Battlecruiser Alamo: Triple-Edged Sword

by Richard Tongue

   A smile spread across her face, and she said, “I see that everything I've heard about you is true.” Shaking her head, she continued, “I'll have to keep an eye on you, Sub-Lieutenant. And if you ever want to change career tracks, I suspect you'll have plenty of offers. If it puts your mind at ease, I assure you that everything I told you is true.”

   “That doesn't necessarily change a thing,” he said. “All that means is that you've made certain the cover story will hold.”

   With a shrug, she replied, “I like you, Sub-Lieutenant. Keep hold of that paranoia. It might save your life some day.”

  Chapter 2

   Orlova looked down at the stack of datapads on her desk, shaking her head as she thumbed through the latest report, Bradley's voluminous essay on the status of her shuttles, with a not-so-implicit criticism of the way in which they'd overloaded the flight deck. Eight shuttles in a space meant for five wasn't going to be easy to handle by any stretch of the imagination, but experience suggested that it was not likely to be a problem for long.

   There was a knock on the door, and Senior Lieutenant Frank Nelyubov, her Executive Officer, stepped into the room, holding another datapad in his hands. When he looked down at the mess on her desk, he shook his head, taking a seat opposite her, hugging the pad to his chest.

   “I guess the flight out here was a bit boring, wasn't it,” he said.

   “Every department head seems to have decided to keep their people occupied with busy-work,” she replied. “I'd have no objection if they didn't expect me to read all of it. I swear Bradley's managed ten thousand words here.”

   “I'll wait for the movie,” Nelyubov replied. “Do you want me to give my report verbally?”

   “Definitely,” she replied, dropping the datapad to the desk and sitting back in her chair. She rubbed her eyes, then said, “Twenty minutes left until emergence, right?”

   “Just about,” he said. “Everyone's already on stand-by alert.”

   “Good,” she said. “Well, what's the bad news?”

   “There's a lot of reports about the bridge crew and senior enlisted that boil down to everything you already know. We've got a lot of experienced hands at those levels, all performing as expected, though I want to work harder on a program of cross-training.”

   Orlova chuckled, and as his face reddened, said, “Sorry, Frank. I said the same thing myself when Captain Marshall named me Operations Officer, and I'm pretty sure my predecessor had the same idea. It's one of those great ideas that we never seem to have the time to get to, but if you can find a way to manage it, I'll cheer you on.”

   “I know, I know. The duty schedules are tight enough as it is, but I think we need to at least get one paramedic on each bridge shift. We've finished the rotation to the new bridge watch system, and I don't think there's anything to adjust at the moment.” Looking up from the screen, he said, “You want me to get to the bigger problems, don't you?”

   “The mid-ranks.”

   “We're weak there, and I think we both know it. The last couple of missions thinned us out, and the latest round of promotions rather finished the job. Not that I'm complaining, don't get me wrong, but I'm slightly concerned that as things stand at the moment, Harper is the most senior Lieutenant we have on the ship. Making her, God help us, fifth in what passes for the chain of command.”

   Shaking her head, Orlova said, “She'd pass it onto the next in line.”

   “Which is Lieutenant Cantrell, and there I have even more qualms.”

   “Problems?”

   Frowning, he replied, “Nothing I can quite put my finger on, I'm afraid. She's performed well enough in the battle simulations that I'm willing to trust her with Tactical. It isn't exactly a large department to manage, but I don't like the way she came on board.”

   “Keep an eye on her,” she said. “We'll make sure that you are always on the bridge in battle. Not exactly normal procedure, but Joe Kibaki can stand-by in Auxiliary Control instead. With the layout we have now, if we lose the bridge, I don't think we'd have much of a chance anyway.”

   “That's another problem,” he said. “Lieutenant Kibaki is a good man, but he's a little passive to be a department head. I'm going to have to do a lot of the heavy lifting there, I think.” He paused, then said, “I take it you're considering him as a placeholder.”

   Nodding, she replied, “That's vaguely my idea, yes. He's perfectly capable of the day-to-day work as long as there is someone to give him the big picture stuff, and there's no more experienced watch officer in the Fleet. It boiled down that he either had to accept a promotion or leave the service, and it actually took me quite a while to talk him into staying.”

   “Just so you know that we have a bit of a weak spot there.”

   “What about Powell?”

   With a deep sigh, Nelyubov said, “The Anti-Kibaki. Combining Astrogation and Science was logical enough when Lieutenant Carpenter moved on, but he's really pushing. A lot of the people he brought on board don't have any deep space experience at all, and to hear them talk, we're on a purely science mission.”

   “I wish we were,” she replied.

   “So do I, but we're on a military reconnaissance mission, and science has to come second. Though I have a feeling that he worked out our course to make sure that we had some interesting times along the way. He's not being shy about head-hunting from other departments, as well. I've had to referee a few bouts with Jack Quinn over the last week or so, especially with the new personnel. I think we're in a state of aggressive neutrality at the moment.”

   “Marshall kept on expanding Quinn's little empire,” Orlova said. “Computer Security, Maintenance, Engineering. I think he was considering dumping the shuttles under his direction as well.”

   “I'd suggest breaking it up a little,” Nelyubov said. “We've got a couple of Sub-Lieutenants who can take on a reformed Maintenance department, for a start. Reporting to Quinn. It's not that I think he can't handle the load he has at the moment, but I think we need to open up the org chart.” Glancing down at his datapad, he added, “Salazar, Duquesne, Bradley all seem fine. As does what passes for Harper's department, but she's only got a couple of people working for her.”

   “I'm surprised Doctor Duquesne let you look over her department without a fight,” Orlova said, trying to suppress a smile.

   “Who said she didn't? Still, she runs Medical pretty well, I've got to admit. And she's happy to train more paramedics for us. Gave me a list of half a dozen she'd recommend.”

   “To put it briefly,” Orlova said, “You want to reshape two major departments, and you aren't happy with the chain of commander under, where, Powell?”

   With a nod, he replied, “He doesn't want it, but if the worst happened, I'm pretty sure he could command the ship. He has been an Executive Officer in the past, though only for a few weeks. Below that, well, Jack would probably get the ship home, but I'd be nervous if we had to go that far down.” A smile crept across his face as he added, “Of course, this isn't really our problem. If we're worrying about them taking command, the two of us are almost certainly dead.”

   “I think we can shelve that one for a while,” Orlova said. “Though perhaps giving Cantrell a little bridge time might not be a bad idea. See what she can do. If she's serious about switching to the regular Fleet. I'd like to see if we can arrange something for Bradley, as well, and maybe Salazar.” She looked around, then said, “All of this seems so damn weird, Frank.”

   “Oh?”

   “Commanding a ship. And not just for a few days or weeks, keeping the seat warm for someone else. Every time I go into my cabin, I feel like I'm intruding. Captain Marshall's quarters, Captain Marshall's desk.” She paused, then added, “Captain Marshall's ship.”

   “Well, Captain Marshall is now Commodore Marshall, and this is Captain Orlova's ship. Hell, you think you've got it bad. Two years I've served on Alamo, and this is th
e first time I actually have a permanent assignment. Acting Security, Acting Tactical, Acting Operations. About the only job I haven't covered is Ship's Cook.”

   “If you want a transfer...”

   “God, no.” He looked across at her, and said, “All I'm trying to tell you is that I know exactly what you are going through.”

   Shaking her head, she said, “This isn't like Phaeton. A year out in deep space, without support, no logistic reinforcement, vague sailing orders...”

   “And a crew that both knows you and trusts you,” Nelyubov said. “You've even done this before, on Hercules. Your instincts are good, Maggie. All you have to do is listen to them.”

   A light on her desk flashed, and she tapped the control next to it, saying, “Captain here. Go ahead.”

   “Five minutes until emergence,” Cantrell said. “I've already called Senior Lieutenant Powell as well, and Lieutenant Kibaki is standing by in Auxiliary Control.”

   “Very good,” she replied. “Bring the ship to battle stations. I'm on my way.”

   “Aye, ma'am.” Sirens began to sound as Orlova rose to her feet, stepping around her desk, with one last glance at the chair behind it.

   “Coming, Frank?” she asked.

   “Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

   They stepped out onto the bridge, a hive of activity as the duty crew raced to bring their systems to battle readiness, running through long checklists, flicking switches and tapping buttons. Orlova stepped to the central holotable, Nelyubov already starting to bring up what little they knew of the system they were approaching, and she looked from station to station, watching the crew at their posts. Spinelli at sensors, Weitzman at communications, both long-standing veterans.

   Petty Officer Erickson stood over the shoulder of the newest member of the crew, Senior Spaceman Mackenzie, promoted to the bridge after impressing Senior Lieutenant Quinn, on his way to command of a damage control team. Forward, Cantrell and Harper were hastily bringing the tactical systems on-line, the occasional glance between them betraying barely-concealed mistrust.

   At the front of the bridge, Sub-Lieutenant Foster sat at the helm, running her hands over her controls, the only crewman not reacting to the alert. She'd already set up for the return to normal space, and until they re-entered their home dimension, there was nothing she could do except wait.

   “You have the call,” Orlova said, moving to stand behind her.

   Glancing up, Foster replied, “Aye, ma'am. I have the call.”

   “All decks are at battle readiness,” Nelyubov said. “Two minutes, thirty seconds. Not bad.”

   “Let's hope it is an unnecessary precaution,” Orlova said. “Spinelli, I want a full sensor sweep as soon as we arrive. We know next-to-nothing about this system, so make sure to make it comprehensive.”

   “Aye, ma'am.”

   “That isn't exactly true,” a new voice said, the gray-haired Powell stepping through the elevator door onto the bridge. “The Sentinel Quarter-Mile Scope took a good look at this system forty years ago, and we still have all of that data. If it is even remotely accurate, we'll be emerging at a double planet.” Rubbing his hands together, he said, “Should be very interesting. I've already prepared a probe deployment schedule, and I'll be wanting to arrange landing parties as soon as possible.”

   “One thing at a time, Professor,” Nelyubov said. “The natives might be hostile.”

   “Thirty seconds to egress,” Foster said. “Anything I need to know about?”

   “Only that there are lots of points of stability here,” Powell said. “More than a dozen moons large enough to trigger them, orbiting a common center of gravity.”

   “Ten seconds,” Foster said. “Five. Four. Three. Two. One.”

   With a blinding blue flash, Alamo raced back into normal space, sliding through the dimensional portal into the unexplored system. The viewscreen flicked on, a planet appearing dead-center, a sea of green and ocher swirls in a tempestuous atmosphere. The tactical display winked on, the ship struggling to incorporate the new data to its projections. Over to the right, there was a second world, far more hospitable, greens, blues and browns, huge ice caps reaching down well towards the equator. Beyond, a series of small moons, some large enough to show up as spheres on the screen, others barely large enough to register on the sensor display.

   “Threat warning!” Spinelli yelled. “Two incoming craft, engaged in battle.”

   “Are you sure?” Nelyubov asked.

   “Missiles in flight, half a dozen of them, and a shuttle that looks a little like a Republic boarding shuttle. Similar profile. Heading directly to the other craft.”

   Turning to the desk, Orlova said, “Let's take a look. Put them up on the monitor. Foster, prepare an intercept course, but don't do anything to implement it yet.”

   Images of the two ships flashed up on the holodisplay, slowly revolving, the details growing sharper and more defined as the sensors gathered data on their targets. The first ship was obviously utilitarian, though with wings that suggested that it was atmosphere-capable. Blocky, with twin engines at the rear, it looked a little like a scaled-up version of a heavy transport shuttle.

   The other, the attacking ship, was beautiful. Thin, spindly arms connected to a huge solar sail, constant adjustments to keep it on course, pinpoint thrusters to orient it. It looked as though a spider was latched onto its web, being tossed across the void. The missiles it was firing were slender, small-yield warheads, lancing across space towards their target.

   “Neither are any threat to Alamo,” Cantrell said. “I see four missile tubes on the attacking craft, and no sign of any defensive systems at all on the other one, though their pilot is obviously doing his best to dodge.” Shaking her head, she added, “I've never seen a solar sail craft of that size before. Seems an odd choice for an aggressive vessel.”

   “Not necessarily,” Powell replied. “They could be guided to their position with lasers. Basically, they've left their engine at home.”

   “Later,” Orlova said. “Any activity from either craft?” She looked back at the tactical display, watching the assault shuttle as it closed the remaining distance towards the craft. In a few moments, any decision she would make would be moot.

   Weitzman turned, then said, “We're getting a signal from the unarmed craft, ma'am. In English.”

   “Another lost colony?” Nelyubov asked. “Or have they met people from Earth before?”

   “Put them on.”

   “Audio only,” Weitzman said, flicking a switch. A loud crackle erupted over the ceiling speaks, drowning everything else out, as he struggled to strengthen the signal. “Got it, ma'am.”

   “This is Freighter Twenty-Two to unidentified vessel. We call for your assistance against the pirates that seek our destruction. We are a civilian craft on our way to pick up supplies vital for our survival. Thousands will die if we are delayed.”

   Nelyubov frowned, and said, “We can sit this one out, Captain. Until we know what the situation is in this system, that might be the safest course.”

   “And watch an unarmed ship be destroyed?” she replied. “I can't do it.” Strapping on a headset, she said, “This is Lieutenant-Captain Margaret Orlova of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo. We stand ready to assist you. Try and keep clear of the missiles for a couple of minutes.”

   “We'll do what we can,” the voice, audibly relieved, replied. “Twenty-Two out.”

   “Take us into the fire,” Orlova said. “Extend radiators and stand-by for a laser blast. Cantrell, how long before we're in firing range?”

   “Sixty-nine seconds,” she replied. “If we knock out the sail, they won't be a threat any more. Should be an easy kill.”

   Spinelli frowned, and said, “That will put them into a high orbit. They don't have escape velocity from the larger of the two planets.” He nodded, and said, “They'll be retrievable without
too much trouble.”

   “Hail them, Weitzman. Warn them off. And Cantrell, I want a warning shot before we do any serious damage to them.”

   “Understood,” she said. “I'll send some missiles their way. Give them some fun.”

   Orlova looked at the tactical display, watching the action unfold. The transport was curving around, heading towards them, and the pirate ship was doing its best to follow, swinging around in their direction, still throwing their missiles out. The reload rate was impressive, far faster than Alamo, enough that she doubted they had combat fabricators on board. More likely they were using an arsenal, but in a short engagement, that could be a serious advantage.

   “I can't get through, ma'am,” Weitzman said. “I don't think they're listening.”

   “Let's try a different sort of language, then,” Orlova said. “Fire at will, Cantrell.”

   “Aye,” she said, tapping a series of controls. Alamo rocked back as half a dozen missiles, a complete salvo, raced away towards the enemy craft, their course demonstrating more acrobatics than strictly necessary, as though Cantrell was a salesman trying to convince a client to make a purchase. Nelyubov looked at the display, frowning for a second, before his eyes widened and he raced for the helm.

   “Evasive, now! Lateral thrust!”

   Foster's hands obeyed his command while her eyes were still questioning it, and Alamo soared up, reaching for a new trajectory, sliding away from the enemy craft. Before Orlova could ask him what he was doing, a brief pinprick of light lanced forward from some distant point, narrowly missing Alamo, catching the enemy craft on its sail. Alamo could only sustain a burst like that for a short time, a few milliseconds, but this was sustained, and the pirate ship began to accelerate, moving away from the two ships.

   “Lower power than Alamo,” Nelyubov said, turning back towards Orlova. “It'd still do serious damage if it hit us.”

   “Can we damage it with the laser?” Foster asked. “If it's reflecting...”