Battlecruiser Alamo: The Price of Admiralty

by Tongue, Richard

  Corporal Clarke spat at the deck, "Might as well throw our damn tasers away!"

  The ensign looked out over her first field command, and shook her head, "That's enough of that shit, Corporal! Maintain a suppressing fire. Might find an exposed spot."

  "What's the point, Sarge?"

  Hunter looked venom at his subordinate, who looked doubtful for a few seconds, then shook his head, pulled out the fist-sized taser and unleashed a couple of bolts, the rest of his squad following suit. Esposito looked futilely down at her communicator, but she knew that it was jammed before she even tried to contact Alamo. The sergeant gave a hollow laugh, then looked around at the squad, pointing to a few of the younger troopers to get into better cover.

  Periodicly, green bolts shot through the air, none of them hitting the espatiers, but sending them all ducking down even further for cover. One touch by a plasma bolt would be enough to kill a man. A full hit, and it would be impossible to tell that a man was ever there.

  "They've got us nicely pinned down, ma'am. Orders?"

  "What are they waiting for?"

  "Reinforcements, maybe? They'd have a bad time taking us all in hand-to-hand, and if they wanted us dead we'd be floating outside by now. Orders, ma'am?"

  She looked around, desperately trying to find inspiration in the stuff lying on the deck. Briefly, the thought of using one of the grenades entered her mind, but it left just as quickly. Those were strictly for battlefield use only; blowing a hundred-meter gash in the station wouldn't improve their situation much.

  Another bolt slammed dangerously close to the wall. If one of them hit the wrong place, then none of this would matter in any case – they were close enough to the outer hull that a misplaced blast would do more than enough damage. Her eye glanced on the trolleys, one of them half-loaded, the other still loading its cargo.

  "Sergeant, can we run those trolleys remotely?"

  The grizzled veteran grimaced, "That we can, ma'am." He peered over, then ducked down again as another pair of bolts blasted overhead. "But we'd have to get over there to set them to remote operation."

  "So we've got a plan, all we need now is some sort of distraction."

  Back in the shuttle, Orlova looked up at her two pistols again, and then back at the clock. It had been almost half an hour since the troopers left for the storeroom, and logically she should have left twenty minutes ago if she wasn't going to be distracted. Yet she kept thinking about that maze of corridors, kept thinking over her instructions again and again, thinking that they might have been insufficient to get them out again.

  She looked back out at the stars again, reached up to an overhead compartment to pull a battered old cap out, and tucked her hair inside. The pistols went in a worn holster attached to a belt at least four sizes too big for her, holes ripped into the synth-leather. Almost imperceptible on the belt was the logo of the Martian Space Service, the faded lettering reading 'S. R. Orlov, 1st Lieutenant.'

  Securing the hatch behind her, she ran through the corridors, taking short-cuts that would have been too confusing to explain, focused completely on what she might find ahead. A little voice in her head was telling her to run back to the shuttle and escape, to get out of there before the wrong sort of person saw her, but then she smelled a harsh tang in the air. Ozone. Electrical discharges up ahead, and big ones.

  She raced further down the corridor, bringing herself to a skidding halt when she saw six men in the corridor outside the storeroom, all armed with dangerous-looking weapons and well protected from taser fire. While she watched, two of them rose and unleashed a pair of bolts into the room.

  "Do what's right, Maggie," she muttered to herself under her breath, then pulled one of the pistols out of its holster, lined up on the shoulder of one of the guards, and pulled the trigger twice, the antique weapon jerking to the side after each shot.

  Her target dropped to the ground, screaming, his gun rattling to the deck; without waiting for a reaction she ducked back behind the corridor, taking a quick look to see if anyone was following her. Three green bolts flew past her head, slamming into what was mercifully an interior wall, ripping gaping holes into the next compartment – suddenly alarms began to ring down the corridors, screaming of a security alert.

  Hunter and Esposito looked at each other across the cover as they saw the gunman go down, and without even looking back the sergeant jumped over the crate and sprinted towards the trolley, weaving from side to side as another bolt tried to find its mark.

  Purely on instinct, he ran his hand over the controls, flicking a pair of switches and tapping a button, before veering off and diving behind another crate, a second bolt right on his tail. There was a loud crash on the far side, a brief burst of whispered swearing, then a thumbs-up from the sergeant.

  Grabbing her pad, Esposito tapped in a series of commands and sent the trolley running down the corridor. With another brief flash of insight, she snatched a piece of heavy-looking debris about the size of a fist and lobbed it at the enemy with all her strength, yelling, "Grenade!"

  Orlova, outside, saw the tractor running towards the men, breaking their ranks. She took the opportunity for another couple of quick shots, seeing two of them limp off, then saw the remainder hurl themselves to the ground as a piece of debris landed in their midst. She shrugged, figuring that they obviously knew something she didn't. Taking the opportunity, she sprinted forward and grabbed one of the drooped weapons, pointing it at the men on the ground.

  "Drop your weapons, damn it!" she yelled. Then to the troopers inside, "Get out with your stuff right now! Station security will be here any second!"

  Clarke and Voldinski ran out, grabbed two more of the discarded weapons, covering the cowering cretins. The rest of the troopers bundled everything onto the two trolleys and started them down the corridor, heading back the way they came. Esposito was the last one out, looking Orlova up and down with a smile on your face.

  "I thought we had parted company."

  "You and that damn Captain of yours are going to give me a bad reputation. Come on, let's get the hell out of here before anyone else sees me."

  "Which way to the loading docks?"

  Orlova gave a half-laugh. "Follow me and we'll be back at my shuttle in five minutes."

  Chapter 6

  Ensign Esposito and Lance-Sergeant Hunter stood at attention in front of Marshall's desk, while Orlova slouched along a wall. The captain's office was silent enough to have heard a pin drop; he was still looking over the three reports they had submitted, along with the testimony culled by the remainder of the crew.

  The door chimed, and opened to admit a furious-looking Senior Lieutenant Zakharova, who in three paces managed to take a position behind the captain, also standing at attention. Marshall looked up from the datapads, slid them to a side of the desk, and motioned for the assembled to take a seat, then sealed the door.

  He tapped a button. "Weitzman, make sure we aren't disturbed until this meeting is over."

  "Aye, sir."

  He looked around at the four people, with a particular focus on the two espatiers. "To sum these reports, then. Four hours ago I ordered you, Ensign, to launch a covert raid to get back the spare parts that were stolen from this ship over the last forty-eight hours. It was understood that non-lethal weapons only would be used."

  "No-one told me that!" Orlova interrupted, to be the subject of a withering look from Marshall.

  "If I might continue. This low-impact mission started to unravel when your troopers began to engage in wholesale scavenging – yes, I saw the state of their pockets when they slumped back on board – and went further wrong when you came under fire from a group of thugs using plasma rifles.”

  He looked down at the report for effect; he'd got this story memorized, then continued, “By the skin of your teeth, notably the intervention of Ms. Orlova and some impressive acrobatics from Lance-Sergeant Hunter, you somehow overpowered the opposition and got away. Leaving damage to the lower levels of the sta
tion that will cost a hell of a lot more than the parts you reclaimed were worth. Would that be a reasonable assessment?"

  "Hell, Captain, the plasma pistols are more than worth it," the Sergeant said. "Sides, the Ensign did fine her first time out."

  Esposito flashed a look at her sergeant, then back to Marshall. "We were led to expect only minimal resistance. Not fully-trained combat troops. I don't see if there is anything else that we could have done." She glanced at the sergeant again. "But if there is any blame to assign, then as the officer in charge it belongs with me. Though I note that we did accomplish the mission, and would appreciate if you take that into consideration when considering charges."

  Marshall smiled, and shook his head, "Right answer, both of you. Don't worry, there's no consideration of charges here. I'm pretty sure that ordering such a mission would be a wild divergence from Triplanetary Fleet Regulations, if the Rules Committee had finished drawing them up yet. As for the scavenging – Sergeant, I want you to make sure that if they took anything that the ship will find useful that it makes its way into the stores."

  Hunter looked at Esposito for a second, then back at Marshall, his face breaking out into a smile. "Already on it, Skipper."

  Marshall noted that he'd managed to get promoted from 'Captain' to 'Skipper' in record time; evidently he was doing something right. The souring expression on his Executive Officer's face didn't bode well, though.

  "As for the rest of it, what the hell happened? Ms. Orlova, any thoughts?"

  She looked around the room, then made her way from the wall to perch on the side of Marshall's desk before replying, "For Yahweh's sake, call me Maggie. Sounds silly calling me 'Ms. Orlova'." She looked around at the others. "I heard on the grapevine that Alamo was being looked at as a happy hunting ground for scavengers. Most of them went down to that warehouse, I know that much. One of the shuttle pilots who they hired got drunk, made us all mad bragging about the big paycheck he'd got."

  Marshall frowned, "Unusually big for smuggling?"

  "Happens sometimes, usually means that some corporate type doesn't know what the black market's like out here. Doesn't pay to brag, though. Oporto found that out on his way home."

  "What happened to him?" Esposito asked.

  Orlova shrugged. "Someone knifed him and stole his cred-card. Probably had it hacked and the money transferred before the body had got cold. Doesn't pay to brag."

  "And this is Triplanetary Fleet Headquarters," said Hunter. "Might want to send some more of my boys over there to clean the place up, skipper."

  "I might convince the Commodore to take you up on that. For the moment it's still Martian-operated though, which means private contractors." He spat the last two words. "None of which ever go beyond the upper levels, at a guess. Doesn't answer the question, though. Who the hell stole our cargo?"

  Zakharova folded her arms in impatience. "The Lunar Republic, obviously." Everyone in the room looked at her. "Isn't it obvious? Ensign, you found considerable quantities of restricted military-grade equipment in that storeroom. I find it hard to believe that petty thugs would have managed to get their hands on it. Some of the criminal syndicates operating out of Luna, on the other hand, would have the contracts to get their hands on them."

  "What would they have against us?" Esposito asked.

  "I see only two possibilities, none of which are particularly pleasant. Either one of the syndicates has some interest at Lalande 21185 and decided to stop us, or the Lunar Republic itself is in on this. Which could mean we are facing considerable fleet strength when we get out there."

  She started to call up a roster of Lunar FTL-capable forces. It made for disturbingly extensive reading, certainly more than equal to current Triplanetary Forces.

  "If it is the Loonies, then we might be biting off more than we can chew," Marshall said. "We might have to consider this more of a reconnaissance in force than an actual expedition."

  "That might be sensible," the lieutenant agreed.

  Esposito looked at her sergeant again, "I'll get the troopers re-familiarized with current Loonie tactical doctrines. If we're going to be facing them, then we'll have to have some idea what we would be up against."

  "Good idea." Orlova interrupted them with peals of laughter. "Do you have something to add?" Marshall said.

  The young pilot stood back up, making her way over to one of the viewscreens, calling up the inventory images of the recently acquired weapons from the armory. "You're all spinning some elaborate web of intrigue about the Lunar Republic trying to sabotage your very-important mission, whatever the hell it is."

  "It seems a realistic possibility," Zakharova said.

  "Not in a million years. If it was some sort of Lunar Intelligence deal, then the last thing you'd have found in that storeroom would be Loonie weapons. They'd have been Martian, or Terran, or someone else's. Anything to divert you from the scent. All you managed to do was find a load of arms smugglers." She called up the list of components. "Tons of this stuff could be used that way. Even parts for their shuttles, stuff like that."

  Looking across at the young pilot with an air of disbelief, Zakharova said, "When did you go to Staff College, smuggler?" She turned back to Marshall, "Captain, we can't take the risk. This is exactly the sort of shell game the Loonies love to use."

  Marshall nodded, and looked up at his Executive, whose face had become dispassionate again. "Sounds like you might be onto something. Ensign, there's no harm in updating your teams in Lunar operations, but make sure not to focus too tightly on them. Lieutenant Zakharova, I want you to work with Lieutenant Caine and our young friend here to explore the possibility she outlined, just in case. See if you can catch up any leads with Security, though I somehow doubt you'll get anywhere."

  "I know a couple of people who might be able to help you there," Orlova offered, "but it's going to cost you."

  "How much?"

  "My passage out of here, for one thing. It's going to be far too hot on Mariner now, I'll have to move. My shuttle hasn't got the legs to make it to Mars, so if I might hitch a ride."

  "That's the least we can do given the circumstances. Bring your shuttle into the bay for transport, and the Lieutenant can assign you a berth."

  Zakharova looked as if the pilot was something she would otherwise be wiping off the bottom of her shoe, but her voice didn't betray any change of emotion, "Aye, sir."

  "I think that's all for now, then. Dismissed."

  Everyone but Orlova stood to attention and made their way to the door; Zakharova stopped at the threshold, turned back, and took a chair. Marshall looked to see that the others had left the room, then sealed the door once again.

  "Something on your mind, Exec?"

  "May I speak freely?"

  "In this office, when it's just the two of us, always."

  She nodded, pausing for a moment as if to collect her thoughts. "What do you think you were doing? You launched a hit-and-run raid with a damn Espatier Squad, most of whom skipped half of their basic training in the Fleet's hurry to get them out here, under an officer who last month was sitting in Syrtis Tech studying Sociodynamics!”

  “You take your intelligence from a smuggler, then send them off in a shuttle that looks as if it might fall to pieces if you breathe on the wrong part of the hull. But sir, that isn't the worst of it, not by a long shot."

  "And what would that be, Lieutenant?" Marshall's tone darkened.

  "Why was the first I heard of it you calling me in here to sit in on what in all rights should have been the start of at least two court-martials? I had no opportunity to review the notes, no opportunity to look at the case – and damn it all, Captain," her scorn had returned with full fury when spitting out his rank, "as your Executive Officer I should be consulted on decisions such as this.”

  She paused to take a breath, “I am fully aware that sometimes time and security restrictions would prevent that from happening, but I note that Lieutenant Caine was present at the meeting where you ordere
d the Ensign off on this damn fool stunt."

  Marshall looked down at his desk, nodding. Zakharova continued, "Captain, I am well aware that you don't like me much, and that you trust me even less. But either I'm your Executive Officer, in which case I expect to be involved in the command process in preference to your old friends, or I'm off this ship, and you can give the job to your Lieutenant Caine. I deserve a damn sight better than to be treated with such total disregard, Captain."

  He stood, and walked over to look out of the viewport, watching Mariner Station spin in the distance. "I was taught in Command School that a Captain can never admit that he's wrong. I guess I'm breaking the rules once again, because I'm going to admit that you are quite right. I should have had you in on that first meeting, I should have brought in your input, and I should have kept you updated."

  Turning back to face his subordinate, he noted the surprise on her face. "I am the commanding officer of this ship, and mine will be the final decision. I won't always bring you in on command decisions; this is where the buck stops. But in this particular circumstance I should have kept you in the loop."

  The lieutenant narrowed her eyes, "You're agreeing with me?"

  "I'm guessing you were expecting to be packing your bags and transferring command codes to Lieutenant Caine about now."

  She threw a thin smile at him. "Something like that, sir."

  Marshall sat back at his desk. "I'll be honest, Lieutenant, I didn't know if I could trust you."

  Her face turned red with anger, her knuckles white where she gripped the desk, "I will always take whatever action is necessary for the good of the ship. I assure you of that, Captain."

  Nodding, he replied, "If that is so, then we can work together. There may well be something in your suspicions. At the very least we have evidence of a connection between the Lunar Republic and the thieves."

  She frowned, the stress lines on her face deepening, visibly calmer, "It could all be just a coincidence, of course. And Ms. Orlova's explanation was logical enough."