Starship Alexander

by Jake Elwood

  Wires would run along side by side, then veer off in different directions. Sometimes they crossed each other. There was no pattern to it that she could detect. The only way she could be sure which wire was which was to trace every miserable centimeter as she worked her way from one handset to another.

  At last she came to a junction in the corridor and followed the wire around the corner, out of sight of the sentry. That made it easier to pretend she wasn't humiliated.

  Feet rustled on the deck plates behind her, and she turned, irritated, to glare at a timid-looking cadet. "Well? What is it?"

  "Message for you, Ma'am." The cadet thrust a scrap of paper at her, then scurried away.

  Velasco sighed, pushed the hair back from her forehead, and looked at the paper. It was a page torn from one of the countless notebooks that everyone seemed to carry now. She recognized Hammett's blocky printing. His penmanship was improving, she decided. Instead of awful it was merely quite bad.

  I need you to take charge of food supplies. We will be four more weeks in space. Plan accordingly. Hammett.

  She stared at the note, disbelief warring with fury inside her. Four more weeks? It was unthinkable! Meals were already close to intolerable. The last of the fresh food was long gone. They had some flour, which meant several slices of bread every few days. There were canned supplies, but they were nearly gone.

  The staple of every meal was a gruel made up of powdered protein mixed with a carbohydrate paste. There were machines back on Freedom Station that would reconstitute those raw ingredients into something almost indistinguishable from fried chicken, or mashed potatoes, or corn flakes.

  Those wonderful food processing machines, though, had been left behind. The kitchen staff of the Alexander could do nothing more than mix it with water and dump it into bowls. The taste wasn't really so bad, not for the first meal or two. By now she was long past the point of being merely sick of it, and she wasn't the only one.

  Well, there wasn't enough to feed everyone for four more weeks anyway. Missing a meal here and there would give everyone a whole new appreciation for the gruel.

  "Oh, my God. Four more weeks? Why the hell aren't we going home?" What was that idiot Hammett doing?

  She sighed, put her notebook and pencil away, and started toward the galley. She passed a civilian going the other way, a middle-aged woman in an expensive dress that should have been sonically cleaned only. The dress had obviously gone through the ship's industrial laundry facilities a few times. Fabric that should have billowed and flowed around her now hung limp and lifeless. She looked ridiculous, and Velasco felt a mix of sympathy and irritation. Civilians could be so impractical!

  The woman glanced at Velasco as she passed. Her eyes widened, and she picked up her pace. Velasco could hear the woman's heels clicking on the deck plates in a rapid-fire drumbeat behind her. She heard the woman call out, "I found her!"

  Velasco stopped. Muffled voices echoed through the corridor behind her, and she heard more hurrying feet. After a moment the bedraggled woman returned. "Commander Velasco? Could you come with me, please? It's very important. Some people really need to talk to you."

  Velasco felt her pulse increase. She didn't know what was going on, but she knew political maneuvering when she saw it. She smiled for the first time that day. At last she had a role to play in a game she understood. "Lead the way."

  Six men and two women waited in a tool room just outside the shuttle bay. They were all civilians, she noted, and they all had the tense posture of conspirators. She recognized Hornbeck, the administrator of Freedom Station, and Wyatt, the man with the barbaric accent who ran things on Baffin. There was a fiery light in Hornbeck's eyes. The buttoned-down little bureaucrat was gone, replaced by a zealot with a mission.

  She looked at Wyatt and saw doubt. He looked troubled, like a man reluctantly going along with something distasteful but necessary. He would be vulnerable if she needed a lever to use against Hornbeck. The rest of them were followers, and she ignored them, turning her attention to the administrator.

  "Thank you for coming," said Hornbeck. His eyes flicked over her uniform, and she caught a hint of a grimace at the corners of his mouth. He didn't approve of her, but he thought he needed her. Well, I can work with that.

  "We want to speak to you on behalf of the civilians aboard the Alexander." His diffident tone was at odds with the gleam in his eye. He's hedging his bets. He won't lay his cards on the table until he has a sense of which way I'll jump.

  She said, "I take it you have some concerns?"

  He nodded. "This plan to destroy the Gate and spend another four weeks in deep space. It's unacceptable."

  Destroy the Gate? That was news to her, and it shocked her. She was good at hiding her reactions, but she could see in Hornbeck's eyes that he saw. They were two of a kind, probably the two most accomplished politicians on the ship.

  What was he up to? What did these people want? There was one obvious way to get them to show their cards, at least a little. She said, "I don't know if that's an entirely wise decision."

  The tension level in the room, almost painfully high, dropped perceptibly. Plenty remained, though.

  Hornbeck gave her a searching look. Finally he spoke, choosing his words with obvious care. "Some people have been wondering if it's possible to stop Captain Hammett from doing something rash and irreparable."

  Aha! Now we get to the crux of the matter. Speaking with equal care, she said, "Stop the captain? How, exactly?"

  Hornbeck's eyes narrowed. He wants to see my cards before he shows me everything. I can understand that. "We have a window of opportunity," he said. "A window that's rapidly closing. Once the ship jumps again, Hammett will fire a nuclear missile at the Gate. Then it won't matter how determined we are, or how right we are. We'll be trapped here. This ship has survived two battles with the alien fleet, at a terrible cost in human lives. Will we survive a third battle?"

  A cold hand seemed to squeeze Velasco's stomach. Christ, he's right. The clock is counting down. How long has it been since the last jump? How much time do we have left?

  "You don't want to do anything hasty," Hornbeck said softly. "I understand that. People in a leadership position have to consider their options carefully. After all, it's the innocent people who follow them who pay the price for blunders."

  She stared into his eyes. He was a very persuasive speaker, and she sensed that, though he was perfectly capable of playing people with consummate skill, in this instance he was utterly sincere. She gulped.

  "There is no time, however, for meticulous decision-making. If we are to act, we must act quickly." He held his hand up between them and made a fist. "We have an opportunity, and we must seize it. It will not be available to us for much longer."

  "I …" She felt a precipice yawning before her feet. It terrified her, and she stared at Hornbeck, unable to speak.

  He gave her a searching look. Then he said, "You need time to think on what we've said. When the time comes to take action, I'm sure you'll make the right decision." It was a perfectly innocent statement, but loaded with deadly layers of meaning. "We don't want you to do anything your conscience wouldn't allow," he told her. "We just want you to know that there are concerned civilians who would rather we hurried back to Earth."

  She nodded and turned toward the door. A pair of goons stood just outside, big knuckle-draggers who gave her suspicious looks and glanced at Hornbeck before letting her pass. She moved between them, gained the corridor beyond, and started to walk. As soon as she turned the first corner she broke into a trot. Before long she was almost running.

  What the hell just happened? Was I in danger? If I'd threatened to turn them in for fomenting mutiny, would they have let me leave?

  Mutiny.

  The word, cold and ugly, confronted her, and she slowed. Finally she stopped, leaning against a bulkhead as she caught her breath. A cadet approached, started to speak, and she glared at him. He blanched and hurried past.

 
Mutiny. They hang people for that, don’t they? Or they would, if it ever happened. I don't think it's happened in a hundred years. Because no one would cross that line.

  I should report them. Go to Hammett, give him names, let him round them all up before they …

  Before they what? Remove him from power? Put me in command instead?

  I could countermand the order to nuke the Gate. I could fly us through instead. We could be home in no time. Hornbeck said we're one jump from the Gate. We could charge through, not stop. We could be in Earth orbit in a day.

  They could hang me.

  She imagined military policemen marching her to a gallows, her hands manacled behind her, utterly disgraced. But another vision intruded. Throughout history the truly exceptional leaders – the ones whose careers had really taken off, the ones who had left their mark – had been those who rose to meet the challenge of exceptional circumstances. She would never distinguish herself by following every order issued by a bad captain. But if she was the one officer with the courage, the vision, to step in and take decisive action to avert disaster …

  I could be the hero of New Avalon. My career wouldn't have to stop at the admiralty. There would be no limit to the possibilities. No limit at all.

  She took a deep breath and headed up a staircase, following in reverse the path she'd taken to the clandestine meeting. I bet they've all scattered by now. Just in case I turn them in.

  At last she rounded a corner and reached the weapons locker. The same bored sailor stood there, giving her a brief incurious glance before resuming his examination of the opposite bulkhead. He would be the first casualty in the coming conflict.

  I should warn him. I should tell him he's in danger. He's done nothing wrong. He doesn't deserve the fate that's in store. She stopped in front of him. He met her eyes, and she took a deep breath, not sure what she was going to say until the words came out.

  "I need into the weapons locker."

  He lifted an eyebrow, then stepped aside and pulled on the armored door. "Light's not working," he said. "Sensor's fried."

  She walked inside. The locker was small, maybe three paces wide by five deep, with racks of weapons and bins of ammunition. Would laser weapons still function? Well, old-school chemical guns were a safe bet. They didn't have a single electronic component. Velasco selected a pistol, loaded it, and pocketed a spare clip and a handful of cartridges. The gun belts tempted her, but she needed to be discreet. She put the gun in the back of her waistband and tugged her jacket down to cover it.

  There was no good way to tell the sailor to keep his mouth shut. She nodded to him instead, and he closed the door behind her as she walked away.

  I haven't made a decision. I'm just being proactive. Preparing myself for whatever might happen. I haven't done a single thing wrong. I haven't crossed any lines.

  The gun seemed unnaturally heavy as she squared her shoulders and headed for the bridge.

  Chapter 34 – DiMarco

  "Why are we blowing up the Gate, Chief? Don't we want to go home?"

  Lieutenant Tony DiMarco shot an irritated glance at the cadet who knelt across from him on the other side of the missile. Higgins was an earnest young man who tended to ask interesting, challenging questions about missiles and how they were targeted. He had a knack for looking at things in bizarre ways, and he'd already provided DiMarco with some real insights. DiMarco wasn't sure he could have fixed the targeting system in his hands without the kid's endless, unexpected questions.

  However, not every question was insightful or relevant. "That's not our decision, Higgins. The captain makes the tough calls. We just carry out his orders."

  "But what if he's wrong?" the cadet persisted.

  DiMarco sighed. "First of all, he has access to far more information than we do." He patted the casing on the missile. "Any time there's a disagreement about missile function, we're probably right. When it's a disagreement about big-picture stuff, my money's on the captain." Higgins opened his mouth, but DiMarco spoke over him. "Second, I've served under Captain Hammett for ten years, and I've heard a few stories about his record during the war. He makes good decisions. If he says to nuke the Gate, then the Gate damned well needs nuking."

  Higgins looked at the third member of their little team. "What do you think, Shira?"

  Shira Mbeki had been a computer consultant on Freedom Station. Her specialty was helping clients recover from disastrous hardware and software failures, and DiMarco found her completely indispensable. She grinned at Higgins. "Setting aside the fact that my opinion is irrelevant, I would have to say that I don't have enough information to contradict the captain."

  Higgins said, "But what if he—"

  "Help me with this," DiMarco interrupted, lifting the targeting assembly into the nose of the missile. Higgins immediately stopped arguing, leaning forward and moving connecting rods into place while DiMarco held the assembly still.

  They were done in a minute or two, and DiMarco stood, knuckling his lower back as Higgins put the outside cover in place. DiMarco walked over to the telephone station on the wall and lifted the handset. "Missile bay to bridge." He listened for a moment, then frowned. "The phone is dead."

  Higgins looked up, his face alight with interest. No technical problem was too big or too small to fascinate him. DiMarco thought the destruction of so many ship's systems by the enemy's mystery weapon might have been the high point of the young man's life.

  "Forget it," DiMarco said with a grin. "You don't get to fix the telephone. You get to run up to the bridge with a report." The cadet's face fell, and DiMarco chuckled.

  A distant boom echoed through the corridor, and DiMarco looked around, puzzled. "That sounded almost like an explosion." He looked at Shira. She was staring at the hatch, her body strangely tense. He said, "What is it, Shira?"

  Metal clicked against metal and the hatch popped open, the panel sliding back several centimeters. A couple of hands grabbed the edge of the hatch, sliding it farther open.

  Shira cursed and lunged forward. Her hand slapped down on the fat red emergency button beside the hatch. The door started sliding shut, and a man shoved a burly forearm in the way. The hatch pinched his arm against the frame, and he cursed. Then he tugged his arm free, grabbed the edge of the hatch with both hands, and heaved.

  Shira pried at his fingers, and one hand popped free. She grabbed at the other hand, and the first hand returned. DiMarco could hear the man grunting with effort, and he started toward the hatch.

  A woman's face appeared in the gap. She had wild blonde hair, and the single eye that peered into the compartment looked feverish, almost demented. She snaked a hand through the opening and aimed a pistol blindly at Shira. Shira had her head down as she struggled with the man's fingers, and the pistol lined up unerringly with the top of her skull.

  Time seemed to slow down. DiMarco was running in slow motion, knowing he would be far too late. He could see the skin over the woman's knuckle moving, turning white as she squeezed.

  At the last possible instant Shira looked up, then flinched aside. The gun fired, the noise like a hammer blow against DiMarco's ears, and blood sprayed red from the side of Shira's head. Bone gleamed white for just an instant, and then she collapsed.

  The man heaved, the hatch slid open a hand span or more, and then DiMarco's foot slammed into the back of the woman's hand. He distinctly heard the crackle of small bones breaking, before all sound was drowned out by her scream. The force of his kick drove her hand into the side of her face, and he felt a satisfying impact that jarred him all the way up to his hip. The barrel of the pistol hit the hatch, and the gun went clattering across the deck plates.

  DiMarco had a quick glimpse of the corridor. It was jammed with people. He pulled his foot back and stood. The hatch was a lost cause. He whirled, scanning the missile room.

  Higgins stood beside the missile, eyes wide, his jaw hanging slack. DiMarco reached him in four running steps. "Come on!" He grabbed a handful of the cadet's u
niform and hauled him across the bay.

  Behind him he heard grunts of effort and a low mechanical hiss as the invaders shoved the hatch open. Then came excited voices and the thump of feet as people poured into the missile bay.

  He didn't look back.

  Higgins, recovered now from his momentary paralysis, ran beside him. He was young and terrified, and he was a couple of paces ahead of DiMarco by the time they reached their only possible destination: a low hatchway at the far end of the room. Higgins smacked the access panel and the hatch slid open.

  "Stop them!" The excited slap of feet told DiMarco that pursuit was coming. Someone shouted, "Get out of the way! You're blocking my shot."

  Higgins ducked through the hatch, and DiMarco threw himself after the cadet. He landed hard on one shoulder, grunted as his skull banged against the deck plates, and rolled up onto his knees.

  Higgins, though, was already in action. He hit a button, the hatch slid shut, and he pried open the emergency panel beside the hatch controls. The panel popped open, Higgins shoved a hand into the cavity behind it, and the hatch started to open.

  The hatch froze, open no more than the width of a man's fist. The muscles of Higgins's back moved as he twisted on an invisible handle, and the hatch began to slide shut.

  Someone grabbed the edge of the hatch from outside, a man with thick, muscular fingers. DiMarco rose to his feet, thinking of Shira. Fury and terror filled him, and he screamed as he lifted his foot and drove his heel with all of his strength at those fingers.

  His boot hit the hatch, the fingers vanished, and a scream echoed through the compartment. There was a moment of silence as the man took a breath, then another scream that was suddenly muted as Higgins finished closing the hatch.

  "It's locked," said Higgins. "Or as good as. The automatic controls don't work once you've started turning the manual control." He was resting on one knee, and he drew his hands out of the little opening, flexing his fingers and rotating his shoulders. "They could open the hatch from their side, though, and turn the same handle. We could try to hold it from our side, but … They have guns."