Battlecruiser Alamo: The Price of Admiralty

by Tongue, Richard

  "Thank you, sir. That's appreciated."

  "See you shortly. Alamo out."

  Marshall replaced the headset on the console, clapping Weitzman on the back before heading over to the elevator. Caine rose, blocking his passage, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  "Where are you going, skipper?"

  "I need to speak with Tyler. Call down to Corporal Forrest's men and have them make him ready for me. There are some things I would like to know about what we're facing."

  "Type 19 Frigates. I was just about to tell you – amazingly, when someone other than a mutineer is at the stations, the warbooks work fine."

  "Old missile runners."

  She smiled, "And ones we have good technical breakdowns on. They tried to sell Mars a few of them back in '62."

  "Good. Get a tactical breakdown ready for the senior staff, or what's left of it, to review."

  "On it. Now that you know that, do you really need to see Tyler?"

  He stepped into the elevator, carefully over Dietz's bloodstain. "I need to know how far this one runs. You have the bridge; feel free to shape orbit when ready. Course to the nearest of the two frigates; I want to engage them one at a time if we can."

  The doors closed behind him, leaving him with his thoughts. It had occurred to him that some of the mutineers might have decided to stay hidden in case it failed, to cause a few final acts of sabotage, but he dismissed that one. The fighting had been close enough that anyone Zakharova could have called upon would have been deployed. Stopping at the cargo deck, the elevator opened, and Marshall strode out into the corridor, signs of battle all around. A pair of espatiers saluted him as he approached.

  "At ease. Tyler in there?"

  "On his own, sir. He's been very quiet," one of them replied. "Do you want us in there with you?"

  The captain placed his hand on the butt of a pistol jammed into a pocket, shaking his head, "That won't be necessary, Private. First sound of trouble, you'll come in and nail him. I suspect he knows that."

  A loud clunk echoed across the wall as the door opened. Tyler was sitting in a corner of the room, in front of a few boxes; a bottle of water had been tossed in with him, unopened on the floor, and his hands were still bound by magnetic restraints. An angry bruise was forming on the side of his face; he looked up as the captain walked in, sneering at him.

  "Come to gloat?"

  Marshall shook his head, sitting on a box. "No."

  He gestured at the gun, "Going to finish me off yourself? Those troopers of yours thought about it, I could see it in their eyes."

  "I couldn't blame them if they had. Though I ordered them not to. You're going to face a trial, Tyler. The dead deserve it."

  "We had you fooled, didn't we. You were so caught up with Zak that you didn't suspect anyone else might be involved."

  "And yet here you are, sitting here in restraints." Marshall caught himself for a second, rubbing his hand across his chin before continuing, "I didn't come down here to bandy words with you."

  "Then what did bring you down here?" Tyler replied, spitting on the deck.

  "All of the records from the bridge, as well as testimony from a least half a dozen people, will be entered into the official records. Mutiny remains the only death sentence on the books. You are going to spend an awfully long time in prison, either way, and I hope you never have an inch of freedom again, but if you help me now, I might be willing to recommend clemency."

  Tyler rose to his feet, leaning against the wall, and sneered again, "If you are going up against those two frigates, likely as not I'm a dead man anyway. Two against one, they'll have you for sure."

  "It might not be as simple as that, and you know it." He paused for a second. "My report has the power to sway the court either to the death penalty or life imprisonment. Don't get the idea that anything else is on offer here, because it isn't."

  Spitting on the floor again, Tyler replied, "What do you want to know? I'm sure you'll have guessed most of it by now."

  "How far are those frigate crews going to go? Our surrender, the destruction of Alamo, what?"

  "No witnesses. You got that part right. Everything's been messed up enough that they won't let anyone stay alive to tell about it."

  "Is that the rebels, or your friends from the Lunar Republic?"

  The reply was a burst of snorting laughter, "The rebels might think they're running the show, but they couldn't do a thing without us. They're a century out of date. You've got to deal with Republic crews, Marshall. They won't give in."

  "The rebels think they are in charge, then?"

  "Part of the act. Puppets work better that way."

  "I see." A pause. "I get Zakharova. Frustrated officer, misguided patriotism, that sort of crap. You I don't get. Good service record, your parents both fought in the war. What went wrong in that brain of yours, Tyler?"

  "My parents died so that one bunch of politicians could replace another." He laughed. "If I'm going to die the same way, then I'll be damned if I'll do it for service pay."

  "Just for money, then. Not principles."

  "Nothing personal," Tyler sneered. "Bad for business."

  Marshall stood up and walked out of the room. He turned his head back, "I'll make that report, Tyler."

  "Whatever you want."

  The troopers saluted again as Marshall left the room; he pulled out his communicator and cursed when it didn't activate; presumably Quinn hadn't finished his repairs to the internal communication system. He tried the wall unit instead.

  "Marshall to Weitzman. Put me through to Esposito again."

  "Yes, sir."

  There was a short wait, and a loud series of communication crackles, before he got a reply, "That was faster than I expected, sir."

  "I've got another job for you, and it's damn important. It may well make the difference between life or death in the battle we'll be fighting."

  Resolution filled the young officer's voice, "Whatever it is, Captain, we'll get it done for you."

  "That General you captured, is he fit to talk?"

  "I think so, sir."

  "In exactly one hour and fifty-seven minutes after Alamo breaks orbit, I need him to issue a formal surrender. No guarantees, but it might swing the odds in our favor a little at a critical moment."

  "One hour and...I don't understand, sir."

  "That's fine, Ensign. Just make sure it happens. Alamo out."

  Marshall closed down the communicator, paused for a moment, then stepped back into the elevator, the doors closing behind him. After speaking with Tyler, he felt like he needed to take shower.

  Chapter 25

  The smell from the crater was indescribable; Orlova was extremely grateful for her nose filters, but even they weren't keeping out all of it. Esposito, leaning on an improvised crutch, waved a hand towards her and she made her way down among the rubble, stepping over the casualties.

  Slowly, some order was beginning to come out of the chaos; the espatiers were triaging the wounded based on their limited first-aid training, and a pair of trucks rumbling in the distance heralded medical relief on the way. General Haynes was sitting in a corner, his head buried in his hands; all of his dreams and hopes had been shattered when the transport blew up.

  "What's the count, Gabi?" Orlova asked, military protocol still an alien language to her.

  The young officer looked pained, and it wasn't because of her ankle, "Twenty-nine down here, and two of ours on the ridge line. Almost everyone down here was wounded to one degree or another." She waved her communicator. "Alamo's breaking orbit to hunt down those frigates; they'll be back in five hours."

  "Wish I was up there."

  "I think we've had enough fighting to last a while, don't you? In any case, we've got our marching orders. We need to get the Governor to a summit meeting with the Captain in some sort of defensible neutral ground."

  Orlova gestured towards Coop, who was passing from wounded man to wounded man passing out painkillers, "What about her dom
e?"

  "Hell of a place for a meeting to decide the future of an entire planet," Esposito said, sighing. "I suppose it's probably about as good as we're going to get. Until we get things straightened out walking into one of their main domes would simply be walking into a trap, and the bill to get out of it again would be bloody expensive on both sides."

  "You OK?"

  "No, I'm not. Apparently another nine of my men are dead up there on Alamo." She looked up in the sky, moisture beginning to appear in the corners of her eyes. "I thought this was going to be a magnificent adventure, Maggie. A chance to see strange new worlds at best, boring garrison duty at worst."

  Putting her hands on her hips, the pilot replied, "That's enough. Snap out of it, right now."

  "You're giving me an order?"

  "If that's what it takes. Damn it, Gabi, you've done damn well down here. Look at what we did!"

  "I am. That's the problem." She looked down at the ground, shaking her head.

  "The war on the planet is over, Gabi! A civil war that had been waging for months that would have ended with this planet sold out to the Lunar Republic is done! Once Alamo pops off those two frigates, all we have to do is tie up the loose ends and the battle is over. These people – whether they knew it or not – died for the future of their homeworld."

  Esposito started to walk away, heading towards the ridge line; Orlova followed her. "I didn't do anything. I never did anything. It was Hunter, or Clarke. Or you."

  "That's your god-damned job! I don't know much about this military bullshit except what my dad told me, but even I know that officers command, NCOs do the job. You decide what must be done and they do it. That's how this game works. Fall apart now, and what have they fought for?"

  "Half my command is dead, or close to it, Maggie."

  Orlova's hand whirled through the air, slapping Esposito on the cheek. "Then damn it, do better next time! Don't give up and collapse into a bundle of tears and self-pity. All of them died doing their job, doing their duty, and doing exactly what they wanted to do. If you'd told them all that they were going to die before the fight they'd have still gone anyway. That's what marines – and hell, espatiers – do."

  Rubbing her hand across her cheek where the red mark was still visible, she replied, "I could have you court-martialed for that."

  "Feel free." The pilot turned away, then continued, "Don't we have some sort of a mission to complete for the Captain?"

  The two trucks rumbled into the crater and stopped; half a dozen people wearing white coats jumped out and started making for the wounded while the drivers started to unload medical equipment. One of them stopped and saluted as another man, tall and wearing well-fitting winter camouflage, stepped out of the first truck, shaking his head. He spoke to one of the troopers, then made his way over to Esposito and Orlova.

  "Are you in command of this nightmare?" he asked Esposito.

  She looked him up and down, "Who wants to know?"

  "The Governor of Ragnarok wants to know," he snarled. "Fifteen dead members of the Planetary Guard want to know, not to mention the dead rebels. What do you think you were doing?"

  "My job. If you'd turned over the freighter crew when we arrived, Alamo would be on its way home right now and you could deal with this in your own way."

  Looking around the devastation, he shook his head, "I ought to order them all shot, but it wouldn't bring back the dead. You do realize that the whole population is on a knife-edge right now. I've had to declare martial law just to keep essential services operating."

  Coop seemed to prick her ears up at this, and began to make her way quietly over to the group, being careful to remain out of sight of the Governor.

  "Damn it, if we'd let these weapons land, the rebels would have blown your butts off the planet. Then turned it over to the Lunar Republic on a silver platter. Would you have preferred that, Governor?" Orlova said. "Your people didn't seem to be getting the job done."

  "What do you want, a medal and a parade?" He sighed, "This has just about tied up our critical care capacity. I really don't want to do this, but I need to request the use of your ship's medical facilities. I am aware that they are significantly more advanced than anything we have on Ragnarok.

  The two of them looked at each other, before Esposito replied, "I'm afraid the medical facilities on Alamo aren't available. The ship has recently experienced battle damage leading to casualties."

  His face downcast, the Governor nodded, "I see."

  "My people will commit themselves to helping with the wounded in any way possible. I have a request for you myself."

  He threw out a hollow laugh, then replied, "And what would that be?"

  "Captain Marshall would like to meet with you on neutral soil in order to discuss the future of Ragnarok. He feels that there are urgent matters for you to discuss now that the rebellion is effectively over."

  "You will forgive me for not being immediately willing to meet with your Captain. How about I just turn over the freighter crews and you get off this rock. If I had a choice, you'd all be under arrest right now, but I don't."

  The Governor walked back to the truck, looking around at the casualties, dazed by the devastation, and sat in the cab. One of the drivers passed him a communicator, saying something quietly into his ear. Coop followed him, again cautiously, not deliberately attempting to be stealthy, but not attracting attention either. Orlova looked at Esposito.

  "At least we get our people back," she said.

  "Why do I still get the feeling that we've failed," Esposito replied. "Let's try the General. I'd like to accomplish at least half of my mission today."

  Walking over to the far corner of the crater, they looked down at the old man, now weeping into his arms. He hadn't noticed their approach at all; Esposito hadn't bothered to put a guard on him, thinking that they had greater priorities to concern themselves with. Orlova tapped him on the shoulder, but he didn't respond, instead slowly rocking back and forward.

  "General?" Esposito said. "We need to speak with you."

  "Leave me alone. And don't call me General. I have no army now."

  Orlova looked at Esposito, then sat down next to the General, "You still have two ships in orbit, General. We need to stop the bloodshed up there, or a lot more people are going to get killed."

  "It's meaningless, don't you see? I knew that the Lunar Republic would have designs on Ragnarok, I knew that damn well. With a strong enough army and a people unified under a strong democratic government, we could have pushed them back again. Kept what was ours."

  "Until you formally surrender, General, this war is going to go on," Esposito said.

  Frowning for a moment, Orlova put her hand on his shoulder, "General, if it would help – surrender to us, not to the Governor. We can guarantee amnesty for any of your men that require it. Safe passage off the planet if they need it, in case you are afraid of reprisals. Citizenship in the Triplanetary Confederation." She paused for a moment, then finished, "A new life, General."

  Esposito was flashing daggers at the pilot, but the General looked up at her, "I'd be giving them a chance, at least. Freedom instead of slavery. Their families?"

  "Those as well, sir."

  He looked up, and nodded. "I accept. Give me a minute to prepare, and I'll record a statement of surrender you can broadcast." He grabbed Orlova by the wrist, like a drowning man clutching a straw, "All I ever wanted was the best for my people, and for this world. Do you believe that? Do you?"

  "I do, General. We'll be back in a moment."

  She stood up, walking over to the side, Esposito hurriedly walking past her. "What the hell was that," she whispered. "We haven't got authorization for any of that, and you don't even know how many people he's talking about!"

  "You saw the man. He needed an out, and we gave it to him. Most of his people will probably stay anyway; we're probably talking about an old man and his family."

  "I suppose so. You could have asked."

  Orlova h
esitated for a second, "That was spur of the moment. It just seemed like the thing to do."

  A loud cough surprised the two of them, and they turned to see the Governor standing behind them, his pomp returned, his driver standing next to him with his sidearm drawn. Coop was standing quietly behind him, her hand likewise on its weapon.

  "Have you changed your mind about meeting the Captain, Governor?" Esposito asked.

  "Our orbital monitors just reported that Alamo has moved out of orbit. Shaping towards one of the incoming rebel frigates. As I suspect that your ship is about to cease to be a factor in planetary affairs, I can now inform you that you are both under arrest."

  Sighing, Orlova asked, "On what charges?"

  "I'm sure we'll think of something. That's what lawyers are for, after all. And under the martial law declaration, it'll be a firing squad for the two of you. Don't think about trying to escape; my people have you well covered and protected."

  "This is stupid," Coop said, breaking silence for the first time. "Isaac, you're just embarrassed that these people solved a problem that you couldn't. You can't run a colony like you did a ship. Nammy understood that."

  "Stay out of this. This is official government business, and as I recall, you retired at that meeting."

  "Because I didn't foresee what a disaster you'd end up being." Fury flashed across the Governor's face. "This needs ending, not escalating. Unless you want a Triplanetary task force turning up."

  He turned back to Orlova and Esposito, "That won't happen. I hold too many trump cards."

  "What rank are you, again?" Coop's question took the Governor by surprise.

  "Wing Commander. I'm not the sort of person who promotes himself," he replied, gesturing at the General.

  "And under the declaration of martial law, all reserve personnel are recalled to active duty."

  An exasperated sigh, "Yes."

  "Fine." She turned to the driver. "Put that stupid gun away, and tell anyone else on their way out here that our mission is disaster relief, not search and seizure. Get on the horn to wherever the freighter crews are being held and instruct they are released; if any of them are medical personnel I want them out here on the double."