Battlecruiser Alamo - 7 - Battlecruiser Alamo: Sacred Honor Page 5

   “We are not pirates, Sub-Lieutenant,” Marshall replied. “This is simply...unorthodox requisitioning. Promissory notes will be provided that will be redeemable upon delivery to the Treasury of the Admiralty.”

   Looking as though she was suppressing laughter, Lane said, “Do you actually think that anyone from the Cabal is going to head to Mariner Station to claim their money? Let’s be serious, here, sir.”

   “I’d like to think so,” Marshall said. “I’d like to think that this state of not-quite-war that we find ourselves in can be normalized to friendly relations.”

   “With the Cabal?” his father said. “There’s no evidence that their goals are anything less than total domination of human space. I can’t see where negotiation could have a role. Just surrender. Surely you aren’t advocating that.”

   “Their goal might be conquest, but if we can put up enough of a defense, show that we will be too difficult to conquer, then we might just be able to change their minds. Strange as it might seem, I don’t actually want a war.” He saw Caine looking at him oddly, and decided to change the subject. “At any rate, that is certainly way above my pay-grade. We’ll leave such discussions to the politicians when we get back.”

   “If,” Lane said.

   “When,” Marshall replied. “Ways and means? Mr. Tyler?”

   Looking around the room, Tyler stepped forward, leaning over Zebrova to work the controls of the briefing table. The holoimage shuddered, and a mess of red and green lines appeared on a map of local space, obscuring most of the stars.

   “Sorry about the mess, I haven’t finished refining it yet. This is the breakdown of all recorded shipping activities at those stars within our current range for a little over eight months. Assuming this is a normal pattern, we can deduce regular trade routes.”

   Marshall’s father nodded, “Good work. I’d have killed for this sort of intelligence in the war.”

   “We did that to get this,” Caine said, quietly.

   “Recommendations, then, Sub-Lieutenant?”

   “The biggest concentration…”

   “That’s not what we want,” Zebrova interrupted before he could finish. “The area of the heaviest concentration is likely to have some patrol craft. What we want is an out-of-the-way system that has enough activity that we won’t be waiting for months, but not so much as to justify a military presence.”

   Nodding, Tyler pulled out a datapad and started to flick through it, while all eyes in the room watched him. Marshall had a lot of sympathy for him; he’d been stuck in similar briefings more than once in his younger days, knew that it felt as though everyone was waiting for him to make a mistake.

   “I think…”

   “You think, Sub-Lieutenant,” Zebrova said.

   “I think Gliese 431, ma’am. Some light settlement, a couple of small orbital depots we might be able to raid, and a ship coming through every eight and a half days on average.”

   “Sounds about right,” Marshall said. “Mr. Mulenga, plot a course, and implement as soon as it is safe for us to do so. Tyler, I want a report on everything we know about that system on my desk before we jump; I’ll make my final decision based on that.”

   “So this isn’t final, then?” Lane asked.

   “I’m not in the habit of being rigid and inflexible where critical command decisions are concerned, Lieutenant. It won’t cause any harm for us to switch to a different destination at the last minute. Now, there is one more topic we need to cover, I think – the accident on the hangar deck.”

   Lane looked at Quinn, “I will be conducting a few random inspections and tests in the near future, Captain. I assure you that this will not recur.”

   Looking at Marshall with a resentful stare, Quinn replied, “My people are working around the clock and then some, sir. Occasionally, accidents happen when equipment and personnel are pushed too far.”

   Leaning forward with a predatory grin, Lane said, “If you feel you are unable to correctly allocate your resources, Lieutenant, I’d be only too happy to assist you.”

   Turning, his face reddening, Quinn began, “Lieutenant, you can…”

   Marshall cut him off in the process of mid-insubordination, “Quinn, that’ll do. I know you are doing the best you can, and assure you that you retain my full confidence as Systems Officer. Let’s get some better procedures in place, and if you need to borrow people from other departments, feel free.”

   “We’re all over-stretched, Captain,” Mulenga said. “My sensor technicians are working overtime.”

   Raising a hand, Marshall said, “I know everyone is working as hard as they can. I don’t see that ending any time soon, I’m afraid, but we’re going to have to keep on pushing. At the very least we have an opportunity for intelligence-gathering that is unlikely to come again.”

   “Sir,” Bailey said, “I don’t think that it is fair to attribute the incident to Mr. Quinn.” She was very precise about describing it as an incident, Marshall noted. “I think we should not rule out the possibility of sabotage.”

   “My investigation has ruled out any possibility of sabotage,” Quinn said.

   “Mine is still under way, Lieutenant, and I am less willing to write it off as a possibility. If only for the factor that the incident took place at the worst possible time, with the greatest potential for loss of life.”

   Marshall frowned; evidently Bailey was good enough at her job to have developed a healthy sense of suspicion. Normally he would be celebrating having found an excellent officer, but it was inconvenient at the moment.

   “The investigation is going to have to wait, Lieutenant. Mr. Quinn believes it to have been an accident…”

   “Sir, if there is any risk of sabotage on board…”

   With a deep sigh, and a sideways glance to Caine, Marshall replied, “Continue your investigation, Lieutenant, but I also need your team working on those beacon satellites. Find out anything you can from their database to add to Mr. Tyler’s information store, and then arrange it so that there is no record of Alamo passing through this system. We might as well cover our tracks if we can.”

   His father frowned, “I’m not sure that’s worth it, so...Captain. If the enemy fleet was going to come here, they would have; I’d rate it far more likely that they would set up blockade points instead.”

   “We might as well take these steps as not, Major.”

   “But a saboteur…”

   “My decision is made.” He looked around the room, “I’m going to need everyone at their best for the next few jumps. Our goal is to get sufficient fuel, and to get into a good position, that we can make one long run for home. Go over the information in our database on civilian freighter classes, start to familiarize yourself with their capabilities, and I want a lot of battle and emergency drills, Lane. Let’s make sure this crew stays sharp.”

   She looked at Diego, then back at Marshall, “Aye, sir.”

   “Anything else, then?”

   The officers looked at each other, as if daring someone to speak, but silence reigned in the room. “That’s all, then. Dismissed.”

   As the rest began to file out of the room, Caine remained lounged in her seat; Marshall noted that she shared a quick glance with Quinn before he left, pointedly avoiding a conversation with Lane by making directly for the elevator. The door slid shut, and Marshall let out a loud sigh.

   “I know, I know,” he said before Caine could speak. “I’m not being fair on Quinn.”

   “No. You aren’t. He’s proud of this ship and proud of his work.”

   “If it helps, he’s already up for a commendation. I did the paperwork this morning.”

   “That’s not going to help today, Danny. Lane’s going to be riding him, and that isn’t good for either of them.”

   “What do you make of our new intake?”

   She smiled, shaking her head, “That desperate to cha
nge the subject? Well, far be it for me to discuss the merits of those senior to me…”

   “Don’t make me promote you, Deadeye.”

   “Fate worse than death. Well, Diego’s too quiet but should be fine as long as he stays out of the way of the troopers – and from what I’ve heard, he shows every sign of doing just that…”

   “So we’re carrying a passenger.”

   “More a raw recruit.” She shrugged. “At least he has the good sense to know that he needs to be watching and learning at the moment. Bailey looks fine – though I could see you sweating when she started to punch holes in the ‘accident’ theory. I think you’ve got a good, tenacious Security Officer there, even if she is a bit senior for the job.”

   “And the big one?”

   “Lane’s going to be a problem. You heard her at the meeting, she’s one of the ‘death or glory’ school. The latter usually leading to the former. She’s got some supporters, as well.”

   “Is she doing her job?”

   “Shouldn’t you already know that, Captain?”

   Marshall smiled, and replied, “Looking down from above, everything seems fine.”

   Frowning, Caine said, “She’s working them hard. Lots of extra training and drills – and I think she’s going to go even further on that. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but I don’t think she trusts the people working under her.”

   “A micro-manager?”

   “For years, she’s been in the same routine. There’s some inflexibility there, that’s for certain, though less so than with some of the other Hercules crewmen.” Shaking her head, she said, “Maybe I’m seeing something that isn’t there.”

   “Keep looking for it, Deadeye.”

   She paused, then said, “I know you hated that briefing.”

   “I don’t like lying to my people.”

   “You didn’t exactly lie. Admittedly, you didn’t share everything, but…”

   “I should have a room full of officers preparing in the bright light of day for a major battle. Instead we’re having to resort to cloak and dagger tactics because one of them might be a saboteur.”

   “You don’t doubt…”

   “It could be almost anyone. Even if you exclude the possibility of a deep-cover agent, a lot of people joined the ship before we left Mariner. And the Hercules crewmen. Heck, it’s probably more likely to be one of the enlisted crewmen.”

   “I tend to agree. Nevertheless...are you changing your mind about the battle plan?”

   “No,” he said. “I’m convinced that it is the right thing to do, and unless the situation changes, we’re pushing ahead with it.”

   Nodding, she replied, “In that case...I’d better keep working. I’m having dinner with Quinn tonight to discuss some modifications to the missile bays.”

   “Damn, I was hoping to meet up with you in the mess. Can’t really get in the way of your date with Quinn, though. He’s having a hard enough time as it is.”

   “Maybe I’ll swing by later. I’d better head off, though. Suddenly I seem to have a few dozen battle drills to organize.” She rose from her chair, and with a departing smile, walked out of the room. Marshall sat by himself, looking at the slowly rotating holoimage for a while, playing possibilities over in his mind. Try as he could, all he could see in the future was a glorious last stand.

  Chapter 6

   With a gentle touch, Hercules locked onto the central hub of Hydra Station, the docking latches folding into place with a series of loud raps on the hull. Warning lights lit up, alerts that the hull was being stressed beyond its now depleted tolerances, but one by one, Wilson managed to deal with each.

   Orlova was standing in front of the primary airlock, flanked by Carpenter and Nelyubov; Curry was sitting up on the bridge in command, ready to hit the recently-installed panic button should it be needed – though somehow, Orlova doubted she would, a fear that she tried to keep a deeply buried as possible.

   “Remember,” she said to the others, “Whatever happens, whatever you see, act like you are expecting it. No surprises. Got that?”

   The door slid open, and Price glided in, flanked by a pair of tall guards wearing gray jumpsuits, lethal looking rifles in their hands. She’d never seen anything like them; they seemed to be a combination of low-velocity projectile with an underslung taser. One of the guns had a series of notches carved into the butt, and the guard gave a toothy grin when he saw her looking at it.

   “Have you got the data?” Price asked, and Orlova handed him the datapad. Half the crew had ended up working on the fake records, but she knew that they would fail a close inspection. This was just to buy time, enough time to allow her to make her real pitch. The dockmaster tossed the pad over to the guard with the grin.

   “Brenner, get that down to Analysis. Rush job, I want to know what I’m supposed to do with these people right away.”

   “On it, boss,” he said, ducking back into the airlock.

   “You might as well come with me to my office. I can arrest you there if need be,” he said with a half-smile that made her uncertain about whether he was joking or not.

   “Fine,” Orlova said. “Susan, you come along. Frank,” she continued, though using Nelyubov’s first name seemed like an affront against nature, “you take charge of the repairs and start liaising with Mr. Price’s people. I want to get out of here as soon as possible.”

   “What’s the hurry?” Price asked. “This place isn’t that bad. There’s even some good hunting down on the planet if you want to have a try.”

   “Hunting?”

   “The nearest thing we have to a hobby out here, and about all we get as a tourist industry. One day, when we’re able to open this place up properly, my little space station will be an orbiting hotel, you watch. Five star. Seriously, though, why rush?”

   “Getting this ship back to flight status is important.”

   With a smile, Price replied, “Looking to prove yourself, or something like that? Take some advice from me, young lady. Get yourself a nice little posting like this and put down some roots. It all works out the same in the long run, and if you can find somewhere out of the way, the Court of the Admirals will let you run it the way you want. Long as you keep the supply lines open and do your job.”

   “I see.”

   “No, you don’t, but you will. I was young once, you know. Come on.” He beckoned her forward, and she and Carpenter pushed off after him. He gestured for them to hold onto a guard rail, and rapidly they felt gravity returning as they transited to the rotating part of the station. Orlova took a quick look at Carpenter, but she seemed to be coping fine; years spent in variable gravity while growing up had obviously given her good space legs.

   “We’re a small little station out here,” Price said, breaking into an obviously oft-repeated speech. “Working crew of about a hundred, maybe a dozen or so on the planet below. Of course quite a few of those are lower caste, non-human types. We take whatever labor we can get.”

   Carpenter flashed a quick glimpse at Orlova, who fixed her with a stare to silence her. Not that she could blame her; the number of known alien contacts could be counted on two hands with fingers to spare – likely because the Cabal was preventing most of them getting to Sol, she realized. The thought that they might be about to meet non-human beings was nothing short of intoxicating.

   The doors opened, and Orlova took an experimental pace; they seemed to be about at Titanian gravity, enough to keep everything down to the deck and maintain gravity adaptation, not so much that it would make anything too heavy. They stepped out onto a long, curving deck, workers scrambling about with boxes of components, most of them hopefully scheduled for Hercules. She looked around for some sights of the non-humans, and then she saw one. Though non-human wasn’t perhaps the word.

   Bilateral build, definitely humanoid, long braided hair over a heavily ridged forehead, nose far too large
for the face, eyes a distance apart. One glimpse at Carpenter’s expression was more than enough – she was looking at a living Neanderthal man, carrying a crate of sensor components, and he was not the only one. At least a dozen of them, all wearing identical puce tunics, were on the habitation ring, either carrying crates or doing light maintenance.

   There was no possibility that Carpenter could be prevented from gawking; it might give the game away, but this was her life’s work in front her, the culmination of all of her training and education. Luckily, it seemed that Price misinterpreted her interest.

   “Yes, I know, they are everywhere. This isn't the Fleet, I’m afraid; we can’t afford to discriminate. Hell, if they wouldn’t hog all the best people...but then I shouldn’t complain, of course, they do need them. Some of them are almost as good as humans, and they take training and discipline surprisingly well.”

   “How many have you got here?” Carpenter asked, eagerly.

   “Thirty-one,” he replied, looking to his side. There was a faint blush there, an element of deception – this was definitely something worth looking into. Price walked down the deck, away from the laborers, and Orlova followed – with a tug on Carpenter’s arm to encourage her to follow. There would be plenty of time for questions later.

   “We’ve been here for sixty-two years; my grandfather established this facility from salvaged components, though it was abandoned for a couple of decades after the Council decided not to settle the planet – which incidentally is named Sandveld.” He turned, and said, “Plenty of chances for you to go down there if you want. I head down once a week, just to breathe real air and feel real gravity. Nice for a change, and one of the real perks of this job.”

   “No other ships in at the moment?”

   Frowning, he replied, “Of course not. All civilian traffic got placed on stand-down for the ambush. The only things flying are military-flagged, and we don’t usually handle those. That’s one of the reasons I was surprised to see you.”

   “Too many damaged ships, not enough facility to fix them,” Carpenter said. “Alamo didn’t go down easy.”