Battlecruiser Alamo: Tales from the Vault

by Richard Tongue

   “Last night I went to one of the nightclubs down on the strip. One of the entertainers saw me, we danced, and he gave me his invitation.”

   Logan laughed. “I suspect his idea was that he would be your plus one.”

   “He might have the voice of an angel, but he has the breath of your old carniculture vat.”

   “Are you sure you want me at this party? You might be able to operate more effectively on your own.”

   Anna looked down at Logan, put her arms on her hips, accentuating her hourglass shape. “Logan, if I was going out to make a deal, I wouldn't need an invitation to get into the party.”

   Logan sighed. “I suppose I've got enough left for a suit.”

   “And a haircut,” Boris added.

   Scorn dripped from Logan's eyes. “Let's not go nuts here.” Logan looked at the invitations again. “Anna, how difficult was it to get these?”

   Frowning, she replied, “Not very. It only took a few minutes.”

   “Boris, what are your plans for tonight?”

   Boris and Anna both looked confused. “Nothing, why?”

   “Now they're going to involve you sitting in that new jeep we bought half a block away from the Majestic. With that new plastic gun ready just in case.”

   “What fun for me. You get to meet some of the movers and shakers of the Empire, and I get to sit in the front seat of a car trying not to look suspicious.”

   Anna grabbed the invitations. “I was rather hoping we'd have a better conveyance than that jeep.”

   “We will, going in. But an alarm bell is ringing here. This all seems too convenient, and I have a horrible feeling we're going to need a getaway car. I'll go and get my suit ordered.”

   Logan walked out of the cockpit, poking his datapad. Boris waited for him to get out of earshot, then burst out in laughter at the expression on Anna's face.

   “You're taking to the biggest society ball of the year a man who plans a date like most people plan a heist!”

  Chapter 2

   The limousine landed on the roof of the hotel, hovering a few inches above the roof. With an eye on the growing queue waiting to land, a uniformed attendant opened the passenger door, and Anna quickly but elegantly climbed out, her golden dress swirling around her shapely legs. Logan followed, quickly but somewhat less elegantly; he was wearing his suit like a uniform. The limousine sped away, ready for its next pick-up, and Logan briefly looked out over the city.

   A forest of lights spread out beneath him; from a quarter of a mile up the confusion of colors looked spectacular, forming a succession of brief patterns forming and changing. He paid greater attention to the stars; the curve of the galaxy glistened like a diadem of jewels. Not unlike that which Anna was wearing.

   The attendant coughed; they were obviously holding up the traffic pattern. He ushered them down a short stairway into the ballroom, and passed a card to the doorman.

   “Captain Logan Winter, and Miss Anna Vaughan.” Excellent English, just a trace of an accent. Logan was paying close attention to the crowd, but he couldn't notice anyone reacting to either of the names being announced. With the hundreds of people present, however, the room was too full for him to be sure. He unconsciously reached his hand down for a gun that wasn't there, then cursed under his breath.

   They were among the last to arrive; the room was already dividing into ever smaller clumps of conversation. A spectacular buffet table filled an entire wall; Logan made his way over to it while Anna moved away to mingle.

   One loaded plate later, and Anna was nowhere to be seen. He nibbled on a piece of honey-glazed Caledonian dormouse while trying to find a conversation to join; few of the attendees seemed to be talking about anything particularly interesting. He felt a tap on the shoulder.

   “Captain Winter?” asked a tall man, wearing the dress uniform of the Imperial Marine Corps. With enough medals to indicate that he didn't wear his dress uniform that often.

   “Yes, Major?”

   “Anton Voldeschi. Would you come with me, please? There is someone wishing to speak with you.”

   “Thank goodness. I was hoping someone would.”

   The Major led him through the crowd into one of half a dozen anterooms. Waiting for him was a balding man fitted into an expensive suit slightly too small for him; fresh worry lines on his face. More importantly, a black and gold rosette on his lapel; the symbol of the defunct System States Alliance. That brought a succession of unpleasant memories back to Logan. Memories long since dead and buried.

   “This is Captain Winter, Anton?”

   “Yes, Legate. I will see that you remain undisturbed.”

   The Major closed the door; Logan could hear magnetic locks engaging.

   “Captain Winter, my name is Roland Clarke. Legate Clarke, representing the second district of this beautiful planet.” No trace of Russian at all; just the slight burr of a Cluster accent. Not something Logan had heard for eight years.

   “I presume you were the one who made sure that I would be invited to this party.”

   “Correct. Among other things, I am the local council representative to the Space Exploration Committee. My congratulations on your marvelous discovery, by the way.”

   “Thank you. Most of the work was done by my partner. My dead partner.”

   The Legate nodded at that. “I had you brought here because I thought I might be able to trust you. Can I?”

   “If the money is good enough.”

   “We have a shared background, Captain Winter. We share the same history.”

   “That was all dead and gone eight years ago. I live in the present. History doesn't pay my bills.”

   The Legate turned away, and looked out over the city. “I wish I could feel the same way. I have a job for you. One that I venture will utilize all of your talents.”

   “My talents? I'm just a spaceship driver.”

   “I did my homework. You have a reputation as being someone with a talent for getting into and out of trouble. I need one with those skills.”

   Logan shook his head. “I don't do politics, Legate. I made that mistake once before. I won't again.” He turned and made for the door.

   “I need you to save my daughter, Captain.”

   Logan stopped, and stood for a second. He turned around and sat on one of the chairs scattered around the room.

   “You have my attention, Legate. The trouble with you politicians is that you take so damned long to get to the point.”

   The Senator sat down, and Logan realized that he was pushing a bit too far. He looked like was on the brink of a breakdown.

   “It's not easy for a man who makes a career out of the use of words to use them sparingly. I've never been in this position before, you see.” He paused, took a breath. “When I got away from the Alliance during the last days of the war, all I had was the clothes on my back and my daughter Valeria. My wife, two sons, all died on Jefferson when it was hit.”

   “I lost my parents in the same battle, Legate.”

   “Then you have some idea what I went through. That's why I want you for this job.”

   “What is the job?”

   “A lot of refugees made their way out here. I became their spokesman, helped represent their interests. After three years I was elected as a Legate. I spent more and more time in the councils, and...”

   “Less and less time with your daughter.”

   The Legate looked down at his feet. “Yes. That was my biggest mistake. I thought I was doing good work, thought that what I was doing was important. But I forgot the most important thing of all.”

   Logan looked around the room, reluctant to make eye contact. “She ran off.”

   “Not for a while. She was fine for the first few years, settled in nicely, won a scholarship to the Imperial University here, studying History of Music. She was always talented. That's when we really fell apart
.”

   “What happened?”

   “I'm still not really sure. She drifted away when she moved onto the campus, that was natural, I expected it. She came home less and less often, then stopped calling. I was busy with my damned re-election campaign. I thought...I don't know what I thought. Probably I didn't.”

   “I take it that this was not simply a phase.”

   “She dropped out. Just dropped out. Her lecturers said she was doing fine, I've no idea why she would. The last letter I got said that she was heading for Khiva Station.”

   Logan gasped slightly at that. “That's a pretty damn unsavory place for anyone, Legate.”

   “I agree. I thought that it was her choice, that she had to find her own path. Then three months ago...I received a message from a group calling themselves the Black Army.”

   Logan nodded. “Anarchist group. I've heard of them; they were pretty prominent a few years ago. Some kidnappings, that sort of thing.”

   “They've got her.”

   This time Logan met the Legate's eyes. “I'm truly sorry, sir. I presume you have contracted the authorities.”

   “I made inquiries, but there apparently isn't anything they can do. Khiva is technically out of their jurisdiction...and I don't have the influence I once did.”

   Logan stood up, and made his way over to the window, looking back up at the stars. “Let me connect the last few dots for you. You want me to go to Khiva and rescue her from the terrorists. Legate, you need more than just me for that.”

   “I don't expect you to lead an all-guns-blazing attack on the station with your gang of desperadoes, if that's what you were thinking. The terrorists asked for some information on planetary defenses. I'm giving it to them.”

   Logan shook his head. “That's treason. And it could get people killed. Myself included.”

   “Once my daughter returns, I will use my contacts to make sure that the information becomes useless to them. It will cost me the next election, but I'm long since past caring about that. The window of danger will be short. All I need for you to do is to pass this information to the leader of the anarchists and in exchange, bring my daughter back.”

   “It's unlikely to be anything like that simple.”

   “I will pay fifty thousand kopeks. Ten in advance, the balance when you return. Half if you fail to accomplish your mission.”

   Logan looked back out at the stars again. “Legate...”

   “I want my daughter back, Captain Winter. I'll do whatever it takes.”

   “I'll do it. I can't speak for my crew.”

   The Legate was suddenly all smiles, shaking his hand to the point that it felt like it was about to fall off. He bustled over to the other side of the room, and passed a pair of data chips and an assortment of thousand-kopek notes over to Logan.

   “The first one is a dossier on my daughter. Pictures, videos, writing, even some of her recorded songs. The second is a one-read-only chip containing the information they wanted.”

   “I'll try not to get them mixed up. Is there a back way out I can use? We shouldn't be seen together.”

   “Service elevator to the ground floor.”

   “Excellent. Wait half an hour, and then tell my companion where I have gone and that I need her back at the ship as soon as possible.”

   “I will see to that, Captain. Thank you.”

   “Don't thank me. This is a job. That's all it is. This isn't anything personal. That just gets in the way.”

   The Legate nodded. “I understand. Contact me when you return.”

   Logan nodded. The door opened, and the Major walked in. He silently conveyed him to a plain elevator at the end of a corridor, then shook his hand. On the slow ten-minute climb down the tower, Logan had a lot to think about. He walked down the street the two blocks to where Boris was waiting with the cab, and climbed in.

   “That was too quick. What went wrong?”

   “That depends on your point of view. We've got a job.”

  Chapter 3

   Logan had spent the entire night looking over the dossier, running through the background of Valeria Clarke. On the surface, just another girl. But this one was worth fifty thousand kopeks on the one hand, and a charge of high treason in the other. He walked into the lounge to find everyone else eating what could loosely be described as breakfast.

   “We saved you some scrapings from the carniculture vats.” Boris passed him a plate. “Now perhaps you'd fill us in on this job.”

   Logan took the plate, and poked at the theoretical meat with a fork. “In theory, it's a pretty simple pickup. All we have to do is fly out to Khiva Station, deliver a ransom and bring someone back home.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

   Anna put down her mug. “That's all? Logan, I can already see a hundred things that could go wrong with this.”

   Logan nodded. “I've been reading her bio. Either she joined the terrorists voluntarily, or we've got a case of Stockholm Syndrome and she's working with them now.”

   “It amounts to the same thing either way as far as we are concerned,” Boris added. “This won't be as simple as dropping off a ransom.”

   “Where is Khiva Station?” asked Melissa, lounging in a chair.

   “About fifteen lights, out towards Caledonian space. It's a free port, but a damned old one. As far as I know it dates back to the Terran days. It's not exactly a vacation spot.”

   “Who is she, anyway?”

   “Here, I'll show you.” Logan dropped the data crystal into a slot, and tapped a few buttons. “Damn, wrong one.”

   A plaintive, soulful song rang through the lounge for a few seconds before Logan turned it off. Melissa sat upright at the voice, caught on every note.

   “That's beautiful,” she said, “is she a singer?”

   “Yes. According to her letter, she went to Khiva to work as an entertainer. Bored of university. I don't buy it; she'd have done much better here.”

   Logan tapped a few more buttons, and a flame-haired waif appeared on one of the screens. There was an air of determination, pride even, in those old still shots.

   “That's the target. The pay is fifty thousand kopeks, including the advance of ten thousand. I've taken the job, but nothing ties you to it.”

   Boris took a sip of his drink, and laughed. “My empty wallet is crying out for succor, Logan. I'll go along.”

   Anna nodded. “No stupid heroics, of course?”

   “Naturally,” Logan replied. “No stupid heroics.”

   “Then I'll go along with it. I don't like it, but I'll go along with it.”

   “I agree with you, everything about this smells. Melissa, I'm sure I can arrange for you to stay here.”

   “I'm going. She needs our help.” A firmness none of them had ever heard before filled her voice. Anna turned to her.

   “Lissa, she's almost certainly a card-carrying anarchist. As likely to shoot us on sight as anything else.”

   “That song said it all. When was it recorded?”

   Logan looked at the data. “About three weeks before she left for Khiva. Some university performance. She was using a stage name by then.”

   Boris nodded. “Another sign that her relationship with her father was deteriorating.”

   “She needs our help. Whether she knows it or not. I'm in.”

   Boris looked at his erstwhile mistress with surprise; Anna shook her head slightly.

   “Well, if that's settled, you'd better get yourselves ready for a little trip. It's about two weeks out to Khiva from here. I'm going to try and scrounge some sort of a cargo to use as cover.”

   Logan left the room, poking at his datapad as he walked out of the airlock, heading for the freight office. No recent entries on Khiva Station; it seemed that no trader was dumb enough to use a rat's nest like that as a regular port of call.  That was actually good news; anything he could take would pro
bably sell, and as valuable as the cargo would be as a decoy, he definitely didn't want to lose any money on it. On the other hand, he'd never get a bank to share any of the cost, so the ten thousand kopeks were it. And he could feel the barrel of a gun stuck in his back.

   “I presume that if I call out, I'll die and you'll run for it,” Logan whispered.

   “Quite correct, Mr. Winter. If you would head over to the offices on the left, I have some urgent business to transact with you.”

   Logan started heading towards the shabby offices on the edge of the starport, attempting not to let any of his anxiety show.

   “What sort of business?”

   “Treason.”

   Logan's face cracked briefly. He still hadn't seen his assailant. The crowds thinned out to almost nothing as he entered the office building. All vacant except one, which in itself said volumes about who he was dealing with. Two chairs and a table; he took the one closest to the door as a matter of instinct.

   The gunman was wearing a suit, but obviously wasn't accustomed to it; his military bearing was obvious, and his mustache almost the uniform of Imperial Special Forces. He regarded Logan with a pair of beady eyes through anachronistic spectacles.

   “I have a very interesting recording to play to you, Mr. Winter. You aren't the first person the Legate has approached. But you are the first person to agree to undertake his assignment.” He spoke with crisp, clear tones.

   “No need to waste time with threats.”

   “What do you mean?”

   “I mean that you are about to waste several minutes threatening me with the loss of my ship, liberty and potentially life. Take that as read. What do you want?”

   The man's face cracked into a snarl, before his expression reverted back to neutrality. “Very well. You have undertaken to deliver a data chip to a terrorist faction, a chip containing classified military information.”

   “In exchange for the Legate's daughter, yes.”

   “You must succeed. It is of paramount importance that the data chip be loaded into the computer systems of the anarchists.”

   That threw Logan for a minute. “You want me to commit treason?”