Battlecruiser Alamo: The Price of Admiralty (2 page)

He looked back out at the stars, then turned again to his friend, "I need you, Deadeye. Badly. A hundred and twenty lives are about to rest on my shoulders, three crews trying to work together for the first time, either untrained, resentful, or worn-out. I need one person I can count on, out there in the dark."

"You can't use me as a crutch, Danny."

"Better that than fall over. There's too much at stake." She glanced aside for a moment, and Marshall continued, "Think of the adventure. I've read your articles, seen your documentaries. You're running out of places a publisher can send you. The Fleet has a longer reach."

"Might be a few books in it, I suppose." She tipped her head back, looking up at the stars again, "Besides, you aren't going to take no for an answer, are you?"

"No."

"Then I accept. Sir." She chuckled, "That's going to take some getting used to."

Chapter 2

Marshall continued to tap his fingers down on his borrowed desk. Once again the soon-to-be-former commander of Alamo had refused his request to come on board and inspect his new command. He'd spent most of the afternoon going over the Patrol's regulations, trying to find any requirement for him to be allowed on board, but no such regulation existed. The practice of the incoming commanding officer being granted a tour of the ship by his predecessor was one of the oldest in both services, but it seemed that Flight Commander Zubinsky had decided not to extend him that courtesy.

He began to mentally compose another letter, pondering how to word it more strongly, mindful of the fact that in three days he would be assuming command in any case, but then called up another list, and found his name listed near the top. He did have security access to Alamo, even if the captain wouldn't allow him on board. Shrugging out of his uniform jacket, he threw it loosely onto his chair, logged off his terminal, and stepped out of his office, being careful to lock it behind him.

A few second thoughts briefly passed through his mind as he walked around the outer ring of the station. It was busy; the duty shifts were changing over, and the corridor was full of rusty red. He paused at a viewport, looking at a flare in the distance, a transport ship decelerating to dock. Probably carrying some of his crew.

His real attention was beyond, and he slid his hand across the window to magnify it, looking at it for about the hundredth time. He saw a long cylinder, three spokes reaching out to the outer, inhabited areas of the ship, the laser cannon running down the long spoke of the vessel parallel to the FTL drive, the whole ship slowly rotating on its axis. Brief flashes of light from the superconductor ring wrapped around the central core, evidence of some work being done on the powerful energy grid. Shuttles queuing up to transfer personnel and equipment back and forth from the station, probably taking everything not absolutely necessary to ship operations back to Callisto, tankers topping up the internal fuel store with Helium-3, enough for four hendecaspace transits.

He knew that Zubinsky had fought an impressive, albeit doomed rearguard action to try and retain Alamo, even as the ship shaped its way out to Mariner, and had complete sympathy for him – but he couldn't wait any longer to take a look at his first command. His pace quickening, he continued out to the docking ring, moving past the military bays to the few civilian berths.

Half a dozen shuttles were docked, but no-one seemed to be about. A noise drew him further down the corridor, where he saw a few prefabricated tables scattered around an abandoned workshop, a vending machine precariously propped against the wall, and what he presumed to be pilots lounging around, drinking one concoction or another.

"I need a ride. Anyone interested?" Marshall said, looking around hopefully. None of the pilots seemed to have paid him any attention, but one over in the corner, a slight, nimble woman who barely seemed old enough to have her license, ill-kept auburn hair dropping down over the back of a battered old leather jacket that probably was on its fourth or fifth owner, stood up and looked at him, finishing the can she was drinking.

"Where to?" She had the usual twang of a Martian accent, but with a slightly odd mix to it that he couldn't quite work out.

"Over to Alamo. Part of the crew transfer."

"Got any papers?"

Marshall frowned slightly, then shook his head. "If I did, I'd be at one of the military shuttles. I've got clearance to board, though. All signed, sealed and approved."

She shrugged. "I'll get you there, and hang around to get you back. If they chuck you out of an airlock, I charge extra for daring rescue missions."

"I'll keep that in mind."

With a half-reluctance, she stood up and made her way casually over to the most decrepit looking of the shuttles, nimbly working the airlock controls. The inside was a mess of food wrappers, spare parts and disposable datapads, but the pilot's chair and console seemed well-kept enough. He just hoped that the working systems of the ship were better maintained than its dubious passenger facilities. The pilot seemed to sense his concern, and craned her head back.

"No refunds, bud."

"Not looking for one. What's your name, anyway? In case I need it for the accident report."

She turned back to her console and started flicking switches; with a jolt the airlock separated and they began to float free, a touch of thruster speeding them away from the station. "Funny. Name's Margaret Orlova. Buy me enough drinks and flowers and you can call me Maggie," she said, grinning.

Marshall strapped himself carefully to one of the passenger seats, pushing some of the clutter out of the way, noting that one of the straps seemed rather frayed. "Daniel Marshall. When was the last time this shuttle got serviced?"

"By some tinkerer from the station? Yahweh knows, I wouldn't trust those morons to service a coffeepot. Based on what I paid, probably before the war. Handle all of that myself." She started to tap thrusters with a nonchalance that indicated long experience, then kicked the engines into full, sending Marshall rocking back into his couch. He looked over at some of the readings – they were well within the prohibited radius of the station.

"Why isn't Dock Control calling?"

"You want to fly, Danny?" She ran the thruster up all the way, locking it down into automatic control for the last course adjustments. "I've thrown us up into the standard approach pattern from the upper docks. Makes it look like we're in the normal approach queue. So many ships coming and going right now that the Deck Officer's just waving them through."

Marshall shook his head. "Why do I think you've been out there already?"

She laughed. "Not that I'd tell a stranger. But I feel sorry for the poor sucker they hired to command that flying scrapyard. Word got round that anything on her is up for grabs. Half the pilots down in Harry's spent most of the off-watch going back and forth with bits and pieces from their contingency stores."

"What?"

She locked down her console and turned her chair around to face him. "What's it to you? I figured you were just another
scavenger
."

He rubbed his hand through his hair, "I'm the poor sucker. I was sneaking on board to take a look over her before I took formal command." Marshall frowned his way through her peals of laughter. "It's not funny. I was hoping for at least some professionalism, not a gang of sore losers salting the earth."

"Salting the earth?"

"Forget it. Do me a favor, though – when you get back, pass the word that the good times are over."

"No fun."

The shuttle spun around, slamming on its engines again to slow down, drifting back into the standard approach pattern. He pushed his way forward into the cockpit to get a better look at the ship; the young shuttle pilot made no move to stop him, evidently recognizing the look on his face.

He could just about make out a couple of space-suited figures on the outer hull repainting the ship's name, switching the 'C' to a 'T'. TSS ALAMO. Whatever the difficulties, it was his ship. He felt a surge of pride build up inside him as he looked over its lines, fixing them in his head. The hours he'd spent pouring over the blueprints on his way out from Mars didn't equal a single second of this experience, of actually looking at the ship he was to command.

"Coming into dock, Captain Danny, better strap in."

He looked over at her, shaking his head, "Don't call me that. I'm trying to keep a low profile. That's why I'm not wearing a uniform."

She laughed again. "No-one out of uniform has a shirt that well-creased. Tell you what, I'm in a generous mood. Couple of spare jackets over in the equipment locker, see if one fits you. No extra charge. Just dump it back when you get thrown out."

The shuttle crashed gently against the side of the ship, then bounced away, prompting a brief fusillade of swearing from Orlova. The docking latches engaged on the second try, and he heard the hissing of atmosphere filling the airlock, and felt himself getting heavy again in Alamo's rotational gravity. The locker had a pair of jackets in it – along with a small avalanche of junk which left some rather odd stains on his trousers. The oldest one of them seemed to fit; it was festooned with a collection of old mission patches from the pioneering days – Apollo, Artemis, even the Zeus III mission. Orlova looked him up and down.

"Kinda suits you, Captain Danny."

"Thanks. Hang around here for a bit. I'll let you know when I'm ready to come back."

"Good luck with your sneaky infiltration of your own ship." She shook her head, smiling. At least someone seemed to be enjoying this.

Marshall emerged from the airlock to find a state not much better than the shuttle he had just left. Crates of equipment were littering the corridor, a couple of bored-looking crewmen in Patrol Blue ticking them on and off a series of manifests. Some of them were labeled 'Triplanetary Fleet', but a depressing majority seemed to be labeled for 'Callisto Transfer'. Not a promising start.

Neither of the crewmen paid any attention to him as he scanned his ident card past the access scanner, then made his way into the unattended elevator. He tried to think of an inconspicuous place to start – and the hangar deck was an obvious one. According to the specifications, Alamo came with a flight of six fighters. He didn't have any fighter pilots assigned yet, but if he was going to keep his flight pay, then he was going to have to become familiar with them. The elevator whisked down a pair of decks, then along the long axis of the ship.

It opened onto an almost empty deck.
All six of the launch racks were bare, some of the equipment stripped right down. Only a pair of shuttles remained, resting on their elevator airlocks. A group of maintenance personnel seemed to be playing darts in a corner of the ship, while an officer sat perched on a chair reading a datapad – presumably the same deck officer that was overseeing the disbursement of his equipment stores. Ignoring him for the moment, he made his way to the work gang in the corner, trying his best not to let the anger he was beginning to feel show too much.

"You guys the deck gang?" Marshall began, looking around.

A ruddy-faced man wearing the insignia of a Flight Sergeant turned and grunted, "Need anything?"

"Just looking around. What happened to the fighters?"

"Got flown out last night for transfer back home. Why, you a pilot?"

"I was. Wanted to take a look at them."

The sergeant reached down to an odd-smelling purple bottle and waved it in front of Marshall, a few drops frothing out over the side. "Sorry you missed 'em. Fancy a drink? I'm celebrating."

"Yeah!" cheered a couple of the others.

"Celebrating?"

"A promotion." Scorn laced his words. "Apparently the Patrol doesn't want me any more, so I'm going from being a Flight Sergeant to a Petty Officer."

"Nothing petty about you, Diego!" one of the other crewmen yelled.

"You're staying on, then?"

Diego spat at the deck, then smudged it in with his boot. "Doesn't seem like I have much choice. Sure you won't have that drink?"

"Got to get back. Maybe next time, huh."

"Sure."

Marshall walked back to the elevator, shaking his head; the gang had already gone back to their previous revelry. As he stepped into the elevator he pulled out his datapad, scanning down the list of names. Shuttle Maintenance Technician, Petty Officer Diego Ramirez. Twelve years service in the Patrol, three Combat Stripes, one of them post-war, which was a fairly rare thing. Precisely the sort of senior crewmen he was desperately going to need, but if all the 'recruits' from the Patrol felt like that, he'd probably rather leave dock with only half a crew.

He looked over the list of destinations again, and shaking his head, punched in for the engineering deck. The elevator sped its way through the ship, down to the far end, as far as could safely be traversed without getting into special gear.

The doors opened, and he looked around the massive room. Three decks high, separated by mesh partitions, a couple of dozen workstations for various duties ranging from simple telltales to the complicated waldoes that were the only way of operating in the reactor while it was in use. Hatches that led to access points throughout the ship, all of them too dangerous to permanently occupy but of potential critical value for damage control. His attention was quickly drawn to the rear, a huge hologram of the ship showing the status of every system, and the position of every engineering technician.

Most of the crewmen appeared to be paying him no heed, focused totally on their own duties, but a couple of officers in the corner had noticed the scruffily-dressed Marshall entering the room. One was a tall, dark-haired officer who somehow managed to make his blue jumpsuit seem smart, a trace of contempt shown on his severe face, the other a weary-looking blonde who had obviously recently been working around the clock, her round face set in what appeared to be a permanent frown. They looked at each other, and the man made his way over to Marshall, looking him up and down with a disapproving air.