Battlecruiser Alamo: Aces High

by Richard Tongue

   “There’s no ship like your first,” Cunningham said. “Want a piece of advice?”

   “Certainly, sir.”

   “Savor this. Enjoy every moment of it. You’ll think we’re working you to death, but once you get your commission, it only gets worse.”

   “I’ll remember that.”

   “Don’t worry, I’m not going to test you on our conversations.”

   The shuttle drifted into the locking cradles, and the elevator airlock began to draw it up into the hull, the atmosphere outside equalizing as the shuttle rose to the deck. After another minute, a green light flashed on and the hatch slid open, a tall man wearing Lieutenant’s insignia standing at the entrance.

   “Morning, Frank,” Cunningham said, stepping out.

   The man frowned, then said, “Sir? I didn’t…”

   “Nor did I. Long story. Where’s the Captain?”

   “In sickbay, unconscious,” he replied. “Someone tried to kill him a couple of hours ago.”

   “You see, Midshipman,” Cunningham said, turning back inside. “Never a dull moment on this ship.”

   “Ah, so you made it after all,” he said. “Lieutenant Frank Nelyubov, Midshipman, Tactical Officer. And right now sitting in for Senior Lieutenant Margaret Orlova, Operations Officer, who you are going to get to know very well, I think.”

   “Where’s Maggie?”

   “Coming back from a corpse retrieval op, on a half-wrecked shuttle. She should be home in half an hour, she’s riding her engines carefully. Had to do an atmospheric skip.”

   “You’ve had quite a day so far.”

   “We’re not even at noon, yet. God only knows whether we’re going to break orbit on schedule.” He glanced across at Salazar, and said, “We got the updated orders, Midshipman, and I’m frankly impressed you made it at all.”

   “It was rather touch-and-go, sir.”

   “I bet. Report to the briefing room, Midshipmen. Your counterparts are waiting.” He glanced at the carryall, then called over to one of the crewmen running around in the background. “Over here, Spaceman.”

   “Sir?” the technician said, a slightly portly figure bounding over.

   “What's your name?”

   “Benjamin Bartlett, sir. Spaceman Second,” he replied.

   “Take our new Midshipman’s baggage to his quarters, will you? He’s got an appointment to keep.”

   “Aye, sir,” the man said. Salazar passed him the holdall, then watched him head across to the elevator.

   “Better get moving,” Nelyubov said. “The Executive Officer’s waiting for you, and she isn’t in a good mood this morning.”

   Glancing across for a second, he nodded, saying, “Yes, sir,” and sprinted for the elevator, rushing across the hangar bay, soaking in the pandemonium of a ship preparing for departure. As he stepped through the doors, it only belatedly occurred to him that he had no idea where he was going, and he fished out his datapad to call up a layout of the ship.

   “Sir,” a voice said, and he realized that he was riding with the technician, who was still carrying his bag. “I’ll call for the briefing room, if you like.”

   “Thanks,” he said. “Midshipman Salazar.”

   “Bartlett,” the man replied, tapping a button. “You new aboard, sir?”

   He nodded, saying, “Just arrived for the first time.”

   “Me too. I just transferred across from the Lind. Last-minute replacement when one of the communications crew broke an arm, so I get to spend the next five years running around the frontiers of space.” He shook his head. “So much for a quiet life.”

   “Most of the fleet would kill to be in your shoes, Spacemen.”

   “If they want my shoes so badly, sir, they’re welcome to them.”

   Salazar smiled, then said, “I’m a last-minute addition as well. I only found out I was coming here a week ago.”

   The doors opened, and Bartlett said, “Here you are, sir. Third door on the left. For future reference, this is officers’ offices country.”

   “Officers’ offices?”

   “Tactical, Operations, Security,” he said. “Safety in numbers, I guess. Good luck, sir.”

   “Thanks,” he said, turning off down the corridor. He paused at the door, taking a trio of deep breaths, before hearing footsteps behind him, turning to see a raven-haired woman with a furious expression on her face.

   “Late, Midshipman?” she said. “You had ample notice of this meeting.”

   “I only just arrived, ma’am,” he replied. “I…”

   “Well, get inside,” she said. The door opened, and he walked in, looking at three familiar faces sitting at the table. Valerie Foster, Yuri Petrov, and Arturo Vivendi, the top graduates of the first class of the combined Triplanetary Fleet Academy. He’d only just scraped through, and they looked at him with a mixture of surprise and scorn.

   “Sit down,” the woman said, and he hastily complied. “My name is Senior Lieutenant Caine, Alamo’s Executive Officer, at least for the moment,, and if you are very lucky, you won’t be seeing much of me. Normally, you will be under the tender mercies of Senior Lieutenant Orlova, but for the present, she’s off the ship, and I’ve had to take her place. This does not fill me with pleasure.”

   She looked at the four of them, locking eyes with each as though trying to take their measure, and continued, “Simple mathematics reveals that there are too many of you for each to take a regular watch. It would make things easier if one of you has a burning desire for some other career path, Systems, Tactical, something like that. Anyone?”

   None of them raised their hands, and she said, “Pity. Very well, we’ll have to go with the three best, then.”

   Foster looked at Salazar, and asked, “When do we start, ma’am?”

   “I’m sorry, was that an implication that you were one of the ones picked for shift duty, Midshipman?”

   “I came top…”

   Caine smiled, and said, “I don’t care. Get this through your heads, all of you! None of you are officers, not yet. Your respective fleet academies and the Triplanetary finishing school have got you here, but don’t think that any of your experience means a damn compared to the other officers on board. Your rank is a courtesy title, nothing more, and it does not give you any respect or authority. Those you are going to have to earn for yourselves.” She paused for a second, then said, “Run to the back of the room.”

   Salazar was the only one who moved, sprinting to the rear, and felt like a fool when he saw he was alone, the others still sitting with puzzled expressions on their faces.

   “That’s damn depressing,” Caine said. “Midshipman, why did you do what you did?” She looked at Salazar, giving him a withering look.

   “You told me too, ma’am.”

   “Good. Good answer. Mr. Salazar has just earned one of the coveted bridge positions,” Caine said, as looks of outrage passed across the faces of the others. “There will be times when your commander tells you to do something you think is nonsensical, wrong. That officer will have ten times your experience, and is ten times more likely to be right than you. You can ask – afterward, when the crisis is over – why, but at the critical moment, you have to follow orders. Sit down, Salazar.”

   He returned to his seat, as Petrov said, “Surely, ma’am, we are entitled to use our experience and judgment.”

   “You can feel free to use your experience when you get some, Mr. Petrov. Until then, do as you are told.” Caine looked at the four of them, then said, “Two spots left open.”

   “Mr. Petrov and I ranked in the top three in our graduating class, ma’am,” Foster said, and Caine shook her head.

   “Excellent, it would appear that I have a volunteer to assist Mr. Race down in Astrogation. He’ll enjoy having an assistant down there, and I’m sure your experience, Miss Foster, will prove very useful to him.” She glanced
down at her datapad as Foster’s eyebrows rose, and continued,  “Salazar, I see that you are simulator-rated on this type of ship, so you might as well report for duty on Alpha Watch. That’s in about twenty minutes, so you have time to get something to eat first. We’ll likely be breaking orbit in a few hours; the rest of you can get some rest. Any questions?” No-one answered, and she added, “Not even you, Miss Foster?”

   “No, ma’am,” she replied, gritting her teeth.

  “Good. I’ll see you on the bridge, Midshipman.” She strode out of the room, the doors smoothly sliding shut behind her, and Foster turned to face Salazar, fury on her face.

   “This is nothing other than victimization. Just because my mother was a General. I’ve half a mind to write to her about this.”

   “That how you passed your exams, Foster?” Vivendi asked. “That was a test, and by God, you flunked.” Looking at Salazar, he said, “What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

   “I don’t have the slightest idea. I was halfway to Callisto when I got a new set of orders. That’s all I know.”

   “Almost late. Just as incompetent as ever,” Foster snapped.

   “Give him a break,” Vivendi said. “We had three weeks’ notice, he didn’t even get a week, and still just about managed to make it.”

   “I’d like to see him give Simmons and Wolverton a break,” she replied.

   Leaping to his feet, Salazar said, “Don’t you think I’d bring them back if I could?”

   “You screwed up,” she said, “and two good people died. Why the Fleet kept you in the uniform is a mystery to me, and how you had the effrontery not to simply resign when they gave you the chance is a bigger one. This uniform means something, and you disgrace it.”

   “I doubt it means trying to brag to senior officers about your famous relatives,” Vivendi said.

   “No, she’s right,” Petrov said. “We earned our class standing. He waltzes in here, a bare pass, and gets to fly this ship while Val cools her heels down on the sensor deck? It doesn’t make sense.”

   “I think the Lieutenant was trying to teach us a lesson,” replied Vivendi, “and it appears that for at least two of us it has yet to take. I’ll catch you later, Pavel.”

   Glancing down at his watch, Salazar nodded, saying, “I’d better get up to the bridge.”

   “Enjoy it while you can,” Foster said. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to screw it up before long.”

   “When I do, I’m sure that you’ll be the first to know.”

   “Damn right. Good news always travels fast. More fun for you, by the way. Guess who’s running the fighter contingent on this ship?”

   “No.”

   “Lieutenant Grant. Wasn’t he the one who threw you out of flight school?”

   Salazar left the room without a word. He couldn’t trust himself to speak.

  Chapter 4

   “How do you feel, Danny?” Cunningham asked, leaning over Marshall’s bed as he struggled to regain consciousness.

   “John?”

   Shaking his head, his friend replied, “You try and head off without me, and look at what happens to you.” He perched at the end of the bed, continuing, “I’ve warned you about getting into fights before.”

   “What are you doing here?”

   “Getting asked that a lot, at least at the moment. You up for a talk?”

   “I think so,” Marshall replied, looking over at Duquesne at the far end of the room, who threw him her trademarked scowl. “Is this good news or bad?”

   “That depends whether or not you like having me around.” He pulled out a datapad, handed it over, and said, “I’m your new second-in-command.”

   “I hate to break it to you, but you’re a Lieutenant-Captain.”

   “And you are a Fleet Captain,” he replied, “with more responsibilities than just this ship. According to the manual – the admittedly only recently-rewritten manual – this is quite acceptable. Besides, you aren’t the only commander to hang onto his ship after a promotion. Flynt’s a full Captain now, and so is Gorski. Both still battlecruiser commanders. Rank inflation is beginning to build up a bit in this fleet of ours.”

   “Getting promoted just to stand still. Seems a little unfair.” Marshall frowned, then said, “I thought you were getting Gilgamesh.”

   “That was the plan. I requested this assignment, believe it or not.”

   “What?” he exclaimed, and Duquesne came running over.

   “I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to put you back together – yet again – and I’ll thank you to not undo all of my work. Besides, there are people trying to rest in here,” she said.

   Looking around the otherwise empty sickbay, Marshall asked, “Who?”

   “Me. Now keep it down.”

   “Why did you do that?”

   “Honestly? Danny, I’ve commanded ships and fighter groups. I’ve held commands similar to the one you’ve got now. If truth be told, I don’t have any particular need to do it again. I don’t have anything to prove, especially not to myself.” With a smile, he added, “I think I’ve earned the right to be where I want to be for a while, and that is on this ship.”

   “It’ll mean shuffling a few things around.”

   “Tell me in all honesty that Deadeye wants to be your Exec.”

   “She only took the job provisionally. I think she wanted Orlova to have it.”

   Nodding, he said, “She’d be up to the job. Hell, she had the job for a while, when Alamo was laid up at Hydra Station.” Marshall’s face darkened, and Cunningham said, “But I agree with you. She hasn’t got the time in uniform yet.”

   After a moment, Marshall said, “Deadeye’s been running Tactical as well as the Exec slot, with a bit of help from Frank Nelyubov. I don’t actually have to move anyone around that much; he can stay as Security Officer, she can take Tactical full time. It all drops into place rather well.” Shaking his head, he said, “I can’t quite get used to the idea of being over-manned, but it makes a nice change.”

   “Based on past experience, we aren’t likely to stay that way.”

   “No, I guess not.” Turning to Duquesne, he said, “Can you give me my uniform?”

   “Why?” she asked. “Want to play dress-up or something? Because there’s no chance in hell that I’m letting you out of sickbay today.”

   “I feel fine.”

   With a deep sigh, she walked over to him, gesturing at the tube running into his arm, and said, “You feel fine because I’ve got you on a nice high dose of pain-relief, to say nothing of the anti-nausea medication to counteract the drugs I gave you when I repaired your wrist. You realize that bone was snapped in eight places. Eight. There’s a lot of titanium in there now.”

   “It can’t be that bad.”

   “Did you graduate medical school when I wasn’t looking? Last time I checked I was the only medical doctor on board. This ship is hip-deep in qualified command officers, Captain. You can be spared for a day. By tomorrow morning, you’ll be fit enough to go back out into the big wide world and disobey the best medical advice money can buy, but not right now. If for no other reason than that the maintenance technicians have better things to do than cleaning the carpets. Clear?”

   “Yes, mother.” He looked over at Cunningham, and said, “I need your communicator.”

   “Sure,” he replied, passing it over.

   Flipping open the channel, he said, “Senior Lieutenants Caine and Orlova, report to sickbay on the double. Mr. Quinn?”

   After a brief delay, the engineer replied, “Captain?” in his newly-adopted monotone.

   “Is this ship ready for extended flight?”

   “All systems are go, sir. In my judgment, we are clear to proceed on our mission.”

   “Good. Make ready for the jump; head up to the bridge and assume command. I want you to break orbit, proceed to the hendecaspace poin
t, and get us to Yeager Station as fast as we can. Understood.”

   “Understood, Captain. I’m on my way to the bridge now. Quinn out.”

   “He sounds rough,” Cunningham said.

   With a frown, Marshall replied, “He lost his wife in the worst possible way. There wasn’t even much of a body left. I tried loading on the work, but that’s all he does now. The magic’s gone for him, and I don’t know any way to get it back.”

   “Time will do that. Speaking of which, why are we in such a hurry? Our orders give us another month before we have to leave Hunter Station. The scoutships won’t be here for three weeks. Why not proceed as one unit?”

   Orlova walked in to sickbay, smiled, and said, “Glad you’re feeling better, sir.”

   “I don’t remember authorizing additional visitors,” Duquesne said.

   “That’s because you didn’t.” He paused, then said, “Look, Doc, there are a few things I need to settle. Once I’ve got this over with, I promise you that I will take the rest of the day off.”

   “If you’re planning to listen to some of that hideous music of yours, either you wear headphones or I put you in the isolation unit.”

   “Headphones it is. Maggie, any word on what happened?”

   “Frank’s over on the station now, liaising with the local authorities. I don’t think he’s particularly impressed, and from what I’ve seen, neither am I. They’re a bit too interested in sweeping everything under the carpet.”

   “So someone screwed up.”

   Pulling out her datapad, she said, “Our John Doe arrived on the station last week, on the transport Herschel. She’s with the Four Worlds Line, the company that had the license for Yeager Station.”

   “Had?” Cunningham asked.

   “Failure to keep up the schedules. The contract was pulled from them last month. This was their last trip.”

   “Are you telling me that my assassin came from Yeager Station?”

   Nodding, she said, “I’m afraid so.”

   “A small military outpost in the middle of nowhere? Didn’t that cause any red flags?”