“Eighty-one. That’ll see the sensor decks just about finished.”
“You’d think they’d have tested this all properly before we launched.”
Shrugging, Bartlett said, “Only so much you can test in dock. This usually happens soon after launch. That’s why we do shakedown cruises.”
“Some shakedown. We ought to shake down the people who did this and get our money back.” Grabbing the toolkit, he said, “Next one’s just down the corridor, isn’t it?”
“It can wait, Midshipman,” a booming voice said, Cunningham walking down the corridor. “Mr. Quinn is detailing someone else to handle it. The two of you are needed elsewhere.”
“Not waste management,” Bartlett said. “I thought that was just a bad joke.”
“We’re sending you both over to the station, part of the clean-up crew to get it back to full operational readiness. When we fight that ship again, we could really use the missile tubes that station carries, and it looks as if getting the tactical systems up and running again won’t be that big a job.”
“A bit exposed until we’ve finished, though, sir,” Bartlett said with a frown.
“All the more incentive to do it right, Spaceman,” Cunningham replied. “Pack everything up, will you. I need to speak to Mr. Salazar in private.” Gesturing towards an open door, he said, “Come on.”
With a quick glance at Bartlett, Salazar pulled himself to his feet and followed Cunningham into the cramped storage room, squeezing himself in beside some crates marked ‘Fragile: Do Not Touch’.
“I understand, sir,” he said.
“What is it you understand, Midshipman?”
“That this is the Captain’s idea of getting me out of the way. I understand, and I think I’d probably do something similar in his position. I’ll do my duty, sir.”
“Midshipman, this is not a permanent transfer, nor is it likely to transition into one.”
“Sir?”
Glancing at Bartlett through the open door, he said, “Officially, you are heading over as the second-in-command to Lieutenant Nelyubov, who will be overseeing the repairs and assuming command of the station. Unofficially, that’s going to be your job; Frank has other things to do.”
“You’re putting me in command of Yeager Station?”
“Only very temporarily and unofficially, but that’s the general idea, yes. Depending on which of the senior officers you talk to, this is either giving you enough rope to finally hang yourself with, or a chance to prove yourself at a task that in all honesty is not mission-critical.”
Nodding, Salazar said, “I see the logic, sir. How many people will be over there?”
“Eight, including yourself and Mr. Bartlett out there. I’m not sure you need a communications technician, but the two of you seem to have hit it off, so I’m going to let you take a friend along for the ride.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”
“Well, appreciate this, Midshipman. This isn’t going to be an easy assignment, far from it. Everyone knows what happened on the bridge, and everyone knows what happened back at Phobos. It’s fair to say that you don’t have many people on your side, and you’re going to have to earn the loyalty of that work crew.”
“I see, sir.”
“Want to back out?”
“No, sir,” he said, his face fixed.
“Good lad. Shuttle’s heading across in fifteen minutes. You should have enough time to go over there. As a special bonus, you get to fly it.”
“Thanks, sir.”
“Good luck, Midshipman. Dismissed.”
Saluting, Salazar left the room, almost tripping over the crates, then almost walking into Bartlett as he picked up the last of the tools.
“Look out, sir,” he said, “That was almost my hand.”
“Sorry,” he replied. “Come on. We’ve got fifteen minutes to make the shuttle.”
“So I heard. Comm-techs tend to have excellent hearing.” Standing up, he said, “I’m ready.”
The two of them walked down the corridor, stepping into the waiting elevator, and Salazar tapped the control for the flight deck. Bartlett looked at him, hesitated for a second, then turned away.
“Go on,” Salazar said. “You want to ask what happened at Phobos.”
“Most of the crew’s talking about it.”
“I’m sure Foster’s spinning plenty of tall tales about my willful incompetence.”
“I don’t believe them.”
Looking sharply across at the technician, he replied, “Perhaps you should.”
“If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to.”
“But you want to know.”
“I’d like to. I don’t need to.”
With a sigh, Salazar said, “We were doing a flight proficiency exercise, doing a practice swing around Phobos. The idea was to elude a pursuing force in higher orbit, the rest of our class. I figured that we could use the slingshot to affect our trajectory in an unpredictable way, get past the blockade that way, and we went into the maneuver.”
“What went wrong?”
“I overestimated the finesse of our controls, the skill of the other pilots. We wanted to get the maximum boost, so we went in as low as we could. I made it out the other side. The others didn’t.”
“Didn’t you file the plan with your instructors?”
“Of course I did.”
“Then it isn’t your fault, sir, it’s the people who approved it. You were in training, you weren’t supposed…”
Salazar snapped, “Of course it was my fault! It was my idea, my concept, my command. I cannot and will not pass the blame for what happened onto anyone else.” Taking a deep breath, he continued, “I said as much at the court-martial, and my instructors agreed.”
“Cowards,” Bartlett said. “The word being spread around is that you disobeyed orders, went lower than you were meant to.”
“Technically that’s true, I guess. The others did go lower than planned. They couldn’t pull around in time. I only just made it. Two lives thrown away because I screwed up, and then I go and do it again on the bridge.” He shook his head, then said, “The Exec told me that I’d have to earn the trust of the work team. I can’t think why the hell anyone on this ship would trust me with anything.”
“Well, I trust you,” Bartlett said.
“That means a lot.”
“Though perhaps I just don’t know any better,” he said with a smile. “Look, whenever a ship heads out, there’s always gossip going around about new hands for a while. It lasts for a couple of weeks, then something else replaces it. Always happens. You just got a little unlucky, that’s all.”
The door opened, and they stepped out onto the hangar deck, two shuttles ready for takeoff. A file of crewmen were heading into the first, led by Nelyubov, and Grant was standing next to the other, holding a datapad.
“Launch clearance for you, Midshipman,” he said.
“How many are going across?”
“Ten, in total, on the two shuttles.”
Ruefully looking at the queue into the other shuttle’s airlock, Salazar replied, “I see. Ben, feel free to head over with the rest of them.”
“No fear,” Bartlett said. “I always wanted to have my own personal shuttle. I’m going up in the world.”
Barely managing to suppress a smile, he said, “Better get on board, then. I’d recommend a nice window seat.” He tapped his thumb-print down on the datapad, looked up to Grant, then said, “All set?”
“I ran through preflight for you, logged a course into the navigation computer. You shouldn’t have a problem.”
“Right. Thanks.” Stepping on board, he walked past a smiling Bartlett, sitting with his feet up on one of the chairs, looking out of the window, he made his way into the cockpit, sliding down into the pilot’s cou
ch. Grant had done everything other than get in beside him, but at least he could enjoy the ride.
“Shuttle Three to Alamo,” he said, strapping on a headset. “Requesting launch clearance.”
“Clearance granted,” an unfamiliar voice replied from the bridge. “Launch when ready.”
Throwing a pair of switches, he engaged the elevator airlock and the shuttle dropped down through the levels, emerging to float free in space, slowly moving away from the battlecruiser. He looked down at the planet below, the vast wilderness of desert with a few tenuous clouds struggling in the thin atmosphere, then beyond at the slowly rotating space station up ahead.
“It might not be much, sir,” Bartlett said, “but it’ll be your first command.”
“First and last, most likely,” he muttered under his breath. “Stand by for acceleration.” He threw a switch, and the autopilot fired the engines, a gentle kick to throw them out towards the station ahead. There was no point wasting fuel, not with a mission to the surface planned, and they had plenty of time.
Glancing behind him, he saw a trio of suited figures moving out along one of Alamo’s radiators, towing a long sheet of replacement material behind them, ready to repair the damage sustained in the battle. He shook his head, sighing. He’d been right, and if he’d had his way, that damage would never have happened. Not that Captain Marshall wasn’t correct, the commanding officer had to have the final say, but it still frustrated him.
For a second, he glanced back at Alamo, then something caught his eye on the sensor display, an object moving away, speeding away from the battlecruiser at increasing speed. Sliding his fingers across the screen, he saw a suited figure tumbling end over end, arms flailing around, gas leaking from its suit.
“Alamo, this is Shuttle Three, breaking trajectory on rescue priority.”
“Rescue?” Foster’s voice replied.
“What’s happening?” Bartlett asked.
“Get suited up, and watch for changing acceleration,” he replied. He turned the communications link to Alamo off, then disabled the navigation computer. There was no time for him to follow procedure, no time for him to program a new course. If suit gas was leaking that quickly, whoever had tumbled off the hull probably only had a few minutes left.
“Firing thrusters,” he said, spinning the shuttle around, then firing the main engines in a series of quick pulses, slowing them down, bringing their orbit into alignment with that of the lost crewman.
“Shuttle Three, this is Lieutenant Caine. What’s happening?”
“Alamo, this is Shuttle Two,” Nelyubov’s voice replied. “Salazar’s going after one of Quinn’s gang, looks like someone’s tumbling.”
“Shut up and let me concentrate,” he mumbled, his eyes locked on the sensor readouts, his fingers poised over the thruster controls. He fired quick bursts, slewing it around, trying to match the trajectory, heedless of the fuel he was spending. The navigation computer was protesting, updating its trajectory calculations to try and bring the shuttle in, but he tried to tune out the alarms. His universe consisted of one readout, nine buttons, and a lost crewman heading out into the night.
“I’m ready, Pavel,” Bartlett said.
“Get into the airlock, and lock your safety line on. We’re getting close.”
“He’s doing what Orlova did,” Nelyubov’s voice said, soft as though it was a billion miles distant. “And with the same risk. Look, he’s getting close to below escape velocity.”
“Salazar, watch yourself,” a voice said.
One more long burst, and the shuttle moved into position beside the figure, its struggling ceasing as the air inside began to drop. Gently, the two dots on the sensor display merged into one, and he turned back to nod to Bartlett.
“Get moving. Nice and simple.”
“Just the way I like it, sir,” he replied, stepping out through the outer door. Salazar tracked him on the external feeds, watching him cradle the crewman in his arms, the two of them heading back inside. He glanced down at his readouts, realizing that Nelyubov was right, and wiped the original course from the computer. They needed to gain speed, and quickly.
“I’m in!” Bartlett said.
“Stand by for a burn,” Salazar replied, and he fired the engines at full power, watching the shuttle’s velocity rise as the estimated perigee crested up over the planet again, bringing him back into a high orbit. Cutting the power, he recalled Grant’s programming, locked the autopilot back on, and breathed a sigh of relief as the ship moved back onto its old trajectory.
“Shuttle Three to Alamo, do you read?”
“At last,” Cunningham said. “Sorry if we distracted you earlier.”
“You heard that?” he replied, his cheeks turning red.
“I think we can forgive you that very minor transgression. Nice bit of work, Pavel. Good flying. I couldn’t have done better myself.”
“Likewise, Midshipman,” Nelyubov said. “Good work. I’ll see you on the station. Or do you need to head back to Alamo?”
Looking at his fuel readouts, Salazar said, “I'm better making for Yeager unless our new passenger needs medical attention. Wait one while I take a look. Right now I don’t even know who I rescued.”
Behind him, he heard a series of violent coughs, and he threw off his restraints, stepping back to see Bartlett beginning to tug the helmet clear of the suited figure on the deck.
“Spaceman Grogan,” he said. “Welcome aboard.”
She looked up, eyes struggling to focus, and replied, “They sent you to rescue me?”
“Not a bit of it,” Bartlett said. “No-one had to tell him to come get you. He saw you and we went swooping down like a bird.”
“How do you feel?” Salazar asked.
“A bit dizzy, but I think I’m fine. Better with some decent atmosphere to play with.” She shook her head, then said, “I got caught up in a bit of wreckage out at the end of the radiator. I’ve got to warn the others.”
Bartlett tossed her a headset, and said, “I’ll get you Quinn.”
“Thanks, Ben.” She looked up at Salazar, then said, “Thank you, as well.”
“I made a promise that I wouldn’t sit back and watch while anyone on my crew was under threat, and I meant it. I’d have done the same for anyone.” He smiled, then added, “You’re welcome.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“I’ve got him,” Bartlett said. “He seems very anxious to speak to you, Kate, but he wants you first, sir.”
“Me?” Salazar asked.
“On the front console.”
“Sure,” he said, frowning, donning his headset again. “Salazar here, sir.”
“Quinn here. I’ve already suspended work on the radiators, and I thought you should know that I don’t intend to reinstate them until all the wreckage is clear. I’ll speak to Grogan, but she can rest easy.”
“I’ll pass that on, sir.”
“Good. And something else; I don’t intend to double-check any of your work again. Evidently you seem to be competent enough. Feel free to borrow Grogan for a while; I can spare her for the station. Consider that a reward.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Quinn out.”
“What was that all about?” Bartlett asked, as Grogan began to brief Quinn.
“I’m not sure, Ben, but I think I might have just had a complement.”
“You don't sound sure, sir.”
With a thin smile, he replied, “Well, it's been a while.”
Chapter 11
The ring of the station was becoming active again, the remnants of the recent battle being tidied away, technicians working to repair the damage to the airlock walls. Salazar stepped through the hatch, noting the glances in his direction, then turned back to the shuttle.
“Ben, can you handle post-flight? I’d like to report in. And Grogan
, there was a paramedic riding on Shuttle Two. Go get yourself checked over, just in case.”
“Feel fine, sir.”
“Consider it an order, not a request.” He paused, then said, “It’ll make me feel better. Then get yourself something to eat before you start work. All this mess can wait for half an hour.”
“You get going, sir,” Bartlett said. “I’ll handle things back here.”
Walking down the entrance passage, he looked at the remains of the battle. A junior technician, a Recruit Spaceman, had drawn the job of cleaning off the bloodstains from the wall, but he stared for a moment at a patch he hadn’t yet reached. People fought here, died here. And now he was passing through as though it was just another new posting. Strange.
Orlova and Nelyubov were heading in his direction, smiles on their faces having shared a private joke, breaking away as they noticed him coming towards them.
“Welcome aboard, Midshipman,” Orlova said. “Good bit of flying out there, I was monitoring it from Operations.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Has the sensor malfunction been corrected as well?”
Frowning, she asked, “What sensor malfunction?”
“Alamo should have picked up what happened to Grogan instantly. I’m concerned that no-one spotted it. I know she didn’t have a chance to activate her emergency beacon, but there must be something wrong with the data feeds as well.” Left unspoken was his suspicion that there was nothing wrong with the equipment, just the operator.
Nodding, she said, “I’ll get that checked up right now.” With a smile, she added, “The Captain’s having an argument with Quinn over getting crews back out on the radiators again, last time I spoke to them. I’m sure they’ll both be grateful for something to change the subject.” Turning to Nelyubov, she said, “Brief him, Frank.”
“Will do,” he replied, gesturing to an empty room, someone’s cabin. “Seems like as good a place as any.”
They stepped through the door, and Salazar looked around at the decoration. Someone had lived here for a long while. Half a dozen uniforms hung on a rail in the corner, next to a couple of garish shirts, a picture of a woman and two children was framed in bamboo over the workstation on the wall, bits and pieces of precious junk scattered everywhere.
Battlecruiser Alamo: Aces High Page 9