Battlecruiser Alamo: Not One Step Back (4 page)

 “Ma’am, given the recall, we’ll likely be departing immediately.”

 “Unless you are planning to get out and push us away from Mariner Station, that should not preclude you from obeying my orders.”

 Orlova had to struggle not to raise her voice, “Ma’am, I’m going to have a lot to do to make everything ready for our departure.”

 Zebrova raised an eyebrow, “Surely you should have made all necessary preparations before you left for your training assignment.”

 “We’ve just finished a major refit,” she replied, shaking her head, “and our departure has been moved up.”

 Placing her hands in her lap, Zebrova shook her head, looking out of the viewport for a moment at the slowly rotating station. She turned back to Orlova with a look that would have frozen a drink in its glass.

 “Sub-Lieutenant, as Operations Officer I am responsible, among other things, for your department. I expect the Security section to be ready at all times; it’s the most important station on the ship. Are you unable to meet these strictures as required?”

 Taking a few seconds to compose herself, the young officer replied, “I am fully capable of maintaining my department at full readiness at all times, ma’am.” She was about to continue, when she noticed something was strange. The shuttle was still accelerating, and there should be no need for anything more than a few quick bursts to get them over to Alamo.

 Her superior had obviously not noted anything out of the ordinary, “I presume you will have no objection if I conduct a full inspection of your department, an hour after our departure, then?”

Orlova didn’t reply, leaning over to look at Mariner receding; it was moving away awfully quickly. Zebrova was still staring at her, waiting for her response.

 “Well, Sub-Lieutenant?”

 She turned to her, shaking her head, “Later, ma’am, something’s wrong up front.”

 Without waiting for a reply, she ran down the corridor, tapped in the override code and then gasped at the sight in front of her; the duty pilot was slumped in his station, the smell of burning flesh in the air. A chorus of shouts came from the rear compartment as she carefully pushed the dead pilot down to the ground, noting the burns across his hands.

 “What’s going on?” Zebrova said, standing near the door. “By Jesus,” she said, seeing the body.

 “Sabotage.” She gestured at the navicomputer, flashing red, “Someone’s got into the system and reprogrammed the autopilot, and left a nice surprise to stop it being tampered with.”

 “Contact Alamo.”

 Orlova looked at the fuel gauge and the projected course track; she did not like where it was heading – right for the cradle currently surrounding Alamo as it prepared for its departure. She shook her head, turning to Zebrova.

 “Go back and strap in.”

 “Sub-…”

 “Go back and strap in!” she shouted, “
A
nd make sure everyone else is as well!” Taking a deep breath, she rested her hands on the controls, hoping that the booby trap had only been designed to work once, and started to disconnect the autopilot. There was no way of telling how deep the systems infection could run, but she did know that she only had seconds to fix it.

 Nimble fingers danced over buttons as she frantically typed in commands, engaging every manual override she could think of. As if from a great distance, she heard the sound of Zebrova calling Alamo, probably planning to report her for insubordination; she tuned it out, concentrating on her work. Finally the warning lights turned to green, and the systems came back under her control.

 With a few careful thrusts, she checked to make sure that nothing else had been sabotaged, and then looked over at her course. Too late to avoid the cradle, too late to brake in time. She started the reverse thrust anyway, as the computer started to sound a series of collision alerts. Looking carefully at the cradles, she smiled; there might just be room to get through them; the space between the struts was wide enough.

 Carefully adjusting her course to make sure that, whatever happened, there was no risk to Alamo, she tilted the ship using the maneuvering jets, trying to aim for a space that would, at best, give her just a few meters clearance on either side. Now a series of calls were flooding in, messages from Mariner Station and Alamo, but neither of them was going to be able to help her at this point.

 The latticework of the cradle grew larger and larger as she approached, the reverse thrusters struggling to slow the ship down in time, and failing. The warning alerts were growing louder and louder, but they were too deep in the dead man’s curve for there to be any realistic alternative. Not that the maneuver Orlova was attempting was in any sense realistic.

 With less than fifty centimeters clearance, Orlova glided through the latticework, closing her eyes for a second as the shuttle pulled up, twenty meters from Alamo. She’d even brought them in close to the docking brackets. Finally, she could acknowledge some of the messages that were still coming in.

 Cunningham’s voice echoed through the cabin, “Spaceman Trent, you are relieved! Report for disciplinary action when you get on board, and turn over control to Sub-Lieutenant Orlova right now!”

 “Too late for that, sir,” Orlova replied. “Trent’s dead. The shuttle was sabotaged, sorry if I gave you a heart attack or two.”

 “Or three.”

 “Requesting permission for manual docking, and strongly recommend that the shuttle is isolated from Alamo systems.”

 “You took the words right out of my mouth. Clearance for docking at your discretion.”

 “Thanks. Shuttle Seven out.”

 She took her time setting up the maneuver, undisturbed this time by any of the passengers. A few gentle pushes of her thrusters one way or another, and the shuttle glided smoothly to its position, the clamps locking on with a loud series of bangs as it was drawn into the hangar bay. Sighing with relief as the sound of whooshing atmosphere began outside, she slammed down a series of levers to isolate the computer systems before rising from her chair. The pilot’s airlock opened, and she stepped out onto the deck, slightly unsteadily.

 Quinn, Alamo’s Systems Officer, was already waiting for her with a gaggle of maintenance technicians around him; he wrinkled his nose at the smell still coming from the cockpit. She shook off his proffered arm and turned, fuming.

 “Hands off until my people have gone over her, Jack.”

 “Trent?”

 “Sabotage with a kick in the teeth to boot; if the navicomputer was rigged with some sort of defense mechanism, other things might be too.” The passenger airlock opened, and she heard footsteps heading her way. “Get Harper down here, Washington too. Between them they should be able to crack it open.”

 “Do you make a habit of giving orders to senior officers, Sub-Lieutenant?” Zebrova said.

 Quinn gallantly leaped to her defense, “Technically, this is a Security matter, ma’am.”

 “Nevertheless, you are a senior officer.” She turned to Orlova, “You will consider yourself confined to quarters immediately pending disciplinary action.”

 “What?”

 “I gave you a direct order on the shuttle. You ignored it. And now you compound it with further insubordination.”

 Orlova turned, looking at Zebrova’s chest, and smiled, “I don’t see any wings.”

 “What does that have to do with anything?”

 “Are you a qualified shuttle or fighter pilot, ma’am?”

 “No.”

 Taking a deep breath, Orlova replied, “Then you weren’t in charge on the shuttle; I was. As pilot-in-command. A role that you cannot hold without the requisite training and qualifications.”

 “We’ll let a senior officer decide that, I think.”

 Cunningham’s voice snapped into the conversation; without anyone noticing, he had arrived on the deck, flanked by Harper, the green-haired savant of Orlova’s security team, holding a heavy-looking bag.

 “What do I need to decide?”

 “I’ve just…” 

 “I heard. Orlova might be putting her point rather forcefully, but she is in the right.”

 Bristling, Zebrova nodded, “I see, sir. I will, of course, make a formal report to the Captain and place a copy of it in her permanent file.”

 “It can go next to her commendation from me for her quick thinking in a crisis. I suggest you report to the bridge, Lieutenant.”

 Snapping a salute, Zebrova replied, “Yes, sir,” and stalked off to the elevator. Harper had the common sense to wait until the doors had closed before she made a rude gesture at the departing officer, earning a frown from Cunningham. Before Orlova could give any orders to Harper, Cunningham gestured over to the unused Deck Officer’s office, and walked inside.

 “Carry on, Harper. And sorry if I was a bit abrupt, Lieutenant.”

 Quinn smiled, “I get worse from my wife.”

 “Your what?”

 “Tell you later.”

 Shaking her head, Orlova walked into the office and sealed the door behind her. Cunningham was standing behind the desk; there was no anger on his face, but plenty of concern in his worry lines.

 “You need to be a lot more careful, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 “I’m sorry, sir.” She turned her head, looking out over the deck through the one-way viewport, “Who is she?”

 “My replacement as Operations Officer. Dietz has been booted up to a command of his own, Pioneer I think, and I’ve taken his place as second-in-command.”

 “That’s good news, sir.”

 “I’m glad you approve.” He shook his head, “Not every ship is like Alamo, Maggie. In fact this ship is something of a rare exception. If you’re planning to make a career of the military, you are going to have to deal with officers like Zebrova all the time – above or below.”

 “She was wrong, sir.”

 “Was she? She’s a senior officer, meaning that it is assumed that she is in the right. On another day, she’d have made that charge of insubordination stick and we’d be down one Security Officer. We both know that Captain Marshall will just file and forget, but that won’t always happen.”

 “I’m sorry, sir.”

 Sighing, Cunningham replied, “I hope so. You’re going to have to work with her, Maggie. She’s your direct superior in the chain of command.”

 “The investigation?”

 “That’s your department, feel free to go ahead and get on with it.” He looked up at a clock on the wall, “Captain’s due back in about three hours, and he called ahead to tell me he wanted an immediate departure followed by a staff meeting. If you could have a preliminary report ready by the time he gets back…”

 Nodding, Orlova said, “Of the shuttle, yes, sir. It’s going to take longer than that to check all of our shuttles, though. How many more loads are we expecting?”

 “Just two more, including the Captain.”

 “I’d recommend those pilots fly on manual all the way.”

 Pulling a datapad out of his desk, Cunningham quickly tapped out some orders. “Done. You might want to change before the meeting, as well.”

 She looked down at her dress, and chuckled, “Sorry about that.”

 “I had your bags sent up to your cabin, I think everything’s intact. Harper’s got a uniform for you if you want to change in a hurry.”

 Smiling, Orlova replied, “Thanks, sir.”

 “Oh, and before I forget, congratulations on passing Tactical training. That’s a tough course.”

 “I only came fifth in the class, sir.”

 “You passed, that’s all that matters. Tell you a little secret – I came sixth. In a smaller class than yours.”

 Her eyes widened, “Sixth?”

 “It’s how you apply what you learned that will make you a good officer, not the learning itself. Something a lot of officers forget.”

 “I’ll try and remember it, sir.”

 “Do that. Now go catch me a saboteur.”

 Saluting, Orlova said, “Yes, sir,” and walked out of the office.

Chapter 4

 Logan stepped out onto the deck, tugging at his uniform and trying to resist the urge to scratch a nagging itch on his back. A crewmen tossed his carry-all to him, and he snatched it out of the air with an outstretched hand, nodding as the hatch closed behind him. Over on one side of the room, a green-haired girl was bossing around a gaggle of technicians, who seemed to be dismantling a shuttlecraft.

 She looked up at his approach, “Can I help you?”

 “I was just about to ask the same thing.”

 “Oh. No, then,” she replied, turning back to her work while some of the other crewmen looked around, aghast. It was only then that Logan remembered that he had been issued his old rank again, and decided that he probably should play the role.

 “Spaceman, when a superior officer asks if he can help, it’s usually an order.”

 “Fine,” she replied, dropping her tools to the deck and walking away.

 With a frown, Logan asked, “Where are you going?”

 “Back to my room, I’m not actually on shift.”

 He looked down at the hacking datapad, and his eyes widened; that was intelligence-grade tech, a couple of generations more advanced than anything that should have been available to Alamo. Kneeling down beside it, he continued to run through the testing programs, sliding from one to the next with smooth, practiced precision. After a minute, he saw the girl looking down over his shoulder.

 “You know how it works?”

 With a smile, Logan replied, “I’m not as fast as you, but I think I can handle it. What’s going on?”

 “Shuttle was sabotaged, someone hacked into it. I was just double-checking before certifying it as clean.”

 Nodding, Logan held out his hand. “Logan Winter.” He caught himself, and added, “Senior Lieutenant.”

 “Spaceman Harper.”

 He raised an eyebrow, “The Senator’s daughter?” At her nod, he suddenly realized where she’d obtained the datapad. “Make sure I get a full report when its done, I’d like to see your work.”

 “Will do,” she replied, smiling.

 Another officer was walking towards him from an open elevator; obviously the Captain had decided to give him an escort. He couldn’t really blame him, he wouldn’t want a spy running around his ship freely either, no matter whom he was working for. Catching a glimpse of the shuttle, he frowned.