“How do you feel, actually running a department?”
“Like trying to herd cats. Five individualists, all thinking that their work is more important than anything else on the ship. At least they all went through basic training before coming on board. More than I got that first time.”
Looking around the lab, Orlova asked, “What are you doing here, anyway? I was expecting some old greybeard.”
“Not happy to see me?”
“That isn’t what I meant, and you know it. They threw down the red carpet for you when we got back, your own team back at headquarters, tenure at any university in the Confederation, and you choose to stay on this ship.”
Frowning, she said, “I’m twenty-five, Maggie. That’s a hell of a time for your career to peak, and if I’d sat back on Mars, that’s what would have happened. Forty or fifty years rotting away in some college somewhere, going over my notes and dreaming what might have been. I didn’t want that to happen, and when I found out where Alamo was going, I signed up instantly.” Smiling, she said, “Off into the dark again for five years, on a mission of exploration. You must feel the same way, Maggie. Don’t tell me you couldn’t have pushed for your own command, because I don’t believe you.”
“I’m a very junior Senior Lieutenant…”
“With independent command experience on no less than three occasions. I was there, remember. You’re on this ship because you want to be, as simple as that, and your actual job title doesn’t mean a damn thing. You’d have shipped out as Second Assistant Janitor if that was the only position open.”
“Maybe.”
“Look at Captain Cunningham. He did turn down a command of his own to ride out on Alamo again. A lot of the crew feel the same way. Captain Marshall could hand-pick, and from what I’ve seen, he did a good job.”
“Apart from the middies,” she said with a sigh.
“You’ve been spending some time with them, I guess.” She shook her head, and said, “Want any help? I spent the last three months setting up the Academy curriculum on paleontology, and I taught most of the classes last semester.”
“Hell of a thing to teach the space cadets. Your impressions?”
“Vivendi’s highly competent, but doesn’t quite have the drive. Good department head, not a command candidate. Petrov goes with the flow a bit too easily, and Foster’s the best. Trouble is that she knows it, and she’s got General Foster of the Battle of Ceres riding her back.”
“Her mother wants her to succeed in the family business.”
“Going all the way back to the United States Space Force, apparently. Five generations. I’m not sure that’s healthy,” she replied with a smile.
“Hey, I'm second generation, remember,” she said. “And Salazar?”
“Tough call. He’s good, knows his stuff, learns well, but he’s been through several kinds of hell in the last few months, not least from his classmates. I don’t think he’s going to be attending any of the reunions, let’s put it that way.”
“Is he worth salvaging?”
“That’s going to depend on him. Right now, haven’t we got bigger things to worry about?”
“Such as what’s waiting for us when we arrive at Yeager Station in,” she glanced down at her watch, “forty-seven hours?”
“He isn’t native to AD Leonis. I know that much. No inhabitable planets.”
“The base commander’s got a bit of a reputation, but I think he’d have noticed a sentient race living on the planet under his station. There’s nothing in the Cabal records about him?”
“Not a thing. In a way.”
“What does that mean?”
“I spent a lot more time going over those records than you did, Maggie. They dragged me onto the investigation committee. For some reason, the Cabal decided not to expand out in this direction, and they got a bloody nose when they tried, reading between the lines. Why?”
“Our friend and his people?”
“Seems reasonable.”
Shaking her head, Orlova said, “We head out in one direction, and we find a hostile empire of humans wanting to conquer the galaxy. Now we’re heading out in another, and we find another empire of near-humans whose first contact is an assassination attempt.”
“It’s a big galaxy, Maggie. I’m sure eventually we’ll find some nice neighbors.”
Chapter 6
“All decks report clear for action, sir,” Sub-Lieutenant Kelso said from the Watch Officer’s station. “Also ready for hendecaspace emergence.”
“Combat systems are in the green,” Caine added, obviously glad to be back at her usual station at Tactical. Her hands moved across the familiar controls, and Marshall nodded.
“Mr. Salazar, how much longer?”
“Transition in ninety-two seconds, mark, sir.”
“Very good. Stay loose, Midshipman. Anything could be waiting for us out there. Spinelli, I want…”
“An immediate analysis of local space, and a full tactical overview,” the veteran spaceman said with a soft smile. “Systems already running, Captain.”
“We’ve both sung this song before, haven’t we,” Marshall said.
“I’m word-perfect, skipper.”
“Weitzman,” Marshall said to the communications technician, “No signals to anyone until we get the all-clear. Even if we get contacted by the station, you do not reply until ordered. Understood?”
“Aye, sir. I’ll just sit back and relax for a minute.”
Salazar looked around, frowning, and Marshall stepped forward from his seat, saying, “These people know their jobs, Midshipman, and they also know the value of blowing off a little steam before battle.”
“Aye, sir,” the young man replied. “Sixty seconds, Captain.”
“Damage control status?” Marshall asked, turning back to the Flight Engineer, new to the ship.
“All teams positioned, sir,” she replied.
“Different from a tender, isn’t it, Spaceman.”
With a beaming smile, she said, “Lots more toys for me to play with, sir.”
He returned to his chair, looked up at the clock, and tried to relax. No point giving a speech to the crew, or anything like that; he’d run out of time, and they all knew what they were doing. Hopefully all of these precautions would turn out to be unnecessary, and in an hour he’d be sitting in the Station Commander’s office having a drink. Fifteen seconds to go.
Eyes locked on the viewscreen, he waited for the familiar flash that heralded their return to normal space. The tactical hologram by his side winked on, displaying the four planets of the AD Leonis system, a green dot indicating the orbit of Yeager Station around the innermost world, a burned-out desert planet. Just another barren system like a thousand others, but with a strategic position that made it valuable.
“Emergence, sir,” Salazar said, and Alamo leapt back into its home dimension, the stars returning to the viewscreen. Dead center, the planet loomed, its single moon close-by as the engines began to warm up.
“Hold position, helm,” Marshall ordered. “Spinelli?”
The sensor technician frowned, then said, “Something’s wrong, sir. No ships in system I can see, but the station’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“No signs of power generation, no attempts at communication, nothing.” He frowned, then said, “Debris field in the station’s orbit, sir. Small, but there. I’m also picking up some outgassing.”
“Then there is still life support. Could it be a systems failure?”
“I suppose so, sir, but it’d be a fatal one. Temperature over there is falling fast.”
Caine’s eyes darted over, and she said, “Falling?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She looked at Marshall, who said, “Evasive maneuvers, Salazar, right now! Whatever hit that station, it must have happened wi
thin the last few hours at the most.”
“More like minutes,” Kelso said. “Give me a second, I’m plotting a curve.” His hands furiously ran over his controls, and he said, “Try forty-nine minutes ago.”
“Blind spots?” Marshall snapped, turning back to Spinelli.
“Behind the planet ahead, behind the moon. Anywhere else we’d get plenty of warning.”
“Right. I need a course to get us to a safe distance from both. Implement at once, Salazar.”
“Working, sir.”
“Work quickly, Midshipman.”
A course flashed onto the screen, and Alamo’s engines began to rumble as the ship maneuvered onto its new trajectory. Marshall looked at Salazar’s work, nodding with approval. Almost exactly the route he would have selected, giving them a wide margin of error.
“Try a hail,” Marshall said. “To anyone in system. By now anyone close into the planet will know exactly where we are.”
Tapping a control, Weitzman said, “This is the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo, to any ships or facilities in system. Reply at once.” He frowned for a moment, then said, “No reply, sir. I’m not picking up anything.”
“Could they have been and gone?” Caine asked.
“I hope not,” Marshall said. “They’d have much better dimensional stabilizers than we do. We’re stuck here for five days at least, and I really hope that our theoretical enemies have the same problem. What about the station? Any telemetry?”
“Nothing, sir,” Spinelli said. “I’m picking up damage in the lower ring, several hull fractures, with no attempts to repair. Internal heat is falling fast, but there is atmosphere.”
Looking up at a console, Erickson said, “Looking at the schematics, there’s a good chance that eighty percent of the station is still habitable. The main reactor is intact from external appearances.”
“Boarding party?” Caine asked.
“Not until we see what’s at the far side of the planet. How long?”
“Threat warning!” Spinelli yelled. “Vessel coming around, far side of the moon, on direct intercept course. Time to firing range, nine minutes and thirty seconds.”
“Deadeye, deploy radiators and get the laser charged. Missile salvos on my command. Salazar, turn us to face the enemy, dead on, then continue random evasive sequences.”
“Implementing course change,” the eager midshipman replied, his focus totally on his controls and the viewscreen.
“Caine, assessment of that ship’s threat potential?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” she replied. “I’m not seeing any obvious missile tubes, lasers or particle beams. Lots of shuttle bays, though, six of them around the center of the ship.”
The door slid open, and Harper stepped out, adding, “No sign of attempts at hacking as of yet.” She glanced down at Weitzman, who at a nod from Marshall yielded his station to her. “I’ll start working on them.”
“Good. Let me know as soon as you get anything.” He frowned, then said, “Give me a channel to them.”
“You’re on, sir,” Weitzman said, reaching over and flicking a trio of switches.
“This is Fleet Captain Daniel Marshall, commanding Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo, to approaching vessel. You are violating Triplanetary space; please state your identity and intentions immediately.”
“You won’t get a reply,” Caine said.
“Probably not, but we’ve got to make the gesture.” He tapped a series of controls, and a flickering image of the approaching ship appeared by his side, blurred in places where the sensors had yet to get good resolution imagery. A long, squat cylinder, with the six large ports Caine had mentioned around the outside of the hull, a single, large engine at the rear, and a few oddly shaped antenna. The general effect was of a brutish fist slamming into space, quite unlike the graceful lines of Alamo, but as of yet, they had no idea whether or not the strange ship was even armed.
“Launch fighters,” he said, “on a patrol course.”
“Aye, sir,” Kelso said, tapping a control. “Demon Flight, immediate launch. Clearance on request.” The ship rocked a few seconds later, the fighters racing out to their patrol positions, one either side of the battlecruiser. “Time to contact now five minutes, sir.”
“Suggestion, sir,” Salazar said. “We could buy some more time and meet them in orbit.” Glancing down at his console, he continued, “That would give us an additional eleven minutes to make combat and evaluate their tactical potential.”
“And reduce our room for maneuver,” Kelso noted.
“We can’t leave the system in any case, and there’s nowhere else to go,” Marshall said. “Execute course change as you suggest, Midshipman. I presume you already have it worked out.”
With a nod, Salazar replied, “Implementing course change, sir. We will be in orbit in seven minutes. Fighters informed.”
Marshall glanced across at Caine, who gave a quick smile in response. At least something was going right today. Spinelli looked up at his console, frowned, and started to tap controls.
“Sir, we’ve got energy spikes from the incoming ship. Not missiles, though. Shuttles at my guess, but I’ve never seen anything like them before.”
“Show me,” Marshall replied, and the hologram of the ship vanished, replaced with an image of the approaching craft, all six of them, flying in a tight formation. He gestured with his hands to focus on one of them, another stubby craft, with an intricate antenna facing forward. The little vessel was festooned with thrusters, but was keeping its straight heading, and at the current course and speed would impact Alamo in nine minutes.
“Can we outrun them?” he asked Caine.
“I doubt it,” she said. “Engines aren’t running that hot, and they’re already moving faster than we are. Want me to get a missile salvo in the air, try for an intercept?”
“And if they are unarmed shuttles?” Kelso asked.
“You don’t really believe…” Caine began, but the watch officer shook his head,.
“It could be a set-up. Trying to get provocation for a war.”
“No, sir,” Spinelli said. “I’m getting radiation readings from those missiles, and big. Megaton range.”
“Launch missiles,” Marshall said, all doubt cast aside. “Salazar, try for a high orbit, get us to the far side of the planet as fast as you can.”
Turning, the young officer said, “We could head into the upper atmosphere, sir. Those things would wallow like pigs in that sort of environment.”
“So would we, Midshipman. Execute course change as instructed.”
“I can compensate for that, Captain. We can do it.”
“Midshipman,” Marshall snapped. “I have given you a direct order. Execute it at once.”
“Sir…”
“Kelso, take the helm. Salazar, leave the bridge.”
The midshipman froze for a second, nodded, rose, and walked silently to the elevator, all eyes watching him as he departed. Caine glanced at Marshall, a brief gaze of reproof before returning to her station. Tapping a control, Harper yielded the communications station back to Salazar, dropping into Kelso’s vacated seat as he moved across to the helm.
“Can you handle that, Harper?” Marshall asked.
“I can do anything, skipper. At least this way everyone gets a seat.”
“Course change implemented, sir. Far side in nine minutes, eight seconds.”
“Which gives them an excellent firing window.”
“Why megatons?” Caine asked. “I’ve never seen a missile with that big a yield. What’s the point?”
“Maybe they want to make sure of the kill,” Kelso said, adjusting the controls to his usual positions. “Could they be aimed at the planet?”
Spinelli shook his head, then said, “If they were, they’d be going into featureless wasteland. We must
be the target.”
“Getting a message, sir,” Weitzman said. “From the enemy ship, in English, asking for you.”
“For me?” Marshall asked.
“By name, sir.”
“Now they’re just showing off,” he said. “Put them on.”
An image flashed up on the viewscreen, a tall man who could have been the twin brother of his would-be assassin. Behind him was a sea of static, obviously blanking out the view behind him without even an attempt to camouflage it.
“This is our system. Leave at once or be destroyed.”
“This system is claimed by the Triplanetary Confederation, with a facility in occupation.”
“We have already dealt with your garrison, Captain Marshall. Now we are more than willing to deal with you.”
“You know that we can’t leave the system for five days.”
With a leering smile, the man said, “Not our problem.”
Marshall made a chopping motion with his hand, and Weitzman cut the channel. Harper worked her borrowed console, frustration in the furrows on her forehead.
“Any chance of hacking them?” Marshall asked.
“None,” she replied.
“Harper…”
Turning, she said, “Give me a top team of hackers and four months with the quantum computer at Phobos and I might be able to help you. I had enough trouble with the Cabal, and they at least had common ancestry of design. I’m dumping anything I can get into Carpenter’s databanks; she might have better luck.”
“We’ve got a paleontologist trying to hack the enemy computers,” Caine said. “Brilliant. Enemy missiles are still approaching.”
“Launch a salvo for interception, best speed. Fighters to follow suit.”
“Roger.”
Marshall switched over to his tactical track, watching the battle develop. The enemy ship seemed to be holding back, moving into a higher orbit, letting its missiles do the work. No sign of a second salvo, no sign of anything else at all. The ship rocked as Caine’s first salvo roared away, the missiles racing off to intercept those of the enemy, tracking back in a tangle of course plots and intercept trajectories.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Aces High Page 5
