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
Epilogue

INTO THE MAELSTROM

Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 23

Richard Tongue

Battlecruiser Alamo #23: Into the Maelstrom

Copyright © 2017 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

First Kindle Edition: January 2017

Cover By Keith Draws

With thanks to Ellen Clarke

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

Join the Triplanetary Universe Mailing List: http://eepurl.com/A9MdX

Chapter 1

 Lieutenant Pavel Salazar stepped through the airlock, clambering out into the corridor beyond, struggling past the stacks of crates hastily being transported around the ship. He glanced back at his partner, Lieutenant Kristen Harper, who shrugged in response and followed him through the hatch just as it closed behind her. A harried technician, unfamiliar to either of them, snapped a salute as he saw the officers approach.

 “Welcome to the Battlecruiser Alamo, sir, ma'am,” he said. “The Captain's up on the bridge at the moment, if you want to report in. I can page someone to take you up there...”

 “We know the way, Spaceman,” Salazar replied with a smile. “But thank you. Carry on.”

 “Aye, sir,” the technician replied, shaking his head as he returned to his work, trying in vain to match the crates stacked before him with the list on his datapad. Harper shook her head, and the two of them walked up the corridor towards the elevator.

 “I still think it isn't fair,” she replied, taking the lead. “You were Executive Officer, Pavel. And Operations Officer before that. Dropping you back down to Security Officer...”

 “Is a great relief,” he said. “Look, Kris, I'm still a Lieutenant, with not much seniority. Both of those jobs rate Senior Lieutenants. And no, I'm not in any great hurry to get promoted.” As they stepped through the doors, he punched for the bridge, and added, “Besides, we've both been away for almost a year. They've finished the refit without us. I'm just glad that we managed to get assigned to the same ship.”

 “It was a foregone conclusion,” she said, flashing a smile. “Do you really think I'd let you fly off alone again? You wouldn't last a week without me, and you know it.”

 “Neither would you,” he replied.

 “And I know that too. Besides, Triplanetary Intelligence pays its debts, and we're both very much in credit.” She looked down at the datapad, and frowned, “I still say you should at least be Operations Officer. You've earned it. Maybe I could...”

 Raising a hand, he said, “Let it be, Kris. It's just a mountain of paperwork, anyway.”

 The door slid open, and they walked onto the refitted bridge, a combination of the strange and the familiar. Once more a command chair sat at the heart of the control room, surrounded by consoles on all sides. The Tactical Officer and the Helmsman sat next to each other at the front, facing the viewscreen, with consoles for Sensors, Communications, Engineering and Defense on either side. Behind the center seat, by the far wall, was a huge holodisplay, ten feet across, currently showing a schematic of the ship, text flashing in the air to report maintenance crews completing final preparations for launch.

 Sub-Lieutenant Katherine Scott looked up from her station, a beaming smile on her face, and walked over to the two of them, saying, “Thank God, a familiar face.”

 “You didn't think they'd keep us away, did you?” Harper replied. “How's our girl?”

 “Better than ever,” she replied. “Commodore Chung did us proud, Kris.” Gesturing at the defense systems station, a pair of technicians buried in the bowels of the console, she continued, “They finally gave us point-defense lasers. Experimental design from your friends in Intelligence. And we've got two extra missile tubes now, rigged aft. Better capacitors in the primary cannon...”

 “Sub-Lieutenant,” a gruff voice said, as an unfamiliar figure walked out of the Captain's office. “Have you finished calibrating the targeting controls?”

 “All complete,” she replied, turning to the newcomer. “We're running the final testing program now. Three minutes, give or take.”

 “I hope so,” he said, looking over the group with a critical eye. “Senior Lieutenant Max Francis, Operations Officer. I take it you are Salazar and Harper?”

 Snapping a quick salute, Salazar replied, “Yes, sir.”

 “Where have you been?”

 Glancing at Harper, he said, “Out-system, sir, on detached duty to Triplanetary Intelligence. We only made it back to Sol a few hours ago.”

 Nodding, Francis replied, “Then you're already way behind the curve on familiarization with the new systems. I'll see you as soon as we enter hendecaspace to make sure you are caught up.” Looking at Harper, he added, “This is going to be a tight ship, Lieutenant. I hope you don't have a problem with that.”

 “Just the way I like it, sir.”

 “I hope so.” Nodding back at the office door, he added, “The Captain wants to see the two of you immediately. He's expecting you.”

 “He?” Harper asked, frowning.

 “Yes, Lieutenant. He. Unless there's been an unexpected change in the last sixty seconds.”

 Harper and Salazar looked at each other, then walked into the office, where Commodore Daniel Marshall was sitting behind the desk, Lieutenant-Captain Helena Caine standing by the wall. Given the changed decor, the holopictures of Marshall's father on the wall, it was obvious that he had been here for a while, and that this was not a temporary situation.

 Salazar stood to attention, snapped the best salute he could muster, and said, “Lieutenant Pavel Salazar, reporting for duty, sir.”

 “Lieutenant Kristen Harper, reporting for duty, sir.”

 “At ease, both of you,” Marshall said with a smile. “I gather from your conversation with Max that you were expecting someone else to be sitting here.” He looked across at Caine, then continued, “In all honesty, it was as much of a surprise to me as it was for you. I only got the word that the command was vacant two weeks ago.”

 “This is permanent, then, sir?” Salazar asked.

 “It is indeed,” he replied, tapping the insignia on his jacket. “As soon as we get under way, I'm Fleet Captain again. The flag rank was always temporary, and I'm glad to be sitting center seat again. Especially on Alamo. It's nice to be home.” 

 “And Captain Orlova?” asked Harper, the beginnings of a scowl on her face.

 “You haven't heard?” Caine replied. “Where have you been for the last three months?”

 “Detached duty,” Salazar said. “I'm afraid we can't talk about it. Security.”

 Taking a deep breath, Marshall said, “Captain Orlova is missing, presumed dead. At least, that's what her service record shows, though the details are pretty sparse. Some suggestion that she was on detached duty with Intelligence, just like you.” Raising an eyebrow, he continued, “I rather had the impression you were working with her.”

 “No, sir,” Harper replied. “I haven't seen her since we got back to Mars. Last word I had was that she was remaining to supervise Alamo's refit personally.”

 “Well, three months ago, she took off. No word as to where, no word as to when she would be back, though I understand the plan was for her to resume her duties as Alamo's commander before our departure. Last month, the new notation was added to her service record, and Vice-Admiral Remek offered me the command in her place.”

 “I see, sir,” Salazar replied. He paused, then continued, “It's a bit of a surprise, sir. That's all. I'm certainly happy to be serving under your command again.”

 With a smile, Marshall said, “Well, I'm glad to hear that my appointment meets with your approval, Lieutenant. I've placed you as Security Officer, and you'll be working under Max. Kris, I think you fit best as Intelligence Officer, under Deadeye.” He glanced at Caine, and added, “I know that you've both held more senior roles in the past, but...”

 Shaking his head, Salazar said, “I'm not ambitious, Captain. I'm perfectly happy to serve as Security Officer.”

 “Paperwork a little lighter?” Caine asked, with a twinkling smile. “I can certainly sympathize with that.” Glancing at a datapad, she continued, “You'd better have a word with Doctor Strickland and check in for your medical. Your service records are a little vague on your recent activities.”

 “Who?” Harper asked. “Where's Doctor Duquesne?”

 With a sigh, Marshall said, “Missing, presumed dead. Doctor Strickland came highly recommended as a replacement, though, and we've got a new surgical team.” He looked down at his datapad, and added, “You missed the briefing, so I'll give you the mission details now. About four months ago, the Deep Telescopic Array at Titan found a new brown dwarf, only two jumps from Sol, not too far from the border with United Nations Trust Territory. The Scoutship Pioneer was dispatched six weeks ago to investigate, and she hasn't returned. Our mission is to explore the new system, and investigate the disappearance of the ship.”

 “That's an old Mariner-class,” Salazar replied. “Forty years old, pre-War. I thought those ships had been placed back in the Mothball Fleet?”

 “So did I, but apparently they dragged one out for this mission,” Marshall said. “Personally, I think Fleet's overreacting, and it's more than likely the ship's simply suffered some sort of malfunction. My guess is that Vice-Admiral Remek is finding us an excuse for a shakedown cruise. In any case, I want you to go over the files and prepare a proper report for the senior staff. And I'd like that on my desk in six hours.” Sitting back in his chair, he continued, “Any questions?”

 Harper glanced at Salazar and almost imperceptibly shook her head, and he replied, “I don't think so, sir. Not at this time.”

 “Then I'll let the two of you get settled in. We're departing in about two hours, as soon as the last of the crew replacements come on board.”

 “Five new midshipmen,” Caine added, shaking her head. “Another headache for me.”

 “I don't envy you that one, ma'am,” Salazar said. “By your leave?”

 “Dismissed.”
 Salazar and Harper stood to attention again, then walked out of the office, crossing the bridge to the elevator without a word, Francis watching them with a puzzled frown as they left. As soon as the doors slid shut, Harper tapped a control to send the elevator down to the hangar bay, then pulled out her datapad.

 “There's only one reason Pioneer would be out of the stable.”

 “Triplanetary Intelligence is still using those old scouts as spy ships?” Salazar asked, and at Harper's nod, he continued, “Then there's more to this mission than we've been told.”

 “More than I think the Captain's been told,” Harper replied. “Otherwise he'd have briefed us.”

 Frowning, Salazar said, “You do realize that he's under no obligation to tell us everything.”

 Waving her datapad, Harper said, “No Maqua, Foster, Duquesne, Orlova. All listed as missing, presumed dead. The same for Weitzman, Spinelli, a dozen others. Almost as if someone was putting together the crew of a starship for some sort of secret mission.” She frowned, and added, “If we hadn't been out at Thalassa, we'd probably have been dragged in as well.”

 “Still, Kris, that doesn't mean…”

 With a sigh, she replied, “We've both got the highest security clearance on the ship. Higher than the Captain.” She looked down at the datapad again, and her eyes widened. “Actually, that's not quite the case.”

 “He's Double-Ultra as well?”

 “No, just plain old Ultra, but for some reason, our new medical officer does. And Kat's got the same clearance, as well, and Lombardo's still here. It's almost as if someone has gone out of their way to assign personnel with the highest security classification on board.” The doors open, and a familiar, white-haired figure, stepped into the elevator, a wry smile on his face.

 “I did,” Fleet Captain Logan Winter, Director of Operations for Triplanetary Intelligence, said, as the door slammed shut behind him. He pulled out a box, clamping it to the wall, then tapped a control that set a complicated pattern of lights flashing upon its face. “Now we can't be overheard.”

 “Logan,” Harper said, “What the hell is going on?”

 “I'd have liked to brief you both more completely, but I didn't have a chance before you arrived.” Leaning against the wall, he added, “Don't worry, we've got enough time for me to give you the basic details, and everything else is on your terminals, for your access only.”

 “Where is Captain Orlova?” Salazar asked.

 With a sigh, Logan replied, “I wish I knew, Pavel, but I can honestly tell you that I don't.” Shaking his head, he added, “Danny told you about the brown dwarf. What he didn't tell you was that we discovered it six months ago, not four, and that we haven't lost one ship out there, but two.”

 “Two?”

 Turning to Harper, he said, “You've heard about Monitor?”

 Her eyes widened, and she replied, “You mean they actually went ahead?”

 Salazar looked at the two of them, and asked, “If it isn't too much trouble...”

 “Sorry, Pavel, all of this cropped up while you were away. Monitor was the only purpose-built capital ship captured by the Confederation at the beginning of the Interplanetary War...”

 “I've read the history texts,” Salazar replied. “I even visited her in the Fleet Museum, four years ago. What was a fifty-year old warship doing on a mission of exploration? I didn't know we were that desperate for hulls.”

 “Monitor is an old ship, Pavel, but she's still tough, and the infrastructure was sound. Two years ago, Triplanetary Intelligence began a refit. The whole ship was gutted, the interiors replaced with top of the line equipment, prototype weapons systems, the works. She's the most advanced capital ship in the Fleet.”

 Shaking his head, Salazar said, “Triplanetary Intelligence decided that it wanted its own flagship. That's crazy.”

 “I hasten to add that it wasn't my idea. I just inherited her. Anyway, her first mission wasn't a huge success, so we decided to refit her again, and the brown dwarf was the perfect opportunity for a trial run. She was meant to be out there for a month, to properly test her combat systems.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “Maggie volunteered to command her. Just for the shakedown.” With a shrug, he continued, “There aren't many experienced command officers with that level of security classification, and Alamo was in the middle of her refit. She was meant to be back two months ago.”

 “And something went wrong.”

 “She didn't come back, so we dispatched Pioneer, with a picked crew, including the engineer who supervised Monitor's refit. I hoped that it was a drive malfunction, something like that, though with the border so damned close...” Shaking his head, he added, “As I said, none of this was my idea. I just inherited the problem.”

 “So now we've lost two ships, instead of one,” Salazar replied. “Beautiful.”

 “My sentiments exactly,” Logan said. “Pioneer was under strict orders to stay hands-off, that if there was any sign of trouble, they should pull out immediately and report for further instructions. She's weeks overdue, and both Fleet and I feel that the risk of enemy action is too great to ignore.”

 Folding his arms, Salazar asked, “All of this is fine, but why isn't Captain Marshall briefing us about all of this himself?”

 Looking down at the deck, Harper replied, “I can guess. The existence of Monitor is rated as Double-Ultra. Need-to-know only, and he doesn't have the security classification to know about it.”

 Stepping forward, Salazar said, “Tell me she isn't right.”

 “I'm afraid Fleet Captain Marshall doesn't know about Monitor, or her disappearance. And believes that Pioneer was simply a normal ship on a simple mission of exploration.”

 “You're sending him out in the dark. Into something that has already eaten two starships, and might now be preparing to take a third.” Taking another step forward, he continued, “You and your friends have to be out of your minds.”

 “Monitor is the most advanced ship in the Fleet,” Logan repeated, “And her existence is a closely-guarded secret. For the present, Captain Marshall doesn't need to know.” With a sigh, he continued, “My fear is that the United Nations has already grabbed her, in which case you won't find anything, and all of this becomes my personal nightmare for the next few months, while you and Alamo head off on your mission. Frontier Patrol.”

 “I'm going to tell him,” Salazar said.

 “Pavel, you can't,” Harper pressed. “I don't like this any more than you do, but Logan's got a point. If we don't find anything at the brown dwarf, then he doesn't need to know the true goal of the mission.”

 Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “You understand, I hope, that Captain Marshall thinks of this as nothing more than a shakedown cruise, as do the rest of the senior staff?”

 “You can brief Scott, Lombardo and Strickland,” Logan said. “As soon as you enter hendecaspace.”

 “The number two officers at Tactical and Systems, as well as the Medical Officer,” Harper replied, frowning. “Logan, can't we...”

 “No,” the intelligence chief said. “This order comes right from the top, all the way from the Combined Chiefs. No information regarding the existence of Monitor or her disappearance can be released to unauthorized personnel, no matter what. If, and only if, in your judgment the situation requires it, you my brief Captain Marshall at that time.”

 “And if we don't have time for a prolonged briefing while United Nations dreadnoughts are bearing down on us?” Salazar asked.

 Pulling out a datarod, Logan handed it to Salazar, and said, “These orders give you the authority to do whatever is necessary to ensure the success of the mission and the safety of the crew. I don't need to tell you to use these with the utmost discretion.”

 “You're putting me in an impossible situation,” Salazar pressed.

 Nodding, Logan replied, “I know, Pavel, I know. All I can say is that Triplanetary Intelligence will back you, whatever happens.” He paused, then added, “Lieutenant Bailey is our liaison at Leonov Station, out at Proxima. I suggest you contact him as soon as you arrive. He'll have some updated information for you.”

 “Without telling the Captain, I presume,” Salazar replied.

 “Sometimes, this job requires us to do things we personally find distasteful, but I assure you that they are in the best interests of the Confederation.” He pulled the box from the wall, stuffing it into a pocket, and the doors slid open on a darkened deck. As Logan stepped out into the corridor, he added, “Naturally, I was never here, and this conversation never happened.”

 “Naturally,” Salazar said, shaking his head as the doors closed. “I just wish that was true.”

Chapter 2

 Midshipman John Clarke raced for the shuttle, his holdall swinging back and forth in his hand, heavy enough that he was almost tempted to toss it away in a bid to gain speed. Waiting at the airlock, Technical Officer Alexandra Blake, wearing her uniform with an air of obvious resentment, held the safety release to prevent it from closing, shaking her head as he sprinted towards her.

 Clearing the airlock with a single bound, he said, “Made it.”

 “Only just,” Blake replied. Inside the cabin, a single passenger looked up from her datapad, a wry smile on her face.

 “Running a little late, Midshipman?” she asked.

 “Sorry, ma'am,” he said, saluting with his free hand. “Hold-up at the baggage area. My...”

 “Never mind,” she said, shaking her head. “Feel free to blame me. I'm running behind anyway.” Looking at the two of them, she continued, “Lieutenant Diana Doyle. Science Officer.”

 “This is Midshipman Clarke,” Blake said, gesturing at the panting ex-cadet. “I'm Alex Blake. Surgical Assistant.”

 “I take it you are the assigned pilot?” Doyle asked. “No one else has shown up.”

 With a frown, Clarke glanced at Blake, and replied, “I suppose so, ma'am.” Glancing at his watch, his eyes widened, and he added, “Alamo's departing in forty minutes.”

 “Then I suggest we leave at once, Midshipman,” Doyle said, returning to her reading. Clarke turned to the cockpit, sliding into the pilot's couch with confident ease, running his hands across the controls as the displays drifted across the console, customizing itself to his normal profile. Blake dropped down into the co-pilot's seat, looking across at Clarke with a frown. 

 “Tell me you've taken flying lessons since the last time you sat in one of these.”

 “Top of the class,” he replied. “Had to do something while I was waiting around on Mars.”

 With a thin smile, she said, “I hope this time means you've flown something other than a simulator.”

 “Relax,” he said, throwing a trio of switches, reaching for a headset. “This is Transfer Nine-Two, requesting departure clearance for priority transfer to Alamo.”

 After a second, a tinny voice replied, “Roger that, Nine-Two, proceed at your discretion.”

 “See,” Clarke said, disengaging the docking clamps with the touch of a button. “Nothing to it.” The centrifugal force of the station tossed the shuttle clear of the hull, and the thrusters fired a series of steady bursts to stabilize them while he plotted his course to the battlecruiser, barely thirty miles distant in its parking orbit.

 “One-twentieth power, engaging primary engine,” he said, and with a brief rumble, the shuttle began to drift steadily towards its target, Clarke firing another careful pulse of the aft thruster to set them on trajectory. “I could do this with my eyes closed.” 

 “Sounds like a good way to have a horrible accident.” Looking across at the sensor display, she added, “Lot of traffic flying around out here. I make fifteen cargo shuttles, another three transfer pods, some tankers.” Shaking her head, she continued, “I guess they're in a hurry.”

 “You know how it works. Wait around for months, then all of a sudden we get twenty-four hours notice for departure.” He frowned, then added, “We weren't meant to leave for a fortnight. I wonder what the rush is?”

 “Probably some administrative Charlie Foxtrot,” she replied. Shaking her head, she tugged at her uniform, and added, “I've already seen far too many of these while I've been wearing this thing.”

 “You volunteered, remember.”

 “Two years, Midshipman,” she said. “Two years, then the Fleet pays my way through Medical School. I'm not one of your mighty space heroes. My motivations are as mercenary as they come, and don't you forget it. If we have a nice, quiet cruise, that will suit me nicely.” Looking over his side, she added, “How is that scar of yours, anyway?”

 “Want to take a look?” he asked.

 Shaking her head with a scowl, she glanced across at the systems monitor, and said, “Wait a minute. There's a red light on thruster three. Are you getting any problem with the flight controls?”

 Frowning, Clarke looked down at the console, and replied, “Everything seems fine here. Run a diagnostic check. Maybe we're getting a false reading.” Reaching across to the navigational controls, he continued, “Just in case, I'll...”

 Before he could finish, the shuttle lurched to the side, flying into a spin, throwing him into the hull, his restraints snapping free. He reached for the controls, desperately stabbing the emergency overrides, trying to kill the rotation. With a rumble, the main engine snapped back on, and the trajectory plot on the viewscreen became a confused tangle, the shuttle spiraling out of control.

 “What's happening up there?” Doyle yelled.

 “Systems malfunction,” Clarke replied, pulling himself into his couch. “Overrides aren't working. Alex, try the auxiliary.”

 “I did,” she yelled, turning from her station. “Nothing happened.” A series of red lights flooded across the display, warnings that the shuttle's hull was being stressed beyond capacity, and she said, “We're out of control. She won't take this for long before we get a hull rupture.”

 Clarke struggled to his feet, dragging himself towards the suit locker, and said, “I've got to go outside. The safety interlocks should still work.”

 “Are you out of your mind?” she replied. “You'll be thrown clear in a second! And how the hell are you going to put on a spacesuit with the ship in a spin?”

 Stumbling to the wall, Clarke replied, “Don't worry, I've got a plan. Keep trying the overrides, and see if you can contact someone for help. Maybe the external overrides will work.”

 Looking at the communications display, Blake said, “The antenna can't keep up with the spin.” The shuttle lurched forward, end over end, a second thruster adding to the confusion. “John, we should think about abandoning ship.”

 “Not yet,” he replied. “We can save her. But try and get the rescue balls ready, just in case.” Belatedly, he realized there was a senior officer present, but when he looked into the cabin, he saw her lying on the floor, blood running from a cut in her forehead, one hand reaching for a rescue ball. Quickly, he placed his fingers on her neck, checking for a pulse, then stumbled forward as the shuttle lurched once more, sending him collapsing to the deck.

 “This plan of yours had better be something pretty damned special!” Blake said.

 “You aren't the only one hoping that,” he replied, struggling into the airlock as the shuttle lurched again, drifting to the side. He reached for a spacesuit, pulling open a rescue ball and tossing the parts inside, then strapped a dozen safety lines to the ball, locking it into position. With one last look around the airlock, he slid inside, reaching up to the emergency release before tugging his hand inside, sealing the ball before the atmosphere could drain into space.

 Sirens sounded as the ball inflated, the suit's component pieces scattered inside. As the outer hatch of the airlock opened, he was hurled clear of the shuttle, slamming into the wall, but at least the sudden movements had stopped, calm stability restored. The flash of the emergency alarms warned him that this sanctuary would only be temporary, his haven thrown around the sky, still attached to the shuttle, the cables wrapping around the hull, securing him still more tightly.

 The space was cramped, but he was still just able to struggle into his spacesuit, pulling the pieces into position one at a time, the suit computer loading as he placed his helmet over his head, locking it with a loud click. At once, a whining drone filled his ears, the noise of the rescue beacon sounding.

 Someone would be on their way by now, moving to provide what help they could, but with the shuttle spiraling around, docking would be out of the question. Almost certainly, the deck crews on Alamo were already working to bring the shuttle back under control, but as the ball soared closer to the hull, it was obvious that they were failing. All of this was down to him, and as the last green light winked on, he snapped another safety line into position, then tugged a knife from his pocket, bracing himself for the next step.

 Taking a deep breath, he made sure that the line was secure with a quick tug, then stabbed at the inflatable wall of the bubble, tears ripping down its sides as he flew out into the vacuum beyond, tossing and turning as the air sped out into space. The suit thrusters quickly began a futile attempt to stabilize him, but the tangle of the cables was too much for the computer to correct, and he stabbed at the override control, allowing himself to spin..

 He could see the shuttle below, still spinning on her thrusters, the main engine idling at its lowest power. His heads-up display flashed an alert, a ship on an approach vector, a rescue vehicle from Alamo. At least help was close at hand should his plan fail. As he cautiously fired his thrusters to approach the ship, he tapped a series of commands into the controls on his wrist.

 “Clarke to any station, any station. Distress priority, repeat, distress priority.”

 “Alamo here,” a gruff voice replied. “What the hell is going on out there?”

 “Thruster malfunction, control systems malfunction, engine malfunction,” he recited. “I am attempting EVA repair. Request rescue craft stand by to evacuate shuttle as soon as she's stable. I doubt the safety interlocks will hold for long.”

 “Stand by, Midshipman,” the voice continued. “We've got a team on the way.”

 “Negative, sir. The shuttle won't take the stresses much longer. I'm surprised she's still in one piece now. Proceeding with repairs. Clarke out.” He closed the channel, knowing that his superior would be ordering him to hold back, an order he had no intention of obeying. Slowly, the shuttle grew, the tangle of cables dragging him along, sending him into a stomach-churning spiral. Again and again, his suit began the impossible task of stabilizing his roll, leveling him out, as though unwilling to believe that the occupant would seek out insanity such as this.

 Then the collision alert sounded, the wail of the siren ripping through his ears before he could silence it, a series of course projections flashing onto his field of vision, recommendations calling for him to run to safety. If he was careful, he could just about reach Alamo on his suit thrusters, even without the help of the waiting rescue shuttle.

 A hundred meters to go, and the seconds seemed to crawl. He reached down for his final safety line, the shortest he had, knowing that he would have only one chance to lock onto the shuttle before being tossed way. Already he was bracing himself for the impact, his eyes roving over the spinning hull to find somewhere to lock on, carefully pulsing his suit jets to avoid the plumes from the thrusters that continued to fire, twisting the shuttle on a roving path through the sky.

 Almost before he realized it, he reached the hull, clamping on with a hook. Suddenly he had a brief flashback, a memory of his first real mission, drifting across miles of space to reach his target, the largest space station ever built. Then, he'd been in no immediate danger, knowing that only capture would result from his failure. Today, the odds were higher. He could see faint puffs of air already leaking from gaps between the hull plating. Catastrophic containment failure could be only minutes away. Maybe seconds.

 “Alamo to Clarke!” the gruff voice repeated. “If you're going to do this damn stupid thing, at least listen to instructions. And don't try and cut me off again, I've engaged an override. You'll not only have to shut down the interlocks, but you'll have to wreck the main engine. Rear section, maintenance hatch three. Interlocks first, though.”

 “Roger, Alamo,” he replied, the force of the shuttle's spin still threatening to throw him clear. “Approaching Thruster Three.” He crawled over the hull, reaching from handhold to handhold, forcing himself to take his time, to be patient, knowing that he couldn't make a mistake, that the safety line was already being asked to perform a task far beyond its normal tolerance. He glanced up, spotting the tangle of cables, the remnants of the escape pod being towed behind the shuttle, looking like some sort of impossible parachute.

 After what seemed an eternity, he reached the first thruster, and pulled free the servicing cover, tossing the piece of metal away in his haste. His gloved hand reached around the controls, twisting it twice, and a green light winked on, the interlock engaged, the thruster dying. With sweat dripping down his face, he climbed around the perimeter of the shuttle to the second thruster, down on the underside.

 Movement flashed across his field of vision, and he saw the landing struts drop down. A smile crossed his face as he realized that it had to be Blake's work, the nearest strut perfectly positioned for him to anchor himself while he engaged the final interlock. At least the shuttle would be stable now, though if anything, the roar of acceleration seemed to be increasing, the effort of holding on growing tougher.

 “Clarke!” Blake yelled, finally able to reach him. “We're building to a reactor overload! Engine thrust building, and I can't shut it down! None of the controls are working.”

 “Bail out,” the voice from Alamo yelled. “Bail out, and we'll pick you up.”

 Clarke looked at the tangle of cables wrapped around the shuttle, shook his head in despair, and said, “That's a negative, Alamo. The airlock's obstructed. There's no way anyone could get out in time, and I don't have any cutters with me. Tell me about shutting down the engine.”

 He swore he could hear a sigh, as the voice replied, “Make your way down to Maintenance Hatch Three. It's just aft of the rear landing strut. You should be able to reach it without much trouble. Move quickly, before the acceleration exceeds the ability of your cable to withstand it, and watch out for any more trouble with the thrusters.”

 “On it, sir,” Clarke replied, starting his way down the underside of the shuttle, but after a few seconds, he was jerked to a halt. He looked back at his cable, and cursed under his breath at the tangled mess behind him. The line was a mess of knots, twisted around the forward landing strut, secured in position underneath three other cables, a relic of the thruster misfiring.

 “Report progress, Midshipman. I didn't quite hear your last message.”

 With a thin smile, Clarke replied, “Obstructed, sir. One second, and I'll be there.”

 “Be careful, Midshipman. We have the rescue team on the way. They can be with you in four minutes.” Clarke shook his head, knowing that at the rate the engine power was increasing, rendezvous would be impossible long before then. He could see the rear landing strut, only twenty meters away, and started to calculate his speed, reaching out with his hand. If he was going to pull this off, he had to be quick.

 Tugging at his belt, he released his cable, removing his last connection to the shuttle, and fell behind, his hand slipping over the hull, his fingers desperately reaching for his goal, missing the strut by inches. He felt something brushing against his legs, and scissored his ankles together around an aft communications antenna, using the brief contact to swing into position, gripping onto a handhold.

 Immediately, the strain on his wrists was agony, but he managed to hold on, sliding ahead of the maintenance hatch, rising a hand to pull it free, the cover immediately falling behind him as the engine continued to roar. He looked down at the complicated mess of components inside, shaking his head as he struggled to recall his classes in engine maintenance.

 “Clarke to Alamo. I've got the cover free.”

 “Nice and simple from here, Midshipman. Make as big a mess of it as you can, but whatever you do, don't touch the CCR relay. There's enough voltage running through that to kill a hundred morons like you, even through your gloves. Hurry.”

 He saw the long black cylinder of the CCR relay, just creeping around the edges of the exposed machinery. At least, he thought that was the CCR relay, but there was only one way to find out, and he reached in with his hand, tugging at components, pulling circuits away, ripping at fiber-optic cables, anything to savage the fragile machinery. These transfer pods were never meant to face any serious danger, were built quickly and cheaply, and he silently thanked government parsimony as he dug deeper and deeper.

 Nothing he did seemed to have any effect, and he could feel his hand slipping, the force of the acceleration almost too much for him. Finally, with one last, great effort, he snatched away at a cluster of cables, dangerously close to the relay, and the shuttle's engine lurched to a halt, the unexpected cessation of acceleration sending him flying from the handhold, swinging ahead of the shuttle into endless space.

 “Clarke to Alamo. Shuttle immobilized.”

 “Roger, Midshipman. A rescue craft is on the way to free the passengers, and will come to pick you up in a few moments. Are you in any immediate danger?”

 “No, sir.”

 “That's going to change as soon as you get on board, Midshipman. My office, on landing.”

 He gulped, and said, “You never identified yourself, sir.”

 At last there was a trace of humor in the back of his voice, as the man identified himself.

 “Fleet Captain Daniel Marshall, Midshipman. I suppose it is possible you may have heard of me, but I've got the extreme misfortune to be your new commanding officer. Alamo out.”

 Clarke closed his eyes, shaking his head, hoping that this would turn out to be nothing more than a bad dream. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to make himself wake up. As he drifted through the stars, he looked back at the shuttle, the distance increasing by the second, and sighed. Somehow, getting rescued had lost its appeal.

Chapter 3

 Alamo's Systems Officer, the white-haired Senior Lieutenant Leo Dubois, stood in front of the desk, turning his datapad in his hands as Marshall browsed through the report on the shuttle.

 “How confident are you in this analysis?” Marshall asked.

 “Not as much as I would like,” Dubois replied in his precise, clipped accent. “I still believe that pilot error is the most probable cause of the accident, but I am unable to rule out sabotage.” He paused, then added, “That pod had only completed a maintenance cycle a week ago, and I spoke to the lead technician myself. I know the man, served with him on Agamemnon. I trust his competence.”

 Nodding, Marshall replied, “And your recommendation?”

 “It'll be cheaper to make a new pod than repair it. I've already requested a replacement from Mariner Station, and it's on the way with the last of the new personnel.” He glanced down at his datapad, and said, “As regards disciplinary action, I confess that I would be reluctant to press any formal charges based on the limited evidence we have. In all honesty, the bulk of it is circumstantial. My personal suggestion would be to mandate a resit of the flight examination by Midshipman Clarke.”

 Tapping the report on his desk, Marshall said, “Clarke passed out at the top of his class for shuttle training, just three weeks ago.” He paused, then added, “I presume he's waiting outside?”

 “Yes, sir. Nervous as a kitten.”

 With a thin smile, Marshall replied, “He'll have to remain on edge for a moment longer. Thank you for your quick work, Leo. I'll let you get back to Engineering.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “We're going to break orbit in ten minutes. Anything I need to know about?”

 “As far as I'm concerned, sir, we're clear for departure on your command. I'll be monitoring the hendecaspace drive personally during the first transition, just in case there are any unexpected surprises, but I don't anticipate any problems.”

 “Let's hope it stays that way. Dismissed.” As the engineer left the room, Marshall reached for a control on his desk, and tried to recall the name of the new duty communications technician, one of the recent group of replacements. “Bowman, I want to place a call to Mariner Station. If I remember correctly, the Deputy Commandant of the Academy is out there on a cadet familiarization tour. I need to speak to him at once, top priority, and scrambled.”

 “Scrambled, aye, sir. One moment.”

 Another new face to get used to, one of a sea of strangers. He looked around the office, superficially similar to the one he'd had for his first tour on Alamo, but so many minor differences, little changes Orlova had made during her time in command. For the hundredth time, he made a mental note to order a new chair; he had six inches on her, and he still hadn't quite managed to get the comfort settings right.

 “I have Captain Rees for you, sir. On scrambler, as requested.”

 “Thank you, Spaceman,” Marshall said, tapping a control to call the image of the lecturer to his wall monitor. “Sorry to drag you away from your cadets, Jeff, but I've got a problem.”

 “Let me guess,” he replied. “John Clarke.” Shaking his head, Rees said, “Danny, I'm afraid there isn't that much I can do to help you. The four middies I assigned you were from the top ten of the graduating class, the best and the brightest. Watch out for Koslowski. She'll be after your job before you know it.”

 “I take it Clarke wasn't one of the ones you assigned.”

 “Have you looked over his personnel file?”

 “I'd love to, but most of it seems to be classified, aside from the notation that he's nineteen.” Pausing, he added, “Tell me how a nineteen year-old becomes a Midshipman.”

 Shaking his head, Rees replied, “I would if I knew, Danny, but I don't. He's a bright enough boy, but that's all he is, at least at the moment. There was some trouble on his freshman cadet cruise, something about a secret mission. All I knew is that he went out as a plebe and came back a Midshipman, with a couple of decorations pinned to his chest. And instructions that come what may, he was to be assigned to Alamo for her next mission. I pushed it with Personnel, but all I got was the run-around, and something about security clearance.” He paused, then added, “I'm only cleared to Most Secret. Maybe you can find out something I don't know.”

 “Maybe,” Marshall said with a sigh. “Sorry for bothering you.”

 “Not a problem. Any time. And the rest of the kids I sent you should be fine once you knock the rough edges off. Imoto's one of the best helmsmen I've ever seen, and Doyle's a born gunner. You won't find any problems there.”

 “I hope not. Thanks for the help, anyway. Hopefully we'll get a chance to catch up when we get back from our mission.”

 “I'll have the drinks lined up in the O-Club. Oh, and congratulations on your demotion, by the way.”

 With a chuckle, Marshall replied, “Thanks for that, Jeff. It is good to be back.”

 “Well, have fun. But not too much.”

 “Will do. Alamo out.”

 As the screen faded, Marshall looked down at the datapad on his desk, scrolling through the limited report on Midshipman Clarke. The first few pages were conventional enough, describing a typical first-year career at the Academy, albeit that of one of the more promising students of the class. Then the cadet cruise, and suddenly the record faded to nothing.

 He punched in his access code, and his eyes widened as scrolling text flashed onto the display, informing him that his clearance level was insufficient for the information he was requesting. Shaking his head, he looked up at the door, knowing that the young would-be officer was probably sitting through his own private hell, and decided to let him off the hook, at least to a degree.

 “Lieutenant Doyle,” he said, paging the officer of the watch. “Please have Midshipman Clarke report to my office on the double.”

 A heartbeat later, the door opened, and the pale-faced Clarke walked into the room, snapping to attention before his desk.

 “Midshipman Clarke, reporting as ordered, sir.”

 Looking up at the young man, Marshall frowned. He seemed barely old enough to shave, far less serve as an officer on a starship, but the little information suggested he was something special. The decorations listed on his file, ribbons he wasn't wearing on his chest, told him that much.

 “Midshipman, I've had the initial report from Senior Lieutenant Dubois. It is his opinion that there is a strong chance that the accident with the shuttle was the result of pilot error. What is your judgment?”

 Clarke's eyes widened, and he replied, “No, sir. I didn't make any mistakes. How could I? A flight of that distance didn't require any real flying. I did every step according to the manual.”

 “Then your assessment?”

 “Maintenance failure, sir. Either accidental or deliberate.”

 “You're suggesting sabotage?”

 “Yes, sir. I certainly think that the possibility shouldn't be ruled out.” He paused, then added, “I didn't do anything wrong, sir. The thrusters started to misfire, then the main engine. None of the control overrides worked. Technical Officer Blake and Lieutenant Doyle will vouch for me.”

 Nodding, Marshall tapped a button, and said, “Lieutenant, could you step into the room for a moment? I need to consult you about the shuttle incident.”

 Doyle walked into the office, clapped Clarke on the back, and said, “If you want, sir, I'll happily countersign the recommendation for his citation.”

 “Citation?”

 “For gallantry.” Shaking her head, she said, “I don't think I would have had the guts to go out on the hull like he did. Saved all three of our lives.”

 “The report...”

 Interrupting Marshall, she said, “Senior Lieutenant Dubois wasn't there, sir. Midshipman Clarke did everything possible to correct the situation, and he didn't make a wrong move at the controls.” She glanced across at Clarke, and added, “Don't take this personally, Midshipman, but I was watching you at the helm like a hawk. I've had bad experiences with rookie pilots before. You, however, I would gladly fly with any time.”

 Holding up the datapad, Marshall replied, “The other alternative suggested in this report is sabotage, Lieutenant. What have you to say about that?”

 Raising an eyebrow, she replied, “I'd want to have a strong word with whoever performed the last maintenance check, Captain. Especially regarding the control system relays. Didn't the investigation reveal any damage?”

 “Not according to our inspection team.”

 Frowning, she replied, “I find that hard to believe. Do you have any objection if I look into the matter myself? I know I'm just a humble biochemist, but I've taken some courses in shuttle maintenance.”

 “Feel free, Lieutenant, though I intend to place Lieutenant Salazar in charge of the investigation. You can liaise with him.”

 “Yes, sir.” She glanced at the clock, and said, “May I return to the bridge, Captain? Assuming we're going to be keeping our scheduled time of departure.”

 “Of course, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

 Standing to attention, she turned and left the room, leaving Clarke standing alone at the opposite side of the desk. Marshall looked down at his datapad again, scanning through the report, then looked back up at the nervous youngster.

 “Given the circumstances, and given the testimony of Lieutenant Doyle, I don't intend to take any action at this time, Midshipman. Other than to order you to take at least ten hours of simulator time on that design of shuttle, following similar course plots. Liaise with Lieutenant-Captain Caine.”

 “Yes, sir.”

 Marshall paused, then added, “You're a mystery, Clarke. How does a nineteen-year-old plebe suddenly become a Midshipman with a Star Cross to his credit?” Gesturing at the front of his uniform, he continued, “One that he doesn't seem interested in advertising.”

 “I did my duty, sir, nothing more, and I don't feel that I earned a medal for it.” Looking down at the deck, he continued, “I'm afraid I am under orders not to go into the details, Captain.”

 “And if I made it a direct command?”

 “Then I would have to refuse, sir.”

 Nodding, Marshall replied, “I wouldn't have accepted any other answer, Midshipman, so you can relax. At least on that subject. I won't deny that I will be paying more than a minor personal interest in your performance during this cruise, and that you will certainly have a harder time with the promotions board than most, given your limited Academy training.”

 “I am aware of that, sir,” he said, looking for a moment as though he wanted to say more than he could. “I won't let you down, sir. Wherever I'm assigned.”

 “For the present, I think that you fit best as Systems Officer's Mate. You'll be working with Senior Lieutenant Dubois and Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo. It might interest you to know that the latter is a mustang, so you might find seeking his advice invaluable, seeing as you are essentially following the same path.”

 “Thank you, sir.”

 Raising an eyebrow, Marshall replied, “Not disappointed?”

 “I'd have liked a spell at the helm, sir, but this way I'll get to know the ship better than any of the others. There's no substitute for walking the decks and getting into the guts of the systems, and I'll have a head-start on working in a supervisory role, at least on work details.”

 “I'll give you this, Midshipman, you seem to have an excellent handle on turning lemons into lemonade. This assignment won't necessarily be permanent.” Looking down at the datapad again, he said, “You'd better go and report to the hangar deck. I'm sure they'll be needing all the help they can get with the final unloading. Dismissed.”

 Clarke snapped to attention, saluted, and walked out of the room, Marshall watching him as he left. While he was obviously nervous, there was still a hidden confidence, both in his steps and in his words. There was something about him he liked, a hint of the officer he was one day going to be, and regardless of the cause, his actions during the shuttle accident were downright heroic. Under normal circumstances, he'd have recommended him for a decoration.

 Rising to his feet, he walked out onto the bridge, just as Caine stepped from the elevator on the far side of the room. He looked around the control center, running his eyes over the consoles, the crew smoothly completing the final preparations for hendecaspace transfer. Noting his arrival, Doyle rose from the command chair, stepping over to the helm to stand beside Midshipman Imoto, the young man nervously glancing up at the Captain's arrival.

 “All systems clear for deep space, sir,” Doyle said.

 “Very good,” Marshall said, sitting in the command chair, the cushion feeling more comfortable than it had any right to be. Taking his place at the heart of the bridge felt right, better than anything he had done for months, ever since he had reluctantly yielded command of his ship to Margaret Orlova at the onset of the Xandari War.

 He'd been needed elsewhere, required to command a task force that had guarded the frontiers of the Confederation, fighting off two waves of enemy warships before sweeping into what had been the Xandari Empire in the wake of Alamo's decisive victory. Though the details were still a highly guarded secret, the crew had been feted as heroes upon their return, resulting in the second movie to portray Alamo's activities to a mass audience. Though if anything, this time it had been even worse than the first one.

 The bridge was just like the office. Familiar, but different, enough changes to make him feel slightly uncomfortable, like a girlfriend unexpectedly turning up with a new haircut. The crew were the same story, though he'd gone over all of their service records, personally hand-picked the new duty shifts. Given time, he'd get accustomed to them.

 Caine walked over to him, a faint smile on her face, and said, “Our fighter squadron has finished boarding now, sir, and Senior Lieutenant McCormack wants to talk to you as soon as we reach hendecaspace. The last of the Espatiers are on board, and there's a last minute change you need to know about. I'm afraid we don't have Ensign Finley in command.”

 Frowning, Marshall replied, “What happened?”

 “No one seems to know.” Pulling out her datapad, she said, “Brace yourself. Frank Rhodes is our new Espatier Commander.”

 His eyes widened, and Marshall said, “Frank Rhodes?”

 “Apparently he completed Officer Candidate School, and Personnel assigned him at the last minute, though I suspect I can detect the hand of Kristen Harper in this.”

 Shaking his head, Marshall said, “If that man is as crazy an officer as he was a recruit, we're in for a lot of trouble.”

 “Pavel vouches for him, sir. Apparently he served with him on Random Walk with distinction. He was the one who signed off on his appointment to OCS, back when he had my job.” The smile grew, and she continued, “I never thought I'd be replacing him as Executive Officer.”

 “Any other surprises I need to know about?”

 “If there are, I don't know either. Anyway, the last shuttle is on board, so we're clear to proceed at your discretion.”

 Turning to the communications station, Marshall said, “Spaceman We...Bowman, contact the dockmaster, and inform them that we wish to depart at once.”

 “Aye, sir,” the technician replied, looking down at his console. “We have flight clearance all the way out of the system, and Commodore Chung wishes us a safe voyage.”

 “Return my complements, Spaceman.” He glanced up at Caine with a grin, then looked at the helm, and said, “Midshipman, take us out. Best-speed course to the hendecaspace point, with transit to Proxima Centauri as soon as we arrive.”

 Nodding, Imoto tapped a series of controls, and said, “Course plotted, sir, and I am engaging main engines now. Estimated time to egress is two minutes, ten seconds.”

 “Very good, Midshipman, you have the call.”

 “Aye, sir,” he replied. “I have the call.”

 Leaning down to his side, Caine said, “You're enjoying this, aren't you.”

 “I haven't felt this good in a year and a half,” he whispered.

 She nodded, a smile on her face, then moved over to the vacant tactical station, dropping into position and turning to watch the viewscreen, the stars slowly sliding to the right as Alamo turned, gliding smoothly towards its target.

 Marshall looked down at the status board on his right, the smile still fixed on his face. One quick shakedown cruise to work out the bugs with ship and crew, and they could begin their real mission, a twelve-month patrol of the frontier, working back out towards Jefferson. Unexplored space, once again. 

 The main engines roared for the first time in six months as Alamo moved away from the station, Imoto gently guiding her towards the egress point as the dimensional compensators charged. Though no one would be showing it openly, he knew that everyone would be feeling the same sense of excitement that he was, the beginning of a new mission.

 He rubbed the new insignia on his label, smaller than the Commodore's double-star he'd been wearing for the last year. It might have only been a brevet rank, but Remek had made enough noise about making it a permanent arrangement, giving him a flotilla to command in the Xandari Peacekeeping Fleet. It had taken every favor he'd earned to prevent that, and it was worth it. This was where he belonged, at the heart of the action, not stranded in an office. One day, perhaps, he'd have to take a permanent promotion. But not today.

 “Ten seconds, Captain,” Imoto said, his knuckles white on the controls.

 “First transition, Midshipman?” Marshall asked.

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Just go smooth and steady, and you'll be fine.”

 With a blinding flash of Cerenkov Blue, Alamo flew through the dimensional tear, entering hendecaspace to begin the transit to Proxima Centauri. At last, they were on their way, and somehow, Marshall finally felt as though he'd returned home.

Chapter 4

 Salazar pulled himself out from under the wrecked shuttle, his uniform and hands smeared with grime, and looked up at Lombardo, standing next to him with a grim look on his face. In the background, Clarke nervously watched, waiting to hear whether he would be exonerated or condemned.

 “I'll be damned if I can find anything wrong with the control systems hardware,” Salazar said. “Not a thing.” Waving a datachip, he continued, “I managed to pull the telemetry data, though, and I think I found out why it didn't transmit an alert to Alamo.”

 Looking at the component, Lombardo replied, “That's not a standard fit. Two terminals missing.” Frowning, he continued, “An older design, a lot older, designed for the old Mark Three.”

 Nodding, Salazar clambered to his feet, and said, “Now tell me what a thirty-year-old component was doing in a modern shuttle.” Running his finger across the top, he added, “From a quick inspection, they look the same. You'd have to go right into the guts of the system to find it.”

 “I suppose it could be a maintenance error,” Lombardo said, shaking his head, “Though it seems like one hell of a coincidence if it was. Midshipman, I'd say you're in the clear.” Scanning down the display on his datapad, he continued, “The parts inventory we received looks fine. Which means the correct chip was installed.”

 “Wait a minute,” Clarke said, stepping forward. “This doesn't make any sense. If someone wanted to sabotage the shuttle, why leave any record at all? Why not rig a bypass, or custom-design something that looks exactly correct but stores no data?”

 Nodding, Lombardo replied, “The kid has a point, Pavel. Either of us could have done a much better job with a little notice. Hell, anyone with some engineering training would be able to slam something together.”

 “Meaning either our saboteur was in a hurry, or that he didn't care whether or not there was a record,” Salazar said. “I suppose he could have assumed that the shuttle would be destroyed, that we wouldn't be able to mount an investigation until we left hendecaspace, but that sounds a little too much like underestimating the enemy for my liking.”

 A fierce-looking woman, gray streaks running through her brown hair, stormed across the deck, ostentatiously wearing her flight jacket. Behind her, a pair of pilots followed, one of them smiling as she recognized Salazar.

 “How long is all of this going to take?” the woman asked. “We've got simulator training scheduled, and I need to get this man,” she gestured at Lombardo, “to complete a full maintenance cycle on our birds at once.”

 “Weren't they checked at Mariner, ma'am?” Lombardo asked.

 “I'm not concerned about the condition of the fighters, Sub-Lieutenant, but the training and experience of your deck gang. I need them to be familiar with our new ships, enough that they could complete a full maintenance routine with their eyes closed.”

 Raising an eyebrow, Salazar said, “I don't think we've been introduced. Lieutenant Pavel Salazar, Security Officer, and currently I'm in the middle of an investigation into potential sabotage.” Gesturing at the pilot to the woman's left, he added, “Hello, Jessie. Congratulations on the promotion.”

 “All down to you, Pavel,” Lieutenant Jezebel Murphy, a veteran of the dying days of the Xandari War and Salazar's former wingman, replied. “It's nice to be back.”

 “Ah, so you are the infamous Pavel Salazar,” the woman replied, her frown growing. “I've heard all about your performance at Phobos, Lieutenant, and it is a mystery to me why you are still in the service. Certainly I wouldn't have you in my squadron.”

 “Fourteen,” Murphy said.

 “Excuse me?”

 “Lieutenant Salazar is one kill away from being the only Triple-Ace in Triplanetary service, and has personally accrued more kills than the whole squadron put together, ma'am.”

 “We will talk about your attitude later, Lieutenant,” the woman said, stabbing Murphy with a glare. “As for you, Salazar, you can play Sherlock Holmes on your own time, not mine.”

 Taking a step forward, Salazar replied, “Ma'am, I am engaged in a critical investigation under the direct orders of the Captain. If you have a problem with that, I suggest you take it up with him.” Turning to Lombardo, he continued, “Art's deck gang is the best in the fleet, and they've had experience with fighters and shuttles of every type. All of them are veterans, all of them have served on this ship before, and I have never found them to be less than exceptional. Right now they have far more important things to attend to than a superior officer's whims.”

 Her eyes widened, and she replied, “You are addressing a senior officer, Lieutenant.”

 Flashing a smile, Salazar said, “As I said, ma'am, you can take it up with the Captain, but based on your attitude, I'm more of the opinion that I'm addressing a potential saboteur. Why else would you be attempting to hinder my investigation?”

 “You haven't heard the last of this,” the woman replied, turning to the elevator. One of the pilots followed her, flashing an apologetic glance at Salazar, but Murphy remained, shaking her head with a smile.

 “Who the hell was that?” Salazar asked.

 “Senior Lieutenant Deborah McCormack, Ace Pilot,” Murphy replied. “As she takes every opportunity to point out.”

 “Is she any good?”

 “As a pilot, yes. As a human being, no. Whether or not that will be a problem remains to be seen.” Looking at the shuttle, she said, “Any progress?”

 “I can't definitively prove it, but I'm damn sure we've got a saboteur on board. Good start to the mission.” Shaking his head, he added, “Just for once, I'd like a nice, boring tour of duty.”

 “You'd hate it,” Lombardo replied.

 “Maybe,” he said with a smile. He looked back at the shuttle, and said, “What are you going to do with her?”

 “Strip her for parts, I think. The superstructure's a write off, and most of the hull plating is gone, but the internal components are still sound. Should save us a lot of fabricator time.” Lombardo frowned, then added, “I suppose we could try and repair it, but the work involved would be extraordinary. And Mariner was nice enough to send us a new pod.”

 “What is our load-out, this trip?”

 Lombardo's eyebrow rose, and he replied, “Better than last time. Seven Hurricane II Space Superiority Fighters, the latest in service. Fast and nasty.”

 “I know,” Salazar replied with an enigmatic grin. “I had a chance to play with one, a few months ago. Maybe I'll get to tell you that story someday. Shuttles?”

 “Two refueling shuttles this time, both modified versions on the ones we had before, four landing shuttles, four shuttlepods, two search-and-rescue ships.” Shaking his head, he continued, “I'm glad they installed that extra elevator airlock. We're going to need it.”

 “Sounds like you're going to have fun with your new toys.”

 “I'm just glad someone decided to give me an assistant.” He gestured at Clarke, working with a team of technicians on the nearest fighter, already beginning to strip down the lateral thruster.

 “I thought he was meant to be Systems Officer's Mate.”

 “The Systems Officer had other ideas. I don't think he trusts the kid.” Glancing at Clarke, he continued, “Between you and me, I've got Kowalski keeping an eye on him. He seems happy enough, at least for the moment.”

 “Exposing an innocent youth to the wiles of our Quartermaster?” Salazar replied with a smile. “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

 “Hell, skipper, he's got to learn sometime.”

 Salazar's face dropped, and he said, “Careful, Art.”

 “What?”

 “This ship has a commander, and his name is Daniel Marshall.”

 Frowning, Lombardo replied, “What do you mean?”

 “Call me Lieutenant, Sir, Pavel, or anything you like, but I don't think 'Skipper' is appropriate.”

 Shaking his head, Lombardo replied, “Sorry, Lieutenant. I guess it just slipped out.”

 “Make sure it doesn't slip out again. Especially not where someone like McCormack could hear. She'd nail you to the wall, and we both know it.” Glancing at the elevator, he continued, “If she gives you any more trouble...”

 “She's empire-building,” he said. “Thinks I should be working for her, not the Systems Officer. If we were on a carrier, she'd be right, I know, but Lieutenant-Captain Caine was quite clear about the chain of command.” Shaking his head, he continued, “I don't mind about myself, Pavel, but I don't want any of my people to run into problems.”

 “And the flight leaders?”

 “Jessie's fine, of course. Still as wild as ever. I guess a year with a training squadron didn't knock all the sharp edges off. The other one, Kerry Bryant, he's the quiet type. Seems competent enough, but until I see him in action...”

 “Smart,” Salazar replied with a nod. “Not my problem, I guess. Still...”

 Before he could finish, a siren sounded, and he turned to the fighter, racing towards the sound of the chaos, Kowalski hastily clearing the gaggle of technicians away. Clarke leaned down towards the hard-point, his eyes widening as he turned to Salazar, face growing pale. A missile had been placed inside the launch tube, and the trickle of red lights cascading around the side warned that it was armed, ready to detonate.

 “Art, get on the telemetry and try and disable the damned thing!” Salazar yelled, diving underneath the fighter. “Kowalski, get me a Number Three Toolkit. Clarke, evacuate the deck, and that includes you! Close all blast doors behind you. We've got to keep this contained.”

 “Damn, it's a Thunderbolt,” Lombardo said, looking at the warhead. “Ten kiloton yield. It could rip the ship into small pieces if it detonates inside the hull.”

 “All the more reason to stop that from happening,” Salazar said. “Chief, where's my toolkit?”

 “Right here,” Kowalski said, sliding in next to Salazar, cracking the box and rummaging through the contents. “And don't say anything stupid about me leaving, or I'll just have to ignore a direct order.”

 “Wouldn't dream of it,” Salazar said, looking around the deck as Clarke ushered the technicians away, the doors slamming shut as the last of them fled the hangar. Up above, he could hear the cockpit cover sliding open as Lombardo slid inside.

 “We're locked out,” the engineer said, shaking his head. “Give me a minute, and I'll try to crack in. Someone's really done a number on this baby.”

 “Magnetic screwdriver, Chief,” Salazar said, and Kowalski placed the tool in his hand. “Be ready with a Salzberg servospanner when I tell you.” He started to work the bolts free, one after another, easing open the inspection hatch to allow access to the missile tube within. A glance at the launch mechanism convinced him that the warhead was clamped in place, ready to detonate if he attempted to remove it. Somehow, he was going to have disarm it where it was.

 The inspection panel dropped free, and he gently lowered it to the deck, peering at the gloom within. Kowalski pulled out a flashlight, shining the bright beam through the gap, and Salazar nodded with approval as he took the servospanner, frowning at the warhead within. In theory, he knew how to disarm the warhead, but he'd never worked with a live model before.

 “Damn!” Lombardo yelled. “The targeting computer just went live. It's working on a firing solution with something, I think one of the simulator programs kicked in. You've got a hundred seconds before the damn thing launches!”

 “Great,” Salazar muttered, reaching inside. “Just great. Chief, you got a pair of work goggles handy?”

 “Already configured,” he replied, snapping the eyepiece over Salazar's head, the interface working with his new artificial eye to provide a heads-up display, an image of the components within overlaying reality. Carefully, tentatively, he reached in, starting to free the side panel, working his way into the bowels of the missile. At least everything seemed to match the design specifications, no obvious sources of sabotage in evidence. Someone had simply activated the missile, tricking the computer to begin a launch sequence. Given time, he could hack into the systems and disable it safely, but he didn't have that sort of time.

 “Art, open the nearest elevator airlock,” he said. “I'm going to have to go for the clamps. We'll never disable the warhead in the time we have left.”

 “You're going to throw it out into hendecaspace?” Lombardo asked, working his controls.

 “Can you think of a better place for it? Micro-Hydrolic, Chief.”

 “Here you go, sir,” Kowalski replied, passing him the wrench. The trick would be to disable the magnetic clamps without disrupting the data connection, and that meant taking a piece of the fighter along for the ride, going for the launch mechanism rather than the missile. He moved to tool into position, listening for the faint whine that told him that his plan was working, and caught the first bolt as it dropped away, reaching for the next one.

 “Seven in total, sir,” Kowalski said. “Watch yourself.”

 “If this blows up, Chief, I don't think my exact location on the hangar deck will matter.” He gently slid the wrench to the next position, hearing the clamps lock into position, the motor engaging to smoothly tug the bolt free. Four down, now. Three to go, but they were going to be the hardest, on the far side of the missile. He reached over, then felt the wrench start to slide out of his sweat-laden hand, tightening his grip just in time.

 “Sixty seconds,” Lombardo said. “Elevator airlock open, and I've set for emergency decompression as soon as you drop the missile inside. We'll need the atmospheric boost anyway.”

 “Right,” Salazar said, trying to find the final bolt, sweeping the wrench gently around in a bid to locate it. Finally, he heard the reassuring click, and the last piece of the puzzle broke free, the missile dropping away from the launch tube, mechanism with it. With a glance at Kowalski, the two of them reached in, carefully tugging the armed warhead free, supporting it with their weight as they guided it out of the tube.

 The pair raced to the elevator airlock, Salazar leading the way inside as he gently placed it into position over the hatch, taking a cautious step back, his heart skipping a beat as the missile rolled to the side with a soft thunk.

 “Come on!” Kowalski yelled, and the two of them burst from the airlock, Lombardo hastily working the controls, the airlock slamming shut. A thunderclap followed, the noise of the atmosphere within being expelled, the outer hatch twisted and tangled by the force of the erupting air leaking into hendecaspace.

 Racing to a wall communicator, Salazar crashed his fist on the control and said, “Hangar Deck to all sections. Stand by for explosion, close aboard! Seal blast doors and hang on!”

 The ship shuddered as the missile detonated, an angry grinding noise from the hull evidence of damage. Kowalski raced over to the status monitor, Lombardo hard on his heels, punching controls to bring up a damage report.

 “Well, Chief?” Salazar asked.

 “Outer hull breach in two areas, but the inner hull is fine. Elevator Airlock Four is a wreck, but we expected that. We shouldn't have any trouble making repairs as soon as we emerge from hendecaspace.” Shaking his head, he said, “That was far too close, sir.”

 “You won't get an argument from me,” Salazar said. He stepped over to the fighter, then said, “Now, could someone tell me what the hell a missile was doing in the launch tube of one of these birds while we're in hendecaspace?”

 Kowalski pulled out his datapad, shaking his head, and said, “I honestly don't know, sir. There's no record of one being drawn from the fabricators, and we've only made one testing model since the refit. Safely detonated last week. I did it myself.” With a frown, he replied, “That has to have come from Mariner.”

 “All of the fighters were checked by the deck crews when they arrived,” Lombardo protested. “If there had been anything anomalous, we'd have noticed.” He tapped the status monitor, and said, “You can see the signature of the testing team attached to every one.”

 “Bridge to Hangar Deck,” Marshall's voice yelled. “Pavel, what the hell is going on down there? We've got a pair of incipient hull breaches, and we just registered a missile explosion close to...”

 “Our saboteur has been at work again, Captain. I'll give you a personal report in a few minutes. I don't want to trust this to the communications net. Could you page Harper to report to your office at once?”

 “Will do, Lieutenant. I'll see you in a moment. Bridge out.”

 Shaking his head, Salazar looked at Lombardo and Kowalski, and said, “If my guess is right, someone's playing games with the database. That fighter can't have been checked.”

 “Meaning…,” Kowalski began.

 “Meaning that you're going to have to start from scratch, and inspect each fighter personally. You'd better get started while I break the good news to the Captain. I'll come down and give you a hand in a minute. And get Clarke to help you, but keep it to the three of you for the moment.”

 “Clarke?” Lombardo replied with a frown. “Pavel, not to throw circumstantial evidence around, but he's been involved in both sabotage attempts so far.”

 “I trust him,” Salazar said, a faint smile on his face. “I've seen his file. He's loyal. Take my word for it.” He paused, then added, “If you find anything suspicious, report to me in person. Just me, no one else.”

 “Not even the Captain?”

 With a frown, Salazar replied, “Not until we know where we stand. Someone is trying to destroy this ship, Chief, and we've got to find him. Whatever it takes.”

 Lombardo's eyes widened, and he said, “Pavel, you can't seriously suspect...”

 “Paranoia, out here, is a survival trait. Never forget that.”

Chapter 5

 Clarke walked into the Mess, making his way to the food fabricator, punching for the blandest meal he could find on the menu. Experience had taught him that the fewer demands placed on the dining systems, the less the chance that he would be disappointed, and the spicy soup that emerged from the slot seemed testament to that lesson. Of course, they were still close enough to home that there were some real foods mixed into the system, herbs and spices grown in the agricultural domes of Callisto, but that wasn't something he wanted to get used to. Not if this was going to be a long cruise.

 He looked around for an empty table, hoping for solitude, but he'd arrived in the middle of a shift changeover, and the room was bustling with activity. There was an empty seat at the Midshipman's table, the other four rookies sitting with their over-complicated food, expressions of disgust on their faces that brought him a quiet smile. Admitting defeat, he walked over to them, taking the empty chair.

 “Anyone mind?” he asked.

 “Suit yourself,” one of them answered. He'd been introduced to them at the initial briefing, just after they'd entered hendecaspace, but all of them had only been distant upperclassmen when he had attended the Academy, and it felt strange to be sitting among them, wearing the same uniform.

 Siegel looked up from her plate of noodles, brushing back a curl of auburn hair, and said, “That was a pretty wild shuttle ride you had there. They find out what was wrong yet?”

 Doyle turned to him, and said, “Anyone can make a mistake, their first time out.”

 “Maintenance error,” he replied, remembering the cover story. “We've got it traced to a faulty component installed at the last refit. I just finished checking out the other shuttlecraft checked in the same cycle.” Shaking his head, he said, “If I never see the guts of a guidance system again, it'll be too soon.”

 Imoto nodded, and replied, “Such is the price we all have to pay, I suppose. During my last cadet cruise, I acted as Deck Officer. We completed a simulated evacuation of a space station, out at Triton.” Shaking his head, he continued, “The longest thirty-six hours of my life.”

 Koslowski, the last member of the quintet, said, “Any of you had a chance to meet the senior staff yet? I've been stuck in the Captain's office, going over the paperwork. We're already a week behind, and we only left Mariner yesterday.”

 “Senior Lieutenant Francis seems tough, but fair,” Imoto said. “I very much got the impression that every move I make will be closely monitored.” He shrugged, and said, “At least I get to fly the ship, though I suspect that someone will replace me if any serious action starts.”

 “On this milk run?” Doyle replied. “Action? From what I heard, we're just flying out to some derelict brown dwarf to check out a damaged scoutship and finish a survey. We won't be starting the real mission for a month.”

 “We'll be close to United Nations Trust Territory,” Clarke said. “Not something to take lightly.”

 With a smug smile, Doyle said, “Come on, you don't think they'd start anything over a dead star in the middle of nowhere?”

 “Anything is possible,” Imoto replied. “He is right to be cautious.”

 “Don't you start,” Siegal said, shaking her head. “Anna's right. The sooner we get onto the frontier patrol, the better. That's what I signed up for, to explore deep space, and this is the ship to do it in.” Looking around the room, she continued, “The Cabal Cruise, the Hades Raid, the Xandari War. This ship was right in the middle of some of the most important missions over the last five years. And we're going to have front-row seats.”

 “Four of us, anyway,” Doyle replied, glancing at Clarke. “Tell me, Cadet...”

 “Midshipman,” Imoto corrected.

 “What exactly did you do to get out here so early? How does a plebe graduate from the Academy?”

 “Technically, I never graduated,” Clarke said. “As for what happened...”

 A hand dropped on his shoulder, and Salazar loomed over him, saying, “Can I borrow you for a moment, Midshipman?”

 “Of course, sir.” As he rose, he saw Doyle leveling a smug stare on him, and forced a wry smile in response. They walked over to a corner of the room, and Clarke said, “If this is to do with the shuttle...”

 “No, not directly,” he replied. “Midshipman, there are I believe two officers on this ship who are aware of the manner in which you earned your rank, and I'm one of them. Lieutenant Harper is the other.” He smiled, and added, “You ought to wear that ribbon of yours more often.”

 “Why don't you wear yours, sir?”

 “Touche. In any case, I wanted to tell you two things. The first is that my door is always open if you want to drop in for a chat, especially about matters you can't divulge with anyone else. I've been where you have, Midshipman, and I can speak from experience when I tell you that you aren't going to get over what happened easily.”

 Remembering the nightmares that still haunted his sleep, Clarke nodded, and said, “I think I might take you up on that, sir.”

 “The second is that I'm going to be making what use of you I can.”

 “Sir?”

 With a smile, Salazar replied, “You are no ordinary Midshipman, and everything I've been told about you suggests that you have a genuine flair for covert operations. I intend to see that we make full use of your talents.” Glancing around, he added, “And while Kris will probably kill me for this, if you want help in staying out of the claws of Triplanetary Intelligence, I might be able to manage that as well. Assuming you don't want to angle your career that way.”

 “I've always dreamed about serving on a starship, sir.”

 “Me too,” Salazar said. Before he could say anything more, Koslowski walked over to the two of them, her cobalt eyes locked on Salazar.

 “Sir, I apologize if I'm interrupting...”

 “Not at all, Midshipman, I was just finishing up.” Turning to Clarke, he continued, “Remember what I said, John, and drop around to see me when you have some spare time.”

 “I will, sir.”

 “Does that apply to all of us, sir?” Koslowski asked.

 With a glance at Clarke, Salazar replied, “Of course, Midshipman, though I would imagine that Captain Marshall will be better able to provide you with assistance than I, and in your position...”

 “It's your tactical insights I would like to discuss, sir.” She pulled out a datapad, and said, “I wrote my final-year thesis on your battle strategies.”

 “My what?” he replied.

 “From Squadron to Starship Command, the Tactics of Acting Captain Pavel Salazar,” she read. “It discusses your use of unconventional combat tactics during the Xandari War, both in command of Random Walk and Alamo, as well as your use of squadron command protocols in starship command.” Her eyes remained locked on him, and she continued, “It received top marks. I've studied your career in depth, and there are a lot of questions I'd like to ask, if you could spare the time for a personal interview.”

 Salazar looked around, his face reddening, and he replied, “You should talk to Lieutenant Harper, as well. She was involved in all of those fleet actions, as a commander in her own right, and I think you'll find her perspective of use. I'll arrange a time for you to meet us both before we leave hendecaspace.”

 A flash of disappointment crossed Koslowski's face, and she replied, “Thank you, sir.”

 “Well, I'd better not delay you both from your dinner any longer.” Tapping the datapad sticking out of his pocket, he continued, “The Security Officer's work is never done. Carry on.”

 He walked out of the room, and Koslowski looked after him for a moment before turning to Clarke, and asking, “What did he want you for? Something to do with the shuttles?”

 “Security Department business,” he replied. “I'm afraid I can't talk about it.” Looking at the retreating Salazar, he added, “You really wrote your thesis on him?”

 “I've got a Top Secret clearance,” she pressed. “I did my second-year cadet tour with Intelligence.” Looking at him, she added, “Have you worked with him before?”

 “Not until I came on board,” he replied. “Come on, let's finish our meal.”

 As he resumed his seat, Doyle asked, “More grunt work for you, Cadet?”

 “Actually,” Koslowski replied, “It was ship's business.”

 “Besides,” Clarke said, “Aren't you going to be getting your hands dirty down in the missile control room later? I think I saw something about a full overhaul of the guidance systems on the maintenance assignments for tomorrow.”

 “My role will be essentially supervisory,” Doyle said. “Making sure that all procedures are followed, all safety protocols checked.” Rising from the table, she continued, “I have a meeting with Lieutenant-Captain Caine in fifteen minutes.”

 “Be sure and tell her what you expect to do,” Siegel said, a smile spreading across her face. “I'm sure she'll appreciate your input.” Doyle shook her head as she walked out, and Siegel continued, “That's one meeting I'd like to sit in on. She was just the same at the Academy. Always thinking she was better than everyone else.”

 “To be fair,” Imoto replied, “She did graduate at the top of our class.”

 “That won't last if she won't get her hands dirty,” Clarke said, shaking his head. “There's a lot more to starship duty than simply following regulations and protocols.”

 “You seem to speak from experience,” Imoto said.

 Blake walked into the room, stalking over to the food fabricator and snatching her plate from the dispenser as soon as it emerged. She looked around the room, then took Doyle's vacated seat, dropping her dinner before her.

 “Ted Strickland hasn't changed a bit,” she replied. “We just finished a full-test disaster run on the medical fabricator, and of course we found half a dozen settings out of tolerance, so we're going to be doing it all over again tomorrow.” Looking around the table, “What we need is a nice distraction, so if any of you want to be kind and give us some business, feel free. Not you, though, Clarke. I've sewn you up once too often already.”

 Koslowski looked from Blake to Clarke, and asked, “Excuse me?”

 “Technical Officer Alexandra Blake,” Clarke introduced. “Surgical Assistant and Doctor-In-Training.” He rubbed at his side, still able to feel the scar through the fabric of his uniform, and continued, “And don't worry, I have no intention of getting shot up on this mission.”

 “You said that last time.”

 “Last time?” Siegel said, looking at Clarke through narrow eyes.

 With a sigh, Clarke replied, “It's a long, long story.”

 “Speaking personally,” Imoto said, attempting to change the subject, “I am gratified to learn that the medical department is taking steps to ensure that all is well. It would be disastrous to discover serious problems in the middle of a battle.”

 “Better still if the damn maintenance technicians had done their jobs right in the first place.”

 “True,” Imoto conceded.

 “You've served together before, then,” Koslowski said, looking at the two of them.

 “Briefly,” Clarke said. “And it isn't something we can talk about.” He took a spoonful of his congealing soup, and added, “This isn't bad. I think the chilies are real.”

 “That won't last,” Siegel replied. “Enjoy it while you can.” Looking down at her abandoned meal, she added, “And someone remind me to be more sensible when I order next time. This ship is meant to have the latest food fabricators.”

 “It does,” Blake said. “Something I find rather depressing. Hopefully we'll have a chance to stop off at Leonov Station. That place has some of the finest restaurants this side of Thalassa. And if you get a chance to play tourist, do. Any of you ever been there?” When the others shook their heads, she continued, “My parents and I went out when I was a kid, a short tour. The station's ten thousand years old...”

 “What?” Siegel said.

 “It's true,” Koslowski replied. “An abandoned alien installation, discovered by the first exploration team, back at the turn of the century. It became the focus of attention in the system anyway, even before the mining expeditions began, and the corporations simply moved in when the archaeologists left. I've always wanted to go there.”

 “You should have a chance,” Imoto said. “We'll be there for five days. I imagine the Captain will grant at least limited shore leave. On the return journey, if nothing else.”

 “When I was there, the University of Syrtis Major was conducting an investigation, and they'd opened up a lot of the old tunnels,” Blake said. “My father knew the lead researcher, and she managed to arrange a tour for us. I've never seen anything like it, before or since.”

 “Something to look forward to,” Siegel replied, looking down at her food. “I should be heading up to the bridge. My shift starts in fifteen minutes, and I get the impression that Senior Lieutenant Francis admires promptness. See you later.”

 “I should be leaving as well,” Imoto added. “As should you, Connie. We've both got to complete those briefing reports for the senior staff briefing.”

 Nodding, Koslowski rose to follow the others, then looked back at Clarke, and said, “If you need any help with your Security assignment, don't forget that I've got Top Secret clearance.”

 “I won't,” Clarke said, as the trio left the room. Blake shook her head, a smile on her face.

 “She's playing you.”

 “Only as a way to get close to Lieutenant Salazar.”

 “From what I hear about his relationship with Lieutenant Harper, she doesn't stand a chance. Though she might end up walking home if she pushes it too much. I saw the poor man running for the elevator.” Her smile spread, and she added, “A man with a Red Shield, a Star Cross and citations for gallantry, and she had him scared.”

 “I'm sure he can handle her.” He paused, then asked, “Why did you bring up all that stuff about Churchill? You know that none of them are cleared for it.”

 “Your wound stripe and Star Cross are a matter of public record.” She grimaced, then said, “That Doyle got on my nerves, if you must know. She was talking to one of the technicians about you on the way out, and I didn't like her attitude. Far too arrogant with nothing to back it up.”

 “At least she completed the Academy.”

 “You earned your rank, every bit as much as she did. More, because I already know what you're like in action, and we're going to have to wait to find out how she handles it. I guess Salazar had a talk with you, as well?”

 “You to?”

 “It seems he's managed to get the impression that we make a good covert operations team. I guess we're going to be stuck with some entertainment after all.” Shaking her head, she added, “The maintenance schedules on the medical fabricators were fine when we left. All settings perfect.”

 “More sabotage?” he asked.

 “Salazar told me about what you found on the shuttle. And about the missile. Someone's playing games with us, and I like that less than I like Doyle. I take it you're involved in the investigation?”

 “Lieutenant Salazar is in charge. I'm just helping out.”

 “But you've got some ideas.”

 “A few,” he replied. “A few.” Keeping his voice quiet, he added, “Who signed off on the medical fabricator check?”

 “The Systems Officer.”

 Nodding, he said, “The same man who tried to label the shuttle malfunction as pilot error, and personally vouched for the maintenance technician involved.”

 “It's a bit obvious, isn't it?”

 “I've been thinking,” he continued. “I don't think any of these problems were meant to actually do serious damage.”

 “If that missile had exploded...”

 “If being the question. Why would the saboteur try something like that? They'd be committing suicide. Even if the missile was loaded before the fighter came on board, it had to be activated by someone on the ship.” Shaking his head, he continued, “And there must have been a thousand things they could have done to hold up our departure, delay the refit.”

 “I hate to break it to you, but we were nearly killed on that shuttle.”

 “And would it have delayed Alamo if we were?” He shrugged, and said, “The three of us could have been replaced in half an hour, brought across on the new shuttlecraft. Alamo would have mourned, but it would have moved on, maybe only an hour behind schedule.”

 “Then what do you think is going on?”

 “I think we're being distracted. Someone's throwing in a series of feints to keep us off-balance, maybe throw suspicion around, and keep us from whatever is actually going on. And perhaps load us with enough extra work to throw us behind on the maintenance schedule. We're going to have to have repair teams on the outer hull for hours once we get to Leonov, repairing the damage caused by the explosion.”

 “And probably bring supplies over from the station,” she added. “Have you talked to Lieutenant Salazar about this?”

 “Not yet,” he replied. “Besides, I'm sure he's thought about it himself.”

 “And?”

 “And it might not do any harm to have two investigations running at the same time, one without the knowledge of the other, just in case there is something more going on than we know.”

 “Sneaky,” she said. “I approve completely. I take it you have ambitions to see my time wasted on the pursuit of someone who may or may not exist?”

 “I'd rather trust you than Koslowski.” He grinned, then added, “Or Doyle.”

 “Not much of a complement,” Blake replied, shaking her head. “Fine, if you want to turn Sam Spade on me, I'll go along for the ride.”

 “Who?”

 “Sam Spade. The Maltese Falcon.” With a sigh, she continued, “We have got to work on your education. It's been sadly neglected.” Gesturing at the ever-cooling soup, she added, “Finish that mess, and we'll get started.”

 “With the investigation or the education?”

 “Both.”

Chapter 6

 “Egress in five minutes, Captain,” Imoto said, turning from the helm. “All systems prepared for dimensional transition.”

 “Thank you, Midshipman. You have the call.” Marshall glanced across at Caine, sitting at Tactical, her hands loosely resting on her controls.

 “Want me to go to battle stations?” she asked with a smile.

 “I think we can assume that Proxima Centauri isn't going to be hosting any hostile aliens,” Marshall replied, sitting back in his chair. “Go to alert status, though. Good practice for the new crew, and we might as well give the preparedness protocols a try.”

 “Aye, sir,” she said, turning to her station. “Executive Officer to all hands. Go to Standby Alert. I repeat, all decks to the alert. Report status to the bridge on the double. That is all.”

 The rear door slid open, Francis walking out onto the deck and walking across to the helm, the nervous Imoto glancing up as his superior approached. Francis looked down at the control settings, nodded, and gave the young midshipman a reassuring pat on the shoulder before turning back to Marshall.

 “We're all set, Captain. All clear for transition.”

 “Very good, Lieutenant,” Marshall replied. He looked around the bridge, still getting used to the new crew, the new systems. Memories of his first interstellar jump as a starship commander flooded back, six years ago, when he took Alamo on its mission to Ragnarok, back when systems even a single jump from Sol were unknown.

 They'd found that deep space was a dangerous place, enemies lurking in every corner of the galaxy waiting to attack the Confederation, or even humanity itself, and that menace had driven them out into the furthest reaches of space. During the Xandari War, this ship had completed the longest cruise in history, almost two years away from home, traveling more than a hundred light-years in a sweeping arc away from known space.

 There was history here. First contact with the Neander, the Koltoc, the Xandari, the Cabal, a dozen scattered, lost colonies spread throughout the stars. He looked down at his console, still playing the mission plan he'd been preparing during the transition. A deep space patrol, a cruise of his own design, intended to explore more than a dozen new systems out beyond Jefferson. There were rumors of lost civilizations out there, reports from free traders pushing further than they should hinting at another potential foe. If it was there, Alamo would find it, and with this crew, they'd beat it.

 The door opened again, and Salazar walked out, followed by Harper, the latter moving quickly to take the Defense Systems station, relieving the technician at the console, while Salazar took a position behind Marshall, earning a questioning glance from Francis. Marshall looked up at him, the young officer's face an unreadable mask. 

 Of course, he'd been Executive Officer for months during Alamo's return from the Xandari homeworld. Since then, his personnel file was a series of unanswered questions, but unofficially, he knew that both Salazar and Harper had spent Alamo's refit in the service of Triplanetary Intelligence, working for Logan Winter. It was almost surprising that he'd been able to free himself from their clutches, but somehow, the man seemed to be exactly where he needed to be, and the crew seemed more relaxed with him on the bridge.

 He turned to the external systems stations, to Sensors and Communications. Both of the crewmen, Ballard and Bowman, were new to their posts, but not the ship. During the last cruise, they'd served with sufficient distinction to earn a recommendation from a bridge assignment, one written by Salazar during the long flight home. To Marshall, they were only names, so far, personnel records that he had only managed to skim through. Something else to solve, during the next phase of their mission.

 “Two minutes, sir,” Imoto said.

 “All decks at standby alert, Captain,” Caine said, a reassuring twinkle in her eye. She'd been offered her own command, both by him and Remek, but had confidently refused her own battlecruiser each time. She'd made her position perfectly clear a long time ago, that she was more than happy to serve as second-in-command, in what was effectively an administrative role, but that she never wanted an independent command of her own. There was a lot more to holding the Executive Officer's job than being the Captain's potential replacement, and she excelled in every other area. She'd been his wingman, aide and confidant since the Interplanetary War, and there seemed no reason for that to ever change.

 Frowning, Salazar said, “Recommend we go to battle stations, sir.”

 “That is totally inappropriate, Lieutenant,” Francis said, turning with a scowl on his face.

 “We'll only get one chance to practice under realistic conditions before we head beyond the frontier, Captain, and I think we should take it,” Salazar replied.

 Shaking his head, Marshall said, “Not at a neutral station, Lieutenant. Too much potential risk of the local administration asking questions. Bad enough that we're bringing a capital ship into the system without the usual notice.”

 “One minute to emergence, Captain,” Imoto said, moving his hands over the helm.

 “Nice and easy, Midshipman,” Francis said, looking down at the console.

 Marshall glanced back at Salazar, the latter's eyes locked on the viewscreen. There was something different there, a harshness that had been missing when he had last known him, and perhaps greater confidence, as well. He was no longer out of his environment, now seeming completely at home on the bridge, as though belonging there.   

 “Sensors ready,” Ballard said. “Full passive sweep on emergence, sir?”

 “Make it a full test,” Marshall replied, “but nothing too obvious. We don't want to alarm anyone unduly.” Looking up at Francis, he continued, “Once we're clear, Captain Caine and I...”

 “Emergence, sir,” Imoto said, with more excitement than passage to a safe system usually warranted, and with a flash of blue light, Alamo dived back into normal space, the familiar dull red star ahead of them. Before Marshall could continue, Ballard turned from her console, shock on her face.

 “Threat warning!” she yelled. “United Nations dreadnought, close to starboard!”

 Salazar strode over to Caine, and snapped, “Battle stations, sir?”

 “Not yet,” Marshall replied. “Bowman, hail that ship and find out their intentions. Ballard, take the gloves off the sensors. I want a full picture of everything taking place in this system, and I want it yesterday.” Turning to Francis, he said, “Lock down the ship, Lieutenant. Seal all blast doors, and call all hands to their stations. I want to do everything to prepare this ship for a fight other than arming the weapons systems.”

 “No response from the UN ship, sir,” Bowman said, glancing at Salazar.

 “It's the Kurt Waldheim, Captain,” Ballard added. “Our records show her last at Tau Ceti.”

 “She's been doing some traveling,” Harper replied. “Captain, her hackers are probing our firewall. Nothing too serious, not yet, but it could get problematic fast. Permission to respond?”

 “Not yet,” Marshall repeated. “I don't want to start the Second Interplanetary War out here, ladies and gentlemen, and that ship has as much right to be here as we do.”

 Looking up at a readout, Salazar said, “The station's under security alert, sir. They've activated their defense perimeter, and all shuttles are scrambling for cover.” Turning to Marshall, he added, “I can't say I blame them for wanting to stay out of a firefight.”

 “Let me start the laser charging sequence, Danny,” Caine said. “At least it might get them talking, if it doesn't do anything else.”

 “Or make them start shooting,” Francis retorted. “Bowman, try the emergency frequencies.” Running his eye over the viewscreen, he continued, “I don't think they're expecting us. They're in a lousy position to guard the egress point, and they don't have a fighter screen in the air.”

 “Enemy ship is turning, sir,” Ballard said. “Thrusters only at present, but she's swinging in our direction. They could be in combat range in ninety seconds at full acceleration.”

 “Should I initiate evasive action, Captain?” Imoto asked.

 “Negative, Midshipman, but turn us to face them, and match them move for move.” Turning back to the sensor station, he said, “If there is even a hint that they start preparing an attack, Spaceman, I want to know at once.”

 “Nothing yet, sir. They're just sitting there.” The technician looked at his controls, frowned, and added, “I'm picking up two United Nations Fleet shuttles, likely in transit to Leonov Station prior to our arrival, but they're heading to a safe distance. Personnel shuttles, as far as I can tell. Other than that, I'm only detecting civilian traffic.”

 “No sign of offensive action from the Kurt Waldheim,” Caine reported.

 “They're waiting to see what we're going to do,” Marshall said. A smile curled across his face, and he said, “Midshipman, proceed to a parking position at the station, normal approach pattern. Bowman, contact Traffic Control and request formal permission for shore leave.”

 Francis turned to him, and asked, “What are we going to do, Captain?”

 “Not a damned thing, Lieutenant. If they're happy to leave us alone, we're going to leave them alone. Though we will be remaining on alert stations at all times while the ship is in-system, and I want a maximum effort to monitor their every move. Deadeye, I want probes launched to shadow their shuttles. Keep them well clear, but I want to know where they are going and why.”

 “Aye, sir,” she replied, tapping a control. “Probes deployed.”

 Alamo's engines roared into life as Imoto guided the battlecruiser onto its approach path, heading towards the rotating station ahead. The viewscreen remained locked on the silent United Nations ship, a readout of her tactical potential streaming down the side of the monitor. On paper, Waldheim would have the edge in a firefight, but Alamo was fresh from a refit, with all the advantages that implied.

 “We'll win, Danny,” Caine said, as though reading his mind. “But we'll tear ourselves to pieces doing it.”

 “Suggest we launch a fighter patrol, sir,” Salazar added, looking up from the display. “They can remain in close defensive formation, but it might give them something to think about.”

 Nodding, Francis replied, “That would be normal protocol in a situation such as this, Captain. Though we should clear such an action with the local authorities first.”

 “Signal from the station, sir,” Bowman replied. “I have the dockmaster.”

 “Put him on,” Marshall ordered.

  Shaking his head, the technician replied, “I can't, sir. We have permission to assume a parking orbit, but he seemed extremely reluctant to speak to anyone on board.” Glancing across at a side panel, he continued, “We also have approval for shore leave, sir. The paperwork just arrived.”

 Salazar looked at Marshall, and said, “They're running scared, sir. Not sure which way to jump, so they're trying to keep out of it as much as possible.” Gesturing at the communications station readout, he added, “We're on the opposite side of the station from the Kurt Waldheim. With the defense perimeter between us.”

 “Readout on the Waldheim, sir,” Harper said. “Commanded by General Mario Estrada.” She frowned, then added, “Not a political appointment. Career military, worked his way up through the ranks.”

 Nodding, Marshall replied, “I recall a Major Estrada in the war, a squadron commander. Had a reputation for methodical tactical doctrine.”

 “The same, sir. Though there's no record of him being assigned to this command, as of our latest intelligence. It must be a new assignment.” Glancing at Salazar, she continued, “Perhaps even some sort of special mission. Usually, capital ship commands are reserved for the top political families, to ensure the loyalty of their key fleet assets.”

 “Foolish,” Francis said. “Though if they've chosen to ignore their normal routines, that suggests that something important is taking place here. Lieutenant, does Intelligence have any record of anything taking place out here?”

 Marshall caught the instant of hesitation in Harper's eyes, before she replied, “Not that I'm aware of, sir. Nothing on Leonov Station.”

 “And…”

 “Signal from the Kurt Waldheim, sir. General Estrada wishes to speak to you, personally and privately. By name, sir.” Bowman looked up from his station, and asked, “Shall I transfer it to your office, Captain?”

 Marshall nodded, rose from his seat, and said, “Deadeye, you have the conn, but take no aggressive moves unless you have no other choice. Any change, report at once, and don't worry about interrupting.” Pausing opposite the defense systems station, he added, “Harper, you can start probing their systems now, but don't be too aggressive. Just match their expectations.”

 “Aye, sir,” she replied, her fingers dancing across the console.

 Walking into his office, Marshall sat down behind his desk, then reached down to bring up a tactical display of local space, a small holoimage flashing to the side. There seemed little harm in allowing Estrada to wait for a moment, and he quietly counted to thirty before reaching across to accept the call.

 On the far wall, the image of a stout, balding man wearing United Nations battle fatigues appeared. That was interesting enough by itself, the first time he'd ever seen a UN General in anything other than full dress finery.

 “Commodore Marshall, I presume?”

 “Fleet Captain,” he replied. “As of a few weeks ago, anyway.” Pausing, he continued, “We have met before, General, though last time it was in battle. Second Vesta, if our intelligence reports are accurate. I believe you commanded the Ninth Tactical Squadron.”

 “Your memory and your intelligence reports are commendably precise, Captain. I will get immediately to the point. My ship is currently here to enjoy the facilities of Leonov Station. We have been on deep patrol for some weeks, and are looking forward to some rest and relaxation. Naturally, we were surprised to encounter your ship, given the lack of prior notification by your government of your visit.”

 “Your government has been equally remiss in reporting the movements of your capital ships in neutral space, General. I was as surprised as you were to find a dreadnought in battle stance.”

 “Battle stance? That would imply aggressive action, and I stress that we are merely here, albeit unexpectedly, on shore leave.” Sitting back in his chair, he reached across to a button, and said, “Can you speak freely, Captain?”

 “Of course.”

 “Then I will tell you that I have no wish to start a war, not today. I suspect our motivations for coming here are the same as yours, and that you too do not desire to start a fight you cannot win.” He smiled, and added, “Though I suspect your strategic advisers are telling you the same as mine, that victory is likely, but not certain.”

 “Something along those lines,” Marshall replied, with a faint smile. “Presumably we each feel that we know something the other side does not.”

 “Quite so.” Nodding, he continued, “It was a lot easier when we were fighter pilots, was it not. Then it was a duel, two warriors facing each other, the best and the luckiest proving victorious. As we were at Second Vesta.”

 “And we were at Third.”

 “True. The War is over, almost a generation ago, and the memories begin to fade.” Folding his hands together, Estrada continued, “We both have business here, Captain, and I will come to an understanding with you. I will refrain from interfering with your activities in this system, so long as you adopt the same eminently reasonable course of action. I will not start a fight, if you do not.”

 “I think we can agree to that,” Marshall replied.

 Shaking his head, Estrada said, “It comes so easily, Captain. There are moments I envy you. Unlike you, I am not completely the master of my own destiny, and there are those I must answer to, even on a ship that is theoretically under my command. They might not feel as I do, and are likely to seek any potential excuse for conflict. Be wary of such men, Captain.”

 “I'll remember that, General. Alamo out.” Marshall closed the channel, shook his head for a moment, then tapped another control. “Lieutenant Salazar, report to my office on the double.” He looked down at the strategic display again, watching as the enemy ship held to its constant vigil, watching and waiting as Alamo moved to its parking position. The door slid open, and Salazar walked in, standing to attention in front of the desk.

 “You wanted to see me, sir?”

 “I did indeed,” Marshall replied. “They're up to something over there, Pavel, and I need to find out what. As far as I can see, you and Harper are the best chance we have of finding out.”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “You want me to put together a team, sir?”

 “Under the cover of shore leave, and I'll be sending half a dozen shuttles across to make sure that you are well-camouflaged.”

 “I'll see to it right away, sir.” He paused, then added, “I will need Lieutenant Harper, Sub-Lieutenant Scott and Ensign Rhodes included in the leave parties, sir. As well as Midshipman Clarke and Technical Officer Blake.”

 Raising an eyebrow, Marshall replied, “Harper, Scott and Rhodes I understand, but why the others?” He paused, then said, “I take it this is one of those matters that I'm not going to find out about, isn't it.”

 “You'll just have to trust me, sir, when I tell you that both Clarke and Blake come highly recommended for this sort of operation. Especially as there is a chance that Harper and I will have to serve as decoys, assuming United Nations Intelligence is on their usual form. I take it the requirement is for as low a profile as possible?”

 “Assuming Frank Rhodes feels capable of such a mission profile.”

 “He's changed since you knew him, sir.” 

 “I hope so.” Marshall paused, then said, “Any progress with the saboteur?”

 “No, sir, though I agree with you that there is a strong chance of a connection. It seems too much of a coincidence, otherwise.”

 “Watch yourself, Pavel. Remember that Leonov Station is neutral territory. If you get yourself in trouble over there, my options for intervention are extremely limited.”

 “Let's hope that it doesn't come to that, sir.”

 “Quite so. Good hunting, Lieutenant.”

 “Thank you, sir.” Salazar snapped a salute, and walked out of the room, leaving Marshall alone in his office. He looked back at the strategic display, shaking his head. Something strange was going on out here, and he couldn't shake the suspicion that Harper and Salazar knew more than they were telling.

 Tapping another control, he said, “Marshall to Doyle.”

 “Science Department here, Captain.”

 “Our target star, Lieutenant. I want all long-range sensors focused on it at once. If there's been any change, anything we missed in the original sweeps, I need to know immediately.”

 “Will do, sir. Science out.”

 That star was the answer. It had to be. Though right now, he didn't even know the question.

Chapter 7

 The shuttle settled into position by the docking port, the double airlocks sliding open to reveal the station's concourse beyond. Harper glanced at Salazar, and the two of them walked through the security monitors, quietly hoping that their concealed equipment would pass undetected. Triplanetary Intelligence sometimes went for the primitive; obsidian knifes hidden in their heels, bamboo blowguns under their epaulettes, tranquilizer darts already in place.

 A nervous, surprisingly junior guard waved the sensor wand over them, refusing to meet their eyes as he completed his work. With a curt nod, he dismissed them, sending the pair forward into the docking concourse, hastily permitting Rhodes and Scott to join them. The rest of the passengers were nominally listed as maintenance technicians, though Harper had carefully gone through the personnel files to find the half dozen crewmen who had excelled at unarmed combat training, and their communicators were linked by a secret web, designed by the brightest engineers the Confederation had at its disposal.

 Leonov Station was one of the wonders of explored space, a tangled network of tunnels and corridors, where tens of thousands of years ago an alien race had dug deep into a small asteroid in search of minerals, for reasons the best archaeo-geologists had yet to discern. Along the way, they had carved an intricate network of pictograms along the walls, with experts still arguing over their meanings, decades after their first discovery.

 Whoever the aliens were, they'd left no trace over than the empty tunnels and their enigmatic writings, scattered across the walls for their heirs to see. Countless years of research had led precisely nowhere, but the station had become the first major extrasolar tourist attraction, and the gathered crowds were testament to the lingering appeal of the alien, the unknown.

 Countless eyes followed their movements as they made their way through the first layer of tourist traps, stalls selling garish representations of unknown species, novelty items sold for infinitely more than their true worth, scattered smells from the fast food of a hundred cultures assaulting their senses as vendors called to the visitors, urging and demanding that they sample their wares.

 Harper knew that they were being monitored, both by local station security desperately attempting to keep the peace and by undercover UN marshals, hidden in the crowd. Not to mention the local criminal gangs, hoping to reap some profit out of the confused situation. Turning into the main thoroughfare of the station, the group split into two pairs, Rhodes and Scott gamboling off in one direction, making maximum effort to attract attention, and she and Salazar taking another, down a side passage laced with exotic odors and clashing music, a confusing mass of rhythmic beats that pulsed through their ears, pounding into their heads. The others had simply drifted into the nearest bar, seamlessly merging into the crowd.

 Despite the decor, Leonov was no different than a dozen other stations one jump from Sol, a combination of corporate headquarters and tourist trap, close enough that the long arm of interstellar law could restrict criminal activities, but sufficiently distant that the underworld would still be in full swing, often surprisingly close to the surface.

 Officially, this was the first time the two of them had visited the station. Unofficially, being on the frontier between the Confederation and United Nations Colonial Territory, a system rendered neutral by the treaties that ended the Interplanetary War, it was difficult for any Triplanetary Intelligence operative to avoid the station for long. Here the Great Game was played, with different rules than the violence of the far frontier, rival espionage networks forced to coexist, at least to some degree.

 Salazar gestured at a vendor selling something that at least appeared to be food, and the two of them walked over to the spitting barbecue, accepting two burgers slammed between grease-laden stale buns, smeared with a spicy, crimson sauce that ran down the side of the patty onto their fingers. A single bite was rapidly followed by a second, as Harper realized that more by luck than judgment, they'd stumbled across someone selling real meat, even if it was almost certainly fattened guinea pig rather than the chicken it pretended to be.

 Wiping her hand down the side of her uniform jacket, she led the way through the tunnels, the shops and stalls growing ever cruder as they descended into the station's underworld, garish neon lights promising to sate all desires, no matter how base, the stores growing more and more obscene as they progressed. Finally, they walked into a bar, seemingly at random, pushing through the crowd as the music played through overhead speakers.

 The barman looked up at them as they approached, and said, “I don't serve your kind here.”

 “You've got to get past that attitude of yours,” Harper replied.

 “My attitude is my own affair.”

 “Not when it interferes with business,” Salazar answered, completing the countersign. The bartender gestured for them to enter a back room, a cloud of chemical smoke pouring from the doors as they slid open, the two officers staggering in as the smell assaulted their noses, the air so thick they could almost chew on it.

 Inside, the room was empty, only two sets of work overalls hanging on a rack by the wall, both fitted to their measurements, all appropriately aged. As they hastily undressed, a pair of local technicians of roughly their height and build entered the room from the far side, pulling on the proffered uniforms.

 “You clear about what to do?” Harper asked.

 Her counterpart nodded, and said, “Wander through the station at random, and start asking questions about Waldheim. Not to make any references to who we are, avoid contact with other Alamo crewmen, and return here in about an hour to make the transfer.”

 “Good,” she replied. “Keep out of trouble, and don't start anything. If you run into problems, run for it. Don't try and be a hero.” Glancing at Salazar with a wry smile, she added, “That's our job.”

 “I'm not being paid enough to be a hero,” Salazar's counterpart replied, tugging on the jacket. “Good luck.”

 Dressed in their new, distressed clothing, Salazar and Harper walked through the far door, along a narrow, ancient corridor that only the original survey team, all Martian loyalists even decades before the revolution that brought about the Interplanetary War, had known. Only a hundred meters, but it took them into another back room, similar to the one they had left, and into a low-grade diner, serving food that made the burgers they had consumed appear a gourmand's delight in comparison. Pausing only to purchase a pair of coffees from the vending machine, the pair stepped out onto the street, running parallel with the one they had left.

 This time, they attracted far less attention, just two more technicians enjoying some shore leave, nothing to mark them as anything special. The odds were good that the marshals were still tracking them, but local security had far fewer resources as their disposal, and it was disturbing the neutrality of the station that concerned Harper and Salazar most. Getting into a fight with the UN undercover forces was less of a problem, as long as they made sure the other side took the first punch.

 Another series of twists and turns took them into the industrial area, away from the underworld, an oasis of respectability in the sordid environment. The mega-corporations had the grandest facilities, in the larger caverns at the top of the station, but it was the smaller, local companies that were of interest at the moment, specifically an import/export agency specializing in luxury clothing, transshipped from fabrication facilities on Titan to colonies and outposts across a dozen systems.

 Salazar took the lead this time, walking through the double doors, earning a frown from the guard standing at the entrance, his nose wrinkling at the state of their attire. The receptionist on the desk had a similar attitude, frowning at their approach as he walked up to the counter, leaning on the surface with a smile on his face.

 “Vermin control,” he said. “You've got rats in your storage facility.”

 Her mouth widened, and she replied, “I haven't heard anything about that.”

 “Check with your supervisor.” He pulled out a battered, mangled datapad and continued, “All I know is that I have a work order to carry out an inspection and provide a quote for extermination. You don't want us, that's fine, but I want someone with authority to tell me so. Or I've wasted a lot of time for nothing.”

 She looked down at her panel, tapped out a series of commands, then said, “Go on up. Someone will be waiting for you in the warehouse.” Shaking her head, she added, “Rats, now. Could this dump get any worse?”

 “Don't worry, honey,” Harper replied, as the two of them walked into the elevator. “We know what we're doing.” The doors slid shut, and she looked at Salazar, and said, “You're enjoying this.”

 “Guilty as charged,” he said, a smile on his face. “Though I need to have words with my tailor. These jumpsuits itch.”

 “Probably best not to ask why,” she replied, tapping out a ten-digit sequence on the control panel, freezing the elevator opposite a small cave that officially didn't exist. The doors slid open, and they walked down a short corridor, electric-blue spotlights shining on the pictograms, and into an office that could easily be a duplicate of Captain Marshall's, on Alamo, right down to the flag hanging by the wall. A moment later, a harried-looking man wearing engineering fatigues walked in, shaking his head as he looked at the two of them.

 “Just what I need,” he said with a sigh. “More trouble.”

 “It's nice to see you too, Ken,” Salazar said.

 Rubbing his hand on his forehead, Lieutenant-Captain Bailey, local intelligence liaison, replied, “Just answer one question. What are you doing here?”

 The two looked at each other, and said, “We're investigating the disappearance of Monitor. And Pioneer, for that matter. We didn't have any idea that Waldheim would be waiting for us.”

 Dropping down behind his desk, Bailey replied, “Nor did I. There was no warning, no notice, she just turned up two days ago and moved into defensive position. My contacts in Station Administration tell me that they skipped the usual unreasonable demands. Officially, it's just shore leave, though I've seen less disruptive invasions.”

 “How many people have they got over here?”

 “More than a hundred, at least. Including an old friend of mine.” He pushed a datapad across the table, the image of a harsh-faced woman with a scowl on her face, one that looked as though it was a permanent feature. “Colonel Leticia Cruz. The name might be familiar.”

 “The Butcher of Thalassa,” Harper replied. “Personally responsible for the execution of more than a hundred political activists. Even the Security Council blanched at giving her employment, though. I thought she'd been forcibly retired.”

 “So she had, but she's back.” Shaking his head, he said, “For a ship supposedly out on deep patrol, they've got a lot of intelligence types on board, and I'm not talking about the usual political advisers. Pastell, Brooke, Rahe, Kuhrt. Some of their top undercover operatives, and my people are having trouble keeping them away from sensitive areas.” With a sigh, he continued, “What bothers me more are the people we don't know about. With this many people roaming the decks...”

 “As far as we can tell, we managed to get here without anyone noticing, and our decoys seem to know what they are doing.”

 “I damn well hope so. My kids have been wanting to get into the family business for years. First rung of the ladder.” His smile vanished quickly, and he continued, “I don't know exactly what Waldheim is doing here, but I know that they aren't the first UN ship to follow this particular trail.”

 “Oh?” Salazar asked.

 “Three weeks ago, the Conor Cruise showed up. Pocket Cruiser, Peacekeeper-class. Not such a high profile invasion as this one, but they asked a lot of questions, wandered around, then jumped away, supposedly to Barnard's Star.”

 “Let me guess. They never made it there.”

 “Correct. I think they're following Monitor.”

 “Then the United Nations knows about her?”

 “I'm not sure, but they definitely know about Pioneer, which means they know that the Confederation has a special interest in the brown dwarf you're heading for. Certainly they must have heard whispers about that damned ship, though I haven't learned anything more definitive than that. I've got one of my double-agents working with Rahe right now, but he's been out of contact for longer than I liked.”

 Glancing at Harper, Salazar said, “I think we could do with a private chat with one of these top undercover agents. Do you think there is any way an interview might be arranged, on our terms?”

 “Anything is possible,” Bailey replied, punching a series of controls on his desk. “One of my field agents will call in when they've got one out on their own. Though I want it to be clear that you both have to be careful. I'm aware of your reputation for mayhem, and I can't afford it, not on this station. I've spent twenty years building up this network, and I will not have it ruined for one operation, no matter how important it might be.”

 “Understood,” Harper said. “Is there anything else?”

 “Possibly,” the agent replied. “It isn't just the UN out here. A Republic agent was sniffing around a fortnight ago.” With a smile, he continued, “I know they are meant to be our allies now, but old habits die hard, so I put a bead on her anyway, just to be careful. Anyway, she chartered a transport to go somewhere, but I wasn't able to find out where.”

 “Another lost ship,” Salazar said.

 “No,” Bailey answered. “The transport came back, five days ago. Jumped out of the system as soon as they could, out towards UV Ceti. One of my people managed to get hired on, so we'll have a fuller report in a few weeks.”

 “That's too long,” Harper said. “I suppose the Republic operative went with them.”

 Shaking his head, Bailey replied, “No, and they bought a new shuttle, as well. You tell me what happened out there.” Looking up at the two of them, he continued, “I just know that this is leading to trouble we can't handle. Have you seen the latest field reports? Our operation out at Tau Ceti was broken two months ago, primary field agents captured or killed. More patrols on the frontier. I think they're building up to something, and I can't shake the feeling that it all leads to this station.”

 “Or to that brown dwarf, one jump from here,” Salazar said. “I suppose there's no chance that the other major powers haven't found it, but unless we're missing something major, I don't see any significant strategic significance to the system. Except that something out there is eating starships.” Frowning, he added, “I'd like to take a look at the records from that freighter.”

 Sliding a datacrystal across the table, Bailey said, “Be my guest, but you'll need serious computer time to crack the encryption. More than I have access too out here. Alamo might be able to manage it.”

 Taking the crystal, Harper said, “If we're still here, I'll make sure you have a copy of everything we get out of this. At least we now know that one ship managed to get out intact.” Frowning, she asked, “What would you recommendation be?”

 “Turn around and go home,” he said. “Unless you find some reason why a dead star is worth risking the lives of millions of people and the future of the Confederation. Lacking such good common sense, I would recommend extraordinary precaution.” Shaking his head, he said, “You realize that Waldheim will beat you there by two days, no matter what you do. I can't get anyone on board a dreadnought, not with their security, and if you try any sabotage, I don't imagine we'll get away with it, not this close to home.”

 “What makes you think they'll have better luck than the other ships to head out that way?” Harper asked.

 “What makes you think Alamo will?” Bailey replied, a question for which neither of them had an answer. He looked down at his monitor, then said, “We've got something. Looks like Sam Pastell has decided to take a look at the shuttle maintenance levels. Probably snooping after something connected to that transport.”

 “Nice and isolated?” Harper asked.

 “Well out of the heavily-populated areas, up in no-grav.” Bailey paused, then added, “He'll have backup, you know.”

 “So do we,” Salazar said, reaching into his pocket. “We'll keep things low profile, don't worry. All we want to do is have a quiet little chat.”

 “Those sound suspiciously like famous last words.”

Chapter 8

 “This brings back bad memories,” Clarke said, quietly, as he and Blake wandered down the main concourse, looking at the shops. “I keep expecting someone to jump out at me with a gun in his hand.”

 “Nice, healthy paranoia,” Blake replied. “A good survival trait.” She looked back at the other midshipman, wandering in a loose clump behind them, leading a gaggle of crewmen from Alamo's lower decks. Everyone was taking full advantage of the unexpected opportunity for shore leave, but he knew their every move was being monitored. Loitering in the side passages were silent figures who had to be undercover UN marshals, watching and waiting to see what the Triplanetary crewmen would do.

 “I still don't really know what we're doing here,” Clarke said. “Lieutenant Salazar's briefing was just a little vague on the details.”

 “Probably because he didn't know himself. We're just here to watch and to listen, Midshipman, that's all. If we spot anything interesting, we report back.”

 “And to him, not to the Captain,” he said, shaking his head. “I don't like that.”

 “If that's the worst element of this little mission, I'll consider us fortunate.” She glanced at a mechanic's shop, advertising spare components, the man behind the counter peering out at the wave of tourists, eyes carefully storing all the information he could harvest from their appearance, as though scenting an opportunity.

 Clarke followed her glance, and his eyes widened as he said, “Let's try in there.”

 “Why?” she asked. “He's too interested in us. Probably working for someone.”

 “And he's selling surplus Triplanetary military hardware inside. Without a displayed license.”

 “You realize that you can pick that stuff up cheap on the gray market? This doesn't mean a thing.”

 “We're looking for a lost starship, right? Besides, we've got to start somewhere, and I can't think of anywhere else to go.”

 With a shrug, Blake followed him into the shop, and the pair peered at the racks while the shopkeeper looked on. The equipment was old, but in surprisingly good condition, and Clarke pulled out his datapad to confirm his suspicions. All of the materials inside were from a shuttlecraft, one of the old transfer pods.

 “I can make you a good offer,” the shopkeeper said. “You buying spare parts?”

 Nodding, Clarke replied, “I'm Deck Officer's Mate, over on Alamo. Have you got an itemized list of components?”

 “Sure,” he said. “Wait a moment while I call it up.” He peered down over his console, entering commands with one finger while Clarke continued to look over the racks. Blake reached underneath the units, pulling out a dust-covered box with a Red Cross emblazoned on it. She ran a finger along the side, exposing the serial number, and looked up with a quick nod.

 “Shuttle survival kit. Issued six months ago,” she whispered. Pulling out her datapad, she said in a raised voice, “I'm having trouble logging onto the mainframe, sir. We're getting a lot of interference.” Shaking her head, she added, “Maybe we should call Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo.”

 “No,” Clarke replied. “Not in sleep cycle. We might have to come back later. There was that other place on the far side of the station we heard about, and...”

 “Kline will rob you blind,” the shopkeeper said, looking up from his terminal. He reached underneath his counter, tugging out a datacable and tossing it to Blake. “Use my link.”

 “Thanks,” Blake replied, locking it into position under her datapad, quietly activating a series of hacking programs to burrow into the shop's database, covertly ripping the information they were seeking free. Clarke shook his head, trying to put a picture of the components in his mind. Some of them, anything that might have been mounted on the outside of a shuttle, were blackened and twisted on the outside, still usable with minor repairs, but obviously subject to significant stress.

 “I've got that list for you,” the shopkeeper said, tapping a control to bring up a holoprojection, a long selection of components flashing into the air. Clarke nodded as he looked at the list, his suspicions confirmed. Aside from the hull and the superstructure, you could almost build a transfer pod out of the mess of parts on the shop and the storage unit behind.

 Holding up one of the battered components, he said, “Some of this stuff will need repair.”

 Nodding, the shopkeeper replied, “I'm offering a bargain price for that reason. But only if you want to buy the whole lot.” He smirked, and added, “You aren't the only one interested.”

 The door slid open, and Koslowski walked in, a puzzled look on her face and a foaming drink in her hand. Outside, Clarke could see a figure loitering, one of the undercover agents paying significant interest in their activities. Suddenly, he realized the danger they were in, and walked over to the shopkeeper with the damaged component in hand.

 “I won't be rushed,” he replied. “And if you think you can find someone else willing to pay more for some near-obsolete hardware, you are perfectly welcome to try.” Shaking his head, he waved the sensor pickup in the air, and said, “I'll take this for the moment, so I can run a proper stress test back on the ship and get an idea of what this junk is actually worth.”

 The man behind the counter looked from left to right, and replied, “Perhaps a retainer?”

 “I wouldn't want to deprive you of a potential sale,” Clarke said. “Just the sensor pickup.” He looked at the racks, picking a bundle of circuitry at random, and added, “These as well, actually. So I can run some tests on the condition of the interior fittings as well.”

 Frowning, the shopkeeper replied, “Frankly, I was wanting to sell these items as a lot...”

 “You don't want me to run any checks? What have you got to hide?” Clarke asked, while a baffled Koslowski and impressed Blake looked on. “This is a bad idea. Let's try somewhere else.”

 “No, no, wait, kid,” the shopkeeper said. “Maybe I was a little hasty. Tell you what, I'll give you twenty-four hours to run your tests, and hold onto the components for you.” Nodding, he added, “And you can have those two pieces free.”

 “That's more like it,” Clarke said, glancing at Blake. “What do you think, Tech?”

 “Sounds good, boss,” she replied, settling into her role. “It would save us a lot of work.”

 “Then I accept,” Clarke said, turning back to the shopkeeper. “Can I have something to put these in?”

 “Of course, sir,” he replied, pulling out a tattered holdall, one with the Triplanetary Fleet insignia on the side, likely more salvage from the ruined shuttle. While Clarke stuffed the pieces inside, Koslowski looked at one of the racks, reaching for a box with brown stains on the top. She slid it open, and a scowl crept across her face.

 “What the hell are you doing with this?” she asked. “You should have turned it into the local Fleet Liaison Office as soon as you found it.”

 “Midshipman,” Clarke began, summoning all the authority he could muster, “I'm certain he didn't realize what he had. Maybe...”

 “John,” Blake said, tugging at his sleeve. “We need to get out of here, right now.” The shopkeeper had retreated from the room, and the door refused to open when she jabbed at the controls.

 “Damn,” Clarke said, turning to Koslowski. “The next time you decided to start something, kindly wait until the two of us are out of the room first! Alex, see if you can crack the lock.” He reached into his boot, pulling out his obsidian knife, and said to Koslowski, “Find a weapon, right now.”

 “I don't...”

 “Do it!” he yelled, tugging out his communicator, grimacing at the roar of static filling the room as he worked the controls. “Pretty much what I expected. They're jamming us.” Shaking his head, he turned to Koslowski, and added, “And to answer your question, this whole set-up was a trap. Someone wanted to find out what we knew, and thought they might take the opportunity to grab a couple of operatives.” Waving the bag, he said, “That's why I took the sensor pickup.”

 Blake turned from the lock, wires dangling, and said, “You're getting smarter in your old age. You were going to let them think they could track us.”

 “And then head for the nearest shuttle.”

 “You could have warned me,” Koslowski complained.

 “Typically, undercover operations aren't advertised.” He shook his head again, looking up at the ceiling. “They're probably got the whole place monitored, but there's nothing we can do about that right now. I guess they already know all about us.”

 “John,” Blake said, “Company.” Two shadowy figures made their way to the door, and Clarke nodded, making his way to the far side. Koslowski, a long pipe in her hands, stood next to Blake, covering her while she continued her efforts with the door.

 “What was it you found, anyway?” Clarke asked.

 “Datachips,” she replied. “Looks like a copy of the shuttle logs, with a note inside the box requesting that the information should be passed to an officer of the Triplanetary Fleet at the first opportunity. Complete with a ten thousand credit reward. Bastard should have turned it in. There's a signature, but I can only make out the first letter. O.”

 “He might not have known what he had,” Blake said. “Though it's probably more likely that you stumbled across the bait in the trap.” Cursing under her breath, she continued, “I can't open this, but right now, neither can they. It's only a matter of time before they get in, though.”

 Clarke looked at the other door, waiting for it to open, knife grasped in his hand. He reached down to his communicator again, setting it on an automatic distress setting, the low wail barely audible over the heavy static. There was a chance, albeit a faint one, that someone on Alamo might hear them, but even if they did, fixing their location would be a nightmare this deep inside the station.

 Finally, the door at the rear slid open, and on instinct, Clarke slashed at the approaching figure with his knife, the diamond-coated blade easily slashing through the man's uniform, sending him tumbling to the rear. Any flash of fear that he might have killed an innocent bystander evaporated in a moment when he saw the United Nations identity tags on a chain around his neck, and he reached down to snatch them free, gesturing for the others to follow him.

 “How…,” Koslowski said, her face growing pale.

 “Too much damned practice,” he replied. “At least this time I've actually had some training in knife combat. Let's move.” He led the way into the crowded storeroom, still hefting the holdall over his shoulder, while Blake relieved the dead agent of the sleepstick in his hand, the low hum of the sonic suppressor filling the air.

 The storage area was a worse mess than the shop, the tattered remnants of a dozen obsolete spacecraft scattered around in vague piles, the floor filled with the debris of decades of starflight. Cautiously, Clarke picked his way around the wreckage, looking for an exit and finally locating a hatch in the floor, secured with a mechanical bolt, a chain wrapped around it.

 “We're not going to get through that with a datapad,” Blake said, shaking her head. They could hear a rhythmic pounding coming from the shop behind them, the enemy agents trying to force their way through the door. Clarke looked around, trying to find something he could use, but it was Koslowski that lurched towards them, holding a geologic survey hammer in her hands, the largest he had ever seen.

 “Stand clear,” she said, smashing it down onto the hatch, rebounding the first time before crashing through the thin metal with the next. The third strike cleared it completely, and as she dropped it to the deck, Blake started to slid down into the darkness beyond. Koslowski followed, and as Clarke urged her on, he heard a loud crack from the rear, knowing that the agents would be on their trail.

 He looked down at the ruined hatch cover, knowing that they would be able to catch them in seconds, and instead turned to face the approaching enemies, grimacing at the guns nestled in their fists, both barrels aimed squarely at his chest. Thinking quickly, and trusting that they would be hoping to take him alive rather than kill him, he hurled his holdall towards them, using the momentum to dive to the floor behind a pile of burned-out capacitors, bullets flying in the air as the bag found its mark.

 Knife still in hand, he lobbed a piece of unidentifiable scrap metal in the direction of his assailants, knowing that he was only buying his friends a few seconds, but trusting that they would be sufficient to save their lives, or at least ensure their freedom for long enough to get a message back to the ship. He risked a quick peek out of cover, and saw the two figures approach, a man and a woman, the latter somehow familiar, someone he had seen before.

 Belatedly, he remembered the bamboo blowgun in his epaulette, and ripped through the fabric to pull it free, hastily planting it between his lips and aiming at the nearest target. The dart shot into the man's neck, a perfectly positioned shot, and as his eyes rolled back, he took advantage of the momentary distraction to rush forward, blade in hand, rocking to the side to avoid the bullet that tore from the barrel of the woman's revolver.

 His teacher had trained him well, long months of practice at the hidden training facility at Syrtis Major, and instinct guided his blade on a smooth, sweeping slash down the woman's arm, sending the pistol dropping to the floor. Cold hatred flashed from her eyes as she reached down with her other hand, seeking a second weapon, but he was first to the draw, snatching up the sidearm and leveling it between her eyes.

 “Hands up,” he said, but before he could continue, her leg hacked around, sending him tumbling to the floor, the gun dropping from his hands again. She reached down, blood streaming from the cut on her wrist, her eyes glazed over, the effect of an auto-medic doing its best to keep her in the fight, pumping stimulants and painkillers into her system.

 She advanced towards him, drawing a second, smaller pistol from a hidden holster in her side, before falling back, arms flailing, dropping to the floor. Clarke looked around, then back at the broken hatch, Blake climbing back up into the warehouse, blowgun drooping from the side of her mouth.

 “Come on,” she said, spitting the weapon to the floor. “Even if Waldheim doesn't send any more people, local security will! We've got to move!”

 Nodding, Clarke followed her through the hatch, reaching for one of the larger piles of debris as he went, pushing it over with surprising ease and sending parts scattering across the floor, a few of them bouncing down the shaft, ringing from the rungs as they went. As he began his descent, the gravity quickly began to reduce, and he realized they were falling towards the heart of the station, into zero-gravity. At a cubbyhole, carved from the rock countless generations ago, Koslowski hung, looking at the two of them with disbelieving eyes.

 “Who the hell are you?” she asked.

 “Midshipman John Clarke,” Blake replied, “and Technical Officer Alexandra Blake.”

 “Yes, yes, I know that, but...”

 “You were asking how I ended up with my rank,” Clarke said. “Suffice to say that this isn't my first time at the rodeo.” Sliding his knife into his pocket, he continued, “Though at least this time I haven't been shot by someone.”

 “Yet,” Blake added.

 “But I don't understand…,” Koslowski protested. “You're just...”

 “Clarke to Alamo,” he said, pulling out his communicator. “Clarke to Alamo on Emergency Frequency Nine. Come in, please.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Either we're being jammed, or we're too deep, and someone's restricted our access to the signal boosters.”

 “Relax,” Blake replied, a smile spreading across her face. “I'm sure that in a few moments everyone on Alamo will know exactly where we are, and exactly what we've done. Station Security probably already has a warrant out for our arrest. Murder, attempted murder, anything else they can throw into the mix.” Shaking her head, she said, “This would be an excellent time for you to come up with one of those famous crazy plans of yours.”

 “My God,” Koslowski said. “This is neutral territory. You realize that we might have just given the United Nations Fleet an excuse for war?” Shaking her head, she said, “I don't believe this. My career's over.”

 “That'll teach you to go rummaging in second-hand junk shops,” Blake replied. “Any wisdom, Midshipman, or are we going to be wandering around here at random?”

 “If I remember the layout of this place,” Clarke said after a moment's thought, “the shuttle maintenance facilities are down in zero-gravity.”

 “They'll be guarded,” Blake replied, nodding, “but not as tightly as the docking areas. With a little luck, we ought to be able to pick up something. And as long as it at least has thrusters, we should be able to make it back to Alamo, at the price of a minor diplomatic incident.”

 “Assuming Waldheim doesn't shoot us down first.”

 “At this stage,” Clarke said, “I don't think we have much choice.” He peered up into the gloom, knowing that there would be footsteps echoing on the rungs above in a matter of seconds. “Come on. Let's move.”

Chapter 9

 Marshall frowned as he scanned the personnel roster, going through the lists for the tenth time and setting up a new series of cross-reference checks. Leaning back in his chair, he turned to look out at the tranquil starfield, the station edging into view on the extreme right of the display, the slowly tumbling rock that was at the heart of his problems.

 The door slid open, and Caine walked in, saying, “We've just had a message from Ensign Rhodes. He's apparently got a couple of dozen undercover operatives on his tail, and I've gone through the images he's sent. Lots of big names over there, according to the files. I guess there is something big happening over there.”

 “You're probably right, Deadeye,” he replied. “Though I'm beginning to think we're never going to find out what it is. At least, not until it is too late.” Turning to her, he said, “We've not been told everything. That much is obvious. And it is just as obvious that there are people on this ship who have.”

 “Harper and Salazar?” she asked. “If this is about Midshipman Clarke, well, if it's an old intelligence mission, we probably don't need to know about it, and...”

 “Deadeye,” Marshall interrupted. “How many personnel in the Triplanetary Fleet under the rank of Counter-Admiral have Double-Ultra security clearance?”

 “I haven't the faintest idea.”

 “Fifty-two. Mostly specialists, drafted in for one reason or another for special assignments. More then half of them are warrant officer grade.” Looking up at her, he continued, “Of the rest, we are blessed with seven. Seven out of twenty-four who I would describe at least loosely as line officers.”

 “Seven?” Caine asked, taking the seat opposite Marshall.

 “Harper, Salazar, Lombardo, Scott, Strickland, Clarke, Blake.” Shaking his head, he added, “How in the name of hell does a Midshipman end up with that sort of security classification, and why did someone go to such lengths to have him assigned to my ship? More than that, Salazar knows him, trusts him. My gut tells me that he was the one who pulled the strings to get him on board.” With a sigh, he continued, “There's something going on here, Deadeye, and with a dreadnought in-system, we can't afford to take risks. I damn well need to know what's happening.”

 After a brief pause, Caine replied, “Do we?”

 “I think we do.”

 “Someone out there doesn't agree, and it's just possible there's a good reason for that. I agree that it seems strange that so many personnel with that clearance are on board, but four of them at least have been with the ship for a long time. You don't think they'd have done everything they could to stay, regardless of the mission?”

 “The others, though? Have you seen Strickland's record? For ten years, the man's had the most boring career I can think of. One brief starship tour, on a frigate that never went any further out than Saturn, and a collection of nowhere outposts and stations. Until suddenly, there's a huge blank spot in his file, about at the same place as Clarke's, and he reappears with Double-Ultra clearance and a surprise assignment to this ship.”

 “Danny...”

 “And what the hell did happen to Maggie, anyway? Some sort of secret mission that went wrong, taking a lot of good people with her. The nucleus of a command staff, in fact.” Looking up at her, he continued, “Check out Pioneer's personnel file.”

 Looking at the list, Caine said, “I don't recognize anyone.”

 “Neither do I, and isn't that interesting. There aren't that many people assigned to deep space duty, and we're a pretty tight clan. Somehow, that ship has a commander who has apparently served since the War, and I've never heard of him. Nor of anyone else on that ship.” His eyes bored into hers, and he continued, “I think the personnel files were faked.”

 “Orlova and the others?”

 “Possibly.”

 “Why keep it quiet, though?” 

 “If they were on some sort of a secret mission, Deadeye, something that might prove embarrassing or dangerous to the Confederation, then someone, including our old friend Logan, might have instituted a cover-up.”

 “About a dead star in the middle of nowhere?” Caine asked. “Did Doyle give you anything new?”

 “Only confirming what we already have in the files,” he replied.

 Pausing, Caine said, “Do you trust Salazar and Harper?”

 “I don't know.”

 Shaking her head, she replied, “That's not much of an answer, Danny. They're out there on that station right now risking their lives for this ship, and for the Confederation. So I'm going to ask you again. Do you trust that Salazar and Harper will act with the best interests of the Fleet in mind?”

 “Yes, I suppose so.”

 “Then I don't understand what the problem is.” Sitting back on her chair, she continued, “If there is information we don't have at the moment, then there has to be a good reason for it. I think I know Pavel well enough to tell you that if he could brief you, he would, and that if he thought you needed to know, he'd have found a way to tell you. Kris too, probably, though I admit her loyalties might be a little divided.” Frowning, she added, “There's a bigger problem here, Danny.”

 “What do you mean?” he replied. “Bigger than a cover-up that might be threatening the safety of this ship and her crew, to say nothing of the survival of the Confederation? Let's not pretend that Triplanetary Intelligence hasn't played tricks on us before.”

 “True, but that isn't the real problem.” Looking around the office, she says, “Nice, isn't it. Shame it isn't yours. Have you got around to fixing that chair yet?”

 “No, I haven't.”

 “This is still Maggie Orlova's office, Danny, and this is still her ship, and more importantly, her crew.” With a sigh, she continued, “And to an extent, Pavel Salazar is your biggest problem. You've come back on board, and tried to start where you left off, two and a half years ago.” Shaking her head, she continued, “The problem with that is that the crew has moved on, and you haven't.”

 “Deadeye...”

 “They went through Hell during the Xandari War, and that they got back at all is largely due to the actions of four of their senior officers. Orlova, Clarke, Salazar and Harper. There are forty or fifty people on this ship who served under Pavel and Kris while they were commanding their own ships. During the escape from the Xandari homeworld, Pavel was in command, and he served as Executive Officer for the return to Confederate space.”

 “What are you implying?”

 “Orlova's gone, Danny, and so is Clarke, but the others aren't, and they're still the ones they're looking too. Salazar especially.” Taking a deep breath, she continued, “I'm going to have to notice someone addressing him as 'Skipper', soon. I've caught three or four of the technicians doing it. Not that Pavel's encouraging it. You should have heard what he said to Lombardo on the subject.” Glancing at the door to the bridge, she continued, “He picked and trained the command crews, with the exception of some of the senior officers. More than seventy percent of the lower decks served on this ship during her last cruise. They know Pavel. They don't know you. And that's the problem.”

 A scowl grew on Marshall's face, and he replied, “I don't think Pavel would ever...”

 “Pavel is being a loyal, dedicated officer, and I suspect he's having serious problems wrestling with his conscience about everything going on at the moment. He isn't the problem, though if he has received any orders to keep you and I in the dark on matters related to the mission, that's only making things worse. For all concerned. Especially with other officers on board he can brief. Maybe your suspicions are correct to a degree, but I doubt the situation is intentional.”

 “This is my command, Deadeye, and I've been...”

 “Come on, Danny, you know better than that. The Combined Chiefs can assign an officer to assume command of a starship, but without the support and respect of the crew, you can't operate.”

 “And I don't have that?”

 She paused again, then continued, “You made a mistake, Danny. You should have named Pavel as Operations Officer. I know that Francis comes highly recommended, and I know that it's a senior role for his rank, but the crew expected it. That's led to a little resentment, especially among the bridge crews.”

 “Fleet would never...”

 Cracking a smile, she interrupted, “We both know that Salazar has enough friends in both high and low places to smooth that over. No one would have questioned it, and it would have settled this down. What I'm trying to say, Danny, is that when there is a crisis, Salazar's the one they're looking to, not you. Did you catch Bowman on the bridge when we entered the system?”

 Nodding, Marshall replied, “I did.”

 “Ballard as well, and Fitzroy at Flight Engineering.” Shaking her head, she replied, “I see three options, Danny, none of them good.”

 “Go on.”

 “The first is obvious. Transfer Salazar and Harper. You could do that right now, and move them into the Fleet Liaison office over on the station. It's woefully understaffed anyway. Odds are they'd either be back with Intelligence or serving on another starship within a month, so you wouldn't be hurting their careers in the slightest, and it would smooth over the issue.” She frowned, then added, “Lombardo as well, maybe, and Scott.”

 “Four of my best officers.”

 “Which is the problem. It would leave us short-handed for the remainder of this cruise, though we'd be able to pick up replacements as soon as we get back to Mariner, and we're overloaded on Midshipmen to take at least some of the slack. Though if there is more to this mission than we know, we might need everyone we can get.”

 “The second option?”

 “You really won't like this one.” She pulled out a datapad, placed it on the desk, and said, “I've gone over the regulations, and you are completely within your right to name Pavel as Second Officer. I know it would mean bypassing several other officers, not least Senior Lieutenant Francis, but I can find a dozen precedents that permit you to take this action.” She frowned, then continued, “Following which, you would essentially turn command over to him.”

 “You've got to be out of your mind.”

 “He's an experienced command officer, who has a dozen battle stars, some of them earned sitting center-seat on his own ship in time of war. Frankly, he's better qualified than Francis, Dubois or McCormack for the job. If you followed this recommendation, you would essentially be stepping back to become Mission Commander, and I would retain my current role. The crew would accept it, though I think you'd get some resentment from the senior staff...”

 “That's putting it mildly.”

 “Nevertheless, I would strongly recommend that you at least consider it. The third option is the most difficult.”

 “And that is?”

 “You've got to take command. Earn the full loyalty of the crew once again.”

 “Any suggestions, Deadeye?”

 “Only that if you don't know how to do it, you probably should turn command over to Pavel.” Before she could continue, a light flashed on Marshall's desk, a call coming in from the lower decks.

 “Marshall here. Go ahead.”

 “Doyle, sir. I'm picking up something strange on the short-range sensors. Some sort of pulsing effect from the lateral array. I was thinking it looked a lot as if someone was trying to send a covert message to Waldheim.” She paused, then added, “Given the current problems with sabotage, I thought it best to report directly to you on a sealed channel.”

 “Damn,” Marshall replied. “Contact Sergeant Fox, and have her scramble everyone she can muster to the sensor decks. I'm on my way.” Rising from his feet, Caine following on his heels, he strode out onto the bridge, and said to the surprised Francis, “Go to Battle Stations, right now, and lock down all internal communications. Command access only.”

 “Sir,” he replied, “Given the current situation...”

 “Those are my orders, Lieutenant,” Marshall replied. “I'll be down on the sensor deck.”
 “Have McCormack prepare for immediate scramble,” Caine added, racing Marshall to the elevator. “Thirty-second standby for launch, tactical disposition to follow.” Before the bemused officer could reply, the doors slammed shut, and she said, “You realize this is going to escalate the situation, Danny? They'll know we're at full battle alert and will respond in kind.”

 “If someone on board is sending tactical information to the enemy, we're at risk of losing the fight before the shooting starts. We've got to try and take back the initiative, and I don't know any other way to do it.” Tapping his foot on the deck, he said, “Come on, come on, hurry up.”

 “It's a quarter-mile,” Caine replied. “Give it time.”

 Finally, the doors opened, a pair of troopers standing on guard near the door, the deceptively slight Lance-Sergeant Leticia Fox waiting for them. She gestured down the corridor, leading the two officers through the cramped passage, to a sealed compartment with two other troopers waiting outside, one of them tearing at the locking mechanism, trying to open it. Footsteps raced towards them, and Marshall looked up to see Doyle heading their way, communicator in hand.

 “Definitely that compartment,” she reported.

 “Open the door,” Marshall said, looking at the working trooper.

 “Working on it, sir, but the primary seals have been locked down. It's going to take some time.” Shaking his head, the field hacker added, “They really did a number on this one.”

 “Sergeant, do you have explosives on hand?” he asked.

 Her eyes widened, and she replied, “Yes, sir,” with a nod.

 “Then by all means, go ahead and use it.”

 Gesturing for the troopers to move well clear of the door, she pulled a thin tube from her pocket, running the explosive gloop down the side of the hatch in a smooth line, top to bottom. Waiting a few seconds for it to set in place, she pulled out a detonator, inserted the trailing wires into the explosive, then took quick steps away, urging the others to take cover.

 “Fire in the hole!” she said, tapping a control on her combat datapad. A loud report echoed from the walls, sirens sounding as the internal monitors registered the detonation. Clouds of smoke billowed through the air as Marshall moved forward, taking a proffered pistol from Fox as he led the way into the room, waving his hand in a futile attempt to clear the air.

 In the room, crumpled on a console, was the body of a man wearing the uniform of a communications technician, blood dripping from his mouth onto the controls. Two of the troopers moved forward, gently resting the body on the floor, and Doyle raced to the console, quickly tapping out instructions on the panel.

 “Someone did tamper with the array, just as I thought,” she said. “If it's a code, it's a damned simple one, though. Just a series of pulses, maybe a few hundred of them. I think it was entered manually.” Nodding, she continued, “No sign of any complicated computer interface. I'll send the pattern to Security, see if Salazar can make sense of it when he gets back from the station.”

 Peering over Doyle's shoulder, Caine added, “It doesn't match any code I'm familiar with, that much is certain. You couldn't pass much information that way, though.”

 “How much do you need?” Doyle asked. “It could be as simple as one word, or a short number. Anything. If Waldheim is planning some sort of attack, then we don't know what they might need from us.”

 “Captain,” Fox said, kneeling by the body, “I don't think this was the saboteur.” 

 “Who was he?” Caine asked.

 “Spaceman Third Class Lance Green. Communications specialist, assigned one month ago, and this is his work station.” Looking at his chest, she added, “He's been shot, sir, and placed carefully to make sure we wouldn't spot that instantly. Sometime within the last ten minutes, as well.” She paused, then added, “If we'd gone in all guns blazing, we might not have worked it out until the autopsy.”

 “I want a full search of the sensor decks,” Marshall ordered. “The ship should be on lockdown by now, though I have a horrible feeling our saboteur will have already thought of that. Doyle, I need you to get this station back on-line, then start a full monitoring program to make sure nothing else sneaks through.”

 “On it, sir,” she replied.

 Marshall's communicator beeped, and he tugged it out of his pocket, saying, “Go ahead.”

 “Bridge here, sir,” Francis' voice replied. “Waldheim has gone to action stations, and has broken parking orbit. Leonov Station has gone on alert, and our personnel report that the UN forces on the station are heading for the shuttles.”

 “Maintain current position, but initiate evasive action at your discretion should Waldheim move our way. Under no circumstances are you to take any aggressive action without my direct authorization.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Try and contact Salazar for a status report. I'll be up in a minute.”

 “Trouble?” Caine asked.

 “I think we might be a heartbeat away from a shooting war,” he replied. “Come on. We've got to get to the bridge before this situation can get any worse. If that's even possible.”

 “Oh,” Caine replied, “It is.”

Chapter 10

 Salazar drifted down the long, crooked passage, Harper following in his wake, both cautiously watching for any sign of pursuit or ambush. Leonov Station might have been a welcome gift in the early days of interstellar travel, a space station already built and ready for humanity's use, but it had been carved by alien minds, on a pattern that seemed senseless to human eyes. Everywhere the carved pictograms glared down at them, strange, twisted figures on the wall that danced in the lingering shadows, the only illumination from the pale green bioluminescent lights mounted on the ceiling, casting an eerie glow over the tunnel.

 There were easier ways to get to the shuttle maintenance levels, a lateral elevator that would have taken them directly there, but one of the advantages of a station that might as well have been designed by Escher was that there were plenty of hiding places, barely-used tunnels and shafts that were a perfect environment for those seeking to move stealthily.

 He pulled out his datapad, tapping a control to check that the sensor jammer was still working, electronic tendrils reaching out to every pickup they passed, casting the illusion that nobody was traveling this way, that all was still and silent. Station Security wasn't his biggest concern. Long since, the station's sensor readouts would have been cracked by the hackers on the Waldheim, likely content simply to watch rather than make any changes, low-level intrusion that could go unnoticed for years. And certainly, Lieutenant-Captain Bailey was watching them as well, probably already working on his latest ulcer.

 They paused at a junction, hanging back as Salazar spotted a figure in the distance, a man wearing the purple and red of McAllister Shipping, a private transport consortium based out of Mars. There were plenty of reasons why someone working for them would be in this part of the station, but it was an excellent cover for anyone meaning harm. The man was drifting towards them, toolkit in hand, and Salazar pulled out his blade, holding it in his hand, while Harper retrieved her blowgun.

 For the hundredth time he longed for his pistol, but sneaking the weapons they had through the local security had been enough of a hazard, and this was supposed to be a neutral station, even if in reality it was a front in a covert war that had raged since the day the peace treaty had been signed, a war of move and counter-move.

 The man paused, turning to a wall monitor, and started tapping in a sequence of commands while Salazar and Harper waited, their eyes searching for signs of an ambush, alert to the risk that this might be a decoy, a trap. Finally, the man turned, heading back the way he had come, disappearing around a turn in the corridor. With a quick glance and a nod at Harper, Salazar continued along the passage, smoothly swinging around a turn towards the cavernous chamber that was their goal, the vast maintenance section.

 He'd memorized the layout during the trip out from Alamo, had taken the chance to walk the passages once again in virtual reality, refreshing memories of his last visit, but the sheer scale of this place still daunted him, almost a mile of tumbling rock rolling end over end through the sky to produce the artificial gravity the tourists preferred. Hundreds of miles of passages and caverns, many of which were at least theoretically uninhabited, a haven for smugglers, spies and criminals from a dozen worlds.

 Glancing at his watch, he grimaced. They'd been meant to switch back with their doubles around now, and start their return to Alamo. The longer they lingered over here, the greater the risk of something going wrong, and with a United Nations dreadnought hanging close to the station, they couldn't take any chances. He glanced at his datapad again, risking an updated status report, and frowned as the datapad struggled to make a connection.

 “Kris,” he whispered. “Try your datalink. There's something wrong with mine.”

 “Mine too,” she replied, a few seconds later. “Looks like someone's shut down all of the boosters. Or at least revoked our access.” She punched a series of commands into her datapad, and added, “Pavel, we've got problems. There's a general alert up in the concourse. Something about a murder, and a full lockdown in progress in the civilian levels.”

 “Nothing down here yet, though,” he replied, frowning. “What do you think?”

 “I think we've got an opportunity we should take full advantage of. If Security is running around upstairs, they won't spare anyone for any minor disturbances down here.”

 Nodding, Salazar continued down the corridor, knife still in hand, knowing that the agent they were seeking was somewhere in this area. He saw another technician at the far end of the corridor, loitering in a position that made it clear he was a lookout, one of Pastell's goons, who instantly spotted Salazar heading in his direction.

 Raising his knife, Salazar dived towards the guard, reaching into his pocket to stab a needle into his thigh to pump anti-tranquilizers into his system, enough to overwhelm any conceivable attack. He was barely in time, the guard raising a dart gun and firing into his chest, the barbed blades ripping into his flesh as the drugs surged into his bloodstream. For a second, his vision blurred, and he allowed himself to tumble to the side wall, bouncing free into the middle of the corridor as the hapless guard approached.

 Rough hands grabbed for him, but before the guard could secure him, he reached across with his knife, one quick slashing move across the shoulder that ripped through his tunic, leaving an angry red line in its wake, followed by an arm lock that immobilized the startled man, the blade safely at his throat. Behind them, Harper drifted forward, snatching the dart gun from the air and looking at the clip.

 “Five shots left, Pavel,” she said.

 “Good,” he replied. “Now, my friend, you're going to get on the communicator and bring your boss here at once. And if there are any tricks, anything at all, then you will die. I hope this is clearly understood.”

 Defiant eyes looked up at Salazar, and the man replied, “They'll kill me if I help you. Why should I die a traitor when I can die a hero.”

 Shaking his head, Salazar glanced at Harper and said, “There's no need for you to die at all. I'll make a deal with you. Help me now, and I'll see you get amnesty in the Confederation. A new life, a new start. This offer expires in thirty seconds, and I strongly suggest you give it the consideration it deserves.”

 The man looked up, then down at the blade, and nodded, saying, “Inner pocket of my jacket. Tap twice for the recall signal. The Major will come looking.” He frowned, and asked, “How are you going to get me out of here?”

 Harper waved her datapad over him, and said, “He's clean, Pavel. No known record.”

 “Our intelligence team will get you onto a transport bound for Mars. By this time tomorrow you'll be in hendecaspace. Or, if this is a trick, you'll be dead. Understand?” Salazar slid his hand into the pocket, found the communicator, and tapped twice in quick succession, turning to the hatch ahead. Harper leveled her dart gun at the portal, and a moment later, it slid open to reveal a grim-faced, balding man wearing baggy maintenance overalls, but still with an unmistakable air of authority that transcended his attire.

 “Ah, Pavel Salazar and Kristen Harper,” he replied, softly. “I must say that it is a pleasure to finally meet you.” Glaring at the guard, he continued, “This man is of no concern to me. You may release him, and I give you my word as an officer that he will be unharmed.” Turning to him, he added, “Corporal, if you wish, you may accept the good Lieutenant's offer. Indeed, that might be wise.”

 The guard looked around, confused, and a smile crept across Salazar's face as he replied, “I think we will leave things as they are, at least for the present. I don't trust you, and I can't imagine why he should, either.”

 “As you choose,” Pastell said with a shrug. “I suspect that you have summoned me for a discussion about our mutual dilemma.” Glancing at the two of them, he continued, “You will have to accept my assurance that our conversation is not being monitored, at least at my end. We have matters to discuss that transcend the usual games we play here.”

 Harper nodded, and replied, “I think we're willing to trust you that far.”

 “Then I will open by saying that all here is certainly not as it appears. I am working for the General, not the Colonel, and you may believe me when I tell you that there is a difference.”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “Estrada has always been connected closely with the pacifist faction in the Security Council, and I cannot think of a more rampant hawk than the Butcher of Thalassa.”

 Shaking his head, Pastell replied, “Such savagery is the product of a diseased, deluded mind, and will serve no purpose other than to create martyrs for the cause of the rebels. Stupidity of that order led to your rebellion in the first place, but unfortunately there are many in the high councils of our government who are arrogant enough to believe that force and fear will serve their ends. I am a loyalist, sir, but I am not blind. Nor do I immediately consider that we would win a war with the Confederation, not following your military build-up.”

 “Not too late for you to change sides, Major,” Harper said with a smile.

 With a shrug, Pastell said, “At present, it is my judgment that you are better off with me maintaining my current position. I will offer you a piece of information. We are here investigating the disappearance of four starships at the as-yet unnamed brown dwarf one jump from this station.”

 “Four ships?” Salazar asked.

 “Monitor, Pioneer, Conor Cruise, and a civilian freighter, the Altmark. She was the first to go missing, seven months ago, after an unscrupulous Assemblyman elected to use her access to classified information for personal profit.” A faint smile danced across his lips, and he continued, “She will have few opportunities to take such advantages in the future. Siberia is a cold land.” Looking at the two of them, he added, “Your turn.”

 Harper and Salazar locked eyes for a moment, and he offered, “Our mission is the same as yours, though I confess we didn't know about Altmark. To be honest, we were under the assumption that you were responsible.”

 “Not so, though I know there are members of the Security Council who are all too quick to assume that any minor setback is the fault of the Triplanetary Fleet.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Hence the somewhat ambiguous nature of Waldheim's current command structure. General Estrada commands the ship, but Colonel Cruz is in charge of all security matters. Other than mine, I hasten to add, but my opportunities for independent action are limited.”

 Folding her arms, Harper said, “Then you are here to prevent a war.”

 “Until such a time as we can guarantee a victory, yes. Make no mistake, Lieutenant, I firmly believe that mankind should be united under a single government, and that the United Nations remains the best chance for the survival of humanity in the long-term, but such matters can wait until another day. For the present, I consider it my duty to protect our people, and prevent a war we might not win, and one that would yield untold destruction.”

 “And Colonel Cruz and her faction either believe that the Confederation is responsible for the disappearances, or they simply don't care, and are willing to take any excuse to launch a war, no matter what.”

 “Correct,” he replied. “I confess I am unsure what the good Colonel actually believes, but she is too intelligent to be anyone's puppet for long. My assessment is that she sees this as an opportunity to restore her reputation and achieve flag rank, no matter who suffers for the stars on her shoulder.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Further, if there is some menace only two jumps from Sol that is eating starships, I consider that a serious enough threat to override any considerations of war, at least at present.” 

 “Agreed,” Salazar said. “Though you must understand...”

 “That neither of us dare to trust each other, and that we cannot rule out that either of us might be attempting to bluff their way through this problem. Consider, though. It was your spy ship that was the first military vessel on the scene, and while you claim that you know nothing about the disappearance of the freighter, that claim sounds hollow given your current interest in the system.”

 “What took you so long to respond, anyway?” Harper asked. “I find it hard to believe that you waited six months to follow up on the loss of Altmark.”

 “Politics, Lieutenant, pure politics,” he spat. “The good Assemblyman didn't report the disappearance for three months, and even then attempted to use her remaining influence to keep the matter quiet, stirring up rumors of some secret Triplanetary base.” Shaking his head, he added, “All she has done is make things worse for us all, and given the hawks an excuse to try for their war.”

 “And your position in all of this madness?”

 “I'm trying to make sure that the situation doesn't get any worse than it already is. If there is something out there powerful enough to destroy capital ships, there is a chance that we might need to work together to defeat it, especially if it is the first move of a hostile power. If there is something else going on, then I see no reason to start a war because of some sort of mechanical failure.” He paused, then added, “Waldheim will be heading to the brown dwarf soon. I presume Alamo will be, also.”

 Nodding, Salazar replied, “Not hard to guess. And that's only going to increase the potential for difficulty, especially if Colonel Cruz gets her way.” Shaking his head, he continued, “I take it General Estrada will view things more reasonably?”

 “As I believe he has already told your Captain Marshall, he has no intention of starting a war. Make no mistake, though, he will finish it. If your commander's reputation is accurate, then my assessment is that he will have the same attitude. Are there people on your ship who think differently?”

 “Not that I'm aware of,” Salazar replied. “I won't pretend that we don't have our hawks, but given our recent confrontations with the Cabal and the Xandari, there's little mood for war at the moment. There's an election coming up, and I know the Patriots are hoping to take back the Presidency. Certainly there will be no major changes to foreign policy until then.”

 “Unless they are brought about by aggressive action from your government,” Harper added. “I'm beginning to think that we are equally in the dark.”

 A thin smile crossed Pastell's face, and he replied, “Not a bad assessment of the situation. There is only so much information we can reap from long-range sensor sweeps, and as yet, we have no knowledge of anyone actually returning from the station except that cursed transport, and our operative hasn't reported in yet.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Nor has yours, I presume.”

 “They'll barely have reached Barnard's Star,” Salazar said. “Assuming, of course, that our two agents haven't managed to cancel each other out.”

 “An amusing thought,” Pastell replied. “On behalf of my commander, I am empowered to offer, shall we say, an understanding. Not a formal agreement or anything remotely along those lines, of course, but I'm willing to concede that no hostilities will be initiated by either government, and that should there prove some sort of scientific explanation, we will be willing to cooperate to at least a limited degree.” Raising an eyebrow, he added, “Demonstrating our superior technical prowess will play well back home, and potentially open up the possibility of a renewed wave of deep-space exploration on our part. Rest assured that we are well aware that the Confederation is leaving us in its wake in that quarter.”

 “That's what happens when you devote all your resources to oppression, rather than expansion,” Salazar replied. “Though this isn't the time for a debate over the merits of our rival political systems, I concede.” Glancing to the rear, he added, “I take it you want us to take the Corporal with us?”

 Looking at the terrified guard, Pastell said, “I believe that would be best. I cannot necessarily trust that our mutual adversaries won't opt to interrogate him, and that could prove embarrassing at best, disastrous at worst. See that he is set up with a new life on Mars. I chose someone with no serious ties back home. Expendable.” Before he could continue, Pastell's datapad chirped, and a frown crossed the agent's face as he said, “May I check that?”

 “Carefully,” Harper said, keeping the dart gun leveled on Pastell's chest. “No sudden moves.”

 “I wouldn't dream of them,” he replied, pulling out the device with two fingers, sliding his hand across the display. His eyes widened, and he said, “The damned fools.”

 “What?”

 “Three of your agents have killed one of ours.” Shaking his head, he said, “Cruz, trying to set up an ambush, or to frame your people to start an incident.” Looking up at them, he continued, “Waldheim is at battle stations, and so is Alamo. The war might be about to start, right here. And both sets of agents are heading this way.”

 Holstering her gun, Harper said, “If there's any chance of stopping a firefight, we've got to move, and quickly. Does your agreement still stand?”

 “Until the shooting starts,” Pastell replied. “After that, I promise nothing. Come on.”

Chapter 11

 Shaking her head, Blake asked, “Do you have any idea where we're going?”

 Peering uncertainly down a side shaft, Clarke replied, “Roughly. The gravity's getting lighter, so we must be heading in the right direction.” Glancing above them, he continued, “Besides, I'm not hearing anyone behind us at the moment. If we're lost, so are they.”

 “I still can't get any signal on my communicator,” Koslowski said. “Maybe we should try and find one of the relay boxes, set up some sort of data transfer, call for help.”

 Looking back at her with scorn in her eyes, Blake replied, “I thought you were supposed to have done some sort of tour with Intelligence? Everyone on the station would know where we were in a second if we tried a stupid stunt like that, and the bad guys are a lot closer to us than the good guys are.”

 “Sorry,” Koslowski replied with a sarcastic sneer. “I'm not really used to crawling through shafts in the dark with assassins on my tail. I wasn't really expecting this when I woke up this morning.”

 “All part of wearing the uniform,” Clarke said, forcing a smile. “Now if the two of you have quite finished arguing, I think I've spotted something.” Gesturing at some scrawled text on the wall, he said, “My Russian isn't up to much, but doesn't that say something about shuttlecraft?”

 “Specifically,” Koslowski said, peering into the gloom, “the writing suggests that the manager of the repair facilities has dubious parentage. We're on the right track.”

 “Can we keep the chatter down?” Blake said, shaking her head. “Stealth means silent in my world. I don't know about yours.”

 Nodding, Clarke continued down the shaft, his stomach lurching as the gravity changed, a trace of bitter bile in his mouth. Moving between gravity fields was something he usually accompanied with the requisite pills, and he hadn't thought to bring any with him when he'd left Alamo. Something else to remember for next time. Assuming there was a next time.

 More text along the wall testified that at some point in the past, this tunnel had seen frequent use, and as the unsettled churning in his stomach grew, so did his confidence that they were heading in the right direction. He felt his datapad in his pocket, longing for a deckplan, but knew that the device was worthless without data transmission, and even if he could find a way to access the local network, it would telegraph their presence to anyone seeking them out.

 A loud rattle sounded from above them, the trio freezing for a second, waiting for the raised voices and echoing gunshots that would herald their discovery, but after a heart-rending moment, the noise passed, unrepeated. As far as Clarke could tell, it was movement in the corridors beyond, in the main accessway of the docking area, and it seemed likely that some technician had dropped his tools on the far side of the wall.

 The sirens had died minutes ago, as had the proclamations that Station Security was on their tail. He didn't have any real fear of them catching up with them, the local police having a rather dismal reputation, but their incompetence would only make it easier for the undercover United Nations operatives to cover up any moves they chose to make. Three junior officers could disappear very easily, and he wasn't sure whether Captain Marshall would elect to start a shooting war to ensure their safe return. Under the circumstances, he knew he would have to choose to sacrifice the lost officers and move on.

 That he was one of the officers in question didn't reassure him in the slightest, though he forced a smile to his face as he glanced at the nervous Koslowski, scaling the long ladder behind him. She was three years his senior, a graduate of the Triplanetary Fleet Academy, one of the best and the brightest the Confederation had to offer, but for the present at least, he had something she lacked. Field experience. Even if he would have given a great deal to have missed out on that particular opportunity.

 Another turn, and now they were falling, the gravity dropping to insignificant levels as they reached the core of the station. Now it was a question of flying, not climbing, and their progress grew faster as they slid towards their target, periodic glances to the rear to confirm that they were still safe, that nobody was pursuing them directly. Every time they passed a sensor relay, Clarke looked up with a frown. For all their care, he had to trust that someone was watching out for them, hiding them on the internal sensors.

 One brief signal to Alamo would have served to resolve his uncertainties, but they had no real way to call out, and even if they did, the message would only end the anonymity they were depending on for survival. Not that the odds were favorable in any case. Between the three of them, their weapons consisted of two used obsidian knives, both of them already growing dull, and a long piece of bent metal tubing. Against any significant defenses, they wouldn't stand a chance, and they all knew it. Finally, they came to a set of large, double doors at the end of the corridor. 

 “This must be it,” Clarke said. Looking at Koslowski, he continued, “You get to take the pilot's seat today. Head for the nearest shuttle, get inside, and start the shortest pre-flight in history. Blake and I will see to the elevator airlock and join you.” He paused, glanced at Blake, and continued, “Get this straight. If we get caught, and you have a chance to escape, take it. And see that those datacrystals you managed to lift go to either Lieutenant Salazar or Lieutenant Harper. Not the Captain. Understand?” 

 Shaking her head, she said, “I don't take orders from you, and we're not...”

 “Damn it,” Blake yelled, “What is it with you people? That information has to get back to the ship, or the three of us die for nothing. Or do you think they're going to be taking prisoners today?” Looking at the hatch, she continued, “Not that it matters. The only reason we've made it this far is that those bastards know exactly where we're going. There will be an ambush waiting for us on the other side, I guarantee it. So move quickly, and don't look back. Got it?” 

 “Got it,” a resentful Koslowski said. “We're going to have words later.”

 “As long as I live to listen to your lecture,” the medic said, drifting across to the hatch controls. “Here we go.”

 The loud, grinding noise from the little-used hatch made Clarke scowl, frustrated that their stealth had been mitigated by the thunderous advertisement of their arrival. Much to his surprise, the shooting didn't start as soon as the double doors opened, and he kicked inside the cavernous maintenance bay, looking for anything that resembled controls for the elevator airlocks built into the wall.

 Dozens of scattered shuttles littered the room, many of them in various states of disrepair, but the most prominent, and one of those nearest the hatch, was a Triplanetary Fleet shuttlepod of familiar design, with the name 'Pioneer' resplendent down her side, livery fresh. Without a second thought, Koslowski kicked towards it, slamming into the hatch in her haste, while Clarke dived for the nearest control panel, Blake a heartbeat behind him.

 The first crack caught him by surprise, a bullet flying through the air to his side, the gunmen moving in through an overhead hatch. Three of them, all wearing the McAllister uniform, confirming his suspicions about the technician from earlier. This had been a trap, right from the beginning, but with a loud report, he saw Koslowski scramble on board the bait, her security overrides still working well enough to grant access to the shuttlepod.

 A hand reached out, dragging him into cover behind the shattered remains of an old civilian landing craft, spidery legs sticking into the air to provide handholds. Already a trio of punctures had ripped through the fragile hull, and he knew instantly that they couldn't stay here, couldn't risk lingering for more than a few seconds. He glanced at Blake, and words were unnecessary. The control panel was less than forty meters away, but it might as well be as many miles with three gunmen in their path. One of them might make it, might be able to operate the controls, but the odds of that person getting from there to the shuttlepod were poor at best.

 Taking a deep breath, an instant before Blake could take the decision from his hands, Clarke pushed off, using his friend to give him the initial boost, sending her deeper into cover at his expense as he dived across the open space, bullets slamming into the rocky walls on either side of them, hacking off fragments of stone that tumbled into the air all around him.

 He reached out with his hand, tapping the control, hearing the mechanism burst into life as he drifted clear, knowing that he would be an easy kill for the three pistols trained on him, only hoping that Blake and Koslowski would take full advantage of his sacrifice. As he'd expected, three shots rang out, echoing around the cavernous chamber, but much to his surprise, he wasn't dead.

 “Get into cover, Clarke!” Salazar yelled, with Harper and a pair of men he didn't recognize behind him. “We'll handle the rest.”

 Swinging around a long antenna, Clarke smoothly slid into position behind a General Dynamics Starcharger, a hot rod of the previous decade currently being stripped down for parts, with a tough hull that would give him more than enough protection. He watched as Salazar dived for the shuttle, Harper and the two strangers providing covering fire as the trained pilot moved to relieve Koslowski at the controls, while the elevator airlock slowly slid open to the side.

 Taking advantage of Salazar's distraction, Clarke threw himself towards the nearest gunman, knife in hand, catching the man by surprise and knocking the wind from him, sending the two of them tumbling into the nearest wall. The gunman moved quickly, but Clarke was faster, slamming his elbow into the man's wrist, sending his pistol drifting clear.

 There was a race to snatch it back, and with a carefully planted kick in the gunman's solar plexus, Clarke won, easily reaching for the handgun and leveling it at his opponent's face. Above him, he heard two more shots, and all was calm in the maintenance bay, the battle over, at least for the present.

 “Looks like we have a prisoner,” Clarke began, but he was interrupted by a bullet slamming into his captive's forehead, sending him tumbling end over end, blood flooding out of the dying man in drifting globules. Clarke looked up and saw one of the strangers, his pistol still in the air, and raised his own weapon to cover him. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

 “No witnesses,” the man said. “You know this man, Lieutenant?” 

 Harper looked at the stranger, disgust on her face, and replied, “I do, and you'd better put that weapon back in its holster, Major, or you and I are going to exchange bullets.”

 Shaking his head, the man holstered his pistol, and said, “This is why, ultimately, we will win. You don't have the toughness to survive in a galaxy where everything seeks to do you harm, and we have the strength to triumph, no matter what.” Looking around at the mess, he said, “Nothing here has been monitored, and I will deny any story you give. I suggest you leave immediately, before the good Colonel arrives with reinforcements.” Turning to look at Clarke, he added, “My complements, by the way, Midshipman. Few have bested Colonel Cruz in hand-to-hand combat. There will come a day when she seeks a rematch. For your safety, I would decline.”

 Clarke watched as the man silently made his way for the nearest exit, then turned to Harper, and said, “Who the hell was that bastard?”

 “Major Pastell. United Nations Intelligence. And for today, the enemy of our enemy, much as I might want end his miserable existence.” A low whine came from the shuttle, and she said, “We'd better get the hell out of here while we still can. He wasn't kidding about the reinforcements, and the next time we meet, he'll be shooting at us.”

 Still fuming, Clarke looked at his erstwhile prisoner before turning for the shuttle, drifting through the hatch into the rear compartment. Salazar had already taken the helm, drafting Koslowski to the co-pilot's seat, and he made his way for the rear engineering monitor, strapping himself in next to a red-faced Blake and the other stranger, a young man looking as though his whole world had just collapsed.

 “These are the sort of people we work with now?” she asked.

 “Not me,” Clarke said, shaking his head. “If I ever meet Pastell again, I'll end him.”
 “Watch it, Midshipman,” Harper warned. “We can't let personal feelings get in the way of doing our job, no matter how strongly we might feel about it.” She paused, then asked, “Though if we have any excuse, I'll join you in his firing squad.” She looked around the cabin, then added, “See if you can find anything in the shuttle's logs, Midshipman. We might just have got lucky and stumbled across the evidence we were looking for.”

 “Koslowski has everything we need, I hope,” Clarke replied. “A box of datacrystals with the last log entries of one of our ships. I don't know which one, though the note was signed with an 'O'.”

 “An O?” Harper asked. “A wild scribble?” At Clarke's nod, she turned to the cockpit, and said, “Koslowski, give me that box, on the double!”

 Clarke smiled, then turned to the engineering monitors, only for his good mood to dissipate as he looked at the structural status readouts. He tapped the controls, barely able to believe what he was seeing, running a second full diagnostic check to confirm his worst suspicions.

 “Lieutenant!” he yelled. “Keep your thrust down to one-tenth power, or the ship will be torn apart!”

 “What?” Salazar replied. “We're clear for launch, Midshipman. Are you sure?”

 “The outer hull has been seriously stressed, sir. Exposed to an extremely high-gravity field, more than a hundred and fifty G. I'm surprised she's holding together at all, but I'm getting failure warnings from the superstructure sensors.” He paused, then added, “Internal systems seem fine, though. I don't understand it.”

 “Maybe we should switch to another shuttle,” Blake suggested, but the rattle of gunfire on the hull sent her racing to the nearest viewport. “Damn. Looks like the Major's friends have arrived. Correction, the Colonel's. She's here, and she looks mad.” Turning to Clarke, she added, “Want that rematch?”

 “Not today, thank you,” Clarke replied. “As long as we take it easy, sir, she should hold together long enough for us to reach Alamo.”

 “Besides, if this shuttle has been to the brown dwarf and back, we need to subject her to a full analysis,” Harper added.

 “Agreed,” Salazar said. “I don't think a walk out there would be particularly healthy, anyway. Initiating launch thrusters. Clarke, contact Alamo. Patch in to the shuttle's signal boosters.”

 As the shuttle roared into life, he tugged his communicator from his pocket, running a cable into the nearest dataport, and said, “Clarke to Alamo on Emergency Frequency Nine, full scramble. Come in, please. Clarke to Alamo on Emergency Frequency Nine, full scramble. Come in, please.” He fiddled with the controls for a moment, and began, “Clarke...”

 “Alamo here,” the voice of Francis replied. “What's going on over there, Midshipman? We have reports that you are wanted on a charge of murder. Turn yourself into the local authorities at once.”

 “Hurry up!” Blake yelled. “The bastards are planting a charge on the hull!”

 “I must speak to the Captain, sir, right away,” Clarke said. “We're under attack over here.”

 A softer voice broke in, and Marshall said, “Go ahead, Midshipman. I'm on the line.”

 “We're in a stolen Triplanetary shuttle, sir.” As the vehicle lurched towards the elevator airlock on her launch thrusters, scattering their attackers around the bay, he continued, “She can't do more than one-tenth acceleration, but we've got to get her back to the ship. Salazar, Harper, Koslowski, Blake and I are on board.”

 “Trouble seems to follow you around, Midshipman,” Marshall replied. “Waldheim is moving into a potential position to intercept. Can you delay your launch until we're in a more favorable position?”

 “I don't think Colonel Cruz and her friends will let us, sir.”

 With a sigh, Marshall replied, “Message understood, Midshipman. We'll do what we can to keep those bastards off you. Good luck. Alamo out.”

 “I'm glad he said that. I think we're going to need it.” Salazar said, as he guided the shuttle into the elevator airlock, out into the hostile vacuum beyond.

Chapter 12

 Marshall sat in his command chair, watching the tactical situation devolve into a nightmare as Waldheim moved into position to intercept the shuttle, far ahead of Alamo. The limping escape craft crawled onto approach trajectory, and even the most optimistic projection had them being snatched out of the sky long before they could reach safety. He glanced across at Caine, sitting at the tactical station, then back at the viewscreen again.

 “I'd say you've got about a minute to make a decision, Danny,” Caine said. “We can put ourselves onto a course to intercept Waldheim, if we do it right away, and we ought to get a good salvo into the air before they reach the shuttle.” Turning to look at him, she added, “It would at least give them a chance, and allow us to knock down anything they launch.”

 “If we do that,” Francis replied, “then we're committing what they will consider to be an act of war against the United Nations. Against an opponent that significantly outguns us.” Shaking his head, he replied, “I recommend we hand them over. Station Security claims that Midshipman Clarke murdered one of their people in cold blood. We're in the middle of a diplomatic incident, sir, and anything we can do to calm the situation down...”

 “Mr. Francis,” Marshall said, coldly, “Under no conceivable circumstances will I hand over a member of this crew to the theoretical justice of a United Nations court on the say-so of a bribed local official. I hope that is clearly understood. I don't believe that report for a moment.”

 “Are you willing to start the Second Interplanetary War today, Captain?” Francis asked. “Because that is precisely what is at stake here if we make the wrong move.”

 “And if we yield,” Caine replied, “we send just as important a message to them.”

 “Energy spike!” Ballard reported. “Looks like a fighter launch from the Waldheim. Three birds in the air, heading on an intercept course to the shuttle. Time to target, three minutes.”

 “Squadron scramble,” Marshall ordered, without an instant's hesitation. “Orders to escort the shuttle to Alamo, but to not engage the enemy unless fired upon.” Turning to Caine, he added, “Make that quite clear to McCormack. If I have anything to say about it, she isn't going to get her fifth kill today.” Tapping a control, he continued, “Bridge to Engineering.”

 As the hull rumbled from the launch of Alamo's strike wing, seven fighters racing into the air, Dubois replied, “Here, Captain. All decks are cleared for battle.”

 “Lieutenant, I need more acceleration. Red-line the reactors, and watch the power transfer network like a hawk. If I call for the laser cannon to be charged, I expect it to be ready in twenty seconds. Understand?”

 “Sir, we're already running at maximum safe output, and...”

 “She can give more than you're asking, Lieutenant, trust me. Go to a hundred and ten percent on the primary reactor, and funnel the power to the helm.”

 “Captain, I must formally pro...”

 His temper rising, Marshall said, “File the protest with whoever the hell you want, Dubois, but if you don't obey my orders at once I'll be issuing them to Acting Systems Officer Lombardo! Do I make myself clear?”

 “Perfectly clear, sir,” Dubois replied. “Initiating controlled overload.”

 Shaking his head, Marshall turned to Francis, and said, “Keep an eye on the boards, Lieutenant. I want to make sure we're getting everything we should be.”

 With a curt nod, Francis walked over to the engineering station, and replied, “Senior Lieutenant Dubois is an experienced engineer, but he doesn't have that much time in the field, sir. He'll learn.” 

 “At whose expense?” Caine asked, looking up at her monitors. “Boss, the enemy fighters are moving to intercept ours. Thirty seconds to attack range.” She shook her head, and added, “McCormack is requesting weapons free.”

 “Negative,” Marshall said. “Not until I order, or unless they fire first. And even then, I want defensive fire only. Charge the point-defense lasers. We might get some use out of them today. Helm, move us to support the fighters. Close the range as tight as you dare without risking collision.”

 “Aye, sir,” Imoto said. Marshall watched the rookie helmsman as he worked the controls, nodding in satisfaction at the course laid in by the young would-be officer. Training doctrine called for the helm of a starship to be granted to a Midshipman, where one was available, both for the superior reaction time of the young and the potential to gain quick experience in a command environment, but no matter how much promise Imoto had, Marshall still kept his fingers close to the override controls, ready to take the helm himself in an instant should it be needed.

 “Try and hail Waldheim again, Bowman,” Marshall ordered. “Maybe they'll be willing to talk before this deteriorates still further.”

 Shaking his head, the communications technician replied, “I'm still not getting anything other than the automatic signal, sir. A demand for the shuttle and its occupants to be turned over to their custody at once.”

 “Captain, I still think…,” Francis began.

 “We don't dare,” Caine replied, before Marshall could say a world. “If for no other reason than the intelligence that shuttle is carrying, we can't allow them to fall into enemy hands.” Looking across at a control, she added, “Fifteen seconds to combat range.”

 A smile crept across Marshall's face, and he turned to Bowman, saying, “Spaceman, can you transmit a signal authorizing missile deployment in such a way that it will only be picked up by Waldheim, not by our fighters?”

 The man frowned for a second, then nodded, replying, “I could use a tight-beam, sir, and if the ship makes a course adjustment at the right instant, the beam will miss the fighters and hit Waldheim. If we get it right, it'll look like a simple accident.”

 “Liaise with the helm, Bowman, and by all means, get it right.”

 Shaking his head, Francis said, “They won't buy it for a second, sir. I wouldn't, in their place, and neither would you.”

 “I don't want them to believe the transmission, Lieutenant. I just want to give the General an excuse to reopen the lines of communication. He isn't an independent operator over there.”

 “And if they decide to take the message at face value and launch a preemptive strike?”

 “Then I guess we get to find out just how good the improvements to this ship are, Lieutenant. Deadeye, I want you to watch Waldheim closely, and don't wait for my order to start the charging sequence on the laser cannon. Proceed at the first hostile move.”

 “Danny, this is going to get out of control very fast...”

 “Signal dispatched, sir,” Bowman replied. Marshall waited, watching as the pieces moved on the three-dimensional puzzle before him, fighters and shuttles settling into position. The station's defensive network was wisely keeping out of the fight, set to defensive fire only, tasked with keeping any stray missiles from damaging civilian targets. Not that there was anything else in the air. All other shuttles and transports were hiding away, tucked behind the local moon where they could come to no harm.

 “Five seconds to firing range,” Caine reported. “Our fighters will be in the battlespace for a hundred and nine, and will intercept the shuttle in two hundred and thirty.” Looking across at a second display, she added, “Waldheim will be in position to attack the shuttle at about the same time.”

 “Anything from the enemy ship, Spaceman?” Marshall asked, turning to the sensor display.

 “No change to target aspect, sir. Still closing as before, in full alert status but without weapons hot.” Shaking her head, she added, “That could change awfully quickly, sir.”

 “McCormack is again requesting the release of her weapons,” Caine said. “At least we know she didn't hear us.”

 Marshall burned a couple of seconds looking at the fighter formation, a conventional double-arrowhead with the squadron leader at the front, flanked by her two flights. Normal enough, and at least for the first moments of battle, they'd enjoy a two to one advantage. Though the enemy Dreadnaught had another fifteen fighters on board, a strike force more than capable of reducing Alamo to her component atoms, even without any support from the mothership.

 “That's it,” Caine said. “Our fighters are in the firing line. Danny, without support, they'll be cut to pieces should Waldheim launch her alert squadron. We've got to change our approach vector and move to intercept.”

 “I'm more concerned…,” Francis began.

 Frowning, Bowman interrupted, “Signal, sir! General Estrada!”

 “Put him on, at once,” Marshall asked. “Deadeye, keep watching. Just in case this is an attempt at a distraction.” The image of Estrada, standing on his bridge, red-faced in fury, appeared on the screen, and Marshall began, “General, I demand that you cease the harassment of our officers immediately, and allow them to return to Alamo without further disregard of the neutrality of Proxima Centauri. Rest assured that I will be making a full report on this incident to my superiors.”

 “Will you also be reporting that one of your officers went berserk and hacked one of my people to death with an illegally-smuggled combat knife, that another of my officers is in surgery right now, and that there has been a gunfight resulting in the death of three of my security team on the station?”

 Francis shook his head, but Marshall replied, “I wasn't aware that you had security personnel operating on a neutral station.” Leaning forward on his chair, he continued, “Your people made the first move, General, and I have the footage to prove it. I strongly recommend that you withdraw, or I will be forced to order my squadron to open fire. Trust me when I say that you will come off the worst in a missile exchange.”

 “I demand that the officer involved be turned over to United Nations custody for trial.”

 “Any offenses that theoretically took place were carried out on a neutral space station, General, beyond the jurisdiction of either government.” Turning to Bowman, he asked, “Spaceman, have we received any formal requests for extradition from the administration of Leonov Station?”

 “No, sir. No signals of any kind, Captain.”

 “I suggest, General, that you take this matter up with the local authorities, and I assure you that we will cooperate fully with any investigation they choose to make. There are diplomatic channels to follow, but neither I nor my government respond particularly well to threats. The last war should have made that perfectly clear, and if necessary, we will not hesitate to begin another one.” Looking at Francis, Marshall could see his subordinate shooting daggers at him with his eyes, and continued, “Having said that, I am mindful that one of your undercover agents has been killed, and will gladly consent to a public release of all information relevant to the affair. We have nothing to hide. Can you say the same?”

 There was a brief pause, and Estrada turned away from the pickup, talking to someone off camera. Marshall looked at Caine, and saw her hand poised in position to activate the laser charging sequence, to extend Alamo's heat radiators and begin final preparations to fire. If she twitched a finger, Waldheim would have no choice but to respond in kind, and the next war would begin. Assuming any of the combatants survived to report back to their governments about what happened here.

 “Change to enemy squadron aspect!” Ballard reported. “Enemy ships altering course, moving to close attack formation on our fighters. Seven seconds to optimum firing range.”

 “Captain…,” Caine said.

 “No,” Marshall replied. “It's a test. He wants to see if I'll blink first.”

 “That,” Francis added, “or he wants us to start the war.”

 “Four seconds,” Ballard said.

 “Captain, McCormack…,” Caine said.

 “No.”

 Marshall watched the trajectory track as the fighters swept towards their target, finally moving out of combat range. A smile curled at his lips as Estrada returned to the screen, the fury still in his eyes.

 “I'm glad to see that sanity still reigns, General,” Marshall said.

 “On one bridge at least,” Estrada replied. “I restate my demand to interrogate Midshipman Clarke in connection with his crimes.” Marshall locked eyes with Caine, knowing that they had been granted an important concession, if they chose to accept it.

 “As long as that interrogation takes place aboard Alamo, I will consent,” Marshall replied. “You and one other officer, General, and I assure you that a squad of Espatiers will be with you for the entire duration of your stay.”

 With a curt nod, Estrada said, “I will concede that point, if you will concede that should your officer be found worthy of arrest, that the trial takes place in a United Nations court.” Pleading eyes looked across space, and after a long second, Marshall nodded.

 “If, in my judgment, Midshipman Clarke has committed such a crime, then I will concede custody.” Sitting back in his chair, Marshall continued, “As long as you concede the same point regarding any officer found to have committed offenses against any member of my crew on Leonov Station.”

 Now it was Estrada's turn to smile, and he replied, “We have, I trust, committed no crime, Captain, and I will gladly concede such a point. I suggest our respective ships return to their holding pattern for the present. Waldheim out.”

 “He blinked,” Caine said, shaking her head. “I would have thought...”

 “Estrada doesn't want a war any more than we do,” Marshall replied. “That was about giving both sides a chance to save face with their governments. And I suspect there is nothing he would like better than to embarrass any of his people who have gone too far.”

 “Sir,” Imoto said, turning from them helm, “We cannot consider that the United Nations will offer a fair trial to Midshipman Clarke. If I may say so, sir, agreeing to turn him over was a mistake.”

 Shaking his head, Marshall replied, “If I thought there was any chance that the charges would come to anything, I wouldn't have agreed, Midshipman, I assure you. And Estrada doesn't think so either, or he'd have just shot that shuttle out of the sky when he had the chance, and let the diplomatic dice fall as the may. If he had incontrovertible proof, he'd have used it. As for the interrogation, I suspect we'll learn more than they will from the questions they ask, assuming they go ahead with it at all.”

 “Enemy fighter wing returning to base, sir,” Ballard reported. “Waldheim is moving back to her original orbital position.”

 “Secure from battle stations,” Marshall said. “Have Alpha Flight escort the shuttle home, and the rest can immediately come back to the barn. As soon as the shuttle is on board, proceed to our parking location.” Turning to Francis, he said, “I want all of our people back from Leonov as of five minutes ago, Lieutenant. See to it immediately.”

 “Aye, sir,” Francis replied. He paused, looked at Marshall, and asked, “Would you have blinked, Captain?”

 “I guess we'll never know,” Marshall replied with a thin smile. Rising to his feet, he said, “In any case, Lieutenant, you have the deck. I'm heading down to the hangar bay. And after I've finished with Salazar, Harper and Clarke, a United Nations interrogation will seem like a picnic in the park.”

Chapter 13

 Salazar stepped out of the shuttle, and the first thing he saw as he walked onto the deck was the scowling face of Captain Marshall, standing next to the elevator. With a glance back at Harper and Clarke, he made his way over towards him, gesturing for the deck crews to start the post-flight work on the shuttlecraft. Lombardo looked across the battered hull, shaking his head.

 “Damn it, Pavel, what the hell have you done to the poor thing?” the deck officer asked.

 “Blame the previous owner,” Salazar replied. “Have Engineering conduct a full stress test of the hull, and take some sample readings from the telemetry records. Then send it direct to my terminal, priority encrypted.”

 “I'll get on it right away,” Lombardo required.

 “Lieutenant,” Marshall said. “I almost started a war today. I think we need to have a conversation.”

 Nodding, Salazar replied, “Of course, sir.” Stepping into the elevator, he tapped a ten-digit sequence into the control panel as the Captain looked on with a frown, and added, “There are a lot of things you need to know, sir, and we've got to make sure that no one else does. Especially with a saboteur still running around the ship.”

 Folding his arms as the door closed, Harper and Clarke barely making it through the doors in time, Marshall replied, “You're a heartbeat away from a court-martial, Lieutenant. Don't get the idea that you have any cards to play in your hand.” Turning to Clarke, he continued, “As for you, Midshipman, I think the odds of you ever becoming an officer...”

 “Are excellent,” Harper interrupted. With a glance at Salazar, she added, “Don't blame Pavel for any of this, sir. He wanted to brief you as soon as we were informed, but our orders directly forbade it. Technically, they still do.”

 “I'll take the responsibility,” Salazar replied, shaking his head. “You should have been told in the first place, Captain. Would have been, if anyone had listened to me. This situation is deteriorating rapidly enough as it is, without making matters worse.”

 “Pavel…,” Harper began.

 “Damn it, Kris, if Major Pastell knows about Monitor, I'm damned sure the Captain should, and I'm not going to put this ship and her crew at risk to cover up some fool stunt by Triplanetary Intelligence.” Taking a deep breath, Salazar continued, “I'm sorry, sir. It's been a long day.”

 “For once we agree,” Marshall replied, a puzzled expression on his face. “Just where are we going, anyway?”

 “Somewhere not on the blueprints,” Harper said. “A little surprise we managed to work into the design specifications before we left. I ran a full systems check while we're in hendecaspace, and everything is working perfectly.”

 “I hope so,” Salazar replied. Looking at Clarke, he added, “It's about time we brought you up to speed with our little secret as well, Midshipman. I apologize for leaving you in the dark, but I didn't want to risk you releasing anything under interrogation. I'm sorry to admit that we decided to use you as a decoy.”

 “A decoy?” Clarke said. “You mean...”

 Raising a hand, Salazar said, “And as it turned out, you did more to accomplish the mission than Harper and I did. Captain, this man deserves a commendation, not censure. He managed to get his team out of a rather nasty United Nations ambush, and fought his way free of the station with minimal exposure of the mission to outside personnel. I'm going to bet that you never hear a word from Station Security about the incident. It would expose far too many issues to some of their corporate backers. Most of the groups using Leonov value their privacy.”

 “Including Triplanetary Intelligence?” Marshall asked.

 “Naturally,” Harper replied. The doors slid open, the elevator locking into position for long enough for the four of them to step into the darkened room beyond. Once they were all across the threshold, the door slid shut, isolating them in the room, and the lights came up to reveal a half-dozen chairs clustered around a table, a monitoring screen on the wall.

 “Just another meeting room,” Marshall said.

 “One totally isolated from the rest of the ship,” Harper replied. “There's only one way in, and only Pavel and I have the access codes. I'll see that you receive a copy, Captain, but you'll only be able to use this with anyone cleared for Ultra or higher access.”

 Taking a chair, Marshall replied, “That seems to be a surprisingly significant proportion of the crew, Lieutenant. I take it this was no accident.”

 “Logan thought it might prove useful,” she said.

 “I might have known he had something to do with it.” Shaking his head, he said, “Perhaps you'd better start from the beginning.”

 Harper walked over to the monitor, pulled the box of datacrystals from her pocket, and slid one into position underneath, tapping a series of controls to unlock the information stored within. Sitting in the nearest chair, she turned to Marshall with a smile on her face.

 “I think Maggie Orlova will be able to tell you more than I can.”

 “What?” Marshall said, as the image of Lieutenant-Captain Orlova appeared on the display.

 “Log entry five, Day 283, 2172. Analysis of the debris confirms that at least one ship has already disappeared into the anomaly, and Monitor remains trapped in close orbit. Science Officer Masada believes that a slingshot might prove effective in releasing the ship and giving us a chance to reach the hendecaspace point, and despite my personal qualms about the plan, I intend to make the attempt in six hours, unless something better shows up before then.”

 There was a pause, and she continued, “We still have no better idea of the nature of the anomaly. Our research suggests that if it is a singularity, it's a damned strange one, and there are some signs that it might be an artificial phenomena. No matter what, I believe it to be our top priority that news of this discovery is brought back to the Confederation immediately, to permit a full-scale research project to begin at once. If this system holds the secret of the manufacture of artificial singularities, we cannot allow United Nations forces access under any circumstances. End entry.”

 “That's the last recording,” Harper said. “My inference is that she attempted the slingshot, and for whatever reason, it failed.” Shaking her head, she continued, “We must assume that she is dead, along with her crew.”

 “I don't agree,” Clarke replied. “That shuttle came from Pioneer, ma'am, and we know she reached the anomaly as well. Somehow, the ship survived the slingshot, and Monitor is more than capable of living through a similar maneuver.”

 “You've been on board?” Salazar asked. “That little piece of information isn't even in your confidential record, Midshipman.”

 “I served on her for a couple of months, sir, while we worked our way back to the Confederation after my mission.” He looked around, red-faced, and said, “It was made quite clear that I couldn't pass on any specific information, but there's no harm in stating my opinion that anything a shuttle could take, she could.”

 “And Maggie's too good a ship driver to take on something she thought she couldn't handle, not putting her crew at risk,” Salazar added. “It sounds like there was no critical threat facing Monitor, only the desire to get news of her discovery back home as soon as possible.”

 Frowning, Marshall asked, “Are we talking about the same Monitor that's been sitting in the Fleet Museum since the War?”

 “She isn't there any more,” Harper replied. “I can't tell you any details, sir, but suffice to say that she's been brought back into service on a covert basis, and that the trip to the brown dwarf was advertised as a shakedown cruise.”

 “That sounds depressingly like Alamo's current mission,” Marshall replied. “So two ships have vanished in this system.”

 “Four,” Salazar said, shaking his head. “Two of ours, one United Nations, one civilian. And almost certainly a Republic team as well, though they might not have been so well equipped.” Frowning, he added, “And that's just those ships that went this way, sir. Any number could have reached the system from UV Ceti. It's a long jump, but a military drive shouldn't have any trouble pulling it off. A dozen ships could have gone astray out there.”

 Marshall looked coldly at Salazar, and said, “And the Combined Chiefs were happy for me to take Alamo out into unknown danger without even a word of warning. Just what were your orders, Lieutenant, or don't I need to know about those, either?”

 “To be fair to our lords and masters, sir, I think the general consensus was that this was some sort of a United Nations trick, and that we would be able to fight our way out of any conceivable ambush. Major Pastell has made it clear that the UN blames us for the disappearances, and God knows what the Republic has learned about the anomaly. Though the transport they hired did make it home.”

 Nodding, Harper added, “I've got the data they gathered, though it's going to take a lot of time to analyze. We probably won't get it until we're deep into hendecaspace, I'm afraid.” She looked at Salazar, and said, “Our orders were to watch and gather any information we could on the situation, and report back as soon as we returned to Mars, before heading off on our mission.”

 “If the situation demanded it,” Salazar said, “we were authorized to brief you about the disappearances.” Shaking his head, he said, “Given that we've found out that far more ships have vanished than we knew about back home, I think the time has definitely come to tell you everything we know. Though I'm afraid that still doesn't amount to very much.”

 “And Clarke?” Marshall asked, glaring at the young midshipman.

 “Is as near as you're going to get to an innocent, sir. He was assigned here because of his skill at covert operations, as well as his service experience on...his previous postings. As far as I'm aware, he hasn't been briefed until now.”

 Running his hands through his hair, Marshall said, “So let me get this clear, just to make sure I haven't missed anything. There's some strange anomaly, possibly a quantum singularity, lurking at the brown dwarf that is meant to be our ultimate destination, one that has potentially destroyed at least four starships. The United Nations blames us, we blame them, and someone with more stars than brains decided to throw a battlecruiser into the situation without bothering to brief her commanding officer. With an intelligence cover-up impressive enough that we have a saboteur, presumably working with someone on Waldheim, working on board. Would that be a good assessment of the situation?”

 “I'm afraid so, sir,” Salazar said. “We didn't know anything about it until we reported in. All of this happened while we were away. As far as I know, only the four of us know everything, though I'd like to bring Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo into the loop to provide engineering expertise on the shuttle. I think that's the key to the whole business, and Clarke is meant to be the Deck Officer's Mate anyway.”

 “I thought I assigned you as Systems Officer's Mate, Midshipman,” Marshall said.

 “You did, sir, but Senior Lieutenant Dubois had a different interpretation of those orders.”
 Raising an eyebrow, Marshall said, “I'm going to be having words with that gentleman in the near future, I think.” Looking at Salazar, he added, “If there is anything else relevant to this mission that I haven't been told, I need to know, and now.”

 “We just don't have that much to go on, sir,” Salazar replied. “About the best we can come up with is that there is something strange out there, something that Captain Orlova thought was worth risking her crew for. She wouldn't have got so close to it, otherwise.”

 “I'm still going over the logs,” Harper added. “Midshipman Clarke and his team were able to extract them from a United Nations trap, which suggests that they've probably gone through them all themselves.” She paused, and continued, “I have a feeling they're hoping that we follow them to the brown dwarf. We've got to assume that they know everything that we do.”

 “Colonel Cruz and her faction want a war, and General Estrada is doing everything he can to prevent it,” Salazar said. “For the present, the General is winning the argument, but I can see that changing very quickly if the situation deteriorates.”

 “I'm forced to agree,” Marshall said. “Incidentally, you have an appointment with the good General, Midshipman. He'll be coming aboard in an hour to question you in regards to the death of one of his agents. I understand Colonel Cruz will be with him.” He looked at the young officer, and added, “Will that be a problem, Midshipman?”

 “They had us trapped, sir,” Clarke added. “And for the record, it was Midshipman Koslowski who found the tapes.”

 “My assistant was in on this?” Marshall asked.

 “No, sir, but she managed to, well...”

 With a smile, Harper said, “She stumbled into an undercover operation in progress, and managed to come close to wrecking it. Not her fault, sir, given the circumstances. Frankly, all three of them should be commended for the job they did over there.”

 “Lieutenant, the actions of your team almost started a war,” Marshall said. “We came far too damned close to a firefight with Waldheim, and so far all that we've managed to do is find out information the enemy probably wanted us to know in the first place. If this is success, then I hate to think what failure would be like.” Taking a deep breath, he looked at Salazar, and asked, “Given your experience, what would your recommendation be as to my next action.”

 “Run for home, sir.”

 “Pavel?” Harper asked.

 “There's something out there that has already destroyed two capital ships that we know of, and I don't think we can dismiss the possibility of a UN trap, even now, no matter what Estrada said. My reading of the situation is that he has been set up to fail, someone the hawks would be perfectly happy to see leave the service in disgrace.” Shaking his head, he added, “We've gathered a lot of useful intelligence, sir.”

 “Come on, Pavel,” Harper pressed. “If there's something that dangerous out there...”

 Turning to her, he replied, “You said it yourself. They know what we do. And you can bet that the Conor Cruise had just as much information as we've got, and they didn't manage to survive the experience. If the United Nations Space Fleet wants to throw a dreadnought into the abyss, I say we let them get on with it, and return with a more substantial force later on.” Pausing, he continued, “If you decide to proceed, sir, then I would recommend extreme caution.”

 Looking at Salazar with a nod, Marshall replied, “And Triplanetary Intelligence? What would they want?”

 “A full investigation, with all the close-range information they can get. Though they'd want us to come back, which would mean keeping the risks to a minimum. I suspect that's why they sent Pioneer, rather than a larger ship, first time out.” He glanced at Harper, and added, “Those old scoutships are still on permanent assignment to Triplanetary Intelligence.”

 “Sir,” Harper said, “I have to disagree with Pavel. We've got to investigate, no matter what the risk. The ability to manufacture a singularity would be a weapon of unimaginable potential, and...”

 “I agree with you, Lieutenant,” Marshall said, nodding his head. “We can't pass this up, even knowing the risk.” Looking at Salazar, he added, “Nevertheless, Pavel, I appreciate your comments, and to an extent, I concur. We'll take the minimum risk to gather the maximum data.” Looking around the room, he continued, “Kris, I want you to brief Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo, and have him begin a full investigation into the shuttlepod. Keep it quiet, and make sure nobody else knows what exactly you are doing. I presume there is no question as to his loyalty?”

 “None, sir. He's Double-Ultra classified.”

 “And of course, Triplanetary Intelligence never makes mistakes,” Marshall replied with a wry smile. “Well, we have to trust someone, though I assume none of this information is to leave the room.”

 “Not unless it is absolutely necessary, sir. Even if that hinders our investigation of the anomaly.” Salazar paused, and added, “We're working with a hand tied behind our back. Waldheim will doubtless have a team on board that is ready to start their investigation as soon as they arrive.”

 “None of the scientific team are cleared?”

 Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “I think the Combined Chiefs were too determined that it was some sort of United Nations trick, sir. That it might be some sort of natural phenomenon never occurred to them.” With a shrug, he added, “Enemy action was my first thought, to be fair, sir, and I still don't discount the possibility.”

 “Neither do I,” Marshall replied, nodding. He looked at Salazar carefully, then continued, “Pavel, I'm going to be honest. I've been uncertain about your intentions ever since you have arrived on board. Especially given your reticence in divulging the true nature of our mission.” Before he could protest, Marshall raised a hand, and said, “I understand that you were following orders, and I don't envy you the dilemma you were faced with. Frankly, you should never have been placed into such a situation in the first place.”

 “Thank you, sir.”

 “Nevertheless, I respect you as an officer, and consider you one of the best men under my command. For whatever it is worth, that applies to you as well, Kris.” Shaking his head, he continued, “It's going to take a while to get used to you having brown hair instead of green, though.”

 “It didn't seem to fit the part when I was sitting center seat, sir,” she replied.

 “I'm going to need all three of you at your best when we reach our destination, especially as I will be unable to provide full briefings to the majority of the senior staff. That means I'm going to be leaning on you pretty heavily.” Turning to Salazar, he said, “Especially you, I'm afraid, Pavel.”

 “That's fine, sir. All part of the job.” With a thin smile, he continued, “My remit as Security Officer has always been rather wide.”

 “Well, I'm going to take Deadeye's advice, and expand it a little. Effective immediately, you will assume the role of Second Officer.” Before Salazar could reply, Marshall continued, “No protest on this, Pavel. That's an order. You've got more command experience than the three Senior Lieutenants I've got combined. Hell, you've got more than I had when I first reported on board Alamo. I need to make full use of that, and to do it, I need to make sure you are in the correct position in the command structure. You'll be reporting directly to me, henceforth, out of the current organizational chart.” He smiled, and added, “Don't worry, I'll break the good news to Senior Lieutenant Francis.”

 “That's one meeting I'm glad I'll be able to skip, sir,” Salazar said. “I won't let you down, Captain.”

 “I know that,” Marshall replied. “Or I wouldn't be giving you the job.” Glancing up at the monitor, a clock ticking away in the corner, he continued, “Speaking of which, I think we'd better get moving. We've got a lot of work to do before we break orbit, and if we've got some guests coming on board, we need to make sure that they receive a suitable welcome.”

Chapter 14

 Clarke wiped a hand across his sweaty forehead, then looked up at the tangled cables dropping down from the Pioneer shuttlepod. While it had appeared to be intact while they were flying it, someone had made a mess of repairing the interior components, probably hoping to patch it up sufficiently to sell it on to an unsuspecting buyer. Over in a corner, Lombardo cursed, wrestling with a piece of hull plating, trying to get a readout on the portable stress analyzer.

 Rolling out from underneath the hull, Clarke shook his head, and said, “I don't know how much data we're going to get out of this system, sir. As far as I can tell, someone stripped out most of the memory modules.” Looking back at the mess behind him, he continued, “I guess someone was hoping that they'd get a buyer who could be tricked out of a pre-purchase inspection.”

 “Frankly, I think this pod is worth about what we paid for it,” Lombardo said, a grim smile on his face. “We're not even going to get that many spare parts out of this monstrosity. All we're doing is filling a storage compartment with junk we're probably going to end up scrapping.” His smile grew, and he continued, “Maybe we could get into the used spacecraft business for ourselves. Make a few quick credits.”

 The door opened, and Salazar walked in, looking at the shuttle with mournful eyes, and said, “Always a shame to see a ship ripped to pieces like that. Any news, Art?”

 Holding up the hull fragment, he replied, “This ship has been through Hell, Pavel, and don't ask me how it lived to tell the tale. From the log entries I've seen from Monitor, I'd say she completed the slingshot maneuver, but a lot closer than anyone could have survived. More than a hundred and fifty gravities. Four times the absolute maximum any human could take.”

 “I don't think there was anyone on board, though,” Clarke replied, shaking his head. “We haven't found any trace of organic residue, certainly no sign of a body.” Pulling a battered datapad out of his pocket, he continued, “The bill of sale lists a fairly obvious faked company, probably the transport the Republic agents hired. If I was to guess, sir, I'd say someone tried to send a message on this shuttlecraft, but it was intercepted by the wrong people.”

 Nodding, Salazar said, “A ship that couldn't get away itself, hoping at least to warn others about the danger faced by getting too close. Can you work out the course they used, Midshipman?”

 Looking at Lombardo, Clarke replied, “Given time and a lot of computing power. We'd have to do a full stress analysis of the entire hull.” Shaking his head, he added, “There isn't any telemetry record to use, sir. Any projection would be educated guesswork at best, though it might give us a start once we know exactly what we're facing.”

 “Are we going in, Pavel?” Lombardo asked.

 “That's the idea,” Salazar replied. “And we're going to need every scrap of information we can get our hands on when we arrive. So far, four starships have been destroyed by this anomaly, and I don't intend Alamo to be the fifth.”

 “That second transport did survive, sir,” Clarke said. “Though my guess would be that they stayed well clear, used shuttlecraft to conduct close-range analysis.” He paused, then added, “Are we sure that this is a singularity, sir?”

 “Captain Orlova's logs are frustratingly short on specific detail,” Salazar replied. “Probably already picked clean by Colonel Cruz and her friends before we could get them. Nevertheless, that's how she described it. Why?”

 “Just that I don't see how a shuttlecraft could escape a singularity, sir. This is an old ship, and she isn't capable of much greater acceleration than Alamo. I can't help but think that we're missing something, Lieutenant, and I don't even know where to start. Can we bring any of the science team in?”

 “We don't dare,” Salazar replied. “Doyle is only cleared to Most Secret level. You would have thought that Intelligence would have thought of that, but everyone was so damned sure that this was an enemy trick, we aren't properly equipped for it.” He paused, then added, “We're going to have to make do with what we've got.”

 “Which isn't much,” Lombardo said, shaking his head. “Pavel, without real experts, we're not going to get anywhere.”

 “It might not matter,” Salazar replied. “It isn't as though we have much to go on now, and as soon as we get to the brown dwarf, a big part of the secret will be out. All we can do for the moment is gather as much information as we can from the sources we have access to, and hope that our astrophysics team can make something out of it at the end.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “In any case, Midshipman, you have an appointment with a General.”

 Clarke's face paled, and he replied, “I'd better go to my quarters and...”

 “The day we don our dress blues for a United Nations General is the day Satan will put on his snowshoes, Midshipman. You'll go just as you are, grease stains and all. Orders direct from the Captain.” Walking over to him, Salazar placed his hand on Clarke's shoulder, and added, “Ensign Rhodes and a squad will be with you all the time, Midshipman. You don't have anything to worry about, and you have my personal guarantee that you won't be turned over to them.”

 “Actually, sir,” Clarke replied, “I'd request that the escort stays clear. I might have a better chance of finding something out if they don't think they're being overheard.” Looking across at the communications panel, he added, “They'll know they're being monitored, sir, but I suspect they'll have ways around that.”

 Shaking his head, Salazar replied, “You really did have to grow up too damn quick, didn't you. Very well, I'll issue the necessary orders, but make sure you draw a sidearm first. I'd rather have to explain away a dead General than work out how to extract you from a dreadnought.” Looking down into the young man's eyes, he continued, “Though if it came to it, Midshipman, we'd find a way, though don't ask me how. We wouldn't leave you in the lurch.” Gesturing at the door, he continued, “I'll take over here. You go and see your new friends.”

 “Yes, sir,” Clarke said, snapping a salute before walking out into the corridor. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a wall monitor, work coveralls and all, and shook his head. The last time he'd met a flag officer, he'd spent hours getting himself ready for what he had known would be a brief encounter, polishing boots and pressing his trousers. This time, for a personal interview, he was dragging around in his work coveralls, covered in grime from the shuttle's internal systems, and with a pistol at his belt.

 He walked over to the nearest weapons locker, drawing a sidearm from the selection, and hefted the weight in his hand, checking that the low-velocity ammunition was installed. Personal weapons load-out on a starship was a compromise at the best of times, trying to strike a balance between the lethality of the ammunition to the intended target and the probable consequences of a miss on the instruments behind him, or the hull plating, for that matter. Too many boarding actions had gone wrong due to overenthusiastic weapons play in the early years of the War.

 Sliding the pistol into his holster, he walked down the corridor towards the hangar bay, already able to hear the pounding of boots on the deck in front of him, troopers moving into position to receive their guests. As he walked through the double doors, the elevator airlock bringing the United Nations shuttle into position, he caught a glimpse of Petrova standing in a corner, by the side of a line of Espatiers in combat fatigues, wearing her resplendent dress uniform.

 “What the hell do you think you are wearing, Cadet?” she sneered.

 With a shrug, Clarke replied, “Captain's orders, Petrova. Evidently you didn't get the special instructions.” A smile spread across his face, and he added, “Not that it matters too much. I'm the one they're here to meet.”

 “But…,” she began, as the shuttle doors opened and General Estrada walked down the ramp, his eyes running across the line of troops ready to receive him, rifles at the ready. Every one of those men was imagining themselves as a firing squad, facing the unwanted intruder, but he managed to maintain a smile on his face. No senior officers had arrived to meet him, even Ensign Rhodes delegating the task to a junior Corporal, and Clarke found himself the senior man on the deck, an honor he could decidedly have done with out. 

 Stepping forward, he snapped a sloppy salute that would have disgraced a recruit, and said, “General Estrada? My name is Midshipman Clarke. I understand you wanted to speak with me regarding the criminal actions of your operatives on Leonov Station.”

 “I and one other, Midshipman,” Estrada said, as a scowling woman stepped forward, her right arm immobilized in a sling, a look of pure hatred boiling from her eyes. “I believe you have already met Colonel Cruz.”

 With a curt nod, Clarke replied, “I hope I didn't do too much damage, ma'am.”

 Before she could reply, Petrova raced forward, and said, “On behalf of...”

 “You may spare the platitudes, Midshipman,” Estrada said. “I know that none of you mean them, and I'm certain that you'd receive much the same welcome on Waldheim.”

 “Except that the escort would be larger, and you wouldn't need a ride back,” Cruz said darkly.

 “Corporal,” Clarke said, “See that their shuttle is serviced and readied for immediate launch. We wouldn't want to keep our guests here any longer than necessary.” Gesturing to the corridor, he added, “If the two of you will come with me, we have a secure room prepared for our talk.”

 “One as close as possible to the hangar bay, to ensure that we don't see anything you don't want us to see,” Estrada replied, nodding. “According to the textbook.”

 “It doesn't matter,” Cruz said, following Clarke to the door. “I received a full briefing on Alamo's modifications before we left home.”

 “Then you are braver than I thought to have risked a fight,” Clarke replied. Cruz turned the intensity of her glare up another notch, though he thought he detected a faint trace of a smile on Estrada's face as he turned a corner, where an open door beckoned them to a small room, only a trio of chairs inside. “This way.”

 “My complements to your interior designer,” Estrada said, taking a seat. “We'll get this out of the way as quickly as possible, Midshipman.” He looked up as a quartet of troopers took up a position outside as the door slammed shut. “I take it we are not to be overheard.”

 “Captain Marshall thought that you would want privacy, General.”

 Turning to him, Cruz said, “You are guilty of...”

 “Save it, Colonel,” Estrada said, a scowl curling his lips. “We're on a tight schedule, and I don't have time to sit here and listen to you parade your ego like a peacock. Save the platitudes for your own time.” Pulling out a box, he pressed a button, and said, “This is being recorded, Midshipman. I presume you have no objection to that?”

 “No.”

 “Then I will start by asking a simple question. Did you make the first aggressive move?”

 “No, sir, we didn't. I only responded to an attack by your people.” With a thin smile, he added, “Or should I say, Colonel Cruz's people. Illegally operating on the station.”

 “As were you,” Estrada replied.

 “I was going shopping for shuttle parts, sir, in my capacity as Deck Officer's Mate. When I discovered evidence that such parts might have been obtained through illegal means, I initiated an investigation, but before I could begin work, your covert squad detained us, presumably in a bid to take us back to your ship for questioning.”

 “That's a damned lie,” Cruz replied. “You killed one of my people in cold blood, then launched an unprovoked attack on me...”

 “You fired first, Colonel, and despite the fact that I brought a knife to a gunfight, I managed to come out of the fight better than you did. Is that the reason you're here, Colonel? Embarrassed?”

 Trying with some effort to keep his face straight, Estrada replied, “I must say, Midshipman, that you have a novel approach to diplomacy. Then you maintain you are the injured party, and that your team was attacked by our agents first.”

 “Doubtless they will be telling their own version of events, but that's what happened.”

 “As you say, their testimony is completely different to yours.” He paused, then added, “Local Security is proving most uncooperative in this matter, I must confess.”

 “Something for which they will pay dearly in the near future,” Cruz replied. “Neutrality or not, they will learn that the will of the Security Council is paramount. As will you, Midshipman. Unless you confess immediately to the criminal conspiracy being undertaken by your government at the brown dwarf classified as K-129.”

 “The International Astronomical Union has yet to agree a name, or even a designation,” Clarke replied. “Regardless, Colonel, I can set your mind at ease and tell you that the Triplanetary Confederation, to my knowledge, has committed no criminal acts either on this station, or at the star you mention. Can you say the same?”

 “We're asking the questions, not you,” Cruz barked.

 “And I've answered them.” 

 Shaking his head, Estrada replied, “I fear that you will be the subject of an extradition order from my government, Midshipman, and that you will face charges of murder and attempted murder when you next visit United Nations territory. We have security footage that shows you launching an attack upon one of our operatives...”

 “Who was wearing civilian clothes, with a gun in his hand, and more friends at his back. Including Colonel Cruz. What charges will she face, or is incompetence not considered a crime in United Nations service?” 

 Her eyes almost bulged out of their sockets as she replied, “Pray that you never find yourself in my interrogation room, Midshipman.”

 “I certainly hope never to be subject to your travesty of a legal system.” Pulling a datastick from his pocket, he handed it to Estrada, and said, “My testimony, sir, as well as that of the other members of my group, as well as all the security footage we have been able to obtain. It includes recordings of numerous violations of the neutrality statutes by your people. Colonel Cruz, especially. I suspect that my government will be seeking recompense for your actions today, General. You are fortunate our two nations have no mutual extradition treaties.”

 “As are you, Midshipman,” Estrada said, taking the datastick. “This is something of a surprise, I must confess. I hadn't expected you to be quite so cooperative.”

 “It's faked,” Cruz said. “Worthless data, and inadmissible in a court.”

 “I wouldn't be so certain of that,” Estrada replied. “Nevertheless, I will be sure to include it in my report to the Security Council of this matter, and will ensure that it receives full prominence in the final file.” Looking at Cruz, he continued, “Unless you have anything further, Colonel, then I think we are done here.”

 Before she could reply, Clarke smelled something in the air, a sickly sweet odor that seemed oddly familiar, and his vision began to swim. One look at Estrada convinced him that the General was suffering the same effects, and Clarke struggled to his feet, looking for the lifesystem monitors on the wall, his hands clubbing the controls.

 “A trap,” Cruz said, gasping for breath.

 “Not us,” Clarke replied. “Override's out. Controls locked.” He pulled out his pistol, aimed it at the door, and fired a blast that echoed from the room, only forcing a dent in the metal. “Got to break the seal.” Struggling to keep himself steady, he fired again, twice more, aiming for the same spot, hoping that the repeated impacts would force a crack in the weak, internal door.

 Estrada drew a weapon of his own, but before he could fire, collapsed to the deck. Clarke felt his legs shaking underneath him, tears streaming down his face from the effects of the gas, and the doors seemed only a faint shadow in the distance as he fired again, knowing it was the last time. A siren sounded as, finally, a small hole appeared in the door, and the life support system in the corridor immediately registered the toxic gas, compensating with a blast of oxygen.

 The door slid open, three Espatiers hauling it free, and Clarke staggered from the room, welcome hands around his side dragging him to the corridor, the others returning for the General and the Colonel, placing masks around their mouths to speed their recovery.

 “Once this is reported...” Cruz began.

 “In case you missed it, Colonel,” Estrada interrupted, “This young man just saved our lives.”

 “He saved his own,” Cruz replied. “One of his superiors decided that he was unimportant enough to sacrifice.”

 “Should I call a medical team?” the Corporal asked.

 “No,” Estrada replied. “That will not be necessary, and you will understand that I would rather trust our own people. If you will escort us back to the shuttle, I think that will suffice for the present.” Shaking his head, he added, “Midshipman, I would appreciate a full report on the events that transpired here today, for my own personal interest, if nothing else.”

 “I'll see you get it, sir, through diplomatic channels,” Clarke said, the rush of oxygen flooding into his brain. He pulled the mask off, and added, “And Colonel, we don't consider our people pawns to be thrown away.” 

 “You haven't heard the last of this, Midshipman,” Cruz replied, shrugging off one of the troopers attempting to help her to her feet. “An attempted assassination attempt will not go unpunished. I can assure you of that.” Looking around with a sneer, she added, “Assuming it wasn't simply poor maintenance on an obsolete craft such as this.” She turned on her heels and walked down the corridor, an escort either side, but Estrada lingered for a moment, standing beside Clarke.

 “I suspect I was the target, Midshipman,” he said. “Conduct your investigation with care, and remember that Cruz's arms have a surprisingly long reach. I say this as a warning, not a threat, but do not consider yourself safe, even here on one of your own warships.” Looking back at the room, he held out his hand and added, “And thank you, for saving my life.”

 “My pleasure, General,” Clarke added, shaking the proffered hand. Much to his surprise, he actually meant it.

Chapter 15

 The door slid open, and Salazar walked into the quarters he shared with Harper, tossing a datapad onto the desk with enough vigor that it bounced twice before coming to rest. Sitting down on the nearest chair, he sat back and closed his eyes before reaching down to tug off his boots. Harper walked in from the bedroom, wearing a casual jumpsuit, and looked at him with a smile.

 “Bad day?” she asked.

 With a tired nod, Salazar replied, “Good guess. I've spent the last six hours going through the lifesystem crawlspace with Dubois. That guy is the dictionary definition of anal-retentive. I didn't know most of those maintenance procedure forms existed. I swear he's writing them himself in his spare time.” Shaking his head, he added, “He's no Jack Quinn, that's for sure.”

 “Give him time,” she replied, sitting opposite him. “Did you find anything?”

 “Only what I knew already. Computer control failure from a self-destructed datarod. I found the pieces up near the lateral heat exchanger. It could have been left there any time over the last three weeks, from the repair logs. Good place to hide it. I've got Lombardo and Clarke going over the rest of the system.”

 “That's going to be a fun job. I can think of a couple of thousand places to search.”

 “Me too, which is why I'm going to go and give them a hand in a few hours. I just needed to get off my feet for a bit.” He glanced at his watch, and said, “No wonder I'm hungry. I haven't had anything to eat for eighteen hours.” Gesturing at the fabricator slot in the corner, he added, “Let's call room service.”

 “Sounds like a plan. I guess that's why the Captain named you Second Officer.”

 “You want the job?” he replied, shaking his head. “It wasn't my idea.”

 “Hell no,” she said. “I've done my turn in the big chair, and I didn't enjoy it enough for a repeat performance.” Looking at him as she walked over to the menu selector, she added, “You want anything in particular?”

 “Surprise me.”

 With a shrug, she entered a random combination into the controls, stabbing for a double selection, then sat down next to the machine to wait for the food to arrive. She peered down at the datapad, reaching out with a long finger to scroll through the displayed text.

 “Clarke's service record?”

 “Kid's had to grow up too damn fast,” Salazar replied. “Not fair. Though I loved the way he faced down Estrada and Cruz. He's got real potential, though I'm not sure I'd recommend a posting to the Diplomatic Corps.” The lights flickered, and Salazar said, “I guess we just entered hendecaspace. Must have missed the announcement.”

 Gesturing at the wall panel, she replied, “I set the speakers for emergency only.” Flexing her fingers, she added, “I needed a breather. Ten hours going over the security codes, and if you think Dubois was bad, you haven't seen Francis at his worst. If I hadn't managed to enlist Doyle to distract him for a bit, I'd still be there now.” Shaking her head, she added, “I didn't find a damn thing, but I didn't expect too. I'm good, but there are about a billion lines of critical code to check, and I haven't even finished going through the monitoring software yet.”

 “Can't you just install a new program?”

 “Sure, but I don't know if I can trust it. We left two weeks early, remember, so I'm behind the curve. Usually I'd have designed my own, something I could depend on, but I had to rely on what Logan gave me this time. Until I can put something better together, but with everything going on, I haven't even had a chance to get started.” Grimacing, she added, “Technically, I suppose I should ask someone before doing a project like that, but I don't think there's much point.”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “You really don't like our new officers much, do you?”

 “Doyle's not bad, and Murphy's fun.” She smirked, and added, “She made a pass at me this morning, down on the hangar deck.”

 “Should I be nervous?” Salazar asked, matching her smirk.

 “I gently directed her in Kat's direction. Hopefully it'll take.”

 “Poor Kat,” Salazar said. “Hasn't she been though enough? And how do you think McCormack will feel about fraternizing with the enemy? She's kept most of the squadron pretty tight.”

 “Fighter pilots tend to flock together,” Harper replied. “You should know that.” There was a knock at the door, and she reached across to tap the control. As they opened, Francis walked in, looked at the two of them, and shook his head.

 “I'm glad to catch the two of you together,” he said. “I think we ought to have a few words.”

 “Have a seat,” Salazar said. “You want something to eat?”

 “No, I don't think I'll be staying that long,” Francis replied. He looked around the room, and asked, “Are you married? Your personnel record doesn't indicate that.”

 Salazar glanced at Harper, and replied, “No.”

 “Engaged?”

 Harper said, “No. We haven't really talked about it.” She looked at Salazar, and added, “I don't think either of us have felt the need. Not yet, anyway.”

 Nodding, Francis asked, “Then how did you end up in married officer's quarters?” He paused, then asked, “For that matter, why does this ship have married officer's quarters? It's the first capital ship I've known to have them, and I did a little checking. These were added to the specifications for the refit before you two left on leave.”

 Harper glanced at Salazar, her face reddening, and replied, “Must have been a mistake, but they're here, and we've got to sleep somewhere.”

 Rubbing his forehead, Salazar said, “Sir, I've been on duty for twenty-four hours, and I'll be going back on again in four. If this is a matter of room allocation, then I believe Chief Kowalski is still in charge of that department. I suggest...”

 “Oh, I did,” Francis replied. “He told me that it would be impossible to change any of the assigned rooms, after suggesting that he might be able to help me out as a personal favor.” Raising an eyebrow, he added, “I tried to ignore his hints that a bribe might be in order.”

 “Jim's harmless,” Salazar said.

 “As Security Officer…”

 “I know when to leave sleeping Chief Petty Officers lie. Kowalski would never do anything that would harm the ship or her crew, and if he's the one handling the gambling ring that I officially don't know about, or the three stills the chem lab already have operating, then I know that not only will he make sure that nobody goes too far, but that he'll make sure I'm kept informed if they do.”

 “Are you condoning his actions, Lieutenant?”

 “May I speak freely?”

 “By all means.”

 “I've looked over your service record, and this is your first deep-space cruise. The crew needs a safety valve, some way to blow off steam, something that distracts them from the monotony of their duty once in a while. I could go through all manner of psychological garbage for you, but in short, it keeps them sharp, keeps them going, gives them something to look forward to.” Reaching for his datapad, he continued, “Captain Marshall's mission plan gives us nine months out in unknown space, meaning that opportunities for shore leave will be nonexistent.”

 “There is no excuse for violating regulations, Lieutenant, and I...”

 “Won't do a thing, sir, because it falls outside your remit in two departments. Both as Security Officer and Second Officer, handling crew discipline is my responsibility, not yours. How you handle Operations is your business, sir, but the welfare of the crew is mine. Most of them have been through this before, and they know what to expect, and they know what they need, at an instinctive level if nothing else. This is necessary, sir, and if Kowalski is handling it, I can maintain an element of control, without cutting it off completely.”

 Harper reached over to a wall monitor, tapping a command sequence, and said, “Three crewmen are already up on charges, sir, for minor offenses. One for petty insubordination, the others for a fistfight. Sparring practice down in the gym that got out of hand. Discipline is being maintained, but when you've sat center seat, you'll learn that sometimes you have to know what not to notice.”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “The rules are there for a reason, Lieutenant.” Looking at Salazar, he continued, “It is only fair for me to tell you that I initially protested your appointment as Second Officer to the Captain. There are four senior officers on board, three in rank and one in seniority.”

 “I had similar concerns, if it makes any difference,” Salazar replied. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Sir, we're going to have to work together, whether the two of us like it or not. I've had your job, so I know just how difficult it can be, especially with all the new systems installed during the refit, and the abbreviated training time.”

 Pausing for a moment, Francis said, “I've read both of your records, at least the unclassified parts. To say that they are interesting reading would be an understatement. I've also read Midshipman Koslowski's paper on your combat strategies.”

 Salazar blushed, and replied, “I haven't, not yet. I'm still psyching myself up for it.”

 “I don't blame you,” he said. “I'm just an old-fashioned spaceman, Lieutenant, admittedly one who has ended up staying close to home for the bulk of his career. I spent months getting Zeus ready for launch before they transferred me here. Believe it or not, I considered this a step down. To go from a battleship to a battlecruiser...”

 “The battlecruisers are the queens of the fleet, sir,” Harper interrupted. “The Combined Chiefs will never let the battleship squadron go more than a single jump from home, and never on a serious mission. They never should have built them in the first place, but now they have, they'll be stuck in Sol for decades.”

 “Rightly so,” Salazar added. “We've got to have a counter to the dreadnoughts.” With a thin smile, he added, “Recent experience proves that out rather well. The UN is a lot more willing to put them in harm's way than we are, and I have a feeling that's going to work out to their detriment. They never built any ships of this type, and we've got more use out of the Thermopylae-class than any other design in the fleet.”

 “You know they're talking about pulling them out of service within the decade,” Francis replied. As the other faces in the room darkened, he continued, “I saw some of the outlines for the replacement class, though I know the Progressives are talking about just building more Hercules-class cruisers.”

 “That would be a mistake,” Salazar replied. “Hercules is a good ship, but it doesn't have the range or the firepower to take Alamo's place in the firing line. I guess I'm going to have to grit my teeth and vote Patriot again.” He paused, then said, “You didn't come here to discuss the next election.”

 “No, I didn't,” he replied, looking Salazar over, a frown on his face. “I'm not sure what to make of you, Lieutenant. So far, I've seen you come close to starting a shooting war, and yet you're probably the hardest-working officer on the ship.” A thin smile cracked his face, and he said, “Dubois was in my office complaining about you an hour ago. Something about disturbing his maintenance schedule. And what McCormack said about you is unrepeatable.”

 “As far as she is concerned, the feeling is mutual, but if she turns out to be a good squadron leader, I can live with her. Dubois is another problem.” Shaking his head, he continued, “He's inflexible. Schedules and routines are there to make our lives easier, not as an unbreakable prison. Sometimes reality creeps in, and you have to deal with it. And if someone is messing with the life support systems, that's got to be our top priority, and the administrative trivia can go to Hell.”

 “Oh, I've spoken to him on that point, though I don't think it really hit home. He was making noises about talking to the Captain and making another formal protest.”

 “Two in as many days?” Harper replied. “That's going to look good on his record. I hope Lombardo's ready for a quick promotion. Captain Marshall doesn't look kindly on space lawyers.”

 “Suffice to say that I was hoping that the three of us could work together on a short-list of potential replacement officers to present to the Captain, once we settle into hendecaspace routine.”

 “The three of us?” Salazar said.

 “Lieutenant, I can see two paths our relationship could take. The first sees us butting heads constantly, arguing over every small detail, causing disruption to the ship and its crew. The second sees us working together for the good of the ship.” Pulling out a datapad, he added, “Captain Marshall has a good reputation, and he sees something in you. From your service record, I agree with him, and I'm not proud enough to claim that I don't think I might be able to learn from you, even if you are ten years my junior.”

 Salazar smiled, and said, “Nor am I proud enough to state that the reverse is true. You might find this hard to believe, but I'm probably the least ambitious man on the ship, and I was relieved when the Captain told me that I was dropping back down to Security Officer.” With an exaggerated sigh, he added, “Now I've got to start climbing the paperwork mountain again.” Reaching out with his hand, he continued, “Perhaps we should start again. Lieutenant Pavel Salazar, sir, and I'm looking forward to working with you.”

 “Senior Lieutenant Max Francis,” he replied, shaking his hand. “Likewise. And please, call me Max, especially in private. All my friends do.” With a blinking light, the food processor released a pair of plates, and the smell of heavy spice filled the air. “Too late to change my mind about that dinner? That actually looks appetizing.”

 “Just wait until we run out of fresh food supplements,” Harper said, shaking her head. “This won't last. Trust me. Another of the same?”

 “Please,” Francis said, dragging his chair nearer to the table. “I should have brought a bottle with me.”

 “Don't worry,” Salazar said, reaching into a cupboard for a bottle of viscous purple liquid. “Chief Kowalski ensures that I keep a surprisingly good wine cellar.”

Chapter 16

 The corridor approaching Engineering was surprisingly quiet, no technicians frantically rushing around, no harried crewmen scrambling to prepare the ship for combat. Marshall shook his head as he approached, pulling out his datapad and scrolling through the duty schedule. Too quiet, too simple, as though the ship was on a normal cruise rather than heading into a dangerous situation. He might not have been able to share everything he knew with the senior staff, but they knew they were heading into an unexplored system with a United Nations dreadnought for company. Enough reason to suggest that extra caution was required, certainly.

 He stepped through the door into the Systems Officer's office, surprised to see nobody in attendance at the desk. Looking around the room, he shook his head, remembering how it had looked under its previous occupant, a mess of parts and components, work jackets slung on the wall, datapads scattered around. This was too clean, too neat, and obviously considerable effort had gone to keep it that way. Even for a ship just out of spacedock, everything was a little too perfect.

 The door slid open, and Dubois walked in, pausing to salute Marshall before sitting behind his desk, laying a datapad in front of him, running his hands down the side to make sure it was perfectly lined up.

 “Can I help you, Captain?”

 Marshall paused for a moment, then said, “I hope so, Lieutenant, though in all honesty, I haven't seen much evidence of it up till now. What is the meaning of this complaint against Lieutenant Salazar?”

 Shaking his head, Dubois replied, “The young man appears to consider that his needs override those of my department. Personnel and maintenance routines are carefully designed to ensure that complete coverage of the ship is ensured, and any unnecessary disruption to the routine can mean that something critical gets missed. I have always run a tight and orderly department, sir, and I have no intention of stopping now.”

 “There is a saboteur on board, Lieutenant, and I think that overrides any problems you might have with the maintenance schedules. Problems, I might add, that you are here to resolve. I don't want an officer who leans on the regulations and procedures handed down to him by others. I need somebody who will transcend those constraints, for the good of the ship and her crew. And when someone is actively trying to destroy the ship, that takes absolute priority.”

 With a frown, Dubois replied, “The high-handed nature of Lieutenant Salazar's investigation did not befit his status as a junior officer. I contemplated charging him with insubordination. I must question your judgment in appointing him as Second Officer over the head of Senior Lieutenant Francis. I intend to make a formal report to that effect when we return to Mars.”

 “That's something you seem to be very good at, Lieutenant. Filing reports. As to Lieutenant Salazar's investigation, it was being conducted at my order and with my authority.”

 “He found nothing, sir, and his staff continue to disrupt our routines with their constant requirements. If we overlook part of the maintenance routine, sir, we won't need a saboteur to destroy the ship. There are a couple of million things that can go wrong on a starship, Captain, and any one of them could prove disastrous. You're trading a theoretical risk for a real one.”

 Shaking his head, Marshall replied, “This is your first deep-space tour, isn't it?”

 “I fail to see how that is germane, sir. I have served on seven starships over the course of my career, and when I was Systems Officer on Thermopylae, I had nothing but support from my commanding officer.” Frowning, the engineer continued, “I might suggest, sir, that you consider that your focus should be on other areas of the ship.”

 “As Captain, my focus is where I feel it needs to be, and right now, Lieutenant, it is your department that I am most worried about. You realize that there is a good chance that we will be going into battle in the next three days, upon our arrival at our target star?”

 “As a theoretical possibility, sir, but I hardly believe that the United Nations will violate the peace treaty in such a way. Naturally, I have already switched to a revised schedule to prepare the ship for combat stations, and the work crews are prioritizing offensive and defensive systems.” Looking down at his datapad, he continued, “Which really only strengthens my case that this is not the time to hunt down chimeric saboteurs in the bowels of the ship. We've got a lot of work to do, Captain, and Lieutenant Salazar and Midshipman Clarke aren't helping. And on the subject...”

 “Yes, let's talk about Midshipman Clarke,” Marshall said. “I assigned him as your assistant.”

 “And I deemed that his place was on the hangar deck, working under Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo. Another officer about whom I wish to talk. He is showing a woeful disregard of normal...”
 “He's one of the best engineers I've ever seen, and given that all of his shuttles and fighters are ready for action, I cannot understand for a moment why you would consider him a problem. Frankly, I wish you were running this department with the same efficiency. As for Clarke, I assigned him as your assistant as a training exercise for him, and I expect you to do you part in the education of the trainee officers.”

 “This department is too critical to allow untrained personnel to interfere with operations.”

 Before Marshall could reply, a red light flashed on the status monitor on the wall, and both officers rose to their feet, walking over to the panel as Dubois worked the controls, focusing on the affected system.

 “Power node. Section thirty-nine. Just one deck up from here. I'll dispatch a team on the double to close out the system.”

 Shaking his head, Marshall replied, “The nearest work crew is nine decks distant. We'll go ourselves and save some time.” Looking across at the engineer, he added, “Unless you don't want to get that nice uniform of yours dirty?”

 Stepping over to a locker, Dubois pulled out a toolkit, and said, “This way, then.”

 The two of them walked back out into the corridor, Dubois tugging open a recalcitrant access port and climbing inside, carefully scaling the ladder to the crawlspace above. Marshall followed, taking a flashlight from the maintenance locker, shining it into the gloom inside. There was a faint chemical smell in the air, the effect of recent paintwork, one more reminder that this ship had only just completed a full overhaul. Everything felt new, much of it replacing irreparably damaged systems from the last battle with the Xandari, eighteen months ago.

 “There's someone in here, Captain,” Dubois said, racing ahead of him, and Marshall hurried after him, hearing the sounds of a struggle up ahead. “Stay where you are!”

 “What the hell?” Clarke replied.  

 “Midshipman?” Marshall said, finally reaching the grappling pair. “Both of you, stand down, at once. That's an order.”

 “I found him sabotaging the systems, sir,” Dubois said, tugging at a dangling cable. “I demand that he be arrested at once, and interrogated to find out what else he's done.”

 “Captain, I've been conducting a sweep of the primary combat systems at Lieutenant Salazar's order,” Clarke replied, “and I found this cable cut. If we tried to switch over to emergency power in a battle, we'd have a burnout that could destroy half a dozen of the local nodes. I was just rendering it safe before calling it in.”

 Shaking his head, Dubois said, “And yet again, Lieutenant Salazar's interference almost leads to disaster.” Looking up at the components, he said, “You've a long way to go before this is made safe, Midshipman, and I think you've done additional damage in the attempt.”

 “I only found it a moment ago, sir, and I was just opening up the access ports to find out how deep the damage is.” Turning to Marshall, Clarke added, “Sir, we need to get damage control teams to work on the other nodes at once.”

 “I agree,” Marshall said. 

 “Sir, most of our teams are currently stripping down the missile guidance system. We won't be able to get to the nodes for hours, and there are a hundred and five to check. With all due respect, you don't know the scale of the job you're ordering me to do. Combat priorities suggest...”

 “I suggest, Lieutenant,” Marshall replied, “that you follow orders. If you have to work extra time to get the job done, then do it. The missiles can wait for a day. We're not going to be using them in hendecaspace anyway, and Sub-Lieutenant Scott's team can keep going while you handle this other problem.” Turning to the engineer, he added, “And for the record, Lieutenant, that is the last time you get to question my orders. Is that understood?”

 “Yes, sir,” the sullen engineer replied. “I will naturally...”

 “File a formal report,” Marshall said, shaking his head. “I somehow had a feeling we'd be getting there at some point. Don't get too comfortable, Lieutenant. You won't be staying on this ship for very long. As soon as we get back to Mars, I intend to file for your transfer, with a recommendation that you no longer be considered for starship duty. I don't think you have the temperament. You can send a work team up to finish the repairs. Dismissed.”

 “Sir...”

 “Dismissed!”

 Turning away, Dubois moved back down the crawl-way, squeezing past Marshall on his way back to the corridor, leaving the two of them alone in the empty space. Marshall moved closer to Clarke, looking up at the damaged systems, shaking his head at the destruction the saboteur had wreaked.

 “What a mess.”

 “Yes, sir,” Clarke replied, “but it should have been worse. They didn't try to camouflage it, and this is one of the most frequently-serviced parts of the ship. Anyone with even basic engineering training could have done a much better job if they'd wanted to.” Shaking his head, he continued, “I think they wanted us to find this, sir.”

 Nodding, Marshall replied, “Dubois was right about something. Checking all of the distribution nodes is going to take time, and that's going to pull us away from other critical tasks. Perhaps that's the whole goal here, to keep us off-balanced and confused.”

 “Maybe, sir, but I don't think that matches with the attempt on the life of General Estrada and myself. I'm reasonably sure that he was the target, not I, and that it was an attempt on the part of Colonel Cruz to eliminate her superior.”

 “And kill herself into the bargain?”

 “Back on Leonov Station, when I stabbed her, she was wearing an auto-med. Something more sophisticated than anything I've seen. It seems reasonable that it could have supplied the chemical stimulation required to keep her alive longer than the General or myself.” Shaking his head, he added, “There's something bigger going on here, sir. There are so many ways the saboteur could be covering their tracks.”

 “I suppose we don't dare assume an incompetent saboteur.” Gesturing at the dangling cables, he added, “Given all of the damage that has been done, the damage must have been caused by someone with access to all areas of the ship, and someone who has good reason to be seen anywhere. Which presumably means someone with seniority.”

 “And someone new to the ship, sir.”

 “What makes you say that?”

 “The damage to the shuttle was undertaken at Mariner Station, and unless we're assuming a much larger sabotage network, it had to be someone over there who did it. With the exception of Lieutenant Salazar and Lieutenant Harper, most of the crew were already on Alamo, and their movements would have been logged.”

 With a faint smile, Marshall said, “I presume you've already pulled a list of personnel who fit that criteria.”

 “I have, sir,” the young officer replied, reaching into his holdall for a datapad. “Twelve names, those of the rank of Senior Spaceman or higher, working in the engineering department.” He paused, then added, “There are three officers on that list, sir. Dubois, Doyle and McCormack.” 

 Frowning, Marshall said, “If you are making an implication, Midshipman, feel free and make it clearly. I'll give you permission to speak your mind.”

 Taking a deep breath, Clarke replied, “Senior Lieutenant Dubois signed off on the shuttle, and his work schedules seem almost designed to make sure that the sabotage went undiscovered through routine maintenance. I know that he's using the standard rotation plan, sir, and that it's easy enough to find, but I remember on Monitor that the Systems Officer told me that they were usually changed, and frequently, specifically to guard against sabotage. Now maybe they were being unusually cautious, but...”

 “No, Midshipman, I know Jack Quinn used to do the same thing.” He paused, then said, “You heard what I said to Dubois. That doesn't mean that he's a traitor.” Looking down the crawlspace, he added, “All you are talking about is circumstantial evidence at best.”

 “To be clear, sir, my name is also on that list.”

 Turning back to Clarke, Marshall said, “You've got Double-Ultra clearance, Midshipman. If you've turned traitor, we really do have a problem. I'm willing to concede that you are on the side of the angels.” A frown spread across his face, and he continued, “You're supposed to be Systems Officer's Mate. No matter what Dubois says, that's your assignment, and I think that's going to be useful. I want you to take personal charge of the investigation into the power relays. Pick a work crew that you trust, and make sure you have an Espatier with you at all times.”

 “You want me to keep everyone else out of the loop?”

 “No, Midshipman. You will take no special precautions, and you will make sure that all paperwork is properly filed while you conduct the investigation. Stick rigorously to normal procedures.” A part of Marshall hated what he was doing, but Clarke simply nodded, immediately understanding what was being asked of him.

 “I guess I'm going to be the decoy again, then, sir,” he replied, with a nod. “I take it you will have no objection to my carrying a concealed firearm?”

 “None at all, Midshipman. In fact, I think such a step extremely wise.” He could hear footsteps coming towards them up the crawl-way, and said, “Tell nobody of your suspicions, and report any anomalous behavior on anyone's part to me at once. The safety of the ship and the completion of our mission could be depending on you.” Clapping his hand on the young man's shoulder, he added, “No pressure.”

Chapter 17

 The bridge was far more crowded than regulations usually permitted for the approach to the brown dwarf, anyone with an excuse present to watch the ship emerge from normal space. An unnamed star in the middle of nowhere, hitherto destined to be a footnote in the history books, and now two major stellar nations were on the verge of war because of it. Marshall looked around the bridge, Salazar standing next to Harper at the electronic warfare station, and Doyle replacing Ballard at the sensor controls, the fidgeting technician hovering over her shoulder, periodically reaching down to make minute adjustments to the pickups.

 “Four minutes to emergence,” Imoto said.

 “Very good, Midshipman,” Marshall replied. “You have the call. Deadeye, all hands to battle stations. I want to be ready for anything when we leave hendecaspace, up to and including a full-scale fleet action.”

 “Aye, sir,” Caine said, reaching for a headset. “Executive Officer to all hands. Battle stations. I say again, stand by your battle stations. This is no drill. Repeat, this is no drill.” Glancing behind her, she continued, “Report systems status to the Second Officer.”

 Marshall waited for the angry glare from Francis, standing by his side, but instead he simply offered Salazar a curt nod as the young officer walked over to the engineering station, throwing a control to bring a ship status report onto the holographic display, datapad in hand. All across the bridge, a low murmur of conversation rippled as the crewmen coordinated their emergence, getting the ship ready for action.

 If they fought, it would be war. The chances of destroying Waldheim outright were negligible, a tactical victory the best they could hope for. Allowing the enemy to take the first shot might give them the moral high ground, but that would be unimportant in the long run. He'd still have started the Second Interplanetary War. He looked around the bridge again, watched the command staff coolly at their posts, only Imoto showing a hint of emotion at the helm as he started to execute the emergence routine.

 “Come on, Engineering, give me a green light,” Salazar said. “You're way behind the rest.”

 “Dubois again,” Francis muttered. “Captain, permission to leave the bridge.”

 “Denied,” Marshall replied. “I want you here, Lieutenant. Pavel?”

 Nodding, a frustrated frown on his face, he replied, “All decks are cleared for action, sir. All systems ready, all bulkheads sealed. And I'll be having some words with Senior Lieutenant Dubois as soon as the screaming stops.”

 “I think I'd like to sit in on that,” Francis added.

 “Good cop, bad cop?” Salazar replied with a smile. “Anything's worth a try.”

 Marshall looked at the two of them, shaking his head before turning back to the viewscreen. He'd expected Francis to complain for days about being passed over for Second Officer. That he seemed to be getting closer to Salazar was a surprise, to say the least, and for a moment Caine's words from Leonov Station, about the command structure, echoed through his mind. He'd given Salazar the job because he was the best man for it, and unleashing his potential was already yielding dividends. One day, maybe soon, he was going to make a fine commander. But not today.

 “One minute to emergence, sir,” Imoto reported.

 “Deploy radiators as soon as we arrive in-system,” Marshall said. “Never mind a defensive posture. I want a firing solution on the Waldheim as soon as you can. Sensors, I want a full active sweep of local space once we emerge. Don't bother to hide it. They'll be expecting it anyway.”

 “Captain,” Salazar said, turning from his monitor, “May I recommend a more conciliatory approach? Technically, this is unclaimed territory, and we have no special rights here.”

 Shaking her head, Doyle said, “I disagree, sir. They could be waiting to ambush us as soon as we leave hendecaspace, ready to attack before we can orient ourselves. I would in their place.”

 “You're assuming that they want to start a war,” Francis replied. “That's a damn dangerous assumption to base our decisions on. Captain, this could escalate extremely quickly if we're not very careful. I recommend we hold back radiator deployment until the situation is more clear.”

 “Thirty-five seconds, Lieutenant,” Caine replied. “And if things are bad on the far end, that's time we simply won't have. Captain, I recommend we proceed as planned.”

 Nodding, Marshall said, “Deploy radiators on exit.” Turning to Francis, he said, “Don't worry, Lieutenant, Alamo won't fire first. But if they start a fight, we'll finish it.”

 “Ten seconds, sir,” Imoto said. “Random walk course prepared for immediate implementation upon exit.”

 “Negative,” Salazar said. “Build up some speed first, Midshipman, or we'll be a sitting duck when we enter the system. Go for a long burn, sixty seconds at full acceleration.”

 “You heard the man,” Marshall said. He paused, then added, “If sensors pick up anything in our way, don't wait for the order, Midshipman. Do what's necessary.”

 “Aye, sir,” the nervous Imoto replied. “Egress!”

 With a blinding blue flash, Alamo dived through a rip in the very fabric of reality to emerge into normal space, returning to its home dimension. The stars returned to the viewscreen as Alamo's radiator wings swept clear of the side of the ship, the laser cannon completing its final charging sequence. The refit had seen a significant increase in the power their main weapon could put out, and there was a part of Marshall that almost wanted to see how the new systems would perform in battle.

 Emergence was almost an anticlimax, as the ship soared into the unexplored system without hindrance, sensors rushing to gather all the data they could. Francis moved to join the double-act at the monitoring station, peering at the displays.

 “Threat warning!” Doyle said. “Waldheim, sir, dead ahead.” She frowned, then added, “Not on an intercept course, sir. I don't understand her trajectory.”

 “Show me,” Marshall said, and the ship appeared on the screen, instantly flicking to maximum magnification. The engine complex was burning white-hot, systems overloading in a desperate attempt to gain distance, but the trajectory plot showed the ship barely moving, tied to some invisible force that was holding it back, preventing it from making its escape. He looked across at Caine, who shook her head.

 “They've got bigger problems than us right now, Danny,” she said. Frowning, she added, “Midshipman, change your course. We're heading directly for them, and that's the last place we want to go.”

 “Trying, ma'am,” Imoto said. “That's not the course I programmed.”

 “Pavel, take the helm,” Marshall said, and Salazar raced across the bridge, sliding into the vacated pilot's position, running his hands across the controls. “Alter course. I want to keep well clear of whatever is happening over there.”

 “We're in a gravity field, Captain,” Salazar said. “Doyle, check these readings. They can't be right.” Reaching down to a bank of switches, he added, “Moving to full power, sir, maximum acceleration. Tell Dubois that I might need more in a minute, but I think I can keep us at this distance.”

 “Singularity, sir!” Doyle replied. “That's all it can be. The sensors are having a nightmare tracking it, but there's a field of intense gravity dragging Waldheim down.” Shaking her head, she said, “They can't maintain that level of acceleration for long, not without a burnout.”

 “Bowman, contact General Estrada, and inform him that Alamo is ready to provide any assistance needed to evacuate that ship.”

 Turning to the rear, Salazar said, “Get Corporal Burgess up here, on the double.”

 “The UN technician we rescued?” Marshall asked.

 “I can't think of anyone on board who knows Waldheim better than him. He's an engine specialist.” Shaking his head, Salazar added, “I think I'm going to have to shoot for a high orbit, Captain. We're not going to break away, not at this stage.”

 Nodding, Caine said, “And lucky to do that. Danny, I don't know if there's anything we can do for Waldheim without falling into the hole ourselves.”

 “There are eight hundred people on that ship,” Doyle said. “We can't just write them off as lost.”

 “You were happy enough to see them shot out of the sky a moment ago,” Caine rebutted.

 “Signal, sir,” Bowman replied. “Faint, voice only. Minimal power.”

 “They're throwing everything they've got to the engines,” Marshall replied, nodding. “That's a game they can't play for very long. Put the General on the overhead speaker.”

 A second later, the voice of Estrada barked, “Waldheim to Alamo. Recommend you go to maximum acceleration to reach escape vector, at once. Don't come any closer, and don't try and do something foolish. We're falling into the well, and there's nothing we can do about it.”

 “General,” Marshall said, looking at Salazar, “if you can execute a slingshot maneuver, you might be able to reach a hendecaspace point and get clear of the system.”

 “That's what we were trying when you arrived,” Estrada said. “I'm going to load all of our information onto a shuttle. There's a chance it might be able to fight its way clear.” He paused, then added, “I've got no way of enforcing this demand, but that shuttle will also have last messages from my crew to their families.”

 “I'll see they get back to Sol, General, as well as any information you've gathered up to this point. It seems only fair.” Turning to Caine, he asked, “Is there anything we can do?”

 “I don't see what,” she replied. “We can accelerate faster than they can, but that will only help us up to a point. Even if we could get close enough for crew transfer, Alamo can't hold that many people.” She paused, then added, “We might be able to take some shuttles, if they want to risk the flyby.”

 “Save yourselves, Alamo,” Estrada said. “And good luck. You're going to need it more than we do, I think.” As the channel broke, a series of lights winked onto the screen, and Marshall rose from his chair, turning to the sensor station.

 “Waldheim just lost thirty percent of her thrust, Captain,” a morose Doyle said. “They're slipping, and fast. I don't think they have a chance of breaking away now.” Shaking her head, she continued, “Maybe they never did.”

 “Can you estimate a time to entry into...whatever it is?”

 “One minute, sir.” She paused, then added, “Waldheim has launched her shuttle, sir, on a wide trajectory.” Her eyes widened, and she continued, “They're running her hotter than anything I've ever seen. She's pulling twenty gravities. If there was anyone on board...”

 The elevator doors opened, and Burgess walked onto the bridge, followed by Ensign Rhodes, his eyes widening as he saw Waldheim on the viewscreen, falling into the gravitational abyss, still burning her engines as hard as she could in a last, desperate hope that they might win the war against Newton, break the cold equations that were dragging her down to her doom.

 “No!” Burgess yelled, stepping forward.

 “There's nothing we can do, Corporal,” Francis said, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

 “Forty seconds, sir,” Doyle said, and all eyes on the bridge turned to the viewscreen, watching as the mighty dreadnought seemed to slide backwards, falling into the darkness beyond, into something that the monitor was unable to resolve, a pit that light itself could not escape. Frowning, Francis leaned over the sensor station, tapping a series of commands into the computer, the only man not enraptured by the view on display.

 For an instant, Waldheim's engines flared, arresting the fall into death, her engineers finding one last, brief spasm of power to run through the overstressed systems, but it could only last for a few seconds, and despite the best efforts of her helmsman, the ship continued its descent, the trajectory plot showing a terminal end at any time. Eight hundred people were on board that vessel, eight hundred lives about to be snuffed out.

 Marshall looked around the bridge, at Caine, Salazar, Doyle, hoping that someone would have the insight he lacked, would think of some way to save the situation, rescue the doomed ship, but only sorrowful silence met his gaze, and he turned back to the screen just in time to see Waldheim alter course, turning on her thrusters to meet the singularity nose on, now diving towards it at full speed, as though unwilling to cheat death any longer, opting instead to meet it with resolve, rather than fear. The end was inevitable, and swift, and the ship vanished from the display, winking out into nonexistence.

 “My God,” Caine said, speaking for them all. “All sensor contact lost.” She paused, then said, “Pavel, we're slipping.”

 “I know, I know,” Salazar said, reaching for a control. “Dubois, I need more power, I need it now, and I don't want to hear any more damned excuses!” He tapped a button, unwilling to wait for the reply, and nodded as the engines surged, Alamo's hull rumbling from the increased acceleration, carefully balancing the systems to avoid an overload from the increased power. “Tricky, sir. I'm running at one-oh-five, and that's just breaking even.” Shaking his head, he added, “According to the specifications, we should be able to do that for a few days without too much trouble, but if we have one brownout, we're dead.”

 “Doyle, I want you to start working on an escape trajectory,” Marshall replied. “If we stay in our current orbit, we ought to be able to get to a hendecaspace point in relatively short order. Assuming we don't have any systems failures, Alamo can leave the system in six days minus.”

 “Confirmed,” Salazar said. “I don't like putting this much strain on the engines, though, sir. Especially not with a saboteur on the loose.”

 Nodding, Marshall turned to Rhodes, standing at parade rest by the elevator, and said, “Ensign, I want your men on round-the-clock duty guarding all critical power and engine systems. Don't leave them unguarded for a second, and I want patrols of the lower decks also. Liaise with Lieutenant Salazar and Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo.”

 Frowning, Rhodes replied, “Not Senior Lieutenant Dubois?”

 “I'm sure our Systems Officer will have his hands full keeping the power overload balanced,” Marshall said, attempting to be diplomatic. “Naturally, I expect you to keep him informed of any progress.”

 “Understood, sir. I'll get on it right away.”

 “Waldheim's shuttle is clear, sir,” Caine said. “She's on her way in our direction, but she must have totally empty fuel tanks. That means an intercept at some point.” Turning to Marshall, she replied, “We can't risk the ship.”

 “A shuttle could make it,” Harper said. “Stripped down, with a small crew and additional fuel tanks. If we get started right away, we could have a ship ready for the intercept window.”
 “By all means, Lieutenant, make it happen,” Marshall replied. “Doyle, I want all of your people conducting a full investigation of this phenomenon. We've never got this close to a singularity before, and I have a feeling that a return visit is going to be a tough sell to the Combined Chiefs, so gather all the information you can, and feel free to use any probes you wish to deploy.”

 “Captain,” Francis said, “I'd like permission to launch a missile.”

 “You want to attack the singularity?” Caine asked, raising an eyebrow.

 “Humor me, sir,” he said.

 “Very well,” Marshall replied. “Go ahead and fire a missile, Deadeye, right into the heart of the beast.” Turning to Francis, he asked, “Why not a probe?”

 “That'll be the next step, sir, but I want to prove a theory based on my examinations of the descent of Waldheim. The missile will do what we need.”

 Alamo rocked for a second as a missile raced clear of the ship, diving towards the invisible menace at the heart of the system. While it descended, Marshall glanced across at the strategic display. Local space had long ago been swept clean, only the presence of the singularity allowing the formation of hendecaspace points at all. This system was a hidden binary, and judging by the proximity of the brown dwarf its companion, not destined to remain one for long. In a few thousand years, the star would lose its battle, disappearing forever, to whatever nightmare Waldheim had discovered.

 The missile slid along his track, and Marshall shook his head as it dived to its doom. Monitor had been here, and Pioneer, and the other ships that Salazar had learned about on Leonov Station. And now Waldheim. Five different commanders had sat in his place, watching the witch in at the bottom of the well, and only one had lived to tell about it, a freighter captain who had the good sense to stay clear. At least that gave him some hope that they could survive all of this, could find a way to escape the system and return to normal space.

 Shaking her head, Caine said, “Retrieving that shuttle is going to be risky as hell, Danny, even with a modified shuttle. Are you sure it's worth it?”

 “Even with the information it holds,” Marshall replied, “explaining how Waldheim died is going to be a tough sell for our diplomats. You think the Combined Chiefs would believe a story like that with no corroborating evidence? I wouldn't.”

 “Missile approaching threshold, sir,” Doyle said. “And there it goes. Just like Waldheim.”

 Nodding, Francis replied, “That confirms it, sir. This can't be a singularity. I don't know what it is, but that's not a black hole. Otherwise we'd still be getting readings from the objects trapped within it.” Stepping over to the viewscreen, he continued, “That's a gateway, a portal. Waldheim went somewhere.” 

 Salazar added, “That's why they changed course at the last minute. They must have worked it out, decided to try and survive the passage.”

 “If it is a gateway,” Caine said, “where does it lead?”

 “I only know one way to find out,” Marshall said, “and I'm not that desperate to satisfy my curiosity.”

Chapter 18

 “See the wonders of the universe,” Corporal Hernandez groaned, holding up the flashlight for Clarke as the midshipman forced open a service panel. “Strange new worlds, unknown stars, alien civilizations. The recruiting poster never mentioned wandering through maintenance shafts. If I'd wanted to do this, I'd have gone to work with my father at Applied Mechanics.”

 Reaching into the bowels of the system, feeling his way along the cables with his magnetic glove, Clarke replied, “It could be a lot worse, Corporal. You could be the one getting grease all over his uniform. Make a notation that this conduit was improperly sealed, and that it needs to be a maintenance priority.” Passing his hand deeper inside, he said, “No circuit breaks, though.”

 “Maintenance priority,” Hernandez muttered, tapping a sequence of commands onto his datapad. “Twelve months of basic training, six months of advanced planetary combat training on Ragnarok, and believe me, it gets damn cold down there. Three years on Mariner Station working security, then NCO School. And after all of that, I'm sitting here with a flashlight and a datapad, looking for circuit breaks.”

 Pushing himself to his feet, Clarke brushed his hands on his coverall, then said with a smile, “Cheer up, Corporal. We've only got a hundred and ninety-four of these to go.” He walked down the crawlspace, hunched over, toolkit in his hands. “One deck up next, right by Elevator Control.”

 Shaking his head, Hernandez followed, tapping the pistol in his holster, replying, “I suppose it could be worse, at that. Most of the platoon is stuck on guard duty. Boring as hell.”

 “See,” Clarke replied. “They're wandering around the corridors, and you're having fun in the maintenance shafts with me.”

 “I think we've got different interpretations of that word.” The Espatier paused, then replied, “You've seen action, haven't you? Been in a real firefight?”

 “Too many times,” Clarke said, looking back at the trooper. “You haven't?”

 “Not for real,” he said. “I was meant to ship out on Alamo last time, but I got wounded during the last phase of our surface warfare training.” He patted his leg, and said, “Bad enough that this bone's mostly titanium, these days. By the time I'd recovered, the ship had left without me, and I ended up stuck on station security detail again.”

 “Given the casualty rate Alamo's Espatier platoon experienced last time, you might have been luckier than you think. What was it, seven out of thirty-two made it back?”

 “All of whom are now either Ensigns or Lance-Sergeants,” Hernandez replied. “That's not the point, though. I joined up to see some action.” Picking his way over a series of trailing cables, he continued, “I meant all that stuff about the recruiting poster. So far I've managed to miss the fight against the Cabal, and the Xandari War. I don't want to get left behind again.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Word is that the ship is heading out into deep space. Some sort of strange signals coming from out Altair way.”

 “You know better than me, then,” Clarke replied, pulling a hatch open to reveal the ladder beyond, a shaft seemingly dropping to infinity. “As far as I know, the Captain's still putting together the formal plan for the next phase of the mission. Assuming we don't get stuck out here for a while.”

 Following the young officer up the ladder, Hernandez replied, “You're close to the top brass, right? I mean, you're in a lot of the big staff meetings, and the word is on the ship that you're some sort of Intelligence operative. I know you couldn't talk about it...”

 “What's your point, Corporal?”

 “Well, I wondered if you could put in a good word for me with Ensign Rhodes. See if you can arrange for me and my boys to be in on the next ground mission. First Squad's the best in the platoon anyway.”

 “Then I'd imagine you have nothing to worry about.” He tugged at the lever to open the access-port to the upper deck, and cursed. “They've left the seals intact. This is going to take a minute.”

 “That's odd,” Hernandez replied. “They all should have been taken off before we left port.”

 “Remember that we left two weeks early, Corporal, but I agree with you, this should have been dealt with.” Tapping the panel, he added, “This is a vacuum release shaft. If we had a fire on this deck, with these seals in place, we'd have to organize a bucket brigade to deal with it.” He reached into his toolkit, pulling out a knife. “Old fashioned, but this will do the job for the moment. You'd better...”

 “Make a note that this section is a maintenance priority, and that a work team should be brought up here as soon as possible.” While he was poking his datapad, danging from the ladder by one hand, he added, “Why didn't you bring a real technician with you.”

 “Two reasons. First, the Captain seemed to think that I needed a bodyguard, and you're the best shot in the platoon. Second, everyone else is busy with the engines, making sure we don't have a burnout. One power fluctuation, and we go the same way as Waldheim.” Ripping away at the seals, he added, “These seals are recent. The adhesive's supposed to wear off in thirty days anyway. They're tough. Too tough.”

 “Then someone's trying to make this area look as though it hasn't been touched since the refit,” Hernandez said, shaking his head. “Maybe I should call in for backup.”

 “Not yet,” Clarke replied. “If it's just another case of sabotage to the power network, then we can handle it ourselves.” He paused, then said, “Check where the nearest guard patrol is, though. Just in case we need somebody in a hurry.” Finally, he ripped through the last of the seals, and the hatch slid open, revealing a shower of sparks beyond, cables dangling from the ceiling.

 “What a mess!” Hernandez said, shaking his head. Looking down at his datapad, he added, “Nearest patrol is five decks from here, ten compartments back, but they are heading in this direction anyway. Third Squad's Fire Team Bravo.”

 Reaching tentatively inside, Clarke fumbled for the emergency cutoff, tugging the lever into position and isolating the local power grid. The sparks ceased, and he cautiously clambered into the passageway, shaking his head as he saw the destruction that had been wreaked to the overhead systems. Power conduits had been torn and ruptured, as though by a madman, and fiber-optic cables littered the deck, shards scattered all around.

 “Something this serious should have shown up on the master damage control board,” Clarke said, shaking his head. “This isn't one severed connection. The primary feed is out across the entire deck.” Crawling forward, he looked up at a control relay, and said, “That's it. Someone's isolated the whole network. Rigged a temporary bypass.”

 “Temporary?” Hernandez asked.

 Nodding, Clarke said, “There's a time-delayed switch built into the system. At some point over the next few hours, it would have failed, and we'd have lost thrust. Enough to send us crashing down into whatever is out there.” Looking back at the remnants of the seal, he continued, “That hasn't been in position for more than a few days. Maybe even hours.”

 Turning back to the passage, Clarke peered into the gloom, and could see a figure lying in the darkness, slowly rolling to the side. Gesturing for Hernandez to follow him, he crawled over the tangled mess on the deck, making his way forward to the prone man on the ground. Behind him, he could hear the trooper already calling in for a medical team. Peering down to the gloom, Clarke confirmed his suspicion.

 “Dubois,” he said. “Call it in, Corporal. We've found Senior Lieutenant Dubois, and he's in a critical condition.” Looking down his body, he added, “Severe burns on his hands and face, and difficulty breathing.”

 “Right,” Hernandez said. “I guess we finally found our saboteur.”

 While the trooper continued his report, Clarke looked around, shaking his head, trying to work out what was missing. He glanced back at the dangling cables, then back at the trembling figure of the engineer. A toolkit was further up the passage, equipment scattered across the deck, as though it had been tossed clear in haste.

 “Medic's on the way,” Hernandez reported. “Two minutes. Someone was close by.”

 Shaking his head, Clarke tipped Dubois into the recovery position, and said, “This doesn't make sense. For all his sins, Dubois isn't stupid enough to do something like this, not and get himself half-killed in the process.”

 “If the sabotage had worked, we'd have been dead anyway,” Hernandez said with a shrug. “Maybe he didn't expect to get off the ship in time, now that Waldheim is out of the picture.”

 “Maybe,” Clarke said, unconvinced. He looked down at Dubois, shook his head again, and said, “I don't think he's going to make it. If he got burned from the power conduit, God knows what happened to his internal organs. We don't even have a medical kit up here.” He gestured at the wall, then said, “Never fitted.”

 “Anything about this ship work right?” Hernandez asked. From behind them, Clarke heard the sound of someone climbing the ladder, and the trooper pulled out his sidearm, aiming it into the shadows. “Identify yourself!”

 “Technical Officer Blake, you moron, and if you don't want a medic, just say so.”

 Holstering his pistol, a chastened Hernandez said, “Sorry.”

 “Don't apologize,” Blake replied. “Just focus that paranoia on someone other than me.” Climbing to the deck, she looked at Dubois, and said, “Corporal, call in and chase up the follow-up team. There should be an emergency party a few minutes behind me.” Looking at Clarke, she continued, “You're damn lucky I was on my way to the hangar deck when this kicked off. Though I guess the shuttle's going to have the launch without us.”

 “Us?” he asked.

 She looked up from her patient, and said, “We're both supposed to be on the team heading out to the shuttle from Waldheim. I was paged ten minutes ago. Didn't you get the message?”

 “No, I didn't,” Clarke said, reaching for his communicator. He frowned, playing with the controls, and said, “No signal. None at all. Corporal?”

 “Mine's just died,” the trooper replied. “Full strength to no strength, in a split-second. More sabotage, equipment failure from one of the signal boosters? We're pretty deep inside the ship.”

 “Not that deep,” Clarke said, pulling out his pistol. He took a step down the corridor, carefully passing the prone Dubois, and added, “Guard the rear, Corporal. I'm going to take a look. There something about this I don't like.”

 “I think Dubois will agree with you,” Blake said. “He's dead.” With a frown, she said, “Corporal, hold that torch up again. On his neck.”

 “Sure,” Hernandez said.

 “Thought so,” the medic replied. “The burns didn't kill him. Someone's injected him in the neck. Could be any one of a hundred drugs.” Looking at the dead man's hands, she said, “Those burns are pretty damned extensive.”

 “And why would he work on the cables without gloves, anyway? Even if he'd temporarily isolated the power, he wouldn't take that sort of risk.” Moving down the passage, he continued, “There's a shaft opening directly into Elevator Control, a hundred meters away. We need to move.”

 “But…,” Hernandez began.

 “Our communications are out, and I'd bet that someone has knocked out the repeaters on this deck to isolate us. Elevator Control is a priority area, especially during an alert. We can call the bridge from there.” Looking back at the cables, he added, “Then come back to clean up the mess and deal with the body.”

 “Wait a minute,” Blake said, fumbling in her medical kit. “I want to get a blood sample.”

 “We don't have a minute,” Clarke protested.

 “The compounds will degrade if I don't,” Blake replied. “I'll only be a moment. Cover me.”

 Shaking his head, Clarke watched impatiently as Clarke stabbed a needle into the dead man, drawing out a sample of blood from his arm. Behind them, Hernandez looked on, pistol in hand, nervously looking into the gloom. With the main power systems out in this part of the ship, they were reliant on the dim emergency lighting, far from sufficient to ward off the fears of what might be lurking just out of sight.

 “Done,” Blake said, and Clarke wasted no time in rushing down the corridor, trusting that the others would be right behind him. A part of him hated to leave Dubois' body behind, suspecting that it would be some time before anyone would return to deal with it, but they had to warn the Captain that the saboteur remained at large, and that he had been emboldened more than ever. If another power conduit failed, then the results to Alamo would be disastrous.

 Dropping his toolkit, he reached for his pistol, gently tugging it free of his holster as he made his way to the end of the passage, the hatch to the lower level seeming beckoning him on. For a moment, he thought they were going to make it without interference, but the all-too-familiar crack of a bullet flying through the air beside him dispelled his brief hopes, forcing him to drop to the deck, firing a wild shot into the darkness.

 “Damn, damn, damn!” Hernandez said. “Shoulder.”

 “Let me take a look at that,” Blake replied. “Not good. We've got to get you to sickbay.”

 “First firefight, and the bastard takes me down with his first shot,” the trooper said, grasping with the pain. “I'm never going to live it down.”

 “Give me a hand,” Blake said, gesturing at Clarke.

 Shaking his head, he looked into the darkness, and replied, “Sorry, I've got work to do. You should be able to find someone down there to give you a hand. Call Ensign Rhodes, and have him send a squad after me as fast as he can, and to double the guard on the upper propulsion decks. Our friend the saboteur is heading in that direction.” Taking a step forward, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

 “You can't go out there by yourself,” she said.

 “Hernandez has to get to sickbay as fast as he can. I've got to track that saboteur before he gets lost in the tunnels.” Looking back at her, he added, “If he can wreck something more critical, we're all dead anyway. Just make sure the cavalry is riding to the rescue.” Shrugging off her hand, he crawled off into the darkness, quickly losing sight of his comrades to the rear, the only light from the flashlight in his hand. There were a million places a man could lose himself in this tangle of tunnels and shafts, and he had to guess right, or everyone on the ship would pay the price for his mistake.

Chapter 19

 Technicians swarmed across the shuttle under Lombardo's direction, checking that the ungainly fuel tanks strapped to the rear were secure, that the connections to the main engines were correct, and that the emergency thrusters fitted underneath the stubby wings were properly fitted. There had been no time for double-checks, no time for anything other than the minimum of preparation, and if they were going to meet their window of opportunity to intercept Waldheim's shuttle, they had to move quickly.

 Harper walked across the deck towards her ship, Midshipman Siegel behind her, with Corporal Burgess, the nearest they had to an expert, following at the rear. McCormack looked on with a scowl, having lost the battle to take the shuttle out herself, Marshall finally threatening that if she did, Salazar would be given command of the squadron in her absence, a temporary transfer that might become permanent.

 Shaking her head as she climbed into the cockpit, she looked around, searching in vain for the rest of her team. Lombardo, noting her glance, replied with a shrug as he jumped from the top of the shuttle, knees bending as he landed on the deck.

 “I did page them both,” he said. “Twice. We're getting reports of some intermittent problems with the internal communications system, though. I tried contacting Dubois, but I couldn't get through.” With a shrug, he added, “I sent Kowalski and a few of my boys to take a look. Probably faster, anyway.”

 “Don't worry about Dubois,” Harper replied. “The Captain will deal with him soon enough. I'd get ready for his replacement.”

 “As long as he doesn't try and give me the job,” Lombardo said. “You going to manage, two people light?”

 Siegel looked nervously at Harper, and said, “I can fly the shuttle, ma'am.”

 “Sure, kid, but you don't have to,” Murphy replied, snatching a flight suit from the locker under the withering gaze of McCormack. “I'll take the bird into the sky for you, Kris. Never going to turn down a chance to log some more flight time.”

 “Lieutenant Murphy,” McCormack said. “May I remind you that we are on ready-alert, and that you might be needed for more important duties at a moment's notice? Your place is in the crew room, ready to lead your flight into battle.”

 Preempting the argument, Harper pulled out her communicator, and said, “Hangar Deck to Alamo Actual. Skipper, do you mind if I borrow Lieutenant Murphy? Midshipman Clarke is out of communication at the moment, somewhere on the lower decks, and my watch says we need to launch in the next hundred and fifty seconds.”

 “Good idea, Lieutenant,” Marshall replied. “You want me to send down another medic?”

 “After the acceleration that shuttle pulled, Captain, anyone on board won't need a paramedic, they'll need a priest. Murphy will be fine.” At a nod from Lombardo, she continued, “We're all ready down here.”

 “Then you have clearance to launch at your discretion, Lieutenant. Don't take any unnecessary risks. If you can't reach your target, turn around and come back home. We'll think of something else if we have to, and I'll probably need you to pull it off. Understand?”

 “No risks, sir. Sounds like my sort of mission. We'll contact you when we get to the target. Harper out.” Glancing at Murphy, she said, “Let's go. Siegel, you take the engineering console in the rear. I'll fly right-seat.”

 “Yes, ma'am,” the nervous midshipman replied, eagerly moving to her position in the passenger cabin, flashing a quick glance at Burgess, who silently followed on board. As Harper walked past him, she caught a brief glimpse of the anguish running across his face. Eight hundred of his comrades, his friends, had just vanished, probably died, and there had been nothing he could do to save them. And the only way he could preserve their legacy was to work with what he considered the enemy. She couldn't imagine what he was going through, and didn't really want to try.

 Sliding into the co-pilot's couch, she watched the cool Murphy at the controls, running through the final stages of the pre-flight sequence as the shuttle began its descent through the elevator airlock, out into the cold depths of space beyond, and more importantly, the eternal pull of the anomaly. Waldheim's shuttle had managed to gain enough speed to throw it into a high orbit, at least for a time, but their best projections showed that it would be drawn down to its doom within only a handful of passes. Matching course and speed would be tricky, and would force them into the same, desperate trajectory.

 Glancing at the status board, Harper shook her head with a smile. She'd never seen a shuttle so heavily-laden with fuel, with so many emergency thrusters bolted onto the side. Lombardo had emptied the stores to give them this chance, though that also meant that should something go wrong, they'd have no hope of rescue. There simply wouldn't be time for a recovery craft to be modified to retrieve them.

 “Ten seconds to full acceleration,” Murphy said. “Hang on, everyone. I'm going to have to burn her red-hot if we're going to make our appointment. Kris, stand-by on the emergency thruster release. I'll be using those first to lighten the ship as much as we can. Same with the supplementary fuel tanks. By the time we complete the trip out, I'd say we'll be back to a normal configuration.”

 “All engineering systems are ready!” Siegel said, evidently relieved that she had not been called upon to take the helm. “Hull stress sensors are green.”

 “Glad to hear it,” Murphy replied. “Full boost, now.”

 As soon as the shuttle dropped away, the fighter pilot threw the throttles to full-open, and the engines roared into life, the force of the acceleration pushing them back into their couches, making it an effort to reach the controls. On the viewscreen, the navigational computer was struggling to cope with the unfamiliar sensor data, the usually-reliable trajectory plot instead a thin dotted line, waving back and forth as the system compensated for the intense gravitational field at the heart of the system. One that, on this course, they were voluntarily heading towards.

 “First thruster, away,” Harper said, tapping a control, an empty booster rocket falling behind them as they roared on, the acceleration growing as the ship lightened. “First fuel tank, away.”

 “Good,” Murphy replied. “She's riding smooth, now. Steady on course.” The pilot's hands danced across the controls with precision as she tweaked their trajectory, keeping them stable on their path to the shuttle ahead. Reaching across to the engineering panel, Harper fired a few intrusion programs at their target, attempting to handshake with the other system. There was a still a chance that actually boarding the shuttle would be unnecessary.

 “Any luck?” Murphy asked, glancing across from her systems for a moment.

 “No,” Harper replied, shaking her head in frustration. “Full encryption pattern, and they're using their latest codes. I can crack it given time, but we're talking days, not minutes.” A frown spread across her face, and she added, “I think I can detect the work of Colonel Cruz here. You'd have thought they would have made it nice and easy for us to obtain the data.” For a brief second, a triumphant smile flashed across her face as she discovered a cache of uncoded data, only to be dispelled when she realized what she had found.

 “Nothing useful?” Murphy asked.

 “Last letters from the crew,” Harper replied. “I'm setting up a datalink to Alamo. I'll dump them in a dead-end database and go over them when we get back. Half of them probably have all sorts of coded messages embedded, but I'll be damned if I stop any real messages getting back to their families. We'll find some way to transmit them, somehow.” Shaking her head, she said, “They've really dug this in deep.”

 “Will you be able to access the information when we get to the shuttle? If you can't extract it now, then...”

 “Give me five minutes and Siegel's help, and I'll rip out the damn memory modules. Once we get them back to Alamo, I'll have all the time in the world to process the data, and crack the latest UN codes into the bargain. We might actually get something useful out of this yet.”

 Nodding, Murphy said, “On trajectory. Drop the second pair of thrusters, and stand by on the second fuel tank.” She frowned, then added, “We're using them faster than I'd hoped. I think we're getting a greater pull from the anomaly.” Shaking her head, she added, “Can its gravitational field be increasing? I didn't think that was possible.”

 “More likely that our initial readings were wrong,” Harper replied. “We're still gathering data from the probe network.” She reached for a control, and said, “Shuttle One to Alamo. Can I speak to Lieutenant Doyle?”

 “Sorry, Kris,” Salazar replied after a moment. “She's not on the bridge, and I can't get through to her down in Astrogation. We're still having trouble with our interior communications, and we still can't get in contact with Dubois about fixing it.”

 “That sounds...”

 “I know, I know,” he said. “We're on full alert over here, and I think we'll be going to battle stations in a matter of minutes. I'm watching you on the monitors, and it looks to me as though you're going to be marginal. I recommend you consider aborting the mission.”

 “What do you think, Jess?” Harper asked, turning to the pilot.

 “We're only going to get one shot at this,” she replied. “I'd hate to give up until we have to. Right now, we've still got enough of a safety margin to make it there and back with some fuel to spare.” Glancing at Harper, she said, “Let's give it a try.”

 “I heard that,” Salazar replied. “Just be careful. The latest updates from our sensors don't look promising. If we have to gather the data ourselves, we will. Keep us posted. Alamo out.”

 “You think he's worrying too much?” Harper asked, jettisoning the third set of thrusters.

 Shaking her head, Murphy replied, “I just hope we're worrying enough. They may have better data than we do. Though the telemetry feed from that shuttle alone ought to be worth the risk. More information than we could get from a dozen probes.” Looking down at her display, she said, “That's it. We're now on a course that will see us dive into the anomaly unless we change it. Intercept on target in sixty-seven seconds. Just as advertised.”

 “I hope so,” Harper said, redoubling her efforts with the electronic warfare systems, trying to find a way to infiltrate the target's database. Even at range, she'd be able to suck all of the information free in less than a minute, remaining at a safe distance. She didn't have to make any changes, just copy the information.

 “Final fuel tanks, jettison,” Murphy said, and there was a rattle from the hull as Harper worked the release mechanism, the acceleration jumping for a second before the pilot pulled back on the throttle, bringing the engines down from the red-line. “Now we've just got the load-out the manufacturer gave us.”

 “Engines still running fine,” Siegel reported from the rear. “Stress on the hull is well within safe margins, all systems nominal.”

 “Let's hope they stay that way,” Harper replied. “Corporal, stand by at the airlock if you can. You might have to engage the docking clamps manually, and I don't want to waste a second.”

 Silently, the orphaned Waldheim crewman nodded, pushing himself out of his couch with an effort and walking over to the airlock, grabbing the control panel and starting the command sequence. Harper turned back to the viewscreen, the slender shape of the UN shuttle just visible at maximum magnification, the trajectory plot showing them gliding into an uncertain intercept.

 Sweat was building on Murphy's forehead as she carefully adjusted their course, working with the struggling navigation computer to guide them to the target, knowing that if they were as much as a meter out of position, they'd have to abort and return to Alamo without their prey. Harper looked at the fuel readouts, frowning again as they ate into the reserves they'd hoped to use to get home. Based on their projections, they should still have enough, but it was looking more and more marginal by the second.

 And over in the far corner of the screen, she could almost see the anomaly, or at least, sense its presence. A black disk that blotted out any star that approached it, from which light itself could not escape. It might not be a singularity, but for all intents and purposes, it was the same manner of trap. So far, five ships had vanished inside, and none had returned to tell the tale.

 “Twenty seconds to docking,” Murphy said. “Stand by, Corporal.”

 “I'm ready,” Burgess replied.

 The shuttle was growing closer now, Murphy firing brief pulses on the thrusters to settle them into position, warning alarms sounding to alert them that they were closing too rapidly, that they needed to slow down, ease into position. They didn't have the time, had to ignore the usual safety checks, and dive right in on the first try.

 “Five seconds. Hold on.”

 “Ready on thrusters,” Harper said, hovering over the controls. The computer should be able to handle the fine details of the approach, but she still preferred to be ready for any unforeseen eventuality, especially with the anomaly still close by, dragging them down. Finally, Murphy cut the throttle, and the two shuttles slammed into each other, a series of ringing jolts from the side hatch as the clamps locked into position.

 “Now that is how we do that,” Murphy said with a grin, throwing off her restraints. “We've got six minutes before we have to head back to Alamo. I'm going to see if there's any fuel at all left over there, siphon it off into our tanks. Even topping up our thrusters might make the difference.”

 “Hatch ready,” Burgess said. “I'm getting a green light on the environment over there. Life support seems to be working fine. We're clear to proceed at your discretion.”

 Nodding, Harper walked to the hatch, toolkit in hand, and turned to Siegel, “Midshipman, as soon as we get on board, get all sensor systems operational, and start a full data-dump back to Alamo. When this ship drops into the anomaly, we'll get some great data from the last few seconds of descent. Then assist Lieutenant Murphy with the fuel transfer.”

 “Understood, ma'am,” Siegel replied.

 “Then let's get this over with,” Harper said, stepping into the airlock, releasing the outer door with the manual control, lever snapping into place. Lights snapped on as she stepped into the other shuttle, revealing a deceptively empty cabin beyond. The place felt eerie, as though the crew had just left for a moment, the signs of hasty activity all around as the now-lost launch team had worked to prepare the ship for an escape they couldn't share. Scrawled on the wall with some sort of chalk, she read, “Remember Us,” and shook her head.

 Siegel moved past her, heading for the cockpit, and Burgess looked up at the scrawl on the wall, eyes not moving, fixed on the last message left by his shipmates. Shaking her head again, Harper walked to the rear of the cabin, tugging the inspection hatch free, revealing the bulky memory modules beyond. Only one of them was required to operate the shuttle's systems for the descent, the remainder free to take back to Alamo.

 “Got some fuel!” Murphy yelled. “Not much, but it might make all the difference.”
 “I hope so,” Harper replied, struggling with the catch. “Corporal, give me a hand.” Burgess looked on for a moment, and she added, “Corporal, your friends spent their last seconds making sure we had access to this information. Give me a hand.” He nodded, kneeling beside her, reaching to unclip the cables at the rear. The first module came free with a worrying snap, and a series of red lights flooded the status monitors, protesting the removal of the storage unit.

 “One down, nine to go,” Harper said, shaking her head. “Midshipman, how are you doing with the sensors?”

 “Coming on-line now, ma'am,” she replied. “Full resolution in a minute. There won't be enough power to last for long, though.”

 “We shouldn't need it,” Harper said. “Less than an hour will be more than enough.”

 As she reached down to the second module, she heard a familiar alert from the front, and turned to look at the sensor display flooding the viewscreen, a new contact appearing ahead of them, worryingly close. Her eyes widened as she realized what it was.

 “Dimensional instability!” Siegel yelled. “Close to us, ma'am, and big! Bigger than any I've ever seen!”

 “Hurry,” Harper said, turning to Burgess. They tugged free the second module, placing it next to the first, as the fabric of reality started to rip all around them, a ship preparing to come through, as large as a dreadnought. She glanced at the Corporal, knowing what he was thinking, that his first allegiance still lay with the United Nations Fleet, and that it would be his duty to do anything possible to see that the data reached the new arrival, rather than Alamo. Reluctantly, Harper's fingers reached down to her holster, as Siegel turned from the display.

 “Capital ship, Lieutenant!”

 “Whose, Midshipman?”

 Looking up at the monitor, she replied, “Republic! Fleet Carrier Dingyuan, ma'am, and she's at battle stations!”

 Glancing at Burgess, Harper said, “Looks like we're still friends, Corporal. At least for the moment.”

Chapter 20

 “Confirmed, sir,” Ballard said, turning from her station. “Fleet Carrier Dingyuan has entered the system in an aggressive posture, and has opened its fighter launch tubes. We can expect a squadron to be in the air at any minute.”

 Salazar turned to Marshall, and said, “Captain, we've got to scramble our fighters right away. We'll be pushing it to intercept before they can catch the shuttle as it us.” Looking up at the sensor display, he added, “Optimum launch time is only three minutes away.”

 Shaking her head, Caine said, “Without boosters, and with that deep a gravity well, you'll never make it, Pavel, and you know it.” She frowned, and added, “The commander of that ship has to...”

 “They aren't operating under the same limitations,” Salazar pressed. “We have to assume that they know what they are facing, and that they've taken the appropriate precautions. They'll already have modified their fighters for the environment.” Looking at the viewscreen, he added, “We can make good use of that, Captain. They'll be slow, hard to maneuver, easy to bring down.”

 “I've got a response from Dingyuan, sir, text only,” Bowman reported. “They order us to permit them to recover the shuttle, and to prepare to leave the system at the first opportunity. Apparently they have annexed this area into the Lunar Republic, based on prior discovery.”

 “I thought they were supposed to be our allies,” Imoto said, shaking his head.

 “Sometimes, Midshipman, the enemy of our enemy remains our enemy,” Marshall replied. “Deadeye, how long before they're in position to launch a strike against us?”

 “Less than twelve minutes, Danny. They'd have to sacrifice their fighters to pull it off, though. I'm not sure they could recover the crews.” Frowning, she added, “We've had some technical intelligence reports suggesting that they've been working on drone fighters lately. Maybe they don't need to worry about bringing their birds home.”

 “Status of the shuttle?” Marshall asked.

 “Lieutenant Harper reports that they have disengaged from the target and are on their way home at maximum acceleration,” Bowman said.

 Shaking her head, Ballard added, “There's no way they'll make it, Captain. I'm picking up a launch from Dingyuan, looks like a modified search and rescue shuttle. They'll be on them long before they get back to Alamo.”

 “They don't need to rescue the crew,” Francis said. “Just take the memory banks, siphon the fuel and return to their ship. Then abandon them to their fate.” Turning to Marshall, he added, “And if they destroy us here, there will be no evidence of the battle. The anomaly will sweep the system clean for them, debris, escape pods and all, and we'll be written off as just another lost ship.”

 “Assuming they don't shift the blame to the United Nations,” Marshall added. “Midshipman, alter our trajectory to allow our fighters the optimum intercept window. Without adversely affecting our orbital track, of course.”

 “Aye, sir,” Imoto said, frowning. “I can't do much, Captain, not within those parameters.”

 “I'm aware of that,” he replied. “Ballard, has Dingyuan moved to launch their fighters?”

 “No, sir, not yet, but their launch tubes are ready for an immediate scramble. We might only have a few seconds' warning.” Turning up to her monitor, she continued, “Missile tubes are open and ready, though, sir. They're certainly ready to back up their claim to the system.”

 Nodding, Marshall glanced at Bowman, and said, “Spaceman, connect me to Dingyuan. They might not acknowledge it, but they'll damn well hear me.”

 “Aye, sir,” the communications technician replied. “You're on, sir, by laser tight-beam.”

 “This is Fleet Captain Daniel Marshall of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo. You are intruding on a system claimed by the Triplanetary Confederation, and your ship is currently on an intercept course with one of our shuttles. I will agree to a mutual withdrawal and exchange of scientific information, if our shuttle is allowed to proceed unmolested. If I do not receive your acceptance of these terms in the next sixty seconds, I will be forced to initiate hostile action.”

 “They've gone far enough that I doubt they'll reply,” Caine said. “Should I go to battle stations?”

 Marshall paused for a moment, then nodded, replying, “Do it.”

 “Sir,” Salazar said, “our squadron is short one flight leader. I doubt McCormack will like it very much, but...”

 “No point leaving one of our birds in the nest, Lieutenant. Go.”

 Salazar barely waited for the order before racing for the elevator, slamming the control to send him speeding down to the hangar bay, overriding all other priorities. As Caine called the crew to action stations over the speakers, he tugged out his datapad, hastily scanning over the tactical display, the updated feeds of the fighter's trajectory plots winking into existence as orders flashed down from the bridge.

 McCormack might be annoying, but she knew her stuff, plotting a conservative assault profile, keeping everything as simple as she could. Fighting in a gravity well was tough enough at the best of time, but with a field as great as the anomaly, they'd have to keep their engines running at maximum all the time just to keep ahead of the game.

 The elevator stopped, doors opening onto the hangar deck, and Lombardo tossed a helmet and flight jacket to him as soon as he walked into the bay. He snatched them from the air, as a fuming McCormack stormed towards him, her face red from anger, the ubiquitous Bryant standing behind her.

 “If you think you're going...”

 “I do,” Salazar said. “Orders from the Captain. We're not leaving a fighter sitting on the deck when there's a pilot ready to take her up.” Turning to two of the pilots, the members of Murphy's flight, he added, “Hadley, Ivanovich, you're with me.” 

 “Flight assignments...”

 “All fighters, immediate launch,” Caine's voice said, echoing from the overhead speakers, immediately bringing the argument to an end. “All fighters, scramble, scramble, scramble.”

 “They're singing our song,” Salazar said, shrugging on the jacket as he raced for Murphy's abandoned fighter, the rest of the pilots making for their ships, McCormack loitering for a second as though contemplating another retort before finally deciding to obey the launch order, the delay making her the last to reach her cockpit.

 As the canopy dropped into position above him, Salazar ran his hands over the control systems, running through the abbreviated pre-launch checklist as the fighter began to drop into the elevator airlock, ready for launch. He settled a hand on the throttle, ready to throw the engines to full power as soon as they dropped clear of the ship, and watched as the sensor data streamed down from the bridge onto his monitor, a trajectory track racing towards their distant targets. 

 “Leader to Alamo,” McCormack said. “Request weapons free.”

 “Negative,” Marshall replied, his voice speaking to every cockpit in the squadron. “Fire only on my order or if they fire first. Do not, repeat not, take the first shot. If we can get away without starting a war today, we're going to do it. Orders to proceed as close as you can to the shuttle and escort it back to the base.” He paused, then added, “Don't do anything crazy. That includes you, Pavel.”

 A smile spread across his face as the fighter reached the lower hatch, finally dropping clear of the ship as they opened, the centrifugal force of Alamo's rotation tossing him clear. He threw the throttles full open, diving onto trajectory, not waiting for the rest of the squadron to settle into formation. He looked down at the display, nodding as he saw the other members of his flight follow him, the first to reach cold vacuum.

 “Red Leader to Red Flight,” he said. “Form on me, arrowhead formation, and keep your engines at full. Watch your trajectories and your fuel readouts, and as soon as you drop to sixty percent, turn for home regardless of the tactical situation. I don't care if you've got a ship in your sights, get back to Alamo when your fuel passes the red line. We can't retrieve you if you drop too low.” He paused, then added, “And by the same logic, don't bail out. It's a one way trip to Hell if you do.”

 He looked down at the sensor display, watching as the rest of the squadron emerged from the ship, McCormack the last to leave at the rear of the formation, taking a position at the heart of Bryant's Green Flight. His two wingmen sped to catch up with him, running their engines hot in a bid to catch up.

 “Cut that out, Red Flight,” he said. “Save fuel. Limit yourselves to one-oh-two on the engines unless you don't have a choice. With a gravity well this deep, we don't have the time for fancy flying formations. Concentrate on the enemy.” He paused, then added, “Red Leader to Alamo...”

 “Flight Leader to Red Leader. Pass all messages to Alamo through me.”

 “For interest,” Caine replied, “Dingyuan has launched her fighters. Twelve birds in the air, heading for an intercept course. We can't tell whether or not they've gone weapons hot. Sending tactical schematics through to your systems now.”

 “Roger, Alamo, understood,” McCormack said. A light flashed on, and Salazar knew that they were on tight-beam, only he and the squadron leader able to hear each other. “Lieutenant, you are in this formation on sufferance, not by my choice, and I will not have my authority undermined. I hope that is perfectly clear.”

 “Ma'am, my board shows that we will be making contact with the enemy, if that's what they are, in six minutes. With all due respect, I think that we've got far better things to do than have a conversation about discipline.” Mustering all of the patience he could, he continued, “I strongly recommend that we adopt a double-wave formation. Red Flight first, Green Flight in support. To be blunt, we don't have the fuel for anything else.”

 She paused, and he expected her to come up with a rebuttal, some conjured tactical reason why she had to be at the head of the fight. Had he been commanding the squadron himself, he'd have been tempted to work out some excuse to take the lead himself, but she was too far behind, her second of tardiness costing her a position at the forefront of the battle. With the anomaly still dragging down on them, there was no realistic option other than for her to agree to his suggestion.

 “Very well, Lieutenant, but I will expect to see you in my office upon the conclusion of this mission, and I shall inform the Captain in the strongest possible terms that you are not to fly as a part of this squadron again. Your duties are on the bridge, not in my strike wing.”

 “Aye, ma'am,” he replied. “Switching to open frequency.” He paused, trying to recall the service records of his two pilots, both Sub-Lieutenants who had only recently graduated from Flight School. Neither could have ever experienced combat for themselves, but the Academy only took the best, and while there was no substitute for actual battle, they'd still be ready for the fight.

 “Red Leader to Red Flight. We're going into something worse than action in a moment, a situation where we may or may not be required to engage the enemy, and that decision may rest on your shoulders. You will not fire without direct instructions for any reason, unless you are fired upon first. I want that clear. They'll try and trick you, try and lure you into a fight, goad you into making the first move, but you will not comply with that little request.”

 “And if they launch an attack, sir?” Ivanovich asked.

 “Fire a full salvo of defensive fire and run for home. This is no place for a battle, Sub-Lieutenant, and I'm not in the habit of throwing lives away for nothing. We can't fight here, not and expect to win with acceptable cost.” He paused, then added, “Alter course five degrees starboard. Let's see if we can draw them clear of the shuttle, at least.”

 He tapped controls, swinging his fighter on the course, still with one eye on the fuel gauge, the levels dropping awfully fast. Once again, he could swear that the gravitational field of the anomaly was fluctuating, changing, dragging them further down towards the unknown mass at its heart. Shaking his head, he focused on the fighters up ahead, tapping a sequence of controls to get a close-range scan of the enemy vehicles.

 One quick glance confirmed what he suspected. This had been a trap, all along, but not one set by the United Nations, but by the Lunar Republic. These fighters had been modified, and with more care than Lombardo's work crews had been able to manage in the time. Planning had gone into the alterations to the Republic fighters, modifications that might render them sluggish in the fight, but would give them an endurance that Alamo's squadron lacked in the battlespace.

 The motivation was obvious. To destabilize relations between the Triplanetary Confederation and the United Nations would force both nations to focus their attentions on their mutual frontiers, rather than pressing out into unexplored space, leaving the field clear for the Lunar Republic, envious at the Confederation's recent territorial expansions, to carve out an empire of their own. Obtaining sole access to the anomaly was a fringe benefit, one they could take full advantage of. The first prize their efforts would win.

 Which meant something important about the saboteur, as well.

 “Red Leader to Alamo Actual, full scramble,” he said, but only the crackle of static answered him, the Republic vessels already jamming their systems. That meant that the only way he could share his theory with Captain Marshall would be face-to-face. The tight-beam laser relays were still working, but he couldn't reach the ship, not at this range. Still, he could at least increase the odds a little.

 “Red Leader to Red Flight. If I don't make it home and you do, tell Captain Marshall or Lieutenant Harper that this whole operation has been a Republic trap, and that my proof is the design of the fighters they've launched against us. You understand?”

 “Sounds a bit defeatist, sir,” Ivanovich replied. “Not your reputation at all.”

 “Damn, not you as well, Ivan,” Salazar said with a chuckle. “I'm never going to live my last mission down, am I?”

 “I was surprised when I saw you,” Hadley said. “You're a good three inches shorter than you were on screen.”

 “You're picking an innovative way to draw a charge of insubordination, Sub-Lieutenant, I'll give you that.” A light flashed on, and Salazar said, “Cut the chatter, people. Three minutes to target. Get firing solutions as soon as you can, but don't act on them until you get the word from me.”

 Now it was all down to him. Captain Marshall's decision devolved all the way down to him as senior officer on the scene. Technically, McCormack could override him, but he didn't trust her not to risk a war to get that fifth kill, to win the designation she craved. He looked down at the three small stars over his flight wings, remembering the battles in which he'd won them, the pilots who had flown with him, died for him.

 Two minutes left. He scrutinized the sensor display, waiting for the Republic fighters to make a move, watching as their boosted SAR shuttle raced towards Harper's ship. There had to be an alternative to war, had to be. If the two squadrons ran into each other, someone was going to get careless, and someone was going to make the mistake that led to Alamo's death. Against Waldheim, they had a chance, but a carrier with twenty-four fighter/bombers ready to launch? There was no chance, no hope, and with the anomaly forcing the battlecruiser onto a tight orbit, nowhere to run. The Republic commander could wear Alamo down with strike after strike, and there would be nothing they could do about it. And if they seized the information on the shuttle, more importantly, Harper and her crew would be killed.

 There wasn't anything he could do about Dingyuan, that much was clear. Not one shuttle, especially without first fire orders that he had no intention of giving. Captain Marshall was going to have to dream up a way of escaping the system without him, returning home to tell the tale of treachery and deceit they had uncovered out here. All he could do was make sure that he had the information he needed to make the mission a success.

 “Red Leader to Red Flight,” he said. “Hold your course until further orders. Watch for the fighters, and remember, don't let them force you into action. Though if my guess is right, they'll be altering course any minute and heading home.” With a smile, he added, “And apologize to McCormack for me. She's going to have to wait a little longer for that fifth kill.”

 Without another word, he tapped a five-digit sequence on his navigation computer, silencing all of the wailing klaxons with the touch of a button as the fighter slewed around, burning fuel with reckless abandoned as he altered his course, The trajectory track danced across the screen before the systems gave up, instead flooding the image with electronic gibberish.  There was a vector he could use to intercept the SAR shuttle, not to attack it, but to ruin its approach trajectory by forcing it to alter course. Unless it refused, of course, but that would handily take them both out of the picture.

 Not something that bothered him. Not at this point. The course was feasible, and under normal circumstances, he wouldn't even have hesitated, but the fuel he would use executing it would preclude any chance of making it back to Alamo. Nor would he need to be concerned about the Republic forces capturing him. Glancing up at the countdown clock, he shook his head. In eight minutes, give or take, he'd have first-hand knowledge of his own about the anomaly.

 Assuming he lived through his encounter with the SAR shuttle. The pilot was implacably holding course, continuing to his target, and for a second he worried that it might be robotic, automatic, but he dismissed the thought quickly. The pilot might be a robot, but it would take human hands to seize the memory modules from the shuttles, and prevent the crew from stopping their theft. Given the environment, it felt unlikely that anyone would trust themselves to a shuttle being remotely controlled. And by now, Harper would have tried every trick in the book to stop them, throwing obstacles that only a human pilot could overcome.

 Thirty seconds to target. Surely his opponent would realize that Salazar had no reason to pull back, that his final fate was already irrevocable. As the clock ticked through the final seconds, he held his hand over the thruster control, waiting to adjust his course should it be needed, but with only five seconds to spare, the Republic pilot blinked.

 The two craft flashed past each other, less than a half-mile apart, and Salazar watched with a smile as the SAR craft turned, burning to return to the carrier, knowing they now had no chance of making their rendezvous. The Republic fighters continued on, racing for Alamo, into a battle in which he could now have no part.

 “Maybe you'll get that kill after all, McCormack,” he muttered to himself, sitting back in his couch, hands by his side. All he could do now was enjoy the ride.

Chapter 21

 As soon as the shuttle reached the level of the hangar deck, Harper sprinted through the hatch, pushing her way through the crowd of technicians to reach the waiting elevator. Someone was yelling something at her, hands trying to pull her back,  but she shrugged off the distractions and dived through the doors, slamming the control with her fist to send herself up to the bridge.

 A cacophony of instructions and orders barked through the overhead speakers, department heads preparing the ship for battle. Somewhere out ahead of them, the two fighter squadrons were about to cross paths, and unless something had changed within the last thirty seconds, Alamo would be unable to contact the warlike McCormack to hold her back.

 She pulled out her datapad, scrolling through the feed to bring up a tactical display, shaking her head at the image displayed on the screen. Forty seconds before the fighters reached optimum combat range, and another four minutes before they could launch an attack on Alamo, assuming enough of them got through. The ambush had been perfect, but with the new combat systems, Alamo could survive this pass, would have to make sure that the enemy vessel didn't receive a second try.

 For years, the Republic and the Confederation had been allies-of-convenience, following a joint intelligence operation she'd been involved with while she was serving under Logan Winter. Still, as with any government, there were different factions with influence, and one of them had obviously seen an opportunity to take advantage of. Finally, the doors opened, and she raced onto the bridge.

 “Captain, order McCormack to go weapons free if you can,” she said, sprinting for Marshall. “They've got no choice but to push this all the way now, and they can't afford for us to get home to tell the tale. The only option they have is to clear all the evidence out of the system, which means an attack.”

 “Lieutenant,” Marshall replied, “I have no intention of starting a war with the Republic.”

 “It won't come to that,” Harper protested. “Even if the Supreme Council has backed this move, and I doubt they have, they'll throw the commander of that ship into the firing line to prevent a war. They don't want a fight any more than we do.” Gesturing at the viewscreen, she added, “And they'll be concluding right now that the only way to avoid a war is to destroy this ship and make sure we don't live to tell the tale.”

 “She might be right, Danny,” Caine conceded, turning from her station. “We're twenty seconds from target. I think I can get a tight-beam transmission to McCormack, just long enough to pulse a message though.”

 “Captain,” Francis pleaded, “What if this is just a bluff? You'd be risking a war over a series of assumptions and guesses that may have no basis in fact.” Shaking his head, he said, “Let the fighters pass through.”

 “We might live through a reduced strike,” Caine said. “Not a full one. Not even with all our defense systems ready to go. One hit in the wrong place, and we start tumbling down into the anomaly.” She paused, then said, “I agree with Harper, Danny. But you've only got ten seconds to decide.”

 Taking a deep breath, Marshall said, “Order McCormack to go weapons free.”

 “Sir,” Bowman said, “I still can't get anyone from Engineering, and I can't make contact with Ensign Rhodes or Midshipman Clarke. I've thrown in every override I can, but communications across the lower decks remain intermittent at best.” Shaking his head, he said, “Last reports had them heading for the propulsion levels, the port-side aft thruster array.”

 “Francis, get down to Engineering and find out what the hell is going on down there. Send a runner back if you have to.” Marshall paused, then added, “If you find Dubois, tell him that he is relieved, and that Lombardo is Acting Systems Officer until we return to Mars.”

 “Aye, sir,” Francis replied, pushing past Harper as he rushed to the elevator. Looking around the bridge, Harper walked over to the electronic warfare station, relieving the duty technician with a tap on the shoulder, and slid down into the seat, setting up the console for the battle she expected to begin at any second. She looked up at the sensor display, watching as Salazar's fighter continued its endless fall into eternity, knowing that there was nothing she could do to help him, no way she could even talk to him.

 And somehow, she knew that he was going to live through it. All the evidence showed that the anomaly wasn't a path to destruction, but a portal. If anyone could survive a flight to the far side, it would be Salazar, and he was already setting himself up for the transition, nose pointed directly at the target. He wasn't going to die, not here.

 That might not be true for the crew of Alamo, though, and she ran her hands over the controls, setting up the defense systems for the battle to come. Three years of innovation had gone into the refit, and she had far more options at her disposal than she had during Alamo's last cruise. As well as a battery of updated electronic warfare systems, the best intrusion programs that Triplanetary Intelligence could devise, she had an array of kilowatt laser cannons positioned in strategic locations on the outer hull, able to knock down incoming missiles. 

 “She launched!” Caine yelled, and all eyes turned to the viewscreen, watching as the fighters swept past each other, unleashing volleys of missiles that filled the display with trajectory plots, twenty-four missiles racing to mutual destruction. As one, the fighters turned, burning their engines to return to Alamo, getting themselves clear of the battlespace as quickly as possible.

 With a satisfied nod, Marshall said, “Textbook. Perfect preemptive defensive strike.” Turning to Caine, he added, “Note a commendation for Senior Lieutenant McCormack. That was damn nice work.”

 Nodding, Caine replied, “Just twelve missiles left to watch out for.” With a frown, she added, “Enemy fighter formation is pressing its attack, though. They're still coming. They can't have enough fuel to get back to the carrier.”

 “They don't need to,” Harper said. “We know the Republic have been using drone fighters, I'd guess we're watching their first operational deployment.” Turning back to her console, she continued, “Something which might give us some additional tactical options.”

 “Do anything you can to crack into their systems. At the very least, it would be nice to get a copy of their control systems for analysis when we get back home.” He paused, then turned to Bowman, adding, “Have Doyle start work on the data retrieved from Waldheim's shuttle, and inform her that I want a full initial report within the hour.”

 Frowning, the communications technician replied, “I can't page her, sir, and she hasn't gone down to the hangar deck to retrieve the data. I don't understand, Captain. The internal communications network has triple-backups, and we should be making contact easily.”

 “Relax, Spaceman,” Marshall said. “You're doing the best you can. Page anyone you can from the Espatier platoon, and have them start to search for Lieutenant Doyle on the double.” Shaking his head, he added, “Our saboteur at work again.”

 “You think he might have taken down Doyle?” Caine asked.

 “She's the best-equipped to interpret data on the anomaly,” Marshall replied. “Losing her would be a hell of a blow. Spaceman, what areas of the ship are isolated by the communications blackout?”

 “Upper propulsion decks, aft sensor array, Elevator Control.”

 “Sir!” Ballard said. “All missiles are cleared, Captain. Looks like our squadron managed a clean sweep.” With a triumphant smile, she turned back to her sensor display, and added, “Our forces have disengaged, and are heading back home on a divergent vector. They should be landing two minutes after the Republic fighters have made their attack run.”

 “Bowman,” Marshall said, looking across at the frustrated crewman. “Any contact with the enemy carrier?”

 “Nothing, sir. I can try and punch a signal through if you want.”

 “No,” he replied. “If they were going to talk to us, I think they'd have done it by now. But keep all channels open, just to be sure.” He paused, then added, “Salazar's fighter?”

 “No signals, sir. He's almost at the threshold of the anomaly, anyway.”

 All eyes turned briefly to the monitor, watching as the lone fighter completed its silent dive into the maw of the gravitational beast, winking off as it passed out of range. Harper felt as though a part of her had gone with it, but she still knew, somewhere inside, that Salazar wasn't dead, and that somehow they would both be together, and soon. She glanced at the elevator, briefly contemplating leaving the bridge, making her way down to the flight deck, stealing a shuttle to follow him on his journey, but a quick glance from Marshall held her in place at her station.

 He knew what she was thinking, was probably considering the same thing himself, but at least for the present, she had a job to do. Perhaps, once they had dealt with the Republic carrier, she might have the opportunity she wished, and there and then she decided that she wasn't going to be leaving the system with Alamo.

 “Two minutes to enemy attack run,” Ballard said. “They're still running true, standard Republic strike pattern.” Shaking her head, she added, “Those bastards are burning their engines red-hot, sir. And their trajectories suggest that they'll be heading for the anomaly in less than an hour.” 

 “A Sargasso of Space,” Caine said. “Firing parameters, sir?”

 “Go full defensive,” Marshall replied. “Don't target the fighters. Once they've released their missiles, they're harmless, especially if they can't make it home.” He frowned, turned to Caine, then added, “And they'll know that as much as we do.”

 Nodding, Caine replied, “If their goal is to make sure we can't leave the system, they're going about it oddly. I'd have expected them to conserve their fighters, not throw them away. You think they might be trying for kamikaze?”

 “No,” Marshall said, gesturing at the screen. “Look at the trajectory track. They're running too hot even for that. We'll be able to move out of the way easily. That's a trick that's damn near impossible to pull on an undamaged ship anyway.” Turning to Ballard, he said, “Spaceman, put up the egress points on the screen.”

 “Aye, sir,” the technician replied, and a pair of blue dots appeared on the display, the two points of gravitational stability where Alamo's hendecaspace drive could rip a hole in reality, opening the window to the alien dimension humanity used for faster-than-light travel. Currently, the ship was in between the two of them, racing away from the carrier, towards the second point.

 “Hounds and hunters,” Marshall said, shaking his head. “We've only seen half of their strike force. Right now they're guiding us towards the second egress point, and my guess is that within a matter of minutes, we'll see a second force emerge. If they do any damage to us now, it's a bonus prize.”

 “Theoretically, we could be intercepted at any time in the next seventy-two hours,” Caine replied. “A cruiser force, or even another carrier.”

 Tapping controls, Harper added, “Intelligence has a Republic cruiser squadron at Procyon. Just within range of a single jump. Supposedly engaged in exercises, with a notation that they're putting pressure on United Nations forces at UV Ceti.” She frowned, and added, “They'd really have to be ready to take a big risk if they're taking away their defensive forces. Right here, in this system, is a significant portion of their Deep Space Fleet.”

 “No sign of dimensional instability from the far egress point,” Ballard reported. “I'm having trouble with the long-range sensors, though. There's a lot of interference, bandwidth way down. Wait one.” Abruptly, a series of red lights flashed across the viewscreen, and the technician turned from her panel, eyes wide. “We just lost the whole damned feed!”

 “What?” Marshall asked, jumping out of his chair and racing to the console. “Harper...” 

 “On it,” the hacker replied, fingers dancing across her controls. “Jammed. Aft sensor array. Someone's jamming the internal transmissions. I can bypass, but we won't get full resolution for at least two minutes.” She paused, then added, “Use probes, flying escort. We can get them into the air in seconds, and they'll give us at least some idea of what is going on out there. Recommend they remain within a hundred meters of the ship.”

 “That's pretty tight,” Caine warned.

 “Any further, and we risk losing the signals when those fighters get close.”

 “Do it,” Marshall said, and the sensor display flashed back into life, the resolution far reduced from before. Harper turned back to her console, ready to unleash the point-defense lasers when they drew close. As the seconds trickled away, the ship rocked back, Caine launching a missile salvo, eight tracks racing towards the incoming Republic warheads, leaving only four for Harper to deal with.

 “Enemy fighters are pushing on,” Ballard said, shaking her head. “It's almost as if...”

 “They're hoping to be recovered by someone else,” Marshall finished. “Refueling drones, maybe, from our theoretical second formation. Even if they couldn't retrieve all of them, if those fighters are unmanned, it wouldn't matter.” Shaking his head, he said, “Sensors, Ballard?”

 “Still offline,” she replied. “Probes are helping, but I've got to focus them on the incoming missiles if our tactical computers have a chance, sir.” She paused, then said, “As soon as our fighters get home, I'll be able to dump their sensor logs to give us a better picture, Captain.”

 “Good, Spaceman, good,” Marshall said, turning back to the screen. Sixteen tracks winked out in a series of flashes, brief pulses of light as the missiles canceled each other out. Harper looked down, eyes on her controls, waiting for the four remaining enemy warheads to draw closer, ranging in towards the target. She paused for a second, then tapped a control with a single finger, sending a broadside sequence of laser blasts rippling through space, connecting Alamo and the warheads for a bare second.

 The small cannon had none of the might of Alamo's primary armament, but for dealing with individual warheads, that would have been overkill. Just a single, quick tap was enough to send the four missiles spiraling through space, out of control, until the destruct systems could engage, ending that threat once and for all. 

 “Space clear, Captain,” Harper said with a triumphant smile. “Score one for Commodore Chung and Mariner Station's engineers.”

 “Sir,” Ballard reported, “I think we're getting dimensional instability, out at the far hendecaspace point. Still low-level, and with the resolution from the probes I'm having trouble getting confirmation, but I'd say we've got a transition in progress, capital ship scale.”

 “That settles it,” Caine said. “Captain, if we stay here, we're going to run right into a world of trouble.” She paused, then added, “We can't leave the system for more than four days, but that doesn't mean we have to hold trajectory.”

 Marshall nodded, and said, “How close do you think we could get to the anomaly?”

 “Any closer would be dangerous,” Caine replied.

 Stepping back to his chair, Marshall said, “What about a full-power slingshot. Throw the engines full open, and use it to swing ourselves into a higher orbit.” Turning to the helm, he said, “Midshipman, set that up. Let's see what the computer will give us for an intercept point at one of the hendecaspace points in, say, six and a quarter days.”

 “Sir, I think I can set it up for four and a half,” Imoto said. “Close to the minimum time we need to complete dimensional stabilization.”

 “They know that too, Midshipman,” Marshall replied. “We need to keep them guessing, and build up enough speed to prevent them from catching or intercepting us without throwing themselves on a doomed trajectory. Set it up.” Turning to Harper, he asked, “Sensors?”

 “Still working, sir, but someone's fighting me,” she replied, furiously working her console. “Best guess has them back on line in eighty seconds.”

 “Sir,” Imoto said, “Course computed and programmed. Egress in a hundred and fifty-one hours, ten minutes, nine seconds, with constant full acceleration. We'll need to begin the slingshot in thirty seconds.”

 “Abort options?”

 “None, sir.”

 “Commit,” Marshall said, taking his chair. “We're out of options. Go for a good, hard burn, Midshipman, and let's see what this ship can do.”

 At the touch of a control, Alamo spun on her axis, the trajectory plot changing again as the ship smoothly moved onto a new arc. A series of low whines echoed from the underside of the ship as the fighter squadron settled back into position on the hangar deck, moving with smooth precision into the elevator airlocks, nestled safely inside the hull.

 “Course change complete,” Imoto said. “We're committed. I'm going to need one-ten from the engines to pull this off, sir, which officially...”

 “Do what you need to do, Midshipman,” Marshall said.

 The elevator doors opened, and a blood-splattered Blake stepped out, red-faced from exertion, shouting, “Don't change our course!”

 “Too late,” Caine replied. “What the...”

 “The saboteur has killed Senior Lieutenant Dubois, sir, and is somewhere down by the aft thrusters. I couldn't contact you from Elevator Control, Captain. All communications in that area are dead.” Shaking her head, she added, “John's heading after him. I've got to get down there.”

 “Take the bridge, Deadeye,” Marshall replied, racing towards the medic. “Wait one, Blake. I'm coming with you.”

 Caine turned to Marshall, and said, “Danny, one false move, one thruster malfunction, and we don't have a chance. We'll fall into the anomaly, and there won't be a damn thing we can do about it.”

 “Do what you can,” Marshall said, the doors slamming shut. “Let's just hope it doesn't come to that.” The last thing he saw before the elevator began its journey were a series of flashes on the screen, the Republic cruiser squadron snapping back into normal space directly into their flight path, just as they had feared. Death waited for Alamo, no matter what path they chose. This way, at least they had a chance to outwit it.

 “You any good with a pistol, sir?” Blake asked, handing him a sidearm.

 “In a few moments, Technical Officer, I'll be only too glad to give you a demonstration.”

Chapter 22

 Clarke swiftly moved along the maintenance shafts, trying to navigate the tangle of tunnels and passages that wrapped themselves around the inhabited modules of the ship, laced with cables, pipes and conduits that jutted out from the floor like teeth, evidence of the haste that the maintenance engineers had faced in preparing for Alamo's departure. He had to keep on the saboteur's tail, couldn't delay for an instant without facing the risk that the blast doors would come slamming down all around him, allowing his prey to escape. Given a moment's notice, he could easily be trapped, but he seemed to be gaining on the shadowy figure ahead, just spotting his target diving around a corner, down to what he thought was a shaft.

 He couldn't detect any pattern to their movements. As far as he could remember, and without the leisure to consult the deckplan on his datapad he couldn't be sure, they were somewhere near the aft thrusters, and as he bounced against the wall, he could feel the chill from the fuel tanks at the rear of the ship, the cold of the cryogenics seeping through the insulation into the deck, making his breath condense as he exhaled.

 In his hand, he clutched his pistol, his eyes seeking a target. He couldn't simply fire blind and hope for the best, not down here. One thing that had been stressed during even his abbreviated training was the extreme danger of gunfire inside a ship, and in one of the maintenance tunnels, where one severed wire could lead to a catastrophic systems failure, that situation was even worse. Until he caught his target, he had to be patient, wait him out, and know that at least he was preventing any more sabotage.

 Somewhere behind him, a crack squad of Espatiers were in pursuit, experts trained for precisely this sort of warfare. He'd had two semesters at the Academy, then three months in a Triplanetary Intelligence training camp that officially did not exist, but that was no substitute for the intensive preparation the troopers had made for exactly this scenario. The very reason that there was a Triplanetary Espatier Corps. And yet, it was all down to him, his limited skills, and a pistol with five shots left in the clip. He cursed his lack of foresight for not taking additional ammunition, something else he would have to do better in the future. Assuming he had one.

 In the early stages of the pursuit, he'd called out to his prey, tried to convince him to surrender, but it had been immediately obvious that he was only wasting badly-needed breath, and that this chase would only end in a hail of bullets, one or both of them dead on the deck. No matter what happened to him, the saboteur had to die, before he could do something more serious. Assuming he hadn't wreaked more havoc already, and this was nothing more than distraction to prevent him from finding out the truth before it was too late.

 He couldn't think that way. Had to simply keep on pushing, keep on chasing his opponent. At least he knew the lie of the land, after a fashion. Ten days as Systems Officer's Mate, four of them spent wandering around these passages and tunnels looking for sabotage had taught him much, though he couldn't shake the feeling that his enemy knew them better than he did, that he was the one being tricked.

 Another corner, and another glimpse of his target, a sweeping mass of hair swinging around. Not a man, then, but a woman, and he cursed himself for his unconscious assumption. That limited the number of suspects a little, nine potential saboteurs on the list he'd prepared for the Captain. Behind him, he could hear noises, the sound of more pursuers, and for a moment dread flooded into his heart, fears that more saboteurs were on board, that he had been lured into a trap.

 Shaking his head, he dispelled his doubts. It had to be the Espatier force, catching him. Given their skill and experience, it would be disappointing if they didn't manage to exceed his speed, and with luck, in a matter of moments they would be able to take over the pursuit. His chase would soon come to an end, and as he panted for breath, sweat pouring from his forehead, he knew it couldn't come a second too soon.

 It seemed as though he had been chasing his target for miles, all around the twisted tunnels and chambers, and given the sheer size of Alamo, that was far from unlikely. The ship was more than half a mile long, but even that barely told the story, and the interior of the battlecruiser was a tangled mess, the legacy of a dozen refits that had left the original design schematics behind long ago.

 Finally, he seemed to be catching up, gaining ground on a long passage running above the primary fuel tank. The chill was really seeping into him now, from the reserve oxygen reservoir to his side, and he shivered as he ran, the thin work coveralls doing nothing to warm him as he ran, head ducked low to avoid the swinging cables in his way. More evidence that this had been planned in advance. All the obstructions should have been carefully bolted to the walls before the ship left dock, even with the hasty departure. That this hadn't been done simply proved that someone had wanted to leave the saboteur a place to hide.

 At last, he had a shot, and he took it, the crack of a precious bullet echoing from the walls as he sped towards his prey, the saboteur not even moving as the blast raced past her, coolly choosing to ignore his attack. The bullet slammed into the deck ahead of her, and his heart skipped a beat as he realized he'd fired at the oxygen reservoir, the precious gas stored under such high pressure that any puncture would instantly kill them both.

 There was an angry dent in the hull, but the armor held, the saboteur taking advantage of his momentary hesitation to gain ground, ducking down a shaft. Clarke cursed, bounding after her, taking the rungs of the ladder three at a time as he chased her, risking a glance back to see if he could spot the reinforcements heading his way, only the dark and the shadows rewarding his attention. This was still his fight, and his alone.

 Slowly, they seemed to be creeping towards the outer hull, the outside of the ship, but unless he'd forgotten something critical, they were a long way from any airlocks or shuttle bays. Not that anyone would have a chance for a suit transfer, not with the mass of the anomaly still dragging them down. It would be a speedy way to commit suicide, and a certain one. He fumbled in his pocket for his communicator, holding it before him for a second, sighing as the warning lights flashed on, alerting him that there was no signal strength. The device was dependent on the ship's internal repeaters, and all of them were still out in this section.

 He turned another corner, trying to slide his communicator back into his pocket, but his palms were sweaty, and the precious device tumbled to the ground. There was no time to go back for it, and he was forced to press on, knowing now that even if the internal network came back on line, there was no way for him to call for the help he desperately needed.

 Another turn, and another glimpse of his target, dancing into a long shaft. At least they were beyond the chill of the oxygen reservoir, but they were getting ever closer to the outer hull, a worse environment at the best of times. He struggled to remember the sensor readings from before, trying to recall what the local radiation environment was. Somehow, he suspected that a long stay in sickbay was in his future, no matter what happened here today.

 He risked a second shot in a long corridor, this time at least getting the satisfaction of forcing the saboteur to dive to the side to avoid his bullet, the round ending up somewhere in the gloom, a smashing noise making him wince inside, bracing himself for the klaxons that would alert him to the manner of death he had brought upon the ship. Nothing sounded, but he now only had three shots left, and while the saboteur wouldn't stop to fight him until she had an advantage, he had a suspicion that she'd been counting his shots, would know exactly when he was unarmed and vulnerable. A combat knife still nestled in the holster under his coverall, but if the saboteur was armed with a pistol, he'd never get a chance to wield it.

 A loud whine echoed through the corridors, a barking alarm that announced that someone had opened up one of the local access-ways to the hull space, the vast cavern between the inner and outer hull. Under normal circumstances, it was off-limits to all personnel, a mess of components  and tangled equipment that was never meant to be accessed or serviced in space, not without special equipment. One hull breach would kill him, and the bulk of the heavy, protective armor was on the inner hull, not the outer. With a battle still in progress outside, he was taking a grave risk by venturing too close.

 He followed the saboteur without a second's thought, knowing the damage she could do if he wasn't there to stop her. As soon as he clambered through the hatch, he began to regret his decision, the maze of equipment beyond forming an intricate framework, littered with warning signs, the stink of ozone already filling the air as the saboteur scrambled through the latticework of critical components.

 He had a good shot, but didn't dare to take it. One bullet here would be instant death, unless his aim was absolutely perfect, and he didn't trust his limited skills that far. Sliding his pistol into his holster, he reached for his combat knife, and looked down at the fleeing saboteur, finally realizing who she was.

 Lieutenant Doyle.

 Suddenly, it all made sense. She'd sabotaged the shuttle herself, a perfect way of throwing suspicion away from her, and giving her an excuse to get involved in the investigation. Her position had her reporting to the Systems Officer, giving her all the clearances she needed to go wherever she wanted in the ship, and on paper, she didn't have the skill-set required to wreak the havoc she had wrought. She looked up at him, knowing that she had been identified, and not caring.

 Which meant that she knew she wasn't going to live through this encounter, and for some reason, she didn't seem to care. Below her, the long nozzle of Thruster Three stretched out, running from the fuel tank through the double hull, the emergency overrides glistening as the systems activated, noting the proximity of an authorized user and beginning the control sequence.

 Deftly, she swung around a strut and dived for the controls, easily catching the panel and reaching across to fire the jets. There was no way Clarke could climb towards her, not in the time, and long before he could reach her, the damage would have been done. Taking a deep breath, knife still in hand, he reached for one of the useless communications repeaters, a long antenna that almost reached the hull, bowing uneasily under his weight, and swung himself out into space, diving towards Doyle, knowing that if he missed, death was certain, the razor-sharp sensor relay below him more than enough to end his life.

 His fingers reached out as the saboteur realized he was plunging towards her, and a knife was suddenly in her hand, swinging and slashing towards him, but now it was his turn to ignore the peril he was facing, the danger that she posed to his life. All his attention had to be focused on grabbing the thruster, or he'd die anyway. Time seemed to slow as he dived towards it, hoping and praying for a miracle, the handhold stubbornly out of reach.

 Somehow, his fingers slid into position, and he used the momentum of the descent to arrest his fall, swinging acrobatically around the tube in a manner that would have made his instructors proud, easily avoiding the clumsy swings of Doyle, similarly encumbered with one hand on the tube, holding her in place. He inched towards her, swinging his own knife to parry hers, the two blades meeting for an instant before she pulled back.

 The controls had been set for a long burn, five seconds that would alter Alamo's course. With the anomaly so close, he didn't dare tarry, knew that the altered trajectory could wipe them all out, but he couldn't quite reach her with his knife, a few inches short. If he moved, he'd open himself up to an easy kill, but she faced the same dilemma, and the two of them briefly thrust and parried with their blades, swinging back and forth from the tube above, hoping to take advantage of any moment of weakness exposed by the other. Neither was a master with the blade, but they were not unskilled either, and neither was going to give the other an easy kill.

 Clarke's sweaty palms started to slip, and he glanced down for an instant, regretting his brief look at the tangled equipment below. If he fell, he'd not only kill himself, but likely the rest of the crew, and he tensed himself to dive forward, risking death to press home his attack. Doyle looked into his eyes for a moment, cold hatred where warm friendship once had been, a mask the saboteur no longer had to wear.

 A voice called down from above, and the pair glanced up for a split second, Rhodes finally arriving with his squad, Marshall and Blake with him, guns at the ready. Clarke saw the opportunity he had been waiting for, and lunged forward, swinging his knife wildly, slashing into her side, blood splattering to the deck. For an instant, Doyle looked up at him, limply swinging her blade, sending him ducking back out of range, before closing in for the kill.

 Before he could reach her, an instant late, she slammed her hand on the control panel.

 “You lose,” she said with her last words, before dropping away into the equipment below, a shower of sparks and a column of smoke heralding her fall. Sirens wailed as the thruster fired, sending Clarke swinging to the side, struggling to hold on. He lunged for the panel, trying to reach it with sweat-laden fingers, and managed to tap the control to quieten the boost, scant seconds after it fired.

 A snake-like cable dropped by his side, and he gratefully reached for it, allowing himself to be dragged up the deck towards the hatch, Rhodes and Marshall tugging him up. He felt something sticky on his wrist, and belatedly noticed that one of Doyle's swings had found its mark, slashing into his side and ripping his sleeve, blood running down his side from the cut. Hands reached for his shoulders, tugging him to safety, and he rolled onto the hatch as it slammed shut around him, pressurized pulses of carbon dioxide blasting down to deaden the fire.

 “Let me take a look at that,” Blake said, pulling out her medical kit.

 “It was Doyle,” Clarke said, while the medic bandaged his arm. “Should have guessed from the start. She managed to give herself a perfect cover.” He looked up at Marshall, his eyes wide, and said, “I failed, sir.”

 “We should all fail so well, Midshipman,” he replied, shaking his head. “You did the best you could. The absolute best you could. Nobody could ask more.” Turning to Rhodes, he said, “Get a work crew up here on the double. Hopefully the damage won't be too extensive, but that's not what I'm worried about at the moment. How is he, Blake?”

 “Not as bad as last time, sir,” she replied.

 “Then we'd better get back up to the bridge and find out just what Doyle did to us. I just hope it isn't too late.”

 “Sir…,” Clarke began.

 “Midshipman, you didn't fail,” Marshall replied, looking back at the hatch. “I did. I was in command, and you did everything possible to stop her. Now come on. We can talk on the move.” 

 “What's going on?” Clarke asked, as the group hustled towards the nearest elevator.

 “Another Republic task force, setting up an ambush,” Blake replied. “Doyle's friends, probably. We're trying a slingshot maneuver around the anomaly to get away.” She paused, then added, “At least we were.”

 “If the thruster fired at the wrong time...”

 “Then we're on a one-way ride straight to Hell.”

Chapter 23

 Sirens wailed as the elevator raced to the bridge, Marshall impatiently tapping his foot on the deck as he waited for the doors to open. Blake continued to poke at Clarke's arm, neither of them willing to head for Sickbay, both opting to watch the end from the command deck. After what the young officer had been through, Marshall didn't have the heart to refuse. He looked down at his datapad, updates periodically flashing onto the trajectory plot, and shook his head. All he could do was hope that the situation wasn't as bad as it seemed, though somehow he had the feeling that all the prayers in the universe weren't going to get them out of this situation.

 Finally, the doors slid open, and he grimly stepped onto the deck, desperate eyes looking at him from every station as he took his position at the heart of the bridge, sitting in the command chair. One glance told him that his worst fears were true, no need for a status report to tell him what he already knew. That one pulse from the thruster had been timed to perfection, swinging them just the fraction necessary to doom them to a descent into the gravitational maelstrom that awaited them.

 Behind him, Clarke looked stricken as he watched the trajectory plot, and Marshall turned, trying and failing to find words to comfort the young officer, to assure him that it wasn't his fault. In truth, it wasn't. He'd done his best, but Doyle had been too quick for them, for all of them, himself included. His mind flashed across the last fortnight, trying to put the pieces together, wishing that he'd pressed the investigation even further, that he had taken Salazar's warning and run for home, instead of leading his ship and his crew to their doom.

 “Damage report, sir,” Fitzroy said from the engineering console. “Sub-Lieutenant Lombardo reports that we've lost the aft sensor array, as well as all long-range communications. He's got a work crew standing by to make repairs, but warns that radiation levels in the outer hull are rising.”

 Nodding, Bowman added, “Technical Officer Strickland has recommended that the outer decks be evacuated, and that all crewmen should report to the core shelters if possible.”

 “See to that, Clarke,” Marshall said, and the young man nodded, making his way to one of the wall consoles, obviously desperate for something to distract him from the nightmare they were facing. Turning back to the helm, he said, “Midshipman, recompute escape course.”

 “I have, sir,” the young man replied. “Theoretically, it still might be possible to break away from the anomaly, but we'll need to push the reactor a long way over the red line to do it.”

 “How far?”

 “One-Thirty-Two. For six minutes.”

 Caine whistled, and said, “Not to mention that we'd be pulling twenty-plus gravities for most of that. Danny, I doubt any of us would be alive to tell about it, and even if we somehow managed to live through it, the Republic task forces have the system interdicted. I don't see any practical way of getting out of this one.”

 Turning to Bowman, Marshall said, “Spaceman, I want you to load a full copy of the log into a probe, with everything we've learned up to this point, and set it up to broadcast full details in the clear to every ship that visits this system. I doubt the Combined Chiefs will let us be the last Triplanetary vessel to visit, and I want to make sure that our loss isn't attributed to the wrong people.”

 “They'll stop it,” Imoto said, shaking his head.

 “No they won't, Midshipman, because you're going to compute a high-speed course that throws it on the same slingshot trajectory we tried, with enough velocity that nothing can catch it.”

 Nodding, the young officer replied, “Aye, sir.”

 “You're going to start a war between the Confederation and the Republic, Danny,” Caine said, sorrowfully shaking her head.

 “I doubt that,” Harper replied. “Everything connected with this system will remain Ultra-classified for years, maybe decades. It'll hurt, but I suspect the same armed standoff will continue, though with three nations dancing around each other now, rather than two.” Forcing a smile, she added, “Though at present, I'd say that represents the least of our problems.”

 Tapping a control, Marshall said, “Lombardo, how hot can you run the reactor?”

 “Not at the levels Midshipman Imoto wants.”

 “What can you give me?”

 “One-Fifteen, for no more than five minutes, and we'll need to do a full shutdown as soon as we finish. That's the best I can do, sir.”

 “Thruster status?”

 “Nominal. They weren't damaged by Doyle's dive.”

 Nodding, Marshall walked towards the helm, and said, “Let me take her, Midshipman.”

 “Sir?” Imoto asked.

 “I know where she needs to go, son, and I don't want you to be the one to take her there. This is my decision, and I'm the one who needs to live with it.” Pulling on a headset, Marshall turned to the frantic Bowman and said, “Connect me through to the ship.”

 “Aye, sir,” the technician replied. “I'll be launching the probe in eighty seconds, sir.”

 “This is the Captain,” Marshall began. “As you know, we attempted to evade the blockading force in a bid to escape the system. I must reluctantly tell you now that our attempt has failed, due to the work of an enemy saboteur. There is no way for us to escape the anomaly, but I believe there remains one last chance for survival. Ironically, Waldheim has shown us the way.” Looking back at the bridge crew, he said, “We're going to try and traverse the anomaly.”

 A series of gasps rose from behind him, and he continued, “All our evidence suggests that we have found a passage to some unknown destination in space and time. I would never have voluntarily taken the ship through it, but I do not believe we have any other choice. At least this way, we have a chance of survival. I intend to take it, if we can. All personnel will proceed immediately to radiation shelters. Good luck. Bridge out.” Glancing back at the bridge crew, he added, “That means you, people. As soon as the probe is clear, the rest of you need to get out of here.”

 The technical staff began to rise from their stations, Bowman reaching down to launch the probe with the flick of a switch before moving to the elevator. Caine simply remained at her post, as though she hadn't heard the order, and after a second's hesitation, Clarke walked back to the heart of the bridge.

 “You're going to need someone to monitor hull stress, sir, and I think I'm the man for the job.”

 “If this is based on some misguided feelings of guilt, Midshipman...”

 “No, sir,” he replied, glancing at Fitzroy. “Nothing like that. Except that I think I've earned the right to see this one through to the end, wherever that might be.”

 “He's got a point, Danny,” Caine replied, “and don't even think about ordering me from the bridge. I'll take the same risks you do.”

 Shaking his head, Marshall said, “The rest of you, get out of here and lock down the hatches behind you. Make sure you have plenty of anti-rad drugs on hand, just in case. Deadeye, inform Senior Lieutenant Francis that the ship is his, should it come to that.”

 “Already done,” she replied. “He's standing by in Shelter One.” Looking up at her screen as the door closed, locks snapping into place, she added, “Terminal entry in one hundred seconds.”

 Marshall turned back to the helm, setting up for the transition, knowing that he was going to have to use all the skill and experience he possessed to survive the passage. The computer would be no help at all, the navigation systems seemingly unwilling to believe what he was about to do, screaming a sequence of demands for aborts before he silenced the alarm system with the touch of a button. He tapped a sequence of commands, bringing up a sensor display, keeping the controls required to a minimum.

 Spinning the ship on its axis, he pointed her directly at the target, trusting in the immense gravitational field to drag the battlecruiser down, contenting himself with periodic pulses from the thrusters to hold their course. Now the viewscreen was filled with inky blackness, the stars blotted out by the anomaly ahead, providing no clue about their ultimate destination. If, in fact, they had one. This could still be a mistake, but their options had reduced to none.

 “Stress readings nominal,” Clarke said, wincing as he settled down at his station. “All systems show ready for the transfer.”

 “We hope,” Caine replied. “All sensors are trained for proximity readings, Danny. Last checks showed the Republic ships remaining well clear, and that the probe has managed to break through the perimeter on its way to the outer system.” She smiled, then added, “Anyone coming here for the next few years will know everything that happened.”

 “At least we're leaving a legacy,” Marshall said. “And a warning to any other ships that find this place.” He reached across to a screen, quickly replaying Waldheim's passage into the anomaly. General Estrada had come to the same conclusion that he had, albeit at the last moment, and all indications suggested that they had at least left the system successfully.

 “Radiation levels rising,” Clarke reported. “Systems logging for later decontamination. We're still at safe dosage here, at least for the moment. Hull stress levels rising, but still within safety limits.”

 Marshall nodded, focusing all his attention on the helm, the limits of his universe reduced to the sensor monitor on the panel before him, the throttle to his side and the thruster controls under his palm, his fingers gently rocking from one to another in a bid to keep the ship on trajectory. He quickly glanced at the power readings, nodding as he saw that Lombardo had kept his promise, Alamo ready to unleash the full potential of her new engines at his command.

 He pulled back on the throttle, saving the overload until he truly needed it, watching as the velocity readings continued to rise higher and higher, surging beyond anything Alamo had ever managed before, the weight on his chest reminding him of his days as a fighter pilot. The ship struggled to hold course, the thrusters laboring harder to keep them on trajectory, the sensor displays flashing readings that should have been impossible.

 Blackness, endless, eternal, and his ship poised on the threshold of infinity. For a brief instant, he fancied he saw a tunnel, reaching out into the stars, the gateway at the heart of the anomaly, surrounded by bursts of intense gravitation that would tear Alamo apart if he permitted. He had one chance, and he took it, throwing the throttle full open for a raging second, the engine whining in protest.

 “Hull stress levels exceeding design tolerance!” Clarke reported, out of breath. “Radiation levels exceeding safe limit!”

 “Sensors failing,” Caine added.

 “Come on, old girl,” Marshall muttered, forcing himself to be gentle on the thrusters, to take care as he guided his ship into the target, working more by feel than instrument now, all the readings fading to gibberish. The computers could only comprehend to the limits of their designers, and those limitations had been left far behind. If they survived this, they'd have information that would produce a new revolution in astrophysics, assuming they were able to pass on their new-found wisdom.

 Alamo felt as though she was hanging on the edge of a precipice, ready either to topple to her death or to fight her way through the passage to whatever lay beyond. Red lights flashed across the helm as Marshall rode the throttle, one hand on the thruster controls, trying to urge her in the right direction, the pressure building as the acceleration continued to rise.

 One last try, and he threw the thrusters to full ahead, the last surge of boost tipping them into the passage, a pulse of acceleration that abruptly died, sending him lurching forward into his panel, the restraints barely holding him back. The velocity meter bolted from the scale, sensor readouts winking off, one after another, and the acceleration continued to rise, out of control, forcing the breath from his lungs, the edges of his vision graying out as his body gave up the fight.

 “Hull stress…,” Clarke tried, but he couldn't force out the words, and Marshall focused solely on staying awake, trying to keep his eyes open, the roar of the engines raging in his ears as flashing lights danced on the viewscreen. The computer was trying to project the unimaginable, and failing. The last thing he saw was an intensely bright geometric pattern flashing on the screen, and the darkness swept over him.

 An eternity later, his eyes flickered open. The roar of the engines had ceased, sending his hand reaching down to the throttle in haste to realize that someone had shut them down. He glanced back at a red-faced Clarke, standing at the sensor controls, Blake stabbing him with a hypodermic.

 “I'll get to you in a minute, Captain,” Blake replied. “And to answer your next question, I was in your office the whole time. I wasn't about to let you go through that without a medic.”

 Caine looked up from her console, hair rumpled over her shoulders, and replied, “Trying to get systems back online. The analysis routines all failed during the passage. Not surprising, given the overload they were being subjected to.” Shaking her head, she added, “Could have been a lot worse.”

 “Clarke, can you get me a damage report?” Marshall asked.

 “Trying, sir,” he replied, stabbing at the controls. “I've almost got the forward sensors online. At least we'll be able to work out where we are.” The viewscreen snapped on, revealing a sight Marshall never thought he would see in his lifetime. A huge, blue giant star, prominences lancing from its surface, dead center. A star unlike any in known space, or any for hundreds of light-years beyond.

 “Where the hell are we?” Marshall asked.

Epilogue

 The incessant beeping from the cockpit alarm dragged Salazar roughly into consciousness, his eyes struggling to focus as he attempted to read his instruments, hand reaching on instinct to silence the alarm. Shaking his head, he looked up at the stars, and his mouth dropped open. Even at his farthest flight from Sol, back during the Xandari War, there had still been some recognizable constellations, even twisted and distorted. Here, there were none.

 His on-board sensors were just as bemused by the situation, flashing a series of warnings that they were unable to determine their location, the navigation computer abruptly crashing and rebooting, trying to make sense of the inconceivable. He'd survived his passage through the anomaly, much to his surprise, but his life expectancy could still be measured in hours, days at the most. His fighter wasn't equipped for long-term habitation, and his life support system was giving him depressing news.

 Another alarm flashed, a light winking on to reveal that he was sinking into a gravity well, and for a second he feared that he was falling back into the anomaly, a passage that the red lights on his hull stress monitors suggested he could not survive. Then he glanced to his side, and saw a huge, brown world beneath him, a halo of atmosphere glistening in the electric blue starlight. He'd fallen below orbital velocity, and even if he had anywhere to go, didn't have nearly enough fuel to escape.

 A quick glance at the sensors brought a smile to his face for the first time since he'd awakened. That world had an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere. Pressure and gravity a little heavy, temperature a little high, but he could survive there, at least for a time. Time enough for him to work out where he had arrived, perhaps to determine a means of his salvation.

 He ran his hand across the communications controls, not really expecting an answer, his eyes widening as he heard the familiar pulse of a Triplanetary rescue beacon. There was life down there, friendly life, and one last chance of survival. Using the last of his thruster fuel, he set his ship into a re-entry attitude, thanking the designers for giving the fighter an option for emergency atmospheric entry, wingtips that might give him a chance of making a safe landing, even with the limited fuel at his disposal.

 Thirty seconds to atmospheric interface. His long-range sensors were still only intermittently working, the external pickups obviously damaged from the passage, but he was getting enough information to give him at least some encouragement. A dense atmosphere meant that escape would be out of the question, but would give enough bite for his wings to give him at least some control, the chance of a glide landing. The surface was flat, baked dry, only a few battered mountain ranges punctuating the endless desert. Plenty of room for landing.

 With one eye on the fuel gauge, another on the hull stress indicators, he settled into position for re-entry, temperature rising on the heat shield underneath him, the battered metal glowing red, then white as the atmosphere ripped into the fighter, buffeting it about. He struggled to keep his ship level, knowing that any failure would doom him to certain death, no hope of rescue, no hope of survival. No hope of anything at all.

 One after another, sirens sounded as systems failed, leaving no doubt that his fighter was making its final flight, and he felt a brief pang of guilt at the damage he had wrought to Murphy's ship. Assuming she was still alive. Assuming any of his friends, back on Alamo, were still alive. That he would ever see them again seemed vanishingly unlikely, but his ambitions now were limited to surviving to see another dawn, and the prospects grew more promising with every moment, as the fighter swooped deeper into the atmosphere. The heat shield cooled as the ship slowed, finally banking down as he reached for the throttle, throwing it as low as he dared to give him more control.

 He had a matter of minutes to find a safe landing spot, and he had to reach the source of the beacon, no matter what. A cursory glance of the desolate wilderness revealed no trace of civilization, and the repeating pulse was the only sign he could find that there was any sign of life on the planet.

 Scanning the horizon, he failed to spot any sign of the beacon, was forced instead to trust to the half-ruined sensors on the outer hull. The resolution on the display was terrible, static rippling across the screen, flashing text warning him that the bulk of the data was based on uncertain projections rather than true reports. Another siren alerted him that he had sixty seconds of fuel remaining, barely enough to make a landing. If he was going to bring his fighter down, it had to be now.

 With one hand on the throttle, he banked to guide his ship down, deploying the landing struts with the tap of a button. He didn't dare risk a glide landing, not on sandy ground. A vertical descent would have to do, though the amber lights on the deployed struts did little to fill him with confidence that he could survive the descent.

 Beneath him, the ground seemed to rush towards him, and the smooth surface he had seen from altitude seemed all to unwelcoming when he saw it close up, rocks scattered all round, ripples of dunes rising and falling like the waves of a silent sea. Ten seconds of fuel remained, and he tugged a control to switch what was left to the landing thrusters, spilling altitude carelessly in his bid to reach the surface. Even if the ship hadn't been a ruin, it would never have survived such a landing, and he knew it.

 Dust kicked up all around him as he reached the final stages of the landing, a chorus of alarms ringing in his ears as he desperately sought the ground. His fuel ran out, thirty feet too soon, and he felt a terrible lurch as the fighter slammed into position, crashing into the sand, the struts snapping under the unaccustomed load. The force of the impact threw him forward into the restraints, and he grimaced from the jolt, knowing that he would have a pattern of bruises on his chest.

 Still, he was down, and alive, and that had been more than he'd expected ten minutes ago. With a final, depressing tone, the fighter's systems died, one last indicator telling him that he'd landed only a mile short of the beacon. Tugging a control to fire the explosive bolts, he sent the canopy flying into the air, tumbling down the slope behind him, and the fierce, burning heat of the white-hot sun started to bear down upon him.

 Reaching for the survival kit underneath his couch, he took quick inventory of this possessions, and his brief happiness at living through the landing was instantly dispelled by the paucity of the supplies on offer. Food and water for two days, a first-aid kit that at least provided some painkillers to offset the effects of the landing, and a thin poncho he slung over his head, giving him at least the impression of shade. The designers had never imagined a situation such as he now faced, alone on an alien world, and most of the equipment was useless, designed either to contact a ship in orbit or defend himself against theoretical aggressors.

 Strapping on pistol and combat knife, helpfully on the same belt, he tugged the ripcord to activate the emergency beacon, on the off-chance that someone friendly would be listening. Even someone unfriendly would be welcome in the current circumstances, and the prospect of an air-conditioned interrogation cell on Waldheim was almost inviting.

 Climbing out of the cockpit, he took one last look at his last link from home, then set off across the desert, trying to make a line for what he hoped was the beacon. There was still no sign of life, no footprints in the drifting sand, no trace of water. He struggled to remember his limited survival training, but when he'd attended the Academy, the idea that the Triplanetary Fleet would have significant involvement with habitable planets had been out of the question. If he had the chance, he'd like to have words with his instructors on that subject, and provide them with education on the error of their ways. One more reason to live through this.

 He trudged across the sand, grit running into his boots, crunching underfoot, sweat running down his head. He did remember that walking in the desert during the day was meant to be a bad idea, but with no knowledge of how long the daylight would last, and the potential of safety only a few meters away, he couldn't wait for the uncertain prospect of nightfall.

 Finally, on the far side of a slope, he saw it, a cylinder of metal placed on the landscape, antenna reaching plaintively up to the sky. His pace quickened as he rushed for the beacon, the Triplanetary flag emblazoned on its side, writing battered away by the elements. It had obviously been here for a long time, perhaps months, and showed no sign that anyone had paid it any attention since then.

 With a sigh, he sat down in the shade of the beacon, and took a single drink of water from his canteen, sloshing the remnants inside the container. There didn't seem to be any point in rationing it out, and he took a second, deep swig, before slamming the stopper home and replacing it at his belt.

 Then he heard movement, something coming towards him, and he reached down for his pistol, tugging it free of his holster, wiping his hand on his jacket to remove the sweat as he hid behind the beacon, knowing instantly that his stance was ludicrous. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, and his life was measured in hours in any case. Tossing his pistol away with a smile, he stepped out into the open, and was rewarded with a familiar face, swathed in improvised survival gear, looking back at him.

 “Good God, Pavel. I should have known you'd show up eventually.”

TO BE CONTINUED……

Thank you for reading 'Into the Maelstrom'. 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.

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The saga returns in Battlecruiser Alamo: Vault of Eternity, available soon…