Battlecruiser Alamo: The Price of Admiralty (3 page)

"Are you lost?"

Marshall shook his head. "Just having a look around." After all, it wasn't a lie.

"I suggest you look around somewhere else. This is a security area."

"Very well, mister..."

"Flight Officer Dietz. And that is the last question I will answer. If you do not leave at once I will have you removed."

Shrugging, Marshall stepped back into the elevator, shaking his head as the doors closed behind him. The name sounded familiar, and he scanned down his crew list again to confirm his suspicions – the attached headshot confirmed it. Wilhelm Dietz, currently Flight Officer, shortly to become a Lieutenant of the Triplanetary Fleet. Operations Officer, which was his current position. Another one of the Patrol's draftees, though at least this one seemed to care about his job.

It
occurred
to him that ordinarily, an officer would make an effort to find out what he could about a new commanding officer, and that would include finding out what the man looked like. That he had not taken the effort to find out either meant that he was such a stickler for protocol that he had opted not to take such steps, or that he simply didn't care.

This little raid of his was beginning to feel like a bad idea. He was aching to have a look at the bridge, but the security there would be ten times tighter than in the engineering sections. Weapons Control would be the same, but perhaps Astrogation would be a different story.

The elevator didn't go directly there this time, instead depositing him in a corridor in the lower decks, close to the sensor housing. Alamo – like the other ships of her class – had originally been designed as a long-range FTL survey ship, before the war led to a change in plans. Most of the gear was left intact, though, and he was right in the bowels of it. The door opened to reveal an almost empty room, a broad-shouldered man with skin as dark as space hunched over a control console – and wearing a Triplanetary uniform. Closing down his workstation, the man turned and stood to attention.

"You must be Captain Marshall." He had a deep, rich voice that actually sounded vaguely welcoming.

Marshall hastily went through his crew list in his head, "Senior Lieutenant Mulenga?"

The astrogator smiled and curtly nodded his head, gesturing around the room. "I thought I would familiarize myself with the equipment on this vessel. I presume you met the same response as myself when asking for access?"

"I'm afraid so. I get the impression that Flight Commander Zubinsky does not like me very much."

"You have stolen his ship from him. A ship upon which he has served for seven years, as Executive Officer and then Commander. Were he handing it over to a fellow officer of his service, I suspect it would be different; but he had another year to go on his tour before the Patrol elected to abruptly terminate it."

"If I were in his shoes, I hope I would behave with greater courtesy."

Mulenga raised his eyebrows and smiled, "I will remind you of that if you ever find yourself in a similar situation."

Pausing for a moment to glance around, Marshall looked at his subordinate's attire. "I see that you've put on your new uniform."

"As have you – at least, most of it."

"I didn't want to be conspicuous."

"Probably a sensible precaution. Is it wrong of me to be wearing it, Captain?"

Marshall shook his head. "Not at all. It's something of a relief."

"The Militia wants the Triplanetary Fleet to succeed, Captain. I have spoken with many of the personnel that are being transferred to your command. You should know that they are all volunteers, all fully aware of what is expected of them. While I suspect you will find that they are not accustomed to military protocols, their enthusiasm should not be a problem."

"I'm happy to hear that at least a third of my crew wants to be here. And you?"

"I volunteered, as did the others. I should inform you know that I am somewhat surprised at my position as your Second Officer." A frown was growing on the astrogator's face, he seemed to want to be looking at anyone other than Marshall. "I have never been in any command position, nor have I sought such an assignment."

"I presume you understand that this places me in a rather difficult position."

"Not at all, sir. I will fulfill all my duties to the best of my ability. I also understand that politically, Titan must have a
senior
officer in the command structure. I simply wish to make my career goals clear to my commanding officer from the outset of our working relationship. I always believe in honesty with my superiors."

On the face of it, this was an extremely admirable viewpoint that Marshall could not disagree with; it was the ideal subordinate that was willing to admit even his weaknesses to his senior officers. Understandably this was a somewhat rare trait to find. Nevertheless, such an attitude in an officer who could quite easily end up commanding Alamo – and when any circumstances that might lead to that would likely be critical – was something to be concerned about.

"I'll try to keep that in mind, Lieutenant. I appreciate your candor."

The door chimed; Marshall and Mulenga turned to face it as it opened to reveal a frowning officer wearing the three gold rings of a Flight Commander in the Patrol, the ceiling lights shining on his bald head, accompanied by a pair of fairly burly looking crewmen who had sidearms in their hands. The two Triplanetary officers looked at each other before looking back at the trio.

"Major Marshall?" said the officer.

"Lieutenant-Captain, if you don't mind. This is my Second Officer, Senior Lieutenant Mulenga."

"I don't care what you call yourselves. Come with me."

Chapter 3

The corridor seemed interminably long this time, with Commander Zubinsky walking in front of Marshall and the security guard behind, still holding his pistol pointed at the young Captain. Mulenga had been taken in a different direction, probably to the detention cells, he mused.

They walked past a few crewmen
on
their way to the elevator, all of whom would
doubtless
shortly be
gossiping
about this around the ship. The three of them stepped into the elevator; Zubinsky pushed for the bridge. At least he was going to get to see it.

"Is this really necessary, Commander?"

Zubinsky narrowed his eyes. "Two people have infiltrated my ship and penetrated security areas. What would you do?"

"I would have had the courtesy to provide my successor with a tour of the ship when politely requested.
Thereby not getting
into this silly situation in the first place."

The guard looked slightly uncertain at this; his sidearm wavered slightly. Marshall turned to him, looking down at the pistol nestled in his hand.

"Put that stupid thing away, spaceman. What's your name?"

The guard looked nervously at Zubinsky who nodded curtly in reply. "Astronaut Second Class Cole, sir."

"You staying on?"

"Yes, sir," he gulped.

"If I ever order you to do something this stupid, remind me about this. And put that gun away before you hurt someone."

The doors slid open before Zubinsky could protest any further, and Marshall got his first look at the bridge. Naturally he had seen pictures of it, even looked around a holographic replica, but nothing could prepare him for the real thing.

Three consoles in front of the viewscreen for Guidance, Communications and Sensors, others at the rear for Engineering, Operations, Weapons and Astrogation. Displays on either side showing the status of the ship, others showing a variety of views of the surrounding space.

At the heart of it all, the captain's chair with its command console. He'd seen them a hundred times, even sat in them on a few occasions – but this one was his. At least, it soon would be. Though its current occupant, the blonde from the engineering deck, looked as if that prospect was the worst imaginable.

"Captain on the Deck!" she called, and every crewman stood to attention at their consoles. All of them turned and looked at their new commander being brought onto the bridge at gunpoint; finally the sheepish Cole holstered his weapon.

"My office, Major," said Zubinsky, making his way over to a door at the rear, in between the aft consoles. Marshall looked around at the displays, not seeming to hear him. Cole tapped him on the shoulder, gesturing at the door, and he nodded in reply, making his way into the room.

It was a mirror of the man who sat in it; artwork displayed along the wall, a box with a row of medals carefully polished, and the flag of Callisto on a pole behind his chair. The desk was neat, not a single stylus out of place, a collection of specialist datapads arrayed in a rack. A holovid of a woman flickered on the wall behind him, obviously slightly out of phase.

"My intention is to contact your superior and initiate court-martial proceedings, Major. Have you anything to say?"

Marshall took a step forward, the door sliding shut behind him, and dropped into the chair opposite the fuming Zubinsky, his patience beginning to wear thin.

"I had full security access, as did the officer you have presumably thrown into the brig. I don't know if you think that this is going to prevent Alamo being transferred, but it won't work. At best you have me for a breach of protocol – but then, when you failed to accede to my request to come on board, you violated that."

"This is my ship, Major..."

"Lieutenant-Captain. You seem to keep forgetting that. Commander."

Zubinsky's neck began to redden. "In three days you can wander about this ship as much as you want. Until then it remains the property of the Callisto Orbital Patrol, and I will caution you not to forget that. You may be right in that talking to your superiors would be an exercise in futility, but I can and will have you escorted back to the disreputable junk-pile that brought you here. And I do intend to lay charges against the shuttle pilot."

Marshall stood up, slamming his hands down on the desk, giving him the brief satisfaction of knocking the stylus out of alignment.

"Just a damn minute, she was operating under my instructions as a civilian contractor. You can't lay charges against her for that."

"Someone needs to teach you – Lieutenant-Captain – that actions have consequences."

"Do that and I'll..."

The argument was cut off by a hail from the bridge. Zubinsky stabbed a button on the desk, and a view of the crewman at the communications station appeared on the wall. "Commander here. What is it, Weitzman?"

"Incoming communication from Mariner Station, sir." The young crewman looked white as a sheet. "Captain's eyes only."

A smile spread across Zubinsky's face, and Marshall felt his stomach growing queasy. He was
just getting
used to the idea that he was going to be commanding this ship. Evidently his unease showed, as Zubinsky's smile grew still further. The Flight Commander turned up to Marshall.

"It appears I need some privacy, Lieutenant-Captain. I'll have Astronaut Cole show you to the airlock."

"No, Commander," Weitzman interrupted, obviously bracing himself. "The message is for Lieutenant-Captain Marshall. Top priority from Commodore Tramiel."

The smile vanished in a split-second, and Zubinsky shot a look up at Marshall – who tried with only limited success not to display his relief. "Confirm that!"
he barked into the speaker.

"I have done, sir," the crewman said. "Twice. The message is listed urgent, sir."

Marshall looked down at the seated officer, "It seems I need to use your office, Flight Commander. If you would be so good as to wait on the bridge, I'll let you know as soon as I am finished."

Zubinsky shot to his feet, staring at him with cold fury in his eyes. For a few seconds Marshall actually thought that the Commander would refuse, order him off the ship anyway, but common sense finally reared its head, and he nodded walking around his desk to the door.

"Rest assured that as soon as you have finished your little chat, you will be leaving my ship, Lieutenant-Captain. If I have my way you will not be returning."

"Thank you for the loan of my office, Flight Commander," he said, trying to keep the sarcasm as veiled as possible. Ignoring the daggers being thrown from his predecessor's eyes, Marshall sealed the door and sat down at the desk, punching an authorization code to accept the transmission with a small smile.

That proved insufficient; the machine wanted a DNA sample for full verification. Either Zubinsky had programmed the machine to be annoying, or this was important. He winced at the sharp pain of a needle jabbing into his palm, rubbing at the spot as the face of the Commodore appeared on the screen.

Commodore Tramiel had been in space for forty years, and age had done nothing to improve his looks or disposition. Officers only survived under his command by doing the absolute best – anything other than perfection would earn a scathing rebuke and a swift transfer to the worst posts available. No real surprise that the Service had managed to get him transferred to the Triplanetary Fleet – but Marshall considered it was the Fleet's gain.

He began in his gruff voice,
"What are you doing on Alamo, Marshall? I thought Zubinsky was blocking you from getting on board."

"I decided to take matters into my own hands, sir. Especially when I found out that it was happy hour on Alamo's stores and every outfitter and quartermaster on the station had been invited."

"I see.”
He paused, looking off-screen, then continued, “
I have some bad news for you, Danny."

First name. That was bad news.
He hadn't called Marshall by his first name since he'd called the Academy to notify him that his father's ship had been listed as missing.

"What is it, sir?"

The Commodore took a deep breath before starting. "I just finished talking to the Combined Chiefs of Staff. Alamo's departure has been moved up. You are to assume command immediately, and proceed at the earliest opportunity – but in any event less than twelve hours – for Lalande 21185."