“Get the airlock sealed,” Nelyubov said. “He can float around out there for as long as he wants.”
“No,” Orlova said. “If we have a guest, let’s extend a proper invitation. Curry, pass around the firearms.”
Nodding, Curry reached for an overhead locker, pushed her palm against the reader to open it, and started pushing around pistols. Orlova snatched hers from the air and slammed in the ammunition clip while Vargon watched, his eyes doleful and disapproving. She gestured Nelyubov to the far side of the door, then waited for the inner door to open.
“Outer door closed,” Mathis reported. “Pressurizing now.”
“Do not fire first,” Orlova said. “Not under any circumstances.”
The door opened, and with his helmet stuffed under his arm, Price pushed into the bridge, his head jerking from side to side as he saw the six weapons pointed at him. Letting his helmet go, he raised his hands slowly above his head while his momentum slowly carried him further into the room.
“Don’t shoot, for God’s sake! I’m here to help you! I have information.”
“That you couldn’t trust to a communicator?”
“Not with Dumont’s security team tracking everything.”
“Are they on to us?”
Nodding, he replied, “And they have been since they arrived.”
“You’ve got a story to tell,” she said, “You might as well get on with it.”
Glancing at Vargon, he said, “You aren’t one of the workers.”
“I am a resident of the planet below,” the elder said. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
“Wait a minute, you found...never mind, that isn’t important now. First of all, Alamo is not destroyed.”
Orlova pushed forward, her eyes widening, “Are you sure?”
“Dumont is on its way to hunt her down. Apparently a big task force is assembling to lure her into an ambush at Gliese 442.” Pulling a datapad carefully out of a pocket, he said, “I’ve got all the details here.”
“An ambush?” Carpenter said. “How?”
“Apparently there is a saboteur on board who will be able to get them to the attack site. I don’t know how, but they are very sure about it. Sure enough that every ship for a dozen light-years is being sent in to be on the kill; all patrol ships are on the way to that location. Dumont came in for some last-minute servicing, though that changed when they saw Hercules.” He chuckled, “They thought Hercules had been destroyed in the battle.”
“I thought Alamo had been blown to pieces,” Nelyubov said. “When all those missiles converged…”
“She must have jumped a microsecond ahead of the explosion,” Mathis said. “Our sensors were in pieces at the time, we never did get a high-resolution view.”
“And you know where and when this ambush is to take place?”
“In just over twelve days from now. It’s all in the datapad.” Taking a deep breath, he continued, “I formally request political asylum in the Triplanetary Confederation.”
“Excuse me?” Curry said. “That’s going to raise all manner of hell.”
“I can’t help that, Lieutenant,” he replied. “For helping you, the penalty is death.”
“What about your family?” Orlova said, quietly.
Shaking his head, he said, “There’s nothing I can do for them now except hope that the reprisals aren’t too severe. Likely they’ll be sent to a penal colony.” Sighing, he continued, “I’ll never see them again.”
“Why did you do this?” Nelyubov said. “Don’t think we’re ungrateful…”
“You just don’t trust me,” Price said with a thin smile. “I suppose I can’t blame you for that. This ship of yours needs to get home, and the Dumont is already planning to take you all back in chains. I believe they intend to plant shaped nuclear charges on your hull.”
Orlova broke out in laughter, and at Price’s hurt look, said, “We were already planning to return the favor.”
“Everything you need to get your launch tubes working again should be on board now. Take them down and run, Commander. Get the hell away from here.”
“Actually, it’s Sub-Lieutenant,” she replied. “What about the station?”
“All of my property will be forfeit; the Cabal will take it under military control.”
“What of my people on the station?” Vargon asked with a frown.
“That depends on who takes charge,” Price said with a shudder. “There are some real sadists in uniform. Then there are some humanitarians as well. Toss of a coin.”
“I would rather not leave the fate of dozens of my people to the vicissitudes of fate.”
“Nor would I, damn it. Why do you think I arranged for so many of them to be on the station? I always hoped I’d find some way to get them down to the surface, but we’ve just run out of time.”
Nelyubov said from his station, “I think we can get the missiles ready in forty-eight hours. We’ll have the advantage of surprise, and I recommend a sneak attack.”
Race added, “I’ll get some courses plotted to get us away from the station as soon as possible. Perhaps we can take some people with us when we go? We’ve certainly got the room.”
Frowning, Orlova shook her head, “No.”
Vargon replied, “I would like an explanation.”
“We’re not going to take them with us because we’re going to get them down to the planet. Mr. Price, what is the crew compliment of the Dumont?”
“About twenty officers and men.”
“And your security force?”
“Eight I can trust, six I can’t.”
“What are you thinking, Maggie?” Carpenter asked.
“Mr. Price, I think I can make you a better offer than the Cabal. This station is your property, is that correct?”
“For what little that is worth, yes.”
“And if we were to lease it from you?”
“What?” Curry said. “The ship?”
“No,” Orlova said. “The Triplanetary Fleet.”
“I’d take it, but you’d never be able to resupply it,” Price said.
“Let me worry about that.”
“What is this about?” Nelyubov said.
Sitting down in the command chair, Orlova said, “We’re going to help Alamo.”
“I don’t think you understood,” Price said. “Every ship. Eight capital ships, maybe as many scouts and picket craft. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Surprise will be on our side; they think we’re dead, remember. We can help Alamo, and perhaps improve the odds a little.”
Shaking her head, Carpenter said, “I know how you must be feeling, Maggie, but we’ve got to get the data on this ship home.”
“We will. On Dumont.” She looked around the bridge, smiling, “Here’s what we do. We capture that scout, put a prize crew on board and send it home. We take the station and make sure that all non-essential personnel get down to the surface, and then we leave the system and proceed to relieve Alamo. Race, when would we have to jump?”
“It’ll be another long one. Say five days from now.”
“Plenty of time for us to get Hercules in as near as possible to fighting trim.”
“Dammit,” Ballard said. “Don’t we deserve to get home?”
“Of course we do,” Nelyubov said, “But so do the crew of Alamo, including those who were stranded with us on Discovery.” He looked up at Orlova, his eyes narrowing, “Are you serious about this plan?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll start working on getting some blueprints of Dumont out of the computer.”
Price shook his head, “You are out of your mind.”
“You said that your grandfather built this station,” Orlova said. “If we can turn it into a Triplanetary outpost, then we will protect it
for you, and it will give us a tremendous strategic advantage. Get back there, stall for time, and wait for us to move in.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then my plan fails and we slink home with our tails between our legs. We aren’t the Cabal, Mr. Price.”
Sighing, he snatched his helmet out of the air, “I’d better go and work out a good cover story, see how long I can hold off Dumont.”
“I’ll be in my office,” Orlova said as he made for the airlock. “Curry, you have the bridge. I want a tactical plan to snatch Dumont in three hours.”
She glared around as if daring someone to oppose her, then kicked back through the door, watching it slid behind her. Since she’d assumed command, she’d wondered what she was supposed to do, what her goals and objectives should be. Jumping to Hydra Station had been sheer, desperate improvisation, but now she had a positive mission to work towards.
The door slid open, and Carpenter pushed through. “Can I have a word?”
“Keep it quick.”
“Look, I don’t know much about how this military stuff works, but if I’m your executive officer then I should be telling you when you are about to make a mistake.”
“And I am?”
“Maggie, we’ve got a safe way home. We can take out Dumont conventionally, load up everyone from Hydra Station you want to save, and be back at Mariner Station in ten weeks. Ten weeks. With all the information we came out here to get.”
“Not good enough. This way we get everything, Susan. We didn’t just come out here to get the advantage in a war with the Cabal, we came to stop it from happening. Think about what we might do – that battle fleet is the bulk of their mobile reserve, it must be! Knock that out and they’ll think twice before attacking, and with a secure facility here that is resupplied by a secret route, we have a dagger pointed at the heart of their empire and they will know it.”
“The risk…”
“Captain Marshall once pointed out to me that we’re out here to take risks.”
“You’re asking more from the crew than you have any right to.”
Shaking her head, she replied, “None of them will be ordered to go. This will be a volunteer mission, if only because I think we won’t be coming back. Our job is to buy as much time as we can to allow Dumont to get back with a task force.”
“I hate to break it to you, Maggie, but you are a Sub-Lieutenant. You can’t do this. Even if everything works as you say, what makes you think that the Cabal won’t launch an immediate attack. You could start a war!”
“I might only be a Sub-Lieutenant, Susan, but I am the Acting Captain of the Battlecruiser Hercules.” She smiled; that had a hell of a ring to it. “For better or for worse, out here I speak for the Confederation. If the Senate wants to repudiate me, then that’s their business. I expect they’ll have to hold my court martial by seance, though.”
“You really think this is a one-way flight?”
“Between you and me, Susan, I don’t see how we can win the battle – but if we can do enough damage, we might win the war, and with the Dumont taking the data home, Hercules and her crew are expendable.”
“I don’t know if I can think in such a way.”
“Sometimes that’s what wearing this uniform means.”
Chapter 17
“Emergence to normal space in one minute,” McGuire reported, turning back in her chair to face Marshall.
“Very good, Midshipman.” He stabbed a button on his chair, “All hands, report to your battle stations. Repeat, all hands to battle stations.”
Alarms began to sound on the bridge as his crew began to work, Caine running through the usual sequence of commands at Tactical, Lane sitting in as temporary Watch Officer, keeping a watchful eye on McGuire as she manipulated her controls.
“Bryant, I’m going to want an immediate picture of what we’ve got in the system,” he said.
“You’ll get it, sir. Sensors are all ready to go.”
“Thirty seconds, sir.”
“All decks have reported ready for battle,” Lane said. “Ready to take spin off the ship as soon as we arrive.”
Turning to the rear of the bridge, Marshall saw Tyler holding onto a handhold, leaning against the bulkhead with his eyes intently on the viewscreen, waiting for the stars to return.
“Sub-Lieutenant, I want your assessment of anything we see immediately. You’ve been doing the work with the Cabal database, and we need to take the fullest possible use of it.”
“I’ll be ready, sir.”
“Ten seconds! Nine, eight, seven,” McGuire said, and Marshall turned his chair back to the viewscreen, a finger resting on the controls of the tactical holodisplay at his side. No matter how many times he did this, there was always a certain thrill at emerging into a new system, seeing new worlds. Gliese 431 was especially well-endowed with planets, no less than thirteen revolving around the red dwarf. Fertile territory for exploration in happier times.
“Emergence!” McGuire said, and the stars appeared in the wake of the familiar blue flash as Alamo returned to its native dimension. Bryant immediately began to work, and the holodisplay slowly resolved, planets jumping imperceptibly into their true positions as the computer verified its guesswork.
“Threat warning! Vessel astern, twenty thousand miles, energy spike detected from its engines.”
“Almost a stone’s throw away,” Caine said.
“Take the spin off the ship, Lane, and let’s get a missile salvo ready to go. Ivanov, hail that ship.”
“Aye, sir,” the communications technician replied. “They’re not accepting handshake.”
“It’s a freighter, sir,” Tyler said. “Big type, bulk materials transport.”
“Fuel?”
“If it’s full, more than enough for a couple of jumps.”
“Missiles ready, Deadeye?”
“All good to go, sir.”
“Give ‘em a warning shot. Quarter-mile off the bow.”
She flicked a switch and Alamo shook, a missile tracking out from the forward launch tube, cutting through space towards its target. The freighter wallowed as it attempted evasive maneuvers, and for a heartbeat Marshall thought that the warhead might actually impact by accident, but Caine had set up enough of a safety margin to rule that out; the explosion detonated harmlessly clear.
“They’ll need to repaint the hull,” Bryant said. “Nothing else in system so far, sir.”
Ivanov turned to Marshall, “They’re getting talkative all of a sudden. A Captain Bergstrom for you, sir.”
A clipped accent echoed over the communicator, “What is the meaning of launching an attack on my ship! I warn you, the Court will hear of this!”
“No doubt. I am Lieutenant-Captain Daniel Marshall, commander of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo, and I must reluctantly request the requisition of your fuel.”
“Requisition? You mean steal.”
“No, sir. I mean requisition. You will be provided with a credit voucher for the assessed value of the commodities we take, which can be traded in at any Triplanetary facility in the recognized currency of your choice.”
“What the hell good is that?”
“Sir,” Bryant said, “the freighter is on the move.”
“No way they can get away, sir,” Caine said.
Lane turned to Tactical, “Get a missile lock on their engines.”
She looked back at Marshall, who nodded, “Do it.”
“You’ll destroy my ship!”
Marshall said, “Sir, I will be happy to pay for what we take. I regret putting your crew at hazard, but if you intend to evade any further, I would recommend you permit them to take to the escape pods.”
“And if I accept?”
“Then we will take your fuel, and inform the next Cabal vessel we see that you require resupply. T
his is a frequently traveled system; you will not be waiting long for rescue.”
“You hope! We’ve only got food for a month on board.”
A light flashed on Marshall’s console, a call from the lower decks. Putting the fuming Bergstrom on hold, he answered it.
“Marshall.”
“Bailey here, sir. We’ve hacked into the ship’s inventory – it’s called the Caliban, by the way. They’ve got rations for six months, not one. Cargo is mostly agricultural supplies, pretty high-tech stuff according to the database. Lots of experimental hybrids, that sort of thing.”
“Something we’d be interested in,” Lane said. “We should take samples of the cargo.”
Looking at her sharply, he said, “Thank you, Lieutenant,” and connected with Bergstrom again.
“You have a lot more food than you claimed, Captain,” he began, “and therefore should have no problem waiting for relief. Furthermore, I’m sure you could get something out of those agricultural supplies.”
“How did you…”
“We have an excellent intrusion team on this ship. What is it to be, Bergstrom? Do we fight a battle that you have no chance of winning, or do you keep your ship and its cargo?”
“Sir,” Lane hissed, “we should take the cargo as well.”
“I will not hand over my cargo,” Bergstrom said, having obviously heard Lane. “As for fuel, we can’t spare much.”
“Get that weapons lock ready, Lieutenant Caine,” Marshall said, then back into the microphone, “You will be inconvenienced, Captain, but nothing more.” With a smile, he continued, “Besides, think of it this way. If relations between our two governments normalize, you will have a substantial amount of Triplanetary currency to use for trade. That might give you an advantage over your competitors.”
“And if they don’t, I’m stuck with a load of worthless credit,” he said, but his tone was softening. “You will guarantee that my crew will not be harmed, my cargo left intact?”
“I will give you my word as a Triplanetary officer.”
“I don’t have much choice about this, do I?”
“No.”
There was a long pause; just before Marshall was about to ask again, the reply came, “Very well. I accept under protest, Captain, and expect that protest to be entered into your log.”
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