Battlecruiser Alamo: Tales from the Vault

by Richard Tongue

   Piotr was still shaking; Logan helped him put the still-unconscious Artur into the car, and made sure he was well restrained, just in case. He watched the car drive off, and turned back into the ship. Anna was waiting for him.

   “He's gone. Thank God. I did as you said, I stayed hidden.”

   “It might have been better if you'd come out, but all's well that end's well.”

   “What's that awful smell?”

   “Dinner. I think my old friend has a lousy sense of humor. We're probably better off with cuttings from the carniculture.”

   “I don't know if I can take it much more.” She was gagging somewhat, and Logan couldn't blame her; the stink was pretty vile. He reached over to a control panel, turned a dial all the way to the end.

   “I've kicked the air conditioning in this section into high gear. Should get rid of the stink. You can grab one of the ration packs from the cargo bay, locker two. I'll clean up this mess.”

   That didn't go down that well, but she stalked back to the cargo bay; Logan smiled as he began to clean up the mess. Dark brown liquid and some sort of indeterminate meat. The worst thing was that it really was the best take-out place in town.

   He walked back to his cabin, munching on a ration bar. His jacket went on the chair, thrown liberally over the back, and he quickly swilled down a glass of water before dimming the lights. He was beginning to slowly fall to sleep when he heard his door combination being worked. It had been the sort of day that suggested that drawing his gun would be a good idea; he reached over to his holster, dangling on a bedpost. The door clicked open, to reveal Anna, still wearing the dress.

   “Do you always point a gun at people when they come in?”

   “It seems the sensible thing to do these days.” He slid his gun back into his holster.

   “So far your hospitality has been less than stellar, Logan.”

   “That's what you get for staying in a no-star hotel.”

   “There is something you can do for me.” She slid out of the dress in one quick movement.

   “I'm cold.”

  Chapter 3

   The lights began to go up in Logan's cabin, and he slowly stirred from a restless night. He was still all wrapped in blonde, and he slowly managed to extricate himself, leaving her snoring on the bed. By the time he had come back from his shower, she was awake, and had commandeered one of his old shirts to protect her modesty.

   “Any chance of breakfast, darling?” Damn, she was working fast.

   “We're having it with Captain Ducharov. In about an hour, actually, so you'd better get yourself together.”

   She pouted at that, “I'm not sure about that. Can you trust him?”

   “I trust him. To take care of his own interests. Which is exactly the same way I trust you – darling.”

   She stood up, and walked over to her dress on the floor. She ran the silk through her hands, fondling it gently.

   “Did last night mean nothing to you?”

   “Of course it did. Probably as much as it meant to you. But that was then, and this is now. Now we've got work to do. Besides, I thought you were leaving in a couple of days.”

   She looked down at the floor, reluctant to share his gaze. “I might change those plans.”, she said, coquettishly.

   Logan gave a quick laugh, and strapped on his holsters, quickly checking to make sure that the guns were loaded and ready.

   “When you decide exactly what you want from me, Anna, be sure to let me know. I dance between idealism and pragmatism, and even I don't usually know where I'm going to end up.”

   Logan walked out of the room, headed up to the cockpit. Looked like it was going to be a lousy day, wind picking up. Dust devils were dancing around outside on the plasticrete, and thick clouds were covering the sky. A dust storm; not a pleasant time to be on the surface. While he was waiting, he made sure the ship was secured, and changed all the ship's passwords. He didn't think Anna had drugged him last night – there were none of the usual headaches or memory gaps, indeed his memory of last night was rather pleasingly vivid.

   She strode up behind him onto the cockpit, wrapped her arms around his back; he could feel her soft and warm against him.

   “If you're ready, I'm going to call the local taxi to come and pick us up. I think there's a dust storm coming.”

   “I'd feel a lot safer staying here.”

   “I'll only feel safe when I know what exactly is trying to kill me, and that I will learn in town. I'll pick up your things from the hotel, as well; you probably need a few more outfits. Besides – breakfast here would either be ration packs or slices from the carniculture.”

   She wrinkled her nose at that, and unwrapped her arms.

   “If that's what you think is best, dear.”

   Instead of calling the taxi direct, Logan instead dialed patrol headquarters. The grumpy operator, who by the grunting noises was eating his breakfast, eventually agreed to patch him through to Boris.

   “Do you know what time it is?” Boris said, sleepily. Logan could hear delicate snoring in the background, and the occasional moan.

   “About 0740. We're having breakfast in half an hour, so stand by to show me and my friend some traditional Russian hospitality.”

   Boris woke up at that, “Oh, take her back to bed for another couple of hours. I had a late night with that man Piotr brought in.”

   “I didn't think he was your type.” Before Boris could protest, he continued, “Besides, I've got a lot to do today. Need to get into town before the storm. Can you send someone to pick me up? Unmarked preferably.”

   “I'll have someone around in twenty minutes. At least I get to meet this creature of yours.”

   The car arrived on time, an unfamiliar face at the controls – but a quick flash of his patrol identification reassured Logan just sufficiently that the trip was not conducted at gunpoint. Anna was quiet throughout the ride, staring out at the desert, watching the dust clouds build. No-one was on the streets; everyone was boarding up their windows and bolting their doors. The car landed on the roof of patrol headquarters; as soon as the pair disembarked, it took off again to seek a secure hangar for the day.

   “Patrol headquarters? I thought we were going to breakfast?” Anna hugged his side tightly, and a brief flicker of panic danced across her face.

   Logan smiled and shook his head. “Sometime, darling, you've got to tell me what exactly has you so worried. Boris lives in headquarters, he took over the top floor. Only penthouse apartment in town.”

   He pulled open a rooftop hatch, revealing a hard metal staircase heading into the blackness. He led the way down to the door, and rang the bell. The door was answered by a sultry brunette with a glass of champagne in her hands, obviously slightly the worse for wear from the night before. She regarded Logan with an unusual combination of interest and contempt, and attempted to ignore Anna. Boris burst through the door, easing his companion aside.

   “My friends have arrived at last! I feared briefly that you were not going to arrive. Logan, please do introduce me to your charming companion.”

   “Anna, meet Captain Boris Ducharov. The finest law enforcement official for a million miles, and unfortunately one of my oldest surviving friends.”

   Boris took Anna's hand, and gently kissed it. “We are blessed by your presence, my dear. May your stay be long and productive. This is Melissa, my secretary.”

   Melissa gave a practiced pout, obviously trying to compete with Anna, and failing. The difference between an amateur and a professional. She then moved over to the stove, and started to pour out some batter into a pan, carefully running it around to create a level pancake. She could cook, that much was at least clear. Boris placed Anna next to him at the table; Logan sat opposite and began to pour tea.

   “You two had a very exciting night, by all accounts. I briefly questioned Kohut when he was brought in, after we had wo
ken him up, of course. He wouldn't say a thing, but he is wanting to see you. I was given a hundred kopeks to tell you that. Words are usually so cheap, aren't they. I rather think he was hoping that I would compel you, but if you wish him to rot, he can.”

   “I'll speak to him. After breakfast.”

   Melissa was working on a growing stack of blini, and placed a sliver bowl on the table, filled with jam. Boris tutted, pushed it to one side, and placed the sour cream in prominence.

   “Nekulturny. Blini should be served with sour cream. I'm somewhat disappointed that you have a continued interest in this person; there are many unsolved crimes on my docket just waiting to be attributed to the right person, and my investigations suggest that he would have been an excellent candidate.”

   He then turned to Anna, looking her up and down with the eye of a true connoisseur of the female form. “And what brings you to my planet, my dear?”

   She looked over at Boris, trying to size him up in the same way. “I'm on my way to Zemlya, passing through.”

   “I'm off duty, my dear, so you have no obligation to tell me anything. But no-one just passes through Wrangel. This planet only attracts those with nowhere else to go, and I include myself in that category. It was settled by desperate people hoping to find a passage through the Sargasso Nebula, funded by the few scrapings of uranium dug out of the mountain. The quality of the population has, if anything, declined since those days.”

   Melissa languidly walked over to the table, placed a tray of blini in the center, and sat down next to Logan, looking daggers across the table at Boris. The first forkful demonstrated that she had talent as a cook, if nothing else.

   “What about you, Melissa?” asked Logan in between mouthfuls. “With artistry like this, you should be working as a cook somewhere.”

   She looked down her nose at him; nice green eyes, actually. More amusing was the look from Anna's blue eyes.

   “I'm a dancer, singer. I worked with the Caledonian Lines; they went bankrupt, and I was stranded here. Boris was kind enough to offer me a job.” Her tone did not suggest that she overly appreciated this kindness.

   “What of you, Logan?” she asked.

   “Yes, Logan, what of you?” said Boris, a smile breaking through his face.

   “I run a beaten-up old tramp freighter, going to places no-one wants to go carrying cargo no-one particularly cares about.”

   “Just another drifter looking for the big score,” Melissa said; obviously deciding that Logan was not worth her time or interest.

   “An honest drifter. I at least know I'm drifting. Which gives me a certain ability to influence the course of my life. These blini are excellent; I'd hire you on as cook and entertainer any day.”

   Anna had barely touched her food, he noted. A few sips of tea, a quarter of a pancake. Boris had noted it too, and they exchanged a brief glance of acknowledgment.

   “I suppose I'd better go down and have a word with Kohut. Would you mind entertaining Anna for a few moments, Melissa?”

   Whilst she obviously did, she acquiesced with a look from Boris that suggested that her prospects for long-term employment were diminishing. Logan took a last swig to finish his tea, stood up, and made his way downstairs, led by Boris. The office was quiet, a couple of bored patrolmen poking away at reports at their desks. Images of various wanted criminals flickering on the wall in half-shot holography.

   The cells were full, as usual. Transients, petty criminals, most of them snoring away hangovers of one sort or another. The smell of mingled vomit filled the air; this was proving extremely distressing to the occupant of the end cell, Artur, who had a handkerchief over his nose.

   “Boris, could I borrow your interview room? I don't think my friend in there will cause me any trouble.”

   “Naturally, my friend. I will go and entertain the ladies for a few moments; call me when you are finished.”

   He unlocked the cell, and Logan grabbed Artur by the shoulder, leading him roughly to the interview room. With a crack, the door locked behind them, sealing them in the spartan room. Just two chairs, a table, and a window looking out over the street. The theory was to cause the criminal to see the possibility of freedom; on this planet it was probably more likely to show them the merits of confinement.

   “You wanted to talk to me. I'm here.”

   “Mr. Winter, I must apologize for last night. You must understand that I am somewhat desperate.”

   “I'm sure you are – now.”

   “There is a package. I am the owner; it was last seen in the possession of the late Helena Wynne. We were involved in a business transaction that she regrettably failed to complete.”

   That got Logan's attention; he sat upright in his chair.

   “What kind of business?”

   “You will understand if I am reluctant to share this information with you. Unfortunately, one simply cannot trust anyone in these unpleasant times.”

   He had a good poker face, despite his current situation.

   “I presume you have some kind of proposition.”

   “Certainly, Mr. Winter. I need the package; I see no reason why you cannot assume the place of Ms. Wynne in this affair. I am willing to pay ten thousand kopeks for the return of the package, cash on delivery.”

   “That is a good deal of money. It must be valuable.”

   “The value is largely sentimental, I assure you.”

   Logan pushed a buzzer, calling upstairs.

   “Could you have someone bring in Kohut's possessions?”

   A minute of silence passed. The door swung open, and a patrolman passed Logan a package. Inside were a suit of clothes, and more importantly, a wallet. Logan counted out the currency; a thousand kopeks in a range of notes.

   “It would appear, Mr. Kohut, that you would be unable to fulfill your monetary obligations to me.”

   Artur laughed at that, a high, nervous laugh. “Naturally I would not have carried such money on my person when I visited you last night. If you wish, you can call the bank and ask them.”

   “No need. If it is cash on delivery, if you fail to have the money, I will simply destroy the package.”

   The poker face shattered into a gasp of horror.

   “I would recommend that you make sure you have nine thousand kopeks when I call.”

   “Nine thousand kopeks? I said ten.”

   “I'm taking this thousand as my retainer. And I do not operate a refund policy, so whether I find it or not, this money is now mine.”

   He looked at the wallet briefly, nodded, and smiled. “So, we have an agreement.”

   “Indeed we do.”

   Logan dropped the possessions onto the table, and called the guard to be let out. Boris was outside, waiting; Melissa was sitting at a desk by the corner, and Anna looking out of the window.

   “What do you want done with him?”

   “I will drop all the charges against him. In about half an hour.”

   Boris smiled at that, while Anna walked over to the interview room monitor. She was looking at Artur, and the flush of red in her cheeks was telling.

   “Something wrong, Anna?”

   “Nothing. Nothing of importance.”

  Chapter 4

   Logan and Anna hurried across the street to the Palace Hotel. One of the few moderately impressive buildings in town, decorated in a faux-monarchial style that would have been quite modern fifty years ago, but now just looked old, weathered, and tired. The doorman matched the building; he looked at the pair askance as they entered, but obviously the dress code had long since been relaxed.

   Tinkling music filled the foyer; a porter sat reading a newspaper in the corner, and a bored attendant leaned on the counter. The collection of keycards arrayed behind him indicated that business was about as good as usual. They stepped into the elevator, which slowly compensated for the extra weight before whisking them
up to the top floor. Anna began to leave the lift; Logan placed an arm in front of her.

   “Wait a moment. Remember that at least theoretically, you are paying me to protect you. I'll go first.”

   He drew one of his pistols, held it low by his side under his jacket. A professional would know to be cautious, an amateur would be encouraged to do something stupid. The corridor was empty, just a couple of gloomy portraits of dead old men for decoration. Paint past its best, but still well-tended. 520 was at the end of the corridor, and Logan cautiously made his way down, pushing each of the doors he went past to make sure it was closed.

   Anna followed more quickly, staying in his footsteps. She handed him her keycard, and he made to slide it into the door; but it was already unlocked, though something was keeping it from opening. A quick shove, and a smash, and the door opened. Logan flicked on the lights, and Anna gasped.

   The room had been thoroughly ransacked; nothing Logan had not expected. Clothes were strewn over the floor, and a shoe had been left jammed underneath the door. The bedding was rumpled, and all the draws and the wardrobe were wide open. The curtains had been dropped and tied down.

   “Look around quickly, and see if anything is missing. Then grab your stuff and we'll get out of here.”

   She nodded, and began to sort through her possessions, stacking them on the bed. Logan stood by the door, gun in hand, covering the room, making a mental note of her items. Mostly clothes, a couple of books, some jewelery. Looked real, as well. He took a look at the spine of the book, and saw a familiar name. Artur Kohut. Interesting.

   “There's nothing missing, Logan. Everything's been messed up, though.”

   “Get it packed, quickly as you can.”

   She began piling her things into a suitcase; then a necklace spilled out onto the floor, and she dived under the bed to retrieve it. Logan was about to tell her to forget it and go, when the lights went out.

   Instinctively, Logan moved with his back to the wall, and waited for his eyes to adjust; he didn't bother trying to turn the lights back on. Anna screamed; Logan dropped to the floor, trying to get away from whatever was attacking them. It paid off; a bullet cracked into the wall where his head had been a second earlier, but then he felt a sharp kick in his ribs that left him gasping for breath, and a hand took the pistol out of his hand. He rolled over, onto his other holster.