Contents
Foreword
PICTURE WORTH A THOUSAND STARS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
MALWARE BLUES
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
ORPHANS OF EARTH
The Road To Alamo
TALES FROM THE VAULT
Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 0
Richard Tongue
Battlecruiser Alamo #0: Tales from the Vault
Copyright © 2017 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved
First Kindle Edition: June 2017
Cover By Keith Draws
With thanks to Ellen Clarke
All characters and events portrayed within this ebook are fictitious; any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Join the Triplanetary Universe Mailing List: http://eepurl.com/A9MdX
Foreword
The first Battlecruiser Alamo novel, 'Price of Admiralty', was released to an unsuspecting internet way back in 2013. Four years ago today, as of the date this book will be published. Since then, I've written thirty novels, the last of which, as I write, was 'Shadows in the Sky, taking Alamo and her crew into a new sequence of adventures into the depths of a Dyson Sphere. The vast bulk of my work so far has been in the Triplanetary Universe; that will shortly be changing as I move into new settings, new genres, which seemed to make my four-year anniversary an appropriate time to do something a little different.
You see, before Alamo, there was Logan Winter. A couple of years before, in the primordial days of self-publishing, I wrote a pair of novellas featuring the proto-Logan, the earliest incarnation of the character that would eventually evolve into the Intelligence agent who has periodically arrived to bedevil Alamo and her crew. These were writing as space-noir, and made absolutely no impact at the time – that wouldn't come until Alamo, two years later.
Nevertheless, I was proud of them when I wrote them, and I'm proud of them now – and more than that, I think they representing an interesting 'first take' in what would become the setting which has now soared past two million words. Circumstances forced me to take them down some time ago, but I've been meaning to put them back into publication for some time...and that time is now! So, this collection features at its heart the two Logan Winter novellas, 'Picture Worth A Thousand Stars' and 'Malware Blues'. (The title is familiar for a reason; an evolved version of this ultimately became an Alamo novel, years later.)
Now, that wasn't going to make a full book by itself, so I had a rummage around for some more material. As I write this, I'm about to have a story published in an anthology – but I actually wrote two stories, only one of which I submitted; the other didn't seem to quite fit the theme, and was a little too experimental. It does, however, represent something else interesting – the first work in the new universe of the Starcruiser Polaris series, launching in July. It isn't canon, more of a 'first draft' of the setting, but is complete in and of itself, and I think it's a pretty good story in its own right.
As a little extra, I've written a little piece about the first year of writing the Battlecruiser Alamo series, covering the run-up to that first book with some nuggets about the early books, up to 'Battle of Hercules'; it was a lot of fun going back through old notes in the archive to recall those days, and I hope you enjoy the resultant work.
Richard Tongue
PICTURE WORTH A THOUSAND STARS
Chapter 1
Logan Winter carefully played the retro-thrusters of his ship, the Lucifer Kiss, over the ground, rocking it back and forth to compensate for the all-too-frequent blasts of wind. The landing required a lot more skill than it should have; periodically thrusters failed, sending the ship drifting across the landing strip, clouds of purple dust sent flying. Finally he brought the ship down, next to another beaten-up old freighter, and relaxed back on his flight couch, throwing switches in a long-practiced pattern.
A long figure wearing a crisp green Imperial Star Patrol uniform, dirty with streaks of purple from the landing, was waiting to meet him at the airlock, datapad in hand. He dusted himself off inside the ship, throwing a cheap, meaningless smile at Logan.
“Welcome back to Wrangel, my friend,” he began, with near-perfect English contaminated by the occasional sharp syllable. “Your continued desire to renew your acquaintance with this dismal planet is a matter of constant astonishment to me. With the green fields of Zemlya barely a day's flight from here, as well.” He ran his hand across his thin mustache, knocking out the dust.
Logan returned the smile, spending as little on it as Boris had. “You know me, I go where the work is. And if people are willing to pay me to transport certain items, then I am more than willing to oblige them.”
Boris took a look around, quickly surveying the state of the ship. The rust building up around the seals, the burned out status-lights, the missing safety equipment. The odor of an air conditioning unit long past its prime.
“I suspect a more reasonable explanation is that there is little chance that the Zemlya Starport authorities would let you land, still less let you take off again. I, on the other hand, am considerably more flexible. After all, it often seems to be the case that the worst ships bring in the most interesting people, and I require all the stimulation I can get in this thankless assignment.”
“Is she blonde, this time? Expensive to lure one out here. More so to keep one out here.” Logan gave a lascivious grin.
“Brunette, actually. I'm surprised you can remember, my friend. So what is that you are hauling?”
“Foodstuffs mostly. Stuff for the restaurants.”
Boris looked up at Logan from his datapad, a twinkle in his eye. The two of them had played this game so often that they had a well-received script, though neither of them were eager to deviate from it.
“Ah, 'stuff'. A wonderful expression. I will of course require the usual samples.”
Logan reached into an overhead locker and brought out a heavy metal case, pulling it down to the deck. With a quick action, he unlocked the catches, sending the lid crashing down. Inside were a selection of vials, each carefully labeled.
“That's twenty vials of dream dust. Enough to take one man away from this hole for a year...or to give a hundred men a night of paradise.”
Dream dust. Not a narcotic, but that didn't stop the patrol from banning it anyway. Just on general principles. Encoded with the copied RNA memories of a hundred celebrated sybarites, many of them dead for decades. Chemical debauchery in the form of fake memories.
“Certificate of Authenticity?” Boris had switched to crisp tones now that levity had been replaced by business.
“I tucked it under the packaging. It's all legitimate, my contact is picking it up direct from here.”
“Is this all you are carrying?”
“I've got empty holds this trip. Just eleven of these cases.”
“I worry about you, Logan. You'll barely break even on this run. One day you'll run out of miracles and the ship will crack up on landing. Leaving me to handle both a funeral and an investigation that will tie me up for months.”
“For the sake of your
secretary – who I presume has the usual level of administrative incompetence – I will try my very best not to let that happen.”
Logan turned away, heading back to the cockpit to finish his checks. Boris also turned, before turning to face Logan's back.
“You're still running away, aren't you. Still, three years later.”
Quick, savage anger. “I don't know what the hell you are talking about.”
Boris pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and made a play of lighting it. Smoke curled up to the ceiling.
“She's back.”
Logan turned, grabbing Boris by the shoulders, sending creases cascading into his uniform. His face had changed in an instant.
“When. Where.”
“Yesterday. She knew you were coming here, took a room at the Parched Prospector. She told me to tell you that she had arrived and wanted to see you.”
Logan pulled a locker open, grabbed his double holster and started to strap it on, without a word. A dusty leather jacket from another compartment, pockets jingling with oddments from a hundred planets.
“Logan, I damn near didn't tell you. I still don't think you've got over her leaving like that, and you need to calm down.”
“I'm calm enough for this.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No.”
“Logan – then, damn it, come to dinner tonight. My place. I will have food brought in, and even arrange some entertainment. My brunette can sing.”
“I'm sure she can.”
“I mean it. If you aren't at my place by 1900 I'll send the guard out to pick you up. I don't want you doing anything stupid.”
Logan turned in the airlock. “I didn't know you cared.”
Boris gave a barking laugh. “Don't presume too much. You represent a substantial investment in time and effort on my part. I would very much dislike seeing it wasted. Since you have no intention of following my advice, run along. I think I remember this ship well enough to complete post-flight.”
Boris turned back towards the cockpit, shaking his head, while Logan ran out onto the concourse. The guard waved him through the gate, and at a slow jog he covered the mile into what was laughably known as 'town'. A collection of prefabricated huts and stone-carved buildings nestled in the shadow of an immense mountain, with a maze of roads and paths running up to the blackened gouges of disused mines. The surface basked in the constant ruby and emerald glow of the huge Sargasso Nebula, which filled the sky, and gave a strange sense of claustrophobia, blanking out the stars.
There was little traffic along the road. A couple of half-drunk mechanics stumbling up the road, a pedlar pushing a cart of trinkets. Only one town, only one starport, only one road. The town itself was so unprepossessing that it shared the same name as the planet itself – Wrangel.
Logan walked down the main streets. Abandoned buildings on either side of the road, relics of a long-ago prosperous past. A dozen bars ranging from almost decent to complete dives; half the population made its living keeping the other half in a state of near-permanent inebriation. The town had a stink of bad liquor and worse people. Finally Logan reached the Parched Prospector, one of the worst of the dives. A sign half hanging on one hinge, windows encrusted in the ubiquitous purple dust that hung over everything, a flickering sign proclaiming to anyone who might be interested that the bar was open for business.
Waiting at the threshold for a moment, Logan brushed himself down, before mentally acknowledging that any attempt to smarten himself up was probably doomed to failure. He pushed his way in, and the first thing he saw was her.
Helena Wynne. Partner, lover, friend. Until three years ago, when she ran out on him with nothing over than a brief note. She hadn't changed from the photo he still kept in his wallet; tall, sturdy features, still the twinkle in the eye. Dressed like him, but she certainly carried it better. Logan realized that he hadn't breathed in a while; he smiled when he realized she hadn't, either. He pulled a chair out from under the table with his foot, and sat opposite her.
“Three damn years, Lena,” he said, putting as much into those short syllables as he could.
“Three years, two months, five days. Not that I was counting,” she replied in her deep, husky voice.
“Not counting hard enough to come back. I stayed on the same runs. You could have found me any time you wanted.”
“I had to finish what I started. It's big, Logan. The biggest deal I've ever put together.”
A loud noise smashed through the bar, and the floor trembled slightly. Helena looked past Logan through the window, beads of perspiration showing on her face, a frown creasing her forehead..
“You think that was the mail ship?” she asked.
“Probably.”
A glass smashed on the far side of the room, fragments dropping to the floor. Logan looked away for a brief second, then looked back at a cry from Helena. She was gripping her side, red blood spilling out onto her deep blue coat.
Logan pushed the table out of the way, sending bottles and glasses flying across the floor, and skidded to his knees. One hand was rummaging in his pocket for a medical kit, the other was trying to take a look at the wound. The bartender had woken up and was shouting Russian into a phone, Logan could make out the words for 'doctor' and 'hurry'. The blood gushed from the wound, and Helena's face grew pale, her eyes distant.
She whispered, “Logan. I'm sorry I waited so long.”
“Don't worry, Lena. I'll get you out of here.”
“Logan. Finish the deal. And watch yourself.”
“Lena...”
The light faded from her eyes. Her head dropped forward and she began to spill out of the chair. Logan cradled her in his arms for a second, then laid her out on the floor. He pulled her coat off, and draped it over her face.
He looked around the bar. Empty, except for the bartender, and he looked as if he was about to pass out. He quickly judged line of sight – and saw a brand-new hole in the wall. Dust on the ground in front of it, the shattered glass a few feet from it.
Ignoring the protests of the bartender, he took off through the door and burst onto the street. It looked quiet, just a couple of people going about their business. Only one of the figures seemed to be paying any attention to Logan; for a brief second their eyes met, and that was enough for them both to break into a run.
The man was slight; thin and wiry, with quite a turn of speed, but Logan was no slouch either, and he quickly made up the footsteps. His right pistol found its way comfortably into his fist, and Logan slowed for a second to take a shot. His target ducked at precisely the right moment, taking a tumble in the dust almost without losing a stride.
“Stop, you bastard!” Logan heard himself shouting. The last syllable echoed around the street. The pair raced past buildings until they had run out of town, and then it was just the desert. Logan took another shot, and this time was met by another – from a light, low-velocity, silent pistol, weighed down by sights. Great weapon if you had a chance to target it properly, but Logan had no intention of permitting that to happen.
The road curved into a narrow trail and they began to make their way up the rock, the path getting steeper and steeper. The breath gasped out of Logan in rugged bursts, as his feet pounded on the trail. More than a mile at a sprint had taken its toll, and both were beginning to slow. Finally the man ahead reached a pile of rocks, and leapt over them to make a stand, firing a shot that cracked past Logan's ear, sending him diving for a scrub bush, the only cover in range.
“End of the road, you bastard! You've nowhere to run. Kill me and the Patrol will still get you.”
The young man refused to be goaded. Logan tried to get as good a look at him as possible. Clean-shaven, possibly not by choice. And his hand was shaking slightly, gripping the pistol.
“Damn it, you're just a kid! You don't need to die here!”
A loud report behind him distracted Logan for a brief second, then a cloud of gas descended, blacking out the world. Staggering around and choking, Logan stumbled back, almost toppling down the hill. It had been quick, damn quick – a car was flying off, a cable trailing from it, and as the gas cleared, the kid was no longer in evidence. All Logan could do was get a few shots from his camera as the car sped away, gaining height over the mountain.
Chapter 2
It took Logan a good hour to trail back into town, covering a distance that had taken him five minutes the first time. He needed time to think, to put the pieces together in his mind, to calm down. A hand grabbed his shoulder as he came into the main street, and he looked up to see a patrolman, new, clean, green uniform barely touched by the desert.
“Logan Winter? Captain Ducharov has ordered you brought in.” A slightly uncertain voice.
“Tell Boris I'll come when I want.”
The patrolman tightened his grip, and looked down at his gun.
“The Captain was quite insistent, Mr. Winter.”
Logan looked down at the soft, uncalloused hand on his shoulder, the white knuckles.
“I suppose I haven't got anything else to do this afternoon. But for god's sake, get your hand off me.”
The patrolman relaxed, and took his hand down, holding it by his side.
“And one more thing, kid. I wouldn't recommend arresting people that way. There must be a dozen ways I could have taken your weapon from you and left you bleeding out on the street, and round here no-one would have lifted a finger to help you.”
The young man's cheeks turned hot red, and a grimace crept across his mouth. He raised his hand, as if ready to strike Logan for his arrogance; Logan simply let his jacket lift slightly as he walked, showing the twin butts of his guns in their holsters, his hand ready to move.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Tales from the Vault Page 1
