Книга: Vault of Eternity

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

VAULT OF ETERNITY

Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 24

Richard Tongue

Battlecruiser Alamo #24: Vault of Eternity

Copyright © 2017 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

First Kindle Edition: March 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}

Prologue

 Lieutenant Pavel Salazar looked up at the sun-weathered face staring down at him, eyes widening from recognition. Tossed through a wormhole into an unknown star system, the last thing he had expected to see was a familiar face, still less that of an old friend. She stood in the shade of the monolithic distress beacon, a smile on her face.

 “Val?” he said. “Val Foster?”

 “Come on, Pavel, it hasn't been that long,” she replied. Reaching across to the beacon control panel, she tapped in a ten-digit sequence, and all the lights went dark. “Can you walk?”

 “Sure, but why?” he asked, looking around the wasteland. “I don't see anyone else around here. And shouldn't you be leaving the beacon on? There might be friends in the system.”

 A frown crossed her face, and she replied, “You came through the wormhole in a starship?”

 He shook his head, gesturing back across the dunes, and said, “In a fighter. Which I smashed up on landing, maybe a mile away. Even the distress beacon doesn't seem to be working any more. Maybe we should...”

 “Damn,” she said, reaching down with a hand. “My flyer's parked a quarter-mile away. Nearest rocky outcrop I could find, and I didn't know I was going to be picking up anyone. We've got to move, and quickly.” Looking nervously around, she added, “We're not alone down here, and I suspect someone's turned off your beacon. I'm just glad they went there first.”

 Rising immediately to his feet, Salazar drew his pistol, following Foster out of the shadow into the burning sunlight, the white-hot star blazing down on them. Foster was wearing obviously-improvised desert survival gear, flowing robes that had originally been a survival blanket, and a weathered hat on her head. Salazar was still wearing his normal uniform, though he'd long since ditched his flight jacket, and was feeling the full force of the heat.

 “It isn't far,” Foster said. “We can talk on the way. We've got a base about thirty miles from here, and enough defenses that we shouldn't have to worry about our friends for a while.” With a wry smile, she added, “We had a wrecked fighter of our own. Which we turned into an anti-aircraft platform. I just hope it works as designed.”

 “Base?” Salazar asked. “Val, why don't you go ahead and pretend I don't know anything. The last thing I knew, I was flying into some sort of gravitational anomaly, and when I came around, I was on final approach to this planet, with most of my systems knocked out.”

 Turning to him, she replied, “You aren't part of a rescue party?”

 “I don't know,” he said. “Alamo...”

 “They sent Alamo after us?”

 “In a manner of speaking. She was on the far side of the anomaly when I fell through, and I damn well hope that she managed to stay clear.” A smile crossed his face, and he added, “If I did my job right back there, then I've guaranteed that we don't have any help on the way.”

 Foster turned, began to speak, but stopped and pointed at a trio of figures on the horizon, heading their way. “UN troopers. Damn. Those bastards move fast.”

 “From Waldheim?” Salazar asked, panting in the heat as he sped from a walk to a jog. “She fell through three days before we did. I was wondering if they'd show up.”

 “I don't know who they are, but the timing works about right,” Foster said. “Actually, we don't know much more about the situation than you do.” Moving into the lead, she led Salazar around a dune, and added, “I think we might have to wait a little for the full briefing. Unless you can magic up some Espatiers or a way up to a nice cool starship...”

 “Not today, I'm afraid,” he said, speeding once more and instantly regretting it, sweat running down the back of his neck. “Is it always this hot?”

 “No. It gets hotter,” Foster said, shaking her head. She gestured at a sleek, silver shape ahead, a Triplanetary flyer poised on the desert floor, a single figure waving at their approach. “It's fine, he's one of ours. Sub-Lieutenant Quesada, our erstwhile helmsman.”

 A loud crack echoed from the dunes, a thin plume of dust rising to the air by their side, and the two of them dived to the ground on instinct, turning back to see one of their pursuers in firing position, the others continuing to approach. Salazar glanced at Foster, then at the waiting flyer, still at least a hundred meters away, and over flat, smooth terrain. Target practice for even the least adept sniper.

 “We're not going to make it like this,” he said, shaking his head. “I think we're going to have to turn this one around. Tell me that you're armed.”

 “Only half a magazine, though,” she replied, pulling out a pistol. “We don't have a fabricator, and there wasn't time to salvage much from the ship.”

 “Beautiful,” Salazar said. He looked down at the communicator still tucked in his belt, then tugged it free, sweeping the channels in desperate hope. “Lieutenant Salazar to any Triplanetary ship. Lieutenant Salazar to any Triplanetary ship. Come in, please.”

 “I thought...”

 “A man can dream, can't he?” Salazar replied, as the two figures ducked low, rifles slung and ready in their hands. They were moving from dune to dune, keeping out of his line of sight, knowing that their prey was waiting in ambush for them. United Nations Marshals, elite ground forces that were the counterpart of their own Espatiers. With rifles that far surpassed their service revolvers, both in range and accuracy.

 “Time for a good idea, Pavel,” Foster said, as a salvo of bullets slammed into the sand ahead of them, the distant trooper trying to keep them pinned down. “You can bet they've got friends on the way.” Crouching deeper into cover, she continued, “At least we know they want us alive. We'd be dead by now if they didn't.”

 Lining up his revolver, Salazar said, “In about a minute, you're going to get one chance to get them. Make it count.” A smile curled at his lips, and he added, “I just hope you're still a better shot than I am.”

 “I haven't had much time on the range lately,” she replied, matching his smile, “but I think I can take these two bastards down. I'd tell you not to do anything stupid...”

 Salazar jumped to his feet, firing a trio of wild shots before hurling himself to the side, attracting two bursts of automatic fire all around him, the lead Marshal breaking cover to take a better shot, leaving himself open to a precisely-target bullet from Foster, catching him in the shoulder and sending him crashing to the desert floor, blood spilling onto the sand.

 The second, momentarily distracted by the death of his comrade, turned back to Salazar with eyes filled with rage, a fury that overrode his common sense as he charged forward, firing a trio of shots, one of them close enough that Salazar felt a brief breath of wind by the side of his face. The fourth bullet would have killed him, but Foster didn't give the gunman a chance to make it, bringing him down with a shot to the side of his neck, sending a crimson shower spraying from a ruptured artery. Salazar looked up, and saw the third figure moving forward, heading for new cover, realizing that they had underestimated their opponent.

 “Come on,” Foster said, running for the flyer. “We've got one chance, and we've got to take it!” Salazar nodded, sprinting after her towards the safety of the vehicle, hearing a series of low, rumbling whines as Quesada started the engine, sliding into the cockpit to prepare for pre-flight. As they approached the sleek ship, Salazar had his first chance for a proper look, and nodded in approval at what he saw. Nothing like this was found on a starship, and someone with skill had torn down a transfer shuttle to build this ship. The pilot in him longed for a chance to take the controls, but Quesada was already sitting in the pilot's seat, and there was no time for him to swap places.

 Foster tumbled into the rear compartment, two seats next to each other with rudimentary control panels on either side, and Salazar moved in after her, strapping himself down as the engine's low whine grew in intensity, the ship shaking from the force of the powerful booster. Quesada, a young man with a neatly-trimmed mustache, wearing the same deep tan as Foster from his time on the surface, flashed him a grin as Salazar sealed the hatch.

 “All systems go, sir,” Quesada said. “Hang on to something. This is going to be fun.”

 “I've got Flight Engineering,” Foster added. “You're on Tactical, Pavel. We've got two missiles, one slung under each wing. Just modified probes, but they've got enough of a warhead to pack a pretty good punch.”

 “Takeoff,” Quesada said, and a pair of lateral thrusters fired, hurling the flyer into the air with enough force to push Salazar back in his couch. He reached up to his control panel, bringing the tactical systems online, and his smile instantly turned into a frown as the sensor display flashed into life.

 “Bandit approaching, south-south-east, estimate thirty-two miles, closing fast,” he said. “Looks like a modified Javelin Two, rigged for atmospheric flight. Quick and nasty.”

 “We'll show them a clean pair of heels,” Quesada said, throwing the throttle to full-open, the flyer roaring over the desert dunes towards their destination. Behind them, the enemy fighter was still gaining speed, closing into attack formation, and Salazar tapped controls to bring the missiles online, setting for defensive fire. He frowned as he struggled with the unfamiliar systems, glancing across at Foster, who shrugged in response.

 “Some of this is Republic tech. Long story,” she said. “It's going to be close, Pavel.”

 “Close, hell,” he replied. “Quesada, turn her about. I want a shot at that bastard.”

 “Wait a minute,” Quesada said.

 “Do it, Sub-Lieutenant. Right now we've got a bead on this guy. We take him out, or we face a missile attack on our base. From here, if we have to, we can walk.”

 “Bring her around,” Quesada replied, doubt laced in his voice, and Salazar brought up the targeting display, smiling as the enemy fighter slowed, their opponent now uncertain of their intentions, trying to play it safe. “Interception in one minute, nine seconds.”

 “Coming into firing range,” Foster said, leaning over Salazar's shoulder.

 “Taking her down low,” Quesada added, dipping the flyer down, the dunes below almost close enough to touch as the skilled pilot hugged the terrain. Salazar frowned as he concentrated on his controls, waiting for the opportunity he was looking for. Finally, he found it, tapping a button to send the two missiles racing for their target, homing in on the enemy fighter.

 “Run for home, Quesada!” Salazar said. “Let's get out of here.”

 The missiles raced towards the fighter, and the enemy pilot quickly dropped his own warheads in an attempt to knock them out of the sky. In space, that would have worked, but in atmosphere, Salazar had a host of other tricks to play with, learned with long experience, and he carefully guided his missiles towards their goal, swinging them around the enemy salvo at the last second, leaving them to harmlessly explode. The enemy fighter was racing for safety, recklessly spending his fuel, but it couldn't be enough, and the end result was inevitable and swift, a flash of light briefly filling the sky.

 “Not bad,” Salazar said with a smile. “Not bad at all.”

 “Running a little low on fuel,” Quesada replied, “but we should be fine. Nice shooting.”

 “Nice flying,” Salazar replied. Leaning to the viewport, he saw a low dome slung ahead, a pair of missile emplacements positioned on either side. “That where we going?”

 “Dante Base,” Foster said, as Quesada gently guided the fighter into position. “Our little home away from home. And as far as we can work out, the furthest outpost of the Triplanetary Confederation.” Tapping a switch, she added, “Clear for landing, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 “Coming in now,” Quesada said, settling the flyer down on a patch of exposed rock. A trio of figures raced from the dome towards them as the dust settled, a tall, stout woman wearing a battered jumpsuit leading the way. Quesada's face fell as the hatch slammed open, the woman looking inside with a scowl.

 “If you've damaged my flyer, kid, I'll take it out of your hide!”

 Trying to suppress a smile, Foster said, “Allow me to introduce our commander, Senior Lieutenant Mariana Santiago. Chief, this is Lieutenant Pavel Salazar, latterly of the Battlecruiser Alamo.”

 “Great. Another crazy flyboy. We've got too many of them around here as it is,” Santiago said.

 Looking around, Salazar said, “Now that we're here, could someone tell me exactly where here is?”

 Santiago and Foster looked at each other, and the latter replied, “I'm afraid we don't have a clue.”

Chapter 1

 Fleet Captain Daniel Marshall leaned over the sensor display, looking down at the technician as he worked the controls, struggling to make sense of the readings that were beginning to come in. A low rumble of conversation hummed in the background as Senior Lieutenant Francis, Alamo's Operations Officer, struggled to piece together a damage report from the lower decks, the frustration showing in his increasingly impatient demands.

  Turning to the viewscreen, Marshall looked at the star centered in the display, a huge blue-white orb unlike anything he had ever seen before. Unlike anything in known space. Wherever the wormhole had taken them, it had certainly thrown them into unexplored territory, and the computers were struggling to put together a position report. The rough passage had knocked out most of the long-range sensors and the communications pickups, making an already difficult task nearly impossible. The elevator doors slid open, and Lieutenant Kristen Harper, nominally Alamo's Intelligence Officer, walked onto the bridge, clutching a datapad in her hands.

 “Well?” Francis barked.

 “I finally found Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo down by the rear thruster tanks,” she said. “Once I broke it to him that he was Acting Systems Officer, he headed over to Astrogation to try and get the primary sensors online.” Shaking her head, she said, “They're shorthanded down there, Captain. The top two officers dead.”

 “I'll head down there,” Lieutenant-Captain Caine, Alamo's Executive Officer, said, rising from the tactical station.

 “No,” Marshall said. “Unless we're missing something critical, this ship is fit to fight, and there's a good chance that we've got an enemy ship flying around out there. I need you at the weapons.” Turning to the communications console, he asked, “Page Sub-Lieutenant Scott, and have her head down to help Lombardo. All the off-duty midshipmen, as well. Time they got some real on-the-job training.”

 “Aye, sir,” the technician replied. “I still can't pick up anything from outside, sir, and I'm listening on all channels. Though until we get the primary antenna complex back online, that doesn't mean very much, I'm afraid.” Looking down at his controls with a grimace, he added, “Definitely no background noise, though. Which means no civilized system for a long, long way.”

 “Define that, Spaceman,” Francis asked.

 “Twenty, thirty light-years, sir. Wherever we are, we're on our own.”

 “And where is that, Ballard?” Marshall asked, turning back to the sensor display.

 The technician looked up, eyes on the verge of hysteria, and replied, “I don't know, sir. I can't find any of our usual celestial landmarks, and the computer's not giving me any sensible projections.” Tapping a sequence of controls, she added, “This system doesn't match anything in our database, either.”

 “No landmarks at all?”

 “Nothing, sir. No Polaris, Canopus, nothing. None of our usual triangulation stars.” She paused, then added, “I'm trying a fix with quasars, but that's not going to be very accurate.”

 “That's putting it mildly!” Caine said. “You'll be lucky to narrow it down to within a hundred light-years, Spaceman. That could put us anywhere in explored space.”

 “We're not in explored space, ma'am,” Ballard said. She looked up at Marshall again, and said, “I'll have some calculations ready in a few minutes, sir. I want to make absolutely certain of my readings before I make a report. You'll understand why then, Captain.”

 “As soon as possible, Spaceman,” Marshall pressed. “And I want a full report of everything in the system as soon as our sensor pickups are operational.” Turning to the engineering panel, he asked, “Any estimates on that, Fitzroy?”

 “Two to three hours, sir, before we're back to full definition,” the engineer said. “I've got teams on the hull right now, but it's slow, painstaking work. Nothing we can't handle, but it's going to have to take as long as it takes, I'm afraid. Once they're fitted, they've got to be calibrated, and that takes a good eighty minutes right there.” Anticipating the next question, he continued, “And I've already shortened the process as much as I dare, Captain.”

 “Do what you can, Spaceman,” he replied, turning back to the viewscreen. The little sensor data they had was gradually building up an image of local space, dominated by a desert world surrounded by a cluster of moons, dozens of them on a wide range of orbits, enough to generate a score of hendecaspace egress points, and produce hundreds of sensor blind spots. This would be a lousy planet to attempt to defend, and under normal circumstances, he'd have been on his way out of the area at once.

 Circumstances were far from normal. Less than half an hour ago, his ship had passed through a wormhole into an unknown region of space, and from everything they could tell, it was a one-way trip. Certainly there was no evidence of a wormhole terminus in this system, and they'd fired a dozen probes back the way they had come to no effect.

 Marshall looked at the starfield, unfamiliar constellations ahead. The principles of celestial navigation dated back to the early days of spaceflight, reliant on the triangulation of a series of stars to fix their position down to the meter. Usually, it was a matter of simplicity, a training exercise that formed a part of basic training. A first-year cadet should be able to handle it, even with only limited equipment, but Ballard was being painstakingly careful with her analysis.

 “I've finally coaxed out a damage report, Captain,” Francis said. “Good news, mostly. No damage to the reactor or the engines, and all weapons systems appear to be intact. The only damage was to the ship's outer areas, and that seems superficial. The worst of it was from the knife fight Midshipman Clarke took part in, between the decks, and we've got a work crew in there right now.”

 “Any estimates?”

 “Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo reports that he should have the ship back to full operation in six hours, but requests permission to conduct full stress tests on the hull before we attempt to enter hendecaspace. We're not sure what sort of effect passage through the wormhole might have had.” Stepping to the helm, he added, “Nice flying, by the way, Midshipman.”

 “Thank you, sir,” the duty helmsman replied. Marshall looked at the young officer-in-training, wondering what was running through his mind. This was something outside anyone's experience, the exploration of a star system without any previous information. No long-range astronomic data, no gravitational charts, nothing. They were going back to the earliest days of interstellar exploration, and the catastrophic losses of those early expeditions kept running through his mind.

 Of more immediate concern was UNSS Kurt Waldheim. The Dreadnought had preceded them through the wormhole, with enough of a head-start to allow them to take a strategic position somewhere here, watching and waiting to see what Alamo's first move would be. If they'd been in a normal orbital track, they'd have spotted them instantly, even with their limited sensor capabilities. Which meant they were hiding somewhere, and that didn't bode well for the future.

 “Anything from the planet?” Marshall asked.

 Caine looked up from her readouts, and said, “Breathable atmosphere, gravity a little heavy, hot as hell. Not a good place to visit unless you like endless wastelands.” She paused, then added, “You're thinking about Pavel, aren't you.”

 “He's out there somewhere, Deadeye.”

 “Assuming he survived the passage.”

 “If he did,” Marshall pressed, “then he'd want to set down as fast as he could. A world with breathable air, no matter how inhospitable in other ways, would give him time to think of something else, or wait for a rescue attempt.”

 Bowman turned from the communications station, and said, “We're not picking up any beacon signals, sir, and we've been monitoring all channels since our arrival.”

 “With a United Nations Dreadnought in the area, he might not turn on his beacon unless he knew there were friends in the system,” Harper replied. “We're going to have the make the first move on that. Request permission to take a shuttle for a closer look.”

 Shaking his head, Marshall said, “Not until the ship is back to full fighting trim, Lieutenant, but as soon as it is, I'll be taking Alamo into close orbit.” He frowned, then added, “Unless we can find some other way to get home.”

 “Good God,” Ballard said, her face pale, hands trembling. “I thought I must have made a mistake. That there was an error somewhere in my calculations, something basic I'd messed up.” She looked up, tears in her eyes, and added, “I was going to get married in nine months. I'm never going to see him again.”

 “Hold it together, Spaceman,” Francis said, moving over to the sensor controls. “And have a little faith. No matter how bad it seems, we'll find a way out of it. A way back.”

 “No!” she yelled. “No, we won't!” Taking a deep breath, she continued, “I've completed the system checks, and run all the calculations ten times. I'm certain, to within a hundred and twenty light-years. Which given the circumstances, is more than good enough.”

 “Spaceman,” Marshall said, keeping his voice soft, “Where are we?”

 “As best I can work out, sir, we're on the far side of Andromeda.”

 Silence reigned across the bridge, all eyes on Ballard, and Marshall asked the question on everyone's minds. “Are you sure?”

 She nodded, and said, “As far as I can determine, Captain, we're a little under four hundred thousand light-years from home. With an intergalactic void in between us and the Confederation. Even if we could trace a route back, it would take centuries, millennia to traverse such a gap.”

 “Four hundred thousand light-years,” Caine muttered. “It's inconceivable.

 Marshall looked around the bridge, then said, “The wormhole, Spaceman?”

 “If it's still there, sir, then I can't find any trace of it, and none of our probes have passed through. Our sensors aren't working well enough for me to make any better determination yet, but that doesn't seem to be set to change in the near future. I don't know much about the theory, but if you want a guess, I'd say it was one-way.”

 “Never mind the theory,” Francis said. “We just got more practical experience than anyone would ever want to have.” He paused, then said, “Maybe...”

 “Spaceman Bowman,” Marshall said, “are the internal communications working?”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Then please connect me through to the entire ship, and alert all hands to stand by for a special announcement from the Captain.”

 “Aye, aye, sir,” Bowman replied.

 “Danny,” Caine warned, “you can't tell the crew, not yet. Not until we know more, or until we have a chance to work out...”

 “One look out of a viewport will let them know that we're a hell of a long way from home, Deadeye, and how long do you think we're going to be able to keep this a secret? The calculations are simple enough, and I'd bet my next month's pay that lower decks already know that we've gone astray. They already know most of it, and all it takes is one sensor technician to put the pieces together, and we'll have a panic on our hands.” Turning to Bowman, he continued, “Well?”

 “You're on, sir.”

 Sliding on a headset, Marshall said, “This is the Captain. As you all know, this ship has passed through a wormhole, a gateway connecting two parts of the universe, potentially, distant parts. We have sustained light damage, and will be at full operational readiness shortly.” He paused and looked around the bridge, trying to find the words.

 “Our best projections indicate that we have completed a journey far longer than any taken in the history of spaceflight. Although we have yet to perfectly fix our position, our calculations put us four hundred thousand light-years from home. On the far side of the Andromeda Galaxy.” He paused again, unable to quite comprehend the words he was saying. “Far beyond the range of our hendecaspace drive. Therefore, we will be unable to effect a return to the Confederation under normal propulsion.”

 “Nevertheless, Alamo is in good condition, has recently completed a refit, and is more than a match for anything in this part of space. Our life support systems and power network are fully operational, and we have sustained no serious damage. We are in no, repeat, no imminent danger, and one way or another, we will find a way to get home. Have courage, have faith, and have hope. Bridge out.” Turning to Francis, he added, “You'd better get in contact with Doctor Strickland. Tell him I'll have no objection to any sedatives he hands out tonight. And tell the department heads that I won't be watching attendance too heavily for a day or two, and to use their judgment regarding personnel.”

 “I'd keep everyone busy, sir, stop them from having time to think,” Francis replied.

 “Agreed,” Harper said. “There's a Dreadnought out there somewhere, and no diplomatic ties to hold them back from an attack.”

 “I doubt General Estrada…,” Marshall began.

 “He probably wouldn't launch an unprovoked attack, but Colonel Cruz probably would, and if it's the only way to get home, who knows how far they'd go.” She paused, then said, “Recommend we proceed to full alert condition.”

 “Very well,” Marshall said. “Deadeye, stand the crew to alert stations.” Looking at the officers, he continued, “Short-term palliatives are one thing, ladies and gentlemen, but we may have to face the reality that we're going to be stuck here for some time. Lieutenant Francis, as soon as the dust starts to settle, I want a full report on Alamo's capability for long-term flight. Plan for the worst-case scenario, and let me know what our options are.”

 “Aye, sir,” Francis said, nodding. “We've got all the reports from the refit, and we've only been out of dock for a couple of weeks, so I suspect I can draw everything together quite quickly. I'll touch base with Chief Kowalski and have something on your desk in twenty-four hours, even if it is just a preliminary estimate.”

 “Does it matter?” Ballard said. “We're not going home, so all we can do is find some planet to settle. And know that we'll die without anyone back on Mars knowing what happened to us.”

 “Enough of that talk, Spaceman!” Marshall said. “In this Fleet, we don't accept that anyone is dead until we've seen the body. We found a way to get here. There will be a way to get back. Out there, somewhere, is another wormhole that will take us home. Or some other propulsion system that provides the same options.” Looking around the bridge, he continued, “It might take longer than we had anticipated, but one way or another, we will make a return to Confederation space. I want that clearly understood, and as bridge personnel, I expect you to set an example to the rest of the crew. Assuming you wish to remain at your posts. You read me, Ballard?”

 “Aye, sir,” she said, her eyes still laden with doubt. “I'm sorry, sir.”

 Nodding, Marshall walked over to her, placed his hand on her shoulder, and replied, “It's fine to be scared, Spaceman. We're all scared. You just have to learn to master your fears, don't let them control you. And have a little faith. There are some damn smart people on this ship.”

 “Danny,” Caine said, turning from her station. “I think I've got something. Coming from the nearest moon.” She tapped a series of controls, and added, “Blind luck that was one of the first sensor pickups to come back up. I'm picking up what looks like a ship on the surface.” She paused, then said, “It's Pioneer, Danny. Or at least, a Mariner-class scoutship, but I don't know of another one in this part of space.”

 “No beacon signal?” he asked.

 “Nothing. Which means that they're doing their best to keep concealed.” Flicking a switch, she added, “Some residual heat, and oxygen out-gassing. There could be working battery power, maybe even environmental controls.”

 Tapping a switch, Marshall said, “Ensign Rhodes, I want an Espatier team ready to move out in five minutes. Mission profile to follow.” He paused, then added, “Take Midshipman Clarke with you as pilot. Blake as medic. On your way.”

 “Clarke?” Francis asked.

 “He's second in Systems until we fill that gap,” Marshall replied, “and I can't spare anyone else until we get Alamo back to full strength.”

 Caine looked up at him, and said, “With an enemy ship in-system, we're taking a big risk, Danny. Maybe we should wait until we know where Waldheim is, and our sensors are back to full strength. Anything could be waiting out there.”

 Shaking his head, he said, “No, let it go. Right now, we need all the information we can get, and that's the only place in the system we might find some. Besides, if we know about it, so does Waldheim, and we've got to get there first.”

 “Unless they already have,” Francis warned, “and it's a trap.”

 “That's just a risk we're going to have to take.”

Chapter 2

 The wind battered at the sand-blasted dome, as Salazar looked out at the desolation beyond. A pair of guards wandered the perimeter with wary eyes, keeping their rifles in their hands, waiting for an attack. The two missile emplacements slowly rotated, the sensors tracking the sky, watching for targets, ready to launch at a second's notice.

 Miracles had been worked here, the contents of a trio of battered shuttles and a host of escape pods thrown together to create a temporary haven for the stranded survivors, but one look at the empty storage modules and the failed hydroponics plant told him everything he needed to know about the long-term prospects of the base. This settlement was doomed, and soon, and he'd heard some of the junior enlisted muttering about the possibility of a surrender, for the sake of survival, something that they'd have to contemplate sooner or later.

 He walked around the base, waiting for the senior officers to return from their errand, offering words of sympathy and support to the crewmen, many of them familiar faces from past missions on Alamo. They'd looked to him for comfort, the vanguard of the rescue mission that they longed for, prayed for, but he couldn't find any words to ease their misery.

 It seemed like years since he'd flown his fighter down to the surface, bringing it in for a crash landing, but less than two hours ago, he'd been up on Alamo, getting ready to launch a strike on the Republic carriers. Thoughts of Harper flashed into his mind, and he hoped with all his might that he'd been successful, that his efforts had prevented Alamo falling into the wormhole. They might already be on their way home.

 Which would almost certainly doom everyone here to death or surrender, and given the nature of their potential captors, death might almost be the preferable choice. Everything here was improvised, rapidly wearing out, none of it designed for the planet they had been deposited on. The dome, already battered and pitted, was only the most obvious sign. Designed for an airless world, in such conditions it had a life-expectancy measured in years, maybe even decades. Here, in this hostile environment, it would only last for weeks, and when it failed, their last shelter would go with it, exposing them to the ever-burning sun.

 He'd run a quick check of the local systems as soon as he'd arrived, asking careful questions of some of the maintenance technicians, and unless he was missing something obvious, they'd be out of food in six weeks at the outside. Rationing could extend that by a few weeks, but nobody had made the effort, and he couldn't fault the decision. It didn't seem likely that it would make any appreciable difference. Quesada walked over to him, waving an arm, and Salazar nodded in response, walking over to the young officer.

 “Where's Santiago?” he asked.

 “With Lieutenant Carpenter,” the pilot replied. “I'm sorry to be so mysterious, but they'll be along in a couple of minutes to brief you.” He paused, then asked, “Is help on the way?”

 “I don't know,” Salazar replied. “But there will be someone coming.” He struggled to conjure hope out of desperation, and continued, “If Alamo made it out of the system, then in a few weeks the Combined Chiefs will know about the wormhole. They'll send someone to secure it. And if Alamo fell through, then, well, there's a friendly battlecruiser somewhere up there.” He paused, then asked, “Don't you have good sensor images?”

 “We're on the wrong side of the planet at the moment,” Quesada replied. “Turned away from the wormhole exit. If Alamo, or anyone else, is out there, then it could be a while before we know about it. We daren't use long-range communications without risking giving away our position, and we can't use active sensors for the same reason.” He shrugged, then added, “Not that it might make much difference in the long run. The dome's pretty well camouflaged from orbit because of the sand, but they're bound to track us down, sooner or later.”

 “What happens then?”

 “We die, I suspect. Or give in. We've got four missiles, which I suppose would deal with an aerial assault, but there are only four rifles, and less than a dozen rounds of ammunition each. A couple of sidearms, but even more limited ammunition for those. After that, we're down to throwing rocks at the bastards, and I don't think stones against plasma rifles is a fair fight.”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “How bad are the sandstorms?”

 “Bad enough to fill in our trenches pretty damned quick. We thought of that, wasted a couple of days trying to put together some fortifications, but it all comes down to the same thing. Besides, that would just increase our aerial footprint.” He paused, then added, “We're going to have to surrender, aren't we, sir.”

 “Unless the situation changes, I suspect so.” Clapping his hand on the pilot's shoulder, he continued, “Though I've been through a lot worse than this and come out the other side, Sub-Lieutenant. There's always a way. Sometimes it just takes a while to find it.”

 Foster walked over to him, and gestured for him to follow her to the hatch. Quesada nodded, and headed over to a cluster of technicians working their sensors, the units of two shuttles slammed together for greater efficiency, struggling to reach through the thick atmosphere to get a picture of what was happening in orbital space.

 “Secret meeting over?” Salazar asked.

 “Not what you think,” Foster replied. “We're about at a breakthrough, and Susan wanted to finish what she started. Unless we pick up something on the sensors, I doubt the situation has changed very much. You remember Susan Carpenter?”

 “Vaguely.”

 “Specialist in xeno-archaeology. Did a long tour on Alamo, and eventually ended up getting shanghaied into Intelligence. Which is how she ended up on Pioneer.” Stepping over the threshold, she continued, “How much do you know about our mission?”

 “That you were looking for Monitor, and that there was some suspicion that it was a United Nations plot. Or that Mariner had suffered some sort of catastrophic systems failure. Did you find any trace of her?”

 Foster nodded, and replied, “A beacon, thrown into a high orbit. We managed to knock it out before we fell down the well. Captain Casson thought it best not to advertise the presence of Monitor too widely, and I agreed.”

 “Where is he?”

 “That's one more thing we don't know, Pavel. Our passage through the wormhole was rough. Catastrophic systems failures, life support malfunctions, a host of problems. Too many to deal with. Our first sensor pass told us that this world was borderline habitable, so we made the decision to abandon ship.”

 “And not all of your shuttles made it down?”

 Shaking her head, she replied, “Two of them were damaged in the crossing. That just left three, all of them on the small side. Pioneer's engines were wrecked, and the thrusters just had enough power to push us onto a high elliptical orbit. We managed to make two transfers, get down most of the crew and some of the supplies, but she swung past the ninth moon on her fourth orbit and didn't come out of the shadow. It was a close pass, but she still should have made it through.”

 “Didn't you go up and look?”

 “Too much risk of losing a shuttle, and we needed to cannibalize all of the equipment to have a chance of getting this little settlement off the ground. Santiago and I figured that we might be stuck here for quite a while.”

 “Six weeks more, at any rate.”

 Nodding, she said, “I should have figured you'd run an inventory as soon as you arrived. That's about our estimate. Water isn't a problem, nor power, but we didn't have any luck with the hydroponics, and we don't have materials for a food fabricator. Which leaves us with emergency rations, and we've already gone through more than half of them.” Looking at the wasteland beyond, she added, “There's nothing on this world fit to eat. The atmosphere comes from some sort of sub-surface bacteriological soup, but even on the off-chance it could sustain us, we can't get to it. There's no native life above single-celled stuff. Biochemistry would be a killer, anyway.”

 “So we have a deadline to get off this planet,” Salazar said. “Beautiful.”

 “It gets better,” Foster said, walking along a track towards the side of a nearby hill, in the direction of a cluster of rocks that somehow looked artificial, straight, cut lines, impossible on a world where the dust bit into everything. “We didn't pick this spot out of a hat. Susan saw something...”

 “That's an alloy,” Salazar said, looking at the formation. “Those aren't rocks. That's some sort of metal, tough enough to resist the wind.” Turning to Foster, he asked, “You saw that from orbit?”

 “The whole area is filled with them,” another voice replied, coming out from behind the outcrop. “Lieutenant Susan Carpenter. We have met.”

 “Pavel Salazar,” he said in response. “What led you here, specifically?”

 “We ran a deep-radar scan on our first, fast pass, surveying potential landing sites. The whole underground is honeycombed with caverns and passages, worn away millions of years ago, but in this area, they're regular.” Picking up a small piece of the alloy, she replied, “And this, from the limited analysis we've been able to run, is something far beyond anything we could produce. Lighter and tougher than a starship hull. My guess is that they were mining the raw components around here.” Glancing at the mountains on the horizon, she added, “Lots of minerals down here.”

 “On a planetary surface? Why not use an asteroid?”

 “Who knows?” she replied. “Maybe the manufacturing process required gravity. All I know is that there's something down there, deep below the surface. To be honest, we've been rather counting on it. I don't think that wormhole is a natural phenomenon.”

 “Someone built it?” Salazar asked. “That's almost...”

 “I know, but isn't it strange that the first stable wormhole ever discovered actually goes somewhere interesting, rather than just out in the middle of deep space? We've been to almost a thousand systems, Pavel, and never seen anything like that before. More than that. There are more than a dozen stars within hendecaspace range. If someone was building some sort of an intergalactic transportation network, this wouldn't be a bad system to choose.”

 “How far have you managed to go?”

 Carpenter looked at Foster, and said, “It might be better for you to just see for yourself.” She turned to the outcrop, walking around behind it, and stepped down into a tunnel leading deep into the earth, recently dug to reveal an ancient shaft. Salazar looked into the gloom, and Foster tossed him a flashlight with a nod.

 “I'm heading back to the base. See if we can pick up anything out there.”

 “Right,” Salazar said, following Carpenter into the underworld, throwing on the flashlight with the flick of a heavy switch. It barely pushed back the oppressive gloom, but he could already make out strange symbols and markings on the walls, a host of pictograms that seemed oddly familiar, as though from some long-distant memory. Carpenter turned to him, a knowing smile on her face.

 “You too, then?”

 “I can't quite place it.”

 “Took me a while, especially as I've only got an incomplete database at my disposal, but it looks like something Intelligence discovered on a world called Abydos, a hell of a long way from here.”

 “Midshipman Clarke!” Salazar said, nodding.

 “His name was attached to the report. You know him?”

 “Know him?” he replied. “The kid's serving on Alamo right now.”

 Nodding, Carpenter said, “Interesting. Oh, a little warning for you. She might be a Senior Lieutenant, but Santiago still thinks of herself as a Chief Petty Officer, and I strongly recommend you address her as such. You should have seen Quesada when they first met. Not a mistake I suspect he'll repeat.”

 The two of them resumed their descent into the darkness, walking down what Salazar quickly realized was a smooth slope, piles of dust hastily thrown to the side in a bid to clear the tunnel. At the bottom, seemingly an endless distance away, a light twinkled, growing larger as they approached.

 For sheer scale, the tunnel was impressive enough, carved deep into the dry rock, the pictograms growing clearer and more complicated as they descended, brief flashes of some long-ago artist's labors. Some of them were obviously depictions of starflight, strange constellations dancing through the field of the flashlight as he swung the beam around.

 “We haven't been able to match them,” Carpenter volunteered. “Hell, we haven't even been able to work out where we are, yet. Too much damage to Pioneer's sensors, and we don't have a complete database down here.” Shaking her head, she added, “Something else that we didn't manage to download in time. Though we've got a complete collection of neo-folk revival music.”

 “I think I'll take a pass on that,” Salazar replied. “How far down does this go?”

 “About a quarter of a mile.”

 “How come Waldheim hasn't spotted this yet?”

 With a shrug, Carpenter said, “Probably they don't have an archaeologist on board. You can gather as much data as you want, but without someone to interpret it, none of it will be worth a damn thing. It took me an hour to spot it, and if we hadn't done a close pass of this part of the planet, we'd have missed it.” She sighed, and added, “Which suggests there are probably more sites out here, scattered all over the planet. If I could have access to the sensors of a starship for an hour...”

 “That's not a good thought,” Salazar replied. “All it takes is one sharp technician and we're in a lot of trouble. That base wouldn't stand up to attack for more than a minute.” He looked around, then added, “Perhaps we could...”

 “Move down here? Not a chance. If we had any sort of weaponry worth a damn, then I'd go along, but we're not destroying an ancient archaeological site for nothing, Lieutenant. Not while I'm in command.” She paused, her face reddening, and said, “Assuming I am in command.”

 “I thought Chief Santiago was senior?”

 “Not the command type, by her own admission. She's the one with the flashlight down there.” The light was getting bigger, and Carpenter fumbled in her pocket, pulling out a flare. “Brace yourself, Pavel. The first time around, it'll hit you hard. Remember Tombstone, back at Yeager Station?”

 Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “Three years ago. Feels like three centuries.”

 “That might give you some idea of what to expect.”

 He cast his mind back to his first mission on Alamo, back before the Xandari War, at an isolated station on the far frontier. They'd found a subterranean city, deep beneath the airless sands of that world, that had given them the first hints of the existence of the enemy they had defeated.

 As they reached the bottom of the ramp, Carpenter and Santiago turned off their lights, and the flare burst into life, a blinding glare that raced into the air, illuminating the vast space beyond. Salazar staggered forward, his neck craned back to try and get the scope of the immense cavern, huge pillars supporting it, all of them with the same intricate carvings, the labor of centuries of painstaking work. The light faded, and he turned back to Carpenter, eyes wide from wonder.

 “How big?”

 “Maybe a mile. And an eighth of a mile high. Regular, and no sign of damage.”

 Santiago pulled out her datapad, and said, “Best-guess analysis puts it back thirty thousand years or so. But we haven't got the equipment to be sure of that.” Stepping forward, she continued, “There are hundreds of passages heading off in all directions. We've sent teams down a few of them, and they just keep on going deeper underground. One guy managed a mile and a half.”

 “The pictograms?”

 “Without computer analysis, they could be anything,” Carpenter said. “I could spend lifetimes studying this, and still be no closer to an understanding of what was here. The cavern's empty, though. Nothing at all except the pictures. Could have been religious, some sort of temple.”

 “More a cathedral, Susan,” Santiago said, her voice swallowed up by the darkness.

 “Or the structures could have been temporary, taken away. This could be their version of the colony dome on the surface, intended as a protective structure. Hell, maybe it's a football stadium.”

 “What are the acoustics like?” Salazar asked.

 Carpenter nodded, and replied, “Good question, and pretty damned good, actually, though you'd need every choir in the Confederation to do it justice.” Taking a step forward, she continued, “I'm convinced the answer is somewhere down here, though. It can't be a coincidence. Though we'd need a team of experts to make proper use of it, I suspect. Not to mention time we don't have.” With a sigh, she added, “The greatest discovery of the decade, and no way to properly investigate. I feel like a caveman surrounded by the ruins of a skyscraper.”

 Footsteps echoed down the ramp, and Salazar turned to see Quesada racing towards them, panting for breath. He reached out an arm to stop the young man, who looked up with a smile on his face, gesturing at the surface.

 “Alamo's in orbit, sir! At the wormhole terminus. We just picked her up.”

 “I don't know whether to be happy or sad,” Salazar replied. “We'd better...”

 “Sir, there's more. We spotted Waldheim, and she's on an intercept course for Alamo. Less than two hours.” The young man paused, then said, “I don't understand why they haven't altered course. Right now, Alamo's just sitting there.”

 “Maybe they haven't seen her,” Santiago suggested. “We don't know what sort of damage they've taken. And if we try to warn her, they'll be on us in minutes.”

 Salazar looked at Carpenter, and said, “The discovery of the decade's going to have to wait. If we're going to have a chance to get away from here, we have to take it. Right now.”

 “I won't leave this site,” Carpenter replied. “Not until we've found what we're looking for.”

 Salazar looked at Santiago, who shrugged, then said, “Fine. But let's get up to the surface. It occurs to me that this would be the perfect time for them to launch an attack. All I know is that we've got friends in orbit, and we'd better start thinking about letting them know we're here.”

 “How, sir?” Quesada asked. “One signal, and they'll know where we are.”

 “Relax, Sub-Lieutenant. I've got an idea. Head back up and get more sensor data gathered, and have all personnel stand to. Got that?”

 “Aye, aye, sir!” he replied, snapping a parade-ground salute before turning back to the ramp.

 “So,” Santiago said, “What's this idea?”

 “I've got a nice long walk to think of one, Chief.”

 A beaming smile crossed her face, and she replied, “I see the stories I heard about you are true. Come on, Lieutenant. Let's see what the three of us can come up with.”

Chapter 3

 Midshipman John Clarke raced onto the hangar deck, toolkit in hand, the last to arrive for the rushed briefing. The harried Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo, called from his other duties to assemble the mission team, flashed him a glare as he moved to join the group. Sixteen crewmen, the eight-man Espatier squad under Lance-Sergeant Fox, and his engineering crew, a pair of damage control teams mashed together. And Technical Officer Blake to act as paramedic, though from what he'd seen, the chance of any survivors being present seemed small.

 “Listen up,” he said. “We don't have any guarantees for you about the condition of Pioneer. All we know is that she's crashed onto a moon, albeit one with little enough gravity that she might have survived the impact. There is power, and possibly life-support, but don't take any unnecessary chances on this. The minimum, and frankly what the Captain and I are expecting, is that you will salvage the ship's database and any other potential sources of intelligence.”

 “We're not hoping to recover the ship, sir?” Spaceman Conner, one of the engineers, asked.

 “Under the current circumstances, we consider that unlikely. Though we certainly won't rule it out as an option.” Gesturing at the second shuttle, he added, “I've given you four Mark Nine missile warheads. Your first task upon arrival will be to position them in a way that will allow for the destruction of the ship, in order to prevent it from falling into enemy hands. We know that Waldheim must be somewhere in local space, and for all we know, she's bearing down on us at this very moment. As a result, we're willing for this to be a snatch and grab operation.”

 “Any sign of life down there, sir? Any enemy contacts?” Fox asked.

 “Not that we're aware of at the moment, Sergeant, but that's subject to change at any moment. Proceed with extreme caution. I don't know what you're going to find out there, but I very much doubt that it is worth even a single life.”

 “Aye, sir,” she replied.

 “Saddle up, and good luck to you all. Midshipman, could I have a moment?”

 “Of course, sir,” Clarke asked, as Fox started to usher the assembled team onto the two waiting shuttles. He walked over to Lombardo, who was watching the technicians scramble on board with an envious eye.

 “Midshipman, you are catching something of a break here, though it might not feel much like it at the moment,” he began. “Under normal circumstances, Lieutenant Salazar or I would be commanding this mission, but in his absence, and with my presence required on board, the Captain has concluded that you are the best choice for the job. And by best, I mean only. Don't get any high ideas, Midshipman. You're taking this team because we're short-handed, and because this mission has a low priority.”

 “Understood, sir. I won't let you down.”

 Nodding, Lombardo replied, “It isn't a question of that, Midshipman, and that attitude worries me a little. You're going to be responsible for fifteen lives, son, as well as your own, and I don't want you to lose a single one. If something goes wrong, or if Waldheim comes over the horizon, bug out and run for home. Never mind unnecessary risks. Don't take any risks at all.” Glancing at the shuttle, he added, “Now tell me. What is your job?”

 “To make the decisions, and tell Sergeant Fox what needs to be done. To listen to her advice, and that of the other senior technicians.”

 “Not bad,” Lombardo said. “Usually takes years for an officer to work out that his senior enlisted not only know what they are doing, but can be trusted to do it. Usually. Just keep everyone on-mission, and keep them moving. Conner can be a little too fastidious for her own good sometimes, but she's a good organizer. And Fox is as tough as old boots.” Clapping him on the shoulder, Lombardo said, “You'll be fine, kid. I've assigned Petrova as second pilot. She'll back you up. And remember that you have seniority, not her. Don't take any crap. Got that?”

 “I'm in charge, within reason,” he replied. “Does that about sum it up, sir?”

 “You'll do, Midshipman,” Lombardo said, nodding. “You'll do. Good luck, and happy landings.” The engineer walked over to the elevator, a technician already racing towards him with news of some new crisis, leaving Clarke alone on the deck, most of his mission team already on board their shuttles. He made his way over to the cockpit in a daze, sliding into the pilot's seat and running through the pre-launch checklist on instinct.

 “Hey,” Blake said, turning to him from the co-pilot's seat. “You awake?”

 “I didn't know I was commanding this mission,” he replied. “Not until I got here.”

 “Isn't that what fancy Fleet officers do?” she asked.

 “I'm not an officer,” he said. “I'm a Midshipman. And a pretty damned junior one at that.”

 With a shrug, Blake replied, “You heard what Lombardo said. You're the only one that can be spared. And if I remember correctly, you are Systems Officer's Mate. Which puts you as second in command of Alamo's engineering team, at least for the moment. Now if that thought hasn't scared you enough, try this one. We're heading to an unexplored moon to try and salvage a wrecked ship with a Dreadnought almost certainly coming for us, and soon. Happy now?”

 “No,” he replied, flicking switches. “You really know how to cheer me up, Alex.”

 “Hey, just call me the ship's Morale Officer. Shall we get on with this? The sooner we get there, the sooner we get back.”

 “Shuttle One to Alamo Actual,” Clarke said. “Requesting launch clearance.”

 “Understood,” Marshall replied. “Clearance on request, Midshipman. Good luck.”

 Shaking his head, Clarke turned to Blake and said, “Everyone's going out of their way to wish us luck. You think they know something we don't?”

 “Almost certainly,” she replied.

 “Great. Just great.” Tapping a control, he said, “Shuttle One to Shuttle Two. We'll move out in line-astern formation. Take position twenty seconds behind me, and do not approach Pioneer until I give the order. No sense risking two shuttles.”

 “Shuttle Two to Shuttle One. I've got a lighter load, and can get there first.”

 Taking a deep breath, Clarke looked at Blake, then said, “Midshipman, I've given an order, have good reasons for it, and expect it to be obeyed. Is that understood?”

 “Understood,” the resentful Petrova said, flicking the channel closed. As Clarke worked the controls, the shuttle dropping through the decks as the elevator airlock cycled, Blake looked at him with a frown on her face.

 “She's going to be a problem. You're going to have to watch her like a hawk.”

 As the shuttle fell clear of the ship, engines firing to throw it towards the moon, Clarke replied, “Petrova is the least of my problems right now. Keep an eye on the sensors, though, and let me know if she decides to creatively interpret my orders.” Flicking a switch to put the ship on autopilot, he turned to the rear hatch, and said, “Sergeant Fox, could you come up?”

 “Of course, sir,” the gruff veteran replied. The bottom part of her face was dominated by a scar that seemed to fix her mouth in a perpetual leer, the legacy of some long-ago battle. Over the last few years, the Espatiers had borne the brunt of the casualties in the non-wars the Confederation had fought. Wounds that might in other circumstances have resulted in medical discharges had become things to live with, to accept.

 “I want you to take the lead for the boarding action, Sergeant. You and your fire team. With half the squad held in reserve if needed. You may proceed, with caution, and at your discretion.”

 Nodding, she replied, “You don't want to be first through the airlock?”

 “What I want is irrelevant, Sergeant. You and your people are trained for this, far better than I. As soon as you've secured a perimeter, I'll come forward with the hacker team.” He paused, then asked, “You have any demolition people with you?”

 “In the second fire team.”

 “Good. While my technical team works on the ship, I want them positioning the warheads. That has to be done quickly, and at all costs. There's enough of that ship left that we can't leave it for Waldheim to scavenge.”

 Fox looked at him, nodded, then asked, “How old are you, sir?”

 “I'm a Midshipman, Sergeant. I don't think I've earned the honorific yet. And to answer your question, nineteen going on ninety.”

 “Interesting,” Fox said. “Interesting. Aren't you going to warn me to be careful, not to take risks, not to mess around with equipment?”

 “I'd assume that your fire team already knows all of that, but if you insist...”

 “No,” Fox replied, raising a hand. “Not necessary. We'll proceed as you direct, sir.”

 “I thought...”

 “Let me decide that, sir,” Fox said, turning back to the cabin.

 Blake glanced back at the trooper, then at Clarke, and said, “I think you might have made a friend back there.”

 “Just common sense,” Clarke replied. “One thing life has been repeatedly teaching me lately is that I don't know everything. We wouldn't be stuck out here if I did.”

 “Wait just a damn minute,” Blake said. “That wasn't your fault, Midshipman. You did everything you could to stop that bitch sabotaging the ship. Nobody could have done any better. So cut out the crap and get your head back into the game. I don't know whether or not you've been paying attention, but we're on a dangerous mission.” Glancing at the sensor display, she added, “Eight minutes to target. No sign of hostile activity. No sign of anything, for that matter.”

 “See if you can get a tight focus on Pioneer,” he replied. “Maybe we can do some of the work before we land. Match it with what we have in our records.” Frowning, he added, “Though if Triplanetary Intelligence has been playing with her, I suppose they might have made some modifications.”

 “I thought of that,” Blake replied. “Lieutenant Harper sent me everything she had on the ship. Rather more up to date than the entries we had in the official database. I wonder how many other little surprises she has hidden away in her files?”

 Nodding, Clarke turned to the controls, looking at the desolate moon ahead, a small, gray rock tumbling through space, barely large enough to have any appreciable gravity. That was going to make salvage operations interesting. Sufficient weight to cause a problem, without any of the benefits of free fall. As they approached, he could see a pair of long streaks running along the equator, blast from the thrusters on landing.

 “I've got a readout if you want it,” Blake said. “Looks like a large captured asteroid. There's a pretty big belt close in to the star, so I suppose this must have been tossed clear at some point. Carbon, mostly, nothing particularly unusual. Less than fifty miles across.” Glancing across, she added, “Nothing interesting here. Maybe they were trying to hide. It would be a bad place to try.”

 “Why here?” Clarke asked. “Why not on one of the larger moons, or try for a Lagrange point in a sensor shadow?” Shaking his head, he continued, “This was an unplanned landing. A crash. They were forced down, maybe by equipment failure or something else. With enough control that they managed to survive the impact.” Tapping a control, he brought up a closer-ranged image of the ship, and nodded. “Intact. After a fashion.”

 “Still reading out-gassing., from a dozen different places. Traces only, though, just the usual leakage. Maybe a little worse than normal. Some heat, more than residual. I'd say the initial guess was right. There's life-support in at least a part of the ship.” Her eyes widened as she looked at the readout, and added, “Good God. The primary engine manifold is missing. Torn away. So is the drive unit. I suppose that writes off any hope of salvaging the ship.”

 “Maybe, maybe not,” Clarke said, frowning. “There has to be something worth salvaging down there, and if nothing else, this is a ready-made surface installation. Check for ice. We might be able to set up fuel refining operations out here.” At her expression, he added, “I remember an old saying about turning lemons into lemonade.”

 “They never mention that you need sugar, water and a pair of suckers, though.”

 “Huh?”

 “One to make it for you, and one to drink it.” Peering at the readouts, she added, “There's been activity. I think I can make out tracks, some sort of vehicle, and footprints around the outside. Either we're not the first ones to find this ship, or there were survivors.”

 “If there were survivors, why not set up a beacon?”

 “With the United Nations Space Fleet ready to crash the party?”

 “Good point.” He tapped the thruster controls, bringing the shuttle low over the surface, careful to avoid worsening the damage already caused to the surface. It was just possible that Waldheim had missed it in their first examination of the system. If that was so, the last thing he wanted to do was create more evidence of their presence.

 Not that anyone could have missed the wrecked scoutship, and that thought troubled him. It seemed almost certain that someone would have been here already, and not with friendly intent. He flicked through the sensor images, scanning for hidden missile emplacements, buried warheads, battalions of troops waiting to jump out at them upon their arrival.

 Looking across at him, Blake said, “There's nothing down there, you know. Except perhaps some buried sensors. Why go to serious trouble to wipe out a shuttle-load of engineers? They'll be more interested in gathering intelligence. Assuming, of course, that anyone else is out there at all. For all we know, Waldheim is scattered all over one of those rocks out there, the whole crew wiped out. Looks likely that Pioneer had a bad passage. Maybe we were lucky.”

 “Maybe,” Clarke said. “I wouldn't bet on it.” He looked at the display again, and gestured at a flat piece of rock, adding, “That's the spot.”

 “A quarter-mile from the ship? There's a place just as good a lot closer.”

 “My paranoia's singing to me again. I'd rather have a little distance, and in this gravity, we can make that distance in a couple of minutes with our suit thrusters. We're not going to be able to walk, anyway.” Tapping a control, he added, “Sergeant, I'm sending you an image of our landing site. One change. I want at least one trooper with the shuttle at all times. Two if you think you can spare the people.”

 “Will do, sir,” Fox replied. “Looks like a good spot. Nice and defensible.”

 “Remember,” Blake said, as Clarke prepared for the landing, “you are mortal.”

 “What's that supposed to mean?”

 “Ancient Roman way of telling you not to get cocky.”

 His hands playing the controls, Clarke gently guided the shuttle into position on the surface of the moon, dust flying in all directions around them as the landing struts locked in place. Throwing a series of switches to kill the engine and start the post-flight checklists, he waved back at the cabin, watching as Fox and her team gracefully moved into action, racing for the airlock, suits already in position.

 Unbuckling his restraints, Clarke rose from his couch, making his way to the nearest locker and pulling out two spacesuits, tossing one to Blake. Fighting his eagerness to get out onto the surface, he tugged the components into position, allowing the suit computer to run through the usual checks, confirming that all was well. It was always sobering to realize that only a few inches of toughened fabric would be between him and certain death, and he made his way to the airlock with a feeling of fear and dread running through his mind.

 “Fox to Clarke. We've secured a perimeter outside now, sir, and are proceeding to the ship. You're clear to leave the shuttle at your discretion. I've assigned Webster and Speidel as guards, and they'll follow you out.”

 “Thanks, Sergeant. Will do.” Turning to Blake, he asked, “Fancy a stroll in the sunshine?”

 “I wouldn't mind a chance to stretch my legs,” she replied, and the two of them carefully stepped out into the airlock, cycled out onto the surface with a brief puff of atmosphere to send them clear of the shuttle. As he had thought, there was no way they were going to be able to walk in the low gravity field, and Clarke quickly pulled down his fine thruster controls, a series of gentle taps sending him skimming over the surface.

 The wrecked ship was ahead, fragments of the engine nacelles littering the environment. They drifted over footprints, marks where someone had touched down, long hundred-yard bounces on their thrusters. As improbable as it sounded, it seemed as though someone had survived the crash.

 “Sir!” Fox yelled. “Motion sensors have picked up something, three o'clock, heading our way at speed! Heat signature suggests active plasma weapon!”

 “Take cover!” Clarke yelled, spinning around on his thrusters, disobeying his own orders in a bid to seek out the approaching threat. As a ball of green fire flew past him, racing over the horizon, he saw a figure wearing a Triplanetary spacesuit, wielding a prototype plasma carbine, swinging the barrel towards him. Quickly flicking to the emergency channels, he yelled, “Stand down, Spaceman! We're from Alamo!”

 “Alamo?” a harsh voice replied. “Impossible.” Clarke slowed his pace, looking at the battered, weathered spacesuit. “Identify yourself.”

 “Midshipman John Clarke.” He paused, then added, “Try Ident Nine-Dash-Alpha with my voice-print. You'll see I have Double-Ultra clearance. Try it now.”

 There was a brief pause, and the voice replied, “I'll be damned. Technical Officer Conrad Hooke, Midshipman, and I am extremely pleased to meet you. Shall we take this inside?”

Chapter 4

 “Pavel, this is crazy,” Foster said, peering out of the viewport at the rocks below, perilously close to the flyer. “Take her up a little. And slow down!”

 “I can't,” Salazar replied. “That satellite will be back overhead in less than three minutes. I've got to gain distance, and I've got to keep us out of the line of sight of the enemy.” Glancing across at the sensor display, he continued, “Just find me a target. Anyone with a damned hand communicator will do.”

 “I'm trying,” she said. “Still no sign of any patrols. Stand by.”

 Salazar nodded, his hands almost merging with the controls. This was flying as he could never know it in space, using the wind to sweep him around, the roar of the engine at his back, low sand dunes and rocks only a handful of feet below. Santiago had designed the flyer to blend into the environment as much as possible, though the engine's heat would stand out like a beacon as soon as orbital observation came back into play.

 The base was fifty miles away, a safe enough distance that should ensure that they couldn't be traced back. Salazar was willing to put himself at risk, but the alien site had to be kept protected for as long as possible. Long enough at least for Captain Marshall to think of something better. He struggled to come up with recommendations, ideas, but nothing came to mind. Even with the full resources of a battlecruiser, he couldn't think of a good solution to their tactical problem.

 Evacuating the planet would be simple enough. Thirty-one stranded crewmen could be picked up with three shuttles on a fast pass, their equipment left for the sand and the dust. Alamo even had enough fighters to escort them home, and it would just be a question of timing their strike. With something on the surface to protect, it became a completely different issue. They'd have to expand and protect the base, and Alamo simply didn't have the ground forces for that sort of an operation. At the back of his mind was a last, desperate option, and without telling Carpenter, he'd arranged for an explosive charge to be positioned at the outcrop, large enough to bury the alien city forever. Or at least long enough to deter the enemy.

 “Got something!” Foster said. “Ten degrees starboard, about fifteen miles out. Looks like a buggy, heading out into the deep desert. Give me a minute and I'll have more information for us.”

 “Coming around,” Salazar replied, a grin on his face. Any second now, the luckless occupants of the buggy would realize that they had been spotted, that they were about to come under attack from the air. Again, it wasn't as simple an operation as it should have been. They had the weapons to smash it to pieces where it sat on the desert floor, a surgical airstrike that would remove it from existence, but they had to capture it intact at all costs.

 Already they'd taken longer than he wanted. Almost an hour to get the flyer ready for launch, much of which was dominated by an argument with Quesada that had ultimately forced Salazar to pull rank. The young officer was a good pilot, and knew the terrain, but his prowess with a sidearm had finally ended the battle, a quick demonstration suggesting that Quesada would be spending considerable time on Alamo's firing range when they were rescued.

 A light flashed onto his console, and he saw the buggy up ahead, heard a rattle in the air to the right as the vehicle turned a machine gun on them, trying for the desperate hope that they might bring down the flyer and save themselves. Below, the driver started to weave from side to side, ready to face off the aerial attack he was expecting, not knowing that Salazar had something completely different in mind.

 “You ready?” he asked, quickly turning to Foster, who nodded in response. “Arm missiles.”

 “Armed,” she replied, and a red light flashed on as the arming sequences sought out their target. Salazar tapped a button, and the flyer rocked back for a second as the missiles dropped away, engines roaring as they dived for the ground, flames and smoke bursting from their rear. The two warheads slammed into the desert, twin pillars of fire reaching for the sky on either side of the buggy as it shuddered to a halt.

 Dropping the landing struts, Salazar brought the flyer down to a landing, taking a rifle in his hands as he stumbled out of the cockpit, keeping the weapon leveled on the buggy. Behind him, Foster followed, giving him covering fire as he approached the vehicle. He fired a precious round, the sound of the bullet piercing the silence of the desert.

 “Come out with your hands up, or I'll be forced to kill you all. Nobody needs to die today, but I'll do whatever I have to do.”

 The hatch slid open, and a pair of men stepped out, both of them wearing uniforms that identified them as shuttle technicians. Foster gestured at the pistols at their sides, and they cautiously unstrapped their holster belts, letting them drop around their feet.

 “Move away from the vehicle. At least a hundred meters.” Turning to his comrade, Salazar continued, “Cover them, Val. And if I get any unexpected surprises in there, don't let them take another breath.”

 The two men glanced at each other as Salazar ducked into the buggy, sliding into the front seat and reaching for the controls. As he'd expected, their communications system was overpowered, typical brute force Terran engineering that would work to his advantage today. He reached for the unfamiliar panel, tapping a series of experimental commands with one hand while sliding a headset with the other. He had to be careful. Everything he said would be monitored, but the message he had to give was simple enough.

 “Pavel!” Foster yelled. “Company on the way! Four minutes minus!”

 “Damn,” he replied, fiddling with the controls. “Salazar to Alamo. Salazar to Alamo. Reply at once. I repeat, reply at once.” A roar of static burst through the headphones, and he continued to manipulate the controls, struggling to make contact. “Salazar to Alamo. Come in, please!”

 “Alamo here!” Bowman replied. “Stand by for the Captain!”

 “Make it quick,” Salazar pressed. “We're both running out of time.”

 “Marshall on the line,” a familiar voice said. “Glad you made it, Pavel. What's the story down there? Our sensor systems are damaged, so we're flying blind.”

 “Waldheim is in system, and we've picked her up on an intercept course, using the twin moons as cover. Our best estimate has her reaching you in less than thirty minutes, Captain. I really hope you haven't sustained any damage to your engines and tactical systems.” Sliding a datarod into an access port, he added, “Full tactical data is on its way to you now. It's about twenty minutes out of date, so plan accordingly.”

 “Will do, Pavel. What's your status?”

 “I suspect I'm about three minutes away from death or capture, sir, and I'll do what I can to make sure it is the latter. There are survivors from Pioneer down here, thirty-one counting myself and Foster. We're not on a secure channel, so I can't give you their location, but I can say this, sir. There's something vital down here, something we need to hold. I can't give you details, but under no circumstances can we afford to abandon this planet. You'll have to speak to Lieutenant Carpenter when you can.”

 “Pavel!” Foster yelled. “Ninety seconds to some uninvited guests!”

 “I heard that,” Marshall replied. “Is there anything we can do for you?”

 “I don't think the cavalry has time to saddle up this time, Captain. Just get Alamo out of there, and find a way to make contact with the Pioneer survivors. You need to speak to Lieutenant Carpenter. She's in charge.”

 “Message understood. Good luck, Pavel. Alamo out.”

 Ripping off the headset, Pavel raced from the buggy, ignoring the sullen glares from their two captured crewmen, and made his way to Foster, standing at the hatch to the flyer. He looked down at the sensor controls, and shook his head with a smile at what he saw. Three modified fighters this time, all of them heading their way, all with weapons armed. If it had been a single one, he might have attempted to make a fight of it, but the odds were just too great this time.

 “You there,” he said, turning to the nearest trooper. “Get on your communicator and tell them that we're willing to surrender. And if you have any doubts, remember that they'll almost certainly launch an aerial strike rather than risk a landing, and the two of you are well and truly in the blast radius of the explosion. I suggest you move quickly.”

 The technician rushed for the buggy as Salazar reached inside the flyer, tapping a nine-digit password that wiped the aircraft's memory, permanently purging any record of its flight path. He tossed his rifle to the sand, and walked out into the open, hands raised, Foster by his side, and regretfully glanced back at the flyer.

 “Quesada's going to kill you,” Foster said.

 “Let's just hope that technician is persuasive enough that he'll have a chance.” He shrugged, then added, “I thought this was likely. Sorry to have dragged you down with me.”

 “Hell, you're brightened up a boring afternoon,” she replied. “Besides, this game isn't over yet.” She gestured at the three shuttles on the horizon, formed into an arrowhead formation, setting themselves up for an attack run on the flyer. Shouted anguish came from the open hatch of the buggy, and Salazar briefly contemplated running for cover, before deciding that it would be a futile gesture, and one likely to do more harm than good. Finally, one shuttle broke away from the others, racing to the ground, landing jets firing.

 “Nice work, buddy,” Salazar yelled. “I guess we get to keep breathing for a while.”

 The shuttle dropped to the desert, hatch popping open to reveal a trio of Marshals, weapons raised and at the ready, followed by a tall woman with a sneer fixed on her face, the all-too-familiar Colonel Letitia Cruz. She'd earned a well-deserved reputation for brutality, and Salazar fought hard to mask the fear that was rising within him. His intelligence training had, if nothing else, taught him that there were worse fates than death, and Cruz was their mistress.

 “Lieutenant Salazar,” she said, crossing her arms. “A pleasure to meet you here. I've been looking forward to a chance to have an in-depth conversation with you. I presume this is Lieutenant Foster, one of the leaders of the survivors from Pioneer.” Stepping forward, she continued, “Are we going to have an easy time, or are you going to make it difficult?”

 “That depends on you,” Salazar replied. “I have no intention of passing on any classified information, but I am more than willing to serve as a liaison between my commander and yours.” The implied mention of General Estrada briefly darkened his expression, and he pressed, “Nor will I give you the location of the Pioneer survivors. Even if I knew it, and this is a big, featureless desert, Colonel. Very difficult to find anyone who doesn't want to be found. As I suspect you have discovered over the course of the last three days.”

 “Who is Lieutenant Carpenter?” Cruz asked.

 “One of Pioneer's officers. Once Alamo's Science Officer, but I presume you have her record on file somewhere. She's running the settlement down here.” Salazar fought to hold his placid gaze, making it sound as though he was tossing off useless information. Carpenter's service history was a matter of record, but the nature of her training had been deliberately made unclear. Given that as a rule, Science Officers specialized in fields such as astronomy or cosmology, he rated his chance of getting away with the deception as excellent. Though Cruz was masking her own thoughts well, the brief flash of annoyance he detected suggested that he had been successful.

 “Maybe I could make you an offer,” Cruz said. “I'll agree to allow you, Lieutenant Foster, and all of the Pioneer survivors to return to Alamo, in exchange for the location of your installation on the surface. And it has occurred to me that all of this could be a bluff, but I'm willing to take the chance.” A smile crossed her face, and she said, “If this is some sort of trick, Lieutenant, then it has worked.”

 “You've found something,” Salazar said, nodding. “Out in the desert, probably along the course this buggy was taking. That's why you've got shuttle techs down here. A lot of your people must be down here already, working on the excavation.” Red rage crossed the face of Cruz, and he added, “Don't worry, Colonel, I didn't trust you to keep your word in any case. Nice try, though.”

 “I can kill you right here, right now,” she replied.

 “Theoretically, I suppose you could, but we both know that your threats are empty. Waldheim is about to go into action with Alamo, and you are uncertain enough about the outcome that you might want some bargaining chips. Captain Marshall would never surrender to save our lives, but it might improve the terms of your surrender. Slightly. As I have already said, I will happily serve as an intermediary if you wish to come to some sort of arrangement.”

 “We're both stranded far from home,” Foster said, moving alongside Salazar. “What possible purpose could be served by some sort of fight to the death?”

 “Then surrender,” Cruz said. “We'd be willing to come to some sort of accommodation.” She paused, then added, “Or accept my offer, and leave the system. It's a big galaxy out there. Plenty of places for you to get lost in.”

 Shaking his head, Salazar walked towards the shuttle, and said, “Maybe it would be faster for you to simply take us into custody right now. It's getting warm out here.”

 “We're not finished yet.”

 Turning to face Cruz, Salazar replied, “Then shoot us, and get it over with, but if you are going to interrogate us, I'd rather it was in a nice air-conditioned cell, if you have no objection.” He glanced into the cabin, a pair of bored guards waiting inside, weapons in their arms but not pointed in their direction. There would be someone in the cockpit, likely an unarmed pilot. They could find a way to work with that. He looked at the other two shuttles, hovering close by, burning fuel at a ferocious rate in their bid to cover the area.

 “Poor Quesada,” Salazar said, abruptly sprinting for the shuttle. Behind him, there was a loud roar, and the flyer exploded, the hidden warhead detonating after registering the pre-selected codeword, matched to Salazar's voice-print. The force of the blast almost threw him from his feet, and Cruz tumbled to the ground, eyes wide, pistol in her hand barking shots all around.

 With one bound, Salazar jumped into the cabin, his fist connecting with the chin of the nearest guard before he could react, sending the man's rifle dropping to the deck. Foster was a heartbeat behind him, charging towards the other guard, a distraction that gave Salazar the time he needed to drop the hidden obsidian blade into his hand, throwing it with an easy pass of his hand into the guard's neck. Racing for the controls, Foster slammed the outer door closed while Salazar snatched up a rifle, making for the cockpit.

 The pilot had been quick to move, working the controls to seal himself into the cockpit. He'd almost been quick enough, but Salazar was faster, diving through the hatch onto the deck, firing a carefully aimed shot into the crewman's shoulder. The man slumped in his couch as blood streamed from the wound, and Salazar gently eased him from the helm, placing him on the floor.

 “Take care of him,” Salazar said, gesturing at the medical kit attached to the wall. He slid into the pilot's couch, slamming his hand on the thruster controls to fire the lateral boosters, hurling them from the sand and into the air. There was no time for fine course correction, and he simply threw the throttle full open, pulling the nose up with an effort as he struggled to gain speed, diving for the nearby mountains.

 “Not good, Pavel,” Foster said, looking up from the casualty, “but I think he'll make it to Alamo. One dead, one wounded back there.” Looking around the cabin, she added, “I'll be honest, I didn't think this would work.”

 “It hasn't worked until we break atmosphere,” he replied. “Two bandits now on our tail, but we've got a slight advantage. I just hope it's enough.” Reaching across for the missile controls, he tapped a button to launch a full salvo, sending them diving back towards the pursuing craft. “Get me a course to Alamo, as fast as you can.”

 “On it,” Foster said, taking the co-pilot's seat. “They've already got a lock. Computing course change now. Autopilot engaging.” She looked across at the sensor display, and added, “We really caught them off guard. I'd love to see Cruz's face right now. It'll be a long time before she lives this one down.”

 Picking up a headset as the shuttle soared over the horizon, Salazar said, “United Nations Shuttle to Alamo. Come in, please. Sorry I had to be so vague before, but it looks like I'll get a chance to hand-deliver my message.” Glancing at a readout, he said, “We'll be in orbit in three minutes, and expect to make landing in twenty. Put the coffee on. Out.”

Chapter 5

 “Battle stations!” Marshall said, watching the tactical display update, showing the enemy battleship moving out of the shadow of the twin moons on its approach towards Alamo. Salazar's shuttle was racing ahead of it, now ten minutes from landing, his trajectory worryingly close to Waldheim. Marshall glanced across at Caine, who returned his worried look.

 “We've got to protect that shuttle,” Francis said. “If we lose the link-up, most of our sensor data goes with it.” Turning to his station, he added, “All work crews are back inside the ship. We're clear for acceleration on your order.”

 “Fire up the engines, Midshipman,” Marshall ordered. “Intercept course. Let's get this over with. I want to minimize the time in combat range as much as possible.” Turning to Francis, he added, “Status of our fighter squadron?”

 “One-minute standby for launch.”

 “Get a flight into the air right now, orders to link up with the shuttle and escort it back to Alamo. There's nowhere else for them to hide in this system, so we've got to get them back on board.” He paused, then added, “Bowman, contact Midshipman Clarke and his team, and tell them to remain where they are for the moment, but stand-by for launch when I give the word. Or if it looks like bad guys are heading their way.”

 “I don't think Waldheim could make that moon,” Caine said. “And it hardly seems like a priority target. They should be safe enough on the surface.” Tapping a control, she added, “All decks are cleared for action, laser charged, missiles ready for launch, point-defense batteries on standby.” The elevator door opened, and Harper raced for the countermeasures station, the technician previously manning the console barely getting out of the way in time.

 “Bringing up firewall,” Harper said. “They're already probing.”

 “Captain,” Bowman said, “I can't contact our team on Pioneer. They've just gone onto the far side of the moon, and we're in the middle of some sort of jamming field. We won't be able to alert them for at least twenty minutes.” He paused, then added, “They would have been getting the tactical updates, Captain, but there's no guarantee they'll have been following the situation.”

 “I'd bet that Clarke's on the case,” Harper replied. “Firewall firmed.”

 “Red Flight launching, Captain,” Francis said. “Murphy's on the way right now.” He glanced at Marshall, and added, “We lost the reserve fighter when Salazar took it up, Captain. Meaning that any losses now, regardless of whether or not the pilot survives, are permanent. We don't have any way of replacing them.”

 Marshall nodded, then turned to the screen, watching as Alamo's trajectory track locked on with the approaching battleship, two titans of space closing for battle. There were options to evade, but not long-term, not without leaving Salazar and Foster stranded. More was at stake than just their lives, the survivors of Pioneer on the surface, waiting for rescue.

 Frowning, he turned to Bowman, and said, “Spaceman, open a channel with Waldheim, and tell them that I will be happy to discuss the conditions for a ceasefire agreement.”

 Shaking his head, the technician replied, “All systems are jammed, sir, and I can't open any channel. We're only keeping in touch with the fighters through lasers, and Waldheim's twisting too hard for me to lock on. There's no way to get a signal across to them.”

 “Cruz,” Harper said, shaking her head in disgust. “Left to himself, I suspect Estrada would be willing to make a deal. It isn't as if our political rivalries mean a damn thing out here. Cruz is making sure that he doesn't get a chance. God alone knows what he's being told.” Tapping a series of controls, she added, “Given a little time, I might be able to punch a way through.”

 “Do the best you can, Lieutenant,” Marshall replied. “I guess we're going to find out just how good those systems upgrades are. What have we got on Waldheim, Deadeye?”

 “Traditional United Nations Dreadnought, not recently upgraded. She was scheduled for spacedock time next year. Ten missile tubes, a laser a little more powerful than ours, but nowhere near as maneuverable. More fighters, a three-to-one advantage, but not as good as our Hurricanes. On paper, they've got the edge, but it isn't going to be a close fight.” A smile on her face, she added, “And I have a feeling you're going to make sure it isn't a fair one.”

 “Damn right,” Marshall replied. He looked over the strategic view, frowning at the simplicity. Nothing to hide behind, only the planet below them, the atmosphere reaching up towards them, too distant to be of any value. Space combat, far too often, was a matter of statistics, and in every possible measurement, Waldheim had Alamo outmatched. He turned to Francis, and asked, “How many probes do we have at the moment?”

 “Fifteen ready to go,” he replied. “We were about to start launching a sensor network.”

 “Fire the first five, on a collision course with Waldheim. I want it to look as though we're pretending to launch a missile salvo. Make it look convincing, but not convincing enough to actually work. And prepare the remainder to fire on my mark.”

 With a confused nod, Francis walked over to the sensor station, tapping a sequence of controls, and the first wave of probes raced towards the enemy battleship. This was an old trick, almost as old as space warfare, made easier due to the common equipment shared by the probes and missiles. There were only so many ways to design a compact, efficient propulsion system.

 Under normal circumstances, this trick was so old, that only an inexperienced commander would ever fall for it. There'd been numerous attempts to devise dummy missiles in the past that were more realistic, but it turned out to be easier to simply launch real missiles instead, the required complexity far outweighing any potential benefits.

 “They're ignoring them, sir,” Ballard said. “Looks like they're happy just to take the impacts. I have the second group ready to launch on your command.”

 “Fire at will, Spaceman, but this time make absolutely certain that you can keep a laser lock on them, and set an attack pattern to surround the ship.” Turning to Harper, he added, “I've just given you ten chances to hack into the enemy network, Lieutenant. I suggest you make them count.”

 “Already on it, sir,” Harper added, turning to her console with a will, her hands rattling across the controls as she labored to smash through Waldheim's firewall, message lasers sweeping around to find a terminal.

 “How long to firing range, Deadeye?” Marshall asked.

 “Four minutes minus,” she replied. “Rules of engagement?”

 “Weapons, then engines. Go to disable, not to kill. We might need their help to get out of this system, and I'd rather not wipe them out if we don't have to.”

 “With respect, sir,” Francis said, “General Estrada is unlikely to demonstrate the same level of mercy. I recommend we try for their primary oxygen reservoir with a salvo impact, three missiles after each other, followed up with the laser. They'll be too busy trying to retain some sort of control to handle a battle, at least until this pass is over.”

 “He's got a point, Danny,” Caine said, looking up at her readouts. “They're ready to fire, a full range of weapons, and I'm not sanguine that the point-defense systems can deal with them all. It's going to be pretty damned close.” She glanced across at a readout, and said, “Two minutes to contact, and I suspect they're going to throw everything they've got at us.”

 “Fire as soon as we get into range,” Marshall replied. “They'll have plenty of time to shoot ours down, but it should reduce that first salvo. After that, move to full defensive fire with the missiles, offensive with the laser. If we can slow them down, that will give us a lot more options on the second pass.”

 “Second pass?” Midshipman Imoto asked from the helm.

 Nodding, Marshall replied, “This battle isn't going to be concluded here, Midshipman. We're stuck in this system for three days, and I doubt they're just going to let us get away without a fight.”

 “It'll be a while, though, sir,” Ballard said. “Best estimate for a second strike is an hour and a half from now, and we should be able to extend that a little. And if we can damage them...”

 “Just as likely that they'll damage us, Spaceman,” Francis replied. “We'll have to play the hand we've got, and right now the dealer's still shuffling.” Turning to the status monitor, he added, “When do you want the second fighter wing launched?”

 “Thirty seconds before combat range,” Marshall replied. “Let's make them try and guess what we're doing, try and snatch the initiative. Harper, probe status?”

 “Closing on target,” she said, not looking up from her console. “I'm working on it.”

 “Sixty seconds to firing range,” Caine said. “Midshipman, I'll want a good shot in sixty-two, line on. Try for their heat radiator.” Looking to the far side of the bridge, she added, “Fitzroy, I want you to watch the heat levels like a hawk. As soon as you can, retract our wings. We can't have them exposed for any longer than we can help.”

 “Waldheim is building up to an energy spike,” Ballard reported. “I think they're going to try for our oxygen reservoir.”

 “Helm, evasive pattern in fifty-three seconds, and cut engines to one-third,” Marshall ordered. “If they hit us, we've had it.” He watched the display, the two ships rapidly closing on each other. At their current respective speed, they'd only have fifty seconds in the firing line, barely enough for two missile exchanges. More than enough to wreak irreparable damage on Alamo.

 “Fighters launched, sir!”

 Four new dots appeared on the screen, fanning out ahead of Alamo, ready to counter any moves from Waldheim. As he'd expected, an instant later, twelve fighters launched in response to their attack, split into two columns racing towards them. Twenty-four missiles now in the air, potentially, and Alamo's point-defense system would be instantly overwhelmed by a swarm of that scale. Marshall looked around the bridge, watching the crew at their posts, a strange eagerness on their faces.

 Relief.

 They were heading into a life or death situation, pitting their wits and their training against their most ruthless adversary, but it was something they knew. Something they had prepared for, had studied. Something they could cope with, and a momentary distraction from the nightmare they'd fallen into, tossed by an unknown phenomenon further away from home than humanity had ever dreamed it could go.

 “Twenty seconds,” Caine said, and Marshall turned his attention back to the screen. All the decisions had been made, and now the battle would proceed according to the ability of the crew and the strength of Alamo. He glanced across at Harper, the hacker intent on the screen, her hands a blur as she battered her way into the enemy network trying to gain some advantage over her opponent. Somewhere on Waldheim, someone was attempting to do the same to Alamo, a duel of cybernetic thrusts and parries, with the fate of their ships at stake.

 And he was stuck in the center seat, at the heart of the action, and yet unable to directly influence it. The curse of command. Everyone else had something to do, work to concentrate on, but all he could do was sit back, watch, and hope that he'd made the right decisions before the battle began. The countdown clock ticked away the last few seconds, and Imoto slammed his hands on the controls, activating the evasive sequence that sent Alamo ducking from side to side, rolling in a bid to throw off the aim of the enemy gunner as the barrel of Waldheim's laser cannon swung into position, ready to unleash its deadly payload.

 “Fire in the hole!” Caine yelled, as Alamo smoothly slid into position, a beam of laser light connecting the two ships for an instant, pumping multi-megawatts of energy into the enemy warship. Alamo's radiators glowed white-hot as they struggled to disperse the heat, and Waldheim's reflectors buckled and collapsed, the laser smoothly cutting through the thin material, leaving only an angry halo of debris temporarily surrounding the battleship.

 “Missiles away,” Caine said. “Enemy laser out of action.” She looked across at a second screen, and added, “They've launched in response. Ten to our six. Point-defense might be able to take care of the rest.”

 “Enemy fighters closing,” Ballard added. “Looks like they're setting for an attack run. Conventional strike pattern, right according to the manual. Green Flight has been notified and is engaging the enemy.”

 Bowman looked up from his display, and said, “Red Flight requests permission to break from escort duty and engage the enemy. Lieutenant Salazar has endorsed the recommendation.”

 “He would,” Marshall replied. “Request denied, not until that shuttle makes it home. We've got to have the information he's carrying, and we can't risk transmitting it, not in this battlespace.”

 “We could use those fighters, Danny,” Caine said, gesturing at the sensor display. “Right now we're looking at some pretty serious opposition.”

 “I think I can even the odds a little,” Harper replied.

 “You're cracked into Waldheim's system?”

 “Low-level access only, but I think I can throw them a scare or two.” She smiled, then added, “In about ten seconds, they're going to be getting decompression alarms on every deck. That ought to distract them a little.”

 “You have a vicious and devious mind, Lieutenant. I approve,” Marshall said with a smile. “Focus on the fighters, Deadeye. We'll gamble that they miss their window for the second salvo.” He looked up a the tactical display, the two clusters of missiles that had been first into the air slamming into each other, a series of brief flashes announcing their mutual destruction. Sixteen missiles had flown into that inferno, and only two flew out of it, the datastream noting that both had suffered significant impact damage, sufficient to make them easy prey for the point-defense systems.

 “Second salvo ready,” Caine said. “Just waiting for the fighters to make their move.”

 Marshall frowned, watching as the enemy fighters made their approach, dancing close to Alamo's own interceptors. They were well within range, could have dropped their missiles already and turned back to the safety of their baseship. Sweeping a hand over his controls, he dragged the view out to a longer-range strategic projection, wondering for a moment if they were trying for a longer pass, to get in behind Alamo and strike from the rear, but that would give him more time to bring them down. On their current course, they'd be in range of the point-defense batteries at any moment.

 “Course change! Threat warning!” Ballard yelled, and Marshall nodded as he saw the fighters dance around, half of them launching a missile spread towards Alamo, the others veering off, trajectories twisted to a different course. It took him a few seconds to realize where they were doing, and he cursed under his breath.

 “They're heading for Pioneer,” Imoto said, shaking his head. “Why?”

 “Because they know we've got people down there, and they want to distract us, try and lead us away from the planet. Bowman, any luck with the jamming?”

 “No, sir,” he replied.

 Harper looked up from her console, and added, “Nothing I can do from here either. Looks like an independent sub-system, not on the primary network. Clever bastards.”

 “Launch missiles, time-on-target,” Marshall said. “Recall Red Flight, and order them to take a pass at Waldheim. I doubt they'll get any hits, but they might do some damage.”

 “Aye, sir,” Francis said. A low rumbling came from the hull, the mass driver turrets scattered on the outside of the ship pounding at the incoming missiles, bringing them down with a series of direct hits. More contacts appeared on the display, twelve against twelve, as Green Flight and their counterparts from Waldheim turned away, their role in the battle concluded. Red Flight was burning fuel recklessly in a bid to catch up with the enemy battleship, but they were going to struggle to launch a successful intercept. As he watched, Murphy gave up the fight, firing her missiles in a last-ditch effort to distract their opponent.

 “Out of firing range, Captain,” Imoto said.

 “You sound disappointed, Midshipman,” Marshall replied. “Were you expecting everything to be over in one glorious moment of action? Space battles don't work that way. This was just a quick cut-and-thrust, a chance to test ourselves against each other.” Gesturing at the screen, he said, “You'll get your big fight, Midshipman. I suspect General Estrada will see to that.”

 “Are we heading to Pioneer's moon, sir?”

 Caine looked at Marshall, who shook his head, and said, “We don't dare, Midshipman. There's some reason that they want us away from that planet, and I'm guessing that Lieutenant Salazar knows what it is. Proceed for a close flyby, at best speed, and open up some distance from the enemy ship.” Turning to Francis, he added, “I want Salazar up in my office as soon as he lands. Foster as well. We've got to find out what is going on down there.”

 “But Clarke…,” Imoto said.

 “Keep trying to break through the interference,” Marshall ordered. “With a little luck, he'll spot the fighters when they get close.”

 “And if he doesn't?”

 Marshall was silent for a moment, then replied, “If he was able to talk to us, Midshipman, what do you think he'd be recommending right now?”

 Imoto nodded, then said, “I see, sir.”

 “Mind your helm, Midshipman, and keep us away from the enemy.” Turning to Caine, he added, “You have the deck, Deadeye. I'll be in my office.”

 “Aye, sir,” Caine replied. “I have the deck.”

 Rising from his command chair, Marshall walked from the bridge, waiting for the door to close before releasing his breath. He looked at the viewport, the placid starfield slowly moving beyond, and sighed. There was nothing he could do for the sixteen crewmen on the surface. Nothing except hope for the best, and pray for a miracle.

Chapter 6

 Clarke moved carefully along the wrecked deck, keeping clear of the obstructions that jutted out from the hull. Miraculously, this part of the ship still had life support, and he'd been able to leave his spacesuit behind at the sole remaining airlock, completing his inspection of the inhabitable areas of the ship with ease. Behind him, Blake followed, looking at the ship with a mournful eye.

 “Sad,” she said. “Forty years, and this is where Pioneer meets its end. Tattered fragments of alloy in a crater, lost hundreds of thousands of light-years from home.” She frowned, then added, “That's just beginning to sink in. It feels so damned strange to have no way to get back. I suppose it doesn't make much of a difference from a long expedition, but I feel...”

 “As though the last ties to home have been cut,” Clarke replied. “I think we're all getting a taste of that right now. I think the trick is just to keep busy for as long as we can.” Glancing at her, he added, “You've got it a lot easier than most of the crew.”

 “What do you mean?”

 “No ties back home to leave behind. If we're truly stranded out here forever, then at least you don't have anyone to worry about.” He paused, then added, “I guess I'm close to that. I'd expected to spend most of my life out here anyway, though I hadn't thought I'd ever make it to another galaxy.” Forcing a smile, he added, “This is what the recruiting poster promised. Strange worlds far away, beyond the stars.”

 Almost stumbling over a cable, Hooke drifted towards them, and said, “I think your people about have auxiliary power working again. We've only got battery power for a hundred hours or so, but I think that's going to be more than long enough for what we need.” Looking at the battered hull, he added, “It'll be nice to get back onto a real ship again.”

 “How did you get picked for this mission?”

 With a shrug, Hooke replied, “Wanted to bump my security clearance up a notch. Meant I needed to get my promotion confirmed, and Captain Casson made me an offer I couldn't refuse. With a promise that I'd be transferred back to Alamo as soon as the mission was over. I guess he finally managed to keep it, even if it was postmortem.” He paused, then added, “Before we leave, I'd like to take a last look at them. Say goodbye.”

 “Must have been tough. Burying your whole crew,” Blake said.

 “Just used a few subsurface charges. Took less than an hour to dig out each hole. They ought to do that back on Mars. Faster.” He paused, then added, “I know what you mean. Still, I figured someone would show up sooner or later. Didn't really want to give in to those bastards from Waldheim.” He grimaced, then said, “A shuttle turned up day before yesterday, but the plasma carbine gave them a good reason to leave in a hurry.”

 “Didn't they come back?” Clarke asked.

 “They sent a few messages, offered me a chance to surrender, but I think they had the idea that I'd have been forced to give up sooner or later, so why risk anyone they didn't have to?” Gesturing down the corridor, he added, “There are a dozen more carbines back there in working condition, and power packs for them all. Unless they've got a battalion stashed away somewhere that I don't know about, I'd say we don't have much to worry about here.”

 Stepping onto the bridge, Clarke looked around, eyes going from station to station. One of the technicians was busy dismantling the helm, cannibalizing the components for other stations, trying to get the sensor and communications stations online. He pulled his datapad out of his pocket, scrolling through the projected path of Alamo, frowning as he realized it had been more than twenty minutes since their last contact.

 “How long for the communications station?” he asked.

 “About an hour, sir,” Boyd replied. “Slow work, and I can't get any calibration from the ship, so we're having to use the shuttles.”

 “Could we receive a laser transmission?”

 Shaking her head, she replied, “We're in shadow at the moment. It'll be at least five minutes before we can get a comm laser lined up.” Her eyes widened, and she added, “You think something's gone wrong up there?”

 “Let's just say that my sense of paranoia is working overtime, Spaceman.” He walked across to the sensor station, reaching down for the controls, and added, “What's the story here?”

 “Almost ready,” the technician, a balding man named Fischer, replied. “We still have all the topside feeds. Bandwidth won't be great, but it should be enough for our purposes.” Glancing across at him, he added, “We're abandoning the ship eventually, anyway.”

 “Maybe,” Clarke replied. “Get this station working, right now.” He looked down at the last sequence of tactical updates, abruptly cut off thirty minutes ago. Someone was jamming their transmissions, blocking them from view, and he turned to Blake, eyes widening.

 “We're under attack,” he said.

 “What?” she replied.

 “Thirty minutes ago, Waldheim started jamming us. Blocked all signals from Alamo. The only reason I can think that they'd have done that is if they were planning a strike.”

 Peering out from under the helm, Petrova said, “Paranoia is right. There's nothing here to attack. Just a wrecked starship that we're planning to scrap anyway. Why would they attack us?”

 Looking back at her, Clarke replied, “We're here. Sixteen people from Alamo. Either they're planning on capturing us to take bargaining chips...”

 “Wouldn't work,” Hooke said, “and they know it. After the reception I gave them last time on my own, they wouldn't dare make the attempt. Hell, we'd be able to shoot down their shuttles before they could land.”

 “Then they're planning something else,” Clarke said. “Fischer, where the hell are my sensors!” Reaching for his communicator, he flicked a control for the frequency, and said, “Clarke to Fox. Get everyone outside the ship into cover on the double. I'm expecting imminent aerial attack. Stay clear of the shuttles.”

 “Understood, sir,” Fox replied. “We're on the way.”

 “Sensors coming up now, sir,” Fischer replied. His eyes widened, and he added, “Bandits! Bandits in the sky! Six coming, time to combat range, two minutes minus!” Turning to Clarke, he added, “How did you know, sir?”

 “I'm getting psychic in my old age, Spaceman. See if you can work the bulkheads. We've got to isolate the ship if we can.” Petrova was moving to the door, and he added, “You late for something?”

 “We've got to get out of here at once. This ship is in pieces, and...”

 “If my guess is right, Pioneer isn't the target. Our shuttles are.”

 “We still have time...”

 “Damn it, Petrova, you'd never even make it to the airlock! And even if we somehow managed to get everyone onto the shuttles, we'd be shot down before we got anywhere near orbit. Six bandits. Closing fast. Track their trajectories on the screen, and let me know when they drop their birds!” Looking around the room, he turned on the communications technician, and said, “Boyd, tell me we've got some countermeasures working.”

 “Sorry, sir, but I was told never to lie to an officer.”

 “He isn't an officer,” a fuming Petrova said, glaring at Clarke. Blake turned to her, disdain dripping from her face, and guided her back to her station.

 “That man is ten times the officer you are ever going to be, rook! Mind your console!” Moving to the engineering panel, she said, “The outer hull is in pieces right now, John. We're not going to be able to take any impacts. Recommend we shut down all external power feeds. Play dead.”

 Eyes wide, Boyd said, “The ship is spread over half a mile of terrain. I'm not sure how much deader we can make her look.”

 Frowning, Petrova added, “The shuttles. We could launch them remotely. Make it look as though we've managed to get clear of the ship.”

 “They'll have us under full observation,” Blake replied.

 “Maybe,” Clarke said, “but there are only eight out on the surface right now. They don't know where the rest are. Launch one of the shuttles, Petrova, and see if you can put it on a plausible trajectory. Try for the planet, not for Alamo. We don't want to be too obvious.”

 “Why not head back for the ship?”

 “Because if I'd had time to get us out of here, then I'd have tried for somewhere with an atmosphere to hide in. One where I could safely bail out if I had a chance. And I don't have time to explain my orders, damn it, so just get it done!” As a frowning Petrova moved over to the remnants of the helm, Clarke took her place at the sensors, adrenaline surging through his system. Blake looked across at him, as though seeing him for the first time.

 His fingers moved across the controls, and he looked up at the trajectory plot, watching the six targets move into position. There was nothing he could do to stop them, nothing any of them could do. The blast doors slammed shut, sealing each compartment from the rest of the ship, but that was only of limited value. Petrova's assessment had been right. Pioneer could not withstand an impact, even a glancing one. The superstructure was in pieces, and the hull was being held together by hope and prayer.

 “Eighty seconds to projected missile launch,” he said. “Boyd, can you raise Alamo?”

 “Sorry, sir. All channels are being jammed. We can't get a signal through, and I still can't get a bead with a message laser.” Looking up from the useless controls, she continued, “Too much damage. We haven't even had a chance to begin repairs.”

 “And if you want more good news,” Blake added, “there are no spacesuits in the locker, and the rescue balls have already been deployed.” Glaring at Boyd, the hacker simply looked at her and shrugged.

 “All of them popped when we crashed, and I stayed in one for twelve hours in case there was another hull breach. I haven't had time to fix them. Didn't seem like a high priority.” Turning to Boyd, he added, “Let me take a look at your console, Spaceman. There might be something we can do.”

 “Shuttle One launching now,” Petrova said. “Course is computed and programmed. Will be entering orbit in four minutes. Assuming those fighters give it a chance.”

 Clarke watched as the shuttle soared into the sky, knowing that they were committed to remaining on the moon. Sixteen of them had left Alamo, and they'd found one survivor. Seventeen people, and their single remaining shuttle could only carry twelve. Fourteen, perhaps. Which meant three of them had to stay behind.

 As the fighters moved into position for their final attack run, twelve missiles locked on and ready to fire, it occurred to him that he might be worrying over nothing. The chances of there being a single working shuttle left to them at the end of this battle seemed remote, and even a near-miss could wreck Pioneer, exposing them to the cold vacuum of space. Living through the next five minutes would be enough of a challenge for the present.

 Three of the fighters broke away, heading for the shuttle, reducing the number of missiles that would shortly be raining down upon them by half. It rankled to admit it, but Petrova might have just saved their lives.

 “Fox to Clarke,” his communicator barked. “We're all in cover, though I don't think we're going to have to face anything worse than shrapnel. I'll have my team move in as soon as the dust settles. I managed to snatch some rescue gear from Shuttle Two.”

 “Just stay clear until you are certain there is no danger. The power packs could do a lot of damage if they blow, and we're sitting on four warheads that your team placed to destroy the ship. I'm really hoping that your demolitions team is as good as they think they are.”

 “They're the best. Good luck, sir. Fox out.”

 “How the hell do you do that?” Petrova said, turning from the helm. “How can you be so damned calm? We're looking at six missiles slamming into us in less than two minutes!”

 “No point in dying all tensed up.”

 A part of Clarke agreed with Petrova, longed to rant and rave about the unfairness of it all, to make a vocal protest to the universe that they should have been alerted, that Alamo should have found a way to defy the laws of physics and warn them of the danger they were facing, but it would be a waste of time.

 “Sit down, everyone, and strap yourselves in,” he said, sliding into the command chair out of instinct, pulling on the restraints. Blake dived for the helm, snatching the depleted medical kit from the wall, and waited with the rest for the final seconds before missile launch.

 “Here they come!” Fischer said. “Looks like they're going for the shuttle. Glad we parked it so far away, sir.”

 “A quarter-mile isn't much, Spaceman,” Clarke replied with a smile. “I never thought I'd be hoping for an enemy gunner to get a direct hit.”

 The viewscreen flickered into life, showing a view of the lunar surface, the shuttle focused at the center of the screen. To one side, a tactical display appeared, showing the missiles diving towards them, the fighters pulling back, racing for Waldheim, as though fearing that Pioneer might lash out at them, find some way to attack.

 “If we had one working missile tube,” Boyd muttered. “One shot would give us a chance.”

 “And rain flaming shrapnel across the plain,” Hooke replied, still poking at the controls. “I can't crack in, sir. We just don't have the bandwidth for me to do anything, and we lost most of the database in the crash. Backup systems only.” Slamming a fist on the console, he added, “I had two weeks to patch this up, damn it!”

 “You weren't to know what was coming,” Clarke replied. “Twenty seconds to impact. Hang on, everyone. This is going to be rough.”

 He could see them now, six dots on the screen, converging on the same point on the surface. A brief flare lit the sky above, winking out of existence as Shuttle One died, ripped apart by multiple missile impacts. Petrova had worked the controls until the last second, but it never had a chance, not caught in a swarm of that size. She raised her hands to the console, her eyes fixed on the viewscreen.

 “Five seconds,” Fischer said. “Four. Three. Two. One. Impact.”

 Dust fell from the ceiling as the ship shook, the force of six ten-kiloton warheads erupting less than a mile away setting the earth shaking. A plume of dust soared into the sky, driven by the explosions and the force of escaping atmosphere, white-hot metal cooling in an instant as the remnants of the shuttle's hull were tossed in all directions. An eerie rattle came from the hull, the sound of the shrapnel landing all around, and a siren wailed from the engineering console.

 “Hull breach,” Hooke said. “Lateral communications array. I don't think anyone was in that part of the ship.”

 “If they were, they aren't any more,” Blake replied. She pulled out her communicator, and said, “All personnel, report status at once, and keep it short.”

 “Fox reporting. All personnel on the surface came through, but there's nothing left of Shuttle Two except a pile of glowing wreckage. I can't see any serious damage to Pioneer, but there are a couple of atmospheric leaks I can spot even from here. We're heading in to handle damage control.”

 “Damn it!” Boyd said, stabbing her console. “That impact took out the only long-range communications array we had left. I've got no way of contact Alamo. We don't even have a pickup for a laser signal now, sir. We're deaf and dumb.”

 “All personnel inside the ship are accounted for,” Blake said. “No injuries, no casualties at all, and Conner is already working on damage control to seal the leaks.”

 “What now?” Petrova asked, speaking the words on everyone's mind. “We can't contact Alamo, we can't get off this rock, and Waldheim can take us out whenever they want!”

 “True,” Clarke said. “But as a greater man than I once said, we have just begun to fight.”

 “Fight? With what?”

 A smile crept on Clarke's face, and he replied, “We've got eight Espatiers and eight engineers, and a ship full of spare parts. I'm sure we can come up with some nice surprises for Waldheim when she flies past us again.” Looking around, he added, “We work the problem, and we improvise a way off this rock. So let's get going.”

Chapter 7

 Salazar threw his restraints free, rising to his feet as the shuttle settled on Alamo's hangar deck. Not waiting to begin post-flight, he stabbed the emergency release on the cockpit airlock, climbing up into the docking bay, Foster hard on his heels. Pandemonium reigned in the hangar, Alamo's fighter squadron returning form its mission, technicians and pilots racing to the beat of the klaxon, still pounding into the air. Lombardo raced towards him, a smile on his face that quickly transformed into disbelief as he saw Foster.

 “Welcome back, Pavel,” he said. “Captain wants the two of you in his office, right away.”

 “Good,” Salazar replied, gesturing at the elevator. “We got emergency priority?”

 “All the way to the bridge.” Turning to Foster, he added, “What's going on?”

 Pausing for a second, Salazar said, “You'd better come with us, Art. If I was reading Alamo's trajectory right, then we're going to need to move quickly on this one, before Waldheim can swing around for another strike.” Looking amidst the confusion, he yelled, “Chief?”

 “Right here, boss,” Kowalski, Alamo's ubiquitous quartermaster, replied.

 “Get all the atmospheric shuttles ready for launch on the double. Full passenger load, fast turnaround on the surface. Then page Frank Rhodes and have him report to the bridge, and tell him that we're going to need the whole platoon for a planetary assault operation. Get his kit on board.” Gesturing at the fighters, he added, “And get our birds refueled and rearmed.”

 “Wait a damn minute,” Senior Lieutenant McCormack, the commander of Alamo's flight wing, replied. “Who the hell are you to be giving orders?”

 Glancing at his watch, Salazar said, “We've got a little under thirty minutes for the Captain to make his decision to approve the mission I'm about to recommend. If we don't start our preparations right now, then thirty people are going to die and we'll never get home. Now, do you want to continue this argument, or do you and Lieutenant Murphy want to come with us?”

 “I'm coming, Pavel,” Murphy said, pushing past her superior. “I think I know what you've got in mind, and it sounds like fun.”

 “Fun?” Foster said, shaking her head. “Prepare yourself for a disappointment, Lieutenant.”

 Salazar slammed the control to open the elevator door, jumping inside as the servicing crews began their work under the barking commands of Kowalski. For a second, he thought that McCormack was going to stay behind, but she squeezed in with the others at the last minute, a withering stare directed at Salazar.

 “Who is this, anyway?” she asked, turning to Foster.

 “Lieutenant Valerie Foster,” Salazar replied. “Latterly Tactical Officer of the Scoutship Pioneer.” Turning to Lombardo, he added, “I'm actually sorry to see you, Art. I'd hoped that Alamo had avoided getting caught up in the wormhole.”

 “You and me both,” he said. “Sabotage at the last minute. Republic, if you can believe it. Nothing we could do about it. No damage from our engagement with Waldheim, but we didn't get any good hits on her, either.” He paused, then added, “They did manage to launch a strike on Pioneer. We haven't had any contact with the salvage team since the battle.”

 “Who was commanding?”

 “Midshipman Clarke.”

 “What the hell was he doing commanding a salvage operation in hostile territory?”

 With a wry smile, Lombardo said, “I'm Acting Systems Officer, Pavel. And currently the only commissioned officer in that department. We're a little short-handed in some key positions. Besides, you were already having fun on the surface.” He paused, sighed, and said, “We didn't get a good look at the battle, but we did see one of the shuttles trying to escape. Bastards shot it down without even a warning.”

 Frowning, Foster said, “He tried to escape with fighters heading his way?”

 “Knowing Clarke, he probably had something else in mind,” Salazar said. “We'll have to deal with that later. Right now we've got a date with Dante.”

 The door opened, and Salazar led the group onto the bridge, a confused Rhodes waiting for him, standing outside Marshall's office. Caine looked up at his arrival, then frowned as she saw the collection of officers tumbling out of the elevator.

 “I think the Captain wanted a personal briefing...”

 “We don't have time for that,” Salazar said. “Sorry for opening up the guest list, but he's got a big decision to make, and damn near no time in which to make it. I wanted to get all the critical staff present.” With a grin, he added, “Think we can all squeeze into the office?”

 “Hell, let's hold it on the bridge,” Marshall said, stepping into the room. “Glad to see you, Foster. Congratulations on the promotion. What's the situation down on the surface?”

 “Desperate, sir, and that's what we want to talk about.” She stepped over to the helm, reaching over Imoto's shoulder to enter a sequence of commands, bringing an image of local space into view. A line reached out from Alamo's location, a suggested course change that would take them closer to the planet, taking them dangerously close to the enemy battleship.

 “We need to alter course in the next five minutes if this is going to work, sir.”

 “Into a firefight?” McCormack replied.

 Glaring at Salazar, Marshall asked, “Damn it, Pavel, what's the story?”

 “We've got thirty stranded people on the surface, sir, and they're almost certainly under attack by a substantial United Nations force as we speak. They did everything they could to keep their settlement concealed, but there's only so much they can do. Any time now, our people on the surface will be wiped out.”

 “Then we send in the shuttles, with a fighter escort, to pick them up,” McCormack replied. “I'd be happy to command such an operation, but for once I'm forced to agree with Lieutenant Salazar. If we're going to do this, we need to start work immediately.” Turning to Rhodes, she added, “And we'll have to keep the shuttles as light as possible. Just one pilot, and...”

 “I'm afraid there's more to it than that,” Foster replied. “We found an alien base on the surface, a large one. Lieutenant Carpenter believes that there is a connection between the site and the wormhole. Certainly there is ample evidence that it was built by a culture more technologically advanced than our own.” Stepping towards Marshall, she continued, “As of now, the UN forces don't know of its location, though we have some evidence that they've found a site of their own.”

 With a sigh, Marshall replied, “I think I know what's coming, and I don't like it. I don't like it one bit. You don't just want to rescue our people on the surface. You want to fight a land war with the UN troops down on the planet.”

 “We named it Dante,” Foster said.

 “That's out of the question,” McCormack said. “Supporting a force that large on the surface would be impossible, not while Waldheim is in the picture. And I don't like our odds of surviving a full-scale engagement. We were lucky, this time, but if they'd managed to catch us by surprise, we'd have been destroyed. Captain, I think we can get our people out, but we're going to have to concede this planet to the UN. I don't believe this mission profile is realistic.”

 Caine sighed, nodded, then said, “She's right, Pavel. They'll outnumber our forces considerably, and they'll be able to send reinforcements down with more rapidity than we can. All we can do is pull our people off the surface, and gather as much data as we can.”

 Francis looked at Salazar, then turned to Marshall, and asked, “What would be the point?”

 “Excuse me?” Marshall asked.

 “We're four hundred thousand light years from home, and at the moment, we've got no way of getting back. The wormhole that brought us here has closed, and while we can hope that another one exists somewhere in this part of space, we don't have any good idea as to where it might be.” Turning to Ballard, he asked, “Spaceman, could you tell me how many stars are within twenty light-years of our current location?”

 “We've picked up a hundred and nine, sir, but there could easily be others we haven't found yet. Brown dwarves would be hard to find without a longer base-line for detection.”

 “More than a hundred stars to search. We'd be lucky to complete that survey in two years, and that assumes that we're fortunate enough to find it so close. Captain, if there is a lead on the surface, I don't believe that we have any alternative other than to exploit it, no matter what the risks.”

 Rhodes nodded, and said, “My three remaining squads will happily volunteer, sir. All of us know what is at stake, and we're willing to take the chance.”

 “How do we do it?” Marshall asked.

 “Well,” Salazar replied, “We've got to evacuate the entire ground team. Except for Lieutenant Carpenter, certainly, and possibly Sub-Lieutenant Quesada. I'd suggest that they fly up on the shuttles we take down with the strike team.”

 “Leaving you stranded on the surface,” Caine replied.

 “It doesn't really make a difference,” Salazar said. “The shuttles are a lot safer on Alamo than they are exposed on the desert. We can't come home until Alamo can make another pass anyway, so does it matter where the shuttles are sitting? The strike plan is obvious. We'll need three shuttles to carry the platoon and its equipment. The team lands at the base, unloads, then returns to Alamo with the Pioneer survivors. We can have fighter escort all the way to the deck.”

 “We can't operate that deep in a gravity well,” McCormack replied. “Not and have any chance of getting out again. I think you managed to prove that quite effectively, Lieutenant. More to the point, we don't dare risk our remaining fighters on a mission such as this.”

 “Boosters,” Lombardo replied. “We've got them in storage. Solid fuel boosters, essentially a first stage for the fighters to give them the boost to reach atmosphere. We can fit them on the surface in less than ten minutes.” Looking at Marshall, he added, “I'll need a team.”

 “Keep it small,” Salazar replied. “There are plenty of good engineers on the surface.”

 “Then I'll go myself,” Lombardo said. “I can fly right-seat on one of the shuttles, and supervise the installation. Not a problem.” He paused, then added, “There'd be a side-bonus, as well, if we fit atmospheric missiles on the fighters. We could get in some good aerial strikes on the way down, give some support to our people on the surface. Especially if there's a chance that they're already under attack.”

 Nodding, Rhodes added, “Be good to have some fire support, sir.”

 “You're still missing the essential problem,” McCormack replied. “Waldheim has at least a hundred troops on board. A full company of UN Marshals. All trained in ground combat, all experienced soldiers. How are you going to cope with being outnumbered to that extent, Ensign? There could be four to one odds against you.”

 “We're used to it, ma'am.” He glanced at Salazar, and added, “I think Pavel and I both have some ideas on this. Just put us down on the surface, and we'll do the rest. You can count on that.”

 “Who goes, then?” Marshall asked.

 “Don't get the idea I'm being left behind on this mission,” Harper said. “I can do more good on the surface than I can up here, and it won't be the first time that I've crawled through alien ruins.”

 Folding her arms, McCormack replied, “I should command the mission.”

 Francis shook his head, and said, “I think Lieutenant Salazar is a more logical choice. He's got both ground forces and space combat experience. I'd recommend Ensign Rhodes for the ground contingent, Lieutenant Murphy for the fighter wing, as well. We'd better keep the team as light as possible. Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo has to go, but aside from him, just one pilot for each shuttle.”

 “I can fly a shuttle,” Lombardo said.

 “And on the way home, you'll have to,” Salazar said. “There are a couple of pilots down there, but we can't necessarily count on them. If the base is under attack, then we don't know what casualties they've sustained. The last thing we need is to have a shuttle stranded on the surface.”

 “We could contact the base,” Imoto suggested. “Find out the tactical situation.”

 Shaking his head, Marshall replied, “And if the UN ground forces haven't found them, Midshipman, we'd be giving their location away in a second.” Turning to the sensor display, he added, “We still don't have anything like the resolution required to get good shots of the surface, but we might do a little better during the flyby.”

 Caine frowned, then added, “We could abort at any time, if we had to. If it looked like the situation down there was impossible, I suppose the shuttles could just make a full burn and return to Alamo. The fighters as well, as long as they stayed about ninety thousand feet. We'd only be committed when they entered the planetary stratosphere.”

 “Captain,” McCormack said, “I must once more protest against this proposed course of action. We're risking the loss of the remains of our Espatier force and half of our fighter wing for a mission of extreme risk and limited reward. With all respect to Lieutenant Carpenter, all we're fighting for are a collection of alien ruins. And Salazar, you said yourself that you thought that Waldheim's team had found a second site.”

 “Which we will have to capture, potentially,” Foster said.

 Rolling her eyes, McCormack replied, “Any strategic planning team would tell you that this so-called mission doesn't pass the laugh test. I propose that we launch a rescue mission, shuttles only, and gather as much intelligence as we can from the survivors. Maybe, once the situation becomes more favorable, we can retake the surface. Waldheim won't be there forever, but those ruins have been there for thousands of years. They'll still be there in a week.”

 “Will they?” Harper asked. “If I was commanding that force, I'd plant nuclear charges at any critical site, and destroy all evidence behind me. You can bet that Colonel Cruz will be doing just that. It's not impossible that she already has them prepared. Or an orbital strike on their way out, along similar lines.”

 “Scorched Earth,” Salazar replied with a nod. “I'm not saying that this mission isn't risky as hell, Captain, and under normal circumstances I wouldn't recommend it, but I don't think we have much of a choice. Either that, or we have to trust to luck that we can find some other way home, some clue somewhere else in the system, or in one of the neighboring stars.” Turning to Ballard, he asked, “A hundred and nine, I think you said, Spaceman.”

 “And if you take it to thirty light-years, sir, you can quadruple that number.”

 “Looking for a needle in a celestial haystack,” Francis replied. “Sir, we've got to take the chance. Risk or no, we can't just sit back and watch while Waldheim destroys our way home.”

 “There's another factor,” Caine said. “We've got a window for a launch to Pioneer in the next hour. After that, we won't be able to send anyone for more than a day, not without near-certain intercept by Waldheim's fighters. We don't know what the situation is on the surface, or even if there are any survivors, but we can assume that the situation is grave, and that they might be in dire need of assistance. We can't do both missions, sir.”

 Taking a deep breath, Marshall turned to Rhodes, and asked, “Can you pull this mission off, Ensign? No bravado, no optimistic assessments. Do you have a realistic chance of completing this mission as outlined by Lieutenant Salazar?”

 “We do, sir. This is the sort of operation we've trained for. All of my team have had extensive ground forces training, and we've got much better equipment than we did during the Xandari War. I'm confident that we'll be able to show Waldheim's force a few surprises.”

 “Then I will approve the mission,” Marshall said, while McCormack shook her head, scowling. “Pavel, you have command. It's your idea. Harper can fly right seat, and you might as well take a paramedic with you as well. Keep the teams as light as you can, and remember to follow the time-line.” He paused, then said, “Don't push the odds too hard. If it looks as though everything is falling apart, then I expect you to abort the mission and return to Alamo. We'll find another way home if we have to.”

 “I understand, sir,” Salazar replied. “Don't worry. We'll make it work.”

 “I hope so,” Marshall said. “You'd better get down to the hangar deck, get everything moving down there. Midshipman?”

 “Sir?”

 “Execute the course change indicated by Lieutenant Foster.”

 “You realize that Waldheim will be able to respond,” Caine said. “They'll undoubtedly change their course to match ours. We could be back into a firefight in a matter of moments, with half our fighter force unavailable.”

 With a smile, Marshall replied, “Then we'll just have to think of a few good ways to keep them busy, Deadeye. Good luck, Pavel. And good hunting.”

Chapter 8

 “Can we at least get some sort of damage report?” Clarke asked, watching as the engineering monitor flickered on and off. “Some sort of status check?”

 “What exactly do you expect to find?” Hooke replied. “Pioneer is a broken-down hulk, and nothing's working anywhere. No communications, no defense systems.”

 Conner glided onto the bridge, taking careful steps in the ultra-low gravity, and replied, “All hull breaches sealed, I think, though there are probably a thousand micro-fractures scattered across the ship. We can't take any more hits, sir. Not even an indirect one. It would finish us for sure.” Looking at Hooke, she added, “I've got a team working on distributing the spacesuits, sir, and refitting the rescue balls. Until further notice, I'd recommend that we all keep them close at hand at all times. Especially if there is any danger of battle.”

 “Sensors, life support?” Clarke asked.

 “Life support is fine, but on emergency battery power, I'd say we have maybe seventy hours before we start running into serious problems. If you're planning on staying here for a while, we might be able to improvise something, maybe rig a solar array, but without fabricators, that's going to be tricky. I think we can strip them from some of the probes, but...”

 “Probes?” Blake asked. “How many have we got?”

 “Three, ready to go,” Hooke replied. “I had them rigged as emergency beacons, in case someone I actually liked came into the system. Didn't have a chance to fire them off when Alamo arrived.” His face reddened, and he added, “I was asleep.”

 “Asleep?” Petrova said, shaking her head.

 “Damn it, one man can't manage a twenty-four hour watch, and I've been overdosing on stimulants as it is!” the hacker barked. “I'd like to see you do as much with as little, kid.”

 “Easy,” Blake said. “Maybe we need to do a full check of the ship. We'd barely started our survey when the attack began.” She paused, then added, “What about the hangar decks?”

 “Everything in there was wrecked in the landing,” Hooke replied. “All smashed to pieces. I salvaged a few rescue packs, but that's about all. Dammit, you can't even get at it from inside the ship at the moment. Lateral corridor has a couple of hundred breaches.”

 “Is there life support in there?” Clarke asked.

 “Residual backup, maybe,” Conner replied. “We could probably link it back up again, sir, assuming the connections are intact. Though that would significantly drain our energy reserves.” She paused, smiled, then said, “You're thinking we might be able to salvage something from the shuttles, extend our stay time down here a bit.”

 “A reactor, life support system,” Blake said, nodding in approval. “Even if those components are damaged, it might be possible to patch something together. It's better than just sitting around and waiting for our reserves to run down.”

 “Alamo will launch a rescue mission,” Petrova pressed. “All of this is a waste of time. We should continue as planned, complete our objectives, and stand by for recovery.”

 “And if they can't?” Clarke asked. “We know they were in a firefight, and we haven't got any way of knowing how much damage they took. It could be hours, or days before they are in a position to effect a rescue. We've got to assume that we're here for a while, and do everything we can to see to our own salvation.”

 “You can't seriously be thinking that we could get away from this moon by ourselves.”

 “The gravity's light enough that we might be able to manage it with suit thrusters,” Boyd volunteered. “Maybe we could throw something together, given enough time.”

 “Our orders were to strip the ship for salvage, and prepare to transfer the materials to Alamo,” Petrova said. “The rescue shuttles could already be on the way, and Alamo might be in need of these components, especially if they've suffered damage.”

 “I've made my decision,” Clarke said. “Conner, cease all salvage operations for the present, and start work on repairing the critical systems of the ship. Cannibalize everything you can, and try and buy us some more time. As much as you can.”

 “Aye, sir,” she said.

 “Hooke, you want to show me this hangar deck of yours?”

 “If you want,” he replied. “Though I don't think it will do you any good.”

 “Petrova, I want you to stay here and monitor the sensors. Let me know instantly if you see anything unusual, anything at all. If you see enemy fighters heading this way, we'll have to evacuate the ship.” He paused, then turned back to Conner, and said, “Set up some supply caches on the surface, at a safe distance from the ship. Medical supplies, food, oxygen. And enough equipment to patch up part of Pioneer if we have to.”

 “What should I do with the other hand, sir?”

 With a smile, Clarke replied, “I'll leave that to your imagination, Spaceman.” Turning to the blast door, he stepped out into the corridor, frowning at what he saw. If anything, it was worse than it had been ten minutes ago, worrying cracks along the ceiling panels, debris scattered on the floor, dust still settling in the air. He could detect a faint tang of ozone in the background, the sign of something seriously wrong with the life support systems. Potentially even an electrical fire. Heading towards him was a grinning Fox, hefting a rifle in her arms, followed by two of her squad, one of them with a bandage wrapped around his arm.

 “I thought we didn't have any casualties,” Blake said. “Let me take a look at that, Trooper.”

 “Just a bit of shrapnel,” the man replied. “Small puncture, and it broke the skin. Hurts, but I feel fine. Managed to patch the suit, as well, so it's still operational.”

 “Mild burns,” Blake replied, pulling back the bandage, “as well as a pretty deep cut. I'd like to take a better look at this, Private.” Glancing across at Fox, she asked, “Any more surprises for me out there?”

 “That's all,” Fox replied. “Didn't even know about this until we came aboard. Sir, I've taken a preliminary look at the wreck of the shuttle, and I can't find anything worth recovering. Just scrap metal. Even the emergency beacon is gone.”

 “I didn't really expect you to find anything, Sergeant. Recommendations?”

 “Given that we're stuck here for a while, I think we need to establish a defensible perimeter.”

 “Why?” Blake asked. “They know there isn't anything here worth taking, and they've already removed our only means of getting out of here. As far as they are concerned, either we're a distraction for Alamo, something to divert their attention from the rest of the system, or something to be dealt with at leisure as soon as they've secured the system. Either way, they won't be coming back.”

 “We can't be sure of that.” Gesturing at a hatch, the veteran continued, “There are a dozen plasma carbines back there, and fittings to set up an automatic defense network. I can rig them to blow away anything that dares to come near, but we need to start work on that right now.”

 Shaking his head, Hooke replied, “We don't have the power to spare. You know how much energy one of those plasma bolts uses? As it is, we're going to start breathing fumes in less than three days unless we can think of something.” With a shrug, he added, “We might want to think about draining the power packs back into the batteries. Might buy us a few hours more.”

 “And what do you intend to do with those hours?” Fox pressed. “We're in a hostile situation, with enemy forces closing in all around us, and you want to strip us of our only means of defense? We might as well surrender now and get it over with, if that's your plan.”

 “Set up the perimeter, Sergeant,” Clarke said, the beginnings of an idea forming in his mind. “Though I want your hacker to help with the ship's systems. And anyone else in your team with any engineering experience at all. There's no point setting up a defensive perimeter when we don't have anything to defend.”

 “Very good, sir,” Fox replied. “I'll see to it right away.” As the trooper walked back towards the armory, Blake walked up to Clarke, a wry smile on her face.

 “What is it?” she asked.

 “What?”

 “The crazy idea you're coming up with.”

 “What makes you think I have one?”

 “This isn't the first time we've been in a tough situation together, and insane plans do seem to be your specialty.”

 “Let's just take a look at the hangar bay, shall we?” he replied. “Then we can discuss my insanity when it's more fully formed.” He stepped into the airlock, pulling on a suit from the locker, an eye on the amber warning lights over the door seal. More damage, here, at the last airlock that accessed the inhabitable areas of the ship. For a second, he reached for his communicator, ready to contact Conner, but there was nobody free to work on it anyway. And amber only meant that it might fail, not that it would fail.

 When the three of them had completed suiting up, they stepped out onto the surface, and Clarke got his first look at the remnants of their landing site, a new crater a hundred meters wide where two shuttles had so recently stood. If anything, Fox had understated the devastation caused by the missile impact, and it was a miracle that there was any recognizable wreckage at all.

 He looked back at the battered Pioneer, new gouges on her hull, fresh patches where Conner’s team had completed emergency repairs. A pair of technicians were walking along the side of the ship with datapads in their hands, scanning for oxygen leaks, while a fire team of Espatiers were heading into the distance, measuring out the positions for their defensive perimeter.

 Hooke gestured to the far side of the ship, down by the wrecked engine nacelles, and he fired his thrusters to guide him towards the hangar deck, running past the shattered hull as he flew. All around him were signs of the recent battle, new craters formed from the impact of the smoldering wreckage, the brief firefight literally reshaping the surface of the planet.

 “Over there,” Blake said, gesturing at the horizon, and Clarke saw a second new crater by the side of a hill, more wreckage scattered around it. The first shuttle, struggling for orbit before being shot down by the enemy fighters. If Petrova had been in command, it would have been loaded with crewmen. At least he had managed to save their lives, even if that salvation was all too temporary.

 The trio walked towards the waiting airlock, and Hooke stabbed at the control panel, frowning as the system failed to respond. Clarke reached across to the manual controls, tugging the protective panel free and pumping the lever to open the lock, struggling to keep his footing in the low gravity, his thrusters firing in brief bursts to keep him stable. Blake pulled out her datapad, running the sensor filament along the seam of the airlock.

 “Some oxygen leakage,” she replied. “We might be able to breathe in there, but I doubt it'll hold for long.” Glancing at the ruptured hull, she continued, “It would be a miracle if the whole bay was intact. All the connecting corridors are sealed.”

 “Captain Casson had the ship locked down before impact,” Hooke said, his eyes distant for a moment. “I've never felt anything like it. Blind luck that I managed to stay in my couch. None of the others made it through.” He took a deep breath, then said, “Not a happy time.”

 “I can't imagine what it must have been like,” Blake replied.

 “Hopefully you never will,” the hacker replied.

 “Almost there,” Clarke said with a grunt, and the seal finally cracked, allowing them access to the inner compartment. The second door was sealed as tightly as the first, and a few backup indicators were working, glowing angry amber and red. Blake stepped inside, reading through the few functioning telltales, then turned to the others.

 “Some oxygen, but it's a hundred below in there. And life support is out, so all that we have is the air that was in there when the ship crashed.” Turning to Hooke, she asked, “You didn't do any repair work?”

 “No time,” he replied. “I went inside on the third day, but everything was such a wreck that I gave up. Didn't seem to matter, anyway. There wasn't anywhere to go, even if I'd found a working shuttle.” Looking at the two of them, he added, “I was about an hour away from just signaling Waldheim and getting it over with. We can't even do that now.”

 The trio stepped inside, and Clarke began the laborious process of sealing the outer door, working the manual controls again, sweat building up on his forehead from the exertion. Finally, at last, the outer door closed, the pressure automatically equalizing as the inner door opened, revealing a tangled, jagged mess within.

 “Pressure a little low, oxygen low, temperature damned low,” Blake said. “But livable, at least for the moment.” She reached for her visor, and at Clarke's shocked look, added, “The human nose is still one of the best sampling devices we've got. Just keep an eye on my face, and if I start turning blue, close it quickly and add extra oxygen.” She swung open her faceplace, and took an experimental breath. For a second, she smiled, but then her eyes widened and she slammed down the visor again, looking at Hooke with disgust.

 “What is it?” Clarke asked.

 “You missed one,” Blake said.

 Hooke closed his eyes, and said, “I thought all the ones I hadn't accounted for had been thrown into space. I found half a dozen bodies scattered outside, one of them a mile away.” Pushing past Blake, he ducked under the wreckage, out into the open part of the deck, and started to search, while the others looked on. “Here he is,” he said, tossing a chunk of ruined motor to the side, exposing a man curled in the fetal position, terrible wounds on his forehead, tears frozen to his face.

 “Sam Watson,” Hooke said. “Shuttle technician.” Turning to them with horror in his eyes, he added, “He lived beyond the impact. My God, he lived beyond the impact. I could have saved him!”

 Shaking her head, Blake looked at the body, and replied, “I doubt it. Both arms broken, probably a fractured skull, likely brain damage. I doubt the kid had a chance, even if you'd got to him at once.” With a deep sigh, she added, “Let's get him out on the surface. I'll contact Fox and arrange a burial detail. He can join the rest of his crewmates.”

 “No,” Hooke said, reaching down and cradling the dead man in his arms. “I'll see to it myself. I don't need any help.” Taking him to the airlock, he sealed the door behind him, leaving Clarke and Blake alone as the airlock started to slow cycling process.

 “Maybe I should call Fox anyway,” Clarke said.

 “I wouldn't,” Blake replied. “I think he needs to do this for himself. What the poor guy must have been through would be more than enough to put anyone on the verge of a breakdown. I'm surprised he's still able to operate at all.” Turning back to the hangar, she added, “Let's make a start on our survey. I've never seen such a pile of wreckage.”

 Lights flickered, and Clarke gestured at the ceiling, adding, “Most of this isn't from the shuttles. The deck above buckled, slammed into this one, and sent everything falling.” Peering to the side, he said, “The rear section might be clear.”

 “Hooke said he'd checked it out,” Blake said. “Still, given how he must have felt, I suppose we can't necessarily trust his judgment.”

 The two of them pushed their way through the wreckage, careful to avoid potential damage to their suits, a host of sharp edges and jagged cuts reaching out to them. Ducking underneath a wrecked support strut, Clarke saw a shape buried underneath a pile of debris, the sleek lines of one of the old transfer shuttles, a design that had been obsolete for decades.

 “Aft section's a write-off,” Blake said, following his gaze.

 Gesturing past it, over to the far side, Clarke replied, “Look over there.” A second shuttle, the cabin caved in and ruined, but with the aft section intact, shining alloy gleaming from the flickering overhead lights. “Don't look now, but I think we might have found our ticket out of here.”

 “Two halves of a ruined shuttle equaling one working vehicle?” Blake said, her frown illustrating her skepticism. “We've got no tools, no space to work, no specialists, and no ability to contact anyone for help. You want to essentially build a shuttle out of a pile of scrap components with a handful of technicians and some ground troops?”

 “You have a better idea?” At her silence, he tapped a control on his arm, and said, “Conner, drop everything and get over here on the double. And have someone check the database for Mark Three Transfer Shuttle schematics.”

 “We opening a museum, sir?”

 “Try a vintage shuttle rally, Spaceman. Though I'll ride a broomstick if it'll get us home.”

Chapter 9

 “Come on, people!” Salazar said, gesturing to the gathering platoon. “We've got no time at all if we want to get to the fight. They're not going to wait around down there for us forever. Frank, you getting your equipment stowed away?”

 “Locked and loaded, sir!” the young officer replied with a wave and a smile. Salazar waved back, climbing into the shuttle, walking past the anxious troopers to the cockpit. He'd known Frank Rhodes for years, watched him grow from a cocky young Private to a cocky young Ensign, courtesy of a brief sojourn at Officers' Candidate School during Alamo's refit. Sliding into his seat, he looked across at Harper, already most of the way through the pre-flight checks.

 “You didn't have to come with me, you know,” he said.

 “Come on, you think I'm going to let you head down to an unexplored planet by yourself? Knowing you, you'd find a way to get lost down there.” With a smile, she replied, “Besides, I haven't gone on a dangerous mission for at least six hours. It really has been a hell of a day.”

 Tugging on his restraints, he asked, “How's the crew holding up?”

 “By they skin of their teeth. I'm almost glad that all of this has cropped up. The last thing they need is time to think, at least not until we've got something positive for them to think about. There's a lot more riding on this than just a way home. Morale's going down the waste chute unless we can do something about it, and soon.”

 “I know what you mean,” he said, as the last of the troopers tramped on board. “I'm having trouble getting used to the idea myself, and I've hardly spent any time on Mars for years anyway. Hundreds of thousands of light years?” Shaking his head, he continued, “It seems impossible. And just about typical that the first thing we do is go out here to war.”

 “Blame Waldheim.”

 “Don't worry, I do,” he said, sliding on a headset. “Shuttle Leader to all Shuttles. Report.”

 “Shuttle Two here,” Midshipman Siegel said. “Ready to go, sir.”

 “Shuttle Three,” Foster added. “All systems go. I still say that I should stay down there with you after the landing.”

 “Someone's got to get this collection of hardware back up to the ship, and you're the nearest thing the survivors have to a senior officer. Besides, someone's got to keep my seat warm until I can get back.” Tapping a control, he continued, “Shuttle Leader to Red Leader. Ready?”

 “We're all set,” Murphy replied. “Just make sure those boosters are intact. I don't want to spend any more time playing in the sand than I have to.”

 “Shuttle Leader to Alamo Actual,” Salazar said. “Mission team ready for launch, sir. Request departure clearance on request.”

 “Confirmed,” Marshall said. “Bring them back alive, Pavel. Good luck.”

 Tapping a control, Salazar worked the elevator airlock, the mechanism bursting into life, dropping through through the decks. All around him, the shuttles descended, fighters waiting above them in their cradles, ready to follow them as soon as the first cluster of launches had taken place. He looked around, knowing just how much they were risking on this mission. Twenty-three troopers, three shuttles, three fighters. Hardware that Alamo was going to need if it was to survive in this new environment.

 And yet, there didn't seem to be any choice. They couldn't simply leave the Pioneer survivors to rot on the surface, especially not with Colonel Cruz and her comrades desperate to capture them, to find the secret of the alien city. A long-forgotten installation that seemed their only chance to find a way home. It didn't matter that the odds were long. The crew had to have some sort of hope if they were going to keep going, and this far from home, hope was in increasingly short supply. Most of the crew had volunteered for the mission without a second thought, and he'd had some short but violent arguments with the senior enlisted, all of whom had excellent, yet implausible reasons for going down to the planet.

 The shuttle dropped away, flung clear of the ship, and Salazar fired the main engine to send it soaring down towards the planet, keeping a wary eye on the sensor display, watching the distant Waldheim as it swung around the nearest moon, using the gravitational boost to hurl it back towards Alamo, ready for another encounter in the near future. That wouldn't be his problem. By then, he'd almost certainly be engaged with the forces on the surface, stranded until and unless Alamo could make another pass to pick them up.

 “Fighters launched, Pavel,” Harper said. “Moving into escort formation.” Looking up at the planet ahead, she added, “Nice place you've found down there.”

 “Hot as hell,” he replied. “There's a reason the Pioneer crew called it Dante.” Tapping a control, he said, “Shuttle Leader to Mission Team. Watch your formation, and make sure you keep up. We've got to get down to the deck and back again in twenty minutes at most, or we'll be flying back into the middle of a battle. I'm reading seven minutes to the surface.”

 “Shuttle Three to Shuttle Leader,” Foster said. “I'm picking up fighter launch from Waldheim. Six birds, moving to high guard position.”

 “Damn,” Harper replied. “Confirmed, Pavel, I'm reading that here too. They're burning at full acceleration. I can't see how they expect to make it back.”

 “Arrogant bastards,” Salazar said. “They're expecting to have control of orbital space by the time they run out of fuel. Waldheim's probably got tanker shuttles on board.” Tapping a sequence of controls, he said, “They're going to be coming into our flight path when the shuttles come back up.”

 “Alamo to Shuttle Leader,” Marshall's voice began.

 “We see it, Alamo. Wait one.” Turning to Harper, he asked, “Thoughts?”

 “Three fighters against six. Not good odds. Could we delay takeoff?”

 “Not without risking running into the rest of their fighters. Or Waldheim itself, if it comes to that. Estrada's a clever bastard. He's going to whittle down Alamo's strength a piece at a time before engaging her directly. Try and win the war with attrition rather than brute force.”

 “Smart,” Harper said. “Not very good for us, either.”

 “Shuttle Leader to all Shuttles,” Salazar said. “We're going to have bad guys heading our way before we can make it back on our current flight path. We'll have to cut down our surface time to the absolute minimum.”

 “Wait a minute, Pavel,” Lombardo said. “It'll take at least six minutes for me to fit the booster rockets. I can't cut that any further.”

 Nodding, Salazar replied, “Which means for at least the first leg of the journey, the shuttles are going to have to make it without escort. Murphy, you following this?”

 “At full burn, we'd run out of fuel long before we got back to Alamo,” the pilot replied. “We could act as a decoy, though. Give them more than one target to worry about, maybe throw the bastards off a little.” She paused, smiled, then added, “Or set up for an attack run on Waldheim out of the upper atmosphere while they swung past. That's something they'd have to react to.”

 “I like the way you think, Jessie,” Salazar said. “Shuttle Leader to Alamo Actual.”

 “I've been listening in, Pavel,” Marshall replied. “We talked about acceptable risks, and right now I think you're pushing them a lot further than I like. You have my permission to abort and return to Alamo. We'll think of something else.”

 “Be a pity to miss a chance to breathe real air again,” Harper said, looking at Salazar. “If we move like hell, we can cut our time on the surface to four minutes. That will get the shuttles back home sixty seconds before Waldheim enters combat range. There might be some risk from the fighters, but Alamo can mitigate that by launching the rest of the formation.”

 “Captain,” Salazar said, “We think we can still pull this off. I'm not sure we'll get another chance to try this, sir, and I'd like to continue the mission.”

 There was a long pause, and finally Marshall replied, “Permission reluctantly approved. I don't like this, Pavel. Not flying without escort. We'll just have to hope that Red Flight provides the ace in the hole we need. Don't worry about our end of the battle. Just get those people home. Alamo out.” The channel flicked closed, and Salazar turned back to the rear section.

 “Corporal, you'll have to get clear of the shuttle in sixty seconds. I'll try and give you the smoothest ride I can. Unstrap as soon as we get through atmospheric entry interface, and get yourselves kitted up. As long as we're not actually under fire on landing, you should be able to just dump the equipment in the sand.”

 “Will do, sir,” a frowning Weber replied. “Check equipment, everyone. We won't have time when we get onto the deck, and I don't want to risk being exposed if there's a United Nations Welcome Party waiting for us.”

 “Kris, hit the sensors,” Salazar said. “We should be getting into range to get some good shots of the surface any time now. If there's any activity near the base, we need to know about it.” Glancing across at his controls, he added, “Even if they aren't heading that way now, they will be as soon as they realize we're coming. They'll throw everything they've got at our landing area.” Gently guiding the shuttle, he continued, “I'm putting her in re-entry attitude. We're going to be pushing the envelope for speed a bit. Hang on.”

 “Getting first close shots now,” she said. “I've got the dome, Pavel. Looks clear for the moment. No pinpoint heat sources.” Turning to him, she added, “They've done a damn good job of hiding it. I wouldn't have seen if if I didn't already know it was there.”

 “I have a horrible feeling we can say the same about Waldheim's team,” Salazar replied. “Track our launching site from the last landing, and have a look around that part of the desert. That buggy was heading somewhere, and I don't believe it was just a routine patrol.”

 “I can't see anything,” she replied. “Throwing over to close...wait one.”

 “What?”

 “Got something.” Tapping a control, she added, “Harper to Murphy. Jess, I've got what looks like a troop concentration, grid reference nine-alpha-nine. Sending through targeting coordinates now. Best guess that we're looking at four armored vehicles and thirty-plus troopers.”

 Peering over her shoulder, Salazar whistled, and said, “Not bad, not bad at all. Only thirty miles from our base. Knocking them out could solve a lot of problems for us, maybe even the odds a little down there.”

 “Don't get too optimistic,” Foster said. “I just picked up another launch from Waldheim. Three shuttles, heading in our wake, maybe ten minutes behind us. Looks like transports, estimate fifteen troopers on each. Even if they don't make it from the surface, we can expect to have company soon after landing.”

 Glancing at the trajectory track, Harper cursed, and said, “Out of range of our fighters, here or on Alamo. These bastards are good, Pavel.”

 “Too late to change the plan now,” he replied. “Outer hull temperature rising. We're biting atmosphere.” The shuttle rocked from side to side, glowing a dull red from the gathering heat, Dante dragging them down towards the inhospitable surface. He looked across at the rest of the formation, all following him, still in the same tight formation. Belatedly, he worried about the risk of surface-to-air weapons, missile emplacements on the surface, and had to hope that their enemy had concluded that the risk of an aerial assault was low enough not to waste the cargo space.

 “Second troop concentration, about fifty miles from the first one,” Harper said. “Looks like a modified emergency shelter, maybe twenty-plus troopers. No sign of any unusual surface features, though. Close to a nice landing site.”

 “Not what we're looking for, then.”

 “I'm not the xeno-archaeologist, remember. Odds are we won't have any better ideas until Carpenter can take a good look at the data we're gathering now. Let's just hope it isn't too much of a walk. We don't have any of their fancy armored buggies.” Turning to the sensor display, she added, “Red Flight has started their attack run. That's going to slow them a little. They won't be on the deck until we've been down for two minutes.”

 “We'll have time to get the boosters unloaded,” Salazar said. “Art, you reading me?”

 “Loud and clear, Pavel. I've already got the troopers standing by. We'll set you a new galactic record.” He paused, then added, “Though given our current location, I expect that's probably a foregone conclusion in any case.”

 “They'll have a bead on our landing site now, Kris,” Salazar said. “You might as well try and raise the base. They'll have seen our shuttles coming down, and I'd like to make sure they don't shoot us out of the sky while we're on final approach.”

 “Shuttle One to Dante Base,” Harper said, playing around with the frequencies. “Shuttle One to Dante Base. Come in, please. I am on Emergency Frequency Nine.”

 “Dante Base to Shuttle One,” a tentative voice replied. “Where are you from?”

 Tapping a control, Salazar said, “This is Lieutenant Salazar. I'm coming down with three shuttles to evacuate the balance of the Pioneer survivors. Put on Chief Santiago.”

 “I'm here, Lieutenant. What do you need from us?”

 “I've got twenty-three Espatiers here with equipment to unload, and three fighters that are going to need booster rockets strapped on as soon as they land. Get everyone out and ready to board the shuttles at a moment's notice, and have a technical team ready to attach the boosters.” He paused, then added, “Two volunteers, and Chief, you aren't one of them. They're going to need you back up on the ship.”

 “Damn it,” she replied. “We'll be ready, Lieutenant.”

 “One more thing,” he said. “We've got three enemy shuttles on our tail. Make sure that your missile screen knows the difference between our ships and theirs.”

 With a faint chuckle, she replied, “Will do. See you in a few minutes. Dante Base out.”

 The hull temperature slowly began to fall, the ship settling into a glide path for the final descent to the surface, Salazar watching the monitors, making tiny adjustments to keep the ship steady. It was only a few hours since he'd last made this descent, though that time it had been in an out-of-control fighter, damaged by the wormhole passage, struggling for sheer survival.

 Diving over a mountain range, he saw the familiar plain ahead, baked under the endless sun, and glanced across the see the fighters launching their attack run, unleashing a pair of missiles onto the waiting target below. A pair of explosions ripped into the ground, tearing at the heart of the troop concentration, reducing the odds to something approaching acceptable levels.

 “Base coming up,” he said. He was still flying on instruments, unable to make out the sand-blasted dome amid the wasteland below. “Get ready, everyone! We'll need to hit the ground at the run!” Tapping a control, he said, “Shuttle Leader to all Shuttles. Land in formation, load then go. Art, I'm afraid…”

 “I knew I was staying down here with you when you moved up the departure time. Don't worry, Pavel,” the engineer replied. “I had a feeling this might happen when I signed on.”

 Finally, he could make out the dome, and switched over to the landing thrusters, firing in the familiar pattern to bring them down to the surface. A host of figures raced towards them, waving their arms, and a column of smoke ignited, a guide to the crosswinds waiting for him on landing. Stealth was out of the question now. Everyone for a hundred miles knew the location of the base. Not that it would matter in a few minutes.

 “Coming down,” Harper said. “Two hundred feet, down fifteen. Dust everywhere, damn it. I can hardly make out...there it is. Beacon locked on. One hundred feet. Easy. Easy. Fifty feet.” The view was completely obscured by the growing dust storm, the simultaneous landing of six vehicles momentarily blocking out the sun. “Ten feet. Contact. Engine stop.”

 “We're down!” Weber said, not waiting for the signal. “Let's go, right now!” The hatch slammed open, and Salazar raced from his seat, Harper just behind him, making his way to the aft section. The troopers were hastily passing out their equipment, throwing it unceremoniously into the sand, heedless of damage, knowing that they only had seconds.

 “We weren't expecting this many for dinner,” the Chief said, shaking her head as the troopers raced out onto the desert floor, Rhodes shouting orders as the men scrambled to their positions, forming a perimeter as though the enemy might attack at any moment.

 “I knew I should have replied to the RSVP,” Salazar replied with a smile. Gesturing at the shuttles, he said, “Everyone onto the ships, right now. Quesada, get onto Shuttle One. You'll be taking it back up to Alamo.”

 “Sir,” the young officer said, “Request permission...”

 “Denied,” Salazar replied. “I'm staying here.”

 “Staying here?” Quesada said.

 “We're not going to let those bastards from Waldheim just walk in and strip that base, Sub-Lieutenant. We're here to stay, until we damn well want to leave.” A beaming smile on his face, he continued, “Chief, get everyone on board, on the double. Your ticket home expires in three minutes minus!”

Chapter 10

 Marshall walked over to the aft holodisplay, calling up a strategic view of orbital space. Their maneuver to bring them close to the planet had made them an easy target for Waldheim, and the enemy battleship had taken full advantage of the opportunity, swinging around the closest moon to bear down upon them, sweeping in on a wide arc that would give them more than enough time to bring their full armament to bear.

 Ahead of them, rising out of the atmosphere, the shuttles bearing the Pioneer survivors were rising towards Alamo, less than four minutes from landing, while their fighter escort struggled to keep up, the time lost as a result of the attachment of the boosters taking its toll. Lieutenant Murphy was bringing them onto a higher trajectory, trying for a desperate intercept with Waldheim to use her remaining missiles, but that could be no more than a minor deterrent.

 “Laser charged and ready,” Caine said. “Missiles loaded, ready for action, all eight tubes operational now.” She paused, then added, “We're a lot better off on the sensors than we were, Danny, but we still don't have anything like the resolution we should.”

 Turning from his console, Francis added, “Senior Lieutenant McCormack requests permission to scramble fighters, sir, and launch a preemptive strike on the enemy.” He paused, then added, “They've still got a dozen planes in their squadron, sir. My opinion is that we'd be throwing them to the lions.”

 “To the lions, Lieutenant?” Marshall said with a smile. He looked at the situation display again, frowning at the shortage of options. Waldheim's laser cannon had been disabled, but they still had ten missile tubes, and twelve fighters with two missiles each. A potential swarm of thirty-four missiles would be more than enough to tear Alamo to pieces, no matter what he tried. And on their current course and speed, they'd be in contact with the enemy for more than eight minutes.

 The only positive lay in surviving the run. Both ships would be thrown onto wildly divergent courses by the gravitational pull of the planet, and it would be many hours before they could return to battle. Time to lick their wounds, to prepare a new plan. All they had to do was survive this pass. He glanced at the viewscreen, watched the planet approaching, a single star highlighted on the display as Waldheim entered visual range.

 “Orders, sir?” Francis asked.

 “Wait one, Lieutenant,” Marshall replied. He walked over to Caine, and asked, “Do you see any way for us to get through this pass without considerable damage?”

 “Not a hope, Danny,” she replied. “They'll have to divert some strength to deal with Murphy's flight, but that's just a mild irritant to them. Nothing they need to seriously worry about. If I was Estrada, I'd only commit an equal number of fighters, try and cancel each other out.”

 “Fine,” he said. “Then we can't survive if we stay on this trajectory. Which means we've got to place ourselves on another one.” Reaching down to a control, he said, “Marshall to Kowalski. You down in Systems Control, Chief?”

 “Until an officer turns up, sir,” the gruff-voiced veteran replied. “What do you need?”

 “How hot can you run the reactor?”

 There was a brief pause, muttered conversation in the background, and Kowalski replied, “I can give you one-ten for ten minutes at most. Then we'd have to drop down to sixty while we run a full systems check. We're still strained from the wormhole passage.”

 “On my signal, Chief, I want you to put all available power into the engines. You can cut where you have to, but I need all the acceleration you can possibly give me. Understand?”

 “Will do, sir. You give me the word, and I'll throw the throttles wide open for you.”

 “Francis,” Marshall said, turning to the officer, “Check the status of our ballute. We're going to need it in a few minutes.”

 “Our heat shield?” the Operations Officer asked. He walked over to a control panel, tapped a sequence of commands, and said, “Ready to inflate at your command, sir. No damage.”

 Looking up at him, Caine said, “We're going diving, aren't we?”

 “They can't get us if we go deep enough, and with a little work, we ought to be able to throw our course wildly off-trajectory. With that many variables, they'll never calculate our course.”

 “How deep are we talking?”

 He paused, then said, “Sixty thousand feet.”

 “Sir,” Fitzroy replied, turning from the engineering station, “That's a lot higher than Alamo's design tolerance. I know she's completed maneuvers like that before, but we still haven't had a chance to check the outer hull for stresses in the aftermath of the wormhole transfer.”

 Nodding, Caine said, “Did you read those reports on the shuttle we found?”

 “I did, and I know that we're weighing a risk against a certainty.” Marshall walked calmly to the helm, tapped Imoto on the shoulder, and said, “I'll take it, son.”

 “I can handle it, sir.”

 “I'm sure of that, Midshipman, but I've done this before.”

 Imoto rose from his seat, and Marshall slid into the helm with a smile, quickly adjusting the console to match his personal preferences, calling up the information he was going to need for the close flyby. He glanced up at the viewscreen, a tactical projection snapping on, and started to enter his planned course change, tapping a trio of controls to disable the warning alerts.

 “How long before the shuttles make it home?” Marshall asked.

 “Two minutes, fifty seconds,” Francis replied. “We'll have to commit to this course change well before then, sir. They should still be able to make contact before we enter the atmosphere, but they'll only have one chance to make it home.” Glancing at a panel, he added, “Murphy's fighters are going to be stranded, sir.”

 Gesturing at Waldheim's squadron, screaming in on the far side of the planet to catch them, Marshall replied, “Have her vector in to engage the enemy squadron. She's to make it look good, but not expose herself to any unnecessary danger, and to use her missiles for defense, not offense. Today victory is measured by survival, not the number of enemy ships we take down.”

 “Aye, sir,” Francis replied, moving over to the communications console to issue the necessary orders. Marshall reached down for a headset, tapping controls to link himself to the ship's broadcast system.

 “This is the Captain. In a little under five minutes, Alamo will be entering the upper atmosphere of Dante. Those of you who have done this before will know what to expect, and for the rest, suffice to say that it is going to be a pretty rough ride. Secure all equipment, then get into crash couches. Hanger crew, as soon as the shuttles get on board, lock them down and strap yourselves in. Prepare for turbulence and rapid changes of acceleration. That is all.”

 “Retracting laser radiator,” Caine said. “I'm loading atmospheric missiles, Danny. We might get a target of opportunity, either against Waldheim or on the surface.” She paused, then added, “Request permission to fire the missiles I've got in the tubes. It'll give them something else to worry about.”

 “By all means,” Marshall said, all his attention now focused on the helm. The ship rocked back as the missiles raced away, destined to drift through orbital space forever, their fuel exhausted long before they could reach their target. Caine had placed them in a pattern designed to distract the enemy helmsman, force him into at least a minor course change, without any real hope of doing damage. “Course computed. Deploy ballute.”

 “Aye, sir,” Francis said. “Heat shield deployment initiated.”

 A loud sequence of reports issued from the hull as the inflatable outer skin burst into life, covering Alamo's underside with the protective shield that would disperse the worst of the heat that would be inflicted during the maneuver. Alamo had attempted atmospheric flight before, but never after sustaining such a level of damage. Behind him, Fitzroy was already scattering damage control teams all throughout the ship, ready to repair any hull breaches before they could become catastrophic.

 The navigation computer was still issuing warnings, telling Marshall in no uncertain terms that his intended course change was borderline insane, that he was forcing the ship to do something it wasn't designed to do. Dismissing the last of the sequences, he gently tapped the control that committed Alamo to the course, then rested his hands on the thruster controls, ready to implement last-second changes to the trajectory track.

 “Ballard,” he said, not looking away from the helm, “I want all sensors focused on close-proximity. We're going to need the best possible picture of the atmosphere we can get. And grab telemetry from the shuttles, as well. The better the model we have of planetary conditions, the better chance we have of getting out of here in one piece. Deadeye, what's Waldheim doing?”

 “Moving in as close as they can. My guess is they think we're bluffing. I wish we were.”

 “Shuttles coming in now!” Francis said. “All made contact first time. Hangar crews moving to support stations.” Throwing a switch, he added, “I've sealed all blast doors.”

 As the bulkheads slammed into position, isolating every deck of the ship, Marshall took a second to glance up at the viewscreen, the brown sands of Dante now filling the field of vision. Not an inviting world, and not one he'd want to be stranded on for any length of time. He glanced across at the trajectory plot, cursing under his breath as he tweaked the trajectory. Even at this altitude, the dense atmosphere was already beginning to bite.

 “Kowalski,” he said, leaning to the speaker. “Full power, now!”

 The lights flickered for an instant as they switched to the emergency system, the engineering crews instead throwing all the power they could find into the main engines. A low rumble was audible, the acceleration growing strong enough to push him back into his couch. Warning alarms sounded, shut off rapidly by Fitzroy, and a series of red lights flickered into life on the viewscreen, alerts of the damage that was already being inflicted on the ship.

 “Hull temperature rising,” Fitzroy said.

 “Murphy's flight has engaged the enemy, sir,” Francis said. “They've fired a full defensive salvo, and are moving to intercept us on the far side of the planet. They're going to be on fumes when they get there, sir. I'm not sure they'll be able to catch up.”

 “Get a tanker shuttle ready to go as soon as we clear the atmosphere. McCormack to provide escort. If it helps, Waldheim's fighters are going to be in the same state at the end of this battle.” The ship began to buffet, taking its first taste of atmosphere, the hull rattling from the unaccustomed strain. Alamo was designed for aerobraking maneuvers, the whole purpose of the ballute, but this was far lower than she was ever designed to go.

 Shifting the ship, Marshall pulled back imperceptibly on the throttle, saving some thrust for the descent. They were down under a hundred thousand feet now, and the frustrated groaning noise from the hull was growing louder by the second, the temperature and the stresses rising. Finally, an urgent alarm sounded from Fitzroy's console, a sound he knew all too well.

 “Hull breach! Section Nineteen, Lower Storage Area.” A second alarm followed, and the engineer added, “And Section Thirty-Alpha, Aft Thruster Controls.”

 Marshall reached for the damaged maneuvering jets, grimacing as the firing sequences failed to engage. Doyle had done the bulk of her damage in that area, and in the time allowed, Lombardo had been able to do little more than a temporary patch job.

 “Eighty thousand feet,” Caine reported. “We can't take much more of this, Danny. Pull us out now.”

 With an eye on Waldheim, moving into position above them, Marshall replied, “Not yet. Not yet. We've got to finish the run, or all of this will be for nothing.”

 “Threat warning!” Ballard reported. “Six missiles launched from Waldheim. Stinger-Fives, I think. Atmospheric design, and they're heading right for us.”

 “Point-defense won't work in this environment,” Caine said, hanging onto her console as Alamo rocked to the side, caught in a high cross-wind. “Readying for defensive salvo when we get within range. Seventy thousand feet. Danny, we've got to pull up, now!”

 “Hull breach! Section Nine, Lower Communications Control,” Fitzroy said. “We're over the red-line in every area, sir! Ballute is burning away, and hull temperature is way above recommended maximum levels. She can't take any more of this!”

 “Twenty seconds,” Marshall said. “Come on, girl. You can do this. Hold it together.”

 Finally, he pushed the throttle fully open, unleashing the full power of Alamo's main engines, and dragged the ship up with the remaining thrusters, guiding it away from the planet. Beneath them, the landscape flashed past, streaks of brown and rust as the engines roared, the ship slowly struggling to gain altitude as it completed its run.

 The trajectory plot spun wildly around, Marshall throwing in pinpoint bursts from the thrusters to alter their escape vector, Waldheim quickly giving up the chase. Assuming they managed to make it out of the atmosphere, at least they would have managed to get past the enemy battleship. More sirens barked in the background, but Marshall pushed them to the back of his mind, his universe reduced to the helm and the sensor display.

 “Seventy thousand feet, rising,” Caine reported. “Gaining speed and height.”

 “Another breach!” Fitzroy added. “Aft Storage. Damage to power transfer network, attempting bypass to emergency systems. Hull temperature beginning to fall.”

 “Come on,” Marshall muttered, as the stars began to appear on the viewscreen once again. “Come on, almost there. One more push.” More warning lights flashed onto his console, and his hands danced across the controls as he struggled to keep the power balanced, to feed the engines properly, avoiding the overload that his systems warned was imminent.

 The ship lurched to the side as one of the engines died in a shower of klaxons, altitude momentarily dropping as Marshall struggled to correct the flight path, to keep the ship on a stable, even keel and drive it up to the safety of orbit. Slowly, reluctantly, the ship gained height once again. There was a brief flare on the viewscreen as the last of the ballute dropped away, its mission accomplished.

 “A hundred thousand feet, climbing,” Caine said, with a sigh of relief. “Waldheim now on the other side of the planet, and moving away rapidly. She's trying for a course change, but I don't think she's got much of a chance. Best guess has our next meeting in twenty-seven hours.” She paused, then added, “We're going to have a hard time getting back to the planet from here, Danny.”

 “Something to worry about later,” Marshall said, as Alamo rose through escape velocity, the warning lights winking off one after another as the ship reached the safe cool of vacuum. “Murphy's flight?”

 “Managed to evade without loss, though they didn't do any damage to the enemy fighters either,” Francis reported. “Tanker shuttle is already on the elevator airlock, ready to link-up with them, and fighter escort will launch in thirty seconds.”

 “Easing down to sixty-percent throttle,” Marshall said, hitting a control. “Kowalski, you can cut reactor power now and start your checks. Good work.”

 “I'm afraid the work's only just begun, skipper,” the engineer replied. “We've got hundreds of micro-fractures, and some bad straining on the superstructure. I'll try and get together some sort of a damage report for you as soon as I can, but it could take us an hour just to get a start on the analysis.”

 “I'll go down and give him a hand,” Francis said, making for the elevator after receiving a curt nod from Marshall. At the flick of a control, the image of the viewscreen switched to display the rear view, Dante visibly receding into the distance as they gained speed, the engines still roaring. Rising from the helm, Marshall gestured at Imoto.

 “She's all yours, Midshipman. Keep her slow and steady for the moment, and start work on a course to get us back to Dante as soon as possible.” Walking over to Caine, he added, “Tactical report, Deadeye?”

 “We were damned lucky,” she said. “And so far, all we've done is sustain hull damage without doing anything serious to them. We're going to have the change the odds a little, if we're even going to escape the system.” Gesturing at her monitor, she added, “Right now, they're set up to intercept us if we try for any of the near hendecaspace points.”

 Nodding, Marshall said, “You have the helm. I'm going down to Astrogation.”

 “Why?”

 “To see if I can find anything in this system to level the playing field. We've got to find a way to bring that ship down, or we've just stranded thirty of our people on the surface forever.”

Chapter 11

 “Smart bastards,” Salazar said, watching the sensor display. Tapping the screen, he said, “They're coming down a good two miles away, behind those hills. We won't get a chance to shoot them down, and they'll have cover until the last minute.” Turning to Rhodes, he said, “Set up two squads to cover them. Leave the other one with me. I've got a job for them.”

 “Another one of your patented crazy ideas?” he replied. “I'll see to it. Damn, it's hot down here.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead, and continued, “Did anyone back home bother to test these desert uniforms?” Walking out of the dome, he yelled, “Parker, Sumner, get your squads assembled on the double! Defensive perimeter, northeast!”

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

 “Hit them before they can hit us,” Salazar said, pointing at the topographical view. “This little ridge runs parallel to their best approach path. While they're sneaking around to hit us, we can sneak around to hit them.”

 “Except that they've got spy satellites overhead, and will be able to see you coming.”

 “I hope so. I'm counting on it.” He smiled, then added, “Trust me, Kris. It'll work.”

 With a practiced sigh, she replied, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

 Corporal Weber walked into the empty dome, stepping over a pile of abandoned printouts, and said, “My squad is formed up and ready to move out, sir. Plasma rifles armed and ready.”

 “Stealth isn't the name of the game today, then,” Harper said. “With that much heat, they'll pick us up from orbit!”

 “Corporal,” Salazar said, pointing at the map, “Your job is to follow this ridge line and engage the enemy at the first opportunity. You are to make all the noise you can, and make sure that they know you are coming.” Sweeping his hand across the display, he added, “Try and draw them into the defenses Ensign Rhodes is putting together, and catch them from the side.”

 “Aye, sir,” she replied, a frown on her face. “If they have scouts on that flank, sir, this mission isn't going to go very well for my team.”

 “Don't worry, Corporal,” Salazar said. “Harper and I are going to make sure that you aren't disturbed, and hopefully give them something more important to think about.” Looking around for Lombardo, he said, “Art?”

 “What's up, boss?”

 “Those missiles. They're rigged for anti-aircraft, right? Any reason we can't use them as surface-to-surface?”

 He glanced across at the emplacements, then replied, “Yield's pretty low for that sort of weapon. To be honest, even used against aerial vehicles you'd need a well-aimed impact to bring one down. And once they've been fired, we don't have any way of replacing them.”

 “Nevertheless,” Salazar pressed.

 “I suppose so, Pavel, but it seems like an awful waste.”

 Pointing at the landing spot for the shuttles, Salazar said, “I want two nice explosions at forty feet above those shuttles in about ten minutes, Art. Fire in the sky. Something to worry the hell out of them.” He paused, then added, “The time is going to have to be perfect on this one.”

 “Will do,” the engineer replied with a sigh. “I should have stayed upstairs.” Walking out of the dome, he said, “Franklin! Get over to mount two, and find me a Number Three toolkit! We're going to have to make some manual adjustments to the missile ramps.”

 “Decoy?” Harper asked. “Something to give us cover while we launch our assault?”

 “Best I could do at such short notice. The yield on those firecrackers is next to useless anyway. Not bad for some improvised warheads, but I think we can probably come up with something better. Besides, I don't expect another aerial assault any time soon.” With a beaming smile, he added, “Not if we take down their shuttles on the ground.”

 “Pity we can't do something like that with Waldheim,” she replied, reaching for a plasma rifle. “Full battery pack. You realize that as soon as we hit the power cycle, all sorts of hell will be heading our way?”

 Sliding his rifle into position, Salazar drew his pistol, and gestured towards the door, saying, “If we get this right, they'll be far too busy to worry about a couple of escaping saboteurs. Let's get this done.”

 Walking out of the dome, Salazar glanced around at the defensive preparations, troopers running into position under the direction of Ensign Rhodes and his squad leaders, while Lieutenant Carpenter hurriedly gathered up supplies with the remnants of the stranded engineering team. Evidence of the rapid departure of the Pioneer survivors was everywhere, equipment dropped where they stood in their haste to reach the shuttles.

 The sky was still dominated by the wide contrail left by Alamo on its flyby, slowly spreading throughout the atmosphere like a shroud. At least their ship had made it to safety, even if Salazar and the landing force were now essentially abandoned, without any means of escaping this planet and nowhere to run if they did.

 “Remind me why I came up with this dumb idea?” he asked Harper, as he jogged towards the rocks, Weber's squad moving into position behind him.

 “Damned if I know,” Harper replied. “I don't even know why I volunteered to come along.”

 The two of them quickly gained ground on the heavily laden troopers, taking full advantage of the abundant cover as they dropped out of sight of the dome. If anyone above was watching, they would look like an advanced scout party moving ahead of the main formation, a reconnaissance-in-force. He could hear shouting from up ahead, barked orders from the leaders of the enemy column as they prepared for the attack.

 “Down,” Harper hissed, and Salazar dropped to the ground, rolling behind a nearby rock, following the line of her hand to spot a figure moving ahead of them, likely on a similar mission. He reached up into the epaulets of his uniform, larger than the normal service issue, and carefully slid out a blowgun, dart already in position at the end. Raising it to his lips, he lined it up with the approaching scout, and fired the paralyzing poison at the figure, the dart flying through the air, adjusted by the tiny on-board control computer to guide it towards its target.

 Clutching at his neck, the man didn't even have time to scream before dropping into the dirt, and Salazar moved forward, sliding the blowgun back into his pocket. A primitive weapon, but even in an age of plasma weapons and orbital bombardment, the old tricks were still worth using from time to time, and the ability to drop a man without heat signature or noise was a valuable skill.

 Kneeling down beside the figure, Salazar reached into his pocket, snatching out his communicator, then pulled out his datapad to connect the two, logging him into the enemy tactical net. Glancing up with a smile, he gestured for Harper to move by his side, and quickly scanned the enemy battle-plan, confirming his suspicious. They were keeping it nice and simple, relying on weight of numbers and firepower to carry the day. An inexperienced commander, going according to the manual rather than trusting his judgment.

 “That way,” Harper said, quickly rolling the prone – and snoring – figure out of sight as they raced around a distant outcrop, the noise of the approaching column growing louder by the minute. Salazar looked back, spotting the first elements of Weber's squad move into position to launch their assault, then looked down at his watch.

 “Three minutes to the fireworks,” he said. “Shuttles are a quarter-mile that way, on that flat outcrop. Light your rifle as soon as the explosion starts. Then shoot at anything that moves.”

 “Will do,” she replied, and the two of them raced towards their objective, crouching low to keep themselves out of sight. The first sounds of battle resounded from the rear, the staccato rattle of machine gun fire interspersed with the angry roar of a plasma rifle unleashing flaming death on the enemy, screams of the dead and the dying filling the air.

 “Frank knows what he's doing,” Harper said, sensing his fear. “He won't spend his men's lives cheaply, and he had enough time to get into a good defensive position.”

 “Yeah, I know,” he replied, but despite his words, doubt still flooded into his soul. He could just spot the gleaming shapes of the shuttles in the distance, a cluster of figures patrolling the perimeter, defending their precious vehicles against attack. Salazar looked at his watch, less than twenty seconds remaining before the missile launch, and reached down to the charging controls on his plasma rifle. Harper crouched into position next to him, looking out over the terrain, watching as the guards continued their patrol path. They were seconds from detection, whether they charged their weapons or not, and Salazar counted more than a dozen guards at the shuttles. Enough to guarantee there would be no escape.

 A loud roar rumbled from the base, and two missiles soared overhead, diving down towards the shuttles, the guards scattering for cover from the unexpected attack. Salazar slammed the control on his plasma rifle, the power pack instantly bursting into life, and as the twin explosions filled the sky, raced forward, setting the power to maximum and squeezing the trigger to send a ball of green energy bursting towards the nearest shuttle, the immense heat washing over the hull, burning and melting as it went, wrecking the engine mounting.

 To his right, Harper fired a shot that flew into the middle of the pack of guards, catching one of them and roasting him alive, the others diving into hastily-prepared cover. Someone had failed to prepare proper trench-works, and the men with the shuttles were paying dearly for that mistake, paying with their lives as Salazar fired a second bolt, catching the sensor and avionics of the second shuttle. They might not be able to destroy them, but wrecking them sufficiently to prevent a speedy takeoff would amount to the same thing.

 Another ball of green flame flew through the air, Harper managing a well-aimed shot on the landing gear of the final shuttle, reducing it to molten slag, the nose digging into the molten-hot rock, a hopeless repair job. The rattle of machine gun fire tore into the ground to their right, two of the guards managing at last to get to one of their perimeter weapons, and with a final parting shot at random into the camp, the two of them raced for the safety of cover, plumes of smoke rising into the air behind them.

 The distant thunder of gunfire echoed from the battle ahead, and Salazar and Harper made quick time, leaving chaos in their wake. Bullets slammed into the ground all around them as the guards desperately tried to catch their fleeing prey, fearing the response of their superiors if they could not at least present them with revenge, but before they could draw a bead, the two of them jumped behind a rock, shards of stone flying into the air all around them as bullets smashed home.

 Leaning out from his newly-found cover, Salazar fired two more bolts in quick succession, neither of them threatening the advancing enemy, then unclipped the empty power pack and dropped it to the ground, tossing the now-useless rifle after it. Clouds of dust were rising as explosions ripped through the air all around them, his ears ringing from the constant roar, and he leveled his pistol at an advancing soldier, firing a pair of shots that sent the man tumbling to the ground, seeking cover.

 “I'm out as well,” Harper said, using the last of her energy to fire a final plasma bolt, burning into a rock that half a dozen men had been hiding behind, raining shards of stone down all around them. Unencumbered from the heavy weapons, they fled towards Weber's squad, a half-mile behind them, the crack of gunshot and roar of plasma flame warning them that they were retreating into a battle.

 As they raced back towards the base, Salazar had his first look at the firefight, and his eyes widened from the carnage on display. Twin plumes of smoke rose from the base, one from the dome itself, testament to the ferocity of the initial assault, but the attack on the shuttles seemed to have had the desired effect, forcing the enemy commander to pull back to protect his defensive position.

 Rhodes had managed to throw together defensive works, a combination of hacking into the sand and dragging empty containers into position, but from his first sight, the casualties seemed remarkably low. A loud thunder-crack echoed across the battlefield from the rear, and Harper grinned as she gestured at the column of smoke and flame rising from the shuttles. Evidently they'd done even more damage than they had thought, even if it had taken longer than they had hoped to take effect.

 Salazar could make out Weber leading a fire team to a new position, closing on the enemy from the flank, and his eyes widened as he saw a machine gun hidden behind a rocky outcrop, a weapon she couldn't have seen, and one that was about to tear her unit to pieces.

 Without a second thought, Salazar pulled a grenade from his pocket and raced towards the machine gun nest, screaming a battle cry to distract the gunners for a critical second as he tapped the control, tossing the grenade ahead of him before rolling away to the right, just in time to avoid a raking blast of flame from the barrel of the gun. A ball of flame erupted in front of him, destroying the weapon and clearing the path for the squad, but before he could celebrate, he felt something slam into the side of his head, and collapsed to the ground, the world fading away as he fell to unconsciousness.

 An eternity later, he felt someone shaking him, saw a blurry finger dancing before his eyes, and a vaguely recognizable voice in the far distance, calling him back from oblivion. Pain filled his universe, stabbing into his head, and hands around him reached down, tugging him upright, while someone tipped a canteen into his mouth, water spilling down his face.

 “What happened?” he said, seeing the familiar face of Garland, one of the Pioneer survivors. “Why didn't you go up on the shuttle?”

 “I thought you might need me down here more than they needed me up there,” Garland said. “He's all yours, Lieutenant. The painkillers should kick in again in a few minutes.” Turning back to Salazar, he continued, “I'd order you to restricted duty, sir, but knowing you as well as I do, it would be a waste of breath. Just take it easy for a few days. You had a bad blow to the head, and some concussion. I've fixed you up, and there's no permanent damage.” He paused, and asked, “How's that new eye of yours?”

 “Working fine,” Salazar replied. He struggled to stand, the pain in his head down to a dull throb, and asked, “How long was I out?”

 “About an hour. Don't take this the wrong way, but you weren't our top priority. A lot of people were hurt worse than you were, and I figured you could use the rest. Incidentally, you had a cracked rib from that crash of yours this morning, so I patched that up at the same time. Next time, consider seeing a doctor when you get yourself wounded. I'm just a paramedic, remember.”

 “How do you feel, Pavel?” Harper asked.

 “Like someone just hit me on the side of a head with a rock,” Salazar replied. He looked around at the battlefield, troopers lining up corpses, medics moving back and forth to deal with the wounded. The smell of death and cordite assaulted his nostrils, and Harper tipped the canteen into his mouth again, giving him another cool drink of water. “What happened?”

 “I think you went to sleep at about the height of the fighting,” she replied. “From there it was all on our side. Weber managed to lead a charge into their rear, knocked out a couple of people with fancy uniforms, and the enemy lines broke for the desert. There wasn't much we could do to chase them, but Rhodes took a fire team out to shadow them at a distance. He's on his way back.”

 “Where did they go?”

 “Some buggies picked them up about three, four miles away.” She smiled, and added, “They really wanted to get some distance before taking any risks. I'd say we've knocked out a good third of their ground forces here. The only problem is that I think we killed the idiot who ordered the attack, so I suspect they'll do a better job next time.”

 “No next time,” he said, another wave of pain racing through him. “Need to get outposts out, defensive positions prepared. Those hills...”

 “Relax,” she said. “Weber's already on it.”

 Nodding, he asked, “The butcher's bill?”

 “Four dead, twelve wounded, three of them critically. We've got a reasonable medical set-up down here, so we should be able to save everyone, though ideally we'd want to get them back to Alamo. We ended up with about the same number of enemy wounded, as well. A few prisoners. Lombardo and Carpenter are interrogating them now, but none of them seem to know much. Looks as though their superiors were keeping them in the dark.” Looking around the battlefield, she added, “Well, Pavel, you got your foothold in the desert. Now we've just got to hold onto it.” As he lurched to the side, she added, “Though for the present, the only place you are going is your rack.”

 “Yes, ma'am,” he replied with a smile, as he let her escort him back to the dome.

Chapter 12

 Clarke pushed the debris off the table, the shattered fragments of ceiling panel slowly tumbling to the floor in the low gravity, and slid his datapad into position, tapping a control to turn it into an improvised holoprojector. Fox, Conner, Blake and Petrova walked into the meeting room, taking positions around the table, walking over the heaped piles of wreckage.

 “Conner, tell me you have some good news. Lie if necessary.”

 The engineer frowned, nodded, then said, “Some. I've had a proper look at the shuttles, and I think we might be able to turn the two broken pieces into one working vehicle. There's no realistic way we'll be able to make it airtight, though, which means the passengers are going to need to wear rescue balls. The cockpit is still sealed, so the pilot will have an easy time of it.”

 “Rescue balls?” Fox asked. “Not suits?”

 “No room,” Conner replied. “As it is, we're going to have to pack everyone in three to a ball, and that means that the life support systems will only last for an hour or so. I've run through some course projections, and our next window to hook up with Alamo is in around sixty hours. Assuming that they remain on their current trajectory. Otherwise, we can make it to planetary orbit with a window in forty-nine, but I'm not sanguine about being ready in time.”

 “How do we fit seventeen people on a shuttle meant for ten?” Blake asked.

 “Light gravity, and a lot of extra fuel tanks. We caught one break. There are a couple of detachable fuel tanks in the hangar workshop. Someone must have been working on them, part of the normal maintenance cycle. I checked them over, and while it's going to be a pretty wild and uncomfortable ride, I don't think we'll have any problems making it back to the ship.”

 “Based on that,” Petrova said, “we don't need to worry about repairs to Pioneer. We can just set the explosives and go.”

 “I'm going to guess that communications still aren't an option,” Clarke said.

 “Both shuttles lost their antenna, and fixing them would take long enough that we'll be faster hand-delivering our message to Alamo. Of course, once we get within ten thousand miles, our hand units will work, so I've fitted the components into the cockpit to allow the pilot to talk to the ship. That's easy enough.” Connor sighed, and said, “If we work around the clock, and we're not worrying about anything else, then I think we can put the pieces together in time. No fancy flying, certainly no chance of atmospheric flight, but if we're just on a low-acceleration burn to Alamo, I don't see any reason why it shouldn't work.”

 “Sergeant,” Clarke said, “tell me about the defense perimeter.”

 “Does it matter?” Petrova asked. “You heard Conner. We've got our way off this rock, and we don't have anything here to defend.”

 “Sergeant,” Clarke repeated. “If you please?”

 Nodding, Fox said, “I've held back four plasma carbines for us, and set the rest on an automatic firing sequence across the perimeter of the ship, isolating everything for about a quarter-mile. If anyone tries to land in that area, they'll be in for a world of pain, and the same can be said about a ground assault. Each one has about four shots each, though. Power packs aren't very good on these models, and we've got no realistic way of recharging them.”

 “Still, at least we have something up our sleeves in case Waldheim launches another strike,” Blake said. “Though I suppose there's nothing we can do about another aerial assault. Conner, can you complete work on the shuttle inside the hangar, without anything appearing on the surface?”

 “I think so, but naturally they'll see us going back and forth. I can't think of any way to camouflage that, and they might suspect something.”

 Frowning, Clarke said, “Can you spare an engineer for half an hour or so? Have him do some work on the roof, make it look as though he is sealing leaks? With a little luck, they'll think that we're putting together some sort of emergency shelter, trying to maximize or stay time.”

 Nodding, Conner replied, “I think so. We can rig up some waste gas leaks as well, put on a bit of a show. Not a problem, sir. I'll get that arranged as soon as possible.”

 “Good,” Clarke said, looking around the room. “It looks as though we've managed to find a way to escape this ship, so now we have to return to our primary objective.” Reaching for his datapad, he swiped across the screen, his finger momentarily casting a strange shadow on the ceiling, and an image of local space appeared, showing Waldheim on an intercept course with Alamo, two days in the future.

 “Real objective?” Conner asked. “I thought we came down here to salvage components. Sir, we're going to struggle as it is. I don't think that we're going to be able to take anything with us.” She paused, then added, “Though we can do a full upload of all data in the ship's network, of course. That shouldn't be a problem. We need to run...”

 “No,” Clarke asked. “Go ahead and do that, Spaceman, but it isn't what I was talking about.”

 “Then what is our objective?” Petrova asked, a scowl on her face.

 “Our ship is under attack by a superior adversary, Midshipman, and unless the situation changes, there's a chance that there won't be anywhere for us to return to. You heard Conner’s report on the shuttle. Even if the planet represented long-term survival prospects for us, we'd never make it down to the surface. That means we've got to get back to the ship, and that we have to give Alamo it's best possible chance of winning the fight.”

 “What can we do about that from down here?” Petrova asked, shaking her head. “I've already gone over what's left of the weapons systems, and it doesn't amount to a damn thing. Just a pile of worthless scrap metal. No missiles, no probes, no combat fabricator, nothing that we can use. The combat capability of this ship is less than zero.”

 All eyes locked on Clarke, and he replied, “Not what I meant. No, we're not going to be fighting a space battle any time soon, but there are still some options left open to us. Think about it. What was the reason for their attack on us, during the firefight?”

 Fox smiled, nodded, and said, “A distraction move. They were trying to draw Alamo away from the planet, to force them to move to our support and rescue rather than pursuing their own objectives. They wanted to steal the initiative, but Captain Marshall didn't fall for the bait.”

 “Exactly, Sergeant,” Clarke said. “So all we have to do is find a way to make them attack us again, and to convince them that we represent a significant threat to their survival. There's no need to actually develop that capability, just convince them that we have.” A smile spread across his face, and he added, “In short, I mean to play poker with General Estrada, and try and force him to concede the game. If Waldheim or its fighters are here, fighting us, then they won't be attacking Alamo, and right now...”

 “Damn it, Clarke,” Petrova said, “You have got to be out of your mind! You actually want them to launch a strike on us? The last one almost finished us off, and this ship is damn near porous from all the micro-fractures. One significant hit, even a near miss, and we're all dead.”

 “There are seventeen of us here, Midshipman,” Clarke said, his voice mournful. “As far as we can work out, there are at least thirty of our comrades down on the planet, and more than a hundred more on Alamo. We're no longer engaged on a mission-critical objective, and that means that anything we accomplish is of limited importance, unless we can contribute to the survival of the ship, and the success of whatever they are attempting to accomplish on the surface.”

 “We don't even know what that is,” Conner said.

 “Doesn't matter,” Clarke replied. “I don't know Captain Marshall that well, but I think I know him well enough to know that he wouldn't launch a major planetary assault without a damned good reason, and I can't help but think that it has something to do with the wormhole. It dumped us less than a million miles from an inhabitable world. There has to be a connection, and my guess is that they're down there looking for it.”

 Nodding, Blake said, “That battleship is a pretty impressive vessel, but it only has limited resources, and can only be in one place at a time. If we can draw them our way, we can take off a lot of the pressure facing Alamo...”

 “And doom ourselves in the process,” Petrova replied.

 “There are ways that we can mitigate the risk,” Fox said. “We've already prepared some trenches, and the caches of emergency equipment would help.” She looked at Petrova, and added, “Odds are the rest of my platoon are down on that planet fighting for their lives. If there is anything we can do to help them, we're damn well going to do it.”

 “What exactly do you have in mind?” Blake asked. “Make it look as if we've got some sort of weapons system? The amount of work required would be extraordinary, and we haven't got the engineers available.”

 Nodding, Conner said, “I'm worrying enough about sparing the time for the work on the hangar roof, sir. We don't have the raw materials or the personnel to even begin a project like that.”

 “What's down on the planet?” Clarke asked. “What could Alamo and Waldheim be looking for down there? Something connected with the wormhole, which likely means some sort of artifact.” Looking around the room, he continued, “They don't have any concrete idea why this ship came down where it did, do they? Meaning that for all we know, this was intentional.”

 Petrova's eyes widened, and she replied, “You want to trick them into thinking that Pioneer planned to crash down on this wasteland?”

 “No, but we might be able to make it look like an accident. The gravity field of this moon is extremely low. Landing a starship isn't exactly normal routine, but it ought to have been possible, had that been what this ship's commander had in mind.” Leaning forward, he continued, “So, let's say that the crew spotted something during a close flyby, something interesting enough that they decided to launch a full investigation. If we found out about it, what would we do?”

 “Move to secure the area from attack, and start excavation,” Fox said, nodding. “I get it, sir. You want to fake an archaeological dig.” A smile crossed her face, and she said, “Plenty of caverns in the hills to the north, not quite a mile away. We can move some crates out there, wander around in that region, maybe organize as though we're conducting a survey.”

 “This is insane,” Petrova replied. “I'm sorry, but can you hear yourselves? Even if this crazy plan was actually to work, you're reliant on someone spotting these crazy excavations of yours and putting all of the pieces together. And making it look so perfect that they abandon their pursuit of Alamo and instead come after us.”

 Nodding, Fox said, “And when they do, Midshipman, I can promise you that we will give them a fight that they don't forget in a hurry. We've got enough armament to send them running home to mamma.”

 Looking at Petrova with a wry smile on his face, Clarke said, “You have hit upon the weak part of the plan, but there's a way we can let them know what we're doing.”

 “Maybe we should send them a signal, a data packet telling them all about our top-secret excavations,” Petrova said with a mocking sneer.

 “Actually, that's basically what I had in mind,” Clarke said.

 “This I have to hear,” Blake replied.

 “How many deep-cover operatives does United Nations Intelligence have in the Triplanetary Fleet? Hundreds, at least. Most of which will only be known to a select few. All we have to do is pretend that there is a traitor among us, and arrange for a signal to be sent to Waldheim. They're jamming all frequencies to Alamo, but you can bet they've got someone monitoring, and given a little time, we can improvise something.”

 Fox looked at Clarke, smiled, and said, “You said you were nineteen?”

 “Yeah.”

 “And I'm the High Empress of Saturn. One day, sir, you're going to have sit down with me and some of the troops and tell me all about your life story. My bet is we'll drink the bar dry before you run out of tall tales.”

 “Don't get any ideas about me, Sergeant. I'm just a Midshipman.” Turning to Petrova, he said, “If I remember your service record, you got top marks in communications and combat hacking. And don't you have a grandfather on Earth?”

 “Neuva San Diego,” she replied, eyes narrowing. “You don't mean that you want me...”

 “I do,” Clarke said. “Consider it an order. Sergeant, you can lend your squad's hacker to Midshipman Petrova to assist her in establishing communications. You'll want to contact a Major Pastell, Waldheim's Security Officer. I'll arrange that you have the necessary ident codes.”

 “You want to tell me where you got those from?” a sullen Petrova asked.

 “Not especially.”

 Looking squarely at him across the briefing table, she said, “You are giving me an order to commit treason, and...”

 “Midshipman,” Clarke snapped, “I don't know about you, but I'm having a pretty bad day so far, and if you want to volunteer as the person I take my frustrations out on, then I'd be only too happy to indulge you. Some other time. For the present, I will provide you with written orders. Now, are you quite finished questioning my instructions, or can we call this meeting to an end and get back to work?” Silence returned his words, and he said, “Very good. Sergeant, I'll be out to the caverns in a few minutes, and we can discuss how we're going to proceed with our fake dig. Conner, I'll want a full status report on an hourly basis, and remember that the shuttle doesn't have to be perfect. Just good enough for one brief flight. Cut corners.” Looking around the room, he concluded, “Dismissed, everyone.”

 The crew filed out of the room, Fox flashing a reassuring smile at Clarke, leaving him alone with Blake. He walked over to the viewport, the image flickering briefly, showing a view of the surface outside the ship. A solitary figure, Hooke, was walking out into the wilderness, a body bag slung over his shoulder with a sampling shovel in his hand.

 “He might as well bury himself with the others,” Blake said with a sigh. “One of the worst cases of survivors' syndrome I've ever seen. Compound that with being stranded alone down here for weeks, thinking that he was the only human for hundreds of thousands of light-years, and it's amazing that he didn't have a complete breakdown.”

 “Is there anything we can do for him?”

 “You mean aside from putting him out of his misery?” she replied. “I'm a paramedic with some medical pretensions, John, nothing more than that. He needs a top psychologist, not someone who took a single class a few years ago. Maybe a catharsis of some kind might snap him out of it, but the way things stand, he'd almost certainly get a medical discharge and a ticket to long-term counseling if we were back home.”

 “That's not an option,” Clarke said. “We've got to find some way to break through to him.”

 “You can't save everyone,” Blake replied.

 Looking back at the table, Clarke said, “I didn't mean to lose my temper like that.”

 “Given the circumstances, I'd say you had the patience of a saint. She seems determined to push all of your buttons as hard as she can, regardless of the effect. You ever meet her before this mission?”

 “Not that I'm aware of,” he said. “She was a senior while I was a freshman, so I suppose our paths must have crossed at some point, but I don't remember even speaking to her before. Maybe it's just me. She probably thinks that she should be in command. She could be right about that.”

 “You don't really mean that. With her attitude, she's going to have a hell of a time passing her Commissioning Boards. They listen to senior enlisted, remember, and I hate to think what sort of a report Sergeant Fox is going to submit.” She smirked, then said, “Though I must ask Lieutenant Harper to get hold of a copy for me. I could do with a laugh.”

 “The worst part is that she is absolutely right,” he replied. “I have ordered an officer under my command to commit an act of treason, offering covert information to the enemy.”

 “As part of a deception, John, and a damn fine piece of intelligence work.” Stepping in front of him, she glared into his face, and said, “Don't listen to her. Listen to me, or to Fox. You're doing fine, Captain.”

 “What?”

 “This is a starship, isn't it, and you are in command, right? Might want to start getting used to the idea.” She paused, then added, “I'll go down to what's left of Sickbay and see if I can find something in the medical database for Hooke. Maybe I can find some sort of tailored sedative.”

 “Good idea,” Clarke said, as she walked away.

 “Of course it is,” she replied, stepping through the door. “It was mine.”

 He smiled as she left, then turned back to the viewport. Captain Clarke. Crazy.

Chapter 13

 Harper walked carefully down the ramp, flashlight in hand, Carpenter leading the way into the labyrinthine alien complex. At the bottom, in what they had begun to call the Vault, lights flashed around as the engineering team worked to install the equipment they'd brought down from Alamo, a few holdalls scavenged from the Science department that could open up the secrets of the base.

 “Amazing,” she said, looking around. “Amazing.”

 “I know,” Carpenter said, a sad smile on her face. “I could spend years, decades down here and still barely scratch the surface. You think there will ever be a chance for a full-scale expedition?”

 “Depends if we find a safe way home,” she replied. “If we can find a reliable route back to the Confederation, there are going to be a lot of ships out this way in the near future. Which depends very much on what we find down here.” Her communicator chirped, and she pulled it out of her pocket, saying, “Harper here.”

 “Pavel here.”

 “You feeling any better?”

 “Turned out that all I needed was a few hours' sack time. We've just about got everything organized up here for the moment, but I don't think our friends out in the desert are going to leave us alone for long. I'm working on a few ways to hold them up, but they've got the numbers on their side. If they'd been a little smarter, a little quicker, we'd all be in custody right now. Or dead.”

 “Have you managed to make contact with Alamo?”

 “Waldheim's laid a network of satellites behind it that have done a fantastic job of blocking all signals, and we can't get a message laser to work through this soup of an atmosphere. We're tracking them on sensors, though, and I think we're going to have at least forty hours down here before we need to start worrying about pick-up.”

 “Forty hours?” Carpenter said.

 “Less than that, given that you'll have to pull everyone out of the tunnels in good time.” Salazar paused, then said, “I know just how much ground you have to cover down there, but we're running this operation on the tightest margin I've ever seen. We just don't have the time to do a thorough job, and I doubt we'll get more than one chance for a pickup.”

 “Agreed, damn it,” Harper replied. She reached down to her watch, tapping a series of controls to set up a countdown. “Forty hours mark, and we'll be home. Or you'll have to leave without us.”

 With a soft chuckle, Salazar said, “You really think we're going to do that? Oh, Lombardo managed to pick out what looks like an alien settlement out in the desert. A lot smaller than this one, and we didn't have a chance to get a good look with deep-radar, I'm afraid. It's just over a hundred miles away, so unless we can get hold of some transport, I don't think we're going to get to see it.”

 “Can you send down the images?” Carpenter asked, leaning over the communicator. “I'd like to take a look for myself.”

 “Already done,” Salazar replied. “I've sent them down to your datapad. One more thing. We're having trouble getting a signal as far down as the Vault. Go any deeper, and there's no way we're going to be able to contact you. Nor can I realistically spare anyone from the defense perimeter for a rescue team.”

 “Which means we're going into an unknown alien city from tens of thousands of years in the distant past without support, the possibility of rescue, or even the opportunity to call up for help. With a forty-hour time limit on the clock.”

 “That's about the idea, I'm afraid.” He paused, then said, “Kris, are you able to speak privately?”

 Raising her hands, Carpenter said, “I get the hint,” and walked down the ramp.

 “We're alone, Pavel.”

 “I didn't want Susan to hear this, but I've set a series of shaped charges at the entrance to the city. If I've done the job right, it'll collapse the entrance without causing too much damage, but I can't guarantee that it won't bring down the tunnels. We don't have a good enough picture of the local geology.” He paused, and said, “I'll hold off on the trigger as long as I can, but if there is something down there, we can't let Waldheim have access to it. Not given the potential strategic advantages at stake. I'll try and give you a warning if I can, but...”

 “I understand,” she replied. “I'd have done exactly the same in your place.”

 “Of course, there might be another way up to the surface.”

 “Not that it would make much difference. Unless we could bring down a lot more equipment from Alamo, the life expectancy of any colony on the surface wouldn't be promising. To say the least.” She paused, then said, “Do what you have to, Pavel. And let's hope that it won't come to that.”

 “Agreed. Keep an open channel as long as you can. We might manage intermittent contact even when you get deeper. Good luck.”

 Harper placed the communicator back into her pocket, flicking the switch to link it to her datapad, and walked quickly down towards Carpenter. She looked at the intricate pictograms on the walls as she descended, still astounded by the sheer quality of the workmanship, a work of art on a monolithic scale that hadn't been seen by any living eyes for thousands of years.

 “Let me guess,” Carpenter said as Harper caught her. “There's a bomb on the surface ready to bury both us and this site forever.”

 “Something like that,” she replied. “The demolition team up top is good, though. They won't do any more damage than they must.”

 “Do you have any conception how much work must have gone into this site? Hundreds, perhaps thousands of millions of man-hours of labor. Construction on a scale we can't imagine. And we're talking about destroying all of it for a momentary advantage.” She sighed, and added, “The worst part is that I'm not even sure he's doing the wrong thing.”

 “I know that he hates the idea as much as you do, Susan. He won't push the button unless he doesn't have a choice.”

 “Yes he will,” she replied. “As soon as the last shuttle lifts off. Because he won't have a choice, unless we can be absolutely sure that there is nothing of tactical use down here.” With a sigh, she continued, “And if that is so, then a lot of people have already died for nothing, and this whole mission is a complete waste of time. I honestly don't know what to hope for.”

 “A way home,” Harper said. “That's what we're out here to find.”

 “In forty hours?” Carpenter said, shaking her head. “There are hundreds of miles of tunnels down here. We could spend forty weeks in these catacombs and still not cover it all, especially with the limited resources we've got.” The tunnel started to open up, and they walked down into the Vault, the sheer scale of the cavern taking Harper's breath away as she looked around, spotlights ranging about the ceiling as the cameras struggled to take a picture of the sight, to record it for future generations. With a little luck, they'd be able to explore it in virtual form, even if they were millions of light-years away.

 A group of technicians were busy completing the build, a pile of equipment pieced together, sensor relays strung for hundreds of meters in every direction to form a tangled grid. Corporal Weber looked up as they approached, and gestured for them to join her, waving a datapad in the air.

 “We're just about ready,” she said. “If we've got this right, then we ought to get a complete picture of the entire tunnel network in one shot.” She grimaced, and added, “We'll have to. This is going to take a lot of power, and we don't have much left in these batteries. I won't promise perfection, but we should get a map of at least most of the tunnel system.”

 “Proceed at your discretion, Corporal,” Carpenter said, eagerly moving to the monitor screen. The activation was an anticlimax, the brief flick of a switch sending a pulse of data streaming into the system, red lights flashing on as the power levels dropped below safe limits, the grid shutting down as fast as it activated.

 “That's it,” Weber said. “A couple of minutes for interpretation, and we should have a pretty good picture for you.” The three of them watched the screen as an image of the tunnel network slowly built up, layer upon layer flashing onto the monitor. All around them, the technicians started to pack up the equipment, ready to be taken back to the surface.

 “That's it,” Carpenter said, narrowing her eyes to get a look at the complicated network. She pulled out a portable holoprojector, placing it carefully on the floor before activating it, and suddenly the three of them were surrounded by a forest of tunnels and chambers, a tangled mess that seemed to have no logical pattern, no obvious design.

 Looking across at the monitor, Harper said, “This doesn't follow the rocks. There are some mineral veins down here, but they were ignoring them.” She paused, then added, “It doesn't amount to much anyway. Some copper, iron. Nothing worth this level of development.”

 “This was a settlement, a city,” Carpenter replied.

 “No,” Weber said. “Sorry, but no. I don't care how alien these things were, they can't have lived without a sewerage system, water reclamation, or anything like that.”

 “True,” Carpenter said, blushing.

 Taking a deep breath, Harper replied, “Not to put a damper on this expedition, but it doesn't matter what it is, at least not at the moment. I can't see any sort of central location, no focus point. The tunnels all seem essentially the same, and there aren't any other structures the size of the Vault.” Looking around at the pictograms, she added, “Could this be what we're looking for?”

 “We couldn't have that sort of luck,” Weber said.

 “It's possible, I suppose,” Carpenter replied, “but we haven't seen anything that looks astronomical to me. If this does match some of the writing we've found in sites back home, then there is a chance that we might eventually be able to translate it. I've got the recorders working on getting high-resolution images of the whole site, and we should have that ready in the time allotted. Though it could take years of computer time to decode it, and a team of analysts that we just don't have out here.”

 “We've got a little under forty hours to come up with some sort of miracle,” Harper replied. “We knew going in that this wasn't going to be easy, but we've got to find at least some sort of lead. Corporal, run another filter through, see if you can pick up anything at all. There must be something down here.” She paused, then turned to Carpenter, and asked, “Did you find any sign that Monitor had been here?”

 “Nothing,” the archaeologist replied.

 “That's strange. Unless the wormhole exit moved, then they must have come through here, and I can't imagine that Maggie would have flown past this planet without taking a closer look. As far as we know, they wouldn't have had any opposition in the system, either. They'd have had a much easier time than we are.”

 “As soon as we arrived in the system, we ran a full check for any satellites, any beacons. We didn't find a thing. And we haven't found any traces on the surface, either.” Carpenter paused, then said, “I've looked at Monitor's crew roster, and it's light on the sciences. I suppose it is possible that they simply didn't find any sign of this base.”

 “No,” Weber said. “Even if they didn't find this one, we know that Waldheim found something, out there in the deep desert, and they did it without any specialist help at all. If they could do it, I'm sure that Monitor could.”

 Nodding, Harper replied, “There's still something missing here.” Pointing at the bottom of the grid, she said, “That's interesting. Heads off out of sensor range.”

 “Kris, that's got to be at least two miles down.”

 “Yes, but it's heading in the direction of the other site.”

 “A hundred miles away,” Carpenter said, shaking her head.

 “Maybe, but if nothing else, at least it gives us a goal, something to aim for. Though we'll struggle to get down that far in time.” She paused, then said, “If we can't come up with something concrete in the next few minutes, we'll have to just head down into the tunnels.”

 “Blind?”

 “At least we'll have a map. We shouldn't get lost. And I'll take some chance over no chance any day of the week. Standing around here talking isn't going to find us a way home.”

 “Wait a minute,” Weber said. “I've found something. There's an organic residue trace, about a mile down from here. Not much, but it could be a body.” Turning to Carpenter, she added, “I think we might have found our lead.”

 “Any dating?” Harper asked.

 “We don't have enough data to tell, not yet,” Carpenter said, “but I can only think of one way to gather it.” Tracing a finger through the tunnels, she said, “As far as I can figure it, we're looking at a twelve-mile hike to get down there. Four hours, under the conditions. Well within the margin of error.”

 Weber looked at the two of them, and said, “You do realize that what the implications of this little discovery are, don't you? There's something down there dangerous enough that someone died, and without anyone being able to retrieve his body. I very much doubt that our little friend passed away of old age. Someone or something killed him, and for all we know, it happened last week.”

 “Or it could have been a thousand years ago,” Carpenter said. “The air is dry enough that the conditions are good for mummification.”

 “I take it,” Harper said, a smile on her face, “that you are suggesting that you should come down with us. Armed for bear.”

 “I had something like that in mind,” the veteran trooper replied. “Lance-Corporal Matthews can cover for me up on the surface, and unless we manage to find what we're looking for, nothing up there is going to matter that much anyway.”

 “I don't have any objection,” Carpenter said. “One more pair of eyes is probably a good idea, and that long tunnel brings up another point.”

 “That there could be a force heading towards us right now, working its way through the caverns.” Harper's eyes widened, and she tapped the monitor, and said, “We've only got strong resolution for a few miles. For all we know, there's a squad working its way up to us as we speak.” Pulling out her communicator, she said, “Harper to Salazar.”

 Salazar's tinny voice, crackling with static, replied, “Go ahead. Signal strength lousy.”

 “We've found a tunnel that leads to the dig site out in the desert. My suspicion is that the enemy forces will use it to attempt to infiltrate our base.” She paused, and added, “We've got a lead, Pavel, but you're going to have to put troops down here in the Vault. It's the nearest thing we can find to a bottleneck.”

 Through the waves of interference, she could just make out a sigh, and Salazar replied, “I'll see if I can spare a fire team to keep an eye down there. I take it you're still planning to head off into the darkness, anyway?”

 “We are,” Harper replied. “I don't think we've got much choice, do we?”

 “I guess not. I just wish I was going with you.” He paused, then said, “Watch your backs down there, and if you run into anything you can't handle, get back up to the surface on the double. You realize this means that I'm going to have to keep my finger on the trigger? I can't risk losing the base to a surprise assault.”

 “Understood,” Harper said. She looked into the gathering gloom, and added, “We'd better get moving. Call you when I can. Harper out.”

 Carpenter reached down for a backpack, swinging it over her shoulder, and said, “Road goes ever onward, people. We take the tunnel at the far end of the Vault for a mile and a half, and then a shaft down a couple of hundred feet.” She smiled, looked at the other two, and said, “This is going to be fun.”

 “We have different definitions for that word, ma'am,” Weber said, reaching for a rifle. “I''m ready.”

 “Let's move out,” Harper said, leading the way. She could feel eyes watching her from every direction, as though the enemy troops were already in position. Reaching for her pistol, she picked up another rucksack, and followed Carpenter and Weber into the darkness.

Chapter 14

 “We do have one advantage,” Caine said, looking around the briefing room. “We are able to control the time and place of our next engagement with Waldheim.” Gesturing at the strategic display, a slowly rotating hologram of the local sub-system, she continued, “There are plenty of places for gravitational swings, lots of room for maneuver.”

 “They've realized that,” Sub-Lieutenant Scott, Alamo's Weapons Officer, replied. “Take a look at her trajectory. That's a long, lazy orbit that gives them all the options in the universe. No question that they're waiting for us to make the next move, and they've set themselves up to guard the planet.” She paused, then added, “We still haven't been able to break through the interference. For all we know, they've been captured already.”

 “A realistic possibility, in my assessment,” McCormack said. “I was opposed to this whole mission from the start, and...”

 Slamming a hand on the table, Foster said, “Not if I know Pavel Salazar, Kristen Harper and Frank Rhodes. You could put the three of them down on a planet with the clothes on their backs, and they'd end up running the place in a month. They're holding, Captain, and they're waiting for us to come down and get them.” Glaring at the squadron leader, she added, “More to the point, Waldheim must be holding close to the planet because of them. I'd bet they're giving Estrada's ground forces a lot of interesting problems.”

 “What about Pioneer?” Murphy asked.

 “Still no word from the mission team,” Caine said with a sigh. “They're in the same interference barrier, of course, but we now know that both shuttles were destroyed.”

 “I'd like to volunteer to take Red Flight out to take a closer look,” Murphy said. “We can go in low over the surface and get some close-range scans, find out what happened. Then come back with a shuttle to rescue any survivors.”

 “Out of the question,” McCormack said. “Waldheim would spot you coming, and have a full squadron waiting for you as soon as you arrived. I don't care how much fancy flying you can pull, Murphy, twenty-four missiles will ruin your whole day. And we can't spare a single fighter for a suicide mission like that.” Turning to Francis, she asked, “What about probes?”

 “We already tried,” he replied. “Waldheim's using long-range missiles to knock them down as fast as we launch them.” Pausing, he added, “Which I suspect means that there is something down there to hide, or they wouldn't be going to so much trouble. I think we must consider a rescue mission, Captain.”

 Marshall nodded, and added, “We'll be passing pretty close in a little over fifty hours on our current course. At that point we can consider some sort of rescue flight.”

 “Assuming Waldheim doesn't stop us,” Caine said. “We can't even get through to them, Captain. Bowman's been signaling constantly for hours, and they're not responding. I still think that Colonel Cruz is preventing our messages from reaching them. General Estrada...”

 “Is still an officer in the United Nations Space Fleet,” McCormack said. “We don't need to conjure up conspiracy theories to explain this away. As far as I'm concerned, the enemy is the enemy, and that is all there is to it. We need to come up with a plan to destroy Waldheim completely. They made the first move, and they're fighting our people on the surface. We've got all the excuse we need...”

 “To start a war?” Caine asked. “That's what we're talking about here, Lieutenant. There may only be two ships out here, but the scale doesn't make a difference.” She paused, then said, “It's a big galaxy, Danny. Our objective should be to gather all the information we can, evacuate our people, and get out of the system.”

 “And if the wormhole returns?” Scott replied.

 “We've had our sensors focused on the exit point for twenty hours, Sub-Lieutenant, and we've yet to spot a thing. The best guess we have is that it was one-way.”

 “Can we trust the science team? We already know that their department head was a traitor.”

 “I don't think we've got a choice,” Francis said. “Besides, I doubt they'd be willing to commit suicide for their cause, and that's what stranding us out here would mean. Aside from short-term tactical considerations, their best interests would be in getting home and passing on our research to their superiors.” Turning to Marshall, he added, “I'm more concerned about espionage than sabotage at this point, sir.”

 “Agreed.” The door slid open, and Santiago walked in, dropping down into a vacant chair, running grease-laden hands down her uniform jacket. “Lieutenant...”

 “Chief, sir,” Santiago said. “Just chief. The rank wasn't my stupid idea.” Pulling out a datapad, she said, “I thought you'd probably want a status report. I've been wandering around with Jim, and...”

 “Jim?” Scott asked.

 “Chief Kowalski,” Santiago continued. “We're just about finished the exterior work on the sensors, so it's just a matter of calibration. We ought to be back to full capability in an hour or so, unless something unexpected crops up. I've already got work teams having a look at the superstructure, and damage control is dealing with the micro-fractures.” Turning to Marshall, she added, “Don't take this girl that deep into atmosphere again. You're damned lucky she didn't fall apart on you. She was never meant to take hull stresses that severe.”

 “Excuse me?” McCormack asked. “I don't even know...”

 “Given that your engineering teams didn't have anyone in charge, I figured I'd step in as Systems Officer. Unless you'd rather have a collection of warring Petty Officers fighting it out for supremacy down there. I swear, sometimes it's like trying to herd cats. Jim's good, but he can't be everywhere at once, and we're having enough trouble getting the shuttles repaired. Dante's dust isn't good for the exterior components.”

 “I guess we've got a new Systems Officer,” Marshall said with a smile. “I doubt very much that Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo will have any objection. Bottom line, Chief. How long before we're back to full strength?”

 “Twenty hours, skipper. I'll need that long to complete all the diagnostic checks. There's a hell of a backlog from the wormhole passage to deal with, but I don't see any reason why we shouldn't be fit for battle by then.”

 “Of course,” Caine said, “Waldheim will have repaired her heat radiators by then. Which means that next time, we'll be facing a laser cannon. Maybe we should attack now, while we have a tactical advantage.”

 “Boom,” Santiago said. “Because that's what's going to happen if one warhead hits in the wrong spot before I've finished checking over the armor. You can't treat ships that way. Right now, at this moment, we're flying around in a glass fist. She might get in one good blow, but she'll smash herself to pieces doing it.” Looking at Marshall, she asked, “Hate to say it, but this might be a good time to give peace a chance.”

 “We've tried,” Caine replied. “We can't get a signal through.”

 “Then let's get the hell out of the system,” Santiago said, bluntly. “There's nothing here worth fighting for, and all the information we've gathered makes it clear that this wormhole is only one-way. As soon as our surface teams have finished their job, we get out of here.”

 “With Waldheim right on our tail,” Scott said.

 “It's a big galaxy, Sub-Lieutenant,” Francis replied.

 “Not big enough, sir. The whole reason for the expedition to the surface was to find some sort of a clue. I think we've all guessed that there isn't going to be a way home from here, but we're pinning our hopes that there is a second wormhole within range. That's the basis for our planning, anyway. That means that no matter what we might do, Waldheim is going to be coming after us. They'll be following the same trail of breadcrumbs as us.”

 Nodding, McCormack said, “I like the way you think, Sub-Lieutenant. I think we need to come up with a way to stop them, right here and now, and make sure they can't leave the system. Or at least give us enough time to provide ourselves with a head-start that will keep us in the lead.”

 “And I will say again,” Caine replied, “that Waldheim has every advantage in that fight, and that we're planning on a battle that we have no guarantee of winning. Hell, a Pyrrhic victory would kill us. Even if we managed to take them down, and I don't consider that likely, we would almost certainly experience serious damage. Enough to strand us here forever.” Looking around the room, she said, “In my judgment, the solution is obvious. We pull out of the system as soon as we can, using whatever information we have been able to salvage from the planet. We leave, and we don't look back. There's nothing else we can do.”

 Nodding, Marshall said, “What options do we have?”

 “In the absence of a Science Officer,” Francis began, “I've been working with the Astrogation team, and so far we've found seven stars within range, that appear to have hendecaspace access points. A couple that don't, interestingly enough, which is higher than the usual average back home.” Tapping a control, he brought up a starfield, and added, “One of them is a star not dissimilar to Sol, with a planet in the Goldilocks zone.”

 “Oxygen?”

 “So our spectroscopic analysis reports,” he replied, “though that doesn't necessarily mean a thing. The only way we're going to find out for certain is to go out there and take a look. I'll further note that we have another five stars on from there we could try, and another of them could host a possible habitable planet.”

 “We're going home,” Scott pressed. “The only question...”

 “Sub-Lieutenant,” Francis said, softly, “Mars is four hundred thousand light-years away. The odds of us finding a way back are not promising.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “In my judgment, our safest course of action is to find an inhabitable planet, and use everything we have to establish a colony. I would recommend holding as close as possible to the wormhole, in the likely event that others come through from our galaxy.”

 “Now just a damned minute,” Santiago said. “We can't just give up.”

 “I've only managed a preliminary report,” Francis continued, “but as far as I can work out, Alamo can sustain us for eighteen months without serious difficulty, and perhaps for four or five years with ever-escalating problems, before we'd need to find a way to run a refit. Naturally, that doesn't take into account any battle damage, or encounters with any other phenomenon.”

 Doctor Strickland nodded, and said, “At the request of the Operations Officer, I took a preliminary look at the crew's genetic profile, and while our gene pool is a lot smaller than I would like, assuming we were to maintain a reasonable technological level, I think it at least possible that we could establish a sustainable settlement out here. A hundred and fifty people is marginal, and it would be better if we could add more. If we could come to some sort of agreement with General Estrada...”

 “We're going home,” Marshall said, looking around the room. “I want that absolutely clear, and I want no further question on that point. We're going to find a way to get home, and we're going to do it within our lifetimes. All of our resources and our efforts must be focused on that point, regardless of anything else, and I do not want any discussion of the theoretical establishment of a colony to leave this room. Is that understood.”

 “Sir,” Francis said, leaning forward, “I know that it's a hard thing to have to contemplate, but I don't think you are being realistic. The odds of us finding a way home seem remote, and unless we can come up with some sort of...”

 “Lieutenant, I have made my position on this matter fundamentally clear. Continue to chart potential hendecaspace points, and do the best that you can to prepare our sensor teams for high-speed exploration. We're going to be charting a lot of new stars, and I want to have a nice dossier of information to present when we get home.”

 “Aye, sir,” Francis said, glancing across at Strickland.

 “That's more like it,” Santiago said. “Bartenders on five planets will go into mourning if I don't make it home.”

 “Continue to chart the system, and Scott, I want you to find me a way to break through the interference from Waldheim. Anything you can think of. We need information, and we're starving for a lack of it at present.” Looking around the room, he added, “Dismissed. Lieutenant Francis, Doctor Strickland, could you please remain for a moment?”

 The officers filed out of the briefing room, Caine, Francis and Strickland remaining in their seats, McCormack and Santiago staring at them as they walked out into the corridor. As the doors slid shut, Marshall leaned forward, folding his hands together.

 “Captain,” Francis said, “If I spoke out of line during the meeting, then...”

 “You didn't,” Marshall replied. “In your position, I'd have probably spoken along similar lines. What am I about to say is not to leave this room. Is that clear.” He waited for a second, then said, “I agree with both of you. Our best course of action, almost certainly, is to find a world we can settle, preferably with a system which will provide us with plenty of options for space-based exploitation. To build a new settlement out here in Andromeda.”

 Strickland looked at Francis, then said, “But in the meeting...”

 “Right now, the morale of the crew is on an absolute knife-edge. I never thought I'd be grateful to have a battleship at my throat, but at least it is giving everyone something to think about, something to distract themselves. As soon as the dust settles, we're going to have serious problems. Doctor, while I won't ask you to violate patient confidentiality, I'd be willing to guess that the use of sedatives is already way up.”

 “It is,” he replied. “More than ten times the normal levels, and I think we can expect that to rise in the near future. I'm keeping careful track, sir, and...”

 “There will undoubtedly be at least one, possibly several suicide attempts, once it becomes clear that there is little prospect of us getting home. I'm praying that Salazar and Harper come back from the surface with an answer that will at least buy us some time, but I don't think that we can count on it. The odds of us finding something in the time are marginal, and even if we did, it could be a trail longer than we can run. Suppose the wormhole we're looking for is a thousand light-years away? Four hundred jumps, perhaps. Eight years. Lieutenant, could we manage a trip of that duration?”

 Francis frowned, then said, “I wouldn't want to risk it, sir, especially with no prospect of support. We still haven't picked up any electromagnetic chatter in the local area, which means that there is little likelihood of technological life in this region. And anything we found would certainly redefine the meaning of the term 'alien'.”

 “Not necessarily,” Caine replied. “There's a definite chance that we weren't the first to fall through. Humans have been flying through space for tens of thousands of years, and given that we know of at least two major interstellar wars over the last thirty thousand years, it seems reasonable that the wormhole might have been considered as a refuge, a last hiding place for a dying civilization. Anything could be out here.” Turning to Marshall, she added, “I think we should definitely seek out inhabitable worlds, Danny, and that we can have a realistic expectation of finding humans on some of them. Especially those close to the wormhole. If we could join an existing settlement, it would certainly solve Doctor Strickland's genetic problem.”

 “If we're going to take that option,” Marshall said, “then we have to give the crew time to get used to the idea. Because if we do end up colonizing, it will mean cannibalizing Alamo. We'll only get one shot at it, and there will be no turning back. So for the present, we will continue with our search for another way home, whilst keeping in mind the potential prospects of colonization. For now, that's all we can do. That's all. Dismissed.”

 “Yes, sir,” Francis said, and he and Strickland rose to attention before leaving the room, Caine still sitting in her chair, looking at Marshall.

 “Could you give that order?” she asked. “Force the crew to abandon their hopes of ever getting home? I'm not sure I could do it.”

 “We might not have a choice,” he replied. “I don't think this is a situation that has arisen since the earliest days of interstellar travel. The idea that we might be unable to make it home, and that there is no prospect of rescue is a damned tough one to take.” Gesturing up at the holoprojection, he added, “For the moment, all of this is academic. We've got to find a way to get past that damned battleship. Any ideas?”

Chapter 15

 Salazar's head pounded as he walked across the plain, Garland's protests still ringing in his ears. Rhodes had insisted on taking point for the patrol, leading a thin column of troops across the desert wasteland, moving beneath a ridge line to the higher ground to the north. From there, if their topographical maps were accurate, they'd be able to get a perfect view of the environment.

 A shadow flew across the terrain to the east, and Salazar looked across, spotting a black dot in the sky. A recon drone, flying a regular patrol pattern. Bad enough that Waldheim had placed a satellite constellation in orbit to monitor their every move, but now they were getting a full-scale aerial surveillance network in operation. He raised his rifle, half-tempted to take a futile shot, but sighed and turned back to the desert, continuing their patrol pattern.

 The base was a good five miles distant, left under the command of Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo and a single squad, the rest of the troops sent far and wide, moving to forward positions in a bid to buy them time to react to an attack. Not that they had many tactical options at their disposal. Already they were in their final redoubt, their last stand, and if the base fell, surrender would be the only option. He'd considered establishing depots in the wilderness, something for the survivors of a successful attack to aim for, but the drone network had ruined that idea. Even if they'd established them, the UN forces would get to their supplies first.

 He glanced down at his watch. Five hours since Harper and her team had descended into the bowels of the alien base, while he was still lying in his bunk. At present he was living on stimulants and duty, and knew that he was going to pay the price in the form of a ferocious chemical hangover in the near future. As long he could keep going for long enough for him to return to Alamo, that wouldn't matter.

 Rhodes raised his hand, and the column dropped to their knees, swinging their rifles to the ready. Salazar peered into the distance, mentally throwing on a magnification filter in his bionic eye, the speed of the zoom making his stomach churn. It had been almost two years since he'd lost his real eye, during fighting with the Xandari, and there were times that he thought he'd never get used to the replacement. Even if on occasion it did have some advantages.

 After a moment, he spotted the shapes on the horizon, ten men walking in a loose pack towards some distant objective, the black and gray uniforms marking them as United Nations Marshals. No attempt at camouflage, no real attempt at dispersion. In terms of the raw basics, of marksmanship and stamina, the Marshals were the equal of the Espatiers, but the Triplanetary Confederation stressed the value of independent initiative, something that the United Nations Security Council found abhorrent at any level, something to be discouraged, not praised.

 Long minutes passed while they waited for the enemy patrol to pass by, sweat still pouring down his back even though the sun was setting, a chill wind roaring over the terrain as a harbinger of the night. It grew cold on Dante when darkness fell, the gloom providing the best cover for their advance.

 Even with their precautions, it seemed more than likely that the enemy would know where they were, would be watching silently to establish a patrol path. The one advantage Salazar and his team had was that they were setting the timetable, that there was no intent to establish permanent residence on this planet, and that in less than a day and a half, shuttles would be descending from the sky to snatch them from the surface. If all went well.

 The column moved on, keeping close to the terrain in a bid to maintain at least the pretense of stealth, the enemy squad now safely in the distance. Salazar tried to mentally recall the local geography, trying to work out where they might be heading. Some strategic strong-point that meant something to somebody. All Salazar was interested in was scouting the desert, and buying some time for Lombardo to complete work on the defenses back at the colony.

 Rocks crumpled under his feet as he started his ascent, pausing for a moment to glance at the spectacular view behind them. Smoke still rose from the smoldering dome, the fires started by the enemy forces during the attack defeating any attempts to deaden them. No firefighting equipment, and far too little water. It was going to be a cold and uncomfortable night, that was certain. Rhodes slowed to a stop, moving behind a pile of rocks, and waited for the rest of the team to catch up with him, Salazar the first to his side.

 “We can see for miles from up here,” Rhodes said, gesturing at the view. Pinpoints of light littered the environment, scattered across the terrain. Raising his binoculars, he whistled, and said, “Most of them are vehicles, normal buggies, but I'm making out two domes, one of them with shuttles nearby. Maybe fifty miles away.” He paused, then added, “The second just about follows the track of that long tunnel Harper found, down in the base.”

 “A second alien site,” Salazar said, trying to make out details in the gathering gloom. Switching to infra-red didn't help, the distance too great and the required magnification too large. “Ninety-three miles away. That's a pretty long walk.”

 “Pavel, this isn't for us, and they haven't set up down here to investigate a dig. They're setting up for long-term occupation.” Looking at his friend, he asked, “Any interesting resources in the rest of the system. Aside from the obvious.”

 With a chuckle, Salazar replied, “Nothing out of the ordinary,  but there are a hell of a lot of moons swinging around this rock. That means that exploitation would be simple enough, and there's air to breathe down here.” He paused, then added, “As inhospitable as this place is, there'd probably be settlers heading out this way if we were back in our own galaxy.”

 “Maybe that's the idea,” Rhodes said. “They figure this could become important real estate once we find a path back home, and they want to claim it for the United Nations.”

 “Unless they can magic up a second starship, they'll have to leave here sooner or later, and I can't see them leaving any of their people behind. Would you volunteer for that? Even if they maroon some of the crew, that just weakens them.” He paused, then added, “There's something else going on, something we don't know about. They can't even just be after us, not with the bulk of their resources out in the desert.” He paused, then reached for his datapad, flickering through the images gathered during their hasty descent.

 “You've thought of something,” Rhodes said.

 “Our base,” he replied. “It's well camouflaged...”

 “At least it was.”

 “And it was the sand that did it. The dust storms. The party from Pioneer didn't have to lift a finger to conceal it from Waldheim. They'd already done it. So why are we assuming that they were the only ones? There have been a lot of ships out this way already.”

 “You think Monitor might have landed a team out there?”

 “It's a possibility,” Salazar said, “though I doubt it. They'd have signaled when our shuttles came down. It wouldn't have been hard to work out who they belonged to.” He peered back out onto the desert, dusk falling over the landscape. “Someone else is out there.”

 “Sir,” one of the troopers hissed, gesturing to the rear. “There's someone moving in the shadows. A hundred meters south-west, coming around behind us.”

 Nodding, Rhodes turned, raising his rifle, and gestured for Salazar to move around behind the intruder. It had almost been surprising that they'd managed to get this far without being intercepted, and having a prisoner to take back for interrogation had been right at the top of his wish list when this patrol had set out.

 Creeping down low, Salazar glanced up, and saw a smiling figure rise to his feet, brushing the dust from his uniform, and walk towards him, as though without a care in the world. He looked all around, trying to find some reason for the intruder's confidence, and as the man walked out of the shadow, he suddenly recognized him.

 “Major Pastell,” Salazar said. “Fancy meeting you out here.”

 “It was such a nice evening, that I thought I'd go out for a walk.” Gesturing to the rear, he said, “As far as Colonel Cruz is concerned, I'm leading a deep patrol. She seemed almost eager for me to leave our base. I almost suspect that she was hoping that I didn't come back.” He paused, then asked, “Will I be permitted to return?”

 “That depends very much on how our conversation goes.”

 Nodding, Waldheim's Security Officer replied, “I suppose that under the circumstances, you cannot be blamed for being suspicious. Would it help if I could tell you that I'm not here with the knowledge of any of my superiors? Neither General Estrada or Colonel Cruz know that I am here, and for the foreseeable future, I think that it would be best for it to remain that way. The punishment for treason is unfortunately severe.”

 “Are you planning any?”

 With a smile, Pastell said, “That depends very much on how our conversation goes.”

 “Touche.”

 “I have a question.”

 “I can't guarantee an answer.”

 Nodding, Pastell asked, “Why did your ship attack ours? General Estrada was willing to open negotiations. He is a reasonable man, and there was no need to launch a preemptive strike.”

 “We didn't,” Salazar replied. “We tried to contact you, but nobody was listening.”

 “Besides, you were fast enough to move against the Pioneer survivors,” Rhodes added.

 Raising a hand, Pastell said, “We were looking for them, I grant you, and we would have taken them into, shall we say, protective custody on Waldheim,  but we certainly didn't have any plans for the sort of carnage that took place earlier.”

 “Those soldiers were of course planning to provide us with a welcoming salute from their plasma rifles,” Salazar replied. “Major...”

 “Thank Cruz for that,” Pastell said, a grimace on his face. “She dragged together everyone she could find on the ship for that assault. I think stealing her shuttle rather soured her mood.” His grimace turned into a smile, and he added, “Nice work, by the way. Though I warn you that it wouldn't have worked if I'd been in charge of your arrest.”

 “Somehow I didn't think it would,” Salazar replied. “You don't seem like the type to fool easily. Though you have been more than willing to step into this particular trap.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “Just so we've got some sort of time-line. to work with, how long before the drone strike takes place?”

 “Fifteen minutes, unless I countermand it. The craft is under the control of one of my people, someone I would trust with my life.” With a shrug, he added, “As I think you can tell, given the circumstances. I can delay it once for an additional ten minutes, but after that I must be away from here, on my way to rejoin my men. Also, I am certain that Cruz has agents watching me, and if I tarry for too long, it will lead to questions that I don't really wish to answer.”

 “You asked a question, so I get one,” Salazar said. “Have you found a way home?”

 “If we had, do you think we'd still be here? Even Cruz isn't crazy enough to loiter in a worthless system to bring down one harmless battlecruiser.” He paused, then said, “You didn't attack first, did you?”

 “No. During the whole encounter, we were trying to signal your ship and request terms for a ceasefire. We're certainly not going to surrender, but I know Captain Marshall was willing to cooperate in order to find a way to escape this galaxy.”

 Nodding, Pastell said, “All those political differences that were so important last week do seem rather insignificant now, don't they. Nevertheless, while I suspect General Estrada would be happy with such an undertaking, Colonel Cruz will continue to block it.”

 “Who the hell is in command over there?” Rhodes asked. “Estrada or Cruz?”

 “Good question, Ensign, and as soon as I have worked that out, I'll be happy to pass that on. The truth of the matter is that both control factions of significant size, and that Estrada's command is essentially subject to a veto from Cruz. At least, while she continues to hold the current level of influence. We can certainly hope that this will change in the near future, but I very much fear that we cannot depend upon it.” He frowned, then added, “And to answer your next question, I consider myself a neutral in this little game. Even the good General is a little too inclined to play the political game. Ironic, given that his goal is to prove the worthlessness of the political appointees we have been faced with of late.”

 “Again, that all seems pretty damn irrelevant under the current circumstances,” Salazar said. “Isn't there any way to get through to Cruz?”

 “Short of a bullet in the brain, I fear that she will be impossible to convince. Her dream, I believe, is to carve out an empire in this part of space. Either for the United Nations, assuming that we can find a way home, or perhaps for herself.” With a sigh, she added, “All too many of the crew are thinking along similar lines. I won't pretend that her viewpoint isn't popular. I'm afraid megalomania appears to be an occupational hazard among our flag officers these days.” He looked out at the plain, and said, “The city you have found.”

 “Now what city might that be?” Rhodes asked.

 “The one that we have had under close observation for the last six hours. I understand Lieutenant Harper has taken a team to explore it. Does it represent a way home?”

 Frowning, Salazar replied, “If we did find a way home. Could that be used as leverage to push Colonel Cruz out of power? Perhaps demand that she be turned over to us as part of the price of your salvation.”

 Pastell's eyes gleamed, and he said, “General Estrada would be reluctant to accept such an offer for the precedent it would set. Should it become common knowledge among the crew, however, then I suspect that a mutiny could be aroused in short order. You will understand that my department is responsible for all internal security measures, though I am aware that Cruz is watching over my shoulder at all times. My job is to discourage such actions, but that naturally means that I am aware of those among the crew who might be, shall we say, easily persuaded.”

 “Why do I get the idea that Major Pastell is loyal primarily to Major Pastell, rather than to the United Nations Security Council?” Rhodes asked.

 “Perhaps because you are a perceptive judge of character. And perhaps because such an attitude is encouraged, even fostered on Earth in these days. There are times…,” he paused, smiled, and continued, “but that is neither here nor there in the circumstances.” He rose, looked up, then said, “There is going to be a battle in this system soon. I think we both know that. I will do my best to make sure that you are treated well afterward.”

 “In exchange for the same consideration, after we've won the battle.”

 A smile spread across Pastell's face, and he replied, “There are many matters of which you are unaware, but I bow to your tactical expertise.” He paused, then said, “It is possible that Cruz may lose face, should you triumph. There may be options for a peaceful settlement yet. Were you to find a way back home, I can promise you that all would be forgiven, especially given the offer you propose to make.”

 Shaking his head, Salazar said, “So our two ships are going to fight it out, and our forces wage a war down on the surface, because of the mad dreams of a single senior officer.”

 “Such is life, sometimes, my friend.” He paused, then added, “Watch for the treachery within your own ranks. Colonel Cruz has been bragging about the operative in your lunar settlement, and I know that she is planning some sort of strike against them. If you've found something important to our mutual survival up there, then I caution you to protect it at all cost. I begin to suspect that she would rather be ruler of an empire than a servant of the Security Council. Good luck.”

 Pastell moved into the shadows, melting back into the night, and Rhodes turned to Salazar, asking, “Should we go after him?”

 “No,” Salazar said. “No point. We've only got one friend on Waldheim, and it seems a pity to waste him. Not that I actually trust him, but at least we have a chance to open a line of dialogue.”

 “You realize he means to take command himself.”

 “I could live with that outcome. A lot more happily than I could if Colonel Cruz was in command. Though given the tactical genius she has displayed so far, we might want to encourage her success.” He paused, then asked, “Frank, maybe I hurt my head worse than I thought, but did he talk about our lunar colony?”

 “He did.”

 “Pioneer,” Salazar said, a smile on his face. “Midshipman Clarke. He's got something planned. Cunning bastard.” Looking back towards the dome, he said, “We'd better get home before it gets dark. No point encouraging the boogeymen. Or Colonel Cruz. If that isn't the same thing.”

Chapter 16

 All the tunnels seemed to look the same to Harper's untrained eye, miles of decorated walls blurring into each other, even as Carpenter continually evinced enthusiasm about a new fresco, another image that attracted her eye. Taking up the rear, Weber cautiously looked down each side shaft, pausing for brief excursions along connected tunnels, anxious about the possibility of a surprise attack.

 Paranoia bred in the dark. Their single sensor pulse had given them little reassurance, the detectors failing to pierce much deeper than they were, and the tangle of tunnels and passages extended for miles under the surface, an intricate and inexplicable pattern carved out of the rock by some long-dead race. Periodically, Harper glanced at her datapad, the soft glow of the monitor providing a last link from home, and checked their route.

 “Shaft coming up,” she replied. “We're going to have to rappel this one. A hundred and fifty feet, straight down.” Turning to Carpenter, she added, “There must have been some easier way to get down here. I can't imagine that anyone would fill their city with tunnels they couldn't use.”

 “For all you know,” the archaeologist replied, “they could fly.”

 Shining her flashlight ahead, Harper moved towards the shaft. She carefully set pitons in position, clipping the safety line in place and giving an experimental tug to check that it would hold.  Looking up at Weber with a shrug, she tossed the line down, watching it fall away into the inky darkness below, then strapped her harness into place for the descent.

 “Wait for my signal before you come down,” she said.

 “Hold on,” Carpenter said. “Let me throw a flare...”

 “No,” Weber interrupted. “That's the last thing we want to do. If there's anyone waiting down there, at least we'll have a chance of evading them if we move silently, and throwing down a thousand-candlepower flare is an invitation for an ambush.”

 “You can't climb down in darkness,” Carpenter protested.

 “Might be easier,” Harper replied. “This way, I can't see how far I have to fall.” Snapping off her flashlight and sliding it into a pocket, she took the cable with both hands and started to work her way down the shaft, bouncing carefully down, easing herself down gently. She glanced up at Carpenter, managing what she hoped was a reassuring smile, before her friend faded out of view, replaced by the blank emptiness.

 There were almost two miles underground, no sources of light at all, nothing for her eyes to use other than the faint traces from Carpenter's flashlight above. It felt as though her other senses were sharpening, her ears picking up every faint scratch and translating them in her imagination into an ambush, a horde of cannibal barbarians waiting to pounce. She felt like shouting out, doing something to break the gloom, but didn't dare. If there was someone down there, she had to keep silent, had to surprise them.

 Almost before she realized it, she reached the bottom, falling to the floor as her foot slipped on a smooth rock, dropping her on her back. On instinct, she pulled out her pistol, waving it around, and tensed up in expectation of an imminent attack. After a few seconds, nothing happened, and she tugged three times at the cable, the signal for Carpenter to descend.

 Throwing on her flashlight, she shone the beam around, looking for the source of the organic residue. A few meters down the corridor, she saw what appeared to be a bundle of rags huddled by the wall, the first sign of anything in this catacomb other than bare wall and pictogram. Hastening over to it, her eyes widened as a sightless face stared back at her, the flesh wrinkled and dry, a faint odor in the air the last trace of the long-dead figure.

 Behind her, she heard Carpenter drop to the floor with a muttered curse, and waved for her friend to come forward, then knelt down beside the corpse, looking over the body. Definitely human, and a vaguely recognizable jumpsuit, though a lot older than she had expected. Not from Monitor, certainly.

 Carpenter moved over, waving a datapad over the figure, and said, “More than a century.”

 Turning the figure, Harper looked at the flag on the sleeve, replying, “Fifty-two stars. The flag of the old United States.” Frowning, she added, “That dates him to sometime in the 2040s, right?”

 “Between '41 and '48, specifically,” Carpenter replied. “I'm impressed.”

 “Recent events have caused me to brush up on my 21st Century history.” Reaching into the dead man's pocket, she pulled out an ident card, and squinted at the faded text. “Edward Bigelow. Lieutenant Commander, United States Navy. NASA astronaut. USS Nautilus.” She looked across at Carpenter, and added, “I think we may have just added a page or two to this history books.”

 “One of the colony ships, launched during the Third World War? This far out?”

 “Why not?” Harper replied. “In terms of travel time, it's no further than some of the colonies we've found. They had a different take on the hendecaspace drive, far less reliable but capable of much greater range. Back home we've got a project working on getting the best parts of both, and I know they've managed unmanned test flights of more than twenty light-years.”

 “To a recently discovered system?” Weber asked, the trooper moving up behind them.

 “Only to us,” Harper said. “The middle of the last century is the nearest thing we've had to a dark age. We don't have good records from that era, and almost everything connected with space travel and exploration was classified as a military secret. Most of them lost during the final Nuclear Spasm. It seems reasonable that a discovery like this could have been hidden.”

 “Then there might be human colonies out there,” Carpenter said. “Somewhere in this galaxy.” Looking at the figure, she added, “He's got two broken legs.”

 “Fell down the shaft,” Weber said. “Though why wouldn't his friends retrieve him?”

 “Lost, perhaps. My guess is that we'll never know.” Rising to her feet, Harper said, “Though it doesn't matter. You think we can take him back to the surface?”

 “I don't know,” Carpenter said. “I don't think we'll ever find a better mausoleum than this.” Turning up to Harper, she added, “We've failed, haven't we.”

 Looking down at the body, Harper asked, “Come on, Commander. You were down here for something, and I'd guess you found what you were looking for. Where is it?”

 “What makes you say that?”

 “There's nobody here. Susan, those colony ships were designed for a one-way trip, and every jump was a risk. For every one that made it, three failed to even make planetfall. This is an inhabitable world, and I've seen less promising planets host colonies. Hell, you weren't far off sustainability with half a dozen shuttle flights from a scoutship. A full colony ship could establish hydroponic plants, water reclamation, and should be well on the way towards spaceflight by now.”

 “Unless they failed, and the settlement died,” Weber replied. “No, that can't be the answer. We'd find some traces, even if all of them perished. There'd be signs in orbit, as well. Satellites wouldn't decay that quickly.”

 “You're right!” Carpenter said, stabbing at her datapad. “Damn it all, I wish we had a decent connection with a database so I could be sure. We've got a record listing of a settlement founded by a USS Nautilus. A failed colony, out at 70 Ophiuchi. Thunderchild evacuated the survivors last year.” A beaming smile on her face, she continued, “They'd reverted to barbarism, all records lost, but there were some stories about a great adventure through the stars. Some of the mythologists went crazy about it, a real chance to see the evolution of legends in action.”

 “Meaning that there is a way home, and that the answer is somewhere down here, buried in the rocks.” Weber peered down at the man's hand, and said, “What's he holding?”

 Easing the dead man's fist open, Carpenter said, “Just a piece of metal.” Her eyes widened, and she added, “Some sort of tool. An artifact. And made of some sort of organic material.”

 “So, what does that get us?” Weber asked.

 “It means that we can establish the dating of this site with real accuracy,” Carpenter said, stretching the sensor filament from her datapad and clipping it to the tool. “That's going to help us enormously in the establishment of a baseline history of this place. And we might get some idea of the original builders, if they came from our galaxy.”

 With a sigh, Weber replied, “Very interesting, Lieutenant, but is it going to get us home?”

 “His people did,” Carpenter said. “There must be something down here, perhaps a mural. We're going to have to find a way to extend our stay, conduct a proper survey of these tunnels, and maybe we can...”

 “Yes!” Harper yelled, her voice echoing down the corridor. “Susan, get that dating! I think I've worked out our way home.”

 “What?” Weber asked.

 “How long, Susan?”

 Looking down at her readout, the archaeologist replied, “A little under thirty thousand years. With a little time, I should be able to get it narrowed down to the century.”

 “That's close enough,” Harper said. “Listen, that wormhole is fixed gravitationally, right? Anchored to this star.”

 “We don't know that for certain.”

 “I think we can assume it. What are the odds that it would have taken us here, otherwise, to the same system that the Nautilus discovered, more than a century ago. One that has a base with distinct similarities to a culture that died out in our galaxy at about the same time when that tool was built. We've both read the same reports, Susan. It can't just be a coincidence.”

 “So?” Carpenter asked. “What's your point?”

 “Stars move, Susan, and in thirty thousand years, they move a hell of a lot. We can guess that the wormhole is artificial, and further that it was established by the creators of this base. I know that I'm using a pretty long chain of assumptions, but bear with me. Given a little time, and some baseline observations of the local stars, we should be able to work out the positions of all the stars in this region at the time the wormhole was constructed.”

 Weber's eyes lit up, and she replied, “I get it! You want to work out what stars would have been within hendecaspace range of the wormhole. On the principle that the builders of this place must have visited it at some point in the past, and that if there is a way home...”

 “And we now know for certain that there is.”

 “It must be at one of those stars. And one that Alamo can reach. If Nautilus could, then we damn well can as well!” Carpenter finished. She pulled the tool free, sliding it in a sample bag and placing it in her pocket. “That's what he must have found. Maybe he was taking it back to the ship when he got lost. The specifics don't matter.”

 “We still don't have a route, though,” Weber replied. “It isn't going to be quite as easy as that. We might narrow it down to a far smaller number of stars.” She paused, then added, “Though of course, we could expect to find more evidence elsewhere. Hell, Monitor is out there somewhere, probably following the same trail. Not to mention the other ships that were lost through the wormhole.”

 “So at any point, we might find a shortcut, a guide to take us home,” Harper said. She reached for her communicator, hoping against hope for a miracle, and shook her head. “No signal. We'll have to get up to the surface. As soon as we can, we'll have to contact Alamo and get them moving on this. I don't know how long Astrogation will take working out a course, but the sooner they can get started, the sooner we can be on our way home.”

 “I'll be damned,” Weber said. “We actually found what we were looking for.”

 Looking down at the corpse, Harper patted him on the head, and said, “Thank you, Commander. I think we owe you our lives. Rest in peace, my friend.” She glanced up, spotting a flash of light in the corner of her eye, and turned to the shaft in time to watch the cable curl down, dropping to the floor. A small cylinder followed, and acting on pure instinct, Harper dragged her two friends to the ground, a heartbeat before the ear-shattering explosion.

 Weber was the first to react, racing to the shaft and emptying a clip at full automatic up it, a scream indicating that she'd had some success, but a series of bullets slamming into the ground behind her forced a retreat, and she raced past Harper and Carpenter, running as quickly as she could down the corridor.

 “Come on!” she said. “There must be more of them down here, or they'd have climbed down after us!” Carpenter sprinted after her, Harper following after a last, sorrowful glance at Bigelow, lying alone in the darkness, destined to remain in the shadows forever.

 Now that the attack had begun, their pursuers were abandoning any pretense of stealth, instead racing through the darkness towards them in all directions, flashes of light gleaming through the corridors as they sought to outpace them. The occasional crack of a bullet urged them to greater speed, but after a moment, it was obvious that they weren't going to make it.

 “Split up,” Weber said. “We've all got plans of the layout. We'll just have to make our own ways back up to the surface. My watch says that we've got thirty hours to get home.” Without waiting for confirmation, the trooper slid down a ramp, and with a final glance, Carpenter and Harper split up, racing down corridors, attempting to confuse the enemy.

 Immediately, it began to work, and the pursuing force paused for a moment, muttered arguments in the distance revolving around who they should be following. The window of opportunity was brief, but Harper took it spotting a narrow shaft that dropped down less than fifteen feet, heading into a long, low tunnel at the bottom.

 There was no time for her to fix a rope, and with a quick glance back at the approaching troopers, she swung herself down, grabbing onto the side of the shaft, then let herself fall, dropping and rolling in exactly the way she was taught, remaining on the ground and scurrying into the shadows, hardly daring to breathe for fear of attracting pursuit. Above her, she heard footsteps, shouting, and for a soul-wrenching second, a group paused overhead, shining their flashlights down the shaft, sweeping about.

 As fast as they arrived, they left, heading off towards some imagined enemy, and Harper continued down the tunnel, no longer caring where it led, only interested in getting some distance between herself and the would-be ambushers. Sliding into a junction, she pulled out her datapad, quickly getting her bearings.

 Heading directly up to the surface wouldn't be a good idea. The odds were good that they'd have people on their way up towards the Vault, and they'd be concentrating their search in that area. The only answer was to play for time, try and go deeper, into the darkness below. A risky move, but at this point, there didn't seem to be a realistic alternative. She glanced at her watch, and frowned, then reached into her pocket for a stimulant, swallowing it dry.

 Twenty-nine hours before Salazar was forced to detonate the bombs on the surface, assuming the approach of the enemy forces didn't lead them to move sooner. With one last look around, she ducked into the tunnel, pushing deeper into the gloom and the dark. Somewhere in the distance, she heard a crack, followed by an angry scream, and for a moment turned to help, knowing that one of her comrades had likely just been shot. Captured at best, killed at worst.

 Resignation froze her in place. Racing off into the dark would only give her friend some company, either in a cell or on a fast route to the next world. She couldn't do anything to save them, not now. All she could do was try and save herself, and get the information in her head back to Alamo, the clue that might show them the way home. Then, at least, all the deaths would mean something.

Chapter 17

 “I just don't see how we're going to pull this off,” Caine said, looking up at the tactical display. “Our latest reports confirm that they have completed repairs on their laser cannon, and that gives them all the tactical advantages they need.” Reaching across to the controls, she brought up Alamo's trajectory, and continued, “I've gone over the recovery plan three times. The best we can do is eighteen minutes, and that's with a surface stay time of less than ninety seconds. I just don't think that's practical.”

 “Ten missiles against six. Seven fighters against twelve,” Francis said. “And on that course, we don't have anything to work with. Even if the superstructure could take it, I don't think we could dip into the atmosphere. Not and recover the shuttles.” He paused, then added, “Maybe we could draw Waldheim away, run the shuttles for longer.”

 “Wouldn't work,” Foster said shaking her head. “If I was commanding Waldheim, I'd leave at least a flight of fighters in orbit to cover for that. Target practice.”

 “So much for that idea,” Marshall said. Looking around the bridge, he gestured at the countdown clock, and added, “We've got less than ten hours before we have to face that ship, ladies and gentlemen, and I still haven't heard anything resembling a workable plan.”

 “Abort,” McCormack said. “I'm quite serious. Leave our team on the surface for the present, and head to the nearest hendecaspace point. We jump in-system, two days, as far as I can see, and then come back on a different vector. We'd have to find some way to warn our team on the surface, but…”

 “Why bother?” Foster asked, fury in her eyes. “We'd be forcing them to surrender in any case. The only reason that they're holding out at the moment is that we've drawn Waldheim away from the planet, and they haven't been able to use anything like their full strength. Their fighters can operate in atmosphere just like ours can, and with targeted airstrikes, they could easily wipe out our team without destroying the alien site.”

 “She's right,” Caine replied. “That's what I'd do, if I was commanding Waldheim. Hell, I'm surprised they haven't tried it already.”

 “Then we leave anyway,” McCormack said. “We shouldn't have committed troops to surface operations in the first place, and they all knew the risks they were running going in. You're talking about throwing away the lives of everyone on this ship.” Pointing at the display, she added, “The situation is not recoverable.”

 “We are not leaving those people down there,” Foster said, coldly. “Not while I am sitting on this bridge.”

 “Are you contemplating a mutiny, Lieutenant?” Marshall replied with a wry smile. “I could use a few days off.”

 “Of course not, sir, but we can't simply give up on our people.”

 “I agree,” Marshall said. “Simply abandoning our landing team is unacceptable. Furthermore, there remains the issue of Pioneer, and our current course gives us a close flyby, near enough that we can take a proper look at the surface.”

 Nodding, Francis replied, “Potentially, we've got a window for a shuttle launch, but it would be tight as hell.” He paused, then added, “I should note that we have no evidence that there is anyone still alive down there.”

 Marshall looked up at the tactical display, watching as Waldheim loped on its high orbit, permanently ready to move to engage Alamo. They'd be meeting up anyway in ten hours, the two ships fighting it out once more. And according to the manual, Alamo would lose. The coming battle looked distressingly like an even fight, the two ships warring it out, and without any tactical trickery, the battlecruiser was doomed.

 “Can we strengthen Alamo's point-defense system?” Foster asked. “I've not had a chance to look over the specifications properly, but...”

 “Ten mass-driver turrets around the perimeter of the ship,” Caine said. “All experimental designs. I'd be reluctant to make any serious changes. The recoil's bad enough as it is with the current rate of fire.” With a faint smile, she added, “The first test ripped one of the turrets right off the hull.”

 “Wait a minute,” Marshall said. “What's the maximum range on the mass drivers?”

 “A hair over a thousand miles,” Caine replied. “I don't think there's any way to extend it. It's a question of guidance, really. Too much lead time and it's easy for a missile to dodge.”

 Marshall turned to her, and said, “And a bigger target?”

 Francis nodded, adding, “A battleship, for example.”

 “We might manage five thousand miles.” Looking at the two of them, Caine replied, “Most battles are fought at ten times that range, Danny! You can't be seriously suggesting...”

 “A broadside,” he said. “Fire all ten turrets at once. What sort of damage would that do?”

 “Hard to tell,” Caine said. “They'd still have a chance to dodge out of the way, and we'd have a hell of a time trying for any specific systems. It'd make a mess of their hull, though, I can tell you that.” Looking at the course projection, she added, “We'd have to get in, though. That wouldn't be easy.” Tapping the display, she highlighted the final stages of their intercept, and replied, “We couldn't telegraph what we were doing too soon. Remember that they'd have plenty of time to dodge us, if they could work out our plan.”

 “Then we need to decoy them, draw them in,” Marshall said. “Give them a chance to think that they've trapped us, and slew into position at the last moment.” Turning to the helm, he said, “Midshipman, alter course now, and put us on trajectory for the recovery. Let's assume twenty-three minutes at the planet, buy ourselves something of a safety margin.”

 “Aye, sir,” Imoto replied. “Our best heading takes us around the sixth moon, close to Pioneer.” He turned to Marshall, and added, “The closest approach will take place in orbital space, sir.” He paused, then said, “We won't be close enough to the eighth moon for a pickup on this heading, Captain.”

 “Which rules out a rescue mission,” McCormack said. “I can launch at long-range, Captain, provide cover for our attack. We'd have to fly defensive to get in, then switch to offensive at the last moment. Without our point-defense systems, we'll have to use our fighters to provide cover.” She paused, then added, “You realize, sir, that if this goes wrong, Alamo will be totally defenseless. They'll have ample opportunity to smash us to pieces.”

 “I'm aware of that, Lieutenant. Start mission simulations for maximum cover.” He paused, then added, “It'll mean that our shuttles have to make the approach without an escort. There won't be any opportunity to refuel and rearm in the time.”

 “It's going to be close, Danny,” Caine said. “Close as hell. And if one thing goes wrong...”

 “Then we'll just have to make sure that nothing does,” Marshall said. Turning to Bowman, he continued, “Any luck breaking through the jamming field, Spaceman?”

 “I'm afraid not, sir. Those orbital satellites have the whole area smothered.”

 Shaking his head, Francis said, “Then we've got another problem. Unless we can warn Lieutenant Salazar of our plans, we're liable to miss the window. We're asking him to load everyone onto the shuttles in five minutes, with no warning.” Looking at Marshall, he added, “Never mind simulations, sir, I don't see us pulling it off.”

 “And if we slip, then we're in trouble,” Caine said. “Getting the shuttles aboard before we leave the system is going to be difficult enough as it is. We'll have one chance to make this work.” Gesturing at the display, she added, “And evading the fighters without escort only makes it worse.”

 “We can fly escort,” McCormack said.

 “I thought we'd covered that,” Marshall replied. “We'll need all of your fighters to fly cover for Alamo on the approach, and there won't be a chance for you to resupply.”

 Studying the tactical display, the squadron leader said, “Fuel shouldn't be a problem. We can swing around the sixth moon at the same time as Alamo, get a nice gravity boost right there.”

 “Never mind the fuel. You'll have no ordnance.”

 With a smile, she added, “Two things we can do about that. The deck gang can fit dummy missiles to our undersides. Decoys. They won't know that we haven't launched all of our missiles, and it'll just look as though we've been making some special modifications. And we'll still have our electronic warfare suites to play with. Don't worry, sir. We'll find a way to make it work.” Looking at the other officers, she added, “Look, just because I don't think we should hold this party doesn't mean I don't want an invitation.”

 “We still have to find a way to signal the surface,” Francis said.

 “They're still shooting down all of our probes?” Marshall asked.

 “Before they can even get close, sir,” Ballard replied. “I'm still trying, sir, but I'm afraid it's a waste of time. We're not going to be able to patch up the sensor blind spots.”

 “I wasn't thinking of that,” he replied. “At top speed, how long would it take a probe to reach Dante from our current location.?Absolute maximum acceleration.”

 Raising an eyebrow, Ballard said, “Eight minutes, sir, but it would burn up in the atmosphere long before it got to the surface.”

 “How long before?” he asked. “Long enough for us to rig a laser relay? Could it get deep enough for that?”

 Ballard's eyes widened, and she turned to her console, her fingers rattling across the controls as she called up schematics, going through the specifications of Alamo's arsenal of probes. After a moment, she turned back with a triumphant smile.

 “We can do it, sir. We'll only have about thirty seconds of audio-only communication before we lose the probe, but I think we can pull it off.” She paused, then added, “They'll know what we're doing, sir. No way to camouflage it.”

 “Doesn't matter,” Francis said. “As long as they don't know what we've got in mind, they'd be expecting us to try to establish contact with our people on the surface.” He looked up at the display, and said, “Though I suspect we're only going to get a single try at this, Captain. It wouldn't be difficult for them to set up an orbital fighter patrol to shoot down any more probes, and they'll have plenty of warning.”

 “Recommend we fire a full swarm of probes, sir,” Ballard added. “If we put eight onto trajectory, we've got the best possible chance of getting one of them to the target.”

 “Make it happen, Spaceman,” he said. “Deadeye, I want you to guide them into position yourself. Bowman, we'll need maximum possible power on the comm laser if we're going to make this work. As well as absolute targeting precision.”

 “Can do, sir,” the communications technician replied. “It'll be good to actually get a chance to talk to someone in this system. I've had a rather frustrating couple of days, sir.”

 “Probes ready, sir,” Ballard said.

 “Fire at will,” Marshall replied, sitting back in his command chair, watching as the eight targets appeared on the screen, their courses sweeping them towards the planet. Waldheim reacted instantly, altering course to get into position to launch an intercept, and Caine quickly moved to scatter the formation, spreading them out in a wide fan, the distance between them growing rapidly.

 All conversation was silenced, all eyes on the trajectory plot as they watched the probes fly. After a moment, eight more tracks appeared, long-range missiles sweeping out from Waldheim towards their targets, ready to wipe their last hope of communication out of space. The enemy battleship was moving into a new orbit, confirming Francis' prediction that they'd only have a single chance to make this plan work.

 The seconds raced by as the probes and missiles raced towards each other, Caine sacrificing as much fuel as she dared to evade, wary of sacrificing the raw acceleration that was their only hope. The targets converged far too close to the planet for Marshall's liking, and he took a grim satisfaction that General Estrada would be sitting on his bridge, feeling the same tension. Space battles could never be a war of statistics. The only way to win was to turn them into a war of wits.

 “There goes one!” Caine said, the first of the probes disappearing from the screen with a brief flash, followed seconds later by two more. Five probes now, and five missiles chasing after them, diving towards their goal. A fourth found its prey, then a fifth, and a sixth, and the trajectory plot was growing frustratingly clear as Waldheim completed its sweep.

 “Nearly there,” Caine said, anxious eyes watching the display. “Damn.”

 Only one probe was left now, but it was curving around the crest of the planet, already beginning to bite atmosphere. At the communications station, Bowman was frowning as he adjusted the controls, keeping the comm laser locked on its target. Marshall slid on his headset, his eyes still locked on the screen.

 “Alamo Actual to Dante Base. Come in.” He took a deep breath, then repeated, “Alamo Actual to Dante Base. Come in.”

 “Alamo Actual,” Salazar said, “This is Dante Base! Pass your message.”

 “We're coming back to get you, Pavel. In about ten hours, we're scheduled for a close fly-by that should give us just enough time for a fast pick-up. You're going to have to get on board quickly, and you can expect the enemy to have enough warning to launch an attack.”

 “How quickly, sir?”

 “Seven minutes minus, Pavel.”

 “Understood, sir. We'll be ready, and we'll get...” The transmission faded, and Caine looked up, shaking her head.

 “That's it, Danny. Signal lost. Not sure whether it burned up or whether the missile caught up with it at the last minute, but I suppose it amounts to the same thing.”

 “Doesn't matter,” Marshall replied, a beaming smile on his face. “Our signal got through. That's all that counts. Now we've just got to make the mission work.”

Chapter 18

 Salazar looked across the table at Lombardo and Rhodes, flicking off the communicator and sitting back in his seat. He glanced out at the settlement outside, watching as their troops continued their constant patrol, the flicker of flashlights sweeping around as they scanned the horizon.

 “Well, that's that. We're moving out,” he said. “In a little under ten hours. Just after dawn, which should help a little.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “And just about when Harper and her team are scheduled to return to the surface. Good news.” Frowning, he continued, “So why do I feel as though we've just been handed a death sentence.”

 “I don't know how we're going to pull this off, sir. Not with a window for rescue that tight,” Rhodes said. “I can call in our deep patrols in time, but they're going to know that we're trying something, and they've got plenty of time to work out what we're doing and position their forces to attack.” Frowning, he added, “I suppose we've got one advantage. At least we can say with some assurance that they'll wait until the shuttles come down to make their move.”

 “Why?” Lombardo asked. “Why not move as soon as they can?”

 “Because this way they have a chance to take out our shuttles as well,” Salazar replied. “Which will neatly remove any further opportunity for Alamo to send teams down to the surface. If I'm getting this right, they'll have to use every bird they've got to make this work.” Shaking his head, he said, “We'll have a hundred troopers coming at us. Probably with support teams. Frank, we're going to need the best defensive formation you can put together.”

 Nodding, he replied, “I'm sure I can come up with a few nice surprises for them, but ultimately it's going to boil down to a fighting withdrawal to the shuttles. We don't even have time to launch a preemptive strike.” Rubbing his chin, the Espatier said, “Orderly retreats are difficult enough at the best of times, but given the circumstances, we're going to take heavy casualties with this one, Pavel. I don't see any way out. Just getting the wounded on board is going to be tough.”

 “What about our prisoners?” Lombardo asked.

 “We leave them behind, in the dome, under confinement,” Salazar replied. “There's no way we can take any of them with us, and we don't have time to nursemaid prisoners in any case.” His communicator chirped, and he tapped a control, saying, “Go ahead.”

 “Lance-Corporal Webster, sir, down in the vault. We're picking up movement down here, sir. I think there's someone in the deep caverns. It's faint enough that we're only registering it on sensors, sir, and we can't get a fix, but I think we've got company heading our way.”

 Cursing, Salazar pulled out a topographical map, stabbing his finger down on the base they'd spotted out in the deep desert, and said, “We've just solved one mystery, anyway. No wonder they were pulling troops into that facility. They've managed to find a route to that shaft, running all the way to the city.”

 “It's a hundred miles, even assuming it runs in a straight line,” Lombardo protested.

 “Two days to march,” Rhodes replied. “Less with some sort of transport, of course. The shaft's big enough that they could have come up with something to speed them. Hell, they could have just marched through.” He nodded, then said, “We knew that there was a possibility they'd sneaked a team into the caverns...”

 “A recon team, not a full-scale assault,” Salazar said. “Damn it all, I should have thought of this. They're going to hit us from two sides at once. One group down in the catacombs, heading up through the Vault, and a second team striking overland, probably to pin us down while their main force attacks.”

 “We're seeing plenty of buggies moving around on the surface,” Rhodes said, before sighing, and adding, “though we don't have any way of knowing if there is anyone inside them. They're playing a deception game, and it's worked, damn it.”

 “Not yet, it hasn't,” Salazar said. “We've worked it out in enough time to deal with it.”

 “What about Harper and her team?” Lombardo said. “We sent them right into the middle of that assault force.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “If they were just heading down to that source of organic residue, then they should have been back hours ago.”

 “The trail might have led them somewhere else,” Rhodes said. “We can't write them off yet.”

 “Do we have a choice?” Lombardo replied. “Pavel, I know you don't want to hear this...”

 “No.”

 “If we blow the shaft now, then we don't have a problem. With a reduced force attacking us up on the surface, we'll have a much better chance for the shuttles to pick us up. I hate the idea of leaving her behind as much as you do, but there's a very real possibility that she's already been captured.”

 “She went down there to find a way for us to get home, Art, and if we don't leave this planet without it, then all of this was for nothing. We've got to give her as long as we can. Besides, I'd like to turn this around a little.” Looking at his two friends, he continued, “I think we've got a chance to do a little more damage to Waldheim.”

 “At this stage, I'd say that survival would be victory enough,” Lombardo replied.

 “You aren't thinking long-term. We're going to be facing them again. Even after we've got clear of this system, they're going to be following the same trail as we are, and we've got to expect a second encounter. Destroying them here is probably out of the question, but we can certainly take some steps to reducing their combat potential a bit. And I think a good start would be smashing their ground forces contingent.”

 “We've already done quite a bit of damage,” Rhodes said. “Good God, Pavel, are you saying what I think you are?”

 “I don't think I'm on the same page as you two,” Lombardo replied. “Anyone want to help out a poor mechanic who didn't take ground forces training?”

 “If we can hold them off down there for as long as possible, and if our timing is just about perfect, then we can lure the troops working their way towards us onto the ramp when we detonate the bomb.” Gesturing at the chart, he continued, “You've seen the projections. Multiple cave-ins, all along the site. They'd be buried for days, and we might...”

 “Get ourselves killed in the process, Pavel,” Rhodes said. “The timing would have to be precise to pull this off, and if they managed to get past you, we'd have to throw the switch while you were still down in the catacombs.”

 “Wait a minute,” Lombardo said. “You're going down there in force?”

 “At least a full squad,” Salazar replied. “And to answer the next question, I'll be taking it down myself. This is my idea, and...”

 “I was under the impression that I was commanding the platoon,” Rhodes said.

 “Sorry, Frank, but I've got to do this. You're going to be needed to command the defenses on the surface. This won't be the first time I've fought my way through an alien city. At the very least, we'll need to hold the bastards back for long enough to give Harper a chance of getting home, and at best, we could wipe out more than half of their ground forces company in one shot. And tie up Waldheim on rescue operations for days.”

 “Assuming they bother,” Rhodes said, scowling. “Cruz seems like the sort of person who'd be perfectly happy to just leave them behind, waving goodbye as she fled the system.”

 “She might,” Salazar replied, “but Estrada wouldn't, and I can't imagine that the crew would go along with leaving forty or fifty of their people to die a slow and painful death on the surface.” Rising to his feet, he said, “We've got four people down in the Vault already. I'll need another fire team. Any suggestions?”

 “Lance-Corporal Quiller,” Rhodes said. “They were just about to head out on a deep patrol, so they're ready to move right now.” He smiled, then added, “I'll let you break it to him about just how deep.” Gesturing at Salazar's head, he continued, “Just for the record...”

 “I'm fine,” he replied.

 “I'm not sure that Garland would agree.”

 “I won't tell him if you won't.” Clapping Rhodes on the shoulder, he continued, “Have someone watching the ramp at all times. If anything goes wrong, blow the bomb. Don't take any unnecessary risks.”

 “I'll leave those to you,” he replied.”This is a hell of a gamble, Pavel.”

 “With a big payoff if it works,” Salazar said, pulling a rifle from the locker. “Just give me as much time as you can, and if everything goes to Hell, wish Captain Marshall the best from me.” Walking out into the chill of the night, he looked around for Quiller, waved his hand over, and called, “Corporal, to me!”

 “Sir?” the gruff-voiced man replied.

 “Special mission, for you and your fire team. How do you fancy a little spelunking?”

 A grin leered across the man's face, and he said, “We going hunting, sir?”

 “That we are, Corporal, that we are.” He paused, and said, “High-risk mission, Corporal. If you'd rather go out...”

 “Are you joking, sir? Go out in that wild desert? Who knows what might be lurking out there, ready to jump out at us. Give me a nice safe cavern any day of the week, and if you can give me a few Unies for target practice, so much the better.” Turning to his men, he called, “Savina, get your butt over here on the double! Ditch the plasma rifles and grab all the grenades you can find.”

 “No plasma rifle, sir?” the young soldier asked.

 “Not in a confined space, you idiot! Besides, we're going to need a lot more than half a dozen shots where we're going.” Leading the way to the buried entrance at the trot, Salazar winced from the pain in his side as his team assembled, reaching in his pocket for a painkiller. Behind him, Rhodes was already giving orders, calling his distant patrols back in and preparing the defensive fortifications they were going to need when the attack came at dawn.

 Salazar's communicator bleeped again, and he tugged it open in time to hear, “Webster to surface. Come in, please.”

 “I read you, Corporal, and help's on the way.”

 “Getting closer, sir. Best guess has them at the half-mile level, and converging on our position in two directions. South and Northeast. Our map shows a junction way, way down that they must be using as an access point.” There was a brief pause, static crackling over the speaker, and the trooper continued, “Orders, sir?”

 “Take your fire team and proceed northeast. Don't get separated, but your job is to hunt down the attacking force and stop them by any means necessary.” He stepped onto the ramp, peering down into the blackness, and continued, “Set your watch for nine hours, forty-one minutes. You've got to be back on the surface by then if you want a ride back to Alamo.” Turning to Quiller, he added, “Better set yours as well, Corporal.”

 “Way ahead of you, sir.”

 “Seek-and-destroy, sir?” Webster asked.

 “If possible, Corporal, but at all costs hold them up as long as you can. If you run into trouble, pull back to the Vault for a last stand. I doubt we'll be able to talk again until we both get back up the surface.”

 “Understood, sir. We'll do our part.”

 “Good hunting, Corporal.”

 “And to you, sir.”

 Sliding his communicator back into his pocket, Salazar jogged down the ramp, letting Quiller take the lead, the rest of the fire team following in their wake. He hefted the rifle in his hands, flicking the infra-red display into life and running a belated systems check.

 “We taking the southern path, sir?” Quiller asked.

 “That's the idea.”

 “I took a look at the charts, sir, and that path's a tangle of corridors and passages. It'd be pretty damned easy to get lost down there.”

 “Let's hope we can inspire such confusion in our adversaries, Corporal.”

 “We really getting out of here, sir?” Savina asked. Salazar turned to look at him, momentarily surprised by the youth displayed on his face. He looked as though he had yet to master shaving, and it seemed so damned unfair that he was out here, ready to sacrifice his life for his comrades, when by all rights he appeared as though he should be more concerned with fixing up a date for the Prom. Either the new recruits were getting younger, or he was getting older.

 Stepping into the Vault, the scale was overwhelming, and the sight of the countless tunnels snaking their way into the darkness revealed the scope of the mission they were attempting. Salazar looked at Quiller, resignation on his face, and gestured towards a tunnel that at least vaguely seemed to be heading in the right direction.

 “Two teams, sir,” Quiller said. “I don't think we have a choice.”

 “Agreed, Corporal,” Salazar replied. “Savina, you're with me. We'll take the tunnel on the left. There's a junction maybe a quarter-mile away, so we'll aim for that and try and link up back there. Take your time, and remember that communication will be problematic.” He paused, then said, “If you need help, fire three shots, a half-second apart, and we'll do our best to make contact. And for God's sake, remember the time-line.”

 “With you, sir,” Savina said, and the two of them made their way into the tunnel, the Vault rapidly disappearing behind them. Salazar set a quick pace, glancing down every side tunnel, shining his flashlight around. At the worried look from the young trooper, he smiled, and shook his head.

 “We want them to find us, kid. If we leave it to blind chance, we could be wandering around down here for years. Our best chance is if they come to us. Watch for cover, and watch for junctions.”

 “We're the bait?”

 “Something like that.”

 They moved on down the corridor, picking up faint noises all around, knowing that somewhere close by, the enemy were moving into position. Salazar already knew their battle-plan, knew what he would have done in their place. Scatter units all through the tunnels, each ready to move at the appointed time. A little over nine hours from now.

 “Sir,” Savina hissed. “Something down that way. I thought I saw a light.”

 “Where?” Salazar asked.

 “Down there,” the trooper said, easing down a side passage. Salazar glanced at their intended direction, then back at Savina, finally following him along the tunnel, crouching low as the ceiling dropped. Turning around a corner, he felt the floor giving way under him, his feet and hands flailing as he reached for a handhold, a way to stop himself from falling, but he couldn't react fast enough, dropping down into the gloom.

 On instinct, he rolled on the landing, wincing as he crashed into wall, knocking the air from his body. Trying to get his breath back, he looked around with his searchlight, and saw Savina crouched in a corner, clutching his leg, bone visible through his uniform.

 “Damn, damn, damn!” the trooper said, and Salazar knelt by his side, reaching for the medical kit at his belt. “How bad is it, sir?”

 “Going to be a while before you can hit the dance floor again, son,” he replied, trying to keep the worry from his face.

 “Should we call for help, sir?”

 “No,” he replied, with a confidence he didn't feel. “We don't know who'd get there first. Besides, I should be able to patch you up well enough to walk. After a fashion, at any rate.”

 “You think we can get out of here, sir?” the young trooper said, gasping with the pain.

 “Sure,” he lied. “Sure, son. I've seen much worse than this.”

 Nine hours. Nine hours to get out of here. He reached for his datapad, cursing as his fingers ran over the cracked screen. He glanced back up at the shaft, twenty impossible feet to climb.

 “Leave me, sir,” Savina said. “Go get help.”

 “Not a chance, kid,” he said, opening the medical kit. “We get out of here together, or not at all. Now just relax for a minute. This is going to hurt.”

Chapter 19

 Clarke walked around the perimeter of the shattered Pioneer, silently on patrol, periodically glancing up at the dull brown world hovering in the distance. Somewhere out there was Alamo, lost among the stars, and beyond, Waldheim, ready to strike at any moment. He glanced across at the countdown clock, stifling a yawn. Only fifty minutes now before they could escape this world for good, could return to the safety of their home ship.

 Off to the side, the Espatiers were still working on their fake excavation, though so far, the enemy had yet to take the bait. For hours, he'd been waiting for flashing shapes to swoop down from the sky, ready to wipe them out, perhaps buying Alamo the chance it needed to get clear of the system in safety, but there was nothing, no sign of any activity at all.

 In the distance, a solitary figure stood, looking out over a crater filled with crosses, dozens of them, buried deep in the regolith as monuments for all time. Hooke, watching his crew, never moving, never averting his gaze. He'd spent more and more time out there as the moment of their departure grew nearer, and Clarke couldn't bring himself to pull him away, no matter how badly they needed the help. A part of him would always be here, stranded on this moon with his dead comrades.

 A green light caught his eye, one of the plasma carbines forming the outer defensive perimeter, hastily installed to provide at least a modicum of defense against the attack he had been waiting for. Fox and her squad had done an excellent job, but he knew that it the best they could manage would be a glorious last stand, a final moment of valor to mark their death or capture. Death, likely, as the warheads still waited in the wings, ready for detonation.

 “Sir,” a voice said, echoing through his helmet. “We're about ready for the final testing sequence. I need to open the hangar doors, and we'll have to get everyone on board for it.”

 “Roger, Conner, I'm on my way.” He paused, then added, “And regardless of the outcome, Spaceman, my complements and congratulations to both you and your team. Putting the pieces back together in the time allotted and with such limited tools is a real triumph, and I will make sure that it is duly noted in the official report.”

 “All part of the service, sir,” the engineer smiled. Clarke didn't need to look at her to see the smile on her face, and she added, “I've computed a course to take us back to Alamo at closest approach. Which should be sometime in the next ninety minutes. We're looking at a ten-minute flight, and hopefully, a nice smooth docking.”

 “Excellent, Spaceman.” Turning over to Hooke, he switched frequencies, and said, “Time to go, friend.”

 “Huh?” Hooke replied, still looking out over the terrain. “Already?”

 “I thought you wanted to get away from here?” Walking over to him with a long, loping bound, Clarke said, “Hooke, nobody blames you for what happened, and I'm certain that your comrades wouldn't have wanted you to throw your life away for them. I can't imagine what you've gone through, but it's over. Time to go home.”

 “Sure,” Hooke replied, with a nod. “Home. I'm coming, sir.”

 Clarke turned, leading the way to the hangar, a stream of suited figures drifting over from the abandoned excavation. He smiled at the thought that someone, maybe in a year or a century, would stumble across these remains, perhaps spend weeks picking through their relics in a bid to discover what secrets they had uncovered here. All for a ruse that had failed, doing nothing other than digging deeper into the rock, carving a cavern into the side of a mountain. One permanent monument of their stay.

 He took the lead, pumping the handle to cycle the airlock, knowing that it would be the last time he had to complete that particular chore, waiting impatiently to get into the wrecked module, and into the shuttle beyond. As he stepped inside, tugging off his helmet, he looked over the battered lines of the hastily rebuilt ship, and shook his head in disbelief.

 In the time, Conner and her team had worked a miracle, slamming two shuttles into one, bolting reserve fuel tanks haphazardly around the sides of the hull, but somehow it didn't seem possible that this ship could actually fly. He swore that there was a bend in the middle, that the connections were out of alignment. Gaps were clearly visible in the sides of the hull, and any structural engineer would have got down to his knees and begun to cry at the misuse of machinery this shuttle demonstrated.

 “It'll fly,” Blake said, clapping her hand on her shoulder. “I'm sure you'll have no problem taking us home.” He looked at her, scanning for traces of sarcasm, and she continued, “It's a short hop and an easy burn. Nothing to worry about.”

 “I think I've found something, sir,” Fox said, standing by a side panel. “Company's coming.”

 Bounding over to the display, Clarke asked, “Details, Sergeant.”

 “Waldheim has altered course, moving to swing around the moon. In less than seventy minutes, we're going to have some friends, and they'll be in a perfect position for target practice.”

 “Our launch time…,” Petrova said.

 “Our launch time just got changed. How hot can we burn this bird, Conner?”

 “One-tenth gravity, sir. No more than that, and I wouldn't even push her that far unless we don't have a choice.” She paused, then said, “I guess we don't, sir. I'll recompute the course for an earlier launch, but we're going to be pushing the ship to the limit.” Looking across at the panel, she added, “There's a window in four minutes, sir. Long run, though, and a slow one. We won't get home for more than half an hour, and I can see a potential for interception by the enemy fighter squadron before we can make it back.”

 “Better a risk than a certainty,” Blake said. “I'd say we should take the chance.”

 “Should I detonate the missiles on takeoff, sir, or do you want to set them for motion detect?” Fox asked. “If they send a team down here, we might catch a few of them in the blast radius.” Clarke looked at the screen, silent, and the trooper repeated, “Sir, how...”

 “Sergeant,” he asked, “I assume those missiles can be rigged to detonate on impact?”

 “Of course, sir, but we don't have anything other than the warheads.”

 Reaching up to the display, he tapped controls, and said, “Waldheim's passing right over us. Less than forty miles up. They're having to push it that close in order to keep their rendezvous with Alamo.” Frowning, he added, “Likely they'll launch their fighters here, to take advantage of the boost for an intercept. No point keeping their birds in the firing line any longer than they need.”

 “Sir, we should be getting to the shuttle. Our revised takeoff time...”

 Turning to Petrova, he said, “Midshipman, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you get advanced pilot rating at the Academy?”

 “Top of the class,” she replied with a sneer. “Don't you think you can handle it?”

 “I'm staying,” he said, moving to the airlock.

 “What?” Blake asked.

 Gesturing at the sensor image, he said, “We've got a chance to really hurt that ship. Look, as things stand, Alamo's going to get smashed to pieces by Waldheim during the battle. There isn't a damned thing they can do about it, and our attempt to lure them in might have worked a little too well. I can give you cover as well, a chance to get back home in one piece. Otherwise the fighters will catch you, and all of this will have been for nothing!”

 “Attack?” Petrova replied. “What with?”

 “Pioneer.”

 “She's in pieces, scattered across half the planet, and you want to launch an attack?”

 “The forward section is just about intact, and she still has her lateral thrusters intact. If I time it right, then...”

 “You'd use the ship as a missile!” Fox said, looking at him in shock. “Ram Pioneer right down its gut, with all four warheads detonating at the instant of impact.” Shaking her head, she added, “They'd throw everything they had at you, sir. You'd be riding a fireball right the way in.”

 “John,” Blake said, “this is crazy, even by your standards.”

 “I know,” he replied, “I just don't think there's any other choice. Not if the rest of you are going to get away. You're the one who called me Captain Clarke. Well, I seem to remember an old saying about the Captain going down with his ship.”

 “You'll be killed.”

 “Possibly.”

 “Probably. Almost certainly, damn it.”

 “And if I can bring down Waldheim, then I'd say that it would be worth it.” He paused, then added, “Four warheads, slamming into the right part of the ship, could cripple them. Certainly they'd lose enough ground that Alamo could get safely out of the system.” Gesturing at the trajectory plot, he added, “We know where our people are going. A hendecaspace point. In thirty minutes, you'll be on your way to a new system.” He paused, smiled, then added, “I'll just be staying behind.”

 “There has to be a better option.”

 “There isn't.” He looked around at the assembled crew, and said, “Get to the shuttle. And I wish you all good luck, and a safe passage back to Alamo.”

 “Are you sure about this?” Blake asked.

 “More than I have been about anything in my life. I'm the one who got us stranded here. Maybe this way I can atone for that.”

 “There's nothing to atone for, John.”

 “Maybe not, but this is just the way that it is going to have to be. Now get out of here.” Turning to Petrova, still waiting by the shuttle, he added, “Midshipman, I'm trusting you to get everyone back to the ship. Don't push too hard, and don't take any stupid risks. That's my job. Safe landing.”

 She looked at him, eyes narrowed, then turned and climbed into the cockpit, but hatch sliding shut behind her. Only Fox remained, waiting at the passenger airlock, her helmet clutched in her hand. Pausing, she turned to face him, then took a step back onto the deck.

 “I'm staying, sir. You're going to need all the help you can get to keep that ship in the air.”

 “Sergeant, board the shuttle.”

 “Sir, I really think…”

 “Sergeant Fox, that is a direct order.”

 She nodded, smiled, then snapped a parade-ground salute, and said, “It has been an honor, and a privilege, to serve under your command, sir. Good hunting.”

 “Good luck,” he replied, walking back to the airlock, clipping his helmet back into position, working the release lever frantically. When the shuttle launched, the hangar wouldn't be a safe place to be, and he needed to give himself as much distance as he possibly could. Already he could see a faint glow from the aft thrusters, a low whine as the engine charged to full power, and as the outer hatch opened, he fired a long pulse from his suit jets to drive him clear, spinning around to watch as the hangar doors opened.

 Rising like a phoenix from the ashes, the shuttle rose on her lateral thrusters, executing a textbook takeoff. The engines fired, and slowly the ship moved away, taking his crew to safety, on a course that would get them back to Alamo well before anyone could attack them. There remained the danger of a fighter attack, but if his plan worked, the enemy were going to have far more problems to deal with.

 He waited for a long minute, watching as the shuttle soared over the horizon, then flicked off his communicator and turned for Pioneer, pulsing his suit jets again to glide smoothly across the surface to the waiting airlock. Tapping the control, he slid inside, taking off his helmet and gently stepping down the corridor to the aft section, the hatch sliding open as he approached.

 Sergeant Fox and her team had done a good job setting the warheads, fixing them along the superstructure, clustered together to cause maximum damage. Left as they were, they'd shatter the ship into a million pieces, taking out anything attempting to board her. Now, he had greater ambitions. Reaching up to the control overrides, one by one he switched them across, set now to detonate on impact where they could do the most good. A combination of that and the kinetic energy of the collision would make a glorious mess.

 Eleven minutes to go.

 Turning back down the corridor, he pushed off towards the bridge, one of the few compartments still airtight. Cables and circuits reached out at him from the wall, remnants of the abandoned salvage operation, and he smoothly slid under them, taking care to keep any of the sharp obstructions well clear of his suit. Finally he reached his destination, the door sliding open as he arrived.

 A row of consoles awaited him, still flashing their readouts though nobody was sitting at the controls, and he moved into the command chair, reaching down for the master control panel and locking it into position over his lap. He called up a sensor display, the tactical projection flickering into life, and noted with satisfaction the shuttle, still holding its course towards Alamo, towards the safety of their ship, so far distant.

 “Need a hand?” a voice asked, and he turned to see Hooke gliding into the room.

 “What the hell are you doing here?”

 “This is my ship, and if you think I'm going to leave it until the last minute, you've got another damned think coming. It was different if we were abandoning her, heading back to Alamo, but you're taking her out for one more mission, and I'm going to be right here to watch, you understand? I'm not letting her go off without me.”

 With a sigh, Clarke replied, “Only one of us needs to die today.”

 Hooke looked out over the moonscape, then said, “I should have died with the rest of them, Midshipman. If I'm going to go down anyway, I might as well go down doing something worth dying for. This sounds like a mission I don't want to miss.”

Chapter 20

 Harper walked through the gloom, all the tunnels beginning to merge together, flashes of pictograms leering at her in the shadows as the beam of her flashlight played across them. She paused, took a deep breath, and reached for her canteen, sloshing the contents to reveal the distressingly limited supply of water she had. The heat was oppressive, the sweat running down her back, and she wiped a grimy hand across her forehead to clear her eyes.

 In less than an hour, Salazar would be blowing the charges, sealing her down in the darkness forever. There remained the long access tunnel, down below, but given the voices and footsteps she periodically heard in the distance, she knew that choosing that passage meant handing herself over for immediate capture. Until those charges exploded, she wasn't willing to resort to that, not unless she didn't have any choice.

 Another burst of staccato gunfire broke the silence, somewhere up above her, a brief firefight in one of the tunnels. The sounds of battle had been coming with greater frequency as she slowly made her way up to the surface, too many to be caused by those pursuing her. She'd seen no sign of Carpenter or Weber in hours, not since they'd been forced to separate by the ambush, and the idea of a deliberate search had been a waste of time.

 A loud, rumbling noise ran through the corridor, and for an instant, she looked up, waiting for the dust to drop the ceiling, final call for her surrender. All was silent again. A grenade, a smoke grenade, again, somewhere above her. With one last glance at her watch, she replaced the canteen at her belt, and strode purposefully down the corridor, pistol in hand. She'd waited in the lower levels for as long as she had dared, but now she had to take the chance, or risk being trapped here forever. And worse, risk Alamo never knowing what she had learned, the secret that would give them a way to return to their own galaxy.

 She turned another corner, heading towards what she thought was the surface, then felt something underfoot, a wet patch on the floor. Kneeling beside it, she dipped a finger in the substance, then held it up to the light. Blood. And fresh. There was someone here, close. In the distance, she could hear a faint moan, as though someone was wincing from pain.

 It seemed unlikely that it could be one of the hunters. They'd be staying in place, waiting for a medic to come down and rescue them. It had to be one of her people, Carpenter or Weber, wounded and attempting to escape to the surface. She glanced at her watch again, a brief agony of indecision flooding her mind, but knew that she couldn't abandon one of her friends to the darkness, couldn't leave them to their fate, no matter what the cost.

 Turning down another corridor, she shone her flashlight ahead, racing to follow the tracks, bloody footprints on the ground, the sounds of the wounded crewman close by. She tugged out her datapad, glancing at the display. It might just be possible for them to reach the surface in time. There was a path that led in that direction, less than a mile. Under normal circumstances, she'd be able to walk it in fifteen minutes. Even in this darkness, an hour was more time than she needed.

 Not that she expected it to be that easy. Certainly the enemy would have forces between her and escape, and she'd either have to take detours or risk fighting her way through the blockade. The first option would slow her down, and the second was likely suicide, but the clock was still inexorably counting away the seconds, and trying to save a wounded comrade would slow her down.

 Peering around another corner, she saw a pair of figures slumped by the wall, one obviously unconscious, the other gasping for breath, raising a pistol to confront the approaching figure. Harper held her rifle in her hands, trying to make out the dark shapes in the distance.

 “Who goes there?” she asked.

 “Kris?” Salazar replied. “By all… Get over here. I've got a wounded man with me, and we've got to get up to the surface as fast as we can.”

 “I know,” she said. “I've been watching the clock.”

 “In forty-nine minutes,” he said, “Alamo is sending down a rescue party. We've got a damn tight window to get everyone out.” Lowering his rifle, he continued, “You've noticed all the enemy troops wandering around down here? I took a squad down to try and hold them up, stop them hitting us before we could pull out, but Savina and I got separated from the others.”

 “What happened?”

 “Leg broken in five places. Kid managed three steps before I had to start carrying him. At some point during the process, he passed out, and that's probably a mercy.”

 “You?”

 “I think I probably cracked another rib. Hurts when I breathe too deep. At least it did before I injected every painkiller in my medical kit into myself.” He forced a smile, and said, “What about the others?”

 “We went too deep, and had to scatter when the enemy troops attacked us. Pavel, we've found it. What we came here to find. At least a lead that will give us something to aim for, rather than just see us randomly wandering around Andromeda for the next century. It's all in my datapad, I'll feed it over to yours.”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “Both of ours were broken in the fall. Just so much scrap metal. I pulled the memory chips and discarded the rest hours ago. We've been wandering around, trying to find a way up to the surface while avoiding enemy contact. Lots of fun.” He paused, then added, “You haven't heard from any of the others?”

 “I keep hearing periodic gunfire, so there must be some sort of firefight going on up there, but nobody's set off the big bomb yet.”

 Nodding, Salazar replied, “We're trying to pull the bastards up into a trap. Bury them under a few thousand tons a rubble. Should slow Estrada and his buddies down for a while, at least. We were supposed to get up to the Vault in about twenty minutes. Any idea where to go?”

 “Good news,” she said, “is that it's about a mile away. Bad news is that we aren't the only ones running around down here, and I'm pretty sure there are some UN troops in our way.”

 “Fine,” Salazar said. “You go on ahead. I'll follow with Savina when you clear the path for us.” The young man groaned, his head falling to the side. “Don't worry. I've carried him this far, and at least I know where I'm going. I'll be right behind you.”

 Harper looked down at him, raised an eyebrow, and reached down to pick up Savina, sending another groan through the young man's body. Salazar looked up, sighed, then pushed himself to his feet, helping her carry the wounded trooper, trying to keep his shattered leg from the floor.

 “If you think I'm leaving you down here to die, you're very much mistaken,” she replied. “It's your turn to clean our quarters, and you don't think I'm letting you get away with skipping on the chores that easily.”

 “I'd laugh, but it hurts too damn much,” Salazar replied. “There's one condition.”

 “You aren't...”

 “Kris, if you have to break and run for it, do it. If what you say is true, then Alamo needs the information you've got in that stubborn brain of yours, and there are more than a hundred lives at stake. And if you don't agree, then I'm sitting right back down and having a sleep.”

 “We're going to have to have words about this martyr complex of yours at some point.”

 “Later. Much later.”

 Carrying Savina between them, the two of them stumbled up the corridor, struggling under the dead weight of the wounded soldier, neither willing to abandon him to his fate. After a moment, Salazar shrugged off his rifle, letting it drop to the floor behind them with a clatter, more dead weight that was unlikely to save their lives. Outnumbered as they were, winning a firefight would be the height of uncertainty. Their safety lay in stealth and speed, not firepower.

 The seconds dragged on, Harper glancing across at Salazar's grimace-laden face, knowing the agony he must be laboring under, trying to ignore the brief flashes of pain that passed across his eyes. Painkillers or no, sheer determination was all that kept him on his feet, and Harper made a silent pledge to ignore his last order. Three would live, or three would die. As for her secret, Carpenter and Weber had the same chance to make it home. Though the gunfire she had heard shortly after they had gone their separate ways made it likely that at least one of them had fallen.

 Up ahead, Harper could see figures moving, and she gestured at a side passage, taking them on a longer path around, adding another quarter-mile to their journey. She'd used her time alone in the darkness to memorize this part of the route, though all the tunnels and passages looked so alike, too few landmarks that she could trust. The mass of hieroglyphs on the wall helped not at all, simply adding spice to the visual sea.

 “Ach,” Salazar said, shaking his head. “This was a bad idea. How long?”

 “Thirty-one minutes,” she replied. “Plenty of time. Just keep moving.”

 “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”

 They staggered ever onward, the sound of gunfire up ahead urging them to greater speed, a longer sustained burst of fire than either of them had heard so far. The ringing explosions rattled along the walls as they raced towards the Vault, the last passageway to the surface, now only a few hundred meters distant. Under normal circumstances, they could have sprinted it in a minute, but the groaning Savina weighed them down.

 Out of the darkness, a figure raced towards them, and Harper drew her pistol, dropping the wounded soldier to the ground as she dropped into firing position, her finger squeezing back on the trigger before she recognized a familiar face in the darkness.

 “Susan!” she yelled, and the archaeologist raised her hands.

 “Hey, I'm on your side!” she replied. “Pavel?”

 “Come on,” Salazar said. “We'll have time for the reunion later. We've got to keep moving.”

 “Let us take him,” Harper said, “You go ahead, cover us.”

 “Not...”

 “Damn it, Pavel, you've got three cracked ribs, and don't think I haven't noticed that limp! You're wounded, we aren't, and it's a miracle that you've made it this far. Susan and I can carry Savina. Take point.”

 With a reluctant nod, Salazar pulled his pistol from its holster and moved forward, keeping a few paces ahead of the struggling trio, Savina beginning to return to consciousness, periodic groans coming from him as they continued up the slope. They could see searchlights up ahead, hear familiar voices calling towards them.

 “Down here, Corporal!” Salazar yelled. “Medics, on the double!”

 “Sir?” Quiller said, racing down towards them with a pair of troopers on his tail. “Where the hell did you go?”

 “I don't know, and I know that I don't want to go there again any time soon, soldier,” he replied. “Get a stretcher down here on the double, and see Lieutenant Carpenter has an escort up to the surface.” Turning to see the look on the scientist's face, he continued, “I'm guessing you've got the same secret that Kris has in your head, right?”

 “Yes, but...”

 “Then we've got to make damned sure it finds its way back to Alamo.”

 “You found it?” Quiller asked. “Webster, get down here! We need a two-man team to get the Lieutenant up to the surface.” Looking at Salazar, he added, “Maybe you should think about going topside yourself, sir.”

 “Like hell,” he replied, and Harper flashed him a knowing smile. “What's the situation?”

 “I had to pull everyone back up to the Vault about an hour ago, sir. We've been fighting a running gun battle for the last five hours or so. No dead, two wounded, one of them still walking. I got the other one back up topside.” Gesturing towards the ramp to the surface, he continued, “Jamming's getting bad, but I have intermittent contact with the surface, and Ensign Rhodes reports that the enemy are massing for an attack, pretty much as you expected.”

 “Figures,” Harper said. “Catch us from both sides. How long?”

 “Twenty-two minutes before the shuttles come down, ma'am. We're getting sensor readings of Alamo on her way down to us now. Still no communication, though.”

 “They'll attack as soon as the shuttles launch,” Salazar said. “Try and overwhelm us before they can load, stop us from getting on board.” Taking a deep breath, he said, “Nothing's changed, Corporal. We've still got to hold them for as long as possible, then try a fighting retreat back to the surface. Is the Vault secure?”

 “For the moment, sir.”

 “Then we'd better make damned sure that it stays that way, Corporal. Kris, you fancy a little target practice?”

 “Always good to get some time on the range,” she replied with a gleaming smile. “Might need something better than this popgun, though,” she said, brandishing her pistol.

 “I think we can fix you up, ma'am,” Quiller said. “This way.”

Chapter 21

 “All hands, stand by your battle stations,” Caine said, leaning over her console. “Five minutes to combat range. Point-defense crews, prepare for close-range salvo fire.” Turning to Marshall, she continued, “Board's damn near clear already, sir.”

 “They've had enough notice,” Francis replied, standing behind Marshall.

 “Change to target aspect!” Ballard reported. “They're closing the range, sir. Just as we expected. All elevator airlocks and missile tubes have opened, ready to fire.” Glancing across at a readout, she added, “Some action on the ground, sir. Heat signatures consistent with plasma weapon discharges.”

 “We expected that,” Marshall said, reaching across for a control. “Bridge to Hangar Deck. Lieutenant Foster, you may launch Shuttle Flight at your discretion. Good luck.”

 “And to you, sir,” Foster replied. “Executing launch sequence now.”

 “McCormack, Red Flight to launch as escort for three minutes, then commence decoy attack run,” Marshall added, sitting back in his chair with a smile. Hours of preparation and simulation, all of them coming into focus for a couple of hundred seconds in the firing line.

 Eyes widening, Ballard said, “Shuttle launch from the eighth moon, sir!” She frowned, then added, “I've never seen anything like it. It looks as though two shuttles have been smashed together to make one. Power signature's all over the place, engine power way down, but she's on an intercept course. No signal, sir, but there's too much jamming at the moment.”

 “Monitor all channels,” Marshall said, turning to Caine. “Looks like Clarke managed to work a miracle after all.”

 “It could be a trick, sir,” Francis replied.

 “I doubt it,” Caine said. “We haven't seen any sign of activity on the lunar surface since the initial attack. No ships have gone anywhere near it. They'd have had to have someone down there already.” She paused, then added, “And why go to the trouble of building a Frankenstein shuttle?”

 “Shuttle Flight is away, sir,” Francis said, looking across at a panel. “Red Flight on escort pattern. Green Flight is on immediate preparation for scramble, ten-second notice.”

 “Laser cannon charged,” Caine reported. “Missiles loaded and ready to fire. Waldheim is holding course and speed, and our closest approach is currently two thousand meters.” Shaking her head, she said, “One thruster misfire, and we'll smash right into them.”

 “A nice, optimistic thought, Deadeye,” Marshall said with a smile. “Time to contact?”

 “Three minutes, thirty seconds, sir.”

 “Now hear this,” Marshall said, reaching for a microphone. “Captain to Crew, attention. In a little over three minutes, we will be engaging UNSS Kurt Waldheim in a short, running battle. Our goal is to cause maximum damage to the enemy, to rescue our teams on the surface of Dante, and to escape this system and begin our journey home. That's what we're fighting for today, people. Our ticket back to the Confederation. Most of you have been in action before. Those who haven't, just focus on your work, your training, and your judgment, and we will get through the other side. Good hunting. Bridge out.”

 “Getting better at the pre-game warm-up,” Caine said, a smile on her face. “That one almost sounded convincing.”

 “Practice makes perfect, I guess.”

 “I wouldn't go that far, sir.” Flicking a control, she added, “Weapons and engines, Captain?”

 “Make a mess, Deadeye. Preferably smashing something they can't fix. Defensive fire until we get past them, then switch to full offensive. Assuming our plan works. Other than that, fire at will.” Leaning to the helm, he added, “Midshipman, we'll need a random walk pattern as soon as we enter firing range, but keep our closest approach within two miles at the most, and one would be better. We've got to get close to land our punch.”

 “I understand, sir,” Imoto said. “Evasion course is plotted and ready.”

 “Two minutes, ten seconds to contact,” Caine said. “Board is green. All decks are cleared for action, sir.” Glancing up at her sensor display, she added, “Shuttles are on trajectory for the planet, fighters preparing to alter course.”

 “Enemy fighter launch, sir!” Ballard reported. “Six fighters, heading for the shuttles.” She paused, then added, “They're trying for Dante orbit, sir, I think. After a short fly-past. Looks like they're heading to interdict the planet.”

 “That's going to make Salazar's ride home a little more interesting,” Francis replied. “Midshipman, can we intercept the fighters on our swing around the planet?”

 “No, sir, not without reducing our time on station. They're in the wrong orbit.”

 “They could hit us, though,” Caine replied. “Maybe we could try and lure them in.”

 “We've got to get through this pass first,” Marshall said. “Ninety seconds,0.000000 people.”

 Ninety seconds. And less than forty in the firing line. Two missile salvos, two shots with the laser cannon, and the full salvo from their mass drivers, a close range shot that the enemy wouldn't be expecting. Hopefully.

 “Enemy fighter launch!” Ballard said. “The rest of their squadron is in the air, on an intercept course. Standard attack pattern, bearing right down on us.”

 “Launch Green Flight,” Marshall ordered. “Red Flight to swing around. They are not, repeat, not to engage enemy fighters, but will save their missiles for attacks on Waldheim. Murphy is to feint, but nothing more than that.”

 “Aye, sir,” Francis said.

 The tangle of trajectories twisted on the screen, Waldheim still diving for Alamo, ready for its first pass. The onward plot showed her angling for a second flyby, thirty minutes into the future, after the shuttles had been picked up, before Alamo could leave the system. More than enough time for the battleship to rearm and refuel her fighters, ready for another attack to finish Alamo off.

 “Bowman, any signal from Waldheim, anything?”

 “Negative, sir, not a thing. I'm getting some intermittent signals from the lunar shuttle, but nothing I can make out at present. Still far too much interference for that, but they're definitely using Triplanetary signaling.”

 “Thirty seconds to combat range,” Caine said.

 “Hold on, everyone,” Marshall said, watching as the two ships closed, racing towards each other, eager to take the kill. The last seconds slipped away, and almost before he realized it, the warning lights snapped on, announcing that they had reached their target.

 “Energy spike!” Ballard yelled, and Imoto jammed his hand on the controls, sending Alamo skimming out of the way with a second to spare, Waldheim's laser pulse flashing harmlessly into space. Ten lights flashed onto the screen, missiles heading for Alamo, and Caine fired a salvo in response, the two waves of destruction heading towards each other.

 “Fighters are launching!” Caine said, glancing across at her screen. “We have responded.”

 Now the once-clear tactical display was a spaghetti-like mess of tangled trajectory tracks, dozens of missiles flashing towards each other, the fighters desperately diving out of the way. Caine tapped a control, burning a path through the confusion with Alamo's laser cannon, and a wave of explosions rippled across the screen, wreaking havoc on the missiles.

 When the screen cleared, there were four tracks still on the display, all of them racing for Alamo. Caine looked up at him, hands over the controls for the point-defense system, but he shook his head. Alamo could ride out the hits, had to take the chance if they were going to press home their attack. Imoto's hands danced across the controls as he rolled the ship around, trying to force the missiles into non-critical systems, fighting with the enemy tactical systems.

 “Point-defense weapons are ready,” Caine said. “Locked on Waldheim. If this works, we're going to make one hell of a mess, Danny.”

 “And if it doesn't,” Francis added, “We're dead.”

 “Impact in five seconds,” Ballard said. “Four. Three. Two.”

 “Hang on!” Marshall yelled, and the missiles slammed into the hull, the deck plates screaming as they warped and buckled, the shaped charges ripping open compartments, the ship spiraling out of control as atmosphere erupted into space. Somehow, Imoto managed to wrestle the ship back onto trajectory, playing the thrusters to guide it to closest approach, and with a load roar the echoed through the decks, the mass-drivers fired in sequence, hurling kinetic projections at the enemy.

 Waldheim's helmsman had seen the danger, had attempted to alter course at the final second, but he'd just run out of time. Eight out of the ten bolts slammed into the side of the ship, punching a row of neat holes in the hull armor. An instant later, fountains of escaping atmosphere burst through the breaches, sending spirals of debris into space and hurling the battleship to the side, catching an unfortunate fighter as it attempted to dock, a second explosion briefly visible on the far side of the ship.

 Caine threw a switch, hurling six missiles at the enemy, their flight paths flickering for brief seconds as they closed the range to the enemy ship, adding to the devastation, ribbing new scars into the side of the ship. Battered and beaten, Waldheim managed only a pair of missiles in response, both of them slamming into Alamo's aft section, sending her briefly spiraling out of control as Imoto struggled to hold her on course.

 “Easy, Midshipman,” Marshall said. “Ride it through.”

 “Trying, sir,” a white-faced Imoto said, his hands gripping the controls, sheer force of will finally putting her back on trajectory. Finally, the warning lights winked out, and space ahead was clear, Alamo's path to Dante open.

 “Damage report,” Marshall said, turning to a wide-eyed Fitzroy.

 “Couple of dozen hull breaches, sir, most of them stress fractures. We've lost the aft sensors again, the auxiliary reactor has failed, as has the combat fabricator. Power grid systems failures on the sensor decks and aft habitation levels, and Sickbay is operating on auxiliary backups, but is ready to accept casualties.”

 “Good,” Francis said. “We've got a lot of them coming in. Best reports give us three dead, nineteen injured, most of them on the sensor decks. We took a hell of a pounding back there.”

 “How long to effect repairs on the combat fabricator?”

 Fitzroy looked up at him, and replied, “Hours, sir. Smashed all to hell.”

 “Which means all we've got is the missiles in the tubes right now. One salvo.”

 “Laser's out as well,” Caine added. “Too much damage to the radiators. We couldn't retract them in time. Easy fix, but we can't even attempt it in combat conditions.”

 “Bottom line, Spaceman,” Marshall said. “Can we jump out of here?”

 “Yes, sir, we can. No damage to the hendecaspace drive, and we can patch up the breaches in a matter of minutes. Damage control teams are already on the job.”

 “What about the enemy?” Caine asked, turning to Ballard.

 “Hurt, sir, and hurt badly, but I don't think it's going to be enough. We took out their secondary oxygen reservoir, and they've lost their primary hangar deck, but they still have eight out of ten missile tubes operational, and their main engine is still firing.” Grimacing, she added, “Tough bastard, sir. Those ships are built to take a lot of punishment. One bright spot, though, sir. I'm pretty sure that we've knocked out their hendecaspace drive, and if I'm reading these blueprints right, their long-range communications system should be fried.”

 “Bowman,” Marshall began.

 “Already on it, sir,” the communications technician said. “I'm getting signals, sir! Message from Lieutenant Foster, reports that she is on final approach and expects to be on the deck in less than two minutes. Signs of heavy fighting on the surface, but the landing site is clear. At least for the present.”

 “What about the lunar shuttle?” Francis asked.

 “Wait one, sir.” He paused, then said, “Got them. Very faint.” He frowned, then added, “Midshipman Petrova's in command. Something about a surprise that Midshipman Clarke has planned for Waldheim.”

 “We're going to need it,” Caine said, with a sigh. “Waldheim's still on trajectory, and unless something happens to change the picture in a hurry, she's bearing down on us with eight tubes ready, and her fighters back in the battle. Thirty minutes minus to contact.”

 “Evasive options?”

 Fitzroy looked across, and said, “If we try for full acceleration, sir, then we'll suffer dozens more stress fractures. They're in a better condition to accept serious damage than we are, sir, if we still want to jump after recovering our people.”

 “That's the intention,” Marshall replied.

 “Then they have the maneuvering edge,” Caine said. “Anything we can try, they can counter. As things stand, Captain, they're going to catch us three minutes from the egress point, with a window of opportunity that will give them all the time they need to wipe us from the map.”

Chapter 22

 The rattle of automatic weapons fire echoed through the Vault. Salazar and Harper were crouched behind a hastily constructed barricade, attempting at all costs to hold off their adversaries. The United Nations Marshals continued to storm forward, gaining ground at a terrible price, bodies littered on the floor. Over to the side, the lifeless figure of Lance-Corporal Webster lay, still clutching his rifle in a death grip, dull eyes gazing forth.

 Out from the tunnels, shadowy figures scurried, moving from cover to cover under the flickering suppressing fire of their comrades, clouds of thick smoke filling the air. Flashing spotlights still danced around, occasionally providing brief illumination of one or another of their attackers before the beams moved on, still obeying their final commands.

 “Sir!” Quiller said, yelling from the rear. “Shuttles coming down, sir! Three minutes minus!”

 “Covering fire!” Salazar replied, not waiting for his command to be obeyed before turning from the barricade, emptying his clip with a firm squeeze of the trigger before sprinting to the ramp. For a moment, the half-squad at the far side of the Vault waited, firing blind into the darkness to pin down the enemy for a few seconds more, before they too broke and ran, sprinting for their lives to the temporary safety of the surface.

 Salazar's ribs ached, every step an effort, the painkillers he had overdosed on starting to wear off as he made for the surface, racing for the ever-growing pinpoint of light in the distant gloom, bullets tearing into the ground by his side. Harper kept pace, the rest of the squad by their side, and at the same instant, four hands rolled grenades behind them, dull thuds filling the air as the shrapnel lanced into the pursuing soldiers, blinding smoke buying them brief respite from the attack.

 Pounding feet ate up the remaining distance as they raced for the surface, the roar of the shuttles already audible as they grew closer, flashes of green light bursting overhead, testament to the battle being waged on the surface. Salazar glanced to the right, spotting the charges that had been positioned on the ramp when first they had learned of the potential threat from the alien city, and he redoubled his pace, desperate to see the surface once again.

 Lombardo peered down the ramp, a distant figure, his hand on a control panel and anxiety on his face. Salazar didn't dare to turn his head, but he knew what his friend could see behind him, enemy troopers closing, gaining ground, soon to spring their trap and launch their sneak attack. With a mournful frown, Lombardo tapped a button, and the world shook all around them, the charges exploding in sequences, tumbling rock and billowing smoke filling the air.

 Salazar was thrown from his feet, holding his hands over his head as lumps of the roof came down all around him, the screams of their pursuers briefly echoing through the air before being drowned out by the rocks. He pushed himself up, looking around to check on his men, then looked at the jumble of debris behind him. It could take weeks to tunnel a way through that, maybe longer. The shaft was buried, and the danger of an attack from the rear buried with them.

 “Come on, Pavel!” Lombardo yelled. “We've got no time at all! Foster will be landing any second now.”

 “On our way,” Salazar replied, pushing Quiller ahead of him to the top of the ramp, blinking at the sunlight he hadn't seen in hours as he stumbled out onto the desert sand. A battle more ferocious than the one he had escaped awaited him, and he dropped and rolled to the floor as machine gun fire flooded the air above him, trying to take advantage of his momentary carelessness.

 “What's the situation, Art?” he asked.

 “Under attack from all sides, sir. Four dead, last I saw, and more wounded. We're getting the casualties together to get them off first, and Ensign Rhodes is planning a running retreat with everyone else.”

 “We're going to be slaughtered while we board!” Harper said.

 Looking out across the field, Salazar said, “Quiller, we're going to buy them the time we need. Grab some plasma rifles. We'll hold to the end, down here at this part of the field.”

 “Yes, sir!” Quiller replied, racing to a pile of discarded equipment with the remains of his squad, gathering the weapons they would need to secure the perimeter. A ball of flame smashed into the ground close by, burning a new crater into the sand, and a cloud of acrid smoke rose into the air. Salazar turned and saw the dome on fire, flickering in the gathering light. In a few moments, they'd either be off this planet, or they'd be dead. No other options remained.

 He tried to pick out Rhodes in the distance, somewhere at the far side of the perimeter, but the heavy smoke-laden air worked against him. This battle had fallen into chaos right at the start, the concerted attacks of their enemies pounding into the perimeter on every front. Raking machine gun blasts shuddered overhead, and a dull thud echoed from the rear, mortar fire coming in.

 “There they are!” Lombardo yelled, gesturing as a trio of shapes soared over the horizon, landing jets bursting flame all around, canisters dropping from improvised hard-points to rain flaming death on the enemy, burning a path through the destruction to reach their target.

 “Wounded to the ships,” Rhodes shouted from somewhere in the distance. “First Squad cover. Second and Third hold position until the last minute.”

 “Fourth Squad!” Salazar said, “Suppressing fire!”

 Quiller and his team had armed themselves, firing a salvo of plasma bolts into the approaching enemy forces. Already stretcher bearers were clambering onto the first shuttle, the engines still idling, waiting for a chance to launch. Spotting the weakness in their lines, the enemy troops advanced again, mustering for another charge, and Salazar ran forward, pistol in hand, charging toward the approaching mass of troops.

 The rattle of bullets slamming into metal echoed from a nearby shuttle, and he saw a figure wearing a flight suit drop in the airlock, clutching at his chest, one of the pilots collapsing to the ground with blood spilling forth. Garland was there in a second, dragging him inside, the grim look on his face testament to the poor chances of the injured man.

 “Wounded aboard!” Rhodes said, gesturing at Salazar. “Get to Shuttle Two, sir! They're going to need a pilot.” Turning back to the fight, he added, “Glorious last stands are our job!”

 “Come on, Pavel,” Harper said, dragging him to the waiting shuttles as bullets flew through the air all around them. “We've got to move!”

 The first shuttle was already launching, engines roaring as a near-miss by a plasma bolt sent it swerving to the side, struggling to hold its course. With one last look at the chaos on the battlefield, Salazar stepped over the wounded man in the hatch, took a quick glance at the troopers hastily strapping themselves in, then raced for the cockpit, sliding into the couch and throwing the engines to full. With a load roar, the ship lifted, and he quickly threw her to the side, dodging the fire that he knew was heading their way.

 “Shuttle Two to Shuttle Three,” he said. “Foster, I know it is you. How long?”

 “Just loading now,” she replied, the rattle of bullets in the background. “Going to have too many empty seats, Pavel.”

 “We'll hold in the upper atmosphere and let you catch up. I want us to head home in some sort of formation.” Glancing at the sensor display, he added, “Damn. Bandits up above, everyone. Repeat, bandits up above.”

 “What do we do, sir?” Midshipman Siegel asked, her voice near-panic.

 “Wait for me, kid, and then follow me through. We've got enough fuel to hold altitude for a few minutes, keep them guessing. Stay at sixty thousand until I give the word.”

 “But what if they've got atmospheric missiles?”

 “Then you die a horrible, painful death, Midshipman, along with everyone on your shuttle. Probably best to hope that they didn't plan that far ahead.” Harper dropped into the couch behind him, and he added, “Get on...”

 “Electronic countermeasures. Way ahead of you.” Tapping a button, she added, “Should be able to contact Alamo.” She tossed him a headset, then said, “Shuttle Three has cleared the ground.”

 “Thank God for that,” he replied. “Try and get some sort of a casualty report.”

 “On it.”

 “Shuttle Two to Alamo. Shuttle Two to Alamo. Come in, please.”

 “Alamo here,” Marshall replied. “Glad you made it, Pavel. What's the situation?”

 Running his eyes over the status feeds, Salazar said, “Some damage to Shuttle Three, hopefully nothing serious. The enemy overran Dante Base just as we took off. We lost a lot of good people down there.” He paused, smiled sadly, then added, “We found what we were looking for.”

 “What? Repeat.”

 “We got it, sir. Details when we land. Which should be in a little over ten minutes from now, on our current heading. Any chance of fighter cover?”

 “Afraid not, Pavel. We're going to have to punch our way clear of the system, and I need the whole wing for that. We can't even give you defensive missile support.”

 “That bad, sir?”

 “I'm not sure you weren't safer on the ground, Pavel, but that's my problem. You just get home, as fast as you can, and we'll do the rest. Alamo out.”

 “Frying pan to fire,” Harper said, rolling her eyes. “We should be settled into one formation in about forty seconds. You planning to punch for orbit?”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “Escape trajectory, and we'll tidy it up as soon as we get clear of the planet.” Gesturing at the images of the enemy fighters, he added, “They'll have an easy shot at us, no matter what we do. Our only chance is to try and outrun them.”

 “We could split into three...”

 “They'd still have enough strength to take us all down. Network all three shuttles to your station. Maybe you can hack our way out of this.”

 “Some hope,” she replied, reaching for her controls as Salazar eased higher, taking the lead in the formation as it swooped down over Dante. He looked at the terrain spread out in front of him, just able to make out the site where he had first crashed, only a few days ago. It felt more like years, and he pulled up with relish, throwing the engine to full power, racing for the sky.

 “Shuttle Two to Shuttle Flight,” he said. “Follow my lead, I'm on point. Whatever happens, burn like hell for Alamo, and don't stop for anything. Carpenter, which shuttle are you on?”

 “I'm on Three,” she replied.

 “Figures. Val, that's your bird, what's your damage?”

 “Aft thruster, lateral jets, underside sensor pickups. I'll be a little sluggish on the turn, but there's nothing that should slow me down. Not much, anyway.”

 “Let's hope it stays that way,” Salazar replied.

 “Final count,” Harper said with a sigh. “Nine dead, twenty-one injured in total. Counting the ones we lost down in the Vault. Also three missing, but I don't have much hope for two of them.”

 “The third?”

 “Corporal Weber.”

 “Hell of a mission,” Salazar said, as the stars faded into view, the shuttles soaring clear of the atmosphere, the engines still roaring at full thrust. He glanced across at the fuel gauge and winced, their reserve far lower than he would have liked, barely enough to give them any margin of error.

 “Bandits high, bandits high,” he said. “They'll get one pass at us. Keep at full thrust, and  Siegel, don't try any fancy flying. Raw speed is our best chance. Let Lieutenant Harper handle your counter-measures, and hopefully I'll see you all on the deck.”

 “On intercept,” Harper said. “Combat range in eighty seconds. Want some good news?”

 “Please.”

 “I don't think they'll be able to take any further part in the battle. They've burned too much fuel, must be on vapors by now. At least we've given Alamo an easier ride.”

 “That isn't good news, Kris. That just means they'll throw everything they've got at us.” He looked down at his indicators again, and added, “We can't even dip back down into the atmosphere. We'd never make our rendezvous with Alamo if we did.”

 “Fifty seconds,” Harper said. “Got any smart ideas?”

 “I'm all out,” he replied, before a smile flashed across his face. “Actually...”

 “I'm not going to like this, am I?”

 “Probably not.” Reaching across to the communications station, he said, “Shuttle Two to Shuttle Flight. Pick an enemy fighter, and set for collision course. We're playing chicken.”

 “Chicken? With fighters?” Harper asked.

 “Bet they blink first.”

 Salazar locked his shuttle on the nearest fighter, throwing the throttle over the red line, wincing with pain as he reached down to the override controls. The rest of the flight followed his lead, closing the range rapidly, speeding towards combat range. Warning alerts flashed on, the time to contact ticking away.

 “Threat warning!” Harper said. “Missile launch. Six warheads heading our way.”

 “Evade at the last second, everyone,” Salazar said. “Make this good.”

 “They'll swing around and catch us!” Siegel replied, on the brink of hysteria.

 “Hold it together, Midshipman,” Salazar said, watching as the missiles drew ever closer, warning klaxons all around him as the computer urged him to change course, to pull away. He rested his hand on the thruster controls, implacably watching as the seconds drained down, and at the last instant, fired a quick burst to send the shuttle rocking to port.

 “Scrambling enemy sensor inputs!” Harper yelled, fingers dancing across the controls in a bid to buy them their escape. The missiles swept past, swinging around as the three shuttles continued to race towards the fighters, using the enemy ships as human shields to gain time, gain speed, run down the depleted fuel stocks of the missiles.

 With meters to spare, all three shuttles cruised past the fighters, their trajectories now clear all the way to Alamo.

 “Good work, everyone,” Salazar said. “Siegel, you there?”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Don't try that trick again. Nine times out of ten, you'll end up in pieces.”

 “But what if...”

 “Probably a good idea not to get this desperate, Midshipman.”

 “Good advice, Pavel,” Foster replied with a chuckle. “You ever intend to take it yourself?”

 “Can't let life get too boring, can I? Alamo, this is Shuttle Two. We'll be down in four minutes. Prepare to receive casualties.”

 “Pavel?” Harper asked, leaning over the sensor screen. “Take a look at your long-range scanner.”

 “What now?”

 “The eighth moon. Something's launching from the surface. Something big.”

Chapter 23

 Clarke's hands rested on the controls, preparing the thrusters to hurl Pioneer into orbit, Hooke watching from the rear at the flight engineering station. He looked down at the course calculations, gritting his teeth in frustration.

 “I could have told you it wouldn't work,” Hooke said. “We're too damn heavy.” Gesturing at the flickering sensor display, he added, “They'll be overhead in five minutes. Got any bright ideas?”

 Looking out of a viewport, Clarke saw one of the plasma carbines, still slowly rotating on its tripod, sweeping the horizon for enemies that would never come. He frowned at the view, then started to smile as an idea began to seep into his mind, pulling up a status report.

 “I said…,” Hooke began.

 “Hack into the plasma carbines,” Clarke replied. “We're going to need very fine control if we're going to pull this off, and precise targeting. Slave the control systems to my station.”

 “Not a problem, but it won't do any good,” the morose hacker replied. “They haven't got anything like the range to reach Waldheim, and even if they did, it's a million to one against them actually doing any damage.”

 “I'm not trying to hit the battleship,” Clarke said. “Just set it up.” He scanned the structural status reports, his fingers tapping the screen to identify the weak spots, then threw a series of controls to route the power distribution network to the forward batteries. A low whine sounded from the hull as he topped up the thruster tanks from the central reservoir, one of the few parts of the ship that hadn't suffered damage.

 “You've got your finger on the trigger,” Hooke said. “What are you going to do with it?”

 “Eight plasma bursts on the hull.”

 “What? You've got to be out of your tiny damned mind! You want to fire on Pioneer? She's barely holding together as it is.”

 “That's the point. How much of the ship do we actually need? Only the forward thrusters are working anyway, and most of her is nothing but dead weight. Burn away the aft section, and we reduce the weight by three-quarters. Getting up won't be a problem.” With a thin smile, he added, “And if this plan works, we're not going to have to worry about a soft landing anyway.”

 “Out of your mind,” Hooke muttered. “Firing pattern locked into the computer. When do you want to try this?”

 “One minute to contact,” Clarke said. “No point giving Waldheim any advance warning. Ideally, we hit the button and everything goes boom. We can be in position in forty seconds.” Turning to the hacker, he added, “You bail out at twenty. Your suit jets should give you a chance.”

 “Hell no,” Hooke said. “I'm not going anywhere. This is my ship, not yours, and I'm going to fight in her last battle. You got that?”

 “As long as you know you had a choice.”

 “That's just it. I don't.” He glanced down at a panel, eyes widening in surprise, and said, “Signal from Alamo! Tight-beam. They must be getting close.”

 “Alamo Actual to Pioneer,” Marshall's voice said, fighting through waves of static. “Clarke, do you read me?”

 “I read you, sir. Did our shuttle get over in one piece? We don't have good enough sensor resolution to tell down here.”

 “It did. Midshipman, Lieutenant Foster just landed, and has volunteered to come down to pick up you and Hooke. It'll be marginal, but she thinks she can get you both off the surface if we go for launch in forty seconds. I want you to be ready…

 “No, sir, I'm afraid we won't be there. Don't take the risk for us.” Looking up at the trajectory plot, he added, “I make Waldheim engaging you in seven minutes, sir. Three and a half minutes before you can clear the system. You don't have time to pick up strays.”

 “Let me be the judge of that, Midshipman.”

 Taking a deep breath, Clarke said, “Sir, Pioneer has not yet fought its last battle. I'm sitting on four warheads, armed on proximity fuse, and a vehicle that should serve as a perfect delivery system. They might try and knock us down, but they'll never do enough damage to finish us off, sir. Those warheads will go exactly where they are most needed.”

 “Killing you and Hooke in the process.”

 “So we die here instead of dying there, sir. Doesn't make that much difference, except that this way you've got a chance of getting home.” He paused, then added, “Captain, I'm going to be doing this regardless of what you order. I ask that you send me into my last battle with your blessing, rather than forcing me to disobey your orders.”

 There was a long pause from Marshall, who finally said, “Are you sure about this?”

 “Yes, sir. I am.”

 “Very well. I can't see you, but would you please stand to attention?” With a frown, Clarke obeyed the command. “John Clarke, for outstanding service in the finest and noblest traditions of the Triplanetary Fleet, it is my honor and my privilege to grant you a battlefield commission. Congratulations, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 “Sir, I...”

 “I know, son. I know. For whatever it is worth, I will personally see that both of you receive the highest possible commendation, and if you're going to your deaths, then you can die knowing that I and all of your shipmates owe you their lives. Good hunting, Pioneer. Alamo out.”

 “Pity,” Hooke said.

 “What?”

 “You aren't going to have a chance to pin on your new pips.” Tapping a control, he added, “Two minutes, thirty seconds to contact, Sub-Lieutenant. Waldheim is holding course, continuing in pursuit of Alamo.” He paused, then added, “Going to be pretty damned close. You realize they'll throw everything they've got at us.”

 “And it won't make any difference,” Clarke said. “Better suit up. Just in case we get a hull breach.” He reached down to his helmet, sliding it over his head and locking it into position. A series of lights flickered across his heads-up display, his suit computer networking with the consoles around him.

 “Two minutes,” Hooke said, and Clarke worked the controls to pivot the plasma carbines towards the ship, carefully aiming each one for the location where it would do the most good, would smash into the hull and sever the few remaining connections with the aft section. He ran the charging sequence high, setting the firing controls to release a single spasm of power in one brief moment, enough to rip Pioneer in half.

 Just that thought seemed strange, counter-intuitive. He looked around the bridge, wondering how many battles had been fought from it in the past, how many people had sat in this command chair, ready to order their ship to its doom. Somehow, it seemed a far more fitting end that it should die in battle, rather than just abandoned in place on the surface of a desolate moon, or destroyed by its own people to prevent salvage by the enemy.

 “Eighty seconds,” Hooke said. “Waldheim still holding trajectory.”

 Grabbing onto the console, Clarke tapped the button, and eight bolts of fire smashed into the side of the ship, the hull growling as the aft connections smashed, freeing the rear section and throwing both of them forward, Hooke tumbling from his console. A cloud of dust rose all around them, and Clarke worked the thruster controls, watching with satisfaction as Pioneer burst free of the surface, racing to orbit, the half-dozen functioning boosters fighting off the low gravity.

 It could only end one way. Should they miss their goal, Pioneer would crash back into the surface once more in a matter of minutes, this time with no possibility of survival. He carefully worked the controls as the ship struggled clear, watching as Waldheim approached, making quick adjustments as the enemy helmsman altered course, trying to evade.

 General Estrada had a choice to make, and little time to do it. He could dodge Pioneer, but that would mean missing Alamo entirely, his ship tossed into a trajectory that would take it just far enough distant to buy the battlecruiser some safety. The alternative was to risk an impact that could destroy his ship. A part of him hoped that the enemy commander would chose the safe option, was already working on ways that he and Hooke might yet cheat death, but either Estrada was bolder than he had thought, or Colonel Cruz had taken command, for Waldheim continued on course, heedless of the risk.

 “Energy spike!” Hooke said, and eight missiles raced towards them, trajectories showing them impacting all across the hull. There was nothing they could do to protect themselves, no last-minute course changes, no defensive fire, nothing. It felt strange to simply be sitting on the bridge, waiting for the impact, knowing that they were likely to die in a matter of seconds.

 And it didn't matter. Not if their attack pressed home. The warheads were buried, deep in what remained of the ship, and even if all of the missiles caused maximum destruction, nothing would stop Pioneer hitting its target. He reached down to the controls, locking his ship into a collision course.

 Captain Clarke. So ended his first, and only command. The missiles swarmed towards them, moving into their final attack pattern, and he took a deep breath, believing it to be his last, as the warheads completed their run. The first impact sent him flying, and he looked up to see a huge rent appear in the hull above, sirens screaming and wailing, the sound fading as the air fled, dragging him with it as it hurled him through the hull breach, sending him clear of the ship.

 On instinct, he pulsed his suit thrusters, trying to dive clear of Pioneer, struggling to grow accustomed to the idea that he might actually survive the battle, spinning around to watch as the ship dived towards Waldheim. The enemy battleship was still moving away, trying to gain distance, trying to dodge the cumbersome scoutship, but it couldn't open the range in time, had left the maneuver too late.

 For an instant, Clarke still thought Pioneer might miss, that all of it would have been for nothing, but at the last second a lone thruster fired, sending the scoutship spinning back into Waldheim's aft section, the four warheads detonating as one in a flash that for an instant filled the sky, leaving a huge crater in the battleship's hull, stress lines rippling across the ship as bursts of oxygen tossed it around.

 One look at the trajectory plot brought a smile to his face. The ship was going to have a difficult enough time simply getting under control, had no chance of making contact with the battlecruiser. Alamo was safe, and he could start to consider his own salvation, firing the last of his thruster fuel to place him in a stable, if dangerously low orbit. Long enough for him to think of something else.

 There was still a chance that a shuttle from Alamo might reach him. Certainly there was less urgency in fleeing the system now, and he'd have a clearer conscience calling for help. Before he could open a channel, he looked across at his heads-up display, a proximity alert winking into life as a swarm of small contacts appeared on his short-range sensors.

 Shrapnel from the impact, moving at high speed. Far too fast for him to evade, even if his thruster tanks had been full. He looked at Waldheim, shook his head, and reached for his atmospheric controls, ready to tap in the one sequence he'd hoped never to use, the quick command designed to terminate his life quickly and painlessly, in the event the wearer of the suit was placed in an irretrievable position.

 Before entering the final command, he stopped, smiled, and lowered his hand. He was an officer in the Triplanetary Fleet, and was going to go down fighting, right to the last. Even if nobody would ever know how he died. He could just see the debris now, closing on him, a thousand shining fragments of metal gleaming in the white-hot sun.

 “Beautiful,” he whispered. “Beautiful.”

Chapter 24

 “I'll be damned,” Caine said, turning to Marshall. “He did it. The son-of-a-bitch did it! I'm reading multiple hull breaches on Waldheim, crippling damage to their aft control systems, and I think I'm registering internal fires. She's out of commission, sir. They'll be lucky to avoid crashing into the third moon on their current course.”

 “McCormack to Marshall,” the overhead speaker crackled. “Request permission for immediate scramble. We can make an attack run and finish them off.”

 “Negative,” Marshall replied, as Salazar raced onto the bridge, Harper and Foster right behind him. “We can't take the risk. They still have fighters in the air, and one of their hangar decks is still open. You'd be flying right into them.” Turning to Salazar, he added, “They're no threat to us now, not if we get out of the system in a hurry. There's nothing here left worth dying for.”

 “Five minutes to hendecaspace point, sir,” Imoto said. “Captain, is there nothing we can do for Clarke? We saw a suit flying away from the ship just before impact...”

 “Right into a debris field, before he went around the far side of the moon,” Caine replied. “And the fighters will be launching in minutes to hunt us down. We've got to get out of the system, and we've got to get out of here now.”

 “Agreed,” Marshall set. “Put the ship...”

 “No, Captain,” Harper said, moving to the sensor station. “Give me a couple of minutes.”

 “Lieutenant...”

 “Let her work, sir,” Salazar replied. “We found what we were looking for. The age of the alien base. Lieutenant Carpenter managed to narrow it down to less than a century.” As starfields and charts flashed onto the viewscreen, he continued, “That means that we can work out the positions of the stars that were close when this base, and perhaps this wormhole, were built.”

 Nodding, Francis said, “And we can assume that at the very least, there will be traces of the race that constructed them out there somewhere, clues to a wormhole that could take us home.” His smile curved to a frown, and he added, “Though all of this is still guesswork.”

 “Carpenter to Salazar,” the speaker barked. “We were right! Nautilus did make it back, and it does match with the information we got. There are even three people with the last name of Bigelow listed among those picked up. I guess he got around to having kids before he died.”

 “One day, Susan, I'll have to look them up and tell them about their ancestor.”

 “Pavel, what the hell is all of this about?”

 “Coming up with the course projection, sir!” Harper said. “One more minute. Midshipman, you can hold your current trajectory, and get ready to implement the fastest hendecaspace course plot of your life.”

 “Ready and waiting, ma'am.”

 “Nautilus, sir,” Salazar said, walking over to the command chair. “We found a body, a human body, down there, from the USS Nautilus. A human ship whose descendants established a colony back home, back in our galaxy.” Looking around the bridge, he continued, “Don't any of you get it? More than a century ago, they found a way home!”

 “Meaning if they did, so can we,” Marshall said, nodding.

 “Got the nearest star, sir,” Harper said. “Dull red dwarf, five light-years away. Four hendecaspace points, a nice, easy system. Gravitational data is being fed through to the helm right now, Midshipman, so you can begin your calculations.”

 “Yes, ma'am,” Imoto said with relish, bending over his console, his fingers a blur. Francis moved up beside him, looking over the young man's calculations, nodding with satisfaction at the quality of the work. “Ready for transition in four minutes, eight seconds, sir.”

 “The information didn't come cheap,” Salazar said with a sigh. “Too many people died here, sir. Far too many.”

 “One would have been too many, Pavel, but at least they died for something,” Marshall replied. “You gave them that.”

 “I've just about finished the stellar projection, sir,” Harper said. “It runs down as eight stars that were within hendecaspace range at the time of the construction of the alien city. Three of them are still within range now, and the most distant is thirty-one light years.”

 “I like that a lot better than four hundred thousand,” Caine replied with a smile. “We'll start work on a search pattern as soon as we get back to normal space, Danny. Assuming that we don't find what we're looking for when we reach...”

 “Threat warning!” Ballard said. “Enemy fighter launch, the whole squadron!”

 “Don't those bastards know when to quit?” Francis replied. “They haven't even had enough time to properly refuel yet. They'll be drifting around the system for hours after the battle.” Turning to the sensor station, he asked, “Can they make contact before we leave Dante, Spaceman?”

 “Borderline, sir,” she replied.

 Reaching to a headset, Marshall said, “Engineering, I need to run hot on the engines.”

 “How hot?” a frustrated Santiago replied. “Go too hard, and we could crack the ship in two. We haven't had time to finish working on the superstructure yet. Hell, we've barely had a chance to start.” She paused, then added, “Thirty seconds at full power, in two minutes. That's the best I can do, and even then, we could rip open all the breaches we've patched doing it.”

 “Helm, recompute course and speed,” Marshall said.

 “Aye, sir. Do I execute evasive pattern?”

 “Negative. Go for full speed.”

 “Course change is computed, trajectory profile revised, implementing now.” Imoto's hands worked the controls, and all eyes were once more on the tactical display as the hope that had flooded the bridge a moment before began to disperse, the realization that they still might have a battle to fight starting to sink in.

 “Final missile salvo ready to fire,” Caine said. “Setting for defensive pattern. Point-defense turrets are charged and ready.” Glancing up at a high monitor, she added, “First sensor data indicates that all fighters are fully-armed. Light on fuel, but that might actually be an advantage. Less weight, more acceleration.”

 “Time to intercept?”

 “Two minutes, fifty seconds.” She turned with a smile, and added, “Fifteen seconds before hendecaspace transition.”

 “Damage control teams are deployed,” Fitzroy said. “Chief Santiago requests in rather robust language that you don't do anything to hurt her ship.”

 “She got possessive pretty damned quick, didn't she?” Salazar replied.

 “Usually a good sign for an engineer,” Marshall said. “Helm, hold that last boost until the final possible moment. I don't want to give the fighters any chance to compensate. They could still alter their trajectory.”

 “Aye, sir,” Imoto said.

 Alamo surged onwards, racing towards the hendecaspace point that promised escape from the system. Marshall looked out at the unfamiliar constellations in the sky, and struggled to mask his emotions, his feeling of dread. Even if they got away from Dante, they were still stranded in a strange and unfamiliar part of the universe, their only hope of getting home following a century-old flight path, with only the remains of a dead man to guide their way.

 Behind them, the fighters raced to execute their vengeance, as though their commander was determined that if his ship couldn't leave the system, Alamo couldn't either. At this point, they held the only clue to a return to the Milky Way, the only potential route home. The most precious secret imaginable, and if their situations were reversed, Marshall didn't care to think what he would do to secure it for his crew.

 For a second, he turned to the communications station, ready to send a signal to Estrada, to give him at least the first part of the puzzle, but at the last instant, something stopped him. The enemy ship had murder on its mind, and he had to think of his own ship, his own crew first and foremost. Unfair perhaps, but there wasn't any other choice.

 “One minute, sir,” Imoto said. “Preparing for full-power burn.”

 “Enemy formation still closing,” Bowman said. “Waldheim is dropping back. Trying to regain attitude control.” She turned back to the bridge, and added, “We've got a clear view of the far side of the eighth moon now, sir. No sign of any survivor. If someone did jump away, then he must have been caught in the debris field. He never had a chance.”

 The screen flicked to show the unfamiliar stars once again, leaving the system behind. A dull red dwarf star beckoned, one among uncounted millions in this galaxy, hopefully the first leg of their journey home. As the engine surged into life, amber lights flashed as the strained hull protested once more. Looking around, Marshall saw something on the faces of the bridge crew that had been missing for days.

 Hope.

 “Stress levels over safe limits,” Fitzroy said. “No breaches, but I'm picking up a lot more micro-fractures. Evacuating lower storage sections. Pressure bulkheads are ready to contain any air loss.”

 “Missile launch!” Caine yelled. “Twenty-four birds, heading right for us.” Alamo rocked back, and she added, “I've fired our response.”

 Thirty new tracks on the screen, missiles racing towards their destination, smoothly holding their deadly course. Seconds later, a ripple of explosions washed over the display, leaving only thirteen missiles on trajectory, diving towards the battlecruiser.

 “My lucky number,” Harper said, reaching over the shoulder of the defense systems technician, attempting to push into the enemy control systems. The tracks converged on the hendecaspace point, Alamo and the missiles, and Imoto tensed over the manual override, hoping to perhaps gain the quarter-second that might make the difference between life and death.

 “Now!” he yelled, and a flash of blinding blue light bathed over them, an instant before the missiles could reach them. The screen faded to neutral gray, and Marshall sat back in his command chair, a relieved smile on his face.

 “That, everyone, is how we do that,” Marshall said.

 “Hendecaspace transition successful, sir,” Imoto said. “Egress in one hundred and nine hours, five minutes and ten seconds. Countdown clock has started.”

 “Bowman,” Marshall said, turning to the communications technician, “Connect me through to the ship, please.”

 “Aye, sir,” he said, working his controls. “You're on, sir.”

 “This is the Captain. We have just completed our first hendecaspace transition in the Andromeda Galaxy, and what we hope is the first step on our journey home. I won't hide anything from you. This will be a long, and dangerous trip, and we will be traveling through space that is totally alien to anything we have ever experienced before. Nevertheless, I have the utmost faith in this ship and its crew to meet the challenges that lie ahead, to brave the dangers of unknown space with the same stalwart determination that you have always shown in the past.”

 He paused, smiled again, then continued, “I don't know about you, but one of the reasons I signed up was to see the strange, unknown reaches of the universe for myself. I know that's what the recruitment team promised. Now, uniquely in the history of the Triplanetary Fleet, we're going to collect on that promise, and will see wonders hitherto undreamed of.”

 “It's going to be a long, and uncertain journey home, but thanks to the sacrifice of those of us who lost their lives on Dante, we now have a path to follow, and the knowledge that it has been walked in the past with success. There is a way home, and we are going to search until we find it, no matter how long it takes. We're going home, ladies and gentlemen, and we're going to have a lot of astounding stories to tell when we do. I'm proud to serve with each and every one of you. Marshall out.”

 “Poor Clarke,” Imoto said, his face the sole frown on the bridge.

 “He died to save his ship and his crew,” Salazar said. “There are far worse ways to go. He'll not be forgotten. Not while a ship named Alamo sails the stars. If we do make it home, it will be thanks to the sacrifice he and Hooke made.”

 “Not if, Lieutenant,” Marshall said. “When.”

Epilogue

 Pain. Pain was the totality of his universe, a thousand agonies running through his limbs, his nerves burning like fire as the shuddering nightmares wracked his body. He writhed on the rack, screaming and crying, not caring who heard him, struggling to hold on to the tattered remnants of his soul. Two figures stood in the shadows, a man and a woman, both of them staring at him, the woman's lips curved into a bitter smile.

 The pain ceased. For a moment, he could breath again.

 “All of this can end if you simply tell us what we want to know,” the woman asked.

 “I am Sub-Lieutenant John Clarke, an officer of the Triplanetary Fleet.”

 With a sigh, the woman reached across, and the waves of pain surged through his system again, the sonic stimulation of his nerves bringing bitter tears to his eyes that flooded down his cheeks. A tiny voice in his head begged for the pain to end, demanded that he talk, that he told them what they wanted to know, no matter the consequences. He was alone out here, abandoned, and had to save himself.

 “I am Sub-Lieutenant John Clarke, an officer of the Triplanetary Fleet!” he screamed. “I am Sub-Lieutenant John Clarke, an officer of the Triplanetary Fleet!”

 “We're wasting our time with this one,” the man said.

 “Our source told us that there were strange discoveries on the moon, and this officer was in command of that base. If anything interesting was going on down there...”

 “And I still say it was nothing more than a decoy, an attempt to draw us into a trap. One that worked.” With a faint sigh, the man said, “Colonel, I don't think he can tell us anything. The other captive has far more potential.”

 “She has shown more resistance than he.”

 “All the more reason for you to concentrate your efforts where they are most needed, surely. This one will not provide you with any real challenge.” The figure turned to him, and added, “I think he is already on the verge of a complete breakdown. He'll tell you what you want to hear, not what you want to know.”

 With a snort, the woman said, “Spare me your bleeding heart. My techniques work.”

 “As you say, Colonel, as you say, but I still maintain that you are wasting your time with this man. Allow me to take charge of this prisoner, and it is possible that I can...”

 “You think you can succeed where I have failed?”

 “Push him any further, ma'am, and he'll lapse into total psychosis, and be of no use to anyone. A madman's testimony is of no use. Give me time, a few hours at least, and perhaps I can come up with something of value, while you focus on the other one.”

 There was a long pause, and finally, the woman said, “Very well, Major, but I will expect positive results, and quickly. The General is furious over this attack.” Turning to Clarke, she added, “His life will be forfeit in any case within a few days. On charges of murder and sabotage. I shall very much look forward to commanding the firing squad.”

 “I should have thought that you would have simply thrown him out of an airlock.”

 “He might be a traitor and a rebel, but he is still an officer, and the General insists that he be treated as one. Though I suspect that an accident might be arranged at some point in the future. Certainly most of the crew are looking forward to watching him die. Perhaps we should have invited some of them to watch his cretinous performance.” Turning to the door, she added, “Get me what I want, Major, or I will put you on the rack in his place.” She stalked out, and after a moment, the hatch locked shut behind her.

 The man walked over to the wall, throwing a control to dim the lights, then pulled a box out of his pocket and rested it on the floor, a series of winking indicators running back and forth. Taking a handkerchief out of his pocket, he ran it across Clarke's forehead, shaking his head.

 “Who?” Clarke asked.

 “Major Pastell,” he replied. “We have met. There is still a chance for you to save your life, Sub-Lieutenant, but only if you do what I say.”

 “I am Sub-Lieutenant John Clarke, an officer of the Triplanetary Fleet.”

 “I know,” he said, with a sigh. “I know.”

Thank you for reading 'Vault of Eternity'. 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: Spell of the Stars, available soon…