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 enter
ing 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.
"Are you lost?"
Marshall shook his head. "Just having a look around." After all, it wasn't a lie.
"I suggest you look around somewhere else. This is a security area."
"Very well, mister..."
"Flight Officer Dietz. And that is the last question I will answer. If you do not leave at once I will have you removed."
Shrugging, Marshall stepped back into the elevator, shaking his head as the doors closed behind him. The name sounded familiar, and he scanned down his crew list again to confirm his suspicions – the attached headshot confirmed it. Wilhelm Dietz, currently Flight Officer, shortly to become a Lieutenant of the Triplanetary Fleet. Operations Officer, which was his current position. Another one of the Patrol's draftees, though at least this one seemed to care about his job.
It occurred to him that ordinarily, an officer would make an effort to find out what he could about a new commanding officer, and that would include finding out what the man looked like. That he had not taken the effort to find out either meant that he was such a stickler for protocol that he had opted not to take such steps, or that he simply didn't care.
This little raid of his was beginning to feel like a bad idea. He was aching to have a look at the bridge, but the security there would be ten times tighter than in the engineering sections. Weapons Control would be the same, but perhaps Astrogation would be a different story.
The elevator didn't go directly there this time, instead depositing him in a corridor in the lower decks, close to the sensor housing. Alamo – like the other ships of her class – had originally been designed as a long-range FTL survey ship, before the war led to a change in plans. Most of the gear was left intact, though, and he was right in the bowels of it. The door opened to reveal an almost empty room, a broad-shouldered man with skin as dark as space hunched over a control console – and wearing a Triplanetary uniform. Closing down his workstation, the man turned and stood to attention.
"You must be Captain Marshall." He had a deep, rich voice that actually sounded vaguely welcoming.
Marshall hastily went through his crew list in his head, "Senior Lieutenant Mulenga?"
The astrogator smiled and curtly nodded his head, gesturing around the room. "I thought I would familiarize myself with the equipment on this vessel. I presume you met the same response as myself when asking for access?"
"I'm afraid so. I get the impression that Flight Commander Zubinsky does not like me very much."
"You have stolen his ship from him. A ship upon which he has served for seven years, as Executive Officer and then Commander. Were he handing it over to a fellow officer of his service, I suspect it would be different; but he had another year to go on his tour before the Patrol elected to abruptly terminate it."
"If I were in his shoes, I hope I would behave with greater courtesy."
Mulenga raised his eyebrows and smiled, "I will remind you of that if you ever find yourself in a similar situation."
Pausing for a moment to glance around, Marshall looked at his subordinate's attire. "I see that you've put on your new uniform."
"As have you – at least, most of it."
"I didn't want to be conspicuous."
"Probably a sensible precaution. Is it wrong of me to be wearing it, Captain?"
Marshall shook his head. "Not at all. It's something of a relief."
"The Militia wants the Triplanetary Fleet to succeed, Captain. I have spoken with many of the personnel that are being transferred to your command. You should know that they are all volunteers, all fully aware of what is expected of them. While I suspect you will find that they are not accustomed to military protocols, their enthusiasm should not be a problem."
"I'm happy to hear that at least a third of my crew wants to be here. And you?"
"I volunteered, as did the others. I should inform you know that I am somewhat surprised at my position as your Second Officer." A frown was growing on the astrogator's face, he seemed to want to be looking at anyone other than Marshall. "I have never been in any command position, nor have I sought such an assignment."
"I presume you understand that this places me in a rather difficult position."
"Not at all, sir. I will fulfill all my duties to the best of my ability. I also understand that politically, Titan must have a senior officer in the command structure. I simply wish to make my career goals clear to my commanding officer from the outset of our working relationship. I always believe in honesty with my superiors."
On the face of it, this was an extremely admirable viewpoint that Marshall could not disagree with; it was the ideal subordinate that was willing to admit even his weaknesses to his senior officers. Understandably this was a somewhat rare trait to find. Nevertheless, such an attitude in an officer who could quite easily end up commanding Alamo – and when any circumstances that might lead to that would likely be critical – was something to be concerned about.
"I'll try to keep that in mind, Lieutenant. I appreciate your candor."
The door chimed; Marshall and Mulenga turned to face it as it opened to reveal a frowning officer wearing the three gold rings of a Flight Commander in the Patrol, the ceiling lights shining on his bald head, accompanied by a pair of fairly burly looking crewmen who had sidearms in their hands. The two Triplanetary officers looked at each other before looking back at the trio.
"Major Marshall?" said the officer.
"Lieutenant-Captain, if you don't mind. This is my Second Officer, Senior Lieutenant Mulenga."
"I don't care what you call yourselves. Come with me."
Chapter 3
The corridor seemed interminably long this time, with Commander Zubinsky walking in front of Marshall and the security guard behind, still holding his pistol pointed at the young Captain. Mulenga had been taken in a different direction, probably to the detention cells, he mused.
They walked past a few crewmen on their way to the elevator, all of whom would doubtless shortly be gossiping about this around the ship. The three of them stepped into the elevator; Zubinsky pushed for the bridge. At least he was going to get to see it.
"Is this really necessary, Commander?"
Zubinsky narrowed his eyes. "Two people have infiltrated my ship and penetrated security areas. What would you do?"
"I would have had the courtesy to provide my successor with a tour of the ship when politely requested. Thereby not getting into this silly situation in the first place."
The guard looked slightly uncertain at this; his sidearm wavered slightly. Marshall turned to him, looking down at the pistol nestled in his hand.
"Put that stupid thing away, spaceman. What's your name?"
The guard looked nervously at Zubinsky who nodded curtly in reply. "Astronaut Second Class Cole, sir."
"You staying on?"
"Yes, sir," he gulped.
"If I ever order you to do something this stupid, remind me about this. And put that gun away before you hurt someone."
The doors slid open before Zubinsky could protest any further, and Marshall got his first look at the bridge. Naturally he had seen pictures of it, even looked around a holographic replica, but nothing could prepare him for the real thing.
Three consoles in front of the viewscreen for Guidance, Communications and Sensors, others at the rear for Engineering, Operations, Weapons and Astrogation. Displays on either side showing the status of the ship, others showing a variety of views of the surrounding space.
At the heart of it all, the captain's chair with its command console. He'd seen them a hundred times, even sat in them on a few occasions – but this one was his.
At least, it soon would be. Though its current occupant, the blonde from the engineering deck, looked as if that prospect was the worst imaginable.
"Captain on the Deck!" she called, and every crewman stood to attention at their consoles. All of them turned and looked at their new commander being brought onto the bridge at gunpoint; finally the sheepish Cole holstered his weapon.
"My office, Major," said Zubinsky, making his way over to a door at the rear, in between the aft consoles. Marshall looked around at the displays, not seeming to hear him. Cole tapped him on the shoulder, gesturing at the door, and he nodded in reply, making his way into the room.
It was a mirror of the man who sat in it; artwork displayed along the wall, a box with a row of medals carefully polished, and the flag of Callisto on a pole behind his chair. The desk was neat, not a single stylus out of place, a collection of specialist datapads arrayed in a rack. A holovid of a woman flickered on the wall behind him, obviously slightly out of phase.
"My intention is to contact your superior and initiate court-martial proceedings, Major. Have you anything to say?"
Marshall took a step forward, the door sliding shut behind him, and dropped into the chair opposite the fuming Zubinsky, his patience beginning to wear thin.
"I had full security access, as did the officer you have presumably thrown into the brig. I don't know if you think that this is going to prevent Alamo being transferred, but it won't work. At best you have me for a breach of protocol – but then, when you failed to accede to my request to come on board, you violated that."
"This is my ship, Major..."
"Lieutenant-Captain. You seem to keep forgetting that. Commander."
Zubinsky's neck began to redden. "In three days you can wander about this ship as much as you want. Until then it remains the property of the Callisto Orbital Patrol, and I will caution you not to forget that. You may be right in that talking to your superiors would be an exercise in futility, but I can and will have you escorted back to the disreputable junk-pile that brought you here. And I do intend to lay charges against the shuttle pilot."
Battlecruiser Alamo: The Price of Admiralty Page 2