Battlecruiser Alamo: Triple-Edged Sword

by Richard Tongue

   Pausing at a hatch, the technician worked a control, pulling out two boxes of green and red paste, passing one across to Cooper along with a spoon. He dug into the crumbling food, taking a small scoop and carefully tasting it. It took all his self-control not to spit it out onto the deck, but instead he passed it back to the technician, who gave them to the nearest passer-by.

   “That's what we eat, twice a day. Apparently it contains all the nutrients and elements needed to sustain life. Except that it used to be three times a day, and the containers were larger. Every few cycles, they cut the ration.” He shook his head, and added, “I'm more fortunate than most, and I know it. Those not working in critical occupations only get to eat once a day.” Stepping down the corridor, he paused at a door, pushing it open for Cooper to look inside.

   Within was a large room, a flickering picture of a green forest, children dancing through the trees, while a silent audience watched, some of them taking scoops of food, lying on couches. All of them wore the same gray uniform, none showing a trace of emotion, or even interest in the people watching them.

   “They're on the edge of starvation,” he said. “All they have the energy to do is just lie there. Back when I was a kid, those viewrooms were full of life, music, song. Now all they show are the same bland pictures, from back before the Cataclysm, over and over again.” Stepping out of the room, he said, “It gets worse, Ensign. I hope you have a strong stomach.”

   “Is this because of the lost shipment?” he asked. “The transport that was hijacked.”

   “If you believe the Council, everything is the fault of the pirates, our ancient enemies. They've stolen our crops, our water, our resources. I don't believe it, not any more.”

   He followed the technician down the corridor to a hatch, which reluctantly slid open to reveal a shaft heading down into total darkness, rusty rungs attached to the wall. Without a second glance, the technician slid down onto the ladder, climbing into the Stygian gloom, and after a moment, Cooper followed, waiting with each step for the rung to collapse beneath him, sending him tumbling into infinity.

   Gradually, his eyes adapted to the lack of light, and he could make out signs of age and decay everywhere. Evidently even the most basic maintenance hadn't been applied here for years, maybe decades. At one point, he felt a breeze passing across his face, and ran his hand across the wall, finding a narrow crack that led to the outside air. Shaking his head, he continued down, until finally the technician stopped, swinging out through another hatch onto the deck.

   He dropped into another corridor, only a couple of faint lights shining, with a half-open door at the end through which he could hear groans of despair. The technician stepped forward, pushing open the hatch, and Cooper stepped out to find himself in a large, bare room, filled with people as far as he could see. The technician shone the torch around, shining the beam into pale faces, many of them deformed.

   “The legacy of our glorious ancestors,” the technician said. “I guess they didn't tell you about this.”

   “What happened here?”

   “Four hundred years of inbreeding. Four hundred years of the same few families. Most of the population has some sort of defect or another, though with most of us, it doesn't show. When a child is born that doesn't match what the Council deems acceptable, they usually seem to end up down here.” Turning off the light, he shook his head. “No food rations officially make it down here, and certainly no medical supplies. Some of us are willing to do more about it, but there's only so much we can organize without anyone finding them.”

   “What would happen if they did?”

   “Most of these people are meant to be dead, Ensign. I suspect that the Council would opt to make certain that their records were suitably accurate, one way or another.”

   Another man stepped forward, an empty bag in his hands, passing a box to a waiting pair of hands. As he stepped into the light, Cooper saw the familiar guard uniform, and nodded.

   “Trant.”

   “Ironic, isn't it. Officially, if I reported this, I'd get a promotion and orders to clean this up. Instead I've started to organize it.” Looking around, he said, “We've managed to make quite a chamber of horrors, haven't we. There are a dozen other places like this I could have shown you, lairs where we hide the undesirable so that we don't have to look at them.”

   “It's hard to believe.”

   “Oh, the Council has plans to end the genetic problem. We don't know what they have in mind, something down on Arcadia. All I do know is that no deformed child has been born to a Council member, or anyone in the upper echelons, for three generations. My guess is that they're hoping their offspring will inherit everything.” Shaking his head, he said, “Look around, Ensign. This is our future.”

   “Who else knows about this?”

   With a thin smile, he said, “Yorax suspects, but I've made sure to keep him out of it. As things stand at the moment, he's the only realistic hope of any change, though I think I've almost given up on the idea that we can ever improve on this.”

   “And it's getting worse?”

   “Birth defects are rising exponentially, now. Not that the statistics are generally available. Why do you think the Council is still keeping all the women buried away where they can't be seen? Childbirth is something to be feared, here. If the general population knew what was going on, they might decide that the status quo was no longer in their best interests, and that they should do something about it.”

   “If you feel that way, why not tell them? If Security is behind it...”

   “Not everyone is. Enough that we might have a chance of overthrowing the Council, perhaps, but what happens next? What do we replace it with?” Shaking his head, he said, “I didn't bring you down here to offer you any solutions, Ensign, because I simply don't have any to give. Skybase is falling apart, and its people with it.”

   “There must be an answer,” Cooper replied. “You can't just give up and let this happen.”

   “We aren't,” the technician said. “The fact of the matter is that resources are scarce, and growing fewer. Even if we had the replacement components we need, there are only so many times that you can repair equipment before it wears out. I found an old manual a year ago, that outlined that this station had an estimated lifetime of a century.” With a barking laugh, he added, “It was built thirty years before the Cataclysm. A last enclave of our once-proud race.”

   “Officially, no-one is going to ask for your help, Ensign,” Trant said. “I don't know whether the Council are simply refusing to admit reality, or whether they have some sort of contingency plan that they don't intend anyone else to be a part of, but the fact remains that this situation cannot last forever. If matters get much worse, then I'll have to take some sort of action, but I've read enough history to know that violent revolutions rarely end well.”

   “Tell your people about all of this,” the technician said, passing him a data crystal. “That's all the data that we've gathered over the last decade. Everything we've dug out of the archives, usually without the knowledge of the Council. We need you to find a way out of this, or before long, all of us will die.”

   “I'll do what I can,” Cooper said. “Whatever that might be. I can't make any promises, and I can't speak for the Captain, but I'll pass all of this on, and tell them what I have seen.”

   “That's all we ask,” Trant said. “At this stage even that is more hope than any of us have had in a very long while.”

   “We'd better get him back to the waiting area,” the technician said. “Sooner or later someone's going to miss him, and that could lead to a lot of awkward questions.”

   “I can probably find my own way back up,” Cooper said. “There's no need for you to risk yourself any further. If anyone spots me, I'll just say I decided to go for a walk. I doubt anyone will question it.”

   “You might be surprised,” Trant replied. “Though with a
squad of your troopers waiting for you, they won't detain you for long. One more thing. Be careful of Naxos. The man is a creature of the Council, and while I think he is an aggressive fool, he's a crack shot and good at his job. When the last Director was killed, he almost got the job. Would have, if he hadn't pushed for it too hard. I think some of the politicians are regretting not giving it to him.”

   Nodding, Cooper replied, “I'll be careful.” He pulled his datapad out of his pocket, running the camera across the room, saving the information for the next transmission to Alamo, before turning back to the corridor, beginning the long climb up to the familiar levels, a hundred pairs of eyes watching him as he went.

   No-one was waiting for him at the top, and discarding his borrowed uniform, he made his way along the corridors, careful to follow the twists and turns that the technician had guided him through, picking up a brisk pace. As he returned to the maintained section of the level, a frowning Naxos waited for him, arms crossed, two of his guards standing behind him.

   “I thought you were in a hurry,” he said. “Where have you been?”

   “Trying to find a working toilet,” he replied. “That, and I wanted to have a look around without one of you shadowing me.”

   A dark glare swept across the guard's face, but before he could say anything else, Hunt walked down the corridor behind him, his hand ostentatiously on his pistol.

   “We're all ready, boss. Everyone else is on board, and I've had all of our kit transferred.”

   “Good work, Corporal,” Cooper replied, pushing past Naxos. “I'm coming.”

   As he walked down the corridor, Naxos followed him, the scowl still locked on his face, all the way to the transport. No matter how hard he tried, Cooper couldn't get the image of those people in the room out of his mind. Something had to be done for them. Something.

  Chapter 10

   The detention area was cold and dark, only illuminated by a single, pale green light in the ceiling, casting an eerie glow across the room. Evidently the sailship was used to accommodating involuntary passengers. Over the door, a larger version of the nerve gun covered the room, positioned to knock out everyone at once if necessary. From the water tap on the wall came a perpetual drip, counting away the seconds, a stain slowly spreading across the floor.

   One by one, everyone had been taken from the room, the crew of the Twenty-Two being taken away, until only Salazar and Harper remained. He had no way of telling the time, all his equipment confiscated in the search when they were brought on board, and it could just as easily have been hours or days. A box of foul-smelling rations sat in a corner, though no-one had been willing to sample them as yet.

   Rising to his feet, he walked around the room, looking up at the gun over the door. From what he had seen of this culture thus far, there seemed a good chance that it was non-functional, a threat that could not be deployed, but he didn't want to take the risk unless he found some other way out. For the third time he stalked around the room, looking for a weak spot, some gap in their defenses.

   “Give it up, Gabe,” Harper said.

   “That isn't like you.”

   “No terminal, no lock, and an air vent the size of a datarod. Sometimes there just isn't a way out.” She paused, then continued, “Alamo got the message. By now help is on the way. They won't abandon us.”

   “That doesn't mean we shouldn't try to escape.”

   “Unless you managed to smuggle in some cutters, I don't see how you are going to get through the bulkhead. We must be going somewhere, and perhaps the security there will be less restrictive.”

   With a rumble, the door opened, Tarak standing at the threshold, a gun pointed at Salazar's chest. Behind him, another man stood waving a pair of manacles, dangling them back and forth, and the pilot stepped forward to allow him to attach them to Salazar's wrists, locking them with a click. Salazar tugged, trying to ease his hands out of them, but they were far too tight, solid metal.

   “Don't bother,” the guard said. “You''ll just rub the skin off your wrists, and we're still going to make you work anyway. They'll be taken off when we get to the interrogation room. Now move.”

   Tarak gestured with his gun, and with a quick glance at Harper, Salazar walked down the corridor, bouncing with every step under the light acceleration. This ship looked different to the others, far more alien and strange, as though a completely different design mentality had been employed. Everything was light, designed to save weight, and control surfaces were few and far between.

   The guard pushed him through the third door on the right, which dilated to let him through, revealing a metal desk with a red-haired woman sitting behind it, wearing a shapeless brown uniform, writing scrawled on her shoulder. She looked up and glanced at the guard, who tapped the release to unlock the manacles, then gave Salazar another push into the room, the door closing behind him.

   “You speak English, I presume,” she said. “An officer of the Triplanetary Fleet. This will be something new.” Looking up, she added, “Are we going to have an easy time today, or are you going to make this a lot harder than it has to be?”

   “That depends on you,” he said, taking a seat. “For the record, I am Sub-Lieutenant Pavel Salazar, and according to the rules of war, that's all you get to know.”

   “My name is Valya, if that helps. Among other things, my responsibility is personnel processing, especially with new members of our society.”

   Folding his arms, Salazar said, “Let's get right to the heart of the matter. The most powerful ship in this system is on the way, and will be working to free both Harper and myself at the first opportunity. Why not speed that process?”

   “As it happens, Alamo has changed course, and is no longer heading to intercept this ship.”

   With a smile, Salazar said, “Which means nothing in the long-term. Naturally Captain Orlova will be rescuing the rest of my people first. That's exactly what I would want her to do.” Leaning forward, he added, “I repeat, you've antagonized the most powerful ship in the system. What are you planning to do about it?”

   “I gather you are a trained pilot,” she said, glancing down at her notes. “Do you have any other skills that we might find useful? Engineering, perhaps, or computer systems design? Ultimately, if we can't find anywhere else to put you, it'll be resource extraction, and I fear that your life expectancy will be considerably reduced.”

   Pausing, Salazar said, “I'll make a deal with you.”

   “I'm listening.”

   “You don't seriously think that you're going to get any useful information out of me, do you? I had some excellent training to resist interrogation techniques, and I'm certain you've guessed that. I suppose you could try and force information from me, but if you have any experience at all, you'll know that anything you extract in such a manner isn't reliable. Nor do you plan on putting me to work, not in any sort of risky situation. I'm too useful as a hostage and we both know it.”

   “Then what do you have in mind, Sub-Lieutenant?”

   “Best case, you contact Alamo and offer to release me. Triplanetary policy does not permit negotiation in such circumstances, but I suspect that Captain Orlova would be willing to write this incident off as a simple misunderstanding.”

   “Not going to happen.”

   With a smile, he said, “You'll have to forgive me. I'm an incurable optimist. In that case, let's talk. Not an interrogation, but just talk. We don't know anything about your culture, anything about your problems, and it's possible that we might be able to help.”

   “Help us? I thought you didn't negotiate with kidnappers.”

   “We do help those in need.” Looking around the room, he said, “I don't see any United Nations technology, for example. The Twenty-Two was littered with it.”

   Shaking her head, she replied, “You're serious about this, aren't you?”

   With a nod, he said, “This is the only way you'
re going to get any useful information out of me. How long has this pointless conflict been going on?”

   “Since the Cataclysm,” she said. “The Council had the bulk of the resources, and demanded that everyone bow down before them, submit to their will.” Shaking her head, she said, “Our freedom is far too important to us for that, but when they seized our outer colonies...”

   “Those were yours?”

   “Oh, yes. Originally the Council only controlled Skybase and a few space stations. Over the years, those have all been cannibalized. They did have a larger space fleet, and they used it to grab critical installations, leaving us to scavenge over the leavings. When Wayfarer arrived, it was the same story. They came to us first, but the Council wasn't going to accept that.”

   “I think I see where this is going. Wayfarer arrived intact, didn't it.”

   “And began a survey of the system, to determine how the United Nations could assist us. There was talk of technological aid, of resupply, new stations and bases. Commander Kazinski suggested that this system could be the launching point of exploration and colonization all across this part of space. Of course, none of that would have been under the Council's control.”

   “So they took the ship.”

   “As well as the crew. Our people were massacred, the settlement Wayfarer was orbiting destroyed by orbital bombardment. There was nothing we could do about it, Sub-Lieutenant. Nothing at all. At the time, we didn't have any warships, and our efforts were purely focused on survival. It was only after we lost Wayfarer that we began to militarize, and it has cost us heavily in lives, potential, time.” Slamming her fist on the desk, she said, “That sacrifice will not be in vain. The blood we have spilled will have been well spent. At last we have an advantage, and we're going to use it.”

   She paused, looked Salazar in the eyes, and said, “Would your Captain agree to join our struggle against the Council? That would change the whole picture.”