FERMI'S WAR

Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 2

Richard Tongue

Battlecruiser Alamo #2: Fermi's War

Copyright © 2013 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

First Kindle Edition: July 2013

Cover By Keith Draws

All characters and events portrayed within this ebook are fictitious; any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Join the Battlecruiser Alamo Mailing List: http://eepurl.com/A9MdX

With Thanks To: Kenneth Bailey, Mark Berryman, Jon Clivaz, Peter Long

Editorial Assistance Provided By Peter Long

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings.

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds – and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of – wheeled and soared and swung.

High in the sunlit silence, hov'ring there

I've chased the shouting winds along and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long delirious burning blue

I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace

Where never lark or even eagle flew

And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

'High Flight', John Gillespie McGee, Jr.

Chapter 1

Self-consciously, Third Lieutenant Daniel Marshall sat in a chair in the ready room, trying to look as if he was absorbed in the book he was reading. He'd been on the Wright for less than two weeks, out of flight training for less than a month, but was desperately trying not to let it show. The rest of the pilots in the room were lounging around, all of them veterans of months of constant fighting with UN forces. All of them but him. They were laughing and joking about, telling tall tales and playing games, but all of them had something he lacked; a certain look at the back of their eyes.  A look that said they had faced battle and returned to tell of it.

Both sides were maintaining forces out in Jupiter's Trojans, but with all the spinning rocks for cunning pilots to hide behind, dancing their maneuvers from one sensor blind spot to the next, at times there might only be a few moments warning of an impending attack. Just long enough for a few pilots to jump into their fighters and intercept them, taking the battle to the enemy at a safe distance from the prospecting ships that were the lifeblood of Mars, Callisto, and Titan in their war with Earth's United Nations Space Fleet.

He glanced up at the sign hung over the wall, 'When you hear the god-damned bell, for heaven's sake run like HELL!' It had initially been meant as a joke, he'd been told. Memories of wars long past and forgotten. Now, a new war had made it deadly serious. Wright had three squadrons of fighters based on board, each divided into four flights of three, at least two of which were always on alert status, their ships ready for launch attached to Wright's outer hull, their pilots standing by in one of the ready rooms, trying not to think about what might happen in the next thirty seconds.

Grabbing absentmindedly at a cup full of green liquid while tapping the next page in his book, he started to take a deep swig when the launch alarm went off. It took a brief second for it to register, then he leapt up from his chair and raced towards the door, a hair's breath ahead of the two other pilots in his flight. The cup, carelessly placed on the side of a table, tipped over, spilling its contents on the carpet; the stains and marks across the floor testament to numerous other rapid departures in the past.

One of the first things Marshall had done when arriving on the carrier had been to practice running from the ready room to his assigned fighter station; Major Cunningham, Wright's wing commander, had impressed that upon him as a vitally needed skill, not one that Marshall had learned in his eighteen months at the Academy.

Like almost every other ship in the nascent Martian Space Service, Wright was a converted freighter, one of the old bulk carriers that had pioneered the in-system hendecaspace routes back in the '20s. As such, it was a maze of serviceways and access corridors that might have made perfect sense when the ship was originally designed, but was nothing but a hindrance to someone who needed to get across the ship in a hurry, especially if that person had only been on board for a matter of days. Fortunately, this time he wasn't in the lead; his flight leader, Marriott, had passed him just after he'd left the ready room, and she'd had months to learn the ship. She turned back, her face stern.

"Your briefing headset, Marshall!” she yelled, narrowly missing a maintenance technician who'd had the misfortune to decide to venture on one of the fighter pilots' short-cuts.

Belatedly, Marshall placed an earphone in, and his wing commander's voice continued with the briefing in progress, "...Automedon. Current approach vectors will give a nineteen-second window, and remember that your missiles work better towards the middle of that envelope, so set your attack controls accordingly. Don't anticipate, get that shot in the tenth second if at all possible. You'll be on a course directly for Xanthus, but should have enough time to pull out if you've done it right. There may even be a few seconds to spare. If one of the three targets remains, the second wave should be able to deal with them, but make sure to re-calculate to have another pass on your return to the Wright if necessary. Good Luck."

By the time Cunningham had concluded his briefing, Marshall was almost at the launch corridor. Each flight had its own alloted space on the side of the ship, ready to launch at a second's notice. A cluster of technicians were swarming around, trying to make sure that all possible pre-flight checks had been completed; a grizzled old Sergeant who could have been Marshall's grandfather gave the young pilot a thumb's up sign and a slap on the back as he climbed into his fighter.

He turned and looked behind him, grinning at Warren, his old room-mate from the Academy and now one of his wingmates. The chubby-faced pilot waved in reply with one hand, swinging himself into his ship with the other. Shaking his head, Marshall followed, the sergeant closing the hatch behind him.

The D-8 'Dragon' fighter was a masterpiece of ingenuity, the product of a design and development program that had taken less than a year. To an extent, it showed. The ship was essentially a long tube with four spokes sticking out from the side in an 'X' formation, a combined docking port/airlock bolted to the side. Most of it was fuel and engines; it only had a flight radius of minutes, but the acceleration that it could build up was second to none. A pilot's fighter.

Not that he would be doing much flying; his job was to make on-the-spot tactical decisions, watch for malfunctions and errors, and to provide the tactical judgment that even the best expert program couldn't manage in an unpredictable way. He gulped as he looked over the controls again. This was it. His first combat mission.

"Raven One to Ravens," Marriott's voice echoed through the ship as Marshall strapped himself into his cockpit, sliding his control key into the flight panel and watching the controls move about to fit his tailored preferences.

"Raven Three here. Ready for launch." Damn, Warren had beaten him to it.

Placing his headset on, Marshall replied, "Raven Two, ready for launch." By the time he had finished speaking, he was; the computer had confirmed that both ship and pilot were good to go.

"Detach and proceed in V-formation. Intercept in two minutes, ten seconds, mark."

Pulling back a lever, Marshall felt the loud grinding noise of the emergency release being engaged, the fighter gently drifting away from Wright for a brief second before the thrusters took over, roughly pushing the ship out into the formation outlined by Marriott. Making sure that his hands were positioned correctly by the controls, he braced himself for the acceleration when it came; seven and a half gravities for almost a minute.

He grimaced through the pain, trying to maintain focus on the instruments, trying to remain ready to take action if something went wrong. Every breath was difficult, every action an unimaginable nightmare of agony. As unnerving as the acceleration was the course it was setting them on; directly for a three-mile chunk of rock in close orbit around Automedon. Which, of course, was exactly what the UN formation had planned, making the approach more hair-raising.

He gasped with relief when the acceleration ended, the fighter on its pre-determined course towards the target. Just over a minute to go. The attack computers had already calculated the target track towards the incoming formation – a trio of UN fighters, approaching at high speed. His heads-up display flashed with the specifications of the enemy vessels, at least the known ones; the enemy battle group had been trialling some new ships, turning the combat zone into a technological test track; these were listed as 'X-39 Beetles', long and bulbous with a series of projections towards the fore, thought to be a complicated defense array. The sensors hungrily absorbed data as they approached, all information that would be eagerly poured over when he got back to Wright. According to the reports, this was only the second time that Martian forces had faced this class of fighter in battle.

A light started to flash on Marshall's control panel, and he yelled into his headset, "Energy spike ahead!"

"Raven Three. I see it as well."

"Three missiles on approach. Evasive maneuvers."

Marriott's order had been unnecessary; Marshall and Warren were both hastily punching directions into their computers, sending the fighters veering off. He was pushed again into the couch as the course change was implemented, watching the window of opportunity for firing diminish. The trick was to make it as difficult as possible for the approaching fighters to attack them, while still making it possible to fire off a few shots. Marriott had opted to trust entirely to her defenses, only making a few conservative maneuvers.

Overriding the combat computers, Marshall fired a pair of missiles, wanting to be certain of his first kill. He grinned with satisfaction as they arced away towards the UN fighters; Warren and Marriott had gone with the computer, firing one each. Then the countermeasures program kicked in, a combination of electronic overrides, sensor shadows and scatter, but the program stopped as the threat potential fell – none of the missiles were paying any attention to Marshall. Two on Marriott, the easiest target, and one on Warren. Trying to ignore the threat to his comrades, Marshall started to set up the program for the return to Wright, projecting for another firing solution with his last remaining missile. As he worked, the missiles of both sides crossed track, homing in on their target, giving him a front-row seat for the impacts.

At the last second, all three of the Beetle fighters threw out large homing decoys, a neat trick which worked – for two of them. Flashing across Marshall's screen was a recommended tactical update that boiled down to firing two missiles in salvo, as one of the targets exploded satisfactorily. The impact from the slower, but deadlier UN missiles followed; Marriott's fighter exploded as both missiles caught it amidships. Even if she had ejected in her flight suit, the shrapnel would have torn her to pieces. Warren had been luckier; it looked like his missile had detonated just before impact, the electronic infiltration software doing its job.

"Raven Three to Raven Two. I'm in trouble. Shrapnel's shattered some of the fuel lines in my aft section."

Marshall glanced at the course tracker. In less then eight minutes, he'd crash into Xanthus. There wouldn't be enough of his friend left to bury. He started programming the navigational computers again, plotting an interception course, deleting the course back to Wright.

"Raven Two to Raven Three. Hold on, I'm on my way. Try and divert power to thrusters."

"Don't be silly," his friend replied, communications protocol forgotten. "I can't transfer across in the time."

"No-one's asking you to. I'll hard dock with you and burn back to Wright. If I take it slow we should make it fine."

"And if you mess it up, we both get killed. Head back to Wright!"

Smiling as he hunched over the controls, Marshall replied, "As I recall, I beat you in class standing."

"So?"

"So I have seniority and am in command here. Shut up and be rescued – and stand by to use your maneuvering thrusters for the fine work at the end. Better suit up as well in case I mess this up a little."

"Aye, aye – sir."

The two fighters were close enough that a simple rendezvous was simple enough, but the trajectory and the impact on Warren's fighter had left the ships spinning, and to make it more fun, he could see some out-gassing from the rear section. Atmosphere leaking, not enough to cause any problems to his friend, but more than enough to give him a headache if there was a random blast when he was on final approach. He braced himself for calls to abort as Warren's fighter grew closer.

Normally, Marshall considered himself an instrumentation pilot, but this time, he was going to need the visual touch; with the manipulation of a control, the walls of the fighter seemed to disappear, showing space around him with holographic projections on the wall. There were some old-guard pilots who claimed that they couldn't fly any other way, but usually Marshall found that it disoriented him more than anything else. Ahead, still on his current course, Xanthrus was growing closer and closer. Impact in less than six minutes now.

One course correction after another flashed across his heads-up display, urgently blinking red, all of them suggesting that an immediate exit from the current situation was a good idea. Usually, docking was a process that could be done gently, carefully – not with a few seconds to spare for a single approach. A few blasts of light showed Warren playing his thrusters back and forth, seeking to stabilize his ship for the approach. He knew that the computer would have done this right, better than he could have, but still his hand was resting on the controls, waiting to make any last-second adjustments. With a loud clang, contact was made, and the rattle of the docking clamps engaging quickly followed.

"Halfway there, buddy," Marshall said. "Last step's the big one. Hold on."

"Holding on."

The navigational computer gave an electronic shrug as it adjusted for the increased weight, the changed center of gravity, plotting a least-fuel course back to Wright, and after a heart-rending few seconds, one was provided, albeit with a sling-shot around Xanthrus that would take them to within a few hundred meters of its fortunately flat surface. Tapping 'enable', Marshall settled back to enjoy the ride, feeling the long, slow burn this time as the engines adjusted the course to take it just over the asteroid.

All of his instincts were to pull up as it grew closer; instead he turned off the exterior display and just concentrated on his instruments, trying to close out the rest of the universe and focus on the numbers. Periapsis came and went without incident, and he began to breathe again – with difficulty as the engines fired to take them back to the carrier.

"Danny?" Warren's voice echoed between the two craft on a tight-beam.

"Problem?"

"Thanks for coming after me. I'm not sure I'd have risked it."

"I think you would. Any time."

The flight back to Wright was uneventful, approach control surprisingly silent once Marshall reported their situation. He had the satisfaction of watching the two remaining Beetle fighters shot out of the sky by the second wave as they made their firing pass, the pilots ejecting in time to be taken into custody for the next prisoner exchange. At a safe distance, the two ships separated and Marshall headed to his position in the outer ring; Warren's fighter would need to be carefully shepherded into one of the maintenance locks before it could be flown again, and docking a ship to a rotating hull was a difficult business at the best of times.

Docking for Marshall was simple enough; no damage sustained, so the automatics did the work for him, carefully adjusting course and trajectory, backing up slightly a couple of times to adjust spin correctly. He started on the post-flight checks as he heard the loud clang of the two ships docking; he'd made it home. It felt like hours, but he'd actually been in flight for only a few minutes – and would be able to put his first kill token on the squadron's roster board. Just four more before he was an ace.

As he swung out of his ship into the corridor, he was surprised to see no technicians around; usually a gaggle of engineers would be ready to make sure the fighter was ready as soon as possible for another mission if needed. Instead, Major Cunningham was standing, arms crossed, barely controlled fury on his face. He pointed at the floor in front of him, next to the wall; Marshall stepped over to him.

"Don't you stand at attention when reporting to a superior officer?"

Marshall snapped to his feet and saluted, replying, "Sorry, sir."

"Oh, you're going to be a lot sorrier when I've finished, Third Lieutenant." The 'Third' was heavily stressed. "My office, now."

The two of them walked down the corridors in silence, heading deep into the bowels of the ship. Packed as it was, Cunningham's office doubled as his quarters; a cluster of datapads were scattered in an ungodly mess around the room, parts of uniforms that had gone out of use years ago draped around the walls. The door to his bedroom was closed, locked; the major sat down behind his desk but made no suggestion that Marshall should sit down; the young pilot instead stood at attention in front of him.

"What the hell did you think you were doing out there?" Cunningham began. "You violated pretty much every mission protocol, and allowed a pair of UN fighters to make for the carrier without opposition. What do you think would have happened if the second wave had failed?"

Thinking quickly, Marshall replied, "I presumed they would succeed, sir. Raven Flight managed to wear down most of their defenses, leaving them a vulnerable target. I half-expected them to veer off."

"So you decided to continue diving at the asteroid? What if your tactical assessment – not that I believe for a moment that any of that was running through your mind during your stupid stunt – had been wrong? Wright has more than eight hundred people on board, Third Lieutenant, but more important than that, we're protecting more than a dozen ships in this mining convoy, and if they don't get home, this war stops."

"What about Warren, sir?"

Cunningham looked down at the deck, shaking his head, then faced Marshall again, "You don't see the big picture, do you? Not at all.  We're in the middle of a war, son, and people are going to die. People have already died by the tens of thousands over the last five years, and I'm pretty damn sure that's not stopping any time soon.”

He rubbed his hand across his eyes, continuing, “That's the risk we run going out in those scratch-built ships. He knew the risk, and so did you, and he told you to return!" The wing commander was almost shouting. "You put your fighter – I don't give a damn about you, but that fighter is irreplaceable out here – at risk for a long-shot rescue, and came home with a missile sitting on your rack that should have been targeted at an enemy."

Eyes narrowed, Marshall faced the Major, "I don't see that, sir. It worked. Now we have two fighters instead of one, two pilots instead of one, and we completed the mission. I used my initiative."

"That excuses everything, does it? Victory at any price? You got god-damned lucky, son. You probably expected a pat on the head, a medal and a promotion. None of that comes easily out here, certainly not for a reckless young fool who thinks that mission protocols are for other people. Lesser people. But Third Lieutenant Marshall can use his initiative."

"I make no excuse for my actions, sir."

Cunningham snorted, "Because you don't believe they need one, right? If you weren't Bill Marshall's boy you'd be walking home by now."

Something snapped inside Marshall, "May I speak freely, sir?"

"Go ahead, dig yourself deeper."

"I did what I thought was necessary. I would do it again in the same circumstances. If there is a lesson to be learned here, obviously I haven't learned it. And sir, if the only reason you are keeping me here is my last name, then I formally request a transfer to other duties."

"Think you are getting special dispensation? I'm holding you to a higher standard because of your father. I expect he'd like me to at least try and make a good officer out of you." He leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk. "I don't care whether or not you have learned a life lesson today. That doesn't interest me in the least. But you will obey orders, Third Lieutenant, and in future you will follow mission and flight protocols to the letter. Do I make myself comprehensively clear?"

Marshall looked down at the desk, and replied, "Sir, yes, sir."

"Get out of my sight."

Snapping an unreturned salute, Marshall turned and walked out of the room. Cunningham shook his head, and started to work on a couple of datapads, when the door to his bedroom slid open. Walking through it, wearing a dressing gown, was a dark-haired woman with a strange red glint in her left eye.

"You were a little hard on him, weren't you?" she said.

He looked up at her, nodding, "It's for his own good, Deadeye. This time it worked. Next time a lot of people might get killed."

"I'm still not sure I agree. Nor do I particularly care for the nickname, John."

Cunningham pulled up a datapad, "Says here that one Second Lieutenant Louisa Caine is fit for duty again. How's the eye?"

Rubbing above her temple, she said, "It's going to take me a bit of time to get used to. But I'm ready to go again. Hell, I could have been back in a cockpit last week."

"Not until the medicos check you out. Tell you what; I'm going to split apart Marshall and Warren, move Warren over to Hawk flight for a while. Mind if I put you in as Raven Three, replacing Warren?" He smiled. "There might be a good pilot there, but he's going to need someone to keep an eye on him, at least for a while. I thought Garland for Leader, he's about due to step up."

"At least you aren't trying to talk me into it this time."

"You made it quite clear that you're only in this for the duration. If I'm going to brevet someone up, might as well be someone who can take use of it."

"Not Marshall?"

"That kid? He might make a good pilot, but unless he really settles down, he's never going to make it as a commander. Not unless he can see the whole picture instead of just what's under his nose."

Caine turned to head back into the bedroom, "I'll go and talk to him. Right now he's just going to be seething somewhere. That needs to be dealt with before it turns sour."

"Want to meet up later?"

"Maybe," she shrugged. "But a wingman's job is never done. And you have a lot of paperwork to get through if I'm back on active duty instead of dealing with your backlog."

"I'm going to get jealous at this rate."

"Just remember, if this all backfires, it was your idea." The door closed behind her.

Chapter 2

Eleven Years Later

Alamo's 'return to service' party was in full swing; Orlova had used some of her old connections to commandeer Harry's Bar for the duration, and even managed to scavenge some more tables from somewhere. The two new officers who had turned up to the party – a pair of Sub-Lieutenants, Mohmand and Jenkowski, both recently transferred from the Callisto Orbital Patrol, sat by themselves in the corner, both reluctant to join in the swing despite Lieutenant-Captain Marshall's attempts to bring them in.

Instead he'd settled for a table near the middle of the bar, and was currently engaged in an animated discussion with his astrogator, Senior Lieutenant Mulenga, over Alamo's next mission. Not that either of them knew what it was, but scuttlebutt suggested anything from a six-month stay out a Proxima to a year-long expedition out from Ragnarok. Marshall cut a sentence short when he saw a familiar face walking into the bar, then ran out to meet him in the corridor.

"My god, Teddy Warren. I haven't seen you in five years! How the hell are you? What are you doing out here at Mariner?" He looked him up and down. "That's a Triplanetary uniform you're wearing." Time had been kind to the bombastic pilot; his hair was thinning a little, something he'd indicated was a Warren family tradition, and he'd added a couple of inches onto his waistline, but otherwise it was the same old wingmate.

His old friend returned the grin, "I figured I'd be going to need it if I was going to serve on that old junkpile of yours."

"You're joking."

"No," Warren replied in his booming voice, "I bring glad tidings. Not only do you have three fighters being loaded on board now, yours truly has been named as your flight commander."

Shaking his head, Marshall gestured towards a chair, "Weren't you up for a squadron?"

"Oh yes. Stationed out at Deimos. That was going to be about as much fun as watching paint dry, so I put in for a transfer when I heard that they were giving some old birds to your ships, and when I found out that some idiot had put you in command of one of them, well, I won't deny that I pulled a few strings."

"I will be damned." Marshall waved over at Caine; she'd obviously spotted Warren coming in but decided to give them their meeting – as well as assemble a trio of drinks.

"It gets better, Danny. I'm bringing Raven Flight with me." He looked up, grinning again, "Deadeye? I heard you were serving with this madman. Still keeping him out of trouble?"

Caine sat down at the table, carefully putting the glasses down on the table, "Turns out that's part of the job description that comes with being Tactical Officer these days. After he shanghaied me back in."

Punching her lightly on the shoulder, Warren replied, "I doubt it took that much convincing." He turned back the Marshall, "I heard you had some fun out at Lalande 21185. Not everyone brings a new planet into the Confederation!"

"After two months of one Senate committee after another, I could do with a slightly less controversial mission next time," he replied.  "What do you mean, you've got Raven Flight with you?"

He took a modest swig of his drink. "Given that they decided to wind up the old Tenth, I figured I'd take the name with me."

"What?"

Warren's smile dropped, "I'm afraid so. Surplus to requirements, apparently. They're dropping down to nine squadrons, and it was on the block. I'll be honest, if they'd offered me the Tenth, I'd have taken it. I was going to end up with Eighth Patrol. No fun." He looked around the room. "None of that maudlin stuff, though. This is a party! Where's everyone else? Aren't you going to introduce me around?"

Marshall gestured around the room, "Over there is our astrogation officer, Senior Lieutenant Mulenga. Propping the bar up are Sub-Lieutenant Orlova," he indicated a pair of women, "and Ensign Esposito, one of our guidance officers and our Espatier officer, respectively."

"Espatier officers don't look like they used to," Warren replied, earning a look from Caine.

"Two of our other new recruits are lurking over in the corner – Sub-Lieutenants Mohmand and Jenkowski."

"Might have a word with them later. See if I can get some spark into them."

Continuing around the room, he waved an arm towards another table in the corner, where a pepper-haired dark man was talking animatedly to a tall brunette while a younger man watched them both, "Two other watch commanders, Sub-Lieutenants Kibaki and Ryder, and our Systems Officer, Lieutenant Quinn."

"That everyone?"

"I don't have an Operations Officer yet; one's apparently joining us tonight. Senior Lieutenant Dietz is my Exec, but he's about the only one allowed on Alamo until the dockyard finally lets her go."

Mulenga came walking over with his drink, having decided that Marshall was unlikely to return to the table soon, and sat down opposite Caine.

"You must be one of the Captain's old associates from his fighter days, Lieutenant?"

"Gosh, Captain! Got quite a ring to it now, I bet, Danny. Same league as Tramiel, or Hancock, or Duncan. God, remember him." It took him a second to remember the astrogator's question. "Oh, yes, I was his wingman for a while, one of his flight leaders later on when he got his own squadron."

"Then my old deputy for about seven months on Phobos when I was running Third Wing."

Warren laughed again, slapping Marshall on the shoulder, "Is he as annoying to work for now as he was back them?"

"I have found him so on occasion," Mulenga said, deadpan, "but I have also found it an extremely interesting experience thus far."

The four of them heard a murmur from the far side of the room; a tall, silver-haired man walked into the bar, a beautiful woman lounging on each arm, wearing Triplanetary uniform – also with the insignia of a Lieutenant-Captain on his sleeve. He looked over at Marshall, a cheeky smile on his face.

"Raven Flight getting drunk together again?" the newcomer said.

"My god, it's old home week!" Warren said, toasting no-one in particular with the remnants of his drink.

"Flynt, you old bastard. Always gatecrashing," Marshall said, a smile on his face, as he waved the captain down into a chair.

He raised a hand in reply, "Not that I have no intention of staying for as much of the party as I can, I need to have some words with you first. Best in quiet."

"Captain-to-Captain stuff, then? Guess you're going to have to get used to that!" Warren said. "How about another drink while he has his pow-wow?"

Marshall walked down the deserted corridor, Flynt following him; his two companions were chatting to Caine and Warren, drinks in their hands. He looked out at the starfield, at the ships currently laid up alongside Mariner Station. Alamo was currently surrounded by construction modules, slowly being unraveled from the cocoon of maintenance equipment that had been working to get her back to operational status for the last two months.

"I figured you'd be holding this party on board," Flynt said.

"Captain Chung hasn't turned her over yet. You know how he can be when he gets his teeth into a ship."

"Oh, the Winch has had his claws in my ships before. One day I'll have to tell you what I did to get Polaris out of his iron grip."

Gesturing out at another one of the ships, Marshall said, "What about you? How was your first cruise?"

"Compared to yours, quiet. Three months nursemaiding corporate types out at Proxima. Like one of the mining convoys during the war, but the ammunition is harsh language instead of missiles. Thunderchild's quite a ship, though, and I must thank you for Lieutenant Minh. Best engineer I've ever worked with."

"If you'd ever met Quinn, you'd know I got the better end of the deal."

"Be careful, Captain. I might end up poaching him." He paused for a moment, the continued, "How are you finding things in the big chair?"

He turned, and smiled, "I'm loving every minute of it. I'm supposed to complain about the responsibility, the grind, the paperwork, and all of that is true, but damn it Flynt, I haven't had this much fun in years. Well, aside from the Senate committees, but I can live with that."

"Good. That's what you're supposed to think, even if most commanders I've met haven't had the guts to say it."

"I was surprised when I heard you'd ended up commanding Thunderchild. You were up for a star, pretty much guaranteed."

"Jack Tramiel offered me something better," he replied, looking back out at his ship. "Command until retirement. I might end up on a carrier if we ever get one, but I'll spend the next ten years or so commanding something or another, and that's good enough for me. Worth a hundred stars." He paused, "You had a rocky one the first time out. If it means anything, I think you did well, and I don't care what those damn-fool politicians said. I know Jack agrees with me."

Marshall turned back to the party, "This is good morale-boosting stuff, but you could have said it all at the table, sprinkled with some witty repartee while your groupies linger around. Where the hell do you get them, anyway?"

The old captain opened his arms, and grinned, "Natural magnetism."

"What's up?"

Sighing, Flynt pulled a datapad out of his pocket and passed it to Marshall. He scanned the file, stopping at the title. It was a service record of Captain John Cunningham, Martian Space Service.

"He's still a Captain?"

"One promotions board after another passed him over."

"He made full Colonel by the end of the war."

"And his peacetime rank ended up the same as yours. First Lieutenant. Albeit you had a lot less seniority, and he made Captain again within a few months, but that's where he ended up, Danny." He shook his head, "One fighter command after another, less and less important postings, until finally no-one important pays any attention, and his career comes to an end. Now he can't even fly anymore; when Harper retired all the waivers got pulled." He chuckled. “That old bastard's running for the Senate, apparently.”

"All the waivers?”

"Cutbacks, Danny. For which we're to blame; they're overstocked on pilots now, and they want to save on flight pay."

Marshall passed back the pad, replying, "Dare I ask what this has to do with me?"

"Jack requested him for Triplanetary service. The request was approved, and he's joining Alamo as your Wing Commander. Senior Lieutenant rank."

"No."

"Not optional, Danny. I know you don't like him..."

"You're a master of understatement. I just got finished with a mission full of officers trying to sabotage me..."

Flynt's voice grew sharp as a razor, "Do NOT equate Cunningham with those mutineers. Not for a second. He had an outstanding combat record, and on paper should be excellent. Yes, this puts you in a bit of a tricky position..."

"He was my first commanding officer. And one who couldn't abide me."

"Prove him wrong, then. I read your file, and that was a long time ago. Hell, you should read some of the stuff they wrote about me in my younger days. Prove that you are the good command material that I know you are."

Snatching the datapad, Marshall waved it at Flynt, "Never mind the personal matters. This personnel record does not inspire me with confidence. Whatever mission I'm on, Alamo deserves nothing but the best. The crew deserves nothing but the best." He shook his head, “Not to mention the feelings of a certain Tactical Officer. Damn it, Flynt, I've just been through a mutiny! This crew needs to be able to trust each other, and throwing in a loose cannon is not what I need right now.”

“You, or the crew?”

Marshall fixed the older captain with a sharp stare, “That is not the issue here. My crew comes first.”

Flynt raised a hand, “He was the best. Jack and I both think he could be again."

"You take him, then."

"Thunderchild's going in for a month's overhaul. And I already have a Wing Commander. You need one. His career needs salvaging."

Scanning the datapad again, Marshall replied, "Salvaging or burying. I will – as with any other officer assigned to my command – give him a fair chance. No favors, no special privileges, nothing."

Flynt smiled. "That's what's wanted, Danny. Find out if there's something there worth keeping. If not, he's out, and no-one will stop you."

"Fair enough. I do have one more question."

"What is it?"

"What are you drinking these days? We're missing the party."

"Spoken like a true commanding officer, Danny."

The two of them turned back to the bar, walking back into the crowd.

Chapter 3

It was good to see Alamo's hangar deck in full use again. Far from the spartan expanse of his last mission, with only a trio of shuttles in a cavernous bay, this time it was dominated by a trio of fighters proudly secured to the ceiling by magnetic clamps, crewmen working on their undersides. Marshall recognized them as old P-12 Cyclones, designed for deep space patrols, though there was something different about them he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Warren, standing next to him, turned to the captain with his trademarked grin. Quinn looked like an eager schoolboy as he ordered his technicians around the deck, working on one fighter after another. He beamed as he headed over to Marshall and Warren.

"Beauties, aren't they," he began.

"I'll be honest, I felt a bit naked without a fighter screen," Marshall replied.

Warren looked around at the technicians, slightly nervous, "I checked these out before I left Mars, all of them seemed fine. Maintenance records checked out."

"Yes, but some of them were well into their service cycle." Quinn turned to Marshall. "My boys could use the practice on these ships, and I haven't found anything wrong – yet – with the work the station did on Alamo, so I thought I might as well do the servicing now. Mariner's Q's sending me over some bits and pieces." He looked over at a monitor. "Here they come now."

Marshall looked at the monitor and saw a tug, cargo pod loaded and towing a pair of fighters that looked similar to the ones hanging in the bay. He looked at Quinn, raising an eyebrow, and the engineer smiled in response.

"I put in a bid for the parts being auctioned off as part of the defense cycle. Our spares bays are full, and they had a couple of hangar queens. Worst case I can use them for parts like they were."

"Worst case?" Warren asked.

"Well, it would be nice to have five fighters instead of three, wouldn't it? Or four at the very least."

Marshall frowned, "Wait a minute. Those parts were being auctioned as surplus by the Triplanetary Fleet Disbursement Office." He looked at his Systems Officer. "Did you just buy those parts at auction from our own fleet?"

"Using the station's budget. Silly to sell them in the first place, I thought."

"I'll be damned."

Warren looked at Marshall, shaking his head, then slapped Quinn on the shoulder with glee.

"We're going to get along well, Jack my boy," the flight leader said.

A gentle cough echoed from behind Marshall; he turned to see the all-too-familiar face of John Cunningham, now wearing a Triplanetary uniform but with a non-regulation flying jacket on top. Aside from that, he'd managed to get the uniform spot on, though somehow he didn't seem comfortable in it, and it was certainly strange to see only two rings on his sleeve, compared to his own two-and-a-half.

"Senior Lieutenant Cunningham, reporting for duty." Aside from the lack of the honorific 'sir', a textbook introduction.

Marshall thought about it for a second, then held out his hand, "Welcome aboard, Lieutenant. We were just looking over your fighters."

"Yes." He turned to Quinn. "Lieutenant, I would have to insist that in future I am informed before any work is undertaken on ships under my command. You might as well finish it now, but leaving this ship without any fighter screen is unsatisfactory."

"We're at Mariner Station, and then presumably in hendecaspace for a while. I'll have the maintenance finished inside a week, and my boys are already looking at some improvements."

Cunningham frowned, "Send them through my office first so I can look them over."

Watching this exchange, Marshall broke in, "And to mine as well, Lieutenant, for final approval." He frowned, looking over the fighters again. "I'll admit it, there's something wrong with them but I can't make it out."

"Ah, sorry. I thought you knew – these are trainer models. But fully combat-capable," Warren said.

"Trainers?" Marshall's eyebrows raised.

"Have you not been informed of that element of our mission, Captain?" Cunningham said. "The report reached me in transit three days ago. I filed a protest, but it was rejected. Mr. Warren is correct, though – there is some loss in endurance, but these variants are fully combat-capable. Apparently they've had some sensor upgrades, as well."

"I suppose I can't object to that." He turned back to Quinn. "Better take a look at those upgrades, see if there's anything else you can do to them. And make sure they tie in properly with Alamo's systems."

The engineer laughed at that, earning another frown from Cunningham, "My spooks are already having a fun time working on that one. We've got the software upgrades we need from Mars, but there are some systems incompatibilities we're working on. Few hours, we'll have it fixed."

"Could you be more precise, Lieutenant?" Cunningham asked.

"No. That sort of work takes as long as it takes. But if it takes longer than four or five hours, I'll want to know why."

"So will I. See that I am updated."

Looking around the deck again, Marshall said, "I think we need to let Lieutenant Quinn get on with his work. Teddy, I'll catch up with you later; you'd better get yourself settled in." He turned to Cunningham, "I'd like to discuss your shipboard duties with you."

"I'm aware of my responsibilities as a Wing Commander, Captain."

"Glad to hear it. Nevertheless, we will talk. My office."

The two of them stepped into the elevator, silently riding up to the bridge. The maintenance technicians had done a good job on the repair work; it was a lot smoother and faster than it had been during Marshall's last mission. The doors slid open on the bridge; Beta Watch had just come on-shift, and there were quite a few new faces since the last mission. Sub-Lieutenant Mohmand was leaning over the guidance station, having a discussion with Sub-Lieutenant Orlova, former shuttle pilot and transporter of dubious cargoes. Spinelli, now wearing the insignia of a Senior Spaceman, was the first to notice Marshall's entrance from the sensor station.

"Captain on the bridge," he called, and the crew members came to attention. Marshall walked over to Mohmand.

"At ease, everyone." He turned to the watch officer. "Settled in fine?"

"Yes, sir. Senior Lieutenant Dietz has been most helpful."

"Good. Once you've had a look at watch operations, I'd like a report on potential areas of improvement."

The officer frowned, sending his bushy mustache curling, "I am unsure that I am qualified..."

"There are always ways to improve, Sub-Lieutenant. You've had two tours of duty prior to this; I'm sure your experience will provide some new insights." He smiled. "I'd like to see them. No rush, give it a few shifts before you submit it."

"Aye, sir," Mohmand nodded, frowning as he began to consider his report. Marshall made his way to his office, Cunningham following him through the door. The room was as he had left it last time; the holo-image of his father still hanging on the wall, flag of the Triplanetary Confederation behind his chair. If it wasn't for his desk being clear of clutter, he wouldn't have known that he hadn't been in the office for a month.

"Nice to be home. Take a seat, Lieutenant."

Cunningham looked down at the seat opposite Marshall, then sat down, replying, "Is there anything specific you want to discuss, Captain?"

Marshall leaned back in his chair, folding his fingers together. "I thought we would cover more...general topics. I presume you have familiarized yourself with our personnel roster?"

"Of course."

"Good. What isn't on there is that Senior Lieutenant Mulenga has informed me that he is uncomfortable with his current assignment as Second Officer."

"I see," Cunningham said, though his tone suggested that he didn't.

"I'm naming you Second Officer. Out of Triplanetary seniority, but you've got more than enough seniority in your old Martian rank that it can be justified. I'll expect you to familiarize yourself with bridge operations, sit in on a few shifts."

"I'm a fighter commander, Captain. That's not really my specialty."

Smiling wryly, Marshall replied, "It wasn't really mine either. Nevertheless, it's an essential part of your career advancement, and a key part of your job. With only half a squadron on board, I think you'll have the time."

"Probably. I'll arrange with your Operations Officer to take a few watches once we are under way."

"Good." He paused. "What are your first impressions? I'm curious."

Cunningham took a minute to contemplate his response, then said, "I'll be honest, I think some things are a bit lax. Does your engineer often go off half-cocked like that?"

"Jack Quinn is the best engineer I've ever worked with, and as it happens, is a pretty good pilot in his own right. I trust his judgment and generally give him a wide latitude to get his job done."

"I have only been on board for half an hour; I haven't really have time to see how things are done in this fleet. Am I to take it that you have a rather looser command style?"

Frowning, Marshall replied, "When I trust the officer to get the job done, I tend to sit back and let him do it. That lets me concentrate on areas that I know are of greater importance, or where I can't necessarily trust the officer involved."

"Have you any other orders for me?"

"If Quinn says that he can get two more fighters ready for launch, I believe him. I presume you will want to fly one of the fighters yourself?"

That seemed to hit Cunningham in the chest. He looked down at the door, taking a couple of deep breaths before he replied.

"My waiver to fly has been canceled. Orders of General Cox."

"Welcome to the Triplanetary Fleet, Lieutenant. Ride the simulators for an hour or two, and I'll push through your recertification. As long as you are passing the physicals, I can't see any reason to deny the service a good fighter pilot. I hope to get in some flight time myself if our mission permits."

A frown crossed the wing commander's face, and a puzzled air surrounded him, "You're giving me my wings back?"

"I've been there myself, Lieutenant. I'm not going to put someone through that unnecessarily." He pulled a datapad out of his desk, dropping on the table, then started to scan it, “We might have half-decent fighters, but I'm worried about the pilots. With the exception of Warren, all we have are reservists. None of them have any serious combat experience or training.”

Cunningham nodded, “Are you expecting combat, then?”

“I hope not. But there's no harm in being prepared.”

He gestured at Marshall's chest, “I see you still have your wings. With the two of us and Warren, we could form a flight if necessary.”

Marshall's eyes widened a little, “Three pilots for three fighters is too few for my liking. And while I'd like to fly combat again,” Cunningham frowned at that, “I don't think you can count on me for such an operation.”

He nodded, “Your place is on the bridge.”

“I'm afraid so.” He chuckled, “I suppose I could sneak out while Dietz isn't looking.” Cunningham's face remained expressionless, and he continued, “See about training up some of the guidance controllers, most of them are former fighter pilots, or at least had some training at the Academy. Hell, take a look and see if anyone's had such experience. Even if it was a while ago, bringing them up to date shouldn't be too much trouble."

"How many do you want?"

"Three sounds about right for the present. Don't run through the whole program, that'll take too long. See if you can find anyone who can take an abbreviated course. If you get an enlisted with the right sort of skills, let me know and I'll boot him up to Technical Officer. No civilians, though."

"I'll get it done, sir." That was a little success, in any case, Marshall thought.

"That's fine, Lieutenant. You should go and settle in. I don't know how long before we leave Mariner."

Cunningham nodded, then headed to the door. He stopped short, turning, "I did not request this assignment, Captain, nor my transfer to the Triplanetary Fleet.”

Holding his hand up, he replied, "As far as I'm concerned, you are just my new Wing Commander. No personal feelings involved."

"I see. Thank you for my wings."

"My pleasure." Marshall's datapad began to beep, and he saw a new updated message from Triplanetary Command. He scanned it quickly, then swore in three languages under his breath at the wall of text.

"Problem?" Cunningham asked.

"Our orders have come through. I don't think you're going to like the details any more than I do." He looked down at the pad again, shaking his head. "Better hurry up and get unpacked. I'm calling a meeting of the senior staff in half an hour."

Chapter 4

Marshall took his customary seat in the briefing room, turning a datapad around in his hands as the rest of his officers filed in. Dietz had already been seated in his chair when Marshall arrived, his new rank insignia still fresh on his sleeve, looking slightly more comfortable than he had previously, though still with the same close-cropped hair and almost-too-perfect uniform.

Cunningham was next, followed by Quinn, taking seats around the table; the wing commander looked up as Caine walked in, taking a seat beside Marshall. She didn't appear to return his gaze. Mulenga then arrived, sitting at the rear of the table, starting to punch up course information; Marshall had given him a few minutes' advance notice to get started on a navigation plot. Sitting in Dietz's old chair, the new Operations Officer, a slight man still wearing the olive uniform of the People's Belt Defense Directorate – he seemed to be trying to read the room.

Two seats were empty at the table; Esposito arrived, sliding her petite form into a chair at the rear, apologizing for being late, but she was not the last to arrive. After briefly pondering whether to start the meeting, the door opened, and a tall redhead stormed in, dropping down in the vacant chair, spilling a collection of datapads messily across the desk. Her uniform had obviously been put on in a hurry; the tie was still undone.

"This place isn't easy to find. I had to ask someone," she said, drawing the gaze of everyone in the room.

"I suppose I might as well begin by introducing our new officers. This is Technical Officer...

She interrupted, "Professor, really. Morrigan Vivandi, Lowell College."

Dietz rolled his eyes, and replied, "Ms. Vivandi, it is not customary to interrupt the Captain."

"Sorry. I had a Dean like that once."

"Indeed," Marshall said. "I should compare notes with him." That drew some grins from around the table. He gestured at the other newcomer, "Our new Operations Officer, Lieutenant Tetsuro Shirase. On temporary loan from the People's Belt Defense Directorate."

"Captain," Shirase nodded. "It is a pleasure to be here, especially on a mission of such critical importance."

That drew more looks, and a couple of smiles from Quinn and Esposito, but Marshall didn't return the smile.

"Some of you know Senior Lieutenant Cunningham. He'll be serving as our Wing Commander, as well as Second Officer."

Mulenga looked contented with that, though some of the others looked slightly concerned. Caine's face was a careful blank. Marshall gestured at the astrogator, who tapped a course computation into the keypad in front of him, sending a holographic model of the solar system above the table, lines indicating a projected course for Alamo.

"Alamo has been assigned to an exploration of the moons of Uranus," Marshall began. "As you can see, we will proceed via hendecaspace to Saturn's L4 Point, and thence by normal propulsion to Uranus. Upon our arrival, we will refuel at Shakespeare Station, then commence a full survey of the Uranium sub-system."

"That'll take weeks," Caine said.

Mulenga nodded, "Two days in hendecaspace, twenty-nine in normal space."

"We could get to Proxima in less time. Heck, we could get to Tau Ceti in less time."

Marshall said, "Which explains why Uranus has remained a backwater, without its own hendecaspace egress point."

"That is not totally true," Shirase added. "The Belt Council has instituted exploration and potential exploitation of Uranian space, and have already had some interesting results."

"There have been at least half a dozen surveys of the Uranian sub-system, Captain," Mulenga said. "Why are we going over it again? It hardly seems like an appropriate use of a battlecruiser."

"And what about the Triplanetary Fleet Charter?" Esposito asked.

"No-one has conducted surveys in this manner before!" Vivandi said, slamming her hand on the table. "We're going to look closer than anyone has before at the inner moons. We'll be the first ones to actually walk on them!"

Looking at the enthusiastic Vivandi, Marshall turned to Esposito and punched up the charter, "There has been an amendment. The Belt has requested that the Triplanetary Fleet assume responsibility for its military operations on Uranus, and Trident Station at Triton has also been assigned to us. As a result, the charter now prohibits operations within the orbit of Saturn; everything else is our turf." There was a murmur around the room, and he raised his hand, "This is a pretty big breakthrough for us, a big increase in our potential responsibilities."

Frowning, Cunningham looked at Vivandi, "What exactly do you mean by a closer look?"

"Using the fighters, of course, and following up with landings at sites of interest."

Sighing, Marshall said, "We have been assigned two-seater fighters, which have been modified as long-range survey craft." He rose his hand, "Their combat potential still remains in place. They have been upgraded with an enhanced sensor package, and our mission profile calls for our fighters to conduct close surveys of a series of target sites on the inner Uranian moons.  Our science team are to double as the flight crews. We will also provide any required support to Shakespeare Station, and the colony on Titania."

"Our goal is exploration, though," Vivandi added.

"What are we looking for? Any specific minerals?" Mulenga asked.

"Alien ruins."

Caine's eyebrows raised, "You've got a xenoarchaeological research team on board? I might like to pick their brains at some point."

"I think, Lieutenant, you are the obvious choice as liaison officer with the science team," Marshall said. "Dr. Vivandi, Lieutenant Caine has a masters in archeology. You should find her the ideal liaison."

"Excellent. I look forward to working with you, Lieutenant," Vivandi said.

"Have the scientific pilots received any training?" Cunningham asked, sighing.

"Oh, yes. Two of them are reserve officers, and all of them took some training with the University Squadron over the last few months. This project has been under consideration for ages, we're all really excited to get started."

"I will assign quarters to your team," Dietz said. He turned to Marshall, "If nothing else, this mission is an excellent opportunity to conduct training exercises and increase crew efficiency, Captain. I took the liberty of preparing a cross-training program." He slid a pad over to Marshall, who nodded in reply.

"Good idea. Work with Lieutenant Cunningham; I've assigned him to see about training some additional fighter pilots."

"Aye, Captain."

"One more thing. I presume you have noted the lack of a Security Officer at this meeting; that role has yet to be filled. For this mission, Ensign Esposito will fulfill these responsibilities with her espatier force."

Esposito nodded, looking around the table, "We're going to have some limitations in this mission. We haven't replaced the casualties we suffered at Ragnarok yet, nor been assigned any new security staff – I understand there have been some delays in the recruitment of new personnel, and one of our squads has been transferred on temporary duty to the clean-up operations on Mariner Station."

"About time," Quinn muttered.

"So I only have a single squad to work with. I'll be retaining the deputies from before, so I'll be liaising with the department heads to fit their training schedules into the duty roster. That's all, sir."

Marshall nodded; she'd gained a lot of confidence after her first mission, it was good to see an officer develop. The only one who seemed at all uncomfortable was Shirase, who was spending most of his time scanning his datapad, reluctant to make eye contact with anyone in the room.

"Anything else I need to know? Mr. Quinn?"

"All as I reported earlier, Captain. The ship's been returned to us in good hands, though I'll still keep going with my checks. Given that we're going to be operating a lot closer to home this time, I think everything should be fine."

"And the fighters?" Cunningham pressed.

"Don't worry, sir, they'll be ready to go in plenty of time. We'll be on constant-boost trajectory, so I don't think we'll be engaging in any maneuvers for a month."

Looking around the room, Marshall concluded, "After last time, this seems like a rather more straightforward mission." Caine looked at him, raising her eyebrow, and he smiled back before continuing, "Let's use this opportunity to prepare us for the more critical missions to come, but don't get complacent. We'll be further from home than we were at Lalande in terms of travel time. Ms. Vivandi?"

"Yes?"

"I'll expect you to prepare a briefing pack for the crew on our objectives. Don't leave anything out; I understand even the espatiers can read." A chuckle echoed around the table. "If you have any questions on what data is critically needed, consult Lieutenant Caine. I also want some tactical analysis of the sub-system, just in case."

"Good practice, I suppose," Caine said, frowning.

"We depart in two hours. Dismissed."

"Captain?" Shirase said. "Could I speak to you and Senior Lieutenant Dietz in private?"

The two officers looked at each other, and Marshall nodded as the rest of the staff filed out, Vivandi already excitedly talking with Caine about some archaeological theory or another. Cunningham seemed as if he was trying to talk to Caine, but when the opportunity obviously failed to arise, he instead left the room alone, looking back at Marshall with an odd expression on his face.

"What is it you have to say, Lieutenant?"

Nervously, Shirase looked around the room, before replying, "How much additional briefing have you had, Captain?"

"Only that this mission is more critical than it sounds."

"That's something of an understatement." He looked at the two officers. "The High Councilor has personally authorized me to release this information, but I must stress that it cannot under any circumstances leave this room."

"Quite clear," Marshall said; Dietz nodded.

"Then I can tell you that the Belt economy is perilously close to collapse. This has been coming for two decades, but the war prevented us making any real preparations for it."

"Martian and Callistan mining operations at their respective Trojan points," Dietz said.

"You are well informed, Lieutenant. As well as the opening up of Proxima and Barnard's Star, and now Lalande 21185. So many of the major battles took place in our territory, and the cost was high. In every sense of the word." He paused for a moment, looking into space, then continued, "For the last five years, we have worked on closer integration into the Triplanetary economy, but resistance has been great. Understandably."

Frowning, Marshall said, "The People's Republic is an Associated State of the Triplanetary Confederation. We're not going to let you starve, nor suffer."

"But you might take away the option to decide our own destiny. Our affairs would be governed from Port Lovell, or Gagaringrad. That isn't something that any of us want, but it is coming unless we do something about it, and soon."

"Not to mention the infighting that would take place politically, Captain," Dietz added.

"I appreciate your problem, and you certainly have my sympathies, but what has this to do with our mission?"

"Shakespeare Station represents our last throw of the dice. We need to find something lucrative in the Uranian sub-system. The archaeological expedition is essentially a smokescreen; most of the targets that were chosen actually correspond to sites of potential geologic interest."

"I take it that Dr. Vivandi has not been informed of this element of her mission," Dietz said.

"No, Lieutenant. In fact aside from Counter-Admiral Remek, Commodore Tramiel and yourselves, no-one outside the Council and the Directorate has been informed of this mission. I was briefed personally by the Council before I left Ceres."

"So to sum up, Lieutenant, the economic future of the Belt is dependent on Alamo finding you something to exploit," said Marshall. "Something valuable enough to put you back into the black, or at least close enough that you aren't seen as a drain on Triplanetary resources. Is there anything else we need to know about?"

"The Lunar Republic is aware of our difficulties. Dissidents in our government are known to have been in communication with them. Anything that weakens the Confederation is potentially something of interest for them." The worried officer looked over at the viewport, "It doesn't have to be much. We're on a knife-edge. Too many of our resources were committed in the wrong places, too much was lost in the war."

"We will do everything that we can, Lieutenant. You have my word on that," Marshall said.

"It would be sensible to put Lieutenant Shirase in charge of collating the survey reports, as well as prioritizing mineralogical targets," Dietz suggested.

"Good idea. Lieutenant, what about the personnel on Shakespeare Station?"

"They know of the importance of the Uranian project, Captain, but not of the details of our mission."

Looking down at the datapad with the mission briefing on it, Marshall felt a brief impulse to delete it. The hunt for alien ruins had mutated into a prospecting expedition; it might be more important, but somehow all the excitement had gone. Politics again.

"Thank you for briefing us immediately, Lieutenant. It must have been tempting to leave us in the dark as well."

"This mission is too important for that, Captain! I might miss something. One man might miss something. Nothing can be overlooked, nothing. Our budgetary reports must be made public in three months; some good news is needed by then to restore public confidence."

"A billion-credit game, with the Belt's future staked on the outcome. We'll do our best to win. Dismissed, Lieutenant."

Shirase smiled, stood up, and bowed at the waist, turning to the door before pausing to say, "Captain, you should also know that I have officially requested to be transfered permanently to the Triplanetary Fleet, whatever the outcome. My loyalties lie with the Triplanetary Confederation first. You need to know that."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. I will evaluate your performance accordingly." Marshall looked at Dietz, who nodded as the operations officer hurried out of the room.

"I will begin work on our departure preparations, Captain."

"Good. I'll be up on the bridge in a few minutes."

"Aye, sir." Dietz rose, turned, and left the room, leaving the captain on his own. He zoomed in on Uranus, looking at the moons spinning around. Eleven previous expeditions had failed to find any resource sufficiently valuable to exploit, and with no local population to speak of, whatever they located would have to be exceptionally profitable to justify the expense. More than a hundred thousand people were scattered across the Belt, all of them, it seemed, dependent on this mission beating the odds. He closed down the hologram, glanced down at the datapad for a minute, then started to call up the latest prices on the futures market for rare elements and minerals. If they were going prospecting, he'd probably find it useful to know what they were prospecting for.

Chapter 5

Chairs had been scattered around Alamo's ready room; a cluster people sat around, waiting for the arrival of their instructor. A holoimage of a P-12 Cyclone was slowly rotating at one corner of the room. Orlova had already scrutinized it carefully, and started to look around the rest of the room. Cunningham had really stripped ship to assemble this assortment; all three flight controllers, leaving Kibaki on his own up on the bridge to cover them, Quinn sitting in a corner looking mildly amused – somehow, it didn't come as a surprise at all that he'd turned out to have spent some time on fighters during the war, and one of the scientists, sitting hunched over a datapad in the pack of the room, the riotous colors of her civilian clothes standing out in the room. The door opened, and Esposito ran in, sitting next to Orlova.

"Did I miss anything, Maggie?"

Surprised, Orlova responded, "I was surprised enough when I was brought in. What are you doing here?"

"I took a couple of semesters of flight training back at Syrtis before I transferred to the Espatier Corps. Thought I'd keep some options open by re-training if it was offered."

"Huh. No, you haven't missed anything. So far our instructor is only demonstrating how to be tardy."

A gruff voice from behind interrupted her, "Hopefully you'll find the later elements of this course more to your liking. TEN-HUT!"

The officers in the room stood at various grades of attention, the civilian at the rear taking the longest to get to her feet. Cunningham walked over to her, looking her up and down, shaking his head.

"What sort of outfit do you call that?"

She looked down at her clothes, then back up at the wing commander, replying, "That's the only one I have, apart from my flight suit."

"According to the roster, you are – god help us all – actually a reservist."

"Yes, sir. Third Lieutenant Douglas."

"No Martian uniform?"

Her eyes darted about to the rest of the room; only Orlova met her gaze, flashing her a quick smile.

"I didn't think I'd need it. I wasn't expecting to be offered flight training."

"I see. Lack of preparation is one of the things that's going to get you killed. Not might, will. You might care to remember that in future."

He walked to the head of the room, looking around at the assembled officers as if they were raw cadets, frowning at the slightest uniform infringement. Throwing a pair of switches, he switched the hologram to a series of flight projections, course computations running back and forth.

"My instructions from the Captain are to provide a course of instruction for three of you in the basics of combat flight training, with the goal of you becoming fighter pilots in the unlikely event that Alamo faces battle in our current mission.”

He looked at the group, shaking his head, “I have prepared a curriculum that should at least minimally prepare you for duty that will take the better part of the next month, but I'm not taking a class this big. I'll pick three of you, I will make the final judgment, and I am the sole arbiter, and if you find that unfair, tough."

That didn't seem to go down well. Jenkowski – who already had a pair of wings prominently sown on his jacket, seemed to be growing red, and Orlova placed a hand on his shoulder in a bid to calm him down. Cunningham pulled out a datapad, looking around the group.

"Each of you gets paired off in the simulators. Winner gets training. Orlova, you get to fight Douglas, Esposito draws Franklin, Jenkowski gets Quinn. I've programmed all of them myself, so you can start as soon as you want."

"Should we not receive a mission briefing?" Jenkowski asked.

Smiling wryly in response, Cunningham responded, "Bad guy approaching. Win. Use your judgment, Sub-Lieutenant, assuming you have any."

He walked past the group, heading for a door in the rear of the room. Hesitating for a second, the group followed him, filing towards the six simulators. Orlova slid into the couch, sliding her key into the slot; behind her, Franklin was cursing. Evidently she'd forgotten her control key, and it didn't look like Cunningham was going to give her any time to get it. Likely six had just become five; no pilot out of basic would fly without their own carefully designed control pattern.

As she slid the helmet on, she was in space. She looked around the fighter controls, a simulation of the basic P-12, and made sure that everything was where it should be, making a couple of minute adjustments to test the systems. The tactical display flashed up in front of her; orbiting a large gas giant with a ring system and a pair of moons.

Her fighter was in the ring system, on a spiral course from rock to rock to provide her with a limited cover against detection. Preferring to take control of her own destiny, she turned the throttle on for a quick burst, sending her down out of the ring, seconds ahead of detecting an incoming energy spike – a missile heading for her position.

Damn, Douglas was actually good. That missile must have been launched within a few seconds of the simulation starting, but she ignored it. Impossible for it to have had any opportunity to get a visual lock; she calculated that the on-board system scrammers would deal with it. Tapping a random walk course into the computer, she ran a track back along the course of the missile, all the way back to a small ice fragment a thousand kilometers away, and sure enough there was too much ambient heat. As the incoming missile self-destructed short, she headed in a lateral course away from it, continuing the random walk. She had three missiles left, but her opponent only had two.

Eyes ranging around for her own hiding spot, she broke for a cluster of fragments, keeping a wary eye on the detectors, then slewed out of position, exposing herself; and her adversary took the bait, unleashing another missile. Textbook tactics both times, and this time Orlova had something to worry about. Throwing her main engines off, she allowed the fighter to coast while the missile sped in, the homing track growing stronger and stronger as the distance decreased. Counter-measures out, but she remembered a trick that Quinn had taught her, and slowly turned her fighter to point its engine at the missile, turning it on at the last second.

Unable to take the heat, the missile exploded, but warning lights began to come on; damage to the sensor array caused by shrapnel from the explosion. Her missiles would now be effectively on their own, without any assistance from the fighter's control computers. Which meant that Douglas' countermeasures would likely be able to handle them quite effectively. As long, of course, as they knew that the missiles were coming. Trying to get around to a point where she could get an easy track on her foe would be difficult; Douglas would have an easier, and more fuel-efficient time maneuvering to avoid her shots. Instead, she ordered a collision course for the fragment that she was hiding behind, smiling as the acceleration kicked in.

With only a single missile left, Douglas evidently decided to hold her missile for the final moment of decision. Probably a good thing; an impact would not have been a certain thing as Orlova approached, but would be a lot more likely afterward. As the range closed, the pilot smiled, firing all three missiles in salvo directly at the fragment. This wasn't going to require any precision.

The fragment couldn't change course, couldn't dodge out of the way; the missiles were effectively just dumb projectiles, and no amount of electronic warfare was going to alter that. There was a large energy spike, Douglas firing up her main engine in a bid to get out of the way, and at last loosening her last missile as Orlova set up a skew course to get out of the way of the expected impact.

The missile came in strong, the two impacts set to happen at almost the same second. Counter-measures didn't work, random course changes didn't do the job, and she didn't have much fuel to dodge it anyway. As the three missiles slammed into the fragment, sending shrapnel flying in all directions, Orlova had the satisfaction of watching Douglas' fighter spin in space helpless, just before she herself felt the brief shock of impact before the screen went dark. She pulled off her helmet, looking around the room; Douglas had dropped her helmet into the couch and was running her fingers through her hair, Cunningham looking at both of them, shaking his head.

"That was some damn nice flying," Orlova said.

"Likewise. I thought you had me there."

Cunningham frowned, interrupting, "If this mutual admiration society for the advancement of pyrrhic victories is quite finished, perhaps you would care to watch the other dogfights on the monitor."

The two of them bounded to the rear of the room; evidently all three of the dogfights were taking place in the same simulated arena at different points in the planet's ring system. Esposito was all over Franklin, the pilot waving around imprecisely, the use of standard control surfaces coming back to haunt her, and Jenkowski and Quinn were fighting a carefully matched duel. Franklin's fighter exploded, a missile catching her amidships, and Esposito raised an arm as she cheered while the guidance controller swore.

Jenkowski seemed to have managed a slight advantage over Quinn; Esposito made her way over to look at the monitor. His maneuvers were rigid, somewhat perfunctory, but they were working. Quinn, by contrast, almost seemed to be having fun, whipping his fighter around ice fragments more for the joy of it than out of any practical benefit as a missile arced in. It took ten minutes for Jenkowski to finish the kill, but Quinn's fighter finally exploded.

"Back into the ready room," Cunningham said, striding through without waiting to see if anyone followed his order, waiting with his arms crossed as the group settled back into their seats. Jenkowski looked somewhat smug, Esposito was clapping Franklin on the back, shaking her head. While Franklin had simply made a mistake, it was a pretty foolish one to make given the circumstances, but it did take the shine out of the espatier's victory.

Looking around at the room again, Cunningham nodded, saying, "I've made my decision. Douglas, Esposito, Orlova, you get the call. The rest of you can return to your duty stations." He turned to the engineer, continuing, "I might call on you again, Mr. Quinn, if I am assembling an acrobatic display team."

Esposito looked sheepishly around, "Sir, I don't think it was a fair test for me. I'd be happy to fight Franklin again when she recovers her key, or for that matter anyone else."

"I stated at the outset that the decision was mine to make, Ensign. Nothing I have seen changes that." The brief flicker of hope on Franklin's face disappeared, but she did manage a little grin at Esposito by way of thanks.

Jenkowski was shaking his head, standing up and saying, "Sir, I won my battle. Why have I not qualified for flight training?"

"I'm sorry, do you think that talking back is going to help? Did I at any moment suggest that this was a simple winner take all? I was watching flight performances, Sub-Lieutenant. Flying a fighter – as those wings of yours should testify – requires a lot more than rote learning. That'll get you into the cockpit – then in battle it'll get you killed. Feel free to complain if you want. But not here, and not to me."

Quinn stood up, looked around the room, and saluted Cunningham, saying, "Thanks for the chance to get back some good memories. I wouldn't mind sitting in later on if you don't mind; if I'm going to be helping to service your fighters, it'll help if I'm current on how they fly."

Suddenly Orlova realized why the engineer had taken part, and why he didn't seem to mind too much that he'd lost. As Quinn walked out, followed by a sullen Jenkowski and a disappointed Franklin, Cunningham slid a chair over to talk to the remainder of the group.

"Don't any of you get the idea that this is all there is to flying a fighter. Any of you know how many aces the three fleets managed between them during the Interplanetary War?"

They looked at each other for a moment before Douglas volunteered, "Twelve?"

"Correct. In eight years of war, only twelve pilots managed to rack up five or more kills. And of those, only five of them are alive today, two of them on this ship. Myself, and the Captain. The lesson I'm trying to ram home here is that dogfights are damn dangerous. To the point that they are the least part of what you will be required to do. Most of this is sitting by yourself in a very small spaceship staring at the walls waiting for something to happen and praying that it won't."

He paused to let that sink in, before continuing, "All of you have demonstrated that you can improvise in a crisis. That's something I can't teach you, so it's a good thing to start with. But what you will be learning here is flight procedures, regulations, and how you will act for ninety-nine point nine of the time while you are sitting in that fighter. You've been through flight training before, but none of you have been through my flight training before, and until you do, I will not trust you with one of the craft I am responsible for. If all of that is clear, the first lesson is ended. I'll be arranging with your department heads for you to spend your watches down here until we reach Uranus-space. Dismissed."

As the three of them stood up to leave, he raised his hand, "Not you, Orlova. Take a seat."

She waited for Esposito and Douglas to leave before replying, "Is there a problem?"

Cunningham frowned, saying, “What are you doing here? I understand why the others volunteered for this, but you I don't understand.”

"What is there to understand?"

"Why? I'll be honest, I didn't expect you to be sitting here, but I didn't have an excuse not to give the Captain's pet sub-lieutenant a trial."

She stood up, "Pet?"

"Take a look at your record from an outsider's point of view. Is this a career, an interlude, what?” Raising a hand, he continued, “You'll get your training whatever your answer is.”

Walking over to the wall, she turned back after a minute, replying, "I really just fell into this. I ended up on Alamo almost by accident for the mission to Ragnarok, and the Captain suggested I might make a good officer. My father was in the service during the war, maybe I wanted to know how he felt. Get closer to him."

"He died?" Cunningham's tone was softening.

"Missing, presumed dead. Ten years ago."

"Another question. That trick you pulled with the missile, where did you get that from?"

"Lieutenant Quinn. I knew he'd flown during the war, so I asked him for a couple of tips. I had a look at the specs, and saw it could handle the maneuver."

Standing, Cunningham walked over to her, "You actually went out and asked someone for advice. Do you know how hard a lesson that is to ram home usually?” He looked at her more closely, then nodded, “You have an opportunity to make this a career, and that's the question I need answered. Is that what you want to do?"

She turned back to him, looking him in the eye, "I don't know. I did what I did on Ragnarok because it had to be done."

"Most people wearing a uniform have either spent all their life wanting to wear it, or are wearing it because their homes and families are in desperate need of protection from attack. You've ended up in without either of them. Not that I actually think Captain Marshall made a bad decision, I can understand it. If you find your motivation, I'll see what I can do to help, for whatever it's worth."

"And if I don't?"

"Serve out your three years, rack up the qualifications, then resign and work out what you actually want to do. I think that's enough for one lesson, Sub-Lieutenant. Dismissed."

"Sir." She nodded, moving to leave the room, before pausing to ask, "Why did you stay in, after the war?"

"Dismissed, Sub-Lieutenant." She shrugged and walked out, leaving Cunningham alone in the room, staring at the holographic fighter slowly rotating.

Chapter 6

The doors to the science section slid open on an argument; Vivandi seemed to be refereeing a heated debate between two of her team as they pointed at different sections of one of Uranus' moons on a holograph. The effect was if they were dueling with laser pointers in between debate points; Marshall couldn't help but laugh. Caine was sitting at a desk on the far side of the room, evidently sharing his amusement.

"Doctor Vivandi?" Marshall said, and the room fell silent.

Turning, the doctor bounded over to him, saying, "Captain! You haven't been down here before."

Gesturing around, he replied, "This part of the ship hasn't seen that much use since the original construction. I rather gather that it was being used as storage before we got the word your team was on the way."

"Well, we're all cozy down here, Captain. All we're going to need is a good big cargo bay to store all our finds in!"

Caine walked over, shaking her head, but was interrupted by her communicator. She looked at the message and rolled her eyes.

"Problem?"

"Ryder wants a word with me, up on the bridge. Excuse me." She walked out of the room; Marshall was tempted to follow her, but the hand of Vivandi on his arm suggested otherwise.

"Are you all quite comfortable in your quarters? I'm sorry you're having to double up."

A tall man with receding brown hair shook his head, "I was going to ask about that, Captain. I really sleep a lot better with more privacy."

"I suggest you arrange to be in your quarters when your counterpart isn't, then, Mr?"

"Cross. Geochemistry," he replied in a 'you'd-better-remember-it' tone.

Vivandi shook her head, laughing, "You'll have to forgive Cross. He looks down his nose on mere social scientists as being unworthy of ascending the heights of academe."

"If that's the best answer I'm going to get, I think I'll head to my shoebox to squeeze myself in for a nap. Excuse me." Cross stalked out of the room, the doors closing behind him, and Marshall had the distinct impression that this was not unwelcome to the rest of the group.

"We've been in flight a week, and I haven't had the opportunity to meet the rest of your staff."

"We have rather shut ourselves in, haven't we! Thank you for lending me Louisa, by the way. She's been very helpful."

Marshall did a double-take, "Louisa? You mean Lieutenant Caine?"

"Sorry, I keep forgetting the military terminology." She gestured around the room. "Gordon and Lorraine are two of my three astroarchaeological assistants," she indicated the couple who had been having the argument, "with the other being Celia, who your Lieutenant Cunningham has poached! Naughty of him."

Frowning, Marshall asked, "Celia?"

"Douglas. She's taking flight training."

"Oh, Third Lieutenant Douglas! I understand she's doing very well."

"Cross handles geochemistry, Madeline over there cosmochemistry. And finally Vivian," a tall dark-skinned woman with shining white hair grinned from a console, "is our tectonophyisicist."

"You seem to have everything covered."

"Absolutely! This team was hand-picked, Captain – even Cross is one of the best students the geological department has had in years. If he didn't know it, he wouldn't be anything like as bad as he is."

"I've met people like that." He walked over to the hologram. "Which one is this?"

"Cordelia," she replied, "the innermost one. Lorraine has a theory that it's the most likely spot to find artifacts."

"Simply because of its location; if we haven't found anything on the major moons, the innermost moon is the best place to start," the young archaeologist interrupted.

The man shook his head, "You're being illogical. We need to ask why they would be interested in Uranus in the first place, what sites of interest they would want to explore. Those readings from Desdemona are worth taking an early look at."

Turning to Vivandi, Marshall shook his head, "Didn't you have an exploration plan to get this mission authorized?"

"Of course, Captain, but now that we're actually on our way, everything feels a bit different. I think that there is value in going over everything again, don't you?"

Quietly, he replied, "Basically, all of you are pounding the walls waiting to get started, and this is a good distraction for your staff, yes?"

She smiled, nodding, then gestured over to her office, a small cubicle in a corner of the room. She'd decorated it with pictures of various sites, some of which he recognized from news stories, as well as a picture of a man holding a boy on his shoulders.

"Your husband?"

"Ralph. He's a traffic controller at Syrtis City. He's holding Scott, our son." She looked at the picture for a minute. "Only problem with this mission is that I'm going to miss his birthday." She looked up at Marshall, and smiled. "I promised him I'd bring him back an artifact or two. Though he wants to be a spaceman when he grows up, of course."

He looked at the boy, then to Vivandi, "Next time I'm on Mars I'll stop by if you want, try and talk him out of it. Or give him some advice, whichever you'd prefer."

"He'd love that. Thanks." She rooted around in a draw, and pulled out a datapad, "You can presume that we'll be sticking to the exploration plan we filed, at least from the moment. Naturally we might have to revise it based on our findings."

"Don't worry, Doctor, this ship is yours for the next few months while we complete the survey. There is one thing, the main reason I called; before any information gets sent back to the university, I'd like to take a look at it first."

Her eyes narrowed, "Look at it?"

"I'm not going to classify anything. This is a scientific expedition, and I'm looking forward to it – this is exactly why I joined the Fleet, and don't expect me to stay away from any findings you make – but I'd like to have a chance to review your findings before they get sent back home. That going to be a problem?"

"No, I don't think so. You promise you won't keep anything secret?"

"Not unless you ask me too," he said in response, smiling. His communicator beeped, and he pulled it out of his pocket, "Marshall here."

"Ryder, sir. I've spoken with Lieutenant Caine, and request your immediate presence on the bridge."

"I'm on my way." He looked back over to Vivandi, and shook his head, saying, "A Captain's work is never done, it seems. If you need anything, let me know through Lieutenant Caine."

"Will do. Thanks, Captain."

Marshall left the room, another argument obviously brewing in the room behind him, and pushed the elevator for the bridge. The door opened early at the Senior Officer's Deck, and Cunningham stepped in.

"I'm heading for the bridge," Marshall said.

"So am I. Deadeye had me paged."

"How are the trainees shaping up?"

He shrugged his shoulders, "I should have 'em ready in a few weeks."

"I can give you my old lecture notes if you want to take a look. I taught a few fighter tactics classes a couple of years ago. Might find them useful."

"I think I can manage, Captain," he said, as the elevator came to a stop.

Ryder turned nervously as the doors opened, and Marshall looked around the room. Caine was hunched over the sensor station, entering something into the console over the technician's shoulder. Cunningham stood at the rear of the room, as it trying to blend into the background.

"What's the problem, Ryder?"

She walked over to the sensor station, and the duty technician tapped some buttons, changing the holographic tactical display to Marshall's left. From an image of Alamo's course, it blew up to show the whole solar system, Neptune's orbit inward, Alamo's track still on display. Ryder walked over to it and pointed.

"Our course track, from Mariner Station at the forward Martian trojan point to Titania. Throw in the other ship, Spaceman." A second track appeared, this time from Earth, closing in on the same target. "We just received a flash from Intelligence that reported a ship leaving Luna, and navigational detectors suggest that it is heading directly for Uranus. It left about six hours ago; it took that long for the information to filter through to us."

Frowning, Marshall looked at the second ship before turning to Caine, asking, "What type, and when?"

"Fast Frigate by the looks of it. We've been promised a complete breakdown as soon as possible, but it's difficult to get accurate military information out of the Republic. As for time, have you got it plotted yet, Spaceman?"

The technician nodded. "They'll arrive nine days after we do, Captain, presuming a best-time course. It appears that this type of ship is capable of slightly faster acceleration than Alamo."

Caine walked over to her tactical station, "I'll get started on a briefing pack, start working out some tactical scenarios."

"No hurry, Lieutenant," Marshall replied, "We've got at least five weeks before we see them."

She looked over at the captain again, asking, "What the hell is out there that is so important?"

He ran a hand across his face as he moved over to sit in the center seat, pausing to look at the two converging courses again, trying not to let his knowledge show.

"I wish I knew, Lieutenant."

Cunningham looked at the courses, then asked Caine, "What sort of fighters would a ship like that have?"

"No Republic ships of that size use fighters. They keep them for orbital installations only, as a rule," she replied, her head bent over her console.

"Captain," that word seemed to come to him with difficulty, "they can't be after the same thing we are. Our ship can survey multiple targets at once with the fighters, they can't."

Marshall nodded, replying, "They've come to watch what we do, rather than engage in some sort of a race."

"Which suggests to me that they are confident that they could take us in a fight," Caine added. "They'll have an edge on speed, but now we have some flying teeth, that's likely to help."

"Our fighter screen is intended for patrol rather than combat," Cunningham hastily added. "We'd need stronger armaments for a start if we were going to take them on."

"What about your trainees, Lieutenant?"

"As I said in the elevator, they'll be ready for flight by the time we get to Uranus, but I wouldn't want to risk them against a frigate, not just yet."

"I very much hope that it doesn't come to that. Nevertheless, you'd better make sure that your class – and for that matter, all of the pilots – are fresh on Lunar tactics. Take a look at Alamo's logs, we've had some recent encounters with them."

Cunningham nodded, looking at the frigate specifications again, shaking his head as he ran down the data. "I'll do that. Better have them prepared for the worst."

"Any Republic activity in Uranus-space, Lieutenant?" Marshall turned back to Caine.

"A few surveys, the most recent last year, before the Belt established Shakespeare Station. Major moons only. Aside from that, no record of permanent installations, but that doesn't necessarily mean a thing."

"What do you mean?" Cunningham asked.

"That almost every decent sized body in the system has some outposts on it. The records show half a dozen Belt mining companies alone doing some work on the major moons, and all of them will have installations. Not much of a reach to suspect that some of them might be supporting another project, quietly."

"I suspect one of our intelligence agencies would be working on that."

"Possibly, but I doubt it's been given much of a priority. I'll get in contact with Mariner and see if I can get someone working on it."

Marshall raised his hand, "No. Use only the data we already have; we had a complete briefing pack anyway."

A puzzled look on his face, Cunningham asked, "Why?"

"We've got reason to suspect that the Republic has operatives on Mariner. I'd rather the Republic was less prepared for any action we take. Nor do I want to contact Shakespeare, for the same reason. It might be compromised. Better to wait."

"Sounds a bit paranoid, sir. Don't you trust anyone?"

"Only if they have an Alamo patch on their uniform."

"That's quite an inflexible view to take, Captain."

Nodding his head, he replied, "Perhaps. But I'm afraid it's one taught to me by bitter experience."

Chapter 7

Astrogation had rarely been as crowded as it was now; Marshall, Cunningham, Warren and Mulenga were all squeezed into the small room, looking up at the holographic monitors, watching Alamo fight a simulated battle with a Republic battlecruiser. Six fighter trails flashed ahead of the ship on divergent courses, dashing around following orders from the two flight leaders; one group had been assigned to the 'enemy', the other, consisting of the trainee pilots, was fighting for Alamo.

Not that any of this was actually taking place; Dietz was commanding Alamo in the simulated attack from the bridge, after Caine – who had designed the simulation – had ruled that Marshall was a 'casualty'. The fight was going well; Alamo had managed to get several good hits in, and Marshall had tried to resist the urge to cheer. Warren was somewhat less content, grimacing at the projected course patterns of the fighters.

"Those fighters need to spread out more, John. Right now they are sitting ducks to a fratricide attack by a couple of missiles."

"That's Lieutenant, Mr. Warren. Tactical doctrine calls for them to maintain an optimum firing position."

Almost as if they had heard Warren, the three rookies suddenly flew into three different directions, their tracks forming a lop-sided diamond crossing around the enemy vessel on two sides. Warren smiled, punching Marshall on the shoulder, while Cunningham placed a headset next to his mouth.

"Raven Flight, return to previous course as instructed."

"Belay that," Marshall said, turning to Cunningham. "For the purposes of this exercise, they're on their own, Lieutenant. If they make any mistakes they will just have to live with them. Or not, as the case may be."

The trio of fighters arced around the battlecruiser, spending their fuel with abandon to get into a firing position; this left Alamo unexpectedly exposed, and the ship began to suffer as a wave of missiles flew in. On the bridge, Dietz was having to decide whether to defend against the missiles or the fighters; he elected for the latter, focusing his attention on the target least likely to suffer from the countermeasures packages, spending a pair of missiles that knocked two of the incoming vessels out of the battle, though at a cost of suffering an impact on Alamo's midsection that caused more than a dozen simulated casualties.

Cunningham shook his head, fuming, but the three forward fighters were pushing home an attack of their own on the enemy battlecruiser, scoring three hits, but themselves falling out of the battle, the subject of concentrated countermeasures attack. They had managed to disable the enemy's laser power relays, and Alamo finally had an advantage, punching a hole in its forward section and following up with another wave of missiles, slipping into a new course to throw off the trajectory of the single remaining fighter. Acknowledging defeat, the computer altered the course of the enemy vessel as it attempted to flee, but Alamo managed a shot into its engines, causing critical damage; with a white flash, the enemy surrendered, and the simulation came to an end.

Marshall tapped for the bridge, "Excellent work, Lieutenant, to you and all crew for your victory in the battle simulation. Have all department heads submit reports and assessments by 0900 tomorrow to my office, we'll have a follow-up meeting at 1300. Pass the word to all hands for an excellent success."

"A good, clean action," Mulenga said. "Alamo's performance has improved considerably since Ragnarok."

Cunningham picked up his headset again, "Raven Flight are to report to me immediately, and you'd better have an excellent explanation for your performance in that battle and your failure to follow flight procedure."

Shaking his head, Warren replied, "Come on, they helped win the battle when they took out those laser relays. Gave Alamo a big advantage."

"We don't fight battles based on blind luck and mindless acts of meaningless heroism. They didn't obey the rules I laid down. Evidently they still have an awful lot to learn. I can't certify them as flight ready."

Frowning, Marshall said, "That could present us with problems. We're scheduled into Shakespeare tomorrow, they're out of time for their training. They seem technically competent enough to me."

"Not to me, and I'm the one responsible for them," Cunningham said.

"Damn it, they did the job, didn't they? Not as well as they might, but well enough," Warren said.

"All three of them died."

Glancing up at Marshall, Warren looked back and said, "That happens in war, especially if you are riding fire. All of us know the score."

Cunningham walked past Marshall, over to Warren, looking down at him, "I will not certify any pilot as being fit for duty, no matter how potentially mundane, when I consider that they are not qualified for an assignment. Evidently they need considerable remedial training on basic combat tactics."

"I'd lead them into battle if it came to it," Warren replied.

"Fortunately I am the one in charge."

Shaking his head, Marshall said, "No. I am. I agree with Lieutenant Warren. While somewhat over-exuberant, I didn't see any sign that they were not fit and ready for at least limited duty. It isn't as if they won't always have a senior officer commanding them in any case."

"Are you ordering me to declare them fit for duty?"

"I would instead like a formal report within the next two hours telling me in detail why they aren't, according to the specific flight training requirements outlined under Triplanetary Fleet Regulations. Run them through the standard proficiency tests and get the scores, and if they are satisfactory, fly them. Unless you have clear and specific grounds as to why they shouldn't fly."

"This is a mistake."

“Then it is my mistake, Lieutenant,” Marshall replied, stressing Cunningham's rank.

Warren stepped forward, "I'll gladly have them in Raven Flight."

"Honestly, that sounds about right," Cunningham said, before exhaling sharply. "I don't agree with this decision, but you are the senior officer present, so I will obey it. But Mr. Warren, flight duty assignments are my prerogative, and I will assign these pilots only to whatever duties I see fit." He turned to Marshall. "If you will excuse me, I have some tests to administer."

The wing commander stalked out of the room, not waiting to be dismissed, the doors sliding shut behind him. Warren shook his head, looking up at Marshall, while Mulenga stood silently in the corner, carefully returning his equipment to its usual configurations.

"Keep an eye on them, Teddy. Not too closely, but keep an eye."

"I will, Danny. I meant what I said."

Smiling, Marshall clapped him on the shoulder, replying, "I know you did. It is his call, though. For the moment."

"As long as you're the one calling the shots from the bridge, I'm happy enough, skipper. By your leave?"

"On your way, Teddy. I'll catch up with you later."

Marshall looked at the door for a moment as the exuberant pilot departed, then turned back to Mulenga, who was still working at his consoles. He stood there silently for a moment before the astrogator turned to him, a pensive look on his face.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Eh?"

A grin rising to the surface, Mulenga stopped working and sat on a chair, turning to face the captain before continuing, "You don't tend to loiter without good reason. If you are reluctant to broach the topic, then I will – you have concerns about Senior Lieutenant Cunningham."

Marshall nodded, "His attitude isn't great, but I can live with that. There's more to it than that."

"Your instincts as a commander suggest that there is a problem. Would that be a fair assessment?"

"Yes, it would."

"You served under him during the war, didn't you?"

"He commanded the attack wing on the Wright. He was a Major, I a Third Lieutenant at the time." Marshall chuckled, continuing, "He tore a strip off me after my first combat action, complained that I'd taken too many risks. I spent most of the next few days fuming before Deadeye pulled me out of my shell."

"Was he right?"

"At the time, I didn't think so. I know that I would do again what I did that day, though I don't know whether or not that makes me a bad officer. That's the least of it, though."

Nodding, Mulenga agreed, "You are not the type of person to hold a grudge over a small matter like that for this long."

"Second Vesta was three weeks later," Marshall said, his eyes distant for a moment, as if a long way away.

"The biggest defeat of the war."

"We came within an inch of losing the war in a single engagement. The largest fighter battle of the entire war, and probably ever. Ninety-five fighters launching from three carriers, just on our side. More on the other. You should have seen it. All those ships in attack formation, all charging at an enemy. None of us thought for a moment that we were going to lose. Then the enemy fleet, those damn techjammers they were bringing into battle for the first time."

"If you don't want to talk about it..."

"I should. We were back to kamikaze tactics, pilots ramming their ships to get the rest of their squadrons through the screen. I was in the lead formation, Warren had ended up on my wing, against orders.” He chuckled at the memory, then his face grew serious. “I saw a gap, and managed to break through. Three out of twelve survived that wild ride long enough to press an attack home on the Sean MacEoin. When that ship went up, I thought we might have pulled off a win after all. But it wasn't to be. They'd broken through everywhere; Lilienthal was a flaming ruin, and poor Langley was in pieces. We managed to fight our way back to Wright, somehow. Ten days of full speed before the UN forces finally gave up the chase, and another fortnight slowly working our way back to Mars."

Silence filled the room; Marshall sat in his chair, looking at the deck.

"What about Lieutenant Cunningham?" Mulenga asked.

"He tore a strip off me when we landed. I was going to get court-martialed, I'd abandoned my post, actions that led to the deaths of the rest of the squadron – only Warren and I made it home. Commodore – General, he was then – Tramiel broke it up. We were about ten seconds away from a fistfight. Hell, from my point of view we'd scored the only big gain of the battle."

"I presume the court-martial never happened?"

Marshall laughed, hollowly, saying, "After that big a loss? There were so many holes in the organization charts, so many senior pilots had been lost. I don't think the fighter arm ever really did recover. The Tenth got transferred to the Billy Mitchell not long after that, different wing commander, and I got promoted from Third to First Lieutenant over the next couple of weeks. I went from being the greenest rookie in the squadron to being a flight leader, and maybe I saw the view from the other side of the fence."

"You were commanding a wing yourself by the end of the war."

"I'd run into Cunningham occasionally, conferences and briefings, that sort of thing. He ended up a Colonel, a group commander, but we weren't ever in the same command after that.  I think he resented it, that he still thinks he was right."

"It's affecting him a lot more than it is you, as far as I can see."

"Thank you for that, my friend."

Mulenga smiled, and shrugged his shoulders, "I only say what I see. For your greater problem, though, I can see where you have concerns. I ask this simply to clarify how you feel; is this affecting your judgment?"

"Aside from trying to stop him coming on board in the first place, I don't think so."

"You need to have this conversation with him. You realize that, of course."

Marshall stood up, walking over to the holographic display, "I'm aware of that. It isn't that easy, though. I've got to wait until I've got something bigger to go on than this; up to now all we have is a simple difference of opinion, and he's not disobeying any orders I'm giving him. I can't fault him for that."

Mulenga moved behind him, saying, "We both know that this situation needs to be resolved before there is a crisis. With a Republic frigate on the way, anything could happen when we reach the Uranian sub-system."

"I know."

The two of them looked at the course projection of the frigate, slowly curving in towards Uranus, just behind Alamo. One more uncertain factor in a situation that was already complicated enough. He looked at the ship, curving in, and turned to the astrogator again.

"Do you think my being here makes this worse?"

"Because you bested them at Ragnarok?" He frowned, then replied, "Perhaps, but no other ship in the fleet would have acted any differently, Captain. You did what you had to do. Besides, haven't you heard the news?"

Mulenga punched a pair of buttons on his console, and the chart of the Solar System faded out, to be replaced with a projection of interstellar space. Pale blue lines reached out to UV Ceti, and beyond to Tau Ceti and Epsilon Eridani, indicating the United Nations Interstellar Trust Territory, a fancy name for a burgeoning empire. White indicated the neutral mining territories of Proxima, Barnard's Star, Wolf 359, and Sirius, and Triplanetary red connected with Lalande 21185, the ice world of Ragnarok now a part of their sphere of influence. Tapping another button, Wolf 359 changed from white to Republic green, and a line leaped out towards Procyon.

"They've grabbed Wolf 359?" Marshall said, eyes open.

"Technically the star was unclaimed, and mostly exploited by the Republic in any case. They have gone out of their way to make it clear that other powers still have mining rights, as long as they obtain the relevant permissions..."

"Which will steadily get harder and harder, of course."

"...but it is Procyon they are after. The statement they released this morning – I expect a detailed communique on this is waiting for you up in your office – indicated that they are planning to settle Procyon III."

"If Ragnarok was bad..."

Mulenga looked up at the chart again, "The planet might be one huge desert, but over time, there may be ways to resolve that – and it has the advantage that there is very little native life on the planet. An imported ecology will do well."

"This is their response to Ragnarok, isn't it. A contingency plan, if that operation failed."

"It would seem likely. This will be a side-show to them, potentially a way for their military to regain face. That would be true for whichever ship the fleet had sent out here, except with you, there is an advantage."

"And that is?" Marshall leaned on the counter, looking up at the map.

"They know you have beaten them before. They will be wary of you, and that is both a strength – and a weakness."

Chapter 8

Shakespeare Station was old, and it showed. A slowly revolving wheel around a steady central core, the equipment on the outer rim was obviously obsolete; here and there were signs that hull plating had been repaired with modern alloys, communications antenna replaced with a model that didn't quite look as if it fit correctly.

It was almost incongruous to see the gleaming freighter holding position on the far side of the station, a new-build vessel with the flag of the People's Syndicalist Federation proudly emblazoned on the side. Carefully playing the thrusters, Franklin pulled Alamo up alongside as the rest of the bridge watched, before turning to Marshall, sitting in his command chair.

"We have station keeping, sir. All systems nominal."

"Good work, Sub-Lieutenant. Mr. Dietz?"

Dietz had borrowed the watch officer's chair; idly, Marshall pondered whether he should see if Quinn could squeeze a third chair into the bridge. Ryder was stuck hovering around the sensor station.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Start preparing for fuel transfer, liaise with the dockmaster. I want to move out at 0900 ship time."

"Aye, sir. There have been a few requests for leave on the station from some of the crew."

"Hmm," Marshall pondered for a moment. "I don't see any reason why not. We'll be here for a good sixteen hours; if they want to sample the presumably limited fleshpots of the station they might as well. No more than sixteen, though, on a first-come-first-served basis. And all back on board by 0800."

"Very good, sir."

"Sir?" Weitzman turned to him. "The station commander would like to speak with you."

"Put him on."

The image of a gray-haired man appeared on the screen, wearing a battered Belt uniform but with Triplanetary insignia pinned to the shoulders, an odd compromise of styles.

"Lieutenant-Captain Marshall; we haven't met face-to-face before," the captain began, introducing himself.

"Lieutenant-Major Akimoto. It's a pleasure to meet you, Captain, but I would very much like to meet you in person immediately. I know you must be anxious to ship out, but I would like to invite you and a couple of your senior officers to dinner. I have an interesting tactical problem that I would like to discuss with you."

With a potentially hostile frigate only a few days behind, Marshall could guess what that was. He also noted the conditions – he and two other officers; he didn't think it worth pressing the matter.

"I would be delighted. I understand one of my countrymen is on board."

"Lieutenant Shirase, my operations officer."

"He would be most welcome as one of your party."

"Certainly."

"I will see you shortly, then. In half an hour?" Marshall looked up at the clock; it was pretty late, local time, at that.

"Until then, Lieutenant-Major."

As the channel closed, Dietz turned to face him, puzzlement showing on his face.

"I take it you wish me to page Lieutenants Caine and Shirase?"

"Tactical and Operations, a reasonable mix. Have them get their dress uniforms – and send someone down for mine as well – and meet me at the launch bay in five minutes. Have any shuttle pilots requested leave?"

"No, but Sub-Lieutenant Orlova has."

"She can fly us over then. Any espatiers who have asked for a night on the station should be given it as well, I'd like them present just in case. This is sounding a little strange. Have whoever is senior keep in touch with me, just in case."

"I'll see to it."

"Then the ship is yours until I get back. Let me know immediately if there are any problems."

Ryder shook her head, "Sir, you're only going for dinner."

"I don't like being railroaded, Sub-Lieutenant, whatever the circumstances."

He stepped into the elevator, and punched for the hangar bay. Dress uniform might be overkill at this point, given the appearance of the Lieutenant-Major, but he felt that putting on a good show was probably more important than being uncomfortable for an evening's entertainment. The door slid open on the hangar bay; a shuttle was being prepared for launch and a cluster of people were assembling around the airlock, standing to attention as he approached.

"Relax, everyone, and enjoy your night off," Marshall said. He looked around the group, spotted Esposito standing by a couple of her troopers, and made his way over to her. She turned and smiled at him.

"You taking some time off as well, sir?"

"Dinner with the station commander. How's the flight training going?"

She looked around for a second, before back at Marshall, replying, "I'm enjoying it, sir. I think I'm doing reasonably well."

Noting her discomfort, he changed the subject, "You and Orlova seem to be the only officers over there. This seems to have a familiar ring to it, somehow."

"I hope we don't have to do anything like last time, sir! Speaking purely personally, I just want a chance to look around the station for a bit."

"Any change of scene?"

She smiled again, "Something along those lines, sir."

"Well, keep your eyes open over there. Just in case something unexpected happens."

The airlock opened, and Caine came running towards the shuttle, a pile of clothes in her hands which she thrust at Marshall as she stepped on board. He looked at the mess; he seemed to have been given parts of two different dress uniforms, semi-randomly arranged and crumpled. Shirase was walking calmly towards the airlock behind him, already changed. Marshall climbed on board, taking the seat next to Caine as the passenger compartment filled up; with a clang, the shuttle began the launch process.

"I hate this part," Marshall said as the engines engaged, pushing him back in his seat.

Caine laughed, "Maggie might be crazy, but she's a great pilot. One of the best shuttle pilots I've ever seen, and from what I've seen, not bad in a fighter cockpit either. I think she might have missed her calling."

"What have you seen?"

"John showed me some of the simulations. He might be acting tough towards them, but that's just his way. I think he rates them pretty highly."

Marshall hurriedly changed the subject, "Something else I hate – being forced into something. Akimoto essentially ordered me to come over, and who to bring."

"As I understood, he told you to bring a couple of officers. It's understandable that he wants Shirase to be one of them."

He shook his head, "He's a Triplanetary officer, not a Belter. If he'd asked for leave, I'd have happily granted it for the night, but this seems more than that."

"And me?"

"Dietz's idea."

"You picked a good man there." She smiled, squeezing his shoulder. "You normally do, though. The Ravens always were the best flight in the service."

The acceleration stopped, and the passengers began to briefly float as Orlova turned the ship; Marshall was fidgeting with his hands, eventually holding onto the armrests, drawing laughter from Caine.

"Don't joke, I really hate not flying these ships myself. I should at least have taken the co-pilot's slot."

"You really are a terrible back-seat flier, aren't you."

"The worst."

Acceleration returned again, and Marshall stood up, "I think we need to go to the bathroom now we've got gravity back."

Her eyes widened, and with mock outrage, she said, "Now, Captain, is this the time or the place?"

"We've got about five minutes to change before we dock – unless you want to be pulling up your uniform trousers while Akimoto is trying to shake your hand."

"Message understood."

Scrambling into his dress uniform was difficult in the confined space, but at least it turned out that he had a complete set – and then some, as he stuffed an extra tie and pair of socks into a convenient pocket. His service uniform he bundled into a locker, typing a request that the maintenance personnel put it in his cabin when the shuttle returned to Alamo. By the time he had finished, there was a clang from the side of the ship indicating a successful docking, and he gulped a couple of times as the gravity shifted. It was heavy; Shakespeare Station seemed to be keeping a stronger gravity than normal. It took an effort for him to make it to the airlock.

He stood next to Caine, Esposito and Shirase standing behind him as the lock slid open. On the far side stood Lieutenant-Major Akimoto, who was wearing the olive-green dress uniform of the Belt Directorate, but again with Triplanetary insignia instead of the traditional crossed katanas of his rank. He saluted; Marshall returned the salute.

"Welcome to Shakespeare Station, Captain."

"A pleasure to be here, Major." He gestured behind him, "May I introduce Lieutenant Caine, my Tactical Officer, and I presume you have met Lieutenant Shirase, my Operations Officer."

"Indeed. A great pleasure to meet you both. I understand you are sending some of your people over for a night's leave during the refueling; while our facilities are limited we are only too pleased to have you make use of them." He looked down at his watch. "I think my chef will be ready to serve shortly; shall we proceed?"

"Lead on, Major."

The group headed down a long corridor, into the core of the station; the feel of age was still present, though this area had been carefully cleaned. Some old information posters were on the wall, written in French and German; Marshall could make out the odd word. Akimoto nodded as he saw Marshall's interest.

"We're still just scratching the surface of the refit at this point. I've issued orders that the original decor should be left intact; after all, we are only inheriting this station, and it seems reasonable to preserve what we can."

"How much have you opened up?" Caine asked.

"Two habitation levels, the recreation deck, and some of the shuttle bays. And the fueling core, of course. We're mining Helium-3 locally again, so Shakespeare is reasonably self-sufficient. My apologies for the gravity; adjusting it has been a low priority. The station was designed for Terran gravitational simulation."

Reaching the end of the corridor, they stepped into an old elevator. Some long-dead occupant had scrawled illegible graffiti on the wall, despite squinting in an attempt to make it out Marshall couldn't read it. The doors popped open on another corridor, and a pleasing smell wafted towards them, overriding the usual tang of manufactured air; Akimoto smiled.

"I told you, my chef is about ready."

"I thought you meant an auto-chef. That smells real."

"Ah, Captain, this station was designed to grow its own food, and those systems were operational. One of my crewmen has turned out to be quite the expert; he will be reclassifying at the end of his tour. Won't you come in?"

He gestured towards a door, which opened to reveal a well laid dining table with six place settings. Akimoto took a seat at the head of the table, Marshall sitting opposite him, flanked by his two officers. Two more officers, a man and a woman, again wearing the hodge-podge uniform, stepped in as they sat down, taking their own seats at the table.

"Might I introduce Lieutenant Tokubai, my Operations Officer and Deputy Commanding Officer," indicating the man, who nodded, "and Ensign Matsumoto, my Tactical Officer."

"A pleasure."

The door opened again, and a corporal – wearing proper Triplanetary espatier uniform – walked in with a silver platter, which he placed in the middle of the table, pulling the cover off to reveal a tureen of a thick brown soup. More bowls were placed in front of the officers, and the corporal started to ladle the liquid in equal measures around the table.

"Feel free to start. It must have been some time since you have eaten anything fresh."

Eagerly, the officers began to eat their meal; the soup was a welcome treat after a month of processed food, and the cook was evidently a master of his art. Matsumoto and Tokubai seemed less enthusiastic, though Akimoto was keeping polite pace with the Alamo officers.

In between mouthfuls, Marshall asked, "If you don't mind my asking, your uniforms are a little...unconventional."

Akimoto smiled, and replied, "This station was designed with old solid-printers. Essentially a rugged first-generation model. The transport we came in was able to provide parts to get them working again, and they admittedly are adequate, but I fear that is all. They are somewhat slow, and uniforms are something of a low priority. The insignia took only an hour for the entire staff; I decided it was an acceptable compromise for the present."

"I understand you have some tactical problems, Ensign," Caine asked. "Perhaps you could fill me in."

She looked nervously at Akimoto, who nodded, and she replied, "This station, being constructed in the days before military operations took place cislunar space, was not designed with any defensive systems in mind. Nor was it a priority for our government prior to this station being transferred to the Triplanetary Fleet."

"And we have a frigate from the Lunar Republic on the way. Its intent unclear at best."

Marshall nodded, "I can well understand your problem. What abilities have you to evacuate the station should the worst happen?"

"One transport, the Atomic Syndicate's Raifuku Maru, is all we currently have. That would allow us to minimally evacuate the station, but it is a slow ship. Even under a white flag, I would fear for the safety of my people."

The soup was beginning to grow cold as the discussion continued, Shirase saying, "Alamo cannot remain here. We have only a limited time to complete our mission, and the fighters we are carrying do not have the range or capabilities to complete this mission by themselves."

"Could Alamo remain close enough to provide an intercept if required?" asked Tokubai in a clipped voice.

Caine shook her head, "I doubt we could guarantee it. Too many of our targets are close in, and waiting for the moons to settle in favorable positions to allow us to return to the station in any meaningful amount of time would be extremely limiting."

Akimoto raised his hand, saying, "Of course, of course, we understand that your ship cannot remain here indefinitely. Were the frigate seeking something in this system, I venture that we would wish the Triplanetary Confederation to find it first. We do have some ability to protect ourselves, in a manner of speaking. Our last transport brought some equipment that we thought might be adaptable for other purposes, but now I think we should consider using in its original configuration."

"And that is?" asked Marshall, as he dipped his spoon into the bowl for a last trace of soup.

"We acquired a trio of war-surplus Dragon interceptors from the Martian Space Service."

The spoon rattled into the bowl, and Marshall replied, "Why did you get them?"

"Many of the components, we thought, could be adapted to bring the station's original ship-to-surface shuttles on-line. Fortunately, they are still present, and should be in combat-worthy condition. I have no-one qualified to fly these fighters, of course, but I am aware that Alamo is carrying pilots."

Caine smiled, looking at Marshall; the captain replied, "If I thought I could get away with it I'd take them up myself for you. I'll have a word with my wing commander when we have finished our meal, but I am certain that we can provide you with some pilots. What about ordinance?"

"We obtained the specifications as part of the package; the Belt purchased two squadrons to use for short-range defense. Strangely enough, that has now become a priority for our solid-printers."

The door slid open again, and the corporal returned, bowing down and whispering something in the major's ear.

"I am told, my comrades, that the fish course is ready to serve if we have finished with the soup."

"Fish? Where are you getting that from?" asked Caine.

"Well, nearly fish, Lieutenant. Close enough, in any case."

The food actually smelt palatable, though Marshall tried not to give too much thought about where it had likely come from, instead settling down to enjoy his meal. Shirase especially was eating heartily, though he noticed Tokubai was only pecking at his food, pushing chunks around the plate, leaving a trail in the thick, gloppy sauce.

"How do you feel in the new uniform, Mr. Tokubai?" Marshall asked, in a bid to break the ice.

"It is a necessary step in the evolution of the Triplanetary defense structure," he replied, with a phrase that was wholly lifted from the press release that had been issued three months ago.

Matsumoto looked at him, then across at Marshall, "I'm excited by the opportunity. All we have out at the Belt are garrison stations, a few short-range frigates."

"Want to get onto a battlecruiser?" Caine said, smiling.

"If I'm good enough," she said, "though I'd have to transfer into the regular fleet first, I suspect. Not many berths for espatier officers on the battlecruisers." While not phrased as a question, there was a slight tone to her voice that suggested she would accept any such opportunity if it came up, and wondering if one might be available.

Akimoto chuckled, "Ambition in its place, Ensign." He turned to Marshall, "It would still make sense, though, for some of us to transfer. We were effectively all marines, as you would term them, out on the Belt. Most of our space defense was handled," he nodded his head, "by the Martian Space Service, and handled well at that."

"We would be better providing such services ourselves," Tokubai said. "It is not wise to become too dependent on others."

"Surely that's the whole purpose behind the Triplanetary Fleet, though. Having three," Caine looked around for a second, then continued, "excuse me, four different forces covering Mars, the Belt, Callisto and Titan was a wartime necessity, but it makes a lot more sense for us to combine our resources."

"It worked well during the war. We were victorious," Tokubai said.

Akimoto placed his hand on his subordinate's shoulder, "You have to excuse my deputy, gentlemen. His loyalty to the Confederation is unquestionable, but there is always a certain nostalgia for old times."

"Indeed," Marshall said, raising his glass up to the light.

"Ah, we found that in the cold storage. There was a crate of wine that was here for the dedication ceremony they never had. Do you think a century's exposure to the vacuum of space has improved the quality, Captain?"

"Anything better than reconstituted alcohol," Caine said, taking a deep sip. "You keep an excellent table, Lieutenant-Major." She shook her head, "How did they come up with such an absurd rank anyway?"

"You are speaking in the presence of a Lieutenant-Captain, Lieutenant," Marshall said with an air of mock menace.

"I believe it was an attempt to resolve the age-old problem of two 'Captain' ranks when only one officer is correctly addressed by that title while on ship," Akimoto said.

Shirase frowned, "Correct me if I am wrong, but there are no officers holding that rank currently in service."

"Quite right, Lieutenant," Marshall said, "Just a swarm of Lieutenant-Captains and Lieutenant-Majors being ordered about by a small constellation of stars." He raised his glass again, "And though I know it can't last, I must say how refreshing it is to not have dozens of departments to send meaningless paperwork too."

"I will drink to that, Captain," Akimoto said, raising his glass. He looked over at the door at the sound of approaching footsteps, then back to the table, "That must be dessert."

Chapter 9

Esposito and Orlova stood on the observation deck of the outer ring of the station, looking out at Alamo seeming to slowly spin away from them as Uranus rose in the distance, casting an eerie green glow. There was a small crowd lounging around on couches, their clothes an amusing riot of color, half a dozen different syndicates represented in the off-duty personnel. Esposito was having a debate with a vending machine, and was resorting to carefully placed blows.

"This had better be the best iced tea I've ever had," she said, grimacing.

Orlova smiled, replying, "Probably not good odds on that. If you've finished breaking the machine, shall we have a walk around the lower level?" Gesturing towards the viewport, she continued, "This is lovely, but it's nothing we haven't seen for the last few days."

Shrugging, Esposito abandoned her attempt at refreshment, walking next to her friend down the steps, saying, "I hope the lower level is better than the upper one was. Most of the Belt syndicates seem to have decided to open up office space out here. I can see offices on Alamo."

"Almost as if they're expecting a gold rush."

"Out here?" she said, shaking her head.

It was getting towards late evening, station time, and the lower level was getting crowded as workers went off shift for the night. A few Alamo crewmen were sprinkled through the crowd, but there didn't seem to be many station personnel present. Orlova noted a small shop, still open, with 'Used Equipment' printed above the door. Inside were racks of what looked to be old scavenged junk from the abandoned areas of the station, and she nudged Esposito, pointing her in the shop's direction. The proprietor, who looked to be about as old as the station, sat behind a counter on an old stool, staring at the two of them as they began to browse.

The shelves weren't well organized; dusty old components from long-forgotten machinery were strewn around by pornographic posters in a variety of poses, next to some rather dubious looking knick-knacks. Orlova started to rummage on a top shelf, pushing some glass bottles dangerously close to the edge to reach for something at the back.

"What the hell is this?" asked Esposito, holding up a strange piece of equipment with wires dangling from it.

"No idea," replied Orlova, as she picked up an old spacesuit helmet, Mandarin writing along the back. "This is more interesting. I saw it from the corridor. Looks original, as well."

"You need a spare?"

Smiling, Orlova turned to the shopkeeper, "Where was this found? On the station?"

Peering down at a terminal, the old man grunted, "Out on Desdemona, a prospector found a cache of stuff."

"Desdemona?"

"You want a copy of the report, proof of ownership or something?"

"Sure. Might be heading out that way myself at some point."

"Six hundred credits for the lot."

Esposito reached down to a collection of old data crystals, labeled 'Techno-Folk', saying, "Captain likes this burbling. He might be interested in these old recordings."

"You after a promotion?"

Smirking, she leaned over to the shopkeeper, "What about a price for both of them? These can't be worth that much."

"Seven hundred. I'll throw in a few mission patches as well, might as well, I'm drowning in the damn things."

"Done." Orlova dropped her card into the payment slot, waving away Esposito when she preferred hers, "You can buy the drinks tonight." Looking back to the shopkeeper, she asked, "Can you have someone drop this off on the shuttle back to Alamo? We're probably going to be leaving before you open up."

A cracked smile crossed the old man's face, "Certainly. I'll have my 'prentis drop it off when I close."

"Hold on a moment." She pulled a wizened pencil out of her pocket and scrawled 'Orlova/Esposito' onto the bag, dropping the data crystal into it. "That should do it. Thanks."

"Hope to see you again."

Orlova had the distinct impression that the shopkeeper was laughing at her as they left the store, continuing their way around the ring. Esposito looked at the pilot, shaking her head.

"A week's salary on that?"

"You just blew a hundred credits on a present for the skipper."

"Not a present, I'm pretty sure he'll want them, and he's tied up having dinner with the station commander. Didn't want him to miss out, I figure he'll pay me back."

"Anyway, what else am I spending my money on? I've got free room and board, my shuttle's being looked after on Mariner for nothing, so I might as well add to my collection."

She shook her head, "Didn't Franklin complain about that pile of junk?"

"That's one of the best collections of 21st-century astronaut paraphernalia this side of the Belt."

They walked past three more closed shops while they were talking, before both smelling something reasonably tempting cooking from up ahead.

"You hungry, Maggie?"

"I could eat. I might change my mind when I see what they have cooking over there."

The source of the smell turned out to be a noodle bar, a converted mess area that had been opened up to the main corridor, probably because someone found a use for the metal. A cluster of stools had been semi-randomly placed around tables, a pair of people wearing the gold-and-green of the Catering Syndicate ladling out generous portions of food into plastic bowls, complete with metal chopsticks. One of the tables had been co-opted by Corporal Clarke, the taciturn NCO of Alamo's espatier unit, and he waved to his commander.

"Any good, Corporal?"

"Not bad."

Sitting next to him, Lance-Corporal Riley gestured to a couple of stools. "Room for you two, if you don't mind eating with the grunts," she said in between mouthfuls.

Orlova went over to the table, perching herself on a stool in between Riley and Clarke, "Find anything good?"

"All the interesting stuff's been locked down. Or wasn't even built in the first place by the looks of it, apparently they stopped building this place half-way through."

"We found a little museum," the petite Flanagan offered, gesturing with her chopstick. "Aside from this place, the closest thing this station has to a night-life is an all-night museum one of the storekeepers set up."

"What do you expect?" Orlova said. "This place is out in the middle of nowhere. Further than that. From what I heard, they only opened it up because they got it cheap at auction."

Riley shook her head, "Last time we got to fight off rebel terrorists, plasma weapons at the ready. This time the best we get is standing around in spacesuits watching a bunch of scientists polish old fossils, presuming they let us off the ship at all."

A pair of bowls clattered onto the table, one on front of Orlova, the other in front of Esposito, who took a seat next to the corporal. She tossed the pilot a pair of chopsticks, who caught them with a hand and planted them into the noodles. The pilot took a bite, nimbly moving the chopsticks from bowl to mouth with a small payload; they weren't as bad as she had been expecting, though there was an unusual tang to the food.

"They ran this off here. Apparently the mix is an old Earth recipe," Esposito said.

"I don't think it's aged well."

Another group walked in, making their way over to the table. Five of them, all rather tough looking, wearing a purple-gray combination, a collection of carefully cultivated stubble on their cheeks; all of them had mohawks, their hair carefully placed in a traditional Belter style.

"This is our table," their leader said, placing his hand next to Esposito's bowl.

Riley looked up at him, shaking her head, "Didn't see your name on it."

"Everyone knows this is our table. We're with the Atomic Syndicate. I'm Yoshiro."

"Is that supposed to mean something?" Orlova said, rolling her eyes.

Shaking his head, "It means find somewhere else to eat. We don't want your kind on this station anyway."

"Our kind?" Esposito asked. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"The Belt stands alone. It always has. We don't need any of you planetary types getting in our way."

"Getting in your way?" Riley said, laughing, "All you've got are a load of exhausted mines and this piece of junk. We ought to kick you out."

Yoshiro attempted to throw the first punch, but Riley dived back off her stool in time, leaving the miner's hand to slam into a near-empty bowl, splintering the plastic. His gang moved around menacingly, and Flanagan lunged at them, catching one of them on the temple and sending him reeling, before she was caught in the side. Esposito considered for a second whether she should do anything to stop this, but a stray elbow from one of Yoshiro's thugs sent her noodles spilling into her lap, and without thinking she cracked her elbow into his stomach, knocking him down to the floor. Not wanting to be left out, Riley managed to smash her hand into Yoshiro's face, sending him falling.

"Er, we aren't winning this one, guys," Orlova said, looking around. The rest of the bar had decided not to simply watch their countrymen being expertly knocked around, and were moving in from all sides. She grabbed a stool and started swinging it around dangerously, pushing some of the approaching mob back a few wary steps.

"Time to go," Clarke said, sending his bowl spinning into the crowd. The espatiers backed up to the door, stepping over the prone figures of Yoshiro and his goons, then sprinted out into the corridor, directly into a group of military police, nightsticks at the ready; at their approach the crowd stopped dead, looking contented that the law was taking their side.

"Who's the senior person here?"

"I am. Ensign Esposito. I take responsibility for my people, but we were provoked."

The corporal commanding the detachment waved over to the far side of the corridor, gesturing for the officer to follow. Clarke and Orlova tagged along as well.

"I believe you, Ensign, those Atomic crazies are calling half the fights out here. Nevertheless they're the ones with the money." He looked at the espatiers up and down, then continued, "Did you win?"

"Of course."

"Look, I've got to do something. You're scheduled to leave tomorrow anyway, aren't you?" Esposito nodded. "Then I'm issuing a curfew for you and your people as of now; we'll escort you back to the shuttle, or if that's going to be a problem, to a holding area for a while. One with a working drinks machine."

Esposito looked at Clarke, who nodded. "That sounds fine, Corporal. Sorry for causing problems."

"I expect it will do your people good to blow off some steam. I've done some long tours myself. Name's Gomez, by the way."

"Must be fun out here."

"Lots of fun. I have a detachment of three to keep order on a station where the syndicates have dumped four hundred people with next to nothing to do, on the off-chance that the miners will find something interesting. Uranium's sent out twenty people, the Ice Crackers have fifty – though at least they have something to do." He looked at the troopers again, then back at Esposito, "Say, I don't suppose there's any chance that I could borrow a squad while you're here?"

"Sorry, Corporal, I've only got a single squad this time. We're hip-deep in scientists..."

Her communicator cheeped, and she glanced down at it, then looked back up at the Corporal, saying, "I need to get to a terminal to speak to my ship." She turned to Orlova, "You to, apparently."

"Me?"

The corporal shrugged, "You can use my office, just down the corridor. Private Ishigawa will take the rest of your people back to the holding area."

He turned down the corridor, making a brisk pace, obviously well used to the stronger gravity; Orlova and Esposito were hard-placed to keep pace with him as he turned into an office. The room was tidy and well-kept, a neat stack of datapads on an empty desk, a picture of a man and three children placed where he could see it easily. He tapped in a twenty-digit security code and placed his palm down on the scanner, then gestured at the ensign.

"All yours."

She sat at the desk, and frowned when Cunningham's face appeared on it. He didn't waste any time.

"Is Sub-Lieutenant Orlova with you?"

"She is," Orlova said, leaning to look at the screen.

"I'm detaching both of you to Shakespeare Station. Captain Marshall has agreed to loan three pilots to crew some old fighters, in case our friends from the Republic decide to try something silly."

"Three of us?"

"I am informed that Third Lieutenant Douglas cannot be spared from her scientific duties, so Lieutenant Warren will be your commanding officer for the purposes of this assignment. If there is anything you want from Alamo, you'd better get in touch and request it; your flight gear is coming across on the next shuttle."

"What about my espatiers?"

"Are you objecting, Ensign? I should point out that giving you this assignment counts as flight duty, and hence," he paused for a second, obviously reluctant, "indicates that I consider you qualified as a fighter pilot. Your wings are coming over with your flight gear. If you believe you cannot be spared..."

She shook her head, "Corporal Clarke should be capable of doing whatever is necessary, and if needed I can easily be contacted. How long is this for?"

"Until Alamo returns to pick you up. Any further questions?" He looked away from the screen for a moment, then back at Esposito.

"No, sir."

"Alamo out."

The two of them looked at each other, Orlova sitting down on the other side of the table.

"I'll be damned. He certified us." Orlova looked up at the corporal. "Any chance you could go down and get us a bottle of something? We need to do some celebrating."

Chapter 10

There was a buzz from the door of Marshall's office; he punched to open it, and Cunningham walked in, immediately taking a seat opposite Marshall almost before the door could close behind him. The captain browsed through a datapad, deliberately ignoring the wing commander, before placing it back down on the desk after a short wait.

"You wanted to see me, Captain?"

"Yes, Mr. Cunningham, indeed I did. At 2300 last night, you detached three officers from this ship to Shakespeare Station, including the commander of this ship's Espatier unit. Not to mention the assignment of Lieutenant Warren as liaison officer. I can't argue with Sub-Lieutenant Orlova's selection, but the other two are critical to the mission we are undertaking. To be frank, Lieutenant, I expect to at the least be consulted before such decisions are made."

Leaning forward on the desk, Cunningham replied, "You ordered me to detach three pilots to the station. I was in command of the ship at the time, and Lieutenant Dietz was asleep in his quarters. I did not judge the situation important enough to wake him, and you were still over dining with Lieutenant-Major Akimoto."

Marshall replied, "Assigning Ensign Esposito was outside your authority, Lieutenant." He shook his head, continuing, "It's too damn late to rescind that order now, not without a prolonged delay."

"My judgment was that our strongest pilots should be assigned to the job. Lieutenant Warren had expressed a desire to lead the new pilots in combat, and he seemed a logical choice for the assignment."

"I grant you that Warren was a sensible choice. Assigning Esposito was outside your authority."

"Not while I was in command." The two of them were almost shouting. Marshall shook his head.

"Damn it, Cunningham, you're running the fighters as if they were your own personal fiefdom."

Resting back in his chair, he replied, "I will in future inform you whenever such decisions are made. Is that all, sir?"

"Not by a long shot, Lieutenant." He slammed the datapad on the desk. "We're both speaking freely. Take a look at that."

He glanced down, then back up, "My service history, post-war."

"That's not a service history, Lieutenant, it's a bad joke. One mediocre assignment after another, drifting further and further away from any sort of career path. You turned down Staff College twice; the second time you'd have got a promotion to Major. Now I can cope quite happily with an officer that doesn't have any ambitions to senior command..."

"I'm sure you can."

"...But the reports that are attached to it are far worse. Three times you came within a hair's breadth of a court-martial for insubordination. Lieutenant, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"I apologize if I am not living up to expectations."

Standing up, Marshall walked over to the viewscreen, his hands clasped behind his back, before turning back to the desk.

"Is this me, Cunningham? Are you still stuck back in the war, eleven damn years ago?" He gestured at the datapad. "Whatever else I have ever thought of you, Lieutenant, I never thought that you weren't a good officer." With an effort, Marshall softened his tone. "This posting is your last chance to get yourself back to where you once were. The Fleet's going to need good officers, and now that we're finally getting fighter wings – you should be thinking of getting another stripe in a couple of years, get up to group commander. Maybe a training job. Or hell, if you want to transfer out of fighters, I can organize that as well."

"Thanks for the career advice."

"Tell me what your problem is, Lieutenant. Consider it an order."

Cunningham stood up, and walked over to Marshall, looking out at the stars, then at the flag.

"Marshall, I look at you today and I still see the same officer I saw eleven years ago. I've read the reports from your mission to Ragnarok, and they don't suggest to me that anything has changed. You're still reckless. Someone has to protect the pilots from officers like you."

"And your response to my perceived failings is to gather up a few officers in your hands and wait for me to fail, is that it?"

"What else am I supposed to do?"

Marshall sat back at his desk, looking at his subordinate standing by the window. "Lieutenant, I have enough based on this conversation alone to write you transfer orders that will transfer you out of the fleet once and for all. Either Warren or Caine could take your place in a heartbeat."

"Then get on with it."

"No. I'm not going to do it."

Cunningham returned to his seat, peering at Marshall through narrowed eyes as if suspecting a trap, before saying, "Why not?"

"Because I need to make use of all the resources at my disposal. That includes you."

"I'm a resource now. Is that what I've been reduced to?"

"You are a valuable officer whose skills can be a phenomenal asset to this ship. Whether or not you decide to be is your decision, not mine. I need a wing commander on top of his game right now – hunting for some mysterious alien ruins with the Republic breathing down our necks and a third of our pilots stuck out on a semi-derelict space station? This situation can get bad very quickly. I need more than a wing commander, I need an adviser."

"What?"

Crossing his arms, Marshall sat upright, "If you truly believe that I am that reckless, then your duty as an officer is to alert me if I am making mistakes. I expect all my senior staff to advise me, to offer me alternatives. Not only in your field, but on any topic. I would be stupid to ignore your experience and skills. And that, I hope even you can concede, I am not."

"I grant you that. You were a pretty good pilot."

"Maybe you can become a pretty good officer again. When this mission is over, we can have more words if you like." He paused. "In future I expect to be consulted about any transfer decisions or patrol plans."

"Understood, Captain."

"That's all. Dismissed."

Cunningham walked out of the room, stalked across the bridge and into the elevator. After a moment, Dietz walked in, standing at attention beside the door, gesturing at the chair.

"By all means, sit down," Marshall said.

Carefully, Dietz pulled out the chair and sat, replying, "Thank you, Captain."

"Did any of that get through the dividing walls?"

"Enough for me to hear. I am aware that my predecessor was transferred under similar circumstances, prior to her mutiny, that is."

Marshall sighed, "That was a mistake. Had she not turned out to be a traitor, it would have been the wrong thing to do. If an officer is incompetent, my duty is to correct that by any means required, or see that they are placed in a position better suited to them – or out of the service entirely, if it comes to that. Personality conflicts are another matter."

The calculating exec nodded, "I agree. His record – especially during the war – suggests that he should be an extremely valuable officer."

"There's more to it than that, and I need your assistance."

"I am always happy to be of service, Captain."

"We have a personal history. I don't see any need to bring it up here..."

"After the Second Battle of Vesta, he attempted to initiate court-martial proceedings against you, until then-Major-General Tramiel overrode that decision. Whereupon you were both promoted, and he was transferred."

Shaking his head, Marshall replied, "How do you do that?"

"Sir?"

"Never mind. I know that you are both of equal rank, but you are above him in the command structure..."

"So you would like me to monitor the situation, and to discuss any potential action regarding this officer with you before you make any final decision. I will be happy to act in this manner."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. I appreciate this."

"I am simply doing my duty, sir." He paused. "One other matter. I never really had the opportunity to thank you for promoting me out of seniority."

"That was four months ago."

"I know." There was a faint tinge of embarrassment on his cheeks. "Nevertheless, I am grateful."

"I simply promoted the best officer for the job. If it means anything, I had already decided to name you as Zakharova's replacement prior to the mutiny."

"Sir?" That had surprised him.

"You know the ship inside and out, anticipate decisions and provide alternate options – without getting annoyed when I reject them. Those are rare characteristics; you were the obvious choice for the job."

"If I may speak candidly, I would have expected Lieutenant Caine to have been named. She would, in my opinion, make an excellent executive officer."

"As it happens, I agree with you, and I expect to appoint her to that role at some point." More surprise on Dietz's face. "If the fleet expands, my expectation is that you will be given a command of your own before too long, and my assignment to this ship is to last three years. Two and eight months, now, of course."

"I had not considered that possibility."

Marshall smiled, his mood improving, "You should start to give it serious thought, Lieutenant."

Silently, Dietz nodded, obviously thinking, before replying, "If that is all, sir?"

"Dismissed."

As the door closed behind his executive officer, Marshall walked over to the viewscreen again, almost tripping over a bag on the floor with some writing scrawled on it; he kicked it under his desk and began to ponder, looking over the mission plan again. At least this time he had a crew he could mostly count on, it didn't feel quite so much as if he was going into the unknown.

He called up the previous exploration reports from the records again, all the way back to the first European expedition. Seven different trips out here, including one which built a thousand-man station that had been made redundant with the development of FTL. In all that time, no-one had ventured further in than Miranda, a dozen moons yet untouched. He called them up, watched them rotating on his desk, one after another. Portia, Cordelia, Cressida, Desdemona, even the names sounded filled with romance. This time he was going to lead some of the landing teams himself. They'd be at Cressida in a couple of days, ready to begin surveying the first group of moons.

The communicator beeped from the bridge, Marshall reached down and tapped a button to answer, "Yes?"

"Ortega here, sir. I have Lieutenant Warren from Shakespeare Station for you."

"Put him on."

Already they were far enough away for there to be a lag, "Danny, good to hear from you. It's cold out here in Siberia."

"Sorry for your exile, Teddy, but I'm not overriding Cunningham on this one."

"Think nothing of it. Putting me here as liaison's a sensible enough move. Bit abrupt, though, being woken up in the middle of the night and told I was on my way to purgatory."

"Have you checked out the fighters yet?"

"I was just out on a test flight. Aside from some communication glitches I'm looking at – because it would be nice to be able to talk to someone else during a flight, gets a bit lonely otherwise – they're in pretty good shape. I'm going to start checking the rest of my flight on it now."

"Raven Four and Five, I presume?"

"Damn right."

"Don't do anything silly, Teddy. If that frigate turns up, don't get any crazy ideas. Your job is to provide a deterrent factor."

"Two Mark Nine Hellblazer Missiles approaching at full-bore should do that, I reckon." Before Marshall could interrupt, he continued, "I know, I know, I'll be careful. Can't have Old Mother Cunningham getting on my back."

"Have the drinks lined up when we get back to Shakespeare."

"If I haven't had them by the time you get here. Warren out."

Marshall sat back in his chair, smiling, then looked at the growing pile of paperwork. If he could get it down to a week-old backlog, he could reward himself with a landing assignment. Spurred on, he set to work.

Chapter 11

Orlova ran her hand over the smooth side of the fighter, patting it as if it was a pet she was meeting for the first time. Esposito looked on with barely-concealed amusement, but the young pilot ignored her; despite all the advancements of two centuries of flight, she still believed that there was no replacement for actually touching your craft, looking at every joint and join, every part of the outer surface and interior, before getting in and flying it for the first time. Warren came bustling in, a couple of technicians following him.

"Really, Lieutenant, I cannot approve your launch at this time. We still haven't finished any of the safety checks," one of the technicians said, "and our flight-worthiness certificates for these craft haven't been updated in years."

Maintaining his pace, Warren replied, "Never mind all of that. I've looked over the maintenance schedules myself and checked out the fighters. After a hundred sorties I ought to know if a bird is ready or not. My test flight went fine."

“You waited until my crew were off watch!”

"She's ready," Orlova said, turning her head, "And so are we."

"I tell you again, I can't authorize this."

Laughing, Warren strode past his fellow pilots and slapped his hand on the airlock release, pausing briefly in the hatch to reply, "You don't need to authorize a thing, old boy. I'm in command now, remember? Have your bright boys keep an eye on our flight readings to evaluate the test flights, and have a shuttle standing by just in case."

The technician placed an arm in front of the lieutenant, "Why now? In seventy-two hours we'll have everything checked out and ready to go."

"Be a good chap, contact the approaching frigate and tell them to delay their arrival, will you?" He sighed, then continued, "Look, time's a commodity we have in bloody short supply right now. We follow your schedule, we've only got a couple of days to get everything else ready. That's not much time to build a flight. Five days isn't much better."

"I don't mind risking it," Orlova added.

"Nor do I," said Esposito, halfway to her own fighter.

Warren pressed his point home, "These beasts were thrown together in about five minutes, but the one thing I can say about them is that they were reliable. You could use them and abuse them and they will still keep on ticking." He moved the technician's arm and scrambled in, saying, "As we will now demonstrate."

Orlova stepped into her fighter, sliding carefully into the pilot's couch, grimacing as some of the padding dug into her; she briefly wondered what giant had been the last one to sit in the launch couch. Her worn key slid home, and the contours of the couch molded to fit her slight form, and the controls arranged themselves to her customary positions. There was still something brushing against her right foot, and she reached down to see a small silver disc with Cyrillic writing around the edge.

Evidently the last pilot, whoever he or she was, had a lucky totem that he had failed to take with him before leaving for the last time. She slid it gently into a nook on the control station, making sure it had no room to slide, and placed on a headset.

"Raven Four, ready for launch," she said.

"Roger that, Raven Four, stand by. Take a peek at the flight plan while you are waiting; Five's got a little problem with her afterburner."

Warren had put together quite an ambitious flight plan; all three of them would engage in some involved squadron maneuvers flying around the station, then a speed run to give the engines a proper workout, out to a cluster of targets to give their missiles a test. Orlova settled herself down to wait, taking the time to get the feel of the controls, working brief mental shortcuts. While the controls were in her usual presets, every console was still subtly different enough that it took a little time to get used to them.

"Raven Five, ready."

"Raven Leader to Ravens. Launch when ready."

With a smile, Orlova activated the launch elevator, the sound of alert sirens fading away as the doors closed and the atmosphere was vented. She was slightly concerned at the condition of the mechanism – by the looks of it, maintenance had not been a high priority, and she quickly tapped a note for the post-flight briefing. With an unceremonious lurch, the fighter was dropped out of the station, slowly spinning away. Disabling her automatic controls, she stabilized the fighter herself with minuscule taps on the thrusters, rocking slightly back and thought.

"Fuziyawa here." The voice was of the annoying technician from earlier. "Report malfunction with control systems."

"No malfunction. I just wanted to get the feel of her myself. Out."

Before the line closed, she could have sworn that she heard a sigh from the other end. Tapping the automatic controls back on for the fine corrections, she engaged the pre-arranged flight plan, preparing to take over if she had even half a reason. Not that simply sitting in the fighter was a boon – she glanced down to the wings she'd attached to her tunic earlier – but actually flying the ship herself had an appeal. Since joining the fleet, she'd barely logged enough flight time to keep her rating at its top level, and that was only going to get worse unless she could fix it.

Touching a control, she activated the viewers and immediately reveled in the feeling of being in space; aside from the couch and the control panel, it was as if she was floating gently next to a pair of similar fighters, though she noted an impressive stylized drawing of a fire-breathing lizard on the front of the lead fighter – evidently Warren hadn't waited to customize his craft, and she admired his handiwork.

A voice began to count down the seconds till the engines fired, and she braced herself for the shock. At zero, there was a brief blast of acceleration, then the fighter pivoted, then another, and finally a third, putting the fighters on a spiraling course around the station that allowed her to get a good look at it for the first time.

Shakespeare Station's age was even more obvious now than when looking at the inside. The interior of the station, to some extent, had been modernized, but the outside still showed all the typical over-engineering of the period. The space were the ionic tugs were attached was still obvious, hooked out around the ring.

Five years or more this station had drifted through the solar system from its construction site in L5 out all the way to its meeting with Titania, destined to spend the rest of its existence hovering over the desolate moon. Her eye glanced over the assemblage of bolted on modules, strewn in a seemingly-random way along the station's central core, all with their own purpose that by now was probably long forgotten, equipment hopelessly old or never installed at all.

"Raven Leader to Ravens. Stand by for full burn."

Ten seconds later, the engine fired again, sending Orlova slamming back into her couch. The simulated target dodged around on a random trajectory, performing just as it would if it were the real thing, and then settled into a direct course to allow the engine to be put through its paces. All the warning lights stayed dark, everything was working perfectly. The navigational computer blinked, sending a stream of data running down the heads-up display; the course as programmed was taking them close to the Raifuku Maru at its parking station. There didn't seem anything particularly wrong with wanting to show off on the first flight, though it occurred to her a second later that Warren was actually hedging his bets, keeping his fighters as close as possible to rescue in case something went wrong.

The freighter had evidently seeded the targets; half a dozen images were beginning to focus on her sensors as they grew close enough to detect them, and the engines fired again to slow the fighters enough to give them a decent shot. Naturally, under normal circumstances, targets would not simply be hovering still in space, countermeasures off, waiting for someone to attack them, but given that the missile racks on these fighters hadn't been used in anger for eight years, Orlova felt on balance that a nice easy test was for the best.

"Raven Leader. Firing missile number one."

There was a brief burst of light from the lead fighter, a small dart racing rapidly out of sight. The heads-up display tracked it, and with the touch of a button, a tactical hologram of local space appeared, just in time for Orlova to see a small, satisfactory explosion at the far end of the track. Now it was her turn, and she quickly flicked on the targeting controls, waiting the brief second for the green light to come one.

"Raven Four to all. Firing missile now."

A slight shudder reverberated through the fighter, and she saw a pinpoint of light speeding away from her fighter, curving gently towards its target. An irrepressible smile danced across her face as she saw the missile hit home, saw the target wink out on the sensor display. Looking across at Esposito's fighter, she waited for the call from her friend.

"Raven Five. Something's wrong with my missile launchers, targeting computer is out of alignment. Estimate five minutes to repair."

After a few seconds, "Raven Leader calling. Fine, Raven Five, you can do your tests last. Launching missile number two."

Another burst of light, and then a series of alarms started to sound throughout the fighter, the hologram initiating a series of alert tracks. She started flicking switches, narrowing down the problem, and then spotted the missile trajectory, burning nowhere near the assigned target.

"Raven Four to Raven Leader," she began.

"Raven Leader. I see it. I've got a rogue missile. Auto-destruct has failed. All ships stand-by electronic warfare packages."

The trio of fighters were the nearest targets other than the four remaining drone targets, and the flight leader's fears seemed logical enough for Orlova that she frantically began to type in commands, feeding information on the missile design specifications into the computer. She disabled the system infiltration package, focusing the computers on other means of defense – if the parent craft had failed to knock out the missile, she didn't consider hers had much chance – and waited for the missile to stop its dance. For a few seconds it seemed likely that the missile would instead exhaust its fuel, failing to acquire a target at all, but the hope soon died as its trajectory settled on a course that left no room for doubt – the Raifuku Maru.

"Raven Leader to Raifuku Maru," Orlova heard over her headset. "Rogue missile is heading your way. Activate e-war package."

"Negative, Raven Leader. Our craft has no such equipment. Beginning evacuation procedures."

A thought flashed through Orlova's mind, and she yelled, "Belay that! Any launched pods would simply be a target."

"Raven Leader here. I agree."

"Then what do you suggest we do?"

Ignoring the chatter, Orlova started to run a sequence into her targeting computer. Without a word, she entered in a new course change, hit the override button three times to convince the computer that she did indeed want initiate the firing sequence, then felt the force of the engine through her back in her chair again. The targeting computer started resolving plots, courses arcing across the screen.

"Raven Leader to Raven Four! What the hell are you doing?" The anguished voice of Warren echoed through her ears.

"I'm taking down that missile with my remaining missile."

"That won't work. My missile is at full acceleration, it can't catch up in time."

"It can if it uses my fighter as its first stage. Missile firing in twenty-one seconds."

"Don't do it!" Panic leapt across space from the Raifuku Maru. "If it goes wrong we'll have two missiles hitting us."

Orlova smiled, and replied, "I have no intention of getting it wrong. Firing in five seconds."

Another voice, much too late, came through from the station, "This is Lieutenant Tokubai. Abort. Abort. That's a direct order!"

Her fighter was burning fuel at a prodigious rate, ramping up the acceleration as much as she dared; every muscle was aching from the heavy pull, and she felt as if she was on the brink of passing out, but desperately held on with everything she had, waiting for the missile to fire. The rattle of a missile launch came as her engines cut back, thrusters vectoring her onto a course that would – eventually – get her back to Shakespeare Station, though she had condemned herself to nine and a half hours of cruising back.

The tracks of the two missiles slowly began to converge, her missile's safety systems overridden, accelerating far past norms in a bid to eat up the distance between the two targets. A slight variation in thrust, a microsecond's error, and a disaster would beckon; Orlova's hand hovered over the missile detonation button.

It was almost anti-climactic when the two lights winked out at the same time, with only twelve seconds remaining before impact. Letting out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding, she checked the course tracks one last time, making sure everything was safe. The sound of cheering came over her headset.

"Raifuku Maru to Raven Four. Incredibly fine shooting!" She could hardly hear the communications technician over the background noise from the bridge. "Everyone over here owes you their lives."

"Raven Leader to Raven Four. Damn good show."

"Raven Five to Raven Four. First round's on me when you get back. Need any assistance?"

"Raven Four to all. I'm just glad it worked. I'll see you back at the station – probably just in time for dinner. I presume we're skipping the rest of the missile testing today?"

"Raven Leader here. I think you can definitely take that as a given, Sub-Lieutenant. I'll see you back at the barn."

Chapter 12

Caine opened the door to Marshall's cabin to the sound of a loud discordant whine; the captain was sitting on his bed in the lotus position, his eyes closed, one hand making hacking motions in time to the music. Smiling, she tiptoed across the deck, moving over behind his shoulder, before tapping him squarely on the small of the back. His eyes popped open, and he looked around wildly.

"What the hell?"

Caine's rolling laughter echoed through the room, competing with the caterwauling from the room's speakers; Marshall fumbled for a panel by the side of his bed and turned the music off.

"Sorry, Danny, I couldn't resist."

His face still red, he smiled in response, replying, "Try harder next time."

"You still listening to that rubbish?"

"Pandatsang Gyatso, I will have you know, was the finest performer the Tibetan Diaspora ever produced. It isn't my fault you have no taste."

"At least my ears work." She passed over a datapad. "First reports from Desdemona."

He took the datapad, flicking across the reports with a finger, shaking his head, "Three moons, three duds. Nothing worth even a second flyby, never mind an actual landing." He frowned. "Why am I getting this now? The flight isn't scheduled to launch for an hour."

"Scanning sections have found something that might be worth a closer look. Tenth page of the report."

He looked at the relevant page and his eyes widened; he looked up at his tactical officer who smiled in response.

"Are they sure about this?"

"Mulenga's checked it five times. A strong heat source coming from the south polar region, ten miles underground."

"I think that classifies as interesting. Have the fighters re-tasked to concentrate on that region."

"Already done, and they should be launching in a few minutes. Cunningham's taking the fighters out himself." She grimaced slightly at the name; Marshall was quick to catch the look.

"Problem?"

She looked around the room for a second, then sat next to Marshall on the bed. He took the queue, reached into a cupboard and pulled out a couple of glasses, filling them with a noisome green liquid that caused her nose to wrinkle.

"What the hell is this stuff?"

"Some sort of flavored vodka I picked up. And don't change the subject."

She paused, saying, "It isn't my place to discuss a senior officer..."

"Don't give me that crap, Deadeye."

"He's not the man he was eleven years ago. Not in the slightest. I know you two had your disagreements..."

"To put it mildly," Marshall interrupted, earning a pair of daggers shooting from Caine's eyes.

"...but he was a good officer, and a good leader. Not to mention a lot of fun off duty."

She smiled at that, and Marshall took his turn at looking embarrassed before replying, "So what's changed?"

"It's as if he's dead inside, Danny. He's made a couple of attempts to seek me out, I guess he wants to apologize, but he hasn't followed through."

"Apologize?"

Squinting her eyes at him, she frowned, "For cheating on me, Danny?"

"What?" he shouted.

"You didn't know? I walked in on him with Samson one night, thought I was going to surprise him. I got the surprise."

"Samson? I don't remember her."

She smiled, "You spent most of that fortnight in a daze, Danny. She got shipped out as part of our replacements, about a month before Second Vesta. Right after the two of you had that shouting match."

"The blonde with the..."

"Yes, that one." Irritation laced through her voice. "It was a long time ago, and hell, she got shot down like most of the rest of them that day. Water under the bridge, but I was glad I got transferred away at the time. What matters now is Cunningham as an officer. He's too tightly wound up, and it's showing. I don't think that being assigned to your ship is actually helping, but that's not it."

"He's acting like he's an autonomous entity. Like he's got his own command and I'm just the taxi driver."

"Oh, he always acted that way. But he's far too protective of his pilots." She paused, then said, "You don't tell your pilots to be careful when on an operation, you tell them to get the job done. You know that." Marshall nodded, and she continued, "He doesn't seem to be acting that way. Since Warren went to Shakespeare he's flown every mission himself, no exceptions. I've talked to the pilots, and he's making every decision for them. Nothing left to individual chance; we might as well set them up so he can fly the whole flight by remote."

"You think that's why he got Teddy over to the station?"

"Probably. Whether he knows it or not is another question entirely, of course. I don't know if he's admitting it even to himself."

The two of them took long sips of their drink, gagging slightly at the taste, looking at the wall in mutual thought.

"There's not much I can do, Deadeye."

"He's too wound up. If something goes wrong, especially with one of the pilots..."

"You think he might crack."

"We just had three years of war, Danny. He had eight, and saw his pilots shot down again and again."

He looked away, out at the viewscreen; the barren gray shape of Desdemona was slowly moving into view, and drained the rest of his drink, pouring himself another one, slipping a fizzing pill into the glass.

"Got to remember I might be needed," he muttered for a second. "Deadeye, I know it better than you. I had a taste of it again four months ago. I know what it is like to send fighters off on missions, knowing that there is only a fifty/fifty chance that you'll ever see the pilots again. To sit in that ready room with people you are responsible for, who have an estimated life expectancy that can be measured in weeks. We lived, Deadeye. We beat those odds." He drained the rest of the glass in one. "But I never forget the rest of them. It's like a gallery of faces in my mind."

"How much worse for him."

He slammed the glass down on his bedside table, replying, "Don't you think I know that? Damn it, Deadeye, I agreed to give him a chance to rescue his career. He's got to want it, and he's got – at least to some extent – to earn it. Tramiel should have put him with Flynt, or Ben-David. They haven't got the same baggage we've got."

"Maybe he decided to kill two birds with one stone."

"Am I the bird or the stone?"

That earned a smile from Caine, but before she could reply they felt the ship turning, the engine beginning to fire. Marshall leapt for his communicator, but it started to beep before he could contact the bridge.

"Marshall here. What's happening."

"Dietz here, Captain. I've just initiated a course change to put us into orbit around Desdemona. Raven Two has found something interesting; your presence is requested in Astrogation immediately."

Looking at this clock, Marshall replied, "I'm on my way. Leave Ryder to see to the burn and meet me there. Have Shirase come down as well." He looked up at Caine, smiling, "I guess something paid off after all."

The two of them raced out of the door and down the corridor to the elevator; as the doors slid closed Marshall willed it to move faster. A short eternity later, the doors opened again in the sensor section. Cheering was resounding around the corridor, coming from astrogation, and they walked in to see a holographic image of Desdemona revolving in the middle of the room, course plots of the three fighters curving over its pole, and zoomed in images of what was obviously an artificial structure over the heat source. Shirase had beat them to the room, and was clapping Vivandi on the back with evident glee, while Mulenga looked on serenely, smiling.

"What have you got?" Marshall asked.

"We found what we were looking for, Captain!" Shirase yelled.

Vivandi smiled, nodding, "Raven Two picked up signs of a complex close to the south pole of Desdemona, almost precisely over the heat source we picked up when we got close. I ordered a closer inspection, and the images we're getting back cannot be anything else. It doesn't match anything we've seen before, either – I think we're looking at a new alien race, one that visited our system millions of years ago. Do you realize what this means, Captain?"

"The first sign that an alien race has ever visited our system," Caine said in awe.

"What about this heat source?" Marshall asked.

"I think it might actually be some sort of active power plant, Captain. This base could be intact, it could be operational! I can hardly conceive of what we might find inside, the answers to secrets a million years old, undiscovered technology centuries ahead of ours, anything. We've got to go down there right away."

Dietz walked into the room in time to hear the last sentence, saying, "We will be in a stable orbit in about ten minutes, Captain. The extremely low gravity means that we can't establish an unpowered Desdemonosynchronous orbit, so we'll have to be content with a series of passes."

Mulenga added, "I have given the bridge a trajectory that will allow Alamo to continue to survey the rest of the moon."

"I hadn't thought of that! There might be other facilities on the moon as yet undiscovered,” Vivandi exclaimed, rubbing her hands together in glee.

"Mr. Dietz," Marshall began, "have the duty communications officer contact Mariner Station, and inform them of our findings to date. State that I am officially registering a claim on this moon under the Treaty of Quetta on behalf of the Triplanetary Confederation, and I would like it confirmed as rapidly as possible." He looked around at the eager officers. "Obviously we're going to need to take a look at this."

"I'll get a landing team ready immediately!" Vivandi began to walk out of the room, only to be restrained by Marshall.

"Not so fast, Doctor. The first priority is to make sure the area is safe and secure. We'll keep the first team small. I'll take Shuttle One down with Corporal Clarke, Dr. Vivandi and Third Lieutenant Douglas."

The protests began instantly across the room, with Dietz getting in first, "Captain, this is extremely irregular."

"I'm going, Lieutenant. That discussion is ended. Doctor?"

"If you're going, so am I," Caine said. "I'm the liaison with the science team, remember, and I probably have more experience with aliens than anyone else on Alamo."

Shirase was looking at the monitors again, then turned to Marshall, saying, "My people have a strong stake in this, sir. They should be represented."

Sighing, Marshall nodded, "Caine, you can come along, but not you, Mr. Shirase. I need the operations officer to remain on board and monitor the situation. Lieutenant Caine has qualifications that could help the landing party." Left unspoken was Marshall's lack of such training. "Doctor, do you want anyone else?"

"I suppose I should take Cross, as well."

"Very well. We'll balance out with a couple more espatiers, I'll let Clarke pick the ones he wants for the landing. We leave in thirty minutes; you'd better get yourselves ready."

The room began to empty, until only Mulenga, Dietz and Marshall remained. Dietz was looking at Marshall with a stern expression on his face; Mulenga simply looked entranced by the sight of the base.

"Get it out of your system, Lieutenant," Marshall said to his exec.

"Captain, your place is here in command. Lieutenant Caine is fully qualified to command the landing team; I certainly agree with you that we can't let the science team down there alone until we are certain it is safe and secure."

"I have full confidence in your abilities to command this ship in my absence, Lieutenant. I don't really expect to find anything dangerous in a million-year-old base, and I have four espatiers to guard me in the event something goes wrong."

Dietz nodded, and thinly smiled, replying, "I have the distinct impression, Captain, that no argument I could make would convince you not to go."

"Our Captain is a born tourist, Lieutenant," Mulenga said, "I don't think anything other than a full-scale attack on Alamo would keep him from the surface."

"In that case, I will wish you good luck, Captain."

Marshall smiled, then looked up at the hologram again. "Mulenga, I want you to come down with the balance of the science team and the rest of the espatiers once we have made sure the facility is secure. I intend to leave you in command of the garrison on the surface."

"In the event that the frigate attacks, you intend to defend this facility?" Mulenga asked.

Marshall looked at Dietz, then nodded, "This just became the most valuable piece of property in the Uranian sub-system. I can't turn it over to the Lunar Republic without a fight; I'd rather give them Shakespeare. Alamo will remain in orbit until I receive orders to the contrary. Your priority will be establishing a defensive perimeter around the alien base; if you need anyone or anything from Alamo, I expect to hear about it instantly."

"I will start making my plans immediately, Captain."

"Mr. Dietz, while I'm on the surface, keep Mariner updated constantly. You'd better get in contact with Shakespeare Station as well."

"Should we try and keep it secret?"

"No. I want the whole system to know that we've found this base – emphasis on the 'we'. If we keep it a secret we're almost inviting the Lunar Republic to try a covert snatch and grab operation."

Nodding, Dietz said, "I will make the necessary arrangements."

"Bring the fighters back in and have them readied for immediate launch; get them ready for action. How's Quinn doing with his hangar queens?"

"At last report, he had one of the two fighters operational."

"Good. I hope we don't need them. I'll see you when I get back."

Marshall turned, walking out of the room down the corridor towards the elevator, a smile on his face. This was what he had signed up for.

Chapter 13

The ceiling was painted in specifications, blueprints and diagrams; Orlova furrowed her brow as she tried to follow the complicated pattern, constantly referring to one or another of the datapads strewn across her lap. For the last day she had been locked in her room, trying to work out what could have gone wrong; a long-dead cup of coffee sat mouldering by her side as she was lost in a sea of engineering. It didn't help that the systems on the station were old; she could see the beams projected by the hologenerator, and the flickering lights were beginning to give her a headache. There was a knock on the door.

"I'm busy," she said.

Despite her protest, the door slid open to reveal the concerned face of Lieutenant Warren, who settled himself in a dilapidated old plastic chair at the foot of her bed that creaked alarmingly under his weight.

He gestured down at the chair, "Still can't get used to all this damn gravity."

She sat up, blueprints covering her cheek where the beam hit her, datapads clattering to the ground. She reached over for her coffee, took a sniff, then thought better of it.

"Sorry, Lieutenant."

"Call me Teddy, for god's sake. Everyone else does. Not much use for ranks out here."

"Fine. Are we going up again?"

"Not until the technicians get finished working out what's wrong with our bloody missiles we're not. Smug bastards have been giving me grief since we touched down, rubbish about how they were right all along. I still say they weren't; I'd rather find out about misfires now then when our lives are depending on those missiles hitting home."

"You were right."

He smiled, "Thanks for that, Maggie. Mind if I call you Maggie?"

"Not at all. And that wasn't a moral argument. I've spent the last twenty-four hours reading up on these missiles, and fired a bucket-load of questions to Quinn. I don't trust these Belter tinkerers out here."

Leaning forward, a frown crept across his face, and he replied, "What have you found?"

"That there is no possible way for all the fail-safes to have gone wrong in that way. Too many safety features built in – at the worst, there are two redundant destruct systems."

"God yes. Last thing we want is for a bird to spin around and hit us in the butt! I remember back on the Wright,..."

She interrupted him, "We were sabotaged."

He fell silent, rubbing a hand across his face, pausing before responding, "Are you sure?"

"No other explanation makes sense." She tapped a button, and a series of circuits lit up. "So many things would have had to go wrong with that missile that it wouldn't have launched at all. That's another thing – our own auto-diagnostic systems should have caught it, and they didn't."

"Which means?"

"That someone tampered with the missiles, probably at the programming level. Of course, with your missile destroyed, we have no way to be sure, but that is the only solution that makes any sense."

"So we can't trust our ordinance. Damn it."

Frowning, she said, "It means that someone here is actively working against us, probably for the Republic. We have infiltrators on board."

"Maggie, I know that what happened on your first mission might have colored your viewpoint a bit, but we don't have spies and mutinies every time we leave dock, you know."

"Lieutenant," she couldn't quite bring herself to call him Teddy, "just because it happened once doesn't mean it won't happen again. There is something strange going on out here."

"Oh, I'll let Danny know about it in my next data packet. I'm firing one off to him in an hour, anyway. What I came here for was to tell you about the party – I want you to attend."

Her eyes widened, "Excuse me? I've just told you that there is evidence that someone is sabotaging our missiles, that they may well be doing all manner of things to our fighters, and you are telling me to go to someone's party?"

"Yes. Has it occurred to you that the programming could simply be off? Your conspiracy could just be some drunken computer tech passed out on his console."

"Or it could be something a lot more serious. We need to get station security on this right away."

He shook his head, "Already done, but if there is some sort of plot, what makes you think they aren't involved?"

That stopped her for a moment, but she continued, "What good are we without our missiles?"

"We'll find a way when it comes to it. Hopefully it won't; I believe that if there is some sort of plot, it is far more likely to have been to discredit us rather than kill us in a battle that probably won't come. We've likely been past the worst of it."

"And if not? Damn it, Lieutenant, this is serious."

Standing up, Warren shook his head, "Sub-Lieutenant, you need to unwind. Immediately. Alamo has found some sort of alien base, and the whole station is celebrating the happy times that are upon us. Looks like this mission is going to work out after all. If you stay in this locked room looking at blueprints, what good are you going to be when that frigate gets here? Two and a half days, remember. Your orders – yes, orders – are to go to the party for at least six hours, have your fair share of drinks – or perhaps more – and then come back here and get at least eight hours sleep."

"Yes, sir," she replied, sullenly.

"That I'm having to order a junior officer to go to an all-expenses-paid party is a sad state of affairs."

"All paid? By whom?"

"Atomic miners' syndicate, or some such. Didn't ask too many details. Never needed an excuse for a party myself! Now I'm going, and I expect to see you there. Remember, that's an order. You can obsess again tomorrow if you want."

At that, he walked out of the room, shaking his head as he went; Orlova felt the same way, though for rather different reasons. She reached up for her single set of civilian clothes and changed; the jumpsuit wasn't exactly flattering, but station stores were extremely limited when it came to attire that wasn't some sort of uniform. With a reluctant air, she began to turn off the holoprojector, but paused for a moment and dashed off a quick note to Alamo, enclosing her findings thus far.

As she walked out of the room, she idly wondered where the party was; Esposito wasn't in her quarters, so she made her way to the lower ring; the only place she had managed to find that served anything even approximating liquor was the noodle bar. The corridors were deserted until she reached the concourse, and then she began to get an idea of how many people were in the station; it was packed tightly with people, wearing the uniforms of a dozen different syndicates, most of them in various stages of intoxication. One of the men she had fought with earlier caught her eye, and started to make his way over towards her; she tried to get out of the way, but the crowd was too tight to squeeze through.

"You Orlova?" the man asked; she vaguely recognized him as Yoshiro.

"Sub-Lieutenant Orlova, yes."

He let out a manic laugh, waved his hands in the air, and yelled, "She's here, lads!"

Once again she attempted to back away into the crowd, but before she realized hands were underneath her, pushing her into the air, and their owners were cheering. Cheering her name.

"Make way for the savior of the Raifuku Maru!"

They carried her through the crowd to the noodle bar, depositing her at a table inside where a seat had been cleared for her; one of Yoshiro's men ran over with a bottle of warm sake, placed carefully in front of her. Esposito was in a corner, and waved at her; she began to make her way over.

"Er...", she said, without much coherence.

"I'm head of the engine gang over on the Maru," Yoshiro explained. "We worked out that we'd have been the ones that were targeted if the missile had hit. I don't know about the idiot who fired it in the first place," having worked with Warren for a while, Orlova had some sympathy with that viewpoint, "but I know for a fact that you saved our lives. We've set you up a tab at this place – whatever you order is on the Atomic Syndicate, for as long as you are on the station. It's the least we can do."

Esposito slid into a seat opposite Orlova, placing her own drink on the table. Looking around, Orlova smiled and shrugged.

"If that's how it's going to work, I think my first order is a round for you and your gang!"

They cheered at that, and Yoshiro slapped her on the back hard enough to make her gasp for a moment, before the crowd made their way over to the bar to drink away their Syndicate's profits. Esposito was still shaking her head, trying not to laugh.

"It's as if that fight never happened," she said.

"I hope their Syndicate has deep pockets."

"They do, Maggie – they're paying for the whole party. By which I mean the Maru's spent the last few hours fabricating all of this stuff, by the looks of it. I've no idea if anyone is on duty, the whole station's turned out for it."

"I wish I was out at Alamo. Alien ruins for us to poke around?"

"We'll get our chance. Now that they've actually found something, my betting is that Alamo's going to be stationed out here for a while. We might get really lucky and end up as part of the permanent garrison."

Orlova made a face, then replied, "This place is fine in small doses, but I think I'd rather be back on the ship having exciting adventures. If I wanted to sit around in a bar, I'd be back on Mariner."

"When that frigate gets here, we'll probably wish we were back in this bar.”

"No probably about it."

Looking around, Esposito asked, "What are you doing here anyway? I didn't think there was any point bothering you."

"Warren ordered me to come."

Her friend laughed, replying, "You're joking."

"No. He thinks I'm working too hard and that I need to loosen up a little. That and he thinks the sabotage I've found is probably some programmer's error, or something that has already worked itself out."

"He is an experienced officer."

"That doesn't make him right, Gabi." She sighed, then continued, "I let Alamo know what I found, anyway."

Esposito grimaced, "Going behind his back? That might not go down too well."

She held up her hands, "I didn't make a big deal about it. Just filed my report. If someone sees it, maybe they'll do something about it." She took a long drink of her sake, and smiled, "This is actually really good stuff. I could get used to this sort of treatment."

"Warren and the skipper are old war buddies. That's what I heard. I know they were both at Second Vesta."

"That still doesn't make him right." She took another drink.

"What's on your mind?"

Orlova frowned, "Does it show?"

"You seem very intense at the moment. Since we got here."

"It's something Cunningham said, after that flight test. I've been thinking about it for a while, but I'm not coming up with anything."

Reaching over to the bottle, Esposito poured herself a glass, then asked, "What did he say?"

"He asked my why I wanted to be in flight training. I didn't really have an answer. More than that – he wanted to know why I am in the service in the first place. I'm not sure I have an answer for that, either."

She shrugged her shoulders, "It's a way to get somewhere. Paid my way through school, and giving me a nice adventure for a while afterward. Long-term, I'd rather move back into the sciences, take my doctorate, but for now, what more could you want?"

"I don't know." She took another drink. "That's the problem. Everything just happened, I didn't get directed. I helped you out, and then Caine talked me into signing on as a shuttle pilot, and the Captain talked me into taking a commission. Said I'd be a good officer."

"Well, I'd have to agree with him there. You did save quite a few lives, back on Ragnarok and right here."

"Is that what I want to be, though? I don't know, Gabi, and it's getting at me. I've signed up to a three-year hitch, and that's fine. I don't mind serving that out, but what do I do afterward? Go back to smuggling again? Get a job with one of the merchant lines? Hell, I could even go to school."

Esposito took a long, appreciative sip of her drink, replying, "You could stay in. I'd put good odds that the Captain would back you if you went for a permanent commission, and it isn't as if the Triplanetary Fleet is overburdened with officers at the moment. Now would be the time."

"I just don't know. Is this what I want to do in ten, twenty years? I've been coasting for so long I've lost my direction. I've got to decide what I want to do. And you are right – I'd have my best chance making that application now, while the fleet is still forming. I should be thinking about training, whatever I want to do. Go for my Master's Certificate, maybe. Take a few courses. Maybe even a transfer to something I can use in whatever my next career is, if this isn't it."

"What do you want to do, Maggie? That's what matters now."

She looked down at the table, and smiled, "Have a drink. I'll worry about the rest of my life tomorrow."

Esposito lurched forward, spilling her drink on the table, as a group of people surged into the bar, almost knocking her off her stool. She looked down at the wet surface.

"Getting too damn crowded in here. Warren didn't say you had to have your party anywhere in particular, did he?"

"Nope. You know, I think that spending a few hours hiding in that shop rummaging through the junk would probably qualify."

"Not a bad idea."

The two of the made their way out of the bar, bottle and glasses carefully held out of the reach of grabbing hands, and the crowd rapidly thinned out to small clusters of people sitting around chatting, some in the corridor, others taking over vacant shops. A short stroll took them down to the reclamation shop; the door was open and they walked in, only to find that the room was empty, all the shelves stripped bare.

"Hello-o," Esposito yelled. There was no response other than a faint echo resounding from the walls.

Orlova looked behind the counter; empty. No sign that anyone had been there.

"I guess business was bad," Esposito said.

"No business is that bad. There's something damn peculiar going on here," replied Orlova, as she made her way over to a wall terminal. She started punching in for details of their current location, holding her datapad over the reader to translate the Japanese characters.

"Maybe he moved to another storefront?"

Shaking her head, Orlova replied, "According to this, the store has never been used. There isn't even any record of power usage I can access."

"Records problem?"

"I doubt it. Someone's playing games with us, Gabi, and I don't like it. We need to find out what the hell is happening on this station. Let's get something to eat, go back to your quarters – I wouldn't be surprised if Warren goes back to spot-check mine – and start rummaging through the station's data network."

"Was one of those life choices spending time in prison for unauthorized hacking?"

Chapter 14

The controls of the shuttle arrayed before him, Marshall sat contentedly in the shuttle's pilot seat, watching the surface of Desdemona slowly move towards him. Caine sat next to him in the co-pilot's seat, periodically reading out figures from the navigation computer. The moon ahead was so small, landing was a lot more like docking with another spacecraft than it was coming down onto a planet. He'd used the main engine only for a brief burst to push the shuttle away from Alamo, and since then had been depending entirely on the maneuvering thrusters.

"I'm going to get another book out of this, you know," Caine said.

"As long as I get to read it before you publish it this time."

"The censors didn't have any problems with it."

"What censor? Tramiel's secretary? All you'd need to get past him would be a steamy romance and a gory murder scene."

She smiled, ""What makes you think I didn't put those scenes in?"

Marshall grunted for a second, making a careful course correction. He gestured ahead at the surface to a small dark mark, clearly visible against the faint gray background, and Caine peered at it avidly.

"Ever been to an alien relic site before?"

"Just the tourist stuff at Carpenter Station, those abandoned asteroid mines. That wasn't anything like I expect here, though. It felt pretty much like a normal mine, just with some odd arrangement to the tunnels and a lot of holograms telling you about the 'long-lost alien race'. That was just blasting out tunnels and carving into rock, and whether human or alien, mining iron is going to pretty much be the same.

"That heat source is damn strong, getting stronger. What sort of power source could be active after being untended for so long? Centuries, millennia?"

"Take your pick, Danny. Millions of years for all we know."

The two of them kept looking out of the viewport as the base site began to grow closer. It appeared only as a series of four mounds on the surface, but obviously far too regular even to be a freak of geology. These had been dug into the surface, created; such was evident. With the lightest touch, Marshall swept the shuttle down as close as he dared to the mounds, a few hundred meters away. Without power, the shuttle would take more than a minute to fall the final meters to the ground; he briefly considered firing the thrusters to push it towards the surface, before deciding to wait for gravity to take its slow course.

"That worries me," he said.

"What?"

"That they dug themselves in like that. Camouflaged, like some of our hidden installations during the war. If they had some sort of enemies, think what they could have at their potential by now."

She shook her head, replying, "I think you can rest easy on that note, Danny. That looks more like some of the first bases on Luna, or back on Mars. They buried themselves in to protect against radiation and micrometeorites."

Marshall looked less certain, frowning at the structure, "That was a requirement close into a star, with first-generation technology. How would a species using such primitive means get here in the first place?"

"We'll have to find those answers out when we touch down. Ten meters to go."

He tapped a button on the panel, "Everyone get suited up. Check your thruster packs are full and functioning; you'll find them a lot more use on the surface than just walking."

"Someone's going to try and take a first step, you know," Caine said, reaching up for her helmet.

"And spend the next five minutes spinning around before they come back to the surface. Where are my damn gloves?"

Helmets and gloves secured, Marshall and Caine turned off the ship's primary systems, switching control over to Alamo's master computer, just a few miles away in orbit. With a thumbs up sign, Marshall opened the cockpit airlock, and the two of them slowly began to make their way down onto the ground, taking their time over each step down the ladder. A quick visual inspection of the shuttle revealed no obvious problems, so Marshall dropped down onto the ground.

"First words, Danny?" Caine asked.

"Not appropriate. We aren't the first ones to land here."

He looked down at his wrist computer; all readings seemed to match everything that he would expect, though the radiation count was a little on the high side. Nothing that would get through their suits, but something that might have to be considered in any shirtsleeve environment they might later establish. The shuttle's passenger airlock opened up, and another spacesuited figure began to emerge.

"I thought I told you all when we boarded that we would be the first ones out, and the rest of you were to wait until we had made sure the environment was safe?"

"Sorry, Captain," Vivandi's voice echoed through his helmet, "but we're all rearing to go, and there doesn't seem to be any reason why we can't start at once. It's just another barren rock – but with a rare prize on its surface!"

Caine replied, "A barren rock with an over-high radiation count."

"Nothing our suits can't protect against."

Marshall paused for a moment before replying, "I think we're about ready anyway. Everyone can disembark and we can get started. I'm not going to order anyone to remain with the shuttle; Alamo has control of it anyway now in the event anything goes wrong. Ground rules."

"Here we go," muttered Cross.

"We operate in pairs. If something goes wrong with a single pair, everyone immediately heads back to the shuttle no matter what; Caine and I will go and assist. If we are the ones in trouble, Douglas and Blake will come and look. The other pairs are Cross and Green, and Clarke and Vivandi."

"I work better alone, Captain," Cross complained.

"Then go work alone on the shuttle. We have no idea what's going to happen here."

"It's a long-dead ruin. What could possibly happen here?"

Caine muttered, "Famous last words."

"If anyone finds any evidence of current occupation – human or alien – then return to the shuttle immediately and call the rest back. No exceptions, no arguments, no debates. Everyone set an alarm for two hours from now to return to the shuttle unless I grant an extension. Contact Alamo every half-hour; if you miss a call, the same rules apply – everyone else gets recalled to the shuttles while Caine and I go and look."

"Can we get going? We're using up oxygen. Some of us more than others," Cross said, looking back and forth.

Restraining himself from simply ordering Cross back inside, Marshall replied, "I suggest for the moment that each pair takes a mound." He gestured towards the furthest structure. "We'll take that one. See you all in two hours."

Marshall turned towards the gray mound, kicking off then turning on his suit thrusters to skim across the surface, Caine hard on his heels. It took an effort to force himself to go smoothly and slowly, instead of racing across the ground. The heads-up display in his helmet showed the other six branching off; he didn't envy Private Green trying to keep the argumentative geochemist in line.

"See anything interesting?"

"Nothing yet, Danny. Wait a minute. Over on the far corner, it gets a lot darker."

"Like a rocky outcrop, perhaps?"

"Or a tunnel. Let's take a look."

Now they really were eating up the distance, spending their thruster fuel to the point that they would likely have a long bounce back to the shuttle, but it didn't seem to matter. The dark patch quickly revealed itself as a tunnel buried in the rock, sloped down at an angle. Instead of a circular hole, it was octagonal, and the sides were as regular as if they had been carved with a knife, the sides baked to hardness long ago.

"Wow. See those?" Caine gestured down to the ground, a series of long, thin tracks, like tendrils whipping across the ground. "Make sure the down-blast doesn't get them. I've got some pictures."

"How long?"

"Could be hundreds of thousands of years. Undisturbed while humanity struggled to climb out of the trees back on Earth."

Taking great care not to disturb the ancient tracks, they set down on the ground in front of the tunnel. With a long, low toss, Marshall threw a communications relay out along the ground, watching it come to rest on a mount a few dozen meters away, an antenna extending from the surface. Caine had her helmet lights on, and was staring down into the tunnel.

"I can't see the bottom. Radar has it going down for about a hundred meters, then branching out."

"Site's marked and we have beacon signal. Let's go in."

"You don't need to tell me twice."

With small, cautious bounds, they slowly loped into the tunnel, darkness enveloping them broken only by the lights of their suits. There was just room for the two of them, cautiously heading down. Every move they made was being recorded for posterity back on Alamo, every microsecond of footage saved for future scrutiny by those who would study the remains of whatever lived here. The tunnel reached the bottom, and a pair of corridors crossed out, running parallel to each other.

"We could take one each?"

"We're both going right, Deadeye. Drop your beacon, the signal won't reach through that much rock."

Gently placing her relay on the ground, she watched the antenna rise up and track round, maintaining a signal with the surface. Marshall took the lead down the corridor, much the same as the previous one but level. No sign of anything, not even the marks on the ground that they'd seen above. No sign that anyone had ever passed this way.

"Wow," Caine said.

"What is it?"

"Coming up on a big chamber. Really big."

The corridor opened out on a huge room, a chamber hundreds of meters across, completely buried underneath the surface. The suit lights burned pointlessly into nothing; the only reason they knew where they were was the imagery on their deep radar. The place was cold, space-cold.

"I just realized something."

"What?"

"No airlocks. This place was intended to be worked in spacesuits. Or the equivalent."

"Don't just by our standards, Danny. For all you know the beings that lived here were quite comfortable in a vacuum."

"Well, I'm not. At least let's get some light."

Caine pulled a small object out of a pocket on her leg, and rolled it casually along the ground, giving it just enough momentum to make it stay within range of her suit lights. She tapped a button, and a bright flare of light shot out across the room, as bright as daylight, illuminating the whole vault.

Both of them gasped at what they saw; intricate geometric shapes were carved on the walls, some hundreds of meters high, others barely visible. The room was empty, but it was clear that it had once been extensively used – there were scrapes and markings along the ground, similar to the ones they had seen at the entrance. It felt as if they had arrived at an abandoned warehouse. Marshall stared up at the walls.

"What could it be?"

"Someone – or a lot of someones – will spend decades trying to find out. It could be the mysteries of the universe, or it could simply be graffiti. Or both."

"Let's try the other passageway."

Retracing their steps with great care, they let the flare burn itself out, then returned to the darkness of the corridor, the helmet lights seeming even less effective than before. As they passed the crossroads, Caine frowned, stopped, and started to work controls on the front of her suit, before looking over at Marshall.

"Danny, check your radar."

He tapped a couple of buttons, but nothing happened. Turning around, he could get a clear picture of what was behind him, but ahead was nothing but confused readings.

"Radar dampening. This part was designed so that outsiders couldn't see in."

"Still military? It could be ceremonial, or even an accident."

Pausing for a moment, Marshall said, "Let's proceed. With caution."

Taking the lead, Marshall took calculated, careful steps down the corridor, which abruptly turned to the right before suddenly stopping; it was clear that there was empty space up ahead in quantity, but too dark to see a thing. Radar revealed nothing of use, just that there was an empty space of indeterminate size. Pulling a tool from his pocket, he tossed it out into the blackness, following it as far as he could with his helmet lights before it disappeared from view.

"More than a hundred meters."

"I'll try another flare." She tapped a couple of controls. "It's on a two-second time delay. That should give us all the time we need."

She tossed the second flare out, watching it curve down before it lit up the space again. This room was decidedly not unoccupied; it was a large sphere, hundreds of meters across, dug deep into the surface, with a tall platform rising from the bottom, and it was quite apparent that there was something on it. Another octagon, raised high, with more markings on it. The walls were black, almost seeming to suck in the light, but the same geometric patterns as before were evident. If anything, these were even more intricate than before.

"We can get across with our suit jets. Easy jump."

A voice inside Marshall was telling him to leave, to run back to what has normal and familiar, but a far louder voice was pushing him on to the unknown that lay ahead, waiting. His suit quickly calculated the firing pattern of his thrusters to take him across to the plinth, plenty of margin for error.

"Marshall calling Clarke. Do you read me?"

"Clarke here. I read you. Is something wrong?"

"Just a communications check. Marshall out."

Caine said, "They can hear us if we get in trouble. Come on, let's go."

Nodding, Marshall planted his feet carefully on the edge of the corridor, then pushed off as hard as he could, narrowly missing the ceiling as he headed out into the spherical chamber. His suit computer fired thrusters in a series of careful patterns to maintain altitude and guide him in; all he had to do was sit back and enjoy the ride. The flare burned out, leaving he and Caine moving forwards in pitch darkness, helmet lights burning away futilely, the occasional spark from a wayward thruster the only relief from the gloom. Suddenly, the platform loomed into darkness ahead, and the suit computers fired breaking thrusters, gently coming down to a smooth landing.

The platform was the same black as the walls; it almost felt as if they were standing in an endless, empty void. Cautiously, Caine took a step forward, being careful not to exert too much force for fear of pushing herself off the platform. In the middle of the octagon was a shaft, heading straight down; she looked down, her helmet lights shining down the hole, then collapsed back on the ground, rolling around, screaming, while the vision of what she had briefly seen seared into her brain. The computer, detecting increased heartbeat, automatically administered a relaxant, trying to calm her down as she rolled around, Marshall grabbing her and stopping her rolling right off the platform, snapping a safety line onto her belt.

"Deadeye! Deadeye! Calm down!"

She relaxed a little, the suit warnings fading from red to amber as her life signs started returning to normal, then grabbed Marshall's wrist, saying, "For God's sake don't look."

"What was it?"

"Your worst nightmare.”

He couldn't help himself. There was no way he could stop himself from at least snatching a glimpse of whatever was down there. Not now that he had come this close. Against all better judgment, he pulled himself away from Caine and stared down the hole. His eyes took a second to register the darkness, then he saw it – a hundred writhing tentacles locked in an eternal, cold embrace, hideous ichor stained around the sides of the hole, and a cluster of empty eye sockets staring sightlessly up at him.

Something about the way they were arranged suggested movement, suggested that they were dancing around the hole, though his mind told him that it was impossible, that they were – must be – long dead, simply preserved by the vacuum. Then he saw something else. Something at the bottom of the pile, buried in the alien mass – a form that could not be anything other than a human being, naked, tentacles wrapped around him.

He couldn't help himself; he felt his stomach heaving, and dropped down to the side of the hole, throwing up in his spacesuit, alarms and warnings sounding not only to him but to the others in the landing team as well. The last thing he heard before he fell unconscious were his own screams.

Chapter 15

Marshall's eyes flickered open; he was blinded by bright white light shining into them. He coughed and spluttered, then felt a hand on his head, and others on his legs, restraining him. Voices were speaking, as if from far away, far enough that he couldn't work out what they were saying. He tried to speak himself, but the result was only a series of coughs and gasps. A glass of water was placed to his lips and he eagerly drank, though there was something odd about it, a tang in the taste he didn't like.

"Captain Marshall?" one of the voices said. "Nod if you can hear me."

He jerked his head up and down, sending bile rising to this throat again, and felt hands behind his back, supporting him, propping him up. Gradually, the reality of where he was began to come back to him – he was lying in a crash couch in the passenger compartment of one of the shuttlecraft, and Alamo's medical officer, Doctor Duquesne, was standing over him.

"You're damn lucky I do house-calls by fighter. Try speaking."

In between the coughs and splutters, Marshall managed, "Caine?"

"In about the same condition as you, though she came around a couple of minutes ago. Oddly enough her first word was your name; do you often go on dates like this?"

"How long?" Marshall gasped.

"About three hours. Douglas and Blake found you and brought you back to the shuttle. Without being stupid enough to look down the pit of total madness, I might add." There were groaning sounds from the other side of the room, and the looming figure of Cunningham leaned over, saying something in Duquesne's ear.

"Looks like my other patient needs work," she said, making her way over to Caine.

Cunningham looked over at her, then back to Marshall, "That doctor's quite a piece of work. She was waiting for me on the hangar deck with her medical bag when I landed. We were down on the deck before you were back in the shuttle."

"Thanks," Marshall said. He sat up with a start, coughing again.

"Easy, there. You've had a hell of a shock. Doc said you had to take it easy for a bit." He looked around nervously.

"Is something else wrong? Give me a report."

"You aren't in any condition to be in command right now."

"These are my people. What's wrong?"

Sighing, Cunningham replied, "That ass Cross has gone missing as well, managed to give Private Green the slip somehow. I've already torn the kid off a strip for appearances. Mulenga's leading the search parties now, and I've got Raven Three up. He must have gone into one of the structures."

"If he's found something like..."

"Don't try and think about it."

The images flashed again in his mind, the human buried in the alien creatures, and he felt his stomach churn again; Cunningham had a bowl under him before he threw up, patting him on the back.

Marshall looked up, "There was a human in there, Jack. A human."

"Are you sure?" Cunningham's eyes widened.

"Damn sure. Don't send anyone in there."

"I wasn't planning to. I've already set up a quarantine marker."

Interrupting him, Marshall said, "Send in a drone. To the site of that tunnel, to get some samples. Did anyone else find anything?"

"Getting you to take more than five minutes off is going to be impossible, isn't it."

Grasping the wing commander's arm, he replied, "We both know why that is."

Nodding, Cunningham replied, "I suppose we do at that. Vivandi's team found a maze of corridors and chambers buried underground, must have extended for miles, but they didn't get very far before they came back from the shuttle. Douglas and Clarke struck blank – a tunnel that went for about half a mile then dead-ended. They were just about to turn back anyway when they got your signal.

"The others?"

"Green said that they'd only found a tunnel – but it looks like another complex like Vivandi's. She's over the moon, reckons it's going to take months to go through the entire complex properly. You found a human in that pit? Douglas didn't look."

"Sensible, that one. Human and alien." Somehow, it was beginning to get easier to think about.

"Alien?"

"Yeah." He still retched a little at the thought.

Cunningham's head jerked towards the front of the craft, "Would you be alright if I left you for a moment..."

"Go. Get that drone on the way. But for God's sake Jack, send it on remote."

"Right."

The doctor took his place as Cunningham raced towards a control station to order down a sampling drone from Alamo. He looked over at Caine, who seemed to be sleeping comfortably on her couch, though her expression suggested that her dreams were anything other than sweet.

"She'll be fine, Captain," said Duquesne, her voice unusually mellow. "You're lucky I have something better than a first aid kit on me. I've slipped you a couple of bits and pieces that will inhibit the memory a bit, make it seem more like a dream. I'll be prescribing sleeping tablets to you both for a couple of weeks, but other than that I don't think you'll have any long-term problems."

"Thanks. What if it had taken longer to get to me?"

She paused, "Suit medical kits are limited. They can calm someone down a bit if they are panicking, but that's about the extent of their psychological pharmacopoeia. You're thinking of Cross?"

"Yes."

"Good chance he'd just go insane. With him, how would you tell?"

Marshall began to push himself up off the couch, his stomach continuing to churn, but the doctor pushed him back down with a single hand, shaking her head.

"Where do you think you are going?"

"To join the search. We've got to find him as quickly as we can."

"You don't. If we had shuttles to spare I'd have you in Alamo's sickbay having some happy time. Don't even think about going outside – besides, we'd have to get your suit fumigated first. You made a hell of a mess."

Gagging a bit at the thought, the captain moved back down to his couch, looking over Cunningham's shoulders as he manipulated the controls on the drone, guiding it gently towards the mound, over the mysterious tracks – now he had some idea what had made them – then down the corridors.

"To the left, Lieutenant," he said. "You'll need to guide it manually down the corridors, they've got some sort of radar reflector on the walls. As soon as you get to the chamber, let the computer take over from there and kill the monitors."

"Better do what he says, Lieutenant," the doctor said, "I'm running low on my good-time juice."

A signal came through on all three of their communicators; while the others were distracted, Marshall managed to get his first, earning him a look of reproof from the doctor that he simply ignored.

"Marshall here. Go ahead."

"Captain?" Mulenga's voice replied, "I'm glad to hear you are feeling better."

"Have you found him?"

"Yes. Down in the bowels of that complex. He insists on speaking to you privately, and immediately. Something about a discovery of tremendous importance."

"How does he sound?"

"A lot better than you when they brought you in, Captain. Whatever might be wrong with him, I don't think that can be it. He refuses to speak to me, or to discuss it with you over the communicators."

"I presume your presence means that the second shuttle is down?"

"Shuttle Two landed about two hours ago. Lieutenant Shirase is on board, co-ordinating."

He paused for a second. "Fine. Have Mr. Shirase report to Shuttle One on the double, as well as Dr. Vivandi. Everyone else can sit this out on the other one for a bit."

"A lot of the science team would like to take a look at the ruins, sir."

"That's fine with me. Start executing the second phase of the landing operations, then – have the espatiers start preparing their defensive positions, and get the science team to work. Co-ordinate everything with Mr. Dietz."

"Aye, Captain."

Cunningham turned to Marshall, waving his hands, saying, "That's it, I've turned it over to the computer. It'll take some biologic samples, instructed to do minimum damage, then ship them back up to Alamo for analysis."

"More work for me, then," Duquesne said, shaking her head.

"Do you want me to leave?"

Shaking his head, Marshall replied, "No. My head is still fogged, and I don't want to have to make a snap command decision without backup should it prove necessary. If you think I'm talking rubbish, by all means speak up."

He wryly smiled, "Certainly, Captain."

The airlock cycled, and Cross walked in, shedding bits of his spacesuit that slowly floated down to the floor; Cunningham began to pick them up and stow them in their proper compartments, shooting the geochemist a look of disgust. Marshall's situation slowly registered on Cross as he crashed down in one of the couches.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Let's just say I saw something that disagreed with me. Caine too."

"This can't wait."

Marshall raised a hand, trying to smile, and replied, "Speak. I'm fit enough to listen to your report. We can then get to your punishment for sending twelve crewmen on a wild-goose chase for the last three hours looking for someone stupid enough to go wandering off by himself in an unexplored alien base."

"Fine, fine, later, later." He tossed a datapad at Marshall, who plucked it out of the air. It seemed to have survey readings of the local area, but the jargon didn't make any sense to him.

"What have you found? It had better be damned important."

"It is! Look, Captain, look at the heat readings! And the radiation pattern! And the samples I took from the bottom of those alien ruins. It can't be anything else."

"What can't be anything else?"

"The heat source, damn it!"

That caught Marshall's attention, and he sat upright at that. The airlock cycled again, and Shirase walked out, carefully putting his helmet on the rack.

"Ah, Lieutenant. Cross has worked out the alien's power source."

Shirase's eyes widened at that, "Indeed? What have you unearthed, Mr. Cross? Something out of the ordinary?"

"What? I don't know what the aliens were using for a power source, I'm not a technologist."

"Then what have you found?" Marshall asked, hanging on to his few remaining threads of patience.

Cross sighed, rolling his eyes, before replying, "The heat source is the first active natural nuclear reactor ever found! Don't you realize what this means? This is the geological discovery of the century!"

Shirase's face dropped and he sat down in a chair; Marshall looked across at him sympathetically. Cunningham shook his head and returned to the probe telemetry.

"Mr. Cross, we have a perfectly good fusion reactor on Alamo. I suppose that this must seem important to you, and don't get the wrong idea, if there are scientific breakthroughs to make then I couldn't be happier, but this could have waited until you made a formal report back on Alamo."

"Damn it, Captain..."

"That's enough. Now prepare a data package to send back to Mariner as soon as possible, and if you want to release something to the scientific data-net, go ahead. After which you will report to Mr. Dietz for two weeks' watches with the maintenance crews – if you want to get lost in confined spaces, you can do some damn good while you are doing it!" Marshall's voice was raised, his face was flushed, but nothing compared to Cross' expression.

"Stupid military fool! The last thing we want to do is tell anyone about this! You have to claim it on behalf of the Confederation, and quickly."

"Why?" Cunningham asked. "We're first on the scene, but it's an alien ruin in unclaimed space."

"Ruthenium. Neodymium as well, for the asking."

That set Marshall's eyes widening; Shirase looked gleeful, while Duquesne was blank.

"I'm missing something," she said.

"Ruthenium is a vital component in superconductors. Oxidized?"

"Deep in the soil. That nuclear reactor has been burning for hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of years, and those compounds are two of the primary offshoots. Quantities if anything richer than anything ever found in analogous sites either in this system or anywhere else for that matter."

"Neodymium is one of the components in the strongest magnets known," Shirase said, almost to himself.

"I don't know what the aliens were using for power, though I suppose they could just tap the reactor. But I know what they were doing here, they were mining the reactor! Mining the offshoots from the reactor." He started pacing around the room, almost talking to himself, "How the reaction got started is amazing in itself. There are seams of ice running through the whole moon, and something must have melted them, some sort of catastrophic event. Uranium in the moon itself – and that's probably worth mining as well – and once it started it kept on melting more ice, which kept the reaction going. We're going to spend decades just working out how this process began, and longer looking for it on some of the other moons."

"How long will it last?"

"While there is uranium and ice, certainly. I think it'll last our lifetimes, Captain, and the important thing is the material in the moon."

"Could I have some estimates of quantity?" Shirase asked. Marshall tossed him the datapad, and he eagerly scanned it while taking notes.

Frowning, Marshall said, "Between them, those two compounds are vital to most of our starship designs."

"Exactly," replied Cross, eager now. "The strategic implications are extraordinary."

"At least three hundred billion," Shirase gasped. "Estimated value at current market prices. The concentrations are purer than anything ever recorded. Captain, I need to inform the Belt authorities about this immediately."

"If we're telling anyone, I want scientific priority!"

With an effort, Marshall rose to his feet. "You've got it. Mr. Cross, I want a sustained effort to determine the scope of this find. Whatever you need of the ship's resources, you've got. Lieutenant Shirase, go ahead and let your people know that their miracle has come through for them. I'm going to contact Mariner for instructions."

Cunningham nodded, "Do we start a war over this if the frigate tries to muscle in?"

"We got here first," Cross said, indignantly.

"I somehow doubt that will be enough to convince them." Marshall collected his thoughts for a moment, then picked up a datapad to dictate his message.

Chapter 16

"Got it, I think," Esposito said, pulling a data crystal out of the terminal. The characters on the screen briefly flickered between Japanese, French, English and Russian before finally settling down into English again. She put her datapad back into her pocket, slipping it onto standby.

"Still looks strange," Orlova said, frowning at the mangled sentences.

Shrugging, Esposito replied, "What do you expect? This translation program must be a hundred years old. I'm just glad they had some in stock, its going to speed us up a hell of a lot. Where were we?"

"Finding out how limited our security clearance is. I've checked the registered use records for the entire corridor, but no sign of any shop that matches the one we visited. Nothing like that anywhere on the station, for that matter. I just finished running a search through the public diary systems, and no joy there either. I even recognized one as a collector – bastard outbid me on a lot of old NASA mission patches a few years back. He'd have ransacked the place clean of anything worth taking."

Taking a drink from a plastic cup filled with bubbling purple liquid, her friend said, "How did you get into this sort of thing, anyway?"

"My father's hobby was space history. He had quite a collection, but the UN impounded most of it when the war began. I inherited what was left when he died." She smiled, "I remember when I was five he took me up to Tranquility to see the first landing site. They had a special dome so you could get close without wearing a suit." The smile curved into a frown, "Last time we ever went on a trip together."

"I'm sorry."

"Long time ago. Just...old ghosts sometimes. You know."

"Yeah."

Shaking her head to clear it, Orlova tapped the screen, "I think we've exhausted looking for the shop. We don't have any information on the owner to go on; I suppose we could get Alamo to pull some DNA off the helmet, but that would really tip our hand."

"You want to go back to the missiles again?"

"Let's look at the servicing crews." She tapped a series of commands into the terminal, and after a short delay a list of names rolled down the screen, jumping from Japanese to English. Esposito shook her head.

"Same list as before."

"I didn't expect it to change. Let's run a cross check and find out if any of them have prospecting licenses."

"Huh?"

Orlova smiled, "There aren't that many ships through here. I have a suspicion that a lot of the dock workers have other jobs. Happens all the time on some of the smaller stations, matter of economic necessity."

"Emergency regulations require all stations to have a full receiving crew in case of emergency..."

"Which is fine for Phobos or Mariner, but when you only get a couple of ships through a month and you have plenty of warning, you can cut corners. Who do you think handles most of the smuggling?"

"I never thought of that."

Five names glowed a dull green, and with a series of commands they were isolated from the remainder. Five faces appeared, with brief official biographies, at least to the limits of their security clearance. Orlova frowned; nothing was leaping out as an obvious sign that anything was amiss.

"What are we looking for?"

"That stuff had to come from somewhere. Someone went out to that rock and brought it back, without filing an official survey form."

"Which means it won't be in the computer."

"Ah-ha." Another quick series of commands, and Orlova said, "Any recent time off will be. Figure at least four days to get there and back, another couple of days to do the survey..."

"So you're looking for any of the dock workers who have had a week off lately. Clever."

Only one name remained on the screen. Takumi Fujioka, a five-year veteran with a recently updated prospecting license, a small ship pilot's license, and two months ago he'd taken a week off.

"Got him."

"Let's not be too hasty; all we have is a link between the dock workers and a possible prospecting run. This isn't conclusive, at least, not yet. Wait a minute."

"What?"

"Look at that entry." She tapped the screen again, two entries below the first. "He's taken ten days off for compassionate leave over the last two months, all in batches of two or three days, stopping about three weeks ago. Any reason given?"

The screen flashed up in Japanese characters which flashed into English, reading, "Access Denied – Personal Privacy."

"Does he have any dependents?" Orlova asked to no-one in particular, while continuing to type.

Esposito shook her head, "No wife, no children, just a brother. Recently transferred back to Vesta. Interesting – he's got a prospecting license as well."

"That doesn't mean anything. Lots of family-based prospecting teams in the Belt, I think it's a custom. Recently transferred?"

When she called up more information, another privacy filter flashed onto the screen, and the two of them looked at each other. Orlova started to reach into her pocket, pulling out an old, amethyst data crystal, which she started to slide into the terminal. Esposito put her hand over the slot.

"What's that?" she asked.

Orlova sighed, replying, "Let's just say it's a key to unlock these privacy filters."

"That's a court-martial offense if we're caught."

"Feel free to turn your back. All of this is just too convenient."

At the same time, both of their communicators blinked; Orlova pulled hers out first and started to flash through, a release from Alamo. She didn't get further than the first line before dropping it down to her lap.

"That alien base is on Desdemona."

Esposito looked up, eyes widening, "That wasn't in the report they put out over the station datanet. Just that Alamo had found something – I figured the Captain was keeping the location secret."

"Well, he isn't. This is a copy of a general release they're sending in-system. We've got to get in touch with them immediately."

"Wait a minute." Esposito scanned down to the bottom of the report, then pulled the hacking crystal out of Orlova's hands, pushing it into the slot.

Orlova frowned, "What happened to this being a court-martial offense?"

"Read the last paragraph. The Captain and Lieutenant Caine found some sort of corpses out at that base, and both of them collapsed from the shock."

"So?"

"There are treatments for that sort of thing. I had to take a course before I could be cleared for potential first contact situations, general practice is to dose up representatives with psychological stabilizers. One of the things they kept stressing was the long-term harm if treatment wasn't immediately provided."

The door slid open, and Corporal Gomez walked into the room, a pistol holstered by his side. He took three steps forward and snatched the crystal out of Esposito's hands, turning it over and over. He looked at the two of them, shaking his head.

"When I put this into a reader, what is it going to have on it? Possession of this with intent to use is enough for you both to be locked up and have the keys tossed out of the nearest airlock."

"Corporal, this is important."

"Maggie...," Esposito hissed.

"What choice have we got? Corporal, we think we've got a lead on the missile sabotage. It's stuck behind a privacy seal..."

His eyes bulged, "You were going to violate personal privacy seals?"

"...which I know damn well is going to indicate that someone had a nervous breakdown due to contact with alien forms. The only way that can have happened is if they were on Desdemona."

Gomez collapsed into a chair, hand carefully close to his sidearm, looking at the two of them while responding, "What has this got to do with the missiles?"

Esposito replied, "Corporal, we bought some souvenirs in a shop that never seems to have existed. For five hours we've been trying to find any evidence that it was ever here, and we can't. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to keep everything covered up."

"So..."

"The link," Orlova said, "is that we're pretty sure that they were picked up from Desdemona by one of the technicians who serviced the misfiring missiles. Look, I'll make a deal with you. We look at the file, and if it shows that Olomi Fujioka has been sent back to the Belt for psycho-therapy, you help us. If not, we turn ourselves in."

"Technically I could just arrest you anyway."

"But you want to see this cleared up as well," Orlova pressed.

The security chief paused for a long minute, looking at her face, trying to read her, then glancing at the monitor, still flashing its privacy seal warning. He stood up, and walked towards her, his hand held out.

"Give me the crystal, Sub-Lieutenant."

She looked up, reluctant, but nodded her head, placing the crystal in his hand. Gomez smiled, took another step past her, and slid the crystal into the terminal, tapping in the commands to disable the privacy seals before turning back to her.

"This is my job. Not yours. If any regulations are going to be broken, I suppose I can't arrest myself. You really should have come to be first – your data searches showed up on my terminal clear as ice."

Esposito looked from side to side, then back at Gomez, saying, "They track data searches here? Isn't that illegal?"

"Technically. But this base was built a long time ago, and the network still has a long of the old security systems built in. Funnily enough, the administration has made disabling them the bottom of a very long priority list. I couldn't use them in a prosecution, of course. Here we are."

The data readout confirmed everything that Orlova had thought. Olomi Fujioka, confined on Ceres for his own safety – they'd even brought a psychiatrist out to try and treat him on site, but by the looks of it he'd given up soon after arrival.

"See those drugs listed in the medical regimen?" Esposito said. "I recognize most of them, standard issue for xenopsychosis."

"Could they be used for anything else?" Gomez asked.

"Not likely. Some of them were developed specifically for this." She shook her head, continuing, "They shot the poor bastard with everything in the textbooks. He must have been in complete breakdown."

Gomez nodded, "I think you've built a sufficient case for us to start having some words with the brother. I'll rustle up a security team and get him down to interrogation – I suppose you both want to be there."

"Try and stop us."

"Fine. I think I'm going to be incredibly lax with my reporting on this one and only list it at the bottom of my day report, rather than giving a special notification. If anyone is going to be named, it probably won't be a good idea for them to know we're onto them."

"We need to contact Alamo," Esposito said. "This is information they're going to need, and badly."

"I'll meet you down at my office, then, in an hour. That should give me enough time to round him up." He glanced up at the screen again. "By the looks of it, he should be off-duty. Should be easier to grab him without anyone seeing him for the moment. He might have to wait a bit for his legal representation."

"Good," said Orlova, reaching for the crystal; Gomez got there first, snatching it and pushing it firmly into his pocket.

"Sorry, Sub-Lieutenant, but I really don't want any of these floating around the station. My need is probably greater than yours in any case."

"Can't blame me for trying."

Gomez shook his head, smiling as he walked out of the room. After the door sealed shut behind him, Esposito turned to Orlova, an eyebrow raised.

"Just out of interest, how many of those have you got on you?"

"Two here, five more on Alamo. My mother has an interest in decoding. Really its a work-related hobby."

"She's a smuggler, isn't she?"

Orlova smiled, "As I said, a work-related hobby." She pulled out her communicator, then looked back at Esposito, "I'll send something immediately to Alamo if you start taking care of the official report. After all, you are the security officer at the moment."

"Not that I'm getting paid for doing two jobs," she replied, reaching over for a terminal to start typing.

"Sub-Lieutenant Orlova to Shakespeare Control."

"Control here.  Lieutenant Tokubai."

"Sir, I need an immediate secure channel to Alamo, Captain's eyes only, maximum encryption."

"I apologize, Sub-Lieutenant, but I cannot do that at the moment."

"Lieutenant, this is top priority. I can't say why, but I need to have this channel."

This time Tokubai's voice grew harder, "That is not possible at this time."

Orlova sighed, "A normal channel then, I'll have to send this in the clear."

"The station's long-range communications array is currently out of operation for maintenance. Part of our preparations for potential battle with the Republic frigate; we're making sure nothing will fail under combat conditions."

"I think we can prevent a battle if I can speak to Alamo! How long before it is back on-line. Sir." She was almost shouting with frustration.

"Watch your tone, Sub-Lieutenant. You are addressing a senior officer."

"How long?"

"At least six hours. Report to the command deck immediately; and after you tell Lieutenant-Major Akimoto and myself what is so urgent and important, I will be glad to instruct you in proper command protocol."

Orlova closed the channel and stood up, tugging at Esposito's shoulder while she worked; the Ensign looked up, irritated.

"So we have six hours to prepare a report. The frigate won't be here for two days."

"Gabi, we just got that report in from Alamo."

"Shit." She stood up, and the two of them ran out of the room, half-expecting to run into a pair of security guards, but there was no-one in sight.

"Now what do we do?"

Esposito quickly looked up and down the corridor, then replied, "Security section. I don't think Gomez was lying to us. At the very least we should be able to arm ourselves."

"And if he was?"

"Then we're in big trouble. You got any better suggestions?"

"Only that we take our time about it. Oh, one thing." She pulled her datapad out of her pocket, and threw it through the open door onto Esposito's bed. Nodding, the ensign followed suit. The two of them walked down the corridor cautiously, then scrambled down a maintenance ladder into one of the lower levels, hoping to make their way to their destination without being detected. As the door slid closed behind them, Orlova could hear the sound of running feet, and she immediately doubled her pace.

Chapter 17

The flickering image of Counter-Admiral Remek winked off the screen as Marshall continued to curse under his breath. He pounded his fist onto the briefing room table, sighed, and held his hand over the communications button, pausing for a moment, shaking his head again before finally tapping it.

"Kibaki here."  

"Have the senior staff paged; meeting in the briefing room immediately. Set it up so that Lieutenant Mulenga can teleconference from the surface."

"Will do, Captain," replied the watch officer's calm voice. Marshall envied the older man his equanimity. After only a few seconds, the flickering hologram of Mulenga appeared at the far side of the room, quickly resolving into a solid image. The astrogator was rubbing his eyes with one hand and doing up his uniform jacket with the other.

"Sorry for disturbing you, Lieutenant."

Gesturing at his disheveled form, Mulenga replied, "Mr. Kibaki indicated you wanted to see us immediately. I'd just turned in; I've been out at the ruins all day. It really is astounding to be surrounded by relics of such antiquity. Places everything truly in its proper perspective; I wonder how many of our ruins will be poured over by some younger race, hundreds of thousands of years from now."

"I just hope there is anything left to find."

The door slid open, and Caine walked through, waving at Mulenga as she took her customary place. Shirase was hot on her heels, looking around the room, the grin on his face that had been present since the discovery of the natural reactor still as annoying as ever. Dietz walked in, a datapad held in his hand, and sat next to Marshall; Cunningham and Quinn were the last ones in the room, the latter rushing to sit before the wing commander. All of them were looking at the head of the table, waiting for him to begin, most of them having the appearance of having rushed into their uniform. It was 0200 ship time, the middle of the standard sleep cycle, to be fair.

"Sorry for waking you all up."

Dietz replied, in his immaculate uniform, "I presume something serious has come up."

"All of you have been fully briefed about what we found on Desdemona? Well, now show have the Combined Chiefs of Staff, and I've received our instructions from Counter-Admiral Remek. I'll forward her message to your terminals, nothing especially secret about it, but it boils down to this: Alamo is to defend Desdemona if feasible against any attack."

"If feasible?" Caine asked, grimacing.

"That's exactly the language the Admiral used, Lieutenant."

Cunningham was shaking his head; Quinn looked around the room, asking, "What does that mean?"

"It means, Lieutenant, that the Captain has been placed on the hot-seat. The Combined Chiefs of Staff – and presumably the Senate – want very badly to hold this facility against all comers, and are willing to give him a blank check to carry out that mission." Mulenga said.

"Unless it all goes wrong, in which case the Captain – and probably the rest of us – get hung out to dry," Caine added.

Placing both hands on the table, Marshall looked around the room at his officers, replying, "I have no intention of starting the Second Interplanetary War over this. Not unless the Republic gives me no choice. I will state this now, and for the record – under no circumstances will Alamo strike the first blow."

Shirase's good mood was broken, "We've got to hold this moon, Captain. The future of the Belt – of the Triplanetary Confederation – is dependent on this facility."

"We managed fine without it," Cunningham said. "What's changed to make it worth throwing lives away for?"

"The effect on our GDP would be favorable, and there are questions of the balance of power...", Dietz said, before being interrupted by Shirase.

"We found it, we need it, it belongs to us."

"Nevertheless, Lieutenant," Marshall said, "I will do everything possible to avert war. Readings on the Frigate?"

Caine pulled out her datapad, "They went to a lot of trouble to mask the type, but it looks to me like a Type-17. They only built a few of them – fast and nasty. Intelligence reports that they use them to train their crews for battlecruiser operations, which means that they have the pick of the crop and are fresh. We don't have much on this type, so the intelligence advantage will be theirs, though I think I could find a few weak spots."

"We fight, who wins?"

"Toss a coin. I'm afraid that's the best I can do. We could significantly improve the odds if we could maneuver."

"We can't do that!" Shirase yelled. "That would concede control over Desdemona."

"Our espatier force would likely disagree. Mr. Mulenga, how's the garrison coming along?"

"By tomorrow we'll be ready to face three-to-one odds with reasonable possibility of victory. There is substantial risk of damage to the base, though; I'd much rather avoid a fight."

"The reactor is the priority," Shirase said. "What do some ruins matter?"

"They are not yet ruins, Lieutenant, and I would rather avoid them becoming such," Mulenga replied, his brow furrowed. "Captain, realistically, if it becomes a surface battle, victory is unlikely."

"Our fighters, Mr. Cunningham?"

Sighing, the wing commander shook his head, "I've got them ready, but they just aren't suited to this sort of work. Mr. Quinn is modifying them for full-combat duties, but even with all four fighters up, I don't see it providing a tactical edge."

"Find some way to improve those odds," Marshall said.

"I've already told you that can't be done. We need interceptors, not patrol-types. Wrong fighters for the mission..."

Marshall's hand slammed down, "Well, we've got the mission, and those are the fighters we have. Find a way to improve the odds, Lieutenant. Consider that an order – and I don't expect to have to repeat myself again."

The room grew silent as the officers looked at each other; Dietz finally broke the ice, pulling out a datapad, and feeding information into the computer; a series of course projections leapt out from Shakespeare Station to the incoming track of the frigate.

"I have been considering options. Ten hours before the frigate arrives at Desdemona, there is a launch window for the interceptors we have based there to reach the frigate."

"And leave them out of fuel!" Cunningham stood up from his seat, looming over the executive officer. "You'd be condemning those pilots to spiral down into Uranus for a series of mounds of rock."

Looking up, Dietz replied, "Alamo could pick up any survivors twenty-nine hours later."

"Any survivors?"

"Mr. Cunningham," Marshall said, "Sit down. Now." He turned to Dietz, "Good idea, Lieutenant, but that would constitute a first strike attack. We cannot give them any justification for conflict; at present the high ground is entirely ours, and I want it to remain that way."

"As Lieutenant Shirase said, we found the base, and are occupying the moon. All of this is being conducted under legal salvage laws agreed by all powers," Mulenga said. "I am slightly surprised that they are making this attempt."

"They're hoping to get something out of the situation. I'd probably agree to grant Republic researchers access to the alien base." Marshall frowned for a moment, then continued, "I would even accept the decision going to arbitration." He raised his hand as Shirase's face began to redden, "Largely because I don't doubt that we would win. We hold all of the cards."

"So the only thing that can go wrong is for the Republic to do something stupid. And they might be many things, but stupid certainly isn't one of them," Caine said. "This could even just be a side-show; it's a good way to tie down a battlecruiser for a while at the cost of a training frigate. More expensive for us than for them."

"For all we know this is simply a badly-timed training exercise," Quinn said, earning a stare from Shirase and Cunningham.

"You don't seriously believe that," Cunningham said, shaking his head.

"We can't rule out options. Nor can we assume hostility."

Marshall nodded, "Mr. Quinn is quite right; we can't leap to assumptions. I suspect that they'll end up writing this one up as a training exercise, simply in order to justify what I think we all hope will be a failed mission. Nevertheless, I want battle stations drills over the next twenty-four hours. Let's make sure everyone is as ready as possible for action in case it comes to it."

"I'm sure we will succeed in holding Desdemona for the Belt, Captain," Shirase said.

Giving the operations officer a look, Marshall said, "Dismissed."

The officers rose, filing out of the room, talking to each other about the impending battle drills; Mulenga yawned and tapped an invisible button, his image disappearing. Caine lingered for a moment, looking back at Marshall, who was rubbing his hand over his eyes.

"I guess you got about as much sleep as I did."

"Probably less." He raised a hand, "Don't worry, I intend to crash in my cabin for a bit now."

"More than a bit. Dietz and I can handle what's necessary for the next eight hours or so; you should get some sleep."

He smiled, wearily, "Yes, mother."

"Why don't you listen to that music Esposito sent back for you? You can't have had a chance yet."

Frowning, he asked, "What music?"

"Didn't you find it in your office? She asked me to put it there for you. Apparently she stumbled across a box full of that weird music you keep inflicting the senior officer's deck with, and figured you'd be interested. Old recordings, apparently."

"That must be what I've been tripping over the last couple of days."

She shook her head, "I'll remember that when I buy you your next birthday present. Go get it – then listen to it. I don't expect to see you on the bridge until at least 1100."

"Yes, ma'am," Marshall replied, shooting off a mock salute.

Still shaking her head, she left the room, and Marshall followed, making his way up to the bridge. It was quiet on Gamma Watch, Kibaki curtly nodding at him as he crossed the room into his office. Peering under his desk, he saw the bag he had kicked underneath his desk days before, and reached under to grab it. A dusty old box was sitting on the top; he ran his datapad to translate the characters, and smiled. Half a dozen of his favorite composers, and all early editions. Also in the bag was a helmet, similarly dusty, with Mandarin written across the base. Curious, he ran the reader over it.

"Uranus Expedition. 2061."

An interesting footnote to history; at some point China had made it out this far, and ahead of anyone else as well. Something he was going to have to bear in mind when dealing with the Republic, that might be the grounds they were using. Idly, he pulled the receipt out of the bag, reaching for his credit stick to repay Esposito, when his eyes lit on the source of the artifacts. Desdemona. He slammed his fist on the communication circuit.

"Dietz, Caine, my office, right now," he shouted into the intercom, before switching over to the bridge. "Get Mulenga on the line, Mr. Kibaki, immediately! Top priority!"

"Sir?"

"Do it right now, Sub-Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir."

A few seconds later, a tired voice came over the intercom, "Captain, don't think I don't like speaking to you, but I was hoping to get some sleep tonight."

"Have you found any signs of human presence down there?"

Mulenga's voice was instantly sharper, "Aside from the body you found, none. Why?"

Caine walked into the office, puzzled; Dietz was behind her. Both of them saw the helmet placed on the desk and looked at each other, while Marshall gestured to them both to take seats.

"I want a full check of the site. Go over everything again. Get Cunningham to start some more aerial swaps, absolute top priority."

"Yes, sir. What have you found?"

"Where did you dig that up, Danny?" Caine asked.

"I didn't. According to this receipt, it was found on Desdemona."

"What? Who by?"

"Excellent question." Marshall stabbed the communications button, "I want a full-encryption person-to-person to Ensign Esposito on Shakespeare, immediately."

"Will do, Captain," Kibaki's voice echoed.

Dietz picked up the helmet, took a picture with his datapad, and started working on an image search. After a few seconds, he sighed, put his datapad down, and looked at Marshall.

"Mid-21st century Chinese helmet. It matches the writing perfectly."

"There are no records of any expeditions here prior to the Brazilian flight of '68, and they just looped around on a modified space station. No touchdown on any moon until EuroFed in '75. Certainly no record of any Chinese interest at all."

"2061. Just before the declaration of the Lunar Republic," Mulenga noted. "A time when they were most interested in expansion into space, and had the capability for such a mission."

"With the big war a few years later to conceal it from the records. Or if it failed, there may never have been a record."

"What makes you think it might have failed?" Caine asked.

Dietz nodded, replying, "Why abandon what appears to be a perfectly functional helmet? Possibly it could have been an oversight, but it would be strange to find just a single artifact."

Waving the box of music around, Marshall shook his head, "Not just one artifact, Mr. Dietz. I'd bet that this music originated from exactly the same source."

"Our top priority must be to confirm age and establish that they did indeed come from Desdemona. Certainly the helmet is likely to have been used on the surface at some point, so there will be particulate residue."

"Worth checking the music crystals as well, in case they were cached. I've already ordered fighter overflights of the area of the alien base to look for recent activity; I want Alamo to change its orbit to cover the entire moon in the next twenty-four hours. If there is a stray particle on the surface, I need to know about it."

"Yes, sir," Dietz replied.

"This gives them the edge, Captain," Caine said. "If they have proof of prior occupancy of Desdemona – hell, if some of their people died there..."

"Then they have all the arguments they need to make a claim to the base."

"Except possession. But an unlawful claim to the planet does not put us in a strong position to negotiate," Dietz added.

"I agree." Marshall paused, then asked, "Where's that comm link?" He stood up, walking to the door, and peered into the bridge towards the duty communications technician, "Ortega, why haven't you got through to Shakespeare yet?"

"Their duty controller states that both Ensign Esposito and Sub-Lieutenant Orlova are missing, sir. I was just about to call you."

His eyes widened as he replied, "Put me through to the duty controller, immediately!"

She flicked a switch, and passed across a headset, "You're on, sir."

"Captain Marshall speaking. What's happened to my people?"

There was a slight delay as the message went from Alamo to Shakespeare and back again, "Lieutenant Tokubai here, Captain. I really have no idea; they haven't reported for duty. Our security teams are looking for them now."

"Lieutenant, I will be calling again in one hour, and by then I expect to be talking to my people or hearing a damn fine explanation as to why."

"If I might ask what the problem is, Captain?"

"No you may not, Lieutenant! Where is Lieutenant-Major Akimoto? Patch me through to him at once."

"I'm afraid he is in sleep shift at this time, and I cannot disturb him. I will arrange for him to contact you when he awakens. Shakespeare out."

Slamming the headset down on the console, Marshall turned to Caine and Dietz, who had followed him out of the office. His face was red, and he was shaking his head in barely-controlled rage.

"What the hell is going on over there?" Caine asked.

"Under other circumstances, Captain, I would recommend immediately proceeding to Shakespeare Station," Dietz said.

"We don't dare. I'd like to, but right now, we can't. It would be an open invitation to the frigate," Caine replied.

Marshall nodded, reluctantly, "I know. Tempting, though. We'll wait that hour, see what happens next. Mr. Dietz, get those tests run immediately. Have you got the personnel on board to do it?"

"I understand Dr. Vivandi reported back on Alamo two hours ago with some samples," he replied, heading towards the elevator, the bag in his hand.

"Get that in works now, I want a report at the earliest possible opportunity. Probably too much to hope that this all some sort of a clever fake, but let's get that possibility comprehensively ruled out."

Ortega looked over, panic in her eyes, from the communications station, and in a high voice said, "Captain? We're getting a message handshake from the incoming frigate!"

Marshall looked at Caine, saying, "A month we've been trying to contact them, and they want to speak with us now?"

She glanced at her wrist computer, thinly smiling, "If someone on Shakespeare – maybe even Tokubai – immediately sent a message to the frigate..."

"Then by now they know that we're found something other than the alien base. I'll take the call in my office, Spaceman." He looked up at Caine, "Get on the electronic warfare packages, just in case."

"If I spot an opportunity?"

"Don't take it unless I say. Feel free to do a bit of light snooping, they'll expect that in any case."

He walked into his office, looking around to make sure that there was no evidence of the helmet visible, and sat down behind his desk, taking a moment to compose himself before tapping 'accept'. On screen a balding figure appeared, wearing the light green Republic uniform, sitting behind another desk that looked rather similar to his own. The delay between replies was going to be half a minute at this distance.

"This is Lieutenant-Captain Marshall, commanding the Triplanetary starship Alamo."

A long pause, "I am Captain Jian, of the Fast Frigate Ma Kong, speaking for the Lunar Republic. I must inform you at this point that we have a prior claim on the Uranian moon of Desdemona, and one that we intend to enforce. On behalf of my government, I officially give you thirty-six hours to withdraw all personnel and equipment from the surface of the moon and leave Desdemonan orbital space."

Marshall noted a reluctance at the back of the words, as if he was reading from a script that he didn't agree with. His own next words had likewise been laid down by others, but for form's sake, he had to say them.

"Captain Jian, my government has instructed me to defend Desdemona. We have registered a formal claim under the Treaty of Quetta, and are prepared to respond with deadly force to any acts of aggression against us, or any attempt to place a landing team on the surface of Desdemona."

"The Lunar Republic is not a signatory of the Treaty of Quetta, Captain, and our claim is based on the first landing on the moon by Chinese taikonauts in 2061. As the Lunar Republic is the successor state to the Republic of China, we have a valid claim, even under the treaty you describe."

"Nevertheless, Captain, I have my orders. I formally warn you that my government will not permit the Republic to take possession of this moon."

This time the pause was longer than simply the transmission lag. Briefly, there was a flicker across the screen, then Captain Jian leaned forward, shaking his head.

"I do not want to fight your ship over this Captain. My tactical experts assure me that such an encounter would not lead to a guaranteed victory, and that casualties would be unacceptably high. To say nothing of the diplomatic consequences of such an action."

"I feel the same way," Marshall replied. "I do not want to fire the first shots of the Second Interplanetary War out here. not for this. I have some leeway in my orders, however. I would be willing – as would, I suspect, my government – to take this to arbitration. Nothing to be removed from Desdemona by either side until the final decision has been made."

Shaking his head, Jian replied, "With our increased deep space efforts, we need these resources as much as the Belt. I tell you this honestly that you might understand that compromise for us is an expensive luxury." He paused, smiled, and continued, "Neither of us are diplomats, and it is showing. We are both soldiers, and soldiers in this generation – as in every generation – are the last ones to seek war out, yet usually are the ones ordered to begin them. My government wants Desdemona, Captain, and you must admit that we have the legal claim to the moon. Your government is in the wrong here."

"A claim based on a hundred years ago, Captain. Titan hadn't even been settled then, the Lunar Republic was still nothing but a dream."

"Nevertheless. We will be entering orbit in thirty-seven hours. I fear that my deadline stands. No doubt we will both be consulting our respective superiors to be given further instructions."

"No doubt," Marshall replied, quietly.

"I hope to speak to you again under better circumstances, Captain. I sincerely hope our next encounter is not in battle. Ma Kong out."

As the channel went dead, Marshall shook his head, the rage drained out of him, replaced simply by frustration. Shaking his head, he started to compose a new report to Mariner Station.

Chapter 18

The crawlways and corridors underneath Shakespeare Station seemed to go on forever. While she had been confined to the populated areas of the station, Orlova had failed to get a true sense of how large the station actually was; it was only now that she and Esposito were deliberately trying to get themselves lost that they could appreciate the scale of the construction. EuroFed had obviously had big plans for the place, but had never even finished building it – often promising corridors would end with a 'warning – depressurized ahead' sign.

She'd cursed not taking her datapad with her, but it would have been far too obvious a way of tracking her down. Not that it would be much consolation if the two of them managed to get completely lost; all the old stories about people trapped in forgotten, abandoned space stations that her mother had taken an almost eager glee in reading to her as a child started to seep back into her mind. The air smelled strange down here, as if it hadn't been breathed or recirculated for decades; for all Orlova knew, it hadn't.

"It must be more than an hour now," Esposito said. "We're going to have to chance heading back up into the occupied levels now. All we have to do is make sure that we go straight to the security office, and we should be fine."

"Straight to the security office? How? I'm not even sure which level we're on."

"I had two semesters of spatial awareness training, Maggie. I could find my way around here in the dark; and I spent weeks memorizing the layout of the place on our way out here."

Orlova looked at her friend, shaking her head and smiling, "I guess ROTC had something going for it, then. Lead on."

Esposito took the lead, opening a maintenance hatch that Orlova had managed to miss, and started to climb. She gestured at some faded writing on the wall in a language the pilot could not immediately recognized, and gestured up. Their muscles ached under the unaccustomed heavy gravity as they scaled the ladder, climbing up level by level until finally Esposito raised her hand, panting for breath.

"That's quite a climb," she gasped. "We're about there. Hatchway one level up, and that takes us right behind the security office. We'll be in the main corridor for about thirty seconds before we can get to Gomez, so I suggest we sprint it, just in case."

"Assuming they haven't got us on internal motion sensors already."

"I doubt they'll have them set up yet. If they did we'd already have been captured."

"You have a point at that."

"One minute to get our breath back, then we run for it."

The two of them waited in the darkness for a moment, counting down the seconds in their heads, before with a simultaneous nod they made their way up the final rugs of the ladder, coming out into a narrow, cramped hatchway. The air was a lot fresher here, and smelled more of people; it was comforting to get some confirmation that they were not the only ones on the station, but also unnerving to think about what those people might be planning. They paused at the final hatchway, hardly believing that they had made it this far without someone detecting them, and with silent agreement opened the door.

Leaping out into the corridor, narrowly missing a surprised maintenance technician who was about to open the hatch, they sprinted the fifty meters to the security office, attracting the attention of the few passers-by, none of whom seemed to actually be looking for them. The security office was closed; Esposito was the first to the door, and slammed her hand down on the lock release, taking a step in before thinking, then stopping frozen at the door, her eyes widening.

Orlova was just behind her, and barely managed not to throw up; lying on the ground, blood slowly running down grooves in the floor, was the body of Corporal Gomez, killed by a knife in the back. The cameras had all been smashed, cables dangling from the ceiling, and as the two of them quickly surveyed the crime scene, alarms started to ring. Orlova grabbed Esposito's arm, pulling her towards the door.

"We've got to get moving, right now."

"Damn it, Maggie, we need to report this."

"There's nothing we can do for him locked in a cell. Let's get out of here."

The espatier looked down at the corpse, then up at Orlova, and nodded, the two of them running into the corridor. She snatched a pair of handguns out of the weapons locker on her way past, tossing one to Orlova who plucked it out of the air.

As they ran down the corridor back towards the maintenance hatch, no particular destination in mind, Orlova heard a crack past her ear – turning her head while she ran, she saw one of the security guards, handgun out and aimed towards them. He was distracted by an ear-piercing scream that indicated the death of Gomez had suddenly become extremely public knowledge. The maintenance technician looked wide-eyed at the pair as they leapt into the hatchway, scrambling down the ladders as fast as they could move.

Neither of them had any direction or goal in mind, simply to get as far away from the inhabited areas of the ship as possible, as rapidly as they could. Finally, after fifteen minutes of racing in random directions, the pair raced into an old mess room, obviously long abandoned, and sat down at one of the long tables, panting for breath.

"Should we keep moving?" Orlova asked as she struggled to get her breath back.

Esposito shook her head, "No need. They could have had both of us up by the security office if they wanted us."

"You think they want us on the run?"

"I think they need someone to frame for Gomez's murder. We're the obvious suspects."

"Until Alamo gets back, anyway. The Captain wouldn't buy it for a moment."

Sighing, Esposito replied, "He might not have a choice. They'll be manufacturing evidence right now with no-one to stop them. I have a feeling you're right, though; at the very least we'd end up back on Alamo with a chance to tell our side of the tale. They won't want that."

"They might not care. Gabi, if we just disappear, the Captain will tear the station apart. They'll have a copy of his psych profile, so they'll know that. That leaves them with two choices.

"Kill us or turn us back over to Alamo when it gets back. Which could be days or weeks."

"By which time the Republic might own Desdemona. We need to stop that from happening."

The espatier nodded, "Which means finding out how far the conspiracy goes. That operations officer, certainly. We've got no idea how many others in the command staff."

"So we can't trust anyone." Orlova paused. "We've got to get a message to Alamo about all of this. I don't expect that the Captain could drop everything and rescue us, but he needs to know that the station cannot be trusted."

"Worth trying for a shuttle?"

"With three fighters in the launch bay? Warren wouldn't have any choice but to take one of them up, and it would be child's play to shoot us down after that. Not an option."

"Main communications array, then."

"If we had our damn datapads, we could link in from anywhere on the station," Orlova fumed.

Esposito smiled, "And they would already have tracked us down. Same reason we can't go back into the inhabited portions of the station. Even if we could get to a terminal, it would give us away in a few seconds. If they got to us before Alamo could get the message, then it would just be our posthumous testimony."

"Assuming they haven't locked out the array. I would have."

"We could try accessing it directly."

Orlova looked at her friend, shaking her head in disbelief, "That's a long way up. Assuming it isn't guarded."

"Only one way to find out."

The two of them stood up, and made their way to another maintenance corridor to climb the many steps back up. Esposito pushed a button, opening up yet another maintenance crawlway, and Orlova looked up to the top of the shaft – it faded away into inky blackness above. With a smile, Esposito stepped in and started to climb, hand over hand once again.

This time, at least, they weren't in any particular hurry; one or another of them called for stops every ten minutes to regain their breath, with a frequent topic of conversation the idiots who designed the station to spin at Earth-normal gravity. The further into the station they got, the easier the climb became, and the gravity began to get more comfortable. They reached the top of the shaft at last, only to find the access at the top welded shut, obviously fairly recently. Some writing was scrawled across the door, but without their datapads they couldn't read it.

"Remind me to learn Japanese when we get back to Alamo," Orlova said, looking down the shaft and shaking her head.

Esposito peered over her shoulder, "Two levels down there's another entry point. It's a longer route through the corridors, but it might be accessible."

"How did you learn all this stuff?"

"I did a couple of semesters out at Carter Station at Callisto Tech's annex. This is basically the same design, and the NOTC out there spent most of its time chasing round the corridors on exercises."

"All this time I thought you had some sort of phenomenal memory."

"Come on, let's go."

Two levels down, and they swung into a long, narrow corridor. The air was a lot fresher here, and there were signs of recent maintenance everywhere – as well as a discarded ration pack which Orlova grabbed, stuffing into her pocket for later. Most of the rooms on this level seemed to be technical storage, and she briefly considered looking into a few of them.

"I hope you've got that magic crystal of yours," Esposito said, turning her head as she approached a door at the end of the corridor.

"Science, not magic. I'm just glad that this station still has century-old encryption. Hopefully they won't have updated this part of the system."

The door slid open, revealing banks of unattended equipment and monitors. Clean, new equipment was dumped almost randomly across the room, obviously placed into compartments not designed to hold it, linked together with jury-rigged connections. On the surface, it looked like an untidy mess, but Orlova could appreciate the difficult task the engineer responsible for this must have had getting such disparate equipment to even talk to each other, never mind mesh properly together.

"Where do we send the message?" Esposito asked.

Orlova looked across the room, frowning, "We should have brought Quinn with us. I think the master control set-up is over there. The trick's going to be taking control of the dish without getting the attention of the control room; there are going to be all sorts of security safeguards built in."

"Think you can do it?"

The pilot walked over to the connections, nearly tripping over a bundle of fiber-optic cables that had been tied loosely to the floor, shaking her head. A couple of experimental button presses triggered nothing but gibberish on a screen on the other side of the room, but she did tug an old keyboard out from under a testing rig.

"I don't think so. We'd either need to get hold of the engineer who built this thing in the first place, or spend a couple of days trying to work out how everything fits together. Longer to disable the security systems; I'll have enough trouble just sending a message, never mind doing it covertly."

Esposito sat on a convenient chair, shaking her head, looking around the room as if the answer might rise from the ground. Orlova dragged another chair out from under a pile of components, sending them crashing to the ground, and pulled the ration pack out of her pocket. She had no idea what it was, only that it smelled like fish; taking an experimental bite, she smiled, took another one, then passed it over to Esposito.

"A whole hour wasted. Maybe we could get to one of the fighters, send a message from there? Even if they picked us up, they couldn't stop us sending," Esposito said.

"We'd never get out of the station. And guarantee that we'd be caught."

"Yeah." She paused. "I wonder what they'll tell Alamo when it contacts them for a report. Hell, I wonder what Warren's doing right now; both of his pilots are on the run, accused of murder. That's going to look great."

Orlova smiled and stood up, tossing the pack down onto the chair; Esposito could barely grab it in time to stop it spilling out. The pilot raced over to the controls and started furiously typing into the keyboard, the computer recognizing her words and switching its operating system accordingly.

"We don't have to move the dish, Gabi. They'll do it for us. Alamo's bound to contact them sooner or later – if nothing else, there's a twice-daily message packet between the two. All we have to do is queue a message quietly to be sent in the next package of transmissions."

"Won't they be looking for it?"

Orlova pulled out her crystal, and slid it into the panel, pushing a pair of wires aside to put it in, "Not if we don't actually send it until the antenna is actually pointed at Alamo. I don't need to feed it through the main system at all – we can bury it up in the initial electronic handshake. It won't show at this end, but Alamo's computers will register that the signal density at the start of the packet is a lot bigger than normal."

"Where did you learn all this stuff?"

"My mother's idea of flight training was rather outside the normal curriculum. She spent some time on e-warfare testing during the War, and put it all to rather more lucrative use later on." She finished typing with a flourish, and turned to Esposito. "Done. We can't make the message too long, maybe a hundred words or so."

"I think we can condense it down that far. Let me at the keyboard."

The two of them spent the next five minutes refining a short message; boiled down, they were warning Alamo that the upper levels of the station administration had been compromised, and that they had been accused of a murder they didn't commit – as well as the details they had uncovered about the previous landings on Desdemona. Looking anxiously at the clock on the wall, Orlova entered the message into memory, then shut down the terminal. Pulling a knife out of her pocket, she cut a pair of cables, and a couple of panels went dark.

"What did you do?"

"Creative sabotage. The only way to undo what I just did is from up here, and I just made it a lot harder."

"Won't it show on the systems monitor?"

"With all the work they've still got to do getting this station fully operational, some minor damage up here that doesn't affect system performance is going to be pretty low on the priority list. I don't think the technicians will want to be up here any more than we do."

"Even so."

"Let's move."

The two of them walked out of the room, Orlova looking back with some satisfaction at her work, and made their way over to the crawlspace again. Before they stepped in, Orlova placed her hand on Esposito's shoulder.

"Where are we going this time?"

"Away from here. That's as far as I've got."

"We might want to do better than that."

Esposito paused, and turned, replying, "Got any ideas?"

"Right now we're going to need help, and people we can trust. That isn't really anyone on the station."

"Warren? No, they'll be watching him closely. First thing they would have expected."

Orlova walked over to a viewport, rubbing her hand across it to clear off the dust, and looked out at a long shape drifting close to the station; she pointed at it.

"The Maru. They've brought it in closer since the missile tests. Right now it can't be more than a mile away."

"I thought we already ruled out stealing a shuttle?”

"Who needs a shuttle? That's just one long jump in a spacesuit."

The espatier peered out at the shape, replying, "A very long jump. Pity I can't come up with a sane plan. Let's see if the nearest airlock has any usable suits in it."

"Bet they're a hundred years old as well."

Chapter 19

It was clear from the pilot's viewport what had happened, decades ago. A long track running in between a pair of craters, waving slightly from side to side. Marshall could almost reconstruct the crash in his mind as he brought the shuttle in for a landing. The pilot had misjudged his landing speed, or had some sort of malfunction close to the surface. In a bid to rescue it he'd extended the landing legs and activated the docking thrusters, firing them to try and arrest the landing – but when they had come down, the pilot had pulsed the thrusters one way or another to prevent the lander crashing against the crater wall, desperately attempting to preserve hull integrity before finally bouncing to a stop. From orbit, it had looked only like a minor anomaly, with a quick run-through of the flight logs from the original survey noting it as a point of interest for potential later observation, overlooked in the wake of the discovery of the alien base.

"Look over there," Caine said from the co-pilot's seat, pointing at a discoloration close to the horizon. A familiar enough pattern, the burn mark indicating the presence of a shuttle. For a second, Marshall thought that it might have been a rescue craft, but more likely it was where the scavengers who had picked up the helmet had come down. He carefully guided the shuttle down in the same spot, not wanting to cause any further damage to the scene.

"Touchdown. All engines off," Marshall said to the flight recorder. His face glum, he turned to Caine, "Let's get our spacesuits on."

Unlike the last landing he'd made, this time the passengers were anything other than eager to disembark. He looked up at the clock as he put his helmet on – still another ten minutes before he was scheduled to talk to Shakespeare again. A part of him pondered waiting in the shuttle, but there was no point delaying this any longer. He could berate that irritating lieutenant just as easily from inside his spacesuit. He looked over Caine's suit, checking for problems.

"All clear, Deadeye."

"So are you," Caine replied, her tone and expression suggesting that she felt exactly what he was feeling. While he was walking through the alien base – until the last few moments – he had felt nothing but exultation and excitement, tinged with glorious mystery. This was different. This was placing in the final piece of a puzzle that he didn't particularly want to solve, it was disturbing something that should be left alone.

The risk any spaceman ultimately ran was ending up dying along on some desolate surface, left for someone else to find in the far future. Flashing through his mind – and quickly suppressed – was the thought that his father's body was likely in a similar condition somewhere lost amid the stars. Focusing back on the task at hand, he opened the crew airlock.

The two of them stepped out onto the somehow familiar terrain; looking around the horizon. Two pairs of footprints made their way across the terrain to a pair of mounds on the horizon, one small, one larger. In between them and the small mound was a cluster of rocks, and ground that had obviously been disturbed; Marshall knew that they were graves before he reached them. Three rectangular shapes in the ground, two of them marked with helmets, with a space were obviously until recently one had rested.

Vivandi and Cunningham had stepped out of the passenger compartment now, the former carrying the old helmet underneath her arm. Marshall gestured at them, and they slowly bounded over – no use of thrusters this time, lest they disturbed the ground. The distance was short enough that they could do it in short hops in any case.

"Looks like we're found the helmet's resting place, in any case," Vivandi said.

Marshall shook his head, "Grave robbers. Bastards. Pass me the helmet."

Caine was squatting down by the graves, "Look like identity tags marking the grave. They've obviously recently been disturbed – want me to leave them?"

Pondering for a moment as he took the helmet, Marshall replied, "No, that's a bit different. If we know who they were we might be able to track down their families and tell them where their ancestors are buried."

"Xiaohai, Colonel; Zizhong, Major; Gulin, Major," she read out, taking quick pictures of the three tags before returning them to their place.

"Rest in peace, gentlemen," Marshall said, gently placing the helmet in its position, making sure to line it up to hide the fact that it had been moved as best he could. He looked over at the smaller mound, and waved towards it.

Cunningham looked down at the bodies, standing over the graves, muttering something inaudible to himself; Caine moved over to him, tapping him on the shoulder in a bid to attract his attention.

"You coming?"

"In a minute, Deadeye. In a minute."

Marshall looked over at him, "You wait here for a moment by the shuttle. The rest of us should check out the other mounds."

"One of them presumably the lander," Caine said.

"Yeah. Smaller one at a bet."

"What about the other one?" Vivandi asked.

"Probably that was what they were coming down to find. It looks like a smaller version of the ones near the pole; might be another alien site. In which case I'd like to see if its worth disturbing this site further."

"It needs investigating, Captain," Vivandi said.

Cunningham broke in, "It'll be months before you scratch the surface at the polar complex. No need to disturb the dead any further, Captain. We've done what we came here to do."

"We finish the job, Lieutenant, then hopefully no-one else will want to come this way for another century or so."

The group headed over towards the smaller mound, following the footprints almost pace for pace across the rocky surface. There was a flash of red in the mound, on the far side from the shuttle; what looked to be a faded piece of cloth in front the mound at the rear, most of its color lost long ago. Underneath it was a small airlock, obviously recently disturbed, partly open. Marshall dug his fingers in and gave a quick experimental tug, only to be knocked flying when it opened. He stumbled on the ground, trying to regain his balance.

"Must have been set just to slide open. All electronic systems disengaged," Caine said.

"They'd have run out of power a long time ago," Vivandi replied.

Marshall took a look inside, and saw exactly what he had expected to see – a figure in a spacesuit sitting on a couch in the middle of a small room, barely big enough to fit four people and some samples. The lander had obviously been ransacked – compartments all opened, spare parts bins taken out. Anything that could be moved easily had been taken. Waving his hand over the identity patch on the spacesuit, he took a picture as the translator kicked in. He gasped briefly as he looked through the helmet; the body had long since decomposed, leaving a bare skull inside.

"Senior Colonel Rongsen," he read out, quickly recovering. "This capsule isn't large enough to support a crew for longer than a few days. My guess is that when they smashed up, they spent a few days trying to see if there was anything they could do, then the orbiter headed back to Earth leaving the rest of the crew here. The commander stayed alive long enough to give his crew a proper burial, then turned off his oxygen supply."

"Must have been longer," Caine said. "Or they wouldn't have bothered digging themselves in."

"They didn't," Vivandi said. "This has only been done recently. Within a month or two, I think. Someone made an attempt to hide this site from easy detection, make it look a bit like one of the alien mounds."

"Why? It wouldn't last for long."

Cunningham said, "Long enough. If we hadn't been looking for it, would we have seen any of this on our first pass here? We'd have spent all our time at the polar complex, and left the rest of the moon for a follow-up crew."

"Probably right at that," Caine replied.

"If I ever find the bastards that did this...", Marshall said.

Vivandi replied, "In the very-long-term, it'll keep the capsule intact for millions of years longer, Captain. They may have done them a favor. Some day an alien race that hasn't yet evolved to intelligence will be here, and they will learn of our people through the heroism of this crew."

Marshall paused at that for a moment, nodding, "That's quite a way of looking at things, Doctor."

"I have to sleep at night too, Captain."

A signal beeped in Marshall's helmet, and he stepped out of the capsule to improve his reception. Vivandi ducked her head into the capsule to take some photographs of the inside, in the probably futile hope that later analysis might provide some idea of what had been stolen from the site.

"Marshall here. Go ahead."

"Dietz here, Captain. The hour has passed; you asked to be notified. I have arranged a relay from your suit to Shakespeare Station, ready on your command."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. I'd better get this over with; make sure everything is properly recorded. Patch it through to Cunningham and Caine as well."

"Aye, sir." There was a brief pause. "Putting you through now, Captain. Current time lag is five seconds."

"Shakespeare Station, this is Captain Marshall. Please connect me with either Ensign Esposito or Sub-Lieutenant Orlova."

"Danny, I'm afraid we can't do that." Warren's voice echoed through Marshall's helmet.

"Teddy, what the hell is going on out there?"

"Corporal Gomez, the head of station security, has been found murdered, and I'm afraid Esposito and Orlova are the two prime suspects. Both of them were seeing fleeing the crime scene. I've been helping with the investigation, but they are both still at large."

"That is absolutely ridiculous, Teddy. Neither of the officers involved would possibly commit such an act. Not with out a damn good reason. Is there any sign that it was self-defense, or something like that?"

"Lieutenant Tokubai here, Captain, cutting in." Marshall inwardly groaned. "There is no sign of anything that would indicate anything other than premeditated murder. Both of them are armed, and I have security teams looking for them now with orders to bring them in."

"Implying that you consider them dangerous. Where is Akimoto?"

"I regret, sir, that the Lieutenant-Major is still unavailable at this time."

"Put me through to Lieutenant Warren, right this moment. And take yourself off the line."

"Sir, this is highly irregular."

"Do it or face court-martial. I mean it." Marshall's voice was low with barely restrained anger.

Warren's voice came through again, "I'm on, Danny. And Tokubai is on the other side of the room."

"I want both of them back alive, Teddy. None of this guns-blazing nonsense. Where the hell is Akimoto?"

"I wish I knew, Danny," he replied. "I don't think they did it either, but I'm all alone out here, and they're barely tolerating me. I even tried to go down to Akimoto's quarters, but there's a guard on the door."

Marshall paused for a moment, before saying, "Let's shake things up a bit. Assume command."

"Danny, Tokubai has three months' seniority over me."

"Mr. Dietz, are you listening?"

Dietz replied, "Yes, sir."

"Under our brand new field service regulations, am I empowered to grant brevet promotions?"

"Such a promotion would have to be confirmed by senior command; in this case Commodore Tramiel."

"And until confirmation came through?"

Dietz paused for a moment before replying, "The promotion would be assumed to be in effect until countermanded by higher authority."

"At our current distance from Mariner Station, that gives us about five hours. Which hopefully will be enough. Lieutenant Warren, by my authority you are brevetted to the rank of Senior Lieutenant until further notice; you are directed by my authority as senior officer in-system to assume command of Shakespeare Station pending relief by Lieutenant-Major Akimoto."

"Danny, are you sure about this?"

"I'm hoping that it gets Akimoto up and about. I want Tokubai out of a position of authority, and I want Orlova and Esposito secured. Ideally on a shuttle back to Alamo; and if it comes to it, feel free to be on board yourself."

Cunningham broke in, "We can be at Shakespeare Station ourselves in thirty-seven hours at best speed, Captain."

"Not with that frigate coming in."

"Captain, we have two pilots in trouble out there. We can't leave them."

Taking a deep breath, Marshall replied, "You aren't. I am. I don't want to, Lieutenant, but I have no choice."

"But..."

"Clear the line, Mr. Cunningham. Senior Lieutenant Warren, you have your orders. I know I'm asking a lot of you."

Warren sighed, "Same as always, Danny. One man mission behind enemy lines and all that. Don't worry, I've armed myself. After all, there are dangerous criminals about. I'll contact you every half-hour, keep you up to date. And if Akimoto crops up, I'll get in touch with you immediately."

"Right. Good luck, Teddy. Alamo out."

Caine broke in on a private circuit, "Was that wise, Danny?"

"Probably not. But I don't think we've got much choice. I'm hoping that this all proves to be nothing other than an unfortunate misunderstanding, but..."

She interrupted, "It isn't as if we haven't had recent experience of the Republic trying a trick like this. Agreed. It's a hell of a risk for Teddy, though."

"He knows that. At least it should flush things out into the open." Switching back to public mode, Marshall said, "Let's check out the bigger mound. Got your pictures, Doctor?"

"While you were throwing out random promotions. Can I have one?"

"I already made you Chief Troublemaker. Seal the airlock and let's get going."

"Already done."

He smiled a little as they made their way around the lander towards the other mound; Vivandi might be annoying, but she was at least braking his bad mood a bit. The mound looked similar to the one he had explored the day before, and memories of that incident began to flash into his mind, causing him to hesitate a little; Vivandi and Cunningham began to creep ahead.

"Let us take point, Captain," Vivandi said. "I can understand you being reluctant to peek into the face of the unknown again so soon."

"I'm fine. Let's push on."

It took a great effort for him to take the remaining steps to the mound. The footprints curved around the side to an entrance buried in the rock, a perfect octagon. Just as he was about to plant a rope and descend into the darkness, he received another transmission from Alamo, this one marked urgent.

"Don't go in the mound, Captain," Dietz said, coming as close as Marshall had ever heard him to alarmed.

"What is it, Lieutenant?"

"There was an anomaly in the message from the station. It took us a few minutes to get a handle on it, but it looks as if Sub-Lieutenant Orlova has managed to insert a hidden signal into the transmission. Not long, just a short burst."

"Read it, Dietz!"

"High levels of station command including Tokubai compromised. Security Chief Gomez murdered; Orlova and Esposito innocent and being framed. Evidence of previous expedition to Desdemona – helmet. One prospector returned to Earth insane due to alien exposure. Going to ground until Alamo returns. Request assistance at earliest opportunity, understand enemy frigate has priority."

"One prospector insane?"

"I presume that the site you are approaching has similar properties to the one you uncovered at the polar complex, Captain. I recommend we send in an automatic probe after you return to Alamo."

"Good idea. We'll head back now. Transmit that message back to the station immediately, attention of Acting Senior Lieutenant Warren. Send it in the clear, I want it broadcast so everyone can hear it. And appraise Mariner of our situation."

"Aye, sir. Alamo out."

Vivandi looked reluctant, but Marshall put a hand on her shoulder, turning her around as he began to head back for the shuttle. Caine was ahead of him, not needing much of an excuse to avoid facing the same shock as before, and Cunningham was still looking out at the ruined lander.

"Caine, I'd like you to ride in the passenger compartment for the ride up the Alamo. Mr. Cunningham, I'd like you to take the co-pilot's seat."

It seemed like a short walk back, probably because they were all glad to be heading back to the ship. There was an oppressive feeling about this place, and the addition of another alien grave to this site only made those feelings stronger. Marshall gratefully bounded into the crew compartment followed by Cunningham. He pulled off his spacesuit before sitting in the pilot's seat, flicking a series of switches to turn the shuttlecraft over to automatic control, setting it to fly itself back up to Alamo. With a faint touch of thruster, the shuttle began its ascent, the lift so gentle that he couldn't detect any difference between the minuscule gravity of Desdemona and the upward thrust. Before they were fully clear of the surface, Cunningham turned to him.

"We should head back for Shakespeare right now, Captain. Those pilots have top priority, especially now."

"They can both handle themselves. As can Warren, if it comes to that." He looked out at the horizon for a second before continuing, "I just hope there aren't many people involved. If it is just a matter of a few officers, then there is a good chance he can handle things. Otherwise we're going to have problems."

"He will, you mean. You just put him in danger, and for what?"

"This moon must be protected. We need the resources it holds, Lieutenant."

"Damn it, the Republic's claim is going to hold. They're in the right, Captain," he stressed the rank harshly, almost spitting it out.

"We don't get paid to do what is right, damn it. Our job is to do what is necessary. I hate this more than you do, but it is in the best interests of the Confederation. Having those resources will benefit the people that we are responsible to protect. It isn't all about fighting glorious battles and last stands, sometimes there is dirtier work to be done. And it is every bit as risky as war, and just as likely to have casualties.

Cunningham sneered back, "I read the report of your last mission."

"They died for the Confederation, and for Ragnarok. What we did was necessary, Lieutenant. Sometimes people die. We're soldiers, first and foremost. We wear a uniform and stand in the defense of the citizens of the Confederation, and everyone in the service knows that there is a risk that they will be forced to sacrifice their lives." The words came rushing out. "If you can't cope with that, then you need to get out of the service right now."

"I'm perfectly willing to give my life."

"You are a senior officer. It isn't about you. It's about something infinitely worse than that; it isn't as easy as leading a charge up a hill. Sometimes you have to put people you are responsible for at risk to complete the mission. You knew that during the war, knew that it was necessary. I shouldn't be having to tell you this."

"When is it necessary, Captain? Are those rocks worth a single life?"

"According to my orders, yes. Economically, it'll keep the wolf from the door for a while – and people die in depressions just as much as they do in war. I hate this – but I agree with it. We need these resources, and badly. Look at what we just saw down there. Four people who died for the future of their country, alone and forgotten, but nevertheless they all gave their lives gladly for a cause they believed in. There's no difference between the sacrifice they made and the one that servicemen are asked to make now."

"I don't know if I can agree." By now the anger had burned away from Cunningham, and he as looking down at the console. Marshall placed his hand on the older man's shoulder.

"Right now I badly need the Cunningham that once understood this. I need the man you were. But if you can't find him inside you, then it is time for you to leave the service." He looked up, and saw Alamo looming ahead. "We're on final approach for docking, better disengage. You can fly it in if you want."

"Thanks."

Chapter 20

Esposito peered around the corner, her pistol nestled in her right hand, looking out at the airlock. The last three had all been non-functional, sealed shut, but this one seemed to be in use; there were even a pair of spacesuits hanging up in the emergency cabinet. Unfortunately, there was also a bored-looking guard, wearing an ill-fitting espatier uniform, a taser dangling at his belt. She ducked back into the corridor and quietly walked back to Orlova.

"Well?" her friend asked.

"Good news, we've finally got a working airlock, bad news, it's guarded. Though he only has a taser, so presumably they're hoping to take us alive."

"That's a relief. How do you want to play this?"

Esposito mused for a second, then replied, "We're both armed, and it's only a short run up to the guy. Let's keep it simple and charge him. Good chance he'll just give up."

"That's it?"

Her eyes narrowed, "What do you mean?"

"I was expecting some sort of complicated plan. Tactics, deception, perhaps a reference to some ancient battle."

"Three years of tactical training taught me that complicated usually equates to failure. If you can just charge, that's usually best. You ready?"

Orlova pulled out her pistol, checking that it was loaded with light ammo. Anything heavy was liable to go right through the hull; the rounds they were armed with had been deliberately designed not to do much damage, though to a target the effect would be severe.

"I'm ready."

"Then let's go."

The two of them, shoes off, walked down the corridor, guns drawn out ahead of them, and made it to the junction. The guard sounded as if he was having an argument with someone, and they waited for a few seconds until the conversation ended, hoping that his distraction would prevent him from noticing them. Esposito held out a hand with three fingers raised, then two, then one, and then the pair of them leapt around the corridor, guns out.

"Raise your hands and drop your weapon!" Orlova yelled.

Wordlessly, the guard tossed his taser to the ground, hands over his head. He looked at the two of them nervously; it struck Orlova that he probably just was a trooper doing the job he had been assigned to do, rather than part of any conspiracy. Still, they couldn't afford to take any risk; Esposito snatched the communicator off his belt and tossed it into the airlock.

"Hope that's not an heirloom, kid, because that's going where we go." She raised her pistol again and shot the communications panel on the wall, sending a think trickle of smoke rising from the smashed equipment.

"You put your suit on first, Maggie. I'll cover you," said Esposito. Orlova nodded and made her way across to the suits, picking out the one that was closest to her build, and quickly running a practiced eye over it. It seemed to be in order, and the auto-diagnostic was all green; of course, if the suit had been tinkered with, that might not necessarily mean anything. She scrambled into it, pushing her arms and legs inside with some difficulty, then reached for a helmet out of the overhead locker. Nodding at Esposito, she took the pistol from her and pointed it at the guard while her friend changed.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Private Nakawari. You won't get away with this," his tone was strong, but his voice trembled slightly.

"I think we might. Little tip for the future – when you are guarding something the best thing to do is pay attention to your surroundings."

"I don't take lessons from murderers."

"Suit yourself." She reached into a pocket in the side of the suit and pulled out the portable medical kit, selecting a blue syringe. Typically they would be injected into a special slot in the suit as an emergency measure; this was going to be overkill, and Nakawari's eyes widened as he saw the sharp needle, but to his credit, he didn't flinch; Orlova gently placed him on the deck, arranging his arms so that he would be comfortable.

"How long will he be out?"

"At least an hour. I didn't give him anything too strong, just enough that he isn't going to be spreading any stories about us for the near future."

"Good. Both these suits look fine, but mine only has half a tank of thruster fuel."

"Should be enough. If we get this right, we're looking at one long jump to safety. With a bit of luck we'll be on our way to Alamo in a few minutes."

It was crowded with both of them standing in the airlock, but they managed to fit with some effort. Orlova tapped the command sequences and the inner hatch slid smoothly shut, a hissing noise gradually fading to nothing as the atmosphere was siphoned out of the room. The alert lights flickered from green to red, and she opened the outer lock – which slowly rotated out, the last traces of atmosphere spilling out into space. The dull green form of Uranus hung in space, the slender thread of the Maru in front of it; though Orlova knew perfectly well that the freighter was less than a mile away, it looked to be unreachable.

She raised her right hand, pointing at the distant target, and the suit's computer fired off a burst of its laser range-finder, quickly running through a series of course projections. Initially, it refused to even consider such a potentially dangerous maneuver, and half a dozen confirmations were required to enable the manual overrides; while Orlova was working through those, Esposito was hooking herself to her belt with a safety line, a couple of quick tugs to make sure it was secure – which only made the calculations even more complicated. Almost reluctantly, the course was computed, and the two of them braced themselves as Orlova tapped 'OK' on her wrist keyboard.

A series of bursts, one after another, and the two suits began to move away from the station, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Orlova urged the thrusters on, knowing that the greatest risk wasn't what they were doing, but that they would be detected and brought back to Alamo. By now the station's control deck would have detected the unauthorized airlock use, and sensors would be focusing on that part of the hull to track their presence. A shuttle launched quickly might possibly be able to intercept them, but it would be a lot more straightforward to just shoot them down.

Behind them, Shakespeare Station gradually dropped into the background, the airlock they had used slowly spinning away as their two suits curved gently towards the Maru. They could make out details on the freighter, the long stem of the fusion torch surrounded by bulbous cargo modules, and the spherical habitation module at the front, festooned with antenna and equipment. There was something odd about the forward part of the stem, a series of small hatches that didn't seem to serve any purpose. Even factoring in some magnification Orlova couldn't work out what they were for.

"Gabi, you see those hatches?" Orlova waited for a reply that didn't come, then tried again, "Gabi, do you read me?"

Her suit computer told her the story – they were being jammed, and short of banging helmets together they weren't going to be able to talk. Likely that would have thrown out the suit's intricate course calculations, so she decided to let the suit retain control. Halfway there, and still no sign of any pursuit, though the jamming was likely a sign of problems ahead. She couldn't see anything, though, and from where they were she could just make out the nearest shuttle bay, and she couldn't see any unusual activity.

The thrusters began to fire again, stabilizing the course for the final approach; she could just make out a pair of suited figures emerging from the Maru, carrying cables and thruster packs – evidently they had realized what she was doing, and had come out to bring the two of them in. Her suit computer fired the thruster jets again, slowing their approach, the brief burst of acceleration comforting as the hull of the Maru grew closer and closer, before with a final burst she found herself hanging just short of the ship, within reach of a handhold. Like a drowning man clutching a lifeboat, she grabbed hold of it, swinging Esposito towards another one.

Closing from underneath, one of the two suited figures pointed beneath him, and Orlova started to climb down the handholds. It was somewhat strange to be working on the outside of a ship that wasn't spinning, though it made it a lot easier to swing from rung to rung. The two suited figures waved them into the airlock and clambered in with them – now that she was close, Orlova could make out the insignia of the Atomic Syndicate painted on the side of their helmets, and grinned with reassurance. Atmosphere began to hiss again as the lock pressurized, and the inner door slid open to a sterile white corridor which they gratefully drifted into, pulling their helmets off, only for Yoshiro to swing into the corridor, a gun in his hand.

"I'm sorry about this," he began, "but I'm afraid I have to confine you both."

Orlova looked at Esposito, trying to weigh the odds of a potential escape – but stuck in their spacesuits and with nowhere to go, there didn't seem to be any options open. Reluctantly, they raised their hands and the two behind them began to remove their suits, taking care to relieve them of their pistols while stowing the suits carefully in a locker. They did a professional job looking through their pockets, tipping their findings into a small bag and sealing it up, placing it with the suits.

"Why?" Orlova asked.

"I don't have a choice. I was grateful for what you did; that missile wouldn't have done any damage to us to affect our performance, but all of us appreciated your actions."

"Belt nationalists," Esposito spat out.

"Not quite. I support the Confederation, as do we all. But we need those mines on Desdemona, you see, and we can't take the risk that the diplomats might hand them over to the Republic." His voice seemed very different to when they had met before, more calculated and refined.

"You knew about the base, the reactor, everything. This whole thing was a set-up."

"I'm afraid so. When we found the Chinese lander, we knew that it would cause a furor. That the Republic would claim the whole moon as theirs. Without those resources, the Belt is doomed." He looked around at the corridor, shaking his head, "All of these ships built for an era that no longer exists. But we're going to need them for the Belt-Desdemona run."

"So it is all about money," Orlova said. "Pathetic. You'd start a war to make a few million credits."

"Not million – billion. And for the people of the Belt, not ourselves. Besides, we don't think that the Republic will make a fight of it. They're overextended now. The Confederation might not take the risk, but we're willing to. This way."

He gestured down the corridor, and the group began to drift along it, gliding down the left side with occasional pushes from the wall, then dropping through a hatch to a lower level and a carefully sealed door, obviously a cargo airlock. Orlova looked up at Yoshiro, shaking her head in disgust.

"Thrown into space, then. I'm surprised you didn't just cut our suits."

"Not today, Sub-Lieutenant. We've converted this one into a temporary cell. The outer lock has been sealed shut; I give you my word that no harm will come to you. As soon as the Battle of Desdemona is over, you can return to your units, and your possessions will be returned to you." He paused, then continued, "There is of course an alternative; you could join us. Both of you would be very useful on the bridge during the battle."

"I'm not going to help you start a war," Esposito said.

Orlova frowned, "What chance do you think you have against that frigate anyway?"

Patting the wall, Yoshiro replied, "This is a Q-ship, Sub-Lieutenant. Built near the end of the war to lure in raiders. There are only three of these in existence, and it should be quite capable of giving the Republic thieves a run for their money. Besides, Alamo might not start a fight, but in a battle between a Triplanetary freighter and a Republic frigate, I know which side they'll join."

"You might be surprised," she replied, but inwardly she knew that they had a point. If fighting was actually braking out, Alamo would be obliged to assist under the terms of the Formation Treaties. The Captain might be reluctant, but he wouldn't have a choice. Yoshiro tapped a button, and the hatch opened, revealing a familiar old man sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking up at the new arrivals.

"Ah, company," he said. Orlova frowned for a moment, then recognized him as the shopkeeper from the station.

"What are you doing here?"

Yoshiro replied, "A Republic spy. Sorry to make you share this accommodation, but we've only got the one confinement area. Besides, we're going to turn him over to his masters after the battle." He looked at the two of them. "I'll arrange to have some rations sent in soon. If you have any special dietary requirements, just let the guard know."

One of the two guards took a position outside the hatch as it slammed shut, and Esposito took a seat in the corner, Orlova leaning on the wall, looking vaguely at the disconnected panels, then looked back at the old man, who was still sitting serenely by the wall.

"Are you a Republic spy?" she asked.

He smiled, "I wouldn't be a very good one if I admitted it."

"I'd say you don't have a lot of choice."

"Orlova, Sub-Lieutenant Margaret. Alpha-shift Flight Control Officer on the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo, decorated for valor following certain operations on Ragnarok. Interests including the history of 21st-century spaceflight, with an impressive collection of artifacts; I've seen some of your acquisitions."

She sat down, shaking her head again, "Well informed for a shopkeeper."

"I consider it an essential part of my job to know my potential clientèle."

Esposito butted in, "When did you find out about the alien base?"

"Esposito, Ensign Gabrielle. Born on Mars, commander of Alamo's Espatier Force, also decorated for actions on Ragnarok. Not so obvious an in with you as there was with Sub-Lieutenant Orlova, I must admit; I had to find a different avenue with you. Though you picked up on the item I placed for your Captain, so it worked out well."

"Why not just tell us about the base, and about your crash site? Why not tell us the truth rather than make us jump through hoops like this?"

He sighed, "Quite simple. We couldn't move before Alamo arrived; despite sending one of our fastest ships, Alamo was going to get to Desdemona first. Had we announced before Alamo's discovery that we had artifacts on the moon, all evidence would have been destroyed, except the items we had been able to retrieve. Alamo had to be the one to find it, but we could provide a few pushes in the right direction."

"And the station? What about Corporal Gomez?"

"I have no knowledge of that, Ensign. We had no intention of harming anyone, simply to make sure that our legal rights on Desdemona were protected. While I have sympathy for the economic plight of the Belt, had they opted to join with the Republic rather than your Confederation, this would all have been a moot point." He sighed again, continuing, "As it is, they will push both sides towards war rather than even attempt a negotiated compromise."

"Captain Marshall would try and reach an agreement."

"Being familiar with his psychological profile, I agree. There are elements in my government that would accept a compromise in the interests of peace, but both sides have their hawks who instead crave war as the solution to their problems. I fear that the crew of this ship are going to give them the excuse they need to start the madness over again."

Orlova was looking around the room, poking at the walls, while Esposito replied, "What about the rest of your people on the station?"

He cracked a smile, "There are none. I operate alone; one man cannot be betrayed by a confederate, nor are their any complicated issues of trust at stake. Being captured was always a likely end to this mission, but it was a risk I was more than happy to take. Tell me; did you get a signal to Alamo?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. I thought you would find a way; the reports we have on you note your resourcefulness in difficult situations."

Ruefully, Esposito replied, "I'm glad we didn't disappoint you."

"Do not think badly of me, Ensign; I am simply trying to stop a war, whilst promoting the best interests of my government. Just as you did on Ragnarok. It is a game we play out here among the stars, nothing more. The best players are the ones who make sure that the stakes do not rise any higher than those our masters are able to risk."

"I doubt Corporal Gomez agrees with you."

"I suspect our captors are the ones responsible for his death, not I."

Orlova was still poking around at the walls, then curled a finger around a couple of wires, smiling, then kicked at a cabinet underneath it, watching it wobble as she bounced back into the middle of the room. She reached up for a pair of wires, grabbed them, and pulled hard, sending a few sparks flying.

"Maggie, what are you doing?" Esposito asked.

"They took out most of the monitors. A real rush job, this one."

"So?"

"So I think I can knock out the primary feeds, so we can talk without being overhead. This one."

She pulled a wire, and the room went completely dark, before the dull red of the emergency lighting kicked into life.

"Got it. We can speak freely now." She looked around the room. "Anyone got any ideas on how to get out of here?"

Chapter 21

Usually, Marshall was reluctant to sit in the command chair on the bridge when he was anxious about something, believing that it did no good to the bridge staff to see him in a position of uncertainty and frustration. At one time, years ago, he had always been baffled at the amount of time his commanding officers spent hiding in their offices, and it was only when he first assumed command of Alamo that the reasoning became clear. In there, he had the privacy to be concerned, annoyed, even downright angry; on the bridge, he always at least attempted to appear professional at all times.

Today was not such a time; he felt had to be on the bridge, ready for the next communication from Shakespeare Station, ready to make an instant decision. The Republic frigate was only a day away, an additional complication to a volatile situation. Most of the senior staff had found reasons for being on the bridge, with only Dietz making an effort to remain away. Shirase, sitting at Operations, looked worse than he did; he knew the stakes better than anybody else. Just as he was about to snap at the duty communications technician, he caught himself and decided that he had been stewing too long, that he needed a break.

"Cunningham, you have the conn. I'm going down to the Science Labs to see if they have anything for us. Mr. Weitzman, make sure that I am contact instantly if there are any messages from anybody."

"Understood, sir," the young technician replied.

Marshall stood up, and made his way to the elevator; Caine stayed where she was at tactical, and with a little reluctance, Cunningham sat down in the command chair; that got a smile from the captain as the doors closed. He sped down to the far side of the ship, trying to wait patiently for the doors to open, twice pausing just before instructing the elevator to return to the bridge. He set an alarm on his datapad for thirty minutes – he'd spend at least that long away from the bridge. It wasn't as if there was much he could do short of breaking orbit, and that was the one option not on the table.

The doors opened, and as usual, there was an argument taking place in the scientific sections. Douglas – who he noted had managed to find a uniform from somewhere, and a Triplanetary one at that – was shouting at Montgomery, while Vivandi adopted her usual role of moderator. When it finally registered that Marshall had entered the room, Douglas snapped to attention.

"Captain on the deck," she said, while the rest of the science staff looked on with varying levels of amusement and disbelief. Marshall gestured for her to return to what she was doing, while working out in his head what to say to her inevitable request to transfer to the Fleet.

"Can we help you, Captain?" Vivandi asked.

"I thought I'd come to take a look at what you have found." He looked around. "Where's Cross? I expected him to be holding court."

Montgomery sardonically chuckled, replying, "He's alternating between writing his report on the natural reactor and composing his Legion of Merit acceptance speech."

"Well, we think that we've dated the site, at least provisionally," Vivandi began, while Douglas interrupted.

"All we have is the date of its destruction, nothing more, Doctor. That base could have been there a hundred thousand years."

"Ridiculous," Montgomery said, "the rate of decay doesn't suggest anything like that."

Raising his hand, Marshall said to Vivandi, "Your best opinion, Doctor."

"Forty thousand years. All from those bodies you found."

A brief unpleasant scene flashed through his mind; he rapidly pushed it back down into his subconscious for a later nightmare.

"You could date them from that?"

"Well, one of them, anyway. Our friend from Earth – he's Homo neanderthalensis."

"Neanderthal Man," Montgomery added, sotto voce.

Vivandi shot him a look, then continued, "And from the later stages of his development. We've been able to trace his DNA samples back a way; obviously we haven't got anything like a complete picture, but we know that he was on Earth around 40,000 years ago. Right slap in the middle of the last ice age, this gentleman was walking on Earth before he had the surprise of his life."

"I wonder what he was doing up here," Marshall pondered.

"He could have been anything from an ambassador to a pet, I suppose. We've really hit the jackpot here, Captain – not only have we found evidence of aliens visiting the Solar System, but actual proof that they visited Earth."

"That's not proven either," Montgomery said. "He could have made it here himself..."

"With all the exploration of local space in the last two centuries, I think we'd have spotted some evidence of flying caveman, for Goddess' sake," Douglas half-yelled, "He was brought here. Now I might grant you that he was speaking to them on some sort of rational level rather than just grunting at them, but the idea that he got into his little stone spaceship and blasted up here is downright stupid."

"You don't know that. You can't prove that."

"I can't prove that invisible gremlins aren't taking a dump in my coffee right now either, but I'm not going to stop drinking it."

Marshall smiled, watching the argument; Vivandi caught his eye and winked slightly, and he realized that he'd been set-up. He took the scientist off on one side, keeping his voice low.

"Thanks. This helped."

"Don't mention it. Louisa suggested that you might need a bit of a distraction. I hope we didn't lay it on too thick."

"Not at all." He looked around at the genetic charts on the wall as the room quietened down, everyone returning to their work, then continued, "You've actually found a Neanderthal Man in there?"

"Well, you did. It really is quite incredible. We need to get a top paleontologist out here, which I suspect means bringing the United Nations into the picture, unfortunately. That's not a qualification that is much in demand out here, but I've put a few feelers out."

"What about breathing? We didn't see any airlocks."

"Ah, that's the best part. Here." She pulled out a pocket holoprojector and put up a topographical map of the base, showing the now-familiar structure, then pressed another button to overlay a blue dome over the entire complex, seamless to the ground.

"All of it was protected?"

"That's right. We found some trace of the outline, enough to get the idea of what we were looking for. Doesn't look a lot different to some of the early settlements on Mars, or the bases we've got on Triton for that matter. I'd say it was old, though. Old, established technology."

"What makes you say that?"

"Our buildings all have emergency airlocks anyway. They don't; so they must have really trusted that the dome would hold. Until one day it didn't, and I suspect your theory of attack might be likely after all. If they had considered that their dome might fail, then they would have taken precautions."

Marshall shook his head, "So they had an enemy. Maybe still have, somewhere out there."

"I wouldn't worry about it. Forty thousand years is a long time – time enough for us to go from primitive flint tools to the stars." She looked at the genetic charts again, shaking her head, "I wonder if he realized why he was dying. One minute he is walking on the banks of the Mediterranean on Earth, and the next minute he is leaving his planet for the last time. I'd like to think he knew what sort of an adventure he was embarking on."

Smiling at the thought, Marshall turned back, then suddenly froze on the spot, then turned and grabbed Vivandi by the shoulders.

"Where did you say?"

"The Mediterranean."

"North or South?"

"What does that have to do with it?"

"Answer the question."

She pondered for a second, then called out a map of Earth on her datapad before replying, "North. A place called Gibraltar. He matches genetic data we have picked up from that region. Why?"

Ignoring her, Marshall raced down the corridors towards the elevator, slamming on the button to send him up to the bridge. Composing his thoughts for a few seconds, he pulled his communicator out.

"Weitzman here, Captain. Nothing to report yet."

"Get me Captain Jian, on the Ma Kong, right now. No scrambler, copy of the message to Mariner. Don't accept no for an answer; I'm on my way back to the bridge."

The technician's puzzled voice replied, "Yes, sir."

Tapping his foot, Marshall waited for the doors to open, then pulled out his datapad and called up the information he need to have to hand, data on 21st century political organizations and the migratory patterns of Neanderthal Man. He didn't need to understand it at the moment, he just needed to have a few facts at hand to wave in Jian's face. The doors opened, and ignoring the inquiring looks from Caine, he sat down on the command chair as Cunningham leapt up from it.

"I have the Ma Kong, Captain. You'll be speaking to Captain Jian and Captain-Lieutenant Xun."

"Captain-Lieutenant? The last Xun I remember..."

"The same one, evidently demoted, Captain."

"Interesting. Put them through."

Jian was sitting on his command chair, Xun standing behind him. The last time he had encountered her, she had been commanding a blockade runner on its way to Ragnarok that his crew had managed to destroy. She still had a scar from that incident, and her rank insignia had been somewhat reduced; the Republic tended to be harsh towards those who failed at their assignments.

"Have you received any new instructions from your superiors, Captain? My orders have remained unchanged," Jian began.

"I have no new directives from the Combined Chiefs, Captain, but I do have some new information that I think changes the picture considerably."

"And that is?"

"We have completed our initial studies of the alien ruins on the surface..."

"Intruding on our territory. You will cease these actions at once," Xun said sharply.

"...and found some interesting artifacts," Marshall continued. "Including some of the residents of the base."

Jian's eyes widened; it looked as if he was actually interested, maybe excited by this discovery, as he replied, "You have? My congratulations – sincerely – on an excellent discovery." He leaned forward, continuing, "I do not believe that my government would have any objection to you continuing your investigations, at least until our own researchers arrive, as long as we receive full copies of the research."

"I have no objection to that, Captain. One element of the discovery that you should be aware of immediately, however."

"The aliens are not active?"

Marshall shook his head, "No. Not that. As well as several alien corpses, we also found the corpse of a primitive human, a Neanderthal Man."

"On a satellite of Uranus? Are you sure?"

"I was in the party that discovered him."

"I don't blame you for wanting to see for yourself. I intend to visit as soon as possible; perhaps you would serve as a guide."

Taking a deep breath, Marshall replied, "Genetic testing has proven that the human originated in the Iberian Peninsula, in a country that was a founder member of the European Federation."

Jian's face clouded, "What are you saying?"

"The European Federation being a predecessor state of the People's Republic of Callisto, in the same manner that the Lunar Republic considers itself a successor state of the Republic of China, we have a claim on Desdemona based on prior occupancy."

"That's absurd!" Xun shouted.

"Not at all. If the astronauts on the moon had been citizens of the Lunar Republic, you would have a stronger argument. In this case, we have a legitimate claim."

Leaning forward, Jian replied, "You are not seriously suggesting that the presence of an extinct human species that happened to live in territory that tens of thousands of years later would be part of a now-defunct power bloc constitutes a strong claim on this moon, are you?"

"I'm suggesting that this give grounds for arbitration. Captain, neither of us want to fight a war over this. All I am asking is that it gets thrown back to the diplomats to sort matters out."

Shirase leapt up from his station, anger on his face, "Captain, you can't yield this far. We've got a claim that has precedence, we need to make use of it!"

"Even your own staff disagree with that position, Captain," Jian said.

"Mr. Shirase, either sit down and keep quiet or leave the bridge," Marshall hissed, before turning back to the screen, "Captain Jian, it boils down to this question. Do you want war, or do you want peace? Because under no circumstances will I break orbit voluntarily without orders from my government."

"You cut to the heart of the matter."

"This is a farce!" Xun yelled. "Break orbit at once, or suffer the consequences."

It was Jian's turn to silence his subordinate with a glare, before turning back to face Marshall, "I will need to consult with my government. Naturally I will make an effort to ensure that such discussions are conducted with all speed."

"Thank you, Captain."

"Likewise." The screen winked out, and Marshall started to breathe again, as Caine rose from her Tactical station to stand next to him, shaking her head.

"You don't believe that it is a valid claim, do you?"

"Enough that we don't have to fight today. He wants a way out as much as I do. It gives us an opportunity to come up with some sort of mutual agreement, even if it means we end up sharing it." He looked up at her, saying, "Damn it, Deadeye, I know that it doesn't make much sense. Just enough that both sides can save some sort of face, just enough that we might not have to go war today."

"Sharing our discovery," Shirase muttered.

"Better that than a war, Lieutenant. I don't see how that would help the Belt."

Triumphantly, Weitzman slammed his hand down on his console, turning to Marshall, "Message from Shakespeare Station, Captain, from Senior Lieutenant Warren."

"At last. Put him on."

"Aye, sir!"

Warren's face appeared on the screen; he seemed to be working on a black eye, and there was a nasty cut running down the side of his cheek, but his relentless smile was still intact. Pandemonium seemed to be reigning behind him on the station's command center, but there was no sign of fighting – though plenty of signs that there had been a battle of some kind in the recent past.

"Are you all right, Teddy?"

"Won't say I came through without a scratch, but sound of limb, Skipper. There was a bit of a fracas up here, but we've got matters under control now, and I have Lieutenant Tokubai on the run. Seemed that he didn't want to relinquish control, but Minako here," he gestured towards the Tactical Officer, who was screaming at some harried crewmen, "had other ideas. We should have him in custody soon."

"What about the rest of the station? And Akimoto?"

"Not completely good news, skipper. The Atomic Syndicate turned out to have a lot of people with guns running about, and they've managed to take control of the shuttle bays and the sensor stations. We're a bit blind at the moment. That freighter, the Maru, is worrying me – it's one of theirs, you know."

"I remember. That's a priority once you can secure the shuttlecraft and take a look."

"Wilco. As for Lieutenant-Major Akimoto, seems that he'd been given a rather massive dose of sedatives. Enough to sleep through an orbital bombardment, by the sound of things. I've got one of the medicos down with him now, one I can trust, but I don't think he's going to be awake for a few hours at the very least. Snores like a misfiring engine, as well."

Taking a deep breath, Marshall asked his next question, "Orlova and Esposito?"

"That's why I'm worried about the freighter, skipper. We picked up a couple of spacesuits heading over to the Maru from a disused airlock on the upper levels, and the guard reported that it was them. Knocked the poor kid out with a tranq patch. We weren't in any position to do anything about it at the time, we were in the middle of our little party over here. I've tried to hail the Maru, but they don't seem to be in a talking mood. I could send some people over in suits?"

"No. Far too great a risk at this point."

"I could get a lot of volunteers."

"I can't authorize it. Put your house in order, Teddy, then go and get them. Don't forget you've got some fighters if it comes to that."

"I hope it doesn't. Sorry I didn't have better news for you."

"You've given me lots of good news, Teddy. Let me know when the situation stabilizes, but other than that, don't worry too much. I know you're busy over there."

"If I'd known liaison meant 'take over', I'd have brought my good uniform. I'll keep you up-to-date, skipper. Shakespeare out."

The line went dead, and Marshall rubbed his hand across his face, then looked across at Shirase, whose face had become a vision of fury. He looked at Marshall, back at the blank screen, then around the room.

"I didn't know. They never told me. Those bastards never told me," he said, his voice growing in intensity.

"Mr. Shirase...," Marshall began.

The lieutenant raised his hand, "You're all thinking it. That I was sent here as a spy for them. I didn't know. I didn't know!"

"I believe you, Lieutenant. There are a lot of things you could have done if you were. I trust you."

"There has to be a reckoning, Captain. They've got to pay for what they have done. People have died – people that are supposed to be on our side. We need that site, need it very badly, but the price is too high." He stopped, and took a deep breath, saying, "Captain, if you wish to withdraw from Desdemona to rescue our crewmen, I will endorse your decision."

Marshall saw what those words had cost Shirase, saw the earnest look in his face, and shook his head, replying, "Not now. We're close to getting an agreement. I can't risk that, even for the lives of the crewmen."

"They knew the risk," Cunningham said quietly, drawing a look of surprise from Caine.

"If we can come to some sort of an agreement with the Republic, then we will be free to break orbit. Hopefully then everything will start to settle down."

"I hope you are right, Captain," Shirase said, "and that they will not make demands that the Confederation cannot give."

The screen flicked back on to show the trajectory of the frigate, inexorably moving towards Desdemona. Whatever happened now, it was going to end up in orbit – the inflexible laws of celestial mechanics compelled that. Hopefully the politicians on both sides would prove less intractable, or there would soon be a short-lived ring system around the tiny moon, and a single wounded ship left to enjoy the fruits of victory.

Chapter 22

More than an hour had passed since three ration packs had been tossed into the cell; the guard had noted the flickering red lights with some amusement, but had made no effort to make any repairs; if the Maru was preparing for a battle, then they likely had more important things to worry about than minor maintenance on an unused airlock. Orlova was finishing the remains of her carnicultured meat – she didn't even attempt to work out what they had been attempting to grow in the vats.

"Pity they haven't sent anyone in to fix the sensors. I half thought that we might be able to take out a technician or two," she said

Esposito shook her head, "These guys seem too smart for that. They don't care what we're doing – and if they sent anyone in here, it just gives us another chance to get away." She looked down at the old man, still sitting serenely on the floor, "You seem comfortable enough."

"When one is as old as I, one learns that energy must not be expended heedlessly. They cannot see what we are doing or planning; that is good. All we need now is a plan."

"If we just had a spacesuit, I could probably hot-wire the communicator to contact someone," Orlova said, swinging limply from the ceiling.

"They'll have a jamming system built in, at least around the room. It would be their communicators you'd be using, remember. They'd pick it up in seconds and big men with guns would burst in here to stop us. It's academic in any case – no way they'd let us have a suit," Esposito replied. "If you want to wish for something, wish for a code-picker. Or hell, a shuttle docked on the other side of that airlock."

"It's just so damn frustrating." She lashed out with a foot at the wall, sending herself careening across the room – and looked up in surprise at Esposito, "The wall moved."

"What?"

Orlova pushed herself back to the spot she had kicked, and pulled at the wall with her hands. There was a loud click, and the panel on the wall retracted, revealing a deflated white bag inside. She looked around the room and smiled.

"They left in the rescue balls!" she yelled.

"Of course they did. They wouldn't want their precious prisoners to die if we decompress."

"They've got communicators."

"So? We're still stuck in here, and I don't think they'll give us more than a few seconds of signal, in any case. That guard is probably monitoring the signals himself, on the off-chance we've thought of something."

Orlova started to pull out the ball, earning a quizzical look from the old man and a frustrated stare from Esposito. She moved to the next panel, and pulled another ball out, until three balls were filling a substantial part of the airlock space. She drifted among the white sheets with evident glee.

"Doesn't matter if he comes or not. He won't be able to come in if the airlock has been depressurized and we're floating away."

"What?"

"This is an airlock, and they've helpfully exposed a lot of the cabling. I think I can override the locking mechanism; they won't have taken it out, they'll want to use this as an airlock again at some point."

"So we drift out there in little white balloons until someone picks us up?"

"Better. If I get this right, we'll be fired out when the atmosphere goes. That'll give us a nice boost away from the ship."

"You realize that it will take them a matter of minutes to bring us back in."

The old man looked up, a smile on his face, "Minutes are better than seconds. All we need to do is contact either your Alamo or the Ma Kong, and the crew of the Maru will be in a far more difficult position."

"Assuming we can break through the encryption."

"We'll have time to try. Damn it, it beats just sitting here and waiting for the Second Interplanetary War to start, doesn't it?"

Esposito signed and nodded, pulling at a rescue ball, "It's been ages since I've had to climb in one of these things. Not much in the way of controls."

"Just a life-support system and a communications rig. Nothing complicated." Orlova peered at the systems, "Good for – oh."

"Oh?"

"They have made some modifications after all. Communications are intact, but there's only three hours oxygen in each one. The tanks are almost empty."

"Three hours will be sufficient time for us to be recaptured, Sub-Lieutenant. Your plan remains sound," said the old man, who had finally risen from the floor and was starting to scramble into his ball. "How long before you are ready?"

"No time like the present. The two of you get in, and be ready to seal up when I say."

"What about you?"

Orlova started to open up her ball to allow her to drift close to it, reaching out with both hands towards the cables, then replied, "I'll have to rig the override. Good old electronics after all the fun I've had with the monitors already. Fortunately this is just a standard system."

"Why do I have the horrible feeling you've done this before."

"Blowing cargo airlocks is an old smuggler's trick. I'll have thirty seconds to get into the ball before the lock goes."

Esposito looked at her, eyes wide, shaking her head, "Then get in the ball. This is my job; I'm the one with the zero-gravity training."

"And I'm the one who can do this work in her sleep. Sorry, Gabi, this one's mine. Let me know when you are ready."

"I am prepared," the old man said.

Looking up at her friend, Esposito nodded, and scrambled into the rescue ball, pulling the seal almost to the top. As soon as she completed it – a matter of a second – she would be safe as the life support systems activated. Orlova looked up at the tangle of wires; for all her bluster, she'd only actually done this twice before, and both times she was wearing a flight suit, rather than trying it in her shirtsleeves. The last time had been over Titan, revenue interceptors on the way, trying to land a cargo in one of the methane seas for a client she had never met.

Four cables, all of which needed to be spliced together to bypass the safety systems. That was simple enough – then came the hard part, as she pulled out the test keyboard and started to type commands into the computer, one after another, activating a series of emergency programs. It wasn't just opening the doors normally – that would take too long. This was a question of stopping the computer from decompressing first, which would likely damage the lock permanently. Not something that bothered her too much.

She paused with her finger hanging over the confirm button, tucked herself more tightly into the ball, and then gently tapped it, throwing herself down into the ball – too hard, as it turned out, as she bounced back out of it, a hand grabbing the side of the ball in a desperate flailing motion as the countdown continued. She managed to slide in on the second attempt, and sealed the ball tightly with all of five seconds to go. The next part was the difficult one; she tried to hang limp in the middle of the ball.

The airlock popped open, doors pulled out by the force of the atmosphere escaping, taking the three balls with it, popping them out into space. Orlova was flung against the side of the ball, bouncing back around it before she could steady herself. Her first priority was checking the integrity of the fabric, but that all seemed fine. The indicators from the other two were also green, so her fellow escapees were fine. Next came the big part, as she pulled out the communications keyboard, trying the emergency frequencies, the ones that by international treaty should be sacrosanct against jamming. Turning up the gain as far as possible, she began to speak.

"Orlova calling Alamo. Orlova calling Alamo. Freighter Maru is Q-Ship planning unprovoked attack against Ma Kong. Have temporarily escaped with Esposito and Republic agent; all well."

She set the message to repeat constantly, trying to mentally calculate how long it would before she could expect a reply, then began to work on the transmitter, modifying it to the extent of the limited capacity. It had been designed to resist tampering; the specification called for it to be usable by a blind man, a child, or a badly wounded casualty in the worst cases – all you had to do was push a button and start to speak. Although there were some limited directional options, it just didn't have the functionality. She tried switching randomly across the four emergency frequencies, hoping against hope that someone would pick her up, but with the distinct impression that she might never know, that the Maru would pick her up again before she could find out.

After a few minutes, she sat back in the rescue ball, looking out of the small window. The ball was spinning wildly, Uranus and the station seemingly flying past her at a furious rate. It was enough to send her stomach churning, but she forced herself to keep looking, and was rewarded with a bright light briefly flashing into the ball, strong enough to make her eyes water. Not a spacesuit, probably a shuttle, which would help. She balled her fists, getting herself ready to make one last struggle, hoping that she might have a chance of getting free of her captors once she got on board. She wasn't expecting the call that came through the speaker.

"Raven Leader to Raven Four. You read me?" Warren's voice echoed through the speaker.

"What the hell?"

"I'm out here in a shuttle with some grapples. I've already got the other two balls, all fine and well. I'm going to start moving in towards the station now, so brace yourself. I'll keep it nice and steady."

"The station? Never mind, you've got to get my message to Alamo."

"I relayed it as soon as I picked it up. You're lucky this shuttle was up by one of the upper bays, I'd never have got to you in time otherwise. We've only got control of the upper decks right now, but we're winning."

"Am I under arrest?"

"Don't be silly, we know it was Tokubai. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you, by the way."

"Thanks for that, sir. I think it would probably have all happened anyway."

"Damn it!" His voice rose, and Orlova could hear him calling the station, "You got anything you can put up yet?"

"What happened?"

"Shuttle just launched from the station, heading right for the Maru. Probably that rat Tokubai pulling out. Brace yourself, I'm going to try and speed up a tad."

The next few minutes were one of the most uncomfortable transits Orlova had ever experienced; every pulse of the shuttle thrusters sent her bobbing up and down, and the ball bounced twice in the gravity as Warren brought the shuttle in for a landing. As soon as the atmospheric sensors indicated a green light, she gratefully popped the seal and stepped out onto the deck, looking across at the other two bring helped out of their bubbles. Warren stepped out of his shuttle and looked around, gesturing to a technical crew to start preparing the shuttle for another launch.

"If you three are up to it, we should get down to the control room. I left Ensign Matsumoto in command down there, rather not leave her by herself for too long."

The trio needed no encouragement to make their way to the elevator; a technician tossed each of them a tablet that Orlova instantly swallowed, and she started to feel her stomach settle down. The old man refused his pill, sliding in his pocket, and soundlessly stepped inside. As the doors closed, she noticed that Warren's insignia had changed. He looked down at them and blushed.

"Ah, that. The skipper gave me a temporary promotion so I'd outrank Tokubai. Just about worked as well, though I'd rather not have to go through all that again! Be damn glad to take them down and get back to normal again."

"Don't you want promotion?"

"Captain – or Lieutenant, in this set-up – tends to be where the fun is." He looked over at the old man, eyes narrowing, "And who might you be?"

"An observer of humanity, Mr. Warren."

Esposito grinned, "He's working for the Republic. For the present, I think he's on our side."

"Are you?" Warren asked.

"Do you really expect me to say no, Lieutenant?"

The doors slid open on pandemonium. A young ensign was striding down the consoles, shouting at technicians who were racing to put things back in order; the room was dominated by a huge hologram of the station showing tactical positioning, with a pair of sergeants, one of them with his arm swinging uselessly in a bloody swing, shouting commands into headsets, co-ordinating pitched battles across the whole station.

"Ensign," Warren gestured to Esposito, "There's work for you there if you want. The priority has to be getting control of the docking cluster – if we can get the shuttles and fighters, we might be able to launch a strike on the Maru."

"I'll get right on it, Lieutenant."

"Now," he turned to Matsumoto, who almost walked into him, "I'd like a report on that shuttle."

"It just docked to the side of the Maru, and was in quite a hurry about it. Straight-in approach. We just spotted a work crew on the outer hull, looks like they are putting a patch over that airlock."

"How long?"

"Depends on how good a job they want to do."

"Any luck trying to contact them?"

"They have not responded on any channels, Lieutenant."

Warren sat in a convenient chair, rubbing his hand across his chin, musing, "They can't think that they are going to take the station. We've got a strong advantage now; the only edge they had was a couple of people on their side in the station administration and surprise. Both of which are now redundant."

"They're planning to move out and attack the frigate."

"Ensign, any luck with electronic warfare systems?"

She shook her head, "We haven't got the processing to spare at the moment. Too busy fighting off intrusion attempts from the lower decks." Frowning, she continued, "They're moving quickly with that welding job."

"It doesn't have to be perfect," Orlova said. "They can finish the job once they get under way."

"The crew is returning to the airlock. Lieutenant, I'd say we have seconds."

Warren shook his head, "There's nothing we can do. Contact Alamo, and..."

"Energy spike!" yelled one of the technicians. "Aft of the Maru, main engines are engaging. They're moving out!"

"Signal coming in from the Maru now, Lieutenant," another technician said. "Recorded only."

"Let's hear it."

Tokubai's voice echoed across the room, "This is Lieutenant Tokubai, commanding the Directorate Vessel Raifuku Maru. We are proceeding to act in the defense of our territorial sovereignty by engaging the enemy forces that have entered the Uranian sub-system, and call for the assistance of all Triplanetary forces in-system under the Foundation Treaties."

"By the book," Orlova muttered.

"We will not rest until Desdemona is secure for the Belt. We call on the incoming frigate to alter course to leave the system immediately, else we will be compelled to use deadly force. Maru out."

Sighing, Warren reached for a handset, "Patch me through to Alamo, and fire that message at them first."

"I think they already received it, sir. That was omni-directional."

"Damn." He looked at his watch, "That will reach Luna in about three hours. If we haven't got this sorted out by then..."

The old man stepped forward, "As a representative of my government, I request permission to contact the Ma Kong." He looked at Orlova, and smiled again, "It is possible I might be able to assist."

Chapter 23

Slamming the headset down, Marshall looked around the bridge; all of the officers and crew were looking at him to make the next move, to pull off the miracle that might yet prevent war. He looked over at Weitzman, sitting at the communications station.

"I want to speak to the Maru, Spaceman. Right now."

"Still no luck, Captain. They aren't answering our transmissions."

"Mr. Shirase?" Marshall looked at his operations officer, who nodded in reply.

"I will make an attempt, Captain. If I can speak to them, maybe I can stop this insanity."

"Get me the Ma Kong, Mr. Weitzman."

"Aye, sir. It'll take me a minute to mesh encryption..."

"Don't. I want this one loud and clear."

"The freighter will hear us, sir," Weitzman said, frowning."

"Let 'em."

"Aye, sir." He tapped a sequence of buttons, "I have Captain Jian, sir."

Jian appeared, frowning, sitting on his bridge, crewmen working frantically around him. Evidently he had decided to bring his ship to full combat readiness, and Marshall could hardly blame him. He waved a datapad at the screen towards Marshall, sadness echoing through his voice.

"I was about to contact you with good news, Captain. My government has formally agreed to your request for arbitration."

Caine's face was incredulous, "You couldn't possibly have received a message from Luna that quickly."

"An official of our government is present in the system, and has formally accepted the offer. Once accepted, it will not be revoked. However, I am informed that there is a freighter heading for us, that it is armed, and that it has vowed to remove us from the sub-system. Indeed," he paused, "they have requested that I should surrender my vessel to them."

"That vessel is not operating with the sanction of the Triplanetary government, the Combined Chiefs, or anyone else to my knowledge, Captain."

"Nevertheless, they are a threatening force. Captain, we are so close to a resolution of this crisis." He sighed, "But if that vessel launches an attack on mine, I will be forced to engage and destroy it. I assure you, no matter what modifications or enhancements have been made for it, my vessel will be able to destroy it in short order."

"That is my assessment as well. I assure you that Alamo will not participate in any way in such an action."

"I believe you, Captain. But I must then inform my government of the attack, you see, and those forces willing to risk war will force a repudiation of the agreement to arbitration, and my original orders will be reinstated – that Desdemona is ours by right, and that the Triplanetary presence must be removed."

"My government will doubtless insist that I defend the moon. No matter what the cost. The actions of the freighter will only make things worse."

"Indeed. On the eve of a settlement, we are close to war." He looked up at a monitor, "I would ask Alamo to assist us in defending ourselves from the freighter, but you are too distant, even if you leave now."

Marshall looked across at Caine, who nodded, saying, "We'd get there three hours too late."

Cunningham added, "Our fighter wing wouldn't get there in time either. Even if they used every drop of fuel they had."

"A stalemate, then. I do not want to fight you, Captain."

"Nor I you. How much time have I got?"

"The freighter, on its present course, will intercept us in nine hours. I cannot evade without losing my course to Desdemona, and that I will not do; my orders remain to assume orbit."

"I'll try and stop them."

Jian leaned forward in his chair, "I hope you succeed, for all our sakes. Ma Kong out."

This was one of those times Marshall knew that he should be in his office; he turned back to the communications station. Dietz had stepped onto the bridge and had taken the operations station quietly, starting combat readiness checks. Shirase looked up at Marshall, and shook his head.

"I can't get through, Captain. They are ignoring me." He paused. "Leave Desdemona. The Belt will suffer, but with such as they running things, perhaps it should. It would be better than a war."

Marshall looked at him, standing defeated by his console, and replied, "I know what that cost you, Lieutenant. Thank you. Whatever else happens, I'll see you have a future in the Fleet. Even if I wanted to, I can't break orbit, and the Combined Chiefs wouldn't order it. None of them would be openly willing to start a war, but they wouldn't want to lose face. Nor would the President." He sighed, closed his eyes, and then said to Weitzman, "Open an omni-directional channel. Make sure the Maru can hear it. I want this to ring through. They must have heard our transmission to the Ma Kong."

"Yes, sir."

"Then they will know I'm serious."

The technician carefully adjusted his controls, turned and nodded, "You're on, sir. With enough juice that they'll hear you out to Pluto."

"This is Lieutenant-Captain Marshall, commanding the Triplanetary starship Alamo. I know that those of you on the Maru can hear me, so I want you to listen. Alamo will not support you in any battle with the frigate; even if we could, I wouldn't. As far as I am concerned you are on your own. Further, if you are fortunate enough to survive a battle with the Ma Kong, and I would rate the odds of such survival as being extremely low, Alamo will take all steps necessary to stop you taking any further hostile acts against the Republic, up to and including engaging you in battle."

Weitzman looked up, "I think you got their attention. We're getting a signal from them, tight-beam encrypted."

Marshall turned to Caine, "Though they will probably have all their firewalls toughened..."

"It's worth a try. I'm on it, sir."

"Put them through, Weitzman."

Tokubai appeared on the screen; he had found the time to change into his old Defense Directorate uniform, and looked as if he had stepped out of a recruitment poster. Undoubtedly this transmission was being recorded to be used for propaganda at some future point; no doubt someone in the Maru was already working in an editing suite.

"This is First Lieutenant Tokubai, commanding People's Spaceship Raifuku Maru. I am outraged to hear that you are repudiating the Formation Treaties; we have formally asked for your assistance in dealing with this menace to our territory, and expect you to change your standpoint at once. I warn you; we have already contacted your superiors."

Marshall's face was fixed with fury, he spat out, "I will not support you in an illegal action. We have reached an agreement with the Republic, an agreement that will lead to peace. By your actions today you risk starting a new interplanetary war!"

"I am willing to take that risk, Captain."

"Willing to risk millions of lives?"

"Our actions are solely motivated by our desire to see the Belt prosperous and proud once again." Tokubai had stopped speaking to Marshall at this point, now he was speaking for posterity. "If the Triplanetary Fleet will not protect our sovereign rights, then we are forced to take matters into our own hands, whatever the odds. We hope that Alamo will provide support; we do not expect or require it to accomplish victory."

"The Ma Kong has twice your firepower. You don't have a chance."

"We have the will to win, Captain."

Shirase stepped forward into view, "Tokubai, the Belt will not be served by being the front line in another war. The last one cost of dozens of destroyed settlements, tens of thousands of dead. You can't bring all that back down on us again."

"I will not listen to the words of a traitor."

"I am the one who is speaking to a traitor. Not you."

"If you will not assist us, I have nothing further to say. We will contact you again after the battle. Maru out."

"Fools," Marshall said, shaking his head as the channel closed. "They're going to get us into a war whether we like it or not."

Collapsing into a chair, Shirase looked around, "The Council will repudiate their actions as soon as they find out about them."

"At least five hours back-and-forth just on transmission lag. I'm sure that they'll have enough friends back home to hold things up until it is much too late to matter," Caine said.

Ryder looked up from the guidance control station, as usual bounced from her normal post by an overabundance of senior officers, "What if we broke orbit now, headed in anyway? It would at least be a measure of good faith."

Marshall shook his head, "Then they'd have Desdemona. The only thing giving us any element of control at all is our possession of the moon. If we left, Ma Kong would happily take orbit."

"Is it that important?"

Looking at Shirase, Marshall turned back to the watch officer, nodding, "It is. The Belt's economy depends on a big injection of capital, and Desdemona is just the boost it needs right now."

"That is so. There are many who would consider it worth the risk of war, given the economic ruin we are facing." Shirase looked around, "That is supposed to be classified, but you all might as well know what those madmen are willing to have you die for."

"We won't die, Lieutenant," Dietz said, looking up from his station, "My analysis is that the Maru will be destroyed, but will cause sufficient damage to give us a tactical advantage in the battle that will follow. The computer's best estimate gives us an eighty percent chance of victory."

Marshall replied, "Whereupon the Republic will declare war, and not without justification." He looked around the room at the assembled officers, "Any suggestions?"

Cunningham looked down at the deck, then moved over to a console, entering figures, saying, "I think there might be one chance left."

"What is it?"

"Our interceptors stationed at Shakespeare Station."

The room grew silent, Caine replied, "They couldn't intercept in time."

"They might. If they move quickly, and cut into their reserve for a return to Shakespeare. We would have to pick them up. Assuming they survived the battle." His voice was growing quieter, and Marshall saw his white knuckles gripping the console.

"When would they need to launch?"

"In forty-five minutes. Interception would take place four hours after launch, with the force being in firing range for eighty-nine seconds. The sooner they launch, the more firing time they will get."

"The Maru could just change course to avoid them," Caine said, but Marshall shook his head.

"If they did, then they would miss the Ma Kong. That would be enough. Do we know the specifications of this sort of Q-Ship?"

Caine looked up from her console, "From what I can find, it was designed as anti-fighter, with modifications to take on larger ships. Several point-defense missiles, as well as some longer-ranged weapons."

"All they would have to do would be get one hit on their engines, and the Maru is helpless. Once Ma Kong links up with us, they won't dare risk an attack on us both," Cunningham said.

Marshall turned to his wing commander, asking, "Is this your recommendation, Lieutenant?"

"It is, sir. I can't see any other alternatives."

"Anyone have anything else?"

He looked around the room, but no-one said anything. He nodded, then turned back to Weitzman again.

"Spaceman, if you would please contact Shakespeare Station. I need to speak to Senior Lieutenant Warren."

In a shaky voice, Weitzman replied, "I've already got them, sir."

Warren's face appeared on the screen, broadcast to the whole bridge, "We've been tracking the Maru as it leaves, sir. Can't do a thing about them. Do you think they're serious, skipper?"

"I'm afraid they are deadly serious, Teddy. How are things on the station?"

"Settling down. With luck, we should have regained complete control in a couple of hours. Right now they're fighting a rear-guard action in the docking rings."

"What about the fighters?"

"We haven't managed to recapture them yet." Warren's face suddenly set, then he nodded. "Do I take it that you want us to make their recapture our top priority?"

"Teddy, if that freighter is allowed to engage the Ma Kong in battle, there will be war."

"I understand."

"Alamo isn't in a position to take any action. We're too far away from both ships."

"Yes, sir. What are my orders?”

"Your orders," Marshall paused for a moment, images from his past flashing through his mind, "your orders are to launch as soon as possible, but within the next forty-four minutes at all costs, and proceed to engage the freighter. If possible, shoot to disable."

"One good hit on the engines should do the job."

"Yes. That Q-Ship has considerable anti-fighter capability, Teddy, so watch yourself. But at all costs, stop that freighter. Right now you are the only thing that stands between us and another war."

"I already fought one war. No wish to fight another."

"Good hunting, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir." There was almost an eager grin on Warren's face as the screen faded into blackness, replaced by an image of Uranus rising over Desdemona. It was a long time before anyone spoke on the bridge. Marshall looked around again, seeing sympathy in the eyes of Caine. Cunningham was staring at the screen, as if he was trying to find something.

"Mr. Weitzman, send the following message to Mariner Station, attention of Counter-Admiral Remek, copy to the Ma Kong in case it does any good. In my opinion there is no option but to engage freighter Raifuku Maru. On my personal responsibility, as senior commander available, I have ordered an interceptor strike with the goal of disabling the freighter. End message."

Caine walked up to him, taking a position behind the chair, and said quietly, "You know that we can't possibly get a reply – even if Remek replies instantly – until at least fifteen minutes after the battle."

"Hopefully I will find it comforting in the aftermath of the battle."

"And if they repudiate your actions?"

He smiled, "Then I suspect the following battle with the Ma Kong will be the responsibility of Mr. Dietz."

She shook her head, and returned to her station, while Marshall stood up, moving over to look at the tactical projection one more time, trying to see if he had missed anything, any detail that might give him another option, while the command crew worked to prepare the ship for a battle they were desperately hoping not to fight.

Chapter 24

Elbows jostled in the crowded corridor behind the command deck as a squad of espatiers rapidly made themselves ready for combat. Esposito had less than five minutes to throw together an assault force – every moment of delay as the Maru get further and further from the station, reduced their window of opportunity for an interception still further.

The only forces available were those actually guarding the command decks; many of them were walking wounded, troopers who had already suffered injuries but had been determined to continue the fight, and others were only espatiers in name only, having only received brief basic training prior to taking roles in station maintenance or administration. At least the lockers on the level had sufficient weapons and armor to equip them all.

The catch was the three pilots, including Esposito herself. The basic idea was for them to leap into their interceptors and launch as soon as they managed to reach the hangar deck; that meant they were traveling fast and light. No heavy combat armor, because removing it would take precious seconds, and only sidearms instead of the usual combat rifles. Orlova was perfectly happy with that; it fit her usual 'be where the bullet ain't' fighting style, and Warren's training with sidearms was scanty at best. He'd been perfectly happy to let Esposito take the lead until they actually got into the cockpits, while the harried Matsumoto attempted to maintain at least a modicum of order on the station.

"Listen up," Esposito said, looking across her improvised command. "Our mission is simple and direct – get down to the hangar deck and hold it long enough to get the fighters into the air. Nothing else matters at this point if we can't stop the Maru. We can't afford to do this the right way, we just don't have time. If in doubt, charge. If someone is wounded, we've got to leave them. No option. A medical team will be following us to mop up." She paused for a second, then finished, "Good hunting. Now let's go."

She took the lead down the corridor, jogging towards a service elevator that would take them part of the way down. The syndicate forces had managed to shut down most of the elevator system, making this a lot tougher; all of them had quickly mapped out the fastest route in their head. Warren looked back at the control room, shaking his head, before taking a position with Orlova at the rear of the group.

"Leaving a kid like that on her first tour of duty in the hot seat," he said. "Madness."

"She's doing fine, Lieutenant."

"Call me Teddy, for God's sake. We'll be riding fire together in half an hour. I hope."

The last of them filed into the elevator, and Esposito jabbed the button to send it moving to its destination. As had been pre-arranged, the three best shots moved towards the doors, their weapons ready to fire; it was likely that the enemy forces would be able to track their descent through the levels and would have arranged an ambush. The pilots crouched at the back, protected by the mass of bodies, waiting for what seemed like an eternity.

"I hate this," Esposito said, quietly, to Orlova. "I ought to be out at the front."

"Next time, Gabi," she responded. "This time we're precious goods."

Esposito spoke up, "Sergeant Kozo, burst fire the second those doors open."

"Chance we might have some bodies in this area, Ensign," the gruff sergeant replied.

"We'll have to risk it. One man with a rifle could end this whole operation with three shots."

The doors pinged open, and Kozo's men fired, sending sparks flying off the doors, ricochets clanging around the walls. There was a brief scream, cut dead, and they stepped out to see a young man clutching a rifle, wearing civilian clothes. Kozo looked down at him, shaking his head, his men gathered around him.

"I wonder what side he was on," he said, quietly.

Esposito looked up the corridor, "It won't matter if we don't get to that hangar. Four levels down, access hatch ahead. Sergeant, take point."

"Right." He nodded, "Right, ma'am. Kamio," he beckoned to a trooper with a bandage wrapped around his head, "follow me."

The two of them made a fast pace down the corridor, the rest of the squad following in loose clumps behind. Esposito and Orlova kept close to the leading pair, Warren hanging near the back. One of the troopers at the rear stopped, firing a couple of shots into the shadows of a room, then turned, red-faced, to Esposito, as the whole unit stopped, crouching near the ground.

"Thought I saw something. Sorry, ma'am."

She shook her head, "If you think you see something, take the damn shot. If it turns out you're shooting at a bulkhead it can be repaired later, right now we've got to get through." She looked up at Kozo, nodding towards the hatch, "Let's keep moving."

Kozo slid open the hatch, swung his rifle onto his back and pulled out his pistol, then started to climb down the ladder, Kamio close behind him. One by one, the troopers climbed into the hatchway, Esposito counting them all in, then climbing herself, followed by Warren. Orlova stepped onto the ladder, the gun-happy trooper from before just behind her, and then a burst of fire came from a side room, a pair of figures running into the corridor. Snapping off a shot, Orlova yelled for help; the trooper grinned, threw his gun to the deck, and closed the hatch shut in front of Orlova. A fusillade of shots rang out, and then all was silent; mechanically, Orlova locked down the hatch from the inside, hanging still for a second.

"What happened?" Esposito yelled.

"He's dead. That kid."

She paused, "He died for nothing if you don't get a move on. Come on!"

Hand over hand, they all descended the ladder, taking twists and turns to throw off pursuit while not adding too much to the time. Periodically a cry to 'stop' would echo up the crawlway as a trooper's imagination ran away with him, twice there was the ring of a gunshot as one of them took Esposito's order to heart, then the slow descent would resume. Orlova tried not to think about what had happened up above, and took a look at her wrist computer; twenty-nine minutes to go.

"One level up, ma'am," Kozo said. "I think we should come out here, take them by surprise."

"Agreed. Everyone hang back. Same as before, another burst before you leave. I want everyone into cover outside in thirty seconds. Go, Sergeant."

The hatch was stiff from lack of use; it took Kozo and Kamio together to move it, and before the sergeant could raise his weapon, a pair of shots rang inside the hatchway, one of them catching Kamio in the shoulder. The corporal lost his hold on the ladder, and began to fall, his cries of pain slowly fading as he dropped. Kozo sprayed a pair of bursts into the corridor then leapt out, hurling himself to the floor and continuing to fire, while the rest of the squad cautiously made their way out. Orlova emerged, last out of the crawlway, after the action was over; two of the espatiers were on the floor clutching wounds, and a trio of dead bodies lay sprawled across a hastily improvised barricade.

"Medics will be here in a few minutes. Can you two man the barricade?" Esposito said to the injured troopers.

"Aye, ma'am. We'll hold the line."

"Good. We're counting on you." She looked at the rest of the squad, now down to six men and the pilots, "Let's move out!"

Kozo took the lead again as they raced down the corridor, all of them with guns at the ready. The sounds of a pitched battle were all around them; forward elements were making periodic assaults on these levels, and the cries of the dead and the dying echoed in between the crack of gunfire and the muffled nose of smoke grenades. Orlova looked ahead at the door, and just before Kozo was about to reach it, raised her hand.

"Everyone down!"

The troopers instantly obeyed her command; Esposito looked back, "What's up?"

"Door's trapped. Give me a minute and I can disarm it."

"What is it?"

"Old-fashioned tripwire. See the grenades on the side?"

"Get back."

Orlova placed her hand on her friend's shoulder, "Gabi, I can do this."

"We haven't got the time and I can't risk you. Everyone get to the back of the corridor and get down."

The troopers raced back to the barricade, dropping themselves into cover, while Esposito grabbed a piece of support strut that had been shot from the wall in a previous battle. She made ready to swing it towards the door, until Kozo grabbed it on her final upswing, shaking his head.

"Can't risk you either, Ensign. This one's my job."

"Sergeant, get back. That's an order."

He grinned, white teeth bared, "Feel free to have me court-martialed later. Get back with the others, ma'am."

She looked up at him, nodded, then dived onto the floor in front of Orlova and Warren. Kozo swung the strut once, twice, then made a run at the barricade, throwing the strut towards the tripwire and jumping back from the door. It spun end-over-end in the air as it caught the tripwire perfectly, setting off the grenades. Fire and smoke raced up the corridor for a brief second, starting a wave of choking from the troopers, and there was a large gaping hole in the wall; the door itself was in fragments on the floor. Esposito raced up to the sergeant, half-buried under a mass of ceiling.

"Sergeant! Say something!"

He looked up, attempting to focus his eyes, shaking the dust out of his hair, "That was fun, ma'am. I think I'll let someone else have a try next time, though."

"You fit?"

"Ready for anything, ma'am."

"Someone else can take point. I think you've done your job." She pointed to a wiry trooper wearing Lance-Corporal's stripes, and motioned him to the front; the young espatier grinned, nodded, and hefted his rifle as he peered around the remains of the door, flames still flickering around the floor. The squad picked themselves up from the ground and started to advance again; the ladder on the other side of the door was twisted and bent, much of it lying on the lower level.

"I can jump that," Orlova said.

"No need." Esposito uncoiled a cable from around her waist, pulled at a bar to make sure it would hold her weight, then tied it off, dropping the other end to the ground. The lead trooper grinned again and leapt out onto the cable, sliding himself nimbly down to the bottom, and swinging out at the end to dive into cover – a useful precaution as a series of shots rang out around him. He grinned again and fired a couple of shots into the gloom.

"Damn." Esposito looked out at the swinging cable, measuring whether she should have a try and going down to provide reinforcement, when Kozo made the decision for her, running past her and leaping at the cable, sending it swinging back and forth. As a pair of bullets flew past him, he used the swing to catapult himself out of sight into the corridor below, taking a series of shots. Grinning, Orlova followed him, nimbly sliding down the cable into a pile of still-hot cover. She could see a trio of men with rifles in the corridor, all of them well concealed, as well as one on the floor.

Kozo looked around, shaking his head at the unarmored Orlova, and said, "On three. Two. One. Now."

The three of them rolled quickly out of cover and spilled shots into the enemy, watching two of them fall to the ground; the lance-corporal rolled back moaning, clutching his shoulder, blood oozing out between his fingers. Grimacing, Orlova pulled a bandage out of her medikit and started to slap it on while Kozo leapt out of cover, weaving from side to side as he spilled gunfire into the remaining guard who surrendered; the sergeant accepted the surrender with the butt of his rifle, sending the guard into unconsciousness.

"Was that necessary?" Warren said, swinging down the cable.

"Couldn't spare anyone to guard him, sir. He'll be fine when he wakes up, a while from now."

After the last two firefights, they had just nineteen minutes to get into their fighters; Warren gathered everyone round while Kozo watched the door into the hangar bay, hoping that they delay wouldn't give their adversaries time to organize a counter-attack. The lieutenant, his usual cheery demeanor dropped, looked at his wingmates.

"Both of you know the score. We get out as many of us as possible, but don't wait. If you see a chance, take it, and never mind the rest." He shook his head, "No time to change into flight suits, no time for any real pre-flight. If you have a green board, call control and have them toss you out, then implement the intercept course." Smiling, he said, "Just run like hell and hope for the best."

Nodding, Esposito took a position on the left side of the door, Kozo on the right, and motioned for the rest of the squad to stand back, guns at the ready. They looked very different than the mob that had started out just twenty minutes ago; all of them were battle-hardened now, prepared for this last action. With a hacking motion, Kozo opened the door, and charged into the bay.

It seemed clear, and none of them had any time to question it. Warren, Esposito and Orlova ran into the hangar bay, making sure to zig-zag as they sped across the deck, racing for their interceptors, while the rest of the squad followed up to provide covering fire if it was needed. For the first twenty paces, it looked as if they were going to make it; the three interceptors sat at the far end of the bay, apparently undamaged and ready to launch.

A long burst of fire ran between the three pilots, sending them all diving for any convenient cover; Warren was behind a pair of crates, while Esposito and Orlova had dropped into a maintenance pit, the bottom covered with sticky brown goo, the residue of some recent repair that had yet to be cleaned prior to the uprising. Bullets cracked all around them, sending them down deeper into cover, the slightest movement rewarded with the fear of imminent death. At the rear, Kozo and the remnants of his squad were providing covering fire, but they couldn't make out where the sniper was sitting with his machine rifle; there were a hundred small hidden spaces were he could be lying in wait.

Once the espatiers got into cover, another cluster of syndicate troops appeared from their hiding places, opening up with shots. None of them were hitting their targets, but they were getting worryingly close for comfort. On a hunch, Orlova poked her head out from the pit, a bullet flying close to her before Esposito dragged her back down into cover.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" the Ensign said.

"They don't want us dead."

A look of incredulity on her face, Esposito replied, "You've got to be crazy." Another burst of shots rang out. "Sounds like they want us dead to me."

"They can calculate courses just like we can. They're not out to kill us, just to pin us down until we can't intercept the Maru. I'd bet my last month's pay that they'll surrender then."

"Maybe. But why spare us?"

"They'll need us. Their whole plan is based around fighting the Republic, right? Well the three of us are the only fighter pilots around. We'll be needed to defend this station – they can't kill us, just threaten us."

"You want to go up and take a stroll to test your theory?"

"Not especially." She looked at her watch again, continuing, "But in seventeen minutes, all of this is moot. I'm willing to make a dash for it."

Esposito sighed, shaking her head, "You out for a medal?"

"Just to get the job done. They want to give me some jewelry afterward, that's up to the brass."

With a wry smile, Esposito pulled out her communicator, "Warren, this is Esposito. We're going to make a run for it in exactly seventy seconds from...mark."

"Seventy seconds. Crazy. Wilco."

"Sergeant Kozo?"

After a few seconds, the gruff voice replied, "Here, Ensign."

"We're getting ready to make a dash to the interceptors, Sergeant. I want full covering fire in sixty-two seconds, mark."

"Understood. Good luck."

She looked at the communicator again before replacing it securely in her belt, then looked puzzled at the back, saying, "I was rather expecting him to try and talk me out of it."

"From what I've seen, all senior espatier NCOs specialize in mad heroics. This is probably normal procedure."

"I don't remember them teaching that at ROTC. Ten seconds."

It was then that they realized why Kozo hadn't tried to talk her out of it; they heard a loud yell from behind them, and the Sergeant leapt up, racing towards the interceptors, periodically spilling bursts of fire from the rifle in his hand. His troops were providing supporting fire, shooting at anything that moved. Esposito looked at him, shaking her head.

"Crazy bastard." She glanced down at her watch, continuing, "Our turn now! Go and don't look back!"

Tossing her pistol aside, as otherwise she might be tempted to actually make some use of it, Orlova sprinted towards her interceptor. This time she wasn't bothering to zig-zag, deciding instead to save the time and trust that her theory was right, that the enemy would shoot to scare rather than to kill. As a series of shots rang out next to her, she realized they were succeeding, a loud cry from the back, followed by a thud, told her that someone had found a mark, and she took a half-second to glance behind her, seeing Kozo lying on the deck, coughing with blood running out of his arms.

Her interceptor was just ahead. The mess on her shoes was making it harder for her to sprint, the deck feeling slippery underfoot, and she almost slid towards the airlock on her interceptor, dropping down to her knees in front of the hatch. No time for an outside inspection, no time for her to check on her friends, no time to see what had happened to the sergeant; she slapped her hand on the door release and leapt inside, grimacing as a bullet nicked her shoulder – evidently they had decided to finish her at the last second after all. Slapping her hand on it, she pulled it away to find no blood, just a long cut down her uniform top; that sniper was good.

Sliding into her couch, she plugged her key into the socket, the controls arranging themselves in the familiar way. The status board looked green, a couple of amber alerts with non-critical systems that she decided to ignore. Tapping the override button five times to pass through the pre-flight checks in record time, she placed a headset on, tapping to call the command level.

"Raven Four to Launch Control. Ready to go."

The strangely calm voice of Ensign Matsumoto echoed in her ear, "Engaging launch mechanism now. Our navigational computers are feeding you guidance data. Good luck."

With a lurch, her interceptor started to descend into the deck, the hull ringing as bullets started to tear into it, a mark of desperation. Short of an exceptionally lucky shot, there wasn't much regular ammunition could do other than scratch the paintwork a bit. She remembered her shoulder, then started to will the interceptor down, trying to relax into her crash couch. A warning came up as the course calculations were fed into the computer; it was warning her that if this course was followed, there would be insufficient fuel for a return to the station. Despite knowing all of this before she left, she hesitated for a second before tapping the override again, then settled down to prepare for the burn.

The launch cycle finished, and she felt the familiar sensation of free fall once again; it had never been so comforting, though it would be brief; the computer was in full control now, another series of warnings flashing across her display, alerting her that there was a risk of losing consciousness during the burn. As long as she woke up before the battle, that wasn't important; she settled herself into her couch, waiting for the engine to start.

When it came, the pressure pushed her back into the protective cushioning, leaving her gasping for breath as the acceleration ramped up. The engine was firing at the limits of its design tolerance, fuel being spent at a furious pace in the desperate desire to gain as much speed as possible.

A target track appeared in front of her, showing her trajectory beginning to align with that of the Maru; she focused on that in a desperate desire to remain conscious, to remain in control of the situation, despite being unable to move so much as a little finger. Blackness began to seep into her peripheral vision, and she desperately fought to keep her focus, the roar of the engines drowning out everything else, as if she was adrift in a sea of fire and pain, before finally everything went dark.

A loud siren echoed through her brain, forcing her eyes open. She was floating again, her restraints drifting by her side – in the panic of takeoff, she'd failed to strap herself in, but the acceleration had done that job for her. Flicking switches, she looked up at the course again, and smiled. Exactly as projected; they would be in combat range with the Maru in three and a half hours, exactly as calculated. There was even a little fuel left over, a maneuvering margin. There was only one question left.

"Raven Four to Ravens. Speak to me." Only silence replied, silence and static, as she tried again, "Raven Four to Ravens. Do you read me."

"Raven Leader here," the strong voice of Warren replied. "Just came round after the burn. I saw that sniper get you as you got into your bird; all well?"

"Raven Four replying. I'm fine, just going to need a new uniform top when we get back to Alamo."

"Raven Five here. All systems nominal, on course."

Warren seemed to have regained some of his perkiness as he replied, "Good stuff, excellent. Might as well get going on the pre-flight checks now, make sure these birds are intact. Then get on your computers and do your homework on the Maru. Talk again in thirty minutes, out."

Grabbing a drink from an overhead compartment, Orlova hunched over her control panel to start her checks, as a countdown to combat appeared on the display in front of her, ticking down second upon second.

Chapter 25

The backlog of reports in Marshall's terminal didn't seem to be getting any smaller, no matter how much work he put into it. He'd taken to using the paperwork as a distraction from more pressing concerns, a means to occupy time when there was no other means available, but today the numbers and words didn't seem to mean anything to him. Physically, he was sitting in his office; mentally, he was out in one of those three cockpits heading towards the Maru, and it seemed so real to him that his office was more like the dream.

More than a hundred times during the war, he'd flown missions just like the one he had just ordered; he could picture every detail of the flight, every inch of the control panel, was working out in his head the maneuvers he would implement. The chime sounded on his door, and it slid open to admit Cunningham, who tentatively stepped in.

"Busy, sir?"

"Not at all. Have a seat."

The wing commander walked in, carefully sitting on the desk, his face unreadable, eyes wandering as if they were elsewhere; Marshall knew exactly where. He started looking around the office, up at the picture on the wall.

"That's your father, isn't it?"

"Last picture I have of him, from before he left on his last mission. Taken at my graduation from the Academy."

"It can't have been easy for you."

Marshall nodded, replying, "It wasn't. It would have been too easy to hate the enemy, to take it out of them. I think I managed never to make it personal, but I suppose I'll never know for sure."

"I would have been tempted."

Glancing up at the clock, Marshall remarked, "Shouldn't you be in your quarters? I thought I ordered the senior staff to get some rest."

"Craziest order I've ever heard." He raised his hand, continuing, "I know that if this goes wrong we'll be in battle in seven hours or so, but I can't sleep with my men out there. Neither can you."

"It was always the waiting that killed me in the war. The easiest missions were when you just leapt in your fighter and went, off to battle with no time to think, no time to plan. Those long coasts, not knowing whether you were going to be alive or dead the next morning as you drifted towards the enemy, those were the worst."

"I know exactly what you mean. Having to sit in my office, or in the control room, watching a trio of blips towards a target, blips that had names and faces, that were friends of mine."

Marshall smiled, "You aren't the only one. I found that out myself the hard way. When they first gave me a squadron, it took a direct order from Tramiel to stop me leading every mission myself."

"Not that you didn't trust your pilots, but you found it easier to order people to die if you were with them yourself."

"Yes."

They sat in silence for a moment; Marshall pulled open the bottom compartment on his desk and pulled out a bottle and a pair of glasses, placing them down carefully. At Cunningham's quizzical look, he poured two glasses, pushing one across to him, and taking a sip of the other.

"Something to soothe the nerves a little. I picked this up in a little store on Mariner. Martian vodka, the one thing they've managed to get about right."

Cunningham picked it up cautiously, "I'm not sure this is a good habit for a captain."

"I've got sober-up pills in the next box. Work in less than thirty seconds. Feel free."

He took a quick sip, then a deeper one. "I suppose everyone has their ways of coping."

"As I recall, you made your way around the female pilots quite effectively." Marshall smiled, and took a deep drink, continuing, "Not that any of them complained, I understand. Except when you tried to have two, er, co-pilots at once."

Cunningham chuckled, "There I thought I was being so discreet. There was a war on. The life expectancy was a pilot was, what, eight weeks by Second Vesta? They were throwing fighters together in the orbital factories with guesswork and hope, and training pilots with about the same qualities. Nothing long-term seemed to matter back then."

Placing his glass down on the table, Marshall rested his hands on the desk, looking the older officer in the eyes, saying, "Let's get the elephant out of the room. Why did you try and have me court-martialed after Second Vesta?"

His eyes grew cold, "You disobeyed orders. People died."

"We took out a carrier, the only shred of victory we had in the battle. A lot more pilots died that day following orders."

"Those were my pilots." His voice was rising.

Marshall leaned back in his desk, nodding, "Yes. And they all knew the risks, and they all chose to go anyway. No-one drafted a fighter pilot, no-one dared."

"My responsibility was to keep them alive. Not to see them get thrown away."

"I know."

"Ten out of twelve died from the squadron that day. Only you and Warren made it back."

"And now he is out there facing similar odds, on a mission even more important." He paused for a second, but before Cunningham could reply, raised his hand, "And both of us would give anything in the universe to be out there with him. Or in his place."

"Yes."

"It took a lot for you to recommend the mission. I could see that on the bridge."

Quietly, Cunningham looked at the desk, then took a large swig of his drink before replying, "I didn't know I had it left in me. I watched pilots arrive on Wright, month after month, then sent them home to their parents in bags, brief notes to say that they had died heroes. I can still see them, all of them."

"That's the price we pay. Worse than dying; we have to live. But they won, John." That was the first time Marshall had ever used Cunningham's first name; it surprised them both.

"They did. It didn't seem that way after Second Vesta."

Marshall shook his head, "I hated you for a long time after that. I didn't understand why you hadn't gone until I made wing commander myself, right at the end of the war."

"Tramiel ordered me to stay."

"That doesn't surprise me. The curse of promotion. We live, our friends die, and after a while we don't get the chance to put ourselves at risk. Instead we have to send our friends, our successors out to fight instead, and watch them fight and die."

"And when they die, so do we. A little inside, each time."

"Yes," Marshall said, looking closely at Cunningham. His head was bowed, almost down on the desk; he poured him another glass of vodka, then stood up, looking around the room again.

"Sometimes I don't think there's anything left inside, nothing left to give. Just an empty space where my soul used to me."

"While you can still think that, your soul is just fine." Marshall pulled a datapad out of the pile on his desk. "I looked at your record again. I can see why Tramiel sent you here."

"Should have known it wasn't an accident."

"Deadeye said that he was killing two birds with one stone. I asked her at the time which I was."

Cunningham looked up, "She used to hate that name, you know."

"Really?"

"Yeah." He frowned, "So, which are you?"

Marshall smiled, "Oh, I'm a bird. The circumstances are the stone. Never mind the war, I wasn't a desk-bound officer long enough for me to rack up the nightmares too high. Just enough that I have some idea how you feel. My first mission as an independent commander, the first time I have my own ship, and a fifth of my crew come back dead."

"Most of them were mutineers. You did what you had to do."

"A lot of them weren't."

Cunningham shook his head, "I think I understand what you are saying. I'm supposed to be some sort of a warning for you?"

"That's exactly how the old bastard operates. And I'm supposed to shock you out of it, make you see what you are missing out on. In another time, another place, we're sitting on opposite sides of the desk."

"I never thought about that, after the war. All I wanted to do was protect the people under my command, stop them dying uselessly. We were at peace, there was no reason to take any stupid risks."

"Based on your record, you weren't shy about telling your commanders that."

"No."

"Why did you sign up, when the war began?"

"I was a shuttle driver, like Orlova. Too much like her, really, I did a bit of smuggling in my day. Joining the service as a fighter pilot seemed like an adventure, I never thought it would last eight years. Afterward, well, my parents were on Earth, they'd pretty much disowned me, I didn't have any roots. Just the uniform."

"That isn't enough."

Smiling, Cunningham replied, "I told Orlova that not three weeks ago. I still have a job to do, and there isn't anywhere else to go, nowhere that I would fit. I swore an oath, and it still means something to me."

"You realize that you've got only a couple of years with those wings on, even at best."

"I know that."

"What then?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead." He looked out at the viewscreen, then said, "I want to stay in. I don't know what as, yet, but I want to stay in. The Service – Fleet now, I suppose – is the only family I've got left." He looked at Marshall again, slightly differently, "I'm sorry about Second Vesta."

"I'd have done the same as you did."

"What?"

"I was a young idiot who took a stupid risk. It paid off, but it easily might not have. If someone under my command did something that reckless, I would probably be calling for him to be arrested, winner or no."

"And you would have been as wrong as I was."

"Perhaps. I suppose it depends on whether you are good enough to pull it off or not. Whether you can make the mad ideas work or not. Despite what I just said, if the same situation happened again, I think I'd probably do exactly the same thing again."

Shaking his head, Cunningham took another drink, then said, "Sounds crazy."

"I've got the rank to see both sides of the picture. I can see myself sitting in the cockpit as easily as I can see myself sitting in an office."

"Just like you are doing now."

"Yeah."

Cunningham looked down at the desk again, "Thank you, Captain."

"Danny. In here, anyway."

"Danny, then. Thank you. I didn't think I had it in me to do this again. I'm still not sure I could do it again."

"I am. You're still a good officer, John, and the fleet needs you. Badly. There's nothing wrong with caring about the lives of the men under your command."

"As long as you know when they must be risked."

Marshall paused, "To be fair, if you want, you don't have to risk it again. I suspect that the Commodore will find you a training or administrative position, if you want it. Probably get a promotion to go with it. If we can nursemaid this fleet out of its first year, we're going to need more pilots. You'd be a good choice to train them. Or I could recommend you be left in command on Desdemona; that garrison is going to need a commander. I'll even be attaching some fighters to it, I suspect."

"I've spent the last eight years going from one meaningless command to another. The last thing I want is to start that chain again, pushing paperwork around a desk for the rest of my life. You said that this was my last chance to have a career, Danny? I think I'd like to take it. That doesn't mean poking around some old ruins for the rest of my life, either."

"There is an alternative, if you want it."

"What?"

"Stay on Alamo. I can't guarantee that we'll have any fighters next time, but I'm sure I can find something interesting for you to do."

"You realize that I will still question you, right? That I still consider your command style too reckless; that hasn't changed."

"I know. That's why I want you to stay; I need an officer who will question me when necessary, who isn't afraid to take me on one side and tell me that I'm making a mistake. I need that, and the crew needs that."

Cunningham shook his head, "I think you're crazy. I suspect I'll be thinking that for a long time, though. I accept. I'll be interested to see what you come up with me to fill my time with." He looked up at the clock, half-smiling, "We've managed to kill twenty minutes burying the hatchet, Danny."

"We're going to give Caine a heart attack the next time she sees us together."

"Still another ninety minutes to intercept. How good are those tablets of yours?" Cunningham held his half-empty glass up, "As a means of relieving tension, I could get used to this."

"Doc Duquesne brewed up this batch."

"Then by all means, Danny, you can pour me another one."

Marshall raised his glass, and said, "Absent friends."

"Absent friends."

Chapter 26

Orlova sat back in her couch, watching the course tracks converge on the target, the silent freighter Maru ahead. She'd run check after check of her systems, studied the specifications of the freighter, run simulations of the attack, until there was nothing left but to wait. With the projectors on, she sat floating in space, watching the small dot ahead begin to form into a shape.

It was a strange feeling; four hours of waiting to engage in ninety seconds of furious action, ninety seconds to accomplish the mission. The fuel warning light continued to flash on and off on her console, pointlessly warning her that she no longer had enough fuel to influence her course. That didn't worry her; Alamo would be along to pick them up after the battle. She'd spent more time in smaller ships over the years, dragging around the outer Jovian system. The communicator crackled into life, and she looked up at the countdown. Three minutes to go.

"Raven Leader to all Ravens, you read me?" Warren's voice echoed through the cockpit.

"Raven Four, reading you," Orlova replied.

"Raven Five, here," called Esposito.

"We'll be going into battle in about a hundred and sixty seconds. First time for you both in the cockpit, I know, but you've been under fire enough that you know what that feels like. Just remember that each second, each action, each thought matters. You are in the cockpit because the computers, and the technical chaps who programmed them, don't know it all. You are there because of your instincts, because of your ability to throw in the random factor. Trust your instincts, trust your training, and do what is necessary, and we'll win with style. Good luck to you both."

"Back at you, Raven Leader," Orlova said.

"Understood, Raven Leader. I make a hundred and twenty seconds, mark."

"Fly tight for the first missile launch so they can swarm in with their network, then break for the second and third. What you do after that is up to you, we'll be too tight on time for you to ask permission. Tally ho."

"What?"

Warren chuckled, "Old saying, Raven Four. You really need to read some history."

Orlova placed her hands ready on the consoles, looking at the computer's plan of attack again. First missile at ten seconds into the firing window, then at forty and seventy seconds afterward. Shaking her head at the lack of imagination, she manually reset the firing times by mashing her hand on a keypad, reasoning that if she didn't know how the numbers had been picked, the enemy's combat computers would be unlikely to either; she ended up with twenty-six and fifty-one seconds for her firing window. The last forty seconds she could concentrate on resisting the expected attack. A little piece of her longed for her spacesuit, sitting in a locker back on Shakespeare Station, but the margin between 'holed' and 'destroyed' in a missile attack wasn't that great.

Seventy seconds to go, and already it began to seem like an eternity. It was as if her perception of time was beginning to slow down, as she focused on the hundreds of different factors to consider. With eight percent fuel remaining, she did have enough of a margin to make some changes to her course, enough to swing her further away – or for that matter, take her closer. With a predatory smile, she started working at her navigational computer again, re-plotting her trajectory after the first missile launch to take her right down the throat of the Maru. Less time for either side to use their electronic warfare packages, but they had a lot more to lose than she did.

Glancing down at the wings recently attached to her uniform, the predatory eagle that seemed to be swooping down to its prey, she looked around at her fighter. Six months ago, the idea that she would be wearing an officer's uniform, flying a fighter intercept, would have seemed crazy. The whole course of her life was twisting around, changing, and she still wondered why. Of course, in two minutes, all of those thoughts might be moot; she might simply be unrecognizable debris, drifting in space forever.

Ten seconds to go. Buckling herself in to prepare for any quick maneuvers, she took one last look around at the stars, then turned her projectors off, flying instead by instruments. No distractions for the battle as the last few seconds sped away, the alert lights all beginning to flash red as her expert systems made the final preparations for combat. Four seconds. Three. Two.

"Here we go! Attack, attack, attack," Warren yelled.

Warning lights began to flash on, and her fighter's systems began their duel with the freighter's, pushing and pulling in a cybernetic tug-of-war to topple the other's defenses, allow for intrusion into computer systems, a battle neither side really expected to win, but both sides hoped might provide the edge that would decide the battle. Orlova's finger rested above the missile launch button, ready to jab it as the countdown ticked away, but the computer beat her to the punch.

Four missiles leapt away from the fighters; Orlova frowned, spotting that Esposito had opted to fire twice in the first salvo rather than hold back, probably figuring that the extra computing power, the extra punch, might make all the difference in that impact. She couldn't focus on the missiles racing home, pushed back for a second as the computer implemented her course change. Smiling, she canceled out a proximity warning alarm; she was passing within a mile of the freighter on this pass. Warren was on her tail, he'd slowed himself slightly to give a slightly wider firing window, and Esposito was pulling wide.

The three fighters fanned out as their payloads raced towards the target. The readouts on Orlova's console gave her some idea of who was winning that particular battle; she cursed with disappointment as her missile went dark, knocked out the Maru's spooks, and concentrated on the others; then a pair of missiles raced away from the Maru, one heading for the missiles, the other heading for her, the closest target. With a brief flash, the Maru's first missile knocked out the first, tight salvo, always a risk with that tactic, and the remaining one headed for her.

Tapping in a sequence of evasive maneuvers, her fighter began to lurch about on its thrusters while her defensive systems started to work, but the target was coming in just too rapidly. Another flash behind her as Warren fired his second missile, she quickly entered in a new firing command and rocked back slightly as her second missile went away, targeted not at the Maru but at its missile. With a satisfactory flash, her target hit home, and the incoming missile was knocked out. Only twenty-two seconds into the firing window, and they were down to three missiles across the entire formation.

Her sensors flashed again, two more spikes of energy from the Maru as it launched a second pair of missiles, this time aimed at Warren and Esposito. Warren's would have to flash close to Orlova; she started to pulse out her defenses in a bid to help him out, but she couldn't help her friend. Too far out of range. Sensing problems, Warren and Esposito both launched their final missiles, neither of which were aimed at the incoming threats. They'd had a split-second choice to make, and both of them had opted to take another strike at the enemy rather than protect themselves.

One missile left in the formation, and Orlova was almost at her closest distance to the Maru. There would be no time for any finesse with her shot, no time for anything other than a straight-line course. She disabled the targeting computers on the missile – they wouldn't be needed, not with the distance to be traveled only a handful of missiles, and unlocked the safety systems. Flight time would be less than a second. She poised herself to take the shot, eight seconds to go.

Behind her, two short flares indicated that the two missiles had found their targets. The two panels on her consoles reporting the status of the rest of the flight started to flash amber and red, damage reports spilling across the screen; both of them were in a pretty bad way. She tried to focus, to guess what might go wrong in the remaining microseconds, ready to take her shot.

"Make it count, pilot!" Warren called.

The computer, naturally, fired before she tapped the launch button, but this time it only beat her by half a second. Leaping across the short distance, the missile burned a trail that seemed to link the fighter and the freighter; in a last-second response, the Maru launched a missile of its own, trying to intercept the incoming target, but there wasn't time for the computer to do its work. Her eyes widened as she saw what the enemy had found time for; the Maru started to spin, rotating clockwise on its full thrusters. They'd only had a few seconds to prepare for the impact.

With a flare, Orlova's missile hit home, tearing through the Maru's hull, sending a cloud of oxygen spilling into space, and she yelled in satisfaction, only for her brief smile to fade as her sensors fed her information on the point of impact. Crew quarters, auxiliary thruster control. Non-critical systems. The combat effectiveness of the target had not been reduced. Proving the point, two more missiles raced away from the Maru's launch tubes, racing towards her; at this point, that was really just spite, and she started to engage her evasion systems again, almost half-heartedly, as she raced away from the freighter, her window of opportunity spent.

Letting her computer do its job – and being rewarded in her trust with a pair of flashes as one of the missiles detonated, taking out the other, she looked over the course projections again. Less than three percent of fuel remaining now, not enough to do anything. Esposito was ahead of her, inexorably pulling away from the Maru, and though Warren was behind her, he didn't have any missiles left.

"Raven Leader to Ravens. Good try, both of you. You did good. Tell Marshall I said so."

Realization flashed across Orlova's face, "Tell him yourself, Leader."

"Don't think they have communications relays where I'm going. Good luck." A dull roar began to echo in the background of the line, and Orlova sat helplessly as she watched Warren make a final course change, using the last of his fuel to put himself on a corkscrew course down towards the rear of the Maru, directly for its fusion torch. Emotionless, the computer plotted the incoming trajectory, her readouts indicated that he'd left himself just enough fuel to bring his course home.

The Maru twisted, attempting to pull away from the fighter; its after section started to glow as they desperately attempted to engage the fusion torch, trying to do in microseconds what should normally take minutes, and Orlova thought for a second that this might be his plan, that he was playing chicken to provoke them into a course change. A pair of missiles raced towards him, but he didn't even evade. It wasn't necessary; his fighter was going to make it to its target no matter what. The front of his ship was savaged, all indicators going red or black, communications and controls dead, and all that remained was a piece of wreckage that once held a man, and now just held his remains, inexorably flying towards its target.

Trying to activate the fusion torch had made for an impressive effect. The fighter crashed into the long spindle of the fusion torch, almost slicing it in two, the remaining shrapnel tearing gouges across the remainder of the hull, some fragments drifting away, bouncing back into space. The Maru started to tilt one way, then another, fuel and atmosphere spilling out before automatic cut-offs could bring it back under control. Glancing at her screen, she looked at the course plot. The Maru was going to fly past Desdemona, tens of thousands of miles away from the Ma Kong, and end up in a stable orbit around Uranus. Green text printed across the screen, informing that the primary mission objective had been completed.

"Raven Four to Raven Five."

"I'm fine, Maggie," her friend replied quietly. "You?"

"Fine."

"You going to call in?"

"Yeah. Wait one."

Technically she was still in the firing window from the Maru, still another six seconds to go, and she idly wondered whether they would try another salvo of missiles, one last burst of futile revenge as they sped away, but the clock ticked down to zero, and all the warning lights flicked to green. The battle was over, and she switched over to a long-range frequency, not bothering to encrypt it.

"Raven Four to Alamo. Mission accomplished. Maru disabled. Report follows."

Chapter 27

Marshall stood on the surface of Desdemona, a cluster of officers wearing Triplanetary, Republic and Belt suits spread around the landed shuttles, Captain Jian standing silently next to him. A small pit had been dug in front of the crashed remains of the Chinese lander; a trio of flagpoles had been raised that morning by a work crew, two tough nylon flags folded at the bottom of the poles, the third – the black and green of the Triplanetary flag – was placed carefully over a small cannister in front of them.

A bell rang in his helmet, and he slowly walked to the head of the mass, personnel from Alamo, Shakespeare Station and the Ma Kong all taking their places. More than fifty people had requested to be present at Warren's funeral, to the point that they'd had to borrow a couple of shuttles from the Ma Kong to bring them all down to the surface. Clarke and his espatiers were forming an honor guard, as well as the survivors from what they were calling 'Esposito's Charge' from Shakespeare Station.

Corporal Clarke called out, "Combined companies, attention for the Captain." The crowd stood to attention, at least as much as they could given the circumstances.

Looking out at the crowd, Marshall began, "One of the hardest duties that any commanding officer can undertake is to preside over the funeral of a comrade. We are all gathered here today to remember the life of Senior Lieutenant Edward Warren, our honored shipmate and comrade. Lieutenant Warren had no family, and it was his final request that he be buried in space; Captain Jian has suggested, and I have agreed, that this is the appropriate place for his final remains to lie in rest."

"I was privileged to know Teddy for ten years; we served together during the war, and again in peace, and he gave his life to protect that peace. I knew him – therefore I know, and can tell you all, that Teddy died during what he loved. He was happiest in the cockpit of a fighter, and if he had been granted the privilege of choosing his final fate, I suspect that it would not have been dissimilar to the end that he was granted." Marshall nodded to Jian, who stepped forward.

"Under other circumstances," he began, "our crews would by now have faced each other in battle, launching a war that none of us would have wanted. The actions of Senior Lieutenant Warren – a man I was never privileged to meet, but whom I likely owe my life to – prevented that war. I give you my word that his sacrifice will be honored, and that we will never forget him."

Captain Jian returned to his place in the crowd; Marshall glanced carefully up at the clock in his display. Three minutes before the final act; he quietly signaled Cunningham to come forward, and the wing commander emerged from the crowd, looking at the cannister for a long moment before turning to face the group.

"Senior Lieutenant Warren – Teddy – served under me twice, once during the war at the start of his career, and again at the end. I can think of no greater tribute to him that to say that he was a good pilot, a fine officer, and a loyal comrade. He gave his life in the defense not of a nation, or a planet, but in the defense of life itself. His sacrifice saved thousands of lives, and it was a sacrifice he made willingly, gladly, knowing that there was no possible way for him to survive."

He looked down for a moment, then continued, "Our comrade understood that sometimes, one life must be sacrificed that others might live, understood that down in his heart, and time and again placed himself in a position where he risked making that supreme sacrifice. Five days ago, he finally paid that price. We are all the poorer that he no longer serves among us; we are all the richer that his memory can provide an inspiration for us, an example for us to live up to."

Quietly, Cunningham turned away, not returning to the crowd but instead heading over to the casket. The final honor would be his. Marshall looked up, and saw an arrowhead of fighters, the surviving two interceptors and Alamo's patrol flight, coming into position overhead, Caine leading a group of volunteers. As he watched, one of the fighters, piloted by Esposito, peeled away, curving out on full thrusters, as the traditional missing man formation took shape. He was sure that he could hear crying coming from the crowd; it was an effort to chase the tears away himself.

Under other circumstances, a military band would perform the next act; today a recording had to suffice. As the ancient strands of 'Taps' rang out on the general channel, Caine and Dietz walked up to the casket, carefully folded the flag, and Cunningham picked up Warren's last remains, stepping forward and placing them carefully, reverently, in the prepared pit, only a few meters away from where the four Chinese astronauts lay – Jian's men had interred the remaining crewman in a private ceremony earlier that morning.

Dietz took the flag over to the empty flagpole, and at a signal, all three flags began to rise – the flags of the Republic of China, of the Lunar Republic, and the Triplanetary Confederation, rising to play silent tribute to the men who died there. After a moment had passed, Marshall quietly nodded to Clarke.

"Combined companies," Clarke said, "dismissed."

The crowd slowly began to make their way back to the shuttles, Jian pausing before returning to his craft to talk to Marshall, who was still looking out at the three flagpoles standing alone in front of the lander, a simple plaque at their base with five names, and two dates burned onto it.

"Thank you for this, Captain," Marshall said.

"It was an honor, Captain, a privilege to celebrate such a life." He smiled, looking out at the lander, "There are many on both sides who think that we are natural adversaries, that it is our destiny to one day face each other for the day of ultimate decision. I hope they learn the lesson of this day, of this place. Our diplomats will shortly be squabbling, but they can't take this away from us. He won't be forgotten, Captain."

"Neither will they," Marshall replied, gesturing at the other four graves. Jian nodded, and made his way back to the shuttle. Cunningham was still standing near Warren's grave, looking down at the cannister; two of the espatiers were standing around, ready to cover it, as Marshall walked up to him.

"Credit for your thoughts, Lieutenant."

"I wish he knew that he'd succeeded. That his sacrifice was worth it."

Looking up at him, Marshall placed his hand on the wing commander's sleeve, replying, "I think he did. I don't know what I'm basing that on; maybe I still think that there is some justice in the universe, but I know that Teddy knew, even as he died, that he had done what he had to do."

Shaking his head, turning to face the shuttle, Cunningham looked around trying to change the subject, "Any idea what job you've got for me yet?"

"Lieutenant Shirase's taking the Maru back to Ceres. Akimoto's boys think they should have a temporary propulsion unit installed by the end of the week, then he can take the prisoners back. Theoretically, it's a temporary assignment, but..."

"But?"

Marshall sighed, "They're going to have a hell of a clean-up job to do out there. From what I got from Remek, the Belt Council is self-destructing over this. I think Mr. Shirase is going to be occupied for a long time helping to deal with the mess. Maybe some good will come of it, long-term. I hope so. In any case, it means I have a vacancy for an Operations Officer. Think you can handle that and flight crew duties as well?"

He nodded, "I'll manage."

"First job will be to work out who we're leaving here. I've done a bit of poaching from Shakespeare to patch the holes..."

A tap on the shoulder interrupted him; Orlova, who had requested to attend the funeral herself rather than participate in the flyby, hand managed to sneak up behind him. Marshall switched his receiver to open, and tried to put on one of his sterner frowns.

"Can I help you, Sub-Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sirs. I know this isn't really the time, well, it is in a sense, but..."

"What?"

"I'd like to return to my previous duties on Alamo."

"That's a pity," Cunningham said. "I'd been thinking of naming you as a flight leader. Would look good when your tour of duty's up if you wanted to get a job in one of the merchant lines."

She looked between the two of them, "Actually, I've put in a request for a long-service commission."

"You want to go career?" Marshall asked. "That's a twenty-year commitment, Sub-Lieutenant. You are aware of that?"

"I am, sir."

"What's brought this on?"

"Lieutenant Warren, sir. He was in the right place at the right time, when it really counted. Someday, there's going to be a time and a place where I need to be – and I want to make sure I'm there. I think I can do that wearing the uniform."

Cunningham nodded, "I've heard worse reasons for being in the service." He looked over at Marshall, "I'll gladly sign off on this, Captain."

"No need. If you're crazy enough to stay in, Sub-Lieutenant, I think we're about crazy enough to have you. I'll send a message to the Commodore when I get back to Alamo."

"Thank you, sir." She managed a clumsy salute in her suit, and Marshall and Cunningham returned it, before heading away to the shuttle. Cunningham watched her walk away, shaking his head, then turned back to Marshall.

"I had a word with her after I picked her for fighter training. Asked her to find out what she wanted to do with her life. I guess that mission gave her the answers she was looking for." He smiled, "One officer falls, another takes his place."

"When she grows up, she's going to be one hell of an officer."

"She's already a hell of an officer. Though I know what you mean." Pausing for a moment, he chuckled, then said, "I'll take a bet with you, Danny. Ten, twelve years from now, Lieutenant-Captain Orlova will be sitting center seat somewhere."

"No bet." He looked around and saw the crowd beginning to disperse; Shuttle One had loaded up and looked as it if was about ready for takeoff, and the other was loading up. The two espatiers had finished their work around Warren's grave, and were discretely making their way back to the shuttles.

"You coming, Captain?" asked Cunningham, gesturing towards the shuttle. "If we hurry, we can probably bounce the pilot and take it up ourselves."

"I'll be along in a minute, but you feel free."

"Will do." He paused for a second, then said, "Thank you, Captain."

"Any time."

Almost alone, Marshall stood over Warren's grave, just a patch of slightly disturbed ground, and pulled the dead pilot's identification tags out of his pocket, carefully placing them on the ground. Warped and distorted from the battle, his name and rank were still just about legible. A helmet – this one had to be drawn from stores – had been placed in the traditional place at his head, marking the spot for as long as it would last.

"Thank you, Teddy. Save me a place at the bar up there.”

Taking one last look at his friend's resting place, he made his way to the waiting shuttlecraft, stepping into the passenger airlock and taking a seat by one of the side viewports, stowing his helmet in the overhead locker. As he watched, the launch thrusters engaged, the blast briefly making the flags wave as if in a light breeze, and the surface began to slowly move away, fading from view as the shuttle curved over a low rise, receding quickly into memory. Ahead, Alamo waited for him, hanging next to the Ma Kong. He pulled a datapad out of a side pocket, and started to review his next mission.

Thank you for reading 'Fermi's War'. For information on future releases, please join the Battlecruiser Alamo Mailing List at http://eepurl.com/A9MdX for updates. If you enjoyed this book, please review it on the site where you purchased it.

The writer's blog is available at http://tinyurl.com/pjl96dj

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

<<<<>>>>

Table of Contents

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

Chapter 1

Chapter 2Eleven Years Later

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Thank you for reading 'Fermi's War

Table of ContentsChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4