Battlecruiser Alamo_Cries in the Dark

by Richard Tongue

   That, and the short-lived Venusian Co-Operative that had launched the initial expedition didn't exist any more. A United Nations puppet state that had been absorbed by the government to prevent insurrection, transformed into little more than a penal camp. There'd been little or nothing left for the stranded starfarers to come home to, and they'd known it, preferring instead to be just one more settlement that had fallen through the cracks of the peace treaty, without a sponsor to support them.

   Logan Winter walked cautiously through what passed for the planetary capital, a trio of battered domes that struggled to resist the endless, biting dust storms that raged outside, filled with a mixture of prefabricated structures and the remnants of that ill-fated ship, appropriately named Albatross. He looked around, finally finding the building he was looking for, the overworked hospital, a cluster of people sitting around outside, waiting to be admitted.

   Moving inside, he flashed a forged identity card good enough to pass the cursory inspection of the outdated security systems, granting him access to the bowels of the facility. He'd spent hours carefully working on it during the flight out, and the harried administrator barely even glanced at it, instead waving him through with the briefest of nods.

   The interior of the building was as bad as the exterior. Beds lined the corridors, the wards overflowing, white-suited medical staff racing around, trying to deal with the backlog. The dust was the primary problem. Despite all the precautions, it would always force its way inside, a choking ash that filled the lungs, slowly killing all who breathed it in. Back home, on Mars, it could be dealt with by a quick visit to a hospital, but the technology out here simply wasn't able to deal with it. Long Shot was just that. A marginal outpost in the middle of nowhere, and the local residents were paying the price for their isolation.

   Already he was mentally writing a report to the Triplanetary Senate, one that he would write to salve his own conscience, even knowing that it would do no good. There was little enough money in the budget as it was, without the massive investment that would be required to bring the local standard of living up to acceptable levels. All of the residents had the same grim pallor, too little time under sunlamps, supplies of the drugs and vitamins needed far too limited. Mars had been like this, decades ago, and if they hadn't freed themselves from the United Nations occupation, would still be today.

   Turning reluctantly from the scene in the corridor, he stepped into the nearest elevator, pressing a control for the top floor, the administration as ever keeping itself aloof from those it was seeking to treat. Though for them, it must have been difficult. Knowing what was going on down here, and knowing there was nothing they could do to help, no solution in sight. Just the same misery, again and again, people dying before their time.

   The doors opened, and he stepped into a far calmer environment, albeit one that was still showing signs of decay. The carpet was worn, old, beaten down. Paintings decorated the walls, all local work, a few with real signs of talent on the part of the artist. A treasure that would never make its way beyond this world.

   Finally, he stepped into the records office, locking the door behind him as he made for the central database. He slid out a datapad, resting it carefully on the desk, and tapped a sequence of controls to hack into the medical database, the firewall putting up unexpectedly stiff resistance. Peering over the display, a frown spread across his face. Someone had given them a major update, and recently. Within the last few days, maybe even less. The latest United Nations code, brand new, not even officially released for civilian use yet.

   His mission had suddenly become far more urgent, and he crouched over the controls, entering a series of commands to batter through the defenses, deploying techniques designed to crack just such a design. Triplanetary Intelligence had the best hackers in the galaxy, and they'd been more than up to their usual standards. The file he was looking for snapped into life on the screen, information flooding into his datapad, but before he could close down the system, he heard footsteps approaching.

   Drawing his concealed pistol with the quick pass of a hand over his hidden holster, he dropped behind the desk, peering up at the door as it slid open. A young, nervous man walked inside, a heavy wrench in his hand, looking around the room.

   “Drop it,” Logan said, raising to his feet. “Close the door.”

   “I'll...”

   “You've got five seconds, kid, or I will have to end you.”

   The wrench dropped to the floor, the door closing as the man took a step forward, nervously stuttering, “If you kill me, I'll be missed, and someone will find you.”

   “Nice bluff, kid. Who are you working for?”

   “The hospital.”

   “Not your cover, your real employer. I want a name.” Pausing, Logan continued, “Damn it, you really are just a civilian, aren't you.” More footsteps approached, and he gestured at the desk, saying, “Get into cover. Our friends out there might not be as nice as I am.”

   “What's going on?” the young man asked. “Why did you want Rachel's file?”

   “Either do as I say or get ready to talk your way through the Pearly Gates, kid.”

   Belatedly, the young man ducked into position, just as the doors slid open, two burly men in ill-fitting hospital uniforms stepping inside. As soon as they saw Logan, they reached for their holsters, but he didn't give them a chance to draw their weapons, two silenced tranq darts knocking them from their feet. Alarms sounded down the corridor, the antiquated security system detecting the gunfire, and Logan turned to the terrified man by his side.

   “I need a way out. Quickly, and quietly.”

   “Not until you tell me who you are.”

   With a sigh, Logan replied, “Logan Winter. Field Agent, Triplanetary Intelligence. And currently regretting coming out of retirement for this junket. Now, directions, please?”

   He paused for a second, but before Logan's patience ran out, replied, “Waste shaft. Down the corridor. All of them head down to a central area in the basement, and there's a delivery truck leaving in a few minutes.”

   “Well-known?”

   “I guess so.”

   Logan paused, nodded, and replied, “I'll chance it.”

   “Wait,” the kid said. “Why did you want Rachel's genetic information?”

   “She's something to you?” He nodded, and Logan continued, “Those bastards would have killed her or worse. Right now I'm the only chance she's got to stay alive. We can talk later. For now, we run.” Not waiting for a reply, he vaulted over the desk and raced down the corridor, the drone of the sirens still sounding from the ceiling speakers. Likely the local security force was still debating whether or not to risk intervening, but he didn't intend to give them a chance to make up their mind to try and stop him.

   The shaft was at the end of the corridor, just as advertised, and he pulled open the cover, his nose wrinkling at the stink from below, and shone a flashlight down to check for traps. As he'd hoped, they hadn't taken out the trash for a while, and he dived into the darkness, slamming into a pile of worryingly soft bags at the bottom. His unexpected sidekick was right behind him, and he barely rolled out of the way in time, dodging the impact of his fall.

   Shapes moved in the darkness, and Logan raised his pistol, spotting a scared, gray-haired woman in a messy jumpsuit, hastily loading bags of refuse into the bag of a truck. He looked over the vehicle, a smile crossing his face. The cabin was sealed, the vehicle covered in dust. Which meant that it was able to leave the safety of the dome and head out onto the surface.

   “Don't shoot!” she said. “Whatever it is you want...”

   “How much do you earn in a month?” Logan asked.

   “Five hundred credits.”

   Not even a living wage back home. “How'd you like to earn a year's pay in an hour?”

   “For what?”

   “We need a lift. And in a hurry.” She frowned, nodde
d, then stepped into the cabin, Logan racing after her. He turned to the young man, and asked, “What is your name, anyway?”

   “Stephen.”

   “That it?”

   “Moore.”

   “A man of few words. I like it.” The three of them climbed into the cabin, just as a group of men raced into the basement, guns in hand. Without a word, the woman threw the engine into high gear, wrenching the controls to guide the truck through the double doors, out onto the streets. The familiar ringing of shotgun blasts echoed from the sides of the vehicle as they raced away, the crowd parting to allow them to escape.

   “Might need to ask for a little more money.”

   “Passage to Mars, a year's salary.”

   “Done,” she replied with a maniac grin. “I always wanted to do something like this anyway.”

   Gunning the engine as hard as she dared, she took a corner on two wheels, heedless of the shouts and screams all around her. Behind them, Logan saw another buggy chasing down the street, one without the protection that would allow them to chase them beyond the vehicular airlock ahead.

   “Got any ideas about getting us out of here?” the driver asked, as a rattle of bullets bounced from the rear of the vehicle.

   “Sure,” Logan replied, pulling out his datapad. As the truck careened dangerously towards the hatch, he frantically stabbed at the controls, trying to override the locking mechanism. Just as the driver was about to slam on the breaks, he managed to crack through the final layer of encryption, and the doors slid open, allowing the truck into the long tunnel that led to the surface. The inner hatch slammed shut, the outer opening with a loud, angry report, releasing the air within and equalizing the pressure with enough force to hurl them onto the dusty plain beyond.

   “Make a course to Bader Station,” Logan said with a relieved sigh. “About, what, thirty miles north-west.”

   “I know it,” she replied. “I do a run there about once a week.” Turning to him, she asked, “Want to tell me what this is all about?”

   “Those men are going to kill my fiancee,” Stephen said.

   “And he's the hired gun you hired to help?” she asked.

   “Not quite,” Logan replied. “And I suspect we're already too late to stop them capturing her. They didn't add that security for no reason. I was a little late getting here, and...”

   “Why do they want her?” Stephen asked. “Why send so many people out to get her?”

   “All I can tell you for the minute, kid, is that both Triplanetary Intelligence, which is me, and the United Nations Security Service, those bastards back there, want Rachel. Now, I'm going to ask nicely and make her an offer she can't refuse, whereas our friends in the hospital will probably end up brain-burning her. After torturing everyone she cares about in order to get her to agree to sign over her inheritance.”

   “Inheritance?” he asked. “She's an orphan, like me. My parents fostered her.”

   With a deep sigh, Logan said, “Then we're riding to the rescue of pretty much everyone you care about, I suspect. I hope you're a better shot than you look, kid, because right now I think we're outnumbered about twenty to one.”

  II

   The refuse truck bounced over a track so faint that it could only be picked up by the sensing radar, the dust billowing across the flickering viewscreen. A faint, acrid taste lingered in the air, impossible to be removed even by the scrubbers in the lifesystem. Moore looked out at what passed for the horizon, brief glimpses of the wilderness beyond breaking through the clouds, while Logan poured over his datapad, looking at the layout of the settlement they were making for.

   A single dome. Two ways in, one at the front, one at the back. No vehicular airlock, the settlement far too small for that. The readout showed him a dozen prefabricated buildings inside, rows of hydroponic equipment scattered around. What passed for an agricultural settlement, an experimental farming compound. And the home of the woman he'd come twenty light-years to find, a hair behind the enemy. The vehicle lurched over a bump, and sick to his stomach, he turned to the driver.

   “Is it always this bad?”

   “Actually, it's pretty quiet today. If you're in danger of losing your breakfast, there are sick bags under your seat. Make sure not to mess up my nice clean cabin.”

   “Sure,” Logan replied. “Soon as you tell me where it is.”

   “Everyone's a comedian. So what's so special about this girl we're rescuing?”

   “Not just her,” Moore said. “Everyone at the settlement.”

   “Probably,” Logan said. “The people we're after don't have any compunction about collateral damage.” Raising his pistol, he added, “Low-velocity. Guaranteed not to punch through a dome wall.”

   “If it won't punch through a dome wall...”

   “This isn't a normal bullet,” Logan replied with a smile. “When it makes contact with a human being, nasty stuff happens. Think heat-sensitive shaped charges. Smart piece of equipment, but it's guaranteed not to damage equipment. Not much, anyway.”

   “Don't wave that thing around in here,” the driver said.

   “What's your name, anyway?”

   “Frank.”

   “You're kidding.”

   “Francesca. And if you call me that, you can damned well walk. One day I might get around to forgiving my folks for lumbering me with such a stupid name.” With a beaming smile, she continued, “I noticed you didn't get around to answering my question.”

   “No, I didn't, did I.” He paused, then said, “I'll tell you when the dust settles. Metaphorically, I mean. Until then you'll just have to be content with the knowledge that the life of Rachel Morgan is one of the most important in Known Space, and leave it at that.”

   “I don't get it,” Moore replied. “She's just an orphan. Her parents died in an accident, right after we landed, and my folks adopted her. We grew up together.” He blushed, then said, “I'm training to be a field medic. Nine months to go, and then I'll be moving home, and we're going to get married.”

   “Hold onto that hope, kid,” Logan said. “It'll keep you alive.” A light winked onto his datapad, and he continued, “That took longer than I expected.”

   “Someone coming after us?” Frank asked.

   “Two buggies, neither of them registered to your local security services. Meaning that our friends back there finally managed to get themselves organized. We've got a good fifteen-minute head-start, though. I'm not that worried about them.”

   “Pretty advanced technology.”

   “Triplanetary Intelligence has nothing but the best.”

   “Should you be telling everyone that you're an undercover agent?”

   With a shrug, Logan replied, “I just had a running gun battle through a hospital, down a main street, and hijacked a trash van for my daring escape. I think that any hope of this being a covert operation is well and truly dead and buried. All that matters now is speed, anyway. If we can pull this off in a hurry, I can call in for extraction.”

   “You've got a ship in orbit,” Frank said, nodding.

   “Let's just say I've got a few tickets out of here, and yes, that includes you.”

   “I damned well hope so. I've been stuck on this rock since I was fifteen, and I can't wait to get the hell out of here.”

   Moore looked sharply at her, and replied, “This is our home. It's all I've ever known, and I'm not going to give up on it that quickly.”

   “You're kidding, right?” Frank asked. “You're telling me that if Dick Tracy here offered you the same deal he gave me, you'd turn it down and go back to the farm instead?” Shaking her head, she continued, “There's nothing here but dust and death, kid. Trust me, I know.”

   “The offer is open,” Logan replied. “For both you and Rachel. That's why I'm here.” He paused, then continued, “Technically, I was just here for Rachel, but I'm happy to take you along for the ride
as well. I figured I'd probably end up having to bribe a few people with tickets out of here.”

   “Works for me,” Frank said.

   “Is Mars so much better?”

   “Kid, there are worlds out there where you can actually breathe the air, drink the water. A few of them are in the Confederation. Ragnarok, maybe. Cold as hell, but at least they've got some hope for the future.” Looking at the wasteland outside, he continued, “The only reason you settled this rock is that you didn't have a choice. Nothing else in the system even half this promising...”

   “We could have left.”

   “With nothing other than the clothes on your back, and a one-way ticket to a labor camp. I'd have made the same decision your parents did, but that doesn't mean there aren't other options.” He looked at his datapad again, then said, “We're almost there. Pull up outside the rear airlock. I want one of you to go outside and activate the emergency cycle, but trigger an override to stop it from opening. Block it.”

   “Sure,” Frank said, with a shrug. “Most of the crap out here's one maintenance cycle away from being recycled anyway. More of an effort to keep it working.”

   Pulling out a spare pistol, Logan passed it to Moore, and said, “Yours, kid.”

   “I've never fired a weapon in my life.”

   “It's an old-fashioned point-and-click, and there are some nice little on-board systems designed to help you out a little. Stabilizers, and the bullets have at least a limited ability to alter their trajectory. You can't shoot me, for the record, but you could shoot a civilian, so watch it.” He patted the young man on the back, and said, “Relax. All of this is going to work out.”

   “Is this the bit where you assure us that you know exactly what you are doing?”

   “Something like that,” he replied, pulling on a respirator. He secured his goggles in position, then reached up to the overhead airlock, clambering inside with an effort. As soon as he cracked the upper hatch, the force of the wind almost threw him from his feet, threatening to knock him to the ground. He struggled down the ladder, dropping onto the dry plain, and turned to face the dome, a series of searchlights struggling to fight their way through the gloom.