The Alpha Protocol: Alpha Protocol Book 1

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Ordinarily the sense of anti-climax was overwhelmed by one of relief. To desire a hail of plasteel bullets was to desire a short life, and Samson enjoyed living far too much—or at least he had, until he’d been transferred to the Sidewinder. Now he would take anything to remedy the boredom of inspecting ships and occasionally hunting reported pirates. They’d yet to find one, and he was beginning to think the reports were all the product of overactive imaginations.

  Price and his Marines had taken up station in a dirty corridor that ran the flank of the ship, punctuated by bulkhead airlocks. The section they were in was illuminated with strip lights that were starved of adequate power. They were duller than they ought to be, and flickered intermittently. It made Samson wonder how far off from falling apart this ship was. Judging by the grime, the wear, and the dim lighting, probably not far at all.

  Samson checked the instrument panel on the wrist of his suit. It showed one life sign on board—just as Sidewinder’s scans had. That didn’t mean there weren’t more threats on board, from masked life signatures to automated defences. He was responsible for the lives of everyone he had brought onto this ship, and he had no intention of losing any of them to carelessness.

  The panel confirmed that there was a viable atmosphere on the ship, as well as a functioning gravity generator running at only slightly less than Terran Standard. Both of those could be shut off by their host with the flick of a switch if they decided to be less than welcoming. An unlucky contact between the hull and a plasteel bullet could have the same effect. People were the only thing plasteel bullets were intended to harm, but Samson wasn’t confident this ship’s hull could stand up to any projectile, not even one specifically designed to minimise damage to space-going superstructures. Either way, until the ship was secure, it was standard procedure to rely on personal life support.

  ‘There’s air, but everyone keep your helmets on and your suits pressurised until I say otherwise. Let’s work our way up to the bridge,’ Samson said, his voice limited to the speakers in everyone’s helmets.

  Price nodded and waved his two Marines ahead, while he scanned the corridor with his carbine. Samson let them leapfrog their way down the hall to the first bulkhead before gesturing for the naval personnel to follow him and take up a position behind them. The Marines stacked up at the hatch, and Price looked back to Samson for the command to open it. Samson nodded, and Price hit the release button. With a grinding protest, it opened slowly, far more so than a well-maintained bulkhead door should. When it clanged to a stop, a plasteel bullet sizzled through the air and ricocheted down the corridor.

  Everyone took what cover they could. Even through his helmet, Samson could hear the loud, rattling cracks of return fire from the Marines. He glanced at his wrist panel and saw that there was no drop in air pressure—the bullet their attacker had used was a maritime plasteel one, and had performed as it was supposed to. The bullet expanded quickly, and softened as it did so. The design allowed for shipboard combat, slightly compromised in range and accuracy in exchange for the safety of knowing that your shot was not going to cause a catastrophic failure in the ship’s hull. Standard planetary ammunition was available, but few were foolish enough to try using it for shipboard combat. It seemed that Arlen, this ship’s master, hadn’t gone completely insane.

  Price and his Marines needed no further instruction from Samson—he would have only been getting in the way. In a burst of aggression—shouts broadcast from their helmet speakers, and fast assertive movement—they advanced into the next compartment to the accompaniment of rapid carbine fire. From behind them, Samson could see the next airlock slide closed. Another plasteel bullet pinged down the corridor—a last gesture of resistance fired through the shrinking opening. Samson ducked, but there was no way to know where it was going to end up—the movement was instinctive, and could as easily have moved him into its path. A moment later, he felt himself drift off the deck plates.

  ‘Crafty old bastard,’ Samson said. This situation was another reason for the naval carbine and plasteel bullets: They had far less recoil than a planetary assault weapon and wouldn’t knock the shooter into an uncontrolled tumble in zero-g. Even so, recoil wasn’t entirely eliminated, which made life far more difficult for an attacker who had to move. It seemed Arlen wasn’t entirely unversed in boarding tactics—not that it would make much difference when facing three determined Marines.

  Samson checked his wrist panel again. There was definitely only one life sign detected ahead, and there was little hope of taking him alive without casualties. If someone was going to die, Samson was adamant that it wouldn’t be one of his Marines.

  ‘Take him out, Sergeant Price,’ Samson said as he clung onto the edge of the bulkhead with his free hand, his legs having drifted out behind him.

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Price and his Marines advanced to the closed airlock and hit the release button, but nothing happened. There was a brief exchange between Price and Corporal Féng before she got to work opening a panel on the bulkhead. Samson saw the bright blue flash of electrical sparks, and gave a gentle pull on the bulkhead he was clinging to, sending himself on a slow, rotating flight down the corridor toward the Marines. The hatch started to open, and Féng pocketed her tool kit and brought her carbine to bear.

  Price inverted so the hatch dropped down for him, rather than rising as it did for everyone else. As soon as there was a hand’s width of an opening, another plasteel bullet sizzled out. Samson contorted himself to the side of the corridor, and looked back, hoping his sailors had managed to do the same. He heard another clatter of carbine fire, and Price was through the still-opening space of the airlock hatch. There was a lot more shouting, and some more carbine fire as the other two Marines followed him in. The entire confrontation was dealt with in the blink of an eye, signalled by several shouts of ‘clear’ a moment later.

  ‘Bridge is clear for entry, sir,’ Price said.

  Samson and the others followed in. The bridge was in much the same condition as the corridor—dirty and gloomy. There was a single blood-spattered corpse floating in the centre of the room, a mist of blood spreading slowly through the air. The lifeless hand held a pistol similar to the one Samson was using. Corporal Smit pulled it from the dead fingers, sending the body into a slow spin. He stopped the body with his boot, and only when his scan confirmed the absence of life signs did he lower his carbine.

  ‘No more unaccounted-for life signs on board, sir,’ Harper said.

  ‘Doesn’t mean there aren’t any,’ Samson said. ‘We can hold the bridge, Sergeant Price. Sweep the rest of the ship to make sure we’re alone.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ The Marines moved off, leaving Samson with his naval personnel.

  ‘Lieutenant Harper, let’s get the gravity back, then see what you can get out of the ship’s computers.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ She hauled herself forward, then stretched out her arms to meet the computer station and absorb the impact.

  Despite the amount of time they all spent in space, very little of it was in zero-g conditions. Some training had to be maintained to keep them certified, but very few chose to make it a regular feature of their personal training after the initial novelty—which tended to last only a few minutes of their first experience of it at the Naval Academy—wore off.

  He pulled himself over to the command console and chair, and righted himself in preparation for the restoration of gravity. That done, he held himself in position, boots pressed against the floor.

  ‘Ready to reactivate, sir,’ Harper said.

  ‘Sergeant Price, prepare for one g.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘In five—’ Samson gave Harper the nod ‘—two, one.’

  Unlike a ship with a more expensive generator—or even one in a better state of maintenance—where it was restored gradually, pulling you back to the floor gently, gravity on Arlen’s Bounty came back all in one go. He felt his weight return, and his joints compress. It was jarring and unpleasant,
but nothing more. Far more gruesome was the sound of Arlen’s body hitting the deck, and the splash as the floating blood joined him.

  Samson sat on the command chair, the back of which was threadbare. The seat bore a permanent imprint of someone’s backside. Probably Arlen’s. He woke up the instrument panel, and looked over the data. A red flashing icon told him what he had already suspected—the ship’s power plant wasn’t functioning properly and every system was operating on minimal supply. If what he had seen of the ship so far was anything to go by, the engines and capacitors were probably covered in a layer of grease and dirt that was older than he was. In all likelihood, a little attention from his people would get it running well enough to make its way back to wherever Captain Stettin wanted to take the vessel. The important fact was that everything was functioning at a sufficient level.

  Although all their movements and voice communications were monitored by the Sidewinder, Samson reckoned it was time to make a proper report.

  ‘Samson to Captain Stettin.’

  ‘Go for Stettin.’

  ‘Ship appears to be secure. One crew member who resisted, now deceased.’ He cast a glance over to the blood-splattered section of the bridge surrounding Arlen’s corpse. On an old rust-bucket like this, cleaning was done the old-fashioned way, and that was one order he’d feel bad giving. ‘All systems appear to be functional. We’re scanning the computer now, and the Marines are carrying out a visual inspection of all pressurised compartments to make sure there aren’t any surprises waiting for us.’

  ‘Good work, Lieutenant. Once you’ve carried out a full inspection, send me an update. All being well, I’ll leave you where you are to bring the ship in.’

  Samson allowed himself a smile. A boarding action and a prize command on the same day. If they managed to get the ship back to port, there would be prize money for him at some point in the not-too-distant future. Perhaps the Frontier wasn’t so bad after all. There would have been no opportunities for a prize command, or prize money, serving on a capital ship back in one of the Core Systems.

  Samson relaxed into the chair and wondered if things were starting to look up, or if he had used up all his luck in one go. One way or the other, it was good news so far, and he was happy to take it.

  Samson took another look down at the corpse sprawled on the tarnished and scratched deck plates. The body was twisted unnaturally—a gruesome sight.

  The adrenaline of the boarding action was fading fast, leaving him feeling drained. Seeing Arlen’s lifeless body had a similar effect on his mood. He was a man in his early fifties, by the look of it. Judging by his dress and personal appearance, he hadn’t made a success out of life—if running an old junker of a freighter out on the Frontier wasn’t proof enough.

  There was a sense of unease in Samson’s gut that he hadn’t been able to put his finger on—that lurking notion of unfinished business that prevents you from relaxing completely. Looking at Arlen made him realise what it was—why would this old man have judged it worth firing on heavily-armed Marines? Death by Navy? Might he have been protecting something? A smuggled cargo? Samson wanted to get to the bottom of this mystery before one of his eager crewmates beat him to it.

  Perhaps he was just another cracked spacer who had spent too long on his own and couldn’t cope with people invading his little kingdom. Or perhaps there was more to it than that. If he’d had the sense to make sure his transponder was working, he’d probably still be alive and heading to wherever it was he’d been heading. Samson knew the statistics would disagree with him on it, but he reckoned bad decisions were the number one killer in the Union.

  ‘Where are you at with the computer?’ Samson said, still staring at the dead eyes. If he was to command the ship back to the depot, he’d have to get the bridge cleaned up. None of his boarding crew had pissed him off enough to draw the duty on themselves, so fate would have to decide.

  ‘I’m in,’ Harper said, pulling Samson from his thoughts of mops and buckets.

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Where was he headed?’

  ‘Capsilan Two,’ Harper said.

  Samson thought for a moment. Capsilan Two was the most populous planet in that sector, and the unofficial capital. That wasn’t to say it was a hub of civilisation—there was only one town, and perhaps ten thousand people on the entire planet. As much as humanity needed room to expand, there were few willing to forego the comforts of life in the Core for the decades it would take to develop them on a Frontier planet.

  Most trade from this sector of Frontier space back to the Core Systems passed through Capsilan Two, so for what it was worth, it was the centre of things for this part of space. Samson wondered what might draw a fringe-dweller like the man lying on the deck to the closest thing the Frontier had to civilisation.

  ‘What’s on his cargo manifest?’ Samson said.

  ‘Nothing,’ Harper said. ‘His transponder’s working just fine too. It was switched off.’

  ‘There’s a surprise. We better do a visual inspection of his hold,’ Samson said. ‘I want to know what it is he thought was worth dying for. Sergeant Price, how’s your sweep going?’

  ‘All clear so far, Lieutenant. We’ve covered all crew areas. Only the cargo areas left.’

  ‘I’m coming down to join you. I want to see if there’s anything in there.’ He stood, careful not to put a foot in the blood that had pooled on the floor, and wrestled with the decision over who was going to get the job. A thought occurred to him as he did. ‘Where did he come from?’ he said to Harper. ‘What was his last port of call?’

  ‘The nav log’s been scrubbed. I can reconstruct it, but it’ll take a little time.’

  Samson nodded. ‘Keep at it. Let me know as soon as you have something. Helmets stay on until we have complete control of the ship and a full hull integrity scan.’

  3

  Samson regarded the corridor with interested disdain as he headed for the cargo hold. The grime and lack of care displayed on every centimetre of the ship told the story of a man who had fallen between the cracks. It was jarring for Samson—the mutiny and his posting to the Frontier made him feel as though that had happened to him. Academy graduates didn’t end up on the Frontier. They did a few years as a junior officer on capital ships in the Core for experience, then went to Fleet Command College to prepare them for a senior role on one, or for a move to the Admiralty. Samson couldn’t see either of those things in his future now, and the thought that the devastation wrought on his career might lead him down a similar path to the man lying on the floor of the bridge was disturbing.

  Price and his Marines were waiting by the access hatch to the cargo hold when Samson got there.

  ‘It’s probably best that we handle this, sir,’ Price said.

  ‘I just wanted to be here when you do,’ Samson said. ‘Never been the most patient.’

  ‘Expecting more trouble, sir?’ Price said.

  ‘I’m just curious to see if there’s any reason in here why the ship’s master would fire on us. No point dying over an empty ship. We’d have searched him and been on our way. No inconvenience but a little delay for a man with nowhere better to be.’

  ‘Being a crazy old bastard is usually reason enough, in my experience,’ Price said.

  ‘Maybe so,’ Samson said, ‘but let’s take a look anyway.’

  Samson stepped back and unholstered his pistol. He didn’t reckon he’d need it, but surrounded by three heavily armed Marines he’d have felt left out if he hadn’t. Price pulled the release lever, which let out a hiss of compressed gas. Its motors groaned in protest as the hatch retracted vertically with a regular clunking judder, another symptom of the low power levels. Samson had to stop himself from stepping forward and ducking down to peek inside the hold. If he caught a bullet, he’d have deserved it, and added to the reasons for the quiet reserve the Marines always treated naval officers with—particularly young ones. The door opened to reveal a
large, empty cargo compartment with hull access doors on the far side.

  ‘Wasn’t his cargo he was protecting,’ Price said, looking about the compartment.

  Samson said nothing and walked in to look for himself. It looked just like the rest of the ship—filthy, but nothing out of the ordinary.

  ‘Lieutenant Samson, are you all right?’ It was the captain, over on the Sidewinder.

  ‘I’m fine. Why?’

  ‘Your life signs just disappeared from our sensors. Sergeant Price too.’

  Samson raised an eyebrow and looked back at Price, who shrugged, but brought his weapon back up. His Marines did the same as they spread out through the hold.

  ‘I’m fine, Captain. We’re both still very much alive. Seems like the cargo hold is shielded. I’ll report in once I’ve had a closer look.’

  Samson scanned the walls and floors for anything out of the ordinary. Covered in so much grime, the walls might have been painted with murals underneath and he would have been none the wiser. However, one thing did catch his attention. There was a clean patch on the wall—comparatively so, at least. It was small; no bigger than what the brush of a few fingers would clear, but it was there. Samson walked over and tapped on the panel with his knuckle. It sounded hollow.

  ‘Sergeant, I think there’s a hidden compartment back here.’

  ‘Life signs?’ Price said.

  ‘Not that I can tell, but we just disappeared from the scanners.’

  ‘Form up,’ Price said. ‘Make ready for contact.’

  The Marines took positions around the hangar, their naval carbines all aimed at the clean patch Samson had discovered. Samson crouched and studied the wall, looking for anything that could give him a clue as to how to open it. To his eye, there was no indication of a join in the panels—it appeared to be perfectly smooth.

  ‘Lieutenant Harper, check the computers to see if there’s anything that might be for a panel release in the hold.’

  There was silence for a moment, then Harper came back to him. ‘Nothing that I can see, sir.’