Starship Alexander (11 page)

"The station wasn't completely destroyed," he said. "Captain Hammett and his crew have done a lot of damage to these invaders. Until they get reinforcements, until they regroup, maybe they'll leave the station alone."

"Surely it's too risky," said Wyatt.

"The idea on its own merits has a risk-to-reward ratio that's unacceptably high," Hornbeck conceded. "However, food is not the only factor." He sighed. "There is a possibility – statistically not negligible – that the station contains other survivors."

That set off a babble of voices, everyone talking over each other.

"I assumed they would destroy the station behind us," Hornbeck said. He gestured at Hammett. "From what the good captain says, however, I must revise my estimate. It seems the hostile force broke off its attack almost immediately after the launch of the lifeboat, in order to prosecute an assault on the
Alexander
. Some of my people may not have made it to lifeboats. They may still be alive."

Breckenridge said, "Can we risk everyone trying to save some people who may not even be there?"

"There are other factors," said Hammett. "Other reasons to go back." The rest of the group fell silent, looking at him. "I lost a pilot and three technicians," he said. "And when I say lost, I mean that literally. I don't know where they are. I hoped they would see us leaving the scene of battle and follow, but they haven't turned up yet. They may be dead, of course." He shrugged. "In addition to four lives, they were in a shuttle with intact electronics. That could be quite useful."

Breckenridge said, "I don't know if-"

"There's one more thing," said Hammett. "Gate Eleven is still intact. If we can destroy it, we could delay pursuit from the aliens by several weeks. We could give Earth and the rest of our colonies crucial extra time to prepare."

That set off a fresh storm of debate. Breckenridge pointed out that, for all anyone knew, the aliens didn't even need Gates. Velasco declared that the
Alexander
had a duty to all of humanity to bring back word of the attack. It would be grossly irresponsible to risk the ship. They had to flee. Hornbeck talked about his duty to his people and reminded everyone that any delay in their journey to New Avalon would put them at real risk of death from starvation.

Janice didn't participate in the debate. She listened, and she watched Hammett. He sat with his eyes half-closed clearly deep in thought. Finally he lifted a hand, and the others went silent. "We're going back," he said.

A babble of voices rose up, and Hammett snapped, "Enough!" Janice wasn't sure how he managed to put so much force into one little word, but she jumped in her chair, and the others instantly went silent. "This isn't a debate," he said. "I'm happy to listen to your opinions, and I want you to always feel free to speak up if you have advice or useful information. However, the
Alexander
is a warship, and I am her commanding officer. The decision is mine. We're going back."

Hammett stood on the transformed bridge of the
Alexander
, telling himself he wasn't horrified.

Communication stations lined the starboard bulkhead. Each station consisted of a mouthpiece and earpiece, each about half the size of a clenched fist, each attached to a copper wire taped to the bulkhead. The wire, coated in plastic insulation, snake across bulkheads and ceilings and in some places deck plates. Several cadets were busy taping down wires that posed a trip hazard.

"It'll get better," Breckenridge said cheerfully as he installed another station. "We'll drill holes, we'll put up brackets. It won't be such a mess by the time we get to New Avalon." Now that the decision was made to return to Freedom Station, he'd thrown himself into the task of refitting the
Alexander
with real enthusiasm.

Each telephone station had the name of the other terminal painted on the bulkhead above it. No one had used stencils. The words were a messy scrawl, but Hammett could read them. He went to the station labelled "Engine Room", picked up the mouthpiece and earpiece, and stared at them for a moment, trying to figure out which was which. Finally he held one piece to his mouth, one to his ear, and said, "Bridge to engine room."

"This is Cadet Burke." The voice was tinny, with a low hum of static in the background, but Hammett could understand the words.

"This is Captain Hammett. What's your status?"

"We're standing by," the cadet announced.

"Great," said Hammett. "Bridge out." There was no way to close the connection. It was, in effect, always open. A little metal bracket held the wires to the wall, and Hammett lowered the two components until they dangled from their wires. He shook his head, marvelling at the primitive simplicity of it all.

A cadet came bustling up. He thought it might have been the girl who had gathered the casualty list. She was transformed now, looking scrubbed and rested and ready for anything. "All laser batteries are manned, Sir," she announced.

"Thank you, Cadet." He didn't add that, if all went well, they would cross off four names from that grim list. He didn't want her thinking about the dead.

"Ms. Cartwright," he said.

A woman of forty or so looked up from what had once been the weapons station. She wore a sailor's uniform, and she looked frightened. She was his new helmsman. Yoon could have done the job better, but he wanted her in the missile bay, installing fuses.

"Bring us around and point us at Freedom Station," Hammett said.

Cartwright gulped and nodded. She had two telephone terminals at her station. One terminal linked her to all of the navigational thrusters. The other terminal linked her to spotters at four different windows. She picked up a mouthpiece and said, "Thruster One, three-second burn. Thruster Five, four-second burn."

Hammett felt the ship begin to move, and he nodded his approval before turning away. She would work more effectively without him watching her.

Once the ship was oriented he would give the order to start the main engines. Then there would be nothing but a long, tense three-hour wait as they flew back into the crucible.

The air in the shuttle was getting foul. Kasim had changed the filter in the CO
2
scrubber, but it didn't put oxygen back into the air. He floated in the middle of the cabin, looking at the rack of spare oxygen tanks for the suits. He could open a tank. It would improve things, but he wanted to hold the suit tanks in reserve. He was panting, but not yet anoxic. He decided he would wait a little longer.

"Something's happening," said Sanchez. He'd insisted on watching the cockpit displays. It gave the boy an outlet for his nerves, so Kasim allowed it. Now, perhaps it was paying off.

Kasim pulled his way into the cockpit and went to the co-pilot's seat. Blurry shapes moved on the console. The alien ships that hovered around Gate Eleven were moving, heading toward Freedom Station and the place where Gate Six had been.

Sanchez looked at him. "What you think it means?"

Kasim shrugged. "There's no way to tell." He gestured at the passenger area. "Scram. I want my seat back."

Sanchez didn't move. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to wait until those ships disappear from the screen. I'm hoping that if we can't see them, they can't see us."

"Okay." Sanchez gave him a suspicious look. "Then what?"

"Then I'm going to move us closer to the Gate." Sanchez looked alarmed. "I'm going to put us right behind it," Kasim said. "It's the only place I know we can't be seen." He didn't add that he was going to have them destroy that Gate if he had to shove Sanchez bodily through the hatch. One battle at a time. Just having the ship move was all the stress Sanchez could handle at the moment.

Sanchez reluctantly moved into the back, and Kasim switched seats. The enemy ships grew ever more indistinct on the screen, and finally faded completely. Kasim made himself wait another minute, then two. Finally he couldn't control his impatience. For all he knew, reinforcements were about to come through the Gate. He needed to get on with things.

"I'm powering up," he called, and heard a rustle as everyone got their feet close to the floor. He turned on main power, and felt artificial gravity settle onto him. He heard a thump and a grunt from the back as someone was caught off-balance.

He headed for the Gate, moving quickly.

When the ship had a good velocity he cut the engine, then checked the screen. Not a single blip showed.

"Looks like we're free and clear," he said, and turned in his chair. Flying was the easy part. The difficult part was about to begin. "We'll reach the Gate in about five minutes."

"Forget it," said Roberts.

"I haven't even said anything!"

"You want us to disable the Gate."

"It'll keep the aliens away," Kasim said.

"The aliens are already here," said Roberts. "Enough of them to destroy Freedom Station and send the
Alexander
running for its life. If we mess with the Gate, they'll know we're here."

Kasim looked to Sally for support. "I don't know," she said.

"I think he's right," said Sanchez. That was hardly surprising – until Kasim looked at him. Sanchez was speaking to Roberts. "It's our duty," he said. "These aliens, whatever they are, they are attacking all of humanity. And we can slow them down."

Kasim stared at Sanchez. So did the other technicians. All of them were speechless.

"I don't know," said Sally again. "What if it draws them in? What will they do to us?"

"We don't even know that there
are
any more aliens," Roberts said. "Maybe this is all of them. Maybe destroying the Gate will stop them from retreating."

Kasim let the three of them bicker, turning his attention back to the controls. The Gate loomed before him, and he brought the ship around in a beautiful, sweeping arc that not one of his clueless passengers appreciated.

"We're a small, unarmed ship," said Roberts. "We need to avoid their attention."

"I think it's too late for that," said Sanchez. Something in his voice sent a chill across the back of Kasim's neck. He glanced back. Sanchez was staring past him, looking through the cockpit windows with wide, frightened eyes.

Kasim turned.

A single enemy ship sat directly behind the Gate. It was no bigger than the shuttle, but it was clearly a ship of war. Kasim's hands froze on the controls as the little alien ship spun around. He found himself staring at what had been the underside of the ship. There was a black circle on the hull of the little craft, ominous as the muzzle of a rifle. The black circle began to glow an angry red. Then a line of flame shot toward the shuttle, and Kasim heard himself scream.

"Range to Freedom Station approximately eight thousand kilometers."

Hammett said, "Thank you, Cadet." Range estimate was accurate to within no more than fifty percent, he knew.

"The forward telescope reports that the station looks largely intact."

Hammett nodded, not sure if he was relieved or disappointed. He was deeply rattled by the ease with which the aliens had crippled the
Alexander
, and by the luck that had been needed to allow them to escape. He itched with the need to flee the system and begin the long journey home.

"Do we have a line to the shuttle bay yet?"

"No, Sir," said a cadet. He was going to have to start learning their names. They were all in vac suits, helmets clipped to their chests, which didn't make it any easier to tell them apart. He wasn't going to lose any more people to a hull breach, though.

"I need a runner." A cadet stepped forward, and Hammett said, "Go to the shuttle bay. Tell the runabout pilot he can leave as soon as he's ready." The runabout would head for Gate Eleven, where a sailor would strap a couple of bundles of high explosives to the ring. In the meantime, Hammett would dock with Freedom Station. Hornbeck would take a team onboard to gather survivors and food.

"Captain!"

Hammett looked at the row of telephone stations along the starboard bulkhead. A cadet stood at every station. One young man held an earpiece to his ear in a white-knuckled grip. "Port lounge reports enemy activity near Gate Eleven." He listened, then said, "How big?" He lowered the mouthpiece and said, "One ship. Very large. 'Bloody big' is the official size estimate, Sir."

Hammett swallowed a curse. "Runner!" A girl stepped forward and he said, "Go after that last runner. Stop him. Don't let the runabout launch." She fled, and he stood, pacing back and forth.

Cartwright said, "What heading, Sir?"

"No change," he said. "We can fight them here, or we can fight them beside the station. It makes no difference."

He wanted to ask if there was any sign of Kasim and the missing shuttle. There was no point, though. If there was word, someone would have told him. The shuttle remained lost.

"What's the status of my rail guns?" he said. He knew the answer; he just wanted to remind the bridge crew that the ship was much more prepared than they'd been for the previous battle.

"Lieutenant DiMarco reports all three guns ready to fire, with crews standing by to reload."

"Excellent," said Hammett. "It sounds like we're ready for this fight." His job was as much about maintaining morale as running the ship.

"The enemy ship is closing," a cadet announced. "I don't have a range estimate. Close and getting closer. That's as specific as anyone will be."

A squeal of static came from every speaker on the bridge, and a couple of cadets jerked earpieces away from their ears. There was a moment without light or gravity, and then light and weight returned. "I think we can forget about using the runabout," Carruthers said to no one in particular. "It's a big expensive brick now."

A cadet said, "Test. Missile bay, can you hear me?" He lowered the mouthpiece and said, "The phones still work."

"Excellent," said Hammett. "They should think we're helpless. It's time to give them an unpleasant surprise." He turned to Cartwright. "Bring us around. Point us right at those bastards." The gun crews knew to open fire as soon as they saw the enemy, or got word from a spotter.

It was a bizarre way to run a battle, Hammett thought. It reminded him of exercises he'd done at the Academy. Hundreds of cadets had gone charging through the desert of the Baja Peninsula, firing low-power lasers at one another. In theory there had been a larger strategy for the war game, but in reality is it been dozens of little battles fought on a very small scale by whoever was there. In this battle, each gunner was an army of one.

"Rail guns firing," reported a cadet, earpiece pressed tight to her ear. "We're hitting them. No visible damage so far. Now there's damage. Several ship components have been destroyed on the enemy."

"Missiles are away," said a second cadet.

"The enemy ship is breaking apart," someone announced. "Not a missile strike. It's separating into smaller ships."

"Missile crews are holding fire," said the second cadet. "They have no decent targets."

Someone screamed, the sound faint and tinny. It came from one of the telephones, Hammett realized, and he watched as a young woman pressed an earpiece to her ear. Then she smiled. "One of them shot at Janie through the steelglass. She's all right, though."

"All three rail guns are firing," said a cadet. "Mostly they're missing, but when they hit one of those little ships they destroy it completely."

"Taking fire and evading," said Cartwright. The observers in the two lounges and the small number of other compartments with windows each had a direct line to a maneuvering thruster. The standing order was to get the ship moving to keep the aliens from doing concentrated damage.

"One missile hit. One enemy craft destroyed, some others damaged by shrapnel. Damn. It looks like most of the barrage missed."

"Negligible damage to our hull so far, Sir," said a cadet. "Laser batteries have damaged several ships." He paused to listen, then said, "They seem to be breaking off the attack."

"Tell the missile crews to stand by," Hammett said. "They could be gathering into one big ship again."

Several tense minutes passed. Then a man appeared at the entrance to the bridge. He was short, but his erect posture made him seemed taller. He had a weathered face and gray hair cropped close to his skull. He wore civilian clothes, but Hammett took one look at him and knew he was ex-military.

"John Crabtree reporting, Sir." He addressed himself to Hammett. "I was with your cadets in the starboard lounge. We agreed that someone should come report to you directly, and save a lot of back and forth on your intercom system."

Hammett nodded. "What can you tell me, Mr. Crabtree?"

"The attack has broken off for the time being. The youngsters – pardon me, the cadets – tell me it's not as many of the bastards as attacked last time. I would estimate their numbers between twenty and thirty-five of the smallest ships, though some of them were in groups of up to four or five. I personally saw three ships destroyed and four more damaged. Now they've retreated to a range of several kilometers. The ships haven't clumped back together yet."

"Thank you," said Hammett. "Are you from Freedom Station?"

Crabtree nodded. "Yes, Sir."

"See to it that you join the party that goes into the station for supplies. You know the layout, and you keep your head during a crisis."

Crabtree didn't quite smile, but he looked thoroughly pleased. "Aye aye, Sir."

"It seems we have a respite," Hammett said. "I'm tempted to fly straight at them and continue the fight, but the truth is they're more manoeuvrable than we are." He looked at Crabtree. "Is that your evaluation as well, Mr. Crabtree?"

The man nodded. "We're like a bear up against a swarm of bees. We could chase them, but we won't achieve much."

"Very well," said Hammett. "We'll take advantage of the break they're giving us. Ms. Cartwright. Take us to Freedom Station at your best speed, please."

She nodded and murmured instructions into the telephone.

"Someone show Mr. Crabtree to the docking ring on Deck Two. And make sure the boarding party is ready to go." The plan was to send in Dalton Hornbeck and a dozen cadets. Half of them would carry food stores to the
Alexander
while the others made a quick search of the station.

"Remind them not to dawdle," Hammett called to the departing cadet. "We don't know when our friends outside might come back for another round."

"We came through that scrap okay," said Carruthers. "They're learning from us, though. They didn't give us any good missile targets this time."

Hammett nodded. The alien ships weren't fleeing in disorder like they had after the detonation of the nuke. They were waiting for something, and whatever it was, he knew he wouldn't like it. His only hope was to be gone before the hammer fell.