Battlecruiser Alamo: Not One Step Back (8 page)

 “He won’t mind,” Ryder said, shrugging. “If you’re really bored I could try and throw you to Winter. I could do with the break, I’m beginning to forget what the bridge looks like.”

 “Good luck with that,” Zabek said, “Unless you’ve got Most Secret clearance, I doubt he’d even let you look at his lunch order.”

 “Why not?” Orlova said, nodding. “I’ll clear it with Cunningham, and get you integrated into the mission plan. I’ve never known us to have too many people to deal with a situation yet.” 

 Looking from side to side again, Carpenter said, “Is it always like this here? Some of the crew were telling me about your past missions. This seems a bit mundane by comparison.”

 “Trust me,” Ryder said, “Serving on this ship is always interesting. I’m going to miss it.”

 “Are you leaving?”

 “Three months from now,” Orlova said, grinning, “our friend here gets promoted to full Lieutenant, after which she will be far too grand to associate with we mere mortals.”

 “You’ll be there yourself in a year,” Ryder replied, “assuming you don’t keep on getting on the wrong side of Zebrova.” She turned back to Carpenter, “I don’t see any gaps in Alamo’s roster opening up any time soon, so when we get back the Mariner, I’ll probably end up pulling shore duty for a while.” She shook her head, stabbing a piece of meat with her fork.

 “Don’t you want to go home?”

 “I didn’t join the service to have an office job. Still, with the buildup I’ll probably get onto another ship before too long.” She smiled, “And there’s another lesson here, ladies, and that is not to tell anyone that you want a posting. Back when I thought it was going to be Captain Winter, I asked him if he was looking for officers. Admin work was not what I was hoping for.”

 “Probably thinks you’ll need the practice. Any idea where you might be going?” Zabek said.

 “Deep Space Fleet Headquarters on Mariner, apparently. The skipper dropped a few hints at my last performance evaluation. At least I’ll still get to read about what all of you are doing.”

 “You couldn’t order us a few months leave at High Vegas, could you? That’s a place that really needs exploring,” Orlova replied, chuckling.

 “Have you ever been there?” asked Zabek, wide-eyed. “I’ve heard the stories…”

 Before she could reply, an alarm began to ring across the room, and she pulled out her datapad to glance at the alert, starting to chuckle as she read it.

 “Surprise airlock drill of the Operations office,” she said, laughing. “At least it isn’t me for once, and I think Zebrova’s on sleep period as well.”

 “Maybe the Captain decided to get a little payback,” Ryder said, but then Orlova stopped laughing, her face dropping.

 “Christ, it’s Harper, isn’t it.”

 Stopping only to snatch a cereal bar from the table and stuff it in her pocket for later, she sprinted to the door, hoping that she might get down to her section before Zebrova. Somehow she had the feeling that it was going to be a very long shift today.

Chapter 7

 His eyes snatching up at the clock, Marshall attempted not to let his frustration show. In less than five minutes, they would be emerging from hendecaspace at Luhman 16, and their mission – the prelude to their real assignment – could begin. In the meantime, he was referring an argument between Zebrova and Orlova over the fate of Harper; that situation had been occupying far too much of his time for the last few days. Finally, he broke in.

 “Lieutenant, Harper accepted non-judicial punishment, and has been confined to the brig for seven days as a result – the maximum sentence I can impose under Fleet Regulations. Sub-Lieutenant,” he said, turning to Orlova, “I will not switch that decision to confinement to quarters when not on duty.”

 “She should be court-martialed,” Zebrova said. “I’ve been saying that for days. Simple administrative punishment…”

 “This is just because she was able to hack into your system – twice,” Orlova shouted. “Part of my department’s job is to sniff out weaknesses in critical systems, and correct flaws. You’d rather it was an enemy vessel that hacked into the ship?”

 “Are you telling me that you condone this hooliganism?”

 “Of course not!” she said, throwing her hands into the air, “but her crime was not to hack into the system, it was to make changes – and all she did was wake you up.”

 “She made significant software alterations, Sub-Lieutenant, and if this is how your department normally operates…”

 “Enough!” Marshall yelled. “Both of you. I’ve made my decision and it stands. End of discussion.”

 “Captain…”, Zebrova said.

 “End. Of. Discussion,” Marshall said, with finality. “Dismissed, both of you.”

 “There was something else, Captain,” Zebrova said, while Orlova turned to leave the room.

 Frowning, he replied, “This had better be a very different topic, Lieutenant.”

 “It is, sir.”

 “Very well. Sub-Lieutenant, you may leave.”

 Saluting, Orlova replied, “Aye, sir,” and walked out onto the bridge. Zebrova remained, and Marshall glanced up at the clock for a second before turning to her.

 “Make this one quick, Zebrova.”

 “I will, sir. I’ve been evaluating the general condition of the ship, as well as our current supply load-out, and I have some concerns.”

 That caught his attention; Spitfire was the last place they could top up on anything they were mission before they made the big leap.

 “Such as?”

 She pulled out a datapad, “We have sufficient food for a year, sir, as well as spares designed for extended use, rather than a standard combat load-out. It’s almost as if this ship has been readied for a long-range mission; we don’t need most of this equipment for our current assignment, even with the potential extension to Proxima.”

 “What’s your point?”

 “Your name is on most of these requisitions, some of which were made just a few days ago. We have no fighters, even though they would be extremely useful for this mission…”

 “Fleet’s having trouble filling up Wright and Curtiss as it is, Lieutenant…”

 “...but additional shuttles, specifically surface-to-ground.” She dropped the datapad onto the desk. “Sir, we’re equipped for an extended flight, and the evidence suggests that you are the one responsible.”

 “You think there is a problem with being prepared?”

 “In the past you have indicated that I should feel free to speak freely when in private.”

 Gritting his teeth, Marshall replied, “Yes.”

 “I think you are planning to go looking for your father again. Refueling here – which is on our schedule in any case – would provide enough fuel for you to return to Jefferson.”

 “That, Lieutenant, would be a substantial violation of my orders.”

 “To be blunt, sir, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

 Marshall had to prevent himself from chuckling; he had to admit that she had a point.

 “I assure you, Lieutenant, I plan on obeying my orders from Commodore Tramiel to the letter.” Complete honesty there. “We’re simply stocked up because I and the Commodore were not inclined to have Alamo dependent on Spitfire Station for anything – technically, we don’t even need the fuel, though I’m going to take it. Between you and me, I suspect that the station administration is likely involved with this pirate activity.”

 “That was my suspicion as well, Captain.” She glanced at the clock – there were only a couple of minutes to go. “You think this mission could take that long? We could easily arrange for a resupply by tender if necessary.”

 “I have been informed that our auxiliaries are already overstretched supporting our efforts at Jefferson, Ragnarok and Sagdeev.”

 “But…”

 Another voice broke in over the speaker, the crisp tones of Sub-Lieutenant Kibaki, “Transition to normal space in one minute.”

 “They’re singing my song, Lieutenant. We’ll have to continue this discussion later.” Without waiting for her to reply, he walked out onto the bridge, sitting down at the vacant command chair. Caine was sitting at Tactical and threw him a quick sympathetic look before returning to her station, and Orlova was loitering at the rear.

 “Thirty seconds, Captain,” Kibaki said, focused on his station. Midshipman Makarova had her hands poised over the controls, like an animal waiting to strike; if she was nervous, she was at least hiding it well. She stared up at the clock, watching the countdown, ready to act if the computer failed, but her care was not needed; with a flash of light, the universe reappeared in the viewscreen.

 Marshall turned to look at the holodisplay as a map of the system winked on, the stars and planets leaping into the positions calculated by the computer, then imperceptibly flickering as the data immediately corrected. He looked closely at Kumar, the gas giant they were making for; its orbital track was littered with debris, a thin scattering of asteroids and numerous abandoned space platforms and ships.

 There’d been a few battles fought here during the war, as well as a lot of skirmishes, and it showed – but what showed more clearly was that humans had been in-system for decades, and without any regulations against littering or clean-up operations. The place was a mess. A course track leapt from Alamo to Spitfire Station, their objective, and despite the best efforts of the midshipman at the helm, dozens of tiny course corrections were marked in sulky orange, tainting the otherwise smooth green line.

 Lots of small ships in-system as well, quite a few of them heading around the gas giant, probably skimming. Standard enough money-saving scheme in the commercial interstellar fleets, if you didn’t mind waiting around for a few weeks while shuttles laboriously drew the fuel from the atmosphere. Before he could order Makarova to implement her course, Caine turned to him.

 “There’s something strange going on around Freighter Two-Four.”

 Marshall peered at the numbered target, “I don’t see anything.”

 “You aren’t looking at the course projections. Here.” She manipulated controls, and elements of the holoprojection faded away as the image zoomed in, a maze of lines flooding his view then disappearing as she removed targets. Only five lines were left – and all of them focused on the freighter, which seemed to be trying to vector away.

 “Sensors…”, Marshall began.

 “Already on it, sir,” the spaceman replied, not glancing away from her screen for a second. Zebrova walked over to stand behind the technician as she examined her readouts. “Targets are...fighters, sir! Five fighters, Starslammer class.”

 “Confirmed, sir,” Zebrova agreed. “Those are…”

 Nodding, Marshall interrupted, “A UN design, obsolete before the war. I’ve fought them. Ortega, has the freighter tried to contact us?”

 “No, sir,” the communications technician replied.

 “That’s odd,” Zebrova said, looking over at the station.

 “They probably have other things on their mind right now, Lieutenant,” Caine said.

 Scowling, Zebrova looked over at guidance, where the midshipman was staring up at the screen, and snapped, “Midshipman, calculate an interception course. You’re supposed to anticipate!”

 “Sorry, ma’am,” the young officer replied; she belatedly began to type commands into her console.

 “Additional target, sir! Coming up over the horizon. Larger craft, scout type, behind the fighters. Reads as UN Pleiades-class.”

 “The same as our Mariner-class,” Marshall said, “and capable of jumping to hendecaspace.”

 “Freighter is flagged out of Phobos, sir,” Kibaki said, “Registered as the Demeter, Cornucopia Mining, Captain Jennings commanding.”

 “That name sounds familiar…” Caine said.

 Orlova took a step up to stand next to Marshall, “He was the senior officer of the ships captured on Ragnarok.”

 “Not a lucky man, then,” Marshall replied, glancing up. “Midshipmen, implement your interception course as soon as you have it, and make it best-speed. Ortega, hail the Demeter.”

 “You’re on, sir. Time lag just over a second,” he replied.

 A worried face winked onto the viewscreen, a flicker of familiarity coming through his tired eyes as he looked up, his frown turning into a battered smile.

 “Captain Marshall. My God.”

 “Captain Jennings,” he replied with a curt nod. “My I offer my congratulations?”

 “Eh?” the merchant said, then glanced down at the rings on his sleeves, “Thanks, I was a little surprised about it myself. Hell of a first month on the job.” Looking over Marshall’s shoulder, he said, “Hi, Maggie. That job offer’s still open if you ever want it.”

 “Job offer?” Marshall asked; he noticed Zebrova’s eyes arching with disbelief.

 “She joined Cornucopia, she’d have her own ship in three years on the fast-track program.”

 “I’m happy where I am, thanks,” she replied.

 “I presume you want our help, Captain,” Marshall said, looking up at his Security Officer with a wary gaze.

 “Oh, let me think about that for a second…,” Jennings replied, grinning, “I think we might find your presence of use in our negotiations.”

 “Have they contacted you?”

 “Just an automated message, I’m sending it to you now. Basically we are to hold orbit and prepare for boarding by the fighters.”

 “Boarding? With Starslammers? What are you carrying?”

 “Bulk stuff, luxury foods mostly. I suppose I could give them a sandwich wrap, but there isn’t really much we have that they could want.”

 Marshall quickly looked back at Ortega; she nodded back at him. “We’re en route now, shape to avoid them. I think you’ll find that they have more to worry about.”

 “I hope you’re right. Good Luck.”

 “Alamo out.” Marshall turned back to the communications station again, “Try hailing the fighters.”

 “Aye, sir,” Ortega replied. She muttered into her microphone, flicking switches and pushing buttons on her control board; Zebrova was moving over towards her, but Marshall forestalled her by rising from his seat and making his way over to her first; the gray-haired technician looked up at him and grinned.