Battlecruiser Alamo: Tales from the Vault

by Richard Tongue

   Logan shook his head, “I am not an art historian, I fear.”

   Maxim pulled out his datapad, and displayed a picture; a woman dressed in silks, wearing a necklace of eight discs of various sizes, with a backdrop of constellations. From his early navigation training, Logan recognized the sky as that from long-lost Old Earth.

   “Certainly an attractive piece; I am not qualified to judge its worth.”

   “It's worth is almost impossible to calculate. This painting dates from the dying days of the old Terran Empire, commissioned for Emperor Pierre II. The final work of the great Mazioni. It hang on his wall during the Siege of Earth, and vanished during the Collapse.”

   Logan nodded in interest, “That would make it a thousand years old!”

   Rapt in his story, Maxim continued, “The painting – it is called the Star Lady – vanished for four centuries. It reappeared during the time of the Draconian Commonwealth, where it hung on the wall of the Governor-General of Draconia, for a hundred years. It looked down while the key decisions that brought about that empire were made; can you imagine the stories it could tell!”

   He paused for a second. Logan said, in a lower voice, “And then?”

   “During the Great Sack, it was stolen by Antillian raiders, and once again vanished. Twenty years ago, I saw an image of its rediscovery by an archaeological expedition on the fourth moon of that planet. I already knew of its value, the value of the last surviving work of the greatest artist of the Imperial Age, but before I could travel there to claim it for myself, it had vanished back into history once again.”

   “That's quite a story. I presume that you managed to find it.”

   “That was your partner's achievement. Three years ago she ran into a man who claimed that he had seen it hanging in the private chambers of the First Mistress of the Antillian Republic, just prior to the revolution.”

   Logan looked out into space for a moment. His partner, his lover, had run off into the unknown on the trail of some drunken spacer's rantings.

   “And you got involved?”

   “She put together a small team to break into the Supreme Leader's palace, and I provided the funding and some of the personnel. Until a month ago, I thought they had all died. The Antillians certainly claimed they had. Then I heard that your partner had reappeared, and I immediately came to reclaim my property.”

   Logan raised an eyebrow. “Your property?”

   Maxim snorted. “I paid enough for it. Thirteen people, fourteen if one counts your partner, have died for it just in the last two months. I paid for it, Mr. Winter. And I want what I have paid for.”

   Logan sat back in his chair, and crossed his hands. “Presumably you think I am in possession of it?”

   “I know that you are not. My agents have conducted a thorough investigation of you, Mr. Winter. Nevertheless, I have a feeling – call it intuition – that you are the most likely person to get your hands on it in the near future.”

   “I presume you will thwart any plans I might have to, say, sell it myself?”

   “Quite the reverse. I am perfectly willing for you to sell it. Providing that I am the buyer, and at a price I establish.”

   Logan laughed, and smiled. Maxim followed suit. “You are not the only person seeking it, of course. The least I can expect is that you are the highest bidder.”

   “I certainly have no objection to you making a profit from this deal. Business, Mr. Winter, is best conducted when all parties are satisfied.”

   “Fifteen thousand kopeks, then. Including a one thousand kopek retainer, payable in advance. Before I leave this room, in fact.”

   Maxim nodded. “I might have been willing to pay much more; a strategic mistake perhaps in not letting me set the price?”

   “Not at all. I named the figure I wanted. The price of being greedy is usually losing the opportunity to enjoy the fruits of your sins.”

   Maxim laughed once again. “Good god, I like you, Mr. Winter. You are a man after my own heart. Very well, fifteen thousand, with a thousand payable immediately.”

   “I presume contacting you won't be a problem?”

   A thick wallet was presented, and five notes passed across the table. Logan counted them quickly, and placed them in his pocket.

   “One of my men will keep an eye on you, and once you have the painting, will arrange for collection. I hope your search is a short one.”

   “Likewise.”

   Logan stood up, shook Maxim's hand; Maxim had remained seating. The door opened to reveal the kid, who had a frustrated look on his face. He pushed past him to leave the room.

   “Sorry, kid, you don't get to beat me up again today. Better luck next time.”

  Chapter 7

   After a day such as his, the only logical place for him to go was the bar. No sign of Anna, and now three people were paying him to find and deliver the same item. Boris was sitting at a table, waiting for him. Two glasses were sitting in front of him, one full to the brim.

   “Silvio is dead. But the security camera footage I saw means you knew that, already.”

   “I didn't kill him, Boris.”

   Boris shook his head, “You threatened to. I could pull you in. I certainly have all the evidence I need for a prosecution.”

   Logan sat down at the table, and took a sip of his drink. Vodka with almost no mixer.

   “If you were going to, you would have done it by now. You wouldn't be sitting here talking about it.”

   Boris smiled weakly. “I have had instructions regarding you. I am to place you under surveillance.”

   Logan laughed out loud; the other patrons of the bar turned and looked at him, then returned to their own drinks. Boris looked around, nervously.

   “The final piece drops into place. Don't tell me you are after the damn picture, as well?”

   “What picture? I had a special flag from Zemlya, to the effect that you are to be monitored. Not brought in, just monitored.”

   “Figures. Silvio – let me guess, the same weapon that was used on Helena.”

   Boris nodded, “Not a difficult guess. Same weapon, same ammunition type. The shot came from the service corridor behind the room...which of course, exonerates you as the shooter.”

   “But I could have had an accomplice, of course.” Logan shook his head and laughed again.

   “Don't joke about this, Logan. I'm going to come under pressure from the Governor to solve this one. This isn't just another random mugging in the street, we could have a dozen of those a day and no-one would give a damn. This is a man killed in a luxury hotel suite. Right now I have several pompous fools thinking that they might just be important enough to have the same done to them. My security force is spread all over the place on bodyguard duty.”

   “So who is handling the surveillance?”

   “I will. I should have been following you around from the outset.”

   Logan looked at him, arching his eyebrows.

   “Boris, I've known you too long for that to work. You've figured that either I'm in this too deep for you to do anything about, in which case you catch a high-profile murderer and get enough good publicity to get off this rock...”

   “Logan...”, Boris began to protest.

   “...or you will be in on whatever score I have managed to put together, and will be able to get a cut of the proceeds.”

   Boris looked down at his drink. “I thought we were friends.”

   “We are. But I need to know where everyone stands. I trust you...at least, I trust your sense of self-interest. Besides, my previous partner in this investigation seems to have vanished, so I need a replacement, anyway.”

   Boris sat up with a start. “Anna is missing?”

   “She went missing right around the time the navigator was shot. There was a scream, and she was gone. I thought I knew who had taken her, but I'm not sure. Has Kohut reappeared?”


   “Who knows? Right now I've got Melissa in the office, and that's about it.”

   Both the glasses were empty. Logan waved for another pair of drinks; the waitress placed them on the table, giving them both an odd look.

   “Guess it's just as well I'm on the case. Though our leads are drying up rapidly. At least the storm seems to be over; I'm going to head back to the ship and make sure everything's secure. Finish your drink.”

   The street looked much as before; tired looking shopkeepers doing their best to clean the windows, a street sweeper cleaning the roads. They walked the mile to the starport, to find a technical crew going over one of the two ships. The Lucifer Kiss was still fine, but the other one – presumably the Even Odds, was burned out. Logan shook his head, while Boris went over to the head technician.

   “What happened here?”

   “Storm damage, we think, Captain. Looks like some dust got into the primary interface and bollixed everything up.”

   Logan ran over.

   “That would cause damage, not a blow-out. Have you conducted a proper investigation?”

   The technician looked at him sharply.

   “As best we can. Without special equipment from Zemlya. Which we won't get. Look, some screwball was careless, and his ship burned out. That's enough for the report. Insurance agent was here, and he's signed off on it.”

   Boris looked at Logan. “Which outfit?” he asked.

   “Hartman & Morris. No-one else would insure a rat-trap like that.”

   Logan went back to his ship, ran a few checks. The paintwork was about the only thing that could have been damaged, and that was already in ruins. Everything was ready to go, pile had stored enough power for a quick takeoff if necessary. Boris came in an after a few minutes and sat down in the flight engineer's chair.

   “Planning a quick getaway?”

   “If things don't improve, we might both need to get out of here in a hurry. Did you get through to the insurers?”

   “They aren't talking.”

   “Did you give them your best Patrol Captain voice?” Logan said with a wry smile.

   “I was as bombastic as only a tyrant oppressor can be. “

   “Maybe you should send Melissa over there to try and sweet-talk them.”

   Boris snorted. The detector alarms began to kick in, signaling a ship approaching. The technicians backed away, withdrawing into the bunker.

   “Mail ship. It's about due. Logan, what's that?”

   There was another blip on the screen, coming in fast. A car of some kind. Logan pulled out his datapad, pulled it into the computer, and ran a comparison. It checked out.

   “I thought it would come back again!”

   “Come back?”

   “I guess I can tell you know. Back after Helena was shot, I caught up to that guy. Someone in a car dropped smoke, pulled him out.”

   Boris looked at him, frowning. “Why didn't you tell me this before?”

   “Because there wasn't any point. If you'd tried to track it down, they would have disappeared.”

   Boris stood up, pulled his sidearm out of his holster, and headed for the airlock.

   “Where are you going?”

   “To arrest them when they land.”

   “The mail ship, remember? Besides, they'll probably just smoke anyone they see. Best chance is to wait until they are down. I'm guessing I'm the target again, anyway.”

   The mail ship came down with a loud report, five engines burning until it settled on the ground in an immense cloud of dust. The car flew into the dust, out of sight. A loud report echoed as the engines fell silent, then small arms fire.

   “You're not the target, Logan! They're going after the damn mail ship!”

   “Hell.” Logan pulled out one of his guns, made for the airlock, hot on the heels of Boris – who was trying to rustle up some reinforcements, judging by the swearing, without much success.

   The airlock opened, and Logan choked from the dust; Boris had pulled a mask over his mouth. The gunshots were still coming from the direction of the ship; there were a couple of blurry figures moving in the cloud. The car was parked on the periphery of the field. The pair ran towards the ship, zigzagging to avoid any fire, though none was evident.

   The dust cloud cleared, and Logan could now see three figures. All of them wearing masks, all of them wearing heavy robes to camouflage themselves, almost certainly over armor. Two of them were working at the airlock door, trying to force it; the other had seen Logan and Boris heading towards them, raised his gun, and fired.

   Logan threw himself to the ground and let off a shot; he heard a ping indicating a ricochet from the hull. The figure still crumpled to the ground, evidently Boris' aim was rather better. The others turned away from the airlock, started to run back for their car. Logan took another shot, but it bounced right off whatever they were wearing. Boris did better again, another clean head shot; blood and brains spilled out onto the dust.

   “Christ, Boris, what the hell have you got in that thing?”

   “High Explosive/Armour Piercing. What else?”

   “Damn!”

   Logan chased after the remaining target, while Boris provided covering fire; it would have been good to get at least one prisoner. He was not quite fast enough; the figure leapt into the car, which immediately took off, and headed into the desert.

   Boris was looking over the bodies, while Logan looked after the car, trying to get a bearing on it.

   “No good, Logan. By the time I could get anyone after them, they'll be long gone. Look at this.”

   He'd pulled the mask from one of them. Logan recognized him immediately – it was the porter from the hotel.

   “What the hell is he doing out here?”

   “I can't see any baggage for him to carry around, Logan. Look at the other one – that's one of the hotel attendants.”

   “I recognize them both. They were on duty today, when the navigator was killed.”

   Boris shook his head, and replaced the mask. He pulled the robes away; they were wearing good quality body armor, military-grade.

   “That's Antillian-made. Look at the markings on the shoulder.”

   “That mean anything, Logan?”

   “Potentially that the Great Leader of Antillia is tied up in this, but I doubt if he has the off-world connections.”

   “More likely salvage from the revolution. Mercenary gangs will be running around in this stuff for years.”

   Logan looked up, and smiled, “Boris, my friend, you are absolutely right.”

   The airlock opened, and a couple of men in flight suits cautiously crept out, sidearms in their hands. Their faces brightened when they saw Boris' uniform, and they holstered their weapons.

   “What the hell happened?” the leader asked.

   Boris looked at the two dead bodies. “Looks like someone failed to hold up the mail ship. Do you have anything especially valuable on board?” Seeing the look on the man's face, he raised his hand. “I know the mail is confidential, even to me without a court order – but you can at least tell me if there was anything on board that had special security, or instructions?”

   The other man had been looking at his datapad, and at Logan – he looked back three times, then showed the pad to his colleague, who nodded, and walked up to Logan.

   “Your name Logan Winter? Captain of the Lucifer Kiss?”

   “Yes.”

   The man nodded.“We do have some special instructions. I was to hand-deliver a package to you, special priority. To make sure that it was to you, and only to you.”

   The other man had headed back into the ship. Logan made a shape with his hands, of a large rectangle, “About so high, so wide?”

   “That's right. Were you expecting it?”

   Boris was looking quizzically at Logan. “You were expecting something?”

>    Logan nodded. “It makes almost too much sense.”

   The man returned with a package, approximately the size that Logan had described. “DNA identification, please?”

   Logan placed his finger on the pad, winced at the brief pinprick, then saw the monitor glow green.

   “Tell me there isn't any postage pending on this thing?”, he asked.

   The two men looked at each other, and laughed. “Not with what the sender paid for this one. Here you go.”

   Logan took the package, placed it under his arm, and nodded. He turned and headed back for the ship, Boris nipping at his heels.

   “Are you going to tell me what is going on?”

   “Tell you, Boris? Give me a minute, and I'll show you.”

   He sealed the airlock behind them, double checking that it was a tight seal, and walked silently to his cabin, one by one unpicking the seals on the package. He sat down on his bed, Boris sitting next to him, and undid the final seal. The contents slid out onto the bed.

   It was the portrait. A woman, standing in front of an array of constellations. He passed it over to Boris.

   “Hold it still so I can take some pictures of it. Be careful, it's got a lot of blood on it.”

   Boris looked at it, puzzled.

   “Blood?”

   “God yes. Counting the landing field, sixteen people have died for it now. Just hope that numbers seventeen and eighteen aren't sitting here in this room.”

  Chapter 8

   Logan had securely locked the portrait in his safe, changing the combination code – twice, just in case he'd been given a light hypnotic instruction while unconscious. He was heading back to Boris when his pad rang. Number unrecognized.

   “Yes?”

   “Logan?” It was an all too familiar voice, frightened.

   “Anna? Where are you?”

   “I got away from them. I'm on the run. Logan, help me!”

   “Where are you?” Logan was slightly surprised himself by the concern in his voice.

   “Outside town. On the mountain. Heading for...”

   There was the sound of a crack, obviously a round going off nearby, then the line went dead. Boris had heard the conversation, ran up with a drink still in his hand.