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 27
Epilogue

SECRETS OF THE SPHERE

Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 27

Richard Tongue

Battlecruiser Alamo #27: Secrets of the Sphere

Copyright © 2017 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

First Kindle Edition: September 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

 “Captain Orlova?” a stunned Clarke asked, looking up at the weather-worn woman walking into their improvised camp. “We thought...” He looked across at Mortimer, and said, “I don't know what we thought. I'm pleased to meet you.”

 Mortimer looked up from her work, her hand close to the pistol at her belt, and said, “Don't take this personally, Captain, but do you have any proof that you are who you claim to be?”

 Orlova frowned, paused for a second, then said, “Did they ever manage to correct that guidance control failure on Thruster Nine? It always used to burn a quarter-second too long.”

 Clarke's eyes widened, and he replied, “Not to my knowledge, ma'am. Last time I flew Alamo, we were still having to compensate for it manually.” Looking back at Mortimer, he said, “You'd have to have actually flown the old bird to know that, Ronnie. It isn't in the official specs. If she isn't Captain Orlova, then she's sat in the chair at least once. That's enough for me.” Turning to Orlova, he asked, “What are you doing out here, ma'am?”

 “Never mind that for a moment. How bad is the damage to your ship?”

 “Total write-off,” Mortimer replied. “I'm surprised we both walked away from the crash. Do you know anything about the missile that brought us down?”

 “Communications?” Orlova pressed. “Have you any way of contacting Alamo?”

 “All knocked out,” Clarke replied. “We got the beacon going, though, and...”

 Rising to her feet, Orlova yelled, “You activated a broadcast beacon? After coming under enemy fire? What the hell were you thinking?”

 “That we're eight thousand miles from home, that it's a long walk back, and that we've got no other way of sending any sort of a message back to Captain Salazar,” Mortimer replied. “We weren't exactly overloaded with options, Captain.”

 “Damn,” she replied, looking around at the horizon. “We've got to get out of here. Right now.”

 “Where the hell are you planning to run?” a mystified Mortimer asked. “We've got the biggest desert I've ever seen to the north, wasteland to the south, and unless you can walk at the speed of sound, the only hope we've got...”

 “Arm yourselves!” Orlova said, racing towards the wreckage of the flyer. “That's an order!”

 Clarke looked at Mortimer, then drew his pistol from his holster, looking across the horizon while Mortimer tugged out her datapad, calling up a short-range sensor scan of the local area, seeking the source of Orlova's paranoia. She shook her head, playing with the controls, while Clarke moved over to Orlova.

 “Nothing in range, Captain,” he reported. “We've got time. And if anyone was watching, they'll certainly have seen us come down. Do you know who launched that missile?”

 “Did you fly over a mountain range, lots of cracks and valleys, an oasis with a few buildings scattered around?” At his nod, she continued, “That's where your missile came from. And that's where the people…” She paused, looking up, and after a second, Clarke heard a low howl, an electronic whine, off in the distance. Orlova tugged a pistol free of the twisted remnants of the weapons locker, slamming a magazine in position with practiced ease before moving into cover behind the remnants of the port engine.

 “What is it?” he asked, sliding in beside her, as Mortimer scrambled into position on the far side of the wreck, sweeping the sky with binoculars.

 “Incoming. Any moment.”

 “My sensor's still blank,” Mortimer insisted, jabbing at the screen. “Wait one. Damn, they're moving fast. Two contacts, three hundred miles an hour along the ground. How the hell...”

 “Subsurface magnetic tracks,” she replied. “Damn it, I was afraid of this.” She turned to the beacon, and said, “Too late to turn this off, but there might be something I can do. Hold them as long as you can.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” Clarke said, as Mortimer ran to his side, taking the position vacated by Orlova. He looked across at her, then back at Orlova as she leaned over the communications console. “You think there's any point trying to get out of here?”

 “Where to?” she replied.

 “Good point.” He could hear the whine growing louder now, the vehicles getting closer. “Damn it, if we had one plasma rifle...”

 “Not much we're going to do with these things,” Mortimer said. “John, this is pointless. We're not going to do anyone any good making some sort of glorious last stand.”

 “No surrender,” Orlova pressed. “Buy me some time. We've got to warn Alamo.”

 “With a one-pulse beacon?” Mortimer asked. “We should never have activated the damned thing, but now that we have...”

 “No surrender!” Orlova replied, savage eyes turning to Mortimer. “Fight until you're out of ammunition. Then, and only then, you can yield.”

 “After we've made them nice and mad,” she said, turning to Clarke. “John, you're...”

 “She's the ranking officer,” Clarke replied. “And that's enough for me.”

 “Crazy…,” Mortimer muttered, settling back into firing stance. As abruptly as it began, the noise ceased, the desert air silent once again. Then the sound of marching boots resounded, a dozen figures moving over the dunes in the distance, a shining silver bullet resting on the desert floor, dust rising in a long trail behind it. He looked at Mortimer, shook his head, then dropped down into firing position, tugging the trigger to send a bullet slamming into the ground before them. Catching his cue, Mortimer fired a second shot on the far side, and the approaching troops hesitated, fanning out across the desert, their advance now more cautious than before.

 “They're still coming,” Clarke said, turning to Orlova. “How long, Captain?”

 “Two minutes. Just two minutes.”

 “That armor looks tough,” Mortimer replied. “Combat grade. Our bullets won't get through it.” Grimacing, she added, “And without a network to back us up, the internal guidance won't work either. It'd take the luckiest shot in history to bring one down.”

 “We don't have to bring them down,” Clarke said. “Just hold them off.” He looked at the wrecked flyer, then added, “Out of interest, what would happen if we tried to fire the engine?”

 “A rather satisfactory explosion.”

 “Captain,” he said, turning to Orlova, “Whatever it is you are doing, how long do you need it to work?”

 “Fifteen seconds,” she replied.

 “Right,” he said, tapping Mortimer on the shoulder. “Stall them.”

 “What with, harsh language?”

 “If you think that'll work.”

 With a brief grin, he ducked into the battered remains of the cockpit, a bullet slamming into the dust by his side, and reached for the controls, his hands dancing over the ruined console as he struggled to bring the emergency reactor to full power. The desert echoed to the sound of gunshots, a staccato series of cracks as Mortimer struggled to hold off the superior foe while Clarke finished his work.

 “Ready,” he said. “Main engine will fire in one minute. Captain...”

 “Ready here!” Orlova said. “Everyone run like hell as soon as the ship blows. There might be a chance for us to get clear in the aftermath.”

 “Some hope,” Mortimer muttered. “They're coming over the final dune now.”

 Tapping the final control, Clarke said, “Twenty seconds! Get moving!”

 Without waiting for the others, he dropped to the ground, swinging clear of the wreckage, and sprinted for the desert, weaving from side to side as bullets cracked through the air all around him. If they'd wanted to kill him, he'd be dead. That much was obvious. They wanted him alive, a weapon he could use against them. He counted down the seconds in his head, waiting for the engines to fire.

 As it turned out, he was three seconds slow. All the safety systems had been disabled by the crash, and the resultant explosion sent a tower of flame and smoke racing to the sky, the force of the blast knocking him from his feet, sending him tumbling down a dune, burying him in the soft sand. Thinking quickly he dug himself deeper, lying still in the ground as he heard voices all around him, angry curses in unintelligible languages, and then finally the noise of the enemy vehicle moving away. Somehow, amazingly, he'd escaped capture, and after waiting for what he hoped was ten minutes, he dug himself out of the sand, pushing himself to his feet.

 He reached up to his forehead, the hand coming back covered in blood from an unexpected wound, and pulled out his first aid pack as he scrambled up the dune, keeping his other hand close to his pistol. The scene that greeted him at the top was one of utter devastation, a crater where the flyer once was, flickering flames still rising from the debris. All of the enemy troops were gone, but so were Mortimer and Orlova. He'd escaped. They hadn't.

 And now he was alone in the desert with no supplies, no communicator, and a head wound.

 An oasis in the desert, by the mountains to the south. If he was right, that was about eighty miles away. Ripping the sleeve from his shirt to tie around his head, he looked towards his goal, fingers of rock reaching for heaven. Three days. Maybe. If he lived that long.

Chapter 1

 Lieutenant-Captain Pavel Salazar looked over the portable sensor display, watching the glare of the heat source as the flyer exploded. He glanced across at Kristen Harper, sitting at the controls, and frowned, reaching over to adjust the resolution, hoping to spot some sign of survivors. The display had been flooded with contacts in the final moments before the detonation, flashes that had to be a battle in progress, but the explosion had left nothing in its wake. Just as he was about to give up, Harper pointed at a corner of the screen, a triumphant smile on her face.

 “There,” she said. “Bottom right quadrant. Something moving, a human figure.”

 “That doesn't mean anything,” Lieutenant Carpenter, Alamo's Science Officer, gloomily replied. “It could easily be one of the attackers. It's almost more likely.” Shaking her head, she said, “They must have tried a takeoff, and something went wrong. Perhaps they'd suffered more damage than they thought. Without a telemetry track, we might never know.”

 “Captain?” a tentative voice said, the figure of Midshipman Koslowski peering into the tent. “There's something about the disaster beacon I don't understand. For the first three minutes, it was transmitting Alamo's identification code, but at the last second, it switched over to another one. I don't recognize the sequence.” She pulled out her datapad, tapped a button, and a loud wail filled the tent, a series of pulses that had Harper and Salazar looking at each other in shared recognition.

 “Monitor,” Harper said. “That's Monitor's emergency code.”

 Nodding, Salazar replied, “They found someone. A survivor. Out there on the sphere.” Without another word, he stepped out onto the plain, walking towards the improvised runway, a team of engineers working on a second flyer under the supervision of Alamo's Deck Officer, Lieutenant Lombardo. The veteran turned to him as he approached, his face dour.

 “I know what you're about to ask me, boss.”

 “How long?”

 “She can be ready for takeoff any time.” Turning to the craft, he added, “She's fueled and ready to go. I had a feeling you'd be wanting her as soon as Flyer One went down.” He paused, then said, “Skipper, I don't know if this is such a good idea.”

 “We've got people out there in need of help,” Salazar replied. “I'm not going to leave them out in the desert to rot, not if there is even a chance that they are still alive. Besides, if someone from Monitor is out there, then they've got the answers to a lot of the questions we have about the Sphere. They've been out here for months.” He looked up, sweeping his hands at the landscape all around. As far as the eyes could see, terrain rolled all around them, as though they sat at the base of huge green bowl.

 Even after weeks, the thought of the unexplored territory waiting for them still took his breath away, untold millions of square miles with trillions of beings. Civilizations primitive enough to go back to the earliest days of mankind, and advanced enough to seem like gods. And they were stranded there, effectively, seeking the secret of the wormhole network that might send them back to their own galaxy. Though increasingly, Salazar was of the opinion that they would have to make the Sphere their permanent home, a thought that attracted him as much as it repelled him. There would always be something new to see, a new world to explore, even if he only did it on foot.

 “Captain,” Lombardo pressed. “Flyer One was brought down by enemy action. We know that now. There's no way that we can guarantee that the same won't happen to Flyer Two. You're a better pilot than Clarke, but even you can't out-fly a surface-to-air missile.” He looked over the lines of the plane, and added, “Given time, I suppose I might be able to add some sort of countermeasure system, but without knowing who was shooting at us...”

 “Besides,” Carpenter added, “The performance of that craft is marginal at best. Adding any more weight would compromise our chances of rescuing any survivors.” She paused, turned to Salazar, and asked, “You're going anyway, aren't you, sir?”

 “I am,” he replied.

 Frowning, Lombardo replied, “Sir, I must formally protest.” He looked down at the ground, and added, “You know that I would follow you to hell and back, Captain, but your place is here with your crew, not flying off ten thousand miles to rescue people who are in all probability already dead. Let me take her up instead. I'm checked out on the bird, and I helped to build her.”

 “It has to be me,” Salazar said, “for two reasons. First, I'm the best-qualified atmospheric pilot we've got. Clarke was good, but you're right about the missiles. It's going to take something pretty special to get through them...”

 “Lieutenant Murphy can be down here in an hour,” Lombardo said. “She's had the same training as you, and...”

 “Second,” Salazar pressed, “with only one exception, there isn't anyone else here with as much surface experience as I have.” He looked at Harper, and added, “Before you say anything, Kris, you're staying here.”

 “Like hell,” she replied. “If you think that I'm going to kick my heels back on the deck while you fly off into the middle...”

 “How's that leg of yours?” Salazar asked, gesturing at the cast that still covered her, a relic of her last encounter with the forces of the Hegemony. “Kris, you can't walk without a stick. If we go into action, then...”

 “Damn it, Pavel, I'll...”

 “Lieutenant Harper, that's an order,” he replied. “Besides, if this goes wrong, you're the best choice to lead the rescue party. Whatever form that might take.” Looking at the ship, he added, “She can take six if she has to...”

 “Not necessarily,” Lombardo said. “With that much weight, you'll struggle to hold altitude. Susan's right. Her performance is marginal. If you gave me a little time, I might be able to do something about that, maybe rig some sort of booster system, but as things stand...”

 “We haven't got time to waste,” Salazar said.

 “Pavel,” Lombardo replied, softly, “it'll take the best part of twelve hours just to get out that far, even at top speed. And you won't be able to push her that hard, not if you want to save something for combat maneuvers. I know that you want to get our people home, but there's no point throwing your life away.”

 “Every second might count, Art. If we've got someone out there shooting down our planes, we need to know why. And you saw the speed on that vehicle. Three hundred miles an hour, and it looked to me as though it could go a lot faster. They could have an attack force already on the way, and we need to know about it if they do.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “This isn't just about Clarke or the others. There's a clear and present danger to the safety of our people, and I'm not planning to let that go.”

 “Then I'll go with you,” Lombardo replied. Before Salazar could protest, he held up a hand, and said, “I'm the best-qualified engineer you've got out here, and I built the damned thing. Nobody knows how to get more out of that bird than I do, and you know it. Besides, it won't exactly be the first time that I've gone hunting.”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “I suppose I can't argue with your reasoning. Get on board and start the launch sequence. I'll be up in a minute.”

 “Right,” Lombardo said, as Carpenter looked on.

 “Request permission to take the third seat,” Carpenter said.

 “This is a military expedition, Lieutenant, not a scientific one.”

 “I wear the same uniform that you do, Captain,” she replied, her eyes cold, “and I couldn't disagree with you more. Our ultimate objective is to find the location of the wormhole network. We're not going to do that sitting here on the plain. I should have gone with Clarke and Mortimer on the first expedition, and I have no intention of being left behind again.”

 “Last time I checked, I was in command here,” Salazar said with a wry smile.

 Carpenter glanced at Harper, then said, “I know why Kris is so determined to go, and so do you.” Raising a hand, she added, “I agree with you that she can't, but that just means that I must. We're all thinking the same thing, that altering a distress transporter takes command-level access.”

 “Clarke had such access,” Salazar said. He paused, then said, “You think it was Captain Orlova, don't you.”

 “I think all three of us are thinking that,” Carpenter replied, as the flyer's engine noisily burst into life, the turboprops slowly rotating as power fed into the system. “I served with her for years, Pavel, and I owe her my life. Never mind the science. I have to go.”

 Salazar looked at Harper, then nodded, and said, “Take the observer's position. No equipment, though, and despite appearances, I'm not desperate to commit suicide today. We only land if I think it safe to do so. Otherwise we'll just make one high pass and come right home.”

 “Understood,” she said, a beaming smile on her face, as she raced towards the flyer,  and climbed into the cramped cockpit. Salazar watched her go, then turned back to Harper, her face a mix of concern and anger.

 “Pavel…,” she began.

 “Kris, if it wasn't for your leg, you'd be in that place yourself. You can't go. Besides, I'm going to need someone to keep Francis on the straight and narrow, and you're best qualified for the job.” He gestured at the rear of the field, a collection of components gathered together, a pair of technicians slowly working on the assembly. “See what you can do to speed up construction on Flyer Three. We might need it, if something goes wrong.”

 “Aren't you going to call Max yourself?”

 “Not until we're in the air,” he replied with a smile. “Doubtless he'll have a thousand good reasons why this is the worst idea I've ever had, and he might be able to dig something out of the field regulations to back him up. Probably better to just present him with a fait accompli.” His face grew serious for a moment, and he continued, “As soon as I'm in the air, I want you to pull back the scouting teams. I want everyone to stay close to home.”

 “You think we might be in trouble?”

 “I can't take that risk.” Gesturing around the camp, he added, “I want all hands prepared to evacuate in thirty minutes if I give the word. Get any equipment we don't absolutely need back to Alamo, and the same goes for personnel. Strip right down to the minimum.”

 “Understood,” she replied. “Don't worry, Pavel, I'll keep the home fires burning for you, but I want to make something perfectly clear.” Pointing a finger at him, she continued, “I am not leaving you behind on this Sphere. You got that? If I have to walk out there to bring you home, I will do it. So don't bother giving me an order that I'm going to disobey. Either both of us make it home or neither of us do.”

 Reaching around for a hug, Salazar replied, “Understood. And I really would rather you were with me on this one. With all due respect to Lombardo and Carpenter...”

 “Susan's a good field hand,” she said. “She knows how to handle herself, and she knows when she has to put down her sensor rig and pick up a pistol. Keep your transmitter open, and make sure you keep us informed. Or I'll have to improvise some sort of daring rescue mission, and I don't think either of us want that.”

 He nodded, and said, “Just remember that Max is in command. He gets the final say.” He looked into her eyes, and added, “That's one of those orders you have no intention of obeying, isn't it.”

 “You're getting the idea.” Releasing him from her grip, she said, “Get going. And good hunting, Pavel.” As he walked away, she added, “Give my best to Captain Orlova when you see her. Assuming it is her out there.”

 “I will,” he replied. “I will.” With one last look back at her, he walked across the field with long strides, pulling himself into the cramped confines of the flyer's cockpit. Lombardo was already settled into the co-pilot's seat, preparing for launch. The consoles were a mass of reassuring green lights, and he settled down at the controls, sliding his command datarod into position to set the instruments and readouts to his personal specification, customized to his needs.

 “She's ready to go,” Lombardo said. “Engines at full power, solar cells engaged and charging. We're good for a hundred thousand miles at this weight, as long as you nurse her.”

 “All set back here,” Carpenter added. “Sensors activated, data feeds flooding in, and I've set up a data dump back to Alamo's database. If anything happens to us, they'll be able to watch in real time.”

 “Let's hope we don't give them the chance,” Lombardo said. “We're ready to launch, Captain. Atmospheric conditions are good.”

 “Right,” Salazar said. “Engines to full power.” He reached down for the throttle, one hand on the controls, and eased the flyer to maximum thrust, bouncing across the field as he gathered speed, easing the craft gently into the sky. On either side, the wings caught the wind, and he gave the controls a quick, cautious tug, the nose rising, landing gear clearing the ground as the altimeter rose from its track.

 “All good,” Lombardo said. “Nice, clean takeoff.” Reaching across to the navigation computer, he said, “Make heading one-one-three, at fifty thousand feet.”

 “Roger,” Salazar replied, smoothly bringing the flyer around in a long, lazy arc. “Bringing her to target altitude. Conditions perfect.” Glancing across at Lombardo, he added, “You really built a beauty here, Art.”

 “Compliments will get you everywhere, skipper,” he replied. “I've got the autopilot locked in if you want to let the computer handle it.” One glance at Salazar answered his question, and he continued, “Though I think it can wait a bit.”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “I want to get the feel of her for a while, at least until we reach target altitude.” As the flyer rose into the sky, passing through the clouds for a brief moment, he added, “Coming up to five hundred miles an hour at ninety percent throttle. I'm going to hold her there for a while, let everything settle down.”

 “Cruising speed,” Lombardo said. “Nice and smooth. Let's hope it stays that way.”

 “It should,” Carpenter replied. “For at least another twelve hours or so.” She glanced at her communications panel, and added, “Signal from Alamo, sir. I think Lieutenant Francis wants to talk to you.”

 With a grimace, Salazar said, “You'd better take the controls for a moment, Art. I think we're about to hit some turbulence. Metaphorically only, I hope.”

 “Roger,” Lombardo replied with a smile. “I have the controls.”

 Reaching for a headset, Salazar slid it into place, then tapped a button, saying, “Captain Salazar here, Alamo. Go ahead.”

Chapter 2

 Clarke trudged across the desert, sweat pouring from his forehead, salt fire into his wound. The pain was growing worse by the moment, every step a bitter agony, the last of his energy draining away as he continued his endless slog. He glanced up at the sky, at the sun burning down on him, praying for the return of the darkness, a respite from the endless heat, however brief. Rubbing his aching hand across his face, smeared in grime and sweat, he pressed on towards his unknown objective.

 The silver bullet had come from somewhere up ahead, somewhere by the mountains that loomed before him. That much he knew. At his belt remained a pistol with three bullets, scavenged from the remnants of the battle, the destruction of the flyer. He looked up again, his eyes sweeping the sky. Alamo had a second flyer, and he knew that someone would come for him sooner or later. If he'd followed the usual survival drill, he'd have remained with the ruins of his craft, but that would have only lured his rescuers into a trap.

 Besides, two of his comrades had been captured, and he had to follow the trail while he could, forge ahead towards his objective, however desperate his situation was. He was the only chance that Mortimer and Orlova had for rescue, and he couldn't let them down. Even if every pace was another step through hell. When he'd flown over the desert, he'd idly wondered what it would be like to walk across it, a terrain that he had never experienced. All of this was new to him. Born on Mars, he'd spent his life in a series of ever-larger domes, only a few brief excursions on inhabitable planets since he'd joined Alamo, and nothing like this.

 He reached down for his canteen, giving it an experimental shake. One more piece of salvage, but there was only enough for a single, desperate gulp. He paused for a long moment, wondering whether he dared risk it, but his raging thirst won the day, and he drained the last of it , sweet water briefly rushing across his tongue, giving a momentary burst of life to his senses.

 But the moment was fleeting, and as he pressed on across the desert, a feeling of desperate dread began to run through him. He had been insane to attempt this, and increasingly, he knew it. He didn't even have a good idea of how far he'd traveled. Eighty miles to his goal, he had estimated, but it might as well be on the far side of the sphere. The mountains didn't seem to get any larger, still as far into the distance as they had been before.

 Still he trudged on, looking up one more time, catching sight of a dark sphere shooting across the sky, his eyes widening at the sight. Alamo's sensors had detected what could only be described as moons, thousands of them, none larger than a few kilometers, orbiting just above the thin atmosphere. The Neander had described them as roosts, had claimed that they were inaccessible, the home of some strange beings beyond their understanding.

 This whole sphere was beyond his understanding. A technology that the Triplanetary Confederation could only dream of, demonstrating a mastery of controlled gravity that the best scientists of explored space had believed impossible. And yet, it was here, in all its wonder and glory.

 Not that it mattered. Desert was desert, and sand was sand, and it seemed to reach out at him as he took another desperate step, staggering on his feet. Finally, the next step was his last, and he crashed down into the ground, the last of his energy spent, the endless heat still burning down on him. He crawled on, dragging himself over the dunes with the last of his will, but he knew that he was doomed to die here, alone in this wasteland.

 Then, in the distance, he saw something. A dark shape moving towards him, walking steadily in his direction. He reached for his pistol, his sweat-laden hands fumbling with his holster as he struggled to draw it, to line a bead on the figure. It couldn't be anyone from Alamo, and if any of Monitor's crew had been in the area, Orlova would have told him. That limited the options down to a distressing few.

 A part of him wanted to just admit defeat, to surrender to the inevitable. He was as good as dead now, and if he wasn't captured, his bones would rot in the desert for the rest of time. Still, he couldn't just yield without a fight, and with an effort, he leveled his pistol at the implacably approaching figure, trying to line up a shot.

 “Don't shoot,” the figure said, in oddly-accented English. “Not if you want to live. I could have killed you at any time in the last twenty minutes if I'd wanted to. And you stick out like a sore thumb. The only reason our mutual friends haven't killed you is that they're going to let the desert do it for you.”

 “Who are you?” Clarke asked. “Are you from Monitor?”

 “Never heard of it,” the figure said. “My name is Jimmy. That will have to do for now.” He paused, then asked, “Are you going to lose the gun? I'm beginning to feel that you don't want me around.” Continuing his advance, he added, “Look at it this way. You don't have anything to lose by trusting me, and I'm on your side.”

 Taking a deep breath, Clarke released his grip on his pistol, his vision starting to blur, and he collapsed into the sand. The figure raced towards him, catching him as he slumped into the ground. He felt the taste of water on his lips, his eyes opening to see Jimmy tipping a canteen into his mouth in quick gulps, the precious liquid running down his chin.

 “Plenty more where that came from. My buggy's just over the next rise. As I said, I've been watching you for a while.” Gesturing at the mountains, he added, “You'd never have made it. You're still seventy miles from your target.”

 “Seventy miles?” Clarke asked.

 “This place is hell, kid. Or it will do, until something worse comes along. Man was not meant to live here. I've managed to find a way to survive, but that's it.” He paused, then asked, “Have you got friends out there? Someone on the way?”

 “I sent a distress signal. That's what they homed in on.” Taking another drink of water, he asked, “Who were they?”

 “Never mind that now,” Jimmy replied. “Do you think that help is on the way?”

 “Probably. Alamo had a second flyer.” He glanced down at his watch, and said, “It's been six hours since I crashed. If I know Captain Salazar, he'll have been in the air in minutes. Say six, seven hours before someone shows up.”

 “Can they take both of us?”

 “I guess so, but I have two friends out there. I've got to get them back.”

 Shaking his head, Jimmy replied, “I'll patch you up, and take you somewhere safe. I have a laser transmitter. We can contact your friends as soon as they come into view, without anyone else overhearing us. It's the best chance you've got, kid, and it'll cost you an extra ticket out of here.”

 “Not without Captain Orlova and Ronnie.”

 “Kid, I'm not going to put my life on the line to rescue your girlfriend. Odds are that she's already dead anyway. Hell, that would be for the best, if my guess is right.”

 Reaching up to Jimmy, Clarke asked, “What do you mean?”

 “You think those bastards are running around out here for fun? I've seen what they do to their prisoners first hand.” Rising to his feet, Jimmy said, “Tell me something. Have you got a spare army lying around somewhere, and transport to move it into position? Because that's what it will take to rescue your people now. You were the lucky one. You survived. Seems a shame to waste it.”

 “I'm not leaving without my shipmates. We don't leave anyone behind.”

 “They'll kill you. And maybe worse. And I'll tell you this now, kid. You'll be doing it alone.” Placing a hand on his shoulder, he added, “What's the point in throwing away your life? You won't even get through the outer perimeter.” 

 Rising to his feet with an effort, Clarke asked, “Was I heading in the right direction?”

 “Roughly.” 

 “Seventy miles, you said.”

 “You won't make seven miles, never mind seventy.”

 “Thanks for the water,” Clarke replied, taking an uncertain step forward. “And for the directions. But I have no intention of leaving my friends to die, no matter what the risk to myself. They'd take the same chance for me, and I'm not going to let them down.” He looked across at Jimmy, and replied with a smile, “You could wish me luck.”

 “What would be the point?” he replied. “You'll only be wasting it, and I might need it more than you will if you bring those bastards out here. Push it any harder, and they'll send someone after you. A sniper could nail you to the deck in a second, and you'd never even know that it happened.”

 “I'm just going to have to take that risk,” Clarke said, walking away from Jimmy, his eyes locked once more on his goal. Behind him, the other man watched for a long minute, waiting as Clarke took a series of faltering steps, then finally walked towards him.

 “Wait a minute,” he said with a sigh. “Look, I'll make a deal with you. Right now you don't stand a chance of making it over the next ridge, never mind to the mountains. Let me take you back to my bunker. You can have something to eat, I can take a proper look at that wound on your forehead, and you can get some sleep.” Gesturing at the pistol, he added, “I might even be able to give you something with a little more bite than that pea-shooter.”

 “I'm not abandoning my friends.”

 “I'll get you as close as I can,” Jimmy replied. “In exchange, you see that I get safe passage away from here. And I won't be going with you into the lion's den. You get to do that yourself. But I will make sure that you have a faint chance of living through the attempt, even if I think you are a fool to try.” He paused, then said, “As things stand, you don't have a hope.”

 “If this is a trick...”

 “I could have killed you a dozen times already. I still could. If this is a trick, you're a dead man already.”

 “Good point.” Looking out at the mountains, he added, “I want a full run-down on the layout of that place, and I want a full explanation of what you are doing out here. Neither of these are optional. Either you tell me everything, or we don't have a deal.”

 “For someone holding a busted flush, you seem really eager to gamble.”

 “Take the offer or leave it. Your call.”

 “I don't have any more choice than you. Stay here and sit down. I'll go and bring the buggy over here. Don't take this the wrong way, but I've seen guinea pigs with more fight in them.”
 Clarke nodded, dropping down into the sand, and Jimmy walked back over the ridge, tossing a canteen of water at him as he departed. Taking a deep drink, he realized there was something poking into his leg, some sharp object half-buried in the ground, and he shifted around to spot a white, gleaming rock beneath him.

 Forgetting the canteen, he reached for it with his hands, carefully pushing the sand aside, exposing the object. It took him seconds to realize that it was not rock, but bone, the remnants of another wanderer through the desert. Superficially, it appeared human, but there was something strange about it, the teeth sharper than any human mouth had a right to be, the skull oddly shaped, twisted. As he worked, he saw the hands, long double-jointed fingers, arched as though ready to rip at his flesh.

 “You've found it, then,” Jimmy said, as the buggy silently reached the top of the hill. “Electric motor. Any sound carries, out here.”

 “What is this?” Clarke asked.

 “That, kid, is what you are proposing to go up against. You take a good long look, and you tell me whether you still think you have a chance.”

Chapter 3

 “You should have stopped him,” Senior Lieutenant Max Francis, Alamo's Executive Officer, said to Harper as the two of them stepped onto the bridge. “He's the Captain. He's meant to command Alamo, not go running off into the middle of nowhere. I didn't like that he was spending that much time down on the Sphere, but at least at Base Camp he could be back to the ship in a hurry.” Turning to the communications station, he added, “Bowman, any contact?”

 “Not since they passed two thousand miles, sir,” the technician replied. “We're still getting telemetry, but the bandwidth's too low for anything else.” Throwing controls, he added, “There's just too much interference out there. We're still having trouble breaking through the chatter.”

 “If it wasn't for my leg,” Harper replied, as Francis settled into the command chair, “I'd have gone with him. You know that he's the best pilot on the ship. Besides, there's another factor. If Captain Orlova is out there, then someone with Double-Ultra clearance has to make the initial contact.”

 “We're three million light-years from home, Lieutenant,” Francis replied. “I think we can probably get away with violating a few security regulations. Besides, doesn't Lieutenant Lombardo have just such clearance?” With a sigh, he said, “I just don't like it, that's all.” He looked at the viewscreen, the image of the Sphere as ever dominating the display, and said, “I can't help but feel that we're playing with something that is just too damned big for us.”

 “We don't have a choice if we want to get home.”

 “Maybe,” he replied. “Maybe.” He paused, then said, “Captain Salazar probably agrees with me, though. Or he wouldn't have ordered a general recall.”

 “Pavel just wanted to be careful.” She glanced across at the sensor display, and added, “I issued the command before I left the Sphere. Everyone should have checked in by now.” With a frown, she added, “Some of them are a day from Base Camp. Maybe we should get one of the shuttles down there. It won't have the range of the flyers, but it should be...”

 “Captain,” Ballard said, turning from the sensor console. “There's something strange, sir. Coming from the far side of the singularity. I'm getting momentary readings of energy traces.”

 “Show me,” Francis snapped, and a tactical display appeared on the screen, showing the nearby black hole in all its glory, a menacing maw constantly threatening to snatch everything in its path. Alamo had launched an array of probes into the mouth of the hole, but nobody would consider getting too close to the beast. And yet, the technician was correct. At the edges of the singularity, pin-point traces of heat, the mark of an engine under thrust.

 Harper turned to him, and said, “That hole is a perfect blind spot.”

 “We've got probes out there,” Francis replied. “Covering our back.”

 “Actually, sir,” an embarrassed Ballard reported, “We've had malfunctions with most of them. Thruster failures, placing them too close to the black hole. They're being replaced as fast as they fail, but right now, we've only got partial coverage.”

 “What?” Francis roared. “You didn't think it was a good idea to warn me about that?”

 “Captain Salazar knew, sir,” the red-faced technician replied. “Lieutenant Lombardo was working on an upgraded thruster package for the probes before he left. And the gap is only periodic, sir.”

 “Battle stations,” Francis said, and the familiar sirens wailed as Alamo's crew raced to their posts, clearing the decks for action. The door slid open, Lieutenant Scott diving through them to her position at tactical, her fingers reaching for the controls as she brought the combat systems on-line. Harper dived for her station, quickly bringing up the defensive systems, firming the ship's firewall while keeping a careful eye on the sensor display.

 “Multiple contacts, coming around from the far side of the black hole,” Ballard said. “Five, correction, seven fighters inbound.” She frowned, then added, “They've got guts to get that close to a singularity.”

 “They aren't,” Harper replied. “Gravitational effect. They'll have stayed well clear.” Her eyes widened as she looked up at the display, and she added, “And my God, they're moving. They must have got one hell of a slingshot effect from the black hole. I'm reading them at more than thirty gravities.” Turning to Francis, she added, “I don't like this, sir. They can't be manned, and given the fuel they must have expended to get this far, they can't be planning on recovering them. This is a kamikaze run.”

 Reaching for a control on the side of his chair, Francis said, “Squadron scramble. Targets are incoming drone fighters. Bring them down at all cost.” Turning to Scott, he added, “I want a firing solution on the fighters as fast as you can get one.”

 “Working, sir,” she replied. The door behind them slid open, and Lieutenant Maqua, the Neander officer rescued from the Sphere, stepped onto the deck, looking at the strategic display with a frown on his face. He turned to Francis, shaking his head.

 “We thought they might be using drone fighters, sir, though we didn't have any actual proof. And we hadn't seen them operating this close to the black hole before, but it makes sense. They've been studying this system for years. By now they'll know everything there is to know about it, and will be able to operate on a tighter safety margin than us. Recommend we leave the area, sir.”

 “Not practical,” Quesada said, working the helm controls. “We're at relative rest, and by the time we get enough acceleration, they'll be on us. My board says we're looking at intercept in less than six minutes.” Tapping a control, he added, “I'd recommend we hold position, sir, and try for a last-second evade with the thrusters should it be necessary.”

 “I concur, Quesada,” Francis replied. “Let's try and lure them in.” The ship rocked as the fighters raced clear, speeding towards the incoming kamikaze drones. “Harper, any thoughts on what we're dealing with?”

 “We don't have much data on Hegemonic fighters yet. The flight profile looks a little like a Fury fighter. United States Space Force, back around the Third World War, though this is an evolved design.” Reaching for her controls, she added, “They'll have room for a pretty sizable warhead if they've stripped out the lifesystem, and I'm not picking up any residual leaks. Estimate high-kiloton yield.” Squinting at the screen, she continued, “Two missiles, under-slung, conventional type.”

 Nodding, Maqua added, “They'll use them defensively, knock out the incoming fighter assault before slamming right into Alamo.” Turning to Scott, he added, “Kat, it's going to come down to your salvo and the missiles.”

 “I have a preliminary firing solution,” Scott said. “We'll have time for a single laser pulse. If we're holding position, sir, I'd like to get the first salvo into the air now, keep them close to our side for a last shot. We'll be sacrificing the boost from the magnetic catapults, but it might make all the difference at the last minute.”

 “Go ahead. Harper, what prospect of electronic subversion?”

 “Limited,” she replied, her fingers already dancing over the controls. “I'm trying, but their firewall is a design I'm not used to, and they've made a lot of changes since our last encounter. It's as though they've switched over to a completely different operating system.” She frowned, then added, “Given time, I might be able to adapt our intrusion software, but I don't think they're going to give it to us. Point-defense batteries are armed and ready, though, sir.”

 “Good,” Francis said, the frown still locked on his face. “Let's hope it doesn't come to that.”

 “Fighters will intercept in three minutes,” Maqua said, leaning over the sensor station. “They're attacking in one big wave. I'm not sure that's how I would have played it.”

 “McCormack knows what she's doing,” Francis replied. “Her primary job is to make sure that the enemy fighters expend their missiles before they get too close. Then the drones will be wide open for us.”

 Frowning, Harper said, “They must know that, sir.”

 “What do you mean?”

 “She's right,” Scott said. “There's more to this. They had no reason to know that we wouldn't see them coming. They'd assume that we would spot the drones and launch our fighters to intercept.” Her eyes widened, and she turned to Ballard, and asked, “How close do our fighters get to theirs on current trajectory?”

 “Less than thirty thousand miles, Lieutenant, but they'd never...”

 “Fragmentation bombs.”

 “Damn it,” Harper said. “Sir...”

 “I'm on it,” Francis replied. “Alamo Actual to Squadron Leader. Break and run. Enemy fighters are armed with fragmentation warheads, and if you get too close, you'll be diving right into a trap. Launch missiles now, and we'll guide them in as close as we can. Repeat, break and run.”

 “Roger,” the crackling voice of McCormack replied. “Executing evasive course.”

 All eyes were on the viewscreen, watching as the fighters weaved clear of the enemy drones, a dozen new contacts appearing on the display as missiles futilely raced towards their targets, at a range extreme enough to give them little chance of success. Harper locked eyes with Scott, both aware that if they had guessed wrong, they might have doomed Alamo to imminent destruction. There was little chance that the missile and laser screen could save them.

 “Fighters clear,” Ballard said. A heartbeat later, she added, “Energy spike!”

 The seven drones exploded, shattered clouds of debris flying through space, the remnants of the drones no longer able to pose any threat to the warship. Harper released a breath that she hadn't realized she'd been holding, then looked up at the screen. All clear, at least at any range that could have presented any hazard to the ship.

 “All hands, stand down from battle stations but maintain alert status,” Francis replied. “Get our fighters back home, Maqua.” Turning to Harper, he continued, “I think we've just proven Captain Salazar right. There's an evident risk to the safety of the ship, and we're going to have to prepare to pull out at a moment's notice if the situation deteriorates.”

 “Sir?” Ballard said. “I'm getting something at extreme range. In the outer belt. It looks like a point heat source, possibly large enough to be a starship.” She paused, then said, “Gone again. There's a lot of debris out there, sir. Plenty of places for an enemy ship to hide, and there's no way we could ever lay a probe network sufficient to cover them.” Reaching across for a control, she added, “I could target one that that specific area, but it would be hours before we got a clear look at it.”

 “No,” Francis replied. “They're probably working on the assumption that we haven't seen them, and for the present, I think we're best playing along with that misconception. An enemy three or four billion miles away isn't going to be able to do much harm to us. They're just watching and waiting.” He turned to Harper, and added, “I'm a lot more concerned about what might be hiding behind that black hole. There's an egress point behind it, out of sight.”

 Nodding, she said, “I'd recommend not launching another sensor drone. We'd only be wasting it, and right now, they have the same problem that we do. Both of us are blind.”

 “Wait a minute,” Scott replied. “We can't just sit back here and wait while they prepare another strike. If they could muster more drones, pick a time of their choosing, then they could wipe us out. They almost took down our fighter force this time. We might not be so lucky in the next encounter.”

 “I quite agree,” Francis replied, looking up at the sensor display. “How long until our fighters are back home?”

 “Thirty minutes, sir,” Ballard reported.

 “And another thirty minutes to rearm, refuel. Which means that they'll be expecting an attack within the hour.” With a wry smile on his face, he continued, “They'll be wanting us to launch a strike. I don't think that we should let them down.” Rising to his feet, he said, “I'll be in Astrogation. Lieutenant Scott, you have the deck. Continue working to evacuate our people from the surface. I don't want more people down there than we can evacuate in a single shuttle pass.”

 “Sir,” Bowman said, turning from his station. “I've received signals from all of our expedition teams except Number Seven. The rest are heading back to Base Camp, and the last of them should be home in twelve hours at the outside.”

 “Where was Seven?”

 “A cluster of ruins about a hundred miles from the camp,” Harper replied. “That's Foster's team. She wouldn't ignore a recall order unless she had a damned good reason. Request permission to take out a search and rescue team.”

 “Denied,” Francis replied, throwing her a glare. “I need you here, Lieutenant, not limping your way across the Sphere. If we're planning to launch an attack within the next few hours, my top command staff has to be at their posts. Losing the Captain and Foster is going to hurt us enough without unnecessarily adding to that.” Turning to Scott, he added, “Have Ensign Rhodes dispatch a team in one of the buggies, and make sure he leaves enough space to bring back all the potentially stranded personnel. This could be nothing more serious than an equipment breakdown. Stress that his is a snatch and grab, Lieutenant. No attempt made to salvage anything from the site. They're to grab what they can and head back to Base Camp at once.”

 “And have them keep an open communication frequency at all times,” Harper added. “If something happens to them, we've got to have a full recording of it. Just in case.” Turning to Francis, she asked, “What exactly do you have in mind, sir?”

 “In a couple of hours, Lieutenant, you'll find out with the rest of them,” he said with an enigmatic smile, stepping into the elevator.

Chapter 4

 Clarke staggered into the battered structure, the remnants of wings dug into the sand, engines jutting from the side, half-dismantled. The interior, obviously an old cockpit from the instruments decorating the walls, had been long-ago stripped bare, only a pair of couches left at the rear to testify to the former use of the structure. He looked across at Jimmy as the man walked in, moving over to a tap on the wall and filling a canteen with water.

 “You want some?” he asked, passing it across to Clarke. “Comes from an aquifer, maybe a couple of hundred meters down. Not my doing, the former owner. I just found the place, fixed it up a little.” Looking around the room, he added, “I never did find out who flew this thing into the deck, but it's been here for a damned long time.” Gesturing at the instrumentation, he added, “Solar-powered. Still works, sometimes. I guess they built this beast to last.”

 “Have you got a sensor package on this thing?” Clarke asked, taking a deep swig of the water. “Damn, this is cold.”

 Nodding, Jimmy reached up to a bank of levers on the ceiling, throwing them with a sweep of his hand, and replied, “That's how I saw you coming.”

 “Wait a minute,” Clarke said. “You saw us coming in, and you didn't warn us?”

 Raising his hands, he replied, “How the hell was I supposed to know who you were? For all I knew, you were with those bastards up in the mountains! You were certainly heading in that direction.” He paused, then asked, “Where were you going, anyway?”

 “We heard about a hidden vault about three thousand miles on from here. Some of the Neander we encountered took pilgrimages out that way.”

 Jimmy's face clouded, and he said, “You're here to scavenge secrets and technology, then?”

 “Not quite,” he replied. Clarke took a deep breath, and said, “We're trying to find a way home. A few months ago, we were caught in a wormhole and tossed out of our own galaxy into this one. I presume your ancestors went through the same thing. Since then, we've been attempting to get back, and we found evidence that the builders of the Sphere made use of the wormhole network. There must be a way to get back to the Milky Way.”

 Nodding, Jimmy said, “That's all, though? Nothing more?”

 “We won't pass up anything we can find. Especially anything that might relate to the original construction of this place, but our primary objective is a wormhole chart. As soon as we find that, we're out of here and on our way home.”

 “Where are you from, then?”

 “The Triplanetary Confederation. I'm the Security Officer of the Battlecruiser Alamo. We were on a scouting mission, trying to find that vault, when that missile knocked us down. That came from those people who attacked us?”

 “I tracked it all the way up. You never had a chance.” He paused, and said, “You think anyone else might have more luck? Have you got any armed flyers?”

 “Not unless they've done some serious modifications, but we've got some great pilots back on the ship. Way better than me. They'll find a way to make it through.” Looking over Jimmy again, Clarke asked, “What about you? What's your story?”

 “I don't have a story. I just want to get the hell away from this place, and I don't give a damn where I end up. As long as it's way from this damned desert and those beasts that roam it.” He looked out through the hatch, shivering despite the heat, and said, “Some nights, they let them loose, hunting down anything that moves. There's not much life out there at the best of times. A lot less now. As soon as the sun goes down, I lock down that hatch and wait for the dawn. I never know when they might find a way in. They don't use technology, and that's an armored hull, but sooner or later they'll find a weak spot, and they'll tear me to pieces.” His eyes grew distant, and he added, “These aren't ghost stories, kid. I've seen it happen. And I only escaped by the skin of my teeth.” Taking a deep breath, he said, “You still want to go into that place?”

 “I don't want to,” he replied. “I have to. Two of my comrades are stranded in there, and one of them might have the answer to the mystery we came here to solve. I can't leave without them.” He took a deep breath, then said, “If you know something about...”

 “I don't know a damned thing, and if you were smart, you'd stay clear.” Jimmy took a savage swig from his battered canteen, sending water dribbling down his chin, and added, “Your flyers? They VTOL? There's a safe surface maybe half a mile from here, nice and smooth for the pickup. Because our deal is still the same. You get me out of here, and I'll give you a link back to your people. If you want to kill yourself, that's on you.” He rose from his chair, walking to the door, and said, “I've got to sweep the sand off the solar arrays. We're going to want maximum power when we signal your friends. I don't want to risk missing them. You stay there for a minute.”

 “Right,” Clarke said, as Jimmy left the cockpit, stepping back out into the blazing sun. He glanced down at his watch, the face cracked from the force of the explosion that had destroyed his flyer. Eleven hours and change. If someone back at Base Camp had heard his distress signal, he could expect a rescue craft sometime in the next six hours. Fear gripped at him, not for himself, but knowing that he'd guided them right into a trap. The same missile launcher that had doomed him would strike at his rescuer.

 Unless he could warn them first with a laser transceiver. He looked out at Jimmy, hearing him curse as he attacked the arrays with a stiff brush, knowing that he would be betraying the man who had saved his life. He was going to have to order them back, away from the desert, to safety. Until he could find a way to knock out the missiles, if not rescue his comrades.

 Taking another drink of the life-giving liquid, he looked around the cockpit again, trying to find some evidence of the man who had made this his home. A stack of battered ration packs were dumped in a corner, all of them stenciled in faded English, and behind them a trace of green from a wall-hydroponics unit, just enough to keep one man alive in a state of near-starvation. An interesting gimmick, and one that the Confederation had never managed to make work.

 Though there was plenty of evidence that this flyer was more advanced than anything Alamo had. Even damaged as they were, most of the controls still lit up, flickering holograms reporting status in a strange, cuneiform text. The couch he'd been sitting on had molded itself to his form, and the material was already stretching itself out again now that he had risen. Even the lighting was strange, some sort of bio-luminescence, giving a strange green tinge to the room.

 Something caught his eye on the wall, a picture clipped over the hydroponic bank, three men and two women standing in front of a bar, arms wrapped around each other, drinks in hand. One of them was recognizably Jimmy, though he appeared years younger, all of them wearing an unfamiliar uniform.

 “Well spotted,” Jimmy said, walking back into the room, catching Clarke by surprise. “A little memory from better times. The rest of them are dead, if you're interested.”

 “How?”

 Ignoring the question, Jimmy walked over to the controls, sliding his hand over a panel with practiced ease, bringing a faded hologram into view, a display that showed the local area. A single point was moving at high speed towards them, up in the stratosphere, one with the familiar lines of a flyer from Alamo.

 “That your people?”

 Nodding, Clarke replied, “Earlier than I'd expected. They must have launched as soon as I fired up the beacon. How far away are they?”

 “Maybe fifty miles, perhaps a little less. The scale on this thing is screwed up. The last owner used Base-Thirteen. You tell me why.” Sliding his hand again, he added, “I've fired up the message laser. You get on the channel and tell your friends to come and pick me up. And if you think you're going to play any tricks, I've got a pistol in my holster and the control panel wipes clean easy.”

 “No tricks,” Clarke replied, taking up a pair of headphones, holding it to his ear. “Ready?”

 “Any time. It might take a while to settle, and power will be weak as hell until they get closer. I wasn't expecting them to fly quite that high.” Gesturing at the console as the displays danced before them, he added, “Get started.”

 “Clarke to Flyer Two, Clarke to Flyer Two, come in, please.” He paused, hearing a distant crackle, the sound of a billion conversations forcing their way through the local electromagnetic spectrum, as the laser danced around, seeking its target. “Clarke to Flyer Two, Clarke to Flyer Two, come in, please.”

 “Come on,” Jimmy said. “Come on.” He looked up at the sensor display, and said, “They'll be in missile range any time now. I'll try and boost the power, but unless we get a firm lock...” He grimaced, and added, “Damn it, they've moved into an evasive pattern. That's going to make this a lot tougher.”

 “They would have seen the missile destroy my plane,” Clarke replied. “They'll be careful. And they don't know that we're signaling them.” He paused, then added, “Do you have any flares?”

 “Not a chance. I've gone to a lot of trouble to make sure that those bastards don't know where I'm hiding, and I don't intend to signal to them now.” With a frown, he continued, “They must be seeing the laser.”

 “And for all they know, it's trying to guide a missile onto the target.” Pulling the microphone closer, he continued, “Clarke to Flyer Two, Clarke to Flyer Two, come in, please!”

 “I'd say they've got less than a minute,” Jimmy said. “They're still too high. Are you sure they aren't just planning to overfly?”

 “Not if I know Captain Salazar.” Gesturing at the screen, he continued, “Look, they're moving into a descent path now, reducing speed to come in low over the mountains. Unless we can do something about it, they're as good as dead.” His knuckles white as he gripped the headset, he said, “Clarke to Flyer Two! Come in!”

 There was a faint, whispered reply, cut through with static, and Jimmy turned back to the controls, sweeping his arms around like a maniac to manipulate the display, trying to focus the beam. The same urgent words swept back along the beam, almost loud enough for Clarke to make them out. He couldn't quite tell, but he thought it might even be Captain Salazar himself, up there on the flyer, on the other end of the transmission.

 “Give them our coordinates,” Jimmy urged. “We can't hear them, but they might be able to hear us! These systems are hundreds of years old, it's a miracle they're working at all, and I had to patch them with anything I could find. Bring them down!”

 Nodding, Clarke said, “I don't know if you read me. Try and boost your power. You're about to come under attack by a surface-to-air missile.” He glanced at the wide-eyed man standing next to him, and said, “Break off. Head back to Alamo. I'll...”

 Jimmy snapped at the air, and pulled the pistol from his holster in one smooth motion, screaming, “Why? Why?”

 “I'm not going to watch friends of mine die to save my own skin. Or yours,” Clarke replied. “I gave you my word that I'd get you back to the ship, and I will, but this isn't how it's going to happen. And if you don't trust me, then I guess you'd better go ahead and pull the trigger.”

 “It doesn't matter,” Jimmy replied with a resigned sigh. “You betrayed me for nothing. Those bastards have launched, and there's nothing we can do about it.” Gesturing at the screen with the pistol, he added, “Take a long look. I guess you owe them that much. They're dying for you, whether you like it or not.”

Chapter 5

 “Repeat, repeat,” Salazar yelled, straining to hear the faint words in his headset. “Can you boost your power?” Turning to Carpenter, he said, “I think it was Clarke, but I can't be sure. Is there anything we can do at our end?”

 “Nothing,” she replied, her hands frantically dancing across the controls. “There just isn't enough power until we get closer. I can give you a precise location if you want, though. Down to a few meters at least, and there's a good spot for a landing close by.”

 “Threat warning!” Lombardo yelled, looking up at the sensor display. “Heat flare. Incoming missile. Looks like it came from a subsurface launcher up in those mountains somewhere. Hard to spot the exact launch site, but we've got an impact in less than ninety seconds.”

 “Hang on!” Salazar said, throwing the throttle full open, heedless of the demands he was making on the flyer's limited energy store. There was no chance of outrunning the missile, and they didn't have any countermeasures on board. The destruction of Flyer One was more than sufficient proof of the efficiency of the enemy's weapons, so he couldn't even hope that it would fail to find its target. That left only one chance, and he dived towards the ground, gaining speed as the altimeter span around, racing towards the incoming missile.

 “Are you out of your mind?” Carpenter yelled, but Salazar focused completely on his controls, the missile now a slender dot at the heart of the viewscreen, data spilling down on both sides that he could safely ignore. This wasn't a shuttle or a starship, flying in the vacuum of space. This was flying as it was meant to be, the feel of the plane able to guide his movements, and he reveled in the unusual opportunity.

 “Impact in five seconds,” Lombardo said, coolly, trusting that Salazar knew what he was doing, even more than the pilot did himself. With a confident smile on his face, he waited until the final second before throwing the flyer to the side, diving past the missile before it could swing around and catch them, sending it spinning around as it continued to race towards them.

 “That was close,” Carpenter said.

 “Had to trick the computer,” Salazar replied. “Giving it an easy kill. Right now it's swinging around behind us to try again. This isn't that sophisticated a warhead, but the damn thing isn't going to give up until we're a hole in the dirt.” Gesturing at the mountains, he added, “I need a topographical overview, and I need it right now.”

 “I get it,” Carpenter said, nodding as she turned back to her station. “Coming up.”

 “Art, I need all the power you can give me. Don't hold anything back.”

 “We're already close to the point of no return,” the engineer warned.

 “If we have to park in the desert for a day while our batteries recharge, we will, but right now we've got to get this monkey off our backs!”

 The flyer surged forward, recklessly spilling energy as Salazar urged it towards the jagged rocks below, sparing a quick glance at the sensor display to confirm that the missile was still heading for them, smoothly sliding onto an intercept trajectory. Now he was going to find out just how agile it was, and how good his flying skills really were. Red lights flashed along the sides of the screen, proximity alerts as the computer registered the mountains on either side, but without another thought, he dived between the peaks, nimbly swinging to the side to edge into a long, rock-strewn valley, a pass on the far end.

 He eased the ship along the twisted canyon, the roar of the engines sending a cascade of rocks tumbling down the banks in both directions as he swung through the pass, looping around a pair of jagged mountains and diving down their flanks, keeping close enough to the surface that he could make out individual formations of rocks flashing below. His speed was close to maximum, the engines strained under the load, and Lombardo's hands were a blur as he struggled to keep the power balanced, to keep them in the air, and prevent a catastrophic engine failure that would doom them all. In another time, Salazar would have considered ejecting, but the flyer was their only way home, and it would be days or weeks before another could be readied.

 “Range, five hundred meters, closing fast,” Carpenter warned.

 “I know, I know,” he replied, looking around, trying to pick a path through the maze of mountains and canyons. Finally, he found what he was looking for, a long, low trench dug into the rock, and dipped the nose again in a bid to gain more speed. Sirens sounded as the wing stress sensors angrily protested the strain he was placing on them, but all that mattered now was getting clear of the missile.

 “Won't that bastard ever run dry?” Lombardo asked. “Red-line on the power, Pavel! You're running us far too hot.”

 “It's only going to get worse,” Salazar replied, tugging the nose up just in time to avoid a catastrophic collision with the surface, the missile still remorselessly hunting down its prey. Up ahead, the canyon narrowed, his sensors reading a sharp turn just after the narrowest part, the passage too narrow for the flyer to pass through. “Let's see how good you are, you son of a bitch.”

 With a nimble flick of the controls, he rolled the flyer, the wings missing the sheer rock face by inches, then dived to the side, trusting to his instincts to guide his plane on a safe path, keeping down as low as he dared. Behind him, just as he had hoped, the missile failed to make the turn, slamming into the wall with a thunderous roar, a cascade of smoke and flame shooting to the sky.

 From all sides, there was a loud rumble, the sides of the canyon collapsing from the force of the explosion, rocks tumbling in every direction, rattling onto the hull as he dragged the nose up, stress warnings lighting the board once again as he struggled to gain altitude, nursing the battered flyer to safety. Finally, with one last boost, he rose past the collapsing cliffs, peering down to look at the destruction below.

 “Power down to five percent and falling,” Lombardo said, throwing controls. “I think we've blown some of the transfer circuits. We've got to make it down to the deck, and we've got to do it now.” He reached across to a lever, tugging it down and adding, “That's the emergency power, but it won't last long. I'll transfer everything we've got to the landing thrusters.”

 “Got it,” Salazar said. “Carpenter, find me somewhere stable to touch down.”

 “Way ahead of you, Captain,” she replied. “Two o'clock, on the far side of the peak. Not far from where we heard that signal, maybe ten miles. And on the far side of the mountains from the missile launch point. You'll have about forty meters to play with.”

 “Luxury,” Salazar replied. “Get us there, Art.”

 “Doing it,” the engineer said, his attention focused completely on his readouts while Salazar swung the flyer around, husbanding power to keep the engines working, keeping to minimum thrust to save what energy they still had left for the descent. Beneath them, a cloud of dust rose to the sky, the tumbling rocks still cascading down the sides of the slopes in a hundred rock-slides, every instability in the range erupting at once.

 The sensor display danced as the small on-board computer struggled to interpret the data, to make some sense of the nightmare unfolding beneath them. If anyone had lived in those mountains, they'd be in serious trouble. And the only thing salving his conscience was that someone down there had shot Clarke and Mortimer out of the sky, and had done their best to do the same to him. Conscience could only go so far.

 After a long moment, he spotted the landing site Carpenter had found, a cluster of jagged rocks around a deep depression, struggling shrubs surrounding the spot. Sand swirled around the rock-face, but there was just enough clear space that he could make a try for a landing, and he eased the flyer into careful position for descent as the final warning lights snapped on, alarms telling him that he had to bring the vehicle down, or gravity would do the work for him.

 “Three hundred meters,” Carpenter reported.

 “Engaging landing thrusters,” Salazar said, and the engines died, the series of jets underneath the shuttle taking over, clouds of gas racing to the ground, sending cascades of dust flying into the air, a man-made dust-storm to shroud their landing. He played the controls like a master pianist, making careful adjustments to correct their descent, easing their way to the surface. Finally, he reached across to a control, dropping the landing legs, the rugged tripod locking into position with a resounding clunk.

 “Final descent. Hang on,” Salazar said, gently lowering the flyer down the final few meters to touchdown, the vehicle finally settling onto the surface. He threw a series of controls to kill the thrusters, and sat back in his couch as the post-flight checks began. “All secure?”

 “All systems green,” Lombardo affirmed. “Nice landing.”

 “Any landing you can walk away from is good enough.” Peering out of the window, he added, “This dust is going to be murder on the wing cells. Not much point cleaning them off until this settles. How much power do we have left?”

 “Less than one percent,” Lombardo replied. “We're not draining so fast, which means the problem must be in the engine transfer links. I can probably rig a bypass without too much trouble.” Leaning over his controls, he said, “Ten minutes out to do it. There's enough redundancy in the system to make it work.”

 “Carpenter, do we have anything about the local area?”

 “Working,” she replied. “Not much resolution. I need more power.”

 “We don't have any,” Lombardo said. “If we drop too low, I won't be able to fix her at all, and it's a very long walk back to Base Camp. Should we turn on the rescue beacon?” 

 “No,” Carpenter said. “They'll find us.”

 Turning to face her, Salazar replied, “You are kidding, right? Everyone for fifty miles will have seen us come down, and they probably heard those landslides five hundred miles away. We didn't exactly make a stealthy approach, and if whoever is out there has any sensor systems worth a damn, they'll have tracked us all the way down to the deck.” He reached over to a series of controls above his head, and tapped a control sequence. “Beacon activated. At least this way Alamo will have some idea of our location. As soon as we get any power at all, I'll kick us up and move us out into the desert. Buy us some time.”

 “No point,” Lombardo said, looking up at the viewscreen. “There's something moving out there, Pavel.” Shaking his head, he added, “That was fast.”

 “Unless we happened to blunder onto someone's landing strip,” Salazar replied with a sigh. “How long to complete the repairs?”

 “Three minutes.”

 “I'll try and stall.”

 “Pavel,” Lombardo replied, “There's nowhere to run. We couldn't stay in the air for more than a minute with the power we've got, even if we were fully operational. I need to check the hull for damage from those rocks, and...”

 “Then I'll just have to stall a little longer, won't I,” he replied, pulling his pistol from his holster and placing it on the control panel.

 “Won't you need that?” Carpenter asked.

 “I'm guessing they've got more of them than we do, and I didn't have any plans to commit suicide today. If they want us dead, we're dead. Maybe we can talk our way out of this.” He reached for the hatch, and cracked it open, choking clouds of dust sweeping into be cabin, sending him into a brief paroxysm of coughing. He stepped outside, snatching a pair of goggles from the wall, and walked into the dust, peering at the shapes moving around in the shadows.

 “My name is Lieutenant-Captain Pavel Salazar, commander of the Battlecruiser Alamo,” he said. “Who are you?” He could make out a trio of figures now, all of them carrying what had to be rifles, and after a moment, one of them stepped forward.

 “I'm Captain Baldwin, Security Operations Director of Lysenko Station. You and the rest of your crew need to come with us right away. While you are out on the surface, you are in terrible danger.”

 “What sort of danger?”

 A loud howl filled the air, and Baldwin replied, “There's no time to go into details now. Unless you can take off right away and get out of the desert, you'll be dead if you stay.” Gesturing at the flyer, he added, “Your ship will be safe enough. It's you the beasts want, not a piece of machinery.”

 “How can I trust you?” he asked.

 “Good question, and I'm afraid we don't have time for me to give you a good answer. Come with us if you want to live. That's the best I can do.”

 “Some choice,” Salazar said, turning to Lombardo. “Status, Lieutenant?”

 “All green, skipper, aside from the energy problem.”

 “Then secure the ship, and let's get moving.” He reached into the cockpit, snatching his sidearm from the console and sliding it nimbly into his holster. “I take it you have no objections, Captain, if the threat out here is as grave as you say.”

 “As long as we move quickly. It'll be dark soon, and you don't want to be out here at night.”

 “It's been a very long time since I was afraid of the dark,” Carpenter replied.

 “Trust me,” Baldwin said, “If you lived out here, you would be.”

Chapter 6

 Clarke looked out from his vantage point on the mountains, passing the borrowed binoculars back to Jimmy with a frown. Salazar, Carpenter and Lombardo were being led away by the trio of heavily-armed guards, moving towards a hatch hitherto concealed in the rock face. He glanced at Jimmy, but the man shook his head, turning back towards the battered trail down the mountain.

 “That bastard was right about one thing. You don't want to be out in the dark.”

 “If we move now...”

 “Then at best, you end up stuck down there with the rest of them. If that's want you want, get going, but don't expect me to come running to the rescue. Hell, more likely one of them will find an excuse to shoot you, and be so damned sorry about it all, but that won't matter to your corpse when it is bleeding out in the sands. And don't tell me that it can't happen, because I've seen it happen far too often.” Another howl echoed through the mountains, and Jimmy shivered, continuing, “Let's get the hell out of here. At least back to the buggy.”

 Reluctantly, Clarke followed his companion back to the vehicle, strapping himself into position as Jimmy engaged the silent engine, bouncing them over the dunes on their way back to the hideout. He looked up at the sky, the majestic view still taking his breath away, but was able to see the shadows above racing towards them, the artificial night now moments distant. With a growing scowl, Jimmy threw the engine to high gear, sending them tossing from side to side as he raced across the desert.

 “Got to move,” he muttered. “Got to move. We don't have long. We should have stayed in the hideout.” Wide-eyed, he turned to Clarke, and said, “What have you done! I ought to have left you out in the desert to die! Maybe they'd have done it quickly, but I'd still be safe. What the hell was I thinking?”

 “Calm down,” Clarke said. “We're almost there.”

 “Not soon enough,” he replied, gesturing at the roof. “Look, it's almost on top of us. I know they're waiting, out behind every rock. The wild ones, the ferals. Every time they release them to hunt, a few of them don't come back, and those bastards don't care, not for a moment, just one mouth less to feed, and they can't...”

 “Calm down, damn it!” Clarke yelled, pulling out his pistol. “And watch it! If you crash, we'll die a hell of a lot faster.” Looking around, he added, “There's nobody anywhere near us.”

 “They're good at hiding,” Jimmy said, taking deep breaths. “This is their land, their terrain, and they know it better than anyone else ever could. Don't forget that. Don't ever forget that. I know that they are watching us right now, and they'll be ready to jump on top of us as soon as we leave.” He paused, then said, “If you're behind me when I reach the ship, I'll close the door, I swear. Move and keep moving. Don't wait for anyone.” He paused, then added, “And if I'm the one left behind, shoot me first. Don't let them get me. Nobody deserves that. Not even those bastards back there.”

 “It won't come to that,” Clarke replied. “Watch the road. We're almost there.” He looked out at the horizon, the shadows still racing towards them, the mountains behind them submerged in inky blackness. As he looked around the horizon, he could almost make out shapes dancing in the distance, then cursed himself for an overactive imagination before looking back at the road. Up ahead, he could just make out the familiar rocks that surrounded the crashed airplane, the one haven of safety in the wilderness.

 “Hey,” he asked. “What's the range on this thing?”

 “A thousand miles on a charge,” Jimmy replied. “And solar cells, so it's rechargeable.” He paused, then asked, “You're out of your mind. There's nowhere to go, and the buggy can barely make twenty miles an hour. That's not the answer.” He looked around, and added, “Besides, they'd track you down. I saw it once. A pair of Neander, pilgrims I think, passing through on horseback. They followed them for a hundred miles. Once they get on your trail, you're as good as dead unless you can put good solid metal between you and them. And even then, they'll never give up. Never.”

 The shadows chased them across the desert as Jimmy gunned the buggy, throwing Clarke into his harness as he struggled to hold onto his seat, his pistol still clutched in his hand. The end was inevitable, and with less than a mile to go, they lost the race, and darkness swept upon them. Clarke blinked, his eyes struggling to adapt to the gloom before Jimmy threw on a red-light searchlight, and he could well imagine strange creatures watching him from the darkness, eyes boring into them from all directions, sensing weakness.

 He tried to dismiss those thoughts, to convince himself that it was just his overactive imagination at work, but as the searchlight span around, picking up random motions in the distance, he suddenly realized that they were terribly real, a misshapen figure momentarily caught in the beam. Up ahead, the safety of the crashed flyer waited for them, but even though it was only seconds in the distance, each one seemed an eternity as the strange, shadowy figures moved into position all around them, waiting to launch their strike.

 “When I give the signal,” Jimmy said, his voice suddenly calm and collected, as though someone else had taken over his body, “we both run like hell for the lock. It'll open once I get within five meters, and the emergency control to close it again is on the right side as you enter. A large button. Slam it with your fist, and it'll seal the hatch in less than a second. Even if someone is inside. Don't stop whatever you do, and if you don't get inside, you're as good as dead, and I will do my best to finish the job before they can. I expect you to do likewise.”

 “Got it,” Clarke replied.

 “And holster the pistol. You can't kill them all, and it'll only slow you down. You're better off just concentrating on speed. I'll leave the searchlight on to show you where to go. Just remember, all of this was your idea.” He reached for a control, and said, “Now!”

 The buggy skidded to a stop as the brakes engaged, and Clarke jumped from his seat, and sprinted across the sand towards the crashed vehicle, his boots digging into the dust as he ran for safety. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see figures in the distance, racing towards him, could hear the savage hunting cries as they howled for him, gleaming teeth reflected as the searchlight swept around.

 It didn't seem possible for it to take this long. It was a hundred meters. At the Academy, he'd done it in under eleven seconds even in full gravity. And yet somehow, it felt longer than a marathon, each step taking another eternity as the ravening hordes surged towards them. Abruptly, the searchlight winked out, and it took all of Clarke's discipline to keep running, to find his way towards the ship. Just as he thought he was going to make it, he heard an earth-rending scream, and saw Jimmy falling to the said, his leg caught in a tangle of cable.

 Instantly, he snatched his pistol again, firing wild shots as he raced towards the fallen man, emptying his clip into the air around him as the strange beasts continued their advance, the crack of the gun barely slowing them down. With his last bullet, he caught one in the shoulder, sending it falling to the ground, and that bought him gruesome time as the nearest members of the swarm dived at the prone figure, taking advantage of the momentary weakness to rend into his flesh, blood spurting out onto the desert sand.

 He reached Jimmy just ahead of them, and with all his strength, threw the man over his shoulder and resumed his race to the airlock, staggering across the darkened sands, the weight almost sending him falling to the ground. Finally, with seconds to spare, the door slid open, revealing a blinding light inside, illuminating the pale-skinned figures all around them, their red eyes gleaming in the unaccustomed glare. Clarke hurled Jimmy through the door, then followed himself, slamming his fist onto the emergency control and collapsing to the deck just as the hatch slammed shut.

 Outside, rhythmic pounding echoed from the hull, the predators beyond cheated of their prey, the same terrible cry sounding in the night, chilling Clarke to his core. He looked at the figure of Jimmy, sobbing on the deck, and got the first clear look at the tangle around his legs, some strange twisted cord, braided to toughness that made it all but impossible to remove.

 “Why?” Jimmy asked, looking up. “Why didn't you let me die?”

 “Without you, I'm dead. As you've told me on more than a few occasions.” Finally tugging free the trap, he asked, “What's this?”

 Wiping the tears from his eyes, he replied, “Leave me alone,” and staggered over to a pile of rags in the corner, wrapping himself up in the makeshift bedding, looking away from the watching Clarke. For a moment, he contemplated pressing him for answers, but with a shake of the head, he turned to the viewscreen, getting his first good look at the strange creatures he had barely escaped with his life.

 He looked at the trap again, and finally realized what it was. Hair. Tangled, knotted and knitted together, connected to a trigger mechanism lost somewhere in the sand outside. This was no simple device, but something that had been designed, built by someone with skill in their hands. The savage creatures outside weren't beasts, but humans.

 “It took me longer to realize that,” Jimmy said, his back still to Curtis. “That the creatures I had fought and killed were men like me, long ago. I found one of those traps, and later one of the huts they'd built out of stone. Occasionally they manage to control themselves for long enough to build a few of them together, start some sort of settlement, but the other creatures in the camp always make sure that they're crushed soon enough. Though sometimes they don't have to. Sometimes they fight each other, first. They'll fight anything. Even each other. As long as they have something to kill.”

 “Is it always like this, out there?” Clarke asked,

 “Usually. Sometimes they're on a hunt somewhere else. Most nights they come here as soon as it gets dark, and they don't stay until dawn. I don't think they like the light. Though whether that's something genetic or just their preference I don't know. You don't usually see them during the day. Sometimes I spent months hunting them through the peaks, trying to find their lairs, but I only ever found a few of those stone houses, and I was always too late.”

 “You hunted them? In God's name, why? And why not leave here on the buggy? I don't buy that you couldn't have made it clear, found somewhere else to go. Hell, if that can go a thousand miles on a charge, you could keep running….”

 “Don't you understand!” he yelled. “I'd still be here! I'd always be here! No matter how far I ran, I'd never get away.” The tears flowed to his eyes again, “I'm dead already. You should have let them finish the job.”

 “Not a chance,” Clarke said. “I told you. I don't leave anyone behind.”

 Jimmy turned, glared at him for a moment, his eyes as cold as a corpse, then turned back to the wall, and said, “There are some more sheets in the locker by the hatch. I suggest you make yourself as comfortable as you can. In the morning we can go out again and see if we can do anything for your friends. Assuming any of them are still alive by then.”

 Nodding, Clarke said, “Jimmy?”

 “Yes?”

 “Thank you.”

 “Don't thank me. Don't ever thank me again. Save it for someone who deserves it.”

 After another brief glance, Clarke walked over to the locker, pulled out a bundle of bedding, and spread the contents out on the floor, underneath the viewscreen. Lying on the improvised bed, he looked out at the hordes outside, their voices still echoing an unearthly chant, banging on the walls in a futile attempt to get at them.

 Could there be some sort of civilization out there, no matter how elemental, how barbarous? Might there be some sort of meaning to the chanting, other than the war cries of savage beasts? There was a great mystery outside, and one that his friends, his comrades, had fallen into. And with the capture of the second flyer, their rescue was now down to him, and the near-madman on the far side of the room. Restlessly, he tossed and turned, finally settling down to rest, even if he didn't believe that he was capable of anything more.

 Finally, sleep managed to trap him in its comforting embrace, sending him cascading into a dreamworld. Mercifully, his nightmares vanished from his memory when he woke with the dawn.

Chapter 7

 Lieutenant Jezebel Murphy settled down into the cockpit of her fighter, running her hands over the controls as the elevator airlock deployed, ready to toss her out into the cold darkness beyond. She looked around the flight deck, the fast shuttle she was escorting finishing its loading sequence, Harper limping on board with a holdall swung over her shoulder, then turned back to the sensor display, watching the feeds flowing down from the bridge. Everything seemed to be going according to plan, the rest of the squadron heading out on a wide tangent, trying to draw away the enemy drones. They had every reason to expect that their unseen opponent, hiding behind the black hole, would take the bait. She was the insurance policy in case they didn't.

 “Alamo Actual to Lieutenant Murphy. Scramble. Good hunting.”

 “Thank you, sir,” she replied, throwing a series of controls. Above her, the hatch slammed shut, atmosphere sucked away to form a vacuum, ready for the drop. She reached for her navigational computer, working the course one last time, trying to ignore the glaring amber warning that made it all too clear that she was flying too close to the black hole, not so close as to guarantee a disaster, but sufficient that even a brief engine failure would see her trapped forever in its gravitational embrace. Her imagination had been working overtime ever since she had first seen it, and the terror of such a phenomenon still gripped her soul. That someone might have actually built one seemed inconceivable, but the evidence suggested that it was all too true.

 With a loud report, the lower hatch opened, and the fighter fell away from the side of the ship, dropping into open space, the engine immediately roaring into life to send her immediately onto the plotted trajectory. Behind her, seconds later, the shuttle followed, moving into formation behind her, bulky booster rockets firing in a bid to keep pace with her. She looked across at the sensor display again, nodding with satisfaction as she saw the rest of the squadron arcing way, another flotilla of drone fighters hard on their tail.

 “McCormack to Murphy,” her communicator barked. “We've done our part. The road to the far side of the singularity should be clear now. Good hunting.”

 “Thank you, ma'am,” she replied. “Murphy to Shuttle One. Midshipman, do you read?”

 “I read,” the precise, clipped tones of Midshipman Imoto replied.

 “Stick to me as close as you can, and make sure to watch your engine controls. If you start sliding down that gravity well there's nothing I can do to bring you back. If something goes wrong, don't try any fancy flying, just head back to the barn at the closest possible vector. Got that?”

 “Understood, ma'am,” he said.

 She focused her attention back onto the flight path ahead, watching as the trajectory danced around, her navigation computer struggling to cope with the situation it was reading. Nobody had ever dreamed that they'd be flying this close to a black hole. Not for decades, even centuries. An expedition to the nearest singularity to Triplanetary space had been mooted a few times, but the extreme distance to the nearest had rapidly ruled it not.

 Now that they were lost in Andromeda, that didn't seem to be a problem any more. The science teams had gone to their instruments with glee when they'd first detected it, but even that seemed to be changing now, a general awareness of the nightmare watching them growing by the day. She looked up at the hole again, the flare of light the only evidence that there was anything there at all, a portal from which there was no escape. 

 She was a fighter pilot, not a physicist. Everything she'd been told stated that nothing but destruction awaited anyone who flew too close, but a part of her still wondered if there was something more down there, whether the old stories about such anomalies being a path to another universe, another reality might indeed be true. Something almost compelled her to find out for herself. It would be easy enough to tap her thruster control, slew down towards the hole, to learn once and for all the secrets of the singularity.

 Shaking her head, she turned back to her instruments. There might be a reason why people didn't tarry too long in systems like that. The compulsion to know was strong, stronger among starfarers than any others, and it was a perpetual struggle to overcome her exploratory instincts, even with the knowledge that they would lead her to her doom.

 Sweeping to the side, her fighter's thrusters fired to kick her clear of the hole, keep her on a straight and steady course that would take her well distant of the silent, growing menace on her flank. Warning lights were flicking into position on the console, the stresses of the increased gravity field starting to take their toll on the hull, damage that the engineering teams were already preparing to repair when they made it home. Assuming, of course, that they did make it home.

 Sixty endless seconds passed as she pioneered a path around the perimeter of the hole, her sensors finally in a position to look behind it, to spot the structure on the far side that had been the source of all their woes. It was almost an anticlimax, a latticed facility with modules scattered around, a dozen fighters of the same design that they'd faced before scattered all around, ready to launch at the sight of any apparent threat. A threat such as that they posed to the station ahead.

 “How the hell did that get there?” she asked. “Our drones...”

 “It wasn't there before,” Harper replied. “We'd have seen it. Take a look at the structure at the rear, the heavy reinforcement. There's nothing there now, but my guess is that it held a one-shot hendecaspace drive.”

 “Is that possible?”

 Harper paused for a moment, and said, “They were working on the prototypes when we left. With the goal of using them to place deep-space facilities with a single shot, to save time on outpost construction. You wouldn't want to use manned vehicles. Not with no way home. And yes, they've been making significant strides on automated hendecaspace jumps recently, though again, they certainly aren't at the position that they would risk lives to it.”

 “The Hegemony hasn't, either,” another voice, one of the sensor technicians, replied. “I'm not picking up any residual atmosphere, nothing at all. The only heat sources are coming from the reactors.” She paused, then added, “And looking at the trajectory plot, it's going to fall into the hole in a few days. Four, at most. This was never intended to be here for long, ma'am. Just a one-shot weapon targeted at Alamo.”

 Murphy looked up at her controls, and said, “Kris, I've got a shot at it from here. There's nothing more you can do in the shuttle, unless you think that you can hack your way into the local network. I recommend you execute a gravity turn and head back for the ship. You can probably link up with McCormack's formation to get an escort for the ride home.”

 “What are you going to do?” Harper asked.

 “Like I said, I've got a shot, and I'm going to take it. If I tighten my trajectory, I'll get enough of a gravity boost that I'll be able to launch a strike at that station without risking intercept. They won't have time to vector those drones onto me.”

 “The risk...”

 “We can't just let them sit out here, ready to strike at a moment's notice. We're going to have shuttles going back and forth from the Sphere when we start our evacuation, and the odds of us getting everyone home with those bastards waiting to pounce aren't promising. At the very least I ought to be able to force them into launching their birds earlier than they wanted.” She paused, then added, “Kris, I know that you're the ranking officer, but if I'm blunt, there's not a damned thing you can do to stop me.”

 With a faint chuckle, Harper replied, “I guess not. I'd tell you not to take any stupid risks, but I guess that's a bit redundant given the current situation. Happy hunting. Out.”

 Murphy watched the scanner as the shuttle began to curve in a wide arc, gaining height as it swung around the black hole, keeping the thousand-diameter distance mandated by the scientific team. They were moving too rapidly to intercept, and just as she'd hoped, the drone fighters opted to ignore the helpless craft. Throwing a control, she adjusted her view to look at the rest of the squadron, now retreating to Alamo with six drones in hot pursuit, far enough ahead to guarantee that they wouldn't come under attack. Everything was going perfectly. She just had to finish the job.

 Throwing on her targeting computer, she tapped a trio of controls to override the warning alarms as she rapidly plotted her attack on the station, fine-tuning her course to give her the best shot of putting her missiles where they needed to be. A cursory examination of the structure revealed several weak spots, not least that a constant boost was required from its thrusters to remain clear of the singularity. One interruption, and the whole station would slide into the abyss, Newton, Einstein and Hawking conspiring together to plot its doom.

 Forty-five seconds to target. As she expected, six of the drone fighters lit their engines as she soared into position, racing towards her in a futile bid to destroy her before she could engage them. She had no intention of permitting them to distract her from her attack run, and a light tap of the thruster send her soaring higher, throwing off their trajectory, leaving them struggling to keep up. A flickering red alarm winked on her panel, the navigation computer reporting that she didn't have enough fuel to return to Alamo. That didn't matter; she was on a safe trajectory now, and a tanker could pick her up at its leisure, sometime within the next six hours. A long wait, but worth it if she could make her strike succeed.

 Twenty-five seconds to target. She was out of sight of Alamo now, would be for at least an hour before passing clear of the gravitational disturbance of the hole. Doubtless Harper was reporting her attack to Francis, and she permitted herself a brief smile as she pictured the look on the senior officer's face when she told him of her intentions. Not that he was a bad officer, or a bad commander, but that part of her that enjoyed thumbing her nose at authority came to the fore with increasingly regularity.

 Fifteen seconds. The interceptors couldn't reach her now, and she held her finger over the launch controls, knowing that she couldn't beat the computer but unable to resist the temptation to try, a fail-safe measure that every combat pilot used, regardless of the training that told them it was unnecessary. At last, her fighter rocked back, missiles racing towards their target. At the last second, the remaining fighters launched, but they'd left their attack too late, and her missiles dived remorselessly towards their goal, slamming into her carefully selected positions on the superstructure, the force of the explosions ripping and rending into the facility, tearing it to pieces and leaving a slowly-expanding cloud of debris where the enemy facility had been.

 Her brief flicker of satisfaction faded away as she looked at the trajectory plot, face falling as she saw the path the six drone fighters had taken. An intercept course for Alamo, diving close enough to the singularity that they wouldn't spot them until the last minute. A human pilot wouldn't have dared take the risk, but the mechanical minds that commanded those craft know no fear, would instinctively trust the cold calculations of the trajectory plot.

 Six minutes to Alamo. And if they went that close to the gravity well, they'd either miscalculate and spiral to their doom, or reach the far side with enough velocity that the ship wouldn't have a chance to stop them. She sighed, looked up at her navigation computer again, and started to enter a sequence of override codes, bringing her fighter back around on a long, low pass, an intercept course with the drone fighters. It would require most of her fuel to pull off, but she could just reach them as they passed into the gravitational threshold of the singularity.

 As she pulled her ship onto its new course, ignoring the sequence of flickering warnings, she glanced across at the dark tactical console, her ordnance expended. That left only one option, and with a computer pilot, it would be far more difficult. She'd have to play chicken, dive at the drones and hope that they decided to break formation, make a move that would either send them spiraling through space away from Alamo, or send them down into the depths of the black hole. More warning alarms sounded as the computer realized what she was planning, used every argument it knew to attempt to talk her out of it, but she didn't have a choice. Her actions had placed Alamo in danger, and it was her responsibility to see that it survived her mistake.

 The seconds trickled down as she once more soared close to the black hole, noting that she was passing within the thousand-diameter limit, sweeping near a zone from which she could never return. Up ahead, the drone fighters continued inexorably on their course, racing towards Alamo, ignoring her for the moment, as though the computers couldn't believe that anyone would take a risk as great as that which she was running. Less than thirty seconds remained, and she dived into the heart of the formation. At the final instant, five of the fighters broke away, racing in different directions, but a sixth remained, lurching to the side, choosing to sacrifice itself to bring her down.

 She frantically stabbed a finger on a thruster to alter her course, but she'd left it an instant too late, and the enemy fighter caught her on the rear hull, sending her spinning out of control, engine shattered and destroyed. The cockpit lights winked out, replaced with the dim emergency illumination, and a cascade of damage report swept over her heads-up display, cataloging the disaster she was now facing.

 Her sensor data gave her one brief flicker of satisfaction, the remaining fighters now unable to close on Alamo, destined instead to wander helplessly through the system forever. At least she'd done that much right. She reached for her thrusters, then looked at the trajectory plot, and let a thin smile dance across her face. Maybe this was as it had been meant to be.

 A part of her had wondered what lay at the bottom of the hole. Now she was going to find out.

Chapter 8

 “Shall we get started?,” Francis asked, as he sat down at the head of the table, the other senior officers assembled in the briefing room. It felt like a corporal's guard, far too many of the department heads missing. No Carpenter, Lombardo, Foster. Or Salazar, more to the point, and Harper looked at the empty space where the commander would sit, hoping that he was still alive, cursing the wound that had kept her from accompanying him on the mission.

 “McCormack,” Francis began, “Have we any idea what happened to Lieutenant Murphy?”

 “Nothing concrete,” the squadron leader replied. “The battle took place out of sensor range. Long-range recon indicates that the station Shuttle One spotted has been destroyed, no sign of drone fighters, or any of our people. I hate to say it, but we'll probably never know what happened.” She paused, then added, “Though I must conclude that Lieutenant Murphy wouldn't have taken precipitous action unless she felt the safety of the ship was at stake. She saw a chance to destroy the station, and she took it. And as a result, it is my belief that Alamo is no longer in imminent risk of attack.”

 “Any other thoughts on that?” Francis asked.

 Scott frowned, then said, “I think there's more to it than that. I don't think those drone fighters were actually here to destroy Alamo.” Before anyone could protest, she raised a hand, and added, “Though certainly I suspect they'd have taken a chance to do so if they could. I think they were hoping to wear down our defenses, and keep us pinned down, distracted. While we were worrying about the risk of shuttle intercepts, we'd have been tied to the Sphere. Certainly we're going to find it a lot easier to pull our people out of there now that we haven't got them to worry about.” Glancing down at the desk, a report flashing on the screen, she added, “We've identified a single small starship out on the edge of the system, too distant to do anything but monitor the situation, or perhaps send delayed orders to other facilities, but the Hegemony are watching, sir. Getting ready to make their move.”

 Nodding, Harper said, “More than that. I don't think they want to destroy us.” Turning to Maqua, the Neander implacably sitting at the end of the table, filling in for the missing Operations Officer, she added, “I've gone over the telemetry data again, and I've come to the conclusion that what happened to Monitor was, to a degree, an accident. I think they want to capture Alamo.”

 “That would make sense,” Scott added. “We know that their goal here is technological. They want to bootstrap themselves, and Alamo is sufficiently advanced that they'd gain three or four decades. And it would be a lot easier than trying to untangle technologies thousands of years ahead. They've got every motivation to take the ship intact.”

 Francis looked around the table, and said, “We're still waiting to hear back from Captain Salazar. The last report we had indicated that his ship had completed a safe touchdown after evading missile fire.” Looking at Harper, he added, “There's nothing we can do for him at the moment, but I've got an engineering team on the surface accelerating work on Flyer Three, just in case, though I doubt very much that it can be ready in time.”

 “I agree,” Maqua replied. “That leaves the rest of the personnel.”

 Taking a deep breath, Francis added, “We're going to obey Captain Salazar's orders to the letter, people. I don't want more than a dozen people on the surface, and no more expeditions are to be dispatched for scientific investigation.”

 “Wait a minute,” Scott said. “The Sphere is our best lead to get home. If we can't work out the location of a wormhole that can take us back to our own galaxy, then...”

 “We can't make use of a wormhole if we're dead, Lieutenant, and the Sphere has been there for a long time. Long enough that we can ride this situation out and see what happens. It is my belief that a Hegemonic attack is imminent, and I don't want to be loitering out here for hours waiting for a couple of scientists to find their way home. Understand this.”

 “We can take them in a fight…,” Scott began.

 “A single ship?” Francis replied. “Certainly. Though we might well take damage which will hurt us in future engagements. They know that as well as we do. They won't send one ship, or even two. If they come, when they come, it will be in force. And I agree, their goal will be to capture Alamo. I have no intention of permitting that to happen.” Turning to Santiago, he said, “I want you to position charges throughout the ship, rigged to detonate on command from the bridge. If it looks like we're going to lose her, I'll be damned if I allow them to take advantage of that.”

 “Aye, sir,” the engineer said with uncharacteristic softness.

 “However,” Francis continued, “I will happily state here and now that I have no intention of sitting here and waiting to die. If an enemy force arrives that I don't think we can handle, then I will pull this ship out and jump to another system.” Turning to Harper, he added, “I want it stressed to everyone remaining in the Sphere, Lieutenant, that while I will make every effort to retrieve them, the ship has to come first. I want volunteers only down there.”

 “They understand, sir,” she replied.

 “Is there anything else?” he asked, looking around. Harper locked eyes with him, and he almost imperceptibly shook his head, before continuing, “Dismissed, then. Lieutenant Maqua, start coordinating the evacuation of the Sphere.”

 “I thought Lieutenant Harper…,” the Neander began. He looked at Francis, then said, “Aye, sir. I'll see to it right away.” The officers filed out of the room, leaving Harper and Francis looking at each other, the former pushing a datapad onto the desk.

 Francis raised a hand, and said, “If Pavel was here...”

 “Then he'd be giving exactly the same order,” Harper replied. “So would I. Nevertheless, I want a chance to go after him.”

 “If Flyer Three...”

 Shaking her head, she interrupted, “There's no way it can be ready in the time, especially with Lombardo missing. And I don't buy that they simply set down. That Flyer has remained stationary for the best part of a day, and they'd have headed home by now if they could. Something's gone wrong. I know that I could get volunteers for a rescue party to set out in one of the buggies.”

 “You're looking at an eight-thousand mile trip, Lieutenant, and you'd be lucky to do it in a month. Aside from which, we don't know what Pavel and the others ran into, and without that knowledge, the odds are that we'd be sending you right into a trap. Request denied, Lieutenant. And I expect that to be the end of it unless you can come up with a viable plan. If Flyer Three is complete in time, then you can take it out and see what you can do. But I will not permit you and a collection of others with more loyalty than sense to throw your lives away on a hopeless cause.”

 “There's more to it, though, sir,” she pressed. “We need to find the location of the wormhole that will take us home...”

 “Assuming one even exists.”

 “Granted, but the Sphere remains the best chance we have to find it, and we can't afford to pass that up. Let me get a few volunteers for a party to remain behind. Alamo can come back as opportunity permits, and...”

 Shaking his head, he said, “Again, rejected, Lieutenant.” He paused, took a deep breath, and said, “The Sphere probably holds the secrets we're looking for, but searching it could take thousands of years. Unless we can find some sort of better lead, then the odds are that we'll never find it anyway. And I don't think that leaving the Sphere means giving up, either. It's a big galaxy out there, and the answer we're looking for could be waiting for us in the next system.”

 “Perhaps, but even so…,” she paused, then said. “Sir, the ship can spare me.”

 “Just you?”

 She glanced at the door, and added, “Lance-Sergeant Fox is willing to come along for the ride. All I'm asking is that you leave us one of the buggies, some supplies, and a solar collector. We'll do the rest. Alamo can spare a hacker and a trooper. And if we can find what we're looking for...”

 He paused, then said, “Realistically, this is going to happen no matter what I order, isn't it?”

 “I wouldn't like to put it that way, sir.”

 Rubbing his forehead, he added, “Lieutenant, I was under the impression that I was in command of this ship in the absence of Captain Salazar. That is not a conditional situation, and you will obey any and all commands I give. Unless you are planning to launch a mutiny.” He paused, then said, “I will consider it. That's as far as I'm willing to go, at least for the present. Now that might change if a more viable plan presents itself. For now, I suggest that you head down to the surface and take command of the remaining complement of Base Camp. I'd strongly advise making work on Flyer Three your top priority.”

 Before she could reply, the door slid open, and Maqua walked inside, grim concern on his face, saying, “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but something's come up. We've just had a message from the team we set to rescue Foster and the scientific crew, and...”

 “And what, Lieutenant?” Francis asked.

 “You'd better listen to it for yourself, sir,” he replied, reaching down to the desk and tapping in a sequence.

 “Echo Four to Base, for scheduled check-in,” the voice of the trooper began. “Nothing to report as yet. We should be at the ruin in about...”

 “Hey, Jerry, what's that?” another voice said. “Two o'clock, right there, behind those trees.”

 “I don't,” the first trooper began. “Wait a minute. I see them. Good God, they're moving fast.” There was a pause, and he said, “Right between us and the ruin. Damn it, Liz, they're catching us! How the hell are they catching us?”

 Panic filed the second trooper's voice, and she replied, “Gun the engine! They're almost here!” The crack of a gunshot echoed from the ceiling, and the voice continued, “Oh, God, look. They're...”

 “Keep firing! There are more of them, ten o'clock, and I think...”

 The message ended with a desperate, final scream, and the three officers looked at each other, Harper finally breaking the silence, saying, “Sir, request permission to mobilize a squad to investigate.”

 Francis looked at her for a moment, nodded, and said, “One squad. I want the rest of the platoon to defend Base Camp during the evacuation. And your mission is purely reconnaissance, Lieutenant, not rescue. If you get a chance to safely pick up Foster and her team, or any survivors from the first relief force, then by all means take them, but your top priority is to find out what killed those troopers.” He paused, then said, “We might have to evacuate the rest of the force ahead of schedule.”

 “We've still got four more groups heading back in,” Maqua said. “One of them fairly close to that buggy. I've already warned them to be on the alert, but I think someone should go out and bring them in. I'll volunteer for that.”

 “Very well, Lieutenant, but I do not want Base Camp stripped too thin. Have Ensign Rhodes prepare defenses for an orderly evacuation.” He looked at the two of them, and said, “I know what you are both thinking, but if this is the same thing that attacked Captain Salazar and the others, then in all probability, they're already dead.”

 “No, sir,” Harper replied. “I'd know if he was. Don't ask me how, but I would.”

 “Another Intelligence secret?” Maqua asked.

 “Instinct,” she said. “Is that all the information we have?”

 Holding up a datapad, the Neander replied, “I've got the exact location of the last transmission from the buggy. About sixty miles from Base Camp, on the edge of the forest.” He frowned, then added, “I was with the tribes in that region for months. We never heard of anything like that before, and they'd have reported anything like this to us. There might be more to this than we think. Or it might be as big a threat to them as it is to us.”

 “Feel free to issue a warning, Lieutenant, but we're going to have to look after ourselves. With hostile ships in-system and hostiles on the ground, my instincts are telling me to pull out as soon as the last expedition returns to Base Camp.” Turning back to Harper, he added, “I'm willing to suppress my better judgment for a while, Lieutenant, but not for long.”

 “Understood, sir. Understood.”

Chapter 9

 The door rattled open, and a pair of white-uniformed figures stepped inside, an old man and a younger woman, the former holding a trio of plastic bottles in his hands. He passed one each to Salazar, Carpenter and Lombardo, then took a seat opposite them, a smile on his face, while the woman waited at the threshold of the entrance.

 “I'm sorry it's taken us so long to get to you,” he said. “You'll understand that running a facility of this type is a difficult task, and we always have to complete a full security check at dusk. Just in case we get any unwanted visitors.” He glanced at the woman, and said, “I'm Doctor Mendez. In charge of Behavioral Psychology.”

 “Doctor Robertson,” the woman added. “Scientific Operations Director. Welcome to Lysenko Station. Though I hope you won't have any problem with the idea that your visit will be short. We have a lot of work to do here, and we don't need the distraction of unauthorized guests.”

 “We wouldn't be here if someone hadn't lobbed a missile at us,” Lombardo said.

 Frowning, Mendez replied, “That was an accident. We've periodically come under attack by a hostile force known as the Hegemony.” At the looks on their faces, he added, “I see that you've encountered them yourselves. I'm not surprised. They're just scavengers.”

 “And what are you?” Carpenter asked. “What's the purpose of this facility?”

 “Genetic research,” Mendez answered. “You'll have noticed that there are several variant types of humanity present in the Sphere. Our mandate was to investigate, analyze, and determine if there are any potentially advantageous mutations to introduce into our own genetic structure.”

 Lombardo grimaced, and replied, “Eugenics. That's got a pretty bad reputation back home. Every so often a group of scientists decide that it's time to play games with the gene pool. It never ends well, Doctor. Usually those involved face charges. If a mob doesn't get to them first.”

 Robertson sighed, and said, “It's nothing like that. If we can find cures to genetic diseases in the local population, then we have a responsibility to pass that knowledge on to wider humanity. And there are other things we can learn, as well. The nature of adaptive evolution, as well as the evidence that our own genetic structure has in the past been tampered with.”

 “What?” Carpenter replied. “There's no evidence...”

 “Out of academic curiosity,” Robertson said, flashing Carpenter a withering glare, “just what is your doctorate in?” 

 “Paleontology. With a minor in archeology.” She rose to face Robertson eye to eye, and replied, “So you can take it that I'm well able to keep up with you, Doctor. Assuming, of course, that I wish to do so. What evidence do you have of primordial tampering.”

 “Our research is classified, and it is going to stay that way.”

 “Wait a minute,” Mendez said, raising a hand. “There's no need for this conversation to descend into acrimony, is there? We're all scientists, all researchers, and we're all out here to explore the unknown mysteries of the universe.” Looking at Salazar, he added, “Captain, you have yet to speak. What do you think of all of this?” 

 With a sigh, he replied, “I think it's your business, Doctor, not mine. We came out here to find a party of lost crewmen. Two of my people were overflying this region on a scouting run when their flyer was brought down by another of your accidental missiles.”

 Looking down at the ground, Mendez replied, “I can only apologize, Captain.”

 “Your people should have signaled before entering an inhabited area,” Robertson added. “The Hegemony launched an attack on us as recently as six months ago, and did considerable damage to our facility before we were able to stop them. That, and we're in the middle of hostile territory, and you'll have noticed that we're surrounded by savages. Inevitably, as they're the main target of our researches, but it requires maximum security at all time.”

 “That doesn't excuse…,” Lombardo began.

 “If I took a shuttle and attempted to board your ship uninvited, Captain, what would happen to me? Presumably someone would arrive to throw me off, if I wasn't shot down out of hand first, and you would be entirely correct to do so. We have a right to defend ourselves.”

 Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “I'm not here to talk about the past. I'll accept your apology, Doctor Mendez. What I want to know now is whether you know anything about my missing crewmen?”

 With a sigh, Mendez looked up, and said, “I'm sorry, Captain, but I don't have good news to report. When your people came down out in the desert, we sent a team to take a look, but before we could arrive, the savages had got there first. There are thousands of them out there, picking their way through the rocks. Little nest-tribes scattered all through this mountain range. And you have to understand that they hunt in packs. By the time we got there, it was all over. Someone had destroyed the flyer. We didn't even find any bodies, but given the scale of the explosion, there wasn't much chance of that.”

 “If you wish,” Robertson added, “You can inspect the wrecked vehicle for yourself in the morning. I'll provide an escort to get you out to the wreckage. Tell me, can your vehicle recharge itself? Is it capable of returning to your ship?”

 “It is,” Lombardo replied. “Unless someone's decided to tinker with it.”

 “My people would not, Lieutenant, and the savages wouldn't know how. They're only interested in the living. The mechanical is of no interest to them whatsoever.” Mendez grimaced, and replied, “They have surprisingly simple thought process, analogous to that of the sharks of Old Earth. Eat, sleep, procreate. That's about as far as it goes. We've been working on them for some time, if only to determine just how such a perversion of the human form could have been brought about, but I'm afraid we can report lamentably little progress.”

 Frowning, Carpenter asked, “Could I see some of your research? We're interested in...”

 “That is out of the question,” Robertson said, rising to her feet. “Our research is proprietary, and even if I wanted to, I am not permitted to share it with outsiders.” She gestured at the door, and said, “It would be best if you remain here tonight. We've had to place you near the top of the facility, and while intrusions by the savages are rare, they are not unknown, and our security force is limited. I suggested you keep the door closed, and leave it that way.” She reached outside the door, swinging in a holdall, and said, “Rations for tonight, enough for the three of you. I'll see that you are provided with more in the morning, when you return to your ship, after your inspection of the wreckage.” Moving to the door, she turned, and said, “Understand this. You are not welcome, you are not wanted, and you are not staying here a moment longer than necessary. I have no interest in being hospitable, and I have no interest in being nice. We have a job to do, and you are a distraction.” Without another word, she stalked away down the corridor, leaving a red-faced Mendez behind her.

 “You'll have to forgive her,” Mendez replied. “Running a complex of this size is a difficult task, especially given the limitations we're laboring under. It's a miracle that we keep things going as well as we do, and there always remains the research work. We're making progress, but...” He paused, smiled, and said, “You don't want to listen to an old man complain.” Gesturing at the room, he added, “I've had bedding for three brought in, and there's an entertainment unit on the wall. Music, movies, that sort of thing. All old stuff, but hopefully it should ensure the night passes quickly.”

 “And if some of the savages arrive during the night?” Carpenter asked.

 “You still have your sidearms, and they seem more than sufficient to the task. If you fire a single round, it will set off our security system, and someone will come and investigate. Fire three times in quick succession, and we'll know that you have a serious problem, and we will arrive in strength in a matter of minutes. Though really, Nina is quite right. Stay here in your room, and you will be perfectly safe. I'll be along in the morning to escort you to the wreck of your craft. That will be in around eight hours, Earth-standard.” Gesturing at a watch, he said, “Now, I must be going. My apologies once again for the fate of your crew. If there was anything I could have done to save them, I would have, I assure you.”

 “Thank you, Doctor,” Salazar said, moving over to one of the bunks. “I think we'll just turn in. Oh, if you have any meteorological data about our route home, that would be useful.”

 “Unless that is proprietary, as well,” Carpenter muttered.

 “I think that can be arranged, Captain,” Mendez replied. “Good night.” He stepped out of the room, and closed the door behind him, the lock engaging with a single click. Lombardo moved over to it, tested it for a second, and nodded.

 “We can open it from this side.”

 Raising a hand, Salazar pulled a small box from his pocket, placed it on the floor, and tapped a button, saying, “We can speak freely now. Latest Intelligence device. Any microphones in the room will be broadcasting rather loud music. Hopefully they'll think we're having a party.” Looking at the two of them, he continued, “I probably don't need to ask this, but any thoughts?”

 “They're hiding something,” Lombardo replied, “and have covered their tracks well enough that they're willing to let us inspect the flyer. Interesting that they were willing to admit their guilt.”

 “What choice did they have?” Carpenter said. “We knew where the missile came from, and they attacked us themselves. Right now we've only got their word that we'll be released in the morning.”

 “I believe them,” Salazar replied. “What would be the point in lying about it? Besides, they must know that our beacon signal reported a safe landing, and they'll assume that we're being monitored by our people. As far as they're concerned, if they don't send us home with a plausible cover story, then they run the risk of another party turning up, armed for bear.”

 “We could do that,” Lombardo replied. “With a little work, I could get Flyer Three up and running in less than a week. We could land here again with a fully-armed Espatier squad, and find out what a few plasma weapons do to open up their sealed archives.”

 “No, we don't have the time,” Salazar said. “I'm going to go ahead and guess that our people are in this base, somewhere, and that they probably saw something that this group are trying to keep secret. The idea of genetic research scares the hell out of me...”

 “I hate to bring this up,” Carpenter interrupted, “but there's a chance they want them for their genes. Especially Mortimer. She's Earth-born, and if these people are some sort of offshoot, they might have labored under a restricted genetic inheritance. We've been finding all sorts of problems in some of the colonies from the First Diaspora. Trying to set up a self-sufficient colony is difficult enough with support, but when you've only got a four-figure gene pool to play with, the inherited problems build up pretty quick.”

 “That brings up another point, doesn't it,” Salazar mused. “If they're opposed to the Hegemony, then where did they come from? I don't think they can be native to the Sphere.” He gestured at the musical selection, the menu flickering on the wall, and added, “All twenty-first-century stuff. The sort of material one of the early colony ships would have carried. That part of the story fits well enough, if nothing else.”

 With a thin smile on his face, Lombardo replied, “Why do I have the feeling that you don't have any intention of sitting around all night and waiting to see what happens in the morning?”

 “You've got that right,” he said. “They as good as admitted that their surveillance isn't up to much, though I don't think I believe that they would tolerate savage carnivores roaming the corridors at night. They're setting out to scare us, nothing more than that. I want to find out what's going on out here. There's something brewing in this little outpost, and I can't help but think that we're all at risk while it goes on.”

 “And the savages?” Carpenter asked. “Whatever they are? It seems almost inconceivable that human-descendants could have devolved in such a way, though...”

 “No, there are precedents on Earth, from cultures where all civilization was irretrievably lost,” Lombardo said, drawing surprised glares from Salazar and Carpenter. “The Ik people, for example and...” At their expressions, he added, “My ex-wife was a sociologist. Hard not to pick up a thing or two.”

 Reaching for a ration pack, Salazar replied, “We rest for a couple of hours, and do exactly what they want us to do. Once everyone settles in for the night, we'll go exploring.”

 “All of us?”

 “Not much point leaving someone behind.” Looking at the bag in his hand he said, “Ach. Chicken. Typical.”

 “If that's the worst thing that happens tonight,” Lombardo replied, “I think we will all breathe a sigh of relief. Got any ham?”

Chapter 10

 The buggy bounced along the ground, Harper scanning the horizon with binoculars, looking for trouble, hoping to spot it before it could menace them. Corporal Burns was at the controls, focused on the dirt trail, one eye on the scanner to make sure they were following the track of the first buggy as closely as possible, while Sergeant Fox and the rest of the fire team held their weapons at the ready, covering the darkness.

 “Maqua to Harper,” the communicator parked, and Harper picked up a handset.

 “Harper here, go ahead,” she replied.

 “We've made contact with Team Twelve, Kris, and everything seems fine. That puts us about eight miles east of you. No sign of any trouble, nothing on the horizon, nothing moving at all.”

 “Good,” she said. “Let's hope it stays that way.”

 “We heard from the Neander in the forest, as well,” he continued. “They haven't spotted anything unusual, but everyone's keeping close to the village, and they've put themselves on maximum alert. They'll call us if anything turns up. We can't count on them for reinforcements, though. Too many lives at risk at home.”

 “I can't say I blame them for that,” she replied. “Have a safe ride home, Lieutenant. Signal as soon as you get back to Base Camp, and be ready to move out again if we need support. Out.”

 Turning to her, Fox said, “I thought Lieutenant Francis explicitly ruled out any reinforcements for us if we run into trouble.”

 “That depends on the situation,” Harper replied. She smiled, and said, “Besides, you and I both know that they'd come anyway, no matter what orders came from on high.”

 “Probably true at that,” Fox said. “Lieutenant, if he doesn't sign off on the rescue mission, what do you intend to do about it?” All eyes were on Harper, and she knew that everyone on the buggy would happily volunteer to remain behind to rescue their commander, at a single word of encouragement from her. Francis had brought up the specter of a mutiny, and Salazar was an extremely popular figure among the crew.

 “We'll work that out when the time comes,” Harper said, locking eyes with the veteran trooper for a moment. Both of them knew what that meant, and that if Alamo had to pull out without all of their people along for the ride, Harper and Fox would be staying behind as well. The ship could continue without them, but the prize at stake was too valuable to pass up.

 Assuming they didn't all end up staying. Monitor's crew had taken that option, had been forced into it by the destruction of their ship, and as far as anyone on Alamo knew, had vanished into the mass of the Sphere without a trace. Only a single signal from Flyer One provided a hint of what might have happened to them, and that just made it more important to follow up.

 “One o'clock,” one of the troopers said, gesturing at a shadowy shape in the distance. “That's one of our buggies. Infrared shows a heat signature. Power's still working, but I'm not picking up any warm bodies.” The man turned, grimaced, and said, “We're too late.”

 “We don't know that yet, Trooper,” Fox replied. “Quarter-mile. Are we going to drive all the way, Lieutenant?”

 “Might as well,” Harper said. “I'd rather keep the option for a rapid evac if possible.”

 “Agreed,” Fox said. “Get us to within ten meters, Corporal. And see if you can set up a data transfer from the on-board telemetry. That might tell us something.”

 “On it, Sergeant,” Burns replied, slowing the buggy as she drove them towards the distant shape. “For the record, we're about twenty miles from the ruins. We can probably see them from here. Maybe forty minutes and we could be there.” She turned to Harper, and said, “If, of course...”

 “If we don't find what we're looking for here, we'll go and take a look,” Harper said. “There are four of our people out there, and we owe them the chance to bring them home.” Pulling out her pistol, she added, “Bring up the searchlights.”

 A blinding beam swept across the plain, briefly illuminating the edge of the forest in the distance before focusing on the buggy. It didn't take long to see what had happened. The scattered bodies were testament enough to that. Fox glanced at Harper as their vehicle slowed to a stop, then gestured to her team.

 “Tactical deployment, on the double,” she said. “Establish a perimeter, but keep within the beam. We're not staying here any longer than we can help.” Turning to Harper, she added, “Just give us a minute, ma'am, and then you can come down.”

 Nodding, Harper watched while the professionals did their work, rushing forward into the gloom, each taking up a defensive position. She took the chance to look at the corpses, her eyes widening as she saw the scattered bodies around. They were human, at least after a fashion, but all had white hair, their teeth savage and jointed, jagged dagger-like nails on each hand. All were rangy, well-muscled, smeared with strange patterns of mud on their native form.

 “Camouflage,” Burns replied. “I don't see any weapons or tools, but they aren't stupid. That isn't just some sort of war paint. They knew what they were doing.”

 “We're set, Lieutenant,” Fox said, and Harper stepped down from the buggy, keeping a tight-grip on her plasma pistol, checking that the weapon was at full charge. She walked through the carnage, trying to ignore the devastation all around, while Burns launched a camera drone into the air to record the scene.

 “Get one of the bodies loaded onto our buggy,” Harper ordered. “Try and find one without too much damage. Our science and medical teams are going to want to take a look at them.”

 “Oh, God,” one of the troopers said, over in the far corner. “Sarge, this one's been eaten.”

 “Wild beasts?” Burns asked. “Out here?”

 “No,” a grim-voiced Fox replied. “There's blood on the hands of the body next to it. Lieutenant, these bastards eat their own dead. I've never seen anything like it.” She turned to Harper, and said, “You want me to look in the cabin?”

 “My job, Sergeant,” Harper said. She'd had a chance to prepare herself for the sight that met her inside the buggy, but even then, it still stole her breath away. The remains of the two Espatiers were scattered around the cabin as though tossed into a blender, scattered bones and blood everywhere, a savage orgy of slaughter taking place in the relatively recent past. One quick look was enough, and Harper stepped back, gesturing at one of the troopers.

 “There's not enough left to bury,” she replied. “Set a charge, Private. Nice and big. I don't want to leave this behind for someone else.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” the subdued Espatier replied, hastening from his position on the perimeter to complete his task. Harper pulled out her communicator, playing with the frequencies for a second, sweeping to the command channel.

 “Harper to Alamo. Do you read?”

 “Actual here,” Francis replied. “What's the story?”

 “Both our people are dead. Some sort of creatures attacked them. Human-derived. That's about the only way I can describe them. I must strongly recommend that full defensive perimeter be established in the area around Base Camp, and that plasma weapons be deployed on the double.”

 “That bad?”

 “Simmons and Malone took down more than thirty of the bastards before the died, and they just kept on coming. We're going to need the toughest defenses we can provide if we're going to see to the safety of our people.”

 “Are you recommending evacuation, Lieutenant?”

 “No, but we definitely need to draw down to a single shuttle load as fast as we can. And certainly, no further expeditions without significant strength. We're going to push on to the ruins as soon as we're finished here, then head back to the barn.

 “I don't need to tell you to proceed with extreme caution, Lieutenant.”

 “Trust me, sir, after one look at this, you're preaching to the choir. We're just setting up some charges, and...”

 “Lieutenant!” Burns said. “Ten o'clock, something moving, multiple contacts inbound!”

 “Form up!” Fox ordered. “Prepare for volley fire! Grenades at the ready on my order!”

 “Harper, pull out now!” Francis yelled. “That's an order!”

 “Wait one,” she replied, raising her binoculars. She spotted a pair of figures racing towards them, both of them wearing Triplanetary uniform, and a swarm following at speed, more than a hundred of the same creatures they'd seen scattered on the ground all around them. “Leading pair are ours!” she yelled. “Suppressing fire! Give them some cover!”

 A loud whump echoed from the side, one of the troopers deploying a shoulder-mounted missile meant for armored structures, the warhead flying through the air to slam into the swarm with a resounding explosion. The rattle of semi-automatic fire echoed all around as the troopers helped their comrades to reach safety, sheets of flame in the gloom of the night, every man standing his ground despite the ravening horde heading their way.

 “Turn the buggy around,” Harper said, turning to Burns, “and gun the engine. I want her ready for top speed as soon as I give the word.” She raced over to Fox, peering into the gloom, and made out the features of Foster and Garland heading their way. “I guess only two of them made it.”

 “Let's hope this battle goes that well,” Fox replied, pausing for a second as the rest of the team continued to fire. “They're still coming. It's barely slowing them down.” She pulled out a cylinder, tossing it to the ground thirty feet distant, and yelled, “Flare!”

 The blinding light did what gunfire could not, and for a glorious instant, the approaching mass paused, as though terrified of the gleam from the flare. All too quickly, they continued their advance, sweeping across the terrain with nightmarish speed. Foster and Garland were just ahead, red-faced, gasping for breath, and as they approached the perimeter, Fox's well-trained men moved back, pulling in towards the buggy. There was no thought of holding this ground. Only of surviving the battle. Finally, Foster raced past Harper, Garland a single step behind, and the group withdrew to their vehicle, Fox almost pushing the medic inside as the rest of the men clambered on board.

 “Go!” Harper yelled, the last one back in the cabin, and the trooper wasted no time at roaring the engine to full, wheels skidding in the muddy ground as it struggled to get traction, skidding and bouncing its way across the terrain. Behind them, the horde continued to advance, almost keeping pace with the vehicle, and Harper turned to Fox with disbelief.

 “More speed!” Fox said.

 “We're overloaded,” Burns protested. “I can't push her any harder!”

 “Wait a minute,” Harper said, reaching into her pocket. “Soldier, did you set those charges?”

 “Yes, ma'am,” he replied with evident glee. “Frequency two-niner.”

 Pulling the master detonator out of her pocket, she selected the correct configuration, waited for the horde to draw close to the abandoned buggy, then lightly tapped the button, raising her other hand to cover her eyes as a tower of flame rose to the sky, an epic roar that swept across the darkness as a column of smoke raced into the air. Screams and cries echoed through the night as the explosion ripped into the surrounding creatures, and she turned to Fox with grim satisfaction as she replaced the detonator into her pocket.

 “Fire off a few bursts,” she ordered. “Just enough to give them the idea that following us would be a really bad idea. That ought to do the job.”

 “No,” Foster said, looking at Harper with death in her eyes. “It won't. They'll keep coming, and coming, and they'll never stop. They'll never stop. As long as one of them remains alive, you aren't safe. This is just postponing the inevitable. Nothing more than that.” She looked across at Garland, shivering in his seat, and said, “We've got to leave the Sphere. As fast as we can.”

 “The others?”

 Foster looked into the darkness for a moment, then shook her head, and replied, “They never had a chance, Kris. We only survived by luck, and it was about to run out when you arrived.” Grabbing her by the shirt, she added, “We've got to go, Kris. Right away.”

 “Salazar and the others are still out there.”

 Shaking her head, Foster said, “If they've run into the same creatures we did, then they're already dead. They wouldn't stand a chance.”

Chapter 11

 Outside, night had fallen, several hours remaining until the shadows passed out of view of the sun. Salazar poked a dozing Lombardo, who jerked awake without a sound, and with a curt nod to Carpenter, he moved to the door, gently opening it, careful not to make a noise. He peered into the corridor, a cover story on his lips should a sentry be waiting outside, tales of a desire to investigate a strange, distant sound.

 What he did not expect was for such a sound to greet him as he opened the door, a keening wail that echoed from the corridors, a savage plea for help that tugged at him. Carpenter looked across at him, eyes widening, and gestured to the right, into a long, dark passage periodically

 illuminated by flickering overhead lights, bolted to the ceiling.

 It had been obvious from the first that the current inhabitants hadn't built the installation, that instead they were only making use of something already in existence, taking over an old, abandoned facility in the mountains. Idly, Salazar wondered how common that was, in a place as old as the Sphere, where civilizations must have risen and fallen a thousand times, leaving battered remnants scattered all around for future generations to exploit. The explorer in his soul smiled at the prospect, but as he looked into the darkness, fear overwhelmed his excitement, replacing it with a cold, menacing dread.

 “All clear behind us,” Lombardo whispered. “Where too, sir?”

 “Towards the noise,” Salazar replied. “It's the closest thing we've got to a lead. Keep your weapons at the ready at all times, but don't fire them unless you have to. And if you get separated, make your way back up here as fast as you can.”

 “And if we run into someone from the installation?”

 “Hide if possible, bluff if we must, shoot as a last resort,” he replied. “Come on. I'll take point. Art, you're on rear guard. Holler if you see anything. Carpenter, set your scanners on passive only. We don't know what detectors the locals are using.”

 “Aye, sir,” she replied, tugging out her datapad, draping the sensor pickup over her shoulder, poking out in front of her. “Ready to go.”

 With a nod, Salazar led the party down the corridor, faint echoes from their footsteps on the metal floors. The walls were featureless, aside from the cables draped from hastily installed hangers to service the light fittings. The metal looked conventional enough, but if the endless corridor was any indication, the base was huge, larger than anything he had ever seen. Periodically, they walked past doors, but Salazar resisted the temptation to look inside. None of them had any sign of recent occupation, and the trail of dusty footprints on the floor suggested that visitation to this level was infrequent at best.

 The wail resumed, another desperate cry, savage and brutal, yet at some level a desperate distress signal. Salazar glanced at Carpenter, who nodded, peering at her datapad, trying to analyze the sound. As the echoes dissipated, she frowned, poking the controls.

 “Nothing in the database matches, sir. Something local, inside the Sphere, at a guess.”

 “Agreed,” Salazar replied. “I think we're all on the same page, Lieutenant.”

 “Hey, wait one,” she replied. “I'm picking up something. At extreme range. A low-level beacon signal.” Playing with her controls again, she added, “Triplanetary signature, pulsing Monitor's distress codes. Give me a minute and I'll get a fix.”

 “Orlova,” Lombardo said.

 “Maybe,” Salazar replied. “At the very least, it's the best lead we've had, and we're going to follow it. Distance, Lieutenant?” 

 “Three hundred meters down, a hundred and twenty meters north. We need to find a shaft.” She paused, then said, “I think I can reply on the same frequency.”

 “No. Just in case it's some sort of trap.”

 “We're already confined to their base, Pavel. If they wanted us...”

 “Nevertheless,” he replied. “Right now nobody knows we've picked up their signal. If it is Captain Orlova, then she's waited this long. She can wait a few minutes more.” He gestured towards a space on the floor, a dark patch on the ground where the footprints stopped. “I think we've found our way down.”

 Leaning on the floor, Lombardo reached down and, with his fingernails, eased the hatch open to reveal a shaft heading down into darkness, a ladder bolted to the wall. Salazar peered down, and Carpenter reached her sensor feed into the gloom.

 “Just about right. A hundred and eighteen meters, all the way to the bottom. If I'm reading this right, we'll be pretty damned close to the beacon when we reach our target.” She paused, then said, “Which might mean that we're running right into a bundle of guards. What happens then?”

 Glancing back at her, Salazar said, “I'm not leaving now, not when we've got a definite signal to follow. We're going to see just how far this trail of breadcrumbs leads.” Peering down the shaft, he added, “Follow me.”

 He carefully tested the ladder, putting his full weight on the top rung, then started to climb down it, descending into darkness. Whoever had fitted the lights on the top level had elected not to illuminate the shaft, and soon the only light was from the ceiling space above, a dim glare that barely allowed him to see the walls. He proceeded by feel, pausing only when a loud yowl filled the air, closer this time, the noise filling him with dread.

 “Maybe this isn't such a good idea,” Lombardo said. “I thought Robertson was only trying to scare us, but if they've had a break-in...”

 “Then they'll have a nice distraction, and we'll have an easier time completing our mission,” Salazar replied, belatedly continuing his descent. He glanced at his pistol, safely nestled in its holster, seeking the assurance it provided, with the knowledge that three sidearms were a woefully inadequate arsenal if they needed to fight their way out of the base. When they'd been brought inside, the guards had gone to great lengths to ensure that they couldn't easily track the route, taking them through a twisted tangle of corridors and passages to their final destination.

 A pool of light flashed on at the bottom, and Salazar froze on the ladder for a moment, waiting for the sound of sirens blaring in the distance, footsteps racing towards them, shouted voices demanding they pause. Nothing came, after he released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, he continued to climb down.

 “Motion sensor,” Lombardo said. “Interesting.”

 “Why?” Carpenter asked.

 “Most facilities would just leave the lights on all the time. Saves on maintenance. Power must be an issue for them. A weakness we could exploit.”

 “Carpenter,” Salazar asked, “Have you still got the beacon?”

 “Still singing, Captain, and we're definitely getting closer. We'll need to make a left when we reach the bottom, then pretty much straight ahead until we find her. Should be smooth sailing.”

 “You know what I like about you most, Sue,” Lombardo said. “It's that sense of naive optimism that I find just charming.”

 “I could...”, she began.

 “Cut it,” Salazar said, glaring at Lombardo. “Both of you. We've got more important things to do than spar. We're almost there.” He paused, then added, “Carpenter, you'd better take point with the scanner when we hit the bottom. I presume we're looking for some sort of secured facility, so you can expect hostiles.”

 “Will do, sir, and I've set my detectors to watch out for any anomalous power readings. That ought to spot any surveillance devices or booby-traps,” Carpenter said.

 Salazar waited for another moment as he reached the bottom of the ladder, listening out in a bid to hear anyone who might be loitering underneath, ready to launch an ambush. He heard nothing, and finally, he dropped down the last few feet to the floor, knees bending from the impact, and quickly looked around, back and forth, seeking out the guards. Once more, there was no sign of anyone, until the same desperate cry echoed through the tunnels again, racing back and forth, sending icy fingers clutching at his soul.

 “Come on,” he said, as much to encourage himself as those with him, and he pressed on down the corridor, eyes drawn to a scurrying shadow on the floor, a rat racing in the opposite direction on some unknowable errand. Lombardo glanced behind them, and for a moment, froze, before shaking his head and pressing on.

 “Getting a little nervous, I guess,” Lombardo said. “I thought I saw something, but it isn't there now. Let's get this over with.”

 “If my readings are right,” Carpenter said, “Our target is about thirty feet from us. Probably on the right.” She paused, then said, “Where the hell is everyone, Captain? No guards, no surveillance, nothing at all. If this is meant to be some sort of secured facility...”

 “It's almost certainly a trap,” Salazar replied. “Which just means we're going to have to be smart enough to get ourselves out of it at the other end.” He gestured at the corridor ahead, a door on the right-hand side of the passage, and said, “That's probably it. Just in case this is some sort of trap, I'll take the lead. You two wait here.” Turning to Lombardo, he replied, “It'll be dawn in about four hours. If anything happens to me, run for it, hide, and try and make it back to the flyer.” He paused, and said, “And don't come back. Pull everyone out of the Sphere and leave. Consider that a direct order.”

 “Sir, if you think...”

 “There's something very wrong here, Carpenter, and I don't want to be responsible for any more deaths! Hold your position, and take any cover you can find.” He walked forward, taking the steps towards the door with carefully mustered calmness, and gently tapped the release control for the door, the portal sliding smoothly open at his command, revealing a jagged passage beyond, immediately twisting to the right. Water dripped from the ceiling into puddles on the floor, stalagmites rising to meet them, testament to the age of the facility.

 With a last wave to his friends, he stepped forward, into the passage, following it around until it opened up into a vast cavern, hundreds of meters across, with other tunnels leading in different directions. Suddenly, it struck him. He'd seen this before. On the world they had found on the far side of the wormhole, the alien city that had led them to this point. While the formations were natural, they had been artificially worked, tunnels enlarged, strange writing carved on the floor. For the first time since they'd arrived on the Sphere, he felt as though he was in familiar territory, and he walked on with increasing confidence. Until a bullet cracked into the floor by his side, sending him diving behind a cluster of rocks for cover, snatching his pistol from its holster.

 “That's close enough,” a familiar voice said.

 “Captain?” he replied. “Captain Orlova? Is that you?”

 “Pavel?” she said. “Good God, what are you doing here?”

 “Looking for you,” he said, rising out of cover, smoothly holstering his pistol. He could see his erstwhile commanding officer moving from the entrance to a passage, disbelief on her face, and walked towards her, clasping her hand as they met. “Lombardo and Carpenter are outside. We've got a flyer on the surface, and if we can find our way out of here...”

 “It isn't as simple as that,” she replied. “They captured Mortimer and me, started taking us back to their facility, but we came under attack by some of the cannibals, and I managed to get away in all the confusion.”

 “Cannibals? Those creatures on the surface?”

 Nodding, she said, “I've been on their trail for weeks.”

 “What about Clarke?”

 “I don't know,” she said. “They didn't take him, but if he was out in the desert after dark, he's dead.” Taking a deep breath, she replied, “I'm sorry, Pavel, but that's the reality of the situation.”

 “Knowing him better than you, I'll believe he's dead when I see the body, but that's for later. What's going on here, Captain? What's happening?”

 A loud wail came from outside, and Lombardo raced inside, his face pale with panic, his pistol in his hand, saying, “They're coming, Captain! Something heading right for us!”

 “We can hide in the tunnels,” Orlova said. “They're taboo. Follow me.” As Lombardo hesitated, she pressed, “Come on, Lieutenant! We've got to move!” She raced into the tunnels, sprinting rapidly enough that the others struggled to keep up, Carpenter moving to her side with greater ease than Salazar and Lombardo. Behind them, figures shambled in the darkness, as Orlova led the way along a long, narrow tunnel, barely wide enough for them to run two abreast.

 “This is crazy!” Lombardo yelled. “They'll be on us in minutes!”

 “Not today, Lieutenant,” Orlova said, gesturing at a shaft in the distance. “Follow me!” She hurled herself down the tunnel, and without a second thought, Salazar followed, sliding down the sloping passage, into the dark gloom beyond. Carpenter and Lombardo were next, but it was impossible for him to think of them, to do anything other than make desperate attempts to control his descent. The tunnel split in two, and he swung out his arm to send himself to the left, only realizing at the last second that Orlova had headed right, the others moving to join her.

 For what seemed like hours, he continued to fall, spiraling around and around, the cries of the savages about echoing from the walls, gradually receding into the distance. Either they couldn't follow them, or they wouldn't, and the latter seemed more probable. Not that he was going to ask too many questions of the miracle that had saved his life.

 At last, he ran out of tunnel, and he found himself falling through space, diving into a vast, limpid pool, the only light from a few luminous plants on the vast ceiling. He struggled to drag himself to the surface, and with his last ounce of strength, made for the shore, moving through the water with a labored effort, his arms and legs aching from the exertion. Finally, he reached his goal, dragging himself onto a sunless beach, collapsing, exhausted, on the sand.

 “Hello?” he yelled. “Anyone there?”

 Only silence answered him.

Chapter 12

 Harper's buggy skidded to a halt outside the collection of prefabricated buildings that made up Base Camp, and she looked around at the troopers already preparing defenses, digging a trench line to surround the base, ramming sharp spikes into the ground to slow the advancing hordes they were expecting, and digging in machine gun emplacements. Nobody was preparing cover. This was a different sort of war, and all they could attempt was to slow down the horde before they could engage, to give the machine guns and plasma weapons a chance to do their job.

 As she stepped out of the vehicle, a silent Foster following, she saw Francis walking towards them, as the roar of a shuttle taking off echoed through the gloom. His stern expression sent her glancing back at Fox, the trooper gathering her men to join the crews working the defense. She replied with a shrug, then left the two officers to their fate.

 “Foster,” Francis said, surprising softness in his voice. “What happened?”

 “They attacked us, sir. We were just beginning our survey, and our sensors spotted something on the horizon. There was nothing we could do. We tried to make it for the buggy, but they were on us before we had a chance, so we ran for it, heading into the forest. They came after us, and...” she paused, “that's when I lost the rest of my team.”

 “Sir,” a medic said, “We need to get Garland back to the ship on the double. Severe shock, and a concussion. I'm honestly surprised that he's stayed on his feet for as long as he has.”

 “Get Shuttle Three prepared,” Francis ordered. “That's next on the list.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “She's scheduled for launch in ten minutes. Will that be soon enough?”

 “I think so, sir,” the man replied, snapping a salute. He looked at Foster, and added, “You ought to be on that ride as well, ma'am. I know Doc Strickland will want to take a look at you.”

 Nodding, Foster continued, “Garland fell out of a tree, his first try. Dropped twenty feet, knocked himself cold. I managed to drag him with me, but I thought we were dead. I honestly thought we were dead.” Shivering, she added, “Then, as soon as the sun returned, they vanished. Headed off into the undergrowth. I didn't believe it at first, but I guess they don't like the light.”

 “Nocturnal hunters,” Harper added. “That matches their looks, sir. White hair, red eyes. I suspect they're extremely sensitive to sunlight.” Gesturing at the buggy, she continued, “We bought a body back with us, and I think we've got to get it analyzed at once. There might be some sort of weakness that we can exploit.”

 “Maybe so,” Francis replied. “Go on, Foster.”

 “I waited a couple of hours to make sure that they were gone, and then we started back for the ruin. We were too far from the ship to make it back before darkness, so I was hoping that the buggy would still be there, that it would be in some sort of usable condition. Then I spotted another buggy, out on the plain, and I figured someone was sending a rescue party.” She paused, then added, “It went dark sooner than I'd expected. I damaged my watch in the first attack, and I guess...”

 “Relax, Lieutenant,” Francis said. “You're safe now.”

 “No, sir. None of us is safe. Not while we're here on the Sphere. Don't you understand? They don't stop. They'll just keep coming, onward and onward, until all of us are dead. They're the hunters, and we're their prey. I can't seem to make anyone understand that.” Gesturing at the defenses, she added, “All of this is worthless. When they come, there will be hundreds, thousands of them, and they can't be scared away, and they don't stop to care for their wounded. They'll charge our positions and take them, and there's nothing we can do to stop them. Nothing.”

 Francis turned to Harper, and said, “All the rest of our teams are back.”

 “Except for Salazar, Carpenter and Lombardo.”

 Taking a deep breath, he added, “We've had no contact since they landed, and telemetry shows them in the same position since then. If they've been out in the darkness...”

 “They could have just stayed in the flyer. It's enclosed, and I don't think they'd be able to cut their way through heavy alloys with claws. They're probably just waiting for dawn to take off, when they can get full advantage of their solar arrays. Assuming that they have had any trouble at all. For all we know, they're scouting for the other lost crewmen. We can't just give up on them, sir.”

 “And we can't beat the savages, Kris!” Foster yelled. “Not that way.”

 “Lieutenant Foster,” Francis said, “Report to the shuttle at once. You're heading back to Alamo for a full medical and psych evaluation. You've been through a hell of a lot, and it's going to have affected you.” Placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, he added, “You've done your duty, Lieutenant. Time to rest, now.”

 With a reluctant sigh, she replied, “Aye, sir,” and walked over to the waiting shuttle, Francis and Harper watching her depart. After a moment, he turned to Harper, a frown on his face.

 “She might be right, Kris.”

 “We'll hold them. We stopped them once, and we can do it again.”

 Pulling out a datapad, he flicked on the display, and replied, “Our drones report a mass of bodies heading this way, at high speed. Eight miles an hour, sustained. You realize what that implies about their physical condition?”

 “I can do an eight-minute mile easily, sir.”

 “With full equipment? For thirty miles without pause, without respite, and fight a battle at the end?” Shaking his head, he replied, “More than that, Kris, we've nothing to hold here. Nothing at all.” Taking a deep breath, he said, “Do you think Pavel would expect his crew to risk their lives on the chance that he might return? Besides, assuming he did, he'll be flying in daylight. If what Foster says is true, then they'll be gone long before then. We can come back at dawn, see what the situation is, and make ready to receive them. Set up an automated repeater.”

 “Sir,” Maqua replied, moving over to them, “There's more at stake than just us. If we leave, the swarm won't simply disperse. They'll attack the local Neander, wipe everything in this region from the map. We've got a duty to them, sir, if nothing else.” Turning to Harper, he added, “And Captain Salazar would wait for us. I know that, and so do you.”

 With a faint chuckle, Harper replied, “He's probably fast asleep in the flyer right now.”

 “With luck,” Francis said. “Then you're suggesting that we don't just have to beat the swarm, we have to exterminate it.”

 “That's probable, sir, but there's something else. I spoke to the elders before I left, and none of them have any record of these creatures ever being present in this part of the Sphere before. Oh, there are some stories about fanged demons, but that could be almost anything. I don't give them any credence. That means that someone targeted these creatures at us. Which gives us at least a measure of responsibility for the situation.”

 “Sir?” one of the technicians said. “We've just picked up something interesting from Drone Five, out over the plain. The latest feed.”

 “What does it show?” Francis asked.

 “Nothing, sir.”

 “Spaceman, you'd better explain yourself...”

 “Sir, the swarm, it's disappeared. Ten minutes ago we counted three thousand of them, about an hour from our location. Now there's no sign that they were ever there. I've already run a full diagnostic of the drone, and there's no evidence of systems failure or any malfunction.” Glancing back at the status board, he added, “Now confirmed by Drone Four, sir. They're gone.”

 “That's impossible,” Maqua replied. “There's nowhere for them to hide. Not out on the plain.”

 Frowning, Harper asked, “How did they get here in the first place? We've had drones out as far as three hundred miles in every direction. If they'd been making their way across the landscape, we'd have seen them. Assuming there was something there to see. So where have they been?” 

 “You're suggesting they had some sort of transport?”

 Maqua nodded, and said, “Our science team theorized that there must be some sort of transport infrastructure built into the Sphere. It's too large for conventional transportation, and we haven't seen the sort of mass use of aircraft that would be implied by the mega-civilizations we picked up. That suggests there's something else we haven't found. Perhaps they have.”

 Harper looked at Francis, both of them instantly having the same idea, the same fear. The tunnel complex, nestled around the accessway that the shuttles had used to find their way down to the surface. There were thousands, hundreds of thousands of passages that wrapped around the shaft, and if the savages had managed to get into one of them, they might be surrounded without even realizing it.

 “All hands to the shuttles!” Francis said. “No protest, Harper, we're pulling out, right now! Ensign Rhodes, tactical deployment, use of plasma weapons authorized and encouraged!”

 “Aye, aye, sir!” the trooper replied, hastily assembling his men, shouting orders that sent them scattering around the perimeter. “Leave the equipment! We won't be able to carry it all anyway! Fox, take a squad and form an inner bastion around the shuttles.” Turning to Francis, he replied, “You think we can all fit on three shuttles, sir?” 

 “I think we'll damned well have to, Ensign,” he replied. “All hands to the shuttles!”

 Crewmen raced from the perimeter, sprinting towards the waiting shuttles at the heart of the compound, abandoning their precious equipment and the outer trenches they had so laboriously dug, knowing only that they had to move, and move quickly. Harper looked around, the silence from the perimeter eerie, but she could feel something under her feet, vibrations under the ground, and she turned to Francis, knowing by the horror on his face that he could feel it too.

 There were forty-nine people on the surface. Nominally, each shuttle could handle fourteen, but nobody had any intention of leaving any of the crew behind to die. Technicians pushed their way onto the first shuttle, loading it beyond its capacity, and the hatch finally slammed shut with twenty crewmen on board, the ship struggling to lift under the load, her pilot easing her over the shaft to begin their trip to the surface.

 “Come on, Harper,” Francis said. “You're on Shuttle Two with the first wave of troopers.”

 “What about you, sir?” she asked.

 “I'll take Three.”

 “Like hell, sir, you're in command! Move it!”

 “Get out of here, both of you!” Rhodes barked. “If this is a ground battle, I'm in charge. And I say I want the two of you out of here!”

 Shaking his head, Francis led the way to the remaining shuttle, a trio of troopers standing at the airlock. Harper took a last look around the base as she moved to the hatch, and then the ground erupted, figures rushing from hidden shafts, surging through the ground and launching themselves at the nearest bodies, savage teeth and claws gleaming in the searchlights as the staccato rattle of machine-gun fire opened up.  The first wave fell, the troopers ready, but there were ten more savages to take the place of each one caught by gunfire.

 Rhodes had been prepared, and the darkness lit with the fire of a dozen plasma balls crashing into the ground, the smell of burning flesh filling the air, mixed with the stench of cordite and blood. In the distance, Harper could see a luckless figure on the ground, two of the beasts tearing at him, before he fell with a bullet in the head, one of his comrades ending his suffering in the only way he could. She took a step forward, but a hand clamped on her shoulder, dragging her back to the shuttle.

 “Not your fight, Kris,” Francis said, pulling her inside, the troopers firing covering blasts as a wave of savages dashed forward, trying to catch them at the hatch. All around, the carnage worsened as the fighting continued, Rhodes struggling to organize a fighting withdrawal to the remaining shuttle, troopers breaking from the fight and racing to safety while the final reserve under Fox attempted to hold them back.

 Finally, the three troopers guarding the hatch dived inside, just as the pilot slammed it closed, and the shuttle lifted from the ground, thrusters playing around. Harper watched as the final seconds of the battle trickled away, watched as Rhodes led a final, desperate charge into the midst of the fighting as Fox pulled the last of the troopers into the waiting shuttle, one that was now launching light. She watched as Rhodes fell, caught by one of the savages, watched as her friend died at their hands, another merciful bullet slaying him at the last, as the final shuttle launched.

 And she knew that she had killed him, as surely as if she had pulled the trigger.

Chapter 13

 Dawn came to the Sphere once again, the sunlight illuminating the rocks and peaks all around while Clarke watched, still wrapped in his blanket, looking out over the landscape beyond. There was no trace of the savages, no sign that they'd been in mortal danger the night before, and the buggy still sat on the desert sand outside, ready for them to begin a new day. Behind him, Jimmy stirred, pulling himself to his feet and walking over to the hydroponic tank, pulling out a bowl of green paste.

 “You want some?” he asked. “Tastes as good as it looks, but there's nothing else around here.” At Clarke's nod, he pulled out a second bowl, walking over to him and placing it on the floor. “Now that you've seen what you're up against, any more bright ideas?”

 “We've got to rescue our people,” Clarke replied, taking a bite of the paste. “This is truly awful, Jimmy.” It took all of his will not to spit the slime onto the floor.

 “You don't know how to quit, do you? Haven't you got the idea yet?”

 “How far from here to the flyer?” he asked. Peering up at the sky, he continued, “You think we can make it there and back before dark?”

 “Not a problem,” Jimmy replied. “That's more like it. You think you can fly it?”

 “And leave my friends behind?” Pausing, he asked, “Is there another way into the base?”

 Looking away, Jimmy said, “I'm not going back in there. Never again.”

 “Then you can stand guard outside, but if there's a way to get inside, I've got to take it. Damn it, I've got to know what's going on.” Gesturing at the photograph he asked, “Is that where your friends are?”

 Jumping to his feet, his breakfast hurled to the floor, Jimmy yelled, “Don't ever talk about them again! Not ever, you hear?”

 Taking a deep breath, Clarke said, “If you don't want to help me, then I'll leave. But if I do, you can forget about that ride out of here, forget about going home. Wherever home actually is.” He paused, then said, “You're with the Hegemony. I figured that much out. You realize they've tried to destroy Alamo, that we've fought with your people.”

 “They aren't my people. Not any more. They sent me out here to die, and left me to rot in this hell for months, years. If you want to shoot down their ships, that's fine with me, but we had a deal. You promised that you'd get me out of here. Just away from this nightmare. I don't care where. Not any more.”

 Rising to his feet, Clarke placed his hand on Jimmy's shoulder, and said, “Tell me. I've got to know. And if we're going to live through this and find a way out of here, I need to know.” Looking out at the desert, he said, “I intend to make one attempt to get them back. If it goes wrong, we're out of here, and you'll be sitting right next to me on that flyer.”

 “Corporal Thornton,” he said. “Though you can still call me Jimmy. I was part of a special operations group, a task force tasked with counterinsurgency work. There were five of us; we'd been together for years.” He walked over to the photograph, smiling at the cluster of people. “Sergeant Romero was our commander. Oh, we usually had an officer along for the ride, but they never really knew what we were doing. Pat ran the show. I was her second, deputy squad leader.”

 Moving back to the viewport, he continued, “It was, I guess, eighteen months ago. We had a report of a Hegemonic outpost gone rogue. We've got them scattered across the interior of the Sphere, research stations mostly, working on one task or another.” He sighed, then said, “This one specialized in genetics, established maybe six, seven years ago in an old underground complex.”

 “What happened?”

 “For the first couple of years, they sent in their reports, but that was as far as it went. Nothing more than that. Then there was some big discovery, a new human offshoot, and suddenly everything went very, very dark. Until the Government collapsed two years ago. A series of scandals, one after another, and we ended up with a change of administrations that revealed some rather alarming things in the files, buried deep.”

 Clarke's eyes widened, and he replied, “You're not about to tell me that the base is responsible for those creatures?”

 “No. As far as I know, they found them, deep underground, hiding away. Perhaps the results of some ancient genetic experiment, something like that. All I know is that they were trying to find some way to control them, some factor to force them to obey orders. You can understand what that could mean. You've seen them fight.”

 “An army of those beasts…,” he said. “No, that doesn't add up. I mean, they're vicious enough, brutal, but a modern force would cut them to pieces. Or they could be taken out with some sort of aerial strike. Even if they were going to be used as shock troops, you'd have to get them out of the Sphere to do it, and I can't imagine how you'd corral them onto a starship.”

 “Who needs to get them out of the Sphere?”

 Clarke's mouth gaped open, and he replied, “They were to be used here? How?”

 “Clearance. To sweep everything for a few thousand miles clear. Like a plague of human locusts killing and looting their way across the map. Maybe someone would stop them, or maybe those bastards down there had some other way of keeping them under control, but the original idea was to carve out a space for colonization. Preferably with a lot of nice infrastructure already on site, ready to use. It's sick, twisted, but there's a certain logic to it. As long as you have a strong stomach. Mine isn't up to it. Though I think there's more going on than that, now.”

 “Why?” 

 With a bitter laugh, he replied, “My people aren't saints. We've held another sentient race in slavery for decades, and I suspect we'd be more than happy to do the same here. You think our glorious leaders would think twice about launching that attack? The scientists on the base have just gone off-script, that's all. Decided that they'll do better working on their own than they will with the help of our so-wise-men back home. That's where we came in.”

 “You and your team? They sent you in to, what, capture the place?”

 “To destroy it. To wipe every part of it from the map, terminate the science team with extreme prejudice, and eliminate all evidence that it was ever here. That was our mission, and they loaded us up for bear to complete it.” He paused, then sat down on the nearest couch, and said, “That photo was taken just before we left home. We had a twenty-four-hour pass.” He smiled, then added, “We'd been together for years. One of their top teams. Hell, we were their best. And if they'd told us what we were up against, we might have had a chance.”

 “They didn't brief you?”

 “Maybe they didn't know everything. Didn't know how far they'd managed to get.” He sighed, then said, “We came in a Mark Three Transport. VTOL, larger than your flyer, more advanced, and able to avoid sensors. That much worked, at least. They didn't see us coming. Though it might have been better if they'd managed to shoot us down. Cleaner, anyway.”

 His eyes were cold as ice as he continued, “It went right according to the manual at first. We dropped in right on top of them. Got into the facility, and started to set the charges. Low-nuke, five-kiloton yield. Would have turned the whole mountain into a pretty satisfactory crater, and cleaned out the mess.”

 “Nuclear weapons on commando raids?”

 “The brass said they wanted overkill. I guess I can understand why, now. Anyway, I was on rear sentry, on the defensive perimeter. Then we heard the cry. A thousand of those beasts, all on the hunt, all heading right for us. Kit was the first to fall. She was on point-lookout, way down the corridor. She never had a chance, and she knew it, so she just stood there, in the corridor, taking out as many as she could to give the rest of us time to get away.”

 “How far did you get?”

 “At first we were able to keep ahead. Stripped down our equipment, just kept our guns, and ran back for our ship. By then, they'd found it, and they were waiting for us outside, more of them. So damned many. Thousands of them, tens of thousands.”

 Frowning, Clarke asked, “How could they possibly support so many carnivores out here?”

 “The base had a lot of carniculture equipment. I mean, a lot. Part of the experiments, so they claimed, though I guess the idea was to make sure the savages were well-fed.” He grimaced, and said, “Wish they'd left it at that.” With a sigh, he continued, “We were surrounded. Nothing else we could do except try and make it to the desert. Pat thought that they might not follow us, I guess, but she was wrong. Oh, God, she was wrong.”

 “How far did you get?”

 “Dmitri didn't even make it out of the base. He always was a clumsy bastard. Tripped on his own feet, caught in one of their hair traps, and they were on him before we could do anything. That bought the rest of us long enough to get out onto the rocks, and we started to run.” His eyes seemed distant, lost in the past, as he continued, “Then Myers fell. He was in the lead, and he tried to take a jump, fifteen feet. Lost his footing, broke his ankle.” Tears formed, streaming down his face, and he said, “We couldn't stop. He knew it. He killed himself before they could.”

 “Jimmy, if this...”

 “Then it was just me and Pat. We'd been together the longest. Hell, we'd fooled around a few times, always joked that we'd get hitched once we finished our tour. Maybe she wasn't joking. I don't know, and I guess I never will.” He took a deep breath, and he said, “They stopped at Dmitri for a few minutes. And we managed to take out a couple more of them, slowed them down that way. Back then they'd often stop for their dead. You can guess why. They don't as much, not any more.”

 “You think the scientists are still working on them?”

 “They want their damned army, but it won't do much good if it stops for a snack every time one of them dies!” He paused, then continued, “We made it to the desert itself. No idea where we were going, just away. There was a settlement a few hundred miles to the south, and we figured that if the savages stopped, then we could make it in a couple of weeks. They just kept coming. No matter how fast we ran, they were stronger, faster. We couldn't keep the pace.”

 “How did you get away?”

 “We reached the top of a dune, and made the mistake of looking back. Damn it, there were thousands of them, all heading for us. I fell. Slipped right down the dune, end over end. And crashed right into this wreck, the hatch open, intact. I called out to Pat, told her to run, to try and make it here, but they were too close.” He looked down at the deck, and said, “I couldn't force myself out there. Maybe I could have saved her if I'd tried. I couldn't leave the wreck. It took four tries, but I managed to close the hatch. And I spent the next week in here, before I dared to look outside.”

 “Did you find her body?”

 “I buried what was left of her, as deep as I could. I didn't want those bastards to find her.” With a deep sigh, he continued, “Now I just want all of this to be over.”

 Placing a gentle hand on his, Clarke said, “You came here to do a job. Do you still want to try it?”

 “Destroy the base?”

 “If anything, I'd say the stakes are greater now than they were back then. I don't know how we're going to do it, but I'm willing to make the attempt.”

 Looking over him, he replied, “Don't take this the wrong way, but you don't look much like a special forces operative.”

 “I get that a lot. Among other things, I'm an operative with Triplanetary Intelligence. On occasion. I've done covert operations before.” Glancing out of the viewport, he said, “You must have charts of the facility, some sort of layout. If you can give me everything you have, then we might be able to find a way in. A chance to rescue my friends, and maybe finish the job you started. Alamo's well armed. One surface-to-surface missile could reduce that complex to ashes.”

 “Don't you understand? I can't go back there. Not again.”

 “We don't have a choice. Unless you want the deaths of everyone within ten thousand miles of this place on your conscience.” Jimmy looked stricken, and Clarke added, “The choice is yours.”

 “No, it isn't. Not any more. I guess I made my choice more than a year ago.” Moving over to the wall, he said, “Come on. I'll show you everything I have. Maybe we can work something out.”

Chapter 14

 Salazar walked along the lonely, underground beach, looking at the vast lake stretched out before him. Billions of liters of precious water, all stored in the darkness, periodic drips from above. It must have been the work of millennia to gather so much from the arid air above. The rocky walls were covered in pictograms, some of them at least vaguely familiar, and he longed for a datapad to make an attempt at a translation. He couldn't help but think that the answer to all of this was buried here, somewhere.

 There had been no sign of anyone for hours, not any of his comrades, nor the savages that had chased him into the gloom. At this point, he'd almost welcome some sort of interruption, some sign that someone else existed in the universe. He kicked a stone across the beach, then glanced at his watch. Hours had passed. On the surface, it would be dawn. Though with the savages between him and the surface, he wasn't sure whether that meant anything.

 Then he paused, looking at what at first seemed to be an unusual rock formation, finally realizing that there were bones lying on the beach, the remains of a body that must have been washed up at some point in the past, a figure lying in repose. With the remnants of what could only be wings on its back. The body's hand was pointing in the distance, and he glanced in that direction, spotting an oddly smooth patch of rock. Not rock, but metal. Some sort of alloy.

 A smile on his face, he quickly jogged around to the indicated spot, and as he approached, he could see more pictograms scattered across the structure, and a long seam that ran down the middle, obviously some sort of hatch. Stepping cautiously towards it, he ran his finger down the gap, and a grinding noise sent him instinctively reaching for his pistol, taking a step back as the wall slid apart, revealing a gleaming bullet-shaped silver vehicle inside, pointed roughly in the direction of Base Camp.

 They'd theorized that there must be some sort of mass transport system. One look at the vehicle told him that he'd found it, a hundred seats inside. Looking to the right, his heart sank as he saw a ladder leading up to the shaft, and judging by the smell from the vehicle, it had obviously been used recently. He'd found a way back into the compound, but one that the researchers, and the savages, knew far too well.

 Quickly, he stepped back into the cavern, the door sliding and locking shut behind him once again, and he sat down on the beach, picking up a rock and skimming it across the surface of the water. He looked up, and spotted a light in the distance, flashing around, out over the water. It had to be at least half a mile away, but it looked about the right size to be a Triplanetary-issued flashlight. When it flashed first red, then green, then blue, his suspicions were confirmed. The colors of the Confederate flag, in sequence. Someone was sending him a message, and he read it loud and clear.

 Without a moment's hesitation, he took off his boots and walked into the water, kicking off and plunging across the surface to his target. In his youth, he'd swum for pleasure. Now he was doing it for real, swimming towards the source of the light, now invisible once again. Someone was out there, searching for him, sweeping their beam around, and he only hoped that he could reach them before anyone else. Someone they didn't want to find.

 His arms ached as he pushed his way through the water, trying to keep his strokes even. The light flashed back again, shining the three colors of the flag once more, and this time it stayed focused on him as it switched back to white, guiding him towards home as he swam ever onward. Finally, he could make out a figure standing on the bank, and dragged himself onto shore, struggling to his feet.

 “Pavel, is that you?” Lombardo asked.

 “Yeah,” he gasped. “Where are the others?”

 “I don't know,” the engineer replied. “We all got separated.” He gestured up at the ceiling, and added, “I dropped into the water right around there. Why'd you swim?”

 “What?”

 “There's a spur leading to shore.” He nodded to the rear, and Salazar cursed under his breath as he saw a thin line of rock winding its way to the bank, a couple of miles from where he'd dived into the lake. “Didn't see it, huh?”

 “No. You could have told me.”

 “I didn't know where you were, and I was taking enough of a risk with the torch. I lost my pistol somewhere in those tunnels, holster snapped clean off by a rock. You still armed?” 

 “Yes, but I've only got one clip. Twelve rounds. Not much to go up against an army.” He frowned, then added, “We've got to find the others, somehow. Though I'm damned if I know how we're going to do it. How far from the lake were you when you split up?”

 “Not too far. They're probably around here somewhere. I guess Captain Orlova knows more about this place than we do. Finding her should be our top priority.” 

 “To say nothing of Mortimer, Carpenter and Clarke.” He chuckled, and said, “This has been one hell of a rescue mission, hasn't it.”

 “One for the books,” Lombardo replied with a smile. His face dropped, and he added, “I couldn't see the far bank with my torch. There's no way to tell how big this place is. And so far, I haven't found a way out.”

 “Not a problem,” Salazar said. “I have. Just about where I came down. There's the entrance to what looks like a high-speed train. I think they're using it to move the savages around, but there's no sign of anyone out there now. If we can figure out the controls, then we might be able to get well clear of here.”

 “Up to the flyer?”

 “I was thinking along the lines of all the way back to Base Camp. There must be an exit point somewhere within walking distance. I'd rather face a week or two walking than try and make my way back through the base at this point.” 

 “We can't leave the others behind, Pavel.”

 “No, but we might be able to bring in reinforcements that way.” He paused, then said, “Actually, I was thinking of sending you.”

 “Me?” Lombardo asked.

 “Simple,” Salazar replied. “You go back to Base. Or at least close enough to send a signal. Anywhere within a thousand miles would be enough. One of the shuttles could make it...”

 “One way. Maybe. And it'd use up most of its fuel doing it.” He paused, then added, “Though if it was loaded with drop tanks, it might manage a two-way hop, though the mission would be marginal at best. What about you?”

 “I've got to find the others.” Rising to his feet, he added, “Though all of this is academic if we can't get the machine working.”

 “If the base personnel is using it, then it can't be that difficult. Give me a few minutes, and I'll figure it out. Hell, how hard can it actually be?”

 “That's tempting fate pretty hard.”

 “My specialty.” He reached into his pockets, and said, “I have a datapad and a hacking rod. That's about it. Everything else I either left in the flyer or got lost in the drop. You?”

 “Pistol, communicator.”

 “Well, between us we have about half a standard field load-out. That should do. Any particular reason to wait around?”

 “None. We need to get moving before it gets dark again. I can't imagine that they won't send those beasts down here, looking for us.” He paused, then added, “I'm surprised they haven't thrown them at us already.”

 “Maybe they can't.”

 “Let's not count on that.” Salazar led the way along the rocky outcrop, then stopped, kneeling down on the ground, pushing the rocks aside. “This isn't natural.”

 “Nice big pipe. Probably provides the water for the base. There are others under the water, heading all over the place.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Can you imagine what must have gone into constructing all of this? Even if they took advantage of some sort of subsurface cavern, getting it to the state where it would hold this much water must have been a nightmare. And that everything is still working after who knows how many centuries is astonishing.”

 “I'm not surprised,” Salazar replied, struggling to keep his balance on the slick, slippery rocks. “Did you see any of those pictograms on the walls when you came in?”

 “The wormhole builders,” Lombardo said, eyes widening. “Then you think...”

 “I think we're on the right trail, though we've blundered our way into it. Certainly we now have our first solid proof that they were here, in the Sphere. Whether they were involved in the construction or not doesn't matter. They were here, and there's a good chance that somewhere around here is the evidence we've been looking for.”

 Frowning, the engineer replied, “That might complicate things a bit.”

 “No,” Salazar said, shaking his head. “We've got a lead, but that's all we've got. This research team has been here long enough that if there was any such secret here to find, they'd have already worked it out. Nevertheless, at least we know we're on the right track.” He ambled over the rocks, stepping onto the beach, and said, “Damn, it's a lot easier this way.”

 “I don't know,” Lombardo replied with a smile. “You needed a bath.”

 “Remember who writes your performance evaluations.”

 “I'd love to see you file them.”

 The two friends chuckled, walking around the edge of the lake towards the metal hatch, gleaming in the torchlight as Lombardo shined it around, still searching for the rest of their party. Salazar looked into the distance, occasionally spotting what he thought were figures moving in the distance, each one proving to be a false alarm, just shadows dancing in the light. 

 As they approached the entrance, Lombardo frowned, and said, “Damn, I wish I had a hand sensor. That doesn't look like anything we've got, but I'd bet my next month's pay that it would match the materials we found in that underground city.” He pulled out his datapad, and ran the camera over the pictograms, adding, “We might not be able to translate them now, but once we get back to Alamo, the ship's computer ought to be able to do something.”

 Glancing at his watch, Salazar added, “Five hours until darkness. We'd better get moving.” He slid his fingers down the crack of the door once again, exposing the silver bullet to Lombardo's eager gaze, the engineer moving forward to examine the vehicle more closely. “What do you think, Art?”

 “Maglev,” he replied. “Must be. Look at those tracks. Odd, though. I was expecting teleportation, or something a little more...magical, somehow. A series of train tracks criss-crossing the Sphere seems somehow mundane.”

 “Who says the Builders put it together? Maybe someone else did, hundreds of years ago. Certainly that bullet looks as though it was constructed a few weeks ago.” Salazar gestured inside, and asked, “Can you guess the specifications?”

 “How long is a piece of string?”, he replied. “Though if it matches the high-speed lines we use back home, it might manage a few hundred miles an hour.” He looked around, and said, “No more than that, though. There's no sign of pressurized bulkheads, so it's not going through vacuum. That'll slow it down quite a lot.” Tapping the metal, he said, “Feels different to the door.”

 “Controls are at the front,” Salazar said. “Get it working, and get out of here.”

 “Hey!” Lombardo added, as the display lit up on his approach, a topographical map flickering into life. “That look familiar to you?”

 “Base Camp, and the forest,” Salazar replied, his eyes wide. “That line goes most of the way towards it. Maybe a hundred miles short.”

 “Too hell with getting help from the ship,” Lombardo said. “We could walk that in a couple of days at the most.” He paused, and his face fell, adding, “Damn.”

 “What?”

 “They've been there, haven't they? And look at the cabin. They've shipped a trainload of the savages out there, and launched them at our people.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “Which means that...”

 “They have a full Espatier platoon to protect them,” he replied, trying to conceal the anxiety he felt about the safety of his crew. “We don't. See what you can do.” He paused, then moved to the door, and added, “I'm going to take another look outside.” Leaving Lombardo to his work, he walked back out onto the beach, looking around the horizon. There was something in the distance, a shape moving across the shore, and he drew his pistol again, one quick glance behind him at the hatch to reassure him that Lombardo was safe before setting out.

 It was a single person, walking with an obvious limp, and for a moment he thought that Harper had managed to find her way out here, in defiance of his orders, but the build was wrong, and as he drew closer, he realized that it was Orlova, gun in hand, and he waved his hand over his head in greeting as he switched to a jog, rapidly moving towards her.

 “Captain,” he said, gesturing behind him. “Where's Carpenter?”

 “I don't know,” she replied. “We got separated, and I heard guards coming our way. I think they've managed to work their way past the savages, though my understanding is that they're under their control, at least to some degree.”

 His face fixing into a scowl, he said, “It's time for you to tell me what you know.”

 She paused, nodded, then said, “After we elected to settle here, we decided to strike inland as far as we could. We made it about three thousand miles in the buggies. Understand that we never expected a rescue, and my primary concern was keeping clear of the Hegemony. I made the decision to establish a settlement to act as a base, then to strike out, to see if we could find somewhere worth settling long-term, or a friendly civilization we could join.”

 “Why not the Neander?” 

 “Too primitive,” she replied. “And too close to the Hegemony.” She paused, then added, “After we'd set up our prefabs, I took the first expedition out, striking five hundred miles towards the desert. There were four of us.” She paused, and said, “We reached the fringes of the desert when they came.”

 “The savages? They attacked you?”

 “Slavers,” she replied. “They caught us by surprise, and loaded us onto a bullet train...”

 “We've found one,” he said. “Lombardo's working on it now. With a little luck, we can head all the way to Alamo.” He paused, then asked, “Where are the others?”

 “The train brought us to an encampment maybe two hundred miles from here. That's when I first met the savages. One night, they attacked in force.” She paused, then said, “The four of us managed to get out in the chaos, and stole a pair of buggies. We were planning on heading out in two teams, try to make it back to the base, though even then we knew it was a long shot. Five, six thousand miles, Pavel.”

 “The others?”

 “Sanders died before we'd got a mile. Rogue sentry, shot him in the back. Nothing I could do. I had to ride with the corpse for a hundred miles before I could risk stopping to bury him.” She paused, then added, “The buggy died on me five hundred miles later, three days on. So I started walking, and that's when I stumbled across Clarke, and you know the rest. Pavel, we've got to contact my people as soon as we can. There's a settlement out there, thirty-four people, and we need to find a way to get them to Alamo. I'd hoped...”

 “Hey!” Lombardo yelled. “I've got this beast going! Tickets to Base Camp available if you come right away!”

 The two of them sprinted back to the vehicle, but before they could reach it, a wailing siren began to sound, echoing through the tunnels, and Salazar glanced at Orlova, both knowing that they'd run out of time, that the guards would be on them in seconds. Lombardo peered out of the hatch as they approached, urging them on, as the sound of foots on the ladders rang out all around.

 “We're out of time!” he said. “Come on, you two, we've got to go!”

 Orlova was first in, and as Salazar followed, he saw a finger dropping down the ladder, sliding from a cable, weapon in hand. He raised his pistol, taking quick aim, but not quick enough, and the sound of a bullet angrily flying through the air was followed by a cry of pain from Orlova, her shoulder erupting in blood.

 “Get her out of here!” he yelled, turning to the hatch. “I'll hold them!”

 “Pavel, if you think I'm leaving you behind...,” Lombardo replied as he reached for Orlova, struggling in his arms.

 “Go! That's an order, damn it! Go!”

 Lombardo dragged the protesting Orlova inside, the doors slamming shut, and Salazar turned to the approaching guards, pistol in hand, waiting for them to come. Three of them dropped down the ladder beside their dead comrade, and he leveled his weapon on them, daring each to make the first move. With a loud whine, the train moved way, racing down the long passage, and with a smile, he tossed his pistol to the ground and raised his hands.

 “I surrender.”

Chapter 15

 Harper looked up at the wall of the cabin she shared with Salazar, taking infrequent sips from a cup of cold coffee, watching as a series of personnel files flickered across the display, finally freezing them at Murphy, Jezebel and Rhodes, Frank. Both of whom now bore the mark 'Deceased' at the top of the file. She saw the recently taken holoimages of the two of them, Rhodes with that damned smile perpetually on his face, Murphy with a smug look that suggested that she'd get the better of anyone up against her. Both of them friends, comrades from late nights in the mess, from battles waged all across two galaxies. And people she'd never see again.

 The door chimed once, then more urgently when she ignored it, and finally she heard the noise of an override code being punched into the keypad, the door sliding open to admit a stubble-laden Francis, stepping into the room and sitting at the desk.

 “I know it hurts,” he said. “You've seen friends die before.”

 “Getting right to the point,” she replied.

 “We don't have time for anything else.”

 Taking a deep breath, she said, “This is different, Max. It was my fault. You were right. We should have pulled everyone out of the Sphere at the first sign of trouble. None of them would have died if I hadn't pushed to maintain...”

 “That's a lot of crap and you know it,” Francis replied. “We were pulling everyone out. The last team only made it back an hour before the attack, and we were in the middle of an evacuation at the time. Could we have been faster? Perhaps. Could we have done something to prevent it? Certainly, if we'd known it was coming. Nobody could have foreseen what was going to happen, that those beasts would have found a way behind us.”

 “I...”

 “And as for Murphy, we don't even know how she died, but we do know that it was by her own choice, and against orders, for that matter. We both tried to press on her a need for greater caution. Somewhere out there, behind the singularity, she found a threat to the ship that she was willing to die to protect us from, and she paid that price. My guess is that she paid it gladly. And if you think anything else, then you do nothing other than dishonor her memory.”

 With a deep sigh, Harper replied, “It's all building up, though. Murphy. Rhodes. And now Carpenter, Clarke, Lombardo.” She paused, then said, “Pavel.”

 “You think he's dead as well, don't you.” It was a statement, not a question.

 “What else can I think? It's been twenty-four hours, and that flyer's still sitting out there on the desert. Telemetry suggests that the hatch hasn't been opened since it landed. Their corpses are probably rotting in the sun. Assuming that...”

 “Don't,” Francis replied. He took a deep breath, and said, “I sent in a team under Corporal Quiller. To check out Base Camp. It's a mess, but the components of Flyer Three are intact, and I think it might be salvageable. Midshipman Koslowski has volunteered to lead an engineering team to begin work on it at once, and with the caveat that they return to the ship well before nightfall, I've approved. We need to find out what is happening down there, and I don't know any other way to do it. I assume that I have a volunteer to take that flyer out?”

 “You know you do,” she replied. “But when I go, I'll go alone. I don't intend to put anyone else at risk, not this time. Too many people have already died for my sins, Max, and I don't want any more dead men on my conscience.”

 “Then you'd better get out of that uniform and open up a shop somewhere, because as long as you are wearing it, that's the risk you take, and that's the currency in which we trade. We buy the safety of our people and our country in the most expensive coin of all, human lives. And everyone who signs up knows that, Kris. You know that. You've put yourself on the line, time and again.”

 Shaking her head, she replied, “I commanded a ship of my own, for six months. During the Xandari War. A beaten-up old scoutship.”

 “I know,” he said. “And those records indicate...”

 “I hated every damned moment of it. And swore that I'd never do it again.” Gesturing at her rank insignia, she continued, “I'm sticking at Lieutenant. I told Captain Winter that if he ever tried to promote me any higher, I'd quit, and I told Pavel the same thing. I don't like leading people to their deaths, Max, and I don't like having their souls on my conscience.” She paused, then added, “I'm thinking about doing as you said. Resigning.”

 “Leave the service?” he asked. “What about Pavel?”

 “That's his choice...”

 “Bull. You know that he'll go with you, no matter what. So what are you planning to do, get a job selling ship insurance?”

 “We've got a couple of friends operating a shipping line, out at Copernicus. They offered us a chance to buy in when they got started, and when we left, that offer still stands. I know Pavel was tempted. I was the one who wanted to stay in the fleet, more than him.” She smiled, then added, “For the youngest Captain in the Fleet, I've never met anyone with less ambition.”

 “That's one of the things I like about him,” Francis replied. “I did, right from the start. There's no arrogance there, just good old-fashioned grit and determination.” Rising to his feet, he added, “Which means that I don't think he's dead. Not yet. That man has lived through battles and wars that would have killed a hundred, a thousand other people, and he's not only managed to get through to the other end, he's dragged his crew with him.”

 “Not all of them,” she replied.

  The communicator chirped, and Francis reached over to the wall, saying, “Go ahead.”

 “Sir, long-range sensors are picking up more activity in the outer belt. Looks like a...” there was a pause, and then the technician continued, “Confirmed. The ship's left the system, sir. Conventional hendecaspace egress. We'll crunch the data, but I don't think we're going to learn any more than we already know.”

 “Get working on it anyway, Spaceman,” Francis said. Turning to Harper, he continued, “I don't buy for a moment that they're just pulling out. If they've withdrawn their scout, that just means they're getting ready to escalate to the next level. We could be under attack at any moment.” Looking out at the Sphere, he said, “Kris, I know that I said...”

 “I know,” she replied, softly. “We're out of time, and that's all there is to it. And even if Pavel's alive, we don't have any way to reach him. Not until Flyer Three is finished, and that could take a week, at best. After what happened at Base Camp, risking a trip by buggy would be a level of insanity even I don't think I can muster.”

 “That's a pretty big admission, Kris,” he replied, rising to his feet. “Corporal Quiller is scheduled to return to the ship in an hour. I'll get them on the ball, and we can pull out. Before she left, Lieutenant Carpenter prepared a contingency search pattern. We're not done yet. And there's still a chance that we can return, once the situation is safe. I've got...”

 “Sir,” the speaker barked again. “Signal from the surface, Lieutenant. Corporal Quiller wants to speak to you at once.”

 “Put him through,” Francis replied.

 “Quiller here, sir. We've picked up something strange. Those ruins, north of here, the original target of Lieutenant Foster and her team, are showing signs of low-level seismic instability, like nothing I've ever seen before. I've got sensor data, sir, and I'm sending it up to the ship now.”

 Harper tapped a control, throwing the feed onto a monitor, and said, “Look at that. It's a straight line, running out from the desert towards those ruins.” Life seemed to flood back into her, and she leapt to her feet, saying, “The transit system! We knew there had to be one, somewhere, and I'd bet that's the same route that those beasts used to attack us. That's how they turned up so quickly, and that's where they must have gone once the battle was over. It's the only explanation that makes any sense, sir.”

 “If that's right,” Francis said, “then we're about to come under attack again.”

 “There's another possibility,” she replied. “What if Salazar, Clarke or one of the others has managed to reach the network. If they can't make it to the flyer, or if it has some damage that isn't showing up on the telemetry feed, they'd have to improvise another way back.” Looking up at the view again, she added, “Why would they launch a second attack? They must know that we evacuated Base Camp, and they wouldn't send in another wave just to deter a few Espatiers who could pull out at the first sign of trouble.”

 Frowning, Francis replied, “You're guessing, Kris. Clutching at straws.”

 “I don't think so, sir. If I'm right, then our people are on their way home, and we've got to go and get them. Eighty miles can be transited in a few hours with one of the buggies.” Hastily flicking through the reports, she added, “Quiller's team reported that two of the vehicles are operational. Ready to go. And we can be there and back before nightfall. All we'll need is to have a shuttle on standby, ready to pull us out when we get home. If anything goes wrong, then they leave without us.”

 “You know that I'll have no compunction about giving that order,” he said.

 “In your place I'd make the same decision, sir. Hell, I'm telling you to go ahead! We'll keep the team light. Me and a medic. I'm sure I can find someone willing to volunteer.”

 Francis looked at her for a moment, then said, “If anything goes wrong, at the first sign of trouble, I expect you to pull out. I don't mind risking the surface equipment. We'd written it off anyway. I do mind risking members of my crew.” Looking up at the monitor again, he added, “Take plasma weapons with you. If you run into trouble, that might give you a chance of living through it. We'll have drones watching you all the way to your target. If we see any sign of trouble, then the shuttle won't wait. It can't. I don't dare take the risk. You'd be stranded on the Sphere.”

 “I'm aware of that, sir.”

 “And if any enemy forces show up, I'll almost certainly have to pull out. If they turn up with a force I think Alamo can take, I'm willing to commit to a battle, but nothing more than that. I won't fight against superior odds, not this far from help.”

 “Of course, sir.”

 “And you still want to go?”

 “I do, sir.” She paused, looked up at the screen again, and said, “I must, sir.”

 “Then get going. I'll have Shuttle Two ready for launch to take you down to the Sphere, and make sure a volunteer crew is on standby. Move quickly, Lieutenant. We're already running out of time.”
 With a smile, she stood to attention, snapped a salute, and walked out of her cabin as fast as her wounded leg allowed, grimacing in pain as she stepped into the elevator, now with a sense of purpose again for the first time in days. Her leg had kept her back twice, first from Clarke's initial probe, then later from Salazar's presumably abortive rescue mission.”

 The doors slammed shut, sending her shooting down to the hangar deck, and she pulled out her datapad, looking at the sensor feed again. Somehow, she knew that she was right, that it was their people on their way back, escaping whatever trap had caught them. She had to go and get them. There was no conceivable way that she could sit in her quarters, or up on the bridge, knowing that her friends were in trouble, stranded without help.

 After what seemed an eternity, the doors opened again, and she stepped onto the deck, limping over to the nearest shuttle. A pale-faced Garland stood at the threshold, medical kit in hand, throwing her a curt nod as he stepped into the cabin, settling down in one of the aisle couches, his face locked forward.

 “Are you sure you're up to this?” she asked. 

 “No,” he replied, “But if I don't go, I don't know if I'll ever get my nerves back. I've got to face it, Lieutenant, sooner or later, and I figure it's better to get it over with.”

 “Pilot to Cabin,” the familiar voice of Midshipman Koslowski said, “We're good to go, ma'am. Ready on your order.”

 “Get us there, Connie,” Harper ordered, and the shuttle's engines roared into life as it slid through the elevator airlocks. It dropped clear of the hull of the ship and began its swift journey towards the Sphere, a wall of metal that ranged as far as she could see.

 Her communicator chirped again, and she reached into her pocket, throwing the channel open with the click of a button.

 “Go ahead.”

 “Quiller here, ma'am. The seismic activity has stopped, and we're picking up a faint beacon signal. If I'm reading it correctly, it's Monitor's distress code.” He paused, then said, “Wait one. It just switched to Alamo's. It's alternating between the two, at thirty-second intervals, and it triangulates right on top of those ruins.”

 “Thank you, Corporal. We'll be down in a few minutes. Have one of the buggies prepared for a trip. We're going to investigate.”

 “Yes, ma'am,” he said with evident satisfaction. “It'll all be ready when you land. Quiller out.”

 A smile curling on her lips, Harper looked up at the Sphere, growing visibly closer by the second, and muttered, “Just hang on Pavel. The cavalry's on the way.”

 “Is that what we are?” Garland asked. “The United States Cavalry?”

 “Of course, Spaceman,” she replied, her smile growing. “Our job is to turn up at the last minute and save the day. And that's exactly what we're going to do.”

 “I hope so,” the grim paramedic replied. “I hope so.”

Chapter 16

 “This way,” Jimmy said, gesturing at the mountain. “There's a cave, a fissure in the rocks. It's not as far as you think, but the drop is a good two hundred feet. That'll get you most of the way into the complex, but you'll have to force your way through the outer security perimeter. You understand?”

 “Got it,” he replied. “Keep watch here for as long as you dare. I might need covering fire on my way back out.” He paused, then reached into his pocket, pulling out a piece of paper. “Command codes for the flyer. The controls are straightforward enough. Just engage the autopilot on a reverse course, and it should get you back to Base Camp in about twelve hours.”

 Holding the paper as though it was an ancient, precious artifact, Jimmy replied, “You're giving me a ticket out of here? What makes you think I won't just pack up and leave?”

 Shaking his head, Clarke replied, “You won't. Don't ask me how I know. I just do. But if I don't make it back, if something goes wrong, then I've still managed to keep my promise to get you out of here, and that means something to me.”

 Nodding, Jimmy slid the paper into his pocket, and said, “I'll wait until half an hour till nightfall. Then I'll head for the flyer. That's about five hours from now.” He paused, and added, “If anyone else shows up, I'll try and lead them as merry a chase as I can for a while. You sure you've got the layout down?”

 “I'm sure. All the way to the detention block.”

 Clasping his hand, Jimmy said, “Good luck.”

 “And to you.” Hefting the rope over his shoulder, Clarke turned to the mountain, instantly spotting the fissure that seemed carved into the rock, somehow artificial, not natural. All around it, he could make out faint markings, oddly familiar, but ignored them as he ducked inside, reaching up to turn on his helmet torch, the red light flashing into the gloom, preserving his night vision while illuminating his surroundings.

 The first passage was almost anticlimactic, a twisting tangle through the rocks. The floor was smooth, and there were more markings on the wall. Perhaps not completely artificial, but in the distant past, someone had expanded this fissure, made it accessible. He looked around, spotting the remnants of equipment attached to the walls, high up, perhaps some long-disabled light fixture.

 After only a few hundred meters, he came to the pit, a round hole descending into the gloom. Reaching into the pouch at his side, he pulled out a trio of pitons, pounding them into the ground, then wrapped his rope around them, tugging it with his full weight to check the strength before tossing the other end down into the darkness beneath. His torch didn't even begin to shine down that far,  lost in the shadows below.

 He paused for a moment, hardly daring to breathe, listening for any signs that someone was below. The back of his mind was screaming of the danger he was in, sensing figures in every shadow, eyes glaring at him out of the darkness, but he dismissed them with an effort, tugging the rope one more time as he started his descent.

 Under normal circumstances, this would have been easy. Back on the ship, there was climbing equipment that would have made his drop safe and swift. Jimmy hadn't anything even remotely as useful, and he was struggling with the remnants of a survival kit, a long rope that he was reluctant to trust himself to, and a collection of aging pitons secured with a mallet. Nevertheless, this was the only way down, and somewhere in that darkness, his friends were waiting for him, probably in dire need of help. Checking one last time that his holster was secured by his side, he swing down on the rope, and started his cautious descent.

 The rock face was slick, melted to a sheen, giving him nothing to use, and he grasped the rope for dear life, slipping down in long bounds, careful to protect his hands as he dropped. The line creaked alarmingly with every move, and as he slid down the shaft, he waited at every second for it to fall, knowing that the drop would kill him. He had to reach the bottom quickly, for his own safety, if nothing else. The ascent would be another story, but he could leave that for later. He'd already determined that he'd almost certainly have to find another way out.

 He glanced down again, and this time could spot the floor beneath him, seeming to approach far too rapidly. His palms were burning, the lack of protective equipment taking its toll, and once more his subconscious was cringing in fear, warning him that there was something in the shadows, waiting and watching. Bending his knees for the drop, he let himself go with ten feet left, falling to the ground and rolling into a corner, his hand close to his pistol.

 For a hundred heartbeats, he waited for the sound of sirens, of rushing feet, but the silence continued to reign. He glanced back up the way he had come, tugging at the rope once more, and this time heard an ominous crack from above as the pitons gave way, the rope rushing down to him, dropping to the floor. It had lasted just long enough, but his fears were now confirmed. He was trapped.

 Taking a deep breath, he walked along the nearest passage, the route to the detention block committed to memory. He took the twists and turns, and after a few moments, made it to the cold metal door that blocked the passage, a keypad by its side, the light blinking red. Again, he was severely under equipped for his mission; no hacking tools, no datapad, not even any explosives. Instead, he was going to have to improvise, and with a faint smile, he mashed his hand on the keypad, the lights urgently winking red. He stepped back to the wall, keeping out of the range of any surveillance equipment that might have covered the door, then reached across and slammed the controls again, as randomly as before.

 Glancing at his watch, he repeated his work ten more times, then moved back into cover, waiting for someone to come. There had been no siren, no alert, but someone would come to check out what appeared to be a malfunction with the security systems, especially if the base commander knew that there were hostile forces in the area. If he'd been in command, a small army would be descending upon him from all sides, but the security forces had already appeared lax enough that he could trust them to be under-cautious.

 His hopes were rapidly met, the door sliding open to reveal a balding, portly man in a maintenance jumpsuit, a toolkit in his hand, who myopically peered out into the gloom before turning to work on the keypad.

 “Hold it,” Clarke said. “Stand still. Stand perfectly still.” He gestured at the tunnel, and said, “Empty your pockets and move away from the door, or I will kill you.”

 “Wait a minute,” the technician replied. “I haven't done anything, I just...”

 “Save it for the judge,” he said. “We've come to clear up this facility, and the rest of my team will be along in a moment.” He paused, then added, “I haven't got time to guard you. I'm going to have to accept your parole. I suggest you sit tight and wait for my friends to arrive. Then I might, I just might, speak up for you at your trial.”

 The frightened man nodded jerkily, tipping the contents of his pockets to the floor, pieces of electronic equipment, half-eaten snack bars, and a communicator. Clarke snatched the latter, stuffing it into his pocket, then turned back to the corridor, watching as the technician edged away. If he was masking courage with fear, then he'd likely find a way to raise the alarm. If he was as scared as he looked, then he'd be on his way up to the desert in a matter of moments, trying to get away before nightfall. Possibly even to the flyer, but Jimmy could deal with him if he did. Either way, he'd obtained his goal, and he stepped into the base with a smile on his face, immediately turning left on his way to the detention block.

 That trick had worked once. It wouldn't work a second time. As he stalked the corridors, he quickly realized that he'd been correct to trust to the cowardice of the technician, no alarms raised, no sirens screaming from every loudspeaker. He was safe, for the moment. Relatively speaking, at least.

 He turned another passage, and froze, spotting a figure standing at parade rest in front of a door. A loud rattle echoed through the corridor, a door opening, a familiar person stepping out, fury on her face. Mortimer. With guards on either side of her. He glanced around, calculating their escape route in his head, and coming up with no good answers. From here, they could go deeper into the complex in reasonable safety, but not back out onto the surface. He paused for only a moment before racing forward, pistol in hand. This was what he'd come down here to do, and at least rescuing one of his comrades would be a step in the right direction.

 Mortimer heard him first, slamming her elbow into one of the guards, sending him staggering to the ground, while Clarke fired a shot to catch the other in the side of the head, blood splattering the wall as he fell. One swift kick knocked the first guard into unconsciousness, and without another word, the two of them raced down the corridor, sirens and alarms finally breaking the silence as they sped deeper into the complex.

 “What took you so long?” Mortimer asked.

 “You think walking here was easy?” he replied. “Besides, I had to arrange some help. If we can get up to the surface, we've got a ride all the way back to Alamo.”

 “Easier said than done,” she said, a low rumbling from the rear as security hatches slammed into position. “They're cutting us off.” She glanced at him, and added, “Thanks, though.”

 “Where's Captain Orlova?”

 “We got separated. Somewhere in the complex. There are others, as well...”

 “Salazar, Carpenter, Lombardo,” Clarke said. “The guards got them before I had a chance. Prisoners as well. You didn't see them?”

 “No, but I heard the guards talking.” Gesturing down a corridor, she added, “This way.”

 Nodding, he followed her lead. Behind them, boots slammed into the ground, guards moving into position to avenge the death of their comrade and recapture the erstwhile prisoners. There was another shaft just ahead, but he'd abandoned the rope, and even if he'd taken it, had no way to secure it.

 “Ronnie, this is a dead-end unless...” 

 “We're going to jump,” she replied. “Trust me.” The two of them turned down a side passage, running towards the end of the corridor, blocked with a pair of swinging chains. “Just go right over and down. It'll be fine.” She paused, then added, “I got loose this morning for long enough to scout an escape route.”

 “There's nothing down there,” he protested. “The blueprints...”

 “Have a little faith,” she said, taking the chain with a single bound, and jumping down into the pit. Taking a deep breath, and with a last glance behind him, spotting figures in the distance heading their way, he followed, catching his foot on the chain, sending him off balance and diving head first into the unknown. Beneath him, he saw rippling waters, and he extended his hands forward, executing a neat dive into the cold lake, racing below the surface.

 He kicked off, looking around for Mortimer, finally spotting her powering towards some unseen objective, out in the distance. With an effort, he caught up, and she flashed him a smile as they pushed through the water.

 “I told you we're be safe here,” she said. “Shore's about a hundred meters away. Can you make it?”

 “I can make it,” he replied, and the two of them raced for the bank, a towering rock face ahead. Mortimer was first, and she reached down with a hand to tug Clarke from the water, dripping wet as she collapsed onto the sand, looking back the way they had come. Clarke followed, exhausted from the exertion, watching the shaft for any sign of pursuit.

 “We can rest a moment,” she said. “They must have another way down, so we'll need to get on the move.” Turning to him, she asked, “What equipment have you got?”

 “My pistol and a stolen communicator.”

 “That's it?”

 Raising his hands, he replied, “Everything blew up on the flyer. I was improvising.”

 “Just for once, I'd love to see you execute a real mission plan.”

 With a smile, he said, “Just for once, I'd love to have one.”

 She nodded, then said, “Thanks again, by the way. For coming after me. It must have been tempting as well to get on the second flyer and head home.”

 “Not until I've got everyone out.” He paused, then added, “Have you see any of the savages yet?”

 “Savages?”

 “You don't…,” he began. With a deep sigh, he turned to her, and said, “Brace yourself. This is probably worse than you thought.”

 “I already thought it was pretty bad.”

 “This time,” he replied, “trust me. You haven't heard anything yet.” Before he could begin, he saw something in the distance, a tall figure standing on the shore, less than a mile away. Pushing himself to his feet, he started over to it, Mortimer reluctantly following. The figure held still, frozen to the ground, and as he grew closer, he realized it was a statue, carved in some sort of dark green stone, the legs worn as though from ancient erosion. The head was sharp, savage, one of the creatures he had seen, and in his hand, it held a vicious sword with a jagged blade. The other hand held a human head, and the gleaming smile on the figure's face chilled him to the core.

 “Some sort of demon figure?” Mortimer suggested.

 Shaking his head, Clarke replied, “I wish it was. They're real.”

 “You're kidding.”

 “No. I've fought them.”

 “And won?”

 “I survived. From what I've seen, that's victory where they're concerned.” Taking a deep breath, he continued, “We need to find the others and get out of here as fast as we can.”

 “No argument there.” She looked up at the figure, shivered, and repeated, “No argument there.”

Chapter 17

 Harper peered into the distance, spotting the ruins up ahead. Next to her, sitting in the jump seat, Garland silently scanned the horizon, as though expecting to come under attack at any moment. The buggy bounced over ruts left from the last time it had traveled this way, and scorch marks on the ground were silent testament to the battle that had taken place just hours before.

 Sitting at the rear, Fox cradled a plasma rifle in her arms, the power sequence lights shining from the monitor controls, ready to fire at a second's notice. Harper had wasted several minutes trying to persuade her to stay behind, up to a quick demonstration of the veteran's unarmed combat skills, making it quite clear that there was nothing Harper could do to hold her back.

 She looked over her datapad, scanning over the latest reports from Alamo. No sign of Hegemonic attack, at least, not yet, but they all knew that it was on the way, and that when it came, the battlecruiser would have to pull out. Even if the odds were favorable, they were millions of light-years from any potential aid, any repair station. One lucky hit and their travels would be over.

 The alternative still remained, of hiding out in the Sphere, following the example set by Orlova and the crew of Monitor when they were forced down. Frowning, Harper swiped across the screen again, bringing up the mapped regions of the Sphere. Their drones had roamed for a thousand miles in every direction, and hadn't seen a single trace of Monitor's crew, not until the single beacon signal from Flyer One, two days ago. It seemed inconceivable that they could have gone that far.

 Looking around her, out at the Sphere itself, regret started to tug at her. They'd barely begun the process of exploration, one that could easily take a thousand lifetimes and still be impossibly incomplete. To abandon it without first learning at least some of its secrets seemed a waste, and a part of her, deep inside, longed to stay, whatever the justification. At first, she'd been forced into space. She'd stayed because of moments of wonder, moments like this.

 And because of the man she hoped was aboard the vehicle up ahead.

 “Power signatures,” Fox said, peering down at the scanner, gently guiding the buggy towards their target. “There's something up ahead. A heat source, big enough to be some sort of reactor, I think.” Turning to Garland, she asked, “Did you come across anything like that before?”

 “No,” he replied, bluntly. “We were just setting up the sensor gear when they attacked, but we didn't spot anything like that on our approach. Just cold, dead rock.” He gestured to the right, and added, “They didn't even clean up their mess.”

 Following his glance, Harper saw a stack of bodies on the ground, a dozen of the savages sprawled around, bullet holes ripped into them. Foster's team might have been forced to retreat, but they'd taken a bloody toll in the process. She turned back to the ruins, at first glimpse nothing more than a collection of metal pylons, charred and pitted, arthritic fingers reaching into the heavens. There was something about them, though, a regularity in their form, and the ground behind it was oddly discolored.

 Then, as they approached, they saw a flash of gleaming metal in the midst of the ruins, a shining silver bullet hidden between a pair of battered walls. Fox instantly reacted, turning her rifle to cover the target, but a figure raced out towards them, waving his hands in the air, a mix of relief and fear on his face.

 “Don't shoot!” Lombardo yelled. “It's me, damn it, I'm on your side!”

 “Hold fire,” Harper replied, the look from Fox instantly suggesting her order had been unnecessary. “That your ride, Lieutenant?”

 “And Captain Orlova's,” he said, waving his hand back at the bullet. “She's hurt, pretty bad. I did everything I could for her, but...”

 “I'm on my way,” Garland said.

 “Fox, you go with him,” Harper ordered, as she limped down from the buggy, walking over to the engineer. “What's the situation, Art?”

 “Bad.” Lombardo peered into the distance, and asked, “Where are the rest of you?”

 “This is it,” Harper replied.

 “Damn. That'll slow things down.”

 “Art,” she said, “Aside from Midshipman Koslowski and Corporal Quiller, everyone else is back on the ship. Things have moved pretty quickly while you've been away. Alamo could be under attack at any moment, and Base Camp was attacked by, well, those.” She gestured at one of the nearest corpses, and Lombardo shook his head, cursing under his breath.

 “I know those bastards far too well. Kris, Pavel's back there. As well as Carpenter and Mortimer.”
 “Clarke?”

 “Presumed dead.”

 “Not if I know him.” She took a deep breath, and called out to Garland, “Report, Spaceman!”

 “Critical but stable, Lieutenant,” Garland replied. “We've got to get her back to the ship on the double. If we can get her to sickbay in the next few hours then she'll recover.”

 “Fox, break out the stretcher,” Harper ordered.

 Turning back to the bullet, Lombardo said, “I'm going back.”

 “At least tell me what...”

 “We found some sort of base, out in the desert. They shot down Flyer One, damn near shot down Flyer Two, and captured us when we landed. They were holding Orlova and Mortimer prisoner, and as far as I can tell, they're responsible for the attacks by the savages. They seem to have some sort of control over them.” Grabbing her by the arm, he added, “They're building an army, Kris, and with the bullet trains at their disposal, they can project them for thousands of miles in any direction. A wave of death that won't stop until it wipes out millions, maybe billions of people. If we don't stop them now, it'll be too late.”

 “Lieutenant,” Garland said, he and Fox pulling out Orlova, groaning on the gurney. “We'll be ready to move out in a minute, as soon as she's secured. I've called ahead to the shuttle, and they're making sure that Sickbay is ready to receive her as soon as we land. Thirty minutes, and it'll all be over.”

 Nodding, Harper walked over to her, looking at her friend. For a brief second, Orlova's fever seemed to clear, and she locked eyes with her, silent commands passing between the two of them as though telepathically. She knew what Orlova wanted her to do, and her instincts were no different. She glanced at the buggy, then back at the bullet.

 “You think there's any way we can convince Max to send the Espatiers back over here? With Rhodes and his team...”

 “Frank's dead,” she replied. “Killed in the last attack.” Turning to Lombardo, she continued, “We have reason to expect an imminent Hegemonic strike. If they come in the full force we're expecting, then we're not going to have any choice other than to withdraw. You'd give the same order if you were in the chair, and so would I.”

 Taking a deep breath, he said, “Then I'm going back. Maybe...”

 “Fine,” Harper said. “I'm going with you.” Turning to Garland, she said, “Brief Lieutenant Francis as best you can, Spaceman, and request that he hold station for as long as he possibly can. If that's not an option, then tell him he leaves with my blessing.”

 “This is crazy,” Garland said, strapping Orlova into position. “You're going up against a whole army of those...things, by yourself? They'll wipe you out.” He shook his head, and said, “I've fought them once. I wouldn't want to fight them again.”

 “Maybe,” she replied. “And maybe not. All I know is that I can't leave the Sphere without at least making the attempt to rescue Pavel and the others. That's enough for me.” Turning to Lombardo, she ordered, “Get it started. I'll be along in a minute.” She walked over to Orlova, drifting in and out of consciousness, savage wounds on her side, and said, “Don't worry, Captain. I've got this. You just worry about yourself. And Alamo.”

 “Wait a damned minute, ma'am,” Garland said. “Shouldn't you call Alamo? Get permission from Lieutenant Francis? At least tell him what you're planning to do. Damn it, Lieutenant, there's a good chance we'll have to leave you behind!””

 Lombardo walked into the bullet, and after a moment, said, “All systems go, Lieutenant!”

 “There's no time, Spaceman,” she replied. “And besides, we both know what the answer would be. Pavel and the others need help. That's enough for me. Good luck, and a safe ride home.”

 “Kris, we're ready!” Lombardo yelled. “Engine charging!”

  “Right,” she said, turning away from the two crewmen at the buggy, following Lombardo into the vehicle. The inside was a mess, blood spilled across the floor, mud and sline on every chair. Only the two seats at the front were in any sort of order. Lombardo was sitting at the controls, looking up with an easy smile.

 “Say the word, Kris.”

 “Consider it said.”

 With the tap of a button, he closed the doors, and the vehicle began to rise, slowly turning to face back the way it came, the engineer carefully manipulating the controls, all of them labeled in precise English.

 “Our friends at the base must have spent years figuring this out. Nice of them to leave instructions.” At her expression, he added, “Magnetic levitation. More powerful than anything I've ever seen. You wait until we get started.” Gesturing at a couch, he added, “Take a seat. This is pretty wild.” As the bullet lined up with the distant desert, she took one last look at the buggy, Garland standing next to the wounded Orlova. Her last link to home, and one that she was about to sever.

 “Here we go,” he said, throwing a lever full forward. The force of acceleration slammed her back in her couch, the landscape starting to race past them, the familiar crack of a vehicle exceeding the sound barrier after less than a minute. She looked across at Lombardo with disbelief, and the engineer looked back with glee.

 “This baby can ride up to fifteen hundred miles an hour at ground level. I made it back in a little over five hours, and we might even manage a bit more speed on the return, now that I'm getting used to the controls.” Looking at the screen, he added, “There's a magnetic ram up ahead, pushing the air out of the way. Effectively, we're traveling through vacuum. I'd hate to be standing on the tracks, though! You wouldn't have a chance.”

 “Five hours,” she said. “Can he hold out for that long?” They flashed past the forest, racing towards a distant mountain range, the ground outside visibly growing more and more arid as they moved. Another collection of ruins raced by, the landscape a blur as they accelerated to maximum speed. A second sonic boom erupted, the train passing Mach Two. Almost inconceivably fast, but now that the acceleration had reduced, it was only the view outside that gave any indication that they were moving at all.

 “He's going to have to,” Lombardo replied. “We know that it was going to take time to call for help, Kris. He expected that. Though I'd rather have brought more reinforcements back with me. I somehow feel as though I've let him down.”

 “One Espatier isn't enough for you?” Fox asked, stepping out of the shadows at the rear of the train. “You didn't really think I'd pass up a chance like this, did you? The buggy can guide itself back to the shuttle, and Garland will be safely home long before it gets dark.” Nodding at the armament strapped to her back, she continued, “I brought all three plasma rifles, and three spare assault rifles.” Tossing a holdall to the ground, she added, “And a few other useful gadgets, as well. I think between the three of us, we should be able to teach those scientists a few tricks.”

 “I hope so,” Lombardo replied. “We're going right into Hell, Sergeant. And we're outnumbered a few thousand to one.”

 “Bad odds,” Fox said. “For them.”

Chapter 18

 This time, Salazar had been locked into a more obvious cell, cold metal walls and a pile of rags on the floor to serve as a bed, a bucket in the corner as a toilet. They'd stripped all of his equipment from him, given him a pale jumpsuit to wear instead of his uniform, and left him to rot for what seemed like hours. A while ago, he'd heard sirens echoing through the base, and had briefly hoped for rescue, but the alarm had faded without any other sign of trouble, and he'd settled back in to wait. Sooner or later, someone would come for him, and if he had any chance to get away, he'd take it. If Orlova could hide out in the lower levels, so could he. At least Lombardo had made it safely away. Sooner or later, help would be coming. He just had to live long enough to enjoy the party.

 The door rattled open, and Robertson stood at the threshold, looking down at him with barely disguised contempt, while Mendez waited behind her, carrying a ration pack. He struggled to his feet, flashing back a smile, and moved to stand in front of her.

 “I was wondering when room service would get here.”

 “I haven't come here to trade insults with you, Captain,” Robertson replied. “I think we need to talk. There is still a chance that we can come to some sort of mutually satisfactory arrangement.”

 Raising an eyebrow, Salazar said, “This is going to be an extremely interesting discussion.” Placing his hands on his hips, he continued, “I honestly can't think of anything you can offer me that will convince me to help you, but I'll listen to your pitch. My social secretary's told me that I don't have anything else scheduled for the moment.”

 “Captain,” Mendez said, “Really, I must point out that we were more than willing to permit you to return to your ship in good order, you and your two friends.”

 “And what of Captain Orlova and Sub-Lieutenant Mortimer?”

 “Captain Orlova would have been able to return with you, had she not elected to scurry into the caverns. In any event, it appears that you have already seen to that.”

 “Mortimer?” 

 “She is Earth-born,” Robertson replied, as though providing an explanation for everything. “We needed a chance to complete a full genetic pattern. Your second assault team has rendered that moot, however.” Stepping forward, she added, “We may have somewhat underestimated your abilities, and for that I apologize. Nevertheless, we have much to share with each other.”

 “Go on.”

 “The secret of the wormhole network,” Robertson said. “Would that be a suitable opening gambit?” She smiled, then said, “I think I might have piqued your interest, at least.”

 “No sale,” Salazar replied. “If you had that, you wouldn't be sitting here.”

 “We have no ships of our own, Captain,” Mendez replied. “That significantly limits our options, as you will understand. Though with access to a starship...” He paused, then continued, “Tell me, have you any other Earth-born among your crew?” 

 “We do.”

 “The tests we need to run are uncomfortable, yes, but there is no lasting damage, no risk of serious injury. Recovery will be swift. And it is possible that you have techniques we do not, abilities the Hegemony has not yet mastered.” Raising a hand, she added, “Yes, we were originally a Hegemonic outpost, but that all changed a few years ago, once we realized just what we'd been established to do.”

 “And that was?”

 “Provide information for a program of eugenics for the Hegemonic population. To harvest new genetic material to introduce into our own people, back home,” Mendez said. “We're scientists, Captain, nothing more than that. Eager to learn, and this Sphere gives many opportunities for that. Yes, we've done work with the savages, but that's only because of what they represent. Someone created them, Captain, and the traces of their work are littered through their genetic code. If we can learn the techniques, then we can take a great step forward...”

 “To what, Doctor? Controlled evolution? Where would you choose to take humanity?”

 “It isn't about that,” Mendez said.

 “And what about the savages? You seem to have them well-controlled.”

 Glancing at Mendez, Robertson replied, “We have a mutual enemy, Captain, in the form of the Hegemony. Certainly they will launch an attack on your ship, if they have not yet done so, and when they do, you'll end up deciding to do as many have in the past and settle the Sphere. A stranded crew, far from home...”

 “And the wormholes?”

 “A long, hazardous journey though alien space,” Mendez replied. “You'd be safer staying here. This Sphere has existed for millions of years, and our studies suggest that it could exist for billions more. Billions of years, Captain. Think of that. Think of the well-being of your descendants, if nothing more than that.”

 “More to the point, you'd have to cross through Hegemonic space to get there. I doubt your ability to do that.” Folding her arms, Robertson replied, “You have three choices, Captain. The first is to continue on your present course, one that will force us to escalate further. I will admit that we have an element of control over the savages, one that has taken years to establish. We have the ability to unleash them at will.”

 “Unleash them?” Salazar asked, his eyes widening. “On what?”

 “All around us,” Mendez said, “are barbarous, fallen civilizations, existing on the battered remnants of former glory. Oh, we've seen evidence of great empires far away, ones with technology we can only dream of, but here, now, we have an advantage. We can restore civilization to this region, build up an empire of our own, one ruled to the benefit of all. With our new army, we can maintain order, defeat the warlords that currently dominate the region, and set the people of this part of the Sphere back on the path towards enlightenment.”

 “As long as they don't mind you being in charge.” He paused, then asked, “You said three options. Let's hear them.”

 “The second sees you leave in peace. We would wish to trade genetic material, a full work-up of Sub-Lieutenant Mortimer and any other Earth-born members of your crew, and in exchange, we will provide you with a route that will take you home. All the way back to your galaxy.”

 “What guarantee do I have that you won't simply send us flying off into unknown space, or into some hazard we don't know about? Surely you don't expect me to take your word?”

 “No,” Robertson said. “Of course not. That is why I believe that you will consider the third option. We're going to win, Captain. We're going to beat you in a fight, and at the very least, drive you from the Sphere. Already we have chased your people from your Base Camp, and...”

 “You attacked my people?”

 “You attacked us, Captain,” Mendez said. “Consider this an escalation of a war that you began. Several of our people have been killed or wounded by yours. One in a corridor less than a quarter mile from your location. Have we not the right to defend ourselves against an unprovoked attack?”

 “If you hadn't been so quick on the trigger with those missiles,” Salazar replied, “We'd never have come to this base at all.”

 “True, and once more, I apologize for that.” Taking a deep breath, Mendez continued, “Surely it is in the best interests of all of us to settle things down, rather than push for further conflict. We are few, and you have a technological lead. Why not join forces with us? Work together for the benefit of the local civilizations of the Sphere, take a leadership role that will see them return to their former glory in a few generations. Yes, it will be under our direction, but surely we will have earned that right?”

 Shaking his head, Salazar said, “I thought it would be something like that.”

 “Will you at least consider it?” Mendez asked.

 “Not for a minute. Not for a second. I don't make deals with murderers, slavers, and would-be conquerors. How about another deal. Release me, release the rest of my people, and evacuate your base. Then I'll make sure every trace of it is destroyed, all of your work wiped from the map. After that, I don't care what you do, but that way, no more of your people have to die. If you truly care about them, you'll take my offer.”

 “You have to be...”

 Shaking his head, Salazar said, “I'd think about it more carefully, if I were you. Evidently you aren't as secure in your position as you want me to believe, or you wouldn't have made this offer at all. Let me put some of the pieces together. You know that I managed to send two of my people back to Alamo to get help, and while you might have launched an attack on Base Camp, you have no ability to project any power outside the Sphere itself. Meaning that Alamo is still sitting out there, waiting, loaded for bear and with a large Espatier contingent.”

 “I don't have to listen to this.”

 “And the train is on its way back,” Salazar pressed. “Probably fully-loaded, and you have some idea of the weaponry at our disposal. It's one thing to launch a surprise attack against an unprepared target, but a full Espatier strike team is something else. They'll come, and they'll sweep this base clean of anything that moves until they've completed their mission, and no matter how many of the savages you can throw against them, they'll win. So really, you only have one option left. Surrender. While you can.” He paused, frowned, then said, “I suppose you could run for it now, but I wouldn't like your chances out on the desert after dark. Would you?”

 Turning to him, Robertson said, “I made you a serious offer. One day, not too far in the future, we will rule everything for ten thousand miles in every direction, be a power to be reckoned with in the Sphere. There are forces working here, Captain, of which you know nothing. Clearly you are destined to be crushed under our heels, just like the rest of them. Good day.” She stalked off, leaving Mendez behind, looking after her.

 “You don't agree with her,” Salazar asked. “Indeed, this meeting was your idea in the first place.”

 “She's in charge,” he said.

 “That doesn't mean you have to blindly follow her orders, does it?” He paused, then said, “Your people attacked Base Camp. How many dead?”

 “Your crew? Three, and maybe another dozen injured.”

 Salazar closed his eyes, whispered a quiet prayer, and asked, “And yours?”

 “More than a thousand.”

 “More than a thousand,” he repeated. “Was I correct that it was a surprise attack?”

 “We caught your people completely off-guard, in the middle of an evacuation. The tactical situation couldn't have been better.” Looking across at Salazar, he continued, “And you came close to winning anyway. I'm not a fool, Captain. Our force only works against those with a lower technology. None of our attempts to get the savages to use any tools more advanced than a stone axe have failed, and I have no expectation of any progress in the future.”

 “Meaning that you are setting out to conquer the Sphere with an army that you know is vulnerable. Why not stop now, before it goes too far. Three of my people are dead, but I think that the person responsible is going to pay, whatever you say.” Stepping forward, he continued, “How are the savages controlled.”

 “Chemical tells, mostly. They're a strongly scent-oriented people. Though that's as much information as I'm going to give you.” He paused, then continued, “It's worse than that, Captain. We found them underground, buried, a relict population from some ancient, forgotten time. While we know there are others of their kind down there, these are the first ones to find their way to the surface in uncounted ages. And there are moments when I wonder whether or not we've fallen into some sort of trap. They're learning, Captain. Though not the lessons we're trying to teach.”

 “Are they out of control?” Salazar asked, panic rising in the back of his mind.

 “Not yet. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't have nightmares that we'd lose them. That they could sweep through the desert to the settlements in the south, and that it would be almost impossible to stop them. Oh, their masses could be defeated by an army such as yours, but they'd scatter across the Sphere, a thousand serial killers let loose on an unsuspecting population. We might never be rid of them.”

 “There has to be an alternative.”

 “Perhaps.” He paused, then said, “Perhaps. Captain, I will think about this. You'll have to give me time to consider.”

 “How much time?”

 “Less than five hours,” the psychologist replied with a smile. “After that, the arrival of your reinforcements might make it a moot point. By then I will have decided which side I dare be on.” He turned to the door, then asked, “You'd spare our lives?”

 “Once this base is destroyed, you'd never be able to recreate your work. Doctor, if what you fear is true, then the savages have to be stopped, here and now. You know that, right?”

 “Five hours, Captain. I will return then, and you will have my answer.” He turned, then passed him the ration pack, adding, “Tastes lousy, but you have to keep your strength up.”

 “Thanks,” Salazar said, as the door slammed shut. He opened the pack, grimacing at the collection of pastes and gels within, and sat back down on the floor, his back to the wall. Three of his people dead, and he wasn't there to help them. Whatever happened to Mendez, Robertson would pay for what had happened here. If only to make sure that it could never happen again.

 Five hours.

 It couldn't go quickly enough. Somehow, Salazar guessed that it would feel like five eternities.

Chapter 19

 Orlova stirred at the incessant beeping of the medical monitor to her side, straining to focus as she looked around the familiar room. Alamo's Sickbay. She'd been here hundreds of times in the past, but she'd never felt happier to be in a medical bed. A white-uniformed figure walked over, looking down at her with a benign smile on his face.

 “Captain Orlova?” he said. “I'm Doctor Strickland. Alamo's Medical Officer. How do you feel this morning?”

 “Like I've been shot,” she replied.

 Nodding, he said, “Good diagnosis, Captain. The good news is that we got you here in time for no serious harm to be done, but you've lost a lot of blood. I've given you a full transfusion, patched up the holes, and you should be fit for light duty in a couple of days. But no wandering off the ship, not for a while. Doctor's orders.” He paused, and said, “It's funny. I've never met you before, but I feel like I already know you. You're a bit of a legend around here.”

 Shaking her head, she said, “I need to speak to Captain Salazar.”

 “Sorry, no can do. Senior Lieutenant Francis will be down in a minute. I paged him as soon as you regained consciousness.” He glanced up at the monitor, then continued, “Knowing commanding officers as well as I do, I suspect that it would be a complete waste of time for me to order you to take it easy, so I'll just tell you to be careful. You can have as many visitors as you want, go over any reports you wish, but I'll be watching your readouts all the time, and I pull the plug if I have concerns. Understood?”

 “Thank you, Doctor,” she replied. “You're a lot more reasonable than most of your kind.”

 “Bitter experience, Captain.”

 The door slid open, and a gray-haired man walked into the room, moving over to Orlova at the receipt of a curt nod from Strickland and taking a seat by her side, shuffling to sit next to her, datapad in hand.

 “Captain Orlova? I'm Max Francis. Alamo's Executive Officer. It's a pleasure to meet you at last, though I'd rather it was under better circumstances.”

 “What's the situation, Lieutenant? Where's Pavel?”

 “I was rather hoping that you could tell me,” he replied. “All I know is that Harper, Fox and Lombardo are heading back out into the desert in an attempt to rescue the others and destroy some sort of hidden base. We haven't had any contact with them for hours.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “If what Lombardo's report said was correct, they should be there in a matter of minutes.”

 “Lombardo's report?”

 “We found his datapad stuffed into your jacket. Meaning that I know some of the details now, but there are a lot of gaps.” He paused, then said, “I have a question for you, Captain, and I'm going to need an honest answer. What chance do they have of actually completing their mission and executing a return to the ship.”

 “With Pavel, Harper and Clarke on the job, I'd say better than even.”

 “That's what I figured.” He reached over to the wall, tapping a control to bring a hologram into life, a projection of local space flickering into existence over Orlova's bed. At her surprise, he added, “A little modification from Alamo's last refit. Captain Marshall had these scattered all across the ship. They've been surprisingly useful.”

 “Captain Marshall?” she said. “I thought Pavel was in command.”

 With a sad nod, Francis said, “Captain Marshall's last act was to grant him a field promotion to Lieutenant-Captain and assign him as Alamo's new commanding officer.”

 “Last act?”

 “I'm sorry, Captain. Daniel Marshall died about ten weeks ago. He managed to bring down a United Nations Dreadnought, saved an entire world. He went down a hero, and I suspect that's exactly what he would have wanted.”

 “You're probably right about that,” she replied. “You're sure he's dead? No chance?”

 “The ship he was riding re-entered the atmosphere and exploded well before landing,” Strickland replied. “There were no survivors.”

 Looking across, she saw a familiar figure lying on the long-term biobed, and said, “Deadeye? What's she doing here?”

 “Severe xenopsychosis. She's in an induced coma in the hopes that she'll snap out of it,” Strickland said. “There's a limit to what we can do for her with the facilities we've got. She's going to have to find her own way home. Though the longer it takes, the lower the odds.”

 Shaking her head, she looked at the projection, and said, “Clear screen. Seems safe enough.”

 “Except that we found out the hard way that the black hole masks dimensional instability, and the shifting gravitational fields mean that keeping probes in position to cover it is problematic at best. I'm expecting an attack by Hegemonic forces at any time.” He paused, then said, “If the odds are even, I'll fight it out, but if I think the odds are against us, we're going to have to pull out.”

 “No,” she replied. “You can't leave Pavel and the others stranded down there.”

 He paused, turned to Strickland, and asked, “Doctor, is Captain Orlova in any condition to assume command of Alamo?”

 “Not for at least three days, sir. And regulations...”

 “Thank you, Doctor.” Turning back to Orlova, he said, “Captain, nobody respects your judgment more than me, but I have the chair until relieved. Either by Captain Salazar, or by yourself when Doctor Strickland indicates that you are fit to do so. Besides, I'm obeying Pavel's orders. Before he left to rescue you, he made it quite clear that the safety of the ship and her crew comes first. I'll do everything I can to help him, but I know where my priorities are.”

 “And the Sphere?” she asked. “You came out here for the same reasons we did. To find a safe way home, a wormhole path that will take us back to the Milky Way Galaxy.” She frowned, then continued, “What about the rest of my crew?”

 A familiar figure stepped into the room, Lieutenant Maqua, saying, “Can I come in.”

 “By all means, Lieutenant,” Strickland said. “Turns out this is a briefing room instead of a medical ward. I've called Chief Santiago to send someone to alter the signage.”

 “Maqua?” she said, as the Neander approached. “You made it?”

 Nodding, he replied, “The rest of my team didn't, but I got away. I've been living in the forest for the last few months, until Pavel and the others arrived. Captain, I've seen no trace of anyone else from Monitor, and trust me, I looked. We've had drones sweeping the local area, and we've certainly been making enough comm chatter...”

 “You know how hard it is to punch signals through in the Sphere.”

 “Granted, but we're still able to transmit for a few thousand miles. How far did your people go?”

 Looking up at Francis, she said, “Can you bring up a topographical map of the Sphere?”

 “Certainly,” he replied, tapping a series of controls. She pointed at a spot close to a lake, a hundred miles across, with rolling hills covered in verdant forest beyond.

 “Right there.”

 “That's three thousand miles and change from the entry point.”

 “I wanted to make sure the Hegemony didn't show up. As far as we knew, we were there for the rest of our lives. Lieutenant, do you still have drones down there?”

 “A few.”

 “Then I'd like one tasked to head out there and take a look.”

 “Captain, you realize that my orders still stand, no matter how many people are stranded in the Sphere. There's no fast way to retrieve them, in any case, unless Lombardo can manage to work out the controls on that vacuum train. My instincts tell me that we're going to be under attack in a matter of hours. Certainly days. It would take weeks to pull your people back from that sort of distance, and you know it.”

 “They're in need of help, in need of rescue.”

 Rising to his feet, Francis said, “There are hundred and twelve people on this ship, Captain, all of them stranded a hell of a long way from home. We have no support, no spacedock access, no opportunity for relief or resupply. This is it. I would point out that Monitor died here, and I have no intention of adding Alamo to the list of wrecked ships in this system. Nor do I have any intention of leading the crew into permanent exile on the Sphere unless I have no other alternatives. And I must assume that if you were thinking clearly, you'd agree with me.”

 She paused, then said, “Send the drone, Lieutenant.”

 “That much, I will do. I'll even attach a message suggesting that your people should head back towards the exit point, to our Base Camp. With luck, we'll be able to return at some point and rescue anyone still stuck here, but if they're scattered all across the Sphere, we won't have a chance.”

 “And Salazar?”

 “I've done everything I can for him already. There's a shuttle holding station outside the ship. It can be down at Base Camp in eight minutes minus if I see signs that he's on his way back. That's the best I can do for the moment. I certainly won't send any more forces down there, not after what happened last time. Enough people have died here already. I won't throw more into the fire without a damned good reason. That isn't what Pavel would want.” He rose, walked to the door, and said, “Keep an eye on her, Doctor. I'll expect to see updated fitness reports.”

 “Yes, sir,” Strickland said, as Francis left the room. He turned to Orlova, and said, “You should have walked a little more softly, Captain. Francis knows what's he's doing.”

 “We should be down on the Sphere,” she replied.

 “After what happened at Base Camp,” Maqua said, “I can understand his caution. Hell, with respect, ma'am, I agree with him.”

 “What happened?”

 “We were attacked. Thousands of those beasts, without warning. We barely had enough time to set up defenses, and we might as well not have bothered for all the good they did.” He paused, and said, “Three dead, twelve wounded.”

 “None seriously,” Strickland added. “I released them all to light duty this morning. Most of them were shrapnel, effects of friendly fire. One broken arm when he fell into the shuttle. Either you died, or you walked out of that. There wasn't much in it.” He paused, and said, “You knew Frank Rhodes, didn't you?”

 “Knew?”

 “He didn't make it out of there.”

 “I'm sorry,” Orlova said. “I really am.”

 “We'll be holding the memorial service as soon as all of this is over,” Maqua said. He turned to her again, and continued, “How many of our people are out there, Captain? From Monitor?”

 “Thirty-five. Not counting any of the other missing crewmen. Yours wasn't the only expedition party that didn't make it back, and I'm beginning to realize why.” She reached up to the controls behind her bed, snapping off the hologram, and continued, “Who else do we have?”

 “Foster's, well, Acting Exec. Operations Officer, normally. Scott's Tactical. And you know about Carpenter, Lombardo, Clarke.” He paused, then added, “Have you ever met Sub-Lieutenant Clarke?”

 “Only briefly,” she replied. “Though I'm familiar with his service record. I signed off on his appointment to Alamo. As a Midshipman, though. Did Pavel commission all the middies?”

 “No, just John,” Strickland said. “He earned it. Twice over. That kid is a phenomenon at field work. Though I'm not sure even he quite knows how.” A grin spreading across his face, he added, “He's Security Officer now. Following in yours and Pavel's footsteps, I understand.”

 “That's a hell of a job for a kid.”

 “He's a hell of a kid,” Strickland said. He glanced up at the monitor, and said, “We'd better start wrapping this up. I'm going to have to run you through a few more examinations than I'd planned today.”

 “Are you going to assume command?” Maqua asked, bluntly.

 She paused, then said, “That depends on the circumstances. If, hell, when Pavel makes it back, we'll sit down in an office and work out how to proceed. I don't think either of us actually wants the job that much. We'll probably end up playing a hand of poker for it. Loser becomes Exec.”

 With a smile, Maqua said, “That sounds like the officer I know. And if...”

 “Attention!” the overhead speaker blared. “Attention! All hands to alert stations. I repeat, all hands to alert stations. This is no drill. I repeat, this is no drill!”

 “Sounds like they're singing my song,” Maqua said. “I'll see you later, Captain.”

 Turning to Strickland, Orlova said, “Get me out of this rig, Doctor.”

 “Not a chance,” he replied. “You're on more painkillers than you know, Captain, and if you get out of this bed too quickly, you'll undo everything I've done in the last six hours. I worked overtime patching you back together, and I'll be damned if you wreck it now.”

 “But if we're under attack...”

 “Max Francis is an experienced combat officer, and he's got Foster and Scott on the bridge with him. All of them know what they are doing, all of them are veterans against the Hegemony, and all of them are physically fit for duty. Unlike yourself.”

 “Damn it, Doctor, I can't just lie here while my ship is under attack!”

 “I'm afraid that's just what you're going to do, Captain, and I'm sorry to be blunt, but until I place you back on active duty, you have no authority to order me to fetch you a glass of water!” He moved over to the monitor, and said, “I'll make a deal with you. I'll set up a tactical view so that you can watch the play-by-play, but if you so much as make a move, I'll fill you so full of sedatives that you won't wake up for a week. Agreed?”

 With a reluctant nod, she said, “Agreed. You remind me of your predecessor, Doctor.”

 “I'll go ahead and consider that a complement. Now just relax.”

 “Easier said than done.”

Chapter 20

 “It's getting louder,” Clarke said, as he and Mortimer raced along the shore of the underground lake, pistols in hand. “Definitely getting louder.”

 “Yeah,” she replied. “Shouldn't we think about running in the other direction?”

 “Probably,” he said with a smile. “Though this is the closest thing we've found to a signpost yet, and it's dark enough down here that I don't want to pass up on the chance. We can't wander around here forever.” He glanced across at her, and added, “We don't have any rations, for one thing, and we certainly can't get back the way we came in.”

 “What about that friend of yours?”

 Glancing at his watch, he said, “In about an hour, or less, he'll be stepping into Flyer Two to start the flight back to Base Camp. I hope he makes it.”

 “You don't mind that he's flying off with our only escape route?” 

 “If we're still here by then, I doubt it'll matter anyway. Everything I've seen suggests that those creatures only function in darkness.”

 “Then why aren't they swarming around down here?”

 “Because I don't think it's just a matter of light-sensitivity. I think it's something fixed inside them, some sort of biological imperative. Remember that we're dealing with an engineered lifeform.”

 “Stop using long words like that. It makes me nervous.” She gestured ahead, and said, “You see that? There's a shiny spot on the wall. Metal, not stone.” Looking around, she continued, “And whatever that rumbling is, it's definitely getting louder. We're on the right track.”

 “You want to hang behind while I go and take a look?” Clarke asked.

 “What's the point?” she said. “As you've pointed out, it isn't as though I've got anywhere to run to even if we find trouble up there. We might as well go in together. Though I want it clear for the record that I thought this was a bad idea, and I expect you to explain that to Saint Peter when we reach the gates. Assuming we both make it.”

 “Pessimist.”

 “Hell, suicide is a sin.” They reached the metal, and scanned the surface of the portal, looking over the pictographs carved into the alloy. “Interesting. Not useful, but interesting.” She placed a careful palm on the wall, and added, “It's vibrating. Pretty wild, as well.”

 “I don't see a control panel,” Clarke replied. He looked around the shore, then added, “I don't see anything else around here. No other evidence of habitation aside from that statue we found. I wonder whether this area was populated at one time.”

 “Who'd live down here?”

 “Maybe a race that didn't like the sunlight, that only came out in the darkness anyway. This is as engineered as the savages, Ronnie. Someone built this place, thousands of years ago. Maybe the builders of the Sphere. I can't help but think that we're intruding on something that wasn't meant to be disturbed.”

 “I've been trying to tell you that for hours.” She ran her hands across the surface, then said, “There's some sort of seam running down the middle. Maybe...”

 With a loud clunk, the door slid open, and a blast of air slammed into them, sending both tumbling into the lake. Clarke looked up, spotting a point of light visibly growing as it approached, and tugged at Mortimer, dragging her away, further into the water. The wind howled all around them, turning the surface of the lake into foaming froth, a loud boom echoing from the walls.

 “Sonic boom!” Mortimer yelled. “What the hell?”

 “Hold on!” Clarke said. “It's getting closer!”

 A silver bullet shot into position, slowing to a stop at the threshold of the door. Instantly, Clarke leveled his pistol, walking out of the water, keeping the exit covered as best he could, Mortimer following him a heartbeat later.

 “That's what I think it is, isn't it,” she said.

 “I think so,” he replied. In the distance, sirens wailed, and as they stepped forward, they could hear the ringing of feet on metal, soldiers climbing down ladders towards their position. “I guess you were right about this being a bad idea.”

 “I'd have had no objection to being proven wrong.” Glancing at her pistol, she added, “Three rounds in this one. Glad you had a spare. How many in yours.”

 “Four. Guess I'm a greedy bastard.” He paused, then said, “If it's the savages, save the last bullet for yourself. I mean that.”

 “No chance, then?”

 “I think we're getting into glorious last stand territory. I suppose that's what you get for serving on a ship called Alamo.”

 “Hey, you volunteered. I got press-ganged.”

 Cracking a smile, he said, “Five shots. Let's make them count.”

 “Yeah.”

 A black-uniformed figure dropped from the ceiling, swinging nimbly down, rifle in hand. Mortimer fired first, her bullet catching the man in the shoulder, sending him rolling to the ground. Clarke took the second figure, a bullet in his leg that knocked him to the side, and for a brief moment, there was a pause, the other soldiers evidently waiting until they'd built up sufficient force to overwhelm them.

 With a loud hiss, the hatch on the bullet cracked open, and the shaft was filled with the staccato blast of a machine gun on full auto, filling the air with exploding slivers of metal that ripped into the assembled enemy forces. Clarke glanced at Mortimer, shock on his face, and tentatively stepped forward, keeping his pistol leveled on the devastation unfolding before him. Finally, the weapons fire ceased, and a familiar figure in combat armor stepped out, rifle in hand, slamming a fresh clip into her weapon.

 “Fox?” he said. “Good God, Sergeant, I almost shot you!” He stepped forward, and the veteran Espatier turned to greet him, a smile on his face.

 “By damn, Sub-Lieutenant, you sure know how to make a rescue mission easy,” she replied. “We figured we'd have to search the whole complex for you. I certainly didn't figure on you giving us covering fire.” Looking past him, she said, “Still keeping him on the straight and narrow, Ronnie?”

 “It'll take someone better than me to pull off that miracle,” she replied. “Where's the Captain?”

 Shaking his head, Clarke said, “I don't know. I managed to sneak into the detention block, but it was only blind luck that got me to Ronnie. There was no sign of anyone else up there, though.”

 Nodding, Mortimer added, “I got the impression I was their only prisoner.”

 “When did you break out?”

 “Maybe five hours ago.”

 “Damn,” she said, peering into the cabin. “It's all clear, Lieutenant. At least for the moment.”

 Harper limped out of the vehicle, looked at Clarke, then said, “The Prodigal Sub-Lieutenant returns, I see. Thanks for the assist.”

 “My pleasure. How many did you bring?”

 “Just the three of us,” she replied. “Lombardo's at the controls, getting ready for the trip back. We couldn't spare the time to bring anyone else.” She paused, then said, “That, and Alamo's on the verge of pulling out of the system. They might be forced to leave at any time.”

 “That's not important right now, ma'am.” Looking at Mortimer, he added, “We've got to destroy this complex.”

 “Agreed,” Fox said. “After what those bastards did to Base Camp...”

 “You were attacked?” Mortimer asked.

 With a sad nod, Fox replied, “Three dead, including Frank Rhodes. That's one of the reasons we pulled everyone out of the Sphere. They came at us without warning. Caught us by surprised. It's odd. They seemed intelligently directed from a strategic point of view, but tactically they were nothing more than a blood-crazed mob.”

 “That's exactly right. The scientists up here are trying to weaponize them, and as far as I can see, they've come pretty damned close to succeeding. We've got to stop them before it's too late. There are some shaped nuclear charges somewhere here on the base that ought to blow a new crater where this place once was.”

 “Wait a minute,” Harper said. “Shaped nuclear charges?”

 “We aren't the first ones to try and take down this base. The Hegemony sent in a Covert Ops team about eighteen months ago. I met the survivor up top.”

 “Where is he?”

 Looking at his watch, Clarke replied, “Probably at the controls of Flyer Two right now, heading for Alamo.” At her expression, he continued, “Payment for a debt, Lieutenant. Besides, if that thing can travel faster than sound, we've got a better way home anyway.”

 “Probably, but it would have been nice to have a backup,” Harper replied.

 “What's the plan, Lieutenant?” Lombardo asked, stepping out of the vacuum train.

 “Two teams,” Harper said. “Clarke, you and Mortimer will prioritize looking for the nuclear charges. Lombardo and I will head to the detention area and try and rescue the Captain. Have either of you got a communicator?”

 “Just two pistols,” Clarke said. “And seven rounds of ammunition total.”

 “I think we can help you there,” Fox said with a smile. “Help yourself from the stores. I brought everything I could carry.”

 “Plasma rifles?” Mortimer said. “On a stealth raid?”

 “This stopped being a stealth raid when the first sonic boom sounded,” Clarke replied, picking up one of the weapons, hefting the weight in his hands. “This is search and destroy, now. We haven't got time for anything else. Recharge systems?”

 “Not a hope,” Lombardo said. “You know how much a plasma charge generator weighs? And before you suggest it, I don't have the first idea how that train is powered. Magic space pixies for all I know.”

 Picking over the equipment, Clarke slid on an armored vest, struggling to get his arms through the gaps, and snatched a helmet from one of the holdalls, clipping it into position as the heads-up display fired up, quickly connecting to the computer on the plasma rifle in his hands. Fox looked at him, nodded in approval, then turned to Harper.

 “Ma'am, I'm afraid I'm going to have to commit insubordination.”

 “Why?”

 “You're not going with Lombardo to find the Captain. I am.” Gesturing at the equipment, she added, “Someone has to stay behind to keep an eye on all this, and you're the obvious choice. Not to be blunt, but you're having trouble staying on your feet. With your skills, you're better off staying here and working on the combat network. All the gear you'll need is in the second holdall.”

 “Sergeant...”

 “Please, Lieutenant, take a long look at yourself, and tell me that I'm truly wrong? You came here, and you're going to be needed, but I'm the combat specialist. Let me do my job, and you do yours.”

 Attempting to stifle a laugh, Lombardo said, “She's got you there, Kris.”

 “I still think...”

 “She's right, Lieutenant,” Mortimer said. “And you know it.” Gesturing at the ladder, she said, “That go up to the complex?”

 “All the way.”

 “That's quite a climb.” Looking at Clarke, she added, “We'd better get started.”

 Moving to the ladder, Clarke said, “Give us four minutes, then follow. We'll do our best to maintain communications contact, but it can get pretty wild up there. Lots of rock and metal that will get in the way.” He paused, then added, “If we find the charges, I'll set them to detonate in one hundred and thirty minutes from now. That should give us time to get clear.”

 “You realize it gets dark in less than an hour,” Mortimer said. “If you're right about that biological imperative, then the savages will be swarming long before we make it back. And we only get four or five shots with these babies.”

 “We're going to have to make them count, then,” Clarke said, taking the first rung of the ladder. He started to climb, and after a few seconds, Mortimer followed, grunting her way from one rung to the next while the others watched him climb, Harper glowering at the others, knowing that they were right, that she had to stay behind, but hating every second of it.

 “Communications test,” Clarke said. “One, two, three...”

 “Four, five, six,” Harper replied. “I can't do much to the local network, but if I see anything, I'll let you know. Just watch what you're shooting with those things.”

 “Don't worry, ma'am,” he said. “I'm sure the Captain is already loose up there. He'll probably find one of our teams before we can find him.” Looking down at Mortimer, he continued, “How're you doing, Ronnie?”

 “Oh, I'm just loving every moment of this,” she replied. “Do you have a plan?”

 “Of course not,” he said. “Why'd you ask?”

 “Figured there was a first time for everything,” she said.

 “Why mess with tradition?” he replied, stepping out into a crawlspace. “This way. I think it leads up to the secure stores.”

 “You think?” With a sigh, she said, “This just gets better and better.”

 “You got a better idea?”

 Shaking her head with a faint smile, she replied, “Lead on.”

Chapter 21

 A loud rumble echoed through the ship, and Orlova reached across to the control panel by her bed, trying to bring up a damage report. A second rumble followed, wailing sirens filling the air, and the door slid open to admit a stream of wounded, Strickland and the medical staff guiding them to the beds. She looked up at one of them, a familiar face, Spaceman Fitzroy.

 “John?” she said, the crippled engineer turning at her call.

 “Captain?”

 “Was the bridge hit?” she asked.

 Shaking his head, he replied, “Accessway. All power lost, and the network's down in that region.” He frowned, and added, “I don't know what's happening up there, but we're not getting any command inputs. I was on my way up when the missile struck home.” He slumped down to the floor, defeated, and said, “Two of them, Captain, and we're damned near finished.”

 “That'll be the day,” she replied, struggling to her feet, weary fingers pulling off medical monitors. Strickland raced over, rage on his face.

 “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

 “Freeing up a bed for someone who really needs it.”

 His eyes widened, and he replied, “What the hell is it going to take, Captain? You've been shot! Now get your butt back into bed where it belongs, and...”

 The ship lurched to the side, almost sending Strickland tumbling to the floor, and she said, “No dice, Doctor. Command controls are out in the bridge. And I'm guessing that Francis, Foster and Scott were both up there. Right, Spaceman?”

 Fitzroy nodded, and said, “I guess control functions were switched over to Auxiliary Control.”

 “You see, Captain, it's all…”

 “And who is in command up there?”

 “Midshipman Imoto. I think.” He took a deep, weary breath, his eyes drifting in and out of focus, and he added, “Or is it Quesada? I don't know.”

 “Not another word, Spaceman,” Strickland said. “Blake, check him out. Probable concussion.” Turning to Orlova, he continued, “You are in no condition to walk, never mind assume command of a starship!”

 “I've got news for you, Doctor. We're under attack. And have obviously suffered serious damage. Meaning that if I don't assume command, right now, Alamo is lost, and everything you're doing here will be a waste of time. Unless you want to hang your shingle out on the Sphere. Give me the strongest stimulant you've got, and I'm heading up to Auxiliary Control. With or without your help.” She ripped the last sensor clear, and Strickland looked at her for a moment, another rumble echoing through the decks.

 “Garland,” he said, “Dextroline. Full dose. On the double.”

 “On it, Doc,” the paramedic said, pulling a hypodermic from the supplies rack and jamming it into Orlova's arm. “You're going to really regret this tomorrow, Captain, but it should keep you on your feet for a couple of hours.”

 “As long as we have a tomorrow to regret,” she replied, lurching to her feet, a surge of energy burning through the savage pain from her side. “Are the elevators working?”

 “Just about,” an Espatier said, his arm swathed in bandages. “I'm walking wounded, Doc. I'll get her there.”

 “Far be it from me to insist my patients clutter up the ward,” an exasperated Strickland replied. “Go, both of you, before I change my mind. Or insist on a psych evaluation for you both.”

 With a cheeky grin, the Espatier offered Orlova his arm, and said, “Come on, Captain.”

 “Thank you, Corporal.” She frowned as the two of them walked through the door, stepping into the corridor as a pair of medics rushed past, a groaning midshipman sprawled on a stretcher. “I don't think I've had the pleasure.”

 “Jack Quiller,” he replied. “And the pleasure's all mine.” They stepped into the waiting elevator, and he tapped the control sequence for Auxiliary Control, out at the far side of the ship. There was an agonizing wait before the mechanism kicked in, sending them lurching towards their destination. “Guess Elevator Control was hit.”

 “How bad is it? I couldn't get a damage report.”

 “Three lucky hits at the start of the battle. We lost most of the internal communications network. Could be that everyone's fine up on the bridge, but their commands just aren't getting through.” He reached over to a wall monitor, tapping for a tactical view, only to receive a flashing error message for his troubles. “I just hope Auxiliary Control's still functioning. They don't seem to be doing very much.”

 The elevator stopped, and the doors slid open on a blackened corridor to admit Lieutenant Maqua, an angry gash on his forehead, his jacket stained with a mix of grease and blood. He was walking with a limp, using a piece of reinforced conduit as a crutch, but smiled as he saw Orlova inside.

 “I think we've had the same idea,” he said, as the elevator began to move again. I was down on the hangar deck when the first missiles hit. It took me five minutes just to work my way through the corridors.” He gestured at his forehead, and said, “Shrapnel. Blast doors closed a half-second too late. Don't worry, I'm fine.” Looking at Orlova's bandages, he added, “In comparison.”

 Once more, the doors slid open, this time onto the familiar Auxiliary Control. When Orlova had first served on Alamo, years ago, this had been the original bridge, and she briefly looked from station to station, looking at the tales of disaster being displayed on the consoles. A young man sat perched on the command chair, his panicked eyes wide, thrust into a situation he hadn't the training or experience to deal with. He turned to Orlova, and the smile of a desperate man appeared, clutching at a straw that had suddenly stepped into the room.

 “I have the conn,” Orlova said. “Midshipman, take over the helm. Maqua, take Tactical. Quiller, see if you can patch me through to Engineering and get some sort of a damage report.”

 “On it, ma'am,” the Espatier said, staggering over to the vacant communications console.

 She looked up at the tactical display. Alamo was cruising over the surface of the Sphere, her trajectory spiraling away as she lurched out of control, with a pair of Hegemonic cruisers closing on them, evidently setting up for a final attack run. A series of small dots swarmed about, Alamo's fighter strength flying shotgun, but their status indicators reported that they were all but out of ordnance, and that they would soon be forced to return and rearm if they were to take any meaningful part in the battle.

 “Laser's operational!” Maqua said, surprise running through his face. “Power built up for one good shot, Captain. I have six out of eight missile tubes working, and the countermeasures systems are firmed up.” Glancing across at his controls, he added, “Enemy cruisers will be in firing range in forty seconds, ma'am. Flying in close formation.”

 “Close formation?” she replied. “Interesting. Midshipman, er...”

 “Imoto, ma'am.”

 “Imoto, I want you to play dead. For the next thirty seconds, swing around and make it look as though Alamo is out of control. Then I'm going to need a precision shot on the starboard side of Target One. Do you have enough data to know where their oxygen reservoir is?”

 “I think so, ma'am. You want a laser shot into that part of the ship?”

 “I do indeed,” she replied. “Maqua, missile salvo as soon as we get within range, go full-defensive for the moment. Contact our fighters, and order them to launch an attack run on Target Two right away, focused in such a way as to keep them in that tight formation with Target One. If we can keep them that close, we've got a chance.”

 “Captain,” Maqua replied, “They've got two missiles across the entire squadron.”

 “True, but they can still attack them with their Death Rays, Lieutenant.”

 A frown spread across the Neander's face, and he replied, “Captain, they don't...”

 “No, but the commander of that enemy formation doesn't know that, does he? I want him confused, Lieutenant, and I want him to keep nice and close. I know what his idea is. They've locked their defensive systems together. Nice and smart if you're playing a missile duel, but we've brought a laser cannon to this gunfight.”

 “Squadron coming around,” Maqua replied. “They're running low on fuel, ma'am, and we're going to struggle to stay on-station at this rate. We might have to launch the tanker shuttle to bring them in.”

 “One way or another, Lieutenant, this battle has to be over, and soon, or we're dead.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” he replied.

 “Corporal, anything from Engineering?”

 “Internal channels are swamped, Captain,” he said. “I can't get a clear signal through.”

 “Keep trying. And listen out for anything from the Sphere. Not much we could do if Salazar and the others did get back right now, but at least we could let them know what was happening.” 

 Alamo lurched to the side, and Imoto said, “That wasn't me, ma'am. We just lost the auxiliary water reservoir. I've got hull breaches on ten decks, and we're spilling atmosphere out into space.” Turning to her, he said, “She's almost out of control, Captain.”

 “Midshipman, I don't care how you do it, we've got to get that shot onto target. Do anything you can. Ride with the breaches. Don't try to fight them. Use them. You understand?”

 “Yes, ma'am,” he said, turning back to his station, his hands dancing over the controls. The young officer's face suggested that he didn't know what he was doing, but his nimble fingers told a different story, gently guiding the lumbering battlecruiser into position. 

 “Laser cannon ready,” Maqua said. “Missiles will launch in ten seconds. Combat fabricator still on-line.” He paused, then added, “It's strange, ma'am. Almost as if they've gone out of their way to leave our critical equipment intact. They could have done a lot more damage than they have.”

 “They want us intact,” Quiller said. “Boarding parties will be next, and with internal communications shot to hell, the first we might know of it is when they knock on the door.”

 “Then we will make sure to show them the proper welcome, Corporal. Until then, we hold the line.” She looked up at the countdown clock, Alamo still lurching around like a drunkard as Imoto desperately struggled to hold her onto course, finally swinging her nose around to deliver what she hoped would be the knockout blow. The lights dimmed as a pulse of laser light raced between the two ships, burning a neat hole into the side of the enemy cruiser's hull, a fountain of air explosively erupting from the hull, sending a cascade of shrapnel and debris raining into its companion. 

 As she had hoped, the other enemy ship raced in the other direction, Alamo's missiles swarming into the duo, supported by the remaining firepower of the fighters as they dived into their attack run, delivering a final punch to Target Beta as it attempted to veer away. Target Alpha swung to the side, helplessly out of control, her helmsman not even trying to correct its course as escape pods raced from its flanks, the ship diving inexorably towards the Sphere.

 “It's going to crash!” Imoto said, and all eyes were on the viewscreen, watching as the cruiser began its final dive, a cloud of debris spilling across space as it raced towards the endless wall underneath it, engines roaring one last time in a failed attempt to alter its trajectory. Just as it seemed that the enemy ship was destined to slam into the Sphere, a bright bolt of light raced out towards it, carving up and down the sides of the ship like a master chef with a roast, finally seeking out the main reactor and detonating it with a final pulse of energy. A blinding explosion filled the screen, and Orlova blinked as her eyes watered, the afterimage remaining, visual filters failing to compensate in time.

 “All-Mother,” Maqua gasped, looking up at his controls. “Total destruction, Captain. And whatever that was, it forced that explosion to guide the debris away from the Sphere. I've never seen anything like it. My projected power readouts are off the scale. Way off the scale.” Shaking his head, he said, “If we fell that close….”

 “Midshipman, alter our trajectory as best you can. Make sure we keep well clear of the Sphere. I don't want to run the risk of Alamo suffering the same fate. What about Target Beta, Lieutenant?”

 “Moving back under power, ma'am. She's hurt, but not as badly as we are. I'm picking up some hull breaches on the port flank, some biological debris, and I think two of her missile tubes are out as well.” With a satisfied smile on his face, he added, “They're no match for us, Captain, even damaged as we are.”

 “Captain,” Quiller said, “I now have Chief Santiago in Engineering for you. Not my work, hers. I think she must have managed to run a relay system forward.”

 “As long as it worked,” Orlova replied. “Auxiliary Control here.”

 “Engineering here. You planning on ripping the guts out my ship some more?”

 “What's the damage, Chief?”

 “It'd be faster to tell you what's working. We still have main reactor and hendecaspace drive, but the power relays are shot to the laser cannon. I hope that last shot did what you wanted. There isn't going to be another one any time soon. Some shrapnel damage to the radiators, as well. Internal communications are mostly fried, but I can bypass through the power network. Except where that's out, which is about a quarter of the ship. We've got a few hundred hull breaches, nothing that we can't handle, but...it's a mess, Captain. I can fix her, but it'll take the best part of a month before we're anything like combat-capable again.”

 “What about the Bridge?”

 “Don't know. A damage control team is trying to cut its way through now. Best guess is that they're intact, but with no connection to the rest of the ship. Who needs them, anyway. More concerned about the auxiliary reactor. She's running unstable, and I might have to dump her. And we lost a lot of the storage batteries when they breached the rear hull. Like I said, it's a mess. I'll try and give you a more updated report when I can.”

 “Right, Chief. I'll try….”

 “Captain!” Maqua interrupted. “Dimensional instability at the near hendecaspace point! Looks like two more Hegemonic cruisers, heading directly, firing range in twenty-five minutes!”

 With a sigh, Orlova said, “I know you told me you wanted a month, Chief. What can you do in half-an-hour.”

 “Dunno. Recite the Lord's Prayer, maybe. I didn't pull that figure out of the air, Captain. It'll take as long as it takes and there's damn all I can do about right. As it stands, Alamo's just about able to move and jump out of the system.”

 “Orders, Captain?” Imoto asked, all eyes on her.

 She took a deep breath, and said, “Admiral Nelson, before Trafalgar, once said that if in doubt, firing your cannons at the enemy was probably the right thing to do. Good advice then, good advice now. Intercept course, Midshipman. Let's show them what Alamo's made of.”

Chapter 22

 Harper looked at the hatch, adjusting the mount on the machine gun again. A portable sensor unit issued a series of rhythmic beeps, constantly monitoring the area, ready to alert her of any approaching contacts. On the left, her hand worked the controls of the networking systems, trying to relay information across their rudimentary tactical net. She had only a vague idea of the location of the assault teams, now more than half an hour into their raid. As yet, she'd heard no sounds of battle, had picked up no anomalous spikes of activity on the local communication channels. Everything seemed to be going to plan, at least for the moment.

 And somehow, that scared her. It wasn't meant to be this easy, and something was going to go wrong. It was just a matter of what, and when. She ran her eyes over the machine gun again, checking the ammunition case, the feed locked into the side of the weapon. It was a field support piece, designed for two people, one of the moderately updated relics the Espatiers had adopted when they had been unexpectedly forced into planetary surface operations. Slowly, gradually, they were working their way into the 22nd century, but the conservative troopers were reluctant to abandon kit that worked for any reason, no matter the potential benefits.

 She looked out at the lake, endless and eternal, the faint drip-drop sound of water being gathered from hidden collectors on the surface, slowly filling the vast expanse. It would have taken thousands of years to fill, the work of uncounted generations, and for a moment she tried to put herself in the mind of the original builders, knowing that they were laboring on a project that they would never see come to fruition. Then she thought of the savages, the beasts that must roam these lands late at night, when the shrouds of darkness fell. Were they the descendants of the builders, or some mad experiment gone desperately wrong?

 Her attention jerked back to the sensor display. A contact flashed into view, at extreme range, but heading their way. She looked across at the signal tracker, opened the communications channels to check the location of the two teams. Neither was anywhere close, deep inside the compound. Certainly not heading back towards her at that sort of pace.

 Raising the machine gun once more, she turned it carefully towards the shaft, lining up the sights as best she could. Then the sensor display winked once again, and a beam of light shone at her from the lake, the faint sound of an engine purring in the distance, a boat heading her way. She reached for a pair of low-light goggles, dropping them into position over her eyes, and peered into the distance, spotting a trio of low dinghies heading towards her, filled with troops.

 It had taken less than half an hour for them to mobilize their attack. Textbook strategy for dealing with infiltrators. First cut off any possible retreat, then sweep the installation clean, one level at a time. She'd done it herself, both in simulation and for real, on countless occasions. She looked out at the boats again, trying to work out how long she had. Both forces were going to be moving in at about the same time. She could deal with one threat, but not both. Perfect timing.

 She reached behind her into the holdall, and pulled out a handful of grenades, quickly setting them to proximity detonation before tossing them onto the beach. It wasn't likely that the improvised mines would do any real damage, but it was better than nothing, and it might give her the critical second she needed. She turned back to the shaft, and a cylinder dropped down it, the bright flash emitting from the flare instantly overloading the pickups on her goggles, leaving her eyes watering as she ripped them from her head, her low-light vision ruined.

 The sound of boots ringing on the metal rungs of the ladder forced her to focus, and she fired off a quick burst, hoping to delay the attack, cause them to rethink an assault. As soon as she pulled the trigger, she cursed herself for a mistake. She needed to draw them in, get as many of them with the first burst as she could, not force them back. Risking a quick glance at the water, she saw the boats drawing in, close to the shore, and swung around to fire another burst in their direction, sending them diving to the bottom of the boats, working their way forward with greater care.

 Back at the ladder, she heard the sound of boots once again, the guards daring to press the attack once more, and she opened up with a second burst, fifty bullets flying through the air in less than a second, catching an incautious guard in the foot and sending him dropping to the floor, crying out in pain. A loud report from the beach caught her ear, and she turned in time to see the aftermath of the explosion that had wrecked another of the boats, sending a pair of guards diving back into the water, one of her grenades belatedly taking effect.

 A loud crack echoed past her ear, a bullet slamming into the ground by her side, and suddenly she felt far too exposed, turning her machine gun to respond, firing a desperate series of salvos in an attempt to hold back the inevitable, prevent the assault that she knew would bring her down. Another pair of guards fell back into the water, blood streaming into the lake, but then three more guards slid down the ladder, bright flashes from their pistols as bullets rained into the sleek lines of the vacuum train.

 Then, as her last words came to her lips, she saw the guards at the beach fall, a series of semi-automatic bursts from the darkness disposing of them in neat batches before they could rally. Taking advantage of her unseen ally, she turned her machine gun again, emptying the belt into the approaching guards, bullets ricocheting from the walls. As the last of the amphibious attack team fell, the guards on the ladder retreated, the last of them receiving a bullet in the ankle as a reward for his tardiness.

 As the last bullet crashed into the wall, she turned to see a silent figure walking down the beach, assault rifle in hand, his face locked into a neutral frown, eyes dark, haunted, wearing the battered remnants of an unfamiliar uniform. 

 “You with Clarke?” the figure asked.

 She nodded, and said, “Lieutenant Kristen Harper. You're the man he found on the surface.”

 He barked a laugh, and replied, “I'm the man who saved his life, you mean. That's twice I've got you people out of a mess.” Looking around at the destruction, he added, “Hard to believe we wore the same uniform once.”

 The communicator crackled, a voice briefly breaking through the interference, but before Harper could focus on the frequency, it faded as fast as it had come. The figure walked over to her, stepping carefully over the groaning bodies, and sat down by her side.

 “Happens all the time out here. We never did work out a way to send messages over long distances. Even short-range traffic is lousy.” He paused, then said, “You got a medical kit?”

 “Sure,” she replied, noting for the first time that his arm was limp by his side, a growing stain on his sleeve. She reached for a green pouch, tossing it to him, and added, “Once you've patched yourself up, take over at the gun. I'll see to the wounded.”

 “You've got a good heart, but what would be the point?” he replied. “Better they die quickly than slowly. One way or another, they're going to die. You can count on that.” He glanced at his watch, pulled out a bandage, and added, “The savages will be out soon.”

 “Down here?” she replied.

 “If you had the Sword of Damocles in your hand, tell me you wouldn't be tempted to swing it. They're close, you see. So damned close.” He looked at the train, then added, “How many people did you bring.”

 “Four of us.”

 “Are you that good, or are you just arrogant?”

 “Try desperate.”

 “At least you're honest,” he said, securing the bandage in position. He held his arm up visibly wincing at the pain, and continued, “That should hold it for a while. Long enough, anyway.”

 Harper rose to her feet, and she snatched the medical kit away, saying, “We can't just leave them here.”

 “They tried to kill you, remember,” he said. Taking a deep breath, he added, “Don't you get what has happened here yet? These people are planning to unleash an army of killing machines, nothing more than that, on the Sphere for their own territorial goals, a plague that will sweep across the landscape and kill millions of people. Maybe billions, I don't know. They breed fast enough. And they've got chemical cues now that allow these people to control them.” Turning to the dying guards, he added, “These people would have sat back and watched while whole civilizations fell at their whim, Lieutenant, and you'll forgive me for not thinking that any of them are particularly worth saving.” Moving to the ladder, he continued, “You can do what the hell you want to. I can't stop you. But I've got work to do.”

 “You're wounded,” she said. “You can't...”

 “I should have done this eighteen months ago. Four of my friends died in the first attempt to blow this place.” He paused, turned, and said, “You know, I made it as far as the flyer. Got into the cockpit, had the controls all worked out. I was a minute away from getting into the air, finally putting this place behind me, but I just couldn't do it. I can't leave this job unfinished. One way or another, I'm going to see this base destroyed, or die doing it.” Gesturing at the machine gun, he added, “You probably want to get that reloaded. They'll almost certainly attack again.”

 Moving to the nearest casualty, she said, “I'm going to help them.”

 “Your business, not mine.” He frowned, then added, “You think they'd lift a finger to help you if the roles were reversed?”

 “That's no good reason.”

 “Good enough for me. They watched my friends die. I'm just returning the favor.” He glanced up the shaft, then walked over to the train, and said, “Spare some ammunition? I'm out.”

 As she walked over to the wounded men on the beach, quickly beginning to triage as best she could, she replied, “Take anything you want. Though I'd rather...”

 “Thanks,” he replied, snatching up a combat rifle and stuffing a handful of clips into a pocket. “Where'd Clarke go?”

 “To find the nuclear charges.”

 “Figures. Smart kid. Pity his life expectancy's so short. Heroes don't tend to live very long. You noticed that?”

 “If you think that,” Harper replied, kneeling behind a groaning figure, clutching his shoulder, she said, “then why in God's name are you going.”

 “Simple, Lieutenant,” he said. “I'm already dead. None of this matters to me. Maybe when I've finished this mission I'll finally get to go to heaven. Or hell. I'm past caring where. So long.” He started to climb the ladder, and she briefly looked after him, shaking her head as he ascended. A part of her longed to go with him, but he was right about one thing. They'd attacked once, and would almost certainly attack again. Logic suggested that she probably should ignored the wounded, focus instead on defense.

 She couldn't do it.

 “Hold still,” she said, to the man sprawled on the sand. “This is going to hurt.”
 “I don't want to die,” he replied, tears streaming down his face. “I don't want to die.”

 “Then hold still,” she repeated. “You aren't dead yet.” She looked up at the shaft again, then said, “Come on, Pavel. This is taking too damned long.”

Chapter 23

 “What was that?” Mortimer hissed, forcing Clarke to a halt in the corridor. “I thought I heard weapons fire, back the way we came.” She frowned, then added, “They might have attacked the train. If they've overwhelmed Harper...”

 “Then we'll just have to retake it when we want to go home,” he replied. “There's nothing we can do for her at the moment over than complete our mission.” With a wry smile, he added, “Getting a little jumpy, partner?”

 “Take a look around you, John. Then tell me that I'm not justified.”

 Turning back to the corridor, Clarke cautiously led the way to the junction at the end, keeping close to the wall, looking up for surveillance cameras, expecting at any second to come under attack. Periodically, he heard the crack of a gunshot in the distance, either from the rear, back towards their only way out, or up ahead, where Lombardo and Fox were striking out, trying to locate the Captain.

 He and Mortimer were still sneaking through the lower levels, taking their time to pick their way cautiously through the outer defenses, unwilling to risk coming under heavy attack. There was no point taking unnecessary chances, not at this stage. He glanced at his watch, and frowned. Eighty-five minutes, and they'd have to be back at the train. He'd already mentally committed to missing that appointment if he felt they were close to the charges.

 Stopping at the junction, he peered both ways, the flickering lights casting strange shadows on the walls, tricking his eyes into thinking there was movement up ahead. Mortimer stepped to his side, pistol in hand, as a loud wail echoed through the corridors, one that Clarke found all too familiar. 

 “That's one of the savages,” he said. “Their hunting cry.”

 “Hunting cry?” she replied. “I don't like the sound of that.”

 “Nor do I, but it doesn't necessarily mean trouble. They've probably got some locked up around here somewhere. Ready to conduct some sort of experiment. That's what these ghouls are here for, anyway.” He grimaced, and said, “The sooner this base is a cloud of radioactive particles, the happier I'll be.”

 With a frown, Mortimer said, “I'm not sure I like that. We're still taking about tens of thousands of sentient beings, John.”

 “Who will murder their way across thousands of miles of territory, killing millions, maybe billions of people. I'm sure there are civilizations out there who can stop them, but how far will they run until they meet one? And by then, the threat could have grown worse. They're using tools, Ronnie. Building shelters. But that doesn't seem to have tamed their natures at all.” He reached down to his canteen, taking a deep swig, and said, “Mankind's always been on top of the pyramid. King of the hill, master of the world. Well, now we have a natural predator, one that some maniac tailor made to hunt us down. They show no mercy….”

 “So we shouldn't, either?”

 “You really want to take the chance? I've fought them, first hand. I know what they can do.” He shivered, and said, “I never want to have to do that again, and I certainly don't want to condemn anyone else to suffer the same fate. You ready to move on?”

 Nodding, she asked, “Which way?”

 “Left, I think.”

 “You think?”

  Tapping his forehead, he replied, “I'm doing this from memory. There wasn't a chance to get actual blueprints, and we don't even know for sure that they put the charges in Secure Storage.”

 “We don't even know if they still have them,” Mortimer gloomily replied.

 Shaking his head, he said, “We're talking about a group of people who's goal was conquest of a considerable portion of the Sphere. They kept them, right enough. To use.”

 The two of them walked down the corridor, passing unlabeled doors with the briefest of glances, knowing that there would be more evidence of security than they displayed. Finally, they reached the end of the passage, and Clarke paused at the corner, peering around the side to see two guards standing outside a reinforced blast door, an obvious addition to the original architecture. He gestured for Mortimer to look, then took a step back, a frown on his face.

 “We could take them,” he said. “One shot each. No problem.”

 “Except that every siren in the place would sound, and we'd have reinforcements heading our way.” She paused, smiled, and said, “You're thinking what I am, aren't you.”

 Nodding, he replied, “Lombardo and Fox were meant to be our decoys. We didn't make a point of it, but that was the basis of the plan. Maybe we can turn it around and give them a hand in getting back out of the complex again.” He looked back the way they came, then said, “You know the way back to the train?”

 “Sure.”

 “I think I can work out a different route. We take them, I grab the charges, and...”

 “Hey, wait a minute. You're going to set them?”

 With a shrug, he replied, “You're going to have to distract the reinforcements and run them back to Harper at the train. Assuming, of course, that you aren't running right into an ambush. We're both taking pretty big risks on this run.”

 “Except that you're the one playing with nuclear charges. Let me do it. Or at least...”

 “Ronnie, we don't have time for an argument, and I hate to put it this way, but I'm the ranking officer. Which in the Triplanetary Fleet means that I'm the moron who gets to put his life on the line. You've worn the uniform long enough to know that.” He looked back around the corridor, then said, “We do this quick, and by the numbers, and for God's sake, don't miss.”

 She nodded, then said, “We're going to have words about this when we get out of here.” Waving a finger at him, she added, “And if you don't get out of here, I'll kill you.”

 “Something to look forward to,” Clarke replied. “We fire on three, at the same time, and shoot to kill. Then make as much noise as you can. I'll try and stealth my way out of it.” He paused, glanced at his watch, and said, “And for the record, detonation in seventy minutes, mark.”

 “Seventy minutes, mark,” she replied. “Got it.”

 The two of them stepped back to the corner, taking deep, steady breaths to calm themselves, to prepare for the shot, and quietly walked into line of sight, pistols raised. The two guards saw them an instant too late, and a pair of cracks echoed from the walls as bullets slammed into them, catching them both in the side of the neck, sending the dying men dropping to the floor. One of them died instantly, the other lasted long enough to jam his finger on a communicator at his belt, sending a klaxon wailing through the air.

 “Good,” Clarke said. “That'll help.” He raced to the door, kneeling down to snatch a key-card from the belt of one of the dead guards, and ran it down the lock on the side of the control panel. “Get going, Ronnie. On the double. I'll see you back at the barn.”

 “Watch yourself,” she replied, turning away. “And try not to get lost.”

 “You too.”

 He stepped through the door, into a room filled with heavily-laden racks, rifles and ammunition scattered almost haphazardly around. With a quick glance at the rear, he started to rummage through the equipment, sweeping a pile of body armor to the floor with his arm as he desperately scrambled through the shelves. Jimmy had described the charges he was looking for, a pair of suitcase bombs, foot-long cylinders marked with the traditional nuclear symbol, the mushroom-cloud-and-skull.

 Just as he was despairing, concluding that perhaps Mortimer had been right, that they had been disposed of elsewhere, that his mission was doomed to failure, he looked underneath the rack, and saw the two devices he was looking for, both of them propping one side of the storage unit. Shaking his head at the stupidity of the quartermaster, he reached for the rack, sending it toppling from the wall, the contents scattering across the floor. Reaching down, he snatched at the bombs, grimacing at the weight, and holstered his pistol as he lurched into the corridor.

 Mortimer was well on her way back to the train by now, and he could hear footsteps up ahead that suggested that she'd succeeded in her bid to draw off the bulk of the reinforcements. Hefting the heavy bombs, trying to ignore the fact that he was carrying fifty kilotons of death in each hand, he lumbered towards the nearest hatch. Both of the bombs were rugged enough to survive a fall, and he wanted to place them at the base of the complex, where they would do the most good. Total destruction was the goal, the necessity. If any of the savages survived, then all of this would be for nothing.

 He knelt at the shaft and looked at the controls, oddly familiar in design, the ancestor of the charges used by asteroid miners back home. Quickly setting the timer, he pushed to confirm the detonation, and tipped it down the shaft, hearing it settle with a crash at the bottom a few moments later. Peering down, he spotted the cylinder nestled in a pile of debris, and nodded in satisfaction. Half way home, but he still had to set the second, and place it somewhere where it was unlikely to be found. It had been easy to activate them, but it would be just as easy to deactivate them again, later on, if one of the guards stumbled across it.

 Turning back to the corridor, he saw a figure walking towards him, his arm swinging in a sling, and he drew his pistol, stepping forward, the weight of the bomb slowing his progress as he looked at the man as he approached.

 “Clarke?” Jimmy said. “I take it you've planted the first one.”

 “In a shaft fifty meters away,” he replied.

 “Good. That's not far from where we were going to set them. Where's Mortimer?”

 “Drawing the reinforcements away. You take point. I want to get a bit of distance.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “We've got sixty-four minutes before this place ceases to exist.”

 With a curt nod, Jimmy turned, walking away down the corridor, setting a rapid pace that left Clarke struggling to keep up. More footsteps echoed in the distance, and at first, Clarke thought there were more guards heading their way, until another howl caused him to freeze him his tracks. He looked at Jimmy, and the expression on his face confirmed his worst fears.

 “The savages,” Jimmy said. “The savages are loose. Probably the batch in the testing lab. Dozens of them.” He looked at his pistol, shook his head, then said, “We're out of time. Set the bomb right now.”

 “But...”

 “Trust me,” he said, “if those monsters are running around down here, then nobody's going to be checking for stolen bombs.” Gesturing to an alcove in the corridor, he said, “In there. I'll cover you. Make it quick.”

 Nodding, Clarke lowered the charge into position, working over the controls as he began to set the timer, trying to make sure that it was in sync with the second explosion. He struggled to remember his demolitions training, a brief course that was being forced to take him to places his instructor had never dreamed of, and remembered a radiation monitor, designed to trigger the charge instantly upon registering the explosion of another. If it was as sensitive as the systems used back home, the detonations would be less than a microsecond apart. At worst, one bomb would have to suffice to destroy the base.

 “Hey, what are you doing?” an unfamiliar voice said, before a single crack of a bullet send the intruder stumbling back to the ground, clutching at the gaping wound in his chest. Clarke looked up at Jimmy, the man's face cold, hard, his eyes frozen. This was a different man than the one he had met in the desert. A warrior, a ruthless killer.

 “You ready?”

 “One more connection,” Clarke said, and he tapped a control, yielding an array of red lights on the bomb. After a second, they all winked out, and he added, “I killed the display. If anyone sees it, they should think that it's inert unless they really stop to look.”

 “Good,” Jimmy said. “Now, let's get the hell out of here. While we can.”

Chapter 24

 Salazar looked up as the cell door rattled open, and Mendez walked in, Baldwin standing behind him, rifle in hand, glancing from left to right. In the distance, he could hear sirens blaring, resounding through the corridors, and a faint tang of smoke seemed to be in the air. Rising to his feet, he look Mendez square in the eyes.

 “Firing squad or freedom?”

 “There are conditions,” Baldwin said. “We're not going to die here, and you aren't going to turn us over to the Hegemony. We want safe passage back to your Base Camp. Is that understood?”

 “I don't have much choice, do I?” Salazar replied. “Give me that rifle.”

 “Hey...”

 “You know who's in charge of the lifeboat? The man with the gun. And right now, that's me, and you don't have any more choice about it than I have. I'm assuming that my people have launched an attack on the facility, and that you've decided that you're going to take the better part of valor and give up now. How am I doing?”

 Nodding, Mendez replied, “Not bad. Though you've missed out one detail.” He glanced at Baldwin, and said, “Robertson's going to release the savages. Captain, we've still got people out in the corridor. She's holed herself in Operations with her hand-picked buddies to wait it out. Seems that the rest of us are expendable.”

 Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “Predictable. How can we stop her?”

 “We've got to take Operations. Right now. Three levels up, protected by troops loyal to her,” Baldwin said. “Any of my people we run into will join us, but I don't have any means of contacting them.” He glanced at his watch, and said, “We've got less than seven minutes, Captain.”

 “Lead the way.”

 Baldwin turned to the corridor, quickly moving to a jog as he sprinted to the junction at the end of the passage, a ladder illuminated by a spotlight. An explosion echoed from the walls, a firefight taking place somewhere in the lower levels, and Mendez looked ruefully at Salazar, panting for breath as he struggled to keep up.

 “Can you call off your men, Captain?” he gasped.

 “Not without a communicator,” he replied. “And I wouldn't anyway. Understand this. Right now, our interests coincide. That isn't a state of affairs I expect to last long. Don't worry, I'll keep my word and give you safe passage out of here, but we're not on the same side. My experience has been that the enemy of my enemy is usually still my enemy.”

 “Up the ladder,” Baldwin said, keeping an embarrassingly easy pace. “If it helps, Captain, your people swept through my outer perimeter as though it wasn't even there, and from what I can tell, they aren't even using their full strength yet.” He grimaced, and said, “Robertson's still giving them orders. I can't countermand them. My people are dying to defend her.”

 Salazar stepped onto the ladder, swinging the rifle's strap over his shoulder as he began to climb, the weapon slamming into his back with every step. He glanced up, the shaft seemingly endless as he ascended into the darkness about, the crack of gunfire all around him, the scream of a dying man chilling him to the bone.  He looked down at Baldwin, grim determination on his face. Mendez he couldn't read, but the guard commander was an open book. He was telling the truth.  Sweat pooled on his forehead, and he swept it clear with his hand as he swung out into the corridor, immediately running into a trio of men armed with rifles, all of them leveled at his chest. Baldwin stepped past him, anger raging on his face, while Mendez hung back, waiting in the shaft, unwilling to face the guards up ahead.

 “Damn it, Chet, let us though,” Baldwin barked.

 “I can't do that, sir,” the guard replied. “Orders from Doctor Robertson.” He glowered at Salazar, and said, “She's warned us that you've changed sides, and are to be stopped at all costs. I should have shot you when I first saw you, but if you leave now...”

 “We can't leave now,” Baldwin said. “She's going to open the gates. You know what that means? Ten thousand screamers running through the corridors, tearing everyone in their path limb from limb. Including you, Chet. You really think that she gives a damn about you? Don't be naive.”

 “Soldier,” Salazar said, “I've offered Captain Baldwin and Doctor Mendez safe passage out of the base. I'll extend the same offer to you and your men, and I don't even require that you come with us. Just head down to the vacuum train station and defend it against any attacks. That will be enough. We'll meet you there when we've completed our mission.” He paused, stepped forward, and added, “Failing that, I guess you're just going to have to shoot me, soldier, because that's the only way you're going to stop us getting to Operations.”

 The guard glanced at his comrades, took an involuntary step back, and said, “I can't. My duty is clear. She said you'd lie, say anything to get through. We've spent years working on this project, and we've got...”

 “You've got about ten minutes left to live unless you change your mind, Chet,” Baldwin said. “He's making you a better offer than I would, and I strongly suggest that you take it.”

 “I can't!” the guard insisted. “Stay still!”

 A loud click sounded from behind him, and Fox stepped out of the shadows, rifle in hand, leveled at the guards. “If he won't, I will.”

 “Sergeant,” Salazar said, a relieved smile on his face. “Disarm them. Then send them on their way.” Looking at the terrified trio, he continued, “Offer still stands. Get down to the vacuum train and wait. I'd like to keep the death toll down today if I can. Though somehow I don't think Robertson is going to cooperate.” Turning to Fox, he said, “Sit-rep, Sergeant.”

 “Lieutenant Lombardo is holding position down at the far end of the corridor, sir.” She gestured at the plasma rifle on her back, and said, “We've got three shots left each with these babies. Lieutenant Harper is down at the station as rear guard, and Sub-Lieutenants Clarke and Mortimer are…,” she paused, then looked at Baldwin, and added, “Running interference down in the lower levels. Distraction play.”

 She locked eyes with Salazar for a moment, and he knew that Clarke was engaged in something more important than a decoy run, something that she didn't dare report while anyone else was present. Somehow, he got the idea that she was the decoy, not Clarke, but for the moment, that didn't matter.

 “Get Lombardo up here on the double. We've got to take Operations before they can release the savages.” Turning to the guards, now disarmed, standing against the wall, he said, “Get the hell out of here before I change my mind.”

 Baldwin looked admiringly at the plasma rifle, and said, “Got a spare one of those?”

 “Not for you,” she replied with a sneer.

 Lombardo ran down the corridor towards them, sharing a quick nod with Salazar, then reporting, “Company on the way, sir. Multiple contacts, heading right for us. More than I can hold without plasma, and I'm a little worried about the integrity of the ceiling. Last thing we need is to bring the roof down on top of us.”

 “No argument here,” Salazar replied. “Which way, Baldwin?”

 “Right down the corridor, then turn right. You can't miss it.”

 Nodding, Salazar raced along the passage, leaving the startled guards in his wake, Baldwin and Fox sprinting to keep pace. All around him, the sounds of raging battles sounded, and he turned to Lombardo, struggling at the rear.

 “What's Clarke doing down there?”

 “No idea, sir,” he replied. “Though it must be something pretty special by the sound of it. It's just him and Mortimer, as far as I know.”

 “Wait a minute,” he said. “That's it? Just the four of you?”

 “Didn't have a chance to bring anyone else with us.”

 Baldwin laughed, and said, “My defenses were broken by four damned people?”

 “Gets better,” Fox replied. “I'm the only Espatier here. Guess you need to train your people a bit better, Baldy.” Swinging her plasma rifle into position, she added, “Don't like this, sir. No defensive perimeter. Smells like a trap.”

 “If it is, I'm in it with you,” Baldwin said. He glanced behind him, and frowned, “Looks like Mendez went with the guards. Just great.” A howl echoed down the corridor, and Baldwin skidded to a stop, saying, “I know that sound.”

 “Could they have released them already?”

 “No, not yet,” Baldwin said. “There's a time delay. A safety measure.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “We should have four minutes.” He cursed, then said, “The testing chambers. The lab. They've always got some in there, a couple of dozen. It's one level down, but they could herd them our way with the bulkheads.”

 “Fox, you and Lombardo hold them as long as you can,” Salazar said. “Art, give me that plasma rifle. I might have a use for it.”

 “Sure, skipper,” he said, tossing the heavy weapon to him. “Good luck.”

 “You too. Fall back here, and we'll head down to the vacuum train together. I hope.” Turning to Baldwin, he said, “This is your party. Lead on.”

 “Right.”

 The pair turned a corner, and a moment later, came face to face with a cold metal door, sealed in place, clamps locked down. With a muttered curse, Baldwin moved to the control panel, entering an override sequence once, then twice, finally slamming his fist against the wall in frustration. Tugging the panel down, he ripped at the wires inside, trying and failing to short the connection, before finally turning back to Salazar.

 “No good. They've changed my access code, locked it down. It'll take hours to open.”

 “Get back to the junction,” Salazar said, swinging the plasma rifle around.

 “I thought your man said that it might bring the roof down.”

 “It might. In which case all of this will soon be someone else's problem, won't it. Now get back to the junction and take cover. Be ready to advance if necessary.” He paused, then said, “What's on the other side of that?”

 “Short corridor, then Operations.”

 “Another blast door?” 

 “No, just normal.”

 “Right.” He altered the power settings, then knelt on the ground, aiming the rifle at the heart of the door in exactly the manner mandated by the manual. He looked up at the ceiling, noting for the first time the long cracks running through it, and shrugged. If he didn't break through the door, it wouldn't matter anyway. With one last, minute adjustment, he squeezed the trigger.

 A bolt of flaming green fire burst from the barrel of the gun, slamming into the door and reducing in to molten ruin, slag metal running across the ground, the after-blast shattering the simple metal door beyond. Dust and debris dropped from the ceiling, a combination of that and the smoke from within sending Salazar into a brief paroxysm of coughing as he struggled to his feet, taking a step forward and peering into the gloom.

 “You've got some nice toys, Captain,” Baldwin said.

 “Damn right,” he replied, racing forward, taking the molten remnants of the door with a single, cautious leap, before bursting into the Operations room beyond. It was just as he had pictured it, a dozen technicians sitting at their stations, stacks of emergency rations filling one wall, and Robertson herself, poised over a control panel, her finger hovering over a button.

 “Freeze,” Salazar said. “Don't move.”

 Raising an eyebrow, she replied, “Pull that trigger, and this time you will bring the roof down.”

 “On both of us,” he said. “I won't be going to Hell alone.”

 “Maybe not, but is that any reason not to postpone the trip? My offer still stands. I can call off the savages I've already released, or I can let the rest go. Don't you want to go home? The secrets you were looking for are here, in this database.”

 “Not at this price,” he said. “Give it up, Doctor! You've lost.”

 “Not yet,” she replied. “You're bluffing. You wouldn't take the risk, and we both know it.” She reached across to a control, and said, “I can connect you to the entire base from here. Order a ceasefire. I'll do the same. Then maybe we can settle this in a more civilized manner, rather than at the barrel of a gun. What do you say?”

 Shaking his head, he said, “What I said before. I want your unconditional surrender, and in exchange, I'll guarantee your safety once this complex has been destroyed. That's the best offer you're going to get.” He took a step forward, and said, “Your call, Doctor. I suggest you make it. Quickly.”

 She paused, frowned, and turned to the rear, as another loud roar echoed from behind him, the sound of a plasma bolt slamming into flesh, Fox choosing to spend a bolt to hold back the advancing savages. This time, the ceiling buckled and cracked, debris falling onto the console, one catching Robertson on the back of the hand, sending her fist down onto the control panel.

 Right onto the release mechanism. She looked up, panic in her eyes, and a five-minute countdown flickered into life on the displays.

 “No!” she yelled.

 “Can it be stopped?” Salazar asked, running forward.

 “Not now,” one of the technicians said. “The overrides are gone, and we've lost several of the blast doors. They're coming, and there's nothing we can do to stop them.”

 “You still set up to broadcast?” 

 “Sure,” the technician said, gesturing to a microphone.

 “Now hear this. This is Captain Salazar. The savages will be loose in five minutes minus. All Triplanetary and base personnel, evacuate to the vacuum train on the double. This is your only warning. Good luck.” He looked ruefully at the consoles, knowing there was no time to spare for the data download that might have got his crew home, then moved to the door. Turning back to Robertson, he said, “Time to go.”

 “We'll never make it time,” she protested.

 “We're dead if we don't try,” he replied, running through the door, the technicians streaming out after him, boiling into the corridor beyond. Robertson stayed in her chair, looking up at the console, and Salazar tugged at her, trying to force her out, but she refused to move. He followed the others from the room, and turned one last time to see her reach for a pistol, the same dull resignation on her face.

 He made it back into the corridor before he heard the crack of the gun.

Chapter 25

 Orlova sat in the command chair, the pain in her side a constant irritant, looking at the viewscreen as the Hegemonic ships danced across the display. Behind her, the door slid open, and Francis stepped inside, Scott behind, the latter moving to relieve Maqua at the tactical station. Francis looked at Orlova, then moved to stand behind her, eyes locked on the tactical map.

 “All command functions on the bridge will be out for at least a day,” he said. “We're stuck with Auxiliary Control until then.”

 “Just like old times,” she replied. “This brings back a few memories. Lieutenant Maqua, take the helm. No offense, Imoto, but I want someone with the maximum experience at the controls.” A faint smile crossed her face, and she added, “I've got an idea.”

 “I'm not going to like this, am I?” Maqua said, moving to the helm. “Remember that we don't have much in the way of fine control, Captain, and I'm not sure how long we're going to be able to sustain maximum power.”

 “Not a problem, Lieutenant. I think we're going to have to go where even devils will fear to tread.” She looked up at Francis, and said, “I presume Alamo's science team has been working on the singularity since your arrival? I need you to channel all the data they've gathered to the helm. We're going to try a right angle in space.”

 His eyes widened, and he replied, “A gravity swing around the black hole? Captain, do you realize how close we're going to have to go to make that work?” Moving over to the sensor display, he quickly worked the controls, and said, “Less than three hundred diameters. Well inside our restricted zone. If we have one problem, one error, then we're dead.”

 “Take a look around you, Lieutenant. If we try and go toe-to-toe with that Hegemonic formation, either they'll tear us to pieces or we'll be forced to abandon ship. I did that once before. I have no intention of doing it again.” She tapped the armrest of her chair, and continued, “She's a tough girl, Lieutenant. She can get through this in one piece, and if I'm plotting the course right, we'll swing well clear of the enemy forces and have a safe run all the way to the far hendecaspace point.” Gesturing at the viewscreen, she added, “Look at their approach vector. They'd either have to veer off, which should give us the best part of three hours, or have to go in closer than we will. Risking falling in themselves. Hell, unless they're got far more acceleration than we've seen yet, they wouldn't have a chance of pulling out of that dive.”

 “Maybe,” Francis said. He frowned, then walked over to Orlova, quietly adding, “Don't take this the wrong way, Captain, but...”

 “I assure you that I am in my sound mind, Lieutenant. I hadn't intended on assuming command, but given the circumstances, I don't believe I have a choice. We will revisit the command structure upon the safe return of Captain Salazar, but for the present, the ship is mine.” She looked up again, and added, “Unless, of course, you are contemplating the initiation of a mutiny, in which case I would request that you get it over with quickly, before we're committed to the dive.”

 “Swinging in that close to a black hole,” Francis said, shaking his head in disbelief.

 “Do you have any better suggestions, Lieutenant? Any other way out of this one?” Working the controls on her armrest, Orlova continued, “We can evade for a while, but not on a course that puts us on trajectory to a hendecaspace point. Right now, we've got the ability to make a transition, but the ship is being held together with hope, prayer and duct tape. We need to get to safety, and that means leaving the system. At least for the moment. There are nine other systems within range, and they can't cover them all. How many possible egress points, Maqua?”

 “Ninety-eight, ma'am.”

 “More than enough places for us to get lost. Scott, I want you to work with astrogation, and find me a nice hidey-hole. Somewhere with asteroid resources, something we can refine. I have a feeling that we're going to have to top up our raw materials storage before we start repairs. A source of ice would be good, as well.”

 “How about an Kuiper Belt, Captain?” Scott said. “Right on extreme range, but there's a sub-Jovian with a half-dozen moons, twelve egress points, eight billion miles from the primary. No way anyone's using it for anything, and no notations from the records we inherited from Endurance.” She glanced across at a control, and added, “Course is computed, and on the screen.”

 “Very good. Maqua, plot the black hole escape trajectory. Try and add in any margin for safety that you can manage, though I'll understand if your abilities are somewhat restricted in this approach pattern.”

 He nodded, and said, “I'll do what I can, Captain.”

 Reaching across to a control, she said, “Auxiliary Control to Engineering.”

 “Santiago here.”

 “How much damage will Alamo take on a high-gravity turn.”

 There was a deep sigh, and the engineer replied, “I think she'll hold together, but I'm not going to make any promises or guarantees, Captain. Too much risk that the ship will buckle under the strain. What are you planning?”

 “A fast swing around the singularity.”

 After a long pause, Santiago replied, “You nuts?”

 “Probably.”

 “At least you're willing to admit it. I've looked at the sensor display myself, Captain, and while this idea makes me sick to my stomach, I can't think of a better one. I guess we'll be on approach in a few minutes, so I'll start calling everyone into the core of the ship. We're going to suffer hull breaches from this, Captain. Bad ones. I take it the priority is the hendecaspace drive?”

 “It is.”

 “Then I'll keep it running for you. That and the main reactor. No promises on anything else.”

 “Understood. Keep an eye on our lady, Chief. Bridge out.” Turning to Francis, she continued, “I want you at Flight Engineering. Watch the stresses like a hawk, and make sure Maqua has as many of the external data feeds as possible.”

 “We've lost half the sensor...”

 “I know, I know, but we're going to have to make the best possible use of what we have.”

 “Course computed,” a pale-faced Maqua said. “Three hundred and ten diameters.”

 “Margin of error?”

 “None.”

 “I had a feeling it would end up that way. Commit, Lieutenant.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” the Neander replied. “Executing course change.” He glanced across, nervously, and added, “Never thought I'd be riding this close to the hole on a battlecruiser. Three minutes, nine seconds to closest approach.” Glancing up at the viewscreen, he added, “Enemy ships are matching course and speed as best they can. I think they're going to try and follow us.”

 Shaking her head, Orlova said, “They think we're bluffing. Give it a hundred seconds and they'll realize that they're making a hell of a mistake.” She turned to the communications station, and said, “Anything from the surface, Corporal?”

 “Not a thing, ma'am,” Quiller replied. “I'm sorry.” He looked down at a readout, and added, “Chief Kowalski reports that Shuttle Four is ready for immediate launch, and Midshipman Koslowski is sitting in the pilot's couch, waiting for the signal. She's requesting permission to return to the Sphere and attempt a rescue.”

 “Denied,” Orlova said, “but tell her to maintain alert readiness. Just in case.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” the Espatier said.

 “Captain,” Francis said, quietly, “you don't think there's a realistic chance that we're going to be able to recover them, do you? Even if we got a signal from the surface right away, any potential rescue window would be marginal at best.”

 “I don't intend to give up until the last possible second, Lieutenant. While the safety of the ship comes first, I will do everything I can to get all of our people off the Sphere.” Turning to Scott, she added, “Lieutenant, any change in attitude from the Hegemonic squadron?”

 “Nothing yet, Captain,” she replied. “They're still locked on, following us in. I don't see how they can possibly pull off a turn at this range. If they don't pull out in thirty seconds, they never will.” She glanced across at Orlova, and said, “I've got six missiles in the tubes if you want to give them a little additional encouragement.”

 “By all means, Kat,” she replied, and Alamo rocked back for a second as the missiles raced from their tubes, snapping into position on the tactical display as they homed in on their targets. The cruisers that raced after Alamo suddenly uncertain, beginning evasive maneuvers that would cost precious acceleration, potentially dragging them closer to the black hole.

 “Change to target aspect!” Scott said. “Two of them are turning away, slewing off to port. No chance of an intercept for at least three hours.” Throwing controls, she added, “The third is still coming, Captain. They'll be in firing range just as we're passing the singularity. That's a hell of a time for a firefight.” She looked across at another readout, smiled, and added, “Squadron Leader McCormack requests permission to scramble.”

 “Not a chance,” Orlova said. “Alamo has the power to climb out of this hole. The fighters don't. They're staying in the bay where they belong until this little ride is over.” Turning to Francis, she asked, “Structural integrity?”

 “Holding for the moment, but stress levels are rising,” he reported. “We've got to get through this as fast as we can.”

 “No argument from me,” she said. “Maqua, how are we doing?”

 “One minute, ten seconds to closest approach. I'm having to throw the remaining thrusters on maximum. If we get any failures, we're in trouble. The navigational computer is just about giving up on this. Nobody designed it to fly this close to a black hole.”

 “Be prepared to go manual if you have to, and don't give too much faith to the sensor inputs.” She looked up at the screen, watching as one of the missiles found its target, slamming into the side of the remaining cruiser, blasting a satisfactory crater into its side that spilled oxygen into space, a brief ghostly fountain that vanished as rapidly as it had come.

 Now the black hole dominated the viewscreen, distorting the display as Alamo drew closer, ever closer, Maqua struggling to hold the ship on course as he attempted to guide her around it, keeping her on the precisely calculated trajectory. Warning wails screamed from the engineering console, systems failures from the outer areas of the ship, and Orlova knew that whatever the outcome, Alamo wouldn't be in a fit state to fight another battle for weeks. Maybe months.

 Behind her, the enemy cruiser pressed on, but she was tighter to the singularity than they, and the inevitable happened as it reached the calculated point of closest approach, dragging closer still, unable to veer away. While Alamo surged onto its escape trajectory, gaining speed as it flew a wide parabola around the black hole, the cruiser dived down into the heart of the unknown, distress calls screaming unheeded into the dark, the bridge crew helpless to respond to their desperate calls for help.

 “That's it!” Maqua said. “We're clear. Cutting to minimal thrust. Going to one-tenth power.” He turned to Orlova, and said, “Ma'am, please don't make me do that again.”

 “We're not going to be trying that again for a long time,” Francis replied. “I'm reading hull breaches on almost every deck, and we're losing atmosphere in eighteen compartments. No new casualties, but internal structural failures are going to make it hell to reach some of the worst-affected areas.” He glanced across at a board, and added, “We've also lost internal communications again, though I presume Chief Santiago will make that a priority.”

 “Status of the enemy ships?”

 “The two survivors are staying well clear of the black hole, Captain,” Scott reported. “I'm not detecting any signs of damage, I'm afraid. Nothing that will reduce their combat effectiveness, anyway. We didn't get any more impacts after the first one.” She threw another series of switches, and said, “Bandwidth's a lot lower than I'd like on the sensor inputs, but as far as I can tell, we're safe for at least eight hours. They're really heading wide.” She paused, turned, and added, “If I was to guess, we're looking at another series of reinforcements heading this way.”

 “A third wave?” Francis replied.

 “The course they're on is consistent with linking up with additional ships at the near hendecaspace point in around seven hours, sir,” she replied. “If they're out to capture us, perhaps they're bringing in troop transports. Auxiliary craft, perhaps. Or it could be a deception play, of course, designed to throw us off guard.”

 “Doesn't matter,” Orlova said, turning back to the helm, “Lieutenant, do you think you could get us closer to the entrance of the Sphere?” She glanced up at the sensor display again, and said, “I want two quick passes, one in fifteen minutes, the next one in six hours on our way out of the system.”

 “Captain,” Francis said, “We're pushing our odds as it is. I'd recommend we leave the system now, while we can.”

 “Take a look at your status panel, Lieutenant,” Orlova replied. “I'm not sure that we'd live through transition. Six hours will give the damage control teams time enough to at least start work on the hull, give us a much better chance of executing a safe egress from the system. Besides, they won't be attacking us for at least that much time. We've got a window.” Rising from her chair with an effort, she said, “I'm heading down to the hangar deck. Lieutenant Francis, you have the ship.”

 “With all due respect, Captain, I must protest,” Francis said. “If you've taken command, then your place is here, and….”

 “I'll be riding right-seat on Shuttle Four. We're going down to the Sphere to give Pavel and the others one last chance to get away. We owe them that much.”

 “Captain, you're wounded, and...” he paused, then continued, “I know that Midshipman Koslowski has already volunteered to head down there, and if you're determined to let her make the attempt, that's one thing, but there's no reason for you to go with her. Especially in your current condition.”

 “You're wrong about that,” she replied, moving to the door. “I have to go. If someone has to make the decision to abandon them, then I have to do it. I won't leave it to anyone else.” Glancing back at him, she said, “If something goes wrong, then leave me behind as well. That's an order.”

 “I will,” he said. “If the safety of the ship depends on it, I will.”

 “That's why I know I can leave you in command,” she said.

 He nodded, and as she left the room, replied, “Happy hunting, Captain.”

 “And to you.”

Chapter 26

 Clarke sprinted down the corridor, slipping and sliding as he made his way down the passage with Jimmy just behind him. He glanced at his watch, knowing that they had only a matter of minutes before the twin nuclear charges detonated. The vacuum train was their only hope of escape, the only vehicle fast enough to deliver them to safety. Assuming it was still there.

 “John!” Mortimer's voice yelled, the sound echoing from a side passage.

 “What are you still doing here?” he replied, panting for breath as he dashed towards a nearby shaft. “I thought you were...”

 “I got lost,” she said, moving to his side. At his glare, she added, “Fine, I loitered to catch you up. Most of the guards headed back up to the higher levels anyway, but I thought I'd sweep the perimeter. Did you hear that alarm a few minutes ago?”

 Jimmy frowned, and asked, “A low, long wail?”

 “Yes.”

 “Christ.”

 “What?” Clarke asked.

 “Someone's released the gates to the under-levels. The home of the savages. They're on the loose, right through the complex.” His face paled, and he said, “They'll be on us in a matter of minutes. Right now they're probably smashing their way through the rest of the guards. Your people?”

 “None of them would be that crazy,” Mortimer replied. “Probably one of the scientists. Last resort, kicking over the table when she realized she was losing the game. Assuming it's who I think it probably is.”

 “Doesn't really matter who did it right now,” Clarke said. “We're almost there, anyway. If I'm right, that shaft leads all the way down to the beach, maybe a hundred meters from the train.” A rattle of gunfire echoed from behind him, followed by an soul-rending cacophony of wails, the hunting cry of the savages sounding once more, louder than he had heard yet. Gesturing at the ladder, he said, “Ronnie, you go first. I'll take up the rear.”

 “Not going to argue,” she said, scrambling down the ladder. Jimmy paused, turned to the passage, then followed, his wounded arm slowing his pace. Clarke waited at the top for a long moment, turning back to the corridor, pistol in hand, and was about to follow the others when he saw someone running towards him, the familiar figure of Lance-Sergeant Fox, red-faced from exertion.

 “Wait!” she said, almost colliding into him. “Damn, I'm glad to see you. Should have known you'd turn up.” Gesturing behind her, she added, “We've got people heading this way. A lot of people, maybe a dozen, with Captain Salazar, Lieutenant Lombardo...”

 Glancing at his watch, Clarke replied, “This base blows in fifteen minutes. Assuming the savages don't get them first.” He looked at her, frowned, then asked, “Where's your plasma rifle?”

 “Out of charge. Left it behind. It was just slowing me down. Rifle too. I'm out of ammo.”

 “Hey, John!” Mortimer yelled. “You coming?”

 “In a minute,” he said. “We've got friendlies on the way.” He looked back at the corridor, wider than most. Wide enough that he might be able to provide suppressing fire to any group of survivors fleeing for the shaft. “What's the situation down there?”

 “Twelve people on the train, ready to go. Come on!”

 “Not yet!” Clarke said. “We've still got a few minutes.” Turning to Fox, he said, “On your way, Sergeant.”

 “Hey, wait...”

 “I've still got three clips. You don't. And I'm not giving them to you. On your way, Sergeant, and if I don't make it down in time, go without me. That's an order.”

 She glowered at him, slapped him on the shoulder, then dived down the shaft. Clarke turned back to the corridor, pistol in hand, knowing that his chances of successfully holding back the horde were problematic at best. Somehow, that didn't seem to matter. He glanced at his watch again, and quickly set an alarm to sound once the bomb was five minutes from detonation. He was willing to risk his life for his friends, but not throw it away.

 A moment later, Lombardo raced down the corridor, a trio of local technicians behind him, and Clarke slapped him on the back as he wordlessly raced for the shaft, sliding smoothly down into the darkness, leading the first contingent down. It was then that he saw the first of the savages, the leader of a pack, dropping from a hidden shaft in the ceiling. He felled the beast with a single, careful shot, the corpse collapsing onto the floor, but he knew that it was the first of many.

 Deep inside, a part of him cried that he had done enough, that nobody would protest if he turned away now, sought the safety of the vacuum train. He looked back at the shaft once more, then turned to see another cluster of survivors racing down the corridor, all of them unfamiliar, wearing the uniform that had moments ago been that of the enemy. Less than an hour ago, he'd fought them, but he couldn't just leave them to die. Not from the explosion, not at the hands of the savages. Somehow, it wouldn't be right.

 Two more savages scrambled into the corridor, one of them jumping onto the back of the slowest technician, reaching down with savage jaws. Clarke fired, placing two bullets into the creatures head, blood splattering the screaming victim as he crashed to the floor, his fellows returning to drag him to safety.

 “Where's the Captain?” Clarke asked.

 “One more party on the way” one of them replied. “Just behind us.” As he raced for the shaft, he asked, “Aren't you coming?”

 “Soon,” he replied. “Soon.” He turned back to the corridor, then looked across at the shaft as he heard the sound of someone ascending, getting ready to rebuke Fox for disobeying his orders when he saw Jimmy crawling to the corridor, a machine gun slung over his back, belts of ammunition drooping down after him.

 “What the hell do you think you are doing?” Clarke asked. “Get out of here?”

 “I've still got a job to do,” Jimmy replied. “Keep watching the corridor. I've got to set this up.” As the wounded man worked to prepare the machine gun, Clarke looked back as a salvo of gunshots echoed from the walls, the sounds of battle getting ever closer. He felt that he could hear a scurrying noise from all around him, as though the savages were filling every corridor, every passage, swarming in every direction.

 It was then he realized that, in all probability, he was a dead man.

 Even after getting down the shaft, a descent that the nimble savages would make far faster than he, there remained that long sprint to the train at the bottom, a hundred desperate meters. The survivors would have no choice other than to pull out. Or face being overwhelmed if they waited, making their last stand meaningless.

 Taking a deep breath, he settled into parade rest, pistol held high, then glanced at his watch. Twelve minutes to detonation. The blast range would be at least a mile across, maybe more, and the shock of the explosion would be felt ten times that far. He looked down at Jimmy, sliding the last components into position and fitting the ammunition in place, then heard a cry from the corridor ahead. Salazar and two others, both wearing the uniform of Base Security, were charging towards him, rifles in hand.

 “They're right behind us!” Salazar yelled. “Get out of here!”

 Before Clarke could even reply, still less contemplate following his commander's order, a swarm of savages raced down the corridor towards him, answered by a series of bursts of machine gun fire that held them back for a brief second, the first wave of attackers falling to the ground as Salazar and the others desperately attempted to escape, the guards jumping over Jimmy in their haste to reach the shaft, one of them missing the rungs and falling into space, his comrade desperately snatching at his jacket as he fell.

 Salazar slid into position beside Clarke, then said, “Get moving, Sub-Lieutenant. I've got this one.” Glancing down at the machine gun, he asked, “How much ammunition?”

 “Enough,” Jimmy replied. He drew a pistol, pointed it at Clarke, and said, “Both of you get out of here, or I shoot him, right now.” Firing another burst with the machine gun, he added, “I don't have enough ammunition for a long argument. Someone has to stay here to hold them back, or none of us are getting out of here, and I don't think we've even got time for someone to take my place.” He fired another burst, then said, “Get moving, damn it! I died here two years ago. It doesn't matter to me. Except that I want someone to remember this, and make sure it never happens again. Now go, damn it, go!” Salazar looked at Clarke, nodded, then made for the shaft. Clarke looked down at Jimmy once more, then pulled a grenade out of his pocket, passing it to him.

 “One tap, and its all over in five seconds.”

 “Got it. Thanks.” He paused, then looked up at Clarke, adding, “Thanks for finishing it. I couldn't have done it. You've given the deaths of four people real meaning.”

 “Five,” Clarke said. “Rest well, my friend.” He slid down the ladder, his palms burning as he dropped to the shore below, then sprinted for the tunnel, Salazar already ahead of him, Mortimer at the threshold, waving the two of them on. He just made it to the entrance when he heard the boom of an explosion behind them, and realized that Jimmy must have been overrun, had opted to take the one-way ticket to Heaven he'd left behind. The last stand had held for less than a minute.

 “Come on!” Mortimer said, and the two of them scrambled into the vacuum train, Lombardo sealing the doors and working the mechanism as a swarm of savages burst onto the beach, running at them from all sides. They slammed into the train, sharp claws sliding down the metal in silent fury, and finally, the train began to move, slowly at first, moving through the tunnel, then quickly accelerating to maximum speed, leaving the underground lake far behind as they raced across the desert beyond.

 Clarke looked at the figures sprawled in the cabin, a dozen wounded guards lying on the floor, others sitting by the wall, staring into space. Their dreams of conquest had died, and they were defeated more truly than any fallen army had ever been. The pistol at his belt hardly seemed necessary. They weren't going to run, weren't going to put up any resistance. He looked down at his watch as it beeped, and Salazar glanced across at him, a frown on his face.

 “How long?” he asked.

 “Five minutes. I think.”

 “We're three miles away, gaining speed,” Lombardo replied. “I think we're going to make it.” 

 “I'll believe it when it happens,” Salazar said. He sighed, then added, “They had it. The wormhole map. There wasn't time to retrieve it.” Looking down at the deck, he said, “There just wasn't time.”

 “Hey,” Harper said, “that means that the secret's here, on the Sphere. If they could find it, so can we. There will be other bases, other installations. We just have to find them.” She glanced at the mountains, and said, “And it was worth it. It was all worth it.”

 “I hope so,” Salazar replied. “I hope so. But...”

 Before he could reply, a blinding flash erupted from the desert, followed by the loud rumble of a colossal explosion, a pillar of smoke soaring into the sky and forming the distinctive mushroom cloud that all of them knew too well. A nuclear detonation, close behind them. The few datapads in their position rang as their radiation detectors snapped into life, alerting them of the hazard they were in. The train shook side to side as Lombardo threw the engines into maximum acceleration, sending them tumbling to the rear. Behind them, the cloud grew, and grew, and the mountains could be seen no more, flame and fury filling the landscape where they had been.

 “Brace for the shockwave!” Salazar yelled, and Clarke dived to the ground just in time as the train bucked, the force of the explosion slamming into them. Somehow, Lombardo kept them on the magnetic tracks as he urged the vehicle to still greater speed, finally outpacing the force of the blast.

 “I thought you said five minutes!” Harper protested.

 “That's how I set it,” Clarke replied. He paused, then said, “The bastards.”

 “What?”

 “Jimmy and his team. They were dead anyway. Those bombs were set to go off too soon, to make sure that the attack force wouldn't talk about what they had done.” He shook his head, and said, “We damn near fell victim to a Hegemonic attack on their own people.” Taking a deep breath, he looked back at the devastation unfolding behind them, and said, “Nothing could live through that. We stopped them.”

 “Maybe,” Harper said. “Those caves are deep. Miles deep. And we never did know how far the savages ran. We've held them back for the moment.”

 “That's enough,” Clarke said. “That's enough.” Looking at Salazar, he added, “Let's go home.”

 “Five hours to Base Camp,” Lombardo replied. “Assuming anyone's still there when we arrive.”

Chapter 27

 Orlova looked out over the plain, watching the mushroom cloud continue to rise, just as it had for the last hour. She glanced across at the awed Koslowski, then looked up at the radiation detector, more for reassurance than any real fear. They were far enough from the blast that there should be no danger, and the desert was bleak enough that it would be unlikely that any civilians would be killed by the blast. Whatever else had happened, Salazar, Clarke and the others had done exactly what they had set out to do.

 And there was an increasingly likely chance that they'd died in the attempt.

 She looked around the abandoned base camp, a distorted mirror of the first outpost constructed by Monitor when they'd first arrived at the Sphere, now almost a year ago. She tried to remember her brief time on that ship, less than three months from first assuming command to seeing her destroyed at the hands of the Hegemony, the target of a vicious, unprovoked attack that had stranded her crew millions of light-years from home. And as far as she knew, they were still here. She reached across to a control, flicking a switch and turning to a microphone.

 “Captain Orlova to any station, any station. Captain Orlova to any station, any station. Reply at once. Reply at once.” She looked up at the monitors, and shook her head. They still hadn't worked out a good way of cutting through the babel of conversation that dominated the Sphere, and increasingly she was of the opinion that there was some other force preventing them, some higher intelligence attempting to keep the different civilizations that inhabited this vast structure from talking to one another. She couldn't think of a good reason why, but it was the only explanation that made sense. The Hegemony had attempted to crack through for years, and had failed.

 “Anything on the sensors, Midshipman?” she asked.

 “Nothing, ma'am,” the awed Koslowski replied. “Some seismic readings, but that's almost certainly from the explosion in the desert. I have some preliminary reports on that if you want them. Looks like they managed a hundred-and-twenty kilotons, and...”

 “Later,” she replied. “As long as it did the job. That's all that matters now.”

 “Yes, ma'am,” she said. “It did the job.” She glanced across at another control, and added, “Eight minutes to launch window, Captain. I've completed pre-flight, all systems ready to go.”

 “Come on, Pavel,” she muttered. “You're cutting it too damned fine.”

 “We haven't heard a word, ma'am, and if they were on their way...”

 “We wait.”

 “There's an excellent chance they're already dead, ma'am. That explosion was far larger than anything that would be needed to destroy the base. Assuming they didn't trigger some sort of self-destruct system.” Turning back to the cockpit, she continued, “Seven minutes, thirty seconds.”

 “In this Fleet, Midshipman, we don't write someone off as dead until we've seen the damned funeral! I've watched Pavel Salazar and Kristen Harper pull off some pretty amazing stunts over the years, and this is just another one of them. Focus our sensors on the train track.” She paused, then said, “And prepare for launch.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” Koslowski said with a disappointed sigh.

 “Don't give up so soon, kid. We're not going out of the Sphere. Not yet. I want you to program in an overfly of the ruins where I was picked up. A close-range sweep. Maybe they've made it, and we haven't spotted them for some reason.”

 “That's going to eat up an awful lot of fuel, Captain.”

 “Undoubtedly. That means that your skill as a pilot will be tested as it never has been before. Use all conservation measure you can, but get us there. That's an order.”

 With a sigh, Koslowski tapped a series of instructions into the navigational computer, and said, “I'd wanted to serve with Captain Salazar since I was at the Academy. Wrote my thesis on his battle strategies.”

 “You're kidding,” Orlova replied, as the young officer fired the launch thrusters. “I didn't know that Pavel had his own groupie.”

 Turning to Orlova, she said, “He's taught me a lot since I joined Alamo. And the most important think he's taught me is that there are times to cut your losses and walk away from the table. While there was a chance, I had to give it to him, but we're going to be nursing back home on empty tanks if we try this, and Alamo can't wait for us without risking an attack that will cripple her, strand her crew here like you stranded Monitor's.”

 Raising an eyebrow, Orlova replied, “I suppose I could point out that your words are gross insubordination, Midshipman.”

 “Pavel Salazar is my commanding officer, ma'am. I'm still following his orders, even if he isn't here to give them.” Tapping a control, she said, “Ruins in three minutes. We'll be thirty seconds late making contact with Alamo.” She paused, then added, “Getting seismic readings from up ahead. There's something coming, at extreme range. Looks like the vacuum car.” Turning to Orlova, she added, “They're four thousand miles away, Captain. Two and a half hours, at their current course.”

 “Prepare to return to Base Camp. Signal Alamo, and inform them that they need to make another swing around to retrieve...”

 “Captain, I can't obey that order.”

 “Midshipman….”

 “In all conscience, Captain, I can't. I doubt Senior Lieutenant Francis will, either, and he'd be right to reject it. You know that, ma'am. We're out of time, and we can't stay here.” The communicator crackled, a faint voice whispering through the static, and Koslowski turned back to the controls with a start, sweeping across the frequencies in a desperate attempt to focus the transmission, to boost the power to a level that would make it audible. “Shuttle Four to Unknown Contact. Come in, please.”

 “Salazar here,” the voice replied, faint and distant. “Report, Midshipman.”

 “We're coming to get you, Pavel,” Orlova said.

 “Doesn't answer my question. What's your status?”

 “Alamo is heavily damaged and in a position to leave the system,” Koslowski replied. “We'll be able to get out ahead of the Hegemony if we leave now. If we don't, we risk coming under heavy attack. Orders, sir.” She glared at Orlova, daring her to speak, but the veteran commander shook her head.

 “You have to ask? Get the hell out of there while you can. That's a direct order on my personal authority as commander of Alamo. Run for cover, patch up the ship, and if you get a chance, return. We've got a lead on the secrets of the wormhole, Midshipman. I had to destroy a part of it, but the secret is here, on the Sphere, just as we thought. Pass that back to Francis. You got that? He's to make no effort to investigate further. Leave that for us.”

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

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

 “Eight to ten weeks.”

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

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

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

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

 “I do, ma'am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Epilogue

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

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

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

 “Not a problem,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

 Not that he had any intending of remaining behind.

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

 “You in one piece?” he asked.

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

 “Did the ship get away clean?”

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

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

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

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

 “What about the prisoners?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Such as?” Baldwin asked.

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

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

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

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

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

 “We'll be killed,” Mendez said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “And if Alamo doesn't come back?”

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

 “None,” Curtis replied, shaking his head. “I just spoke to Admiral Carson. We're clear to launch our attack as soon as we get within range, then sweep around to join the rest of the Fleet for the final assault on Testament Station.” Looking around the deck, he added, “After which, in all probability, the war will be over, ladies and gentlemen.”

 A brief murmur echoed around the room, Rojek stepping forward with a menacing glare in his eye to add, “Though until that, we all have an obligation to continue our duties as before. And regardless of the official ending of the conflict, we will likely be engaged in mopping-up operations for some considerable time to come.”

 Curtis looked back at the black-uniformed officer, taking a quick step towards him, and said, “I'm trying to give these people something to hope for. Most of them are in the reserve. They didn't sign up for some sort of endless war.”

 “And I'm telling them the truth, Commander. They're not going home for months. Even when the Rebel fleet has been wiped out, we're still going to be mopping up their frontier outposts and commerce raiders for a while. Polaris will be right at the heart of that effort.” Glancing at the monitor, he added, “Not to mention that we've still got to stop those troop reinforcements making it to Testament Station, or our assault force will be cut to pieces before they can press their attack.”

 His face locked in a frown, Curtis replied, “If you ever contradict me in front of the crew again, Rojek, I will personally see you placed under arrest for mutiny, political connections or no. That isn't a threat. It's a promise. I strongly suggest that you take it as such. Do you understand?”

 “Commander, we both have jobs to do. I understand that, and I hope that you do the same.” He paused, then asked, “Isn't your son graduating from the Academy next month?”

 Curtis' eyes widened, and he said, “If that's some sort of threat...”

 “No, no,” Rojek said, holding his hands up. “Not what I meant at all. What I was going to say was that even if Polaris is heading off on another mission, there's no need for you to go with her. I checked the records, and you've got more leave time saved up than anyone else on board. More than enough to go back to Earth for a few weeks, attend your son's graduation, take a little time to walk through a forest or something.”

 “I'm fine. And my crew needs me.”

 “Your crew needs you at your best, Commander, and you're beginning to slip a little. And before you bite my head off, monitoring your well-being is part of my job as well. I don't have any intention of submitting a written report...”

 “That's a comfort.”

 “As yet, but I might have to change my mind about that if you continue on this course. As soon as the current fighting is over, take some time off. And consider that an order.”

 “You don't give me orders, Rojek.”

 “In this specific matter, I do, and you know it. And that you are arguing about this only proves my point.”

 “Commander,” Cordova said, gesturing him over to the sensor display. “Something interesting ahead. Our targets are altering course.”

 “Where are they going?” Curtis asked, moving back to his position at the heart of the bridge, tapping controls to throw a holographic projection of local space into the air ahead of him, ships and moons flickering into life.

 “Mareikuna, sir. Third moon of that gas giant up ahead. Big hunk of rock with enough atmosphere and gravity to be a real problem if we get too close. I think they're trying for a slingshot.” The young officer worked his controls, and a golden trail flashed onto the display, a projected course heading. “If they're trying to get far enough away from the gravity well to engage Tau Drive, that's where I'd go. Down towards the gas giant for a big, unpredictable boost. We'd have a hard time tracking them down.”

 “Signal from Cygnus, sir,” one of the communications technicians, a gray-haired man named Dietrich, said. “Commander Caldwell reports enemy course change, requests instructions.”

 “We could split the squadron,” Diaz said. “Cover all the bases. One ship should be able to tackle the three of them if necessary, or perhaps corral them to the others.”

 “And if this is some sort of a trap?” Curtis asked. “A suicide run, like they tried at Sirius? No, Lieutenant, we're going to keep our defensive firepower interlocked.” He frowned, then turned to Cordova, and said, “Signal Engineering, Kit. I'm going to want full power to the engines on the double. Everything we've got. And contact the other ships and inform them to follow our lead.”

 “Where are we going?” Rojek asked, moving in behind him.

 “They want to do a slingshot? We're going to go along with that idea. An atmospheric skip.”

 Rojek's eyes widened, and he replied, “That's a pretty risky maneuver.”

 “You said yourself that bringing these ships down was of critical importance, and we take risks like that every time we go into battle.” He paused, then said, “Signal those ships when we get close, and offer their surrender.”

 “Our orders are to destroy those ships, Commander.”

 “You really think the Commerce Directorate will complain about getting three bulk transports back at the end of the fighting? Besides, I don't think they'll actually surrender, not for a moment. I just want them to believe that the hand we're holding is weaker than it really is.”

 Nodding, Rojek said, “I should have learned from that last poker game.”

 Turning back to the helm, Curtis said, “Lopez, I want a course to skip us off the atmosphere of Mareikuna. One that will throw us into any possible projected path of those three ships. We're not going to have long in the firing line, so we're going to have to disable those craft with a single salvo. Diaz, contact your counterparts in the rest of the squadron and arrange an optimum firing pattern. Target engines to begin with. If we slow them down enough, we can finish them off at our leisure.” He frowned, turned to Rojek, and said, “Make sure our troops are at their posts to repel potential boarders. If they've got eight thousand troops on those ships, their commander might decided to make some practical use of them.”

 “Agreed,” Rojek replied, moving to his station at the rear of the command deck, issuing orders to a petrified technician. Curtis looked at the supposed guardian of his morals for a moment, his frown locked on his face. He didn't like the idea of the Political Directorate having an agent on his ship at the best of times, certainly not one with the ability to override his authority. Having said that, Rojek at least knew when to keep out of the way, and that was more than could be said for most of his colleagues. There'd been some notable disasters in the early days of the Uprising, battles lost because an untrained near-civilian had decided to intervene at the wrong moment.

 He looked across at the display, checking over the course Lopez had locked into the system. Another officer too young for his rank. That had become the rule, these days, after the casualties they'd suffered at the start of the fighting, three ships lost to a surprise attack with countless other officers assassinated by the rebels. He'd had a near-miss himself, surviving only by the skin of his teeth in a firefight right here on the bridge that had wiped out three senior officers. The carpet was still stained with their blood, his direct orders to leave it where it was. As both a monument to the dead and a reminder of what they were fighting for.

 Not that the Republic had been exactly pure over the last few years. Both sides had committed atrocities, and somehow the new generation of commanders had been more willing to use excessive force to get the job done. And the Central Committee had done nothing about it. There had been moments, more and more frequently over the last few months, when he had wondered what exactly they were fighting for.

 Rubbing his forehead, he sighed. Rojek was probably right, much as it pained him to admit it. He did need some time off, and he hadn't seen his son since the Uprising began. A few scattered messages back and forth wasn't enough. As soon as this battle was over, and the one the rest of the fleet was preparing to fight at 61 Cygni, he'd put in for that leave.

 “One minute to closest approach, sir,” Lopez said. “Course locked into computer.”

 “Signal from Caldwell,” Cordova said with a sigh. “He suggests that Cygnus could take high guard, the rear of the formation, in case the enemy ships are playing some sort of a trick.”

 “That man loves his own skin, doesn't he,” Lopez replied.

 “Mind your station, Lieutenant,” Curtis snapped, while inwardly agreeing with the young helmsman. “Kit, inform Commander Caldwell that I am in command of the formation, and that I expect my orders to be carried out without question. Further stress that all three ships will share the danger of the fight together, and that I expect his ship to fire with the rest of us.”

 “Aye, sir,” Cordova said, turning to the communications technician, rapidly conjuring a way of translating a barked insult into a diplomatically-worded order. Caldwell had connections back home, another political appointee assigned to a command to tick a box on his career path, a route that would likely take him to the Central Committee in a decade or so. Curtis only wanted to stay in command of a ship, had made it quite clear to those who had attempted to push him onto a more ambitious trajectory that he had already attained his highest goal, and that all he wanted was to continue in his current role. He'd racked up enough favors over recent years to think that he had a shot. The last thing he wanted was for a political animal like Caldwell to steal his ship.

 “All hands,” he said, picking up a microphone. “This is the Commander. We'll be going into action in a few minutes, and I expect each and every one of you to do your best. Let's make the last battle of the Uprising a clean victory. Good hunting.” He looked up at the trajectory plot again, data streaming in from the flanking sensor drones, and nodded in approval. The transports had been too slow to spot his actions, hadn't altered course in time. They'd only have a short window to bring them down, but it would be enough. Military-grade weapons against civilian hulls was no contest.

 “Main batteries have a firing solution on the enemy ships, sir,” Diaz said. “All ships locked into combat sequence. Cygnus will be firing first, by a quarter-second, then Canopus, then us.”

 “Very good,” Curtis said. “Make sure you have a defensive salvo ready, just in case.”

 “All locked in, sir,” she replied with a beaming smile. Another ambitious officer, one with a realistic chance of getting a ship of her own in a few years. Had the fighting continued much longer, she'd have probably ended up with a command even sooner than that. Curtis had been the youngest commander in the Fleet at the outset of the Uprising, but that record had been shattered within months as the casualties mounted, officers who only knew peacetime conditions struggling to adapt to the harsher realities of war.

 The moon seemed to rush towards them as Polaris led the way, alarms sounding as hull temperatures rose, skirting safe limits as it bit into the upper limits of the atmosphere, swooping into position to skip back into space, gaining speed and throwing the squadron onto a trajectory the enemy ships couldn't predict. They'd attempted to use this maneuver against them. Curtis was just stealing their idea, minutes earlier than they could manage.

 “Got them, sir!” Cordova said, triumphantly. “Trajectory plot has an intercept course in fifty-five seconds. Firing in fifty.”

 “All turrets ready, sir,” Diaz added. “All ships reporting that they have completed the maneuver and are prepared to engage at your command.”

 “Fire at will,” Curtis said. “And get this right, Lieutenant. We're only going to have one chance to make this work. Take full advantage.”

 “Sir?” Cordova said, breaking in. “One of our hackers has cracked into the enemy systems.”

 “Good work, Lieutenant!” Rojek said. “That data could be invaluable.”

 Cordova nodded for a second, listening to the voice chattering into his earpiece, then sprinted over to the far side of the command deck, racing towards Diaz, screaming, “Hold fire!”

 “What?”

 “Those aren't troop transports! They're carrying non-combatants out of the war zone. Women and children, Commander!”

 “Twenty seconds to firing.”

 “Our intelligence has soldiers on those ships, Lieutenant,” Rojek said. “I was personally briefed by Admiral Pryor. It must be some sort of trick.”

 “Sir, we're getting camera pickups now,” Cordova said, diving to the nearest console and throwing them on the screen, flashing images of the interior of the ships onto the display. Bunks loaded with children, watching a monitor as their crew fought to save their lives. Fought to save their lives from his ships.

 “Abort!” Curtis yelled. “Diaz, abort firing sequence! That's a direct order!”

 “If this is a mistake, Commander,” Rojek said, menacingly, “they'll space you for this.”

 Diaz turned to her console, her fingers stabbing controls, overriding the computer and disabling the turrets, silencing the primary armament of Polaris before she could open up. To her right, a technician struggled to open a channel to the other ships, spending the final seconds in a desperate bid to call off the other ships.

 He reached Canopus with less than a second to spare, the cruiser veering off, unable to prevent her turrets from firing, instead spilling kinetic projectiles harmlessly into deep space. Cygnus was another story. Either Caldwell didn't hear them, or dreams of glory had prevented him from following the order. Her turrets fired on the pre-programmed sequence, hurling hundreds of projectiles into the fleeing transports.

 “Impact in three seconds,” Diaz said, blankly.

 Cordova tapped a control, sending the messages streaming into Polaris onto the ceiling speakers, a chorus of cries for help, rebel commanders knowing that they were doomed begging for a salvation they knew couldn't come. As the salvo from Cygnus hit home, tissues of flame raced across the sides of the ship. Diaz had been right, earlier. One ship was enough to bring them down, knocking out the engines of the three transports, sending them floating dead in space.

 “Prepare rescue shuttles,” Curtis said, quietly.

 “It's too late,” Cordova said, his voice empty of emotion, as though all of it had been spent in a desperate second. “They were too close to the moon. Within the gravity well. They'll be re-entering in less than four minutes. Our shuttles couldn't reach them in time.” The young officer slumped to the deck, looking up at Rojek with flaming eyes. “You knew.”

 “No,” Rojek said. “No. No. No.” He turned to the console looking over the data from the hacking team himself, tears running down his face. “It can't be true. It can't be true.”

 “They knew,” Lopez said. “They knew, all along. They must have done.”

 “What have we done?” Diaz said, as the cries for help continued to echo across the command deck, the sensor display tracking the three transports as they slid helplessly into the atmosphere, three meteors that would briefly light up the sky of the lifeless world, a monument to the death of ten thousand innocent lives. “What have we done?”

 “No, Lieutenant,” Curtis said, his eyes fixed on the nightmare unfolding before him. “I was in command. I gave the order. What have I done?”

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