Battlecruiser Alamo: Not In My Name

by Richard Tongue

   “I am not used to being put on hold, Mr…,” the man began.

   “Fleet Captain. Daniel Marshall. Commanding the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo.”

   The man’s face raced from red to white, and he replied, “Of course, all of my facilities are at your disposal, Captain, for you and your crew.”

   “I’m surprised that you didn’t already know who I was,” Marshall replied.

   “No, no,” he said. “We have no detection facilities on the far side of the moon. Scavengers, you know.” Smugglers, Marshall thought, keeping out of sight. Though that didn’t tally with the ships in the system.

   “A ship has passed through here recently, Mr. Miller. The Caledonia.”

   He looked to the side, and said, “Yes, on a scheduled run from Procyon. Was there any trouble?”

   “The registration told a different story,” he replied. “We have evidence that smuggling has been conducted using this outpost as a center. of operations.”

   “Captain, I must protest.” He made a chopping gesture, and for a second, the screen went blank, before returning. “I suggest that you consult with higher authority, Captain. Our operations here…”

   Shaking his head, Marshall said, “I don’t give a damn what you are smuggling past customs, Miller. I’m a task force commander, not the border patrol. When it affects the security of my station, when people’s lives are put at risk, then I care. You will turn over all records of the Caledonia’s transit to me, at once.”

   “The security of…”

   “I am seconds away from ordering that my people come over to your station and take them by force. You will transmit all the data, and you will do it at once. And rest assured that I have an excellent team who will analyze every scrap of it, and I’m certain that they will locate any inconsistencies.”

   He looked down, and said, “Just Caledonia?”

   “Just Caledonia.”

   “I’ll have it delivered by courier within an hour. I won’t transmit sensitive information, even over a secure channel.”

   “Very wise.” Leaning back on his chair, Marshall said, “I had been led to believe that this system was out of the way, that everything was quiet here.”

   “Usually that is so, Captain, but in the last month or so, all has been chaos.” He shook his head, and said, “Do not think that this is my doing. A lot of prospectors have been coming into the system, mostly from UN space, and looking for something. All of them are tight-lipped about what.”

   “Mineral resources?”

   He snorted, replying, “In this system? There’s nothing here that anyone would give a damn about. Except this station.” He shook his head, and said, “In the past, I have always had excellent relations with the Triplanetary Confederation. I do hope that they can continue in the future.”

   With a smile, Marshall said, “Meaning that you’d rather that capital ships not come this way too often.”

   “My customers are wary of governmental organizations, Captain. Many of them with good reason. Laying my cards on the table.”

   Shaking his head, he replied, “We’re passing through. It is unlikely that I will be returning this way, though I suggest that you pay closer attention to what you let through to Triplanetary space. Lest I be forced to recommend to my government that they put a permanent presence on your station.”

   “That won’t be necessary. It would help if I knew just what I am looking for.”

   “Such information is on a need-to-know basis. You don’t.”

   “I see.”

   Forcing a smile, Marshall said, “Tell you what. I’ll offer you a chance to get some money out of my crew. I’d like to send some shore leave parties across. In civilian clothes, naturally.”

   Miller beamed, and replied, “I will see that your people are made most welcome, and make arrangements with your purser regarding the necessary fees.”

   “I would also like to purchase sufficient fuel to top up my tanks.”

   The stationmaster’s eyes were gleaming now, and he replied, “My staff will contact you to make the necessary arrangements. I think you will find my prices fair. Perhaps I could send some of my traders over to your ship, to offer some luxuries to your crew?”

   “I’ll take that last under advisement. Alamo out.” He sat back on his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. With a sigh, he walked out onto the bridge, and Caine looked up at him with a grin.

   “Having trouble?”

   “I feel like I need a shower. He didn’t know, and doesn’t care what passes through. We’re getting everything he had on Caledonia, but I don’t think it’ll amount to much.”

   “So we’ve drawn a blank. What about the shuttles?”

   “If he knew what they were looking for, I suspect he’d be trying to make money out of it. We’re going to need some eyes on the station, some discreet eyes.”

   “Orlova and Harper,” she replied.

   Shaking his head, he said, “Harper’s going to have to stay here and go over the data. Someone’s going to have to go across with Maggie.”

   “Sir,” Salazar said, turning from the helm. “I’d like to volunteer.”

   “Bored on the bridge, Sub-Lieutenant?”

   “I can do strong and silent, sir, and I think that’s what’s called for here.”

   “He’s got you there, Danny,” Caine said. “You might as well let him go.”

   “Very well. Tell the top eight hands on the leave roster that it’s their lucky day, and have them report to the hangar deck in civilian clothes on the double. Instruct them to carry concealed sidearms. From what I can tell they’re de rigueur over there. You can fly the shuttle over.” Looking across at the helm, he said, “Foster, you’ll have the conn.”

   “Is this necessary?” Caine said, quietly. “We know where we’re going.”

   “I don’t want to leave anything in our rear,” he replied with a whisper. “If this is a trap, I want a clear avenue of retreat.”

   Salazar logged off from his station and made for the elevator, datapad in hand, almost tripping over the step on his way off the bridge. Looking after him, Marshall frowned. Ten years ago, five years, he’d have been going with him. Shaking his head, he headed back into his office. He had a feeling that Miller was going to be generating a lot of paperwork over the next few days.

  Chapter 7

   Houston Station was somehow everything that Salazar had expected and more. The docking sequence had been laborious, the primitive equipment requiring a painstaking manual approach, and the state of the airlocks little short of disastrous. Everything here seemed to be kept to the minimum possible standard, and there was only so long that you could last with such a regimen. For a while, it would stay together, but sooner or later there was going to be a disaster here.

   Which probably meant that someone was already lining up to take the place of this station. A commercial module facility could be in operation in a matter of months, with no questions asked, and everything could revert to business as usual, only with a different man at the top skimming the take.

   He felt strange out of uniform. The battered old flight jacket that Orlova had thrown at him was too comfortable. Except for whatever-it-was in the pocket, but that just terrified him. The crowd was all dressed in the same way, though, the main concourse crowded with people. Four bars that he’d seen, and another place that seemed to be a rather drunken restaurant, lots of stalls selling those thousands of near-necessities that spacers couldn’t do without.

   Gesturing over to one of the counters, Orlova said, “Go buy something.”

   “Ma’am?” he whispered.

   Rolling her eyes, she replied, “Maggie, for God’s sake. Go over there and buy something. See if you can find anything out. I’ll be on the far side of the corridor. Meet back in a minute.” Abruptly, she walked off into the crowd, leaving Salazar to meander over to one of the
stalls. At random, he chose one, getting in behind an impressively-enhanced brunette whose flight jacket seemed just for show.

   Glancing down at the counter, he reached down for a pair of datasticks in a presentation box, and waved it at the tired-looking man on the other side.

   “How much for these?” he asked.

   Frowning, the man turned his gaze away from the brunette to him, and said, “Eighty credits Triplanetary.”

   He almost reached for his card, stopping himself just in time. That wasn’t the way places like this operated. Lieutenant Orlova had been very clear on that.

   “I was thinking more like forty.”

   With a sigh, the man said, “What you have there is a thousand hours of music vids from the late twentieth. Classic works. Are you really that cheap, boy?”

   The girl looked at him and giggled. Ignoring her, he replied, “There’s a quarter-inch of dust on this box. You’ve been trying to shift it for a long time, and if you’ve been trying to charge eighty credits, I’m not surprised.” He smiled, beginning to enjoy this, and glanced across at the cap in the brunette’s hands. “Tell you what. One hundred credits, for these and the cap.”

   Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to see a man towering over him, wrapping an arm around the brunette. He snatched the cap from the counter, tossing a fifty-credit chit in its place.

   “That’s for the cap,” he said, then adding a five hundred credit chit. “And that’s for the damages.”

   As a fighter pilot, Salazar hadn’t paid as much attention to his unarmed combat exercises as he should have. He’d barely passed that class at the Academy. Anticipating that he was about to receive an unpleasant demonstration, he bolted for the crowd, ducking from side to side. The man chased after him, pushing the shoppers out of the way to create a clear path, and caught up in ten strides, grabbing him by the wrist and turning him around to face him.

   “Tell you what,” he barked. “I’ll let you have the first shot.”

   There wasn’t any way this was going to end well, but he balled his hand into a fist, looked up at him with what he hoped was an unnerving smile, and swung, connecting with the side of his face. Whereupon the man collapsed to the deck in a heap, his arms twitching. The crowd started to cheer, and Salazar looked down at him, shaking his head.

   “Having fun?” Orlova asked, slipping to his side.

   Wide-eyed, he said, “I guess Sergeant Knox was a better teacher than I gave him credit for.”

   “Never heard of the man,” she replied, raising her sleeve to reveal a concealed needle. “I didn’t go to the Academy, kid, but I do know one thing. Never give someone the fight they’re expecting.” She looked back, smiling, as the crowd descended on the unconscious figure like vultures, snatching everything of value from him. “You might want to have one of those with you in future.”

   He shook his head, and said, “Do you have any more tricks like that?”

   “Never show your whole hand, kid. Find out anything?”

   “That I need to work on my haggling skills.”

   “Well, while you’ve been making friends with the locals, I’ve got a lead. Apparently someone’s offering shuttles on zero-interest loans, no collateral, on the topside docking ring.”

   Frowning, Salazar replied, “They’re giving away shuttles? Why?”

   “No-one seems to know. If you don’t mind leaving your prospective girlfriend behind,” she gestured to the brunette, who was relieving the unconscious man of his wallet, “we’ll go and take a look. Remember, you’re meant to be the strong and silent type.”

   “I’ll try and keep that in mind,” he said, glancing back at the crowd. The two of them walked down the concourse. The disturbance seemed to have been soaked up into the general day-to-day life of the station; he got the impression that fights like that happened all the time. People did seem to be giving him a wider berth than before, and they stepped into an empty elevator, Orlova tapping the control for the upper level.

   “Can help to get a reputation,” she said. “Though it might mean that there are people wanting to see if they can beat you.”

   “Hopefully we’ll be off the station by the time that happens.”

   The door opened, and they stepped out into a sea of stars, a huge observation dome at the top of the station. The local star was rising around the curve of the planet, bathing them in its light, and a man sat on the far side, watching the sunrise, while two men in jumpsuits looked them over, obviously checking for weapons.

   “That was a very impressive display,” the man said, looking at Orlova. “I’d be tempted to offer you a place in my organization, though I might suggest you pick a better straight man.”

   “He’s new,” she said, “and will learn. In any case, we’re here for a shuttle. I understand you are offering them on zero-interest loans.”

   Nodding, the man replied, “That is so. My organization has come into possession of a large number of war-surplus UN shuttles, and are interested in the stimulation of trade in border systems.”

   Orlova nodded, and said, “It was my understanding that the economic possibilities of this system were limited.”

   “On the contrary,” he said. “There are many interesting mineral deposits in this system, as well as something potentially more valuable. Alien artifacts.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a slender statuette, tossing it underarm towards Salazar, who snatched it out of the air. A four-armed figure, made of some sort of black metal, intricately detailed with strange hieroglyphics.

   “How valuable could such artifacts. be?” Orlova asked.

   “Thousands of credits. It is our belief that there is a site somewhere in this system where they might be found in large numbers. Sufficient to make the owner a millionaire.”

   Salazar looked at the object, and asked, “Where was it found?”

   “By the first survey into the system, twenty years ago,” the man replied. “Unfortunately the ship was destroyed by Triplanetary raiders at the start of the war, and the records on board were lost.” He stepped forward, took the statue from Salazar, then threw it at the floor. Looking down with a smile, he continued, “These are effectively indestructible. A larger source of such metal…”

   “I understand,” Orlova said. “Well, shall we get down to business? What sort of collateral would you like?”

   While they talked, Salazar looked up, at the points of light in the sky. Some of them were moving, drifting across the sky, one of them changing course while he watched. Such was not known in nature. This wasn’t a starfield, it was tracking the shuttles.

   “What was that?” he said, focusing his attention back on the conversation.

   With a sigh, the man replied, “I was telling your employer that as well as your shuttle, you will be given a series of potential search sites that we have worked out, sufficient for more than a month’s cruise.”

   “And we have to follow that?” he asked, while Orlova looked daggers at him.

   “We certainly encourage that,” the man replied. “After all, there would be no point in two people following the same route. Though, of course, if you have other plans in mind, we have no objection. Some of our shuttles are being employed on cargo transfer, for example.”

   His eyes drifted up at the dots again, and saw that a lot of them were beginning to change course. He couldn’t astrogate in his head, no-one could, but even he could make out that they seemed to be heading in the same direction. Towards the moon. Towards Alamo. With a single, smooth motion, he pulled out his pistol, Orlova covering his move, spotting his hand heading for his pistol a second before the guards.

   “Call them off,” he said. “Right now.”

   “What are you talking about?” the man replied with a sigh. His guards pulled out their guns, covering them.

   “Your shuttles.” He gestured up at the dome, and said, “You’ve changed th
eir course.”

   Shaking his head, he replied, “Crazy. Those are stars.”

   “Stars don’t move that fast,” Orlova said, pulling her communicator out of her pocket. Before she could signal, one of the guards opened fire, shooting at her hand. Salazar turned and fired, a pair of shots ringing out almost at once, and he watched the guard crumple to the floor, blood seeping out of a wound in his side. The other guard looked down at his dead comrade, his eyes widening, and sprinted for the exit, his employer hard on his heels.

   Turning back to Orlova, he saw her dropping to her knees, then collapsing on the floor. Her hand, and the communicator in it, was a bloody ruin, and the bullet had continued on into her side. She lay on the ground, spasming.

   Looking down at the carnage, Salazar reached for his communicator, then began to curse. Jammed. Carefully, gently, he picked up Orlova, cradling her in his arms, and moved into the elevator, tapping for the central concourse. She was moaning, the blood dripping down onto his uniform, and he willed the doors to open, for him to reach his destination in time.

   The doors open, and someone screamed as they saw Orlova. One of the other Alamo crewmen ran forward, a paramedic named Garland, and Salazar placed her down on the ground for him to examine. The crowd began to move forward, and he pulled out his pistol, firing a shot into the air.

   “I’ve got four shots left,” he yelled. “Anyone want them?”

   “We’ve got to get her back to Alamo,” Garland said.

   Nodding, Salazar looked around, finding a stretcher hanging behind one of the stalls. He walked over to it, snatching it from the stand, and tossing a credit chit at the protesting stallholder, probably for ten times what it was worth. While Garland eased Orlova gently onto the stretcher, another Alamo crewman came out of the crowd, saluting Salazar.

   “Where are the rest, Winslow?” Salazar asked.

   “All over the place, sir,” the technician replied. “My communicator is jammed.”

   “Mine too. Take the lead.”