Battlecruiser Alamo: Not One Step Back by Richard Tongue Page A

systems engaged,” she said, slamming down a series of switches, hearing a satisfying array of clicks as the ship’s computers began to duel with the incoming missiles. Warbook images flashed onto her display – these were nothing particularly special, old Lunar Republic vintage, again from before the war. Dozens of generations of hacking software out of date, and it took only a few seconds for all of them to spill wide.
     Alamo’s missiles were still on track, though, and the fighters were ducking and weaving in an attempt to escape. The scout was being bolder, holding its course, and she could guess why; she began to instruct the computer to prepare to hack into the scout’s next missile immediately on launch, but when the flare spilled away into space, there simply wasn’t time before the two missiles collided.
     Three small explosions, and a quick smile from Orlova, “Three fighters destroyed. Ready on second salvo.”
     “Hold,” Marshall replied, turning back to Ivanov. “Patch me in.”
     “You’re on, sir.”
     “Pirate formation, this is Lieutenant-Captain Marshall of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo. I personally guarantee a fair trial and safe passage back to Mars if you surrender immediately; else I will be forced to destroy you.”
     It seemed short and to the point, but no-one really seemed to believe that it was going to work. The only response came a few seconds later as the scout began to accelerate, pulling away from the two fighters. Orlova frowned, and adjusted the programming on four of the missiles resting in the bay. The Mark Fourteens they were using were some of the most adaptable ever known, and she was going to make full use of their abilities.
     “Abandoning their comrades,” Zebrova said, as though personally offended.
     “Orlova,” Marshall began, “concentrate all fire…”
     “Captain, I think I can get all of them.”
     With an approving nod, Marshall replied, “Then by all means, do so.”
     She pressed down a pair of buttons, and four missiles raced from the tubes, turning towards the fighters, a pair of each of them. They were sluggish, slow to move, but she had guessed right; the fighters were diving towards the gas giant, heading into the protective embrace of the atmosphere – which is why she had reshaped the missiles in the tubes, extending their surfaces to provide them with greater control, and slowing them enough that they would be able to spend some time using that maneuverability in the atmosphere.
     Ignoring the fighters for the moment, she turned her attention to the scout, rapidly climbing away as it gained speed. It’s acceleration was far greater than Alamo, and even if the lumbering battlecruiser were to fire at full-burn immediately, it would be unlikely to make much of an impact on the rapidly reducing firing speed. Furiously tapping buttons with her left hand, she smiled.
     “Midshipman, I’ll have a laser pulse ready in fifteen seconds. You have the call.”
     “Me?”
     “You, midshipman, yes. Any time between twelve and eighteen seconds from – now – will be plenty of time.”
     The nervous officer looked over her instruments, playing them with her fingers as Alamo began to swing. She almost spoke out again, but Orlova quickly saw what she was doing – feinting with the scout, forcing it to make its counter-move early so that she could compensate for it. Good flying.
     “No more missiles, Orlova?” Zebrova said.
     “Not until after the laser pulse, ma’am. Don’t want to spoil the shot.” Not a second time, anyway, was her unspoken thought. Another four missiles were dropping into the tracks, but she’d fire with just the two she had if necessary, both of them tightly targeted on the engines. She carefully set up the laser shot, standing back-up to the computer.
     “Ready!” McGuire yelled, and Orlova fired, once again only just being beaten by the computer. This time the pulse of energy