Contents

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
Epilogue

SPELL OF THE STARS

Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 25

Richard Tongue

Battlecruiser Alamo #25: Spell of the Stars

Copyright © 2017 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

First Kindle Edition: April 2017

Cover By Keith Draws

With thanks to Ellen Clarke

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

Chapter 1

 Patience had never been Lieutenant Pavel Salazar's strongest feature. He waited by the hatch of the shuttle, keeping one foot inside his ship, his pistol nestled in his hand, waiting for the return of the survey party. Shadows seemed to dance in the half-light, strange, alien shapes moving in the gloom. Twisted patterns decorated the walls, a constant low whine in the background as the unfamiliar systems continued their endless work.

 Five days ago, Alamo had jumped into the system, making a blind leap into the dark as they fled the enemy battleship, their lives bought by the sacrifice of a pair of brave men, hoping to find more clues that would show them a safe way home. This station, tucked close in to a dying red dwarf, was the only tangible artifact in the system they'd found, and excessive caution had kept them clear until this moment, when Alamo could leave at a second's notice should anything go wrong.

 He scowled at the darkness, then glanced down at his watch. This was taking too long. Captain Caine was five minutes overdue with her situation report. Nothing to be too concerned about, not yet. As far as they knew, they were alone on this alien station, the first visitors for decades, maybe centuries, but that thought didn't fill him with the confidence it should.

 Turning to the chamber inside, he said, “Garland, head up to the cockpit and set for remote operation. Link up with Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo, and have him ready to pull you out.”
 “No,” the paramedic replied, pulling a rifle from the weapons locker.

 “Excuse me?” Salazar said. “That was a direct order, Spaceman, and...”

 “No, sir, I'm not going to sit here on the shuttle while you go off by yourself, and I'm not going to be the only one to go home. If we don't make it back with the information we're looking for, then losing a shuttle is going to be the least of Alamo's problems, and rescuing one paramedic isn't going to be much of a consolation prize.” Stepping through the hatch, he added, “Besides, shouldn't you be calling Captain Marshall for permission to leave the shuttle? You know what he'd say if you did.”

 “True,” Salazar replied. “I guess you've got a point at that. Lock her up, but I'm taking point, and if something goes wrong, don't wait for the order and don't be a hero. Run home and warn the ship. That is an order, Garland, and I expect it to be obeyed.”

 “Understood, sir,” the medic said, swinging his medical kit into position over his shoulder. “We following the same path as Caine's team?”

 “That's the basic idea,” Salazar replied, holstering his pistol and pulling out his flashlight. “Keep me covered, and if you see anything, scream good and loud.”

 “Don't worry about that, sir,” Garland said. “They'll hear me back on the ship.”

 The two men stepped away from the familiar shuttle, into the undulating corridors beyond. The designers of this facility had been truly alien, and the layout demonstrated that. Everything was curves, even the floor littered with strange protrusions. The gravity was light, produced by an eternal, slow rotation, and the original occupants had evidently seen in a deep ultraviolet, far beyond anything a human eye could perceive. The effect, combined with the beams of their flashlights, was strange, a deep blue that dominated everything. And the low, steady hum always in the background, pounding through their ears, impossible to suppress or ignore.

 Strange shapes jutted from the walls, likely some sort of control apparatus, but both Salazar and Garland stayed well clear of them, unwilling to take the risk of interfering with something they couldn't perceive, couldn't understand. There was no sign of language, no writing anywhere, nothing that Alamo's linguistic computers could even begin to work with. As though somehow, a culture had managed to reach the stars without written records.

 A faint tang filled the air, a taste of ozone that in normal circumstances would have sent Salazar looking for the electrical fire, but that too had remained steady since the first probe had ventured inside, two days before. The two men turned down a twisted corridor to the left, following in the path of the original survey team, now swallowed up by the blackness for the last four hours without a signal, without a word.

 “Hey, sir,” Garland said. “Is it my imagination, or is it getting brighter in here?”

 Salazar looked around, then pulled out his datapad and flicked on the sensor, replying, “Light levels up by fifty percent in the last five minutes.” Turning to the medic, he replied, “Maybe...”

 He was interrupted by a scream, an anguished cry for help that sent him racing down the corridor towards its source, leaving Garland struggling to keep up. His feet were stepping over the obstacles on the floor, narrowly avoiding a tangle of serpentine cables that seemed to reach up to trap him, and as he turned the final corridor, he saw a shape on the floor, slowly twitching.

 “Caine,” Garland said, kneeling by her, running the filament of his medical sensor over the body. “She's alive. Heart rate through the roof, but I can't find anything else wrong. We'd better get her back to the ship on the double.”

 “Can you carry her?” Salazar asked. “There are still two other crewmen out there somewhere.”

 “And we don't know what caused this, sir. We ought to head back to the ship, call for reinforcements, get an Espatier team...”

 “Contact Alamo as soon as you get back to the shuttle, Spaceman, but I'm not going to wait around for a rescue team while people I'm responsible for are dying.” Turning to the corridor, he added, “If you don't hear from me in ten minutes, get out of here. No heroics, remember? Just bug out and don't look back. With my recommendation that no rescue team be dispatched.”

 “I can't leave you here, sir.”

 “You've got a patient who needs you a lot more than I do. On your way, Spaceman!” Without waiting for another argument, he continued cautiously down the corridor, pistol in hand. The light levels were rising rapidly now, and he could feel heat pulsing from the walls, sweat running down the back of his neck.

 They'd managed to map the interior of the station from Alamo, and Caine had managed to put together a comprehensive search pattern with the data. They ought to have been halfway through their sweep, as far from the shuttle as they would get, somewhere in the maze of corridors at the top of the station. The gravity was weaker here in the core, and each step send him bounding into the air, his eyes still locked upon the path ahead.

 Belatedly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of goggles, strapping them on with one hand while keeping his pistol raised with the other. Immediately, his view simplified, reduced to a low-resolution display that would block any harmful visual signals, any attempt at hypnosis. In an alien environment such as this, anything could happen, and he didn't want to take any unnecessary risks. They'd taken too many already.

 His communicator chirped, and with a wry smile he raised it to his mouth, and said, “Salazar here, sir.”

 Captain Marshall replied, “Get back to the shuttle at once, Lieutenant. That's an order.” 

 “In just one minute, Captain. I'm almost at the location of our search team. One more turning, and I'm there.” In reality, he was far further away, stalling for time, but Alamo didn't need to know that. “Anything happening outside?”

 “We're picking up a power buildup, Lieutenant, and the station's toppling. As though that antenna complex...”

 “If that's what it is, sir.”

 “Is trying to acquire a target,” Marshall continued. “Report back to the shuttle on the double, or I'll have to order it to leave without you.”

 “Just a couple more minutes, sir,” Salazar protested. “If the survey team found something out here, then we've got to know what it was. We haven't finished our job yet.” He turned another corner, then added, “I've spotted something. They're here, sir, and they aren't moving.”

 “Proceed with caution, Pavel,” Marshall said. “Power's still building.”

 Salazar redoubled his pace, but as soon as he got close, he realized that he was too late, the patterns of blood splattered on the floor confirmation of his worst fears. The view he was receiving was blurred, indistinct, the visual censor doing its best to protect him, but he could clearly make out the pistol in the hands of the technician, locked in a death grip.

 “Alamo, they're both dead. Looks like a murder-suicide.”

 “Don't try and recover the corpses, Pavel,” Marshall insisted. “We'll send a recovery team if we get a chance. Just head back for the barn, on the double.”

 “Yes, sir,” Salazar replied, leaning over to snatch the datapad out of the dead man's hand, struggling to release it from the death grip. “Heading home. Have Garland begin pre-flight.”

 “Will do, Pavel. Be careful. Out.”

 Salazar raced through the corridors, ripping the goggles from his head after he cleared the first corner, bizarre images burning down upon him, twisting and turning as though suddenly brought the life. The light was blinding now, leaving afterimages when he blinked his eyes, and the ever-present hum seemed to be pulsing, as though the station's heart was beating louder and louder, as though it was a living thing, at least on some level, desperate to retain its prey.

 He paused at a crossroads for a moment, struggling to remember the path back to the shuttle. It had been a T-junction when he first passed this way, the station's internal layout twisting and altering. Taking a gamble, he picked a path at random, trusting to luck that he would find the right way, as all around him, silent screams filled the air, something calling deep within his soul. He fought back the images that danced on the walls, knowing that he was being tricked, that something was dragging him back.

 They'd come here to find a clue. Instead they'd found a trap. That much was obvious. And one that was working, as he turned another corner that hadn't been there the first time, racing in a desperate hope to find his way back. He was getting perilously close to his self-imposed deadline, almost hoping that Garland would leave without him, would at least get Caine back to the safety of the ship. A part of him almost wanted to give up now, to drop to his knees and accept his fate.

 For a second, he did pause, realization finally hitting home. This wasn't an alien installation. This was human, just disguised. No alien race would know how to disorient a human so well, would have such a grasp of human psychology. There still might be a clue here, if he could find it, but he had all too little time left for the search.

 Somehow, on a subconscious level, his realization helped, and he was able to consider the displays theater rather than reality, a game that a long-dead psychologist was playing with him. Now he could stride with confidence through the corridors, sorrow in his heart that the original search team had failed to make the same realization, and at last found himself in a familiar area.

 “Come on, Pavel!” Garland yelled, his voice fighting with the ever-growing hum, and Salazar raced on, turning the last corner to find the shuttle waiting for him in the cavernous hangar deck, the seal of the breaching airlock ready to activate. The hatch was open, waiting, and he raced inside, sparing a second for a quick glance at Caine, lying sprawled upon one of the passenger couches as though she was asleep, even a faint snore rumbling from her mouth.

 “Pre-flight complete,” Garland reported, as Salazar slid into the pilot's couch. “We're clear all the way to Alamo.”

 “Fire up the sensors,” Salazar said, tossing the dead man's datapad to the medic. “And upload that to the ship, just in case we don't make it back.” Throwing a series of switches, he added, “I'm going for emergency override, open both hatches at once, so hang on.”

 “Wait a minute,” Garland said. “You'll decompress the station, and if...”

 “Trust me, the universe is better off without that place.” With a loud report, the double hatches open, the shuttle tossed through the gap, riding a fountain of escaping air as the attitude thrusters fired to stabilize the craft. Hitting a second override, Salazar fired the main engines, kicking the ship onto a course for home, Alamo already on the move towards the hendecaspace point. 

 “There's something odd out there,” Garland said. “Some of the asteroids are moving. Not much, but definite changes to their orbits. As though they're trying for an intercept.”

 “We shouldn't have any trouble outmaneuvering them,” Salazar replied with a confidence he didn't feel. “Salazar to Alamo. Are you...”

 “Confirmed, Pavel,” Marshall replied. “We see the same thing. Alamo is making for the hendecaspace point at maximum burn. Can you catch up?”

 “One way or another, sir,” Salazar answered with a quick glance at the trajectory plot. “We'll find a way. Garland, can Caine handle high acceleration?”

 “Punch it as far as you want, sir. I don't think it'll make any difference now.” The medic leaned over the sensor display again, and added, “Some of the smaller rocks are really beginning to move, Lieutenant.”

 Nodding, Salazar replied, “Initiating course change. They can't move faster than us, and we've got the advantage.” Frowning, he added, “Which means there must be something else going on.” He paused, flicked a switch, then said, “Salazar to Marshall. Recommend immediate battle stations and activation of all weapon systems.”

 “We're at alert,” Marshall protested.

 “The asteroids, sir. I don't think they're trying for a collision. What if they're set to explode? It'd be like sending waves of shrapnel rippling through the system.” Glancing at the trajectory plot, he added, “We've got to deal with them before they can detonate.”

 “Damn,” Marshall replied. “Proceeding as advised, Pavel, but I'm going to have to put the safety of the ship first. I can't spare anything for the shuttle.”

 “Don't worry about us, sir. I've got this.”

 Throwing the shuttle's throttle past the red line, he raced over the star's corona, the protesting engine roaring as they sped from the spinning station behind them. His forehead gleamed with sweat, from fear rather than heat this time. Up ahead, Alamo fired a wave of missiles, targeting the nearest cluster of asteroids, and spun briefly on its axis to take a shot with its laser cannon, a beam of light leaping forth for an instant before dying away once again, her radiator wings glowing red as they struggled to disperse the heat into cold vacuum.

 “Getting a little close, Pavel,” Garland warned.

 “And they will,” he replied. “There's nothing much we can do about that right now. I've got to burn long and straight or we'll never make our linkup with the ship. If any of those rocks detonate, we'll have to outrun the debris.” He smiled, then added, “This one's going to be close.”

 A cascade of explosions rippled through space all around them, waves of deadly shot flashing in the darkness as the asteroids exploded, some caught by Alamo's missiles, the rest choosing their moment with care to throw the maximum wave of shrapnel after the fleeing shuttle. Their long-dead opponent had decided that it was no longer possible to catch the starship, and had chosen instead to gamble on the destruction of the smaller craft, stopping them reporting the secrets they might have uncovered.

 “Five debris fields, interlocking patterns, first contact in five seconds!” Garland yelled.

 “The first wave should be pretty light,” Salazar replied. “The hull armor should protect us. And we'll be home in sixty seconds.” Alamo was just visible at extreme range, seemingly calling them in, a pinpoint that represented the nearest thing they had to a home. All the other stars, the constellations, were unfamiliar.

 The hull rattled as the first wave of debris reached them, a cluster of klaxons echoing in the shuttle's cabin as damage began to build. It was only going to get worse as the mass of the approaching fragments increased, and the sensors reported ever-deeper waves of rock heading in their direction.

 Suddenly, fire erupted all around them, and Salazar whooped before saying, “Alamo's firing her point-defense cannons! Clearing us a path home!”

 “Thank God for that,” Garland said with a relieved sigh. “For a moment...”

 “Docking in ten seconds,” Salazar replied, gently guiding the wounded shuttle into position under the ship, drifting into the docking cradle. The mechanism burst into life, pulling them to safety as the point-defense guns roared on behind them, dragging them into the waiting hangar deck. As soon as the lower hatch closed, there was a brief flicker, the indication that Alamo had found its way safely out of the system.

 “Not bad,” Garland said.

 “Two men dead, one unconscious, and nothing to show for it,” Salazar replied. “Come on, let's go in and report. Maybe we can salvage something out of this mess.”

Chapter 2

 The medical monitor emitted a series of regular beeps as Marshall looked on, the slumbering figure of Caine lying on the bed looking as though she would get up at the lightest touch. Salazar, standing by Marshall's side, looked across at Doctor Strickland, who pulled a datapad from a table, scrolling through the information on the screen.

 “Well, Doctor? What's the prognosis?”

 Looking up at Marshall, Strickland said, “If I remember correctly, Captain. You had a mild attack of xenopsychosis about six years ago, didn't you? During Alamo's mission of Uranus.”

 “Yes. Both Caine and I. We were extracted in a matter of moments, and recovered quickly.”

 “And how often do you have the nightmares?”

 Marshall's face reddened, and he replied, “Far less than I used to. Maybe once a month.”

 Nodding, Strickland said, “It isn't something you ever really get over, Captain. There's nothing too incomprehensible about it. Sometimes, our senses perceive something that we are completely ill-equipped to understand, something that would drive us to permanent insanity if we did. A few cases have been experienced among those working on hendecaspace theory, for example. The mind has a safety mechanism, and essentially shuts down access to external stimuli.”

 “I was back on duty in a matter of hours, Doctor. Deadeye has already been unconscious for more than a day. I need to know when she'll wake up.”

 With a sigh, Strickland replied, “It isn't as simple as that. Understand that we still know far too little about the operation of the human psyche. We've made tremendous progress, but there is still so much that we don't know. In this case, Captain Caine has retreated inside herself, deep enough that I can't bring her back. Only she can do that.”

 “Doctor...”

 “Added to which that I'm just a combat medic, sir. You need a neurosurgeon, and facilities that we just don't have on this ship. There are a few things I can do, but I've already exhausted everything I can think of.”

 “How long, Doctor?”

 “It could be hours, days, weeks...”

 “Weeks?”

 “Captain, it could be years. Or, conceivably, never. If Lieutenant Salazar hadn't had the foresight to don his safety goggles, he'd still be out there with the others. It's almost certain that the two dead members of the survey team both experienced the same phenomenon. Whether both of them committed suicide or one killed the other, then himself, we'll never know.”

 “Then there's nothing you can do?”

 “I've set up electrical stimuli to prevent muscle atrophy, rigged her to be fed intravenously, and that's about all I can do for the present. Naturally, she will be constantly monitored, and if there is any change in her condition, I'll see that you are informed.” He paused, then added, “You're listed as her next of kin. As far as I know, she hasn't left a living will, but if...”

 “No!” Marshall snapped. “She won't give up, and neither will I.” Glaring at Strickland, he added, “And neither will you, Doctor. I want that to be perfectly clear.”

 “Understood, sir. I'll continue to research her condition, and try and figure out some sort of treatment regimen. When we return to Mars, we can turn her over to specialists who might have more luck.” Looking down at the prone figure of Alamo's Executive Officer, he added, “It would be very wrong of me to give you any false hope, sir. The longer she is out, the worse her ultimate prognosis. Having said that, there have been cases where people woke up more than a decade after the initial shock, and in every other respect, she is perfectly healthy.” Glancing at Salazar, he continued, “As Medical Officer, I must therefore inform you that there is no realistic possibility that Captain Caine will be able to resume her duties in the near future.”

 “Noted, Doctor. I want you working around the clock on this, and I expect daily reports on her condition. You will do anything you can to bring her around.”

 “Captain,” Salazar said, “I'm sure that Doctor Strickland...”

 “Is that clear, Doctor?” Marshall pressed.

 Frowning, Strickland replied, “I don't need an order to care for my patients, sir.”

 Glancing at his watch, Salazar said, “Captain, the senior staff will be waiting in the briefing room. We ought to be heading up there.”

 With a curt nod, Marshall said, “I'll be back once the meeting is concluded, Doctor, and we can discuss this further.”

 “I do have other patients requiring my attention, Captain, and as I've said...”

 “Later, Doctor,” Marshall replied, turning to the corridor. Salazar hurried to follow, barely stepping into the waiting elevator before the door closed, hurling them to their destination on the far side of the ship.

 “I blame myself,” Salazar said. “I should have left the shuttle sooner, gone to investigate. Hell, I should have led the search team myself.”

 Glancing at the young officer, Marshall replied, “Technically, you shouldn't have left the shuttle at all, Lieutenant. Not without authorization. In the future I would appreciate being informed before my orders are violated. As for the search team, Captain Caine's degree in xenoarchaeology made her the best choice to lead it. We couldn't risk Lieutenant Carpenter. Her knowledge is irreplaceable.”

 “Yes, sir.” The elevator paused, the door sliding open to admit Senior Lieutenant Francis, Alamo's Operations Officer, clutching a datapad in his hands.

 “How is she, sir?” Francis asked. 

 “No change.”

 Turning to Salazar, the veteran said, “Then, sir, I suppose the question of her replacement must come into play. I thought I'd make it quite clear now that I have no objection to Lieutenant Salazar assuming the position. Given his status as Second Officer...”

 “No.”

 Raising an eyebrow, Francis said, “If offered, sir, I will accept, but...”

 “No, Lieutenant. Deadeye remains this ship's Executive Officer until further notice.”

 Salazar looked at Francis, then replied, “Captain, the ship needs a second-in-command.”

 “I have no plans to go anywhere, Lieutenant, and I have the utmost confidence that Deadeye will recover in good time, no matter what Doctor Strickland seems to think. Should her situation deteriorate, then I am willing to reopen this discussion, but until then, we will operate exactly as we have done.”

 “Captain, there are certain matters...” Francis began.

 Looking at the two of them, Marshall replied, “It was my assumption that I had a pair of competent officers in, arguably, my most critical command roles, able to handle situations such as this. If I am incorrect in that belief, then I will be more than happy to replace you. Is that understood?”

 Nodding, Salazar replied, “As she will be temporarily unable to handle Tactical, sir, I've taken the liberty of calling Sub-Lieutenant Scott to the meeting. As Weapons Officer, she's second-in-command of that department. Unless...”

 “No, no, that's fine,” Marshall said. “I've been contemplating assigning a permanent Tactical Officer, in any case. Handling that and the Executive slot is a lot for one person to handle, even Deadeye, and as you say, Sub-Lieutenant Scott is in place. Something to consider when things settle down.”

 “Aye, sir,” Salazar said, as the doors slid open. The trio walked into the briefing room, the remainder of Alamo's senior staff waiting for them inside. Senior Lieutenant Santiago, Systems Officer, sat next to Senior Lieutenant McCormack, Alamo's Flight Officer, commander of their fighter contingent. Scott sat on Santiago's left, and Carpenter and Foster sat on the far side of the table. Kristen Harper, Alamo's Intelligence Officer, took her usual seat next to Salazar, glancing briefly at him, reviving a curt nod in reply. Just as the doors were closing, a red-faced Ensign Rhodes, Alamo's Espatier platoon commander, raced in.

 “Sorry I'm late,” he apologized, taking his seat. “Weapons testing. Overran.”

 “See that it doesn't happen again,” Marshall said, looking around the table. “Lieutenant Harper, what have you managed to piece together from the data obtained on the station?”

 “Not much,” she replied. “Pavel's guess that it was human-built seems accurate. Underneath the surface, there are a lot of touches that suggest human origins, but we're still talking thousands of years ago.”

 Carpenter, Alamo's Science Officer, nodded, and added, “We've run a full analysis of the metal samples, and the dating goes back ten thousand years and change. And traces of elements not present in the system, which makes an interstellar origin conclusive. I had a careful check of the datapad, but there's nothing of significance. I'm afraid we've drawn a blank.”

 “Not quite,” Salazar said. “We know that something else came through the wormhole at some point, something that was enough of a threat that someone set up the station just to prepare for it. Potentially they were concerned about other ships finding their way through. Given that we found no other traces of ships in the system, however, I'd suggest that we were the first victims. The other ships we're tracking either didn't come this way, or they managed to evade the trap.”
 “No sign of Monitor, then. Or Nautilus,” Marshall replied, with a nod. “It's a big universe. I just wish we could send Waldheim out that way.” Looking around the table, he added, “That was our third system, people, and aside from knowing that there are nasty things running around out here, we're no wiser now than where we started. Our current target represents the only other site within a single jump. After that, we're looking at some long trips.”

 “Sensor data gives us a complex system, Captain, complete with a potentially inhabitable planet,” Carpenter said. “There's a dense asteroid belt close into the star, and I'd recommend that we start there. Half a dozen potential egress points.”

 “Why not just make for the most probable target?” McCormack asked. “I'm confident that we should be able to handle anything we run into.”

 “I wish I shared your faith,” Salazar said. “We're a long way from home, Lieutenant, and a long way from reinforcements. There's no harm taking the safe option. In normal space, that world is only six days away. We'll have plenty of time to look over the system before risking any close encounters.”

 Nodding, Santiago added, “I'd like to take the chance to refuel if we can, also. I know it slows us down, but otherwise we'd be running dry after our next jump. Art's got the refueling shuttles ready, but that's going to tie us to the system for eight days, rather than five.”

 “Subject to the situation when we emerge,” Marshall replied, “I'll sign off on that. But I want maximum protection for our birds while they're on the deck. Ensign Rhodes, you'll assume command of the ground detachment for the mining base. McCormack, I'll want a flight on two minute notice for scramble while we're in the system, and the whole squadron on escort duty for the tankers on their way back and forth. They're irreplaceable under our current circumstances, and without them, we're in a hell of a lot of trouble.”

 “Captain,” McCormack replied, “With respect, I should be in command of the refueling operation.”

 “Why?” Rhodes asked. “It's a ground job.”

 “You're using my fighters for escort duty, and...”

 “Lieutenant, you have more important things to do than sit on a mining station for eight days. There's still an enemy warship flying around out there, and we know that they'll attack on sight. I need you on Alamo, ready to lead your squadron into battle.”

 “And keeping them on two minute notice….”

 “Lieutenant McCormack,” Marshall barked, “Either you will obey my orders, or I will happily provide Lieutenant Murphy with a field promotion, and you can spend the rest of our time in Andromeda working in Waste Reclamation. I trust that I make myself clear.”

 With an angry glare, she replied, “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear.”

 “Very good.” Taking a deep breath, Marshall added, “Francis, what's the status of the crew?”

 “Morale isn't good, sir. When we looked like we had some sort of a lead to follow, it wasn't so bad, but now that we've had several blind alleys, they're beginning to wonder whether we're ever going to get home. I've already got everyone doubling-down on cross-training, and we're trying to fight our way through the maintenance backlog, but we can't keep that up forever.”

 Nodding, Salazar added, “It's a short-term solution at best, sir, and fatigue levels are already rising. Much higher, and we're going to start hitting the bad part of the error curve.”

 “Any suggestions, Lieutenant, or are we only providing problems today?”

 Looking across at Salazar, Francis said, “I'm certain that Lieutenant Salazar was only...”

 “We need to find other ways for the crew to vent their frustrations,” Salazar interrupted. “I'd like Ensign Rhodes to start wider-ranged combat drills, and get his unarmed combat instructors to provide mandatory training. Frankly, sir, I'd rather they worked out their problems in a controlled environment before we start having fist-fights in the corridor.”

 “That's no problem, Pavel,” Rhodes said. “We're ready to go when you give the word. Maybe some sidearms training, as well. We've got the simulated battle exercises, and if you can let me have an empty Storage Module, I think I can put together something that will keep people interested.”

 “Make it happen,” Marshall replied. “Morale is our top priority at the moment. I want you all to pay close attention to your departments, and make sure to liaise with Doctor Strickland. The last thing we need is for the crew to grow dependent on sedatives.”

 “We're in an unprecedented situation, sir,” Foster said. “It wasn't so bad down on Dante. We were fighting for survival every day. Up here, I think everyone's a little too comfortable. Too much time to think, regardless of the workload we place them under.”

 “What about the ship, Santiago?”

 “No problems, sir. All damage repaired, and we're in excellent condition for an extended flight,” the engineer replied. “That make-work means we're slightly ahead of the curve, sir. We're working on non-essentials now, just to keep things moving.”

 Nodding, Marshall replied, “I want it to be made clear to all hands that we have every expectation of finding the lead we're looking for at our next port of call, and that my expectation is that we will work out a way home soon. Carpenter, if there is anything you need, take it. No questions asked. I think it goes without saying that you have absolute top priority. Anything else?”

 “Sir,” McCormack said, “given the incapacitation of...”

 “Meeting adjourned,” Marshall said, ignoring the pilot's interjection. The officers rose to their feet, and walked out of the room, Salazar, Harper and Francis leading the way. The trio turned down a side corridor, Salazar quickly glancing back to check that Marshall wasn't following, then walked into Harper's office, locking the door behind them.

 “Surprising,” Francis said, looking around the orderly room. “Don't take this the wrong way, but I'd expected a mess.”

 “Never use the place,” Harper replied. “Easier just to work out of our quarters. Don't tell anyone, though. Might need it one day.” Looking at the two of them, she asked, “What the hell happened back there? I've never seen the Captain like this before.”

 “Nor have I,” Salazar said. “It's Caine.”

 “They go back a long way, don't they,” Francis said.

 “Since the War. They've been close for years, and Caine's always been his confidant. Even when she wasn't actually second-in-command, she's usually acted as his chief adviser.” Shaking his head, Salazar added, “That doesn't change the fact that we seem to be facing a little problem.”

 “I never thought I'd say this,” Harper replied, “but McCormack was right. She ought to be in overall charge of the landing operations. Putting Rhodes in charge...”

 “He doesn't like McCormack,” Francis said, bluntly. “She's not my favorite person, but it doesn't alter my opinion of her ability. Nevertheless, that isn't really that big a problem. I'm sure we'll work out the details. More critical is that at this moment, Alamo doesn't have an Executive Officer. Even if Caine wakes up tonight, she'll likely need a long rest before being fit for duty.”

 “You mean...”

 “No,” Salazar said. “He didn't make the decision.” Turning to Francis, he added, “Max, as Second Officer I suppose I'm next in line, but as Operations Officer, you've got a claim.”

 With a thin smile, Francis replied, “The last thing we need right now is to make things more complicated. I'm happy for you to take the role, though given the lack of any official status, our actual ability to do anything is limited. And I don't need to tell you that we're right on the line simply having this conversation.”

 “What conversation?” Harper asked. “I thought three friends were just discussing hypothetical situations.”

 “You hold onto that, Kris,” Salazar said with a sigh. “Hold onto that real tight, because we're a hell of a long way from home, heading deeper into unknown space, and with an enemy battleship on our tail. I'm certain that they'll have repaired themselves by now, and if we can find the trail, so can they. We're playing Russian Roulette the longer we stay within one jump of Dante.”

 “If it helps,” Francis said, “If anything happens, I'll back you. No matter what.”

 “It helps,” Salazar said, “but I don't think it will come to that.” Looking around the room, he continued, “For now, we just proceed, and see. With luck, he'll snap out of this on his own, given time. Maybe even before we leave hendecaspace.”

 “And if he doesn't?” Harper asked.

 “The safety of the crew and the ship override any other considerations at this point,” Salazar said. “Which is a fancy way of saying that we'll do what must be done.”

Chapter 3

 Clarke sat down in the all-too-familiar interrogation room, waiting for Major Pastell to arrive. Great care had been taken to ensure that he had no idea how long he'd been a prisoner, though he'd slept twenty-one times since arriving on Waldheim, eaten fifty-two meals. Figures he clung to as a measure of the passage of time. The fate of his crew, his ship, was a mystery to him. 

 At the last instant, just as the debris field had swept towards him, a shuttle had reached out and snatched him from his fate, taking heavy damage for the effort. Since then, he'd been constantly questioned, first by the brutal Colonel Cruz, then the insidious Major Pastell, as his superior had grown tired of his resistance.

 “My apologies,” his jailer said, stepping into the room. “I hate being late for an appointment, especially with someone I have grown to know as well as you.”

 “Unless I've missed something,” Clarke replied, “you don't know me well at all.”

 “Not true. I know that you have a remarkable resistance to interrogation, that you are both innovative and brave, and that you have managed to thoroughly antagonize Colonel Cruz to a level I have never seen before. Her new scar might have something to do with it, I suppose. Nevertheless, you have caused me not a little amusement as a result, even if I have found your lack of response aggravating.” Sitting opposite him, Pastell folded his fingers together in his lap and continued, “Not that I would behave any differently in the circumstances.”

 “Do you want me to recite my serial number again, or do you know it by heart?”

 A smile curled the man's lips, and he replied, “No, I think we can spare the usual questions today, though if anyone asks, I'd appreciate you informing them that we proceeded as normal. I have some other questions to ask you. Perhaps it would be better to put it that I would like your advice on a course of action under consideration by the senior staff.”

 Nodding, Clarke replied, “You really want my advice?”

 “I do.”

 “Surrender unconditionally to Captain Marshall.” He shrugged, and said, “I didn't promise that my advice would be any worth.”

 “Perhaps I should provide you with a little more information. Not that we would have any intention of making the offer you suggest, but there are still those on the command staff that have an interest in mutual cooperation with Captain Marshall and his crew.” The smug smile danced across Pastell's face again, and he continued, “You are more than your service record appears. I know that you are one of Triplanetary Intelligence's top field agents...”

 “That's news to me. I guess they're getting desperate,” Clarke replied, folding his hands. Admitting that he really was nothing more than a somewhat over-promoted nineteen-year-old didn't seem the best course of action.

 “And therefore have at least some influence with Captain Marshall. So tell me. Would he be willing to consider such a deal?”

 Clarke paused, pondering the possibilities in his hand. During the last battle, Alamo had only escaped from Waldheim through a combination of desperation and luck, and any future encounter would likely go the same way.

 “It's not impossible. Though there would be no chance of a joint command structure. A better possibility would be to negotiate some sort of information exchange. Which would certainly require a transfer of prisoners.”

 “Undoubtedly. I am aware that you have a vested interest in seeing such a deal become reality.”

 “Understand this, Major. I am an officer in the Triplanetary Fleet, and will not undertake any negotiations that are the detriment of my ship and my crewmates. Besides, you're going to have a problem that renders this discussion moot.”

 “And that is?”

 “You've got to find Alamo. By now they'll be half-way home, and you've got no way of catching up with them.”

 With a sigh, Pastell said, “I fear your information is woefully out of date. You see, we know exactly where Alamo is going. The Colonel was able to extract the data we needed from your fellow prisoner...”

 “What happened to her?” Clarke asked, fury flashing in his eyes.

 Pastell looked down at the deck, sighed, and said, “She was buried with honors, Sub-Lieutenant. And know that some of us have different ideas about the treatment of prisoners. Be grateful that I was able to assume custody of you, or you'd be floating though space alongside her by now.” Looking up at him again, he added, “Colonel Cruz would have us hunt Alamo through the stars, and build up an empire in this remote corner of the universe on the corpses of your shipmates.”

 “And you would be so very different, of course.”

 “Sub-Lieutenant, I am not a fool, and I would very much like to live through this nightmare. Captain Marshall's reputation for finding creative ways to beat the odds has not escaped me, and I am sufficiently humble to admit that in a battle, we could lose. Or suffer sufficient damage that would strand us here forever.”

 “Interesting,” Clarke said with a smile. “Right now, you need me more than I need you.”

 “If you want to see your homeworld again...”

 “I'm a serving officer who swore an oath that actually means something to me, Major. I don't want to die here, but if that's what has to be, then I'm at peace with it. Can you say the same?”

 Shaking his head, Pastell replied, “Perhaps not. I venture that such loyalty is rare in my fleet. Colonel Cruz can see herself as Empress Leticia the First, and there are many other officers who feel the same way. My guess is that the final veneer of democracy will be washed away within a decade. Whether or not your people will benefit from that remains to be seen.”

 “Major, let me put it simply. If you are considering a mutually beneficial deal that will aid both ships, then I will be happy to work with you to open up communications with Alamo. Assuming, of course, that you can find her. If this is a trap, then I will gladly die to prevent it from succeeding.”

 With another sigh, Pastell replied, “There is a trap, Sub-Lieutenant, and I fear that Alamo is about to be caught in it. As I said, we obtained some useful information from Corporal Weber before she died, and our scientific team was able to piece together the rest of the puzzle. Perhaps even more so than yours, as we had more time to investigate. You may have far less time to make a decision than you know.”

 “Captain Marshall will find a way out of any trap you set. That much I know.”

 “Perhaps you are right. I don't much care for the price being paid anyway.” Rising to his feet, he added, “You will have company in your cell tonight. A new friend, perhaps. Before you depart, there's one thing I need to say. There are some sane men left on this ship, and I consider myself one of them. Many of us will take a way out of the nightmare in which we find ourselves, and if you can work out a method of such salvation, we would gladly take it.”

 “Bold words, Major.”

 “Perhaps they aren't bold enough. Think about what I said, Sub-Lieutenant, and if you decide to help us after all, the guard working the midnight shift is loyal to me, and me alone. You can pass a message to her and know that it will reach me.”

 Shaking his head in disbelief, Clarke replied, “How do you run a fleet this way?”

 “Badly, I assure you. Hence your success during the late unpleasantness, and your continued expansion into interstellar space at our expense. Trust that it is not lost on me that I might have been better served in a military where paranoia was not the order of the day, but I have made my decision, and I venture that it is irreversible.” A look briefly passed between the two men, perhaps the hint of a signal, a message. “I will talk to you again, Sub-Lieutenant, and perhaps our next conversation will be more successful. I will do everything I can to keep you out of the hands of Colonel Cruz, but I suspect that she will not remain patient forever. Though at present,” he said, his face darkening again, “she has found other toys with which to play.”

 “What do you mean?”

 “You'll find out soon enough, I fear.” Rising to his feet, he reached across for the door control, the hatch sliding open to reveal a pair of guards outside, a man and a woman. The woman glared at him for a moment before turning back to the corridor, taking the lead as the trio walked back to Clarke's cell in silence.

 He'd never seen anyone else since he'd come on board. Just the rescue team that had snatched him from the sky over Dante's moon, then the guards, Colonel Cruz and Major Pastell. No crewmen walked this deck, at least not while he was present. It had been rumored that the UN Fleet was using indentured personnel to augment their manpower reserves, and one look at the occupied cells convinced Clarke that the rumors were true. Alamo, a ship admittedly less than a third the size of this ship, had a single double-occupancy cell, barely used. This ship had dozens, maybe a hundred, and signs that they were frequently occupied.

 A part of him wished he had a camera, was able to take some pictures to record what he was seeing. He couldn't think of a better incentive for recruitment, knowing what the Confederation was fighting in their long, undeclared war with Earth's tyrannical regime. Finally, they came to their cell, and the door slid open, one of the two guards immediately walking away, leaving the woman standing outside at parade rest, gesturing for Clarke to step inside, where a slender man was sitting on a recently-added bunk, legs swinging back and forth.

 “For what I'm paying,” Clarke said, “I at least expect a room to myself.”

 Looking at him with an iron stare, she replied, “Business is good at the moment. We could use the extra bed.” Gesturing down the corridor, she added, “Airlock's just down there if you want to try and find a better hotel.”

 “Maybe it'll be nice to have some company. Thank the Major for me, will you,” he replied, stepping in just before the door slammed shut behind him. He glanced up at the ceiling, the overhead pickups still working, monitoring everything in the room.

 “Who are you?” the newcomer asked. 

 “Sub-Lieutenant John Clarke, of the Triplanetary Fleet.” He forced a smile, then replied, “And who do I have the pleasure of sharing a cell with?”

 “Pyotr Sokolov.” Gesturing at the door, he added, “You're not with them?”

 “We're at war with them. Sort of.”

 “Well, my people are at war with them with no caveats, Sub-Lieutenant.” Shaking his head, he said, “They came in the night, swept into orbit and smashed down what passed for our orbital defenses. Then claimed our world for the United Nations.” Hatred shone in his eyes, and he continued, “I will see them burn for what they have done.”

 “When was this?” Clarke asked.

 “Three weeks ago. They sent troops down to the surface, conquered Cosmograd. Apparently we are to be an outpost for their empire in this galaxy. My people fled to the stars to escape tyranny like this, Sub-Lieutenant. We have no wish to be conquered once again.”

 “Your military?”

 “Dead or in hiding, at a guess. Though all we had was the Colonial Police. We'd never given any thought to serious defenses.” With a barking laugh, he continued, “There are less than a hundred thousand of us, and aside from the ruins, we've seen no trace of other civilizations since we arrived more than a century ago.” His eyes still locked on the door, he added, “Many of us thought that we were the sole survivors of mankind. An illusion I wish we still retained.”

 “And you?”

 “I was a cosmonaut. On an expedition to the inner asteroid belt, to prospect sites for mineral exploitation. We're building space-based industries, starting to exploit the other worlds in our system. The first step on the road that will take us back to the stars.” Pride filled his voice for a brief moment, replaced with sorrow. “And now we are a conquered people, and all our dreams are torn asunder.”

 Frowning, Clarke asked, “Do you know our location?”

 “As of three days ago, when I was captured, this ship was in orbit about Morana. Our homeworld. I don't think she's accelerated since then, so I suppose we must still be on station.”

 “Low orbit?” Clarke asked.

 “I think so. We were a long way from here, trying to hide out. We've got an outpost deep in the asteroids, and...”

 A smile flashed on Clarke's face, and he replied, “An outpost? You think our friends know where it is?”

 “I'm sure they do, but they'll have real trouble reaching it. Those rocks are hell if you don't know the flight patterns, and they've improvised some anti-fighter defenses from the mass drivers. They could hold out for months.”

 “Unless someone showed them the way in, tried to guide them.”

 “Nobody from our world would dream of such a traitorous act.”

 Frowning, Clarke looked into the man's eyes, and replied, “Pyotr, I need you to answer a question, and I need the truth. Are you willing to do anything necessary to save your people? No matter what it takes?”

 “Of course. I will gladly sacrifice my life for the liberation of my world.”

 “Then you'd better decide to help the crew of this ship. Your outpost can't do anything, and you're only throwing lives away.” He managed a quick wink, keeping his face away from the ceiling cameras, hoping that his cellmate would get the hint. “Follow my lead. I'm going to give them what they want. It's the only way to help our people.” Reaching down for Sokolov's shoulder, he added, “Trust me, Pyotr. It's the only way we're going to get out of this cell.” He rose to his feet, and pounded on the door. “We'll talk. Take us to the Major.”

 The door slid open, the guard's expression smug as she replied, “I thought you'd turn traitor in the end.”

 “I'm no traitor. I just don't want my friends, my crewmates, to die for nothing.”

 “Sure you do. This way, traitors.”

 Sokolov looked at Clarke with ill-disguised contempt as they walked down the corridor. He knew that they'd only have a single chance to make this work, and slumped his shoulders as though in defeat. If the guard had been telling the truth, they'd be close to the airlock. Safety, if only temporarily. He didn't dare glance to look, but slowed his pace almost imperceptibly, letting the guard catch up, until the barrel of her pistol was almost in the small of his back.

 Trusting in his training and instincts, Clarke abruptly came to a stop, dropped and rolled to his feet, hearing the crack of a bullet flying over his head as he reached over to snatch the pistol from the hands of the guard. Sokolov was quick off the mark, grabbing the woman and pulling her back. All around them, sirens pulsed, and Clarke raced to the airlock, tugging a panel free to expose an escape pod. He quickly tapped in a twenty-digit command sequence, the result of months of work by hackers back home, and the hatch reluctantly slid open.

 “In we go,” he said.

 “Her?”

 “They might be a little less inclined to stop us if she's along for the ride,” Clarke replied, and with a shrug, Sokolov threw her roughly through the hatch, into the waiting pod, then dived after her. With a last look at the corridor, Clarke followed, his hand slamming the emergency release as he dropped into place.

 “I'm sorry,” Sokolov said.

 “Why?”

 “I thought you were one of them. That this had all been some sort of trick. I was ready...”

 “Never mind that now,” Clarke replied. He turned to the sullen guard, still gripped by Sokolov, and said, “Are you going to do anything stupid?”

 “They'll shoot you down.”

 “I don't think so,” Clarke said, a smile on his face. “I think I know something you don't. Pyotr, now would be a good time for a quick rundown on the surface conditions.” He looked out of the viewport as the escape pod tumbled away, revealing a green and blue world below. “Habitable?”

 “Almost like Earth, though far wilder,” Sokolov said.

 “Population centers?”

 “Just Cosmograd and a few outlying settlements. You'll see a continent shaped like a dog. Cosmograd would be on the nuzzle.”

 “Got it,” Clarke said, setting at the limited controls. “Locking on. I should be bringing us down about a hundred miles from the settlement. From there we'll have to walk.”

 Looking back at the slowly receding ship, Sokolov replied, “I don't understand. They've had plenty of time to shoot us down.”

 “Atmosphere in one minute,” Clarke said. “Strap yourselves in. This is going to be rough.” He turned to face the guard, his stolen pistol once more in his hand. “Any stupid moves, and we'll be burying you when we reach the surface. You understand?”

 “Traitor.”

 Sokolov strapped her into position, and a warning light snapped on as the escape pod bit into the atmosphere, the outside heat rising as the capsule settled into re-entry attitude. Still Waldheim stood off in orbit, implacably waiting and watching, and Clarke watched the guard, studying her face, seeking any sign of emotion.

 “See anything you like?” she asked with a sarcastic sneer.

 “I'll tell you when we reach the surface. Hopefully the parachutes should open automatically.”

 “Hopefully?” Sokolov replied.

 “First time I've used one of these,” Clarke said.

 “Great,” the cosmonaut said. “Just great.”

Chapter 4

 Marshall sat in his command chair, watching as the crew worked around him, working to prepare Alamo for her return to normal space. At the helm, Sub-Lieutenant Quesada, one of the former Pioneer crewman, set up the emergence sequence while Francis looked on, his face a mask of concern. He glanced to the right, at the Tactical station, where Scott was preparing the ship for battle, sitting at the console that should have been Deadeye's. Behind him, Salazar stood at parade rest, his eyes on the viewscreen.

 It had been strange enough coming back to this ship over more than two years away to begin with, but before he'd had Caine as a point of familiarity, someone he could talk too, bounce ideas of. Someone that he knew at the deepest possible level that he could trust. Now he was surrounded by strangers, people he barely knew. With fellow officers all around him, he'd never felt so alone in his life.

 Then there was the magnitude of the situation they had found themselves caught in. Millions of light-years from home, on the far side of an alien galaxy, with no way to return to the Confederation other than a desperate hope conjured out of the ruins of a long-dead city, buried in the sands of Dante. And Waldheim out there, hunting them down, a ship that could blot them out of existence with a single pulse of its laser cannon. If ever he needed Caine's counsel, the time was now.

 “Sixty seconds to emergence, Captain,” Quesada said, flashing a confident smile.

 “All decks are cleared for action, sir,” the coolly competent Scott added. “Missiles in the tubes, and laser cannon charging sequence ready. Do I deploy our radiations when we return to normal space, sir?”

 “Do it, Sub-Lieutenant,” he replied. “No point taking any chances.”

 Frowning, Francis said, “That could be considered as a hostile act, sir, and if there are friendly inhabitants in this system...”

 “Then we'll talk our way out of it when we meet them, but I'm far more concerned about a sneak attack right now, Lieutenant.” Turning to Salazar, he added, “Pavel, get down to the hangar deck. I want you in one of the fighters.”

 “Sir?”

 “Take McCormack's place in the squadron, and have her report to the emergency bridge to coordinate the action from there. I need someone I can trust to lead my birds into battle, Lieutenant, and that person is you.”

 “Captain, I'm confident that Senior Lieutenant Mc...”

 “You might be,” Marshall interrupted, “but I'm not, and I don't intend to take any chances today. On the double, Lieutenant, and I want the squadron on ninety seconds' notice to scramble upon emergence.”

 “Aye, sir,” Salazar said, heading to the elevator with a last doubtful glance at Harper, sitting in her usual position at the Defense Systems station.

 Francis walked over to Marshall, the frown still on his face, and said, “Sir, might I suggest that you contact Senior Lieutenant McCormack yourself, and explain the change to normal routine?”

 “Pavel can handle it.”

 “She's his senior in rank, sir...”

 “And that's about all. I'm thinking of making a permanent switch, now that we've got a few more junior officers available. Certainly Pavel can handle Second Officer and Flight Officer more easily than doubling up with Security Officer, and Lieutenant Foster can handle that position.”
 His voice low, Francis replied, “I must register my protest to this course of action, sir. If we are proceeding into a hostile situation, then you've just sent your second-in-command off the ship. Senior Lieutenant McCormack might...”

 “Lieutenant, I will hear no more of this. My orders stand.” Glancing at the elevator, he continued, “We're on the knife-edge, Max, and we both know it. Lieutenant Salazar is the best pilot I've ever seen, the only Triple-Ace in Triplanetary service, and it makes no sense at all to have him loitering on the bridge when he ought to be leading his pilots into battle. With limited resources, we can't afford to waste what we have. And this is the last time that I intend to explain my orders. Is that understood?”

 “Of course, sir,” Francis replied. “My apologies, Captain.”

 As Francis returned to his place by the helm, Marshall glanced back at the elevator, wondering if he was doing the right thing. McCormack was a good pilot, a good administrator, but she was far too reckless, desperate to get the fifth kill that would make her an Ace. When it came to it, he didn't trust her to think of the safety of her pilots first, and this far away from home, they couldn't afford to lose anyone. Salazar was a safe pair of hands, and that was something he desperately needed. Especially now.

 “Ten seconds, sir,” Quesada said.

 “Very good, Sub-Lieutenant. You have the call.”

 “Aye, sir,” he replied. “I have the call.”

 With the familiar flash of Cerenkov blue, Alamo returned to normal space, and the stars flickered onto the viewscreen once more. The image was dominated by the corona of a golden star on one side as Alamo dived through the rip in reality, emerging in the new system. The tactical display flickered into life as information flooded into the sensors, rapidly building up a picture of the local area, planets and moons appearing on the display as the computers completed their projections of their orbits.

 “Threat warning! Close aboard!” Ballard, the sensor technician reported. “Six United Nations fighters, fifty thousand miles away, chasing another craft of unknown design. Identification codes match Waldheim, sir.” She paused, then added, “And I've got Waldheim herself now, sir, orbiting the habitable planet in the system.”

 “Any signals, Bowman?”

 “Big spike in activity, sir,” the communications technician reported, “but nothing directed at us.” He paused, then added, “Not all of it is in United Nations code, sir. Must be local traffic.”

 “Helm, I want an intercept course to engage those fighters. We've caught them away from the nest, and we might as well take a chance to reduce Waldheim's firepower a little. Ballard, look for their tanker shuttle. This far from the mothership, they must be operating with support, and I'd like a clean sweep. And I want all the data you can gather on that other ship. Bowman, try and hail them.”

 “They're hailing us, sir,” Bowman replied, turning from his station. “Normal radio, no scrambler, voice only. Pretty old-fashioned stuff.”

 “Nothing like the classics, Spaceman,” Marshall said. “Put him on. And Quesada, go for maximum acceleration. This time I want to catch those bastards before they can get away.”

 “This is the scoutship Gagarin calling unidentified spacecraft,” a thin voice said, fighting through the crackle. “I am requesting assistance.”

 “Gagarin, this is Fleet Captain Daniel Marshall the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo. We are moving to engage the United Nations fighters. Can you hold out for five minutes while we close the range?” 

 “I think so. Are you equipped to receive tactical data?”

 “We are indeed. I'll patch you though to Lieutenant-Ca...” he paused, then corrected himself. “To Sub-Lieutenant Scott, for tactical co-ordination. Hang on for just a little longer, Gagarin. The cavalry's on the way. Alamo out.”

 “That's odd,” Francis said. “They're keeping on the tail of Gagarin. I'd have expected the fighters to either retreat to their tanker shuttle or move into an attack run on us.” Turning to Marshall, he added, “I guess they must be anxious to bring that ship down. Enough that they'd throw away a good part of their fighter force to do it.”

 “We can worry about the details later, Lieutenant,” Marshall replied. “Time to intercept, Quesada?”

 “Four minutes, thirty-three seconds, sir,” the helmsman replied.

 “Still no change to target aspect,” Ballard said. “Enemy fighters are holding course. Unless something changes, they'll reach Gagarin before we can open fire.”

 Tapping a control on the arm of his chair, Marshall said, “Salazar, immediate launch. Intercept and engage enemy fighter formation. Alamo will provide support. Good hunting.”

 “Understood, Alamo,” Salazar replied. “Fighter Leader to all Fighters. Scramble.”

 Seven dots appeared on the tactical display, Alamo's fighter squadron racing towards the enemy, trajectory plots snapping into position. Salazar was taking them out in textbook formation, a double arrowhead with his fighter in the center, ready to fill in gaps. He glanced back at Harper, who was watching the screen.

 “Relax, Lieutenant. He knows what he's doing,” he said.

 Turning to him, she replied, “Aye, sir.” She glanced at him for a second before returning to her station. Someone else he hardly recognized, the wild-haired hacker from his first tour on Alamo transformed into a seasoned officer, a key member of the command staff, and a former ship captain in her own right. There were times it felt as though he had been left behind while the rest of the crew had moved on.

 “Cannon ready, sir,” Scott said. “Rules of engagement?”

 “Fire offensively, Sub-Lieutenant, and at your discretion. I want those bastards knocked out of my sky in short order.”

 “Very good, sir,” she replied. “Firing range in three minutes, thirty seconds. All hands are ready for action, all blast doors sealed.”

 “Damage control teams on standby, sir,” Fitzroy said from the engineering station.

 Nodding, Marshall turned back to the screen, watching as the two fighter formations closed on each other. Belatedly, the enemy commander had opted to move to a defensive posture, but he'd left it late, and Salazar was taking full advantage of his sluggish actions to press home his attack, nursing his inexperienced pilots into position.

 Marshall could still picture himself out there, leading the squadron into battle as he had done in the War, almost two decades before. A part of him still longed to return to the simplicity of a cockpit, responsible only for himself and his personal survival, or that of a handful of pilots. Not the crushing weight he found himself bearing now. An easier time.

 “Change to target aspect from Waldheim, sir,” Ballard said. “I don't understand it, though.”

 “Details, Spaceman.”

 “They're changing their orbit, but not for an escape vector. I think they're heading towards the planet, right down to minimum altitude.” She paused, then added, “I'm also picking up something in the atmosphere, the pattern of a recent re-entry plume. Maybe an escape pod.”

 Francis walked over, looked at the screen, and added, “Definitely a civilization down there, sir. I'm picking up at least one major settlement, and there's some electromagnetic activity. If I was to guess, sir, I'd say that Waldheim has taken the planet.”

 “One ship?”

 “There's not much in the way of orbital infrastructure,” Ballard said, “but I am picking up debris in a stationary orbit. Could be the remains of a space station.”

 “A lost colony,” Quesada mused. “Looks like not everyone managed to find a way home.”

 “Fighter contact in sixty seconds,” Scott said. “We're ninety behind them.”

 The elevator doors opened, and a red-faced McCormack burst onto the bridge, saying, “I need to speak to you, Captain.”

 “Not now, Lieutenant.”

 Anger still surging in her eyes, she thrust a datapad at him, then turned and stormed back into the elevator without waiting for a response. Marshall scanned down the hastily-written note, shook his head, and slid it into his pocket.

 “What is it, Captain?” Francis asked.

 “Our squadron leader just resigned her commission,” he said with a sigh. “We'll deal with that after the battle. Any word from Salazar?”

 “In formation and preparing to press his attack. He'll be firing defensively to deplete their missiles,” Scott replied. Glancing up at her console, she added, “Contact in ten seconds, sir.”

 Marshall and the bridge crew had front-row seats for the action. The screen was briefly a jumbled tangle of trajectory plots as twenty-four missiles raced into the sky, Salazar's formation swung around in a graceful arc once they had released their payloads, only the lead pilot remaining on the intercept course, facing the enemy alone, guiding the combined salvo onto the target.

 “Pull out, Pavel,” Marshall muttered. “Pull out.”

 At the last second, Salazar spun his craft around, releasing his two missiles to join the melee. A cascade of explosions rippled across the screen, and when the images faded, only Salazar's salvo remained, heading towards two of the enemy fighters. A pair of explosions wiped their targets from the display, and the survivors turned once again, this time heading further away from Alamo, paralleling Gagarin's flight path.

 “Where are they going?” Scott asked.

 “More speed, Quesada,” Marshall ordered. “We've got to get them. Ballard, any sign of the tanker shuttle?”

 “No, sir, but there are a lot of sensor dead spots out there.” She gestured at the screen, then added, “We're close to the inner asteroid cluster. I've never seen a field so dense. Plenty of places for someone to hide.” She turned, then added, “They daren't go too deep, though. Not unless they've got a lot more fuel than my readings suggest.”

 “Closing on target,” Quesada replied. “Thirty seconds to range.”

 “Signal the fighters,” Marshall ordered. “Offer them a chance to surrender.”

 “No reply, sir,” Bowman said, working his controls.

 The end was inevitable as Alamo dived into position, the laser cannon catching the leading fighter dead-on, ripping it into flaming fragments, while the first salvo of missiles raced towards its targets, wiping them from the sky. Marshall sat back in his chair, then turned to Ballard.

 “Get me Gagarin again, Spaceman.”

 “He's already calling you, Captain.”

 Sliding on a headset, Marshall said, “Now that we've cleared up our mutual problem, perhaps we could find some time to talk in a little more detail.”

 There was a brief pause, and the man replied, “You'll have to understand that trust isn't going to come quickly, Captain. For all I know, those were some sort of drone, and this is a trap. Nevertheless, I suppose I don't have much choice, do I?”

 “Probably not. Where were those fighters going?”

 “They were chasing me, Captain. We have a hidden installation, deep in the Inner Belt. It had been intended as a base for asteroid exploitation, until Waldheim arrived.” He sighed, then added, “Now it is the last outpost of freedom in this system.”

 “Why haven't they taken it?”

 “As I said, it's deep in the belt, in the middle of a cluster of a hundred thousand asteroid fragments. We picked it because of its proximity to easily-accessible minerals, but you'd never be able to find your way through the maze without a guide. Or a few years to study the trajectories. This isn't the first time they've tried to snatch one of our ships, but they've never come this close.”

 “Then I presume bringing Alamo in is not an option.” He paused, then added, “Nor do I feel inclined to speak openly, even on a secure channel. We've got no way of knowing who might be listening.” Tapping a control, he said, “Marshall to Salazar.”

 “I'm on the line, sir.”

 “Dock with Gagarin, transfer across, then switch your fighter to remote operation. I want you to go to this base as my representative and liaison. See what you can find out about the current situation, and how we might be able to assist them. Alamo will stand off at range until you return.”

 “Understood, sir,” Salazar replied.

 “Is that suitable to you, Gagarin?”

 “Certainly, Captain. And my name is Dmitri Fedorov.”

 “A pleasure to meet you, Dmitri. Let's hope all our fights go this well.”

 “Captain,” Francis said, as the channel snapped closed. “Do you think it is a good idea to send Lieutenant Salazar alone into the lion's den? We could launch a shuttle with an Espatier team to accompany him, maybe gather some additional intelligence.”

 “Blind chance may have found us the only allies we might find in this system, Lieutenant, and I think we're going to have to show a little faith if we're going to make any progress with them. I can certainly understand why they might be unwilling to trust strangers at present.” Looking across at Harper, he continued, “I want a full survey of the system, and a complete strategic report in one hour. There's an enemy warship less than a day's flight from here, and I want to find a way to bring it down.”

 “We're going to attack, then?” Scott asked.

 “Better that than wait for the knife in our back, Sub-Lieutenant. We've got a chance to end this chase here and now, and I intend to take it.”

Chapter 5

 With a loud report, the two ships locked together, and Salazar struggled through the cramped lower airlock into Gagarin, a descent that felt as though he was stepping back in time more than a century, to the earliest days of interplanetary spaceflight. Everything was bulky, over-engineered, primitive dials and gauges filling the cramped cabin, a pair of couches facing forward to a master control panel. Kicking free from his seat, Fedorov rose, and held out his hand in greeting.

 Shaking the proffered hand, Salazar said, “I've deactivated my fighter's sensors, in accordance with our agreement. You can check them out for yourself if you want. Alamo's moving into a blind spot, so they can't monitor us either.”

 “You're giving me a lot of trust, Lieutenant. It would be churlish to question it too closely. Have you served as your commander's hostage before?”

 “On occasion,” he replied. “You'd be surprised what I've had to do in the service of the Confederation in the past.” Sliding into the vacant couch, he asked, “What are you hauling?”

 “Ice,” Fedorov answered, taking the pilot's seat. “Enough to last us for a couple of months. The asteroid we selected for a base is mineral-rich, but has no deposits of its own. The one element we weren't self-sufficient in.” He paused, then added, “Not that we can last for long.”

 As the engines fired with a dull roar, Salazar said, “Then this wasn't intended for long-term occupancy?”

 “Quite the reverse, we'd hoped to use it for fifty years. The first major step in our colonization of the system. We might have a small population, Lieutenant, but we're growing fast, and we wanted to make use of the last of our inherited resources while we could. This ship dates back to the original settlement, though we were working on the construction of a new generation of spacecraft.” With a sigh, he added, “Our orbital station was destroyed in the first moments of the attack. Ten years it took to build. I suspect we can replace it more rapidly, but a lot of labor and love went into its construction.”

 “Have you explored the rest of the system?”

 “During the first decade or so, when we had a dozen of these ships, we visited every major body in the system. Officially as part of a scheduled survey, but I think some of the original crew didn't want to give up spaceflight too easily.”

 “When did you arrive out here?”

 “A little over a century ago. I presume you found the wormhole?” At Salazar's nod, the pilot continued, “So did our ancestors. They were aiming for Delta Pavonis, but the drive malfunctioned, and we found ourselves in a barely charted system. They spent a year, and most of their resources, in an attempt to escape, but finally fell through to Andromeda. Finding our Morana was a miracle. That it had not been colonized before was surprising. Though there is evidence of an ancient civilization on the surface.”

 “Dating from how long ago?” Salazar asked.

 “Ten thousand years, perhaps. We haven't got the experts for a full analysis, though many of our fiction writers have spun lurid tales of the ancient past. That's become something of a specialty. I can show you numerous volumes of dubious poetry...”

 “I think I can live without that.”

 “Wise.” Tapping a sequence of controls, Fedorov sent the engine roaring, diving into a thick cluster of asteroids, the spacing less than half a mile apart. “A shattered world, we think, and recently destroyed in cosmic time. Eventually it will disperse, but for the present it represents the richest source of raw materials in the system, as well as the easiest to exploit. Though it took years for our astronomers to gather the data to plot a safe course out.”

 “Waldheim and Alamo will be able to do that far more quickly.”

 Nodding, Fedorov replied, “I'm more than aware of our limited technology, Lieutenant.”

 “Call me Pavel, by the way.”

 The pilot's eyes gleamed, and he asked, “Then you are also from Mother Russia?”

 “Indirectly. My parents were born on Callisto; my mother was Russian in origin, my father Mexican. Not that it mattered too much. Both of them were fourth-generation colonists, going all the way back to the original settlement. I've never even been to Earth.”

 “A shame,” Fedorov replied. “I'd love to see it someday. Though I suppose that will never be possible.” Glancing at an overhead sensor, he added, “I'd still like to know why Waldheim attacked.”

  “You don't know?”

 “They arrived late one night, and by dawn our world was conquered. They never told us why. The last signal we had from the Chairman was to lie low and hope for a better day. Perhaps he had some knowledge that your ship was in the area, though I can't see how. We've had no messages from the homeworld since then.” With a sigh, he added, “I have a wife and a young son at home. I don't even know if they're still alive.”

 “We'll fight them off, Dmitri,” Salazar said. “It won't be the first time we've bested them. Even here in Andromeda. Thirty years ago, we threw off the United Nations in a fifteen-year war. Two generations sacrificed their lives to buy us our independence. We're not going to sit by and watch while they conquer your world, not if there is anything we can do to stop them.”

 “Base coming up,” Fedorov said, as the transport ducked dangerously between a pair of asteroids. “Right there.”

 Salazar watched as the ship drifted into position, spotting a familiar double-dome outpost, a design he had seen dozens of times on scattered asteroids and moons back home. There had been an effort to camouflage it, smother it in gray dust from the surrounding terrain, but it was still clearly visible from this altitude. Around the perimeter, a pair of mass driver cannons pointed at the sky, payloads in position, civilian devices brought into military service. Just as they had back on Mars, thirty years before.

 “I've already signaled the base commander,” Fedorov said. “She's waiting to meet you as soon as we land. I presume you'll want to conclude your business with her as rapidly as possible, before Waldheim launches another attack.”

 “They won't attack while Alamo is on station,” Salazar replied. “Not without throwing everything they have into the fight. We're stalemated at the moment, but don't worry. That won't last long.” The transport dropped to the ground, and a snake-like docking tunnel reached out towards them, clamping onto the main airlock, the connection rattling as the pressure equalized.

 Rising to his feet, taking care in the low gravity, Salazar turned to the hatch while Fedorov began the laborious post-flight checks, throwing switches and checking controls, pulling out a clipboard and scribbling notes with a pencil. Shaking his head, Salazar stepped into the docking tunnel, facing a gray-haired woman wearing a green jumpsuit at the far end, a pistol in her hand.

 “This is the only firearm we have,” she said. “And if it wasn't for an old tradition, we wouldn't even have this one. Nevertheless, I assure you that it is in good working condition, and that I will not hesitate to use it if I must. Do you understand?”

 “Of course,” Salazar said. “If our places were reversed, I'd be doing the same. I assume you've already checked me for concealed devices?”

 “Naturally, though I suspect that you have abilities to hide them that we lack. Given that, you will be under guard for the duration of your stay. Thus far, your Captain has kept his end of our agreement. So long as he continues to do so, we will keep ours.”

 “Do I come forward?”

 “Slowly, and carefully.”

 Nodding, Salazar walked down the tunnel towards the woman, who stepped back to allow him into the archaic airlock. All of the equipment looked new, and yet familiar, copies of designs that were still in use in remote outposts scattered across the system, relics of the first wave of interplanetary colonization. Somehow he doubted that the designers would ever have imagined that their creations would be used this far from home.

 Inside, the dome was about as he had expected, a cluster of compartments surrounding a central command core, where a team of technicians nursed their equipment into life, monitoring local space on a large screen. The datapad in his pocket had more power than all of their systems, but they were using what they had to the full.

 “I am Colonel Anna Volkova. Currently the head of all free military forces in this system. Not that they amount to very much.” With a thin smile, she added, “I have one terrified Corporal under my command, and the two of us are only here on loan. And until this nightmare began, I was a Captain. The Chairman promoted me as his final act.”

 “I understood you didn't have much in the way of a military?”

 “My commission is from the Colonial Police. I was here to launch an investigation into suspected corruption in contract work. Before my change of careers, I was a cosmonaut.” She smiled, and added, “In happier times.”

 “She pioneered the original exploration of the Belt, during our return to space,” Fedorov said, stepping after Salazar. “That this base exists is largely due to her work.”

 “Not that I expect it to last for very much longer,” she replied. “Though I suppose your arrival might help us with that, Lieutenant.” She paused, frowned, then added, “Your Captain has indicated that you are willing to help us. Just what do you have at your disposal?”

 With a smile, Salazar said, “Alamo is a battlecruiser, Colonel, with a full fighter squadron and a platoon of Espatiers at our disposal. With her recent modifications, she's one of the most advanced ships in the Triplanetary Fleet, and the last time we tangled with Waldheim, they came off worst. I'm quite confident that what we did once, we can do again.”

 “A capital ship,” Volkova said, shaking her head. “That you can have such ships at your disposal makes our inferiority all too clear. How many such ships do you have?”

 “Out here, just Alamo, but we've got a dozen more battlecruisers. And three battleships, the equivalent to Waldheim, though they don't leave Sol that often. We've been essentially in a cold war with the United Nations since we secured our independence.”

 “We've been alone for a century,” Fedorov said. “It seems strange to know that humanity has moved on without us. Our flight from Earth was desperate, and there were times we truly believed that we were all that was left.”

 “Not uncommon,” Salazar replied. “It's only in the last decade that we've really begun to move out to the stars again, and we've found lost colonies scattered all over local space from your era. Dozens of transports reached out, and many of them found a safe haven of their own.” He paused, then said, “We're the first ship from the Confederation you've encountered?”

 “Only the second starship to ever visit this system, since our settlement here.”

 Frowning, Salazar replied, “You're certain?”

 “Trust me, Lieutenant, I would know,” Volkova said. “Why?”

 “We've been looking for one of our starships, the reason we found the wormhole in the first place.” He paused, then said, “No other ships, ever? Nautilus?”

 Volkova's eyes widened, and she added, “I know of the ship. She launched at the same time as our Komarov, and was heading in the same direction. Our two nations had been at war, and we received extensive intelligence briefings.” With a shrug, she added, “My great-grandmother was Komarov's Executive Officer. I received many of the records as an inheritance. Our last link to home. Why were you expecting her?”

 “We're following her trail,” Salazar said. “We know that she came out here, through the wormhole to Andromeda, but more importantly, we know that she managed to find her way back. We contacted the descendants of her crew, back in our own galaxy, a few years ago. They'd reverted to barbarism, lost all of their records, so we couldn't find anything that would help, but we do know that they found a way home.”

 Fedorov and Volkova looked at each other, stunned, and the latter replied, “Our ancestors never even looked. Never thought that we might return to our own galaxy, see our own people once again. Finding our new world seemed like such a miracle...”

 “Our ship was in pieces when we arrived, Colonel,” Fedorov said. “Perhaps they simply didn't think that venturing on was a practical proposition. As for Nautilus, well, there might be something.” He paused, looked at his superior for confirmation, and with a curt nod, continued, “I told you about the ruins, less than a hundred miles from Cosmograd. Naturally they were the source of much attention in the early days of our settlement, but we found some evidence that someone had been there before us. What seemed to be the remains of a shuttle landing site.”

 “We discounted it,” Volkova said, “on the expectation that anyone who had found our world would have wished to stay, just as we did. No matter what side of the war they had been on. This far from home, any political disputes would have been meaningless.”

 “A pity General Estrada doesn't feel the same way,” Salazar replied. “Go on.”

 “There isn't that much more to tell,” Fedorov said. “There wasn't much other evidence. Just signs of what could have been a landing site. When we explored the ruins, nobody was really looking for any trace of human activity.”

 “The ruins,” Salazar said. “Are they covered in strange symbols, alien hieroglyphs of some sort? Made of a material that obviously didn't come from the system?”

 “Yes, but we've made little other progress,” Volkova replied. “Archaeology wasn't something we were prepared for. We didn't have any experts, and only a few textbooks. Reaching into space has always been a far higher priority for us.” She paused, then added, “And we haven't found any other signs of previous activity in the system.”

 “Your planet,” Salazar asked. “Like Earth?”

 “Very much like,” Volkova replied, nodding. “To the point that some of our people have speculated that it was terraformed, created in that pattern, though we've never found any comprehensive proof. We had to introduce a lot of our own wildlife from our genetic banks, and by the time we'd managed to start serious investigations, we'd hopelessly contaminated the evidence.”

 “What is all of this about, Pavel?” Fedorov asked.

 “You wanted to know why Waldheim was here, and why they had conquered your world,” Salazar said. “I think I have the answer. I think I know what they are doing here, and if I'm right, we might need to move faster than I thought. I need to speak to Captain Marshall, immediately.”

 “Security...”

 “The last time we found a site like that, they were willing to eliminate with orbital bombardment to stop us exploring it. How far did you say it was from your capital?”

 “I'll set it up right away,” Volkova said. “You don't think...”

 “No, but I fear,” Salazar replied. “And so should you. Trust me, Colonel. It can get a lot worse than this. I know.”

Chapter 6

 The pod dropped to the ground, rolling to the side as the parachute billowed in the wind, and Clarke peered out of the viewport, a smile on his face, before reaching for the emergency release. With a series of reports, the explosive bolts fired, ripping away the hatch and tossing it into the air, landing in a cluster of foliage. As the first breath of outside air raced inside, Clarke frowned.

 “Something wrong?” Sokolov asked.

 “I've never been on a world where you didn't need a spacesuit,” he replied. “Going to be hard to get used to.” Turning to the guard, pistol still in hand, he asked, “The least you can give me is your name and rank.”

 “Corporal Mortimer.”

 “Well, Corporal, you get to be the first outside. Don't try anything foolish. There's a cliff about ten meters away, and it's a long drop to the bottom.”

 “Couldn't you have guided us away?” Sokolov asked.

 “Now why would I want to do a foolish thing like that?” Clarke replied, turning his pistol on his erstwhile cellmate. “You two get to be the muscle. Move.”

 “What are you doing?” Sokolov asked, sweat beading on his forehead.

 “We talk after we work. Out.”

 Mortimer clambered out of the pod, Sokolov following, and Clarke ripped the survival kit from the wall before leaving, swinging it over his shoulder on a single strap. He emerged into glorious sunlight, a lush woodland that might have come from an old storybook, the air filled with fragrance and life. Just beyond, the red and blue parachute drifted in the wind, winding around itself, the pod slowly rocking back and forth.

 “Push it over the edge,” Clarke ordered, standing well clear of his prisoners.

 “What in God's name are you planning?” Sokolov asked.

 “Do as I say. And hurry.”

 Mortimer moved to the rear of the spherical pod, Sokolov following, and the two of them quickly managed to set it rolling, tumbling over the bumpy ground towards the edge of the cliff. Finally it gathered enough momentum to carry itself, and as the two prisoners stepped back, it fell over the side, rolling end over end, smashing into a million fragments on the rocks below.

 “Good,” Clarke said, still careful to keep the pistol leveled. “We can talk now. Corporal, I assume you have some way of contacting Major Pastell and informing him that the mission has begun?”

 Her eyes widened, and she said, “How...”

 “It really wasn't that difficult. I was taking a bit of a gamble, but the good Major was dropping enough hints that he was interested in changing sides that I figured I'd be in with a chance. You were his handpicked guard, and I'm guessing that precludes the level of incompetence that would be required to allow a prisoner to escape so easily. Still less telling me where to go.”

 Nodding, she replied, “I'm impressed. You moved a lot faster than the Major thought. I was meant to feed you more hints later. You escaped a lot earlier than we'd anticipated.”

 “Then this was a trick?” Sokolov asked. “John, you don't need...”

 “First-name terms, now?” Clarke replied. “Corporal, search him. You're going to find a small transmitter, probably of a similar design to the one you are carrying. Likely in a similar spot. Feel free to go as far as you need in the search, and when you find it, toss it over the cliff.” Glancing up, he said, “I spotted some orbital satellites on our sensors, coming in. I think we're out of line-of-sight at the moment, but we're going to have to hurry.”

 “Not a problem,” Mortimer said, turning to Sokolov. “The Major arranged for a malfunction that will give us at least an orbit to get into cover. He didn't want anyone to disturb us for the present.” She paused, frowned, and added, “I was meant to be your hostage. To provide you with some security.”

 “You armed?”

 “Obsidian knife.”

 “Feel free to draw it. I don't need a hostage now.” Gesturing at Sokolov, he added, “Keep searching until you find it.”

 Taking off the man's jumpsuit, she ripped through the lining and pulled out a slim cylinder, her eyes widening as she recognized the design. At Clarke's nod, she tossed it over the side of the cliff, down to the crashing waves below.

 “How did you know?” Sokolov asked.

 “It was too obvious,” Clarke replied. “Not to brag, but I'm an important enough prisoner that I wouldn't be placed with someone else. Especially not someone who might be able to give me the information I needed. Let me guess your mission, just for the practice. Colonel Cruz turned you, and your mission was to accompany me to the surface, make contact with the resistance, and expose them. Thereby discrediting the Confederation, as well as eliminating some of the opposition. How am I doing?”

 “Very good, Sub-Lieutenant,” Sokolov replied. “Very good indeed.” Folding his hands behind his back, he added, “What are you planning to do with me?”

 “Maybe...”

 Clarke's pistol barked twice, and Sokolov's body dropped to the ground, his eyes rolling back as blood ran down his forehead. Mortimer looked down at the corpse, then up at Clarke, mouth wide from shock.

 “But...” she began.

 “What did you expect me to do?” he asked. “We can't carry a prisoner around, and my guess is that he had friends down here on the surface that he would have made contact with. In an ideal world I've have turned him over to someone for interrogation, but we don't have the luxury of that. Besides, there's probably a subcutaneous transmitter as well, and I haven't got the training or the equipment to remove it.” Looking down at the body, he added, “You called him a traitor. That fits. I suspect the local resistance would have done something similar if they'd caught him. Assuming he didn't try to kill us to save his own skin.”

 Nodding, she replied, “I wouldn't expect ruthlessness like that from a Colonial.”

 “Don't think I particularly like the idea. I just don't think we have a choice.” Sliding his pistol into a pocket, he stepped towards the body, reaching under his arms. “Give me a hand. We're going to bury him at sea.” 

 Taking his legs, she helped him to the side of the cliff, and the two of them hurled the dead traitor over the side, watching as he fell, joining the tattered remnants of the escape pod at the bottom of the cliff. Wiping his hands on his trousers, Clarke gestured into the forest.

 “This way. Roughly, anyway. I guess we'll find trails when we get nearer town.”

 “We're going to walk a hundred miles?” she asked.

 “Hopefully we won't have to. There are a lot of outlying settlements, and we're bound to run into one of them, sooner or later. Do you have a datapad?”

 “I left it in the pod. Didn't see much point in being tracked.”

 “Smart. As far as I know, I'm not carrying anything on me. I'm going to have to trust that I can say the same of you.” Running his eyes over her, he added, “Do I need to make the obvious threats, or can we just assume that I've already made them?”

 “I think we can get that unpleasantness over with.” Walking by his side, she continued, “You were about right when it came to my orders. Sam wants to help the rebels. Not out of altruism, just logic. Colonel Cruz has the General beguiled with possibilities of setting up some sort of pocket empire out here, with this world as the capital. That, and there's some sort of secret operation taking place down here.”

 “Secret from the Major?”

 “Cruz has taken personal command of all surface operations. Only personnel she trusts are being allowed down here. This is the first time I've made it down to the ground.” She paused, then asked, “He thinks that you're more than your service record suggests.”

 “I'll trade a question for a question. Why does he trust you?”

 “I've been sleeping with him for the last three years.”

 “What a fleet,” Clarke said, shaking his head. “You're in real trouble the next time we go to war. You realize that.” 

 “Some of us do,” she replied. “Now...”

 “Let's just say I've done some work for Triplanetary Intelligence in the past. Nothing that need concern you for the moment, but I've got a somewhat unusual skill set.” Looking back at the cliff, he added, “Would you believe I'd hoped I was wrong about Sokolov?”

 “You weren't,” she said. “Colonel Cruz must have managed to turn him. He was one of a dozen we captured when we took their space station, a fortnight ago. They surrendered without a fight.” Looking around the forest, she added, “I suppose I can't blame them for that. They never had a chance.”

 “You didn't give them one.”

 “Life isn't always fair.” She paused, then said, “Not that I understood why we acted the way we did. We're meant to be trying to find a way home, not setting up an empire out here.” Glancing to the right, she added, “There's that trail you were looking for.”

 Nodding, Clarke turned down a narrow path, a shiny piece of reflective fabric draped across a tree to mark the way. He walked over to it, running the material through his fingers, then took the lead, his hand dropping into his pocket, reaching for his pistol.

 “I didn't see a settlement when we came in,” Mortimer said.

 “Doesn't mean anything. We didn't have time for an aerial survey, and there's so much cover around here, you could hide a city in the undergrowth without too much trouble.” He paused, then added, “Though we want to keep clear. Your people will know this place, and someone's going to come down here to take a look in the near future.”

 “Will they?” she asked. “If both Sam and Cruz are trying to play a game...”

 “For form's sake, if nothing else. Remember that both of them think they've got me fooled.”

 She looked at him, frowned, and said, “I'm curious.”

 “About what?”

 “Why am I still alive?”

 “If you were going to kill me, you'd have done it on the ship. That means that for the moment our interests coincide. Major Pastell wants an ace in the hole in the event Alamo wins the battle in orbit, enough that he's willing to take a chance on me. You want to make contact with the resistance, and so do I.” Slowing his pace, he added, “Watch out for a vehicle, something we can take.”

 “In this terrain?”

 “A bicycle, perhaps. Something like that. Anything that will speed our progress a little.”

 “Just out of academic interest, do you actually have a plan?”

 Stopping, Clarke turned to her, and said, “You remind me of someone. And yes, I do have a plan, but for the present that's going to have to count as need-to-know information. You don't.” As they walked along the trail, evidence of human presence increased, discarded food wrappers and footprints on the path. For more than a mile, the two of them silently walked, following the slow, lazy curve, the trees thinning out.

 “Wait a minute,” Mortimer said. “We must be getting close. What's missing?”

 “Noise. People,” Clarke replied. “It's a nice day, and this is a well-used path. Probably to the cliffs. We should have run into someone by now. Where is everyone?”

 “I think we'd better leave the trail.”

 Nodding, Clarke led the way into the undergrowth, careful to stay out of sight, watching the ground to ensure he made no noise, no sign of his presence. Behind him, Mortimer moved with greater grace, the familiarity of one used to her environment evident. As the trees thinned still further, they caught their first sight of a structure, a wooden hut at the perimeter of the settlement, cold and silent. With a quick glance at Mortimer, Clarke stepped forward, quickly and quietly running to the hut, waiting for a noise, someone to raise the alarm.

 Nobody did, and no noise filled the air. Just the faint bird song in the background, the rustling of leaves in the wind. Clarke looked out to a deserted street, a dozen houses on either side, a large building that advertised itself as a lumber mill at the far end. The only evidence that anything was wrong was a trio of burned-out trucks by the side of the mill, and an abandoned doll lying forlornly on the road. Mortimer, heedless of the risk, walked up to the toy and picked it up, holding it in her hands.

 Pulling out his pistol, Clarke aimed it at Mortimer, and asked, “What happened here?”

 “I don't know,” she said, looking down at the doll. “They're all gone.”

 “Scorch mark on the road. A shuttle landed here, maybe more than one.” He counted the houses, then said, “Twelve houses. Anywhere between twenty and fifty people. No sign of bodies. We'd smell them, and there would have been predators in here by now. Which means they were captured, and I want to know where they were taken, and why.”

 “Good question,” another voice said, and a figure stepped out from behind the mill, assault rifle in hand. “Very good question, and one I think we want an answer to. You are covered by six men, all armed as I am, all ready, willing and pleased to end your lives.” Looking at Mortimer, he added, “A United Nations trooper. I ought to kill you where you stand.”

 “Wrong,” Clarke said. “I'm Sub-Lieutenant John Clarke, of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo. This is Corporal Veronica Mortimer, one of our deep-cover agents. We managed to escape captivity on Waldheim, and I'm trying to get to a communicator to contact my ship when it enters the system.”

 “Can you prove what you say?”

 “Why else would I be here? I'm assuming we've been under observation since we landed.”
 Nodding, the man said, “We saw your escape pod coming in.”

 “Then either I am telling the truth, or this is some sort of elaborate deception. You're going to have to make the choice.”

 Another man walked over to the first, holding a battered tablet in his hand, and said, “I've called up the images from the deep satellite.” Turning it to show Clarke, he asked, “Is that your ship?”

 A smile spread across his face, and he replied, “It is. When did they arrive?”

 “About an hour ago.” Turning to the first guard, he added, “Yuri, the first thing this ship did was launch an attack on an enemy fighter formation. It took down six of them. If this man comes from that vessel, then he's got to be on our side.” Running his eyes over Mortimer, he added, “And perhaps it is as he said. That database we hacked mentioned a Triplanetary Confederation.”

 Stepping forward, Clarke said, “We're here to help. Any way we can. If I can make contact with my ship, then I can arrange for supply drops, tactical support, even reinforcements. At the very least we can start to coordinate our operations to kick the bastards from Waldheim off this planet.”

 “And you,” the man asked Mortimer. “You don't seem happy with this turn of events.”

 “I don't enjoy having strangers pointing assault rifles at me,” she replied, looking him in the eyes. “Either accept our story or shoot us now, and risk losing the only realistic possibility of liberating your planet at the same time.”

 “Wait here for a moment,” the man said. “You will be watched and monitored at all times. If you attempt to leave the area, or if someone turns up to rescue you, I will make sure that you die.”

 “Fine,” Clarke said, “but hurry up.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “By my reckoning, there will be a surveillance satellite overhead in about eight minutes, and I think it is in all of our best interests to be well away from here by then.”

 The two men retreated to the shadows, and Mortimer walked over to Clarke, confusion on her face, and asked in a whisper, “How did you know my first name?”

 “You should also ask how I knew you were sleeping with Major Pastell.”

 “How the...”

 “Triplanetary Intelligence is very efficient, and I was able to get a complete run-down on Waldheim and her crew before we even fell through the wormhole. You were flagged as a potential target for blackmail months ago, though I don't think anyone ever made any attempts along those lines.” He shrugged, and added, “As I said earlier, I was taking a gamble, but I had a good idea of the cards in your hand before I sat down at the table.”

 “Sam was right,” she said. “There is more to you than meets the eye. Under other...”

 The rebel stepped forward, and said, “We've made our decision.” He raised a pistol, and said, “I'm sorry,” before squeezing the trigger twice. Clarke collapsed to the ground, a faint smile on his face as he fell. No gunshot. A tranquilizer dart. He managed a brief flicker of satisfaction before the darkness took him.

Chapter 7

 Marshall sat behind the desk in his office, going through the reports that were beginning to stream in from across the ship, sensor crews harvesting data and information from Salyut Station, the hidden asteroid base, adding to the mass of material. He looked up at the strategic plot once again, a frown on his face. Their options were limited in this battlespace, the enemy gifted plenty of time to prepare for their attack. He'd managed to cut down their fighter strength again, leaving it at half what it once was, but that still gave them an advantage.

 There was an answer, buried in there somewhere. There had to be.

 The door slid open, and Salazar, Harper and Francis walked inside, the remains of his senior staff. Chief Santiago had made it clear from the outset that whatever her official rank was, she didn't consider herself qualified to discuss tactical matters, though Marshall thought it more likely that she really considered it a waste of her time. At least the ship was running smoothly now, ready in all respects for the battle that was to come.

 “Be seated,” he said, and the three of them took their places. He paused for a moment, remembering the original cramped office he'd had to endure on his first tour on Alamo, before the extensive interior remodeling after the fight against the Cabal. Then, there was barely room for two people to stand in front of his desk. Now, he could easily bring all of the senior staff inside with space to spare.

 “I've talked to Colonel Volkova on the secure link,” Salazar said. “She's happy to follow any orders you wish to give, though wishes to retain a veto on long-term strategic objectives.”

 “Can't blame her for that,” Harper said. “It is their system.”

 “As long as she'll obey orders in the middle of a firefight,” Marshall replied. “That's all we need to know right now.” He gestured up at the strategic display, and added, “Our problem, people. An enemy battleship hovering over the most valuable piece of real estate in the system, and no obvious way to bring it down. General Estrada isn't a fool. He's not going to leave station, not at this stage, and I can't see any way to lure him out here.”

 “I hate to say it, but for the record I must,” Francis said. “We don't really need to stay here at all.” Turning to Salazar, he added, “I know you've found evidence of more artifacts out here, but there are probably other avenues we should explore. Don't get the wrong idea, sir, I'm in favor of launching an attack, but there is a strategic argument for sitting this one out.”

 “We're going in,” Marshall said. “That's my decision, and it is made. We're talking about ways and means now, nothing more than that, and I want ideas.”

 Frowning, Harper replied, “I'm not sure we've got any, sir. Orbital space is clear, and the only moon that planet has is distant and large. We can't do anything with that. And they'll have at least twenty hours warning of our arrival. More than enough time for them to position themselves to meet us.”

 Glancing at Harper, Salazar added, “At least we could pick the time and place of battle, though. They wouldn't come out to intercept us. Not and risk exposing their operations on the planet. If we had orbital space for even ten minutes, we could put the entire Espatier platoon onto the surface, completely change the picture. We did them a hell of a lot of damage on Dante, sir, enough to give us tactical parity on the ground.”

 “Then the battle will be fought in orbit,” Marshall said. “How can we use that?”

 “They'll be expecting us to dip into atmosphere,” Francis said. “We've tried that trick before. Likely they'll have atmospheric missiles loaded and ready to fire on our approach. Fast enough to switch and reload when they work out that isn't a problem. And they've had uncontested control of the surface for long enough to install surface-to-air missiles. I would, in their case, and we know they have access to them.”

 “I wasn't thinking of that. Max, how long would it take us to construct an orbital defense network?”

 “Weeks,” he said. “Unless you want to cannibalize critical elements of the ship's tactical systems, and I certainly wouldn't recommend that at the moment. Not with Waldheim out there,  ready to strike.”

 “We could wait,” Harper said. “Hold off here, in the Belt, and build the satellites. If we need any material resources, there are plenty of places to top them up, and supplying Salyut Station won't be a problem any more.” Turning to Salazar, she added, “We've got the Colonel's shopping list. Three shuttle flights should see it completed.”

 Nodding, Salazar replied, “As a minimum, sir, we need to make sure that the base is as self-sufficient as possible. If everything goes wrong, it'll be our last stand.” 

 “Agreed,” Marshall said. “See to it. Returning to the satellites. What would we do if we had them?”

 Frowning, Francis replied, “At the last minute, we'd alter our approach into a new orbit, seed them behind us, and try to lure them in. Not that it would work, sir. They'd scramble their fighters and engage us in a second, knock them out of the sky before they could even complete deployment. Waldheim has control of orbital space, and you can bet they'll have their entire fighter complement in the air long before we arrive.”

 “Which is?”

 “If our estimates are right, fourteen fighters. Assuming the two squadrons and two spares. There's a chance that it could be anywhere up to sixteen, sir,” Harper said. “Hard to tell.”

 “Which means that we've got to deal with the fighters first.”

 “Seven against sixteen isn't a battle I'd like to fight, sir,” Salazar said. He paused, then added, “About the squadron command...”

 “In a minute.” Leaning forward, Marshall said, “You've told me that it would take weeks to put together the satellites. How long would it take to rig decoys? Say, the shell of an orbital defense satellite with a nice big warhead inside, programmed to launch at the nearest target.”

 Nodding, Francis replied, “Less than a day. If you're just talking about the shell and putting a normal missile inside, that should be simple enough. How many would you want?”

 “Eighteen.”

 “Not twenty hours. More like twenty-four.”

 “Close enough,” Marshall said. “Close enough.”

 “Won't they assume that something is wrong when they see us launch them, sir?” Salazar asked. “They'll know how long it takes to put together the satellites.”

 “We've carried them before,” Marshall replied, “and they'll hopefully just assume that we had them ready to go.” Raising a hand, he added, “I admit that's the weak part of the plan, but on the other hand, can they afford to take the risk?”

 “And if they did leave them,” Francis said, “Eighteen missiles is a pretty good salvo to throw at the enemy. No, sir, I agree with you. They'll launch the attack.”

 “Then one good pass, and we'll have to make sure we live through it,” Marshall said.

 “Tricky,” Salazar replied. “Even after losing their fighters, they'll still have at least tactical parity. We'll be relying heavily on our fighters.”

 “Agreed,” Marshall said. “I'd like to see your battle plan within the hour, Lieutenant.”

 Glancing at Harper, Salazar said, “Sir, I honestly think...”

 “My intention is to name you squadron leader, Lieutenant. You can keep your position as Security Officer for the present, as well as Second Officer.”

 Eyes widening, Salazar replied, “What do you want me to do with the other hand, sir?”

 “I'm confident that an officer of your abilities...”

 “Sir,” Francis said, “In my opinion, Lieutenant Salazar would excel in any of those roles...”

 “I'm glad we agree.”

 “But not all of them. You've got other good officers...”

 Nodding, Marshall said, “I have every intention of revisiting the command structure as soon as the current crisis is over, but now is not the time. Pavel, I know that I'm asking a lot, but I need a senior command officer with the fighters for the attack, and by any reasonable definition, you're the best choice for the job.”

 “No, sir. That would be Senior Lieutenant McCormack.”

 “I need a safe pair of hands, Lieutenant, and I need someone I trust in that role. That person is you.” He paused, then added, “As for my objective, I wish to reduce the enemy's options to force them to the negotiating table.”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “Sensible. If we can convince General Estrada that victory will be costly at best, then he's likely to come to some sort of agreement. He's a tough negotiator, but we've got some advantages at our disposal. Not least is a complete psychological profile on him. Colonel Cruz will be the problem, though. She'll resist to the end.”

 “Surely as a subordinate officer...”

 “The United Nations Fleet doesn't work that way,” Harper said. “Even under normal circumstances, the senior staff of a major warship is highly politicized. Out here, when there is nothing to restrain them, you can expect Colonel Cruz to be pushing for the command. The odds are that this whole campaign has begun as an effort to appease her and her faction.” She paused, then said, “Major Pastell is likely to be an ally we can exploit.”

 Salazar added, “On Dante, he suggested that some sort of negotiated settlement was possible. And ultimately, I can't see Waldheim staying here forever, or even leaving behind a garrison.” He paused, then said, “Though we can't reject the possibility of a surface strike.”

 “Wiping out the settlement?”

 “Effectively, with a targeted assault on Cosmograd. Consider, sir, that this is a spacefaring culture, and while they might have been thrown a setback, they'll undoubtedly throw all of their efforts into orbital defenses. They're playing a long game. If they find a way home, and get there before we do, then the United Nations will move to secure both ends of the terminus, and obtain a permanent foothold in Andromeda. And this system would be an ideal base of operations for exploration and trade.”

 “Agreed,” Francis said. “Which rather overrides my original objection to the attack. We've got to go in, sir, and we've got to find some way to push Waldheim out of the system.”

 “What happens,” Harper replied, “when the negotiations fail? We're talking about General Estrada as though he is willing to talk terms, a reasonable man, but he is still a flag officer in the United Nations Space Fleet, and you don't rise that far without impressing the hawks. He'll fight, and he'll fight ruthlessly, and he won't need Colonel Cruz to cheer him on.”

 “If we can wipe out their fighters,” Francis said, “We'll take back the strategic advantage, and ultimately be able to wear them down in a war of attrition. Though with any luck at all, it won't come to that. We might not get an agreement that lasts more than a few weeks, but...”

 “And how do we guarantee that they'll live up to whatever unholy bargain we sign?” Harper replied. “What will stop them from coming right back here, wiping out Cosmograd, then heading off on their merry way.” Turning to Salazar, she added, “I'm far less sanguine than you about the possibility of a garrison remaining, either. Estrada might think it a good way to get rid of some unwanted elements. Colonel Cruz, for example. She'd have a hard time turning down a planetary governorship.”

 “Then you think...”

 “I think we need to find a way to beat them, Captain, and to make it stick. I don't think either we or the residents of this planet will be safe until Waldheim is nothing more than flaming rubble, and I believe that we must plan for that eventuality. You can't trust them, sir. Too many lives are at stake.”

 “Pavel?” Marshall asked.

 Looking at Harper, the pilot replied, “I'm torn, sir. To an extent, I agree with Kris, but I'm not blind to the strategic reality of the situation. We're at a disadvantage, sir, and we might not be able to obtain anything like the optimum outcome. Though there are things we could do. Install a real orbital defense network, for example. Provide them with some support to develop a space-based military. We do have options. Though I would also recommend taking any possible chance to bring those bastards down, sir.”

 “There are eight hundred people on Waldheim, Lieutenant,” Marshall said. “Many of whom will not be there by choice.”

 “There are a hundred thousand civilians on the surface, sir, and none of them volunteered for the firing line. They've got to be our first priority.”

  Nodding, Marshall said, “I don't disagree, Lieutenant. I still maintain that a negotiated settlement is the best course of action, for the present. You will take any and all steps to do the maximum damage to Waldheim, and if we do enough that bringing her down is a realistic possibility, we'll press the attack to the limit. Is that understood?”

 “Yes, sir,” Salazar replied.

 “Is there anything else?”

 Salazar looked at Francis, then said, “There is, sir, but you're not going to like it.”

 “You're talking about replacing Deadeye.”

 Nodding, the young officer replied, “Yes, sir, I am.”

 “Ambitious, aren't you.”

 “Sir,” Harper said, eyes narrowing, “That's grossly unfair. Pavel would be remiss in his duty as Second Officer if he didn't bring this to your attention. The crew need to know where they stand, sir, and with a hostile ship in-system, we can't be too careful.”

 Taking a deep breath, Marshall said, “I'm assuming the three of you have already come to some sort of an arrangement on this issue.” Turning to Francis, he said, “Right?”

 “My judgment is that Lieutenant Salazar is next in line, sir, as things stand. As Captain, it is your prerogative to make a change, and nobody in this room, or on this ship, would question that for even a moment. I presume you are aware of that.”

 “But you need to make the call, sir,” Harper pressed. “One way or another.”

 Looking up at the strategic display, Marshall replied, “As soon as the current crisis is over, Lieutenant, I will make my final decision on reshaping the command structure. Until then, we will leave things as they stand, if for no other reason than that I need Pavel to be commanding the fighter wing for this battle.”

 “Very good, sir,” Salazar said.

 “Dismissed,” Marshall said, and the three officers rose to attention, walking out of the room, heading out to the bridge beyond. He could guess what their topic of conversation would be. Looking up at the wall, he saw the selection of holoimages on display, each of them a memory that he wanted to preserve. His father, commanding Hercules during the War. Then the two of them together after he'd found him, stranded on a forgotten world, months before his death.

 Then he and Caine, standing on Ragnarok, a photograph taken by Maggie Orlova in a far simpler time. Back then, the height of their ambitions was to scramble to preserve their independence, known space less than twenty systems, none of them more than six parsecs from Sol. Even in the earliest days of his command, he'd pushed the frontier further out into space than anyone had dreamed they would go, visited worlds all across the galaxy.

 And now they'd gone still further, millions of light-years from home, a fragile ship, lost and alone in deep space. With the only person on this ship he truly felt he knew, the only one he could trust, lying in a coma in Sickbay, perhaps destined to remain there for the rest of her life. If she was on her feet, he'd have no problems. Or if Orlova was here, she'd be someone he could trust with any level of responsibility. She'd proven that during the Xandari War, a hundred times over. But now she too was lost, somewhere out here, stranded in deep space on a ship of her own.

 Reaching down to a control, he brought up the service records of the senior staff, starting with Salazar. He'd packed a lot into the last few years, had changed beyond recognition from the bitter young midshipman who had first reported on board, four years ago, during his final days as Alamo's commander. He'd earned his commission on their first mission, then gone on to a command of his own during the Xandari War, skipper of a beaten-up raider with a crew salvaged from the remnants of the captured Alamo. He knew that many of his crew had served under him in those days, that Salazar had been Orlova's Executive Officer during their triumphant return to Triplanetary space, but something was still holding him back.

 He scanned through the other records, those of Francis, McCormack and Harper. In other circumstances, Francis might have been a good choice, but he didn't have the independent command experience that Salazar possessed. As an outside candidate, Harper even had potential, after six months commanding Daedalus during Alamo's last mission. McCormack, on paper, looked promising, but there was something about her he just couldn't trust. Though that, he suspected, had more to do with his desire to ride fire again himself.

 He looked up at Caine, and sighed. He knew what the problem truly was, even if he could hardly bear to admit it, even to himself. Naming Salazar as Executive Officer would be as good as writing her off, someone he had known for twenty years, had worked with and fought beside. He couldn't do it. Not yet.

 When they'd beaten Waldheim, after a reasonable time had passed, then perhaps he could face the toughest decision of his life. Not today. Compared to that, the destruction of an enemy battleship seemed straightforward. Though in practice, he knew that even if Estrada went down, he wouldn't go down easy.

Chapter 8

 Salazar had led a fighter squadron into battle many times before, mostly against the Xandari, but this time it felt different, wrong. Probably because the real squadron leader, McCormack, was standing at the back of the room, watching as he concluded his tactical briefing, eyes narrowed as though scrutinizing for a single mistake.

 “I think that's it, then,” he concluded. “You all know what to do, and you all know your roles for the battle. Remember that we've got to do maximum damage to Waldheim, and we've got to make sure that the hits we inflict are those that cannot be easily repaired. Watch for opportunities, and fine-tune your approach accordingly. Good hunting, and I'll see you in the sky. Dismissed.” As the squadron walked out of the room, he walked over to McCormack, watching her pilots leave, and said, “I'll take care of them. Do my best to get them all back in one piece.”

 “That isn't your job,” she replied. “Your job is to complete the mission, no matter what it takes. While I get to sit back on the deck and wait for you all to come home.” Glaring at him, she added, “I guess you got what you wanted.”

 “If I had what I wanted, you'd be taking your squadron into battle and I'd be up on the bridge. Believe me when I tell you that this wasn't my idea, and that I protested the decision to the Captain right up until the final pre-battle briefing.”

 “Is he always this unreasonable?” McCormack asked.

 “Not usually,” Harper said, walking into the room, standing beside Salazar. “It's Caine. He's used to having her as an anchor, and she's always been the one he can count on. And he's served with Pavel before, knows his record.” She paused, and added, “He's wrong, though.”

 Frowning, she replied, “I'd have thought...”

 “Lieutenant, three years ago I'd have done damn near anything for the chance to lead a squadron into battle. I more than satisfied that particular urge when I fought the Xandari.” His eyes grew distant for a moment, and in a softer voice, he continued, “I got to take a collection of rookies into the fire, and had to watch as they were swatted out of the sky one after another because that's what had to be. There was a job to do, one that everything depended upon, and we didn't have a choice.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “Don't read me wrong. I'm confident in my ability to lead a squadron into battle. I just don't hunger for it. Not any more. It's a job, and one Captain Marshall has, over my objections, assigned me to. That's it.”

 Tapping her wings, McCormack replied, “Fourteen years I've worn these, Lieutenant. For all of that time I've worked up to command of a fighter wing. I actually took a step back to command Alamo's squadron. I'd been assigned to Yeager Station, an eighteen-fighter formation. Here I had seven. And now I'm stuck on the deck because of the whim of a commander, and my people are given to a twenty-five-year old flyboy.”

 “Twenty-six next week,” Harper said. “If that helps.”

 “Not really, no.”

 “Listen, I'm sure this is only temporary,” Harper replied. “As soon as everything settles down, the Captain will almost certainly name Pavel Executive Officer, and he can hardly do that job and still lead the squadron.” 

 “Unless he gives it to Lieutenant Murphy.”

 “I would strongly recommend against that,” Salazar said. “Jessie's a good flight leader, and she certainly has potential, but I wouldn't put her in sole command of a squadron. Not until she's had a chance to calm down a little. Right now, she's a bit too wild for my liking.”

 “I'd have thought those were traits you would encourage, based on what I've seen of you in a cockpit.”
 “One of my flight instructors liked to say that rules were for the obedience of fools and the guidance of wise men. The trick is to know when you need to toss the rule book out of the airlock, not to ignore it altogether. There are times that you've got to trust your instinct, but she doesn't have the experience to know when they are. Not yet.”

 “I may have to reconsider my opinion of you, Lieutenant,” she replied. Walking over to him, she said, “Get the job done, and bring my people back in one piece. Do that, and I'll forgive you.”

 “Will do, ma'am,” he said. “Are you heading down to Astrogation?”

 “I'll watch your back the whole way,” she confirmed. “Good luck.”

 Salazar nodded, saluted, then walked out of the room, Harper by his side, heading into the mass of technicians racing to their alert stations, as Alamo began the final preparations for the imminent battle. 

 “She seemed almost human,” Harper quipped.

 “I'd hate to be in her place,” he replied. “Stuck back here, watching people she's responsible for heading off into battle without her. Another form of hell. Worse than facing it herself.”

 “I know what you mean,” she said. “Still, I can see the Captain's point. You've got far more combat hours logged than she does, even as a squadron commander.”

 “Not much chance to log them in peacetime,” he said, “and that's where she's spent most of her career. That doesn't mean she doesn't know what she's doing.” Turning a corner, keeping his voice low, he continued, “Right now I'm wearing three hats, and none of them fit especially comfortably. Being Second Officer and Security Officer was tough enough, but I'm trying to command a squadron as well, and that's no fun at all. Hell, he could give Security to Foster. She's done it before. Name you Second Officer in my place, if he really wanted me to focus on this.”

 “Don't wish that on me.” 

 “I'm serious, Kris. I can't be everywhere at once.” Frowning, he added, “I can see the Captain's problem, but he's going to have to start trusting some of the new hands, or we aren't going to get anywhere. Scott's still only Acting Tactical. McCormack's kicking her heels back on the deck. I'm surprised he hasn't suggested Carpenter for Second Officer.”

 “Careful, Pavel,” she replied.

 “And don't be so sure about what happens next.” Turning another corner, the hangar deck just ahead, he added, “I'm with you on Waldheim, where feasible, but I doubt they're going to give us the opening we're looking for. More likely they'll try and smash us to pieces, with some tricks of their own that we aren't expecting. They've had two weeks to get ready for us, and they must have assumed that we'd come out this way.”

 “Then you don't think this plan will work?”

 “It has a chance. Maybe a good one.” He sighed, then said, “Pre-game jitters. Don't worry about it. We'll find a way to pull this off. We always do, don't we?”

 An overhead speaker barked, “Five minutes to contact. Squadron scramble in three minutes. All hands to combat stations.”

 “They're singing my song,” Salazar said. “You'd better get up to the bridge. See you later.”

 “Don't do anything stupid out there,” she replied. With a smile, she added, “At least, nothing worse than usual.”

 “I'll try and keep the insanity within safe limits,” he said. “Good luck.”

 “And to you.”

 With one last smile, he turned and raced into the hangar deck, a technician tossing him a flight helmet as he made for his fighter, a gleaming silver arrow resting on an elevator airlock, the fiery steed that would take him into battle. The Deck Officer, Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo, was leaning inside the cockpit, wrapping up the pre-flight checks, and flashed him a thumbs'-up as he approached.

 “She's all ready, Pavel,” he said. “Systems checked, flight data loaded, missiles armed and ready. Try not to mess up the paintwork too much.”

 “Will do, Art,” Salazar replied, dropping into the cockpit. “Keep the home fires burning.” Sliding on a headset as the cockpit canopy dropped into position, he said, “Fighter Leader to Squadron. Prepare for scramble on my signal. As soon as we clear the ship, drop into double arrowhead formation. With any luck, we shouldn't have to worry about the enemy fighters.”

 “Alamo Actual to Fighter Leader,” Marshall's voice barked. “We're laying our mines, Pavel, and they've just launched in response. Nine fighters in the air.”

 “Nine?” Salazar said. “That's all?”

 “My thoughts exactly. They could be saving something for an unpleasant surprise when you get closer. Watch yourself, Lieutenant.” There was a pause, and he added, “We'll be releasing you in sixty seconds. Alamo will be four minutes behind you on the attack run. Make it hurt. Out.”

 Resting his hands on the controls, Salazar felt the familiar lurch as the fighter dropped into the elevator airlock, the upper hatch slamming shut above him as the atmosphere inside leeched away, ready for their release into battle. Course computations flashed into view on his heads-up display, Scott feeding him information from the bridge, and he glanced quickly across at his master status monitor, checking that the rest of the squadron was receiving the same data.

 A normal fighter pilot only had to watch out for his own ship. A flight leader had three to worry about, but he had seven, and in a very real sense, he was flying all of them. Back home, they were working on a way of removing humans from the cockpit once and for all, drone operators flown by remote. Change was coming, but the pilot's lobby was strong enough to keep it at bay for a while longer, and he intended to enjoy it while he could.

 “Squadron scramble!” Scott's voice barked, and the lower hatch opened. Salazar's fighter was flung clear of the ship by the centrifugal force of the ship's rotation, his engine firing to hurl him onto course for the enemy ship. His sensor display winked into life, data streaming in, and he invested a few seconds to examine the tactical updates, now that battle was bare moments away.

 Everything seemed to be going as expected, at least after a fashion. Alamo had deployed the decoy defense satellites, their thrusters guiding them sluggishly into position, giving the enemy fighters a chance to catch them. Nine interceptors were in the air, launched from Waldheim, on vectors that would ensure that at the least, they would play no significant part in the battle that was to come. In a few moments, they'd learn whether they'd obtained the tactical advantage they were looking for, or whether they'd given General Estrada the means to wreak a terrible vengeance on Alamo and her crew.

 “Two minutes to contact, people,” Salazar said. “Red Three, tighten up. You're drifting out of position. We've got to hold formation until we get to range.”

 “Roger, Leader,” the young pilot replied.

 “Remember, weapons and engines. You heard the Captain. Hurt the bastards.”

 He flicked on his targeting computer, his fighter now close enough for his sensors to work at maximum resolution, running his eyes over the surface of the ship. They'd repaired the damage inflicted on them at Dante, though the scars were clearly visible along the hull. He looked down at the oxygen reservoir, a tempting target, but a futile one. An easy patch, and they had all the time in the universe to resupply. They didn't need to send them out of control for a few minutes, but knock them out of the fight for good.

 It had to be the engines. The cluster at the rear of the ship, still burning at maximum. If he was on target, he'd start a cascade failure, and even if he wasn't, it would be tough to repair while under drive. Slow them down for long enough to rearm and return to the fray. A quick glance at the squadron status monitor showed that most of the pilots had come to the same conclusion, though Murphy was aiming up, towards the primary sensor dish at the front of the ship. Risky, as they'd have lots of time to intercept, but a big payoff if she pressed her attack home. After a brief pause, he stabbed the button to confirm the squadron's target selection, then settled down to wait out the remaining seconds until battle commenced.

 “Sixty seconds to contact. Break and attack at ten. Hold your missiles to minimum range, and make sure to provide target redundancy. Watch for the laser cannon. I think they'll save it for Alamo, but keep to random walk anyway. Remember that your only safety comes by not being in the way of the blast. Leader out.”

 He'd gone over all of that during the briefing, of course, but that still didn't prevent him from pressing the point once again. Back on Alamo, he knew that McCormack was going through a special brand of agony, watching her pilots go into battle without her for the second time, and anything he could do to reassure her was worthwhile.

 Up ahead, Waldheim loomed. He spared a second to look at the long-range sensors, smiling as he saw the enemy fighters setting up for their attack run. Three minutes from now, they'd be wiped out, if all went well. The question of the missing fighters still nagged at him, and he looked again at the display. Anything up to seven more fighters could be ready to launch, a force sufficient to rival his attack formation. Though if they were there, they were leaving it until the last minute, the last second, to commit to an intercept. 

 “Fighter Leader to Alamo,” he said. “Any sign of activity from Waldheim's launch bays?”

 “Negative, Pavel,” Marshall replied. “I don't understand it either. Maybe they're holding off to hit us on a later pass. Maybe we were incorrect in our estimates, or they sustained damage somewhere else that we don't know about. Proceed with the attack, but with caution. If you need to switch to full defensive fire, do it.”

 “Roger that, Alamo. Understood.” Tapping a switch, he glanced up at the countdown clock, and continued, “Fighter Leader to Squadron. Break and attack. Watch for enemy fighters. And for God's sake, don't fly straight for more than a second, or you're dead.”

 Taking his own advice, he set his thrusters into a wild pattern of pulses, hurling him from side to side, his trajectory plot twisting out of control as he ramped his acceleration as high as he dared, enough that the edges of his vision began to blur as the thrust took hold. In his wake, the rest of the squadron danced through the sky, waiting for Waldheim to unleash the devastating laser pulse that in all probability would kill one of them. It never came.

 He could just make out the target, a pinpoint of light hovering over the magnificent blue and green of the world below, gradually resolving into a shape as he closed on his prey. A light winked on, and he snapped to the display, nodding in relief. Ten missiles, heading their way, but on a trajectory that suggested they were more interested in defense than attack. General Estrada was hoping to ride through their fire, ready to strike Alamo once they'd passed through the fighter screen. That was the only explanation that made sense.

 Somehow, though, it didn't quite ring true. Though for the present, that didn't matter. He reached down to a control, and tapped a button, his fighter rocking back as a trio of missiles raced forward, surging towards the target. Pulling down a panel, he started frantically working the electronic warfare systems, letting his fighter fly itself on the escape vector while he guided the missiles in, butting heads with the enemy sysop as he fought to scramble the systems of the incoming warheads. It was a war of attrition, with the vast power of Waldheim's network against the limited systems at his disposal. Power against time.

 One by one, the missiles winked out, spinning out of control as their guidance systems were corrupted, self-destructing to prevent them being suborned by the enemy. Harper, back on Alamo, was waging the same war with the enemy missiles, and thirty tracks rapidly faded to nine, six against three, as the hackers did their work.

 Then a brief flash, just for an instant, as the two salvos raced past each other, six of the missiles ending in the fire of mutual destruction. Three left, all racing towards their preselected targets, as Waldheim squirmed to avoid impact. Salazar watched, powerless to intervene, as the trio of missiles hit home, explosions tearing into the side of the mighty battleship.

 “Full speed,” he said. “Our battle's over, people. Race for home, and loop around the planet to link up with Alamo on the far side. Good work, people. Damned good work.”

 He looked at the damage reports rushing in, estimates from Alamo's sensor team on the effect of the three impacts, and frowned. One of his had made it home, just forward of his intended target, slamming into a thruster complex and the aft communications array. Another had harmlessly slammed into the armor, causing a hull breach in what appeared to be a storage unit, only a thin trace of atmosphere leaking into space. The third, Murphy's, had found its mark, and the forward sensor complex was now a burned-out mass of twisted metal, fragments raining back onto the hull in a series of blacked gouges. One out of three had managed significant damage, at the cost of eighteen warheads.

 “Fighter Leader to Alamo. Attack run complete. Returning to base.”

 “Roger, Leader,” the vaguely disappointed voice of Marshall replied. “Good work.”

 Nodding, Salazar closed the channel, focusing his sensors to watch the remainder of the battle unfold behind him. The most important question still hung in the air.

 Where the hell were the rest of the enemy fighters?

Chapter 9

 “The squadron has completed their sweep,” Scott said. “They're heading around the far side of the planet. I estimate they'll make contact with us in twenty-one minutes.”

 “Very good, Sub-Lieutenant,” Marshall replied. “Status of enemy fighters?”

 “Closing on target, setting up for a conventional attack run. Just as we expected. By the book.”

 Turning from the engineering station, Francis said, “We didn't do anything like as much damage as we wanted, sir. This is going to get tougher.” Glancing at the sensor display, he added, “And if they've still got half a dozen fighters in reserve, we'll be outmatched. Recommend mission abort.”

 “Negative,” Marshall said. “We're committed to the attack, Lieutenant. Scott, I want you to throw everything you've got at them. Full offensive spread. Harper, I need you riding the electronic warfare station. You and our point-defense cannons are going to be the only thing keeping their missiles away.”

 “I'll hold missile fire until the last second, sir,” Scott said. “We'll lose a chance at a second salvo, but I don't want to give them the chance to shoot our birds down.”

 “Let's hope the enemy don't come up with the same idea,” a gloomy Francis replied.

 Marshall watched the screen, leaning forward in his chair with a hunter's smile on his face, waiting for Alamo to enter combat range. Waldheim was still sliding towards them, everything going exactly to the manual. If he was right, in about thirty seconds, the strategic situation would be changing radically to favor his ship. If he was wrong, they'd likely be nothing more than scattered debris in a matter of minutes.

 “First detonation!” Ballard said. “Second, third… It's a cascade, sir!”

 “Enemy fighters wiped out, Captain,” Scott said, a triumphant smile on her face. “Clean sweep. They never had a chance. And no sign that any of the pilots managed to bail out in time.”

 “That ought to give the bastards something to think about,” Marshall said. “Ballard, throw every sensor you've got at Waldheim. Likely they'll be altering course at any moment. Quesada, execute random walk. They'll be saving their laser pulse for us, and we must make sure they don't come anywhere close to connecting.”

 “Will do, sir,” the ebullient helmsman replied, his hands racing across his controls with a flourish. Alamo spun on her axis, sliding from left to right as the ship entered combat range, eight targets immediately snapping onto the tactical display as the enemy battleship released its first salvo of missiles. Harper burst into life, pounding at her controls as she began her private war with her counterpart on Waldheim, working to bring down the incoming salvo.

 “Sub-Lieutenant,” Scott said, turning to the helm. “I need a line-of-sight in five seconds.”
 “Bringing her round,” the helmsman replied, and Alamo danced to his silent tune as she slid through space, gliding around until her nose, and the deadly laser cannon within it, pointed towards the enemy vessel. The lights flickered for a moment, Scott throwing all the power she could gather into one titanic pulse of energy that slammed into the enemy ship, ripping through the hull. She frowned for a second, then turned to Fitzroy.

 “Damage projection?”

 “Secondary oxygen reservoir, auxiliary reactor, hendecaspace drive, ma'am,” the engineer reported. “They've got a good helmsman. At the last second he managed a ninety-degree turn. If we'd been on target, you'd have ripped into their combat fabricator and main reactor.”

 “Any damage is good damage,” Marshall said. “Harper, progress?”

 “I can talk or work, but not both,” the hacker replied, hair dropping over her eyes as she frantically worked, images and text flashing up onto her screen faster than she could read it, her hands operating on instinct as she cracked into the enemy network. Two of the incoming missiles vanished from the screen, tumbling end over end before their auto-destruct systems kicked in, but that still left six bearing down upon them.

 “Captain, are you sure you want to go full offensive?” Francis asked. “We could still shoot them down, get through this attack run and set up for a second. Right now...”

 “We need a conclusive strike, Lieutenant, or all of this is for nothing.”

 “Firing in fifteen seconds,” Scott said, her fingers poised over the firing controls. “They'll be in the air for five. Point-defense cannons are armed and ready as soon as the enemy salvo gets within range.”

 “Got another one!” Harper said, waving a fist into the air before returning to her station. Marshall turned back to the strategic display, knowing there was nothing he could do other than wait and watch, and trust that his people knew what they were doing. A fourth missile vanished from the display, and Scott hastily retracted Alamo's radiators, barely cool enough for the mechanism to engage, protecting them from the attack that was heading their way.

 The ship rocked back as Scott launched Alamo's missiles, six targets flashing onto the display, racing past the incoming salvo before the enemy gunner could make a move to stop them. The rhythmic pounding of the point-defense guns burst into life, pounding rocks into space all around the ship in an effort to bring the incoming missiles down, their targets ducking and weaving in a bid to sneak through their defensive perimeter.

 “All hands, brace for impact!” Francis said, leaning into a microphone, and the angry wail of a missile strike ripped through the hull, red lights flashing onto the status board as the damage reports began to flood in. “Two hits, sir.”

 “Where, Fitzroy?”

 “Aft sensors, long-range communications, sir,” the engineer said. “Chief Santiago is on the case, projections coming in a few minutes. No sign of hull breaches, but we've got some micro-fractures.” Turning to Marshall, he added, “Could have been a lot worse, sir. As far as I can figure, we only actually had one strike. The second was caught by the guns a second too late, and we got a shrapnel burst on the sensor pickups.”

 “Our salvo has hit, sir!” Scott said. “Seven impacts amidships, and I'm picking up signs of hull breaches. We've caught their fighter bays, and three of their missile tubes.” Nodding, she added, “Surface damage only, sir, but we've significantly reduced their combat potential.”

 “Let's see if we've got General Estrada in the mood for a conversation,” Marshall said. “Bowman, hail Waldheim, and tell them that I am willing to discuss a ceasefire.”

 “Aye, sir,” the technician replied, all eyes upon him as the two ships flashed past each other, heading onto a trajectory that would see them meet up again in thirty minutes, with a long enough window of opportunity to guarantee that their next encounter would be their last. Marshall couldn't believe that Estrada wouldn't come to terms now. They'd been bested in every fight with Alamo, had suffered enough damage that they'd be hours, maybe days repairing it, and if they had held back some fighters, the hits to their launch bays would rule them out of any part of the battle.

 “Signal coming in, sir,” Bowman said, eyes widening in surprise. “I have General Estrada for you, Captain.”

 “Enemy ship has retracted radiators, sir,” Ballard added. “And closed their remaining launch tubes. They appear to be standing down from battle stations.”

 The starfield flickered out, replaced by a view of a cavernous command center, General Estrada standing at the heart of his bridge in a rumpled flight suit, stark contrast to the pristine Colonel Cruz at his side, wearing a fresh dress uniform. Behind the two command officers, technicians raced around, red lights and warning alarms declaring the damage that the enemy ship had taken.

 “We'll finish you on the next pass,” Cruz said, earning a sharp glance from Estrada.

 “If it comes to that,” the General said. “I understand that you are willing to discuss terms.”

 “For a ceasefire,” Marshall replied. “Nothing more than that, unless you wish to offer your surrender.”

 “We will never yield!” Cruz said.

 “Colonel,” Estrada snapped. “I think your presence is required on the lower decks. Leave the bridge at once.”

 She looked at her commander for a long moment, then turned on her heel and stormed out of the pickup. Estrada watched her leave, then turned back to the display.

 “Captain, I think we have a mutual problem. I will concede that you have won this round of the engagement, but the battle is far from over, and my tactical computers give us an excellent chance of victory.”

 “Then why are we talking?”

 “Because you and I both believe that there might be a better way to handle the situation, especially given our current situation. We are stranded far from home, and have I suspect both found evidence that there are potentially greater threats waiting in the darkness.” He paused, then asked, “What have you in mind, Captain?”

 “A meeting, on the surface of the planet below. You and I, alone, to work out our problems and come to some sort of agreement.”

 He smiled, then said, “I forget sometimes that you do not have the same difficulties that I face in day-to-day operations. Not on the surface of the planet, Captain, and not alone. My people would never permit it.”

 Francis glanced at Marshall, but the latter replied, “I would offer Alamo, but I suspect that you won't find that an acceptable option.”

 “There is, I understand, a hidden base deep in the asteroids, close-in to this system's star. We've been trying to find a way through the asteroids for some time. Given that the local population should probably be involved in this negotiation as well, would that not be a suitable base?”

 Scott turned to Marshall, and quietly said, “Sir, Colonel Volkova would never agree, and I don't blame her. It would be as good as exposing them to open attack should all of this go wrong.”

 Turning back to the screen, Marshall said, “A compromise, General. I will agree, if you agree to be transported to the base on one of our shuttles. You may bring along three guards and one staff officer. I'll do the same. And the base will be guarded by one of our fighter flights.”

 “And our respective ships?”

 “Will enter orbital position a million miles apart, from both each other and Salyut Station. General, you have more to gain from these negotiations than we do. Tactical computers aside, we did a lot more damage to you than you did to us on this pass, and I have every expectation of finishing the job next time. Think of your crew, and of the potential opportunities of a ceasefire agreement.” He added, “I will warn you now that I would expect that removing your presence from the planet would be a condition of any deal we make.”

 “Give me just one moment, Captain,” Estrada said, and the screen went blank.

 “You don't expect him to agree to this, sir,” Francis said. “You've demanded advantages in the negotiations that I'd reject without a second thought. He's not going to go along with riding on our shuttles with such a limited guard, and even if he did, Colonel Cruz would undoubtedly do her best to sabotage any agreement we make.”

 Shaking his head, Marshall replied, “First rule of negotiating, Lieutenant. Always ask for more than you are willing to get. He'll throw back with an agreement that we'll both be able to live with. That's how the game is played. Ballard, contact Salyut Station on tight-beam, and inform them that we'll be holding negotiations on the base tomorrow.”

 “And the planet?” Scott asked. “What happens down there?”

 “With Waldheim off-station, probably nothing,” Francis conceded. “We don't have the strength to kick them off the planet, not without making contact with local insurgent forces. And you can bet there will be plenty of them, down in force.” Turning to the sensor display, he added, “We've picked up several troop concentrations on the surface, larger than our estimates of their surviving ground forces strength would suggest.”

 “They've armed their crewmen,” Marshall said. “We've been forced to that ourselves on occasion.” He paused, then added, “Meaning they're reduced their crew complement. Which probably explains why they aren't accounting for themselves well in the battle. Fewer damage control teams, maintenance technicians.”

 “We have advantages we don't consider, sir.”

 “They've got a bigger one,” Quesada said. “With people on the planet controlling the population, they could always resort to scorched Earth. They've got plenty of hostages, Captain, and I doubt they'd hesitate to exploit them if they thought they needed a tactical advantage.”

 “Any change to target aspect, Spaceman?” Marshall asked, turning back to Ballard.

 “Nothing, sir. They're holding at alert status, but no sign of any course changes or other hostile moves.” She paused, then added, “I'm reading a little activity on the outer hull, damage control teams moving into position.”

 “Meaning they don't expect to be fighting a battle in the near future,” Marshall said.

 “Sir,” Bowman said, “I've got General Estrada for you again.” 

 The screen flickered on, and the General said, “I can't accept all of your conditions as they stand, Captain, but I'm willing to suggest a modification to your proposal.”

 “I'm listening, General.”

 “We use one of our shuttles, not yours, but with one of your pilots at the controls, with sufficient access to delete any records of the ship's flight path when it touches down. I will further agree to allow your maintenance technicians to complete a full inspection of the shuttle before either of us step on board. In exchange, two staff officers, no guards, but I will allow three of your fighters to guard the base during the negotiations. All of us are to be unarmed, and again, I will submit to a search by your security people if you are willing to reciprocate.”

 “Wait one, General,” Marshall said, turning to Francis. “That's a little better than I was expecting, Lieutenant, but I'd welcome your thoughts.”

 “I don't think we're going to do any better than that, Captain, but something about this whole arrangement still makes me nervous. He's agreeing a little too quickly, too easily.”

 Nodding, Marshall turned to Fitzroy, and asked, “What's your assessment of the damage to Waldheim? How long to get their ship back to full combat readiness?”

 “Four to seven hours, sir, assuming no further damage. Probably nearer seven, if they've got substantial crew on the surface. Though they'd be able to launch fighters well before that.”

 “How confident are you about your assessment?” 

 “Relatively, sir. We've got good schematics of the interior layout and the capability of the crew, and our sensors have some excellent resolution shots of the damaged areas. I don't think we've got any surprises waiting for us over there. From what I can see from my station, everything is exactly as it appears to be.”

 “Put the General back on, Bowman,” Marshall said, and as the face of the enemy commander appeared on the screen, he added, “I agree to your terms, General. We'll meet in twenty-four hours from now, and I suggest we both alter course at once to keep well clear of each other until then. The shuttle that will be transporting us will take station between our ships, and we will go across in transfer craft as soon as the conditions to which you have agreed have been satisfied.”

 Nodding, Estrada replied, “I'll give the necessary orders. Captain, I truly hope that we can come to some sort of an understanding. It's a big galaxy out here, and we need all of the friends we can get if we're going to find our way home. Until tomorrow. Waldheim out.”

 “I still don't trust him,” Francis said, as the starfield winked back on.

 “Neither do I, Lieutenant, but I'm far from sanguine about the likelihood of winning a full-scale battle, to say nothing of the potential consequences for the people on the surface.”

 “Who are you going to take with you?”

 “Harper, you up for a trip?”

 She shook her head, and said, “If you order, sir, I'll go, but I'd recommend taking someone else. There's a good chance that they know me, and that could make your negotiations tougher. What about Foster?”

 “Not a bad idea,” Marshall said. “And Midshipman Siegel to act as pilot. Lieutenant Murphy can command the fighters, and Lieutenant Carpenter to round out the team. We're likely to need her advice anyway, and I'd like her on hand. Max, I want you to coordinate with Colonel Volkova, and see that she puts together a similar team.”

 “Aye, sir,” he replied. “I still don't like this, Captain.”

 “Talking is better than fighting, Lieutenant,” Marshall replied, rising from his seat. “And everyone going into these negotiations has a lot to lose if they fail. That alone should be a strong incentive to make them work. I hope.”

Chapter 10

 Clarke's eyes snapped open, and he blinked as he struggled to focus, straining against the ropes wrapped around him, tying him to a chair. Turning to his right, he could see a fuming Mortimer looking back, a scowl on her face.

 “Great plan, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 “Better than being captured by your people, Corporal, and at least we've found the people we were looking for.”

 “And just why were you looking for us?” a gruff voice asked, a figure walking out of the shadows towards them, limping on a cane. “Are you here to wipe us out?”

 “No,” Clarke said. “That's what Sokolov wanted. We're here to make contact with you, so that we can help you throw off the tyrants.”

 Frowning, the man replied, “Why should I trust you?”

 “You shouldn't,” Clarke said, earning himself another glare from Mortimer. “But at the very least, you need to give us a hearing, and see if what I am saying is true. If you'd allow me to contact my ship...”

 “Yes,” the man replied, pulling out a chair and sitting down with evident effort. His face was a mass of scar tissue, deep wounds burned into his flesh, his mouth twisted into a perpetual leer. “The handiwork of the United Nations. I was commanding a detachment of militia, and they rained plasma fire down upon us. I was the only survivor. After a fashion.”

 “Can you at least tell me what's going on?” Clarke asked.

 “Current events are getting somewhat interesting, I will confess,” the man replied. “Your ship fought a battle with Waldheim in orbital space about an hour ago. As far as we can tell, it was a stalemate. Our people in Cosmograd have reported that there are negotiations to take place for the future of this system, but as yet we can't work out where. Not down here, anyway. Both ships are moving away.” Folding his arms, he added, “Your people have abandoned us, and are choosing to work out their own salvation rather than support us.”

 “How long were we out?” Mortimer asked.

 “A little over a day,” he replied. “During which time you were both thoroughly searched, and all the concealed weaponry you were carrying was removed. It represented quite an arsenal, even if some of it was surprisingly primitive. I hope we didn't hurt you too much.”

 “Did you try and contact Alamo?” asked Clarke. “I can only assume that they don't know the true situation down here. If they've just jumped into the system...”

 “Could you not have informed them?”

 “When I was last at liberty, I didn't even know they were here.” He paused, then said, “What is it going to take to convince you?”

 “More than you can imagine,” the man replied with a sigh. He pushed himself up with an effort, and walked over to them, a gleaming blade dropping out of his sleeve into his hand. With a series of quick slashes, he removed the ropes, their remnants falling to the floor. “There's no point keeping you restrained any longer. Every exit is covered, and you'll be dead in a matter of seconds if you make any attempt to escape. I'll be back shortly to work out how to deal with you.”

 The man limped out of the room, a brief flash of light as the door opened for an instant to allow him to step through, before slamming shut once again, a bolt dropping into place. Clarke struggled to his feet, shaking his arms and legs, his muscles stiff from long confinement. Mortimer was already out of her chair, pacing to the door, giving it an experimental push.

 “Don't bother,” he said.

 “We've got to get out of here,” she replied.

 “You're kidding. After what we went through to make contact with the resistance, you want to run away?”

 “They're not going to trust us, and that means that we're going to be dead in very short order. Look at it from their point of view. What can we possibly do to convince them, especially if Alamo seems to be heading off into the sunset?” She paused, then asked, “Do you think your commander might have abandoned these people?”

 “Not if he knew what was happening,” Clarke said, frowning in frustration. “We need to know what's going on out there. We're blind down here, and unless we can make contact with Alamo, we're not going to find out anything any time soon.”

 “There are plenty of transmitters down here with the range to make contact,” she replied. “Between the two of us, we should be able to either fight or bluff our way to one of them. Then we can come back and talk to these people on more equal terms. Right now, we're not helping anyone.”

 Before Clarke could reply, he heard a noise from outside, the familiar crack of gunfire. He glanced at Mortimer, then threw himself at the door, again and again, finally rewarded with the splintering of plasticrete as the bolt flew loose. Peering outside, he could see a full-scale battle in progress outside, a group of United Nations Marshals advancing through the trees, their weapons emitting angry barks as rebels fell to the ground all around them, blood spilling from their chests.

 To the right, behind a pile of logs, the scarred man was leading what appeared to be a last stand, but it was obvious that he was doomed to fall in the near future. So far, nobody seemed to have noticed them, and Clarke could see a track heading through the woods, an escape route that might be their only chance of survival. But there was also a rifle on the ground, and the decision was obvious, and quick. Snatching the weapon, he charged towards the enemy, firing a semi-automatic burst that spit flame at the advancing troopers, sending them ducking for cover.

 Ahead of him was a leering trooper, pistol raised. Clarke had the advantage, leveled his rifle, and fired. The man looked down at his chest where the bullet should have hit him, smiled, and waved a hand over the air.

 “That's it, people! You can get up now!”

 The dead men started to rise, moving to clear up the mess, and the scarred man walked towards the mystified Clarke, the curl of a smile fighting against the permanent leer as he extended his hand.

 “Sorry about that, Sub-Lieutenant, but it was the best thing we could think of in the time. Words couldn't be enough. We had to see you in action, see what your instincts would have been.”

 “And if we'd run down the trail?” Mortimer asked.

 “You wouldn't have made it twenty paces. Some of us have real bullets in our guns.”

 “I see,” Clarke said, tossing the useless gun to the ground. “Then I take it that you've decided that you're going to trust us.”

 “Let's just say that you've passed this test. We'll be watching you, Sub-Lieutenant, but I think we can start to talk. I'm Captain Nikolai Webster. Once the chief of police for Cosmograd, but now the nearest thing we have to the leader of the resistance.” Gesturing at the leader of the attack force, he added, “Lieutenant Avdonin, my second-in-command.”

 “My pleasure,” Avdonin said, with a curt nod. “Nick, I'm going to get the perimeter staffed again. I don't think anyone heard our little party, but I'd like to have some surprises ready for them if they did.” Turning to Clarke, he added, “There aren't any real Marshals for ten miles. The last group that tried to come out this way paid the price. Hence the uniforms.”

 Stepping back into the shed, Webster sat down on one of the chairs, wincing in pain, and said, “We saw you coming down in your escape pod. Killing Sokolov was a smart move. We already knew that he'd turned traitor.” His face snapped back into a scowl, and he added, “Everyone on both stations surrendered without putting up a fight.”

 “Both stations?” Mortimer asked. “Salyut Station...”

 “Gave in shortly after the enemy forces arrived. I suppose they didn't have a choice, but they had the capability to put up a fight.”

 “I don't understand,” Mortimer said. “We've been trying to raid transports heading in for weeks.”

 “That's one of the questions I was planning on asking,” Webster said, reaching into his pocket for a battered datapad, obviously stolen from the occupation forces. “We've managed to hack into one of our communications satellites, and one of my bright boys has managed to turn it into a passive sensor platform with a few creative software modifications. Enough that we have at least a vague picture of events in orbital space and beyond.” He passed the pad to Clarke, sliding a control, to begin a projection of recent events in orbit.

 “Looks like Alamo really got some good shots in,” Clarke said, and as the ship turned towards Salyut Station, his eyes widened. “Where are they going?”

 “Perhaps they've surrendered,” Mortimer said, peering over his shoulder.

 “Damn it, Corporal, they won that fight! They had no reason to surrender.” He paused, looked at the trajectory tracks, and said, “Both ships are heading for the station. What was it you were saying about a negotiation? Do you have any sort of details on that?”

 “Our agent reports that both ships are supposedly to hold a summit meeting on Salyut. That's all I know.”

 “Why so strange?” Mortimer said. “It's not a bad place to hold a conference.”

 “Captain Marshall wouldn't hold it on a base controlled by the enemy.” Looking up at Webster, he continued, “Those raids on transports. Did they ever accomplish anything?”

 “Never.”

 “Then either Waldheim's entire fighter complement is comprised of incompetents...”

 “It isn't,” Mortimer said.

 “Or the whole thing was staged.” He paused, frowned, and mused, “They'd know roughly when to expect Alamo to arrive. At least, they could take an educated guess. If the Captain is running a high-speed survey, that's five days in each system, and five days transit time. Captain We...”

 “Mick.”

 “Mick, did they try another one of those attacks ten days ago?”

 Nodding, Webster replied, “Yes.”

 “Meaning that they thought Alamo might show up then.” At Mortimer's doubtful expression, Clarke continued, “And they set things up to make it look like Salyut Station was still free. A place Alamo could use as a base, a means to feed in false intelligence...”

 “And as a trap,” Mortimer said. “If that's true, they've kept Major Pastell out of the loop.”

 “You think Colonel Cruz would pass everything onto him? You said yourself that she'd taken personal command of all ground operations, and if she and General Estrada have decided to stop trusting him, then how much would Pastell be told?”

 Mortimer's eyes widened, and she replied, “They'll try and kill him. They'd have no choice. I've got...”

 “Forgive me for not being too concerned about the death of one of Waldheim's top personnel,” Webster replied. “What are you driving at.”

 “Alamo thinks that it's going to a summit meeting. They're heading into a trap. And if we can't find a way to warn them, then Waldheim will be able to launch a surprise attack.”

 “You saw the damage reports,” Mortimer replied. “Waldheim took some pretty heavy knocks during that battle, and...”

 “And didn't do much in return, did it? If those readings are right, then the primary damage was to their communications array. I'm going to guess that was precisely the intention, in order to cut the ship off from any contact.” He paused, then added, “We could still punch through to them, but we'd need something substantial to do it. A major installation. There must be somewhere on the surface we could use.”

 Frowning, Webster replied, “There's a meteorological station about forty miles from here, towards the Luna Hills. That's about the only transmitter I can think of within reasonable range.” Shaking his head, he replied, “It's heavily guarded, and they've set up some defensive works that would make an attack problematic at best.” Rubbing his cheek, he added, “I learned the hard way that machine guns against plasma weapons is a bad idea.”

 “We don't know that Alamo is heading into a trap,” Avdonin said, walking over. “It could be that...”

 “And we don't know that they aren't, either, and we don't dare take the risk.” Gesturing at the datapad, Clarke said, “The only realistic way you've got of freeing your planet is to help us save Alamo, right now. Without the resources on that ship, you're all as good as dead. Not conquered, dead. Waldheim won't be staying forever, and they won't want to leave a civilized planet behind that might prove to be a threat to future access in this system. If you are very lucky, they'll only burn Cosmograd to the ground and install a garrison. More likely they'll simply throw some missiles down from orbit, kill the bulk of the population and leave the rest of you grubbing in radioactive rubble. Is that what you want? Is it?”

 “I've got a responsibility to my people,” Webster barked in reply. “Look around, kid. This is all that's left of our forces. A couple of dozen people, with barely a weapon each. Limited ammunition. We might have enough strength to make a single push, but the odds are that your mission would fail.”

 “I'm not talking about a bayonet charge, for God's sake!” Clarke replied. “We scout ahead, we look at the terrain, we find a weak spot, and we launch an attack. We don't even have to hold the station for more than a matter of minutes, anyway. Just long enough for me to punch a signal through to Alamo and warn them of the danger they're facing. Then we can disappear into the shadows again, and work out where to go next.”

 “He's right,” Mortimer said. “How much progress have you made by yourselves?”

 “We've assembled the beginnings of a resistance force,” Avdonin replied.

 “And just what were you planning to do with it?” Clarke pressed. “Sit around a table and play cards all day? If you're going to free your planet, then you're going to have to launch an attack, sooner or later. You can wait out in the forest for the rest of your lives, but if you do, then the people you claim to be responsible for, the people you are fighting to free, will die by the hundreds, by the thousands, while you wait for a day that will never come. The chance to free yourselves is now. Or not at all. And you've got to choose.”

 “Wait just a damned minute,” Avdonin said. “How do we know that this isn't a trap? That you aren't luring us into an ambush?”

 “Explain Alamo's actions, Lieutenant,” Mortimer said. Turning to Clarke, she continued, “We don't need them, John.”

 Raising an eyebrow, Clarke nodded, then said, “Give us two rifles, some ammunition, and directions. We'll find our own way there.”

 “No,” Webster said, shaking his head. “We know the valleys, the passes, the forests. You'd spend days where we would take hours. I'll lead you myself. I think I can still manage the trip. Lieutenant, you'll be in charge while we're gone.”

 “Understood,” Avdonin said, glowering at Clarke.

 “We'll take five men, enough to provide fire support. I can't spare any more than that.”

 “It'll do,” Clarke replied. “We'd better...”

 “Have something to eat, first. We're going to be on the trail for eighteen hours at least if we're going to send that signal before Alamo runs into trouble. You're not going to get anywhere on an empty stomach.” Walking over to Avdonin, Webster said, “We'll leave in fifteen minutes.” He walked off with his subordinate, and another of the rebels came over with two bowls of steaming broth and a bottle of water, placing them on the vacated chair before leaving the room.

 “Thanks,” Mortimer said, taking a swig of the hot liquid. “Nice to have real food for once.”

 “Corporal,” Clarke said, frowning, “You've changed sides pretty quickly.”

 “Have I?” she replied. “Sam's dead if Cruz springs her trap. A success like that will propel her into command. I'm guessing she's forcing Estrada to go along with it based on that. If she fails, though, then whether or not Alamo smashes Waldheim, she'll lose enough face that Sam will be able to oust her.” She shrugged, took another sip, then said, “Crazy, I know. But the way I figure it, the only chance I've got is to help you take out one of our installations.”

 “Just to make it clear...”

 “You'll be letting me take the lead, and have your rifle at the ready the whole time in case I decide to do something stupid. I'd do the same in your place. Now have some of the soup before it gets cold. We've got a long walk.”

Chapter 11

 Marshall stepped onto the waiting transfer shuttle, Midshipman Siegel saluting as he climbed on board, ducking through the hatch. Inside, Foster and Carpenter were waiting, looking over a datapad, while he made his way to the cockpit. On paper, Siegel was his pilot, but he wasn't about to pass up the chance to log some flight time.

 “Marshall to Salazar,” he said, settling into the pilot's couch. “Requesting permission to launch.”

 “You have clearance, Captain,” Salazar said.

 “Alamo's yours until I get back, Pavel. Take good care of her.”

 “Don't worry. I'll fill up the tank and check the paintwork before I give you back the keys. Have a good flight, sir, and good luck.”

 “And to you.” Marshall threw a switch, and the transfer shuttle dropped through the elevator airlock while he completed the pre-flight checklist. The craft was tossed clear of the ship as its engine fired, hurling toward the waiting shuttle, out in the void. Glancing back at Alamo, he took one last look at the sleek lines of his ship, admiring it in the gleaming sunlight, before turning back to the task at hand.

 “Marshall to Lombardo,” he said.

 “I'm here, sir. We've finished our sweep of the shuttle, and I can confirm that there are no explosive, tracking or other devices on board. She's clean, sir. We're packed up and ready to board the transfer shuttle on your arrival.” He paused, then added, “You also have clearance all the way to Gagarin base through the perimeter.”

 “Roger, Sub-Lieutenant, and thank you.” Turning back in his chair, he asked, “You three all set back there?”

 “Ready to go, sir,” Foster said. “Susan and I have prepared a list of data topics to discuss. It'll be interesting to see what they've uncovered on the surface. Though I suspect they're going to get more out of this deal than we will.”

 “What makes you say that?”

 “If they'd found an easy way home,” Carpenter replied, “They'd have left the system already. I think they're fishing, sir.” Turning to Foster, she added, “Still if we can leave this system in one piece, it'll be worth it. I've made sure that we haven't included anything they couldn't have already found out the hard way. And Kris rigged it with a dead man's switch. If it doesn't remain within five feet of me, all the data gets wiped automatically. Or if my vital signs stop.”

 “We're all hoping that doesn't happen, sir,” Foster added.

 Nodding, Marshall said, “Don't volunteer anything, and watch for any sign of trouble or deception. Don't be afraid to speak out and call them on a point. We're not diplomats, and neither are they.” With a wry smile, he added, “Which probably significantly increases our chance of getting something out of this meeting.”

 Turning back to the controls, he looked over the shuttle as he approached, a long, cylindrical vehicle with retractable wings. Alamo had four different types of small craft aboard, not counting the fighters, but the United Nations had gone for an all-purpose design. Which meant that it could do anything, but not particularly well. He'd have been happier on one of his own ships.

 “Interesting,” Foster said. “I've run the serial numbers, sir, and the vehicle we're approaching is eight years old. That's about the duration of her design life. Looks like they've given us the oldest buggy on the lot.”

 “Doesn't mean anything,” Carpenter replied. “They're probably as worried about some sort of trap as we are. Or it's a calculated insult. We'd have likely done the same thing in their place.”

 “I'd like to think we're above that sort of thing,” Marshall said, “but I think you're right. Still, if Lombardo says that the ship is clean, I'm willing to trust his judgment. Nevertheless, make a full check of all systems as soon as we board.” Glancing at his sensor panel, he added, “Estrada's ship is on the way. Should be docking at about the same time. Just as expected.”

 Carefully, he brought the shuttle into final approach, the docking clamps sliding into position as the two craft locked together, airlocks quickly cycling to equalize the pressure. Rising to his feet, kicking out of the couch, he drifted towards the hatch as it opened, Lombardo drifting in.

 “All systems go, sir. The General's craft is on final approach,” the engineer said.

 “Thanks, Sub-Lieutenant.” Gesturing at the cockpit panel, he added, “She's all ready to take you home. Safe flight.” 

 “Good luck, sir,” he said, and he and his team drifted past Marshall, taking their positions in the cabin. With one last look around, Marshall led the way into the shuttle, just in time to hear a loud report from the lateral hatch, Estrada's shuttle locking into place underneath them.

 Moving to the control panel, Siegel said, “All green, sir. No problems. Security scan green.”

 “You've reviewed the flight path to Gagarin Station?”

 “I have, sir. Everything looks fine.”

 “Take it nice and slow, Midshipman. No risks. We've got all the time we need.”

 The second hatch slid open, and Estrada pushed up into the cabin, followed by a sullen Cruz. The two docking ports closed, and both shuttles detached, leaving them alone inside. Wordlessly, Cruz moved to a passenger couch at the rear, while Estrada glanced back at her, obviously embarrassed.

 “My apologies, Captain,” he said, quietly.

 “I'm slightly surprised,” Marshall replied. “I'd have assumed you'd leave your second-in-command in charge while you were away.” Looking at the sulking Cruz, he added, “Though I suppose it makes sense, now I come to think about it.” 

 “Ready to go, sir,” Siegel said, turning from the controls.

 “Proceed at your discretion, Midshipman. Have you made contact with the fighter force on the surface?”

 “Yes, sir,” she replied. “We're clear all the way through. No sign of unexpected contacts.”

 “Very good,” Marshall said, taking a seat. Estrada sat down next to him, glancing out of the viewport.

 “I suppose there's no reason to wait for us to land before starting our talks,” he said. “Certainly there will be a lot of details to work out, but for the present, I'd like to establish at least a starting point to work from.” Folding his hands together, he said, “Naturally you would never accept a combined command, and neither would I. I think having our two ships working closely together simply wouldn't work.”

 “I agree,” Marshall said. “Lieutenant Foster has suggested that we work out a two-path search pattern, and arrange for meetings on a regular basis to exchange information. We don't even need to come within a million miles of each other, and can use different hendecaspace points to travel. At least we'll be able to cover the territory a lot more quickly, and if one of us finds the way home, then they'll be able to pass the information to the other ship.”

 Nodding, Estrada replied, “And how do we know that all the information will be exchanged? Are you proposing an exchange of senior officers? Perhaps Colonel Cruz in exchange for Lieutenant Foster?”

 Cruz looked daggers at her commanding officer, and Marshall replied, “With all due respect, I think that we would both have an extremely difficult time finding volunteers for that sort of duty. In any event, I don't believe it necessary. Ultimately, if one ship finds the way home and disappears without passing on the information to the other, then the remaining vessel will have a finite number of systems to search, as long as we exchange flight path data regularly. I'm certain that our scientific teams can come up with some data to check, something to help verify the information passed on.”

 “I suspect they well,” Estrada replied. “Almost a month,” he continued, looking out at the stars, “and I'm still struggling to get used to this. My scientific team has identified more than a dozen potential sites for exploration, stars of a type we simply don't find back home. Even that of the world you named Dante, a rare type indeed. We could be learning so much.” He sighed, then said, “Though I suppose we must deal with the baggage we brought with us first.”

 “Unfortunately, I agree.” The shuttle skimmed through the asteroids, the base spreading out below them, and Marshall continued, “As for the planet...”

 “I don't see what role the settlers need play in these talks,” Cruz said. “They can come to terms with us themselves. We'll be leaving soon enough.”

 “Having destroyed their space-based infrastructure, and killed dozens of people,” Marshall said. “At the very least, I'm going to need guarantees that no permanent garrison will be installed, and some form of compensation for the damage they've sustained. And for the families of those who lost their lives.”

 “And if the locals want to join the United Nations, become a Trust Territory?” she asked.

 Rolling his eyes, Marshall replied, “You don't really expect me to believe that they would request that, do you? Even if you did find some local puppet to dance to your tune, they'd never receive the support of the general population. For that matter, I could offer them membership in the Confederation, and it would mean about us much. Our governments are four million light-years away. Dozens of generations distant. What do you think you can offer?”

 Shaking his head, Estrada replied, “Should we make it home, the strategic importance of this system will be magnified beyond all comprehension. My government would certainly act to protect its interests, and I suspect yours would as well. It would be bitterly ironic if we should come to some sort of agreement today, only to bring about a war as soon as we return. Whatever form of agreement we make must be something that our governments can live with.”

 “Far more important is to come to an understanding that the local population can live with,” Marshall pressed. “Ultimately, it is their world.”

 “At present,” Cruz replied, “it is ours, and we are in a position to keep it that way. Suppose we never do find a way to get home? That little world could be a valuable haven for our crew, and the heart of a new civilization in this alien galaxy. One that naturally will be led by us.”

 “And why do you say that?” Foster asked.

 “There are more of us than there are of you, and we have the bigger ship,” Cruz replied, bluntly. “Once look at the tactical situation should convince even you of that, Lieutenant. Though I suppose we'd be able to offer you citizenship of our new nation, should you wish.”

 “This is getting us nowhere,” Estrada said. “Captain, can we table discussion of the fate of the planet for the moment? I think that we might be able to establish some sort of a deal for mutual cooperation, but...”

 “She's in charge down there,” Foster said, “and is reluctant to give it up. That much is obvious. If you think that we're simply going to sit up here and watch while you...”

 “Lieutenant, that's enough,” Marshall said.

 “In the United Nations Fleet, we keep subordinates under far better control,” Cruz said.

 “Evidently not,” Marshall replied, glaring at Estrada. “The planet must remain on the table.”

 “You'd fight for them, die for them?” Estrada asked. “People you didn't know, two days ago?”

 Nodding, Marshall said, “That's the difference between our two nations, General. The Confederation cannot sit idly by while tyrants prosper. We never will.” Folding his arms, he said, “As a starting point, I'd like all of your personnel pulled from the planet, and for your ship to leave first, before Alamo. My intention is to offer them a Triplanetary orbital defense network, and this time it will not consist of decoys.”

 “And if they want us?”

 “What about a plebiscite?” Carpenter suggested. “The local population could have a vote, and decide whether they wish to tie themselves to one of the stellar nations, or remain independent. We could agree to jointly monitor the results.” She looked at Marshall, and added, “If it will break the deadlock, it might be worth trying, even if we all know what they're going to decide.”

 “You've already determined the results,” Cruz said, as the shuttle dodged past a pair of tightly-spinning asteroids. “Probably already have them prepared for this. If there is to be any vote, then we'll have to run it ourselves. And we will pledge to abide by the results.”

 Shaking his head, Marshall replied, “All of this is academic without the input of Colonel Volkova. Unless you can agree to withdraw, I cannot and will not commit the local population to any course of action without at least consulting them first.”

 “Captain,” Siegel said. “Landing in two minutes.”

 With a sigh, Estrada replied, “This is going to be harder than even I believed.”

 “It doesn't have to be,” Cruz said. “The idea of our two ships working together is a good one, and as a combined force, we'd be able to face off against anything we might conceivably find out here. There may be dangers waiting beyond that we haven't seen yet.”

 As the landing thrusters fired, Marshall looked out of the viewport at the lonely station beyond, the last outpost remaining to the people on the surface. A hundred thousand people were waiting on his next action, counting on him to find a way to secure their freedom. No matter what, he couldn't let them down. Dust flew in all directions as Siegel eased them down to the surface, dropping into position for the waiting docking collar to connect with the ship.

 Careful to move slowly in the low gravity, Marshall walked over to the hatch as it slid open, Foster and Carpenter behind him, Cruz and Estrada loitering behind. Colonel Volkova waited at the door, a smile on her face, then drew a pistol from a hidden pouch in her jumpsuit, leveling it at the three of them.

 “Captain!” Siegel said, leaping from her controls, but the pistol barked once, a bullet slamming into her chest, dropping her to the floor. Carpenter raced over to her, tearing a medical kit from the wall, but it was obviously too late, the light fading from the young woman's eyes as she took her last breath.

 “Don't move, any of you,” Cruz said, as Volkova tossed her another pistol. “You are prisoners of the United Nations, and have no rights or privileges whatsoever. Colonel, is everything prepared down here?”

 “Yes, ma'am,” Volkova replied. “The three fighters have been secured, the pilots placed in close confinement for transfer to Waldheim. The base is secure.”

 “It won't work,” Marshall said, looking down at the dead woman on the deck. “As soon as Pavel realizes what has happened, he'll move, and I just hope I live long enough to watch you all burn.” Turning to Volkova, he added, “And do you really think that they'll live up to their end of whatever unholy deal you've struck with them? You're just a tool, nothing more than that.”

 “As of last week,” she replied, “I am an officer in the United Nations Space Fleet, and commander of the local garrison. Sometimes we just have to deal in reality, Captain, not fantasy.”

 Estrada nodded, turned to Marshall, and added, “If it is any consolation, I am truly sorry that this had to be, Captain. Under other circumstances, I think we could have worked together.”

 “Weak,” Cruz said, turning her pistol on her commander. She fired once, and a sneer spread across her face as the flag officer dropped to the deck, eyes looking up in shock and disbelief as his life's blood spilled away. “And foolish.” Looking up at Marshall, she added, “My thanks, Captain, for dealing with one of my enemies in this way. You really shouldn't have tried to resist capture.”

 “This isn't over,” Marshall said.

 “I agree with you on that,” Cruz replied. “It's hardly begun. Colonel Volkova, you will proceed with the second stage of the operation at once.” Glancing at her watch, she added, “Alamo should be coming into range any minute.”

 “Aye, General,” Volkova replied.

 “Promoting yourself as well?” Carpenter said. “Pavel will blow you and your ship into a million pieces.”

 “I think not,” Cruz said. “Now, will you go peacefully, or do I have to shoot another one of you to make this point clear. You've lost, Captain, and we have won. Accept it.”

 “Never,” Marshall said. “Never.”

Chapter 12

 The sun slowly rose over the Luna Mountains, casting strange shadows over the terrain, waking the wildlife of the forest from its long slumber. Clarke followed the limping Webster, embarrassed that he was struggling to catch up. For a cripple, he was making excellent time, though Clarke clung to the excuse that he'd spent the bulk of his life in one-third gravity, and despite the conditioning he'd had, there was no substitute for the environment in which one was born.

 Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his canteen, draining the last of it in a single gulp, then wiped the sweat from his forehead before pushing on down the path. He spared a second to glance at his watch, and instantly redoubled his pace. If his reading of the trajectory plots had been correct, Alamo would be minutes away from disaster, and unless he could warn them, his ship and his crewmates were doomed.

 “We're here, Sub-Lieutenant,” Webster said, turning to face him. “Just through those trees. The station's built by the side of a fast-flowing river, on top of a rocky outcrop, maybe fifty feet high. The platoon is dug in all around.”

 “Why so many?” he asked.

 “The dig site,” Mortimer replied. “It's only about ten miles from here. You can see the whole countryside, and it makes for a good spot to coordinate communications traffic.” She shrugged, and added, “That, and it's too useful to ignore. Either it had to be captured or destroyed, and it's too useful to simply write off.”

 A dark figure raced towards them, out of the undergrowth, and said, “I got to within a hundred meters, sir, then had to pull back. There are eight on guard, manning two machine gun nests and four of them at the stream. Fishing.”

 “Fishing?” Webster asked. “Good to know that we're not dealing with crack troops. I guess they're hoping to catch breakfast. Any way in?”

 “They haven't got anyone around the back,” the man replied. “You should be able to sneak around that way, but then you've got the climb to the top, and they'll spot you as soon as you reach the base. The worst we could do is embarrass them a little.”

 Frowning, Clarke replied, “Then we need to launch two attacks, not one. An assault on the guards at the base to pin them down, and buy me long enough to reach the communications console and send my message.” Pulling out a borrowed datapad, he added, “I can set this up in five seconds, and everything will work automatically. Not a problem.”

 “And how do you get out again?” Mortimer asked.

 “Realistically, I probably don't. I'll cause as much mayhem up there as I can, distract them long enough for my message to be sent and the rest of you to get away. I'm gambling that they'll want me alive rather than dead, but if they don't, I guess those are the breaks.”

 “You're that willing to throw your life away?” Webster asked.

 “No, sir, but I'm more than happy to trade one life for hundreds. Thousands, if we can free your people. That's the deal I signed up for when I put on the uniform, and I knew that sooner or later someone was going to collect. Given some of the stunts I've pulled in the last year, I'm only surprised that it's taken this long.” He started to empty his pockets, putting his equipment carefully on the ground. “Feel free to take what you want. I'm only going to need rifle, ammunition and my datapad. The lighter I travel the better.”

 Frowning, Mortimer asked, “How much rock climbing have you done?”

 “There were some pretty good cliff faces back home.”

 “In one-third gravity,” she replied.

 “Yes, but I had to wear a spacesuit. Far more cumbersome. I'm guessing that it will even out.” Sliding his rifle strap over his shoulder, he said, “Which way?”

 “I'll lead you through,” the scout said. “Though when it comes to the climb, you're going to be on your own. As soon as I see you heading up, I'll go back around, get the attack started.”

 “Give me a hundred and eighty seconds before you launch your attack,” Clarke replied. “If I haven't made it to the top by then, I never will.”

 “We, damn it,” Mortimer said, throwing off her jacket. “I grew up in Alaska. Spent most of my teenage years on the mountains.”

 “This...”
 “You won't make it without me. Now can we get on with this? We're wasting time.”

 The scout turned, walking into the undergrowth, Mortimer following. After a brief pause, Clarke went after them, pushing aside the branches and leaves of the forest. His mind was filled with suspicion and doubt. The intelligence report he'd read confirmed Mortimer's relationship with Pastell, even suggested that the two of them were planning on marrying, but that still didn't quite explain her willingness to change sides.

 It could be a trap. It was almost likely. But she'd had ample opportunities to kill him on the trail, or to slip away to alert the guards. At this point, any betrayal would only come at the cost of her life, and she had to know that. Not that he had much choice. Her assessment of his climbing ability was distressingly accurate, and as he got a close look at the tongue of rock reaching to the sky, his previous enthusiasm melted away. None of the Martian ranges he'd climbed had anything quite like this, and if he fell, there were no thrusters to save him. He wouldn't die, but he'd be captured, and given the current situation, that would almost certainly amount to the same thing.

 He paused for a moment, glancing to the side, the shining river curling off lazily to the left. Under other circumstances, this would be beautiful place to walk, but the knowledge that eight United Nations guards were within a few meters took the edge off the view. Taking care to keep low, he walked on through the undergrowth, careful to keep within sight of his guide. Finally, they were there, just a short sprint from the rock face.

 “Go quickly,” the scout said. “Once you're on the rock, they won't see you until you're almost at the top. Three minutes, starting now. Good luck.”

 Without waiting for Mortimer, Clarke sprinted across the open ground, waiting at every breath to hear the call of the guards, the sound of gunshots through the air. That he made it without incident seemed like a miracle, but as his hands searched for handholds to begin his climb, he made the mistake of looking up. Fifty meters, the scout had said, but it could easily be a mile. As he started his ascent, he quickly realized why they hadn't bothered posting guards in this part of the perimeter. The rock was smooth, and crumbled away in his hands. He had to test every handhold twice, and the gravity weighed down upon him like never before as he forced himself up.

 To his right, Mortimer was making better time, her hands and feet finding a path as though she was born to the rock, easily sliding past him. His attention was taken away for a critical second as the handhold he'd found crumbled away, his arm swinging free, and she reached down to grab him, pushing him back against the rock before he could fall.

 “Sooner or later, you're going to have to decide to trust me,” she said.

 “All this for Pastell?” he replied, panting for breath as he resumed his ascent.

 “Maybe I'll tell you at some point,” she said. “Once we've finished this part of the mission.”

 Half the time had already been spent, and they still seemed to have a long way to go. Gradually, Clarke settled into a careful rhythm, hand over hand continuing the ascent, the path growing easier as he climbed. Carelessly, his feet scattered rocks behind him, a shower of pebbles tumbling to the ground, and he nestled in tight to the rock, waiting for the guards to turn and open fire. Up here, he'd be nothing more than target practice.

 Somehow, the bullet never came, and he continued to the summit, heartened as he saw the dull-gray metal structure rising above him, a wide antenna slowly rotating, the means by which he could save his ship. Less than twenty seconds remained. He'd judged the climb to perfection, even if he felt that his arms were about to fall out of their sockets. One last push, and they'd be at the top.

 Below, the crack of gunfire echoed, Captain Webster beginning his diversionary attack. Sirens sang their desperate song across the forest as troops raced to reinforce their comrades on the ground, exactly as he had hoped. Pulling himself over the edge, he came face-to-face with a wide-eyed technician, a pistol in hand, staring him in the face.

 The figure collapsed to the ground, clutching at his shoulder, and Mortimer raced past him, gun in hand, yelling, “Come on! We've got to move!”

 He didn't need any further prompting, and he raced for the building. A side door opened, a startled guard running through it, and he felled him with a single shot to the leg, the man collapsing to the side with blood running into the dirt. Almost before he realized what was happening, he was inside, footsteps ringing on the metal floor.

 Outside, a battle was raging, but the lower level was empty, the garrison already turned out, not expecting an attack from the rear. That would be changing in a seconds, and he knew that enemy troops would already be closing on their position.

 “Corporal, take cover down here. Hold them as long as you can, then get out of here.”

 “Right,” she replied, kicking over a table, taking cover behind it as cards and mugs scattered across the floor. Clarke made for a ladder built into the wall, scaling the bars two at a time and pushing the overhead hatch open with the butt of his rifle. A bullet slammed into the ground by his side, the technician manning the sensor station prepared for his assault, but he fired a burst of semi-automatic fire through the hole. With a loud scream, the technician fell into the hail of bullets, his corpse dropping to the ground below.

 The upper level was as he'd expected, full of archaic equipment he barely recognized, but some recently installed United Nations kit had been stacked in a corner, crudely wired into the system. Ignoring the native console, he raced to the advanced software, fingers dancing across the controls as he furiously entered a series of access codes, fighting his way through the firewall. A green light winked on, and he jabbed the datapad into position, waiting impatiently for it to complete its connection.

 Overhead, the sound of grinding gears burst into life as the antenna complex turned, moving to focus on distant Alamo, power surging into the system as it struggled to acquire the target. For a second, he considered staying at the console, talking personally to his comrades, but the sound of gunfire outside, bullets ringing from the walls, convinced him that Mortimer needed the help more urgently than he needed reassurance. The automated message would have to do the job, and he had to hope that it got through before he died.

 Sliding back down the ladder, he narrowly escaped being shot by an advancing guard, Mortimer dealt with the situation before he could respond. He dropped and rolled behind her cover, raising his rifle to rest alongside hers, firing a burst of automatic fire that wiped out most of the clip in a bid to drive the enemy troops back.

 “Did it work?” she asked.

 “I hope so,” he replied.

 “Sounds like our friends on the surface decided to go home,” she said. “I've taken out four already, and I think they're getting ready for a concerted attack. If they pull that off, we're dead. Unless they get smart and use gas grenades first.”

 “Depends how much they care about this place,” he replied, taking a shot at a careless figure, moving across the threshold of the open door. Pulling out the old clip, he slammed a replacement into position, locking it in place. “Last of the ammunition.”

 “I've already switched. Maybe fifteen rounds left. Looking forward to a glorious last stand?”

 “Not especially. Make for the side exit. I'll cover you. That way one of us might get out of here.”

 Shaking her head, she replied, “Fleet doesn't give up its own.”

 “Fleet?”

 There was a brief pause in the battle, and she replied, “You can confirm this if and when we make it back to Alamo, but I'm a Sub-Lieutenant assigned to Triplanetary Intelligence, just like you. And no, Sam doesn't know anything about it.”

 “You're full of surprises, aren't you,” he said.

 “Right back at you, kid,” she said. A trio of guards rushed the door, a feint that cost them ten precious bullets for no gain. “Not much point one of us getting out of here. We're better off thinning them out a little. Might help someone else.”

 “Yeah,” he replied. “I guess that's pretty much where we are at this point, isn't it. I won't say it's been a pleasure, but it's never been boring.” Glancing at the ammunition counter on his rifle, he said, “Let's not die in the dirt.”

 “Agreed.”

 As one, the two of them jumped out of cover, charging at the door, catching the assembling guards by surprise with carefully aimed bursts of fire. The advantage was theirs for only a matter of seconds, but they made full use of them to advance into the open. As twenty rifles turned their way, a pair of explosions erupted into the air on either side, slamming into the waiting troops. This time, it was Clarke who dragged a dazed Mortimer out of the brawl, racing towards the path, where a grinning Lieutenant Avdonin was advancing, leading a squad of rebels into the fight. 

 “Right on target,” he said, as his men moved to cover the shocked garrison, their hands drifting into the air as they realized they'd lost the battle. “I wondered if those mortars would work.”

 “Mortars?” Mortimer asked. “Where the hell did you get those from?”

 “Our second Chairman was a little paranoid. He fabricated a tidy little arsenal and put it in a safe place. We might not have been quite as under-equipped as we suggested.” The garrison tossed their weapons to the dirt, and he said, “Hope we didn't give you too much of a surprise.”

 “I'll forgive you when my blood pressure drops to something close to normal,” Clarke replied. “This was a trick?”

 “Sorry about that,” Avdonin said. “We didn't know whether or not we could trust you, but we thought that at the very least we might be able to get the distraction we wanted. This installation is a perfect spot to set up our new base.”

 “Until they rain missiles down on you.”

 “Waldheim is five million miles away, and with the sensor suite we have here, we'll have more than enough warning to disperse. And plenty of time to shoot down anyone who decides to try and pay us a visit. The next group of UN troops to come this way will find out the hard way that it's a lot easier to knock out an undefended scientific station than a strategic military strong-point.”

 Suddenly, from inside the building, a loud whine resounded, a tracking signal making a connection. Glancing up at the antenna, still tracking around, Clarke broke and ran inside, Avdonin and Mortimer following. He took the ladder in four bounds, racing to the console and jamming on a headset, his

fingers flicking the controls as he attempted to tighten the beam. To his left, Mortimer coolly adjusted the frequency, eyes looking at the monitor screen.

 “We're not going to need the automatic message. I can make voice contact!” Looking down at a display, he added, “Signal locked on. Time delay a little over a minute at this range. Clarke to Alamo. Clarke to Alamo. Salyut Station has fallen to the enemy. Repeat, Salyut Station has fallen. You're flying into a trap. Recommend immediate withdrawal.”

 “It might be too late,” Mortimer said. “Alamo's damned close, and it looks as if Waldheim's lighting her engines.” She paused, then added, “That wouldn't be enough by itself. Alamo's beaten them twice, and they'd not risk everything on a third.”

 “There,” Avdonin said, pointing at the screen. “Six contacts, closing fast.”

 Looking up, Clarke added, “They're in a sensor blind spot. Alamo couldn't see them, not at this range.” Tapping a control, he continued, “Clarke to Alamo. Enemy bandits inbound. Come in, please!”

Chapter 13

 “I've got a signal, sir!” Bowman said. “From Sub-Lieutenant Clarke!”

 “What?” Salazar said, turning to face the communications station. “How the hell...”

 “Recognition codes match, voice-print confirmed. It's him, sir!” the technician replied, eyes wide from shock.

 “I'll be damned,” Francis said.

 Reading from his screen, Bowman added, “Clarke to Alamo. Clarke to Alamo. Salyut Station has fallen to the enemy. Repeat, Salyut Station has fallen. You're flying into a trap. Recommend immediate withdrawal.” Salazar's face paled, and he turned to Scott.

 “Battle Stations. Max, have...”

 Before he could finish, the ship tumbled to the side, throwing him from his feet and sending him stumbling to the floor. Sirens wailed on the bridge, a sea of red lights swimming across the status monitor as he struggled to stand.

 “Evasive, Quesada! What the hell hit us?”

 Ballard looked up at her display, warning alerts flashing on her monitors, and said, “Salyut's mass drivers, sir! Two shots, close range, and they're warming up for a second shot. Waldheim has left station and is heading on intercept course, radiators deployed.”

 “Signal from Clarke,” Bowman added. “Enemy bandits inbound!”

 “The whole damned thing was a trap,” Salazar said. “Quesada, get us out of here. Any heading, best acceleration, move it! Fitzroy, can you get me a damage report?”

 “What about the Captain?” Scott said.

 “If Clarke's right, he's a prisoner, and we haven't got time for a glorious rescue,” Salazar replied. “Even if we launched a strike team, they'd never make it to the deck, and I'm not throwing thirty lives away for nothing. Fitzroy, where's my damage report?”

 “I can't get full power, sir,” Quesada said. “Best I can do is one-third. They'll be on us in minutes.” Tapping a control, he added, “Should I continue evasive action?”

 “No. Go for speed and distance,” Salazar said. “Fitzroy...”

 “Coming up now, sir. Two impacts, aft section. We've lost the primary connections to the main engines, power systems failure in nine decks, aft sensors gone, Elevator Control out, combat fabricator out. They really made a mess of us, sir.”

 Reaching for the command chair, he stabbed a control, and said, “Chief, I need full power to the engines in two minutes or we're dead. Run everything to overload if you have to, but give me maximum acceleration!” Turning back to the helm, he continued, “Quesada, we might not have much time. What's our heading?”

 “Parallel to the asteroids.”

 “Good. In one minute, turn and take us inside the asteroid field.”

 “Sir,” Francis said, “That's the densest belt I've ever seen. In this region the average density is less than a mile apart, and at the speed we're traveling...”

 “Then Sub-Lieutenant Quesada will have an excellent chance to demonstrate his skill at the helm, but more importantly, Waldheim is a lumbering beast compared to Alamo. We've got a chance of getting through that swarm, but they don't. Prepare course change.”

 “Aye, sir,” Quesada said, a smile on his face as he contemplated the challenge ahead. “Course change computed and ready, but I'm going to need more speed to get through it.”

 “All decks have reported to battle stations, sir,” Scott said. “I'm holding back the radiators. Too much micro-meteorite activity where we're going. Waldheim's already losing structural integrity on their wings.” She glanced up at a panel, and added, “Not that it will matter overmuch if we don't gain ground soon. Firing range in four minutes minus.”

 “Bridge to McCormack,” Salazar said. “Lieutenant, I want you in your fighter and ready to launch in two minutes. Scramble on my order. Mission will be defensive, to block incoming interceptors. Get moving.”

 “What the hell's going on up there?” the squadron leader asked.

 “When I find out, you'll be the first to know.”

 “Intercept in three minutes minus,” Scott said. “Pavel, I've only got half the point-defense cannons operational. If they launch a salvo, they'll get through our screen.”

 “Engineering to Bridge,” Santiago said. “I can't give you more power. We've lost half-a-dozen...”

 “Chief, I don't care how you do it, but I've got to have at least three minutes of maximum acceleration, or Waldheim will smash us to pieces.” He paused, then said, “It's down to you. Either give me that power, or I have no choice but to unconditionally surrender.”

 Silence reigned on the bridge, and after the longest second of his life, Santiago replied, “You'll get it. If we burn out every system doing it. We'll find a way to make it work.”

 “Thank you, Chief,” Salazar said, settling down in the command chair. He looked up at the tactical display, watching as Waldheim slid in behind them racing towards them. If his plan worked, they'd barely have time for a single shot, ten missiles racing in their direction. That they could handle. Otherwise, there would be a nightmarish nine minutes in the firing line. Over to the side, the enemy fighters were swarming towards them, burning at full acceleration to catch Alamo, setting themselves up for an attack run.

 “I guess that answers the big question, doesn't it,” Francis said, moving over to Salazar. “They've been waiting out here, hiding in a sensor blind spot.”

 Nodding, Salazar replied, “My guess is they've got a tanker shuttle parked on one of the rocks, where we can't see. Most of them are so small that they'd be docking, not landing. They could wait out there for days, and not a damned thing we could do about it.” Turning to Francis, he continued, “The whole thing was a trap. Right from the first. They must have guessed that we'd end up coming here eventually. If it hadn't been for Clarke, we'd be dead.” Gesturing at the display, he added, “If we hadn't started the blast doors closing, half the ship would have lost atmosphere when those rocks hit.”

 “One minute to maneuver,” Quesada said.

 “Launch fighters,” Salazar added.

 “Aye, sir,” Scott replied. “Red Flight launched. Missiles in the tubes, ready for defensive salvo when we get close enough.” She paused, then added, “I hope you weren't counting on the laser cannon, sir. The Chief's draining all the power for the engines.”

 Frowning, Francis said, “I didn't know those two systems were linked.”

 “I've lost internal communications on the lower decks,” Bowman added. “Those cables aren't anywhere near strong enough to handle that sort of load, sir. We'll burn out the whole system.”

 “Doesn't matter,” Salazar replied. “If we pull this off, then we'll have plenty of time to make repairs. Once we're on the far side of the rocks, it'll take hours for Waldheim to work its way around for a second strike. Plenty of time to patch up the power grid. I hope.”

 “Thirty seconds, sir,” Quesada said, his knuckles white from gripping his controls.

 “Nice and easy, Sub-Lieutenant,” Salazar said. His eyes never left the screen, watching as Alamo eased its way through the rocks on a tangled, twisted course. Behind them, their fighters dived at the enemy interceptors, McCormack shepherding her ships towards the enemy, releasing a full twelve-missiles salvo at precisely the right moment.

 She'd made the right choice. Defensive, not offensive, was the order of the day. The enemy squadron was forced to release their missiles in response, the two salvos slicing through space towards each other, doomed to imminent mutual destruction. Their job done, Red Flight turned to return to Alamo, struggling to catch up.

 “Full power!” Quesada said, and Alamo surged forward with greater speed, finally gaining ground on the relentless Waldheim behind them, easing on a careful trajectory through the shattered remnants of a long-dead world. For an instant, Salazar saw a flash on the viewscreen, a proximity alarm as they dived between a double asteroid, but almost before it had begun, they were through the rocks, and safe.

 “Waldheim is turning away,” Ballard said. “Heading back to Salyut Station.”

 “Signal, sir,” Bowman said. “Colonel Cruz wants to speak to you. By name. Audio only.”

 “Not General Estrada?” Salazar replied, looking at Francis. “Interesting. Put her on.”

 “Lieutenant,” Cruz said, “I am holding Captain Marshall, as well as Lieutenants Foster, Murphy and Carpenter. All of them are safe and well for the moment, though I thought it only fair to tell you that Captain Marshall is facing charges of murder.”

 “Whose murder? And what about Midshipman Siegel and the other fighter pilots?”

 “They were killed while resisting arrest.” A gasp echoed around the bridge, and she continued, “Captain Marshall killed General Estrada in cold blood, in the middle of our negotiations. Which means that your options have now reduced to one. I demand your immediate unconditional surrender. If you agree, I will transfer you and your crew, including all my prisoners aside from Captain Marshall, to the surface, where you may live out your lives as best you can. This offer will not be repeated.”

 “Good,” Salazar replied, “That means I don't have to waste any more time listening to it than I already have. I don't believe for one moment that Captain Marshall killed General Estrada. Save that for your crew, though I suspect a lot of them won't buy the story either. I'm going to turn this around, Colonel. I give you one hour to surrender, or I will be forced to use every means at my disposal to destroy Waldheim.”

 “I think not,” she said. “Currently, I am holding two hundred and fifty civilians from the surface in Waldheim's detention deck. All of them will be dispersed to primary targets should Alamo launch an attack. I don't believe that you have the stomach to attack civilians, Lieutenant, a weakness that is going to cost you dear.”

 “My God,” Scott said, softly. “Pavel, do you believe that she would actually do it?”

 “Estrada wouldn't, but I'm sure she would,” he replied. “Not that it changes anything. Colonel, I'm going to bring you down, one way or another. You can count on that. For the sake of your crew, I'll give you one last chance.”

 “Arrogance and weakness combined. Not a good mix. A pity, Lieutenant. I was rather hoping that you would be reasonable. As it is, nobody on your ship will live to leave this system, and you will be the architect of their death. Waldheim out.”

 Salazar watched the screen for a moment, then asked, “Bowman, status of Waldheim?”

 “On station-keeping, sir. Looks as though they're holding close to Salyut Station.”

 Nodding, he asked, “And the fighters?”

 “Returning to base. Ours will be home in two minutes. Already on final approach.” 

 “Have Senior Lieutenant McCormack report to the Captain's office immediately upon landing. And you'd better page Ensign Rhodes as well.” Looking up at Francis, he said, “I think we'd better have a little talk. Kris, you too. Scott, you have the deck. Alert me at once if the situation changes, and start working with Chief Santiago to patch us up.”

 “Aye, sir,” she said, turning to him. “Are we going to fight on?”

 “Count on it.” 

 Salazar walked into the office, and looked at the vacant chair sitting behind the desk. Marshall's chair, vacant while its occupant languished in a cell. Francis walked after him, gesturing at the seat.

 “Not going to take it?”

 “Not yet,” he replied, perching on the edge of the desk. “Not yet.”

 Harper walked in, the door closing behind her, and said, “What the hell do we do now?”

 “That's a damned good question,” Salazar replied. “I'd guess we'll take at least a day to get back into some sort of fighting trim. Weeks to get back to full operational strength, which means that we're going to have to go back into battle at a disadvantage.”

 “Do we?” Harper asked. She looked at Francis, then said, “You're not going to want to hear this, but..”

 “We're not leaving the system.”

 “If it helps,” Francis added, “We could probably recover Clarke. If we timed it right, we'd have a shot at getting a shuttle down to the surface and back again. Pull him off the planet. After what he did for us, it's the least we can do.” He paused, then added, “I just don't see any realistic way of rescuing the Captain and the others.”

 “So we pull out?” Salazar said. “We flee the system, and leave everyone behind to their fate?”

 “I would point out that so far,” Francis replied, “we've been betrayed by the very people we're trying to help. Colonel Volkova tried to lure us into a trap, and she damned near succeeded. I don't think we owe them a damn thing.” Raising a hand, he added, “Yes, I know about the people still on the surface, and I very much doubt that they had anything to do with this, but I just don't see that we've got any realistic options here. Alamo is badly damaged, and we've just lost half our fighter strength. The one area of superiority we had is lost.”

 The door slid open, and Rhodes walked in, saying, “It's a madhouse out there, sir. I've got most of my people helping out with the damage control. Chief Santiago asked me to call you something that would probably get both of us court-martialed on the spot, and that she expects to have full engine power back in three to six hours.”

 “That's something,” Francis replied. “Pavel, we could make for any hendecaspace point in the system. Repairs to the drive shouldn't take too long, and we can easily give them the slip. Maybe lick our wounds, then come back as soon as we're repaired.”

 “We're running?” Rhodes said.

 “No, we're not,” Salazar replied. He reached for a control, and said, “Bowman, what's the status of our long-range communications?” 

 “Not good, sir.”

 “Then Clarke must have been using a pretty powerful transmitter. Based on that, do you think that you can reestablish contact?”

 “I'll do my best, sir.”

 “Sir, I'd like to discuss a hit and run raid on Waldheim…,” Rhodes began.

 “Not an option,” Salazar said, looking around the room. “People, the strategic situation hasn't changed. Waldheim must be destroyed. Under Colonel Cruz, it's even more dangerous than ever. We cannot risk leaving the system with that ship intact, no matter what the cost.” He paused, then added, “And that must include the prisoners they hold on board.”

 “Captain Marshall? Susan? Val?” Harper replied.

 “Under the circumstances, I would expect any of them to treat me in exactly the same way if I was the one captured.” His voice softened, and he added, “We don't even know for certain that they're still alive. Cruz didn't offer any proof.”

 “And the hostages?”

 Closing his eyes, Salazar replied, “The same.”

 “Two hundred and fifty people?” Rhodes asked.

 Nodding, Salazar said, “A hundred thousand on the surface, Frank. Sometimes you've got to play the numbers game, as hateful and as distasteful as that might be. Realistically, we don't have a choice. Cruz hasn't left us with one.”

 “But…,” Rhodes began.

 Slamming his fist on the table, Salazar said, “Damn it all, do any of you think I want to be sitting here giving these orders? How safe do you think the people on the planet will be if we let Waldheim win? Either Cruz will set up her own little slave state, or she'll toss a couple of nukes down there and Cosmograd will glow in the dark for the next hundred years. Nor do I believe for a moment that she would simply release us if we surrendered. That isn't an option.”

 “On the bridge...” Harper said.

 “It was the fastest way I could think of to stress the critical nature of the situation to Santiago. It worked. We're safe, for the moment, at least. But let me make one thing clear. Our objective is more certain than ever. Waldheim must be destroyed.”

 “Damn right,” McCormack said, walking into the office. “We can't let those bastards win. Not after what they did to my people.”

 “Our people,” Francis said, with a sigh. “So how do we proceed?”

 “Cruz isn't an experienced starship commander,” Salazar replied. “She made several tactical mistakes during the battle. She'll follow the book, and right now that's left her guarding what is no longer a strategic position.”

 “Sir?” Bowman said, his voice blurred on the speaker. “I have Sub-Lieutenant Clarke. Time delay of one minute, sir, but he's sent a new report.”

 “Pipe it through, Spaceman.”

 “I still don't see how he lived through Dante,” Harper said, shaking his head. “If he was a cat, he'd be on his last life. And then some.”

 “Clarke here,” the young officer's voice said. “I'm working with the resistance. We've secured a facility close to the archaeological mine, about eighty miles south of Cosmograd. You should be able to track us. We're armed, equipped, and ready to take on the enemy, but we're going to need reinforcements if we're going to beat them back. Right now we have the initiative. Captain, I have reason to suspect that General Estrada is dead, and that Major Pastell will shortly be joining him. I also believe that they have abducted civilians on Waldheim. We found an abandoned settlement, and the rebel leaders indicate there are more.” There was a pause, and he added, “I'll be on this frequency, tight-beam, but if Waldheim heads our way, we'll have to pull out. We're vulnerable to an orbital attack. Clarke out.”

 “He doesn't know how bad things are up here,” Francis said.

 Frowning, Salazar said, “Max, you suggested we could get a shuttle down to the surface.” 

 “Sure, we could rescue him. Maybe some of the rebels as well.”

 “No,” he replied. “Frank, you and your people up for playing in the mud?”

 “Any time, anywhere,” the Espatier said. “You know that.” 

 “I'm going to hold you to that.” A smile on his face, he jumped off the desk, and said, “We're going to free Morana, right out from under the noses of Cruz and her lackeys.”

 “Liberate a planet with one platoon and three assault shuttles?” Francis asked. 

 “As soon as we move, Waldheim will come after us,” Harper warned.

 Nodding, Salazar replied, “Which means we will be able to control the time and place of our next engagement. All we have to do now is work out how to make maximum use of that. This game isn't over. It's only just begun.”

Chapter 14

 Clarke pulled off the handset, resting it on the table, and looked up at the gathered rebels. Outside, the garrison was being restrained, questioned for anything they knew. They'd managed to collect nineteen prisoners during the attack, and it had already taken some blunt words from Mortimer to prevent nineteen summary executions from taking place in the aftermath.

 “Well?” Webster asked.

 “Alamo's sending the whole platoon down to assist us. Twenty-eight troopers, all armed with plasma weapons, full kit. With as much spare equipment as they can fabricate in the time.” Exultant faces turned to him, and he added, “Don't celebrate yet. That evens the odds a little, but we've got to provide ground support for an attack. Apparently the ship's been badly damaged.”

 “Then we were too late?”

 “Thirty seconds later, and there'd have been nobody up there to talk to,” Clarke replied. “As it is, Captain Marshall and several of the senior staff have been captured. If it helps, the acting commander has determined that Alamo will continue to fight for this system. Despite the betrayal of the personnel on Salyut Station.”

 Shaking his head, Avdonin said, “I still can't quite believe that the entire complement gave in without even a fight. In their place...”

 “What could you have done?” Mortimer asked. “No weapons, no supplies, and no sign of ever receiving any help. I don't say that I would have turned traitor, but I'd have had a hard time not immediately surrendering. What did you expect?” Looking around the room, she added, “You had no space-based defenses, no standing military.”

 “We're a small colony,” Avdonin began.

 “And this is going to get us precisely nowhere,” Clarke replied. “We've got to come up with a strike. Something big to through the assault team at, something that will draw their entire garrison strength towards us. There's no question of trying to retake Cosmograd. We'd burn the city to the ground trying to free it.”

 “Then...”

 “Once Waldheim is destroyed, the forces in Cosmograd will almost certainly surrender,” Mortimer said. “They'll be in precisely the situation you were, and with no support, and a hostile population that vastly outnumbers them, there'd be out of options. I've met the garrison commander, and for all his sins, he's pragmatic enough to accept reality. We need another target.”

 “The mine,” Webster said. “Eleven miles north-east of here, with a company-strength garrison. And about a thousand slave workers who will almost certainly rise up as soon as we attack. It's been the primary focus of their attention ever since they arrived. I can't imagine they'd ignore an assault there.”

 “Tell me about the place,” Clarke said.

 “They've dug into the alien ruins, deep shafts underground. We always knew that far more of it was buried than was visible on the surface, and they seem to be determined to expose it all. Miles and miles of it. The work's barely begun. I think one estimate had it at up to four years.”

 “Four years?” Clarke replied. “That about answers the question of whether or not they're going to stay, if they've begun a project on that scale. Unless they're looking for something specific.”

 “We don't have the experts to know,” Avdonin said. “Aside from a few amateurs, we don't have any archaeological researchers. It's just not something the original settlers prioritized. And there's always been something more important, a greater priority for our budgets.”

 Glaring at him, Mortimer replied, “A world with a long-dead alien race, and you don't think investigating it is a priority? Did any of you idiots ever stop to think that there might be a reason that they died out, something that might still affect you today?” Rubbing her forehead, she added, “The mine, then. Defenses?”

 “Three prefabricated bunkers, a patrolled perimeter fence. Drones on permanent station covering every entry point, controlled on-site by a monitoring station at the heart of the mine. The workers are kept in four large barracks, made of wood. They'll burn, so we'll have to be careful making our attack.” Frowning, Webster continued, “The drones are going to be our biggest problem. They'll give too much advance notice of our attack. We'll need to find some way to knock them out.”

 “Next question,” Clarke asked. “Would it be possible for a small team to sneak into the mine, under the drones, and make it to the monitoring station?”

 “Maybe,” Webster said, “but the timing would have to be perfect. You'd have minutes to get in and out. Lieutenant, what is our explosives situation?”

 “If we use everything we've got, it should be enough,” the young man replied. “I'll have to set it myself, though. I'm the only trained demolitions man we have.” Turning with a smile, he added, “Before the invasion, I blew things up for a living.”

 “Then a three-man assault team,” Clarke said. “Moving out tonight.”

 “Isn't that too soon?” Webster replied.

 Shaking his head, Mortimer said, “Not with Waldheim off-station. They'd have to ship in replacement components, and that's going to take time. It's a gamble...”

 “I want them on alert,” Clarke said. “Our attack won't be hitting until planetary dawn. If we launch our first strike near dusk, they'll have the whole garrison on alert all night. Tired troops loose their edge, and we need every advantage we can get if we're going to make this work.”

 Nodding, Webster said, “What about the rest of us?”

 “Someone's going to have to stay here to guard the prisoners and keep an eye on the sensors. Four men ought to be enough, as long as they're properly secured. Pity we don't have enough tranquilizers, but we can't have everything.”

 With a menacing gleam in his eye, Avdonin said, “I can think of a more permanent way to deal with them, Sub-Lieutenant, and we've got a lot more ammunition now.”

 Turning to him, Clarke said, “Tell me again why we're liberating your people?”

 “It's our world!”

 “But if you're going to act just like them, then all of this is a waste of time. We're going to win this little war, Lieutenant, and when the dust settles we're all going to have to live with ourselves. I've already killed half a dozen men since I landed on this godforsaken rock, and I'm probably going to have to kill more before I leave it, but the day I sanction the murder of a man in cold blood is the day I hand in my resignation and go back to the farm.” Tugging at his uniform, he added, “This means something. It has to. Or the enemy have already won, without firing a shot.”

 “Words,” Avdonin said. “They're not going to free us.”

 “But they'll keep your people free, when the war is won,” Clarke replied. “You want our help?”

 “Of course.”

 “Then we do things our way, according to the rules of war, no matter what the enemy does.”

 With a scowl, Avdonin replied, “I'd better start getting everything together. It's a long hike.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “We should wait until dark. Ten hours. I guess we can all do with some sack time until then. Excuse me.”

 As the angry man walked out, Webster said, “Don't think too harshly of him. His older brother was a good friend of mine. Until Waldheim came.” Looking after Avdonin, he added, “He's got a knife with four notches on it. I don't think he intends to stop until he doesn't have room to carve any more.”

 “Are you sure he's the only one we can take with us?” Mortimer said. “He sounds like a man looking for a bullet.”

 “Unless either of you have some skill in that area, he's the only explosives expert we've got, and the equipment we'll be using is pretty sensitive. And for you, I expect rather old-fashioned.” Turning back to them, he added, “Don't worry. He'll do what must be done. You can depend on him.”

 “I hope so,” Mortimer said. “Heroes like that tend to get their friends killed.”

 As the door closed, leaving them alone in the command center, Clarke reached over to a tuning knob, turning the gain up until there was a low rumble of static erupting from the speakers, then said, “I think it's past time for us to have a conversation.”

 “You might be right about that,” she replied, taking a chair.

 “Right now, I'm in no position to refuse help,” he said, “but I'm sure that I could find someone else to take with me on the assault.”

 Eyes narrowing, she replied, “Nineteen, and already you think you can take on the universe by yourself. I'm trying to remember that far back.”

 Sitting opposite her, he folded his hands together and said, “Oh, I'm living in a state of perpetual fear, and I've got a nervous breakdown scheduled for when I finally get back to the ship. This isn't the first time that I've been stranded alone in a strange, hostile environment, and at least this time I've got the training to know at least vaguely what I'm doing.”

 “If it helps, you're doing fine.”

 “Thank you,” he replied with a curt nod. “Now, which is it? Corporal or Sub-Lieutenant?”

 “I'll leave that to you,” she said. “I was born on Earth, just as I said, but at fourteen my parents managed to escape. We were on Thalassa, some money changed hands, and we managed to get onto a transport heading for Titan.” She paused, eyes closed, and said, “United Nations Intelligence got to them before we touched down. I had forged papers, was claiming to be the foster daughter of the ship's captain, and they didn't think to check for me. My death had been arranged before. Part of the cover story.”

 “Captured?”

 “Dead. Slow poison. Enough to make them suffer. My father was a weapons researcher, and he was hoping to defect to the Confederation with some of his designs.” Taking a deep breath, she continued, “When I made it to Titan, I lived with the captain's family for a while, fostered for real that time, and as soon as I was old enough, volunteered for the Fleet. That was nine years ago.”

 “You never made it,” he replied. “Intelligence intercepted your application.” With another nod, he continued, “Something not dissimilar happened to me.”

 “Two years of training, during which I was quietly commissioned, and I was sent back to Earth with orders to build up a profile over a few years, then join the United Nations Fleet. In the event of another war, I was to either gather intelligence or undertake acts of sabotage. Depending on the circumstances. I presume there are others like me.”

 “And probably counterparts in the Triplanetary Fleet,” he replied. “Major Pastell?”

 “Getting assigned to his security division was something of a coup. That got me some attention back home, and I was requested to develop a relationship with him, as close as I could manage, in the hope of either gathering intelligence or turning him. Our profile team determined that there was a chance that we could find a way in, that he might choose to defect. The propaganda coup would make it worthwhile, to say nothing of the information he could provide.”

 “When was that?”

 “Three years ago, as I said. And since then, well...”

 “You're in too deep.”

 “What can I say? He's a surprisingly charismatic man when you get to know him, and he's got a real heart down there.”

 “I watched him kill three people in cold blood.”

 “All of them assassins working for Colonel Cruz, all of whom had plenty of blood on their hands. You don't find that many innocent people on a dreadnought.” Looking out of the window, she added, “I'm not blind to what he has done. I just think that he's trying to find a way to redeem himself, and I'm hoping to be a part of it.”

 “Or he's found out who you really are, and he's keeping you close in a bid to feed your false information,” Clarke replied. “That must have occurred to you.”

 “Of course it has,” she snapped.

 “And if you received orders to kill him?”

 “I honestly don't know,” she replied. “I honestly don't know.”

 “That's about the only answer I would have trusted.” With a sigh, he said, “I'm not qualified to judge on this, nor do I have any ability to prove or disprove your claims. Without a secure communications link to Alamo, there simply isn't very much I can do. Other than offer you my sympathy.” He paused, then said, “You realize that there is a good chance my question could become very real? That our work down here on the planet will hopefully lead to the destruction of Waldheim and everyone on board.”

 “That's different,” she said. “If it's a question of sacrificing a life to save hundreds, maybe thousands of others, I can do that. But a cold-blood assassination, that I'm less sure of.”

 Frowning, Clarke asked, “Pastell. With Cruz in charge, what do you think will happen to him?”

 “He's a born survivor,” she replied. “He'll find some way to make it through. Probably by paying lip service to her insanity for as long as he can. I know he was pushing heavily for some sort of deal with Captain Marshall on Alamo.” With a pause, she asked, “Either that, or he's already dead. That's about as likely.”

 “And you?” Clarke asked.

 “What do you mean?”

 “Well, Sub-Lieutenant, it strikes me that you've got a chance to come home to the Fleet. Assuming your story checks out, and there are at least two people on Alamo in a position to verify it, then I'm sure that Captain Marshall will want you to return to duty. You get to go home.”

 She stood up, walked across to the window, and looked out at the forest beyond, finally replying, “Home is Fairbanks. Four million light-years from here. You think you can give me that? I spent most of my life there. Hell, I moved back as soon as I could. I was thirteen when I left. Nobody was going to recognize me, especially not with the work they did to my face. Intelligence gave me a damn good cover story.”

 “And they did it because there would come a time when you were needed,” Clarke said. “I guess this is that day. It might not be fair, it might be a bastard, and you might have to write off everything you thought you knew and wanted, but you're going to have to face it.”

 “How does a kid like you get this old?”

 “I had to make the same choice myself,” he replied. “Last year. Which is why I'm in this crazy mess now, rather than worrying about my sophomore exams. There's a lesson buried in there somewhere, but I'm damned if I know what it is.”

 “Something about staying out of things that don't concern you,” she said. “I've said I'll fight, and I'll fight. And we'll just have to see where the dice fall.”

 Shaking his head, Clarke moved over behind her, and said, “That isn't good enough. I need to know that you'll pull the trigger if it has to be. And that if I don't make it through, that you'll see the mission is completed.” Cracking a smile, he added, “Assuming, of course, that this isn't some sort of trick, and you've just managed to come up with a way to fool a stupid kid who isn't old enough to know better.”

 “Trust me, if I'd wanted a cover story, I'd have come up with something a damn sight more plausible than this.” She looked up at the sky, and said, “We're just setting them up, aren't we. One more distraction for Colonel Cruz, a way to draw Waldheim into the fire.”

 “I wouldn't put it that way to the rebels, but that's the general idea.”

 “A lot of them are going to die.”

 “And they'll free their planet doing it. They might die today, but they'll live forever. Or something like that. I vaguely remember words to that effect on the recruitment poster.”

 She turned to him, then asked, “What's your first name?”

 With a smile, he replied, “John.”

 “Will you do me a favor, John?”

 “Sure.”

 “Don't die. Because I'm honestly not sure whether or not I can go through with this without a gun at my back. Does that sound crazy?”

 “I'm about to launch my second suicide mission of the week, and my team consists of myself, a double- or triple-agent, and a man who gets his kicks by making big explosions, with ambitions of dying gloriously in the name of his dead brother. Crazy's the word of the day. Maybe the year.”

Chapter 15

 Marshall looked up as the cell door cracked open, Pastell walking inside with a brutal-faced guard standing beside him, both with pistols in their hands, the barrels pointed at him.

 “I don't even rate a firing squad?” Marshall asked.

 “Not today, Captain,” Pastell replied, abruptly turning to the guard and shooting him in the chest, sending the surprised figure collapsing to the ground. Marshall leaped to his feet, looking at the dying man on the floor, then up to Pastell, eyes wide. “Come with me, Captain, if you want to live.”

 Without waiting to see if Marshall was following, Pastell turned back to the corridor, racing away from the cell, boots ringing against the deck as alarms wailed, alerts of a prisoner on the loose. Wasting no time, Marshall chased after him, muscles sore from his long confinement, glancing to the side at the cells containing his shipmates.

 “Wait,” he said. “Can we...”

 “No time,” Pastell replied. “They're safe. You're the only one Cruz was going to kill. Aside from me, that is.” Reaching across to a maintenance hatch, he entered an access code, cursing as a red light flashed on. “They've moved quickly. Already locked out my passwords.” Passing him the pistol, he added, “Cover me.”

 For a brief moment, Marshall was tempted to end Pastell's life right there, but a pair of advancing guards soon changed his mind, racing down the corridor towards them. Marshall fired a quick shot, sending the leader ducking for cover, and bullets flew through the air as Pastell worked at the controls, struggling to release the mechanism. Finally, a green light flashed on, and the panel slid open.

 “Move!” Pastell ordered, hurling himself through the hatch. Marshall dived after him, flailing for handholds that weren't there. Behind him, the hatch slammed shut, leaving them in darkness, falling down the tunnel. Gradually, their weight declined, and Marshall belatedly realized the plan. If this passageway went all the way to the core of the ship, they'd be in zero-gravity at the end.

 As they entered no-weight, they passed into a brief halo of lights, and Pastell snatched at a handhold, reaching to grab Marshall as he drifted past, slamming the two of them into the wall with sufficient force to knock the wind from both of them. Marshall recovered first, kicking clear of his erstwhile jailer and raising the pistol to cover him.

 “Are we safe?” 

 Pastell nodded, and said, “For the moment, but we're going to have to keep moving. About sixty seconds ago, nine decks had a decompression alert, and blast doors will be slamming shut all over the ship. That should buy us enough time to get lost.” Gesturing at the pistol, he added, “Unless, of course, you intend to kill me.”

 “That's a realistic possibility.”

 “Trust me, you'd have to get in line. I believe Colonel Cruz has decided to move herself to the head of the queue. I was to be executed along with yourself, by the man I just killed. It was meant to look like a failed escape attempt.” A thin smile danced across his face, and he added, “I simply decided to make sure that it was successful. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

 “Which side are you on?”

 “My own, naturally,” Pastell said. “I have no wish to die, Captain, and if I can find a way to bring this insanity to an end, I will. There are eight hundred people on this ship, and as far as I can tell, Colonel Cruz has decided that they are all pawns to be thrown away for her power games. I think they are somewhat more than that.” Leaning forward, he added, “More than that. Did you know that there are more than two hundred people from the surface up here? Human shields, to try and prevent your Lieutenant Salazar from launching an attack.”

 Shaking his head, Marshall replied, “It won't work. He'll never sleep again, but if he must, he'll make the same decision I would. That trading two hundred lives for a hundred thousand, as horrible as it seems, is a deal he can live with. And as for your crew, forgive me if I don't weep too long for them. They chose their fate.”

 With a barking laugh, Pastell replied, “More than half of them are indents, Captain. We've already had some deserters down on the surface. I believe our new commanding officer is considering reviving the practice of decimation in order to keep them in line.”

 “How does someone like that get into a senior position?”

 “A combination of nepotism, ruthlessness and a certain brutal efficiency. That, and prior to our departure, she was restrained by her connections on the Security Council. For all of her talk, I think she's determined to set herself up as a tyrant out here.”

 “And she failed to ask you to join her?”

 “I didn't like the price,” Pastell said, his face darkening. “You've got no reason to trust me, Captain, but as far as I can see, you don't have a choice. I will allow you to retain the pistol if it makes you feel more comfortable. You're a better shot than I am anyway. As long as it is understood that we have to get on the move, and that we both have the same objective.”

 “Which is?”

 With a sigh, Pastell replied, “The destruction of this ship. We both know that Cruz won't rest until she's dead. I had hoped to inspire a mutiny, but with her control of the ship's security systems, I'm afraid it simply isn't an option. We're going to have to do this the hard way.” Gesturing at the tunnel, he added, “Of course, all of this is completely academic if we're captured. Shall we?”

 Nodding, Marshall gestured with the pistol, and Pastell led the way deeper into the tunnels, swinging around a handhold into a side passage with the air of a seasoned spacefarer, gently gaining speed by kicking off the walls, careful to avoid the power transfer cables strapped to the wall.

 “Did Alamo make it away clean?” he asked.

 Shaking his head, Pastell replied, “They sustained two hits from the mass drivers. They must have had some warning, though. They were already beginning to maneuver, and they managed to get away from the fighters. You should have seen the look on Cruz's face when Alamo ducked through the asteroids. I swear she was seconds away from attempting a pursuit, though that would have simply been a very quick way of committing suicide.” Turning back to Marshall, he added, “They're hanging free and waiting at the moment.”

 “That won't last long,” Marshall replied. “If I know Pavel, he's already working on something down on the surface.”

 Nodding, Pastell said, “Probably with Sub-Lieutenant Clarke.”

 “What?” Marshall said, reaching for Pastell with enough force to send them both spinning. “Clarke's dead! Back on Dante!”

 “No, he isn't. I've had the pleasure of several long conversations with that young man, though I doubt he enjoyed them as much as I did. My complements, by the way, on the quality of your junior officers. I wish I had a few people with that much drive and initiative under my command.” At the look in Marshall's eyes, he continued, “We already had a rescue shuttle in the air, trying to retrieve one of our pilots. There was a minimal window to retrieve Clarke, and we managed to snatch him just in time. General Estrada wanted to question him, and Colonel Cruz wanted to lynch him. Fortunately, I was able to take charge of his interrogation myself.”

 “Where is he?”

 “Down on the surface, with my mistress,” he replied with a smirk. “You see the extent to which I trust him, Captain? His escape was arranged at the first opportunity, though I fear it ruined what was left of my working relationship with Colonel Cruz. Despite a complete lack of evidence, she opted to blame me for his departure. I swear, that woman takes paranoia to new heights.”

 “She's right, though.”  

 “That has absolutely nothing to do with it.” Ducking through another passage, he added, “I'm hoping that he managed to make contact with one of the rebel factions on the surface. Up here, there wasn't much he could do, not without my direct assistance, and I'd rather hoped that your victories would convince Estrada to come to the table.” Gritting his teeth, he added, “I hadn't known about Salyut Station.”

 “Do you really expect me to believe that?”

 “In your place I would not, but it happens to be true. My mandate is for internal security only, and I was kept completely out of the loop regarding combat operations. Cruz managed to take charge of the planet. Frankly, I'd rather thought she'd overextend herself, and I'd have a chance to undermine and bring her down. We're operating on what amounts to my last resort at present.”

 “That's not particularly reassuring,” Marshall said. “Where are we going?”

 “Forward Sensors,” Pastell replied. “If Alamo is planning a surprise attack, I think it would be in everyone's best interests that they get as much time to prepare as possible. You already did enough damage to the aft array that resolution's terrible. If we can match that, then Cruz will be lurching blindly across the system. More than that, it'll ruin the targeting for the laser cannon.”

 “Surely they'll get repair teams on it.”

 “Naturally, but it'll take time, and it'll take them away from other areas. She's got more than a hundred of the crew down on the surface playing at being soldier. You did a real number on our ground forces at Dante, Captain, and we're going to reap the dividends of that now.”
 Pausing, Marshall asked, “You seem to be changing sides rather quickly, and writing off...”

 “We're talking about a hand-picked team of savage thugs led by the most degenerate field commander I have ever seen. Picked for their brutality and their willingness to ignore even the most rudimentary rules of war.” He closed his eyes, and continued, “They've already perpetuated at least one massacre on the surface that I know of, and that I helped with that will haunt me for the rest of my life.” Turning to Marshall, he continued, “I've always thought that Earth stood for something better than that. Maybe it was the War, but something changed, and not for the better. Things are bad back home, and getting worse by the year. It's not so bad out on the frontier, as long as you get the right commander. But that's the problem. Less and less oversight, more infighting.”

 “You could always defect.”

 “I was considering that,” he replied, and Marshall raised an eyebrow in response. “Don't look so shocked, Captain. I'm sure you've met traitors before.” With a deep sigh, he added, “I swore an oath that meant something to me once. It only stopped when I realized I was one of the few people taking it seriously.”

 “You've killed men in cold blood.”

 “Only when I knew they deserved it. And shooting someone in the back is a good way of avoiding getting killed yourself. Besides, Triplanetary Intelligence had pulled similar stunts in the past. It's a dirty game, Captain, and you get filthy when you roll around in the mud whether you like it or not. I haven't had the luxury of keeping myself clean.”

 Ducking into a side passage, he added, “We're almost there. One long stretch. There will be two guards, and I know that one of them is loyal to Cruz. We'll have to kill them both.” At Marshall's expression, he angrily added, “You'd lob a missile at them without thinking! What's the difference? Don't want the blood on your hands? Give me the pistol, and I'll do it.”

 “I'm a little less cold-blooded about it than you, and killing my shipmates...”

 “Fine, you want to surrender? I can call Cruz right now.”

 A scowl on his face, Marshall replied, “Let's get this over with. I still don't trust you.”

 “That's the smartest thing you've said yet.”

 The two of them ducked down the corridor, keeping to the sides, pushing free of the tangled cables that dropped from the ceiling. Evidently routine maintenance was confined to those parts of the ship that received regular inspections, visits from senior officers. Some of the equipment was decades old, long out of date, seemingly kept working by perspiration and hope.

 “The whole ship's like this, isn't it,” Marshall said.

 “A glass cannon,” Pastell confirmed. “Why do you think we stress fighter combat so heavily? I don't think Waldheim's had a proper refit since the War. Oh, we take her into dry dock for a while, make it look good, but that's all. If we spent a little more money on keeping the Fleet in proper condition and a little less on vanity projects of the Security Council, we might not be falling into second place economically right now.” Turning his head back to Marshall, he added, “Don't get smug. Wounded animals tend to fight back, and we've still got a more powerful fleet than you. Even if you won a Second Interplanetary War, we'd do enough damage to scar you forever.”

 “You're still proud of your people, aren't you.”

 “Wouldn't you be, in the same circumstances? That much will never change.” Gesturing at a final shaft, a ladder leading down to an access hatch, he added, “Through there. Then about thirty meters. We take the guards, then you cover me while I do horrible things to the sensor software. I shouldn't be more than a minute.”

 “You can do that much damage with software?”

 With a grim smile, Pastell said, “I've been running security on this ship for the better part of five years, Captain. Trust me, if I want something broken, it gets broken. Are you ready?”

 “I'm ready.”

 “Then let's go.”

 The two men descended down the ladder, gravity rising as they descended the shaft, the hatch opening automatically as they reached it. Dropping to the deck, Marshall raised his pistol at the two guards, firing a single shot to scatter them, triggering an alarm. A bullet flew through the air by his side, and he rolled to the deck, firing a second shot that caught one of the guards in the arm, his weapon falling out of his grip. The other guard managed a quick shot, but Marshall's third bullet found its mark, and the man crumpled to the wall, blood flowing from a wound in his shoulder.

 “Get started,” Marshall said, and Pastell raced to the controls, clutching a datapad in his hands, the connecting cable swinging back and forth. Moving to the wall, Marshall found a medical kit, and turned to the first guard, pulling out a bandage and carefully placing it into position, following it up with a sedative. Pastell barely looked up, only sparing a second to shake his head, before returning to his work.

 The other guard looked up in fear as Marshall approached, his face pale, blood continuing to stream down his shoulder from the gaping wound. As he pulled out a second bandage, the guard pulled away, desperation in his eyes.

 “Don't worry,” Marshall said. “I'm not here to finish you off, but if you don't let me give you something, you'll be dead before your medics can get here.”

 With a curt nod, the guard relaxed, and Marshall quickly injected a trio of drugs into his wrist, sedatives, painkillers and coagulants, before tugging free the remnants of his sleeve and placing a dressing in position.

 “They wouldn't have done the same for you,” Pastell said.

 “And that, Major, is the most important difference between us. How long?”

 “Forty seconds. Watch the corridor.”

 Footsteps echoed in their direction, shadows in the distance preparing to launch an attack. The alarm had evidently done its work, and was needed no more. Marshall raised his pistol, moving forward to take advantage of the dubious cover of a protruding cable junction, and waited for the enemy forces to make their move.

 He wasn't left waiting long, but he managed to take the first shot, momentarily causing the leading elements to hesitate, but fear of what was behind them override the fear of his weapon. A half-dozen figures charged towards him, unleashing a salvo of bullets that rang from the walls and the ceiling, desperate fire not intended to kill, but to pin.

 “Got it!” Pastell said, turning to the hatch. Marshall glanced back at him, a scowl on his face, as his supposed ally raced clear, leaving him alone to deal with the aftermath of the attack. A bullet passed close enough to his face that he felt the rushing air, and he prepared to spend his last round well before another siren sounded, blasts of high-pressure carbon dioxide slamming into his assailants, clouds of dry ice filling the air.

 Taking advantage of the distraction, Marshall raced for the hatch, a hand swinging down to help him up, and Pastell pulled him to safety. As the two of them scaled the ladder, returning to the safety of zero-gravity, Marshall glanced back at the corridor, the hatch slamming shut behind them.

 “I thought you'd left me behind,” he replied, panting.

 “You're about the only friend I've got left on this ship,” Pastell replied. “I'm not going to give you up so easily. Besides, I prefer it when they have more than one person to shoot at.”

Chapter 16

 The trio followed the curve of the river, dusk gradually seeping in as the forest began to settle into slumber for the night. The well-worn path showed frequent signs of human occupancy, but the uniforms the assault team had borrowed more than sufficed to camouflage their activities. One of the senior members of the garrison had gone so far as to report that he had dispatched a patrol along the riverbank, preferring treachery to being left alone with the dangerous Avdonin.

 Clarke had allowed the local man to take point, on the theory that he knew the environment far better than they, and had taken up the rear spot, watching Mortimer like a hawk. He still didn't truly trust her, thought that they might be walking right into a trap, but none of the rebels had anything like her combat training. If she was telling the truth, then he'd made the only choice he could. Even if she wasn't, he felt a little better keeping her close, in the event she decided to try some sort of treachery.

 Avdonin worried him far more than Mortimer. The thin, toothy smile hadn't left his face, and he held his knife in his hand in preference to his rifle, the blade catching the occasional gleam of moonlight. Even at this distance, he could make out the notches carved into it, each a measure of his constant search for revenge. Three of them might be moving into the attack, but something told him that only two of them would be heading back. Assuming any of them did.

 According to the borrowed datapad, they were only half a mile from the base, close enough that they'd be coming into the search pattern of the overhead drones. He risked a glance up, spotting the dots of light dancing in the air on their programmed flight paths, calculated to minimize gaps. There was little they could do to stop them, not until they had completed their mission, but they could hope for a distraction so that the operators would fail to notice anything strange.

 Glancing into the distance, he could make out a series of strange shapes on the hills above, twisted pylons reaching into the sky, dominating the landscape, the site of the archaeological mine that the slave workers were excavating. The few artificial sounds he could hear came from that direction, diggers and drills savaging the landscape in a bid to wrest free the ancient secrets within.

 Without warning, they turned from the path, pushing into the forest, Avdonin gesturing ahead as had been arranged hours ago. Anyone looking from above would hopefully think that he'd spotted something in the undergrowth, was leading his patrol in after some imagined prey. Sure enough, the drones continued on their original courses, none of them diving in to investigate. They were safe, at least for the moment.

 A low hum cut into the silence, the sound of the perimeter fence, twin beams of light sweeping between relay sections. One break in the beam would set off the alarm, but here again, Avdonin had come up with a plan, and the trio started to hunt around, looking at the trees close to the perimeter, trying to find one tall enough without exposing themselves to the patrolling guards.

 “Down,” Mortimer hissed, and the three of them carefully ducked into the undergrowth as a pair of men walked by, their muttered conversation a litany of complaints about the quality of the local food. Both wore technician's uniform, neither paying any attention to their surroundings. On paper, this installation might be well defended, but in reality, there were enough weak points to sneak in a platoon. 

 “This one,” Avdonin said, gesturing at a tree that was almost a hundred feet high, branches sweeping out on all sides. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin vibrosaw, carefully carving chunks out of the base of the tree, sending a shower of leaves and debris dropping all around. While he worked, Mortimer and Clarke moved into position, ready to make their move when the opportunity arose.

 The low buzz of the vibrosaw fought with the hum of the fence, and at any second, Clarke knew that one of the guards might notice the noise, turn to investigate, and bring their stealth run to an end before it could truly begin. Their uniforms might pass a visual inspection, but they'd had no opportunity to procure forged identification. Even the most cursory check would reveal their intentions, especially given the backpack of explosives still slung over Avdonin's shoulder.

 “Ten seconds,” Avdonin said, completing his work. He paused, looked up at the fence, nodded, then returned to the base, making a trio of quick cuts that sent the tree falling, diving right at the perimeter, the branches sweeping around as, with an angry crack, it toppled into the barrier.

 Sirens echoed through the forest as the tree broke the beam, searchlights flashing into view as guards raced to investigate. It would take time for them to work out what had happened, and Clarke and the others made full use of it, moving in as though part of the usual patrol, joining the gathering troops as they struggled to reestablish the perimeter fence, trying to work out what could have happened.

 Slipping through the throng was easier than it should have been, and the trio quickly made their way into the heart of the compound, passing between the barrack blocks where the slave workers looked on, making for the drone control center. The plans they'd been able to examine were rudimentary sketches, guesswork at best, but they seemed to be holding for the good as they saw their goal, a cluster of antenna reaching into the sky.

 “Set the charges,” Clarke said. “We want a nice big explosion. I'll see if I can hack into the drones, crash the damn things into the ground. Ronnie, keep watch.”

 “On it,” Mortimer said, slipping into the shadows, while Avdonin, grin spreading across his face, reached into his backpack for the explosive charges he'd carried so lovingly from the meteorological station. Clarke knelt down behind an access terminal, hunched over as though completing a routine inspection, and pulled out his datapad. If he had the hacking software he was used to, this would have been child's play. As it was, he had to be sneakier.

 Interrupting the communications feed wouldn't be easy, but he didn't have to do anything other than realign the dish, a simple series of commands. Turning it towards Alamo, he tapped a control to link the datapad's own transmitter into the network, meshing its signal with the usual carrier frequency. Lieutenant Harper could do the rest by remote, though the time lag was going to be the greatest problem. 

 “What are you doing down there?” a harsh voice said, a figure looming down at him. “There's a perimeter alert! This crap can wait. Go and report in.” He paused, then asked, “What's your name, anyway? I don't recognize you.”

 “Private Smith, sir,” Clarke replied.

 “Don't call me sir, you insignificant little moron! I work for a living!” The man's eyes fixed on him, a malevolent sneer emerging, and he added, “Show me your identification. I'm going to be having a nice long conversation with your squad leader, maggot, and you're going to wish you'd never left the farm!”

 “Trust me,” Clarke said, rising to his feet. “I already do.” Reaching into his pocket, he felt the handle of his obsidian knife, designed by Triplanetary Intelligence to avoid easy detection, and swung it free of his jacket, slicing into the uniform of the guard, an inch away from biting into skin. His opponent reacted quickly, kicking down into Clarke's groin, the young man barely diving out of the way in time. As the guard reached for his pistol, he hurled his knife at the figure, the hilt bouncing off the man's chest. Tensing for his last breath, he heard the crack of a bullet, and looked up to see his attacker dropping to the ground, a patch of blood spilling out from his chest.

 “Didn't anyone ever tell you not to bring a knife to a gunfight?” Mortimer asked.

 “I thought this was a covert operation, not the OK Corral,” he replied. “Thanks, though.”

 “You're welcome. How long?”

 Looking down at the datapad, Clarke replied, “Harper's made contact. It shouldn't take long.” Reaching for the dead man's pistol, he looked around, the sirens continuing their endless drone. The door opened up, the technician-operators finally noticing what was taking place outside, and the two of them fired at the same time, the bullets slamming into the unfortunate first man to emerge, sending his body collapsing into the arms of his retreating comrade.

 “That's done it,” Mortimer said, looking around. “They'll have the perimeter secured in a minute. We've got to pull out, or they'll catch us.”

 “Thirty seconds,” Clarke replied. “Lieutenant, hurry up!”

 Avdonin walked calmly around the perimeter, trailing a fuse, slamming explosives into position as he went, before replying, “Get out of here. I'll cover you.”

 “Not without you.”

 Shaking his head, he raised his gun towards Clarke and Mortimer, and said, “Your job takes you back to the weather station. Mine has me stay here. Now get moving, damn it, this isn't a conversation!”

 With one last glance at the datapad, Clarke sprinted for the perimeter, boots digging into the dirt as he raced for safety, Mortimer already moving ahead of him. Overhead, the drones collapsed to the ground, one after another, Harper's hacking software doing its work as their guidance systems faltered. Behind him, the last crashed into a guard tower, ripping a hole in the roof and exploding on impact, a creative touch that brought a smile to Clarke's face.

 It lasted for less than a second before the bullets began to fly, raining down all around him, as the garrison finally woke up to the realization that they were under attack. There was no point making a last stand, even raising his pistol. Their only safety lay in flight, and he waited for the roar behind him that would give the guards something more important to worry about.

 Avdonin had promised them a large explosion. He delivered.

 Heat burned the back of Clarke's neck as he continued charging towards the perimeter, a column of smoke and flame ripping into the sky, the force of the explosion almost enough to knock him off his feet. Fire jumped to nearby tents and barracks, and the tone of the siren changed, alerting the guards to the pumps. The pursuit force thinned out as the guard commanders opted to save the base rather than seek vengeance, only half a dozen troopers remaining on their tail, their bullets still slamming into the ground all around them.

 The laser fence was still out, the brute-force trick having worked better than they could have hoped for, and they passed through the barrier without notice, pushing deeper into the trees. Without the drones orbiting overhead, the bulk of the enemy surveillance had been knocked out, and judging from the shouted orders and panicked cries, the fire was only growing behind them, roaring out of control. He could barely see Mortimer over to the left, the two of them separating in a bid to split their opposition, an idea that seemed to have worked to her advantage. As far as Clarke could tell, he still had five figures following him, crunching their way through the forest.

 Back home, he'd only seen this sort of environment in old movies, the domed parks a poor reconstruction of the natural world. He wasn't used to the terrain, to the dense vegetation, to the thousand hazards lurking underfoot, ready to send him flying. It was almost surprising that he'd made as much progress as he had, when an outstretched root caught him in the ankle, sending him tumbling down the side of a bank, rolling into a burbling brook.

 The cold water chilled him to the bone, and he turned to see a pair of troopers advancing towards him, sensing an easy kill. Fumbling for his pistol, he feigned unconsciousness as they drew closer, finally drawing his sidearm, squeezing the trigger twice in quick succession, both shots on target, sending bodies rolling down after him. A sickening crack from the nearest as the man hit the water suggested that he'd knocked him out of the battle, and his comrade failed to rise from the rocky outcrop he had found, now stained with his blood.

 That still left three, but he'd blundered into a natural hiding place, and he sprinted along the stream, keeping down low, the shouts of his remaining pursuers ringing in his ears. He looked down at his pistol, the clip counter warning him that he only had four shots left. Reaching into his pocket, he cursed as his hand slipped through the material. Something must have cut it, and his two spare clips were somewhere in the darkness. He risked a quick glance back, but it was obviously hopeless, and instead, he pushed on.

 The stream curved into a low cavern, and he gratefully stepped inside, checking to make sure there was no other way in before turning with his back to the wall, sliding down to sit on a muddy rock. The half-formed idea of waiting until the darkness had settled in flooded into his mind, waiting for the pursuers to abandon their search.

 A new chorus of cries ended those hopes. Presumably they'd found the bodies of their friends upstream, and their footsteps drew closer, seeking the hiding place that was likely to become his tomb. Aside from the cover of the darkness, there was nowhere to hide, and while he might take one of them down with him, he didn't have anywhere to run. Raising his pistol to the entrance, he sat back and calmly waited for the inevitable.

 Three shots rang out in the night, and he peered out of the cave into the distance, watching the last of the soldiers collapse into the water. With nothing to lose, he scrambled out of the cave, pistol in hand, and walked over to see Mortimer standing in the stream, turning to face him as he approached.

 “Don't shoot,” he said. “I'm on your side.”

 “Then you've finally decided to trust me?”

 “I can think of three good reasons. Four, counting that guy back at the base.” Thick smoke was rising higher into the sky, and even this far out, they could hear the shouts and cries of the firefighters. “You think we might have gone a little far?”

 “I think they're going to have quite a night,” she replied. “We've set them up nicely for some fun in the morning. Speaking of which, do you think we should be getting out of here before they send someone else after us?” 

 “Not a bad idea. Which way?”

 With a sigh, she replied, “You really aren't that good at this, are you. Over that little crypt of yours, then follow the stream for a few miles until it links back up with the river. Then we can get some rest. It's going to be a big day tomorrow.”

Chapter 17

 Salazar stepped into his cabin, tossed his jacket onto a vacant chair, and collapsed onto the bed, lying back with a sigh as he sank into the soft mattress. The bathroom door opened, and Harper stepped inside, looking down at him with a smile on her face.

 “Good meeting?” she asked.

 “We just went around in circles for three hours,” he replied. “The upshot is that neither I, Max or Kat have any concrete ideas of exactly how we're going to beat Waldheim.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “And given that we're going into action in nine hours, that's not a good thing.”

 “You'll think of something,” she replied. “Did you see the footage from the surface? We picked up that explosion from orbit. Frank's getting the troops prepared for the attack right now.”
 “I'm glad one of us had a good day,” he said, rubbing his hand on his forehead. “Tell me again how I ended up running this madhouse?”

 “You turned down Logan's offer to transfer to Triplanetary Intelligence.” Sitting next to him, she continued, “Just think, right now the two of us could be fighting for our lives against raider gangs at Proxima Centauri, or sitting in some back office on Triton evaluating fleet movements.” 

 “Suddenly, life doesn't seem so bad,” Salazar replied. “Though I'm beginning to think that it's going to come to an abrupt end in the near future.” Fumbling for a datapad, he continued, “Santiago's managed to get most of the pieces put back together, but if we get a missile hit in the wrong place, we're in real trouble. As it stands, we're going into an old-fashioned toe-to-toe battle.”

 “You're a better commander than Cruz, and we've got a better crew. That has to count for something, surely.”

 “It helps, but they've got superior firepower, and unless we can come up with something to even the odds a little, we're going to get shot to pieces.” He paused, then added, “I suppose we could evade, veer off, but that doesn't solve the problem. It only postpones it, and probably not for long. I'm waiting for Cruz to start threatening to execute her hostages if we don't surrender. I'm almost surprised she hasn't tried that already.”

 “Would you?”

 He paused, shook his head, and replied, “No. I couldn't. And she knows it. It's psychological warfare, ripping the guts out of your opponent before a battle. Bad enough that I'm going to have to take shots at a ship full of civilians as it is. We've got one piece of good news, though. They're having systems malfunctions over there. Forward sensor array, by the looks of it.” With a shrug, he added, “They'll have time to fix it, but it should hold them back from something else. Maybe something that turns out to be critical.”

 Standing up, Harper walked over to the wall monitor, tapping a control to bring up a tactical display, and said, “There must be something here, somewhere. Some trick we can use.”

 “They'll be ready for us to try an atmospheric dive. We've tried that once too often, and I'm not sure the ship could take it in our current state. There aren't any close moons to use for cover, and no debris fields in orbit. If we tried the decoy trick again, they'll just ignore it. We don't have enough fighters to provide an effective screen.” With a deep sigh, he added, “They'll follow the book. Fighter launch to pull away our screen, take some shots at us, then a full-scale attack with lasers and missiles.”

 “That's what they're expecting,” Harper replied. “That won't necessarily be so.”

 “Maybe, but I still get the idea that we're all going to end up piling into the escape pods in a little over nine hours from now. We've still...” He paused, an idea forming in his mind, then sat bolt upright with a smile on his face. “That's it!”

 “What?”

 Fumbling for a control, he said, “Salazar to Francis. Meet me in Engineering, on the double! Scott, you as well. Move it!” Leaping from the bed, he raced to the door, ignoring his jacket, Harper barely able to keep up with him as he sprinted for the elevator. He pulled out his datapad, punching commands into the display, the smile spreading further across his face.

 “Well?” Harper asked.

 “In a minute,” he replied, flicking through data on Alamo's outer hull, skimming over the damage reports Santiago and her teams had compiled. They'd sustained a lot of damage, micro-fractures all along one side of the ship. Enough scarring to cover what he wanted to do. The doors slid open, and he stepped into the corridor, almost walking into the waiting Francis.

 “What's happening?” he asked. “Kris?”

 “Don't ask me,” she replied. “He isn't talking at the moment.”

 Santiago walked out of Engineering, wiping her hands on her jacket, and asked, “What's the story?”

 “Try this. Chief, can you set explosive charges between the two hulls, shaped to rip off parts of our skin without causing any actual breaches?”

 Her eyes widened, and she replied, “You feeling alright?”

 “Can you?”

 “Probably. Why would we want to?”

 Waving his datapad into the air, Salazar pulled up a simulation of the attack to come, and narrated, “They'll launch their fighters on a targeted strike, expecting to draw us away. Say we don't let that happen, but make it look as though they've managed to get through our screen.”

 Nodding, Francis replied, “That won't be easy. You'll need some very fine work with the point-defense guns and retaliatory shots to make it look convincing.” Turning to Salazar, he continued, “The hull breaches are designed to help the story, right? Make it look as though they've really done some damage to us.”

 “By that point we'll be in close orbit. We let our escape pods go, and launch our shuttle assault. It'll look as if we're abandoning ship after serious damage. Cruz is arrogant enough to think that she'll have beaten us, won the battle, and left Alamo as a prize.” Looking at the three officers, he continued, “Meaning that she won't finish off the ship. She'll send a crew over instead, close the range...”

 “And then we let fly with everything we've got,” Harper said. “Laser, missiles, fighters. We throw everything at them in one coordinated time-on-target strike, and hope that we do enough damage to their combat systems to finish them off.” She paused, then added, “And if we move quickly, they won't see what we're doing. That damage to their forward sensors will reduce their resolution enough that the ship won't be more than a blur. They'd never spot work crews.”

 “Even if they did,” Scott added, “They'd probably just think that we were making repairs.”

 “Are you out of your mind?” Santiago replied. “You want me to deliberately lay charges on the hull, rip free armor plating? You realize that if I make one mistake, we could lose half a dozen decks?” She paused, then said, “I could rig feeds from the auxiliary oxygen reservoir. Make it look as though we're venting air.”

 “Won't that cause problems for the helm?”

 “Not if I route the controls up to the bridge. It'll be a second set of thrusters, at least for a while.” She paused, then added, “I can switch over to the auxiliary reactor, cut power to non-critical portions of the ship, make it look superficially as though we're experiencing a series of brownouts. I take it you don't want to use the fighters until the last second?”

 “No.”
 “Then we can have them ready and resting in the elevator airlocks, prepared for immediate launch. The laser can be charged as well, but there's no way of hiding that.” She paused, then added, “Though I could add some surface debris to the cannon. Make it look as though it has been damaged.” Turning to Salazar, she continued, “If I was commanding Waldheim, I'd blow this ship right to hell if I thought I could get away with it.”

 “You would, and so would I, but she won't,” Salazar said. “The idea of taking Alamo back home under a prize crew will be too tempting for her to pass up. That, or adding a second ship to her fleet. Remember that she's working on two ambitions. Either to build an empire of her own out here, or to head home in triumph and gain political strength back home. A triumph like that would get her a seat on the Security Council.”

 “And if you're wrong?”

 “Then she'll have a chance to blow us to pieces, but I know I'm right.”

 Nodding, Harper said, “We won't do enough damage to finish the fight on the first pass, even if we can catch them by surprise. And there are still the fighters to worry about.”

 Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “If we get the timing right, alter our course to limit our time in the battlespace, then it will all be over in a matter of minutes. We'll have knocked out the forces on the ground and in orbit with a single strike.” Looking around, he added, “If anyone has any other suggestions, any other plans, I'll listen.”

 After a silent minute, Francis replied, “Sorry, sir. I guess we don't all have your particular level of crazy.” Looking at Santiago, he added, “Maybe we can throw a few more touches into the fight. What about another broadside from the point-defense cannons to knock out their assault shuttles?”

 “Keeping this power buildup hidden is going to be fun,” she said. “How much do you care about long-term damage?”

 “There's a spacefaring culture on the planet below that will be extremely grateful to us if we pull this off, Chief. As long as you think you can put the pieces back together again, I'll take the hits.”

 “Then I'll run the laser as hot as I dare, hide the extra power there. Unless they've got someone with telepathic powers, they'll just assume that we're planning a high-energy pulse, but I can use the same trick I did before to feed power into the other systems. Though it'll burn out half the relay links when we do. This had better be a pretty short fight, sir.”

 “We're not going to win a war of attrition, even against Colonel Cruz. We're going to have to smash them to pieces quickly, while we have the advantage. Kat, I want you to reconfigure the missiles for maximum speed. I know we'll lose accuracy that way, but we can't let them have any more time than absolutely necessary to shoot them down.”

 “Understood,” she replied. “I'll get Petrova to start work on the modifications right away. She might be a pain in the ass, but she's pretty good as a weapons tech.”

 “Sir,” Scott said, “There's something else. I've spoken to Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo and Ensign Rhodes, and...”

 “I thought we'd settled that earlier,” Harper said, glancing at Salazar.

 “We want to attempt a rescue mission, during the battle. Pull out Captain Marshall and the others. I've taken a look at the deck-plans of Waldheim, and there's a docking port only four decks down from the detention area. We already know that they've got a lot of troops on the surface.”

 “No.”

 “Sir...”

 “No, Kat. We're not going to take the risk.” He looked sadly at her, and said, “If there was a chance in a hundred of getting him out of there, I'd be flying the shuttle myself. There isn't. I can't spare the troops from surface operations, I certainly can't risk the shuttle with that much hell flying through the air, and I can't spare you from Tactical. With Lieutenant-Captain Caine out of action and Lieutenant Foster captured, you're the only one qualified to ride that console.”

 “There's a chance, sir...”

 Placing his hand on her shoulder, he said, “You've made your pitch, Kat. I can't authorize it. If Colonel Cruz surrenders, then I'll make the safety of our people the top priority, but until then, we've got to see the wider picture. If Captain Marshall was here, and I was captured on Waldheim, I would expect him to make the same decision. You understand?”

 “Yes, sir,” she said. “I didn't think you'd go for it. But I had to try.”

 “And if I was in your place, I'd have done exactly the same,” he said. “You'd better get moving. We've got a lot of work to get through, and we need to have the bulk of it completed before Waldheim finishes repairs on its sensors. Dismissed.” The officers in the corridor snapped to attention, all of them aside from Harper drifting off in different directions, proceeding to their stations. Harper looked at Salazar, a mournful smile on her face.

 “It hurts, doesn't it,” she said. “Having to write him off.”

 “He was my first commander. The man who saw something in me that everyone else had missed, and gave me a chance to stay in the Fleet. The man who commissioned me.” Looking up at her, he continued, “It hurts like hell, Kris. And when I spoke to Scott, I lied. I'd have taken odds of one in a million if I thought I could get him and the others home. Val, as well. I've known her for eight years. She saved my life on Thule.”

 “And you saved hers, as I recall.”

 Nodding, he said, “I'd go over to Waldheim on my own in a transfer pod to rescue them, but I can't afford the distractions! We're going to have a difficult enough time making this work as it is, without trying a long-shot rescue mission.” Clenching his fists, he added, “And I know what Cruz will do when she realizes what has happened. She'll take it out on them. Put a gun to Captain Marshall's head on the viewscreen and demand that I surrender.”

 “But you won't, will you.” It was a statement, not a question.

 “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I can't.” With a deep sigh, he added, “I feel as though everything's been thrown on my shoulders, Kris. If I make a single wrong move, we're all dead, and a hundred thousand people are doomed to slavery.”

 “And when you get it right – when, not if – you'll save all of those lives, all of those people, and we'll be able to leave this system in triumph?”

 “Then what?” he asked. “We're still millions of light-years from home, following a century-old trail of breadcrumbs. So far, the best lead we found killed two people and put the third in a coma.”

 “We'll think of something,” she replied. “We've got to.” A smile on her face, she said, “Game face on, Pavel. Time to rally the troops.” She walked towards the elevator. “You coming?”

 Shaking his head, he said, “I wish I had your faith, Kris.”

 “We've been in worse situations,” she replied with a shrug.

 “When?” he asked, as the door slammed shut.

Chapter 18

 “I don't get it,” Pastell said, watching the image of Alamo on the small repeater screen. “As far as I can tell, she's just cruising right for the planet. On this course, we'll intercept with a nine-minute window in seventy minutes. Waldheim will tear her to pieces.”

 Marshall looked across at his confederate, and replied, “Pavel Salazar is an experienced combat commander, and one of the most innovative tacticians in the Fleet. I'd bet my life that he's come up with something. This isn't what it appears to be.”

 “You realize that you are betting your life on that, I hope,” Pastell replied. “And mine, for that matter.” Frowning, he added, “Any idea what he might be doing?”

 “At the very least, he's forcing Cruz to dance to his tune. He wants Waldheim to engage Alamo at that place and time, and we're just going to have to trust that he has good reasons. What we need to do is come up with some way to help him.”

 Frowning, Pastell said, “We're not going to have much luck with additional sabotage. All critical stations are going to be guarded, and they'll have changed the security codes in all sections by now. My staff will be doing everything they can to cooperate. Or they'll already have been liquidated. We can't count on anyone helping us.”

 “We don't need them,” Marshall replied. “All we need to do is cause so much chaos to throw their preparations off. Give Cruz something else to worry about, and provide cover for whatever Salazar is planning.” He paused, then said, “And I think I know exactly what to do.”

 Rolling his eyes, Pastell said, “I'm not going to enjoy this, am I?”

 “An escape,” Marshall said. “Break out everyone in the detention area. My people, the civilians from the surface, any of the indents. Hell, anyone who wants to get off the ship before it gets destroyed.” 

 “I don't know where to begin with this plan, Captain. I honestly don't believe that you have the faintest idea what you are throwing yourself up against. We'll skip over the security measures. I operated them for years, designed more than a few of them, so I might be able to help you there. Instead, I think we'd better move to being outnumbered a hundred to one on the assault.”

 “As soon as we start freeing people, we can arm them.”

 His eyes widening, Pastell said, “You want to give weapons to untrained civilians and let them loose on the decks of a starship? We won't need Alamo to launch an attack. Friendly fire will shoot us to pieces first!”

 “All the better,” Marshall said. “Even fifty armed escapees fighting their way to the escape pods and shuttles will be enough of a distraction to throw Cruz off, and remove one of the few advantages she's got. Alamo will certainly help with the breakout, assuming we can get things moving. Besides, we can't just leave them all behind.”

 “This sense of morality is going to get us both killed,” Pastell said. “You do realize that, I hope.” With a sigh, he said, “I don't know which is crazier. That you are proposing this or that I'm seriously thinking about it. Better than even odds we get shot long before we've rescued anybody.”

 “Come on, Major,” Marshall said. “Between the two of us, I'm sure we can come up with something that will make this work. You said yourself that you designed a lot of the security apparatus. There must be a way of making that help us.”

 “Maybe,” he said, frowning. “We're not concerned with details like stealth, are we? This is strictly a rescue mission, with as much violence and fury as possible.” Looking up at Marshall, he added, “And you realize, of course, that the death toll is going to be high, on both sides. A lot of people are going to die here. If we wait for Alamo…,” he paused, shook his head, then said. “No. Cruz would space the decks before surrendering. It's just the sort of thing she would do. Those people are dead already, but we might be able to bring some of them back to life.”

 “That's about the only way we can think about this.”

 Taking a deep breath, he said, “Fine. You've convinced me. But when we both get killed, don't start complaining, and remember that I thought this was a bad idea.”

 “Noted for the record. I'll be sure and pass that on to Saint Peter.” Rubbing his hands together, he said, “Now, where do we start?”

 “So I get to come up with the battle plan as well?”

 “I'm the idea man in this operation,” Marshall replied with a smile. “It's your ship.”

 “That it is,” Pastell said, and a brief flash of regret passed over the man's face. “We'll have to hit this in three stages. First we're going to need to rescue your officers. That's four more people we can trust with weapons.”

 “Six, surely.”

 “You didn't know?” he replied. “Damn. Captain, I'm truly sorry.”

 “Who?”

 “Sub-Lieutenant Morris, Sub-Lieutenant Moraine. Cruz didn't think they'd be of any use as bargaining chips, and she apparently wanted to prove some sort of point. I couldn't get to them in time.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “And if you're thinking what I think you are thinking, you're going to have to get in line. There are a lot of people standing in front of you.”

 “We've got to get her,” he replied. “No matter what else happens, we've got to get her.”

 “Hey, wait a minute,” Pastell said, placing his hand on Marshall's shoulder. “If this is about you getting revenge, then I'm making my way to the nearest escape pod and you can work out a way to make this mission work by yourself. If we're talking about saving lives, then that's one thing, but if all of this is so that you can get her blood on your hands, you're on your own.”

 “Since when did you discover morality?” Marshall asked.

 “Just common sense,” he replied. “I don't mind dying for something important. I do mind dying for nothing. And what you are talking about certainly qualifies.” Kicking off down the corridor, he added, “We move fast and hard.”

 “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

 Cracking a smile, Pastell replied, “That's more like it. If we hit the bastards quickly, we might have a chance at catching them by surprise. That's about the only advantage we've got. Do what I do, and keep me covered all the way.” Drifting past a nondescript box, he tapped in a command sequence, and grinned as the cover snapped open. “Grab some sidearms. We'll need to hit the main armory sooner or later, but that can wait until we've got more warm bodies.”

 “On it,” Marshall said, snatching four pistols, stuffing them roughly into his belt, before sweeping the clips into his pocket. “As long as my trousers don't fall down, we're in business.”

 “Good. Now get one thing straight, Captain. No heroic rescues. If someone gets shot, we leave them behind. And that includes me. Got that?”

 “Better be careful, Major,” Marshall replied. “You're beginning to sound like a hero.”

 “I've been hanging around with fools like you for too long,” he said. “Must be contagious.”

 The two men drifted down the shaft, Pastell leading the way as he swung down a side corridor, careful to dodge a series of junction boxes jutting out from the wall. A strange, acrid smell filled the air, and Marshall stifled a cough as it hit his lungs, the sign of a life support system being overloaded beyond normal capacity. One more problem that Waldheim was facing, more evidence that it was nearer the end of its lifespan than the beginning.

 Pulling a datapad out of his pocket, Pastell tapped a series of buttons, and for a second, the lights winked out, replaced with a dull red glow that cast eerie shadows all around. He gestured at a security camera, now dark, and grinned.

 “I built some loopholes into the surveillance system within a few weeks of arriving,” he said. “You never know when you might have to sneak around somewhere.”

 “I guess not,” Marshall said, a smile on his face, the pistol smoothly sliding into his hand. They drifted past a monitor screen, showing an exterior pickup of the starfield, and for a moment he could imagine himself back on Alamo's bridge. That was where he belonged, preparing to lead his crew into desperate battle, not scuttling through maintenance shafts with a traitor for company.

 Gesturing at a shaft, Pastell said, “That drops down the best part of a quarter-mile, with full-gravity at the end of it. We'll come out just behind the security headquarters. I hope you aren't squeamish, because you're going to have to kill anyone who doesn't immediately surrender, no matter what. We can't afford to take any chances if we're going to pull this off. I should be able to override the locks, then we can run for home.” He glanced at his watch, then said, “If we time this right, we'll only be on the run for a quarter hour before we have to launch our next attack, and Cruz and her team won't even know where to start.”

 “A quarter-mile?”

 “Nothing for a Terran. I keep forgetting how weak you Colonials are,” he said with a smirk.

 “I was born on Earth. As I'm sure you remember from my personnel file. Lead on.”

 Pastell swung down into the ladder, gently pushing himself down, and after a few seconds, Marshall followed. It was easy at first, the gravity only building slowly, but after the first fifty meters he pulled himself in, towards the railings, and started to climb down. They passed lunar gravity without incident, but by the time they'd past Martian gravity, his arms were beginning to hurt from the exertion.

 Down they descended, hand over hand, and Marshall hoped that Pastell had a better escape route planned than this. Dropping down a quarter-mile was one thing, especially with gravity to help, but heading back up the same way would take far too long. Marshall peered down into the darkness beneath, sweat beginning to build up on his forehead, and inwardly promised to himself that he'd spend more time on the high-gravity treadmill when he got back to his ship.

 His shoulders were in agony by the time he dropped down to the deck, shaking his arms to try and bring some life back to them before drawing his pistol. Pastell gave him a smug smile, taking his own weapon in his hand, and held his hand over the release mechanism.

 “Once I hit this,” he said, “We've got no more than a hundred and twenty seconds. For the way out, just follow me. Remember. Two minutes, and if someone gets shot, leave them.”

 “Understood.”

 Pastell slammed his fist on the control, and the door slid open to a chorus of klaxons, droning from every speaker. He sprinted forward, Marshall just behind him, firing wildly into the security control room, only one of the guards recognizing his former boss. Rather than surrender, he joined into the melee, taking out two of his erstwhile companions with precisely aimed shots.

 “Burton, you're with Marshall,” he said, gesturing to the guard. “Formal introductions later.”

 “Right,” the man replied with a curt nod, moving in behind Marshall. Pastell stepped over the dying men on the floor, tapping a series of commands that released the locking mechanism, his fingers rattling across controls as he fought off the overrides coming down from the bridge. Wasting no time, Marshall stepped through the far door and into the maximum security section, firing a shot at a guard racing towards them. The bullet was a near miss, but enough to send the man diving to the deck, rolling into an empty room. He made his way to the nearest door, still locked down, and looked back at Pastell.

 “Come on, Major!”

 “Any second, but we won't have long.”

 Finally, the door slipped open, and Foster jumped through before it could close, Carpenter and Murphy right behind her. Marshall tossed them each a pistol, then turned back to the control room, waving a hand in the air to silence their objections. A series of shots rang out, the remainder of the guards belatedly rallying, and Burton returned fire with cool, calm efficiency, placing his shots on target at his former comrades, knocking one of them to the deck.

 “Let's go!” Pastell said, and the escaped prisoners raced towards him. Instead of heading back towards the shaft, he ran down the corridor, away from the way they had come, while Burton and Rhodes gave them covering fire for their retreat.

 “Where the hell are we going, sir?” Foster asked.

 “After him,” Marshall said, redoubling his pace to draw level with Pastell. After a few seconds, they stopped at another inspection panel, Pastell sliding it open and gesturing inside.

 “Tell me that isn't what I think it is,” Carpenter said, peering inside.

 “Access to Missile Tube Three,” Pastell said. “Runs most of the length of the ship.”

 “And if they fire?”

 “Then we're dead,” Pastell said, as a bullet flew past him. “You choose. But make it quick.” He climbed inside, and Marshall gestured for the rest to follow, shooting over Carpenter's shoulder at an advancing guard. The others piled into the tubes, Marshall waving Burton inside as he emptied the remains of his clip at their attackers, finally ducking into the hatch with the rest of them. Pastell was already climbing down the shaft, and he turned his head to count the prisoners, nodding in satisfaction.

 “Excellent,” he said. “Now for the last part of the plan.”

 “This had better be good,” Foster said. “They'll be on us in a minute.”

 “Oh, it is,” Pastell replied, reaching for a control lever. “Just let yourself go.”

 A thunderclap echoed from ahead, a warning siren sounding as Pastell opened the tube, allowing the air to be sucked out into space. Marshall let go from the floor just in time, the rush of escaping air dragging him away, hurling them along the mile-long shaft. He could make out the end of the tube, seemingly so close, before finally the hatch closed again, atmosphere flooding in to replace that expelled into space.

 Rubbing his elbow, Pastell asked, “Enjoy the ride?”

 “I'm not going to your theme park again,” Foster said. “And I'd like to discuss a refund.”

 “Take it up with Colonel Cruz,” he said, reaching for an overhead hatch. “Later. Right now, we've got to make for the main detention block if we're going to rescue the prisoners.”

 Shaking his head, Marshall replied, “No. Burton, can you take Foster, Carpenter and Murphy down there, have a try at liberating the prisoners?”

 “I guess so,” the man replied.

 With a sigh, Pastell asked, “What death-defying stunt have you in mind this time, Captain?”

 “They're going to need a distraction, and we're going to give them one,” Marshall said. “We're going to attack Auxiliary Control.”

 “You need to see someone about these delusions of grandeur,” Pastell replied. At Marshall's expression, he continued, “You're serious, aren't you.”

 “Deadly.”

 “Fine,” he said. “Burton, get these people where they're going. Come on, Captain. We don't want to be late to our own funerals. I'd start working on some last words if I was you.”

 “I had those figured out years ago,” Marshall replied with a grin, as they clambered into the corridor. “I've been saving them for a special occasion.”

 “Not today, I hope.”

 “Fingers crossed.”

Chapter 19

 Salazar sat in the command chair, feeling strangely uneasy. He glanced over his shoulder at the office door, expecting Captain Marshall to walk in at any moment and relieve him, throw him off the bridge for his presumption in assuming command. As much as he might want that to happen, for someone else to relieve him of the burden, he knew that the duty was his. Eight pairs of eyes were turning to him to give orders, to tell them what to do, and he couldn't let them down.

 This wasn't his first command. That had been a beaten-up Neander raider, during the Xandari War, a ship that had held only a couple of dozen crew, had such limited combat capability that he'd barely dared risk her in battle. Alamo was a completely different proposition, a capital ship of the Triplanetary Fleet, and he knew how much was at stake in this fight. He'd placed everything on the table, and could only hope that his gamble would pay off.

 “Three minutes to combat range,” Scott said, turning from her station. “All decks are cleared for action, all stations ready for battle. Missiles in the tubes, set for proximity detonation, and point-defense cannons are good to go.”

 “Laser capacitor at full overload,” Fitzroy added. “Surface charges prepared. Ready to detonate at your order. Damage control teams are deployed.”

 “Thank you, Spaceman,” Salazar replied. “Helm, prepare random walk. We've got to make this look good. You're going to have to make this perfect, Sub-Lieutenant. Those missiles have to come in exactly where we want them, or this won't work. Understood?”

 “I'm ready, sir,” Quesada said, hands gently resting on his controls.

 Turning to communications, Salazar said, “Bowman, please connect me through to the ship.”

 “Aye, sir,” the technician replied, throwing a control. “You're on, sir.”

 “This is Lieutenant Salazar,” he began, Harper turning to watch him. “In a few moments, we will be engaging a superior force in the skies of an alien world. We will be inviting missile impacts, and we already know that Alamo is going to take a hell of a pounding today. Nevertheless, it is my expectation that we will be victorious. More than a hundred thousand people are counting on us to succeed, and I have no intention of letting them down. Trust in your training, in your instincts, and we will make it through the fire. Good hunting.”

 “Not bad,” Francis said, standing by the elevator. “Short and sweet.”

 “Don't want to bore anyone to sleep just before a battle,” Salazar quipped.

 “Ninety seconds to firing range,” Scott said. “Enemy ship is closing at optimum approach vector. Right out of the textbook.” She smiled, and added, “Just as well we've got a copy.”

 “Electronic screens activated,” Harper added. “Firewall firm.”

 Glancing across at a status panel, Francis said, “McCormack is ready to launch on your order. Sir, if something goes wrong, should we...”

 “Negative,” Salazar interrupted. “We've got to have our fighters and their loadouts intact for our strike. If we don't overwhelm their defenses, we lose. They're to launch only at the last second before impact, and proceed to target regardless of the situation here.” Tapping the armrest of his chair, he added, “Alamo's a tough old bird. She's been through worse in the past. One way or another, we will complete this sweep.” Hitting a control, he said, “Bridge to Hangar Deck.”

 “Rhodes here, sir,” the trooper replied. “We're locked and loaded, ready to launch on your order. Any last minute orders?”

 Salazar paused, then said, “Frank, you and I both know what might happen here today. I suspect that sooner or later, another Triplanetary ship will come after us. That said, should Alamo fall, and you think you don't have a chance, I authorize you to surrender.”

 “Sorry, sir,” Rhodes replied. “I don't know that last word. We'll fight to the last round of ammunition, to the last man. That's what we do.”

 “As long as you know you have options. Good luck, Ensign.”

 “And to you, sir.”

 Salazar looked around the bridge, glancing at every station, trying to assure himself that everything was as ready as it could be. On the tactical display, he saw Waldheim approaching, the enemy ship with radiators deployed, swooping down towards Alamo like an angry bird-of-prey seeking a kill. He looked up at the countdown clock, the final seconds ticking away. It would all be over in less than a minute, for better or for worse.

 “In range!” Scott reported.

 “Dance, Quesada!” Salazar ordered, and the ship lurched to the left an instant before the pulse of energy that would have torn her in two raced past.

 “Missiles in the air, salvo of ten, bearing directly,” Scott reported. “Enemy fighters launching, moving to time-on-target strike.”

 “Prepare first retaliatory salvo,” Salazar said. “Hold until the last second. Harper...”

 “On it,” she replied, fingers snapping across her controls as she fought her way into the missile control systems. While she worked, the fighters launched their payloads, burning their engines hot to provide maximum boost. Twenty-two missiles were heading towards them in two packs, both drifting together to form an attack wedge that could smash Alamo to pieces.

 It felt strange beyond belief to be sitting and watching while the wave of devastation swept their way, but there was nothing any of them could do for the next thirty seconds except watch and wait. Scott played with her console, fine-tuning the last second intercept, and Harper grinned with satisfaction as she knocked two of the warheads out of the air, but all Salazar could do was wait, and put his trust in Alamo's defensive systems.

 They were going to take hits. That much was certain, was implicit in the battle plan. They had to survive them, pass through and out the other side, and have enough strength left to smash the enemy ship. He looked across at the status panel, a cluster of amber lights inherited from the previous battle, and at the worried face of Fitzroy.

 “Fifteen seconds,” Scott said. “Launch in seven, going for fratricide.”

 “Got another one!” Harper added. “They're tightening their defenses, though. This is going to get tougher.”

 “Hold it together, people,” Salazar said, eyes fixed on the trajectory tracks. He tried to cast his mind over to the enemy ship, attempting to place himself in the position of Colonel Cruz. She'd be watching the attack with different eyes, believing that all her dreams of glory were about to come true. If the plan was to work, he had to foster that overconfidence, build on it.

 “Missile launch!” Scott said, tapping a control to fire the salvo she had been saving, eight missiles racing away. Alamo's modifications were going to reap their benefits today, the pounding of the point-defense cannons slamming into the incoming warheads. New tracks flashed onto the screen, and Salazar leaned forward, watching as the first phase of the battle came to its fiery conclusion. Fitzroy, a sad frown on his face, threw a series of switches to arm the bombs on the hull, ready to rip through the protective outer skin of the ship.

 “Three seconds!” Scott said, as the missiles dived towards each other, ready to meet up bare meters from the hull. From Waldheim, it would appear as though Alamo had sustained serious damage from a wave of impacts and shrapnel. If this went wrong, all of that damage would be far too real.

 “Impact!” Scott yelled, and Alamo shook and rocked, an angry whine filling the air as the hull buckled under the strain of impacts. The sensor display was a blurred mess, smothered with fragments of molten metal, Ballard struggling to clear the screen, fighting to save her instruments. Red lights bathed the bridge from the damage control console, and Fitzroy looked across with misery in his eyes. 

 “Four real hits, sir. It's bad. All of our bombs went off, though, just as expected.”
 “Get me a damage report,” Salazar said.

 “We're out of control, sir,” Quesada replied. “I've lost all but three thrusters. I'm trying to use the oxygen jets to get us into some sort of trim, but...”

 “Let her roll, Sub-Lieutenant. It'll make it look more real.”

 “Right now,” Fitzroy said, “it looks pretty damned real from where I'm sitting.”

 “Commence Phase Two,” Salazar said. “Launch fighters, launch shuttles, jettison escape pods.”

 “Swarm in progress,” Francis replied. “Fighters away, preparing for attack run.”

 “Pods deployed,” Fitzroy added. “Damage report coming in. We've lost the main fuel tank, auxiliary reactor is scrap metal, two fabricators damaged, hull breaches on nine decks, not all of them intentional. Starboard sensor pickups, thruster fuel tanks…” He shook his head, and added, “It's a mess, sir.”

 “Combat status?”

 After a long moment, Fitzroy replied, “We'll get one big shot, sir, but that's all I can promise.”

 “Shuttles on descent trajectory,” Francis said. “All as planned. The escape pods will be raining down all around them. Should be quite a show.”

 “Sir,” Ballard said. “Signal from Waldheim. Colonel, I'm sorry, General Cruz wants to speak to you.”

 “General Cruz?” Salazar replied, a faint smile on his face. “I guess they managed to convene a quick promotion board. Put her on, Spaceman. Let's hear what she has to say. Audio only, and throw in some interference. We've got to exaggerate our damage.”

 “I'm not going to have to do much, sir,” the technician replied. “You're on.”

 “This is Alamo Actual,” Salazar said. “If you've got something to say, get it over with.”

 “Lieutenant, your ship is in pieces, your crew are fleeing, and all you have left are a handful of fighters that I am well able to swat out of the sky.” Salazar fought to keep the satisfaction from his face. It had worked, after all. “You're finished, and I know that some of your people are still on board. For their sake, surrender. I will guarantee your safety, and will release all of my prisoners.”

 “I know you want my ship, Colonel,” he said, stressing her real rank, “and I'll tell you now that I would blow it up before allowing you to take it. Under no circumstances will Alamo fall under enemy hands, and my crew and I will fight to the last to prevent you from getting your hands on it.”

 “At the touch of a button, I can end your life, Lieutenant.”

 “Then why don't you go ahead and do just that?” he replied. “If you want this ship, Colonel, then you're going to have to come over here and take it. I have no intention of surrendering. Not in this lifetime.”

 “Then I must regretfully bring it to an end. You aren't just killing yourself, Lieutenant. I will order the immediate execution of all prisoners.”

 “That's on your conscience, not mine. I'll see you in hell, Colonel. Alamo out.”

 Glancing at him, Harper said, “Don't you think you might have gone a little far?”

 “She wouldn't have expected anything else,” he replied. “Bowman, report status?”

 “No change yet,” she replied. “Waldheim is still closing, and I'm picking up a power buildup to their laser cannon. Preparing for a second strike. We're still a long way from optimum range.”

 “Random walk, sir?” Quesada asked.

 “Oxygen jets only, and make it look like spillage,” Salazar said.

 “Sir, they'll be able to predict that pattern. We'll be vulnerable.”

 “I'm aware of that,” he replied. His voice grew soft, and he said, “Come on, Cruz. Take the bait. You know you want to.”

 “Still closing,” the sensor technician said. “If they're going to fire, it'll be within the next fifteen seconds.”

 “Sir, if they hit us in the right spot,” Fitzroy added, “It's all over.”

 “Ten seconds,” Ballard said, and all eyes were on the screen, watching as Waldheim continued its inexorable advance, smoothly gliding into position. If Salazar had guessed right, they'd be launching their assault shuttles in a minute. If wrong, they'd all be dead in seconds. Without quite realizing it, he held his breath, waiting.

 “Well?” he asked.

 “Maximum build-up, sir,” Ballard said. “Wait one. Change to target aspect.” A smile broke across her face, and she said, “Shuttle launch, sir! Five assault shuttles, bearing directly, three minutes to contact! It worked, sir!”

 Breathing a sigh of relief, Salazar said, “We're not finished yet. Scott, stand by to fire. Max, have McCormack begin full evasive action. Cruz will likely focus all of her defensive armament on the fighters. We're only going to have one shot at this. We've got to make it count.”

Chapter 20

 Clarke raced through the undergrowth, pouring the fuel behind him, leaving a neat trail on his side of the clearing while Mortimer did the same, running parallel to him. If everything had gone according to plan, Alamo's assault shuttles would be landing in minutes, and they had to give them a clear run to the landing site. Looking on, Webster frowned, his scar harsher than ever in the early morning light. The death of Avdonin had hit him hard. That he'd taken at least a dozen people with him mitigated the loss, but didn't expunge it.

 “Sixty seconds!” Mortimer yelled. “Light them, John!”

 He threw the flash-bang towards the trail of fuel, then raced for cover as it ignited, twin trails of fire roaring on either side of the clearing, the smoke billowing into the air to provide guidance to the shuttle pilots, twisting in lazy spirals through the sky as the wind caught it. Naturally, the enemy, less than a mile distant, would have ample warning of the landing, but there was no way to hide the assault in any case. Once more, speed, not stealth, was their ally.

 “There!” one of the rebels yelled, waving his arm. “Up in the sky!”

 Clarke followed the man's hand, and saw a trio of contrails, flying in tight formation as they raced down to the ground. As he watched, they resolved into tiny arrowheads, the unmistakable roar of a sonic boom as they decelerated. Pulling out his pistol, he turned to the undergrowth, knowing that the enemy would be coming, hoping to overwhelm the landing force before they could organize, their only hope of saving their position on the planet. The stolen communicator in his pocket suddenly roared, and he tugged it clear, flipping the panel open and jamming it against his ear.

 “Blake to Clarke, come in!”

 “Alex?” he replied. “How long until landing?”

 “Two minutes minus!” she replied. “I'm on Shuttle One. We've got the whole platoon on board, and more weapons for the rebels as well. What's the status on the landing zone?”

 “Clear for the moment, but we've certainly got enemy troops incoming.”

 “Understood. We'll be loaded for bear when we disembark. Have your people keep their heads down.” There was a pause, and she added, “And if you ever pull a stunt like this again, Sub-Lieutenant, I'll kill you myself. Got that?”

 “It's nice to see you too, Alex,” he replied with a chuckle. “Clarke out.”

 “They're coming,” Webster said, looking up at the sky as though beholding Heaven. “I can't believe they're actually coming.”

 “We've still got a lot of fighting ahead, Captain,” Mortimer replied, racing over to the two of them. “This battle won't be over until we raise your flag over Cosmograd.”

 With a sigh, Webster, looking older than his years, said, “We never thought we'd win. At best we might have made it difficult for them, spent our lives to hurt their cause. That we might actually beat them back, free our people...”

 “Sir!” the sharp-eyed rebel from before said. “Over in the undergrowth. I'd say we've got company coming, right now.”

 “They must have some orbital observation,” Mortimer cursed. “They're setting us up!”

 “Not yet they aren't,” Clarke said. “Get that machine gun set up. Mortars at the ready.”

 “Into trees?” Webster asked.

 “It'll keep their heads down even if it doesn't hurt them,” he replied, racing for a foxhole, pistol in hand. “Take cover, everyone! And watch out for plasma fire! Our troops will be raining hellfire down on the bastards in a minute!”

 Following his own orders, Clarke dropped into his foxhole, Mortimer sliding in beside him, rifle in hand. Overhead, he could hear the roar of the shuttles on final approach, but the familiar crack of gunfire started to echo through the trees, the attacking force on three sides, closing for the kill. As yet, he couldn't see them, and the machine gunner that unleashed a staccato blast to his side must have been firing on guess and hope, rather than solid information.

 Something moved in the undergrowth, and Clarke snapped a shot, the roar of the landing jets overpowering the gunfire. Mortimer fired twice into the trees, smoke curling from a mortar blast just ahead of him. Already the battle had collapsed into chaos, and the fight had hardly begun. A shape drifted in the shadows to the left, and he turned to see a trio of men racing towards him, flame spitting from the barrels of their rifles. Leaning across, he tried to take a shot, but before he could squeeze the trigger, a ball of green flame raced over his head, enveloping the would-be attackers and reducing them to ashes, the fire hot enough to set the surrounding trees aflame.

 “Clarke?” Rhodes said, sliding down to his side. “Good to see you again. Having fun?”

 “I thought this would be a party you wouldn't want to miss,” he replied.

 Tossing the young officer a plasma pistol and a set of image-intensifier goggles, he added, “We're passing around the equipment right now. Once we've secured a perimeter, we can press on to the camp.” Bullets rippled overhead, slamming into the side of the shuttles as the last of them settled to the ground. “No word from Alamo yet.”

 Strapping the power pack onto his belt, Clarke said, “They're coming in from all around us. Probably their best people. We break them here, it gets easier.”

 Gesturing ahead, Rhodes replied, “Hold the flanks. We'll roll right through the middle as soon as we're deployed. If a few of them break and run, let them. We can mop them up later. Right now, we just need to hit them hard and fast.”

 Sliding on his goggles, Clarke could at last get a clear view of the approaching troopers, moving forward in tight formation, taking full advantage of cover and fire support. These were experts, not the ill-trained recruits that they'd been fighting before, but seasoned warriors. A chorus of screams from the far perimeter drew his eye quickly enough to watch a roaring explosion shatter through the air, engulfing one of the shuttles and burning the remaining occupants alive.

 “Damn it!” Rhodes yelled. “Quiller, to me!”

 As the trooper raced to rejoin his men, Clarke checked the power cycle on the plasma pistol, grimacing at the limited energy in the pack. Five shots, six if he was careful, and he'd be out. Another ball of fire raced overhead, this time from the approaching troops, and he quickly turned and fired in the direction of the plasma-armed enemy, hoping to silence their heavy firepower before they could seriously bring it to bear. Smoke filled the sky from a hundred fires as weapon fire rained down all around, a cascade of splinters raining down from the shattered canopy.

 “Good God, John,” Blake said, rolling in beside him. “You really know how to show a girl a good time! Next time, I pick the restaurant.” Glancing at Mortimer, she asked, “Aren't you wearing the wrong uniform?”

 “Deep-cover agent,” Clarke said. “Long story.” A rattle of machine gun fire flew overhead, and he ducked down deeper into the trench. Up ahead, he could hear whistles sounding, saw a fire team charge forward, boots digging into the mud, as their comrades gave them heavy fire support. Rhodes had managed to begin his advance, and all he could do was watch.

 “Webster!” he yelled, but there was no reply.

 “Back there somewhere,” Mortimer said, waving a thumb at a dense thicket of trees. “Face it, Sub-Lieutenant, we're out of this game.” Mud splattered onto her face as a grenade hurled dirt through the air close by. “You want to stick your head up, make sure you've updated your will.”

 Keeping low, Clarke scanned around, trying to get a sense of the battle. Somehow, Rhodes had gathered a couple of squads to push forward the perimeter, trying to split the enemy forces in two and shatter their advance. To the side, he could make out a clump of figures moving forward, the white-hot heat sources on their backs evidence of their firepower. He raised his plasma pistol, then hesitated for an instant.

 “What are you waiting for?” Mortimer asked.

 “No IFF.”

 “What?”

 “I don't know who's side they're on!” he yelled. “If I guess wrong...”

 “On that angle, who do you think they're fighting for?” Blake asked.

 Clarke fired, his finger jerking the trigger, unleashing a pulse of energy at the unsuspecting troopers, a green flame burning the air all around them, trees spontaneously catching light. The air stank of a heady mix of cordite, wood smoke and roasting meat, and Clarke thought for a second that he was going to expel his breakfast into the foxhole.

 “Not yet, you don't,” Blake said, looking at his face. “I just had these boots cleaned.”

 A pair of explosions tore into the ground on either side, and Mortimer grimaced, and said, “Time for a quick stroll. They've almost got our range. The next shot will be right inside.”

 “Go,” Clarke said. “I'll cover you.” At the mutinous expressions of Mortimer and Blake, he added, “Look, dammit, I've got the heavy weapon. Get going!”

 “Give a guy a commission, and he thinks he's master of the universe,” Blake muttered. “You left, Morty. I'll take right.”

 “Morty?” Shaking her head, Mortimer said, “Fine.”

 “Go!”

 Mortimer and Blake raced in opposite directions, and Clarke stood up in his foxhole, firing twice in quick succession at nearby targets before racing forward, charging blindly into the undergrowth. Without any combat equipment, he didn't have any idea where he was going, or even where the rest of the troopers were. As far as he could judge, the main battle had moved to the north, but the constant roar of explosions made it almost impossible to tell.

 Stumbling across the ground, he almost tripped over a corpse on the ground, a rebel, by the rough combat gear he was wearing, and staggered behind a tree, just as a burst of machine gun fire slammed into the ground beside him. Another loud scream cut through the noise, someone dying noisily in the distance, and he looked around, trying to find his bearings.

 More than a dozen men were gathered less than a hundred meters away, hiding in a crater, the aftereffect of one of the first explosions. Taking the gamble that they were Espatiers, preparing for an attack, he raced towards them, weaving from side to side to make himself a difficult target for the soldiers opening up all around him, trying to get a clear shot.

 As he pushed through the undergrowth, he realized that he had guessed wrong, that the occupants of the crater were a collection of enemy troops, all swinging their weapons around to cover him. He had a heartbeat to make his move, and the battle seemed to slow down to a crawl as he squeezed the trigger on his plasma pistol, expelling the last of the energy stored within in one desperate pulse.

 The force of the explosion pushed him back, falling into the trees, knocking him from his feet, as the tremendous heat set off the power packs of the other plasma weapons in the crater, creating a fireball large enough to poke above the trees, silencing the battle before him. His eyes watered from the heat and the grit, and he turned away from the inferno, racing away from the action, struggling to catch his breath in his desperation to get away.

 Hands clutched him, pulled him back, and he turned to see Mortimer looking at him, holding him by the shoulders.

 “Keep it together, kid,” she said. “You know who they were. You did a terrible thing, but you did a good thing. A necessary thing. Don't ever forget that, damn it!”

 He looked up at her, eyes wide, and replied, “I...”

 “You killed twelve men, Sub-Lieutenant, and I guarantee that each of them has done a damn sight more murdering than that. You did it in action, to save the lives of your comrades. They racked up their death toll shooting civilians. Got that?”

 “Yeah,” he said, unconvinced. “I've got that.”

 The last explosion seemed to have taken the fight out of the enemy, and all around, Clarke could see figures fleeing into the distance, racing for cover, trying to pull back to the secure defenses of their base. Blake and Rhodes walked out of the shadows, the latter with a beaming smile on his face as he clapped Clarke on the shoulder.

 “You sure you never trained as an Espatier, kid?” he asked. “That was one hell of a charge.” Gesturing to the north, he added, “We've got them on the run on every flank. They still outnumber us, but we've broken the back of the assault. Sergeant Fox is leading a squad in close pursuit while we come after the survivors.” Gesturing to the rest of the platoon, slowly assembling by the shuttles, he added, “Find yourself something more powerful for the rest of the assault. We've got a few spare weapons now.” Looking into Clarke's eyes, he asked, “Are you all right? Not hit?”

 “He's fine,” Mortimer said. “No problem, Ensign. We're on our way.”

 “Good,” Rhodes said, with a nod. “We've got the opportunity we wanted, and I damn sure don't want to waste it. Not with this high a price tag.”

Chapter 21

 “This is crazy,” Pastell said, leading the way down the corridor, pistol in hand. “We're both going to get killed. You do realize that.”

 With a shrug, Marshall said, “If it happens, it happens. How far?”

 “Trust me. You'll know when we get there.” He paused, sighed, then added, “Five minutes. There's an inspection hatch at the far end of the corridor. Down about fifty meters, then a short walk to Auxiliary Control. Through three security perimeters and a couple of dozen guards, naturally. This isn't going to work.”

 “We don't have to actually break in,” Marshall replied, glancing at his watch. “This is a distraction, that's all. We're buying time for Foster and the others to free the prisoners. I'll settle for making an awful lot of noise, drawing guards in this direction, then a quick jog to the nearest escape pod.” He paused, smiled, then added, “And in the event you don't make it, where is that?”

 “Very funny,” Pastell replied. “Don't worry about me, Captain. I'm a born survivor. Besides, I took a bronze medal in the sprint back in the '52 Olympics, and I've kept in training since them.” With a toothy grin, he added, “I don't have to outrun the guards. Just you.” Tugging out a datapad, he scanned through the sensor feeds, and added, “I still don't get what your people on Alamo are up to. We're less than five minutes from contact, and Cruz has assault shuttles on the way. Are you sure he hasn't just surrendered?”

 “Not Pavel Salazar,” Marshall replied. “I don't think he understands what that word means. He's got something planned. Besides, this might help us. The ship was short-handed before, but if she's loaded fifty people on shuttles, the security detachments will have been cut to the bone. We might have a better chance than you think.”

 “Maybe,” Pastell said. “Maybe.” He seemed doubtful, tightening his grip on his pistol as his eyes continued to range around, as though seeking out targets. Jogging to the end of the corridor, he snapped back the inspection hatch, ducking inside.

 Marshall followed him, but his mind was still back on Alamo, riding with his crew. Despite his words, doubt crept into his soul, fear that Salazar had given up, that perhaps the ship had suffered worse damage than he had thought. All of this could still be for nothing. He clambered down the ladder, waiting for the tone of the alert sirens to change, switching to an intruder alert.

 At least the ship was all but deserted. Despite moving through some of the most populated areas, they hadn't encountered anyone. The crew was either at their posts, down on the planet, or on their way across to Alamo. Cruz had spread her resources too thinly, and was suffering for that. A new klaxon jerked him back to reality, and Pastell looked up with a smile.

 “Prisoner breakout from the lower decks,” he said. “I guess Burton and the others made better time than we did. Don't worry, I think this little run will still work. They should be picking us up on their monitors any second now.” Gesturing at the hatch cover beneath them, he added, “There will be guards waiting for us down there. Drop, roll and shoot, or we're as good as dead.”

 “You know what I like best about you, Major? Your unshakable optimism.”

 Pastell reached down to a lever, firing a series of explosive bolts that ripped the lower hatch clear, then dropped through the gap to the floor, a salvo of bullets flying through the air all around him. Marshall waited for the count of three, then dived after him, pistol in hand, firing wildly as he scrambled for the deck.

 Four guards, charging towards him. One of them clutching his shoulder from a recently acquired wound. Behind them, blast doors were slamming shut, sealing the corridor against further attack. Marshall fired, dropping one of the attackers, Pastell taking down another, leaving two of them to shoot back. Both bullets found their mark, the first catching Marshall in his trailing foot, the second sliding into Pastell's shoulder.

 Fighting through the pain, Marshall managed two quick shots, taking down each of them, then turned to a white-faced Pastell, his mouth twisted in pain.

 “Can you move?” Marshall asked.

 “We don't have a choice,” Pastell said, gasping for breath, reaching into his pocket. He fished out a hypodermic, jamming it into his wrist, then nodded. “That'll hold me for a few minutes Long enough to finish.” Glancing at Marshall's foot, he added, “You?”

 “I'll survive,” he replied, struggling to his feet, the pain lancing through him, sending waves of agony cascading through his system. He felt a pinprick in his side, and looked at Pastell waving the hypodermic around. “Thanks.”

 “You'll regret it later, but we've got to make it through.” Gesturing ahead, he added, “Security barrier. Unmanned, by the looks of it. I can crack through it, but it'll take time.” He paused, then said, “If it was just a distraction, we've probably done enough. I didn't expect the next level of security to be open.”

 “Meaning that we might actually be able to make it inside.”

 Nodding, Pastell said, “And bring down all kinds of hell on Colonel Cruz.”

 “Sounds like a plan.” Limping after the struggling Pastell, Marshall slid a fresh clip into his pistol, discarding the empty one to the deck. A transparent hatch covered the sealed blast door. Pastell dragged down a control panel, entering command codes into the system in an attempt to free the lock. Marshall turned to the corridor, leaning against a wall, aiming the pistol uncertainly back the way they had come. There would be guards racing towards them, would be there any second. He glanced to the side, spotting the hatch of an escape pod. In seconds, the two of them could be away from here, safely outside. They'd completed the mission, as far as they'd originally planned. They hadn't expected the bonus of being able to actually disrupt command functions. Something they simply couldn't pass up.

 Marshall's stolen communicator crackled, and he pulled the unfamiliar device from his pocket, fiddling with the controls as he raised it to his ear.

 “Marshall here.”

 “Foster, sir. We've reached the primary detention level and secured the central command area. All the prisoners are free, and making for the escape pods. Burton's leading another group to the shuttles, and reports minimal resistance in that area. As far as we can tell, Cruz has concentrated everything into the control levels. You can expect a lot of company in the near future.”

 “Thanks for the warning,” Marshall replied.

 “Sir, I have ten volunteers ready to move to your support. We can be with you in...”

 “That's a negative, Lieutenant, though I appreciate the offer. You've done your job. We're still working on ours. Try and contact Lieutenant Salazar, see if you can provide him with any tactical assistance, but get the hell out of here at all costs. You understand? Right now, your top priority is the safety of the prisoners.”

 “Captain, I...”

 “I'm a big boy now, Lieutenant,” he replied, wincing as a fresh wave of pain rippled through his system. Either the painkiller was wearing off, or he'd been hurt worse than he'd thought. Either way, he wasn't going far, not with his foot the way it was. “I can take care of myself. Now get the hell out of here. That's an order!”

 “Aye, sir,” she replied. “Don't wait too long. Good luck.”

 Nodding, he slid the communicator back into his pocket, turning to look at Pastell, and asked, “How long?”

 “It'll take as long as it takes,” he replied. “We've still got four minutes until Alamo's in real trouble. Keep watching the corridor.”

 Footsteps rang on the deck towards them, and Marshall fired a shot at a shape that ventured around the corner, the enemy instantly retreating. They were too smart to simply charge him, not without vastly superior numbers, and he regretted his snap shot. Better to let the man get closer, get a guaranteed kill. Now, this was going to get tougher.

 “Give it up!” the voice of Colonel Cruz said, echoing from the ceiling speakers. “My troops will be on board Alamo in minutes, and I've got a hundred people heading your way. Surrender.”

 “Not a chance,” Marshall said, spitting onto the deck.

 “Almost there,” Pastell said. “Almost there.”

 A hand reached around the corridor, clutching a grenade, and Marshall fired three shots in quick succession, the third finding its mark, shattering the attacker's fingers. The grenade fumbled to the deck, erupting in a flash of light before releasing a cloud of green gas. He could feel a tingling in his throat as, finally, the inner hatch slid open. Pastell dragged Marshall with him, racing into the control center, terrifying a group of technicians sitting at the controls. One of them, a boy who looked barely old enough to shave, turned with a pistol loosely held in his hand.

 “Drop it,” Marshall said. “Get your people out of here, right now! Anyone still in the room in five seconds gets a bullet in the gut. Move.”

 Pastell took a step to the side as the crew rushed from the room, the young officer the last to leave with an uncomprehending glance at Marshall. Shots rang out in the corridor, and the boy crumpled to the ground, eyes wide, collapsing at the deck. Marshall stood, numb for a second, while Pastell worked the lock, slamming the security door closed.

 “They killed them in cold blood,” Marshall said, shaking his head. “They must have known that they weren't on our side.”

 “That didn't matter,” Pastell said. “They surrendered, and Colonel Cruz would have considered them expendable. And an example to the rest of her crew.” Crashing into the flight engineering console, he added, “You did what you thought was right.”

 Dragging himself to the helm, Marshall brought up a tactical display, the image appearing on the viewscreen. As far as he could see, everything was going Waldheim's way. Alamo was drifting in space, tossed from side to side on erupting fountains of air from hull breaches, the ship staggering into a parking orbit. At any time, Waldheim could destroy her.

 “Fighters,” Pastell said. “From Alamo. There might be something we can do about that.” He reached down to the controls, and said, “There's nothing we can do about the shuttles, but I can throw a maintenance cycle on the missile tubes. Delay launch for a few seconds. It might give them the chance to press an attack.” Glancing at the controls, he continued, “Though they'll still be in the firing line long enough for Cruz to finish them.”

 “Do it,” Marshall said, sliding on a headset and reaching for the communications controls. “Marshall to Alamo. Marshall to Alamo. Come in, please.”

 “Alamo Actual here!” Salazar said. “Captain?”

 “It's me, and I'm unrestrained. In fact, I'm sitting in Waldheim's Auxiliary Control right now.” A low whine came from the door, and he continued, “Though I don't know how much longer I'll be sitting in here for. Seems there are some people outside who want to talk to me. What's your status?”

 “Is this a secure line?”

 Pastell nodded, and Marshall replied, “It is. Go ahead.”

 “If you've got a sensor display, sir, watch the show. It's going to be pretty impressive. And you'd better strap yourselves in.”

 “Pavel, in a matter of seconds, you're going to be seeing a few dozen escape pods and shuttles leaving Waldheim. Foster, Carpenter and Murphy have managed to free the prisoners from the surface, and we're working to get them out. They'll probably try and contact you, but whatever it is you are planning, make sure you leave them clear. If they stick to the plan, they'll be heading for the surface.”

 “For the surface. Understood. What about you, sir?”

 “We're sticking around for the moment,” Marshall replied. “We don't have much access, but we've got enough to give Cruz a few things to think about. With a little luck, we'll be able to get out before the real shooting starts. There's an escape pod on standby.”

 “Sir, I can have a shuttle and be over there in...”

 “You've got a battle to fight, Pavel. Focus on that.”

 “Aye, sir. Good luck.”

 “Good hunting.”

 Pastell's fingers worked across the controls, and he said, “They're putting up a hell of a fight. I hope Lieutenant Salazar has something pretty damned special in mind, or we're wasting our time.”

 “He's got something, Major, I promise, it will be good.”

 The image on the monitor screen winked out, replaced by the leering face of Colonel Cruz, lounging in Waldheim's command chair.

 “Captain Marshall, whatever it is you are planning, it won't work. In a matter of moments, my people will have broken through the security hatch, and they've got orders to kill everyone in the room on sight.”

 “Just like you did to the duty crew?” Marshall replied.

 “The fortunes of war,” she said, shrugging. “These things happen. I will, however, give you one chance to save your lives. Only one. Surrender at once, convince Lieutenant Salazar to surrender, and I will forebear from destroying Alamo and your crew. If you fail to do so, I will ensure that you and all of your people die, Captain. And it will not be quick.”

 Looking up at her, Marshall said, “I'd tell you to go to hell, but I think you've already booked yourself a one-way ticket.” Stabbing at a control, he brought the tactical display back up, throwing a switch to block any further interference.

 “Damn,” Pastell said. “She's blocked me. I've only held back three of the launch tubes.” He frowned, then added, “Wait a minute. What's Alamo doing?”

 Marshall smiled, looked up at the monitor, and said, “I think we're about to find out.”

Chapter 22

 Waldheim gently drifted into position, Alamo still slowly rolling, Quesada doing a masterful job of making the ship appear out of control, while smoothly drifting into position for a laser pulse. The fighters continued their assault, drawing what little enemy fire was heading their way, and the assault shuttles held their course.

 “Almost there,” Salazar said, turning to Tactical. “Kat, this is going to have to be the best shot of your life. Laser, missiles, everything. We're only going to get one chance at this, and it has to count. Having said that, relax.”

 “Sure, boss,” she replied with a smile, her hands poised on her console.

 “Ready for power transfer on your order,” Fitzroy said. “Chief Santiago has teams deployed to deal with the damage. We're going to lose at least half of the transfer links when we do this.” Frowning, he added, “The clean-up after this is going to take weeks. At best.”

 “Better than the clean-up if we lose, Spaceman. Ballard, any change to target aspect?”

 “Nothing, sir. Holding course. All nominal. They're just slowly cruising in. Enemy laser is charged, ready to fire, and they have a firing solution.”

 “Don't worry,” Scott replied. “I'll have them before their trigger finger can so much as twitch.” Looking up at her monitors, she added, “Whenever you're ready, sir.”

 “Wait one,” he said. Rising to his feet, he walked towards the helm, eyes locked on the viewscreen, watching as the trajectory tracks seemed to merge into each other, a strange pattern that danced and drifted. At last, it was time.

 “Fire.”

 Fitzroy moved first, funneling the power hoarded in the laser cannon to the ship's primary systems, status lights briefly winking from red to amber, warning alerts flashing on the viewscreen to inform the crew of the imminent failure of the ship's systems. With control restored, Quesada tapped a control, and Alamo drifted into position for just long enough for the laser cannon to pulse, a beam of light tearing into the fragile primary weapon of the enemy, leaving her radiators a tangled, twisted mess.

 Alamo rocked as eight missiles raced forward, the fighters launching at the same instant to surround the enemy craft, and the point-defense cannons pulsed a series of rhythmic pounds as they sought their targets, the incoming shuttles desperately turning away, trying to escape the fate to which their commander had doomed them, a series of explosions rushing across the sensor screen.

 “Power buildup!” Fitzroy said. “We're heading for an overload! Cascade effect!”

 “Shut her down, Spaceman!” Salazar yelled, and the engineer scrambled to work his controls, fighting to beat down the surging power before it was too late, but it was a race that he couldn't win, and the lights flickered as half the bridge panels died, text flashing error messages in place of status reports.

 Raising her hands in the air, Scott said, “I've got nothing, sir. No control at all, no contact with our missiles. Last I saw, they were running true, but they still had forty seconds to go.”

 “Then we don't even know whether we've finished off the enemy,” Harper said.

 “Sir,” Ballard replied, “Two of the assault shuttles were still in the sky when we lost power. I can't get any of the exterior pickups working, but...”

 “They'll head for here,” Scott said. “When the point-defense guns ceased. And with half their attack force gone, they'll try for a decapitation strike.”

 “Arm yourselves!” Salazar said, racing for the weapons locker on the wall. “Kris, you're with me. Scott, you've got what's left of the conn. Do what you can to get the main systems on-line.” Gesturing at the door, he added, “They'll try for the nearest airlock. We've got to hit them before they can get a toehold, or we'll lose the ship.”

 “Ready,” Harper said. Behind her, Bowman reached into the locker, tossing the pistols inside to the bridge crew before moving to follow them. “What are you doing, Spaceman?”

 “I did three weeks of Espatier training before I washed out,” he said. “Be nice to get to use it for something.”

 “Fine,” Salazar said. “Come along.” He pumped the handle of the manual release, easing the door open, the stubborn gears resisting his efforts. Finally, he forced it far enough for him to step through into the dark corridor beyond. “Fitzroy,” he said, “See if you can get power going out here.”

 “Trying, sir, but I can't even raise Engineering at the moment. Internal communications are out. So are the elevators.”

 “Ungood, Pavel,” Harper said. “We can't call for help, and if they manage to take the bridge without anyone knowing about it, Santiago could end up gifting them control of the ship.”

 “Then we're just going to have to stop them getting that far,” Salazar replied, walking towards the far airlock. His mind raced, trying to put together a battle plan. Assuming a normal load-out, there would be twelve people on the approaching shuttle, most of them wearing protective armor. No plasma weapons, not this close to a critical area, but they'd be far better armed than they were.

 Gesturing at a side door, jammed half-open, he said, “In there, you two. Wait for them to come past, and then hit them in the rear with everything you've got.”

 “Where are you going?” Harper asked.

 “I'm going to make sure they get a suitable welcome. We've got to be hospitable.”

 “Pavel,” Harper rumbled, “This sounds suspiciously like one of your crazy ideas.”

 “Relax,” he said with a smile. “I've got this. Just make sure you shoot straight.”

 Shaking her head, she stepped into the office, Bowman following, while Salazar walked down the corridor in the gloom of the emergency lights. Up ahead, he could hear locks sliding into place while the assault shuttle docked. Under normal circumstances, it would have been easy to throw them clear, stop them making contact in the first place, but their timing had been perfect, their pilot skilled. He glanced around, then tugged free a fire extinguisher from the wall, rolling it towards the airlock, then leveled his pistol at the target, waiting for the hatch to open.

 A green light winked on, and he fired a snap shot, catching the extinguisher dead center. The pressurized canister exploded with a loud report, a cloud of gas erupting into the air, and the first invader paused for the split second Salazar needed. Even the best armor had weak spots, and he'd been extremely well-briefed on their location. The joint between the helmet and the neck guard, vulnerable to a perfect shot. Two quick tugs on the trigger, the second one unnecessary.

 The first attacker collapsed back into the shuttle, falling on his comrades, and Salazar fired again, blind this time, hoping at least to slow them down, to make him an obvious target. Wasting no more time, he turned and ran down the corridor, bullets tearing into the carpet on either side as he weaved from one wall to the other, trying to throw off their aim. He still had ten meters to go, and it seemed like an eternity before he raced past the open office door, hurling himself behind a suit locker, pressing himself flat to provide cover.

 Bullets rained into the locker, rending deep dents in the metal, shrapnel flying in all directions around him. He didn't dare return fire, didn't even dare move, knowing that he was millimeters from death. The enemy soldiers started their advance, moving past the door, and just as they were about to reach him, Harper and Bowman opened up, a barrage of shots that caught them off-guard, one of them falling to the floor, clutching at the wound in his neck, blood spurting free, while the others scrambled for cover.

 Now Salazar could make another move, leaning out from behind cover to take a shot, picking off one of the attackers while they were floundering. The remaining soldiers, eight of them, managed to turn, opening up with bursts of well-aimed automatic fire that sent him diving back behind his shelter, before three of them turned to the office, filling the air with bullets, recklessly expending their ammunition.

 The enemy commander was no fool. He knew that there was little standing between him and the bridge, and that he had to press forward and take the ship, or die. Either here, at the hands of Alamo's defenses, or back on his own ship, Colonel Cruz liable to demonstrate her usual lack of patience for failure. Not a command style that Salazar would endorse, but at this point, effective.

 And for the present, there was nothing he could do about it. His only hope had been to catch the attacking force by surprise, risk an ambush that might give him the time he needed to press home an attack. He'd thrown everything he had at them, and failed. Though he made a mental note to ensure that heavier weapons were placed near the bridge in the future. One assault rifle would have made a huge difference. Something to recall, if he lived through this.

 Behind him, a loud creaking noise came from the elevator, and he turned with a start, surprised that someone had managed to get the mechanism working this quickly. The guards deployed to cover it, weapons at the ready, two of them holding back to guard against their known enemies. Anyone inside the elevator would be dead in a matter of seconds, slaughtered by a fusillade of bullets raining from all directions. The doors slid open, and the gunfire started.

 Before Salazar could utter a word of warning, there was a blinding flash and the roar of an explosion, white-hot metal raining through the air all around them, slicing through the waiting guards and hammering into the wall, smoke rising where they impacted. The fire suppression system instantly snapped on, jets of carbon dioxide pulsing down at the heat sources, and Salazar stepped out to see the slaughter on the deck, the entire attack force wiped out.

 “Santiago to Salazar,” a voice buzzed from the overhead speakers. “Hope you liked my little present. I've managed to get a few critical communications links working again. We've stopped the other boarding party, down on the hangar deck, and Lombardo managed to grab a couple of prisoners. Two casualties down there, none fatal.”

 “Good work, Chief,” Salazar said. “Great work. Now what about sensors?”

 “Give me a chance!” the engineer replied. “Building a bomb in three minutes wasn't easy.”

 “No, but you enjoyed every moment of it,” Harper said, stepping over the mess.

 “There is that. Santiago out.”

 “What about the shuttle?” Bowman said.

 “Of course!” Salazar said, racing towards the airlock, slipping on the mess covering the floor. Harper and Bowman were hard on his heels as he dived into the shuttle, pistol in hand, a trembling figure sitting inside with his hands raised.

 “Don't shoot!” she said. “Please, don't shoot!”

 “Get out into the corridor,” Salazar said. “Bowman, cover her. Kill her if she makes a wrong move. I wouldn't put Cruz past using suicide troops.”

 “No!” the woman yelled. “I don't want to die!”

 “None of us do,” Harper said. “And if you cooperate, you'll live through today.”

 Sliding into the cockpit, Salazar cursed, looking at the ruined screens, and turned to the prisoner, asking, “Did you do this?”

 “No, sir,” she replied. “Matson did, sir, before he left. Said he wanted to burn his boats.”

 “This bird isn't going into the air any time soon,” Harper said, pulling down an inspection panel. “Give me a few minutes. I think I might be able to link the sensors up to the bridge, give us at least one window on the outside world. Bowman, get me a Toolkit Number Three, will you.”

 “On it, ma'am,” he replied, ducking back into the corridor.

 “Anything I can do?” Salazar asked.

 “Go back to the bridge and take command,” she said. “The last time I let you loose on a control panel...”

 “It was only a small electrical fire,” he replied, waving his hands. “I'm on my way.” He exchanged a weary smile with her, then stepped back out into the corridor, eyes wide as he saw the bloody mess on the floor for the first time. He closed his eyes, rubbing his hand against them, and with all the effort he could muster, walked calmly down the corridor to the bridge. He knew that he'd be back in the corridor again when he next slept, and probably off and on again for the rest of his life. One more nightmare to add to his extensive collection. As long as he and the crew lived through this, it would all be worth it.

 “Report,” he said, stepping into the command center.

 “Minimal contact with sickbay, sir,” Scott said, yielding the center seat and moving back to her station. “Casualties coming in, triage overwhelmed. No numbers yet, though. Chief Santiago...”

 “I've already talked to her,” he replied. “Make a note to add the use of elevators as a tactical delivery system to the rule book at some point.”

 Nodding, she said, “We heard the bang out here, sir.”

 Moving to the screen, a flickering starfield on display, he said, “Can you bring up a tactical projection? Based on the last readings we picked up.”

 “Too many guesses, sir,” Scott replied. She reached over to a control, and brought up an image, adding, “The last shot we got, sir, just before the network crashed. Impact should have been two minutes ago. The fighters ought to be on their way home. Assuming we've got anywhere to receive them.”

 “The hangar deck was intact,” Salazar said, contemplating the screen. He felt helpless, knowing that Alamo would almost certainly play no further part in the battle. They'd taken their best shot, for better or for worse, and there was nothing more they could do, not without extensive repairs.

 “Wait one,” Scott said. “Here we go! I've got a sensor feed from the shuttle!”

 The screen flickered, updating to reveal the universe outside, an image that briefly brought joy to Salazar's face. Waldheim was in the same condition as Alamo, listing to the side, a halo of debris surrounding her. Beyond, escape pods were fleeing in all directions, racing to escape to the safety of the planet, a convoy of shuttles leading the way.

 “Fighters?” he asked.

 “They'd be behind the planet now,” Scott said. “Along with the enemy squadron. I'm reading thirteen impacts on the enemy hull, serious damage.” Her smile fell to a frown, and she replied, “They've still got power, and they've still got attitude control. And I'm reading four intact missile tubes.”

 Sitting down in his command chair, Salazar replied, “Are you sure?”

 “I'm afraid so, Pavel.” Turning to face him, she said, “My best guess has an intercept in twelve minutes, and they'll have five minutes in the firing line. More than enough time to wipe us off the map, even with only four missiles still working.” Gesturing at her panel, she added, “I've got a dead board here. There's nothing I can do.”

 “Fitzroy?” Salazar asked.

 “Nothing, sir,” the engineer replied. “We'll never be ready in time. If you could give us forty minutes, I think we'll have the defensive systems back up.”

 “Not a chance,” Scott replied. “It was a nice try, Pavel. A damned nice try.”

 “That it was,” Salazar said. “It just wasn't good enough.”

Chapter 23

 Clarke, now wearing protective armor and with a captured plasma rifle in his hands, led the lead team through the forest. Fifty troopers followed him, a mix of rebels led by Webster and Espatiers led by Rhodes, fanning out through the undergrowth. Periodically, a ball of flame would leap forward, one of the stragglers from the enemy force ahead carelessly exposing himself to weapons fire.

 The column was as stealthy as a charging elephant, and about as powerful, driving forward at speed in a bid to catch the enemy before they could organize. Gradually, the forest started to thin out, the river curling away as they approached the repaired laser barrier. The smell of smoke from last night's attack still hung in the air, hours later, and they could hear the sound of troops moving into position up ahead, digging themselves in for the battle.

 “Rhodes to all units,” came the familiar voice through his earphone. “We'll have reinforcements coming in from Cosmograd. Still no word from Alamo, so we don't know what the situation is up in orbit. We only know that we've got to hit the bastards fast and hard, or we won't have a chance. Don't let them organize, don't let them regroup. Smash them. Webster, I want your people on the perimeter, giving covering fire to the rest of us. Fox, you move up with Clarke and his team, and go right for the gut, the command post. Maybe if we can take the king we'll win the game.”

 “This ain't chess, sir,” Fox replied.

 “Wouldn't know. Never played it,” Rhodes said. “Poker's more my game. Second and Third Squad, move to the prisoner barracks and make sure nobody decides to take hostages. Keep them inside until all this is over. They're a lot safer under cover and I don't want friendly fire. Got that?”

 “Understood,” Clarke said, glancing to the side as Sergeant Fox moved up, adding her fire team to his. Blake and Mortimer were each on the flanks, slightly ahead of the rest of the formation, watching for the ambush they all feared.

 “Just like old times, sir,” Fox said, clapping Clarke on the shoulder. “Should have known it would take something pretty special to bring you down.”

 “Let's just hope they don't have any surprises today. You got the layout?”

 Nodding, she said, “Right down the middle.” Turning to her Lance-Corporal, she said, “Duffy, you follow up with your team, twenty meters behind. We can leapfrog if we have to, but otherwise, concentrate on the flanks. Shoot everything that moves. We'll be right in the heart of the enemy out there, and we can't afford any risks.”

 “Got you, Sarge,” he replied. “We're ready.”

 “Perimeter coming up,” Blake said. Clarke glanced ahead, the goggles giving him a clear view of the defenses. They'd done a good, if unimaginative job, digging in a series of trenches and throwing barricades up to funnel them into a killing zone. Against local troops, it would have been more than enough, but with the liberal distribution of plasma weapons, every man in the attack force was his own portable artillery.

 “On three,” Fox said. “Go!”

 Three balls of plasma fire raced towards the perimeter fence, erupting in columns of flame and smoke as the attack began, the troopers charging for the enemy defenses. All around, explosions rippled as the enemy mortars pounded the ground, struggling to get the range as the soldiers attacked. Under artillery fire, the safest place to be was close-in to the enemy, and they all knew it.

 Almost before he realized it, Clarke was over the perimeter, a raking burst of machine gun fire sweeping over his head. He turned to respond, but someone had already dealt with the emplacement for him, a green bolt rushing over the troops within. Mortimer waved her gun into the air with a smile, then charged forward, taking the lead, two soldiers following.

 The defensive line had held for less than a minute. Bodies littered the trenches, the stink of cordite and ozone reeking in the air as Clarke sped forward, gesturing for one of the troops following him to deal with the mortar crews, still steadfastly maintaining their bombardment even to the last.

 “This way!” he yelled, charging towards the burned-out ruins of the drone complex. He could see the tangled, twisted pylons of the alien city looming overhead, dominating the sky, dozens of meters tall. Strange sentinels watching the battle raging all around them, one final piece of history for this ancient site.

 Up ahead, he could see the command bunker, a squat structure made of heavy plasticrete, designed to withstand even the heaviest bombardment. A hopeful plasma bolt smashed into it, sending chunks of rubble flying through the air, but it hardly made a dent, only a black burn evidence of the attack.

 “Explosives!” Fox yelled, gesturing at Duffy. He nodded, racing forward, then tripped on a hidden wire, sprawling to the ground, his body engulfed in flame from a hidden mine. Blake sprinted towards him, Clarke a heartbeat behind, while Fox and her team quickly formed a defensive perimeter. All around, enemy troops were converging on them, hoping to cut them off from the rest of the attacking forces, now far behind.

 “He's bad,” Blake said. “But he's alive. If we can get him to a hospital quickly we can save him.” Looking up at Fox, she added, “We've got to get him out of here.”

 “Sumner, take him back to the forest,” Fox said. “Anyone want to play with explosives?”

 “Give them to me,” Clarke said.

 “You've had demolitions training?” she asked.

 “As long as you have no follow-up questions, yes.” Another explosion smashed into the ground beside them, and he said, “Come on, that's an order!”

 Nodding, she gently tugged the wounded man's backpack free, swinging it across to him by the strap, and Clarke charged towards the bunker, eyes down on the ground, watching for any other hidden menaces. Mortimer chased after him, Fox and the others fanning all around, hurling bolts of plasma fire in all directions to pin down the enemy forces.

 “Clarke, where are you?” Rhodes asked.

 “Command bunker,” he replied, slamming into the wall.

 “We're pinned by the second barracks. Going to take time to punch our way through. You've got at least a company inbound.” He paused, then said, “Pull back. We'll have to try again.”

 “Like Hell!” Clarke said, moving around the perimeter. “Ensign, in about three minutes, you'll see the biggest damn explosion you ever saw.”

 With a faint chuckle, Rhodes replied, “Watch yourself, kid. Don't get too cocky.”

 “Cocky?” Clarke said as a bullet slammed into the wall, missing his head by inches. “I just want to get out of this nightmare. Blowing this bastard is the fastest way. Try and draw some of the bad guys your way.” He reached the reinforced door, five layers of tough alloy, and tore open the backpack to get at the explosives within.

 When he'd told Fox he'd been trained, he was technically correct. A three hour lecture back at the Intelligence School at Syrtis Major, followed by an afternoon on the range watching a gnarled old Corporal with far too many bionic parts making bigger and bigger explosions. The intention had been more to familiarize him with the capabilities of Triplanetary field charges, not their use. Finesse was going to be out of the question today.

 Slamming the entire contents of the backpack onto the hatch, guessing where the optimum positions were, he jammed the detonator into position, feeding the wires into the position charges, while bullets crashed into the wall around him. He could feel the heat of a plasma bolt flying overhead, washing over the armor, sweat building up on his neck as he worked.

 Finally, he looked at the detonator controls, his mind a momentary blank. He'd watched this being done, had read the manuals, but all of that training seemed to evaporate under the heat of battle. After a wasted minute, he stabbed the controls, and a countdown clock snapped into life, working down from thirty seconds. Not wasting any time, he raced into the battlefield, sprinting for the nearest cover.

 “Hey, what about the rest of the explosives?” Fox yelled.

 “Rest?” Clarke asked. “I used them all!”

 “Good God!” she replied. “Pull back! Right now!”

 The squad raced into the distance, heedless of the bullets still flying through the air all around them. He glanced to the right, saw two of his men lying on the ground, one of them still twitching, and raced over to the wounded figure, quickly throwing him over his shoulder. The casualty groaned, his face a mass of pain, but the man was still alive. Only seconds remained, and he tumbled into a foxhole, already occupied by a stunned enemy trooper, who turned his pistol towards the helpless Clarke, tangled up with the man he had hoped to save.

 Before the trooper could fire, the detonator ticked away the final second.

 The explosion echoed like a thunderclap, overwhelming the noise of battle, and the blinding flash of light sent tears to his eyes, the afterimage lingering as he blinked. Debris rained down all around them, a chunk of plasticrete slamming into the man with the pistol, knocking him cold. Flame and smoke raced into the sky, a column of choking fumes that washed across the camp, carrying burning shrapnel with it.

 Only the sound of flickering flames continued, and Clarke stepped out of the foxhole, looking at the nightmarish inferno he had created, silence dominating the field. All around, troops moved out of their defenses, hands raised, their stomach for the fight destroyed by that one titanic explosion. A medic ran forward, taking care of the wounded pair in the foxhole, and Fox moved over to the young officer's side.

 “I thought you'd had demolitions training?” she said.

 “Five hours in total.”

 Turning to him, eyes wide, she said, “That's meant to be a three month course.”

 With a shrug, still looking at the inferno, he replied, “I'll get round to it eventually.” 

 “Remind me not be on the same planet when you do.”

 Blake looked up from the foxhole, and said, “They'll live, both of them. We've got to get some medical support down here as fast as we can. There are a couple of dozen people who won't make it through the next couple of hours unless we can get them to a hospital.”

 Rhodes raced over, clapped Clarke on the back, and said, “It's all over, you beautiful bastard! That blast of yours knocked out most of their command network in one shot. Most of the troops on the perimeter were just ordinary crewmen, and they can't surrender fast enough.”

 “Is the base medical facility intact?” Blake asked.

 “Over that way,” Rhodes replied.

 “Then I need all of your men at once to help me move the wounded, and someone needs to find anyone with medical training and get them over there right away.” The officer paused for a moment, and she barked, “Now!”

 “Sure,” Rhodes replied, tugging out a communicator, gabbling orders into the speaker.

 Clarke stepped forward to the explosion, and Mortimer lumbered out of the smoke towards him, limping on her right leg, a bandage hastily wrapped around a wound. Clarke wiped the back his hand across his forehead, frowning as he saw blood smeared across it.

 “It isn't bad,” Mortimer said, moving over to him. “I've seen a lot worse. You'd better have someone take a look at it, though. Head wounds can be nasty.”

 “A lot of people need help more urgently,” he replied. “Look at that, Ronnie.”

 “Not a bad day's work,” she said. “Bastards should have been out on the field with their men, not hiding from the battle in a bunker. They've bought and paid for everything they got.”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “I can't see it that way, somehow.” His hands were shaking, and he continued, “I didn't even think about it. I just charged forward, slammed the explosives into place. Just on instinct, I killed dozens of people.” Horror on his face, he added, “What does that say about me?”

 “That you paid attention to your training, and that you did the right thing.” Gesturing at the barracks, she added, “You just liberated about a thousand people, Sub-Lieutenant. You think they have any objections to what happened here this morning?” She paused, then said, “Anything from Alamo yet?”

 With a faint smile, he replied, “I haven't even tried since the shuttles came down. Reaching for a communicator, he tapped the control, and said, “Rhodes to Alamo. Rhodes to Alamo. Come in, please. Rhodes to Alamo. Reply at once.”

 “Nothing,” Mortimer said, as static roared through the speakers. “All of this could be for nothing if they can't finish the job up there.”

 Shrugging, Clarke replied, “All we can do is wait. Come on, let's help clear up the mess.”

Chapter 24

 “Final impact,” Pastell reported, looking up at the engineering station. “Late hit. Might have been a misfire. Up near the command deck.” He paused, then said, “Wait one.”

 “What?” Marshall asked, turning away from the helm.

 “We need to talk to Alamo. Right now. Patch me in.”

 Nodding, Marshall snapped a control, and said, “Alamo, do you read?”

 “Faint, but I read you,” Salazar replied. “We've got big problems over here.”

 “I'm putting Major Pastell on,” Marshall said.

 “What?”

 “Pastell here. We need to keep this quick. That last shot knocked out the primary command feed to the bridge. I think we can crack into the network and take over control of the ship from here, but I'm going to need intrusion software. Can you send me some of yours?”

 “Wait a minute,” Harper said. “Captain, that information is highly classified, and...”

 “Lieutenant, this is a direct order, and I'll put it in writing for you when we get home. Send over the software. Right now, we need all the help we can get, and unless anything changes, my watch says that Alamo dies in about eleven minutes. Unless you've got something else planned, get those programs over here on the double.”

 “Pastell,” Harper said, “If this is a trick, I will end you myself. Understand?”

 “Take a number,” he replied. “I'm setting up a secure access link right now.”

 “Pavel,” Marshall asked, “What's the situation over there?”

 “Power grid down, main reactor out, communications and sensors fried. I'm talking through a relay fed in from an enemy boarding shuttle. We fought them off before they could get a hold. Heavy casualties, sir, but I don't have any numbers for you yet. Looks like most of the escape pods and shuttles are going to make it, though I don't have any contact with them. We're having enough trouble keeping this line open.”

 “Can you be up and running in time for the second combat window?”

 “Not a chance, sir.”

 “Understood. Do what you can over there, Pavel.”

 “Sir,” Salazar said, “You've got time to get to an escape pod. I'll be ordering all hands to evacuate in about seven minutes, unless anything changes. I held back enough craft for the crew to get out.”

 “Let's hope it won't be necessary,” Marshall replied. “I'll call you again in a few minutes. Marshall out.” Turning to Pastell, he asked, “What's the story, Major?”

 “I'm working on a happy ending for you, but Cruz is trying to force some writer's block. She's got some good people on the bridge, but this intrusion software is pretty damned good.” Fingers rattling on the keys, he added, “I think I'm going to have control in about ninety seconds.”

 From the door, the low whine of a laser cutter sounded, and Marshall said, “Not that we'll hold it for long. How much control are we going to get?”

 “We can't kill life support, if that's what you're after. When we went into battle, every compartment switched over to its own independent systems. I can't do much more sabotage, either. Anything I can do to the weapons systems, they should be able to undo pretty damn quickly.” Glancing up at the trajectory track, he added, “Best I can do is stop them from doing anything while we have control. If we can hold them off until we're out of the second firing window...”

 Marshall looked at the door, a corner already beginning to glow red from the heat, and replied, “Not much chance of that, Major. I doubt that hatch will hold for five minutes, never mind fifteen.” He looked at the pistol in his hand, and said, “Time for a glorious last stand.”

 “If that's the best we can do...”

 “Keep working.” He turned to the trajectory plot, and said, “I've got an idea.” He brought up the navigation computer, not able to implement any course changes yet, but more than able to plot them. The ship was traveling close to the planet, moving in to take full advantage of the gravity swing. Barely thirty miles clear of the atmosphere. It wouldn't take much to alter her course, bring her down further, take her deep enough that she'd never escape the gravity well.

 He ran through a series of quick simulations. Any other course would be too easy to correct. He might buy Alamo a few minutes more, but from what he'd seen on Waldheim's sensors and Salazar's report, it didn't seem as though it was going to be enough. He had to take the battleship out of the picture, and as far as he could see, there was only one way that he could guarantee that.

 “How long?” he asked.

 “Nearly there. You got a plan?”

 “I do.” 

 Turning to him, Pastell said, “That sounds nice and ominous.”

 “Let's just say that we're not going to have to worry about our pension plans.”

 Nodding, he replied, “I knew hanging around with you was going to get me killed.”

 “It isn't too late for you to change sides.”

 With a thin smile, Pastell replied, “I've done a lot of bad things in my life, Captain. A lot of things that I'm not proud of. Maybe it's good that I get a chance to even the score a little.” Looking Marshall in the eyes, he asked, “Will it work?”

 “It'll work.”

 “Then you have control.”

 Marshall's panel winked on, and he moved to implement the course change he'd programmed up, looking up at the trajectory track on the sensors as the ship's engines roared into life, damaged systems forced into one final, glorious act. Pastell worked the engineering console, struggling to keep the power levels balanced, fighting his counterpart on the bridge as he attempted to thwart their work.

 It would do no good. For Cruz and her people, they'd run out of luck, and run out of time. Red lights flashed on, warning that the ship was on a dangerous course, that it was in danger of imminent destruction as the ship's trajectory dived deeper and deeper into the atmosphere, Marshall frantically decelerating as fast as the damaged engines could manage, carefully firing the thrusters to keep the course steady.

 “Damn,” Pastell said. “They're trying something. Looks like they've got people working the primary engine feed.” He paused, then added, “Desperation. That area's irradiated. Anyone they send in there is as good as dead.”

 “Aren't we all,” Marshall replied. The board died again, engine control broken, but he raised his hands into the air with a smile, “Too late. Even if they managed full thrust, they'll never pull out now.” The engines fired again, one last attempt to raise Waldheim, to increase speed enough to rise back to orbital velocity, but a series of alerts from the outer hull were already warning that the temperature was rising, heading beyond safe limits.

 From the door, the whining noise seemed more urgent, the troopers outside determined to break in, to find some way of saving their lives. On their current course, even the toughest escape pod would never survive re-entry, and there were no shuttles left. The first wave of evacuees had taken them all on their bid to reach the surface.

 “Alamo to Marshall!” the communicator barked, urgently.

 “Marshall here,” he replied, flicking a switch. “Pavel, is our course plot reading as I expected?”

 “Heading for catastrophic re-entry in four minutes, sir. You've got to get out now!”

 “Not a chance,” he said, surprisingly calm. “We've got a lot of angry people outside who are going to stop us getting to an escape pod, and it wouldn't do us any good if we did.”

 “Sir, I can be on a shuttle with a team of volunteers in...”

 “You'd never make it, and you know it. I'm not coming back from this one, Pavel.”

 “You're still recoverable, sir!”

 “No, we're not. Keep Alamo well clear as Waldheim goes in. Make sure that the survivors of this ship are treated according to the rules of war. A lot of them were forced into service. They shouldn't pay for the crimes of their superiors. Will you see to that, Lieutenant?”

 “Aye, sir. Perhaps...”

 “I don't even have attitude control any more,” he replied. “There's nothing I can do, and there's nothing you can do.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “Take care of Deadeye. Make sure Doctor Strickland does everything he can for her, and see that she gets anything she needs.”

 “Aye.”

 “Something for me, Lieutenant,” Pastell said. “Tell Sub-Lieutenant Mortimer that I knew all along, that it never mattered, and that there was a ring in my quarters I'd planned on giving her.”

 “Sub-Lieutenant...”

 “She'll understand.”

 “I see. I'll pass on the message. Captain, you've got about three minutes left.”

 Looking up at the trajectory track, he added, “That's about what I can read here, as well. Pavel, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I didn't formally name you as my Executive Officer when I had the chance. I guess I've just about got time to fix that, at least.”

 “Sir, there's no need...”

 “By my personal authority, I'm hereby granting you a field promotion to Lieutenant-Captain. Alamo is your ship now. Make me a promise, Pavel. Get my crew home.”

 “Sir...”

 “Promise me, Pavel!”

 There was a deep sigh, and Salazar replied, “I will, sir. I swear.”

 “Thank you, Pavel. Happy hunting.” He reached over, flicked a switch, and sat back in his chair. “Good officer. Good man.”

 Glancing at the door, Pastell said, “I don't think we're even going to have three minutes.”

 “Probably not. Any regrets, Major?”

 “Far too many. But as I said, I needed to even the score, and I think I'm doing that today.” Patting his console, he added, “I've been on this ship for six years. I always figured I'd end up commanding her, one of these days, politics be damned. At least she's going out doing something good.”

 “Down there, on the surface,” Marshall said, “They'll see this as a blazing star in the heavens across most of a hemisphere. I just wish I could be there to see it.”

 “You and me both,” Pastell replied. He looked down at his console, and said, “They've managed to retake control. Fast work, better than I expected. I trained those boys well.”

 “Think any of them might make it out?”

 “Probably not.” Turning to Marshall, he added, “Don't worry. I'm pretty sure we got out everyone worth saving. I just hope the people on the surface pay attention to Salazar.”

 “They will,” Marshall said, rising from the helm. “They will.” Smoke curled from the door, and he walked over to it, the heat searing into him. He pulled out his pistol, leveling it at the entrance, and added, “We've got visitors coming. I think we'd better prepare to give them the reception they deserve.”

 “Sounds like a plan,” Pastell said, moving over to stand by his side, pistol in hand. “How many bullets in your clip?”

 “Three. You?”

 “Two. I suppose we could always use them on each other.”

 “Feel free, if you want.”

 With a smile, he replied, “While there's life, there's hope.”

 “I think we're a little beyond that this time.”

 “Maybe.” Turning to Marshall, he said, “Thank you, by the way.”

 “For what?”

 “One last chance at redemption. Somehow I never thought I'd get one.”

 “My pleasure,” Marshall said. “Any second now. Are you ready?”

 “Sure.”

 The door burst open, the hardened alloy twisted and mangled by the intense heat, and a group of guards stormed into the room, rifles at the ready. Marshall fired first, a heartbeat before Pastell, his weapon barking three times in rapid succession as he expended the remnants of his ammunition in a desperate spasm of gunfire. Pastell only got his first shot off before catching a bullet in the chest, his hands desperately clutching at the wound as he fell.

 That was the last thing Marshall saw, as a trio of bullets lanced into him, the dead men charging into the room getting a final measure of vengeance. He collapsed to his knees, sirens blaring all around, the roar of repeated gunfire echoing across the control center. As the darkness engulfed him, he managed to smile. He'd died for his ship, and he died knowing that he'd won. There were worse ways to go.

 “Deadeye,” he muttered, and then spoke no more, the last breath fleeing his body as the light in his eyes faded out.

Chapter 25

 Salazar looked at the screen, his eyes locked on the image of Waldheim sliding deeper into the atmosphere. A few escape pods spilled out as she descended, but they simply added to the fireball as the ship fell to its death, a trail of flame burning its way across the face of the planet while he watched. Nobody on the bridge said a word, all of them transfixed by the final death of their commander, their friend.

 The lights flickered on, someone down in Engineering working a miracle to get at least some of the emergency power working. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a matter for celebration. Instead, it simply illuminated the gloom. Waldheim dropped lower and lower, finally cracking into fragments, a thousand meteors falling to earth, the last remains of a fierce adversary sliding onto the far side of the planet, harmlessly impacting into the ocean.

 “He thought of that,” Salazar whispered. “He even thought of that.”

 “Loss of signal, sir,” Bowman said, unnecessarily. “We're getting some of our long-range communications back. Lots of distress signals out there, from both sides.”

 “Our fighters are coming around the planet,” Ballard added. “They'll have seen it, sir.” She paused, then said, “They're flying in escort formation with the enemy craft.”

 “They must have surrendered,” Francis said, walking over to Salazar. “Orders, sir?”

 “Orders?” he replied, dazed.

 “Sir, I can't imagine what you are going through right now, but we need to know how to proceed next. The situation on the surface will still be extremely volatile, and...”

 Nodding, Salazar interrupted, “Try to raise our team on the planet, Bowman. Harper, you and Fitzroy work on a comprehensive damage report.” Turning to Scott, he added, “Kat, you'd better head down to Engineering and find out how things look from down there. Stress to Chief Santiago that I'm going to need all defensive systems back on like as soon as possible.”

 “I've got some thrusters back, sir,” Quesada said. “Enough to stabilize us.”

 “Do it,” Salazar ordered. “Try to ease us into a parking orbit if you can. Make sure that we're not in any immediate danger of following Waldheim down. We're a little low for my liking.” Looking around the bridge, he said, “We'll mourn later, people. Right now we've still got a potential fight on our hands, and until the enemy forces in this system have surrendered, we are still at battle readiness.”

 “Aye, sir,” a relieved Francis said, moving over to the communications station. “Looks confused as hell down there, sir. Lots of communications traffic coming from Cosmograd. None of it directed at us, not yet.”

 “Sir,” Ballard said, “I'm detecting point heat sources from the city. Lots of them. I'd say there is a battle in progress down there.” Looking back at him, she added, “Everyone on the planet must have seen Waldheim come in. They'll know that the game has changed, and be ready to take advantage of it.”

 “Max, take Tactical,” Salazar said. “See if you can get anything working. Just in case we need to make some sort of demonstration.” With a thin smile on his face, he added, “And not to repeat an old mistake, you can hereby consider yourself Executive Officer.” 

 “Thanks,” he replied. “I think.” Working the controls, he added, “Nothing's functioning. It's still a dead board. Even the targeting systems are out. There isn't much I can do here.”

 “Keep at it,” Salazar said. “Bowman, any progress?”

 “Stand by, sir. I'm having real trouble cutting through the interference. Too much traffic, and we don't...got one. I have Sub-Lieutenant Clarke for you, sir, audio only. Little weak, but I'll try and boost it as much as I can.”

 “Salazar to Clarke,” he said. “Do you read?”

 “Pretty weak, but I read you, sir. What the hell was that?”

 “Waldheim,” Salazar replied. “Captain Marshall rode her down to the deck.”

 “Oh,” the young officer said. “Then...”

 “Yeah.” He paused, then said, “Is there a Sub-Lieutenant Mortimer with you?”

 “Then she...yes, sir.”

 “Put her on. I've got a message for her.”

 A moment later, a confused Mortimer replied, “Yes?”

 “Major Pastell wanted me to tell you something. That he knew all along, that it never mattered, and that there was a ring in his quarters that he was going to give you.”

 “He's dead?”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “He died a hero, Sub-Lieutenant. If it wasn't for him and Captain Marshall, we'd have lost this fight. It might be somewhat irregular, but I want you to know that I intend to put him forward for a posthumous commendation for gallantry.” After a pause, he asked, “You're an officer in the Triplanetary Fleet?” 

 “Yes,” she replied, her voice distant. “Excuse me, sir. I'll put you back to John if I may.”

 “Of course.”

 “Mortimer,” Harper said, thumbing through a datapad. “Got her. No wonder I didn't find her earlier. Someone cued her file to be hidden to everything other than a specific search. Part of a deep cover operation on Waldheim.” Looking at Marshall, she added, “When we get back, and we'll get back, I'm going to have a meeting with the moron in charge of her mission, and only one of us is going to walk out of the room. If we'd known we had an agent on board…”

 “What's done is done,” Salazar said. “Clarke, you on?”

 “Yes, sir. We've secured the mine area, and taken about sixty prisoners. We're in desperate need of medical supplies and personnel, sir. We've got a lot of wounded down here. And when you get a moment, I've got a list of citations for decorations to pass up to you. So does Ensign Rhodes.”

 Looking around the battered bridge, Salazar replied, “It might be a while before we can get anything down to you.” He paused, then added, “There are some shuttles heading down from Waldheim with escaped prisoners on them. Have Frank contact Lieutenant Foster and ask if she can help. Right now that's about the best I can offer.”

 After a moment, Clarke said, “I've passed that on, sir. Is there anything else for me?”

 “Who's the senior captured officer?”

 “We don't actually have one, sir. It'll all be in my after-action report. I've got a Sergeant-Major, but he's pretty badly shot up.”

 “How much damage did you do down there?” Salazar asked. “Never mind. I don't think I want to know. Stand by on this channel, Sub-Lieutenant, and let me know at once if the situation changes. When Lieutenant Foster lands, tell her that I want to speak to her immediately, and that she is to assume overall control of all operations on the surface.”

 “That will be a very great relief, sir. Clarke out.”

 “Anything from Cosmograd?” Salazar asked.

 “Nothing, sir.”

 “It's looking pretty bad down there,” Ballard added. “More fires, and some plasma weapons fire. I can't get good resolution shots, but there must be a substantial firefight in progress.”

 Frowning, Salazar said, “Ballard, do we have any probes in launch position?”

 “Yes, sir, we do. One Type-Five Atmospheric.”

 “Can you fire it towards Cosmograd, close enough that everyone down there will see it? Maybe rig the engine to flare as it flies over the city?”

 “I think so, sir.” She tapped a series of controls, then said, “Launch mechanism is functioning, and I can route guidance directions through our borrowed shuttle without any problems. When do you want me to launch?”

 “Right away. And I want you to patch me through that probe to every receiver in the city, maximum power.”

 Nodding, she replied, “You won't have long to pass your message, sir, and we're not going to be able to receive anything sent back up that way.”

 “I'm aware of that, Spaceman. Just do the best you can.”

 “Aye, sir. Probe away. Signal range in three minutes.”

 “What are you going to tell them?” Francis asked.

 “Surrender or die,” he replied.

 His eyes wide, Francis said, “We don't have anything to back that up with.”

 “The garrison's command ship just smashed into the ocean. They probably don't know the details, and they certainly don't know how much damage we've suffered.”

 “And if they call the bluff?” Quesada asked.

 “Let's just hope it doesn't come to that,” Salazar said. He looked at the command chair, empty at the heart of the bridge. His now. He'd never felt so terrified about anything in his life. More than a hundred people were his responsibility now, and countless more lives on the surface. And there was no senior officer to turn to, no Admiralty to issue instructions. Alamo was on her own as no starship had been in all of history, and whether he and his crew lived or died was now down to him. He walked over to the chair with three precise steps, looking down at it.

 “Try it for size,” Harper said, quietly. “Because no matter what happens next, it's now your chair. Captain.”

 The word stabbed him like a knife, and he looked over at her, saying, “I never wanted it. Not this way. Not...”

 “I know,” she said. “I know. But like it or not, it's yours.” She looked up at him, and in a gentle voice, added, “It's what he wanted.”

 Nodding, he finally sat in the seat, in his seat, stretching out his arms on the rests. He looked around the bridge, watching as his crew worked at their posts, struggling to bring the systems back on-line. Captain Marshall had given his life to bring this little war to an end. All he had to do was finish the job.

 “Ready in twenty seconds, sir,” Bowman said. “You'll have fifty-one seconds before the probe impacts.”

 “Where are you putting it?” Salazar asked, turning to the sensor station.

 “There's a nice ornamental park in the middle of town, sir,” Ballard replied. “I figure that should leave a lasting impression. They can send me the bill if they want.”

 Tapping a control, Salazar thought for a moment, then began, “This is Lieutenant-Captain Pavel Salazar, of the Battlecruiser Alamo.” The words were strange in his mouth, and he continued, “We have destroyed Waldheim, and taken the archaeological mine. In the name of the Triplanetary Confederation, I hereby order an immediate ceasefire. Triplanetary personnel will arrive in Cosmograd shortly to commence peacekeeping operations. Martial law is declared, in the name of the Democratic Underground.” He struggled to remember the details of Clarke's brief report, and added, “Captain Mikhail Webster is hereby named as planetary governor pro tem.”

 “Understand this. The ceasefire takes effect as of now. If anyone breaks it, they will answer to Alamo's firepower. I will do whatever is necessary to protect the peace. No prisoners are to be harmed, or those responsible will answer to me. The rules of the Fifth Geneva Convention now apply. The war is over, people. Go home. See to your wounded, see to your families. Alamo out.”

 “Just about perfect, sir,” Ballard said. “The probe impacted on target. There was a nice crowd close by, so they'll have a got a good look at what passes for our firepower.”

 “Now we just have to wait,” Harper said. “Any sign of activity from the planet?”

 “Hard to tell, ma'am,” the technician replied. “There must be a couple of hundred fires raging in Cosmograd. I don't think there have been any more plasma bursts, though.” She paused, then said, “We'll be passing out of line of sight in three minutes. After that...”

 “Signal, sir!” Bowman said. “Tight-beam, right to us. Colonel Volkova, sir.”

 “I knew she'd turned traitor,” Francis said, “but if she's in command of their forces in Cosmograd...”

 “They usually use local quislings when they can,” Harper replied. “Usual occupation strategy. Hell, we just did the same thing with Captain Webster.”

 “Volkova, this is Captain Salazar.”

 “A field promotion?” she asked. “Or were you always hiding a secret?”

 “I don't think we need to worry about that right now, do you?”

 “Perhaps not,” she said. “Captain, I am willing to agree to your terms, on the condition that you provide your personal guarantee that the troops under my command will be protected, and that anyone who harms them after the ceasefire will face suitable punishment.”

 “You have my word as an officer in the Triplanetary Fleet,” he replied. “I suggest you move into a single area, and prepare for the arrival of my people. I can have a shuttle with you in ten minutes.” He paused, then added, “This offer doesn't protect you from a war crimes tribunal, Colonel. I trust you understand that.”

 “I expect to die for what I have done, Captain. That I was acting in the best interests of my people won't make a difference when that day dawns. Nevertheless, I retain a responsibility to protect those under my command as best I can. I'm ordering the ceasefire now.”

 “Thank you, Colonel. And for what it's worth, I would do the same in your place.”

 “I thought as much. Cosmograd out.”

 “Wait a minute,” Fitzroy said. “Did we just win?”

 “We did,” Salazar replied. “The war's over. Max, contact Rhodes. I want him to get a squad to Cosmograd right away, and to place Colonel Volkova under arrest. She and the rest of the prisoners are to be moved to a secure location and placed under guard until the reestablished civilian government can deal with them. Harper, start handling damage control. Max, you have the deck.” Rising to his feet, he said, “I'll be in the...in my office.”

 “Very good, sir,” Francis said, moving back to the communications station.

 Salazar walked calmly from the bridge, through the door into the office, then looked up at the wall. Four holoimages looked down at him, a collection of captured memories from Captain Marshall's past. He stepped behind the desk, sat down, put his head in his hands, and quietly wept. He had a few moments to mourn, before he had to be strong for his crew once again.

Epilogue

 A vast crowd had gathered in the renamed Pastell Memorial Garden, almost the entire crew of Alamo and thousands of the local population assembled before the hastily constructed stand. Salazar, wearing his uncomfortable, and new, dress uniform walked over to the rostrum, Harper flashing him a quick smile as he began.

 “We are assembled here today to pay our last respects to Fleet Captain Daniel Marshall. To me, he was far more than my commanding officer. He was my mentor, the man who helped make me what I am today. He was my friend, a man to whom I could turn with my troubles, personal or professional. He was my shipmate, a man upon whom I could always depend, even to the end. And so, in this case, did it prove.”

 Running his eyes across the ranks of his comrades, he continued, “Captain Marshall's career was a monument to dedication, to duty, to honor, to sacrifice. And he leaves a legacy that will shine across the stars for a thousand years, testament to his bravery. When called upon to make the final sacrifice, to give his life for his crew, and for everyone on this planet, he didn't hesitate, not for a second. His instinct was to protect and defend others, and he willingly devoted himself to that cause throughout his entire career.”

 “We are all richer for having known him, and we are poorer for his loss. His memory, and his legacy, will continue to guide us and inspire us in the years to come. We have no body to commit to the earth, but he needs no monument. The world he saved is his monument, from now until the end of time. I now call for a moment's silence.”

 He took a deep breath, and looked down at the podium, his mind flashing over the events of the last few weeks. Gathering the former crew of Waldheim, and trying to work out who had chosen life in the Fleet and who had been forced into service, while protecting them from the wrath of a justifiably angry population hungry for vengeance.

 And up on Alamo, struggling to repair the ship while installing an orbital defense network, security to ensure that the planet would never again sit defenseless against a hostile galaxy. They'd had to make a start on a new space station just to get Alamo working again, most of the crew forced from the ship for days while Santiago and her team forged a miracle.

 Now, three weeks later, they were ready to depart once again, to resume their journey through the unknown stars of Andromeda. Carpenter had looked through the ruins, judged that the original assessment had been correct. It would be years before anything useful could be salvaged. A dead-end in the search for the lost wormhole builders.

 He glanced across at the senior staff, all but Santiago down here on the planet to pay their last respects, all resplendent in their dress uniforms, many with hasty promotions. Foster moved up to Acting Senior Lieutenant, Scott finally getting her long-overdue promotion to full Lieutenant, and Lombardo receiving the same bump in rank. And the enigmatic Mortimer, looking odd in Triplanetary uniform, standing close to Clarke at the end of the rostrum, as though seeking the only familiar part of a strange and hostile universe.

 Glancing down at the shining rank pins on his uniform, he could understand that. Lieutenant-Captain. A rank he hadn't expected to attain for years, maybe a decade. Though almost appropriate, given his predecessor. Daniel Marshall, at twenty-four, had attained the equivalent rank in the old Martian Space Service. Two years younger than he was now.

 The moment was over.

 “Thank you all,” he said. “Dismissed.”

 A band struck up the familiar strains of the Triplanetary anthem, the black-and-green flag rising to the sky, fluttering in the breeze, while Alamo's company snapped to attention before making for the waiting shuttles gathered all around, preparing to depart for their next target. An obscure brown dwarf, only a few burned-out old rocks gathered around it, but a step on the road to the next spot on the starfield they had discovered on Dante.

 As the crowd slowly began to disperse, Webster walked over to him, wearing a modified Triplanetary uniform for what would be the last time. Strickland and his surgical team had found the time to work a minor miracle on his face, repairing most of the scarring inflicted by the plasma burn, but still the wound seemed to be there, as though permanently burned into his soul.

 “He'll not be forgotten, Captain,” Webster said. “Not while this colony lasts. We've already decided to name our new station in his honor.”

 “Thank you, Chairman,” Salazar replied. “I'm sure he would have appreciated that. And congratulations on your appointment, by the way. I know you'll do your people proud.”

 “The truth of the matter was that nobody else wanted the job,” he said. “We've got a lot to do, and our resources are stretched thinner than ever.” He paused, then asked, “Have you reconsidered our offer?”

 “Don't think we aren't grateful, but we can't stay here. My crew want to go home, and they deserve the right to make the attempt.”

 “This could become your home very easily, Captain. With the help of Alamo and her crew, we'd have starships of our own in five years. It wouldn't be giving up on returning to your galaxy, only postponing it for a while, proceeding from a better base of operations.” He smiled, shook his head, and added, “It isn't going to work, is it?”

 “No. But as I said, we very much appreciate the offer.” Looking up at the sky, he continued, “You don't need us as much as you think. Within a year, Marshall Station will be fully operational, and in ten years, you will have starships of your own. We're leaving you most of Waldheim's shuttles, and that more than makes up for your ship losses. And as long as you are careful, her crew will give you all the help you need.”

 “Don't worry, I remember our agreement,” he said. “That's just one more job nobody else wanted. There will be formal trials, and the death sentence only for those who truly deserve it. With Volkova at the top of the list.” He grimaced, and asked, “How can you know someone for decades, and never truly know them? She was a hero.”

 “You never really know how you will react in a situation like that until and unless it happens to you. Put yourself in her position. Stranded on a half-built outpost, knowing that nobody is coming to help you, that you have limited supplies and will face constant attack.”

 “That would more than excuse surrender, Captain. Not treachery.”

 “I can't argue with that.”

 Looking out at the crowd, Webster said, “You and your crew made a hell of a difference here. You'll always be welcome.”

 “We might take you up on that,” Salazar replied. “Don't think that you've seen the last of us. If we do pioneer a safe route back to the Milky Way, then we won't be the only Triplanetary ship sent out here. Your world will be the first stop on the greatest trade route in history. I might even come back out here myself someday.”

 “I hope so,” Webster said, offering his hand. “May you get to where you're going. Wherever that ends up being.”

 “Thank you, Chairman,” Salazar said, shaking the proffered hand. “Good luck.” He walked over to Clarke and Mortimer, looking at the latter, saying, “I take it that you've decided to rejoin the Fleet on a formal basis.”

 “I have, sir,” she said, glancing at the memorial plaque she had sealed into position at the dedication of the park. “There's nothing holding me here now, and my presence among my former crew would only provide unnecessary complications. I think it's better for all concerned that I leave.”

 “Well, Alamo needs a new Weapons Officer, and I believe you'd be a good choice for the job.”

 “Thank you, sir,” she said, still subdued.

 “Now, as for you, Sub-Lieutenant,” Salazar continued, turning to Clarke.

 “Still Sub-Lieutenant?” he asked. “I assumed the rank would revert, given the circumstances.” 

 “Hell no,” Salazar said. “If Captain Marshall hadn't commissioned you, I would have. Take a good look around, kid. An awful lot of this is because of you. We're still alive because of what you did back on Dante.”

 “I just did what I had to do, sir.”

 “Sometimes that's the hardest thing of all.” With a smile, he continued, “I'm going to need a new Security Officer. I can't think of anyone better qualified for that job than you.”

 “A department head, sir? I'm only...”

 “You're a good officer. A little young, but you'll grow out of it. I have faith in you, Sub-Lieutenant. All you need is to have a little faith in yourself. I know you'll do well.”

 “I won't let you down, sir.”

 “I know that.” Gesturing towards the landing field, he added, “You'd better get to the shuttle.”

 “Aye, Captain.”

 Even after three weeks, the rank still sometimes felt like a slap in the face.

 “Dismissed.”

 Clarke and Mortimer snapped a salute, and Harper walked over to him, placing her arm through his, saying, “It still hurts, doesn't it.”

 “I think it always will. I feel like an impostor.”

 “You're not. That talk you just had with Clarke? Maybe you should try having it with yourself as well. The crew like you, they trust you, they respect you. That's half the battle won, right there. If they got to make a choice, they'd choose you. Besides, neither Max nor I want the damn job. You're stuck with it.” 

 He turned to her with a smile, and replied, “I guess I'd better just settled down to suffering, then.” With a sigh, he added, “I've got some big shoes to fill.”

 “You'll find a way. You always do. Just look around for proof of that.”

 “No,” he replied. “This was Captain Marshall's victory, not mine.” Looking across the field, as the last of his crew filed into the shuttles, he added, “Let's go home.”

 “Home?”

 “It'll do until we get back to our real one.”

Thank you for reading 'Spell of the Stars'. For information on future releases, please join the Battlecruiser Alamo 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 Battlecruiser Alamo: Shadows in the Sky, available soon…