Battlecruiser Alamo: Tip of the Spear

by Richard Tongue

  "Thank you, Captain. I'll try and do my best," Howe began. "I think the first priority for us is the clean-up from the battle, making sure the city is fit to live in again, as well as supporting Captain Marshall in his fight against the Legion."

  "Our fight, Howe," Montgomery said. "We need to get the militia organized on some sort of a proper basis, and that's a damn sight more important than anything else. The Captain and his boys can help, but this is our war and we have to win it."

  "Quite right, quite right," the new Mayor said, much to Marshall's relief. "Organize as many men as you can."

  "I could do with equipment," Montgomery replied, looking at Marshall; evidently the plasma weapons and body armor used by the espatiers was inspiring some envy. Not that Marshall was going to supply arms to a neutral power. That trap he'd seen well in advance.

  "Medical supplies we can help with, and I'd like to get you integrated into our communications set-up as well, but I'm afraid that we haven't got any sidearms to spare – and with Alamo's fabricators tied up, I can't spare the capacity to make them."

  "Fair enough. I guess it would take too long to get my guys up to speed anyway. I'll have words with Lieutenant Esposito, see what we can do to help."

  "Something else, Captain," Sanderson said. "Captain Montgomery is still in our militia; you're going to need a liaison with the local administration."

  "Can you do that, Sanderson?" Howe asked, looking around for any more objections. Neither Green or McIntosh wanted the job, that much was evident from the way they seemed to retreat into their chairs. "Then it is settled."

  "I'm looking forward to working with you, Captain Marshall," Sanderson said, turning to him.

  "Likewise," Marshall replied, trying to conceal his puzzlement. "I'd like to get a shuttle out to the capital of the Caribbean settlement as soon as possible."

  "I'd be happy to accompany you and your team."

  "Fine. Dawn tomorrow?"

  "Certainly, Captain." Sanderson looked around the room. "I think this would be a good time to take a break."

  Nodding, and eager to get out of the room, Marshall stood up, drained the last dregs of his coffee and walked into a side room, followed closely by Cunningham. He took a set on a pile of sandbags, shaking his head as the older pilot closed the door behind them, grabbing a rope swinging from the ceiling and leaning against the wall.

  "How the hell did that guy trap me twice, John?" Marshall said.

  Smiling, Cunningham replied, "He's a politician, and a good one. No shame in being beaten by a master. It could have been worse; we could have ended up with Green in charge out there. Howe strikes me as the sort who'd rather live a quiet life."

  "Those mineral concessions..."

  "It could have been worse," he shrugged. "I suppose some corporate suit might complain a bit, but they'll need our help to exploit them in any case. Heck, might even help – this way they know there is something out there to find, and it might encourage them to get some good corporate contracts."

  "Don't be too sure they'll need our help for long. A century ago this was a spacefaring, a starfaring culture, and I'm going to bet that all of that knowledge is still buried down here somewhere. They've got the start of the industry they need – given a bit of clever negotiating, we'll still be in uniform when their first ship hits space."

  His face locking, Cunningham replied, "Is that such a bad thing, though? We're going to need allies out here."

  "All the more reason to get them into the Confederation, certainly." He looked around the room, shaking his head, "You know, when I was dreaming about leading a mission like this, I never thought it would end up with me sitting in an old gym discussing politics."

  Cunningham looked over at the door, then back at Marshall, "We need to talk about Caine."

  Holding up a hand, Marshall said, "I know. This wasn't what I expected. She's taking it about as well as I could have hoped, though."

  "You're running the risk that she could crack."

  Shaking his head, the young captain replied, "I don't think so. She's tougher than that, and death isn't a stranger to her."

  "Responsibility for it is."

  Marshall paused for a moment, thinking. "You think I should put Dietz in charge?"

  "I think you should consider it. We're not talking about putting an officer back on the horse, she might have something deeper wrong with her. We don't carry a therapist on board – and you know, for the first time I'm actually regretting that."

  "She'll survive, John. I'm certain of it." He smiled. "Hell, we both did."

  "Not everyone is fit for that center seat. You know that." He sighed, continuing, "What happens if she does resign?"

  "I'm not thinking about that right now."

  Fixing his captain with a stare, Cunningham said, "You damn well should be."

  "I know, I know. Let's just hope that it doesn't come to that."

  Their attention was drawn to a soft, almost diffident knock on the door. It opened to admit Sanderson, who carefully walked in and closed the door behind him. He had a thin smile on his face, one which didn't tell Marshall anything. He'd hate to play poker with him.

  "Captain, Lieutenant," Sanderson said, nodding.

  Marshall looked up, "Meeting resuming?"

  "Actually, the meeting has been ended for the day. I think Green's gone off to stir up some trouble, and Howe wants to get back to his bank. I'll try and make sure that the next meeting is in," he looked around the room, "more suitable facilities."

  "We'd better get back to the war, then," Cunningham said, only half-joking.

  "I just wanted to assure you that I was on your side."

  "I didn't know there were multiple sides," Marshall said.

  Leaning forward, Sanderson replied, "I'm on the side that wants organized, democratic government on this planet, Captain. I assure you, there was more than one side in that room." He straighted up, "If dealing with your people helps us avoid trading one tyrant for another, that's a price I'm more than happy to pay."

  Marshall exchanged glances with Cunningham, then said, "I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Sanderson."

  Turning, Sanderson began to leave the room, then stopped, "I'll see you at dawn for that flight to the coast, Captain." He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  "Great," Marshall said dryly, to no-one in particular.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The boat rocked gently back and forth as it slowly made its way upriver, the purr of the engine drowning out the sound of the creatures on either bank. Half a dozen espatiers worked on the deck as Orlova cast a wary eye around, her hand never far from the pistol in her holster; most of the men under her command were far more at home operating machinery than with the weapons on their shoulders. Sitting to her right, her eyes closed, was Elvira – her stepmother, she'd been surprised to learn a few weeks ago. With a start, she woke, looking around at the river.

  "We are almost there. That headland, it is close to my village." She was smiling, evidently glad to be on her way home. As the boat made its way around a bend, Orlova could see a rough jetty sticking out into the water, a couple of wooden boats moored at anchor. A trio of fishermen were scrambling for weapons, but didn't seem to be in any hurry to use them.

  Ivan Melnik, a Senior Spaceman who usually worked in the sensor division, turned to Orlova, pointing at the tree-line. "See that, Sub?"

  Shaking her head, she replied, "What?"

  "Communications antenna. Lashed to that big tree."

  Following his finger, Orlova could see what he was talking about; it wasn't obvious, but there was about a meter of metal pole sticking out above the top level of the canopy. She looked at the guns more closely – they seemed newer than she might have expected, no trace of rust or wear. It might simply mean that they were careful about maintenance, certainly a requirement of the climate, but even so, it was potentially cause for some concern. If someone was arming the Tatar tribesmen, then that somebody might not have the same go
als in mind as the Alamo crew. Elvira shouted something in Tatar at the fishermen, causing Orlova to turn her head in a hurry. Smiling, the young woman turned back to the officer, then waved her hand in the air a few times.

  "It is well, Maggie. They will take us to the headman."

  Melnik steered the boat towards the jetty, and Orlova braced for an impact; she had been insistent that her platoon learned how to operate the pair of boats they'd scavenged from Yreka, as she had no intention of taking unarmed civilians into a war zone, but their education had been rather briefer than she would have liked. Obviously the portly sensor technician had a natural talent, though; he steered them in gently, a couple of the soldiers grabbing ropes thrown to them by the fishermen and pulling themselves fast to the side of the jetty.

  Elvira was first off the boat, not waiting for any signal from Orlova, and she raced ashore, hugging one of the fishermen and turning back to the soldiers. She must have noted the suspicious look in Orlova's eye, and she grinned, tightening her grip on the fisherman.

  "Be calm, my daughter! This is Azat, my brother. Your uncle." Azat muttered a few words at her, and she quickly nodded. "He is pleased to meet his niece for the first time, and offers you the hospitality of his home."

  "Thank him for me; I don't know if we'll be here long enough to take advantage of his generous offer, but if we are, I will certainly take him up on it." She turned to the soldiers. "Loganov, you take charge of the boat and maintain contact with the camp. Melnik, you're coming with me." A cheeky grin sprang onto her face. "I've always wanted to say this." Turning to Elvira, she said, "Could you tell him to take us to his leader?"

  That produced a series of guffaws from some of the soldiers, but was met with only a blank expression by the Tatars. Elvira turned to Azat, and they had a brief conversation. Surreptitiously, Orlova glanced down at her datapad, but its microphone wasn't picking up enough of the conversation for it to translate. She didn't want to be too obvious, and Alamo didn't have any espionage equipment in its stores, a lack that she was intending to remedy the next time they went to anywhere civilized enough to provide it.

  "He will take you to the hall. There you may speak with our leader, Ildar. He speaks English."

  Orlova hoped that Elvira didn't see the sigh of relief; speaking through an interpreter was annoying, and even the best efforts of the computerized translation might miss nuances that she was going to need. If they were going to hold the fort they were establishing, this village was likely to be key; it was just ten miles away, and they knew the terrain a lot better than anyone in her platoon, or even the Americans down-river.

  "Come on, Ivan," she said to her NCO. "Sidearms only." The two of them shrugged their plasma guns from their shoulders onto the deck, and one of the fisherman stepped forward, as if to take it; Loganov gave him a menacing eye, and the man backed off, all grins. Orlova couldn't blame them; under these circumstances, a plasma gun in the wrong hands could make someone the lord of all within range, at least until the power pack ran out of juice.

  The jetty led to a narrow path through the jungle; Azat and Elvira took the lead, setting a pace that made it difficult for the off-worlders to keep up. It was obvious that a lot of effort went to keeping the path clear; pieces of dangling creeper were strewn on the ground, and a pair of machetes were embedded into a tree stump. After a short walk, they emerged into a clearing. Orlova looked up at the canopy, shaking her head; they'd gone to a lot of trouble to camouflage this place from detection, cutting trees whilst leaving the canopy itself intact. The effect left the village bathed in a green glow, the occasional sprinkle of sunlight flashing through.

  Naturally enough, the two of them were the immediate center of attention. The village itself consisted of a couple of dozen huts, surrounding an open clearing with some penned animals and a larger structure in the middle. A group of children were in the middle of a lesson, but as soon as they saw the newcomers they raced away from the teacher and ran towards them, babbling in a combination of Tatar and English.

  "We are trying to teach the children the language of the majority of this planet," Elvira explained. "When we were on Sagdeev, that was not necessary, but the times are different."

  The ever-observant Melnik pointed at the chalkboard, propped up on a trestle; the children were evidently learning algebra, not something that would generally be required for a jungle dweller. These people had ambitions. While they might be hiding in the jungle for the present, that was not something that would last forever, and they were doing their best to prepare their children to face the future. The teacher, accepting the situation, patiently waited for the children to return.

  Orlova looked around at the smiling, eager faces, "Who here can speak English?"

  There was a chorus of cries of, "Yes!" from the crowd, and she glanced at Melnik, smiling.

  "Where are you from, miss?" a bright-eyed young girl asked.

  "I've come from the stars, young one," she replied.

  Beaming, the girl said, "Can I go there?"

  "One day, little one," Elvira replied. "For now you must return to your lessons."

  A chorus of groans followed, but the children slowly filed away, back to their waiting teacher, who beamed a smile over at the two soldiers. She'd rubbed the algebra off the board, and was drawing an image of the local stars in its stead; evidently she'd decided to theme today's lesson based on their arrival.

  "We ought to set up a recruitment post here," Melnik said.

  Turning back towards the hall, Orlova replied, "In all seriousness, that might not be a bad idea. We ought to look into getting some materials down here from Alamo. Remind me to get that arranged before we leave."

  "Certainly, sub." The two of them walked to the hall, through the open door and into a large room. Sitting on a throne in an obviously choreographed posture was a gray-haired old man wearing the remains of an old flight suit, a well-worn pistol at his belt; flanking him on his right was a matronly-looking woman, and a younger man stood on his left, a rifle strapped to his back. The man slowly pulled himself to his feet.

  "Introduce yourself to the headman," the young man said.

  Orlova replied, "I am Sub-Lieutenant Margaret Orlova, Security Officer of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo, and currently commanding the garrison we've established up-river. This is one of my men, Senior Spaceman Ivan Melnik."

  The old man grunted, "And when he isn't wielding a gun, what does he do?"

  "I'm a sensor technician, sir."

  He chuckled, "And what brings you to our world?"

  The two of them looked at each other; Orlova said, "We're here to help you fight the Legion, for the present. Though we are also happy to provide humanitarian assistance as well, where needed."

  "Why?"

  "Sir?"

  "Why are you helping us fight the Legion? I think everyone on the continent saw your ship launch that attack, and I was briefed about your attack on the starport, but now that you have destroyed the satellite network, why are you remaining?"

  "Do not give us any false words," the young man said. "We will know."

  Orlova's eyes darted across the room; there was a frayed patch in a tapestry hanging behind the throne, and a little glint of a lens. "We are exploring this region of space to see what lies beyond; it is only recently that we learned that they might be human colonies out here. After visiting Sagdeev," she paused for a moment as the three Tatars looked at each other, "we found our way here. Where we found an orbital defense network beyond our current technical capability, as well as three populations being held captive by a fourth."

  "Are you at war with the Cabal?"

  Her eyes twitched, and she quickly debated what to say; the chief picked up on her pause, and said, "Do you know anything of the Cabal other than the name?"

  Honesty trumped politics. "No, we don't. All we know is that there is something out here oppressing human colonies. If they are going to represent a threat to us, we need to know about it; if we can help ot
hers free themselves, so much the better."

  "Tell me, do you speak with the words of your superiors, or are these yours?"

  "They are mine. I know my commander feels the same way, though I could not dare to speak for the Senate."

  "Politicians," the young man spat, "were one thing the Impactor rid us of."

  "Yet I would have all of that back in a heartbeat, my son, and so would you, if it restored our world to us." He turned to Orlova. "If you can be honest with us, then we can work with you." He broke into a huge grin, "I am Ildar. This is my wife, Andrea, and my son, Timur. Welcome to our village."

  Smiling, Orlova said, "Thank you. We can certainly use all the help we can get."

  His hand rose, "Mind, this cannot be one-way. I will require your assistance as well. I can provide supplies, manpower, some equipment. And guides to help your people become acclimatized to this environment; we spent years learning some very hard lessons, and I would spare you the lives that they cost us."

  "That sounds better than I could have hoped for. What would you like in exchange?"

  The old man paused for a moment, then replied with words he had obviously carefully considered. "When I was a young man, I called a small, prefabricated hut on an airless world home. We loved it with all our hearts, but certainly this is a better place for a child to grow up. Clean air, real food, fresh water. And yet we have traded this paradise – and even with the Legion, that is what we have – for the future. I was a mechanical engineer, later a union leader. My boyhood dreams were of flying to the stars, to seeing what might lie beyond."

  He noted her eyes twinkling, "Yours too, I see. My son was ten when we came here; he was hoping to become a doctor like his mother. Circumstances have forced us into a different path, but I venture that they might be about to change again. I became a grandfather last month, Miss Orlova. A little girl out there, healthy and strong. I would give her a better chance that I could give my son."