“Colonel,” Estrada snapped. “I think your presence is required on the lower decks. Leave the bridge at once.”
She looked at her commander for a long moment, then turned on her heel and stormed out of the pickup. Estrada watched her leave, then turned back to the display.
“Captain, I think we have a mutual problem. I will concede that you have won this round of the engagement, but the battle is far from over, and my tactical computers give us an excellent chance of victory.”
“Then why are we talking?”
“Because you and I both believe that there might be a better way to handle the situation, especially given our current situation. We are stranded far from home, and have I suspect both found evidence that there are potentially greater threats waiting in the darkness.” He paused, then asked, “What have you in mind, Captain?”
“A meeting, on the surface of the planet below. You and I, alone, to work out our problems and come to some sort of agreement.”
He smiled, then said, “I forget sometimes that you do not have the same difficulties that I face in day-to-day operations. Not on the surface of the planet, Captain, and not alone. My people would never permit it.”
Francis glanced at Marshall, but the latter replied, “I would offer Alamo, but I suspect that you won't find that an acceptable option.”
“There is, I understand, a hidden base deep in the asteroids, close-in to this system's star. We've been trying to find a way through the asteroids for some time. Given that the local population should probably be involved in this negotiation as well, would that not be a suitable base?”
Scott turned to Marshall, and quietly said, “Sir, Colonel Volkova would never agree, and I don't blame her. It would be as good as exposing them to open attack should all of this go wrong.”
Turning back to the screen, Marshall said, “A compromise, General. I will agree, if you agree to be transported to the base on one of our shuttles. You may bring along three guards and one staff officer. I'll do the same. And the base will be guarded by one of our fighter flights.”
“And our respective ships?”
“Will enter orbital position a million miles apart, from both each other and Salyut Station. General, you have more to gain from these negotiations than we do. Tactical computers aside, we did a lot more damage to you than you did to us on this pass, and I have every expectation of finishing the job next time. Think of your crew, and of the potential opportunities of a ceasefire agreement.” He added, “I will warn you now that I would expect that removing your presence from the planet would be a condition of any deal we make.”
“Give me just one moment, Captain,” Estrada said, and the screen went blank.
“You don't expect him to agree to this, sir,” Francis said. “You've demanded advantages in the negotiations that I'd reject without a second thought. He's not going to go along with riding on our shuttles with such a limited guard, and even if he did, Colonel Cruz would undoubtedly do her best to sabotage any agreement we make.”
Shaking his head, Marshall replied, “First rule of negotiating, Lieutenant. Always ask for more than you are willing to get. He'll throw back with an agreement that we'll both be able to live with. That's how the game is played. Ballard, contact Salyut Station on tight-beam, and inform them that we'll be holding negotiations on the base tomorrow.”
“And the planet?” Scott asked. “What happens down there?”
“With Waldheim off-station, probably nothing,” Francis conceded. “We don't have the strength to kick them off the planet, not without making contact with local insurgent forces. And you can bet there will be plenty of them, down in force.” Turning to the sensor display, he added, “We've picked up several troop concentrations on the surface, larger than our estimates of their surviving ground forces strength would suggest.”
“They've armed their crewmen,” Marshall said. “We've been forced to that ourselves on occasion.” He paused, then added, “Meaning they're reduced their crew complement. Which probably explains why they aren't accounting for themselves well in the battle. Fewer damage control teams, maintenance technicians.”
“We have advantages we don't consider, sir.”
“They've got a bigger one,” Quesada said. “With people on the planet controlling the population, they could always resort to scorched Earth. They've got plenty of hostages, Captain, and I doubt they'd hesitate to exploit them if they thought they needed a tactical advantage.”
“Any change to target aspect, Spaceman?” Marshall asked, turning back to Ballard.
“Nothing, sir. They're holding at alert status, but no sign of any course changes or other hostile moves.” She paused, then added, “I'm reading a little activity on the outer hull, damage control teams moving into position.”
“Meaning they don't expect to be fighting a battle in the near future,” Marshall said.
“Sir,” Bowman said, “I've got General Estrada for you again.”
The screen flickered on, and the General said, “I can't accept all of your conditions as they stand, Captain, but I'm willing to suggest a modification to your proposal.”
“I'm listening, General.”
“We use one of our shuttles, not yours, but with one of your pilots at the controls, with sufficient access to delete any records of the ship's flight path when it touches down. I will further agree to allow your maintenance technicians to complete a full inspection of the shuttle before either of us step on board. In exchange, two staff officers, no guards, but I will allow three of your fighters to guard the base during the negotiations. All of us are to be unarmed, and again, I will submit to a search by your security people if you are willing to reciprocate.”
“Wait one, General,” Marshall said, turning to Francis. “That's a little better than I was expecting, Lieutenant, but I'd welcome your thoughts.”
“I don't think we're going to do any better than that, Captain, but something about this whole arrangement still makes me nervous. He's agreeing a little too quickly, too easily.”
Nodding, Marshall turned to Fitzroy, and asked, “What's your assessment of the damage to Waldheim? How long to get their ship back to full combat readiness?”
“Four to seven hours, sir, assuming no further damage. Probably nearer seven, if they've got substantial crew on the surface. Though they'd be able to launch fighters well before that.”
“How confident are you about your assessment?”
“Relatively, sir. We've got good schematics of the interior layout and the capability of the crew, and our sensors have some excellent resolution shots of the damaged areas. I don't think we've got any surprises waiting for us over there. From what I can see from my station, everything is exactly as it appears to be.”
“Put the General back on, Bowman,” Marshall said, and as the face of the enemy commander appeared on the screen, he added, “I agree to your terms, General. We'll meet in twenty-four hours from now, and I suggest we both alter course at once to keep well clear of each other until then. The shuttle that will be transporting us will take station between our ships, and we will go across in transfer craft as soon as the conditions to which you have agreed have been satisfied.”
Nodding, Estrada replied, “I'll give the necessary orders. Captain, I truly hope that we can come to some sort of an understanding. It's a big galaxy out here, and we need all of the friends we can get if we're going to find our way home. Until tomorrow. Waldheim out.”
“I still don't trust him,” Francis said, as the starfield winked back on.
“Neither do I, Lieutenant, but I'm far from sanguine about the likelihood of winning a full-scale battle, to say nothing of the potential consequences for the people on the surface.”
“Who are you going to take with you?”
“Harper, you up for a trip?”
She shook her head, and said, “If you order, s
ir, I'll go, but I'd recommend taking someone else. There's a good chance that they know me, and that could make your negotiations tougher. What about Foster?”
“Not a bad idea,” Marshall said. “And Midshipman Siegel to act as pilot. Lieutenant Murphy can command the fighters, and Lieutenant Carpenter to round out the team. We're likely to need her advice anyway, and I'd like her on hand. Max, I want you to coordinate with Colonel Volkova, and see that she puts together a similar team.”
“Aye, sir,” he replied. “I still don't like this, Captain.”
“Talking is better than fighting, Lieutenant,” Marshall replied, rising from his seat. “And everyone going into these negotiations has a lot to lose if they fail. That alone should be a strong incentive to make them work. I hope.”
Chapter 10
Clarke's eyes snapped open, and he blinked as he struggled to focus, straining against the ropes wrapped around him, tying him to a chair. Turning to his right, he could see a fuming Mortimer looking back, a scowl on her face.
“Great plan, Sub-Lieutenant.”
“Better than being captured by your people, Corporal, and at least we've found the people we were looking for.”
“And just why were you looking for us?” a gruff voice asked, a figure walking out of the shadows towards them, limping on a cane. “Are you here to wipe us out?”
“No,” Clarke said. “That's what Sokolov wanted. We're here to make contact with you, so that we can help you throw off the tyrants.”
Frowning, the man replied, “Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn't,” Clarke said, earning himself another glare from Mortimer. “But at the very least, you need to give us a hearing, and see if what I am saying is true. If you'd allow me to contact my ship...”
“Yes,” the man replied, pulling out a chair and sitting down with evident effort. His face was a mass of scar tissue, deep wounds burned into his flesh, his mouth twisted into a perpetual leer. “The handiwork of the United Nations. I was commanding a detachment of militia, and they rained plasma fire down upon us. I was the only survivor. After a fashion.”
“Can you at least tell me what's going on?” Clarke asked.
“Current events are getting somewhat interesting, I will confess,” the man replied. “Your ship fought a battle with Waldheim in orbital space about an hour ago. As far as we can tell, it was a stalemate. Our people in Cosmograd have reported that there are negotiations to take place for the future of this system, but as yet we can't work out where. Not down here, anyway. Both ships are moving away.” Folding his arms, he added, “Your people have abandoned us, and are choosing to work out their own salvation rather than support us.”
“How long were we out?” Mortimer asked.
“A little over a day,” he replied. “During which time you were both thoroughly searched, and all the concealed weaponry you were carrying was removed. It represented quite an arsenal, even if some of it was surprisingly primitive. I hope we didn't hurt you too much.”
“Did you try and contact Alamo?” asked Clarke. “I can only assume that they don't know the true situation down here. If they've just jumped into the system...”
“Could you not have informed them?”
“When I was last at liberty, I didn't even know they were here.” He paused, then said, “What is it going to take to convince you?”
“More than you can imagine,” the man replied with a sigh. He pushed himself up with an effort, and walked over to them, a gleaming blade dropping out of his sleeve into his hand. With a series of quick slashes, he removed the ropes, their remnants falling to the floor. “There's no point keeping you restrained any longer. Every exit is covered, and you'll be dead in a matter of seconds if you make any attempt to escape. I'll be back shortly to work out how to deal with you.”
The man limped out of the room, a brief flash of light as the door opened for an instant to allow him to step through, before slamming shut once again, a bolt dropping into place. Clarke struggled to his feet, shaking his arms and legs, his muscles stiff from long confinement. Mortimer was already out of her chair, pacing to the door, giving it an experimental push.
“Don't bother,” he said.
“We've got to get out of here,” she replied.
“You're kidding. After what we went through to make contact with the resistance, you want to run away?”
“They're not going to trust us, and that means that we're going to be dead in very short order. Look at it from their point of view. What can we possibly do to convince them, especially if Alamo seems to be heading off into the sunset?” She paused, then asked, “Do you think your commander might have abandoned these people?”
“Not if he knew what was happening,” Clarke said, frowning in frustration. “We need to know what's going on out there. We're blind down here, and unless we can make contact with Alamo, we're not going to find out anything any time soon.”
“There are plenty of transmitters down here with the range to make contact,” she replied. “Between the two of us, we should be able to either fight or bluff our way to one of them. Then we can come back and talk to these people on more equal terms. Right now, we're not helping anyone.”
Before Clarke could reply, he heard a noise from outside, the familiar crack of gunfire. He glanced at Mortimer, then threw himself at the door, again and again, finally rewarded with the splintering of plasticrete as the bolt flew loose. Peering outside, he could see a full-scale battle in progress outside, a group of United Nations Marshals advancing through the trees, their weapons emitting angry barks as rebels fell to the ground all around them, blood spilling from their chests.
To the right, behind a pile of logs, the scarred man was leading what appeared to be a last stand, but it was obvious that he was doomed to fall in the near future. So far, nobody seemed to have noticed them, and Clarke could see a track heading through the woods, an escape route that might be their only chance of survival. But there was also a rifle on the ground, and the decision was obvious, and quick. Snatching the weapon, he charged towards the enemy, firing a semi-automatic burst that spit flame at the advancing troopers, sending them ducking for cover.
Ahead of him was a leering trooper, pistol raised. Clarke had the advantage, leveled his rifle, and fired. The man looked down at his chest where the bullet should have hit him, smiled, and waved a hand over the air.
“That's it, people! You can get up now!”
The dead men started to rise, moving to clear up the mess, and the scarred man walked towards the mystified Clarke, the curl of a smile fighting against the permanent leer as he extended his hand.
“Sorry about that, Sub-Lieutenant, but it was the best thing we could think of in the time. Words couldn't be enough. We had to see you in action, see what your instincts would have been.”
“And if we'd run down the trail?” Mortimer asked.
“You wouldn't have made it twenty paces. Some of us have real bullets in our guns.”
“I see,” Clarke said, tossing the useless gun to the ground. “Then I take it that you've decided that you're going to trust us.”
“Let's just say that you've passed this test. We'll be watching you, Sub-Lieutenant, but I think we can start to talk. I'm Captain Nikolai Webster. Once the chief of police for Cosmograd, but now the nearest thing we have to the leader of the resistance.” Gesturing at the leader of the attack force, he added, “Lieutenant Avdonin, my second-in-command.”
“My pleasure,” Avdonin said, with a curt nod. “Nick, I'm going to get the perimeter staffed again. I don't think anyone heard our little party, but I'd like to have some surprises ready for them if they did.” Turning to Clarke, he added, “There aren't any real Marshals for ten miles. The last group that tried to come out this way paid the price. Hence the uniforms.”
Stepping back into the shed, Webster sat down on one of the chairs, wincin
g in pain, and said, “We saw you coming down in your escape pod. Killing Sokolov was a smart move. We already knew that he'd turned traitor.” His face snapped back into a scowl, and he added, “Everyone on both stations surrendered without putting up a fight.”
“Both stations?” Mortimer asked. “Salyut Station...”
“Gave in shortly after the enemy forces arrived. I suppose they didn't have a choice, but they had the capability to put up a fight.”
“I don't understand,” Mortimer said. “We've been trying to raid transports heading in for weeks.”
“That's one of the questions I was planning on asking,” Webster said, reaching into his pocket for a battered datapad, obviously stolen from the occupation forces. “We've managed to hack into one of our communications satellites, and one of my bright boys has managed to turn it into a passive sensor platform with a few creative software modifications. Enough that we have at least a vague picture of events in orbital space and beyond.” He passed the pad to Clarke, sliding a control, to begin a projection of recent events in orbit.
“Looks like Alamo really got some good shots in,” Clarke said, and as the ship turned towards Salyut Station, his eyes widened. “Where are they going?”
“Perhaps they've surrendered,” Mortimer said, peering over his shoulder.
“Damn it, Corporal, they won that fight! They had no reason to surrender.” He paused, looked at the trajectory tracks, and said, “Both ships are heading for the station. What was it you were saying about a negotiation? Do you have any sort of details on that?”
“Our agent reports that both ships are supposedly to hold a summit meeting on Salyut. That's all I know.”
“Why so strange?” Mortimer said. “It's not a bad place to hold a conference.”
“Captain Marshall wouldn't hold it on a base controlled by the enemy.” Looking up at Webster, he continued, “Those raids on transports. Did they ever accomplish anything?”
“Never.”
“Then either Waldheim's entire fighter complement is comprised of incompetents...”
Battlecruiser Alamo: Spell of the Stars Page 9
