“And if he doesn't?” Harper asked.
“The safety of the crew and the ship override any other considerations at this point,” Salazar said. “Which is a fancy way of saying that we'll do what must be done.”
Chapter 3
Clarke sat down in the all-too-familiar interrogation room, waiting for Major Pastell to arrive. Great care had been taken to ensure that he had no idea how long he'd been a prisoner, though he'd slept twenty-one times since arriving on Waldheim, eaten fifty-two meals. Figures he clung to as a measure of the passage of time. The fate of his crew, his ship, was a mystery to him.
At the last instant, just as the debris field had swept towards him, a shuttle had reached out and snatched him from his fate, taking heavy damage for the effort. Since then, he'd been constantly questioned, first by the brutal Colonel Cruz, then the insidious Major Pastell, as his superior had grown tired of his resistance.
“My apologies,” his jailer said, stepping into the room. “I hate being late for an appointment, especially with someone I have grown to know as well as you.”
“Unless I've missed something,” Clarke replied, “you don't know me well at all.”
“Not true. I know that you have a remarkable resistance to interrogation, that you are both innovative and brave, and that you have managed to thoroughly antagonize Colonel Cruz to a level I have never seen before. Her new scar might have something to do with it, I suppose. Nevertheless, you have caused me not a little amusement as a result, even if I have found your lack of response aggravating.” Sitting opposite him, Pastell folded his fingers together in his lap and continued, “Not that I would behave any differently in the circumstances.”
“Do you want me to recite my serial number again, or do you know it by heart?”
A smile curled the man's lips, and he replied, “No, I think we can spare the usual questions today, though if anyone asks, I'd appreciate you informing them that we proceeded as normal. I have some other questions to ask you. Perhaps it would be better to put it that I would like your advice on a course of action under consideration by the senior staff.”
Nodding, Clarke replied, “You really want my advice?”
“I do.”
“Surrender unconditionally to Captain Marshall.” He shrugged, and said, “I didn't promise that my advice would be any worth.”
“Perhaps I should provide you with a little more information. Not that we would have any intention of making the offer you suggest, but there are still those on the command staff that have an interest in mutual cooperation with Captain Marshall and his crew.” The smug smile danced across Pastell's face again, and he continued, “You are more than your service record appears. I know that you are one of Triplanetary Intelligence's top field agents...”
“That's news to me. I guess they're getting desperate,” Clarke replied, folding his hands. Admitting that he really was nothing more than a somewhat over-promoted nineteen-year-old didn't seem the best course of action.
“And therefore have at least some influence with Captain Marshall. So tell me. Would he be willing to consider such a deal?”
Clarke paused, pondering the possibilities in his hand. During the last battle, Alamo had only escaped from Waldheim through a combination of desperation and luck, and any future encounter would likely go the same way.
“It's not impossible. Though there would be no chance of a joint command structure. A better possibility would be to negotiate some sort of information exchange. Which would certainly require a transfer of prisoners.”
“Undoubtedly. I am aware that you have a vested interest in seeing such a deal become reality.”
“Understand this, Major. I am an officer in the Triplanetary Fleet, and will not undertake any negotiations that are the detriment of my ship and my crewmates. Besides, you're going to have a problem that renders this discussion moot.”
“And that is?”
“You've got to find Alamo. By now they'll be half-way home, and you've got no way of catching up with them.”
With a sigh, Pastell said, “I fear your information is woefully out of date. You see, we know exactly where Alamo is going. The Colonel was able to extract the data we needed from your fellow prisoner...”
“What happened to her?” Clarke asked, fury flashing in his eyes.
Pastell looked down at the deck, sighed, and said, “She was buried with honors, Sub-Lieutenant. And know that some of us have different ideas about the treatment of prisoners. Be grateful that I was able to assume custody of you, or you'd be floating though space alongside her by now.” Looking up at him again, he added, “Colonel Cruz would have us hunt Alamo through the stars, and build up an empire in this remote corner of the universe on the corpses of your shipmates.”
“And you would be so very different, of course.”
“Sub-Lieutenant, I am not a fool, and I would very much like to live through this nightmare. Captain Marshall's reputation for finding creative ways to beat the odds has not escaped me, and I am sufficiently humble to admit that in a battle, we could lose. Or suffer sufficient damage that would strand us here forever.”
“Interesting,” Clarke said with a smile. “Right now, you need me more than I need you.”
“If you want to see your homeworld again...”
“I'm a serving officer who swore an oath that actually means something to me, Major. I don't want to die here, but if that's what has to be, then I'm at peace with it. Can you say the same?”
Shaking his head, Pastell replied, “Perhaps not. I venture that such loyalty is rare in my fleet. Colonel Cruz can see herself as Empress Leticia the First, and there are many other officers who feel the same way. My guess is that the final veneer of democracy will be washed away within a decade. Whether or not your people will benefit from that remains to be seen.”
“Major, let me put it simply. If you are considering a mutually beneficial deal that will aid both ships, then I will be happy to work with you to open up communications with Alamo. Assuming, of course, that you can find her. If this is a trap, then I will gladly die to prevent it from succeeding.”
With another sigh, Pastell replied, “There is a trap, Sub-Lieutenant, and I fear that Alamo is about to be caught in it. As I said, we obtained some useful information from Corporal Weber before she died, and our scientific team was able to piece together the rest of the puzzle. Perhaps even more so than yours, as we had more time to investigate. You may have far less time to make a decision than you know.”
“Captain Marshall will find a way out of any trap you set. That much I know.”
“Perhaps you are right. I don't much care for the price being paid anyway.” Rising to his feet, he added, “You will have company in your cell tonight. A new friend, perhaps. Before you depart, there's one thing I need to say. There are some sane men left on this ship, and I consider myself one of them. Many of us will take a way out of the nightmare in which we find ourselves, and if you can work out a method of such salvation, we would gladly take it.”
“Bold words, Major.”
“Perhaps they aren't bold enough. Think about what I said, Sub-Lieutenant, and if you decide to help us after all, the guard working the midnight shift is loyal to me, and me alone. You can pass a message to her and know that it will reach me.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Clarke replied, “How do you run a fleet this way?”
“Badly, I assure you. Hence your success during the late unpleasantness, and your continued expansion into interstellar space at our expense. Trust that it is not lost on me that I might have been better served in a military where paranoia was not the order of the day, but I have made my decision, and I venture that it is irreversible.” A look briefly passed between the two men, perhaps the hint of a signal, a message. “I will talk to you again, Sub-Lieutenant, and perhaps our next conversation will be more successful. I will do ever
ything I can to keep you out of the hands of Colonel Cruz, but I suspect that she will not remain patient forever. Though at present,” he said, his face darkening again, “she has found other toys with which to play.”
“What do you mean?”
“You'll find out soon enough, I fear.” Rising to his feet, he reached across for the door control, the hatch sliding open to reveal a pair of guards outside, a man and a woman. The woman glared at him for a moment before turning back to the corridor, taking the lead as the trio walked back to Clarke's cell in silence.
He'd never seen anyone else since he'd come on board. Just the rescue team that had snatched him from the sky over Dante's moon, then the guards, Colonel Cruz and Major Pastell. No crewmen walked this deck, at least not while he was present. It had been rumored that the UN Fleet was using indentured personnel to augment their manpower reserves, and one look at the occupied cells convinced Clarke that the rumors were true. Alamo, a ship admittedly less than a third the size of this ship, had a single double-occupancy cell, barely used. This ship had dozens, maybe a hundred, and signs that they were frequently occupied.
A part of him wished he had a camera, was able to take some pictures to record what he was seeing. He couldn't think of a better incentive for recruitment, knowing what the Confederation was fighting in their long, undeclared war with Earth's tyrannical regime. Finally, they came to their cell, and the door slid open, one of the two guards immediately walking away, leaving the woman standing outside at parade rest, gesturing for Clarke to step inside, where a slender man was sitting on a recently-added bunk, legs swinging back and forth.
“For what I'm paying,” Clarke said, “I at least expect a room to myself.”
Looking at him with an iron stare, she replied, “Business is good at the moment. We could use the extra bed.” Gesturing down the corridor, she added, “Airlock's just down there if you want to try and find a better hotel.”
“Maybe it'll be nice to have some company. Thank the Major for me, will you,” he replied, stepping in just before the door slammed shut behind him. He glanced up at the ceiling, the overhead pickups still working, monitoring everything in the room.
“Who are you?” the newcomer asked.
“Sub-Lieutenant John Clarke, of the Triplanetary Fleet.” He forced a smile, then replied, “And who do I have the pleasure of sharing a cell with?”
“Pyotr Sokolov.” Gesturing at the door, he added, “You're not with them?”
“We're at war with them. Sort of.”
“Well, my people are at war with them with no caveats, Sub-Lieutenant.” Shaking his head, he said, “They came in the night, swept into orbit and smashed down what passed for our orbital defenses. Then claimed our world for the United Nations.” Hatred shone in his eyes, and he continued, “I will see them burn for what they have done.”
“When was this?” Clarke asked.
“Three weeks ago. They sent troops down to the surface, conquered Cosmograd. Apparently we are to be an outpost for their empire in this galaxy. My people fled to the stars to escape tyranny like this, Sub-Lieutenant. We have no wish to be conquered once again.”
“Your military?”
“Dead or in hiding, at a guess. Though all we had was the Colonial Police. We'd never given any thought to serious defenses.” With a barking laugh, he continued, “There are less than a hundred thousand of us, and aside from the ruins, we've seen no trace of other civilizations since we arrived more than a century ago.” His eyes still locked on the door, he added, “Many of us thought that we were the sole survivors of mankind. An illusion I wish we still retained.”
“And you?”
“I was a cosmonaut. On an expedition to the inner asteroid belt, to prospect sites for mineral exploitation. We're building space-based industries, starting to exploit the other worlds in our system. The first step on the road that will take us back to the stars.” Pride filled his voice for a brief moment, replaced with sorrow. “And now we are a conquered people, and all our dreams are torn asunder.”
Frowning, Clarke asked, “Do you know our location?”
“As of three days ago, when I was captured, this ship was in orbit about Morana. Our homeworld. I don't think she's accelerated since then, so I suppose we must still be on station.”
“Low orbit?” Clarke asked.
“I think so. We were a long way from here, trying to hide out. We've got an outpost deep in the asteroids, and...”
A smile flashed on Clarke's face, and he replied, “An outpost? You think our friends know where it is?”
“I'm sure they do, but they'll have real trouble reaching it. Those rocks are hell if you don't know the flight patterns, and they've improvised some anti-fighter defenses from the mass drivers. They could hold out for months.”
“Unless someone showed them the way in, tried to guide them.”
“Nobody from our world would dream of such a traitorous act.”
Frowning, Clarke looked into the man's eyes, and replied, “Pyotr, I need you to answer a question, and I need the truth. Are you willing to do anything necessary to save your people? No matter what it takes?”
“Of course. I will gladly sacrifice my life for the liberation of my world.”
“Then you'd better decide to help the crew of this ship. Your outpost can't do anything, and you're only throwing lives away.” He managed a quick wink, keeping his face away from the ceiling cameras, hoping that his cellmate would get the hint. “Follow my lead. I'm going to give them what they want. It's the only way to help our people.” Reaching down for Sokolov's shoulder, he added, “Trust me, Pyotr. It's the only way we're going to get out of this cell.” He rose to his feet, and pounded on the door. “We'll talk. Take us to the Major.”
The door slid open, the guard's expression smug as she replied, “I thought you'd turn traitor in the end.”
“I'm no traitor. I just don't want my friends, my crewmates, to die for nothing.”
“Sure you do. This way, traitors.”
Sokolov looked at Clarke with ill-disguised contempt as they walked down the corridor. He knew that they'd only have a single chance to make this work, and slumped his shoulders as though in defeat. If the guard had been telling the truth, they'd be close to the airlock. Safety, if only temporarily. He didn't dare glance to look, but slowed his pace almost imperceptibly, letting the guard catch up, until the barrel of her pistol was almost in the small of his back.
Trusting in his training and instincts, Clarke abruptly came to a stop, dropped and rolled to his feet, hearing the crack of a bullet flying over his head as he reached over to snatch the pistol from the hands of the guard. Sokolov was quick off the mark, grabbing the woman and pulling her back. All around them, sirens pulsed, and Clarke raced to the airlock, tugging a panel free to expose an escape pod. He quickly tapped in a twenty-digit command sequence, the result of months of work by hackers back home, and the hatch reluctantly slid open.
“In we go,” he said.
“Her?”
“They might be a little less inclined to stop us if she's along for the ride,” Clarke replied, and with a shrug, Sokolov threw her roughly through the hatch, into the waiting pod, then dived after her. With a last look at the corridor, Clarke followed, his hand slamming the emergency release as he dropped into place.
“I'm sorry,” Sokolov said.
“Why?”
“I thought you were one of them. That this had all been some sort of trick. I was ready...”
“Never mind that now,” Clarke replied. He turned to the sullen guard, still gripped by Sokolov, and said, “Are you going to do anything stupid?”
“They'll shoot you down.”
“I don't think so,” Clarke said, a smile on his face. “I think I know something you don't. Pyotr, now would be a good time for a quick rundown on the surface conditions.” He looked out of the
viewport as the escape pod tumbled away, revealing a green and blue world below. “Habitable?”
“Almost like Earth, though far wilder,” Sokolov said.
“Population centers?”
“Just Cosmograd and a few outlying settlements. You'll see a continent shaped like a dog. Cosmograd would be on the nuzzle.”
“Got it,” Clarke said, setting at the limited controls. “Locking on. I should be bringing us down about a hundred miles from the settlement. From there we'll have to walk.”
Looking back at the slowly receding ship, Sokolov replied, “I don't understand. They've had plenty of time to shoot us down.”
“Atmosphere in one minute,” Clarke said. “Strap yourselves in. This is going to be rough.” He turned to face the guard, his stolen pistol once more in his hand. “Any stupid moves, and we'll be burying you when we reach the surface. You understand?”
“Traitor.”
Sokolov strapped her into position, and a warning light snapped on as the escape pod bit into the atmosphere, the outside heat rising as the capsule settled into re-entry attitude. Still Waldheim stood off in orbit, implacably waiting and watching, and Clarke watched the guard, studying her face, seeking any sign of emotion.
“See anything you like?” she asked with a sarcastic sneer.
“I'll tell you when we reach the surface. Hopefully the parachutes should open automatically.”
“Hopefully?” Sokolov replied.
“First time I've used one of these,” Clarke said.
“Great,” the cosmonaut said. “Just great.”
Chapter 4
Marshall sat in his command chair, watching as the crew worked around him, working to prepare Alamo for her return to normal space. At the helm, Sub-Lieutenant Quesada, one of the former Pioneer crewman, set up the emergence sequence while Francis looked on, his face a mask of concern. He glanced to the right, at the Tactical station, where Scott was preparing the ship for battle, sitting at the console that should have been Deadeye's. Behind him, Salazar stood at parade rest, his eyes on the viewscreen.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Spell of the Stars Page 3
