Battlecruiser Alamo: Into the Maelstrom

by Richard Tongue

   “Turn around and go home,” he said. “Unless you find some reason why a dead star is worth risking the lives of millions of people and the future of the Confederation. Lacking such good common sense, I would recommend extraordinary precaution.” Shaking his head, he said, “You realize that Waldheim will beat you there by two days, no matter what you do. I can't get anyone on board a dreadnought, not with their security, and if you try any sabotage, I don't imagine we'll get away with it, not this close to home.”

   “What makes you think they'll have better luck than the other ships to head out that way?” Harper asked.

   “What makes you think Alamo will?” Bailey replied, a question for which neither of them had an answer. He looked down at his monitor, then said, “We've got something. Looks like Sam Pastell has decided to take a look at the shuttle maintenance levels. Probably snooping after something connected to that transport.”

   “Nice and isolated?” Harper asked.

   “Well out of the heavily-populated areas, up in no-grav.” Bailey paused, then added, “He'll have backup, you know.”

   “So do we,” Salazar said, reaching into his pocket. “We'll keep things low profile, don't worry. All we want to do is have a quiet little chat.”

   “Those sound suspiciously like famous last words.”

  Chapter 8

   “This brings back bad memories,” Clarke said, quietly, as he and Blake wandered down the main concourse, looking at the shops. “I keep expecting someone to jump out at me with a gun in his hand.”

   “Nice, healthy paranoia,” Blake replied. “A good survival trait.” She looked back at the other midshipman, wandering in a loose clump behind them, leading a gaggle of crewmen from Alamo's lower decks. Everyone was taking full advantage of the unexpected opportunity for shore leave, but he knew their every move was being monitored. Loitering in the side passages were silent figures who had to be undercover UN marshals, watching and waiting to see what the Triplanetary crewmen would do.

   “I still don't really know what we're doing here,” Clarke said. “Lieutenant Salazar's briefing was just a little vague on the details.”

   “Probably because he didn't know himself. We're just here to watch and to listen, Midshipman, that's all. If we spot anything interesting, we report back.”

   “And to him, not to the Captain,” he said, shaking his head. “I don't like that.”

   “If that's the worst element of this little mission, I'll consider us fortunate.” She glanced at a mechanic's shop, advertising spare components, the man behind the counter peering out at the wave of tourists, eyes carefully storing all the information he could harvest from their appearance, as though scenting an opportunity.

   Clarke followed her glance, and his eyes widened as he said, “Let's try in there.”

   “Why?” she asked. “He's too interested in us. Probably working for someone.”

   “And he's selling surplus Triplanetary military hardware inside. Without a displayed license.”

   “You realize that you can pick that stuff up cheap on the gray market? This doesn't mean a thing.”

   “We're looking for a lost starship, right? Besides, we've got to start somewhere, and I can't think of anywhere else to go.”

   With a shrug, Blake followed him into the shop, and the pair peered at the racks while the shopkeeper looked on. The equipment was old, but in surprisingly good condition, and Clarke pulled out his datapad to confirm his suspicions. All of the materials inside were from a shuttlecraft, one of the old transfer pods.

   “I can make you a good offer,” the shopkeeper said. “You buying spare parts?”

   Nodding, Clarke replied, “I'm Deck Officer's Mate, over on Alamo. Have you got an itemized list of components?”

   “Sure,” he said. “Wait a moment while I call it up.” He peered down over his console, entering commands with one finger while Clarke continued to look over the racks. Blake reached underneath the units, pulling out a dust-covered box with a Red Cross emblazoned on it. She ran a finger along the side, exposing the serial number, and looked up with a quick nod.

   “Shuttle survival kit. Issued six months ago,” she whispered. Pulling out her datapad, she said in a raised voice, “I'm having trouble logging onto the mainframe, sir. We're getting a lot of interference.” Shaking her head, she added, “Maybe we should call Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo.”

   “No,” Clarke replied. “Not in sleep cycle. We might have to come back later. There was that other place on the far side of the station we heard about, and...”

   “Kline will rob you blind,” the shopkeeper said, looking up from his terminal. He reached underneath his counter, tugging out a datacable and tossing it to Blake. “Use my link.”

   “Thanks,” Blake replied, locking it into position under her datapad, quietly activating a series of hacking programs to burrow into the shop's database, covertly ripping the information they were seeking free. Clarke shook his head, trying to put a picture of the components in his mind. Some of them, anything that might have been mounted on the outside of a shuttle, were blackened and twisted on the outside, still usable with minor repairs, but obviously subject to significant stress.

   “I've got that list for you,” the shopkeeper said, tapping a control to bring up a holoprojection, a long selection of components flashing into the air. Clarke nodded as he looked at the list, his suspicions confirmed. Aside from the hull and the superstructure, you could almost build a transfer pod out of the mess of parts on the shop and the storage unit behind.

   Holding up one of the battered components, he said, “Some of this stuff will need repair.”

   Nodding, the shopkeeper replied, “I'm offering a bargain price for that reason. But only if you want to buy the whole lot.” He smirked, and added, “You aren't the only one interested.”

   The door slid open, and Koslowski walked in, a puzzled look on her face and a foaming drink in her hand. Outside, Clarke could see a figure loitering, one of the undercover agents paying significant interest in their activities. Suddenly, he realized the danger they were in, and walked over to the shopkeeper with the damaged component in hand.

   “I won't be rushed,” he replied. “And if you think you can find someone else willing to pay more for some near-obsolete hardware, you are perfectly welcome to try.” Shaking his head, he waved the sensor pickup in the air, and said, “I'll take this for the moment, so I can run a proper stress test back on the ship and get an idea of what this junk is actually worth.”

   The man behind the counter looked from left to right, and replied, “Perhaps a retainer?”

   “I wouldn't want to deprive you of a potential sale,” Clarke said. “Just the sensor pickup.” He looked at the racks, picking a bundle of circuitry at random, and added, “These as well, actually. So I can run some tests on the condition of the interior fittings as well.”

   Frowning, the shopkeeper replied, “Frankly, I was wanting to sell these items as a lot...”

   “You don't want me to run any checks? What have you got to hide?” Clarke asked, while a baffled Koslowski and impressed Blake looked on. “This is a bad idea. Let's try somewhere else.”

   “No, no, wait, kid,” the shopkeeper said. “Maybe I was a little hasty. Tell you what, I'll give you twenty-four hours to run your tests, and hold onto the components for you.” Nodding, he added, “And you can have those two pieces free.”

   “That's more like it,” Clarke said, glancing at Blake. “What do you think, Tech?”

   “Sounds good, boss,” she replied, settling into her role. “It would save us a lot of work.”

   “Then I accept,” Clarke said, turning back to the shopkeeper. “Can I have something to put these in?”

   “Of course, sir,” he replied, pulling out a tattered holdall, one with the Triplanetary Fleet insignia on the side, likely more salvage from the ruined shuttle. While Clarke stuffed the pieces
inside, Koslowski looked at one of the racks, reaching for a box with brown stains on the top. She slid it open, and a scowl crept across her face.

   “What the hell are you doing with this?” she asked. “You should have turned it into the local Fleet Liaison Office as soon as you found it.”

   “Midshipman,” Clarke began, summoning all the authority he could muster, “I'm certain he didn't realize what he had. Maybe...”

   “John,” Blake said, tugging at his sleeve. “We need to get out of here, right now.” The shopkeeper had retreated from the room, and the door refused to open when she jabbed at the controls.

   “Damn,” Clarke said, turning to Koslowski. “The next time you decided to start something, kindly wait until the two of us are out of the room first! Alex, see if you can crack the lock.” He reached into his boot, pulling out his obsidian knife, and said to Koslowski, “Find a weapon, right now.”

   “I don't...”

   “Do it!” he yelled, tugging out his communicator, grimacing at the roar of static filling the room as he worked the controls. “Pretty much what I expected. They're jamming us.” Shaking his head, he turned to Koslowski, and added, “And to answer your question, this whole set-up was a trap. Someone wanted to find out what we knew, and thought they might take the opportunity to grab a couple of operatives.” Waving the bag, he said, “That's why I took the sensor pickup.”

   Blake turned from the lock, wires dangling, and said, “You're getting smarter in your old age. You were going to let them think they could track us.”

   “And then head for the nearest shuttle.”

   “You could have warned me,” Koslowski complained.

   “Typically, undercover operations aren't advertised.” He shook his head again, looking up at the ceiling. “They're probably got the whole place monitored, but there's nothing we can do about that right now. I guess they already know all about us.”

   “John,” Blake said, “Company.” Two shadowy figures made their way to the door, and Clarke nodded, making his way to the far side. Koslowski, a long pipe in her hands, stood next to Blake, covering her while she continued her efforts with the door.

   “What was it you found, anyway?” Clarke asked.

   “Datachips,” she replied. “Looks like a copy of the shuttle logs, with a note inside the box requesting that the information should be passed to an officer of the Triplanetary Fleet at the first opportunity. Complete with a ten thousand credit reward. Bastard should have turned it in. There's a signature, but I can only make out the first letter. O.”

   “He might not have known what he had,” Blake said. “Though it's probably more likely that you stumbled across the bait in the trap.” Cursing under her breath, she continued, “I can't open this, but right now, neither can they. It's only a matter of time before they get in, though.”

   Clarke looked at the other door, waiting for it to open, knife grasped in his hand. He reached down to his communicator again, setting it on an automatic distress setting, the low wail barely audible over the heavy static. There was a chance, albeit a faint one, that someone on Alamo might hear them, but even if they did, fixing their location would be a nightmare this deep inside the station.

   Finally, the door at the rear slid open, and on instinct, Clarke slashed at the approaching figure with his knife, the diamond-coated blade easily slashing through the man's uniform, sending him tumbling to the rear. Any flash of fear that he might have killed an innocent bystander evaporated in a moment when he saw the United Nations identity tags on a chain around his neck, and he reached down to snatch them free, gesturing for the others to follow him.

   “How…,” Koslowski said, her face growing pale.

   “Too much damned practice,” he replied. “At least this time I've actually had some training in knife combat. Let's move.” He led the way into the crowded storeroom, still hefting the holdall over his shoulder, while Blake relieved the dead agent of the sleepstick in his hand, the low hum of the sonic suppressor filling the air.

   The storage area was a worse mess than the shop, the tattered remnants of a dozen obsolete spacecraft scattered around in vague piles, the floor filled with the debris of decades of starflight. Cautiously, Clarke picked his way around the wreckage, looking for an exit and finally locating a hatch in the floor, secured with a mechanical bolt, a chain wrapped around it.

   “We're not going to get through that with a datapad,” Blake said, shaking her head. They could hear a rhythmic pounding coming from the shop behind them, the enemy agents trying to force their way through the door. Clarke looked around, trying to find something he could use, but it was Koslowski that lurched towards them, holding a geologic survey hammer in her hands, the largest he had ever seen.

   “Stand clear,” she said, smashing it down onto the hatch, rebounding the first time before crashing through the thin metal with the next. The third strike cleared it completely, and as she dropped it to the deck, Blake started to slid down into the darkness beyond. Koslowski followed, and as Clarke urged her on, he heard a loud crack from the rear, knowing that the agents would be on their trail.

   He looked down at the ruined hatch cover, knowing that they would be able to catch them in seconds, and instead turned to face the approaching enemies, grimacing at the guns nestled in their fists, both barrels aimed squarely at his chest. Thinking quickly, and trusting that they would be hoping to take him alive rather than kill him, he hurled his holdall towards them, using the momentum to dive to the floor behind a pile of burned-out capacitors, bullets flying in the air as the bag found its mark.

   Knife still in hand, he lobbed a piece of unidentifiable scrap metal in the direction of his assailants, knowing that he was only buying his friends a few seconds, but trusting that they would be sufficient to save their lives, or at least ensure their freedom for long enough to get a message back to the ship. He risked a quick peek out of cover, and saw the two figures approach, a man and a woman, the latter somehow familiar, someone he had seen before.

   Belatedly, he remembered the bamboo blowgun in his epaulette, and ripped through the fabric to pull it free, hastily planting it between his lips and aiming at the nearest target. The dart shot into the man's neck, a perfectly positioned shot, and as his eyes rolled back, he took advantage of the momentary distraction to rush forward, blade in hand, rocking to the side to avoid the bullet that tore from the barrel of the woman's revolver.

   His teacher had trained him well, long months of practice at the hidden training facility at Syrtis Major, and instinct guided his blade on a smooth, sweeping slash down the woman's arm, sending the pistol dropping to the floor. Cold hatred flashed from her eyes as she reached down with her other hand, seeking a second weapon, but he was first to the draw, snatching up the sidearm and leveling it between her eyes.

   “Hands up,” he said, but before he could continue, her leg hacked around, sending him tumbling to the floor, the gun dropping from his hands again. She reached down, blood streaming from the cut on her wrist, her eyes glazed over, the effect of an auto-medic doing its best to keep her in the fight, pumping stimulants and painkillers into her system.

   She advanced towards him, drawing a second, smaller pistol from a hidden holster in her side, before falling back, arms flailing, dropping to the floor. Clarke looked around, then back at the broken hatch, Blake climbing back up into the warehouse, blowgun drooping from the side of her mouth.

   “Come on,” she said, spitting the weapon to the floor. “Even if Waldheim doesn't send any more people, local security will! We've got to move!”

   Nodding, Clarke followed her through the hatch, reaching for one of the larger piles of debris as he went, pushing it over with surprising ease and sending parts scattering across the floor, a few of them bouncing down the shaft, ringing from the rungs as they went. As he began his descent, the gravity quickly began to reduce, and he realized they were falling towards the heart of the sta
tion, into zero-gravity. At a cubbyhole, carved from the rock countless generations ago, Koslowski hung, looking at the two of them with disbelieving eyes.

   “Who the hell are you?” she asked.

   “Midshipman John Clarke,” Blake replied, “and Technical Officer Alexandra Blake.”

   “Yes, yes, I know that, but...”

   “You were asking how I ended up with my rank,” Clarke said. “Suffice to say that this isn't my first time at the rodeo.” Sliding his knife into his pocket, he continued, “Though at least this time I haven't been shot by someone.”

   “Yet,” Blake added.

   “But I don't understand…,” Koslowski protested. “You're just...”

   “Clarke to Alamo,” he said, pulling out his communicator. “Clarke to Alamo on Emergency Frequency Nine. Come in, please.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Either we're being jammed, or we're too deep, and someone's restricted our access to the signal boosters.”

   “Relax,” Blake replied, a smile spreading across her face. “I'm sure that in a few moments everyone on Alamo will know exactly where we are, and exactly what we've done. Station Security probably already has a warrant out for our arrest. Murder, attempted murder, anything else they can throw into the mix.” Shaking her head, she said, “This would be an excellent time for you to come up with one of those famous crazy plans of yours.”

   “My God,” Koslowski said. “This is neutral territory. You realize that we might have just given the United Nations Fleet an excuse for war?” Shaking her head, she said, “I don't believe this. My career's over.”

   “That'll teach you to go rummaging in second-hand junk shops,” Blake replied. “Any wisdom, Midshipman, or are we going to be wandering around here at random?”

   “If I remember the layout of this place,” Clarke said after a moment's thought, “the shuttle maintenance facilities are down in zero-gravity.”