Battlecruiser Alamo: Take and Hold

by Richard Tongue

   “If you are a qualified doctor, can I have a few days off?”

   He looked across at her, and said, “How is she?”

   “No one ever comes in here just to see me.” Gesturing down at the unconscious form, she replied, “Stable, but it’s going to be a while before she is coherent. That was a nasty attack.” Shaking her head, she continued, “Somehow I thought when we got home that I wouldn’t have quite so much business any more. Don’t you dare bring me any more.”

   “I’ll do my best, Doctor,” Logan replied.

   She gestured at the man standing outside, and asked, “Is that really necessary?”

   “Someone tried to kill her. Speaking purely personally, I feel a lot better knowing that there is someone keeping an eye on her. That guard is there to protect you as well, you know. Any assassin might not worry about collateral damage if he tried to take her out.”

   “An assassin in my sickbay, now. I’ll tell you, Captain…”

   “Logan,” he snapped. “Logan is my name.”

   She shook her head, then said, “Fine, Logan. You’ve brought some new levels of insanity onto this ship. I thought Captain Marshall was bad enough, but you were in command for moments before putting me into surgery. You are very fortunate that I am a genius.”

   “Take care of her, doctor.”

   “I wondered what I was supposed to be doing down here.”

   “And more to the point, when she regains consciousness and starts to talk, I want to be there – and no-one else. I don’t want anyone else to hear anything she says. Is that clear.”

   “Do you have something to hide?”

   “No, but she obviously does, and it’s important enough to kill for. I don’t see the need of putting anyone else onto the firing line, do you?”

   She frowned, then replied, “Maybe you might work out alright after all. Maybe.”

   “Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

   A supercilious voice shouted over the intercom, “Emergence from hendecaspace in five minutes. All hands to standby stations. Captain Winter to the bridge.”

   With a last nod at the doctor, he walked out of the room, heading for the nearest elevator, idly wondering what Lieutenant Watson thought he would do on the bridge when he got there. Technically, the only person needed to bring the ship back into its home dimension was the helmsman; everyone else was just an audience.

   The corridors seemed empty, quiet. Some of the crew had already been transferred to other ships to get home more quickly, the Hercules survivors and those with families. All that was left was a corporal’s guard, a contingent just sufficient to get the ship into spacedock. He stepped into the elevator, pressing for the bridge.

   Things had been bad enough on Spitfire Station, and that was essentially just administration. He was getting a little tired of signing off on reports without having any real idea what they meant, and his new Executive Officer didn’t seem to be much help. He couldn’t yet work out whether he was a spy or just an over-ambitious officer hungering for command. If the latter, then he might just get his wish, if Logan decided that he was up to it.

   This wasn’t his ship. He might be in command, but for him it was a very temporary situation. The least he could do was make sure that it was kept in good order for its next real commander, and to try and make sure that the ship had a real Captain before it went out again. Whatever some headquarters idiot might have decided, that wasn’t him.

   The doors slid open, and he stepped out onto the bridge, looking around. Only half the bridge stations were manned; there were vacant seats at Tactical and at the Watch Officer’s station, and Flight Engineering seemed to have been put on automatic. An over-eager midshipman, recently transferred, sat at the helm, who turned back and beamed a smile as Logan walked in.

   “Mind your station,” the tall man hovering near Communications said. “All systems are clear for emergence to normal space, Captain.”

   “Thank you, Mr. Watson,” he replied, having long since given up trying to educate him into using his real name rather than his rank. He stepped over to the Captain’s chair and sat down, trying to look as if he belonged in it, and said, “Midshipman, you have the call.”

   Logan felt as if he was on the set of a movie, all the others reading lines from a script no-one had given him as they ran through their checklists. The countdown clock ticked away the last few seconds, and with a blinding blue flash, Alamo returned to Sol. He smiled as the familiar orange swirl of Jupiter appeared on the screen, dead-center, and tapped a control on his panel.

   “Bridge to all stations. We made it. Alamo is home.”

   “No welcoming party?” the helmsman asked.

   “We already had that at Spitfire,” Logan replied. “Contact the dockmaster and arrange a berth, then the crew can head off to the reception.”

   The technician looked up at him, and said, “Sir, we are clear for Framework Two, but there’s no reception planned.”

   With a frown, Logan said, “That’s damn strange. I’ve never heard the Callistans to pass up an excuse for a party before. Are you sure?”

   “Yes, sir.”

   “Better anyway,” Watson said. “We should get to work on the refit as soon as possible. Mr. Quinn has prepared a list of requirements, and I’ve been adding to it for the last week. Mr. Weitzman,” he turned to the communications technician, “check that we have an appointment with the station engineering team.”

   After a moment, the technician looked back, and said, “In nine days, sir.”

   “Nine days?” Watson replied. “Are you sure?”

   With a sigh, Logan stood from his chair, and said, “Try and convince them that it is a matter of some urgency that Alamo is ready, and arrange an earlier appointment. Mr. Watson, the bridge is yours. I’ll be below if you need me.”

   “I'd like to have a word with you first, sir. Perhaps in your office?” Logan frowned, then nodded, making sure to lead the way into the room. One of the new midshipmen moved to follow, but Watson stopped him with a look – the four new officers seemed to be hovering around him all the time, acting more like a personal guard than officers under training.

   The office was bare, stripped of all personal items by Marshall before he left, and Logan hadn't seen any point in decorating it himself; he didn't expect to be here long enough to justify it. He crashed down in a chair, and gestured at Watson to stand in front of him.

   “What's on your mind, Lieutenant?”

   “Our current command situation, sir.”

   “I didn't think there was anything controversial about it. I'm in command, you are my deputy. That seems simple enough to me.”

   “There's more to it, sir. I took the liberty of looking over your personnel record...”

   “That must have been very boring for you,” Logan interrupted.

   “It's a blank. There are some huge gaps in your service history.”

   “Quite right. You don't have the security clearance to know what they mean.”

   Watson leaned forward, and said, “If this is some sort of secret mission, then I'm happy to handle things for you.”

   “Handle things?” Logan replied, an eyebrow raised.

   “Well, sir, you've never commanded a starship of this type.”

   “And you have?”

   “I've been senior officer on three battlecruisers, sir, and have sat in command on more than one occasion. I consider myself fully qualified for the job.”

   “I'm very pleased to hear it, Mr. Watson. You don't think I'm up to it, is that it?”

   Looking to his right, the young man replied, “This is some sort of secret mission, sir, and this is your cover. That wasn't easy to work out. I can make all of this a lot easier for you, effectively take command.”

   “Are you finished?”

   “Yes, sir.”

   “Good.” Logan stood up, summ
oned his fiercest gaze, and said, “If you ever talk to me that way again, you'll be saluting Recruit Spacemen! I'm the commanding officer of this ship, and as far as I know, your position doesn't entitle you to consultation rights on my appointment. You will do what I say, when I say, and that is all you will do. Any attempt to undermine my command will result in your immediate arrest. Is that clear?”

   “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear,” he said, his face stony. “Is that all, sir?”

   “Get out of my sight.”

   He waited for Watson to leave, composing himself, getting out of character and back to his usual calm manner. Pausing for a moment, he tapped a control, and said, “Lieutenant Quinn, report to the hangar deck on the double.”

   Leaving his office, he walked across the bridge, glanced at Watson who had commandeered his command chair, then stepped into the elevator, still pondering the lack of response from anyone.

   This was getting stranger by the moment. The celebrations back at Spitfire had been riotous enough, the whole fleet cheering Alamo off, but he’d expected more from Carter Station. Under normal circumstances, every flag officer for light-years would have wanted to be around to welcome them home, if only for the press attention. He glanced down at his datapad, and shook his head.

   Not one request for an interview appearing on his queue. He couldn’t believe that the press wouldn’t be all over this; there should have been communications traffic the moment they left hendecaspace. That and being diverted to Carter Station instead of Alamo’s usual home-port, Mariner, told him quite clearly that the ship was being buried under the carpet. Someone was going to extraordinary lengths to keep things quiet.

   Tapping a wall communicator, he said, “Lieutenant Ryder, get to the hangar deck.”

   The doors opened, and he stepped out onto what for once was a crowded deck, technicians preparing the shuttles within for immediate launch, ready to shuttle home those of the crew who were on their way for a long-earned rest leave, the rest preparing to start work on the overhaul of the ship. Quinn was holding court with one of his senior technicians over in a corner, looking up at a monitor.

   “What have you got there?” Logan asked.

   “Look, they’re further along than we thought,” Quinn replied, pointing at the screen. Logan looked up to see a long, cylindrical shape with two spokes rising from it, a laser reflector twice the size of Alamo’s unfurling as the ship moved off for a testing flight. He recognized it from blueprints, the Ares-class Battleship that was the great hope of the fleet for a line-of-battle capital ship.

   “That isn’t even the Ares,” Quinn said. “That’s the Cronus, heading out to combat tests in the outer moons. Three week shakedown cruise.”

   “I don’t understand why they are going all the way out there,” the other man said. “Most of the Fleet’s testing takes place at Wolf 359, nicely out of they reach of prying eyes.”

   “Maybe they wanted them close to home, Chief,” Quinn replied.

   “Or perhaps they want people to see what the ship is capable of. If she’s up to specs, she ought to be able to go toe-to-toe with a United Nations Dreadnought. Something like that shouldn’t be kept secret, or the deterrent value is lost.”

   “The last thing we need is to get into a dreadnought-building race,” Quinn said. “You want my opinion, we need scouts and battlecruisers, and something new for interstellar escort duty. Not something that we’d never dare risk in battle. Do you know what one of those babies costs?”

   “Two and three-quarter billion credits each,” Logan replied. “Half, more, of the annual shipbuilding allowance in one big, glorious shot, even with the buildup. Impressive as hell, but I’m with you, Jack. I’ve never liked putting all our eggs in one basket.”

   Ryder bounded over, looking past them at the screen, “Is that what I think it is?”

   “Ah, I’m glad you’re here,” Logan said. “How’s the shore leave roster looking?”

   “Not bad. I’ve got a lot of the local crew scheduled to go off first. Watson approved it this morning.” She looked at him, sighed, and said, “I’ve got work to do, haven’t I?”

   “Quinn, your engineering teams. Have they been as badly denuded as the rest of the crew?”

   “No, actually. I hung on to almost everyone I could for the refit.”

   “Then you are at full strength.”

   “Yes.”

   “Good. Ryder, I want you to draw up a list of crew, loyal hands who’ve served on Alamo for a long time, since the first cruise under Captain Marshall. Key personnel, enough that we could run the ship if needed. I’d guess that’s about twenty-five people.”

   “Are we talking just getting from place to place, or actual combat?”

   “Let’s assume worst-case. How many would you need to operate this ship?”

   “Forty-one. Two bridge shift, weapons crew, minimal medical team, damage control parties.” She glanced at Quinn, who nodded, and said, “I think that should do it. I can come up with the list for you in an hour.” Shaking her head, she replied, “There are going to be some pretty disappointed people.”

   “Yes, but not them. It’s their lucky day. All of them have three-week passes, starting right now. I want them on their way to home and hearth by the end of the watch. Jack?”

   “I have a horrible feeling that I know what’s coming. The book says six months, damn it, and I was hoping to be able to do a proper job this time. If we keep neglecting the old girl, one day she’ll break somewhere when we need her.”

   “We both know that you’d never let that happen. How long?”

   “Four weeks.”

   “Alamo hands only.”

   “Just our own personnel?” He gestured at the hangar door, and said, “There are five hundred engineers sitting on their butts out there, Logan. We might as well put them to work. And quite a few of my best people…”

   “Will be back and refreshed by the time you need them at their best. How long, Jack?”

   “Six weeks. Maybe. What’s the rush?”

   “I don’t know. I do know that we can’t count on any cooperation from the local authorities; they’re going to hold off on Alamo’s refit for as long as they can, and I want this ship back to full operation as soon as possible.”

   “One thing we’re going to need is parts,” Ryder said, crossing her arms. “Alamo can’t produce everything it needs, and if we start sending work crews down to strip-mine Callisto for raw materials, I think someone might notice what we are doing.”

   “I agree,” Logan replied. “That won’t work. You’ll have to scavenge parts from Carter Station. I’m sure you know a few people in the quartermaster department, Jack, and I can provide you with some names that will open doors for you as well.”

   Shaking her head, Ryder said, “So, instead of waiting for the refit to take place properly and according to the book, you want us to start a rush job and steal the materials we need.”

   “That’s a pretty good summation of what I want, yes.”

   “No.”

   Arching an eyebrow, he asked, “What was that?”

   “Logan, I worked damned hard to salvage my career after the last capricious senior officer decided that his pet project was worth throwing me on the scrap-heap. Getting assigned to Alamo was meant to be my big opportunity, and you’ve already set me back again by sticking me on that damned junk-pile of a space station.”

   “Simone…,” Quinn said, looking at her.

   “I haven’t finished. I’m here to do a job, Logan,” she spat out his name like a curse, “not to play along with your whims. You don’t even know why you want the ship ready so quickly, and you want me to put myself on the block for a dishonorable discharge.”

   “Lieutenant Ryder,” Logan snapped, “I do not recall giving you permission to speak freely.”

   “I don’t recall asking for it. Sir.”

   “
Why are you in the Fleet, Ryder? Did you join up to have a good career, to see yourself rise through the ranks to build up your pension? Was that what it was all about?” He shook his head, and said, “Maybe I don’t know that much about this glorious fleet, but I do know that we are not here to help officers have a good time and reach their full career potential. There are sixty million people out there dependent on what we do next, and I will not let them down because it might adversely affect your career prospects!”

   “She didn’t mean it that way, sir,” Quinn said, as Ryder looked away.

   “Damn it, Ryder, you’ve known me for long enough that I can ask you this. Have you ever known me to do anything that is not in the best interests of the Triplanetary Confederation?”

   “No, sir,” she replied.

   “I might work in mysterious ways, but sometimes that is necessary. I am here, in command of this ship, and someone seems to have decided to sideline us. If war breaks out, this ship will be valuable and I would like to turn it over to a real commander in battle-ready condition. If something else happens, I need this ship and crew to be ready for whatever comes.”

   “Yes, sir,” she said. “I’m…”

   “Don’t you dare apologize for saying what you think. Don’t ever do that.” He looked at them, and said, “I’m operating on a trust-based policy right now. I trust you, Ryder, and a lot of people whose opinions I respect have told me to trust you, Jack.” Gesturing up, he said, “That stuffed-shirt on the bridge, him I don’t trust. He’s given me no reason to. Both of you are to operate according to my orders, and I want him out of the loop.”

   “I thought we were all one fleet,” Quinn said.

   “In theory. In practice, it often works out rather different. I want all of this ready to go when I get back.”

   “Where are you going?”

   “Over to the station, I have an urgent need for some soup.”

   Shaking her head, Ryder replied, “I’m never going to understand anything you do, am I. I suppose you want that green-haired sidekick of yours along for the ride.”