Battlecruiser Alamo: Tales from the Vault

by Richard Tongue

   Boris interrupted the standoff, a grim look on his face, tearing off a pair of gloves and sticking them in a grimy pocket. The patrolman stopped and saluted, said a couple of brief words in unintelligibly quick Russian, and Boris dismissed him with a wave of the hand.

   “I presume you didn't get the shooter. Or should I send the clean-up crew up the Hill?”

   “No. I guess I'm not as young as I was. I lost him.”

   “Hmm. Logan, I'm going to ask you this once. You know I have to ask this, and you know that whatever happens, I'll try and help you. Did you kill her?”

   “No. I didn't. I'm going to find out who did, though.”

   “That's my job, Logan. Not yours. But it's completely pointless me saying that, so I'll be content if you bring someone in.”

   “I didn't say I was going to do that.” Anticipating the next interruption, he raised his hand and continued, “And that doesn't mean I'll shoot someone on the street, either. Lena was into something, something big apparently. That's why she was here. I'm guessing she got involved in a deal, and it went wrong. I need to find out what.”

   “This smells of much money, Logan. This isn't going to be some petty thug, not out here.”

   “Scared, Boris?”

   Boris snorted. “Yes. And so are you. Or you are a fool. And you may be many things, my friend, but you are no fool.”

   They turned and walked back down the street, returning to the scene of the crime. The tables had been pushed back along the side of the wall, and chairs were scattered about. A couple of patrolmen were putting away forensic equipment.

   “We took her to the local morgue. No-one here's able to do an autopsy, but it seems simple enough. One hit with a low-velocity, silent, sniper pistol. Bullet went right through, we got that out of the wall.”

   “Not many people use that kind of kit. Not out here.”

   “Not anywhere. Computers already ran the match, it's an old military grade sniper sidearm. Design dates from the last war, but probably a new weapon. “

   Logan stared at the floor, the outline of the body still visible in the dust.

   “What do you want done with the body?”

   “Cremate it and give me the ashes. I'll give her a space burial next time I launch. It's not perfect, but it's the best I'm going to be able to do.”

   “Do you want to be there?”

   “She's gone, Boris. Gone to wherever you go when you die. All that's left now is a slab of meat.”

   Boris placed his hand on Logan's shoulder, “Look, I know it hurts. I can take care of everything if you just want to head out.”

   “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

   “You told me yourself this was a big deal. A combination of that and the sniper pistol suggest to me that those involved in this might have connections that would make taking any action an unjustifiable risk.”

   “I know that. This isn't about revenge. That would be pointless; there's a reasonable chance she'd earned the bullet anyway. She was jumpy enough when I met her. No, I want to know why. That will do. One thing, though.”

   “Yes?”

   “No dinner tonight. Tomorrow, maybe. Tonight I want...I don't know what I want, but I probably need to do it alone.”

   “Of course. Check in with me in the morning, though. Let me know what you find. For old times' sake, if nothing else.”

   Boris went back to the crime scene, taking a few photographs, and yelling at an assistant who had dropped some of the probably irreplaceable equipment. Logan left the bar, and headed back out onto the street.

   He meandered at the same pace as before, and kicked the dust down the road back to the starport. By the time he got back to the ship, it was beginning to get dark. The technicians had done their usual barely competent job, and he spent an hour running over everything himself, making sure the few changes were logged. The cargo had been taken, his credit account topped up back to breakeven. He was mentally debating whether to order some takeaway from town, or whether he'd be better off with the leavings from the carniculture vats, when the airlock door alarm sounded.

   The camera pickup hadn't worked in months, not really a high-priority for repair. Logan was still wearing his pistols, and he pulled one of them out, made sure it was ready, and warily made his way down to the door. The mechanism worked into life, grudgingly grinding open.

   She was an absolute knockout. Blonde hair cascading down her back, blue eyes over a perfect nose, ruby lips, curves in all the right places and a few more besides, wearing an emerald dress that glittered against the purple sands, probably worth a hell of a lot more than the ship, showing off a figure that was definitely worth more than the ship. And more importantly, the fact that Logan was still pointing a gun at her didn't seem to disturb her.

   She said in a soft voice, a trace of accent somehow making her seem still sexier, “Are you going to put that away?”

   “Not yet I'm not. It's been a long day.”

   “For me as well. You are Logan, aren't you?”

   “Maybe. Who might you be?”

   “My name is Anna. I was...I was Lena's lover.”

   At that he did holster the gun, before laughing out loud. His hands still stayed low by his side.

   “You'd better come in. It must be getting cold outside, and you aren't dressed for it.”

   She stepped in, high-heeled shoes clattering on the deck; they were somewhat the worse for wear. Logan stayed behind her, not merely to enjoy the view, as they made their way to the lounge. She sat carefully on one of the chairs, Logan collapsed down on another.

   “Helena told you about me?” he asked reaching for a dusty bottle.

   “Yes. She talked about you often. I wanted to look you up anyway, I was hoping...”

   “Hoping what?”

   “I need help, Logan. Can I trust you?”

   He looked her up and down, trying to get her measure. She was certainly a distracting sight.

   “I'm not sure I can trust me. What do you want me to do?”

   “Protect me. I know Lena had enemies, bad ones, and I think they might kill me. Or do god knows what to me for what I know.”

   “What do you know?”

   She looked down at the floor. Logan poured a couple of drinks, amber liquid swirling around old plastiglass. She took a sip, and wrinkled her nose.

   “I don't know anything, I swear.”

   “Which means that you do but you don't want to tell me. I'll tell you what – I will work for information or money. You can choose what currency you want to pay me in, I'll take either.”

   “I can pay ten thousand kopeks. A thousand now, the rest when I leave here.”

   “When is that?”

   “I have a ticket on the liner to Zemlya, three days from now.”

   Logan came to his feet, draining the rest of his glass, and placing it carefully on the table, shaking his head.

   “I could pay you in other ways, Logan.” She stretched herself out on the chair, soft like a cat, her charm turned on to its absolute maximum.

   “Which probably means that you have the thousand kopeks, but not the rest.”

   She stopped, abruptly, and sat back on the chair.

   “Usually by now men are on their knees, asking for my favors.”

   “Either you're losing your touch, or I've got tougher armor than the usual sort you travel with. Still, I will protect you while you are here.”

   “Why?”

   “Can't take yes for an answer? I'll sell you the answer...if you can rustle up an extra thousand kopeks.”

   “I don't want to go back into town tonight. All my things are in my room, though.”

   “Where is that?”

   “The Palace. Room 520.”

   Logan shook his head again at that; the most expensive hotel in town. He grabbed his datapad and dialed Boris; it rang for almost
a minute before he picked up.

   “What is it?” a grumpy voice said.

   “Logan. That brunette of yours, what are her measurements?”

   “What?”

   “And does she have any decent nightclothes?”

   “Logan, did you call me at 2100 to discuss women's fashion? I'm busy.”

   “Good, then she probably won't be needing them. Have one of your merry minions get over here with them, as soon as possible. And dinner...for two.”

   “My patrolmen are not a parcel service, for...oh, I see. You should have said something sooner, my friend. I know we all have ways of dealing with our grief, and I think you've picked a good one. Is she blonde?”

   “In a manner of speaking.”

   Boris chuckled. “I'll send that one you met earlier. Be around in half an hour.”

   “Thanks. See you at breakfast.”

   “Feel free to make it brunch.”

   Logan hung up, Anna relaxed, and smiled.

   “You seem to have a good relationship with the local patrol.”

   “Boris and I go back a bit. He can be trusted about as much as any lawman can. However, you need to stay out of the way when his man comes around, just in case. I don't trust him that much.”

   “Which is my room?”

   “I'll show you. Though room is a rather grand way of putting it.”

   Logan headed down the corridor, bracing himself for a blow; he was relieved when it didn't come. Obviously she wasn't planning anything. Not yet anyway. Down the central corridor, past flickering light fittings and over dangling cables strung out on the floor.

   “Three rooms. Mine's on the right, the one with the lock. Combination's two-three-niner-four if you get cold in the night. Yours is whichever of the two on the left you want – top or bottom.”

   Logan beckoned towards two cubbyholes in the wall, both with curtains, smelling of mildew and age. The bottom one had a sticky stain, a relic of some carelessness long ago.

   “The top one, I suppose. Unless you'd let me have yours?” A pleading note had crept back into her voice, the last vestige of the damsel-in-distress act from earlier.

   “I'm sleeping in a proper bed tonight. A bed is the one luxury I refuse to go without. You are welcome to join me...but if you wish to sleep alone, then the bunk is yours. No extra charge.”

   She pulled back the curtain, and started to make the bed. Old, military-grade blankets over a hard and lumpy mattress. Still, she seemed to be doing what she could. Then Logan saw something around her wrist, a bracelet. Silver and gold, twisted around each other.

   “You did know her, then. I wasn't sure.”

   “What makes you say that?”

   “The bracelet. I gave it to her, six years ago. A birthday present.”

   “She gave it to me a couple of months ago, soon after we met. Do you want it back?”

   “Not my size.”

   She laughed at that. A very pleasant sort of laughter, resonating around the cabin.

   “You know, you have the same sense of humor. I can see a lot of you in her. You seem to be taking her death very well.”

   Logan walked forward to the cockpit; Anna followed him. “I got over Helena three years ago. She left, she wasn't around any more, and it was obvious that she wasn't coming back. I'll miss her. But she's no less gone to me now than she was yesterday. Nothing has changed as far as I'm concerned.”

   Anna looked disgusted at that; she stood in place, her hands on her hips.

   “That's an awful way to think of it. She's dead. She's never coming back.”

   “Yes, she's dead. And I am going to get on with my life. As usual, I've got to tidy up whatever mess she's made, which seems to include you, but I'll do that and carry on.”

   “But...”

   “You can't dwell on the past. Life takes people together and apart again. Sometimes people get caught in each other's orbit, and we call it friendship, or love. Then sometimes they end up in an escape trajectory, and they fly off into the black, usually never to be seen again. All you can do is remember what you had, take it and enjoy it, and look forward to the next thing.”

   Her face had lost its hardness, she was obviously thinking about what he had said. “Life, loss and death in astrographic terms. Not something I've ever heard before.”

   “I got caught up in the Secession Wars. A lot of friends got propelled into escape trajectories back then. You deal with it or you crack up yourself. No middle ground. How do you deal with it? You don't exactly look totally shaken up yourself.”

   They'd entered the cockpit now, and Logan slouched down on his pilot's seat while Anna sat daintily at the flight engineering station.

   “I don't know, really. She was nice, but to be honest, we weren't that close. I only met her a few months ago, and we'd already broken up.”

   “You had?”

   “On the flight here we had our last fling. A good one, at that. She got us the honeymoon suite.”

   “I can just imagine.”

   He did, and probably would again later on. His brief reverie was broken by the airlock alarm going off again.

   “Must be the patrolman with your things. You'd best stay up here.”

   Logan headed back down to the airlock, his imagination still working overtime. He had a hand out ready to take the package from the patrolman, considering a nice putdown in retaliation to the comment he was almost certainly going to get. The lock opened to reveal a gun, pointed at his face.

   “Oh, shit,” he said, out loud.

   Facing him was a well-tailored man, a weasel's expression on his face, holding an obviously little used but none the less deadly pistol. He spoke in a soft voice, and by damn, he could even smell aftershave.

   “Come now, Mr. Logan. There is no need for obscenity.”

   “You're the best-dressed hijacker I've ever seen, I'll give you that.”

   “I have no intention of hijacking your ship. I believe you to be in possession of property that belongs to me. I want it back.”

   “That isn't how it works. You call the patrol, and they come and ask me for it back. Or they point a gun on me and make me give it back. Or they go away embarrassed because I have no idea what they hell they are talking about.” He carefully stressed the last seven words.

   “You will forgive me for considering your indignation nothing but a smokescreen. We will begin with your hold, then your cabin. If necessary we will search every compartment until the item is back in my possession.”

   Logan raised his hands in acquiescence, and tried to size up the odds of getting the gun away from him. Obviously, he knew what he was doing, and wasn't about to let Logan get too close. High chance trying something like that would end with Logan lying dead on the floor.

   The pair headed down to the cargo bay; Logan pulled the hatch open. It was all but empty, a couple of discarded containers on the floor, waste compactor half-full, carniculture vat giving off foul odors in the corner. After kicking over the containers, the gunman pointed back at the corridor, and with a sigh, Logan headed up towards his cabin. Then there was another noise; the door alarm going off again.

   “Who is that?”

   “Not being able to see through a bulkhead, I couldn't tell you. I'm not expecting anybody.”

   “Send them away.”

   “Now why would I do a silly thing like that.”

   “Because if you do not, I will shoot you.”

   “You're going to end up shooting me anyway. If you don't find what you want – and I'm pretty sure you won't – then you'll keep badgering me with questions until you end up killing me out of frustration.”

   The alarm went again, twice in quick succession.

   “Something's going to have to be done about that, you know.”

   “Answer it. Just answer it. Find out what they want.”

   Logan
slowly walked over to the airlock, and opened it. The patrolman was there, carrying a bag in his hand and a scowl on his face.

   “About time. Look, I don't appreciate being got out of my flat in the middle of the night to play courier. The Captain gave me this bag for you.”

   Logan looked down at the bag, and reached out for it, pointing at the patrolman's pistol, making sure that the man behind him couldn't see. The only question was whether the patrolman would be quick enough on the uptake – or whether he'd watched the right bad movies.

   The patrolman looked down, and smiled. It didn't seem to fit his face very well. Logan took the bag, braced himself, and swung it around with full force, throwing himself to the ground. The bag hit the man in the side of the face, sending him staggering, and Logan crashed to the deck. He heard a pair of shots ringing out, but without waiting to take score, lunged at the gunman, pinning him down. A quick, expert chop to the side of the neck knocked him cold, and he grabbed the weapon. He heard another noise behind him, and turned. The patrolman was shaking, had dropped his gun.

   “Are you alright?”

   “I...I...I never shot anyone before.”

   “You still haven't. You missed; I just knocked him cold.”

   “But...what a mess!”

   The bag had exploded; the smell of curry filled the room, and a dark brown liquid was running down the man's carefully placed hair. Logan reached into his jacket and grabbed his wallet.

   “Artur Kohut. His business card calls him an antiques expert. That could mean anything. Here.”

   He passed the wallet over to the patrolman, and what was left of the bag.

   “Looks like you're still going to be up for a while. Take the bag back to the Captain, apologize for me about the nightclothes, but assure his brunette they died in the line of duty. Take Mr. Kohut down to the cells, charged with attempted theft, murder, the usual. Then run along home, and get stinking drunk. Take it from me, it helps.”

   “I'll do that, sir.”

   “My name is Logan. Nobody ever calls me sir. Who the hell are you, anyway?”

   “Piotr. Piotr Kowalski.”

   “Well, Kowalski, run along. Tell the Captain I'll see him in the morning at the house.”