Battlecruiser Alamo: The Price of Admiralty (10 page)

"Just a single hop to Proxima, a couple of years ago, for me," volunteered Marshall. "I'm the rookie here."

Caine took another forkful of her pork, looked around, and shrugged, "I kinda lost count. Proxima half a dozen times, I was based at UV Ceti for a while, Epsilon Eridani, Tau Ceti. If something was going on, I was either there or on my way."

"How did you manage all that?" asked Mulenga.

"Got into travel journalism. Wild new frontier stuff, mostly."

"Wait a minute, you were out at Carpenter Station?"

She nodded, knowing what was coming. "Eighteen months, embedded with the Triplanetary liaison boys. One of the netmags I was working for pulled some strings. That's when I did the two colonies, as well, though when you've seen one collection of prefabricated buildings, you've seen them all."

"Then..."

"Yes, I ran into a couple of non-humans. A Dysari info-trader turned up for a while, I got into some nice long conversations with them. Filmed a documentary about it."

The astrogator nodded, "I believe I have seen that one. A fascinating people."

Esposito eagerly leaned forward, "They are the ones who worship encoded memory, yes?"

Caine nodded. "Then a pair of Soslax corvettes visited for a while, but that was a lot more hush-hush. The war had only been over for five years at this point, the UN diplomats weren't exactly eager to let the rebels in on their secret meetings. Not that they came to anything, from what I heard. Certainly they never came back to the station."

"This is exactly why I'm out here," Marshall said, pushing his empty plate to the middle of the table. "We were just beginning to seriously start to push out from our system when the war broke out. Just beginning to see what's out there. Then we stopped, had our war, and we're beginning to get a bit insular. UN's focused on its new colonies – their Science Council hasn't funded any exploration for years. We've just been going to Proxima,
Barnard's,
occasionally Sirius, but nothing much beyond that."

"And if the Loonies are doing anything, they aren't telling," Caine added.

"There are some of the private companies, though? Like Cornucopia," said Esposito.

"None of them are funded to do much more than the occasional survey. Hell, take Cornucopia. Biggest Martian mining company, but losing those three ships would send them from bumper profits into a loss this year."

Mulenga nodded, a frown on his face, "I hate to be the one to remind you of this, Captain, but isn't that why we are out here?"

"The Triplanetary Fleet could do so much more than that. Part of our charter – we're not just organized for the defense of Triplanetary interests beyond Sol, we're here to push beyond the curtain and see what lies beyond. Once we get this Lalande business out of the way I'm hoping we can get approval for a long-range
deep space run
. We're set up to do it, and twenty years ago, that's what these ships were designed for."

"Would a scientific expedition not require scientists, Captain?" Mulenga said.

"If you don't have a doctorate in astrophysics, Lieutenant, I'm going to start getting downright nervous."

Cracking a smile, Mulenga replied, "Begin to get nervous if you wish, Captain. My doctorate is in cosmology."

"Close enough," Marshall replied, grinning. "Our young Ensign has a degree in sociodynamics, and by the sounds of it would love to take a crack at some aliens. Right, Ensign?"

She smiled bashfully, almost glowing with excitement, and Marshall continued. "I got the equivalent of a degree in military history at war college, and didn't you take some correspondence course, Deadeye?"

The astrogator and the espatier looked at each other when they heard Caine's nickname.

"Masters in Archeology."

"See? We might need topping up in a few places, but I think we've probably got what we need." He stood up from the table. "In any case, I have a week's paperwork waiting for me on my desk. I've no idea who I'm going to be sending it to, but by the time we get back undoubtedly they'll have come up with a plethora of administrative officers."

He turned, making his way for the door, waving a hand over his head as he left the room. The corridor to the elevator was almost empty, just a couple of crewmen also heading for the mess deck.

Idly, he wondered how many of his crew were actually on duty as the elevator sped up the decks to officer's country, making a mental note to check in with the bridge before he settled down to his paperwork. The doors opened, and a crewman was standing in the corridor, saluting as he walked past; Marshall returned the salute without a second thought.

Some flash of sixth sense led him to duck at that exact second; whether his peripheral vision had noticed something that his conscious mind had managed to overlook, or whether he had seen some sense of intent in the crewman's face, but it meant that the knife jabbed in his back missed his kidney by a matter of inches. Gasping in pain, he span around to try and land a blow on his assailant, his flailing arms missing as he tumbled to the deck, crimson blood gushing out across the floor.

Looming overhead, his attacker saw an advantage and reached up with his knife to strike a mortal blow, but with his last bit of strength Marshall twisted his legs underneath him, sending him crashing to the deck, the knife sliding across the floor. A pair of savage eyes looked up at him as the two of them dived for the blade; it was a few feet closer to Marshall, enough that he got his shaking hand around it first.

The crewman had risen to his knees, crouching, his hands ready to charge the young captain. Marshall's vision was beginning to dance, he was starting to feel numb as scythes of pain shattered across his body, but he retained just enough strength to lunge forward with the dagger, catching his assailant across the wrist, a spurt of blood arcing across his uniform. As he lay panting on the deck, his attacker down on the ground next to him, he reached for his communicator, jabbing his thumb on the emergency button before everything went black.

Chapter 8

Marshall's universe consisted of a haze of pain and a succession of seemingly random mechanical noises, with the occasional expression of concern from voices that should be familiar, but which his half-conscious state was ill-equipped to decipher. He gasped as the pain abruptly changed, suddenly getting closer to the surface before finally beginning to ebb and fade away.

"Captain Marshall?" an unfamiliar voice called out. "You can wake up now."

With an effort, he forced his eyes to open, then closed them again to a blinding white light. As he squinted, the light level seemed to dim, and he saw an auburn-haired woman leaning over him, some sort of unidentifiable equipment in her hand. He tried to sit up, but the pain returned again.

"Don't do anything stupid like try to run about. If you promise to behave and take your pills I might be able to release you to light duty." The woman turned to a communications console, continuing to talk. "This would have been a lot easier if you'd bothered to drop in for a physical when you reported on board."

The captain tried to pull himself up again, reaching for the arm of the bed. Rolling her eyes, the doctor grabbed a cushion, eased him forward and pushed it behind him, then passed him a glass containing some foul-smelling red liquid. Marshall's nose wrinkled over it as he took an experimental swig, gagging at the cloying, sweet taste.

"What the hell?"

"Special nutrient blend I came up with. I've been pumping it into you for the last week."

His eyes darted across to the doctor. "I've been here for a week?"

"Close enough. That was a nasty fight you were in. Still, should have seen the other guy. Well, you can, he's in the morgue."

Marshall's eyes dropped. He hadn't killed a
nyone
since the war, and
never face-to-face
. The doctor noted his expression, saying with the nearest thing she could manage to a supportive voice, "It wasn't you. I fixed up his damage nice and quick, but there was some sort of mental block, a deep hypnotic down in his subconscious. When he realized he was caught, his functions just shut down."

"Now we've got no way of knowing who he was."

The door slid opened, and Caine walked in, snatching a chair from a locker and sliding it over to beside his bed.

"I'd have bought some grapes, but I don't think you could handle the processor's attempt in your current condition."

"I'm glad someone is still thinking of my welfare." He looked over at the doctor, who shrugged. "Any idea what happened?"

"Someone stabbed you in the back. We're still working on the rest of it. He was listed as a Titanian, but the examination revealed he was a Loonie. Documents were very good, but faked; Sub-Lieutenant Tyler checked the rest of the crew manifest and didn't find anything else suspicious."

"That's something."

"That's about all, though. The knife was out of one of the emergency supply set-ups, part of one of the contingency toolkits. He didn't have anything on him that was any sort of clue, nothing out of the ordinary. No communication logs before we left Mariner, but with all the milling around – hell, you sneaked on board, anyone else could have. Maggie told me how many shuttles were unofficially flying in and out."

Leaning up further in his bed, Marshall took another swig of his disgusting drink; disturbingly, he was beginning to find the taste acceptable.

"Next question. Why isn't my Exec telling me all this?"

Caine looked at the wall, and sighed, "Because she called a senior officer's meeting for, well, now. I'm playing hookie, but I'll need to get back there before everything goes completely to hell."

"That bad?"

She sighed. "We've been operating under the assumption that you weren't coming round. It was a damn close thing – there was some sort of neural poison on that blade. No idea where that came from, nothing's missing from the ship's chemical stores. There have been a few changes, and I know some of the Martian crew are getting a bit hacked off. They seem to be getting all the dud shifts. We're about to implement a shift change that'll make it permanent."

"Fine, a staff meeting is convenient. Get me a stick."

Caine looked at the doctor, who shook her head and moved back to the bed, "Don't be stupid, Captain. If you push it now, you'll be back here for weeks."

"Doctor Duquesne, if I don't resume command, by the sound of things it won't matter anyway."

She put her hands on her hips, shaking her head again, "I could relieve you on medical grounds."

"And think of all the paperwork you'll be stuck with."

Caine offered her arm, and Marshall experimentally tried to stand; he didn't collapse immediately, but struggled to get his other leg out of the bed. The doctor rolled her eyes, opened a locker and grabbed his uniform jacket.

"I hate you stupid fleet types. Always making my life harder. I'm inviting myself to this meeting as well, and if you start to run into problems I'm calling for a gurney."

Marshall looked over at her, nodding, "Deal, Doc. But don't make too much of a fuss of me in there, or someone will ask you to do something we're both going to regret."

"Don't get the idea I want your company around here. I like peace and quiet." She slid the jacket over his shoulders while Caine worked on the tie, pulling it into at least a passable knot. After a couple of minutes, Marshall was at least adequately dressed, and the three of them made their way into the corridor, each step yielding a grimace from the captain's twisted face. He turned to Caine.

"Had enough?" she said, looking at his face.

"Was Ensign Esposito invited to this meeting?"

She shook her head. "Lieutenants and above only. Apparently that's standard protocol in the Orbital Patrol."

Marshall pulled his communicator out of a pocket, activating it with an effort, "Ensign Esposito and Sub-Lieutenant Tyler, report to the briefing room on the double."

Not waiting for an answer, he limped into the elevator, sighing with relief as he leaned on the wall. Usually the rides seemed to take far too long; this one seemed to be over far too quickly, and the door opened on the lower deck, a couple of surprised-looking crewmen saluting as they saw the captain.

With an effort, he returned the salute, and shrugging off any assistance, started limping towards the briefing room. He could hear a loud argument inside as an unfamiliar officer ran down the corridor behind him.

"Ah, you must be Sub-Lieutenant Tyler. We didn't have a chance to meet before the incident."

The young, carrot-haired officer looked as if he hadn't yet got around to shaving; his face flushed red with guilt, "Sir, you can have my resignation. I've already prepared it."

"How could anyone have known what was going to happen, Sub-Lieutenant? What happened there is the past; it is what happens now that is important. Make sure it doesn't happen again."

Caine squinted at the young security officer, looking him up and down, "You seem vaguely familiar, Sub-Lieutenant. I couldn't quite put my finger on it earlier. Are you any relation of Maggie Tyler? Last time I saw her she was a Captain on the Curtiss."

He nodded, jerkily, "She made Major before dying at Second Vesta. My father fell in the same battle."

"Sorry, Sub-Lieutenant. I didn't know," Caine replied.

"That's fine, ma'am. It was a long time ago." He turned to the captain, "Can I have your permission to implement security procedures, sir? At the very least I want to assign you a permanent bodyguard, though I'll make it clear that they are to be discreet."

"Good start, but forget about the discreet part. I'd rather have people warned away completely than force one of your people into a daring last-minute rescue. Now, shall we go in? I'd really like to sit down."

"Oh, yes, sir." The young security officer opened the door, revealing minor pandemonium inside. Zakharova was on her feet, yelling at Esposito, who was standing over by the door. Mulenga was shaking his head, while Quinn had his head buried in a pile of datapads, muttering something to himself. It was Dietz who first noticed the captain half-staggering into the room, and bolted to attention.