Battlecruiser Alamo: Not One Step Back (18 page)

 The man ran the card through his fingers, “Is this real?”

 “It’s real. Go help your boy.”

 The airlock had finally finished its cycle, and he could jab his finger on the release door to get inside. He had moments before the assassin would be out of sight – certainly he couldn’t expect any help from station command, their sensors would no doubt be engaged on ‘more important’ matters at the present.

 Hastily, he pulled the spare spacesuits out of the locker; she’d made some serious attempts to damage them, but there hadn’t been time for her to do too much. He selected a helmet that didn’t seem to be broken, and a suit that now had a long rip down the side; it took the patches from four suits to seal it up, and he had to ignore the manufacturer’s directions that multiple patches should not be used – not to mention that their last ‘maintained’ date was ten years ago – but he pulled the suit on with practiced care, placing his pistol in a side pocket and switching magazines.

 Taking a deep breath, he activated the depressurization sequence, and waited as the atmosphere leaked away into space, his hand over the override button, his eyes looking at his temporary patchwork. The heads-up-display flashed a series of amber warning lights, and the text ‘recommend immediate servicing’ winked on and off, but as the pressure reduced to nothing, the suit held, and the door slid open, revealing the outside of the station.

 He looked around at the tangle of antennas, pylons and emplacements that gave the outside of the module the appearance of twisted wreckage; he immediately kicked himself away from the sharp edges and tangle points with his suit thrusters, dropping out of the airlock and activating his suit sensors on the second try. Immediately, he saw an object fleeing along the underside of the station, spending fuel carelessly, and with a quick twist, he followed her.

 This was an arena he did know well; Martian Intelligence had given its agents excellent training in all manner of fields during the war, including a mandatory tour with the Martian Marines – it hadn’t been particularly pleasant at the time, but the experience had proven useful many times since then. His target was wasting fuel, correcting her course, ducking and weaving to try and stay out of sight, but he didn’t simply follow her, he started to lead his target, using a series of precision pulses on his jets to draw him to where she was ultimately going to be.

 “Logan?” a voice echoed in his helmet, catching him by surprise; he realized that he must have left his communicator on, but was slightly surprised that the remote interface was still working.

 “I’m busy. Make this quick.”

 “I’ve reached the airlock, patched up the kid. There’s no suit here, if you want me, I’m going to have to go forward.”

 He paused for a moment; he didn’t have any idea how good Boris would be at zero-gravity combat, and in a duel of this sort, he had no time to think of anyone other than himself.

 “Go forward, get suited up and ready, but don’t come out unless I send for you.”

 “Right.”

 He focused on his prey, still ducking and weaving, but she finally decided that her dodging wasn’t going to work, and instead kicked off from the hull, white-hot blasts from her thrusters kicking her out into space, sending her into a twisted spiral. He had to take back his previous thoughts; she was good at this.

 Fumbling with his pocket, he managed to get his pistol into his hand; the Service Special was designed to be used in a spacesuit, a second trigger mounted on the front. Less accurate, especially with the solid-fuel bullets he would be using, but still effective.

 Firing a weapon while floating was an art form; he had a hand on his thruster control, ready to correct himself as he pressed the trigger, but he still went bobbing around from the recoil as the bullet sped towards its target, a tiny blue spark leaping out into space. Her evasive maneuvers were effective enough, and she managed to push herself out of the way. The heads-up display was refusing to provide him with any sort of course calculation – he glanced down and saw that the control circuitry had been hacked at, something he had missed in his too-rapid check back in the airlock.

 He sighed, realizing he was going to have to guess this by eye, and from what he could see, fuel wasn’t a concern for her. Of course it wasn’t; she had friends out here who could come to her aid, whereas he had only the wary Boris. Turning around, he fired a trio of shots in quick succession, speeding him on his way, then spun around again to find that he was heading right for a thin protrusion, some sort of antenna complex. No time to do anything, no time to avoid it, and he went barreling into it, hoping for the best.

 At least the suit’s stabilizers were working; he was thrown into a tumble, surrounded by bits of broken equipment, but there didn’t appear to be any damage – though some shrapnel had embedded itself in the outer layer of his suit, the integrity of the material was still intact. He was closing on his target, as well; she seemed to be trying to reach the far side of the station, undoubtedly hoping for safety. With two bullets left, and plenty of fuel, Logan was determined that she should not find it.

 He worked a slider on the side of the pistol, slowing down the velocity of the bullet as low as it would go; he didn’t want to hit her, he wanted to drive her down to the side of the station. The shot was wide, to the right, but close enough that she would simply think that his aim was poor; she dived exactly where he hoped, close in to the bulge of one of the inflatable modules, and heedless of fuel, he slammed on his thruster control, sending him flying towards her.

 Frantically, she worked her suit jets, trying to pull away, but he still had the pistol, and another bullet blocked her passage, sending her diving down again. Warning lights began to flash across his screen, collision alerts, but he ignored them all – this was exactly what he had been hoping for. With a crash, he slammed into her, sending the two of them diving towards the station, and he reached down towards her thruster controls with his hand, stopping her from escaping. He clamped his helmet on hers, knowing that she could hear him.

 “Talk!” he said. “Who sent you?”

 She twisted her head, writhing in his grip, “Sokolov.”

 Nothing he didn’t already know. “Are there more of you?”

 Before she could answer, the momentum sent the pair of them slamming into the side of the hull, and she went limp in his arms, blood spilling from her mouth into her helmet. Logan’s eyes opened wide as he saw what had happened; she was impaled on a piece of jutting equipment. Even had she not been wounded, her suit was fatally compromised, and while he eased her out to try and save her, the light flicked out of her eyes, and her suit monitors went dark.

 Shaking his head, he let her body drift off into space, assuming that her friends would collect it later on, and cautiously made his way to the nearest airlock, staying well clear of the side of the station. A part of his mind was reeling from what had happened, but another part was telling him that this was the person who was quite happy to fire shots towards children at play; there was some justice here.

 “Boris?” he said.

 “Yeah, I’m here.”

 “Meet me at Airlock Twenty-One.”

 “Be there in a minute.”

 He drifted slowly into the airlock, grabbing the handles and tapping the button to cycle through the sequence, the door slid open gently and he drifted in, waiting for his suit systems to tell him that the outside pressure was safe before cracking his helmet. The inner door opened, and Boris and Harper were floating on the other side.

 “Did you get her?” Boris asked, eagerly. 

 Logan fixed him with a stare, “Yes, I got her. She’s dead.”

 “Dead?” Harper said, growing pale.

 “Caught on one of the fixtures outside. It’s damn dangerous out there.”

 Boris looked at him, shaking his head, “I patched up that kid, sent him up to one of the doctors. I think he’ll be fine.”

 Pulling off his suit, Logan replied, “I damn well hope some good comes out of this.” He looked at the two of them. “I’ll tell you both something; we’re taking the fight to them. I’m not going to let anyone else get hurt because of this. It just isn’t worth it.” As he drifted down the corridor, heading back to the security office, he could still hear that kid’s scream in his mind, see the look on the dying woman’s face. More fuel
for
his nightmares.

Chapter 17

 Marshall lay on his bed, scanning the report that Orlova had sent to him for the third time. Finally some proof of Cabal involvement in the pirates
' activities
, even if it was circumstantial, and another potential location to explore. For hours he had weighed up Caine’s advice in his mind, trying to work out which direction to jump; the irony of his current dilemma didn’t escape him. When he was growing up, longing to lead an expedition into unknown space, he had longed for the freedom to rove and wander where he wanted. Now, in a once-in-a-career situation, he had the freedom, but couldn’t decide what to do with it.

 His reverie was broken by the communicator, and he placed the datapad to his side, took a quick sip of water, and responded; the face of Ortega appeared on the wall by his bedside.

 “Marshall here.”

 “Sir, we’re getting a message from Spitfire Station.”

 “From Lieutenant Winter?”

 “No, sir, from the station commander, a Mr. Sokolov.”

 He nodded, replying, “About time he decided to speak with us. Put him on.”

 “Patching you through, sir.”

 The screen switched to an immaculate office, evidently designed for zero-g. There was a picture on the wall that he vaguely recognized as the head of Cornucopia Mining, who had a vague familial resemblance to the man on the screen – who was red-faced with barely controlled anger.

 “Are you Marshall?” he barked.

 Raising an eyebrow, he replied, “I am Lieutenant-Captain Daniel Marshall, commander of the Battlecruiser Alamo.”

 “Don’t crawl behind your rank, Marshall. I want that bastard off my station immediately.”
 “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific.”

 “Winter! He’s holding two of my people captive, and another of my operatives was just found dead outside. There have been gunfights in the public areas, damage to property, and I’m sending you the bill. You’re supposed to be here to help us, dammit.”

 Marshall looked away from the screen, shaking his head. Winter was in uniform, but he didn’t really think that he would accept a recall order even if he chose to give it, and he didn’t have time to do anything about it himself – not to mention t
he
realistic possibility that the man he was speaking to was in some way involved with the pirates.

 “Well?” Sokolov growled.

 “I will speak to Mr. Winter about these actions, and if I deem it appropriate, I will forward you the relevant sections of his report.”

 “You will get him off my station, Marshall, or I will do it myself.”

 “I assure you, Mr. Sokolov, that any action you attempt against a serving officer of the Triplanetary Fleet will receive an instant response, and one that I doubt you will appreciate.” 

 “I have friends, Marshall, and…”

 Marshall interrupted him, “I don’t care. He’s doing his duty, and so am I. Why is he holding your people?”

 “Some trumped-up charge.”

 Leaning closer to the pickup, Marshall said, “What?”

 “Attempted murder.”

 His eyes widening, he replied, “And you expect them released? Mr. Sokolov, Cornucopia Mining is not above the law – and for that matter, neither are we. I see that an investigation into Mr. Winter’s actions is conducted at the appropriate time, but for the present, I’m rather busy tracking down your pirates for you.”

 “This is urgent, damn it!”

 “Why? Are these critical, key personnel?”

 “They are two members of my staff. Answerable to me.”

 Sighing, Marshall replied, “They are answerable to the Outsystem Legal Code of the Triplanetary Confederation. Your protest has been noted and logged.”

 “You haven’t heard the last of this.” 

 “Good night, Mr. Sokolov.” He turned off the screen, closed his eyes, and counted to ten in three languages, very slowly, trying to fill his head with calming thoughts, then called the bridge again.

 “Ortega here, sir.”

 “Did you hear any of that, Spaceman?”

 “Most of it, sir. I think the whole bridge did.”

 Shaking his head, Marshall replied, “Patch me through to Lieutenant Winter.”

 “I’ll try, sir.” There was a long delay, Ortega’s head dropping out of shot as he leaned over his console, Marshall glancing around his room while he waited, picking up the datapad and scanning a couple of pages of the report, looking over the list of names. Finally, Ortega looked up.

 “I’ve got him, sir.”

 “Thanks.” He paused, “Mr. Winter, can you speak?”

 “Probably more securely than you.”

 “I’ve just had a Mr. Sokolov complaining to me about you…”

 “That’s funny,” Logan cut in. “He starts with two attempts to kill me, then tries to report me to my superiors.”

 “I presume that’s the attempted murder and the other body?”

 “Yes.”

 “I see. Well, I’ll back you as far as I can, Winter, but I need something from you.”

 “Isn’t that always the way.” Logan paused, “What is it?”

 “The location of the pirate base. We know it’s somewhere in the atmosphere, we know it’s on an aerostat, but we have no idea where – and we need that information.”

 There was a long sigh, “Don’t I get a day off? I’ll see what I can do, Captain. Winter out.”

 Marshall looked at the screen, still shaking his head. He glanced up at the clock, saw that he was back on duty cycle in just a couple of hours, and decided to give up on the idea of sleep for the present. He took another swig of water to get rid of the bad taste in his mouth, and pulled on his uniform jacket, doing up the buttons as he left his room. Two of the midshipmen were loitering outside their shared cabin, and both of them snapped salutes as him as he past; he returned them as he drifted into the elevator, punching for the Astrogation deck.