Battlecruiser Alamo: Triple-Edged Sword

by Richard Tongue

   “Sir?” a voice yelled, lost in the distance. “Sir?” Fainter it grew, fading to nothing, as everything finally faded to merciful darkness.

  Chapter 4

   Salazar floated through the airlock, looking down at the stretcher carrying Cooper, being cautiously pushed along the corridor by Specialist Gidzenko. As far as he could tell, the Espatier was simply asleep, and he thought he could hear the low rumble of a snore.

   “How is he?” Salazar asked.

   “I don't think any permanent damage has been done,” the medic replied, “but until we get him over to Alamo's sickbay, we won't know for sure.”

   A wounded man in a turquoise uniform drifted forward, and said, “You'll find he recovers quite quickly. I expect by now he simply is asleep, and should wake up in a matter of hours. The nerve gun is a nasty little weapon, but is designed not to cause any long-term damage. I take it you are Ensign Salazar?”

   “Sub-Lieutenant, actually. Security Officer of the Battlecruiser Alamo,” he replied. “I've brought a damage control team to help out. I'll be acting as your liaison for the present. Are you Captain Zaruk?”

   “Alas no,” Tarak said. “He managed to get himself shot during the recapture of Engineering. It's usually best not to disturb someone hit by a nerve gun unless you have to, so he and the others might as well sleep for now.” He sighed, then added, “Some of them won't be waking up any time soon, I'm afraid.”

   “Lombardo,” Salazar said, turning back to the open hatch. “Take everyone down to the engine levels and see what you can do to help out. Contact Alamo if you need any more components.”

   “Aye, sir,” the technician replied, looking around. “What a mess.”

   “You should see Propulsion Control,” Tarak replied. “In fact, that might be a good place for you to start. Two levels up, shaft at the end of the corridor. Technical Supervisor Ortok is trying to put the pieces back together. You can report to him.”

   “Right,” Lombardo said. “Fitzroy, Bartlett, make sure we don't forget any of the tool-kits.”

   “I take it you are not helping with the repair,” Tarak said, as Salazar drifted clear of the bustle.

   Shaking his head, Salazar said, “My job is to prepare a report, to evaluate the status of your ship. We're here to help, so if you have any requirements, just let me know.”

   “That, and you want to take a good look around the ship, and get the answers to a long list of questions. I'd be doing exactly the same in the circumstances.” He sighed, and said, “I haven't got any objection as long as the repairs are expedited. Our mission is of paramount importance. I take it my government has been contacted?”

   “Captain Orlova is seeing to that right now.”

   Frowning, Tarak replied, “Strange to see a woman in a command role. And I saw several in the assault team you sent over. Is that normal where you come from?”

   “Just under half the crew of Alamo is female,” Salazar said.

   “Amazing.” Pausing, the pilot said, “Don't get me wrong, I'm liberal enough, but doesn't it put them in excess danger?”

   “I think we might have missed a few steps,” Salazar replied, frowning. “You've talked about your mission. What are you carrying?”

   “Nothing, at the moment, but we have essential supplies to pick up.” He drifted over to the corridor, tapped a button, and a door opened, releasing a foul stench into the air that made Salazar want to throw up. He looked at Tarak, ashen-faced.

   “What the hell is that stink? Was your waste reclamation system damaged?”

   “No, that's about half of our cargo as a rule. We've picking up a mixed load this run, phosphorous, wood and manure.” He paused, then added, “Animal feces. You never can get rid of the smell. We can't store it in vacuum, it'd kill the bacteria. You get used to it after a while.”

   “I'm scared to ask what you use them for.”

   “Our agricultural systems require them.”

   Shaking his head, Salazar said, “Why not use chemical fertilizers? This must cost a fortune in haulage, to say nothing of the logistical problems.”

   Tarak looked down at the deck, and replied, “We prefer it this way. Think of it as a cultural eccentricity. In any case, we need to get moving, and soon. Our stocks back in Skybase are running low. We've already lived through a couple of famines. I don't want to see another.”

   “Why not grow crops on the planet, then? According to our readings, it's at least borderline-inhabitable, and if you're harvesting the...manure...down there, I would have thought that it would be more logical to simply produce the food on the surface.”

   “Live on a planet? In air? Bad enough that I have to visit it every couple of months, but the thought of actually stepping through an airlock without a spacesuit? Abhorrent.”

   With a sigh, Salazar said, “Maybe we should get to the next point.” His communicator buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket, saying, “Go ahead.”

   “Lombardo here. I've got a long list of components were going to need. How far are we taking this? Patch-up to get it down to the planet, or a full repair?”

   “That was fast work.”

   “All the stuff is UN-based, sir. Old. We've got all the templates in stock back on the ship. Hell, I've worked on these systems before, though you'd only see most of it in a museum.”

   “Go with a temporary patch for now,” he replied. “For the rest, we'll have to consult with their government. I understand this ship is in a hurry.”

   “Aye, sir. Bridge out.”

   “You're going to want a more detailed explanation, aren't you,” Tarak said. “Come on. My cabin is on this deck, and we might as well be comfortable. And private.” He pushed off down the corridor, and after a pause, Salazar followed, looking around the corridor. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he could see numerous familiar features, light fittings to data terminals, but there were a lot of unfamiliar components as well, the purpose of which he couldn't even guess at.

   Tarak's quarters had the same echoes of home, with a sleeping bag strapped to the wall that could have come from Alamo's emergency supplies. He pulled a pair of bottles filled with purple liquid out of a compartment, tossing one across to him.

   “Talya Juice. I think you'll like it.”

   Looking at the bottle, he replied, “I don't think my commanding officer would approve of drinking on duty.”

   Confusion reigned on the pilot's face, before his eyes widened, and he replied, “It's just fruit juice. Not alcoholic.” Shaking his head, he said, “I'd love to take a look at your ship some time. Or taste alcohol. My grandfather used to tell me stories of High Vegas, the bars, the drinks, the food.”

   “Then you came from Earth?” Salazar asked, settling back against the wall. He pulled out the nozzle and took an experimental squeeze. The juice was fruity, almost sickly-sweet, but had a pleasant enough after-taste. He took another gulp while Tarak punched controls, bringing up a picture that looked a little like the second planet in the system, though far lusher, ice caps only a fraction of the size.

   “We came from Earth originally, but that was tens of thousands of years ago. It was only within the last millennium that we realized we were not born here, on Arcadia, and the last doubt was dispelled when the ship from Earth arrived. That was later, though. Just over four hundred years ago, Arcadia was destroyed by the Cataclysm.” He tapped a control, and the image of the world changed, replaced by a more recent view. “The world was rendered uninhabitable in a day.”

   “What happened?” Salazar asked, quietly.

   “The records are confused on that. The only survivors, at least, the only organized survivors, were those living in the space settlements at the time, mostly in Skybase, on the other world in our little two-planet system. That is where the remains of our civilization live, aside from the raiders that attack our ships.” He shook his head, and said, “Outlaws, living
in the outer rocks, stealing our food and supplies to survive.”

   “I still don't see why you don't move back down to the planet,” Salazar said. “It looks as though it is recovering from whatever happened. Everything seems green down there.”

   “You can take that up with our leaders,” the pilot replied, “but there are good reasons to stay where we are. Our system works, Sub-Lieutenant, and we survive. To an extent, we prosper.” He sighed, then said, “Though I would like to see Earth, I admit. I'm one-quarter UN, which is why I speak English. Eighty years ago, one of your ships reached this world, a long-range exploration vessel, the Wayfarer. It was badly damaged, many of the crew dead, the engine crippled, but it was decades ahead of everything we had access to. Naturally, we learned what they had to teach, and incorporated many of their technological innovations into our own vessels.”

   “And the crew?”

   Tarak paused for a moment, taking another drink from his flask, before replying, “They joined us. The star-drive was destroyed, and we had no way of repairing it. They couldn't go home, and they had so much to teach us here. My grandfather was a propulsion engineer.” With a smile, he added, “He served on this ship for twenty years.”

   “This ship is sixty years old?” Salazar asked, his mouth wide.

   Shaking his head, the pilot replied, “This ship dates back to the Cataclysm. They built to last, in those days.” With a sigh, he said, “She's a hell of a vessel, with a proud and courageous history. This isn't even the first pirate raid she's seen off.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Not that it isn't getting worse. They're getting bolder now. This is the first time we've been attacked while flying to Arcadia. Normally they go after our lunar shuttles.”

   “I guess we arrived just in time, then.”

   “We'd better go and take a look at the bridge,” Tarak said, stowing his bottle carefully away. Salazar looked more closely around the cabin, a patchwork of items, with little in the way of personal possessions in evidence. A small box labeled as 'Genuine Martian Rock', a worn flight jacket, and a collection of broken circuit components, framed and labeled in the same unintelligible language.

   “How long have you been serving on board?” he asked.

   “Since I was fourteen,” he replied, then added. “We don't believe in retaining anything for ourselves that can possibly be used for the common good. All resources must be centralized, or we will falter. Everyone follows the same strictures.” Looking at the items on the shelf, he added, “Though no-one objects to a few possessions, if they are of no other use. Most of them belonged to my grandfather.”

   “Who was he?” Salazar asked

   “Lieutenant-Commander Miles Kazinski,” he replied. “Why?”

   “I might be able to find out more about him for you. We've got a complete archive in our databanks. Perhaps a picture, or something like that?”

   “No need,” Tarak said, shaking his head. “Don't go to any trouble. I have all the memories I need right here.” He tapped his head, then pushed out of the room. Salazar cautiously glanced at his datapad, and smiled. Every detail had been recorded, and by now was being analyzed on Alamo. His smile then turned into a frown. If their roles had been reversed, he would have assumed that the conversation was being recorded, and would have taken precautions to prevent anything he said being misused.

   Pushing his concerns away, he followed the pilot down the corridor, swinging up the long shaft towards the bridge. Everything he saw was meticulously maintained, but he couldn't see any of the usual safety cut-outs, emergency overrides. They had to have total faith in their systems, though if the ship had kept going for four centuries, by now presumably such confidence would be justified.

   Then he paused for a moment, looking at a gap where a piece of unidentifiable equipment had been neatly removed. The connection he did recognize, a link up to an internal sensor system. Probably an atmospheric detector, maybe a heat sensor. Part of the critical safety infrastructure, and someone had decided to remove it.

   “Problem?” Tarak yelled, looking down.

   “Status update from the ship,” he lied. “Nothing important, unless you like paperwork.”

   “Love it,” the pilot replied. “The regulations are very clear on that.”

   As he swung up to the top deck, Salazar continued to ponder. Everywhere was more evidence to support his suspicions. This ship was being run on the thinnest of margins, and while she was being beautifully cared for in almost every respect, it was evident that they were cannibalizing where they could, scavenging for parts and components.

   Had a freighter back home been found in this condition, it would have been instantly condemned as unsafe, the operators subjected to mammoth fines for placing their crew in such a dangerous situation. If, by some miracle, someone had offered to bring the ship to full operation, without imposing such a penalty, they'd have accepted without a second thought.

   Drifting onto the bridge, he saw Lombardo and Fitzroy already at work, gently removing a shattered panel, while other technicians removed the remnants of the blast door, carefully gathering every fragment of metal as though they were holy relics. Bartlett looked up from the communications console, shaking his head.

   “It's a total write-off, sir. Even if I could repair this console, the exterior antenna was shot to pieces, and they don't have any spares on board.”

   “Could we get the material from Alamo?”

   “No!” one of the technicians, wearing a darker uniform, said, looking at Tarak. “We cannot give classified information to anyone, no matter how helpful they appear to me. With such intelligence, they could access our entire communications network.”

   “May I introduce Technical Supervisor Ortok, Sub-Lieutenant,” Tarak said. “The alternative is to have no long-range communications ability at all.”

   “Well, I can't fix it with what I have here, that's for certain,” Bartlett said. “There's no point even trying. I'd better get to the internal systems. Those I might be able to piece together.”

   “What do you think, Lombardo?” Salazar asked.

   “I am in charge here,” Ortok said. “Repairs will be completed in due course.”

   “Due course?” Lombardo said. “What the hell does that mean? Sir, we need two shuttle loads from Alamo, and they ought to be with us in an hour. After that, six hours before I'll certify this ship as safe to attempt a landing on a planet.”

   “You will certify?” Ortok said, frowning. “It is not your decision, but ours.”

   “Tech, I'm sure that our new friends wouldn't stop us from resuming our journey if they did not think it necessary,” Tarak replied. “Is there no way these repairs could be expedited, Petty Officer?”

   “Not a chance, sir,” Lombardo replied. “Some jobs can only be done by one man, and those are the ones that tend to take all the time. I've already been a bit optimistic, if anything, but I think we can get it done.”

   “That isn't the only problem, anyway,” Tarak said. “We lost five men during the attack, and twelve more incapacitated. We'll struggle to operate the ship with such a reduced complement.”

   “Maybe I can fix that,” Salazar said, pulling out his communicator, “Salazar to Alamo Actual. Come in, please.”

   “Actual here,” Orlova's voice replied. “Would you first pass on to Flight Officer Tarak that the Council are glad that the ship is in one piece, and that he is formally in command until the Captain recovers.”

   “Will do, ma'am,” he replied. “What are your intentions?”

   “That depends on what you tell me next, Sub-Lieutenant. We've been invited to meet with the local leaders on their Skybase, as soon as we can get there. How long to make repairs?”

   “Six hours, but we don't need Alamo for that. Once the last of the spares have been transferred across, we can finish the work ourselves and ride the freighter down to the planet, then back to Skybase.” Glanc
ing at a smiling Tarak, he asked, “How long?”

   “In your time, about sixty hours.”

   “We can be back at Alamo in two and a half days, ma'am, and could always be picked up by shuttle if it was more urgent.”

   There was a brief pause, and Orlova replied, “I agree. Very well, Sub-Lieutenant, you and your team are detached to the Twenty-Two until it returns to Skybase, or I send someone out to pick you up. If there is anything you need, let me know.” There was another, longer break, and muttered argument in the background, before she concluded, “One more thing. Lieutenant Harper will be coming across as well to conduct an intelligence survey. Keep an eye on her. Alamo out.”

   “Don't we get a say?” Ortok asked with a sneer.

   “I do,” Tarak replied, “and I say that it is a good idea. It'll be a pleasure to serve with you, Sub-Lieutenant.”

   Rubbing his hands together, Salazar replied, “Always fun to ride a new ship. I guess we'd better make sure she's fit to fly.”

  Chapter 5

   “I still don't think you should go,” Nelyubov said as Orlova stepped onto the shuttle. “You are the commanding officer of this ship, which makes you too important to risk.”

   Shaking her head, she replied, “Frank, this isn't first landing on a hostile planet. I've been invited to meet with the leaders of a planetary government for a diplomatic discussion. I can't do this over the communicator, and I don't think we want to offend the leaders of this system on our first day here.”

   “They could come to us.”

   “Next time, they will,” she said. “This time, I'm going to make a gesture of good faith. Besides, I've got both Cooper and Cantrell with me, as well as an honor guard. And Alamo could stand-off and wipe out most of their fleet in a long afternoon. I'm pretty sure they know that.”

   With a sigh, he said, “I'm not going to talk you out of this, am I?”