He counted heartbeats through terminal descent, the shuttle passing the point of no return, as waves began to lap back up at the heat shield. A few degrees to port, a few to starboard, and finally with a splash the shuttle dropped smoothly into the ocean, beginning to roll back and forth with the waves.
"Good work, midshipman," Marshall said into the speaker."
"We're drifting, sir. Away from the raft," the young pilot replied; Marshall cursed himself, realizing that he should have considered that. He pulled himself cautiously to his feet, grabbing one of the hand-holds as the shuttle continued to roll.
"Pop the hatch, midshipman."
"Sir, the hull might be too tough for their bullets to penetrate, but...
"I'm not. Get the hatch open." He turned to the others, "Better stand back, just in case."
Cunningham shook his head, stepping forward, "This is my job, sir."
"Open the hatch, Steele."
The passenger hatch cracked open, and the smell of salt and spray billowed into the cabin, the musk of damp wood and old rope, and a collection of exotic spices the like of which he had never experienced before; it was an almost intoxicating array of flavors assaulting his nose. A trio of dark-skinned, well-armed men were standing on the deck, one of them with a coil of rope in his hand. Looking with suspicion at the craft, he tossed one end of the rope through the hatch, and Marshall snatched it out of the air, tying it to a convenient handhold.
"Hold on," one said, "We'll get you a gangplank." A few seconds later, a wobbly piece of word slid down from the deck into the shuttle, rivulets of water spilling down onto the clean floor, mud scraped on the sides of the airlock. Without a word, Marshall stepped onto the slippery plank and scrambled onto the deck, taking the proffered arm of one of the men.
Somehow, Marshall figured that formality was not likely to be a priority here, "Daniel Marshall, Captain of Alamo," he said.
The man nodded, "The ship that flew overhead last week?" Marshall nodded. "Lyndon Pemberton. I gather you wanted my help," He pointed at a double-masted ship, sails furling in the wind while people moved around, unloading cargo. "You're lucky I was in dock; old Ron would likely have kept on shooting."
"Old Ron?"
Pemberton tossed his head in the direction of one of the anti-aircraft emplacements, where a tall, fat man with a long, straggly beard who looked as if he had stepped out of a history book was barking obscenities and orders with equal measure. He looked at Marshall with a sneer, then staggered over towards him.
"I want you off my raft," he said, spit flying from his mouth.
Marshall shook his head, "You're in charge?"
"I'm the dock-master."
Pemberton said, "No, he isn't. Not while Captain Pryce is at dock, anyway."
"The Council of Captains should remember who maintains their pretty boats when they are at anchor, whelp." He looked at Marshall, his eyes narrowing, "The last thing we need is another trickster offworlder trying to rob us blind."
In explanation, Pemberton said, "The Legion had the habit of taking what they wanted, without bothering with formalities such as payment, you see."
"The Triplanetary Confederation pays its bills, Mr. Chambers."
"We'll see." He turned and walked away, barking more orders at the gunners and anyone else who happened to be passing with range. Pemberton shook his head, turning back to Marshall.
"I apologize, Captain. Tell you what, I will make you an offer. I will take you to see Captain Pryce, in exchange for a look inside that shuttle of yours. My grandmother used to tell me stories of such things when I was a small child, and I should like to see them for myself, even if just once."
"If I had may way, Mr. Pemberton..."
"Lyndon."
Marshall smiled; some progress, at least, "Lyndon, if I had my way there'd be a starport here within a year."
"A nice dream, Captain."
"Dreams can come true, Lyndon. And my name is Danny."
Pemberton shook is head, grinning, "I'd better not get into the habit of calling Captains by their first names. Not healthy around here."
"Take me to see Captain Pryce, and Midshipman Steele will give you that tour." He ducked in, "Steele, you're staying with the ship. Take off at the first sign of trouble," and return with the espatiers, he left unsaid. "Cunningham, Sanderson, let's go."
Cunningham cautiously climbed up onto the deck, almost falling over on the slippery surface before Marshall threw out an arm to steady him. Sanderson had no such trouble getting to his feet, but the instant he left the airlock became the victim of a series of vicious looks.
"What's he doing here?" Pemberton asked.
"Mr. Sanderson is a representative of the Yrekan government."
Pemberton shook his head. "He can speak with Old Ron if he wants to. The Captain will only speak with sailors." Marshall expected Sanderson to say something, to react in some way, but he only shook his head, perfectly composed.
"Would it be acceptable for me to have a quiet look around, Mr. Pemberton?" he asked. "I will cause no trouble."
Pointing at one of his companions, he replied, "Giles will keep an eye on you."
"I don't need an escort, thank you."
"Yes, you do." Pemberton turned back to Marshall. "Follow me."
The two officers followed the sailor across the deck, stumbling over ropes, cables and crates, the subject of curious stares from everyone else on the dock. Marshall caught himself looking out across the emerald sea, reaching as far as the horizon, and instantly understood the appeal. He'd felt the same way when he'd looked through his first telescope; Pemberton caught sight of the expression and laughed.
"You've got the far look, Captain Marshall. We might make a seaman of you."
"To hell with a tour, Lyndon, we've got to get you up into orbit."
“I'll take you up on that, Captain.”
With another grin, the trader scrambled up another gangplank to his ship, pulling himself up by a handy rope; Marshall and Cunningham cautiously followed suit, jumping down after him to the deck. The crew looked at them in the same manner as the cargo loaders, but the red-haired man who pushed open a hatch and climbed out in front of them did not. Wearing a battered old uniform, obviously re-cut and repaired more times than could be counted, he squinted at the pair of them before looking over at Pemberton.
"More vagrants, mate?"
"These are from that starship, Captain."
Rolling his eyes, he replied, "I didn't imagine they'd washed up onto the deck, lad." Turning to the others, "You'd best come down with me, we can talk with something worth talking over." He grinned at the two of them as he walked back down the stairs; shrugging, Marshall followed him down, Cunningham behind him. Looking up at Pemberton, he saw the trader shaking his head.
“I'll be up here if you need me; I've got some cargo to care to.”
Nodding in reply, Marshall made his way down. The steps were as slippery as the deck, and only a few lights swung from the ceiling, flickering as the electricity came on and off, gave him a clue about where he was going. At the bottom of the steps, Pryce kicked open a door and stepped inside, crashing down onto a wooden chair.
Marshall had to stoop to get inside; Pryce waved towards a crate on the deck and he perched precariously on it. A gurgling came from the middle of the room as Pryce poured three drinks. Looking around the dark room, his eye was drawn to a chart on the wall, a map of the coastline that almost matched the satellite images they had. This one had several markings on it, scribbled in an incomprehensible scrawl.
"I'd imagine that you can give us better charts than that, lad," the old captain said. "My name's Pryce, and this is my ship."
"Captain Daniel Marshall, commander of Alamo. This is my Operations Officer, John Cunningham."
Nodding curtly, Pryce replied, "Happy to meet you, though there are many on this world who aren't." He took a sip of his drink; the smell was putting Marshall off for the present. "You were quite the topic at the last
Captain's Council, though we knew nothing but that a madman was swinging a starship into a crazy trajectory. Is it true that the satellites are disabled?"
"Yes."
He nodded, "That night, all the legionnaires packed up and moved inland. There were never that many out with us anyway, I don't think they liked getting their feet wet." He grinned. "Out at sea, it was too easy to arrange accidents, and so few witnesses to them. They usually contented themselves with trading, anyway. Stealing, more usually."
"What do you trade?" Cunningham asked. "And who with? The Yrekans don't have much contact with you."
"None that we can help, lad," he replied. "They haven't got anything much we want, and the first time we met they tried to make us toe their line. Collect taxes, and rubbish like that." Pryce spat at the deck. "A Captain takes care of his crew. That's all the government we've ever needed." Shrugging, he continued, “We trade with them from time to time, of course. Pemberton works as our agent.”
Marshall smiled; he liked this old man. "Things are changing, Captain."
"The tides come and go, Captain, but the end result is usually the same. With the Legion gone, they'll have to be some sort of reckoning, and I get that you'll be wanting to open up trading with us. I'd have no objection, so long as you dealt honestly."
"I suspect that we'll be wanting more than that."
"Settlers, I reckon. That's not for me to decide." He sighed, "We're going to need another Captain's Council. I'll tell my radioman to call the gang together." Evidently Marshall's surprise showed. "Yes, we have radio. We just don't use it any more than we must. Most of us have secrets out on the waters, you see."
"Secrets?"
"They wouldn't be secrets for long if I told everyone, would they?" He sighed, "I suppose I can tell you this much; the Yrekans think that it is just us, them and the Tatars on this world. They are wrong. There are half a dozen more pocket colonies out there on the island chains that I know of, maybe more. All settled from the diaspora, back before the Big War."
"Half a dozen?" Marshall's eyes widened. "Where from?"
"All over Earth, Captain. The Cabal picked them up from all across this part of space, settled them here. Didn't give any of us a choice about it, though we'd all have taken it if asked."
"What do you know about the Cabal?"
"A question for a question. What are your intentions here?" Pryce's face was locked, his eyes fixed on Marshall.
"Ultimately, to bring this planet back into civilization. You could join the Confederation if you wished, or remain independent as you will. We both have a lot to offer each other."
"Your Confederation, lad?"
"Condensing a century of history down...we're the ones who stayed in the solar system. Mars, Callisto and Titan rebelled from the United Nations, and made it stick. We formed the Triplanetary Confederation, a group of independent colonies; Alamo is in the Triplanetary Space Fleet."
"And the stars? How far have you got?"
"This is the furthest extent of our explorations. We had no idea that any other humans had left the solar system until last year, when we encountered a lost colony on Ragnarok. Now...we're seeing what else lies out here."
"And you stumbled across us. I'll take you to the Captain's Council."
Marshall smiled, "Excellent. What are the co-ordinates?"
Pryce shook his head, his gleaming teeth locked in a grin, "No, I'll take you. I'd like a look at that shuttle of yours, but if you want us to trust you, it needs to go both ways or it doesn't mean anything. You come in my Lucky Lady, the two of you. Unarmed, but take a radio with you. I give you my word, one Captain to another, that you will come to no harm."
He stood up, draining the rest of his drink in one, "I reckon you'll want to talk about this. Meet me up on deck when you've made up your mind."
Cunningham looked at Marshall, nodding almost imperceptibly, and Marshall took a swig of his drink, instantly regretting it as his head started to swim from the cloying concoction, his mouth gagging from the bitter aftertaste.
"What the hell is this stuff?"
"Just a shot of grog. You'll get used to it."
Shaking his head, Marshall replied, "I don't need any time to decide. We'll go with you. We'll just have to pick up a couple of bits and pieces from the shuttle, and then we can be on our way."
Clapping him on the shoulder, Pryce nodded, "You're a captain at that. I'll arrange quarters for the two of you. We'll set sail when you come back."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Dammit, you should have cleared it with me before you sent them," Orlova yelled at Zabek, her voice reverberating from the plastoform roof of her makeshift office. In front of her, the young midshipman looked at her feet, her face red, before looking back up at the sub-lieutenant.
"Sergeant Forrest approved it, ma'am. I looked over the topographical maps again, and that rise looked like the perfect position to set up a forward observation post."
"So you sent three troopers with no experience of jungle fighting out into the bush by themselves to set up the equipment. You did this twelve hours ago, and the first I hear of it is arriving back at base to learn that three of my men are now six hours overdue."
Her jaw locked, but her eyes trembling, Zabek responded, "Ma'am, you left me in command."
Orlova sighed, and looked up at the roof, shaking her head. "Midshipman Zabek – never mind those pips we lent you, it's still Midshipman – your decision may have cost the lives of three men. You took it upon yourself to take an action without consulting the garrison commander, without consulting the company commander. There is a time and a place to make that sort of a decision, Midshipman. That is not now." She sighed. “It isn't that important a job, Zabek. Not worth three lives.”
The young woman was looking from side to side, her hands twitching. A part of Orlova, a very large part, wanted to say something to console her, something that would help her get over the pain she was feeling, a pain that she knew all too well. She couldn't; if she was going to break, now was the time to do so. The example of her friend up on Alamo was far from lost on her. She tried to conjure up the ghosts of Marshall and Cunningham as she addressed the young officer.
"Zabek, you broke the chain of command. It exists for a reason, principally that inexperienced officers like you don't have the experience to operate independently except in dire circumstances. You don't do it on a whim, you don't do it because you finally have a command of your own and want to see what you can do. Those three men have families, and there's a good chance I'm going to have to write some letters to them now."
"Ma'am, I..."
"I have not given you permission to talk." Orlova looked down at the young woman. Chronologically, she was less than a year younger than her; Orlova felt decades older. "You scraped your way through the Academy back on Mars, spent your time on Alamo breaking even. Why?"
Defiance flashed across the midshipman's face, "Because people like you kept telling me I couldn't. My instructors, my parents, even my lover all said I wasn't going to make the grade. And I guess they were right." She turned to leave the room, the back of her neck reddening.
"Turn around, midshipman. I haven't dismissed you." She spun on her heel to look at Orlova.
"What right have you got to lecture me, anyway? You never even went to the Academy, you got yourself mustanged in after one mission. It's all come so damn easy for you. I had to work like hell every minute, every second, just to break even."
"On my first mission, when I was a Spaceman, I had to lead a charge down a hill and order a man to give up his life to accomplish the mission. On my second, I got to watch a man I admired sacrifice himself to prevent a war. On my third, I had to lead a group of boys on a suicide mission on the chance that Alamo could pull off a miracle." She was talking to herself more than the midshipman; those remarks had hit home. "You know, you are right. I got lucky. I found a ship where I could make a difference."
Shaking her head, she continued, "Do you know why you are
out here, Midshipman?"
"No, ma'am."
"Because Lieutenant Esposito and I rated you as the top midshipman for field duty."
Surprise flashed on her face, "I thought you wanted me out of the way."
"Bull. Varlamov's sitting on a near-derelict spaceport running work gangs, Steele's playing chauffeur for the Captain. You are where we expect the action to be, if there is any."
"Why?"
"I didn't go through the Academy, so I can't say this first-hand, but I do know this – there's no way to tell a good officer from a merely competent one in the classroom. Any good training program can make a competent officer. To become a good one takes something more." She paused. "What were you about to do to find the missing team?"
"I was going to take a fire team out to take a look. Myself, Forrest, Blake and Grant."
"Good call. I'm making one change."
Zabek nodded, "You're going to lead it yourself."
"Got it in one. You just might get there yet. Go out and send Forrest and the others in here, and then get the gangs to work reinforcing the perimeter."
Zabek turned and saluted, "Yes, ma'am."
Before she left the office, Orlova said, "I wouldn't get so angry if you didn't have what it takes, midshipman. Which is also why you are still here and not on the next boat home. You still have my confidence."
Pausing at the door, the young officer replied, "Thank you, ma'am. I'm sorry about what I said earlier."
"I didn't hear a thing. Now get out of here."
Orlova sat down behind her desk, looking over the satellite images of the jungle. The worst part of it was that on one level, Zabek's plan actually made some sense; if she'd been certain that there was no imminent risk of attack it was something she might have done herself. Sending an unguarded three-man engineering team, a group of soldiers with no real experience or serious training, that was a bad call.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Tip of the Spear Page 8
