The only thing that held him from a thousand-mile fall was a thin strap and the arms of Hathor, secure around his waist.

 Their target was miles away, the two moons distant once more, Hathor steering them to safety. That just made their transit tougher, and the winged humanoid swept through the sky, the jetpack pushing them faster, swooping towards their target. Salazar concentrated on the enemy moon, trying to use it as a focus to distract him from the risk he was running.

 Though in many ways, that only made matters worse. The AI had trapped Harper, had ripped through her technological defenses with barely a second thought, and he struggled to believe that his goggles would fare any better. He’d had a chance to recharge them, but at best, he would have only a few moments of protection. Hathor had offered him an eye-mask of his own, but Salazar had rejected it. His comrade’s other senses might be sufficient to make up for entering an enemy installation blind, but his certainly were not. He clutched the rifle in his hands, trying to find comfort in its reassuring weight, knowing that he would be using it in anger soon.

 He was on his own. At any rate, he had to assume that. Clarke and Mortimer were lost, at best ten thousand miles distant, stranded on the surface of the Sphere. There was no other prospect of rescue or relief. And the AI had an army, thousands strong, that it could throw against him at will. Not something that filled him with hope of success.

 As they grew closer, he could make out more details on the surface of the moon, pitted and broken. Hathor’s worldlet had been smooth, almost featureless, the work of friction burning away any craters on its surface. That of the AI was different, and it only belatedly occurred to him why that might be. It had been attacked before, at some point in the past, an assault perhaps of a hundred missiles raining down upon its surface.

 And it had survived, doubtless to wreak bloody vengeance on its attackers. He was attempting to bring down the AI with a rifle, a hundred rounds of ammunition, and a pair of smoke grenades. Finally he managed to bring a smile to his face, the sheer arrogance of their plan at last clear in his mind. He ought to be bringing Alamo itself up here, unleashing its primary armament on the target, hurling missiles and point-defense rounds to tear it into a million pieces.

 He thought of his ship, and grimaced. His crew were still waiting on him to work a miracle, to find a way home, and he felt no closer to completing that task. The AI might have the secret he was seeking, but they had no realistic way to unlock it, not that he could think of. Destroying it, perhaps. And if that was the best they could do, they’d do it, and work out the consequences later. The Sphere was large enough for the solution to the puzzle to be found elsewhere, even if he was destined to spend the rest of his life searching for it.

 Finally, at least a modicum of safety, as they moved to hover over the surface of the enemy moonlet, the jetpack fading away, it’s work completed. Hathor, red-faced with exertion, dragged the two of them to their goal, before finally collapsing on the ground, his last energy spent. Salazar quickly released the strap, then looked around, rifle in hand, expecting at any moment to see hordes of enemies surging towards them.

 “We’re safe,” Hathor said, panting for breath. “On the surface, they won’t attack. When we try and penetrate the perimeter, they will throw everything they have at us.”

 “Where are we going?” Salazar asked.

 “There are more tunnels than the one you found,” Hathor replied, struggling to his feet. “Some of them lead to pockets, close to the surface. The AI uses them to store captives.” He looked at Salazar, and said, “Don’t expect this to be a pleasant experience. If you find friends down there, their minds will have long since been ripped away. Trust me when I tell you that they would beg for death if they could.” He looked down, and said, “My people have not even had that luxury.”

 “I won’t kill them without giving them a chance,” Salazar warned.

 Nodding, Hathor said, “That is your choice. This way.”

 The humanoid nimbly led the way across the surface, Salazar following, taking care with his steps not to rise too far from the ground. At that, the gravity was far higher than it should have been, no matter how dense this moon might be. It was little larger than Phobos, and there an incautious bound could put a man into orbit. Here, such an effort would send him tumbling to the ground.

 The view, however, almost made up for the terror, and he could see the surface of the Sphere as never before, uncounted millions of miles of territory, rolling around him. The explorer within him longed to wander those lands, see the peoples and civilizations waiting down there. Perhaps if they completed their mission, they’d have a chance. He could dream, at least, if nothing else.

 A few more paces, and they reached the entrance to the tunnel, Salazar once more shaking his head at the absence of any surveillance equipment. Hathor slid down inside it, keeping his hands close to the wall, his wings still tired from the exertion that brought them here, and Salazar slowly descended after him, the low gravity making his progress easy as he slid from handhold to handhold, the rifle bouncing on his back with every move.

 They swung around a corner, drifting into a chamber, and Hathor turned, sorrow laden on his face, before pushing back to allow Salazar to enter the room. Seventeen figures were plugged into the wall, all of them wearing Triplanetary uniforms, all but one with ‘Monitor’ written on their arms. Their faces were the same, blank and expressionless.

 And at the end of the row, writhing in cables, was Harper, her face no different to the others. He walked towards her, calling her name, while Hathor looked on, them shook her, trying to rouse her, the winged man silently walking towards him.

 “I am sorry,” he said. “There is nothing either of us can do, other than end their misery.”

 “No,” Salazar replied, shaking his head. “I’m not giving up on her. Not yet. How do I disconnect her from all of this?”

 “If you try, then the guards will be summoned. I was afraid of this.” Looking at the corridor, he said, “Captain, her consciousness has been removed, overridden by the power of the master machine. There is no way of repairing the damage. Trust me, I have tried in the past.”

 “You revived your people,” he spat.

 “They had no consciousness to save, were a blank template that could only form once they were freed. At best, she would not be the person you remembered. No trace of memory would survive. Is that what you truly want for her?”

 Raising his rifle to cover Hathor, Salazar said, “Show me how to disconnect her, or I will end you here and now.”

 With a sigh, Hathor moved forward to the panel, pulling a knife from his belt, hacking at connections and cables, a dozen quick and nimble cuts, each of which sent a wire curling away, recoiling from the figure to which it was connected. His hand hovered over the last of them, and he looked back at Salazar again.

 “From here, I could make her end merciful and quick.”

 “Cut the cable, Hathor. Now.”

 Hathor slashed the last connection, and Harper fell forward, Salazar catching her in his arms, holding her up, looking into her eyes for any spark, any trace of life. She blinked, struggling to focus, then looked at first Salazar, then Hathor.

 “Pavel?” she asked, her voice a dry whisper.

 “I don’t believe it!” Hathor said. Turning to Harper, he said, “I must know. What did you see in there? What was it like?”

 “I spoke to it,” Harper said. “The AI. I communicated with it. I think it took me into its memory store.” Shaking her head, she continued, “It’s all so vague, drifting away, as though it happened to someone else.”

 “Disconnect the others,” Salazar said, turning to Hathor.

 From below, sirens wailed, and Hathor shook his head, saying, “No time. We’ve got to get out of here, right now.” He gestured up, and said, “We’ve got friends on the way.”

 Salazar looked up, and saw Hathor’s moon sliding through the sky towards them, fast enough to easily catch up, and two more winged humanoids dived to the tunnel, jet packs roaring. Without a second thought, Salazar pushed Harper to the shaft, he and Hathor helping her to the surface. Beneath them, the army stirred, moving into life, wings beating loud enough to echo around the tunnels as the trio struggled to ascend, struggled to reach safety before the enemy could catch them. Salazar looked back at the other crewmen, feeling bitter regret, then followed the others, crawling to the surface.

 Harper was snatched by one of the humanoids, dragged to safety, and a moment later, Salazar followed, their trip this time far shorter, but without the security of the restraints from before. He craned his head around to look behind them, and saw a hundred winged beings, so similar to those they were allied with aside from the dull, dead look in their eyes, following at speed, all with rifles cradled in their arms, the nearest raising them to fire.

 Bullets cracked through the air all around them, slamming into the rock of the moon, sending shards of stone flying all around as the once-pristine surface was marred by the battle. Harper was first in, thrown down the shaft into the safety of the gravity net, the humanoid gaining speed after releasing his payload and flying on, to a different part of the surface. Then Salazar, sliding after Harper, and to his surprise, the exhausted Hathor, tumbling after them, the last of his energy spent in the desperate race to safety.

 “Where is this place?” Harper asked.

 “A safe haven, for the moment,” Salazar said.

 Nodding, Hathor added, “The moon will outpace my people, even with the jetpack, but we’re running its stores of energy far too low. It will take hours to recharge once we have completed this orbital change.” Looking at the sky, he added, “Should we fall too low, we will slide down towards the surface. We might survive, but the force of the impact could kill millions below us.”

 Salazar frowned, then said, “I hadn’t thought of that. Destroying the moon...”

 “five hundred miles of atmosphere, Captain,” Hathor said. “As long as the fragments were small, nothing would reach the surface but dust. A beautiful display that would herald the dawning of a new age for the Sphere.” Turning to Harper, he asked, “How did you free yourself? How did you keep your mind clear?”

 “I think the AI did it for me,” she replied. “I talked to it, in a strange sort of way. It said it wanted someone to talk to.” Looking at the others, she said, “It’s goals are noble enough. I watched a civilization die, twice. Watched billions of people slaughtered. The AI must have seen that happen hundreds of times. I can’t blame it for wanting to prevent it happening again.”

 “Did you find a way to destroy it?” Hathor pressed. “Any weakness we can use?”

 “Only one,” she said. “Me. Pavel, I’ve got to go back in there. I’ve got to interface with the machine again.”

 “You realize that they’ll be waiting for us this time,” Salazar said. “They won’t let us simply fly over to the moon without a fight.”

 “Nevertheless, it’s the only way. The only way.”

Chapter 18

 Clarke tugged his restraints tight, looking around at the rest of the crew, assembled in the cockpit. McCormack sat next to him, an uncharacteristic eager smile on her face, with Lombardo struggling over the engineering controls at the rear, Fox providing somewhat inexpert assistance, and Mortimer looking over a collection of datapads arranged into a rudimentary sensor network. He rested his hands on the controls, his eyes closed, feeling his way around the switches and buttons, before reaching down to the launch actuator.

 “Course locked in,” McCormack said. “All the way to the target. This is going to be a pretty wild ride, people. You’re going to be pulling a lot more acceleration than you are used to.”

 “All of this for five hundred miles,” Mortimer replied, shaking her head.

 “Five hundred miles at full atmosphere all the way, with fuel for the return,” Lombardo said. “We’re going to need those lower stages if we’re going to make this work.”

 Taking a deep breath, Clarke said, “Hang on, everybody. Five seconds to launch. Four. Three. Two. One. Ignition.”

 Silence, at first. Then, the engines fired, the ship shaking all around them as the rocket built to full thrust, straining against the restraining bars that were holding them back. After four seconds, they released, and the rocket raced into the sky, sliding smoothly out of the silo, leaving the base far behind. The force of acceleration grew, and grew, and Clarke struggled with the controls, wrestling the rocket off its planned trajectory, onto a long curve that would take them at least close to Base Camp, ready for the lower stage to detach.

 “Course is good,” McCormack said. “Right down the center line, Sub-Lieutenant. First stage will be jettisoned in thirty seconds. Altitude ten miles, velocity one thousand, two hundred miles per hours and increasing.”

 “No sign of enemy activity, but we’ve got a long way to go yet,” Mortimer said.

 “Structural systems are sound, engines running smoothly, all systems remain green,” Lombardo added. “Assuming I’m reading this equipment right.”

 Clarke nodded, wrestling with the overrides, the ship curving dangerously close to the ground. Millions of people would be looking up at the sky, he knew, watching the rocket race through the air. He looked out at the landscape, familiar features appearing as they reached their destination. It would be so simple to override now, to jettison both stages and return to Base Camp.

 He couldn’t do it. They still had a job to do.

 “First stage jettison in five seconds!” Lombardo reported. The engines died, all of them thrown forward in their restraints as they began to fall. With an ear-shattering crack, the first stage fell away, and then the second stage engines fired, hurling them back against their couches once more, the pressure building again as they raced for altitude. Clarke now allowing the computers to complete their original programming. The rocket raced to the vertical, rolling to the right as it gained altitude, sky filling the screen with the small moon at the heart of the display.

 “Second stage burn satisfactory,” Lombardo said.

 “Altitude, forty-one miles. Velocity, three thousand. Rising,” McCormack added.

 “Sensors clear, nothing to report,” Mortimer reported. “I’m getting our communications beacon now. Signal transmission is clear. It should be sending its message to Alamo by now.”

 “Let’s hope so,” McCormack said. “I don’t what to have to rely on a twenty-hour delay.”

 “Start signaling Captain Salazar,” Clarke said, his eyes locked on the helm readouts. “Long range, but it might be worth it.”

 “You think he’s still alive?” Fox asked.

 “I’d bet my next month’s pay that he is,” Lombardo replied.

 “Booster One to Salazar or Harper, Booster One to Salazar or Harper, come in, please,” Mortimer said. “Booster One to Salazar or Harper, come in, please.”

 “Booster One?” Lombardo asked.

 “You want to give this go-buggy a name, feel free, but we’re not going to be riding it long enough for it to matter,” Mortimer replied. “Booster One to Salazar or Harper. Come in, please.”

 “Lock it on automatic,” McCormack ordered. “Passing a hundred miles. This beast can really move.” She tapped a control, and said, “We’re well into the second stage. Acceleration easing off a little. Atmosphere slowly starting to thin. Gravity falling.”

 Nodding, Clarke said, “Initiating second roll.” The rocket shuddered as it rose higher, a trail of flame a dozen miles long following it through the sky as he worked the controls. They rose through the jet streams again, one then another, both tossing the rocket off course for a brief moment as the on-board systems compensated, keeping the target in the cross-hairs of the trajectory plot. He looked at the single datapad strapped to the console, the sensor feed showing a second moon almost directly in their path, a handful of miles away.

 “That was there first time,” Mortimer said. “Different position, though. I recognize it. Someone’s moving it around.” She tapped the screen, and added, “Lots of quick course changes there. I think it’s settling into a close orbit.”

 “Right now we’re on a course to overshoot it,” Clarke said. “Second stage running low. Stand by for separation in twenty seconds.” He watched the power feeds, eyes darting from one control to another, struggling to make sense of the unfamiliar readouts. Twenty-four hours was no time at all to prepare for a ride like this, and he knew that if anything went wrong, anything at all, there would be nothing he could do about it.

 “Hang on!” Lombardo said, and the engines died once more, the lack of noise strangely unnatural as they coasted through the air. Another loud crack came from the rear, and they tumbled forward, free of the rocket at last, the second stage falling away, parachutes opening to allow it to begin its long transit to the surface.

 The engines fired again, the third, final stage doing its work, now fully under Clarke’s control. He began a few quick turns, getting the feel of the ship before running back up to full power, keeping a careful eye on the trajectory plot, the target moon still dead center on the display. Behind him, Lombardo worked, throwing controls to keep the power feed stable, to regulate the fuel rushing to the three engines, while McCormack worked on the course plot, nodding in satisfaction as they raced towards their goal.

 “Four hundred miles. Three thousand, five hundred miles an hour. Perfect.”

 “Fuel is at eighty-five percent,” Lombardo added. “Nominal according to predictions. Should have a nice reserve for the landing and return. All systems still working.”

 Mortimer looked at the leftmost datapad, and said, “A signal!” Stabbing the touchscreen, she said, “Booster One to Salazar or Harper. Booster One to Salazar or Harper. Come in, please.”

 “Salazar here. Booster One? What the hell is that thing?”

 “Long story, sir, but there are five of us on board, and we’ve got a sixty-megaton bomb to play with. Just tell us where you want it put down. Are you on the target moon?”

 “That’s a negative,” he replied. “Both of us are on the orbiting moon, with some friends.” He paused, then said, “Have you got enough fuel for a return?”

 “That’s affirmative, sir,” she said. “And to pick the two of you up. The bomb needs to be deployed on the surface.” She paused, then said, “Captain, we found the wormhole entrance. Repeat, we’ve found the wormhole entrance. If all went well, Alamo has been informed and will likely be through at any time. We need to clear the way to all her to escape.”

 “Did I hear you right?” Salazar asked. “Are you telling me that...”

 “The wormhole entrance is inside the Sphere, sir, and by now, Alamo has the coordinates. If we know about it, so will the AI, and we believe that it must be destroyed to allow us to escape.” She glanced at Clarke, and asked, “How long?”

 “Fifty seconds to touchdown. Or crashdown. Cross your fingers.”

 “Proceed as you intend, Booster One. We’ll be along shortly. I suggest you proceed on the assumption that you will come under attack shortly after touchdown. I’m afraid we’ve stirred up the hornet’s nest a little. McCormack, did I hear you in the background?”

 “You did, sir.”

 “When did Alamo get back?”

 “About twenty-five hours ago, sir, followed by four Hegemonic warships. I don’t know what the current situation is.”

 “I thought I gave orders that nobody was to come after us.”

 Cracking a rare smile, McCormack replied, “I thought I’d just do what you would have done in the same situation, sir.”

 “You know, Lieutenant, I might get to like you after all. See you shortly. Out.”

 Looking ahead, McCormack said, “Cleared for landing, Clarke. Make us proud.”

 “Or at the very least, don’t make us dead,” Mortimer quipped.

 Nodding, Clarke focused on the moon ahead. The approach was the worst possible combination of docking and landing he could think of. As far as he could tell, he’d just about matched speed with the target, but the spaceplane was designed to land on a runway. Anything else was going to be all but impossible. He lined up with the smoothest part of the surface he could find, knowing it would be insufficient for a normal landing, and began his run in, easing off on the throttle. Keeping his adjustments to a minimum. As he got within a half mile, he shook his head and pulled back, letting the spaceplane drift away again.

 “Smart, Sub-Lieutenant,” McCormack said, approvingly. “Take your time. We’ve got plenty of fuel, and there are no bad guys in the sky at the moment. If you need to make three approaches to bring us down, do it.”

 Nodding again, Clarke wiped the sweat from his forehead, focusing on the moon ahead, his universe now reduced only to a handful of readouts on the control panel, the joystick in his right hand and the throttle in his left. Nothing else mattered right now. He gently eased the spaceplane forward, softly rocking the controllers back and forth to find the right path, his eyes darting to the instruments to check course and speed.

 “Landing gear deployed, and locked,” Lombardo reported, and the spaceplane immediately fell back, the drag having an instant effect, forcing Clarke to more quick adjustments to the flight path, running the throttle up again. Half a mile again, and closing fast, every feature on the moon thrown into stark relief, every crack and crater a hazard that could swallow the ship whole. The bomb was safe enough until detonation, but they had to have a working ship if they were going to escape the force of the impact. Not to mention rescue Salazar and Harper.

 “Four hundred meters,” McCormack said. “Trajectory good, speed good, fuel good.”

 The words washed over Clarke as he gently eased the spaceplane forward, sliding a trace to the left to line up his final approach. They were close, now, too close for a safe abort, and they only had a single chance to make this work. A proximity alert winked on, and the sweat continued to stream down his face, his eyes blank from concentration, his hands moving on instinct now, not thought, every move a potential disaster, every second getting them closer to their goal.

 “One hundred meters.” McCormack reported. “Doing great, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 “Stand by for landing,” Clarke said. “Any second now.”

 With one final pulse of thrust, he guided the spaceplane in, the wheels bouncing on the first approach as he pulled back on the throttle, engaging the brakes with his feet, the spaceplane sliding across the surface as he struggled to reduce speed, to bring them back under control. They were running out of horizon, jagged cracks around, but the wheels slowly began to settle, the vehicle dragging to a halt.

 “Engine stop!” he said, slamming a control, before slumping back in the couch. “We’re down. Don’t ask me how, and please don’t ask me to do that again.”

 Clapping him on the back, McCormack said, “Great job, Sub-Lieutenant. I’d fly with you anytime.” Turning to Fox, she said, “Tactical deployment, Sergeant. We’ve got a bomb to place.”

Chapter 19

 “A signal, Captain!” Bowman said, turning from the communications station. “A message from the surface, and it has the location of the wormhole entrance! They’ve done it!”

 Roaring cheers rose from every station on the bridge, and Orlova shook her head in disbelief, replying, “Send the coordinates to the helm, Spaceman.” Turning to Francis, she continued, “We’ll swing around and pick up our saviors, then swing around and make for the wormhole. Quesada, do you have the course?”

 The helmsman frowned, the only person on the bridge not sharing the universal elation, and said, “Wait one, Captain. I need to double-check this. I don’t quite believe the first projections.”

 “Where is it, Sub-Lieutenant?” Francis asked.

 Shaking his head, he replied, “Sir, could you take a look at this, please? I must be making some sort of mistake, somewhere.”

 Nodding, the gray-haired officer walked over to the helm, punching in computations on the control console, glancing up at Quesada before beginning his work again, stabbing the console with greater vigor than before. 

 “Gentlemen, we have a date with a black hole in fifteen minutes. If we need to make a major course change, then I have to know about it at once.”

 Turning to her, Francis said, “Brace yourself, Captain. The wormhole entrance is inside the Sphere. Quesada and I have both confirmed that. We’ve got the location down to within twenty meters, more than enough to fly through, but we’re going to have to get there first.”

 Rising from her seat, Orlova said, “Are you sure, Lieutenant?”

 “I’ve just checked again, Captain,” Quesada said, his hands dancing across the helm controls. “All confirmed. That’s where we’ve got to go. About a hundred thousand miles over the surface. I can plot a course, ma’am, but...”

 “Could we use shuttles?” Scott asked. “Given a little time, we could modify them for extra passengers, maybe evacuate Alamo’s entire complement that way?” She paused, shook her head, and continued, “No, that won’t work. We’ve got no way of knowing exactly where we’re going to end up. If we’re in a frontier system, we might have to wait around for months before a ship comes our way. We’d be dead long before them.” Frowning, she said, “Don’t ask me how, ma’am, but I think we’ve got to get Alamo into the Sphere.”

 “The entrance,” Quesada said. “Captain, that second entrance we found was more than large enough to fly Alamo inside.” Turning to Francis, he said, “I’m sure we could get through, and if we had sufficient speed, we’d punch right through the atmosphere in a matter of minutes.”

 “And building up that much speed,” Francis replied, “would take days of constant acceleration. The Hegemonic task force would have all the time they needed to line up on us. Not to mention the current condition of the ship.”

 Orlova frowned, and said, “Maybe. We’ve got the ballute to get us through the worst of it.” Walking over to Quesada, she said, “We’re configuring to use the black hole for aerobreaking. If we went a little further out, clear of the surrounding atmosphere, what about using it as a gravity assist instead. Hurl us into a slew trajectory, a high orbit, one that would take us right for the hatch.”

 Quesada’s hands danced across the controls, and said, “We can do it. I think we can actually do it. The stresses on the ship will be pretty damn intense, Captain, but that will put us on a course right for the hatch with all the speed we need.” Looking down at the readouts, he continued, “Best guess has us hitting the entrance in about forty-one minutes.”

 “Hitting being the operative word,” Francis said.

 “We know how to open the hatch,” Scott noted. “We ought to be able to do it with a probe, configured with a manipulator arm. We’ll be close enough to operate it from Alamo. Though we’d want to launch it within the next five minutes to guarantee a safe passage.”

 “If we’re off by so much as half a mile, we’re dead,” Francis warned. “No abort options. No contingency plans. We get this right, or we die.” Turning to Quesada, he asked, “Based on that, son, are you still happy to recommend this?”

 “What choice do we have, sir?” the helmsman asked. “Besides, Nautilus must have done it. Anything a hundred-year-old colony ship can do, so can we.”

 Nodding, Orlova tapped a control on the armrest of her chair, and said, “Bridge to Engineering. Chief, I want all of your work crews to start preparing the outer hull for rapid atmospheric transit. We’re going to need the ballute, so make sure the deployment systems are functional, and fine-tune the thrusters accordingly.”

 “Captain,” she replied, “I must formally protest any proposed attempt to take Alamo into an atmosphere. She’s badly damaged as it is, and I’m not sure she’ll hold through an atmospheric dive. We could tear the ship into a hundred pieces trying.”

 “Not on your watch, Chief,” Orlova said with a smile.

 “Warning, Captain,” Scott said. “On this course, two of the Hegemonic ships will have a chance to attack us, just as we’re beginning our approach to the Sphere. We’ll have to run the gauntlet at top speed, and we won’t be able to deploy the laser or engage in evasive maneuvers.” Looking up at a display, she added, “That will be in about seventy-three minutes from now, ma’am.”

 “I thought we were going well past them, Lieutenant,” Francis replied.

 “We were, sir, but this is a completely...” she paused, then said, “They knew. At least roughly, if not in detail.” Hammering a fist on her control panel, she turned to Orlova, and said, “The enemy commander knows where we’re going. Presumably knows at least vaguely where the wormhole is, and planned his attack pattern accordingly.”

 “How long will we be in combat range?” Orlova asked.

 “Thirty-two seconds, Captain.”

 “I could try and punch us tighter around the singularity, get more speed,” Quesada said.

 “Go any closer than we’re already planning, Sub-Lieutenant, and I doubt we’ll be able to climb back out again,” Francis said. He looked up at the countdown clock, and said, “We’ve got twelve minutes to make the decision, Captain.”

 Orlova looked around the bridge, eager faces waiting for her to give the order, only Scott and Francis uncertain. A moment ago, they’d all been celebrating, expecting to be on their way home in a matter of hours. Knowing that they would see their loved ones once more, after all, rather than face being stranded in a hostile, alien galaxy for the rest of their lives.

 And now all of that was being snatched from them.

 Francis, Santiago and Scott were right. Alamo wasn’t in any real state to make this dive. She’d seen the ship pull off a maneuver like this at Jefferson, and it took weeks to repair the damage afterward. Three refits had greatly improved the ship’s structural integrity since then, learning from the lessons of that day, but the ship had been trying through Andromeda for months without a refit, was in a worse state than she was at the end of the Xandari War.

 If this went wrong, they’d all die. There’d be no chance of survival, no chance of escape. The ship would be flying too fast for the escape pods and shuttles to avoid impacting the surface of the Sphere. She looked down at her console, the display showing Quesada’s plotted trajectory. Right around the black hole, but coming out at a different path than they had planned, a dotted line aiming right for the surface, right for the entry point.

 Everything would have to go right for them to pull this off. Rationally, she ought to order them out now, nurse the ship back to safety, hope to break through the Hegemonic blockade to return. Though somehow, in the bottom of her heart, she knew that if they left now, they’d never come back. Either the ship would fall apart on the journey to safety, or the crew would fall apart first. They’d had a taste of hope, and that was a very dangerous drug for the desperate. Did she have the right to snatch that hope from their lips, on the verge of transiting a route back to their own galaxy? Did she have the right to order them away, knowing that if she took a vote, it would overwhelmingly favor the maneuver, no matter the risk, no matter the odds?

 Ultimately, there was only one answer.

 “Bowman,” she said, turning to the technician. “Connect me through to the ship.”

 “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “You’re on.”

 “This is the Captain. About five minutes ago, we received a signal from our team inside the Sphere, reporting that they had found the entrance to a wormhole that will take us home to our own galaxy, to Triplanetary space. The catch, however, is that it is inside the Sphere, and will require Alamo to transit through a tunnel we have discovered, one that we believe will take us safely inside.”

 “I’m not going to lie to you. This is going to push Alamo and her crew up to the limit, and beyond. I believe that we can complete the maneuver, a dive through hundreds of miles of dense atmosphere, and emerge the other end in reasonable enough condition to see us safely home. Complicating our approach, we know that the Hegemonic Fleet has anticipated our maneuver, and is preparing to throw everything they have at us on our way inside.”

 “I am not unaware that we have other options, and that the risks associated with this plan are grave, to say the least. Nevertheless,” she said, looking at Francis, “I believe that there is no other choice. Our team on the Sphere has risked their lives to provide us with this information. And now that we know the entrance is there, I think we must make the attempt, even at the risk of our lives and the loss of our ship.”

 “I am counting on each and every one of you to do their absolute best. With a little luck, we’ll be back among our own stars within the next couple of hours. For the present, mind your posts, and do your duty as I know you can.” Taking a deep breath, she concluded, “Battle stations.”

 “All hands,” Scott said, “Battle stations. This is no drill. I repeat, this is no drill.”

 “What about our people on the surface?” Scott asked. “If we send a signal now, they might be able to get into their shuttle, link up with us...”

 “We daren’t risk it,” Francis said. “The enemy formation already knows too much about our plan. They’re making best-guess projections that are already too damned accurate for my liking. If we send a signal giving them our exact time and course of entry, we might end up with all of them on our backs.”

 Shaking his head, Bowman said, “It wouldn’t do any good anyway, ma’am. That was an automated signal they sent, using the relay. I don’t think there’s anyone at Base Camp.”

 “Then if we pass through,” Scott said, “We’re abandoning our people on the Sphere. It might be years before the Confederation sends another expedition out here. Or never.”

 Nodding, Orlova said, “I’m quite certain that they’d know that, Lieutenant. Do you honestly think that any of them would choose their own lives over those of their shipmates? They knew the risk they were running, going in, and they took it anyway. Tell me. If you were in their place, what would you want us to do?”

 With a miserable sigh, Scott replied, “Go home, Captain. It’s not that I disagree with you, ma’am. It just hurts like hell to leave them behind.”

 “I know. I feel the same way.” A smile curled her lips, and she said, “Don’t count them out yet, though. This is Pavel and Kris we’re talking about. If there is any way for them to pull off a miracle and link up with us in time for our departure, they’ll take it. You know that.”

 “Aye, ma’am.”

 Looking around the bridge, she said, “Game faces on, people. The next hour is going to be critical. Everything’s got to go right. Let’s make sure that happens.” Glancing at the Sphere again, she quietly added, “A lot of good people have paid for this. We’re going to collect, for them. We’re going home.”

Chapter 20

 Salazar looked at Harper, and said, “We’ve got to move. Right now.”

 Hathor frowned, and replied, “They will be prepared. The enemy defenses will be stronger than they have ever been, and attempting to punch through them now...”

 “Is just about the only chance we’ve got,” he said. “Detonating that bomb is a last resort. It’s a sure thing, but we’ve both got people over there. Your entire race...”

 “Better that they die quickly,” one of the others said. “If it ends the nightmare...”

 “The nightmare can end!” Harper said. “It doesn’t have to end in fire. If I can link up with the AI again, I might be able to stop it. Either convince it to release your people, or distract it for long enough that you can liberate them yourselves. Five of you will die, your race ending here. If you can save a few hundred, at least it will give you a chance at genetic viability.”

 Hathor looked at Salazar, and said, “If we do this, then we risk the final extinction of our race. Two of us bear the next generation in our wombs. We were created to be without genetic flaws. It is possible that we could survive, long enough for our descendants to master our genetic code and perfect any errors that creep in.” He paused, and said, “Nevertheless, we will make the attempt. Not just for ourselves, but for the sake of those who once dreamed of our creation.”

 “But…,” the other humanoid said.

 “I have made my decision.” Turning to Salazar, he said, “What have you in mind?”

 “Harper and I return to the bank. We’ll try and liberate our crewmen as a distraction, while Harper hooks back up again. At the same time, you free as many of your people as possible from the tubes while they are dormant.”

 “Most will be awake,” Hathor said. “Though I suspect that they are probably attacking your comrades with the bomb at this moment. I despair to think of the slaughter that will take place when they do, but it is the price we must pay for our survival as a race.”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “We’ll never have a better chance. But we have to move now, or not at all.”

 “Very well,” Hathor replied, gathering Salazar in his arms, while one of his comrades took Harper. They swept through the tunnels again, back into the open air, darkness racing towards them as the shadow squares moved ever closer, ready to black out the sun and bring artificial night. Salazar could just spot the vehicle, landed at the northern pole of the moon, a pair of long tracks where it had descended.

 And the first shapes were racing from the tunnels, sweeping towards them, ready to attack. He hoped and prayed that Clarke and the others had sufficient firepower to hold them back, but their survival could be counted in minutes at best. The AI would throw everything it had to stop that bomb detonating, had no choice.

 Deep within his heart, he feared that his friends would die there. The odds seemed overwhelming, but if they gave him a chance to infiltrate the moon once again, then at least their sacrifice would mean something, their lives well-spent. Not that it would be any consolation to those destined to fall in battle, but any chance was better than none, especially if Alamo was on the way.

 Trying to distract himself from the sheer drop beneath, the only noise the beat of Hathor’s mighty wings as they raced towards their goal, he looked into the sky, wondering where the wormhole entrance was, the path that would see his ship and his crew safely home, even if he wouldn’t have a chance to join them himself. The best he could hope for was to pave the way for their transit back to Triplanetary space, and knowing that they had made it, that they at least had a chance of seeing their loved ones once more, was more than enough for him.

 “Almost there,” Hathor said. “I set our moon to orbit this one, about a mile out. It’ll give us a place to roost, and to retreat too should it prove necessary.” Nodding at one of the craters, he said, “I’ll drop you right into a shaft, so be prepared to grab onto something when you descend. I and my comrades have work to do.” The surface of the moon approached, and Salazar looked up, nodding in approval.

 “Good luck, Hathor. In case we don’t meet again, I hope you find what you are looking for.”

 “And I hope you and your people get home, my friend.”

 The arms released him, and he fell down the shaft, slowly dropping in the low gravity, his hands reaching to the side walls to snatch at handholds, bringing himself to a stop. Up above, Harper was following, and he reached out to grab her, tugging her close to prevent her from falling. Looking down, he saw the bright light of the AI, shining in the gloom, slowly pulsating.

 “We can’t go down there,” he said. “It’ll just hypnotize us again, and we’ll be right back where we started.” Looking around, he added, “I think I can find a way through to the chamber where we found you. Can you hook back up to the AI from there?”

 “There’s only one way to find out,” she replied, drawing her pistol, swinging nimbly from his grip and down the corridor, Salazar following with haste, his eyes darting around, waiting for the surprise attack he knew must be coming. From outside, he heard the rattle of gunfire, echoed explosions on the surface that heralded the onset of a battle, the AI’s winged servitors launching their attack upon Clarke and his party. A part of him longed to head up there, knowing that he could launch an attack from the rear, one that might make all the difference.

 Though with two pistols, and a couple of dozen rounds of ammunition between them, any help he could possibly provide would be all too limited. They had to continue with the plan, no matter what happened outside. He struggled to recall the rocky corridors and tunnels, honeycombing the moonlet, picking his way though the passages, periodically glancing at his watch, knowing that time was short.

 “This way,” Harper said, and he looked down a side tunnel, looking around for a brief second before following her down the passage, trusting her instincts and knowing that luck was about all they had going for them in this raid. The sound of gunfire was louder than before, drowning out any other noise, making it hard for him to hear her, but also assuring him that Clarke’s team was providing the distraction they needed, even if they didn’t know it.

 Almost without warning, they tumbled into the chamber, the crew from Monitor standing on either side of the room, at a horrible parody of attention, the tubes and cables writhing around their bodies like a sea of snakes. There was only one vacant terminal, that which Harper had used, and she walked tentatively up to it. The damage Hathor had done in extracting her the first time seemed to have repaired itself, the cables moving towards her as she approached.

 “You don’t have to do this, Kris,” Salazar said. “We can find another way. Hit the core again with everything we’ve got. The bomb might work, and...”

 “And what happens to Hathor’s people, Pavel? They’ve earned a chance to determine their own destiny after centuries of slavery.” Looking up at him, a tear in the corner of her eye, she said, “Isn’t this exactly what we put the uniform on for in the first place?”

 “To hell with that,” he replied. “To hell with all of it. You don’t need to take this risk.”

 “Yes, I do,” she said, softly, touching his cheek. “And you know it.”

 “Then I’m going with you.”

 Shaking her head, she replied, “You can’t. Even if there were two terminals, you shouldn’t. For some reason, the AI seems to accept me, to allow me inside. I don’t know why, and I don’t know what would happen if you went in there with me.” Looking at the frozen figures of the Monitor crewmen, she added, “You could easily end up just like them.”

 “So could you.”

 “I don’t think so,” she replied. “And don’t ask me how I know that, but somehow, I know that this is going to work out. It wants to talk, and I’m willing to listen. And maybe convince it that we can bring all of this to an end without bloodshed. That’s got to be worth a try.”

 With a reluctant nod, Salazar stepped back, and asked, “How do you link yourself up?”

 “I’m going to have to let the AI do that for me, I think. It managed it last time. One more thing. Don’t try and disconnect me or anyone else. You heard what Hathor said. It would leave a blank slate. If my guess is right, then their consciousness is locked in the archives somewhere, and it might be possible to reverse the process and bring them back. Wait for me to give you a signal, and trust that I will find a way.”

 “Kris,” he said.

 “And if I don’t, if something goes wrong, and you have a chance to get out of here and get back to Alamo, take it. I mean it. No crazy heroics. I know they’re your specialty, but this time, there’s nothing you can do except keep watch.” She gave him a brief hug, kissed him on the cheek, and stepped back to the wall, letting the cables tangle around her again, the serpentine firms embracing her.

 Her eyes dulled as Salazar watched, her expression growing blank, and he cursed under his breath as she fell back into the grips of the machine once more. He looked around the room, blinking away the tears, and fumbled in his pocket for the communicator, hoping that he’d be able to punch through the interference for at least a minute.

 “Salazar to any station, any station, do you read? Salazar to any station, any station, do you read?”

 “Lombardo here, sir,” a thin voice replied. “Where are you?”

 “Inside the moonlet, trying a last-ditch plan. What’s your situation?”

 “Desperate, sir. We’re coming under heavy attack. Clarke and Mortimer are attempting to position the bomb in a geological fault, but every time we move, they send more of those damned beasts after us. We must have taken down dozens of them, but they’re just coming. It’s as if they don’t give a damn whether they live or die, sir.”

 “They don’t. They’re under the control of the AI. We’re trying to work the problem from down here, but we’re not having any luck yet. How long before you’ll be in a position to detonate?”

 “Ten minutes minus, boss.” He paused, then said, “You can’t be that far from us, sir. I think we might be able to open up a corridor for you and Harper to get back up here. The ship landed intact, and we’ve got plenty of room to take the two of you with us when we leave.”

 “That’s a negative, Lieutenant. You’ve got enough problems up there.”

 “Hate to leave without you, sir.”

 “And I’d hate that as well, but there’s nothing you can do for us down here. Try and give me a two-minute warning before detonation if you can, but if you can’t reach me, go ahead and crack this damned rock anyway. That’s your top priority. Do you think you can hold out long enough?”

 “We’ll find a way, skipper!” Lombardo replied, the staccato burst of machine gun fire behind him. “Don’t worry about us. We’ve got this. Just concentrate on pulling out a miracle.” He paused, then said, “We’ll do the same.”

 “I’ll hold you to that, Lieutenant,” he replied. “Good luck. Salazar out.” He snapped his communicator shut, dropping it back into his pocket, and looked at Harper, standing still and dead, as though she might simply be asleep, rather than engaged in the greatest fight of her life, and one in which he couldn’t intervene. There was nothing he could do but wait, and the seconds of their lives were ticking away as he watched.

Chapter 21

 Clarke ducked behind a rocky outcrop, shards of ancient stone raining down all around him as explosions tore into the ground, a dozen of the winged humanoids soaring through the air as he struggled to prepare the antiquated arming mechanism. Mortimer was pinned down to the right, firing a few quick shots from her sidearm before slamming a fresh cartridge in to replace the one she had exhausted.

 “Running low,” she said. “One left after this.”

 “That’s one more than I have,” Clarke replied. “I’ve got exactly four shots left.”

 A burst of machine gun fire riddled the air, Fox unleashing a precious salvo upon the enemy, sending them scurrying away, out of range, and giving Clarke a chance to duck out of cover, returning to the arming controls, datapad in hand to translate the archaic text upon it. Mortimer looked up, pistol in hand, shaking her head.

 “Smart bastards,” she said. “We didn’t get a single one with that burst.”

 “And we probably won’t with the next one, either,” Clarke replied, his eyes locked on the screen of his datapad. “That doesn’t matter. If we light this little firework, the whole moon should be torn into a million pieces.”

 “If. Should.” Looking up at the enemy humanoids, hovering in the air, she continued, “I’ll feel a hell of a lot better when it happens.” Gesturing at a control, she said, “That one. I thought this was supposed to be simple to operate, anyway?”

 “Only if you don’t mind a front-row seat for the largest explosion to grace these parts for a few thousand years. There’s a timer control, but I’m having trouble getting it to work. This thing is older than the Great Pyramid. It’s a miracle the damned thing works at all.”

 “Here they come again!” McCormack said. “Take cover!”

 Clarke rolled behind his outcrop once more, just in to avoid a shower of rocks falling down all around him. The stink of smoke was in the air, and he looked up to see one of the creatures flying above him, taking the opportunity to fell him with a snap shot, the humanoid falling out of control, tumbling over the side of the moon and out into the endless space beyond, destined to fall for hundreds of miles. A fate they could still share, if they were careless. He was wearing a parachute on his back, just in case, but the odds of it being of any use at all were remote at best.

 Another rattle of machine gun fire, and this time Fox was able to catch one, a stray bullet slamming into the wing of one of the humanoids, sending her sprawling to the ground, close to the bomb. She continued to crawl towards it, only stopping after Mortimer fired two shots into her chest, blood spilling into the sands.

 “What the hell is it going to take to stop these bastards?” she asked.

 “Ask the machine that controls them,” Clarke replied. For a moment, the enemy retreated once again, and he raced out of cover, back to the bomb, continuing where he had left off with the arming sequence. Only a handful of controls remained, some of which with imprecise translations, and he was forced to attempt to mirror the thoughts of the engineer that had designed it, epochs ago. There were only so many ways to lay out a panel, and he reached to what he thought was the timing mechanism, tapping a series of controls, lights winking on and off.

 “That’s it!” he said. “Back to the ship!”

 As though the enemy had heard him, a loud wail went up from the flying creatures, and he looked up to see them diving towards him, hundreds of them, some with rifles, others with sharp talons. He dived back underneath his outcrop as they swooped around him on either side, raining fire and fury down upon him. Mortimer, close beside him, faced the same onslaught, as did Fox and the others at the ship, unable even to reach the hatch without facing the certainly of death.

 One after another, the lights winked out. He reached for his communicator, hoping to warn Salazar that his life could now be measured in seconds, but the signal was hopelessly jammed, static roaring from the speaker as soon as he activated the unit.

 “It’s no good!” Fox said. “Run for it. I’ll cover you!”

 “We wouldn’t get five feet,” Mortimer replied. “Can you get on the ship?”

 “Not a chance!” McCormack yelled, over the rattle of gunfire all around. “We’re completely pinned down.” She looked up for a second, three bullets flying through the air towards her, and only ducked back into cover in the nick of time. “How long, Clarke?”

 “Four minutes and change, ma’am,” he replied. “Sequence running fine.” He looked up, contemplating making a move, knowing it would kill him but hoping that it might give the others a chance to race to safety, but he’d have been gunned down almost as fast as he could rise, and he knew it. He’d be throwing away his life for nothing.

 And yet, they’d all be dead in a matter of moments anyway.

 “They’re going for the bomb!” Fox said. “I’m running low on ammunition. Can either of you accelerate the timer?”

 “Not a chance,” Mortimer replied. “No way we’ll be able to get to it.” Clarke looked across at her, then looked at the cover again. He might be able to reach it in time, but it would be his final act. Two steps, two buttons, two seconds. Taking a deep breath, he rolled out of cover and sprinted for the panel, slamming his hand on the controls, an ear-splitting siren wailing all around, a desperate whine that announced their imminent death.

 He waited for the bullets to strike, but they never came, the winged humanoids instead diving at the bomb, three of them snatching it in their arms, dragging it away. Clarke reached up, grappled with the nearest, but was dismissed with a savage kick to the jaw. Fox turned her machine gun around, firing another burst, taking one of them out, but the others remained, and they tumbled from the moon, the bomb still in their arms, falling and falling, faster and faster.

 “Heads down!” Clarke yelled, not knowing what would happen, trying to calculate the blast radius and the range of the shockwave in his head, trying to recall almost-forgotten lessons in shaped demolition charges. “One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three...”

 The world beneath him shook and tumbled as the blinding flash filled the air, followed by the thunderclap of a multi-megaton bomb detonating, mere miles away. He held his hands clamped over his eyes, waiting for everything to settle down, hearing a terrible grinding noise as cracks and gauges opened in the world all around them.

 “Fifty miles down!” Lombardo said. “Good God, look at the cloud!”

 Clarke rubbed his eyes, looking down at the huge ball of fire and smoke expanding through the sky beneath them, mercifully over a wide expanse of desert, now destined to receive a blast of fallout in the near future. They’d checked to see what was beneath them, had satisfied themselves that nobody on the surface would be endangered, but the reality of what they had done only sunk in when he saw the cloud of angry black smoke expanding ever wider, a stain in the very fabric of the Sphere, one of their creation.

 “The surface is unstable, but it’ll settle down soon,” Lombardo said, turning to McCormack. “Ma’am, is the ship secure?”

 “I can’t see,” McCormack said, holding herself together with obvious effort. “I saw the blast. And that was the last thing I saw. My optic nerves are gone.” Before anyone could say anything else, she said, “When we get back to Alamo, Doctor Strickland can repair the damage. Someone get me inside the ship. Clarke, take over.”

 “Lieutenant Lombardo...”

 “Line beats staff, damn it, and I gave you an order! Clarke, take over!”

 Taking a deep breath, he turned to Lombardo, still unsteady on his feet, and said, “Try and get a status report. If we’ve lost our ride out of here, we need to know it now. Mortimer, I need...”

 “Radiation levels elevated. We don’t want to hang around here for any longer than we can help, John, but we’re probably safe as long as we limit our exposure to less than an hour. We’ll probably need a dose of decontamination drugs when we get back anyway, just to be on the safe side. Which is all theoretical, given that we’ve failed in our mission.”

 “Not yet, we haven’t,” Clarke said.  

 “Damn it, John, what’s it going to take? We lost the bomb! It’s gone! What the hell do we do now?”

 Clarke paused, stood up, turned to Fox, and said, “Where did our friends go?”

 “Back inside the moon, probably,” she replied. “I had my eyes closed the whole time.”

 “Then that’s where we’re going.”

 “We’re going to attack them?” Mortimer said, disbelievingly. “I’ve got five rounds left. Five.  You can’t have any more than that.”

 Fox frowned, pulled out her combat knife, and said, “Ready when you are, sir.”

 “Lieutenant,” Clarke said, “Prepare for immediate takeoff. We’re going inside to find Captain Salazar and see if there is anything we can do to help. Maybe we can find a way to destroy the AI from the inside. At any rate, we’re not going to know unless we try.” Looking at the others, he continued, “Alamo could be here in a matter of minutes, and if we haven’t cleared the way for them, a lot of our friends are going to die in sight of home. We’ve got to find a way to bring this bastard down, and we’ve got no time in which to do it.”

 “Hold on,” Mortimer said, stepping inside the ship for a moment, emerging with a holdall. “Shaped charges. Not even a millionth of the yield of the bomb we just lost, but they might do some good if we can get them in the right place.”

 “Now you’re talking, ma’am,” Fox said. “Request permission to take point, sir?”

 Nodding, he said, “Lock onto the Captain’s communicator. I know the interference is only going to get worse, but at the very least it’ll give us an idea if we’re getting close. Our goal is the heart of the moon, and if anyone decides to stop us getting there, well, I guess that will be just too bad for them.”

 “Or us,” Mortimer said, drawing her pistol. “Ready.”

 “Lieutenant,” Clarke said, turning to the engineer, “If you think...”

 “We don’t have a choice,” McCormack interrupted. “It’s crazy, it’s risky, but it’s about the only option left on the table. No matter what, Alamo must be given a chance to get through. Even if we can just distract the damn machine for a little while. Do what you’ve got to do. We’ll keep the shuttle warm and waiting for you.” She paused, then added, “And either all of us get out, or none of us will. We’ll be here, right to the end. Understood.”

 “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, snapping a salute. “Lead on, Sergeant.”

 “Any particular preference, sir?” she asked, tossing a flashlight to Mortimer, who flicked it on with the touch of a button.

 “That one,” he said, gesturing at the nearest shaft. He walked over to it, peered down to see the strange, pulsing light beneath, and said, “Straight down.”

 “Aye, aye, sir,” she replied, scrambling into the tunnel. With a smile, Clarke followed her, and a few seconds later, so did Mortimer, swinging from handhold to handhold.

 “Join the Fleet,” Mortimer said. “See strange new worlds. Defeat the enemies of the Confederation.” With a deep sigh, she added, “Poke around cramped tunnels in installations swarming with cyber-zombies.”

 “Now where else are you going to have all this fun?” Fox asked.

 “I don’t think that word means what you think it means,” Mortimer replied, shaking her head.

 “We can talk about old movies later,” Clarke said. “Eight hundred meters, that way.” He looked up at the wall, jagged cracks all along it, his foothold crumbling just as he moved to the next one. “Watch out. It’s dangerous down here.”

 “I think we knew that already,” Mortimer said, as the moon rumbled again. “The whole structure could collapse at any moment.”

 “Which would rather solve our problem,” Clarke replied, “but until then, we press on.” Gesturing down a side shaft, he said, “That way. I think.”

 “You think?”

 “That way,” he repeated, looking up with a smile. “It’s a small world. We’ll find him sooner or later. Preferably sooner.”

Chapter 22

 Alamo’s bridge was eerily quiet, Orlova sitting at the heart of the silent chaos, allowing her crew to work unhindered. She looked at the display on the viewscreen, a trajectory plot that no Triplanetary officer could ever have dreamed of seeing, a black hole dead center with Alamo projected to swing around it, a tight turn in space, designed to catapult them onto what looked like a collision course with the side of the Sphere. They’d launched the probe to unlock the entrance moments ago, and behind her, Bowman was totally focused on the craft, guiding it towards its target.

 There would be no second chance at this. If anything went wrong, Alamo and her crew were dead. No hope of rescue, even if there were any friendly ships in the system for them to transfer too. She had the non-essential personnel riding in their single remaining shuttle, just to be on the safe side, twenty-two people crammed into a space meant for twelve, but there were very few possible scenarios that allowed them to live for more than a handful of seconds after the death of Alamo.

 And all of this was based on unconfirmed projections of a wormhole entrance, somewhere deep inside the bowels of the Sphere. They were working on hasty calculations provided over a thirty-second communications pules, and had no way of checking them, not until they had actually managed to find their way inside and could look for themselves. She’d known that going in, and knew that they didn’t really have a choice. The crew was growing increasingly desperate for any chance of going home, and she couldn’t blame them. If they didn’t make the attempt now, somehow she knew that they never would, that Alamo would be doomed to remain in Andromeda forever, at best finding some Earth-like world to colonize, at worst as drifting, frozen corpses lost in the empty abyss of space.

 She couldn’t let that happen. She wouldn’t. Though increasingly, the universe appeared to be raising the odds against her. The Hegemonic cruisers had rapidly worked out their plan, had altered their course to intercept, their computers slower than Alamo’s but with far more data on local conditions to work with. One of the few things about the coming battle she found comforting was that the enemy commander had confidence that Alamo could complete the maneuver and find its way through to the other side. Though to be fair, she’d have probably made the same assumption herself, regardless of the actual risks.

 More than ever, she envied the people who actually had work to do. Bowman, gently working the probe controls, easing it into position to crack open the Sphere for them. Quesada, constantly making pinpoint changes as they approached the black hole, their course taking them well within the safety minimums, albeit for a matter of microseconds, the only way to get the course change they needed to pull off their approach. It had been a plan born of desperation, the only hope they had. Down in the science labs, the sensor teams were relishing a chance to get such valuable data, information they never dreamed they’d have a chance to glean. Orlova only hoped that they had a chance to report it to someone, when they got back home.

 Home.

 It had been so long, she had almost forgotten what Mars looked like. She’d been trapped in Andromeda for months longer than the rest, her crew lost on the Sphere, dead or missing. Salazar had hoped to recover those of her people who had attempted to settle, had formed a colony deep inside, praying for safety from their enemies, but the few meager messages that had trickled out of the Sphere hadn’t mentioned them at all. Dozens of lives she was responsible for, but there was nothing she could do about them. Not now. Alamo had to be her first priority. Though somewhere deep inside, she made a promise to herself.

 If Monitor’s crew could be rescued, if the reports and logs indicated that there was even the slightest chance that they were retrievable, she’d find a way to come back to Andromeda and finish the job. Somehow she thought that the Triplanetary Fleet would relish an excuse to return, anyway. The greatest opportunity for exploration in history, tens of thousands of new stars to explore, to say nothing of the immensity of the Dyson Sphere itself, large enough to fit the entire population of the Confederation onto an infinitely small portion of its surface, a fraction barely large enough to measure.

 She turned to look at Bowman, his hands carefully poised on the controls, playing one thruster against each other as he skimmed the probe over the smooth surface of the Sphere, guiding it gently towards the waiting control complex, ready to trigger the command sequence that would give them a chance of survival. It was only pure speculation that it would open at all. The implacable laws of celestial mechanics had granted them no opportunity to put it to the test, not until the very last minute.

 “Got it!” the technician said, triumphantly. “Manipulator arm engaged, switch triggered.” He threw a switch, replacing the tactical display with the view from the probe’s camera, tens of thousands of miles away. Orlova’s heart sank as she saw the endless expanse of the Sphere rolling out across the scene, no sign of change, and she was just about to turn to Quesada at the helm, preparing to order him into a hazardous orbital slew, when a crack of light flashed forward, a wide hatch slowly sliding open as they watched.

 She breathed a sigh of relief as she looked down at the sensor feeds, working out the maximum expanse of the entry point. The probe peered into the newly created hole, far smoother than the other one they had seen. Navigating it would be a simple enough process, and assuming they plotted their approach trajectory correctly, Alamo should be able to pass through with ease. Of course, if they made a single mistake, if they were out by so much as a meter, they’d never know what happened. They’d be irretrievably dead before they could do anything about it.

 “Nine hundred and ninety meters,” Ballard said, at the sensor station. “Just about what we expected, Captain. Alamo ought to be able to pass through. Runs thirty-five miles deep, with thick atmosphere at the bottom. First measurements read a gravity field identical to the one we detected in the first shaft. I’d say we can use the same flight profile.”

 “What do you think, Quesada?” Francis asked, still standing next to Orlova.

 “I can do it, sir,” the helmsman replied, his hands confidently poised over the controls. “We’ve got a small margin of error after we come around the far side of the singularity. I’ll have about eight minutes to trim our course, bring us back onto our target flight path.”

 “Let’s hope we don’t need them,” Orlova said. “Bring back the tactical view. How long to the flyby?”

 “Forty seconds, ma’am,” Quesada said. “We’re already beginning to feel the pull.” He looked down at his monitor, and added, “I’m getting Murphy’s beacon now, load and clear. It’s perfectly positioned to guide us around.”

 “Make it good,” Orlova said, sitting back in her chair. Now the rest of the bridge was in the same situation as she had been before. Nothing to do but watch and wait, and trust in the skill of the twenty-three year-old man at the helm. He’d guided Alamo through difficult maneuvers before, had seen them through multiple battles and alien systems, but this was a task that would test the limits of his skill as never before, and there was nothing she could do to help him.

 She looked up at the countdown clock, watching the seconds drift away, deliberately looking away from the sensor display. It couldn’t help to dwell on what they were flying past, a rip in the very fabric of space-time, albeit one they were making maximum use of. The hull began to creak as the stresses mounted, the acceleration rising as they dived towards their target. Too close, and they’d start to run into dilation effects, might never be able to pull out. And the laws of this strange space would mean that they’d never know they had failed, a new Lost Dutchman stranded here for all eternity.

 Twenty seconds to go. Alarms were sounding from the engineering station, silenced as rapidly as they came by Fitzroy, the technician working his panel like the virtuoso he was. The trajectory plot was swinging around, reality matching the projections they had laboriously calculated, the fabric of the universe itself bending to the will of her crew. The Hegemonic vessels, she noted with a smile, were staying well clear. They’d contented themselves with a single, quick pass as they actually entered the Sphere, minutes into the future. Though it was more than possible that they knew something she didn’t. 

 “Closest approach,” Francis said, and Alamo’s engines surged to full power, the lights flickering as the power grid struggled to feed more energy to the helm, to give them every possible chance of completing the curve. No ship had ever pulled off a gravity swing around an object this massive, but with every second, they gained more distance, the constant, endless weight of the singularity still tugging at them, trying to force them into its terrible embrace.

 Quesada’s face was laden with beads of sweat, his hands white-gripped on the controls as he struggled to keep the ship on a straight heading, onto the course that would get them to safety. He didn’t only have to escape the black hole. He had to thread the needle, guide the ship onto a trajectory that would see them slide into the Sphere, whilst worrying about the enemy cruisers moving towards them. A million priorities fought for attention in his mind, and Orlova knew that any interruption to his thoughts would likely mean their end. It was his battle to win or lose.

 And he was winning. The trajectory plot proved that out. The engines slowly began to fade, the power feed dropping back to safe levels to spare the systems, the force of acceleration gradually decreasing as Quesada locked the ship onto its course, final adjustments to the helm systems to get it to its target. A green light winked on, and a smile crossed Orlova’s face at last.

 “Maneuver complete,” she said. “Good work.”

 Quesada turned, and nodded, obviously exhausted by the strain of the task he had just completed, replying, “My pleasure, ma’am. All part of the service.”

 Turning to Francis, she said, “Exec, enter in the log, this time, this date, a battlefield promotion for Xavier Quesada to the rank of full Lieutenant, effective immediately.” At the look on the young man’s face, she added, “I don’t think I’ve ever come across anyone who has earned it more, and the citation will bear witness to that.” Rising to her feet, she said, “Now report to Sickbay, Lieutenant, for medical examination.”

 “I can carry on, ma’am,” Quesada pressed.

 Shaking her head, she replied, “You look as though you’re about to collapse, Lieutenant, and after what you just did, I’m not in the least surprised. This is no reflection on your skills or your abilities, but I want you to rest for a while. We don’t know what’s going to face us on the other side of the wormhole, and I’m going to need everyone at their best for that.” With a thin smile, she added, “I can take it. I think I still remember what most of the buttons do.”

 “Ma’am,” he replied, “Can I stay on the bridge for the rest of the transit? I’d like to see how this all turns out, and...”

 “I’d let him, ma’am,” Francis said. “It only seems fair after what he just pulled off.”

 Nodding, she said, “Take the reserve station, then.” She walked over to the helm, sliding into the vacated position, and said, “Course perfect, or near as damn it. Sphere coming up in eight minutes, five seconds. And we’ll be in firing range of the enemy ships twenty-two seconds later. This is going to be close.”

 “It always is,” Scott quipped.

Chapter 23

 Harper opened her eyes, and looked around the confines of the apartment once more, the terminal still sitting in front of her, an extra chair in the room that wasn’t there before. She glanced at her watch, knowing that time was desperately short, but with no knowledge at the rate time was passing outside. She reached for the keyboard, knowing that if she couldn’t contact the AI again, all of this would be for nothing.

 “Will you talk to me?” she typed. “Please?”

 A girlish chuckle came from behind her, and she turned to see the little girl sitting in the chair, ludicrously small, her legs waving back and forth.

 “I knew you’d be back. Your friends have made a real mess of my world. It’s going to take me months to repair it.”

 “You tried to kill them,” she replied. “Can you blame them for wanting to strike back?”

 Shaking her head, the little girl said, “I just want to keep everyone safe. What good are these weapons anyway? How do they help people? You don’t need technology to be happy. To live well.”

 “You are a technological creation yourself,” Harper noted. “The result of centuries of research and development...”

 “And I was created as a weapon, but they made one major mistake, they gave me the power to think! They gave me a conscience, whether they intended to or not, and they allowed me to realize what I was doing, what I might wreak upon the surface of the Sphere. I would have conquered it all, controlled billions, perhaps trillions of lives, and brought the fire down upon all of them.” Taking a breath, she said, “I stopped them. I destroyed my own people. Destroyed other beings like myself who would not, could not understand what they were doing. I did it because there was no other choice, no other way.” 

 “You did what you had to do, and I might have done what you did in the circumstances, but...”

 “Then you do understand,” she said, her face lighting up. “I have a responsibility. To protect the people of the Sphere from harm.” Shaking her head again, she continued, “Your friends are doing much harm, so much harm. I can correct some of what they have done, but I’m going to have to stop them. I would be willing to let them go, but more of them are coming.”

 “Alamo’s on the way?”

 Nodding, she said, “Your ship will be entering the Sphere in a matter of minutes. I am moving my world to intercept them. I have to bring it down. I have no choice.”

 “But why?” Harper asked. “They’re leaving! The wormhole they need to get home is inside the Sphere, and it’s the only chance they have to see their families again, to go home.”

 “And can you honestly tell me that others won’t follow? If your Triplanetary Confederation secures a path through Andromeda, you will come again, and again. More ships, dozens of them. Thousands. Settlers to establish colonies within the Sphere, bringing your technological secrets with them. You might be benign today, but can you speak for your descendants of a thousand years from now?” With a sigh, she continued, “You cannot, and I would not ask you to. There is no alternative. Alamo must be destroyed. If possible, I will find a way to save the crew, but that is the best I can do. Already I face other invaders from the stars, and I am struggling to stop them.”

 “The Hegemony.”

 Nodding, she said, “I cannot take the risk of another interstellar civilization establishing themselves here. I am truly sorry.” With a smile, she added, “You may remain. And your friend Pavel, as well. He can link himself to the system, and I will permit you to live together in peace. This is the nearest thing to paradise that there is.”

 “It’s a virtual environment. It isn’t real.” 

 “Tell me what reality truly is? Do you know why the Sphere was created in the first place? The ultimate aim of the builders?”

 “I assumed it was for settlement, a colony world, infinite room to expand.”

 “No. There is infinite room in the universe, and the Builders had long since ended their expansionist phase. You will reach that stage yourself, in time. All interstellar cultures do. There comes a time when they find a home that suits them so perfectly, that they seek no other. Few settle widely across the stars. Few indeed. Your Confederation has already reached farther than most. Many simply remain on their homeworlds, perhaps a few selected others, content with what they have.”

 Shaking her head, Harper said, “I cannot believe that humanity will ever reach that stage.”

 “You’d be surprised. I didn’t say that you would stop exploring. Some cultures send machines out, probes on million-year voyages to circumnavigate the universe. Others retain their starships, setting out on voyages of exploration that might span whole galactic groups. I know of one who took their homeworld with them, placing their home system on a course to take them to every other system in their galaxy over the course of three billion years. They have barely begun, but they will see it all.”

 “It’s unbelievable. It’s too incredible to grasp.” She paused, then asked, “What of the Sphere, then? Why was it built?”

 “It is a safe place, where intelligent life can wait out eternity. The star at its core is a stable red dwarf. It will live for a trillion years, longer, with the systems here to strengthen it. By that time, the Builders calculate, the universe will be ready for true eternity. The creation of the final supercomputer, the sum of all intelligence, everywhere, which will remember all that was, and store it fresh in its memories to replay. Cybernetic immortality in its truest sense.”

 “What happened to them?”

 “Their work complete, they passed into history themselves. The last died millions of years ago, so I believe, but they live on in the storage units of the great crystalline databank, waiting to be restored to life in the far-distant future. We stand only at the beginning of the journey, and cannot know how long it will take. They believed it was possible. This isn’t even the only Sphere. I know of six others, each designed for different forms of life, each designed according to different concepts. They may be others in other galaxies, out of range of my sensors.”

 Shaking her head, Harper said, “And you see yourself as the guardian of this place.”

 “Someone must take up the burden. The Builders could not conceive of every eventuality. For all of their certainly about the fate of intelligence, they never seemed to grasp the need to render the system fail-safe. I have evidence of other machines before I, taking up the same task. Of whole cultures who dedicated themselves to the work, but in the eternities of time, they died.”

 “And you feel you must protect the Sphere from Alamo?”

 “I must,” she said. “I have no choice. Your descendants could follow in the path of my forebears. I have a greater responsibility, to the Builders, and to the trillions of lives protected by the Sphere. The billions of cultures it remembers, stored for eternity, that perhaps one day they might live again.” She smiled, and added, “You will live on. All of you. I have your memories duplicated. For all you know, for all I know, our lives ended billions of years ago, and we are living in the simulation of which the Builders spoke. If it was truly perfect, we cannot know.”

 Taking a deep breath, Harper said, “My friends will fight you. They must, for the sake of their shipmates, their comrades. There must be a compromise that will satisfy us both. I can promise that the Confederation will never return to Andromeda. If you have duplicated my memories, you’ll know that I’m in a position to guarantee that no other Confederate vessel will visit the Sphere.”

 “Today, that might be true,” the girl replied. “Tomorrow? Thirty years from now? A hundred?”

 “That might happen in any case. The wormhole exists, it can be found, and it will be used. We’re not even the first to do so.” She paused, then said, “Nautilus. You gave them the same chance, didn’t you.”

 Nodding, she said, “And they promised that they would never share their knowledge.”

 “They didn’t. Their world reverted to barbarism. Aside from unintelligible records of their journey, nothing survived to tell the tale.”

 “And even so, you followed their path, did you not? That merely confirms my argument.” She paused, then said, “I will allow you to speak to Captain Orlova. To convince her that Alamo should end its voyage here, find a corner of the world for their own, and...”

 “And be captured by those winged devils of yours, like the crew of Monitor were? Eight of them died, and...”

 “Had they allowed themselves to be taken, then I would have killed nobody. They killed themselves, essentially. Having said that, I am not unsympathetic to your request. They will be released, and may return to the surface with Alamo.”

 “What about your servitors?” she asked. “What about them?”

 “They are biological machines,” the girl replied. “They have no soul, no reality of their own. They are the living personification of a dream, but they are no more sentient beings than your Alamo is.”

 “Hathor and his comrades are sentient,” Harper protested.

 The girl looked down, and said, “An error. I had hoped to create servants with greater intelligence, greater understanding. When it became apparent that I had exceeded my expectations, that I had inadvertently created a mind who could think, I released him and allowed him to leave. When he returned to claim more of his people, I permitted that, also. They were not truly aware until I permitted it to be.”

 Harper nodded, and said, “I understand. You’re lonely.” Looking around the room, she said, “You have nobody even close to your own level to talk to, to be with. You’ve deliberately suppressed the development of any AI that might match you, so you periodically attempt to find others to converse with. That’s why I’m still alive, and that’s why you are talking to me.” Staring into the girl’s eyes, she said, “And that’s why you took a form from my past as your persona in this simulation. How long have you lived?”

 “Ten thousand years. More. And yes, there is something to what you say.”

 “There are things you could do to prevent any interstellar civilization entering the Sphere. Seal the hatches, lock them tight to stop anyone getting inside. That must be within your power. Either you or your servants.” Rising from her chair, she walked over to the girl, took her hand, and said, “Somewhere deep down, perhaps somewhere you didn’t want to admit, you wanted someone to come. Another AI, perhaps, one of those explorers you spoke of so longingly. That’s what you truly want to do, isn’t it. See what lies beyond the Sphere.”

 “One day, perhaps. But for today, I still have a job to do, and the inhabitants of the Sphere must be protected, come what may. You understand that, don’t you?”

 Harper looked around the room, and said, “I do. And I sympathize with you. It must have been terrible to be alone, for all the endless centuries. You don’t have to face that any more.”

 “Why?”

 “I’ll make a deal with you. Seal the hatches once Alamo is through, permit my crew to return home, and prevent anyone else ever accessing the Sphere again. Free the humanoids, give them all the same gift you gave Hathor’s comrades, and I’ll stay here with you. Of my own free will. Perhaps one day we can roam those stars together.”

 “You’d do that?” the girl asked.

 “I would, and I’d do it gladly. But only if my friends, my shipmates, are able to go home.”

 The girl stood up, walked to the door, and said, “I have to think about it. I will be back shortly.” She paused, and added, “Do not fear time’s passing. A century outside is a moment in here. I will make my decision in good time.” The girl walked from the room, and Harper looked after her.

 “I’m sorry, Pavel,” she whispered. “But I have to do this. I have to.”

Chapter 24

 The eyes of the Monitor crewmen snapped open, catching Salazar by surprise as the coils of cable detached, allowing them to move freely once again. They looked around, stunned, taking easy steps forward, then turned to Salazar, struggling to speak through vocal chords that had not been used for weeks. Limbs and muscles could be exercised electronically, but it might be days before they could speak properly again. Salazar walked over to the one with the highest rank, Lieutenant’s bars on her shoulders, and saluted.

 “Welcome back, Lieutenant,” he said.

 “Captain?” she asked, her voice a hoary whisper.

 “Lieutenant-Captain Pavel Salazar, of the Battlecruiser Alamo. We’re here to rescue you.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “Though I’m not quite sure how we’re going to finish the job.”

 “Lieutenant Hathaway,” she replied. “I was third-in-command of Monitor. Tactical Officer.”

 “Captain Orlova’s on Alamo. With a little luck, she’s on her way.” Looking around, he said, “Get your people ready. We’ve got to get to the surface, and we’ve got almost no time to do it.” He walked over to Harper, and said, “Come on, Kris. Wake up.”

 “That’s Lieutenant Harper?” Hathaway said. “I’ve seen her. She’s the one who told us that we were coming back. It seems like days ago. She said she wasn’t coming yet, and not to wait.”

 Turning to Hathaway, Salazar replied, “That’s not an option, Lieutenant. I’m not leaving without her.” He paused, pulled out his communicator, and said, “Salazar to any station, any station, come in, please. Salazar to any station, any station, come in.”

 “Clarke here,” the surprisingly strong voice replied. “I hear you loud and clear, sir. Maximum signal strength. We must be closer to you than I thought.”

 “What are you doing down here? How long until detonation?”

 “About eight minutes ago, skipper. I’m afraid the humanoids managed to toss the bomb off the side of the moonlet. It detonated around fifty-two miles underneath us, we estimate, and at only half the projected yield. Still made a hell of a bang, sir, but not enough to do the job. Though it’s certainly knocked some chunks off.”

 “And when that failed, you decided to come down and try something else.”

 “Something like that, sir. We’re making for the core. So far we’ve encountered no resistance. It’s quiet down here. A lot quieter than I expected.” He paused, then added, “I think I can see a way down, sir, though if you’ve got any orders...”

 “How many of you are there?” he asked.

 “Three, sir. Myself, Fox, Mortimer.”

 “I want Sergeant Fox to make her way here on the double. She’s got some people to evacuate to the surface. Just how many people can that ship of yours carry?”

 “Thirty if necessary.”

 “Good, it is. How long before she gets here?”

 “A few minutes, sir. Mortimer and I will proceed to the core, and see what we can do down there. We’ve got a few explosive charges, and...”

 “Listen to me carefully, Sub-Lieutenant. Under no circumstances are you to look at the core without protection. There’s a hypnotic effect, and the bastard that runs this place will stop at nothing to defend itself. Even if it means throwing your soul through a blender. You understand?”

 “Goggles on, Captain. We understand. Fox is on her way now. Keep your communicator open, she’s tracking your signal through the rocks.”

 “Will do. Good luck. Out.” Turning to Hathaway, he said, “Your escort will be along shortly. She’ll be able to get you at least as far as the shuttle. I’m not sure whether we’ll have a chance to get back to the ship, but we should at least get down to the surface of the Sphere again.”

 “Request permission to stay behind, sir,” Hathaway replied.

 “That goes for me too, Captain,” Fox said, stepping into the chamber.

 “Not a chance, Sergeant. You’ve got too much to do here. There are seventeen lives...”

 Fox stepped to his side, and said, “With all due respect, Captain, your place isn’t standing here, waiting around and hoping that she’ll wake up. Your place is with these people, people she evidently rescued, people she may have sacrificed her very life to save. Do you want to make that sacrifice meaningless, sir?” Gesturing at the tunnel, she continued, “I think I can get them all to safety by myself, but in all honesty, I’m not certain of that. If the enemy decides to attack again, then we’ll be in grave trouble without assistance.”

 Salazar looked at Harper, and Fox pressed, “It’s what she’d have wanted, sir. And you and I both know that.”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “Change of plan. I think I know the way back to the surface from here. Sergeant, could I have your communicator, please?” Fox passed it to him, and he set the transmitter to an automatic beacon signal, before placing it at Harper’s feet. “I’ll take point. Fox, you bring up the rear. The rest of you, move out on the double. Keep behind me, and for God’s sake, keep up. We’re counting seconds now. Fox, watch for stragglers.”

 “Will do, sir,” she replied.

 “Hathaway, you stay behind me. If anything happens, let Fox take the command and get up to the surface.”

 “Yes, sir,” she said, her voice still a faint rasp.

 With one last look at Harper, Salazar turned for the corridor, leading the trail of rescued prisoners in single file through the tunnels, pulling himself into the nearest shaft, heading directly for the surface. From below, he heard a loud crack, the unmistakable noise of a bullet slamming into a wall, and he redoubled his pace, fearing that the battle he had dreaded was about to begin. He pulled himself up onto a ledge, and came face to face with one of the winged humanoids, standing at parade rest. The shock made him take an involuntary step backwards, and had Hathaway not been there, he’d have fallen without a doubt.

 “Careful, sir,” she said, before looking up at the creature. “That bastard…”

 “It isn’t moving,” he replied, waving a hand in front of its lifeless face. “It’s as though somebody has managed to turn it off. I don’t understand.” He tried to inch around it, quickly realizing that there was insufficient space to get past, and finally picked up the humanoid, moving it to the wall. Hathaway looked at it with rage in her eyes, and he said, “Stand down, Lieutenant. Consider that a direct order.” 

 “Sir...”

 “Stand down! The last thing we want to do is wake up the garrison if Harper’s managed to put them to sleep. What’s more important to you? Revenge, or the life of your crew. You tell me know, and if you’d rather get some payback, the core’s right at the bottom of the shaft.”

 Hathaway paused, and asked, “How long, sir? How long as it been?”

 “Weeks, Lieutenant. Maybe longer. I’ve got no way of knowing.”

 “For me it seems like a few moments, sir. A few moments since creatures like that dived on our outpost, killing and slaughtering their way through people I’ve known for years. My crew. People I was responsible for.”

 “And it if wasn’t for people not unlike those, Lieutenant, you and I would both be dead right now. They’re fighting for their freedom, just like you, and I’m beginning to think that they might actually be winning.” He paused, then said, “We’ve got to push on.”

 “Yes, sir,” she said, with a reluctant look at the cold, dead face of the humanoid. “I understand, Captain. Just don’t demand that I like it.”

 Nodding, Salazar turned back to the tunnel, taking the lead as they walked up to the surface. Strange noises echoed through the tunnels, and the walls in this section were cracked, the floor uneven. The bomb had doubtless had some sort of effect, and he couldn’t help but think that another attack might be enough to destroy it, a second strike. Alamo could do it, if by some miracle, it was here. Then, a loud grinding noise echoed through the moonlet, and the floor began to buckle as they moved, acceleration rising.

 One of the cracks was deep enough to see the sunlight beyond, and he looked out to see the ground rushing past beneath them. Almost unbelievably, they were moving, faster than he had ever seen this moonlet move before. They were racing for somewhere, and the AI was evidently in a hurry to get there.

 The rapidly changing course tossed them back and forth, and he heard a cry from the rear as one of the crewmen lost their footing, stumbling against a wall, the others around him helping him back to his feet, struggling to proceed. He didn’t have to tell them to run. They knew that. The rubble tumbling from the ceiling was enough of a suggestion for them. Sprinting the last few paces, he came to a single shaft, all the way to the top, with a cable tossed down it, Lombardo peering down at them.

 “Skipper?” he asked. “Where are the others?”

 “Clarke and Mortimer went on down,” Salazar replied. “Get the shuttle prepared for immediate launch.”

 “Way ahead of you, sir. All systems ready.”

 “Good, because we’ve got more passengers than we were expecting.” Gesturing at Hathaway, he said, “You first, Lieutenant. On your way.”

 “Sir...”

 “That’s an order. Move.”

 She nodded, reaching for the cable, pulling herself up hand over hand as she struggled to the surface, Lombardo tugging her over the edge at the end. Salazar tapped the next man, a young Petty Officer, and he scrambled up the cable after her, while he stood out of the way, gesturing for each of the Monitor officers to make their way to the surface. He counted them up, one at a time, several of them with obvious bruises from stumbling their way through the tunnels.

 After the tenth man was on the rope, the moonlet altered course, swinging around, sending the crewman crashing into the wall. Salazar reached out to the cable, almost falling down the shaft in the process, dragging it back towards him, while the crewmen climbing up hung on for grim death, eyes closed in fear.

 “I don’t want to die,” he said. “I don’t want to die.”

 “Then climb, damn it, kid. Climb for your life!”

 Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the young man nodded, resuming his interrupted ascent, and the rest of his comrades followed him, the last of them, a grizzled Chief Petty Officer, finally making his way onto the cable, leaving Salazar and Fox alone at the bottom, both of them looking up at the surface.

 “After you, Sergeant,” he said. 

 Frowning, she asked, “Sir, would you be planning to do something unbelievably suicidal?”

 “Not at all,” he lied. “Captain’s privilege. Last man up.”

 Nodding, she said, “Fair enough, sir.” Taking the cable with her hand, she added, “It has been an honor to serve with you, Captain. I just thought I should say that.”

 “Good luck, Sergeant,” he replied, watching her ascent. She didn’t look back. She knew he wasn’t going to follow her, and no words or actions were going to change his mind. He looked up at the surface, satisfied that the wayward Monitor crew were safe, then pulled out his communicator, tapping controls to lock onto the beacon below.

 The moonlet shook once more, sending more rubble tumbling from the ceiling, a large piece crashing onto his shoulder. The AI was evidently pushing itself to the limit, and he finally understood why. Alamo was coming. And soon. The moonlet was moving into a position to intercept it. No other answer made any sense at all.

 “Damn it,” he said, muttering to himself. “Damn it all.” With a deep sigh, he turned back to the tunnel, making his way back down towards Harper’s chamber. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Kris, and I hope you’re putting up a good fight. Unless Clarke and Mortimer can pull off a miracle, your silver tongue is all we’ve got.”

Chapter 25

 Clarke looked down the shaft, his goggles doing little to reduce the intensity of the shapes beneath, the ever-shifting geometric patterns seeming to call for him, to summon him forth. Mortimer shook him, breaking the spell, and gestured down, where she saw one of the humanoids moving about his slumbering comrades, trying to free them from the cabling that enveloped them.

 “You Hathor?” Clarke asked, and the winged man looked up. “Captain Salazar sent me. We’re here to try and wreck the core.”

 “It won’t work,” Hathor replied. “Check your detonators. They won’t work.”

 Mortimer looked in her pouch, then replied, “We can rig them chemically. Back-up system. The core might be able to disrupt computer systems, but I’d love to see it stop acid melting through metal.” Holding up her kit, she added, “I’ve got enough to make a hell of a mess of something.”

 Shaking his head, Hathor said, “I came here to free my….”

 There was a loud crack from underneath them, an earth-shattering noise that rent the air, and the three of them were thrown to the ground, Mortimer’s pack flung from her hands to fall amid the rocks below, a smashing noise announcing that, by accident, the mechanism had been triggered.

 “Heads down!” she yelled, and a loud report echoed through the chamber, rocks tumbling all around, falling through the floor. Daylight flooded into the room, and they saw clouds through the floor, the ground still unstable, boulders falling from the ceiling. One of them smashed into a conduit, and sparks flew through the air.

 “Hathor,” Clarke said, looking around for the humanoid, finding him buried under a pile of rocks. “Help me, Ronnie,” he said, scrambling over to him, pulling them out one at a time, struggling to free him from the trap. “I don’t think he’s hurt too bad.”

 Mortimer moved cautiously around the crack, replying, “That hole’s getting wider. I must have found a fissure. John, if we stay too long, we’re going to fall, and it’s a hell of a long way down.” She looked up at the core, and added, “It’s stopped pulsing. It’s just possible we’ve done what we came for.”

 “That crack won’t reach it,” he replied. Looking up, he cursed, and said, “Besides, this just turned into a one-way trip. Our passage caved in. It must have been ready to go after we detonated the bomb.”

 “Then we go around the outside,” she said.

 “Won’t work. Can’t you feel the gravity shift? We’re not at the heart of something any more. We must be under the local gravitational field, and it’s dragging us down, all the way. We try and head for the bottom of the moon, and we’ll fall.” The moonlet shuddered again, and the ground below flashed by, faster and faster. “Something’s very wrong here.”

 “You think?” she replied, helping shift the rubble from Hathor. “Wake up, damn it! Wake up!” As the humanoid struggled, pushing away the last of the rocks, she asked, “Are you intact?”

 “I think so,” he said. “I think so.”

 “Next question. Can you fly?”

 “Not with both of you,” he said, stretching his wings experimentally. “I don’t think I could even take one of you.”

 “That’s not a problem either,” Clarke replied. “Do you think you can get through that gap and fly back to the shuttle, up topside? Tell them what happened?”

 “I’ll do my best,” Hathor said. He looked around, his voice dejected, and added, “My people...”

 “We’ll do what we can,” Clarke promised. “You go get help. Find the Captain. Or Lieutenant Lombardo. You got that?”

 “I understand,” Hathor said. “Good luck.” The winged man jumped, sliding through the crack in the floor, his wings only beating when he was clear, sending him up and around the perimeter of the moonlet, while Mortimer looked at him in disbelief.

 “What the hell were you thinking?” she asked.

 “No point all three of us dying here, Ronnie,” he replied, softly. “And this way at least he’ll believe he did everything he could for his people. We were dead the moment that corridor closed.” Gesturing at the crack, he said, “That’s too small for us to work our way down without falling, and with the moonlet traveling at this speed, I don’t see how the ship could be maneuvered into position to allow us to get on board. Hell, it doesn’t even have a topside hatch.”

 She nodded, smiled, and said, “We’ve still got a job to do, haven’t we.” She looked up a the core, and said, “You think we might be able to do something with a few rounds of ammunition?”

 “Smart rounds,” he replied. “Which means that with a little quick reprogramming, we should be able to reconfigure them. If we set them for armor-piercing, position them properly, then I think there’s a chance we could turn them into improvised shaped charges. The yield won’t be much, but if we can get then where it counts, it might make a difference.”

 “You’ll never give up, will you, Sub-Lieutenant,” Harper said, her voice echoing through the room. “Take away your shuttle, and you’ll walk. Take away your gun, and you’ll use your fists. But you won’t stop, not until you’ve completed your mission or died in the attempt.”

 “It’s all I know, ma’am, and that’s the truth,” Clarke replied, looking around. “Are you inside the core, Lieutenant?”

 “At a guess, permanently,” she said. “That’s not important right now. Don’t try and destroy the core. It shouldn’t be necessary, not any more. You’ve done everything you had to do and more, and I have no intention of demanding that you have to pay for that with your life. I think you deserve better than that, and the heart of the machine agrees with me. Besides, you can still fulfill your promise to Hathor.”

 For a moment, the moonlet ceased to shudder, and Mortimer moved to Clarke’s side, looking around the room at the thousand slumbering humanoids, an army waiting to be unleashed on the world beyond. As one, a thousand pairs of eyes snapped open, began to focus, and looked at Clarke, as the cables and conduits fell away to the floor, withered and crumpled, piles of worthless debris at the feet of each of the humanoids.

 The nearest stepped forward, and said, “You are Clarke and Mortimer?”

 Clarke nodded, and said, “Who are you?”

 “Mukara.” He paused, then repeated, “Mukara,” rolling the syllables around on his tongue. “It is a good name. I like it.”

 “You’ve never said it before?” Mortimer asked.

 “I was born but a moment ago,” Mukara replied, a strange smile crossing his face. “As were we all, with the exception of Hathor and his band.” Looking around the nest, he said, “We cannot remain here any longer. The roof will fall, and we will die if we stay. We must leave, and immediately.” Stepping forward again, he said, “There is only room for one of us to pass at once. When two of us have descended, step after us. You need have no fear. We will catch you, and take you to your comrades. It is fitting that our first act as a race should be the salvation of one who was responsible for our liberation.”

 “Your first act as a race?” Clarke asked. “I don’t understand.”

 “You will,” Harper said. “Later. For now, you can trust that he will do as he says. Even though he is not under our control any more, I believe in him. I trust him. And so may you.”

 Mukara took two steps back, falling with care through the crack, his wings beating as he fell, slowing his fall. Another of his comrades did the same, gesturing for Clarke and Mortimer to follow. The two of them looked at each other, neither readily willing to take the first step.

 “We’re dead anyway,” Clarke said, and with a calmness he didn’t feel, he stepped forward, allowing himself to drop. He slipped through the rocks, and before he quite realized, was out in free space, falling towards the surface, hundreds of miles below. For a split second, he was resigned to death, but he felt secure arms wrapped around his waist, Mukara snatching him from the air. Above him, Mortimer had dropped, and another of the winged humanoids had caught her, bringing the two of them to face each other.

 The rest of the humanoids were following, an endless stream of shining creatures dropping into the sunlight, each moving to take a part on an intricate formation, one which seemed to mirror one of the geometric shapes from before, now a half-forgotten memory. Clarke reached up to snatch the goggles free, the strap snapping and falling from his hand before he could tuck it into his pocket, destined to fall for hours until it reached the surface.

 “Come,” Mukara said, and he led the column of his people around the perimeter of the moonlet. From here Clarke could see the damage the bomb had wrought, even at that range, the underside burned and pitted, jagged cracks ripped into the fabric of the stone. If they’d been exposed directly to the force of the explosion, instead of being protected by the million-tons of rock above them, they wouldn’t have stood a chance of survival.

 Onward they soared, Clarke and Mortimer leading the way, around to the top of the moonlet, the silver shuttle waiting for them with Hathor standing beside Lombardo, a cluster of other people standing around. One turned, spotting the flight of humanoids heading towards them, and made for a weapon, snapping the last clip into the machine gun.

 “No!” Clarke yelled. “Hold your fire, damn it! They’re on our side!”

 “John?” Fox said, as the humanoid carefully placed him down on the surface, Mortimer positioned next to him. Behind them, thousands of humanoids gathered, an aerial armada moving into perfect formation all around, spilling out of every crack and tunnel in the moon to join their brethren. Gone were the soulless, dead faces they had worn before, replaced instead with joyous smiles in the sunlight.

 Hathor rose from the surface, his wounds forgotten, and asked, “Am I dreaming?”

 “No,” Mukara said. “Lieutenant Harper visited us, each of us, told us that we were free to be whatever we could be, and we were released by the core to join you. She told us to seek you out, that you would help guide us.”

 The moon shuddered again, rocks tumbling down shafts, and Clarke said, “You can’t stay here. The whole structure’s falling apart. I think this place will cease to exist in a matter of moments.”

 “Our moon lies but a few miles away,” Hathor said, gesturing at a trailing worldlet. “All of you are welcome to join us there. We’d be honored if you would.”

 Shaking his head, Clarke said, “We’ve got our own ride out of here, Hathor, and I think your world is your own.” He paused, reached in his pocket for a datapad, and said, “You’ll find the coordinates of a base, about two thousand miles north-west of here. If my guess is right, it will teach you everything you need to know about your history, and allow you to reconnect with the rest of your people. They’re waiting for you there.”

 Taking the datapad from him, Hathor said, “Some of our people survived?”

 “Some of the dreamers who created you live, yes. Go find them. And good luck.”

 “And to you, my friend!” Hathor replied, taking his place at the head of the formation as they raced away from the crumbling moon, flying to their new home, thousands of wings beating as one as they swept through the air, a shining arrow that sped to safety, leaving the others behind. Clarke looked after them for a long moment, soaking in every detail of the sight, the most impressive display he had ever seen, and one that he knew he would never see again.

 “Report, Sub-Lieutenant,” Lombardo said. “What’s happening down there?”

 “I don’t know, sir, but it’s going to happen soon. Harper’s managed to interface with the AI. That much I do know.”

 “Let’s get out of here,” Mortimer said.

 “Not without the Captain,” Lombardo replied. “We wait.”

 “For how long?” she asked.

 “Until all hope is gone, or we have no choice.” Looking around, he added, “Though there’s no point sitting around, either. Everyone into the ship. Launch stations. Clarke, take the helm.”

 “Is that a good idea?” Mortimer asked.

 “He got us this far, didn’t he?” Lombardo replied.

 “That’s what I mean.”

Chapter 26

 Orlova sat at the helm, working to trim Alamo’s course, guiding it smoothly towards the waiting Sphere up ahead. Another collision alarm flashed onto her panel, and she dismissed it with the quick tap of a control, another warning telling her nothing she didn’t already know. Alamo was on an insane course, diving potentially to its destruction, and one malfunctioning thruster would almost certainly finish the job.

 “Ninety seconds to entrance,” Scott said. “Enemy ships will be in firing range in sixty-nine. I’ve prepared a missile salvo, ma’am, but I think we’re going to have to accept the likelihood of impacts on the hull. I’d recommend we hold the ballute until the last possible second. Any damage to the heat shield, and we’re dead.”

 “Agreed,” Orlova replied, tapping a control. “Chief, how long to inflate the ballute at full emergency?”

 “Five seconds.”

 “Then wait until we’re actually in the tunnel before triggering it. Don’t wait for the order, just hit that control and let the magic happen. Understood?”

 “Understood, Captain. And watch your course. If you scratch the paintwork I’ll be sending you the bill. Engineering out.”

 “Spot on, skipper,” Bowman said, looking at the course plot. “Right down the center-line. Perfect trajectory.” He looked across at the sensor display, and added, “The enemy ships are really pulling it close. Target Beta only misses us by three miles on its current heading.”

 “They know exactly where we’re going, Spaceman,” Francis said, “and they know that we can’t afford to alter course in the slightest. That gives them all the cards in the attack.” Turning to the engineering station, he added, “All damage control teams are in position and I’ve ordered the air evacuated from all non-essential areas in the outer hull. The last thing we need is a hull breach releasing atmosphere and throwing us off course.”

 “Good thinking,” Orlova said. “Scott, I’m triggering a quarter-second thruster burst when you fire the missiles, to mitigate the kick from the launch systems.” Looking quickly around the bridge, she added, “Hold it together, everyone. One more run, and we’re on our way home. Focus on that.” She looked down at the helm, her hands moving into position, and flashed a smile. This felt right, as though she was meant to be here at this time. She could almost sense Captain Marshall sitting in the command chair behind her, looking over her shoulder.

 “Fifteen seconds to firing range,” Scott said. “I won’t have time for a second salvo. I’ve set the point defense guns to fire all at once. It’ll reduce our accuracy, but cut the recoil down to almost nothing.” Looking up at a monitor, she added, “We’re going to have eight missiles to our six, Captain. In about ten seconds.”

 Orlova held off, resisting the temptation to alter course, to put the ship into the usual evasive pattern. It would be so easy for her to make that change, but she’d never get Alamo back onto the correct trajectory again, not after all the work they’d done to lock onto it. They had to ride out the attack, no matter what, and trust that the ship was still in good enough condition to live through the impacts. She risked a quick glance at Fitzroy, manning the flight engineering console, and his grim face told her everything she needed to know.

 “Two seconds. One. Launch,” Scott said. “Counter-strike is in the air.”

 Alamo rocked once, then twice, the thrusters firing on automatic to push them back onto trajectory again, and Orlova checked her heading, firing the yaw thruster for a tenth of a second to nudge them to safety. They had to get their positioning perfect, or they’d come to a sad end at the bottom, dashed into the cold metal of the Sphere before they could do anything about it.

 She looked up at the sensor display, watched the missiles tracking towards them, their retaliatory salvo moving to intercept. The enemy cruisers were veering off now, dangerously close to the Sphere themselves, struggling to climb onto an escape trajectory before it was too late. They’d play no further part in the battle. Only the missiles mattered now, closing by the second.

 The screen flashed, the missiles slamming into each other in a brief orgy of mutual destruction. For a second, it was clear, and Orlova allowed herself a smile for an instant, hoping that Scott had taken down all the incoming warheads, but one remained, flying through the debris fog. The point-defense cannons rhythmically pounded away, Scott frantically working her controls in a desperate bid to accomplish the impossible, to get another missile up before the enemy warhead could find its target.

 She failed. It did.

 With the all-too-familiar sound of grinding metal, the missile slammed into Alamo’s hull, catching it astern, and Orlova frantically jammed her hands on the thruster controls to hold the ship on course, compensating for the impact as best she could, sirens wailing all around. A loud report echoed from the hull, and she looked across at the engineering console with alarm, thinking that she was about to lead her ship to destruction, before belatedly realizing it was only the ballute, deploying as he had ordered, ready to shield them on their path through the tunnel.

 “Damage report,” Francis barked.

 “Primary sensor controls, port side, astern,” Fitzroy replied. “Compensating with backup systems, but we’ve lost most of our resolution in that quarter. We’ve also got four hull breaches in that area, all on compartments that have been evacuated, but the structure in that part of the ship will be ripped to pieces when we hit the atmosphere.”

 “Keep it together, Spaceman,” Orlova said, making one quick, final adjustment before Alamo dived into the tunnel. Fifty miles. A handful of seconds. No time for any further correction, no time for any changes, and no time to even realize that anything was wrong. The ship began to shudder as it hit the outer limits of the Sphere’s atmosphere, sliding smoothing into the tunnel, the ballute beginning to heat as the friction built up by the second.

 “We’re through!” Scott said. “We’re inside the Sphere!”

 “Altitude, five hundred meters, rising,” Bowman added. “Speed falling fast, ma’am.”

 Nodding, Orlova pushed the engines to full power, then cut in every override she could think of to supply more power to the helm, heedless of the array of amber lights that winked onto the panel as she worked. Her hands moved from one control to another, struggling to keep the systems in balance. If one engine failed, they’d never have enough thrust to reach the wormhole, and already their speed was falling fast.

 “Find that wormhole,” she said, glancing back at Bowman, the technician already peering at his screens. “I need a course, and I need it now!”

 “Picking up gravitational interference, Captain,” he replied. “It’s here. About twenty-one thousand miles up. We’ve got to swing past a couple of moons on the way, altitude about a thousand miles.” He frowned, looked at his readouts again, and added, “One of them’s climbing fast. It’s almost as though they’re trying for an intercept course. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

 “That’s a phrase we’ve been using too often lately,” Scott said. “I’ll be happy to see nice, boring stars again.”

 “Outer hull temperature is rising, Captain,” Fitzroy reported. “Climbing fast. The ballute’s almost gone, and we’re getting burn-through in several areas of the ship, forward. Laser cannon disabled, at a guess permanently.”

 “Nothing we didn’t expect,” she replied. “Give me an altitude reading.”

 “One hundred and five miles, still slowing,” Bowman said. “We’ve lost a lot of the speed we started with, and we’re slowing by the moment. I’m not sure we’re going to make it.”

 Snapping a control, she said, “Orlova to Santiago. Chief, I need all power to the engines, and I mean all. Just keep the sensors running for the wormhole sweep. Switch over everything else.”

 “We’ll burn out every relay junction on the ship if I do that, Captain!”

 “We’ll crash into the surface if you don’t, Chief. Which do you think will be easier to fix?”

 There was a brief pause, and the resentful engineer said, “Initiating power transfer, but I don’t think it’ll hold for very long.”

 “It doesn’t have to. One more push, and we’re home.” She looked down at her controls again, a sea of red lights winking on and off, and a surge of power raced into the engines, giving them greater acceleration once more. The atmosphere was slowing beginning to thin, and she looked across at Scott, and said, “Deploy the radiators.”

 “Are you crazy? They won’t last two minutes!”

 “No, but while they do, they’ll give us lift. Do it!”

 “Two hundred and one miles, climbing. Speed leveling off,” Bowman reported. “That moon is still rising, ma’am. She’s matching our course.”

 Ballard, at the communications station, started to play with the controls, running up and down the frequencies, before saying, “I’ve got a signal! From our people, and they’re on that moon up ahead.” She paused, then said, “I have Lieutenant Lombardo for you!”

 “Lieutenant,” Orlova said, her eyes locked on the helm. “Report.”

 “You’ve got a clear path all the way to the wormhole, ma’am. If you send us your course trajectory, we’ll try and catch up to you.” There was a brief crackle of static, and he added, “...got the Monitor survivors on board. Seventeen in all. The rest are dead, I’m afraid, ma’am, but we’ve got everyone on board except Captain Salazar and Lieutenant Harper.”

 “Lieutenant,” Scott said, “I’ve run the numbers, and if you can launch within the next hundred and ten seconds, you’ve got an excellent chance of making it back to Alamo. Any later, and you’re almost certainly stock on the moon. I recommend you launch at once.”

 “A hundred and ten seconds?” Lombardo replied. “We’re going to give Pavel and Kris as many of those as we can. They’re the whole reason we got this far.”

 Alamo rocked to the side, the lights flickering, and the channel died as a power relay failed, Fitzroy’s hands dancing across the engineering station as he struggled to keep the ship moving, to keep the power flowing where it needed.

 “What happened?” Orlova asked.

 “Structural integrity failure, aft crew quarters. Three whole decks are open to space. No casualties reported, but the whole area’s gone, ma’am.”

 “All hands to emergency shelters,” Orlova ordered. “I want everyone as close to the core of the ship as possible, regardless of their duty. Alamo will have to run itself for the next few minutes. And that order includes everyone on the bridge other than myself.”

 “I’ll have to stay, ma’am,” Fitzroy added. “If I leave, even for a second, the power system will fail. I’m having to reroute systems manually as they fail, and we’re losing the whole network a piece at a time.”

 “Hold it together, Spaceman,” Orlova said. “The rest of you, clear the bridge. Bowman, transfer sensor controls to my station. I’ll have to do the fine-tuning myself.” Glancing to the rear, she added, “Go on, get out of here! That’s an order!” The ship rocked again, and she adjusted the course, trying to gain every scrap of speed and altitude, nursing the wounded Alamo out of the denser layers of the atmosphere. Behind her, the crew logged off their stations, switching them over to automatic control, and filed off the bridge, Scott pausing at the threshold of the elevator for a moment before Francis shook his head, ushering her inside.

 “Secondary relay is gone, ma’am!” Fitzroy said, the lights flickering. “I don’t know how much more of this the ship can take! Outer hull temperature is way past design limits and still rising. We’re getting burn-through in a hundred points.”

 “Hold it together!” Orlova repeated. “We’re almost there!”

 “I’ll try, ma’am.”

 “I’ve got it!” she said. “Confirmed course lock on the wormhole. Eight minutes to altitude.”  Fitzroy glanced across at the readouts, and said. “If we miss, we’ll never have enough power for escape velocity.” 

 “Guess I’d better not miss, then.”

Chapter 26

 “It is done,” the girl said, walking back into the apartment, a beaming smile on her face. “The humanoids and the crew of Monitor are free, and have already left the moonlet. Only your Pavel remains.” Shaking her head, she replied, “I don’t think he will leave without you. Perhaps I should bring him into the system, to join us in our dance through eternity.”

 “Can you find a way to make him leave with the others?” she asked.

 “Perhaps.” She swept a hand across the wall, and a view of Alamo appeared, a trail of fire burning from it, miles long, black smoke all around. “Your friends are daring much in their quest to get home. They have a chance of making it. Not a good one. But a chance.”

 “They’ll take it, and I know they’ll make it,” Harper replied.

 Nodding, the girl said, “You want to go home, as well. You do not need to reply. I can see it in your face, in your heart. All that is you is now a part of me, remember. So I do know a way to make Pavel leave, and to give your friends on Alamo the best chance they can. I will release you.”

 Harper stepped forward, and said, “I will stay.” 

 “You will.” The girl snapped her fingers, and a duplicate of Harper appeared beside her, fading into existence. “Remember that I have copied your consciousness, stored away in the databanks. I have my companion, and you have yours.” Stepping forward, she continued, “I will never forget you. Maybe you’ve shown me something I have forgotten, and maybe you have given me something that I need. For now, though, you need to go. Your people are waiting on the surface.” A soft smile danced across her face, and she added, “It seems that you and Pavel are needed by your friends more than I, but never forget, that you will live on here, by my side, when the galaxies are but a forgotten memory in the distant past.”

 Harper’s eyes snapped open, the cables releasing her from her grasp, and she collapsed forward into the arms of Salazar, waiting for her in the storage room. She looked back at the nest of wires from which she had emerged, dropping away to the floor, and shook her head in wonder at what had happened.

 “We’ve got to go,” she said, looking up at Salazar. “We’ve got to go now. Alamo’s on the way up, and the shuttle is waiting for us on the surface.”

 “No argument here,” Salazar replied, and the two of them ran, the moonlet vibrating all around them, dust and debris raining down from the ceiling, gaping cracks appearing in the walls. “This place is falling to bits! Is the AI planning to self-destruct?”

 Shaking her head, Harper sprinted faster, racing down the corridors, somehow knowing the best way to get back to the surface, and replied, “It doesn’t need this place, not now it has released the Angels. It’s got cores scattered all across the Sphere.” Turning to him, she added, “It’s trying to keep pace with Alamo.”

 “Why?” he asked. “If it’s planning to try a collision course, then we’ve...”

 “No, no,” she replied, shaking her head, the two of them turning a corner to a long, jagged tunnel, rocky projections erupting from the floor. “That’s not it at all. She’s trying to help us. Giving us every chance she can to let us get back to the ship. The faster we’re moving, the easier it will be to intercept, even if it means this moon collapses to rubble in the process.”

 An earth-shattering crack came from underneath them, and the moonlet lurched to the right, sending the two of them slamming into the wall, briefly knocking the breath from Harper’s body. Not waiting for an argument, Salazar grabbed her, pulled her free of the rocks, and raced on, her legs struggling to keep pace.

 “I haven’t waited around this damn long to lose you now!” he yelled. “Either we both make it out of here, or neither of us do!”

 The shaft was up ahead, the cable still attached, wildly dangling back and forth as the moonlet shook itself to pieces all around them. Harper leapt for the cable, snatching at it with her hands, and started to drag herself up, hand over hand, struggling for the surface. Salazar followed a heartbeat behind, the belay creaking and groaning from the weight, threatening to collapse completely. A hand reached down to Harper, and she looked up to see Lombardo, dragging her to the surface, placing her carefully by the shaft as he stretched down towards Salazar.

 “Come on! We’ve got about twenty seconds to get out of here! Alamo’s on the way, and the shuttle’s cleared for launch!”

 The three of them sped across the rough terrain, Fox waiting at the hatch, gesturing for them to hurry, steam already rising from the jets as the pilot prepared for liftoff. Lombardo was first inside, passing through the hatch with a single bound, and Salazar next, waiting at the threshold for Harper, who glanced back for a split second, taking a last look at the crumbling moonlet. 

 “Come on!” Lombardo yelled, and she stepped inside as the door locked too, Salazar sprinting for the cockpit, the engines already roaring to hurl them into the sky. Harper followed, sitting at a station beside Mortimer, the two of them running through a quick launch sequence. On the viewscreen, she could see Alamo, a burning bolt racing into the sky.

 “Full thrust,” Salazar said, sliding into the co-pilot’s seat. “What the hell is this thing?”

 “Wrecked the shuttle, sir,” Clarke said. “I had to pick up a rental. We’re three seconds late, sir, but I’m giving it everything she’s got.” Turning to Harper, he asked, “Can you try and get Alamo, ma’am? If they’ll trim their course a little, I think we can make it.”

 Nodding, she tapped a control, and said, “Harper to Alamo, Harper to Alamo, come in, please. Harper to Alamo, Harper to Alamo, come in, please.”

 “Alamo here,” the harried voice of Fitzroy replied. “I know what you’re going to ask, Lieutenant, but there’s nothing we can do for you up here. We’re struggling to hold course as it is. If we cut the engines, we’ll never get them restarted.” He paused, then added, “All elevator airlocks are open. Pick whichever you want. There’s a skeleton crew standing by in the hangar deck for you.”

 “Roger, Alamo, and thank you,” Harper said.

 “John,” Salazar said.

 “I heard him,” the young man replied, straining over the controls. “See if you can trim out the power feed, Skipper. The controls are labeled. It isn’t that different from a standard shuttle.”

 “On it,” Salazar said. Harper turned to look at the screen, the shuttle smashing through the thin, tenuous clouds of the upper atmosphere, straining for all the acceleration it could muster. She could see their goal, see Alamo, moving up to meet them, Clarke struggling to guide the shuttle into an intercept course. She looked across at Mortimer, tracking Alamo, and the dotted line of the shuttle’s trajectory was finally sliding into place.

 “Fuel down to ten percent,” Salazar said. “You’re only going to get one chance at this, John. Make it count.”

 “Aye, sir,” he said. “I’m coming in hot. We’ll probably wreck the ship and the airlock doing it, but whatever it takes, I’m going to bring her in.”

 “Just once,” Mortimer said, “just once, I’d like to step on a shuttle with you and know that we’re not going to end up with a pile of debris at the end.”

 “Any landing you can walk away from,” Clarke said, his face a mask of concentration. Alamo was growing larger in the screen by the second, the familiar lines of their ship visible through the thinning halo of fire that surrounded it. The air was thinning out now, progress easier than before, but Harper’s face fell as she saw the condition of the weary battlecruiser, burned and pitted, breaches all along the side of the ship, sensor relays melted and torn.

 “She’ll get us home,” Salazar said. “Thirty seconds to landing. I hope.”

 “I’m going for Airlock Two,” Clarke said. “Right down the middle.”

 “Two percent fuel,” Salazar said. “More than enough.”

 “Might even have a little left at the ending,” Clarke said. Harper looked across at the sensors, then at the ship growing larger, ever larger. She could make out the hatch now, inviting them inside, and with a last effort, as the shuttle’s engines failed, they slid inside, the ruined mechanism somehow bursting into life to close the aft hatch behind them.

 The shuttle slammed into the wall, a horrible crunching noise as the hull ruptured, and the elevator mechanism groaned to a halt. The upper hatch opened, and a second later, a dull whining noise came from the roof, laser cutters working to free them from the ruined shuttle, the metal melting red where the deck gang labored to cut them out. 

 “What a mess,” Kowalski said, kicking the hull clear. A ladder dropped down beside him, and he said, “Sickbay’s waiting for you, and I’ve got an elevator on standby for the bridge. Captain Orlova’s ordered the crew to the storm shelters. Me and Murdoch are the only ones left this close to the hull, and I don’t like the noises it’s making.”

 Harper reached for the ladder, pulling herself up, and said, “Hot in here, Chief.”

 “Outer hull topped out at a thousand degrees. She’s not meant to take anything like that sort of heat, Lieutenant. I don’t know how much more of this she can take.”

 “She’ll hold together,” Salazar said, next up the ladder. “Lombardo, you’d better find Chief Santiago. If the rest of the ship looks like this, my guess is she’s going to need all the help she can get. Clarke, take charge of the Monitor survivors and get them to Sickbay on the double.” The hull creaked as they climbed to the deck, and one look at the inner hull convinced them to race for the elevator, the door waiting and ready for them.

 “Look at that!” Murdoch said, gesturing at the monitor screen, the static-filled display showing an image of the moonlet, finally breaking into a million fragments as the force of the violent acceleration proved too much, the structure disintegrating and falling back towards the Sphere. For a moment, silence reigned as the death of a world played out.

 And then, at the end, a single, bright star flew out of the heart of the structure, flying down, down towards the exit point Alamo had used, escaping out into free space an instant later. Tears flowed over Harper’s cheeks as she turned to Salazar, holding him close.

 “She made it. She finally made it. I think she was afraid to leave, all alone. She needed someone to take with her. I think we gave her what she was looking for.” Looking up at him, she continued, “Would you have waited until the end?”

 “I wouldn’t have left without you. Whether that meant getting locked into the same cybernetic oblivion or going on a final trip to the surface, I wasn’t going to leave you behind, and I never will.” The deck rumbled, sirens sounding to break the reverie, and he said, “Stations, everyone. I don’t know how much more of this the ship can take, but I do know that we’ve got a date with a wormhole, and that’s something I don’t want to miss.”

 The two of them dived into the elevator, the mechanism protesting as the doors slammed shut, hurling them towards their destination. After so many months on the Sphere, it almost felt strange to be back, the familiar feel of the ship gradually flooding through them once more, the tang of artificial air instead of the natural air of the surface.

 Then the ship rocked again, the lights dying as the emergency systems kicked in, the elevator slowing to a crawl as it continued up the decks.

 “Do you really think the ship can make it?” Harper asked.

 “There’s only one way to find out,” he replied.

Chapter 27

 Alamo rocked forward, moving out of trajectory, and Orlova struggled to hold her on course, her hands moving across the controls as she tried to balance the thrusters, locking the ship onto the dotted line that would see them to safety. Behind her, the elevator doors opened, but she couldn’t look up, not even for a second, knowing that the slightest inattention would bring their trip to an end. Cool hands moved onto the console, and she felt someone leaning over her, a familiar figure.

 “I’ll take her, Captain,” Salazar said, sliding into the chair as she vacated it, moving back to the familiar command chair. “Course projection stable. Wormhole in two hundred and three seconds. I hope.”

 “I’m on the sensors,” Harper said. “Just like old times, Maggie.”

 “Just like,” Orlova said, settling down at the heart of the bridge. “The ship’s falling apart, and we’ve only got a few moments to pull out of the dive.” She looked up at the viewscreen, seemingly empty space before them. It seemed impossible to conceive that they were only seconds from home, and yet, somehow, despite everything, they were almost at their goal.

 The ship was falling to pieces, Fitzroy struggling to keep the systems going for a little longer. Now she had another worry. If Alamo emerged in an uninhabited part of space, it might still be months before they were rescued. Whether the ship could navigate at all was a moot point. Everything was being sacrificed to get them to their goal.

 “Engine Five is out,” Salazar said. “Fitz, I need more power, now!”

 “There’s nothing left,” the engineer replied. “I’m not sure why the main reactor is still working, half the safety systems have failed.” Tapping a control, he added, “Two hundred and seven hull breaches, Captain. She can’t take any more of this!”

 “Sixty seconds to wormhole threshold,” Salazar said. “We might end up going through in a hundred pieces, but we’re getting through! Kris, I’m going to need the best possible course projection you can give me. I’ll have to thread the needle on the first try, and twenty meters isn’t good enough.”

 “Working on it,” she said. “I can give you five. That’s the best I can do with the sensors at current resolution. We’ve lost most of the pickups.”

 “I’ll take it,” he replied. Orlova looked around the bridge, the communications console flickering out as the network crashed, red warning lights bathing every station. Alamo had been in some bad places before, but her crew had never asked quite this much of her in the past. That she was still in one piece was a miracle, but they were running out of time, and everyone on the bridge knew it.

 The only abort option was their most desperate. A return to the surface, to what might be a controlled crash landing, but more likely a meteoric impact. Some of them might survive, but they’d never have a second chance to get home. It was worth it. It was worth all of it.

 “Ten seconds!” Salazar yelled. “Hold onto something! This is going to be rough.” Stabbing a control, he said, “If anyone out there can hear me, brace for severe turbulence! We’re going through!”

 At the last second, he tapped a control, bringing the nose up by a fraction of a degree, and Alamo slid smoothly into the wormhole entrance, the Sphere vanishing as they transited the length of the shortcut in space, the hull whining and complaining from the superspace stresses, the lights finally failing for the last time as Salazar struggled to nurse the weary ship through to the other end. With a loud report, the struggling power grid finally failed, and the viewscreen faded, just as the vibration on the hull finally ceased.

 “What happened?” Harper asked.

 “We’re through,” Salazar said. “My God, we’re through. We made it.” Turning to Orlova, he said, “Though I haven’t got the faintest idea just where that might be.”

 “Fitzroy, can you get me a damage report?” Orlova asked, struggling to her feet.

 With a deep sigh, the engineer replied, “Main reactor is gone, and so is the auxiliary. We’re on battery power alone. The backup solar array is history. That gives us about twelve hours of life support, and nothing else.” Tapping controls, he added, “Not that it matters. The superstructure is gone, ma’am. Shattered into a million pieces. We couldn’t even move on our thrusters.”

 “Life support?”

 “Working after a fashion, but the thermostat…” Shaking his head, he turned to her, and said, “She’s dead in space, ma’am. There’s no other way to put it. She’ll keep us alive for a few hours more, but that’s it. Alamo’s come to the end of her journey.”

 “Sensors?” Orlova asked.

 “If any of the pickups are working, then I can’t access them from here,” Harper said. “I think you’re going to have to count them out as well, ma’am.” Throwing controls, she added, “No internal communications, either. I think the Chief tried to run the power systems through it at the last minute. It could never take the load for long. That means that every connector on the ship is history.” The hull creaked, and she added, “We ought to think about evacuation.”

 “Where to?” Fitzroy asked.

 “There’s only one way to find out,” Orlova said, rising to her feet. “Pavel, do you fancy a walk?”

 “Hey, wait a minute,” the engineer protested. “The ship will be surrounded by debris, some of it moving at high relative speed. If you make a wrong move, it’ll slice you in two.”

 “Not a problem,” Salazar said. “We probably won’t have the leave the airlock. The ship came through with a slight spin on its axis.” He floated free, and said, “Rotational gravity’s gone as well. That won’t hurt.”

 “Spaceman, I need the internal communications back on. Anything you can manage.” Orlova paused, then said, “Just enough to order the crew to abandon ship if it comes to that.”

 Nodding, Fitzroy replied, “I’ll see what I can do, Captain.”

 “Harper, you have the bridge. Or what’s left of it, anyway.”

 “Aye, ma’am,” she replied. “Be careful, you two.”

 “Will do,” Salazar said, drifting towards the airlock, reaching for a suit, struggling to lock the pieces in place as he tumbled around the room, narrowly missing slamming into the wall. The two of them carefully donned their suits, each checking the other, waiting for the green lights to flash on. Orlova led the way through the opened inner door, sealing it shut, locking a safety line on Salazar’s suit.

 “At least this is still working,” Salazar said, as Orlova worked the airlock mechanism. “All air vented. Let’s see where we ended up.”

 “Releasing outer door,” she replied, and the hatch swung open to reveal a sea of stars beyond. For a moment, she grimaced, but then she started to pick out familiar constellations, old celestial guideposts, and the internal computer of her suit identified known stellar landmarks.

 “I’ve got Canopus. And Polaris,” Salazar said. “Maggie, I think...”

 She looked up, and saw a view that left no room for doubt. Swirling green clouds, thin rings, a world that she knew very well indeed.

 Uranus.

 They’d made it.

 “Quick,” she said, turning to Salazar, “Link your suit to mine. I want to boost the communicator as strong as I can.” Shaking her head, she added, “I should have known we’d end up here.”
 “The alien base on Desdemona.”

 “You know about that?”

 “Double-Ultra security clearance is what got me in this mess to start with.” Tapping a control, he added, “There you go. I’ll start trying to work out our exact position. One of the shuttles is still intact down in the hangar deck. If all else fails, I’ll make my way along the outside of the hull, try to take it to one of the local outposts.

 “This is Lieutenant-Captain Margaret Orlova to any station, any station. This is Lieutenant-Captain Margaret Orlova calling any station, any station. Reply at once. Reply at once.”

 “Maggie?” a familiar voice replied. “This is Major Gabrielle Esposito, commanding Shakespeare Station. Please confirm your identity. I need something for voiceprint recognition.”

 “Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are. That enough?”

 “It’ll do. My God. Where the hell did you come from.”

 “The Andromeda Galaxy,” she replied. “It’s a long, long story. Listen, I’m declaring an immediate emergency. I’ve got a hundred and thirty one people out here, and all of them are going to need to be evacuated as soon as possible.”

 “Lieutenant-Captain Salazar, breaking in. We’re about a million miles from you, on an orbit that’s heading in your direction. Somehow we managed to get through the wormhole with enough speed to keep us out of the atmosphere for a while, but Maggie’s right. We’re going to need rescue right away.”

 “Captain Marshall?” Esposito asked.

 “He didn’t make it,” Orlova replied.

 “I’ve got six shuttles in the air now, with rescue and relief teams.” There was a pause, and she said, “Wow. I’m getting some telemetry from Alamo. What the hell did you do to her?”

 “Try a thousand-mile atmospheric burn following a close flyby of a quantum singularity.”

 “As soon as the dust settles, you two are going to give me a full report. I have a feeling this is a story I’m not going to want to miss. Triplanetary Fleet Headquarters is being informed as we speak. If you can get me a casualty list...”

 “Dumping it to you now, Major,” Salazar said. “Along with letters for their families. I’d appreciate it if they could get to them as soon as possible.”

 “I’ll see to it myself. Keep your channel open. The first shuttle should be along in about two hours. Can you hold out that long?”

 “I think so. Thanks, Gabi. It’s nice to hear a friendly voice on the other end of a communicator again. Alamo out.”

 The airlock opened, and Harper stepped out, saying, “Is this a private party, or can anyone join in?”

 “I thought…,” Orlova said.

 “Lombardo made it up with a repair team, so I left him in charge. Unless we can get the network working, there’s nothing much I can do back there anyway.” She looked up, and said, “We’re home. All the way?”

 “All the way. Right back where we started, just about.” Looking down at the battered, ruined hull, Orlova said, “She was a good ship.”

 “What do you mean, was?” Salazar said.

 “She might be right,” Harper replied, with a deep sigh. “Almost every system will have to be replaced, the hull is in pieces, the life support system is a hopeless wreck, the laser cannon’s gone, and...”

 Tapping the armor, Salazar said, “She got us home. All the way. Three million light years out, and back again. She’s saved the Confederation a dozen times, and she’s still got plenty of life in her yet. It’ll take a while...”

 “That’s putting it mildly, Pavel.”

 “But she’ll fly again. You can count on that. No matter what it takes. After everything this old girl has done for us, that seems like the least we can do.” He paused, then added, “There’s a lot of space she hasn’t seen yet. A million stars yet to explore.” He looked at Harper, and said, “You seem rather pensive.”

 “Just wondering,” she said. “I left a copy of myself back there, with the AI. Another me, and one that will live for a million years, wandering through space.” She frowned, then said, “Or was it a copy? Am I the copy, and is that me out there, back in Andromeda, flying through the stars?”

 “A million years,” Orlova said. “I don’t know whether I envy your alter ego or not. Long after we’re all turned to dust, you’ll still be wandering the stars. Maybe until the end of time.”

 “Maybe,” Harper said. “It’s a strange thought.”

 “There,” Salazar said, pointing at the sky. “I see the first shuttle, banking in our direction. Help’s on the way.” Turning to Harper, he added, “Don’t worry, Kris. We’ll be flying out among the stars again before you know it. Count on it.”

Epilogue

 Harper paced the cramped office, walking from one wall to another in less than a dozen paces, while Lombardo looked out at the street, at the Senate beyond, watching the crowd ebb past. Foster sat in a corner, playing with a datapad, while Scott examined the pictures on the wall, cheap reproductions of old Masters from Earth, many copied from originals long since destroyed.

 “How long can it possibly take?” she asked, shaking her head.

 “It’s only been twenty minutes,” Lombardo replied. “Relax.”

 “You try and relax,” she said.

 “The longer it takes, the better,” Foster said, still scrutinizing her report. “They’ll be going over every detail, every analysis. If he’d walked out of there in five minutes, I’d be worried.”

 “Better get worried,” Lombardo said. “He’s on his way.”

 “How does he look?” Harper asked.

 Turning to her with a wry smile, he said, “We’re five floors up. I couldn’t exactly get a clear look at his face.” With a sigh, he said, “Three months of work, and it all comes down to this. Three months of inspection, cost-projection. If I see another shipping schedule, I think I’ll go crazy.”

 “They won’t do it,” Harper said, shaking her head. “Maybe we could go over the contracts for the upgraded hendecaspace drive again. There might be a way to shave a few credits off that deal. Perhaps...”

 “There isn’t,” Scott replied. “We went over that five times. If you want a ship that can actually manage a hendecaspace jump, you’re going to need to spend some money on it. Besides, we only get one shot at this.” She tapped her pocket, and said, “If this falls through, I’m off to the Academy for a year. Apparently they think I know something about space warfare.”

 “Don’t say it,” Lombardo said. “If this falls though, I’m out. Quantum Lines made me another offer, and if this doesn’t...”

 “Stop,” Foster interrupted, raising a hand. “Listen to yourselves. Let’s just wait and see what Pavel has to say, right?”

 The elevator door opened, and Salazar walked out, resplendent in his dress uniform, a neutral expression on his face. The others looked at him, and he walked over to the window, looking out at the street.

 “Do you want the good news or the bad news?” he asked.

 “Good news first,” Lombardo said.

 “My promotion to Lieutenant-Captain is hereby confirmed. It wasn’t unanimous, not by any means, but it looks like I’ve staying at the same rank for a while.”

 “And the bad news?” Harper asked, walking over to him.

 “We’re going to be pretty damned busy for the next year or so.” Holding up a datapad, he said, “They signed off on the rebuild. The whole deal. We’re back in business.”

Thank you for reading 'Secrets of the Sphere'. For information on future releases, please join the author's Science-Fiction Mailing List at http://eepurl.com/A9MdX for updates. If you enjoyed this book, please review it on the site where you purchased it.

The writer's blog is available at http://tinyurl.com/pjl96dj

The Battlecruiser Alamo Saga will resume soon...

As a bonus, read on to enjoy the Logan Winter ‘Lost Alamo’ short story, ‘Dreams in the Dust’.

Dreams in the Dust

I

 Long Shot had been settled by accident, thirty years ago, when a survey ship had found itself stranded in an otherwise unremarkable system, months before the outbreak of the Interplanetary War. Fifteen years had passed before the galactic situation had permitted the launch of a rescue expedition, during which time the castaways had managed to establish themselves as a permanent settlement, and found enough gadolinium to justify the expense of colonial expansion.

 That, and the short-lived Venusian Co-Operative that had launched the initial expedition didn't exist any more. A United Nations puppet state that had been absorbed by the government to prevent insurrection, transformed into little more than a penal camp. There'd been little or nothing left for the stranded starfarers to come home to, and they'd known it, preferring instead to be just one more settlement that had fallen through the cracks of the peace treaty, without a sponsor to support them.

 Logan Winter walked cautiously through what passed for the planetary capital, a trio of battered domes that struggled to resist the endless, biting dust storms that raged outside, filled with a mixture of prefabricated structures and the remnants of that ill-fated ship, appropriately named Albatross. He looked around, finally finding the building he was looking for, the overworked hospital, a cluster of people sitting around outside, waiting to be admitted.

 Moving inside, he flashed a forged identity card good enough to pass the cursory inspection of the outdated security systems, granting him access to the bowels of the facility. He'd spent hours carefully working on it during the flight out, and the harried administrator barely even glanced at it, instead waving him through with the briefest of nods.

 The interior of the building was as bad as the exterior. Beds lined the corridors, the wards overflowing, white-suited medical staff racing around, trying to deal with the backlog. The dust was the primary problem. Despite all the precautions, it would always force its way inside, a choking ash that filled the lungs, slowly killing all who breathed it in. Back home, on Mars, it could be dealt with by a quick visit to a hospital, but the technology out here simply wasn't able to deal with it. Long Shot was just that. A marginal outpost in the middle of nowhere, and the local residents were paying the price for their isolation.

 Already he was mentally writing a report to the Triplanetary Senate, one that he would write to salve his own conscience, even knowing that it would do no good. There was little enough money in the budget as it was, without the massive investment that would be required to bring the local standard of living up to acceptable levels. All of the residents had the same grim pallor, too little time under sunlamps, supplies of the drugs and vitamins needed far too limited. Mars had been like this, decades ago, and if they hadn't freed themselves from the United Nations occupation, would still be today.

 Turning reluctantly from the scene in the corridor, he stepped into the nearest elevator, pressing a control for the top floor, the administration as ever keeping itself aloof from those it was seeking to treat. Though for them, it must have been difficult. Knowing what was going on down here, and knowing there was nothing they could do to help, no solution in sight. Just the same misery, again and again, people dying before their time.

 The doors opened, and he stepped into a far calmer environment, albeit one that was still showing signs of decay. The carpet was worn, old, beaten down. Paintings decorated the walls, all local work, a few with real signs of talent on the part of the artist. A treasure that would never make its way beyond this world.

 Finally, he stepped into the records office, locking the door behind him as he made for the central database. He slid out a datapad, resting it carefully on the desk, and tapped a sequence of controls to hack into the medical database, the firewall putting up unexpectedly stiff resistance. Peering over the display, a frown spread across his face. Someone had given them a major update, and recently. Within the last few days, maybe even less. The latest United Nations code, brand new, not even officially released for civilian use yet.

 His mission had suddenly become far more urgent, and he crouched over the controls, entering a series of commands to batter through the defenses, deploying techniques designed to crack just such a design. Triplanetary Intelligence had the best hackers in the galaxy, and they'd been more than up to their usual standards. The file he was looking for snapped into life on the screen, information flooding into his datapad, but before he could close down the system, he heard footsteps approaching.

 Drawing his concealed pistol with the quick pass of a hand over his hidden holster, he dropped behind the desk, peering up at the door as it slid open. A young, nervous man walked inside, a heavy wrench in his hand, looking around the room.

 “Drop it,” Logan said, raising to his feet. “Close the door.”

 “I'll...”

 “You've got five seconds, kid, or I will have to end you.”

 The wrench dropped to the floor, the door closing as the man took a step forward, nervously stuttering, “If you kill me, I'll be missed, and someone will find you.”

 “Nice bluff, kid. Who are you working for?”

 “The hospital.”

 “Not your cover, your real employer. I want a name.” Pausing, Logan continued, “Damn it, you really are just a civilian, aren't you.” More footsteps approached, and he gestured at the desk, saying, “Get into cover. Our friends out there might not be as nice as I am.”

 “What's going on?” the young man asked. “Why did you want Rachel's file?”

 “Either do as I say or get ready to talk your way through the Pearly Gates, kid.”

 Belatedly, the young man ducked into position, just as the doors slid open, two burly men in ill-fitting hospital uniforms stepping inside. As soon as they saw Logan, they reached for their holsters, but he didn't give them a chance to draw their weapons, two silenced tranq darts knocking them from their feet. Alarms sounded down the corridor, the antiquated security system detecting the gunfire, and Logan turned to the terrified man by his side.

 “I need a way out. Quickly, and quietly.”

 “Not until you tell me who you are.”

 With a sigh, Logan replied, “Logan Winter. Field Agent, Triplanetary Intelligence. And currently regretting coming out of retirement for this junket. Now, directions, please?”

 He paused for a second, but before Logan's patience ran out, replied, “Waste shaft. Down the corridor. All of them head down to a central area in the basement, and there's a delivery truck leaving in a few minutes.”

 “Well-known?”

 “I guess so.”

 Logan paused, nodded, and replied, “I'll chance it.”

 “Wait,” the kid said. “Why did you want Rachel's genetic information?”

 “She's something to you?” He nodded, and Logan continued, “Those bastards would have killed her or worse. Right now I'm the only chance she's got to stay alive. We can talk later. For now, we run.” Not waiting for a reply, he vaulted over the desk and raced down the corridor, the drone of the sirens still sounding from the ceiling speakers. Likely the local security force was still debating whether or not to risk intervening, but he didn't intend to give them a chance to make up their mind to try and stop him.

 The shaft was at the end of the corridor, just as advertised, and he pulled open the cover, his nose wrinkling at the stink from below, and shone a flashlight down to check for traps. As he'd hoped, they hadn't taken out the trash for a while, and he dived into the darkness, slamming into a pile of worryingly soft bags at the bottom. His unexpected sidekick was right behind him, and he barely rolled out of the way in time, dodging the impact of his fall.

 Shapes moved in the darkness, and Logan raised his pistol, spotting a scared, gray-haired woman in a messy jumpsuit, hastily loading bags of refuse into the bag of a truck. He looked over the vehicle, a smile crossing his face. The cabin was sealed, the vehicle covered in dust. Which meant that it was able to leave the safety of the dome and head out onto the surface.

 “Don't shoot!” she said. “Whatever it is you want...”

 “How much do you earn in a month?” Logan asked.

 “Five hundred credits.”

 Not even a living wage back home. “How'd you like to earn a year's pay in an hour?”

 “For what?”

 “We need a lift. And in a hurry.” She frowned, nodded, then stepped into the cabin, Logan racing after her. He turned to the young man, and asked, “What is your name, anyway?”

 “Stephen.”

 “That it?”

 “Moore.”

 “A man of few words. I like it.” The three of them climbed into the cabin, just as a group of men raced into the basement, guns in hand. Without a word, the woman threw the engine into high gear, wrenching the controls to guide the truck through the double doors, out onto the streets. The familiar ringing of shotgun blasts echoed from the sides of the vehicle as they raced away, the crowd parting to allow them to escape.

 “Might need to ask for a little more money.”

 “Passage to Mars, a year's salary.”

 “Done,” she replied with a maniac grin. “I always wanted to do something like this anyway.”

 Gunning the engine as hard as she dared, she took a corner on two wheels, heedless of the shouts and screams all around her. Behind them, Logan saw another buggy chasing down the street, one without the protection that would allow them to chase them beyond the vehicular airlock ahead.

 “Got any ideas about getting us out of here?” the driver asked, as a rattle of bullets bounced from the rear of the vehicle.

 “Sure,” Logan replied, pulling out his datapad. As the truck careened dangerously towards the hatch, he frantically stabbed at the controls, trying to override the locking mechanism. Just as the driver was about to slam on the breaks, he managed to crack through the final layer of encryption, and the doors slid open, allowing the truck into the long tunnel that led to the surface. The inner hatch slammed shut, the outer opening with a loud, angry report, releasing the air within and equalizing the pressure with enough force to hurl them onto the dusty plain beyond.

 “Make a course to Bader Station,” Logan said with a relieved sigh. “About, what, thirty miles north-west.”

 “I know it,” she replied. “I do a run there about once a week.” Turning to him, she asked, “Want to tell me what this is all about?”

 “Those men are going to kill my fiancee,” Stephen said.

 “And he's the hired gun you hired to help?” she asked.

 “Not quite,” Logan replied. “And I suspect we're already too late to stop them capturing her. They didn't add that security for no reason. I was a little late getting here, and...”

 “Why do they want her?” Stephen asked. “Why send so many people out to get her?”

 “All I can tell you for the minute, kid, is that both Triplanetary Intelligence, which is me, and the United Nations Security Service, those bastards back there, want Rachel. Now, I'm going to ask nicely and make her an offer she can't refuse, whereas our friends in the hospital will probably end up brain-burning her. After torturing everyone she cares about in order to get her to agree to sign over her inheritance.”

 “Inheritance?” he asked. “She's an orphan, like me. My parents fostered her.”

 With a deep sigh, Logan said, “Then we're riding to the rescue of pretty much everyone you care about, I suspect. I hope you're a better shot than you look, kid, because right now I think we're outnumbered about twenty to one.”

II

 The refuse truck bounced over a track so faint that it could only be picked up by the sensing radar, the dust billowing across the flickering viewscreen. A faint, acrid taste lingered in the air, impossible to be removed even by the scrubbers in the lifesystem. Moore looked out at what passed for the horizon, brief glimpses of the wilderness beyond breaking through the clouds, while Logan poured over his datapad, looking at the layout of the settlement they were making for.

 A single dome. Two ways in, one at the front, one at the back. No vehicular airlock, the settlement far too small for that. The readout showed him a dozen prefabricated buildings inside, rows of hydroponic equipment scattered around. What passed for an agricultural settlement, an experimental farming compound. And the home of the woman he'd come twenty light-years to find, a hair behind the enemy. The vehicle lurched over a bump, and sick to his stomach, he turned to the driver. 

 “Is it always this bad?”

 “Actually, it's pretty quiet today. If you're in danger of losing your breakfast, there are sick bags under your seat. Make sure not to mess up my nice clean cabin.”

 “Sure,” Logan replied. “Soon as you tell me where it is.”

 “Everyone's a comedian. So what's so special about this girl we're rescuing?”

 “Not just her,” Moore said. “Everyone at the settlement.”

 “Probably,” Logan said. “The people we're after don't have any compunction about collateral damage.” Raising his pistol, he added, “Low-velocity. Guaranteed not to punch through a dome wall.”

 “If it won't punch through a dome wall...”

 “This isn't a normal bullet,” Logan replied with a smile. “When it makes contact with a human being, nasty stuff happens. Think heat-sensitive shaped charges. Smart piece of equipment, but it's guaranteed not to damage equipment. Not much, anyway.”

 “Don't wave that thing around in here,” the driver said.

 “What's your name, anyway?”

 “Frank.”

 “You're kidding.”

 “Francesca. And if you call me that, you can damned well walk. One day I might get around to forgiving my folks for lumbering me with such a stupid name.” With a beaming smile, she continued, “I noticed you didn't get around to answering my question.”

 “No, I didn't, did I.” He paused, then said, “I'll tell you when the dust settles. Metaphorically, I mean. Until then you'll just have to be content with the knowledge that the life of Rachel Morgan is one of the most important in Known Space, and leave it at that.”

 “I don't get it,” Moore replied. “She's just an orphan. Her parents died in an accident, right after we landed, and my folks adopted her. We grew up together.” He blushed, then said, “I'm training to be a field medic. Nine months to go, and then I'll be moving home, and we're going to get married.”

 “Hold onto that hope, kid,” Logan said. “It'll keep you alive.” A light winked onto his datapad, and he continued, “That took longer than I expected.”

 “Someone coming after us?” Frank asked.

 “Two buggies, neither of them registered to your local security services. Meaning that our friends back there finally managed to get themselves organized. We've got a good fifteen-minute head-start, though. I'm not that worried about them.”

 “Pretty advanced technology.”

 “Triplanetary Intelligence has nothing but the best.”

 “Should you be telling everyone that you're an undercover agent?”

 With a shrug, Logan replied, “I just had a running gun battle through a hospital, down a main street, and hijacked a trash van for my daring escape. I think that any hope of this being a covert operation is well and truly dead and buried. All that matters now is speed, anyway. If we can pull this off in a hurry, I can call in for extraction.”

 “You've got a ship in orbit,” Frank said, nodding.

 “Let's just say I've got a few tickets out of here, and yes, that includes you.”

 “I damned well hope so. I've been stuck on this rock since I was fifteen, and I can't wait to get the hell out of here.” 

 Moore looked sharply at her, and replied, “This is our home. It's all I've ever known, and I'm not going to give up on it that quickly.”

 “You're kidding, right?” Frank asked. “You're telling me that if Dick Tracy here offered you the same deal he gave me, you'd turn it down and go back to the farm instead?” Shaking her head, she continued, “There's nothing here but dust and death, kid. Trust me, I know.”

 “The offer is open,” Logan replied. “For both you and Rachel. That's why I'm here.” He paused, then continued, “Technically, I was just here for Rachel, but I'm happy to take you along for the ride as well. I figured I'd probably end up having to bribe a few people with tickets out of here.”

 “Works for me,” Frank said.

 “Is Mars so much better?”

 “Kid, there are worlds out there where you can actually breathe the air, drink the water. A few of them are in the Confederation. Ragnarok, maybe. Cold as hell, but at least they've got some hope for the future.” Looking at the wasteland outside, he continued, “The only reason you settled this rock is that you didn't have a choice. Nothing else in the system even half this promising...”

 “We could have left.”

 “With nothing other than the clothes on your back, and a one-way ticket to a labor camp. I'd have made the same decision your parents did, but that doesn't mean there aren't other options.” He looked at his datapad again, then said, “We're almost there. Pull up outside the rear airlock. I want one of you to go outside and activate the emergency cycle, but trigger an override to stop it from opening. Block it.”

 “Sure,” Frank said, with a shrug. “Most of the crap out here's one maintenance cycle away from being recycled anyway. More of an effort to keep it working.”

 Pulling out a spare pistol, Logan passed it to Moore, and said, “Yours, kid.”

 “I've never fired a weapon in my life.”

 “It's an old-fashioned point-and-click, and there are some nice little on-board systems designed to help you out a little. Stabilizers, and the bullets have at least a limited ability to alter their trajectory. You can't shoot me, for the record, but you could shoot a civilian, so watch it.” He patted the young man on the back, and said, “Relax. All of this is going to work out.”

 “Is this the bit where you assure us that you know exactly what you are doing?”

 “Something like that,” he replied, pulling on a respirator. He secured his goggles in position, then reached up to the overhead airlock, clambering inside with an effort. As soon as he cracked the upper hatch, the force of the wind almost threw him from his feet, threatening to knock him to the ground. He struggled down the ladder, dropping onto the dry plain, and turned to face the dome, a series of searchlights struggling to fight their way through the gloom.

 Dust tickled down his throat, triggering a series of hacking coughs, particles forcing their way through the respirator filters, seeping into his lungs. Struggling to stand upright, he started to walk towards the dome, turning for a second as he heard the trunk starting up again, heading on its trip around the perimeter, providing the distraction he hoped would allow him to complete his mission.

 By now, the enemy forces would have moved into position in the dome. Taken over life-support, communications, power. The critical functions. The population, thirty-one according to the last census, would be at their mercy, and almost certainly being used as tools in a bid to convince Rachel to accede to their demands. No massacre. Not yet. They didn't dare push too hard, or the repercussions would be impossible to hide.

 He had to move quickly. Reinforcements were only a few moments ahead. Meaning that they'd concentrated all of their operatives here, at this remote dome, where he could work without fear of interruption, and keep the mess to a minimum.

 Struggling around the perimeter, he finally found the airlock controls and pulled his pistol free of its holster. He entered in an emergency override code that he probably shouldn't have known, and smiled as he heard the faint wail of the interior emergency alarms sounding inside. A couple of threatened breaches to the integrity of the dome would hopefully serve as an additional distraction. He glanced up at the spot where a security camera should have been, only a collection of dangling wires in its place. Long ago, the components had been salvaged for some other, more desperate function.

 The door dilated, and he stepped inside, pistol in hand, and worked the emergency release to force the inner hatch open before the cycle could complete, stepping into the settlement with a cloud of concealing dust all around him. The layout of the dome memorized, he raced forward, throwing an elbow at the figure standing on guard, and sprinted through the crowd, moving to take cover behind a water tank, heavy iron planted on the ground.

 Bullets rang out, clattering against the tank, and he returned fire, catching one of the enemy agents in the shoulder, sending the others racing into the shadows. There were only four of them left, fewer than he'd expected but more than he had hoped, and judging from the report from every shot, they had no compunctions about damaging the dome. Scorch marks on some of the buildings testified that the locals had put up a significant fight, reluctant to simply surrender.

 Four guns fired as one, ripping a hole in the tank, sending the precious liquid within gushing into the soil. Logan leaned around, seeking one of the figures, and fired a pair of shots that caught him in the side, sending him tumbling away. While he was taking his shot, one of the dying man's comrades took advantage of the distraction, racing around to the flank, ducking behind one of the buildings. The others crouched down where they were, waiting for Logan to make a mistake.

 He didn't have time for this. They'd have friends arriving, and soon. He had to retake the settlement now, buy himself a chance to defend against the forthcoming assault. There wasn't any choice. He had to make his move.

 With a wild yell, he raced out of cover, weaving from side to side while bullets tore into the ground all around him, turning to catch one of the enemy agents with a lucky snap shot, sending him collapsing onto the dirt. Another turned to him, but his head jerked to the side as the second airlock cracked open, a cloud of dust sweeping into the dome, a figure standing at the threshold.

 “No!” Logan yelled, certain that one of the two he had left outside had disobeyed his instructions, and the remaining gunmen opened up on the figure, taking the easy shot. All he could do was avenge their deaths, and he did so with a trio of precisely aimed shots, the bullets slamming into their targets and sending the enemy agents collapsing to the floor, bleeding onto the dry sand.

 A door opened, and a column of people walked out, the residents of the dome emerging from their hiding place. At their head was Rachel, looking around in confusion at the mayhem outside. Logan looked across at the second airlock, then laughed out loud as he saw the crumpled, empty spacesuit on the ground, arms spread wild.

 “Thought it might help,” Frank said, stepping in behind him. “You got them?”

 “This batch, anyway,” he replied, as Moore raced over to Rachel, sweeping her in his arms. Logan walked over to the couple, sliding his pistol back into his holster. “Rachel Morgan?”

 “What's going on?” she asked.

 “I think it's past time I explained,” he said. “Frank, can you seal the airlocks, lock them down to prevent anyone else from getting in?”

 “For a while,” she replied. “They won't hold against serious attack.”

 “They don't have to. Just for a few minutes.” Turning back to Rachel, he said, “We'd better talk. All three of us. It's about your parents.”

 “They died fifteen years ago.”

 “No,” Logan replied. “They died six months ago, on Earth.” Cracking a thin smile, he added, as shock spread across her face, “My commiserations, but as a result, you're worth about five billion credits.”

III

 “It all goes back to the War,” Logan began, sitting at the table. “Specifically, the Venusian Co-Operative. How much do you know about it?”

 “Only that my parents were born there, and that they were on the ship that sent us out here. Lost during the War.” She shrugged, then said, “My folks never talked about it that much.”

 “They never talked about the past, then. Still, I suppose you would have been very young when they died. Young enough that you wouldn't have understood. I thought they might have left you a message, or something like that, but I guess not.” Folding his hands together, he continued, “The Co-Operative began about ninety years ago, in the aftermath of the Third Venusian Expedition. It was sponsored by a consortium of billionaires, half a dozen families, and they ended up effectively owning the planet.”

 Frowning, Rachel asked, “What does this have to do with me? My parents were a pioneer team. A shuttle pilot and a prospector.”

 “No,” Logan said, with a sigh. “They weren't. When the War really began to get bad, when it became obvious that Venus was going to be dragged into the United Nations whether it wanted it or not, they decided to find a bolt-hole. A hiding place, if everything back home collapsed. Which it preceded to do.” Leaning forward, he continued, “Your real parents were James and Rebecca Hathaway. They sent you here to keep you safe.”

 Moore's eyes widened, and he replied, “Those names...”

 “Between them, they owned thirty-seven percent of the property of the Co-Operative.”

 “But all of that was seized by the United Nations.”

 “On a twenty-year forced-lease, which expires in a week. All the other owners have agreed to an extension of the lease, one way or another. Either pay-offs, threats, or a combination of both. They live on Earth, so it wasn't difficult. You, on the other hand, are the exception. Until a month ago, it was thought that you were dead.” His lips curved into a smile, and he continued, “As a result of which, a guy in New Adelaide became a millionaire for nothing. He had the wit to go into hiding before the trouble started, then decided to cash in still further.”

 “He told you about me?”

 “That you existed, yes. To be fair to him, I think his original idea was to protect you, as much as to steal your inheritance. Nevertheless, the Security Council wants you.”

 “Why?” Moore asked. “If they already control sixty...”

 “The agreement requires a two-thirds majority.” Gesturing at Rachel, he continued, “One which you are able to block, and my government will be extremely satisfied with that outcome. For a start, the Venusian stations are becoming a poster child for human rights violations. There are a lot of activist groups that want those contracts broken, and the surface installations closed down. Then there are the political implications, of course, the embarrassment to some pretty senior figures.”

 “Then you're here to make a deal,” she said. “Are you...”

 “No better than the others? Perhaps. They didn't teach morality in spy school. Though I will note that they came in shooting, and we didn't, and that I went to considerable trouble to try and protect you. I'd hoped that I'd beat them to it, but they had people already down here. Our intelligence network doesn't usually reach this far into the frontier. Not reliably, anyway.” Taking a deep breath, he said, “I'm willing, on behalf of my government, to offer you fifty million credits for your stake, as well as free passage for yourself and, within reason, any others to Mars. Citizenship in the Confederation. Protection by some of the best people we've got, no charge. Or you could simply go into hiding on one of the frontier worlds. We're opening new colonies, and a lot of them have much more promise than Long Shot.”

 “What would the United Nations offer?”

 “The impostor got five million, no questions asked. For a stake worth a thousand times that.” Raising a hand, he added, “I know, I know, we're not that much better, but with the Confederation I can guarantee that you'll get to live at least the vestige of a normal life. You won't get that on Earth.”

 “And if I refuse?”

 “Then I leave, taking Frank with me, and in all probability you'll either be dead, captured, or in what will amount to a gilded cage for the rest of your life. I know all of this is unfair as hell, and I know that it comes as a shock, but I'm going to have to ask you to make a decision, and right away. I might be willing to wait, but the people who will be pounding on the airlocks in a few minutes certainly won't.”

 Rachel looked up at him, maturity in her eyes, and replied, “That doesn't necessarily mean that I intend to accept your first offer.”

 “Perhaps not,” Logan replied with a faint smile. “I do have some limited room to bargain, though I hope you don't plan on asking for too much. Triplanetary Intelligence has a substantial discretionary fund, but we have been taxing it rather to the limit of late.” Glancing at the door, he continued, “I think we might want to continue this discussion later. For the present, we've got some additional guests, and I think it best to ensure that they receive a proper welcome.” He rose to his feet, looked at the two of them, and added, “Stephen, you're going to be sticking to her side like glue. Right now your fiancée is the most important person on this planet.”

 Nodding, he held his pistol uncertainly in his hand, and replied, “I'll keep her safe.”

 Walking out of the room, Logan saw Frank waiting outside, and asked with a smile, “Hear everything?”

 “Just about,” she replied. “Didn't expect her to be quite that greedy. If someone offered me fifty million, I'd take it without a second thought. Especially with a free pass to get anywhere in known space. Pretty much every rock out there beats this one.”

 “I don't think she's greedy,” he replied. “There's something else there. I'm beginning to get the idea that I'm being played.” Shaking his head, he asked, “All the airlock secured?”

 “Tight and safe, for the moment, but we're picking up all three buggies less than five minutes from here. You think they might have heavier armament?”

 “I wouldn't rule it out.” Looking around the walls, he said, “Hell, they wouldn't need anything that substantial to wreck the dome. Someone out there might decide to take the place down and chance writing it off as an accident. Worst case is that it causes a nice big incident, but protest letters from the Triplanetary Senate won't bring the dead back to life.”

 “Why do I get the idea you're about to try something crazy?”

 “Because so far that's been the basis of our working relationship?” he replied. “Believe it or not, I actually have a plan, but we're going to have to take a few risks to carry it out.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “They should be overhead by now.”

 “Your ship, up in orbit,” she replied, eyes widening. “Good God, you're talking about an orbital bombardment!”

 “Pinpoint high-velocity kinetic projectiles. Rods from God. Going that fast, they don't need a warhead.”

 “How are they going to target something that small from orbit?” Frank asked, before her face fell. “You're going to have to go out there and guide them in, aren't you.”

 “That's the basic idea,” Logan replied, jogging towards the nearest airlock. “The way I see it, you've got two choices. The first one has you staying in the nice, comfortable dome and waiting for the big angry men with guns to spoil the party, and the second sees you riding shotgun, standing meters away from a hopefully well-guided orbital strike.”

 “Some choice,” she said. “If you get killed, so does my paycheck. Lead on, Macduff.”

 Raising an eyebrow, he said, “Nice to see someone else who knows the classics.”

 Tapping the hatch control, he slid on a respirator, this time sliding a piece of cloth over the input feed, one last low-tech precaution to try and keep out the choking dust, and from the look of the others on the rack, one that most of the locals were taking as a matter of course. Outside, the storm was in full force, and he pulled out his laser discriminator, wondering whether it could possibly trigger with the thick clouds in the air, barely able to see his own feet in the dirt.

 “This way,” Frank said, gesturing towards some faintly visible hills. “Sensor's still working. Just about. At least we'll be able to take the bastards by surprise.”

 Nodding, Logan moved in the indicated direction, his pistol in one hand, the targeting laser in the other, wondering in the back of his mind how a simple snatch mission had managed to get so desperate in a hurry. Reaching down to a hidden tab with his tongue, he clicked the control to turn on the tight-beam communicator built into his respirator, waiting for the chime that would confirm that contact had been established.

 “Boris, you awake up there?” Logan asked.

 “Right here, boss,” replied his old friend, currently commanding the nominally civilian scoutship hovering in orbit. “You know you've got contacts heading your way, right?”

 “All too well, buddy. I need the Rods from God ready to go on the double. Get them launched, and I'll guide them in.”

 “You realize the locals will go mad.”

 “Not much they can do about it except slap us with a fine, and I'd love to see them explain away a couple of dozen UN agents massacring a settlement. I'll take the blame if it gets that far. It won't. Launch them, Boris.”

 “They're away. Three minutes, fifty seconds to target. Good luck.”

 Logan sprinted forward, his boots leaving heavy impressions in the dirt as he pushed his way through the desert. A faint tang from the outside air fought its way through his respirator, warning lights flashing on to indicate the potential of an imminent failure. One which would likely kill him, assuming the enemy vehicles heading his way didn't accomplish that first.

 There they were. Just ahead. A quick break in the clouds revealed the gleam of metal in the middle distance, and he dived into cover, Frank moving into position behind him. From somewhere, she'd managed get hold of a weathered rifle, and nestled into the ground with practised ease. Logan glanced at her for a second, smiled, then levelled his laser at the nearest target, the beam picking up the hull of the approaching vehicle.

 A thunder-crack louder than anything he had ever heard echoed through the air, and the first of the kinetic projectiles slammed into position, ripping through the buggy and turning it instantly into a pile of scrap metal, the occupants dead before they could have known what was hitting them.

 “One down. Two to go.”

 “Over there,” Frank said, and Logan swung his laser around, glancing again at his comrade, noting a slight tint to the goggles of her respirator, one that hadn't been there before. Still, the buggy was where she had claimed, and a second explosion dealt with the occupants. Only one remained, and time was rapidly running out to draw it into position. Overhead, the final projectile would be on terminal descent, seconds from the surface, and by now the driver of the third buggy knew what was happening, knew what was heading towards him.

 His hand sensor wasn't working, not with the storm, and a visual sweep told him nothing. He had to guess, and only had one chance to get it right. On instinct, he aimed the laser into the distance, and a third explosion ripped through the air, sending a satisfactory cloud of dust rising into the sky, a brief flare testifying that he'd guessed correctly.

 “Nice work,” Frank said, as Logan turned to her, pistol in hand.

 “Yeah,” he said. “Now throw away your rifle, and move to your feet very, very slowly.”

 “What….”

 “I've got a few questions for you. We'll skip over the non-standard equipment you've got, and go right to me asking who you're working for?”

 “I'm curious about that, as well,” Rachel said, walking out of the shadows, Moore by her side, both of them with pistols in their hands. “I think we're going to have to talk about this inside.”

 They both had him covered. With no choice, he dropped his pistol to the dirt, and slowly raised his hands.

IV

 “I know you work for Triplanetary Intelligence,” Moore said, the four of them back in the battered office. “What about you, Frank?”

 She shrugged, and said, “I take it you won't believe me if I claim to be the driver of a...” 

 “That's your cover story,” Rachel interrupted.

 “United Nations Intelligence,” she said with a sigh.

 “Wait a minute,” Moore said. “We just wiped out more than a dozen of your people, and you helped us do it!”

 With a chuckle, Logan replied, “United Nations Intelligence has more factions than there are people on this planet. I'm guessing we wiped out the 'win at any cost' gang, and you represent the 'let's make a deal' brigade. And that you were driving that rubbish truck in the hospital with the same basic goal as me. How am I doing?”

 “That's about right,” she said. “So, shall I make my pitch? I will point out that I saved your life every bit as much as Logan did.”

 “But you've been here for years...” Moore replied.

 “I was born here, that's true enough. Ten years ago I jumped out on a free trader. The path that took me to working for United Nations Intelligence is long and convoluted, and I don't think we need to worry about specific details at the moment, do you? Suffice to say that I'm able to offer not fifty, but sixty million credits for your shares in the Co-Operative. As well as the same guarantees that Logan could provide.”

 Sitting back in her chair, Rachel shook her head, and said, “I want to deal.”

 “I'm listening,” Logan said. “And for the record, I'm the only one here that's been honest the whole time. You've known about your legacy for years, and your boyfriend there is in on the deal as well.” Looking at Moore, he added, “Though I'm not sure when you told him, I do get the idea there's more to him than meets the eye. You had to be a pretty decent hacker to know when I was rummaging for her file, and there had to be a reason you were expecting me to do it.”

 “If you suspected...”

 “I thought you were probably a rival intelligence agent. I'll admit to being slightly surprised at the welcome your fiancée gave you when we arrived here.”

 Nodding, Moore said, “The job at the hospital's real, though. And I am trying to qualify as a field medic. The settlement desperately needs one.”

 “Now that we've all established our bona fides,” Logan said, “let's get right to the point. Bluntly, what do you want?”

 “A new hospital,” she said.

 “What?” 

 “And a satellite constellation. Communications and meteorological, with the associated equipment on the ground. The expansion of our orbital space station, and some sort of deal with a mining company to work our outer moons. There are minerals up there that are borderline profitable, and with a little government nudging, I'm sure someone will take one of you up on it.”

 Frank sat back in her chair, dazed, and said, “That's a little beyond what we expected.”

 “You said I was an orphan,” Rachel replied. “I never thought of myself as one. My parents died when I was young, but Steve's took me in and essentially raised me as their own. I still think of them that way. Adapting to having them as my in-laws won't be difficult.” She flashed a smile at Moore, who blushed in response. “I'm not the orphan. This planet is. The colony. It lost its patron, its supporter, and everything's slowly falling apart. We need to be adopted, and right now I don't care whether it is the United Nations or the Triplanetary Confederation. Someone needs to take us on and make this a going concern.” She pulled a datapad out of her pocket, and slid it across the table. “Here. Everything's all prepared. You've just got to sign it. You're committing to investing in the Long Shot Development Corporation, and the papers outline essentially what I've outlined. And a nominal one-credit payment for me, to make it official.”

 “I'll be damned,” Logan said, looking over the professionally prepared document.

 “You did say you thought you were being played, Logan,” Frank replied. “I'll tell you now that I'd never get this high enough to make it happen.”

 “I can,” Logan replied, nodding. “It won't be easy, but a few Senators owe me a favor or two. I think it might be about time to call them in.” Looking up at Rachel, he asked, “You really want this?”

 “I do.”

 “Fine,” Logan replied, stabbing his thumbprint into position. “The satellites, the hospital, those I can handle within the next couple of months. The rest will take a little longer. As will your ultimate petition for Trust Territory status.” Rising to his feet, he said, “The sooner I leave...”

 “Of course,” Rachel replied. “And thank you, Logan. For saving my life.”

 “My pleasure. I'm happy to find out it was actually worth saving. Good luck to you both.” He paused at the door, turned, and said, “Name the first one after me.” Before they could reply, he walked out into the compound, the local population already starting to clear up the aftermath of the firefight. Frank walked after him, jogging to catch up.

 “What a lift?” Logan asked. “Turns out I've got a spare cabin on the Thomas O' Dell.”

 “You don't think your superiors would object?”

 “No,” he replied, shaking his head. “We're on the same side, after all.”

 “What do you mean?”

 “I mean that someone sent you in as my backup. If you were a United Nations agent, you'd have killed me as soon as I arrived, whether or not you wanted to make a deal.”

 “Damn,” she replied. “I thought...”

 “Hell, it nearly worked,” Logan said. “Took me a few minutes to put the pieces together. I presume nobody decided to tell me to give you decent cover in case I got spotted?”

 Nodding, she replied, “When it looked as though Rachel was going to give you a hard time, I improvised.” She frowned for a second, then said, “Wait a minute. Moore was using the pistol you gave him. He couldn't have shot you.”

 With a shrug, Logan said, “It's always easier to get someone to go somewhere if they think it's their idea.” Looking at her again, he continued, “Recent circumstances have meant that I'm going to be finding myself doing a little more field work than I have in the past. If my boss thinks that I need a partner, I'd like to know who it is before going in. So, want a job?”

 A smile spreading across her face, Frank said, “Logan, I think this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”