Battlecruiser Alamo: The First Duty

by Richard Tongue

   “Go on,” Orlova said.

   “We died that our brethren would live, live to escape and keep the secret forever, though it condemned us to slow death on this barren waste. My comrades chose to die quickly, though I tarry on the threshold of eternity in order to pass on this message. Our people are gone, but will live again. Will sail the stars once more. And when they do, I too will live once more. Remember us.”  She looked up, and said, “That’s it. That’s all there was.”

   “He sounds like a brave man. What do you think he meant?”

   Carpenter shrugged, and said, “This was ten thousand years ago, and I doubt this was the only attempt to conceal the past. Evidence is going to be scanty, but my guess is that some of them made it back to Earth.”

   “Impossible,” Zebrova said. “We’d remember.”

   “After ten thousand years, Lieutenant? Look at what happened at that time. The first city-states, the beginnings of agriculture, government. What would you do, if the crew of Alamo were stranded on a primitive world, no way of replacing your technology?”

   “That’s all guesswork, though,” Marshall said. “Though it’s nice to think that our friend died for something.”

   “He certainly did,” Carpenter replied. “Odds are that the Neander would have wiped us out if they had found Earth.” Looking at Zardok, she said, “Did you know about this?”

   “I knew our people had traveled the stars long ago, had settled worlds you now claim, but no, I didn’t know about this.”

   “You had to be protected,” Price said. “Captain Marshall, you can do whatever you want with me, but I implore you to keep this secret safe. No-one else needs to know. It’s all in the past, ten thousand years dead…”

   “People have died, Price,” Marshall said.

   “You can’t suppress this,” Carpenter replied. “My life…”

   “There’s more at stake here than a book deal,” Price said, “or your fame and fortune.”

   “Realistically, the truth will get out sooner or later,” Marshall said.

   “Tell them,” Ixia said. “If we did this terrible thing, all those years ago, then perhaps we deserve the fate we have received.”

   Price stepped forward, the guards moving closer, and said, “That’s why the secret has to be kept. If it comes out…”

   “It’s out, damn it!” Marshall yelled. He gestured at the spot where Mulenga died, and said, “All of this is for nothing! More than a dozen people – people who were alive today – are dead because of what you did, including my own father!” Taking a deep breath, he said, “This happened ten thousand years ago. Everyone who fought in those wars is dead.”

   “Do the Neander on the planet know about this?” Orlova said.

   “No,” Price replied. “Only four others knew. You’ve got one of them in your sickbay, and the rest died on the attack on the station. My grandfather told me, and I told the others in the course of proving it.” Looking around, he said, “The only living people who know what happened are right here. If the Cabal knew about the war, I know they’d have used that information.”

   “Sir,” Zebrova said, “It’s your decision.”

   Carpenter looked around, and said, “I can’t believe we’re thinking about suppressing information.”

   “Let the dead rest,” Orlova said, quietly. “That’s my opinion.”

   Marshall walked away from the group, out towards the desert, looking at the horizon. The jagged mountains in the distance seemed strangely inviting, thin swirls of dust dancing around, a couple of scattered clouds, more re-entry trails from debris from the Dauntless. He tried to imagine the war, a hundred years of fighting, no surrender possible. That this planet was once a battlefield, where a few scattered survivors held out for a while in the deep shelters, before finally meeting their end. After a few moments, he turned, and walked back to the group.

   “Sub-Lieutenant Carpenter, I will want a full and complete report on everything you have uncovered here, complete with all the evidence you have obtained up to this point. Get Cooper to help you.”

   “Please, Captain…,” Price said.

   “I’ll get on it at once, sir,” Carpenter said.

   Taking a deep breath, he said, “I’m classifying this whole matter as Ultra. No dissemination, no official reports, nothing. Subject to Presidential confirmation, my recommendation is that the files remain sealed for fifty years, potential for renewal.”

   “What!”

   “He’s right, Carpenter,” Marshall said. “If this got out, the chances of any public sympathy for the Neander would drop to nothing. It might be ten thousand years ago, but the memories could get fresh, very quickly.”

   “One day all of this will come out, sir,” Carpenter said.

   Nodding, he replied, “And if it is a Triplanetary ship that uncovers it, I suspect its commander will make the same decision. This can’t help, Sub-Lieutenant. It can only hurt. This has caused enough death already, I won’t sanction any more.” He paused, then said, “Though this isn’t forever. At some point, the truth will come out. When it can’t hurt the living. I don’t think the best memorial for the dead is a race war, do you?”

   “What about us?” Zardok said.

   “That’s up to you,” replied Marshall. “I can order my people not to talk, but you are another matter. I’ll leave the decision to your own conscience.”

   He looked at Ixia, and said, “We will say nothing. Thank you, Captain. I appreciate this.”

   “As for you, Price, you’re going to live with this a lot longer. Technically, there should be a trial, but all of this would come out in it.” He looked around, gesturing with his hands, and said, “You’re staying down here on the surface. There are about forty survivors from the Dauntless, which means, I suppose, an impromptu prison camp, though I don’t see the need to bother with guards. We’ll give them provisions, medical supplies, a communicator. You and Pendol can join them, tell them whatever story you want.”

   “That seems fair,” Price replied. “I freely admit my guilt, I'm not going to hide from this behind a tissue of legal trickery.”

   “Any court in the Confederation would give you life imprisonment, and that’s what you are going to get. It might take a while, but eventually the Dauntless survivors will be repatriated. You’re here for life.”

   He nodded, “I’m surprised….”

   “No firing squad?” he said. “That would be a mercy, and I’m not feeling particularly merciful today. I want you to live with what you did.”

   “The station?”

   “We’ve got a lease on it for ninety-nine years. I presume you have relatives somewhere it will revert to one day. But you’ve seen it for the last time.” He turned to Orlova, and said, “Can you handle the arrangements, Lieutenant?”

   “Yes, sir.”

   “Good.” He looked at the shuttle, and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

   Marshall sat in his office, ignoring the paperwork on his desk, looking up at the picture of his father still hanging on the wall, then turning to look out of the viewport at the planet below, and the stars beyond. Soon they would at last be on their way home, their mission coming to an end. Just the passage through the Shrouded Stars left; it couldn’t be soon enough. He heard a cough, and turned to see Caine at the door; she’d managed to enter without him even noticing.

   “Do you want to talk for a moment?”

   “I’ve got a meeting with the Commandant in a few minutes,” he said.

   “Let me put it another way,” she said, sitting down. “You need to talk.”

   With a smile, he nodded, saying, “You might be right at that.”

   “You’ve been through a hell of a lot this last year. I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”

   “I spent most of my adult life wondering where my father was, trying
to find him. Then I finally do, and he gets killed.” Gesturing at one of the datapads, he continued, “And left me with a hell of a mess.”

   “I’m trying to think of an easy way to put this, and I can’t, so here it is, plain. Your father wasn’t a good commander. He was too inflexible, he played favorites too easily, and he couldn’t listen to advice he disagreed with. He spent his whole career at war, then was stuck on a prison ship for ten years.”

   Closing his eyes, Marshall said, “It’s hard to accept that, though. I idolized him. He was everything I wanted to be, growing up. The reason I pushed so hard for this command in the first place was to follow in his footsteps.”

   “And now you find out he was trying to follow in yours. He tried, Danny, he tried as hard as he could. It wasn’t enough.” Sighing, she said, “Pulling a gun on a prisoner, declaring martial law, sending Zebrova off into exile.”

   “He wanted to protect his crew. I can’t fault him for that.” He looked down at the report, and said, “It’ll all hang in limbo, of course. He’s dead, so no court-martial, no hearing, nothing. His personnel file will end with whatever report I choose to file.”

   “Have you decided what you are going to do?”

   “I could pass it up to Commodore Tramiel, but that’s the cheap way out. I’ll record the facts, just the facts, and leave it at that. Let his service record end with the notation that he gave his life to protect his crew and his ship. It’s even the truth.”

   “I think it’s the way he wanted to go, anyway. I don’t think he was built for peacetime.”

   “We only had a few years of war, Deadeye. He had twenty-two.” He paused, then said, “You gave Maggie a bit of a rough time, didn’t you?”

   Nodding, she said, “I thought...I don’t know what I thought. It wasn’t her fault.”

   “I think you owe her an apology.”

   “You’re probably right about that, as well. When I thought you were dead, it just seemed so damn unfair.” With a smile, she said, “I’m used to having you around, I guess. Too many friends dead already. I’ll have a word with her.”

   There was a knock at the door, and it opened to reveal Cooper and Bradley standing at the threshold, looking nervous.

   “Can I speak to you, sir?”

   “Everyone wants to talk to me today, Corporal,” Marshall said. “Of course. Come in and take a seat.” Leaning out to Kibaki, he said, “When the Commandant arrives, please keep him entertained for me, will you?”

   “Aye, sir,” he said with a smile, and the two of them walked in, standing at attention in front of Marshall and Caine.

   “This all seems very formal,” Marshall said. “I wanted to speak to you anyway, Bradley. I understand you’ve been training up for flight operations on the bridge.”

   “Yes, sir,” she replied. “At Lieutenant Orlova’s suggestion.”

   “I looked over your records, and the idiot who turned you down for fighter training ought to be thrown out of the service. I’d be happy to sponsor you for flight school when we get back, if you want.”

   She looked at Cooper, who nodded, and said, “I’d like that, sir.”

   “Naturally, this means a commission, and I don’t think there’s any reason to wait.” He glanced at Caine, and said, “Our two remaining midshipmen are getting one, anyway. Might as well get their new insignia to wear when we get back to Mariner.”

   “A commission, sir?” Bradley said, frowning.

   “Normal for fighter pilots,” Marshall replied. “You’re a little old for training, but you’ll still have six years before you need a waiver. I’ve got a few old friends back there, so I don’t think that will count against you in admission.”

   “It’s just…”

   “Sir,” Cooper said, “We came in to ask you to marry us.”

   Raising an eyebrow, Marshall replied, “Corporal, you’ve made my day.”

   Shaking her head, Caine said, “I think you just made that impossible, skipper. The regulations about officer/enlisted relationships are quite clear.”

   “True,” Marshall said.

   “Look, I’m about to leave the service anyway, sir,” Cooper said.

   “I thought you were going to fight to stay in,” Bradley replied, looking at him.

   He turned to her with a smile, and said, “I want to be an Espatier, and I also want to be with you, and I know what is more important. That last mission taught me that much.”

   “Relax, Cooper, I’m going to get you off the hook,” Marshall said. “I will happily marry you.”

   “Can I do it in uniform, sir? One last time?”

   His smile widening, Marshall said, “I damn well hope so. You aren’t leaving the service. I had a chance to look into the regulations when we got back, and I checked my interpretation with Lieutenant Zebrova.”

   “Which means you know it is correct,” Caine added.

   “The Triplanetary Espatiers were created in even more of a hurry than the Fleet. Which meant that aside from a few cosmetic changes, they have the same regulations as the old Martian Marines. Now in the last few years of the war, they were running short of experienced NCOs and officers. Too many wounded. There was a regulation permitting the retention of any trooper who was injured, provided he had a requisite amount of combat experience and the right rank.”

   Cooper looked at Bradley, and said, “I’m just a Lance-Corporal.”

   “But you have more than enough experience of combat, I think. The regulations specify that you must have the rank of full Sergeant, or a commission. I don’t think I can promote you to Sergeant…”

   “No, sir,” Cooper said, shaking his head.

   “...Which means I’ll have to give you a commission, instead. I think an Ensign can marry a Sub-Lieutenant, don’t you, Lieutenant?”

   “Sounds fine and legal to me, sir,” Caine said.

   “With all due respect, sir, I’ll have to decline,” Cooper said.

   “Why?” Marshall replied.

   Looking at Bradley, he said, “I want to stay in, but I won’t take a rank I don’t merit. In ten years I might be good enough to be a Sergeant, but an officer…”

   “This isn’t just a way of keeping you in, Cooper. That’s just a nice fringe benefit.” He picked up a selection of datapads, and continued, “Field reports from Lieutenant Orlova, Lance-Sergeant Forrest, Sub-Lieutenant Cantrell, and myself, incidentally. All of them end with the same recommendation, and it points directly to Ensign Cooper.”

   “This is about Zabek, isn’t it,” Caine said.

   “How could I live up to that,” Cooper replied. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

   “Cooper, you planned a mission deep into Cabal space to rescue your crew, managed some pretty tricky intelligence work, special operations stuff at Hades. I understand that you started giving orders during the fighting on Hydra Station.”

   “I forgot myself.”

   “Ensign Zabek, Cooper, was two and a half months older than you when she died,” Caine said. “What you don’t know, you will learn.”

   “Both of you will be going back to school when we get home. Bradley for three months of fighter conversion, and you for three months at OTC.”

   “I don’t meet the educational requirements, sir,” Cooper said, wavering.

   “That’ll just mean it is tough as hell. Sergeant Forrest and Lieutenant Nelyubov have offered to give you some coaching on our way back.” He pulled out another datapad, and held it up to him. “I can’t order you to do this, I just think it is a good idea. There are two sorts of enlisted that we promote to officers. The first are the old veterans, who get given the rank in their last few years to get a good pension built up, and the second are the ones who should have been commissioned in the first place.”

   “That’s you,” Caine said.

   Glancing across at her, Marshall replied, “You already have
the instincts, and you’ll learn the rest, over time. No-one ever takes a command as a finished product. You just have to do the best with what you’ve got.” Pausing for a second, he said, “I left Mariner with one rookie Ensign. I’d like to come back with a replacement. Take it, Cooper.”

   With a quick look at Bradley, he placed his thumb-print on the datapad, and said, “I was less scared going into my first battle.”

   Looking up at the clock, Marshall said, “I’m needed on the bridge about now, I think. Feel free to borrow my office for as long as you want. Come on, Deadeye, I think we’re redundant here at the moment.”

   They stepped out of his office onto the bridge; the Commandant was waiting for them, being given a quick demonstration of the communications system by Kibaki. Before Marshall walked over to him, Caine grabbed his arm.

   “That was a good thing you did back there.”

   “Hell, they’re both good people. They deserve a break. I needed it more than they did. As long as some good comes out of all this.” He walked over to the bored-looking Commandant, who looked away from the station as he approached.

   “Ah, Captain. Much as I have enjoyed this little tour, I am glad to see you.”

   “Things have been rather busy since I returned, I’m afraid.”

   “The quarters you assigned are most comfortable,” he said. “Though I would like to see more of the ship.”

   “That may have to wait a while,” Marshall replied. “Nevertheless…”

   “Sir,” Ortega said from the communications station, “I have Lieutenant Bailey for you.”

   “Good,” he replied, moving over to the command chair. “Put her on.”

   Her face flickered onto the screen, and she said, “All secure over here, sir. I thought I’d let you know that the defense network is fully operational again, back in position, and that the prisoners seem to be settled nicely down on the planet.”

   “Thank you, Lieutenant. It isn’t too late for you to change your mind about this.”

   “Hell, I’m not in any hurry to get home, sir. Someone’s got to command the station until you get back, and I’m as good a choice as any.”