NOT ONE STEP BACK

Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 5

Richard Tongue

Battlecruiser Alamo #5: Not One Step Back

Copyright © 2014 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

First Kindle Edition: February 2014

Cover By Keith Draws

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

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

Through learned and laborious years
 They set themselves to find
Fresh terrors and undreamed-of fears
 To heap upon mankind.

All that they drew from Heaven above
 Or digged from earth beneath,
They laid into their treasure-trove
 And arsenals of death:

While, for well-weighed advantage sake,
 Ruler and ruled alike
Built up the faith they meant to break
 When the fit hour should strike.

They traded with the careless earth,
 And good return it gave:
They plotted by their neighbour's hearth
 The means to make him slave.

When all was ready to their hand
 They loosed their hidden sword,
And utterly laid waste a land
 Their oath was pledged to guard.

Coldly they went about to raise
 To life and make more dread
Abominations of old days,
 That men believed were dead.

They paid the price to reach their goal
 Across a world in flame;
But their own hate slew their own soul
 Before that victory came.

The Outlaws, Rudyard Kipling

Chapter 1

 Logan Winter, occasional secret agent, sat at the poker table, his attention switching from the pile of chips in front of him to his hand, the first decent one he’d had all night. He allowed his gaze to drift over to the viewport, a desolate asteroid slowly tumbling beneath the prospecting station, lingering for what he hoped was the briefest of seconds on his contact. Under normal circumstances, he would have arranged for an independent courier to pick up this information, but time had not permitted shipping someone else all the way out here.

 He looked around the room as the bet passed to him, as if attempting to size up the other players. All of them were low-level corporate types from the station’s administration, wearing carbon-copy jumpsuits with their logos emblazoned on the side. One of them was making a complete mess of hiding his tells; he had far fewer chips on his table than the rest of them, and he hoped that he hadn’t manage to bet the special chip away to someone else in his excitement. If there was one thing Logan hated, it was working with rookies, and this whole operation seemed to be decidedly amateur hour.

 “I’ll raise a hundred,” he said, pushing a pair of orange chips onto the table, rapping his knuckles on the table in the pre-arranged signal.

 Mr. Fidget, sitting to his right, rapidly tossed the special chip into the pile, “I’ll match that.”

 “Too rich,” his neighbor said, and the next player also withdrew from the game, tossing his cards carelessly to the table as they tumbled and drifted in the low-gravity. There was only one other player left, and Logan caught the beginnings of a little smile on his face; he glanced down at the three aces in his hand, hoping for reassurance, but the seed of doubt began to creep into his mind. If he had played his trick too early, he’d have to resort to something clumsy after the game.

 “I’ll raise three hundred,” he said, pushing a pile of low-denomination chips onto the table, the pile crashing down above the chips. Logan kept his face cool; this wasn’t the first time he’d played for stakes like this. He counted to twenty in his head, spending the time with his head buried in his cards, as if he was waiting to make his decision. This one had to look good.

 “I’ll match, and see you,” Logan replied. His contact eagerly – far too eagerly – threw in his hand, relinquishing his bet, and it was just the two of them remaining in the game. With a huge smirk, the confident man laid his cards face down on the table, and Logan couldn’t resist a grin as he saw three queens leering up at him.

 “Three aces,” he replied, displaying his cards with a smile, and gathering in his chips. Ordinarily he would have played several more hands in order to camouflage his performance, ideally losing most of his stake – after all, it wasn’t his money he was playing with. At least, he hoped it wasn’t; he had no idea how the accountants would view this expenses claim when he put it in. He started to pile his chips into a pouch; he had an appointment that the laws of celestial mechanics would not permit him to miss.

 “I’m afraid I’m going to have to bow out here, my friends,” he said, looking around with a smile.

 “No,” the loser said. “You should give us a chance to win back our money.”

 “If you didn’t want to lose it, you shouldn’t have bet it,” his contact said, looking at the door.  Inwardly, Logan groaned; this idiot was on the verge of blowing the entire operation.

 “You seem awfully friendly with this stranger, Saul.”

 “What are you implying?”

 Logan edged to the door as he saw a finger dart under a table, obviously heading for a hidden button. His assessment of the station’s security was fairly low, but realistically in about a minute a group of thugs would be bursting into the room, and it didn’t seem likely that they would be on his side of the argument.

 “Where are you going?”

 “I haven’t got any time to listen to you two bickering,” he said, trying to muster some bluster as he continued to move for the door. “This has been an excellent game, and I’ll be only too happy to let you try and win my money back off me tomorrow, but really…”

 Logan had an instant to react to the sight of a gun coming out of a concealed holster into the hand of one of the other players; this wasn’t just a group of frustrated poker players annoyed that they had been beaten at cards, this was an ambush that he’d managed to dance right into the middle of. Fortunately, the designer of his concealed holster was apparently better than the man who had built that of his target; the prospective gunman dropped to the ground with a hole in his shoulder, yelling in pain. He spared a second to glance at the weapon as it rolled out of his hand, a Republic Service Special.

 “What the hell have you done!” yelled one of the players, but Logan was in no mood for a prolonged exchange, racing out of the room and down the corridor. He’d spent the last three weeks on this old station, long enough to have a reasonable idea of the layout; right now his goal was the nearest shuttle bay. Sliding his weapon back out of sight, he saw a trio of guards running down the corridor, and jogged past them with a smile and a wave.

 He shook his head as that little ploy almost worked; it bought him a few seconds before they realized he was the one they had been summoned to arrest, and they turned, reaching for their guns, but before they could draw them Logan had fired a few shots into the air, sending shards of plastiglass flying from a monitor with some ominous-sounding sparks, enough to distract them long enough for him to dive into the waiting elevator, the very one they had used to reach him.

 Stabbing his finger on the button for the shuttle bay, he slid a data crystal from a hidden pocket in his jacket and placed it into a slot on the elevator’s control panel, just in time to stop the override that would have locked him in place. The system had been designed well enough that he didn’t own the whole transport infrastructure, but at the very least he could guarantee reaching his destination.

 At this point, there was no way that he was simply going to get away with sauntering into the bay and taking his shuttle, so he took several deep breaths, replaced his gun carefully in the holster but twisted his sleeve so that he could reach it with the simple flex of a muscle, and tensed himself to make a run for it.

 The doors slid open, and before anyone could challenge or question him, he sprinted out into the open bay, running to his waiting shuttle, an old, stubby-nosed craft, battered and bruised from long misuse. Guards were rushing towards him from every direction, but none of them had drawn their weapons – the damage they could do to valuable company property was sufficient to discourage them.

 Some of the prospectors, working on their ships – most of them even older than his – cheered as he outpaced the guards, no-doubt suspecting that he had been caught for some petty misdemeanor and was simply showing up the security forces. He managed to slam his hand down on the palm-print reader, and the outer airlock door opened with surprising speed to admit him, crashing shut just before the fastest of the guards could get their hands on him.

 As he walked into the cockpit, he could see a series of guards milling around outside through the viewport, obviously debating what to do; he ignored the urgent requests from his communication system, telling him that there was a critical incoming message.

He slid into the co-pilot’s chair and began to type, running through a series of quick programs. The first thing he had done when he arrived was to take over the docking systems, and the gathering crowd suddenly had a nasty shock as sirens began to sound; he’d just activated every elevator airlock, and most of them had people standing on them.

 With a quick grin at the chaos he had just caused, he slid across to the pilot’s seat, typing in a pre-arranged course to his destination. Slowly, reluctantly, as if knowing that it was doing something it shouldn’t, the elevator engaged, and with a final gasping breath of atmosphere leaking out into space, his shuttle was drifting free – a situation that lasted only long enough for him to flick a switch on his primary engine, bursting down towards the asteroid.

 Dozens of ships – many of them part-disassembled – drifted in space behind him as he calculated his course. If he had done his job right, and if his superiors had managed to get everything ready in time, there would be a Triplanetary ship waiting for him at the other side of the rock. He hoped.

 A warning alarm sounded from his sensors, and he hastily cursed in a dozen languages; a fighter had managed to scramble in time to get after him, no doubt with orders to shoot to destroy. Someone was really trying to cover their tracks today. He ran his hands over the panel, and a trio of thrusters emerged from hidden compartments on the outside of his shuttle’s hull, beginning to run through a pre-arranged series of evasive maneuvers  – maneuvers that, he noted with some alarm, were going to take him far too close to the surface of the nameless asteroid for comfort.

 No point trying to call the Triplanetary ship for help right now; they were going to have to maintain a level of plausible deniability, at least until after he had reported in. He watched the horizon get closer and closer as he dived towards the surface, the fighter curving down after him, then shook his head as another track appeared on his proximity sensors; a missile, heading right for him.

 It was times such as this that made Logan wish that he had a co-pilot he could trust; nudging the autopilot on, he skidded over to the communications station and began to engage the countermeasure programs. Twenty seconds later, the missile exploded well short of its target – surplus military hardware, so he had all the specifications, and the idiots hadn’t even changed the encryption programs.

 Grey-brown dirt raced below him as the shuttle drifted from side to side, lunging around as if caught in an invisible wind, all designed to protect him from future attack, but after a few seconds he passed over the asteroid, and could see the welcoming light of his destination ahead of him. Inserting an encryption chip using a coding that officially couldn’t exist, he opened a channel.

 “Winter to Pioneer, do you read?”

 “Pioneer here. You are cleared to dock; be advised that we have warned off incoming fighter and our defensive systems are activated.”

 He frowned at that, but made no reply, instead watching with some satisfaction as the fighter curved away, heading back for the station, no doubt in order to have an argument with his boss. The shuttle cruised towards the waiting scout, and he frowned at the fresh coat of paint; someone had done some serious work on this ship in the recent past. Usually when Intelligence borrowed a ship from the junkyard fleet, they didn’t bother with anything but routine maintenance.

 With a few careful pulses from the thrusters, the shuttle steadied itself into the waiting cradle, then jerked up as it was pulled into the small shuttle bay. Logan could feel acceleration as soon as the elevator airlock had closed; they were already underway. Climbing out of his couch, he walked over to the airlock door, impatiently waiting for it to open. An all-too familiar face was waiting for him outside.

 “Paine, you bastard, I’ve half a mind too…”

The portly man, wearing a uniform that he was obviously wearing for the first time – and Fleet Captain’s insignia, as well – chuckled, turning over to another officer standing to his side.

 “Mr. Dietz, please get us to Mariner Station with all speed. Your guidance officer seems to be most efficient, but I think he would benefit from your direct guidance.”

 The officer took the hint, stood sharply to attention, and walked out of the deck, followed the rest of the maintenance crew. It was just Logan and Paine now, facing each other.

 “Get someone else to do your dirty work next time. I’m getting too old for this crap.”

 “I take it the mission was a success, then?” Paine asked, holding out his hand.

 Logan tossed the chip to him, “Everything that my contact knows about the Cabal – everything he could extract from the station computers. I know there is a connection, and I know that it leads to Spitfire Station, but for the moment that’s all I do know.”

 Turning the chip over in his hand, Paine replied, “Anything else?”

 “You need to get a task force out here to clean that station up. Lot of people that we’re going to need to question.”

 “Coincidentally, the assault carrier Overlord will be arriving shortly to conduct exercises. They should be here within a few hours of our departure.”

 “Well-timed.”

 “Indeed.”

 “Something else,” Logan said, “I’m pretty sure they knew who I was. I was ambushed, at the last minute, right at the point of contact.”

 “No other ships in the area,” Paine said, shaking his head, “But that means nothing, it could have been a tight-beam from anywhere in the system. Who was it?”

 “Someone pretending to be Republic. The gun was right, but the holster wasn’t.”

 “Interesting.” Paine smiled again, then tossed the chip back to Logan.

 He snatched it out of the air, looking from the chip to Paine, his face turning red, “What the hell do I want this for?” 

 “You’re going to need it where you are going.”

 “Damn it, Paine, this was supposed to be a one-time mission.”

 That smile again. “And for it, I reactivated your reserve commission. You’re mine for three years.”

 “I know enough…”

 “And I think that Cornucopia Mining would like to speak to you very much.” The smile had turned into a frown.

 Sighing, Logan pocketed the chip with a quick move of his wrist. “Where am I going?”

 “Mariner Station, where you will report to Lieutenant-Captain Marshall on the battlecruiser Alamo…”

Chapter 2

 Rolling applause cascaded through the auditorium; Marshall paused for a long minute, human enough that the enjoyed basking in the praise. Four Senators sitting in a semicircle in front of his dais, their aides, every journalist that could get into the room and a gaggle of well-wishers wearing Triplanetary uniforms, all of them had come to listen to the first public debriefing since Alamo’s return from Jefferson, three months ago.

 He’d spent most of that time on Mars sitting in briefing rooms, talking to a series of uniformed and civilian officials about their flight out, what little they had learned about the Cabal, the discovery of a terraformed world. A surprising number had wanted to skip right to Alamo’s atmospheric dive, and the eager look in the eye of a few of the junior officers he had briefed suggested that it might be attempted again at some point in the future.

 Turning to look at the room, he caught sight of Commodore Tramiel, sitting stony-faced in the middle of a group of cheering lieutenants; as a junior officer he had learned to fear that particular look, though he couldn’t imagine what had brought it on this time. The chairman started to bang his gavel on the table, attempting to return some sort of order to the proceedings, and Marshall focused his attention back onto the highest ranking dignitaries.

 “Captain Marshall,” the chairman, Senator Harper – father of one of his more...controversial crewmembers – began, “I think I can safely speak for the Extrasolar Affairs Committee when I say that your performance at Jefferson was exemplary, and that our recommendation will be for you to receive the highest possible commendation.”

 He paused, waving his hand to pre-empt more cheering. “What we have yet to hear, however, are your recommendations regarding Jefferson. As I speak a company of Triplanetary Espatiers are rising their lives to help liberate that planet from the lingering remnants of the Cabal; what would you do next, if it was your decision?”

 “Senator Harper, my advice would be quite simple. The people of Jefferson should be offered Triplanetary membership in a free and fair vote, once the conflict on the planet has ended. Should they refuse, then we should pack up our kitbags and leave.”

 Bushy eyebrows furrowed from Senator Knox, sitting on the extreme left; one of the senior members of the Patriot Party, he was renowned as a great friend of the Triplanetary Fleet – as an instrument to bring the United Nations finally to its knees and conquering the Lunar Republic in order to make the universe safe for his notion of democracy.

 “Captain Marshall,” he began, “as we speak the Triplanetary Fleet is spending an inordinate amount of blood and treasure to liberate the people of Jefferson, and you think that we should simply walk away once the job is done?”

 “I would certainly attempt to negotiate trade and mutual defense agreements, but essentially, Senator, I would indeed walk away once the job was complete. Jefferson does not belong to us, it belongs to its citizens.” He looked the old man square in the face, matching his gaze. “Make no mistake, sir, I believe that they should join the Confederation. I think it would be the best thing for Jefferson and its people. But I would not force them, sir, or else we are no better than the United Nations.”

 “Hmm...you imply that you would refuse such an order.”

 Marshall shook his head, replying, “I would never refuse a lawful order issued by my superiors through the chain of command, sir.”

 Glancing at Knox, Senator Cartwright – the youngest senator on the panel, recently elected by the surprise death of her predecessor in an accident – turned back to face Marshall, quickly scanning a datapad in front of her before speaking, her lips pursed into a frown.

 “You suggest that you would not refuse an order? Yet your trip to Jefferson was in fact a violation of your sailing orders, was it not.”

 Senator Harper glared at her, “Senator, I really do not think that…” 

 Interrupting him, Marshall replied, “Yes, ma’am, it was. However, there was a measure of discretion built into those orders, and it was apparent to me that there was an urgent need to reach Jefferson as quickly as possible. Had I not, I suggest that the Republic’s Central Committee would now be discussing the future of its latest Province – Jefferson.”

 “You are suggesting that…”

 Marshall didn’t let her finish, “That a ship captain operating weeks away from his superiors must have the autonomy to react to changing situations and new discoveries. I and my fellow battlecruiser commanders spend much of our time far beyond Sol System, ma’am, and we usually do not have the luxury of returning home and receiving new orders. We must therefore follow the dictates of our training and our conscience.”

 “I see,” she replied, shaking her head. Obviously he had failed to convince her, but he could tell that every uniformed figure in the room was nodding in agreement with him. Senator Harper was looking at her, then glancing up at the clock.

 “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said, “I must now conclude this meeting; we have a critical Senate vote within the hour. Thank you all for attending, and once again, my thanks and congratulations to Lieutenant-Captain Marshall.”

 The applause rolled on again for a full minute before petering out; Marshall, looking around, began to make his way to the exit, shaking hands and being clapped on the back as he left, then found himself standing face to face with Senator Harper; the man was a darn sight quicker than he looked to have made his way down from the platform in such a hurry.

 “Captain Marshall, I have one more thing to say; I’d like to thank you for taking on my daughter.”

 Smiling, he replied, “As far as I’m concerned, she’s just another crewman, Senator. I’ve given her no special treatment or attention. An excellent computer warfare operator.”

 Nodding, the older man replied, “If someone had done that to me when I was commanding a ship, I hate to think what I would have said or thought. It was unfair to do that to you, and I apologize.”

 “Senator, her presence was critical to the success of our mission.” He watched the old man beam, and raised his hand, “But please don’t do it again.”

 “I won’t, Captain. I just wanted to say that I appreciated your help. She was going off the rails in a hurry, and a bit of service discipline...well, it straightened me out when I was a kid.”

 Raising an eyebrow, Marshall looked at the Senator – and former General – in a new light, “You got into trouble?”

 “All the time. I ended up with my commission in the UN Fleet back before the war because the judge suggested it, and I did well enough in the tests.” He chuckled, “I really wish I could thank Colonel Alvarez. The things I made him put up with…”

 Placing his hand on the Senator’s shoulder, Marshall replied, “If you want a suggestion, talk to your daughter about this.”

 “Even now, she is barely speaking to me.”

 “Try. I think she might like to have more in common with you than she thinks.”

 A familiar figure tapped Marshall on the shoulder; he turned to see a figure he remembered with some distaste from a year ago standing in front of him – the previous commander of Alamo, Zubinsky, from whom he had taken over in somewhat controversial circumstances. He was now wearing a freshly pressed Triplanetary Fleet uniform, and one with the insignia of a full Captain, so now he even outranked him.

 “Lieutenant-Captain Marshall?” Zubinsky laid a heavy stress on the first half of the rank. “Commodore Tramiel needs to see you urgently in his office.”

 “Of course, sir,” Marshall said, getting the last word out with an effort. “Senator, if you’ll excuse me?”

 “The work of a soldier is never done, Captain, I am well aware of that. Perhaps you will join me and my family for dinner when next you are on Mars?”

 “I would be honored, Senator,” he replied, shaking his proffered hand before turning away, following Zubinsky through the door. Both men were silent as they walked through the corridors of the Senate building, walking past windows giving occasional glimpses of Port Lowell and the beautiful, bleak Martian landscape beyond. Evidently the Commodore had managed to requisition an office from some functionary; a lot of brass had been here for the briefings, but notably he hadn’t seen the Commodore since the official reception when Alamo came in.

 “Wait outside for a moment, Marshall,” Zubinsky said, knocking on the door and stepping through. The moment – and several like it – passed, and Marshall perched himself on the wall, pulling out his datapad and running through the latest reports from his ship. He hadn’t seen Alamo in three months, and was having to run the refits remotely; not that he didn’t trust his staff, but there were so many details that would have been a lot easier to handle if he was actually there.

 The door opened, and Zubinsky beckoned him in, then walked out of the room, heading off down the corridor. Inside, Commodore Tramiel sat alone, looming large behind a desk that was too small for him, strong arms resting on the table with a datapad in one hand. Marshall saluted, but he only scowled in reply, motioning him to take a seat as the door closed behind him.

 “Have you quite finished with the Extrasolar Affairs cheerleaders, then, Marshall?” he began.

 His eyes widening, Marshall replied, “Sir, I…”

 “Have been very outspoken, Captain. We’ll skip over your unorthodox decision to once again dictate Triplanetary policy for the next decade, and I’ll even overlook your decision to change your flight plan without consultation.” He waved a hand in the air. “I admit in your situation I would probably have done the same.” With a clatter, he threw the datapad down on the desk in front of Marshall.

 Looking down, he saw a list of names – Alamo’s casualties sustained on Jefferson, both during the initial assault on the spaceport and the later ground conflict. Some names that would never be coming home, others that were so badly wounded that even 22nd-century medicine was unable to restore them sufficiently that they could return to service.

 “I stand by my actions, sir.”

 “You risked the lives of every member of your crew in that stupid stunt, Captain. More than a hundred lives at risk to save three – four if you count Lieutenant Orlov. That, sir, was an unjustified risk.”

 “We needed the information on the planet, sir.”

 The Commodore was shouting now, “All we know, damn it, is that a hostile force called the Cabal is lurking out there somewhere in deep space. They covered their tracks nicely, Marshall, and your blundering failed to help matters.”

 Looking to his right then back at the Commodore, “All of my crew volunteered for the flight. All of them. They all had the chance to wait at the starport.”

 “And you think they would reject a mission? You don’t know your crew very well if you think they would watch their friends and comrades die while they sat in safety. Then you put the bulk of your crew – including yourself, incidentally – on the ground and left someone in charge who you had doubts about. I’ve read your logs, Captain, and they make very interesting reading.”

 “Sir…”

 Tramiel wasn’t giving Marshall a chance to get a word in, “You decided that the Triplanetary Confederation needed to be tied into Jefferson, committed us to an ongoing military presence on the planet – because weeding out those bastards is going to take years. A lot of people are going to die there, Captain, and they die because you decided they must.” Marshall sat in silence for a moment. “Have you got anything to say?”

 “Can I speak freely, sir?”

 “Yes, damn it.”

 Taking a deep breath, Marshall replied, “I know my crew a damn sight better than you, Commodore, and I know that they all wanted to get their friends back off Jefferson. The Espatiers were hell-bent on bringing them out, and everyone worked like hell.”

 “I was not criticizing your crew, Captain.” He leaned forward, a sneer on his face. “Just you.”

 Leaping to his feet, Marshall replied, “What the hell was I supposed to do, Commodore? What the hell was I supposed to do? I knew that the Republic were heading out there, and soon – their presence on Sagdeev confirmed that. That planet out there is the most valuable piece of real estate in the known galaxy. The only planet other than Earth where human beings can live without technological aid. At the very least, it had to be protected and defended.”

 “Finished?”

 “No, sir! I arrive, I find that it is guarded by a weapons system decades ahead of anything we have – a system that our people can now study – and that the inhabitants of the planet are being held in a state of oppression by a hostile foreign power. I couldn’t help but remember how we were before the war began. What if someone had come and helped us, Commodore? We needed the help every bit as badly as they did. How could I just fly away and leave those people behind?” He smiled. “They might be squabbling, but Jefferson’s on the right track now. The track to freedom and self-determination. I hope that leads them to the Confederation, but at any rate, it will lead them somewhere better than they were. And their kids can now dream of flying in space again. That meant a lot to me, at any rate.”

 “Have you quite finished?”

 Nodding, Marshall replied, “Yes, sir, I have. I guess you can be free to turn Alamo back over to Zubinsky now.”

 “Don’t be stupid. Sit down.” As the younger officer sat, he began to smile, “You build up a good head of steam, Danny. Good to see in a commanding officer, and it’s nice that you are able to yell back to me now. Sign that you’re maturing, it usually takes a few years for a skipper to learn how to shout at his boss.”

 Frowning, he replied, “Thanks, I suppose, sir.”

 “Right now, Zubinsky’s in between assignments; there are a lot of people joining the Fleet now. Hundreds. We’ve got every FTL-capable craft in the three defense fleets, and our technical staffs are going over the mothball fleets to see what they can scavenge for us. The Senate just past its third bill to increase our appropriations, the third in two years, Danny.”

 “Wow.”

 “This isn’t the rag-tag jumble of ships you joined. We’re an actual fleet now, and we have a lot of commitments to fill. Speaking of which, I’ve got to take Dietz away from you permanently.”

 Marshall’s mouth opened, “The psychiatrists gave him the all-clear…”

 “And I need him elsewhere. We’re hurting, and badly, for experienced cadre at his rank. Those old Ranger-class scouts, remember them?”

 “Only in the Martian Smithsonian.”

 “Don’t go there expecting to see one. We’re bringing all seven of them back into the fleet, and I’m giving Pioneer to Dietz. He’s just got back from his shakedown flight, actually. Cunningham can stay on as your permanent Executive Officer, and I’ll get you someone new to cover Operations.”

 “I’m glad to hear it. Glad he’s still in the service, I mean. The psych boys weren’t optimistic at first.”

 “Worst case of xenopsychosis they’d ever seen, but they can work miracles these days. I know that seeing any alien triggers some...problems, but these ones…” He sighed, “The Cabal is still a total blank, Danny, and one that we desperately need to fill. That’s why you are here.”

 “I thought…”

 “Big mistake.” Tramiel frowned. “Are you familiar with Spitfire Station?”

 Making a face, Marshall replied, “Orbits Luhman 16, doesn’t it, six and a bit light years out? I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard the stories.”

 “All of them are true. The place is a smuggler’s paradise, and one we tolerate because we need to be able to sneak things through the UN embargo.”

 “Things?”

 A smile cracking his face, Tramiel replied, “Best not to be too specific, I think. Technically, it’s ours, but we’ve been hands-off; that’s now changing. There have been some attacks, probably rival smuggling groups fighting it out, but the administrators have been putting pressure on us to deal with the situation.”

 “Who are they?”

 “Our old friends at Cornucopia Mining. Seems that they have an interest in the station, as well as sending prospecting ships out all over the place.”

 “I see.” 

 “Naturally, they will be very happy when they learn that we are sending Alamo out to deal with the problem.” Crossing his hands, he leaned back on his chair. “Now, what I am about to tell you comes direct from the President – and I mean direct. You will be the fourth person in the loop on this one, and that’s as far as it goes. Counter-Admiral Remek and I got these orders direct this morning.”

 Marshall leaned forward, an eager smile on his face, “And they are, sir?”

 “Once you have dealt with the situation at Spitfire, you are to refuel and proceed out. Into deep space at your discretion. Fuel dumps have been established at FL Virginis, out at the seventh planet – well away from our outpost on Sagdeev. That’s there if you want it.”

 “Two jumps from Spitfire to Sagdeev, then we go where we wish?”

 Shaking his head, the Commodore replied, “No, son, you go where you want from Spitfire. We need to learn everything we can about the Cabal – while we are so completely in the dark, we cannot plan, cannot prepare ourselves. We might be at war with them tomorrow, or they might have nothing to fight with. All we know is that potentially they represent the greatest threat we have faced since the Interplanetary War.”

 Rubbing his hand over his chin, Marshall replied, “No restrictions on my orders?”

 “Not after Spitfire. Your cover is that you are proceeding on a routine patrol and training mission to Proxima, and we’re going to make sure that no Triplanetary ship heads out that way. Not that we will make a big deal of it. I’ve prepared your ship as thoroughly as I can; a full Espatier platoon, extra support for your astrogator, one of the new science officers. I can’t spare any fighters, not with the carriers coming back into service, but you’ve got plenty of shuttles.”

 “This...sounds too good to be true.”

 “The catch is that there is no rescue. If this mission goes wrong, we will have no idea where Alamo is – but the whole point is that we can’t know. The only solid information we got from Jefferson is that the Cabal has an intelligence network that has us well covered; if we gave you orders, there is no guarantee that they would not be compromised.”

 “I see.”

 “You will need to watch for sabotage, take additional precautions. Your crew are not to be briefed until you leave Spitfire – until you are actually in hendecaspace on your way out. I’ve made sure you have copies of everything we have, and I didn’t draw Spitfire out of a hat, either. One of our agents has a lead that heads in that direction, and I suggest you follow it up.”

 “I will, sir.”

 “You’ll need to watch for the Republic, as well. With them grabbing Wolf 359 and Sirius...the situation is poised to get nasty, very quickly. I would not be surprised to see them out there.”

 “You think they might be considering an alliance with the Cabal?”

 Tramiel paused, frowning, “I don’t think we can rule it out.”

 “I’ll be on my guard, sir.”

 “It gets better, I’m afraid; Intelligence wants you to take a man with you out there.”

 His brow furrowing, Marshall said, “Do they know about the mission, sir?”

 “I damn well hope not.” Sighing, Tramiel shook his head, “But who knows how many pies those spooks have their fingers in. Try and find some use for him.” He scanned a datapad, “Logan Winter. Had a reserve commission, served during the war, so we reactivated him so he’d blend in better. I’ve listed him as a PCO.”

 “A prospective commander? Is he?”

 “No, but this way he can be around without actually doing anything.”

 “I see,” Marshall replied, his frown growing.

 “Alamo departs as soon as you get back to Mariner Station. I booked passage for you on the next shuttle, in about two hours from now. Zubinsky has seen that your bags are packed and you are ready to go.”

 “Thank you, sir.”

 “Just get the job done, Danny. And try and come home in one piece.”

Chapter 3

 “Come on, fifth out of twelve isn’t that bad,” Esposito said to her friend, Sub-Lieutenant Margaret Orlova. The young officer shook her head in frustration.

 “I should have done better than that, Gabi. I was the only one in that class who had actual combat experience…”

 “And the only one in the class that didn’t attend a service academy. You had a big gap to get over, and you did pass, right?”

 With a reluctant nod, Orlova replied, “Right. I’m tactical-qualified now. Assuming that the Captain will let me anywhere near the weapons with those test scores.”

 Sighing, Esposito said, “This isn’t like you, Maggie. I’ve never seen you like this.” She paused, “Is it your father?”

 Shaking her head, she said, “Hell, no. I’d have liked to spend more time with him, but we at least managed to spend a couple of weeks together at Port Lowell. It’s…”

 “What?”

 “I felt like a fraud. All of those people spoke the same language, had the same training, most of them knew each other. Here I was, an outsider breaking into their world. I spent the whole time thinking there was something I was missing.”

 Grabbing her friend by the shoulders, Esposito said, “I outrank you now, so I get to tell you this – don’t be stupid. You’re a mustang, and one with an unconventional service record to say the least, but you also have more battle experience than anyone in the fleet with your rank and seniority. I doubt you’ll ever have a conventional career, and certainly there will always be people riding you because of it, but that doesn’t mean you don’t belong in the uniform.”

 Looking over her garish dress, Orlova smiled, “I probably should put one on.”

 “I was going to ask when the Captain had changed the dress code,” Esposito said with a twinkling chuckle.

 “Some sort of shipping snafu, all my bags went out on the last shuttle. I just hope someone’s stowed them in my cabin for me – and that Harper didn’t get there first.”

 “You’re going to have fun with her.”

 “Not so much fun as before. I’m going to miss you, dammit.”

 Glancing down at her insignia, Esposito replied, “It’s going to be strange watching Alamo fly off without me, that’s for certain. I don’t want to spend the next year babysitting recruits, but they gave me what I wanted. Another year and they fund my Masters, then I come back for another three-year tour. Buys me time to decide what I want to do.”

 Orlova looked up at the shuttle display, shaking her head. For the last twenty minutes it had registered that the shuttle was waiting for docking clearance; it should have taken less than five. The concourse was crowded with Alamo crew making their way back after their leave was cut short.

 “How was your leave, anyway?”

 Sighing, her friend shook her head, “Trouble at home. My kid brother got himself mixed up with the law again, and we were trying to handle it by remote.”

 “I thought he’d emigrated?”

 “That’s the problem, he ended up out on Thalassa.”

 “Good place for someone wanting to be an oceanographer.”

 Shaking her head, Esposito replied, “A Triplanetary citizen on a UN colony world is always going to run into problems, and it just gets better if he gets mixed up in politics. They caught him at some sort of protest meeting.”

 “Ouch.”

 “I had to go down to Armstrong Station to sort it out. Almost a month out there yelling at one official or another – I tell you, I was tempted to call in for reinforcements. An Espatier platoon would have cut through the paperwork in a hurry.”

 “Bureaucracy through superior firepower.”

 As the two of them laughed, the light over the shuttle dock finally flashed green, and the doors slid open, the crowd of crewmen beginning to tumble inside; Orlova was almost knocked off her feet by a tall blonde she didn’t recognize, and flashed her a quick, dirty look.

 “Shuttle Seven now boarding,” a speaker redundantly announced.

 “You’d better get going,” Esposito said. “Let me know when you get back, we’ll get some leave together.”

 “Damn right.” The two quickly hugged, and Orlova walked onto the shuttle; all of the good seats seemed to have been taken, and the only empty one she could spot was an aisle seat next to the woman who had knocked her earlier. Crashing down onto the seat, she quickly tucked her legs in.

 “Aren’t you going to fasten your restraints?” the woman said, frowning.

 “For a hop this short?” Orlova replied, belatedly looking to her left; her eyes widened slightly when she saw the insignia of a Senior Lieutenant on the blonde’s shoulders, and an assignment patch that made it clear that she too was bound for Alamo.

 “Who are you, anyway?”

 “Sub-Lieutenant Margaret Orlova, Security Officer.” The woman coughed, and she finished,  “Ma’am.”

 “Ah, yes. I’ve read your file,” she replied in a neutral tone. “Senior Lieutenant Natalya Zebrova, Operations Officer.” While she didn’t actually add ‘worst nightmare’, it was definitely implied.

 “A pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

 “I take it you work undercover?”

 “Ma’am?”

 Gesturing at her, Zebrova replied, “You have a somewhat unorthodox uniform, Sub-Lieutenant. Though I suppose given your record, that’s not to be wondered at.”

 “There was a mix-up with my baggage, ma’am. We parted ways at Mars; this was all I could get out of the ship’s store.”

 “A good officer does not let ‘mix-ups’ happen, Sub-Lieutenant, and I trust you will see that it does not happen again. Submit yourself for uniform inspection in my office within half an hour of your arrival on Alamo.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Well, Sub-Lieutenant?”

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

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

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

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

 “Contact Alamo.”

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

 “Go back and strap in.”

 “Sub-…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Or three.”

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

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

 “Thanks. Shuttle Seven out.”

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

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

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

 “Trent?”

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

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

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

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

 “What?”

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

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

 “What does that have to do with anything?”

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

 “No.”

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

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

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

 “What do I need to decide?”

 “I’ve just…” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Your what?”

 “Tell you later.”

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

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

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

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

 “That’s good news, sir.”

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

 “She was wrong, sir.”

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

 “I’m sorry, sir.”

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

 “The investigation?”

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

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

 “Just two more, including the Captain.”

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

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

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

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

 Smiling, Orlova replied, “Thanks, sir.”

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

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

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

 Her eyes widened, “Sixth?”

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

 “I’ll try and remember it, sir.”

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

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

Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “You know how it works?”

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

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

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

 “Spaceman Harper.”

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

 “Will do,” she replied, smiling.

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

 “This was Shuttle Seven?”

 “Yes, sir,” Harper replied.

 “Thanks.” He continued to frown as he walked over to the waiting officer. If Pioneer had kept to its schedule, he would have been on that shuttle; suddenly his interest in Harper’s report had escalated from looking for a potential recruit to a matter of personal safety.

 “Sir?” the officer said, standing in front of him. He looked her over – young and trim, brunette with neatly-trimmed curls, a little slimmer than he usually liked. Her uniform was well-kept, carefully pressed. Evidently this was a tight ship, and he grimaced inwardly at the prospect.

 “I presume you are my escort?”

 “Sub-Lieutenant Ryder, sir, the officer of the watch.”

 “Senior Lieutenant Winter,” he replied, this time remembering to include his rank. “You taking me to my cabin?”

 “No, sir. Captain Marshall has called all senior officers to a briefing, and asked that you join them immediately upon arrival.” Logan waved his bag and she smiled, replying, “Don’t worry, sir, I’ll have a crewmen drop your belongings in your quarters. I think you are in the VIP room.”

 “Splendid,” he replied, stepping into the elevator. Ryder looked at him silently for a moment.

 “Do you know where you are going, sir?”

 “The briefing room,” he replied.

 She laughed, saying, “No, sir, I mean after the mission. What ship are you taking over?”

 Logan was baffled for a moment, then remembered Paine’s last-minute – he always liked surprising his operatives, for some reason that baffled him – instructions that he was impersonating something called a ‘Prospective Commanding Officer’.

 “I’m afraid I don’t know yet, Ryder. The Fleet works in mysterious ways.” He smiled, he hoped benignly. “Looking for a transfer?”

 “I’m on the list to be promoted to full Lieutenant in a few months, sir, and that will almost certainly mean a transfer.” She looked from side to side, “I was curious what my options might be.”

 “Well, Sub-Lieutenant, I will certainly keep you in mind for my next posting.”

 The doors opened, and the two of them walked out into the corridor. As promised, there was a crewman waiting for them, and Logan passed him his bag without a second thought; anything that was really important was in one of his hidden pockets. Just because he was stuck wearing a uniform didn’t mean he couldn’t customize it a little.

 “Right in there, sir,” Ryder said, gesturing at an anonymous door.

 “Thanks, Sub-lieutenant.”

 “My pleasure, sir.”

 Walking through the door, he found himself the immediate focus of attention, conversation stopping in mid-flow. There were several vacant chairs, and habit caused him to take the one closest to the door. He nodded at the officer at the head of the table, presumably the Captain, though he looked a tad young for the job.

 “Sorry I’m late, I hope I haven’t missed anything vital.”

 “Not at all. I’m Captain Marshall, and we’ll have a chance for a chat later.” He gestured to a tall, graying man on his right, “This is my Executive Officer, Senior Lieutenant Cunningham,” and then to a blonde woman with a severe look on his face to his left, “and my Operations Officer, Senior Lieutenant Zebrova.”

 “A pleasure to meet you all,” he said, looking around the room. “Senior Lieutenant Winter, and I’m just here to watch and learn.” Hopefully, he thought, that wouldn’t translate to having to actually do anything; he was going to be busy enough analyzing the data he had collected for that.

 “We’ll see that you get a good opportunity to do that, Mr. Winter,” Marshall said, nodding. “You can meet the rest of the staff later. We had just finished the ship status report, so you’re just in time for the mission briefing.”

 “Yes, sir.” He was beginning to get used to using ranks again; it had been a long time.

 Marshall tapped a series of buttons in front of him, and a holographic star map appeared over the table, the focus quickly shifting from Sol to Luhman 16, and then zooming in to the largest planet – the only gas giant – in that binary system.

 “That’s where we’re going.”

 “Christ, Captain, Spitfire?” a striking brunette wearing Lieutenant’s insignia replied. “I’ve been there once, and that was enough.”

 “Allow me to introduce our Tactical Officer, Lieutenant Caine.” There was a little sparkle in Marshall’s eye as he spoke, and Logan smiled inside. That was information he was going to find useful, and likely some which wouldn’t be in the confidential files held in the datapad in his pocket.

 “It’s a dump, a smuggler’s nest. Unless we’re going to be cleaning it up?”

 A very young woman, the only one in the room wearing Espatier insignia, looked around nervously, “I can come up with a tactical plan to pacify the station, sir.”

 “That won’t be necessary, Ensign,” Marshall replied. “Our mission is law-enforcement; apparently Cornucopia Mining…

 “Not them again,” another young officer, flaming red hair spilling out over her collar, said from the far end. “This is the second time they’ve had us hauled out of spacedock ahead of schedule to deal with their mess.” She turned to Logan, cracking a smile, “Sub-Lieutenant Margaret Orlova, Security.” Logan smiled back, and noted that Zebrova was fixing them both with an iron stare.

 “I’m afraid so,” Marshall said, leaning back. “They’ve reported a lot of ship losses lately, apparently some sort of – don’t laugh – space pirates are attacking their ships.”

 “Someone’s actually trying to make piracy pay?” Cunningham said, shaking his head.

 Caine replied, “There’s enough surplus hardware flying around that some group might manage it, and Luhman’s the ideal place to try something like that. We’ll be the first warship to visit the place since the War. Almost as if someone has ordered a hands-off policy.”

 Looking around at his officers, Marshall nodded, “Spitfire is – I am told – a critical source of supplies that we sneak through the UN embargo. That’s common enough knowledge, and reason enough that I suspect it was decided some time ago to let sleeping smugglers lie.”

 “Then what’s changed?” Caine said, pressing forward. “This must be pretty bad for Cornucopia to call for a battlecruiser to come and see.”

 “Maybe the situation has spiraled beyond anything they are able to deal with themselves,” the hitherto silent Zebrova replied, “and in any case, it is fruitless to question the reason behind our orders until we know more about the current situation.”

 “And I fear that is all too little; the official files on Spitfire don’t amount to more than some maintenance records and the logs of the ships that visited it during the War.”

 Caine added, “As I said, it’s a smuggler’s nest. Has a reputation for being a place you can go to get anything. There’s a civilian administration, but they don’t ask any questions. I wouldn’t necessarily expect much in the way of co-operation from them.”

 “Quite,” Marshall said, “So I will want you and Orlova to come up with a tactical plan to deal with the situation that is reliant solely on Alamo’s resources.”

 “Captain,” Zebrova said, “such a plan should be supervised by a senior officer.”

 A brief flash of frustration crossed Marshall’s face before he replied, “Very well, Lieutenant, I will leave that in your hands.”

 Neither Caine nor Orlova seemed particularly happy with that idea, so Logan spoke up, “Actually, Captain, I would be a better choice. I don’t have any formal duties on Alamo anyway, so it’s not as if I won’t have the free time.”

 “Surely you should be studying ship functions and operations?” Zebrova said.

 “I agree,” Marshall said with a scowl. “Senior Lieutenant Zebrova is more than capable of handling this, unless you have some special qualifications that aren’t in your record?”

 Logan wasn’t even aware that he had a record, at least, not one that even remotely accurately recounted his life. For a second, he considered arguing the point, but it didn’t seem to be worth it.

 “No, sir,” he replied. “Just trying to be helpful.” At that, Zebrova seemed to relax, though Caine and Orlova looked at each other surreptitiously while Marshall glanced down at a datapad, trying not to notice them.

 “We’ll be entering hendecaspace in about an hour, and it’s a six-day jump. I want your report on my desk in five.”

 “Yes, sir,” Zebrova replied, nodding.

 “One last thing before we go, then, and that is our little shuttle incident. Orlova, any progress to report yet?”

 “My team was just about to recertify the shuttle as safe for use when I came down to the meeting. I’ve ordered a check of all critical systems; the hendecaspace drive is operational, as is life support. If this isn’t urgent, though, I would recommend a delay before we leave Sol-space.” She looked around the table, several of the others nodding with her. “My team will need at least a day to check everything; this was infiltrated deep.”

 “I agree, sir,” Cunningham said.

 “I’m afraid time is of the essence. It seems as if Cornucopia Mining is in a hurry for our arrival; I was told to make all speed.” He sighed, “At least we’re going to a shipyard this time, at least, of a fashion. We should be able to make any necessary repairs there.”

 Caine shook her head, “Ten years and more without a visit, and all of a sudden they want us this quickly? Something’s going on here.”

 “As for the sabotage, it was definitely targeted at the shuttle alone.”

 “What makes you say that?” Logan asked, raising an eyebrow.

 She turned to him, replying, “If they wanted to target Alamo, they would have had the shuttle collide with us. Plenty of critical moments during a docking procedure, moments where there would be nothing at all we could do to stop it.”

 “So it was the shuttle? Or someone on it?” Marshall was looking at Logan. He might not be able to admit it to the crew, but he knew precisely who that accident was intended for.

 “That’s my theory. I’m going over the roster, and I have interviews scheduled with everyone who was on board during our jump to Spitfire Station.”

 “That I would like to help with,” Logan said, looking back at Marshall.

 The captain nodded in response, “I take it you have some special expertise in this area?”

 “I’ve done some security work in the past.” That much was, at least, true.

 “In that case you can handle the interviews for Sub-Lieutenant Orlova.” The young officer smiled at being relieved at what would likely otherwise be an extremely tedious burden, and one unlikely to expose anything that she was particularly interested in. “I think that’s everything,” Marshall continued, “so I’ll let you all get back to your stations. Sub-Lieutenant Carpenter,” he nodded at another officer at the far end of the table, a somewhat baffled looking woman, “I’ll speak with you and Senior Lieutenant Zebrova separately. Mr. Winter, if you would remain?”

 “Certainly,” Logan replied, lounging back in his chair as the others left the room. He waited for a few moments as they filed out, several of them turning to look at him as they went through the door, crossed his hands in front of him on his lap, and turned to Marshall.

 “I want to get this one out of the way right now…,” the captain began, before Logan interrupted him.

 “You don’t want me here. If it’s any consolation, I don’t want to be here.”

 Marshall narrowed his eyes, replying, “You’d better quantify that.”

 Pausing for a second, Logan asked, “What’s your security clearance?”

 “Top Secret, same as any other capital ship commander.”

 “Then I suppose I can tell you a part of the story, at least,” Logan began. “First of all, would it make you feel any better to know that this uniform isn’t a costume?”

 The captain visibly relaxed in his chair, “You’re in the service, then?”

 “During the war, I was a Captain in Martian Intelligence, and, well...you don’t just resign from an espionage agency. I stayed as a reservist, did a bit of work from time to time when needed, mostly on a freelance basis. Three months ago I was recalled, and drafted into Triplanetary Intelligence. Hence the uniform.”

 “Three months ago?”

 “About a day after you returned from Jefferson, telling everyone that our whole intelligence network had potentially been compromised.”

 “I suppose they decided to take no chances.”

 “Let’s just say that you made me rather busy.”

 Leaning forward, Marshall said, “I was told that you’d been working on the Cabal.”

 “That’s right. I’ve been following some corporate leads, and I’d managed to get the trail out to a prospecting station in the Neptunian Trojans. A contact there indicated that there was some...unusual activity out at Spitfire. I was planning out heading out there anyway, though not in a battlecruiser, I must admit.”

 “Corporate leads?”

 “My boss figured that the Cabal had to be getting their intelligence from somewhere. We’ve got operatives working on other leads, my job was to see if any of the prospectors were involved. They do most of the commercial interstellar flight, after all.”

 “That makes sense. Have you any information?”

 He thought of the chip in his pocket, and shook his head, “Just rumors and hints, I’m afraid, and the testimony of someone who in all likelihood is now dead.” Taking a deep breath, he continued, “The sabotage on the shuttle was meant for me.”

 “I assumed as much. Why do you want to conduct the interviews?”

 “Don’t take this the wrong way, Captain, but you can’t rule out having a spy on board. It’s happened before.”

 Marshall’s eyes turned cold, “I am aware of past incidents, Mr. Winter. I was personally involved in them. Are you telling me that you suspect Cabal involvement?”

 “We know they had approached Ragnarok in the past. We can’t rule it out.”

 Standing up, the young captain paced around the room, “I agree. I’ve already – quietly – taken additional precautions.” Turning back to the agent, he continued, “How do you want to proceed when we reach Spitfire?”

 “That depends on what we find when we get there. I’ll have to work it out as I go.”

 “I want to know everything you learn, Winter.”

 Pausing, Logan shook his head, “I will promise to inform you of anything connected with the Cabal, Captain. That’s all I can do. I have orders to follow as well.”

 “Quite so. I wouldn’t have trusted a wider-ranging promise anyway. Break it and I’ll toss you out of the airlock.” Marshall took a deep breath before saying, “Is there anything else you need?”

 “I’d like to borrow Sub-Lieutenant Ryder, for a bit.”

 “What for?”

 “Traffic projections. Nothing too exciting.”

 “Very well, I’ll let you liaise with Senior Lieutenant Zebrova. Keep me informed, and let me know what you find. That’s all, dismissed.”

 Nodding, Logan rose, thought about saluting and then decided against it, and turned to leave the room. The elevator took him right to the VIP quarters; obvious to assume that they would be designed to be easy to find for someone who was new to the ship. Though it was apparent that they hadn’t been used in some time, they were a pleasant surprise – comfortable and spacious, dwarfing his single bag, dumped on the floor.

 After a quick rummage to make sure that everything was as it should be, Logan pulled out a pair of small discs, placing them on opposite sides of the room; he didn’t actually think that the room was bugged, but it was best to stay in practice. That done, he pulled out a secure datapad and sat on a lounger, taking the courier chip from his pocket. He tossed it a couple of times, then placed it back into its hiding place, calling up schematics of Alamo instead, with a focus on the fastest ways from his cabin to the shuttle bay. While he browsed his avenues of escape, he tapped a button on the desk with an idle finger.

 “Could Sub-Lieutenant Ryder report to the VIP cabin, please,” he said quietly into the microphone.

Chapter 5

 Resting back on his command chair, Marshall looked around the new Alamo bridge. He’d told Quinn to make some changes to it during the refit, but he hadn’t quite figured how far his engineer would go. As a former pilot himself, he had some idea what was involved, but it looked brand new, pristine.

 Where once there had been a single huge console in front of the viewscreen, a few paces from his chair, were now two – one for Guidance, one for the shift officer. Tactical was now forward and to his right, instead of behind him, and Sensors to his left. A pair of holoprojectors were now either side of him, calibrated so that he could sit in the middle of the strategic display if he chose, or throw it to any direction he wanted.

 A pair of low stools had been slung on either side of his chair for visitors to the bridge, and as was usual before any hendecaspace transfer, they were full; he’d invited the new midshipmen up to watch the show. He smiled, remembering the rookies he’d taken on his last mission – all three of them were now commissioned, two of them still on Alamo – one of them, Steele, was sitting at the watch officer’s station right now, glancing over her shoulder at the duty midshipman, who was handling his controls with a confident flair.

 Turning behind him, he saw the enlarged Flight Engineer and Communications stations flanking the elevator shaft. Weitzman, one of the veterans who had been with him since Ragnarok, turned and smiled at him while handling the last few message packets from Mariner Station. One thing he was set on was keeping the senior brass on the bridge to a minimum; there had been a few occasions where a well-placed missile strike would have left an off-watch Sub-Lieutenant in command, and he’d managed to spread the brass around a little more than in the past.

 The door opened as he watched, and Zebrova walked in, managing to make it look as though she was marching onto the bridge; she reminded him a little of Dietz, probably because they trained in the same school. He idly wondered what his former executive officer was doing; he hadn’t heard a word from him since his release from the psych ward.

 “Transition in one minute, sir,” Steele said, turning to Marshall.

 “Thank you.” He tapped a button on his chair, another improvement. “Captain to all hands. Stand by for hendecaspace transition.”

 The voice of Senior Lieutenant Mulenga, his astrogator, sounded up, “Course is all laid in, sir, and transferred to guidance control.”

 “Thank you.” Tapping the button again, he struggled to remember his new duty midshipman’s name. “Mr. Tyler, you have the call.”

 “Aye, sir,” the young officer said with relish, “I have the call. Entry in ten seconds.”

 Bracing himself for a shock that never came, the universe around Alamo crackled Cerenkov blue, and then the viewscreen turned itself off, replaced with a course projection of the ship’s trajectory to Luhman 16, and a countdown estimating their time towards emergence into normal space. He relaxed, as usual, and stood up.

 “Good work, everyone. Steele, you have the conn.” He gestured at his office, “Lieutenant, I think we’re overdue for our little chat.”

 “Aye, sir,” she replied in a neutral tone, walking behind him into his office. He could tell that she didn’t approve of the mess without even looking at her. He’d been in command of Alamo for long enough now that the office definitely had his mark on it; a desk covered in datapads, reports and files, even some printouts, a collection of vaguely-sorted objects d’art secured to shelves on the wall, and the strange purple stain on his desk from a meeting over a meal that he’d long ago given up trying to remove.

 “Take a seat, Lieutenant,” he said, sitting behind his desk, his attention lingering for a second on the image of his father staring down at him from the wall. She sat opposite him, back straight, arms placed in front of her on the desk, as if she’d determined the proper posture out of a textbook – for all he knew, she had.

 “What is it you wanted to speak to me about, sir?”

 “You and Carpenter are the only new senior staff we’ve taken on this trip, and as you are ranked Second Officer, I thought we ought to have a little talk.”

 “I see, sir.”

 “You’ve been aboard for a little under a week, now; have you any first thoughts?”

 She frowned, hesitating for a moment, “I take it I may speak freely?”

 “Whenever you are in this office, you can count on it.”

 “I have some concerns about some of the junior officers; I think they are going to need increased supervision.”

 Raising an eyebrow, Marshall asked, “Anyone in particular?”

 “Sub-Lieutenant Orlova. This might be a difficult matter for you, sir, as I am aware you are essentially her sponsor in the fleet, but…” 

 “Sponsor?”

 “Her record is somewhat unconventional, Captain. Enlisted as a shuttle pilot on a temporary basis, then commissioned following the incident on Ragnarok. Frankly, she doesn’t strike me as someone who is particularly comfortable following orders. Then there is the matter of her test scores at Tactical training, which are of some concern.”

 “She passed.” 

 “Barely, sir.”

 “As a non-Academy graduate, to pass at all..”

 Taking a deep breath, Zebrova continued, “I would still be reluctant to place her on the bridge without additional training. I’m aware she’s logged some time at guidance control, but she does have an extremely critical position without the required experience.”

 “Are you referring to her current role as Security Officer?”

 “Frankly, yes, sir. I would recommend that you consider employing Sub-Lieutenant Ryder in that role instead; she is up for promotion in any case in the near future, and the experience would be good for her record.”

 Shaking his head, Marshall replied, “Your suggestion is noted, Lieutenant. Anything else?”

 With a thin smile, she said, “I have other recommendations, Captain, but is there really any point me stating them? You have your own opinions on these officers, and by the sounds of it, you will not listen to mine.” As his eyes widened, she continued, “You gave me permission to speak freely, sir.”

 “Indeed I did.” He rubbed his hand against his chin, “You haven’t seen Orlova in action. She’s in your department, so if you think that she has deficiencies, work with her, but frankly – you’ll need to build a hell of a case to convince me to move her away from Security.” He leaned back on his chair, “Give me a copy of your report, and I promise I will give it full attention.”

 “Yes, sir,” she replied, but from her tone, he could tell she didn’t believe him. He couldn’t blame her; he wasn’t sure he did either.

 “Is there anything else you wish to talk about?” 

 “Alamo is very different to the Patrol ships I have served on in the past. Forgive me for saying it, but discipline appears to be far looser, and the formalities of the regulations are often unenforced.”

 “We’ve learned to do what is necessary in order to get the job done, Lieutenant.”

 “I was told that field regulations were for the guidance of the wise, sir. Is it right to discard them so quickly or easily? I’ve been reviewing your last missions, and there are numerous cases where officers disregarded safety procedures, overrode the orders of superior officers, and where lives have been put at hazard as a result.”

 Pursing his lips, Marshall said, “Are you referring to my decision to proceed to Jefferson?”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “You wouldn’t have abandoned your flight path?”

 Pausing again, she said, “Yes, I would. To return to Ragnarok for reinforcements. I can’t imagine the Combined Chiefs would have passed up an opportunity like that. I would have garrisoned Sagreev with my espatier forces, and then returned to Hunter Station to brief my superiors.”

 That gave Marshall pause as he considered it; such a course of action had never occurred to him. Nevertheless, he had to admit that it did make sense; he hadn’t had to push forward alone with Alamo. The difference Frank had made, arriving in the nick of time on the Mullane…

 “We evidently have different styles of command, Lieutenant.”

 “I will naturally provide you with my input in situations such as this, Captain,” she said in an even voice. “And as Operations Officer, I will provide you with a ship that is ready to do whatever is necessary to accomplish our mission.” The determination in her voice was startling.

 With a smile, Marshall said, “I have a feeling that I’m looking at another officer who wants my job.”

 “Yes, sir,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “That’s why I rejected command of Viking.”

 “You turned down a ship of your own to take this job?”

 “A scout, sir. The mission profile was shakedown and courier work between Sol and the near stars; I thought that this assignment would be better suited to my intended career path.”

 “Indeed.”

 “Yes, sir.” She glanced up at the door, “I have a lot of work to do with the department, sir, and I’d like to have everything ready by the time we reach Spitfire Station.”

 Nodding, Marshall said, “Dismissed.”

 Standing and saluting, she turned and left the room, while he shook his head at his desk. She certainly didn’t want for arrogance, but he had to admit that she did have a point; he was looking at his command staff through biased eyes. Not to be wondered at, given how much he’d been through with them over the last two years. Had it really been that long?

 He pulled out a datapad, coded for maximum encryption, and started to flick through files; he’d been given everything they had on the Cabal, but most of it seemed to come from his own reports from Jefferson, and a few tattered hints and rumors collected by the other battlecruisers on their patrols. At this point, it looked very much as if he was going to be heading up that way again, certainly through Sagdeev. Worlds that no-one knew existed just a year ago.

 The door chime sounded, and before he could answer, it slid open to admit Caine, who walked into his office and paused, looking up at the holoimage of his father before taking a seat opposite him.

 “I swear his eyes follow you in the room,” she said, smiling. “You look lost in thought.”

 “I just had a very interesting conversation with our new Operations Officer,” he replied, frowning. “Let’s just say she has a very...interesting,” he cursed the repetition of the word, “viewpoint.”

 “She’s Patrol, Danny, came up with a different set of rules. You know how rigid those Callies can be. Though she might have a point.”

 “Et tu, brute?”

 “Every ship has a unique style, and that flows directly from the commanding officer. You came up as a fighter pilot, and you’re running your ship the way you used to run a squadron.” Forestalling Marshall’s protest, she continued, “And there is nothing wrong with that, and it certainly seems to work, but it’s a very different style to those who came up a more conventional way.”

 “I believe in letting my officers get on with doing their jobs.”

 “And believe me, Danny, we all love you for it. You’ve ended up with a crew that would hate the hell out of a micro-manager like some of the ones we know, but that also means that you have to trust us. Implicitly and totally. Out on the bridge now, you’ve got a twenty-two year old commanding the ship.”

 “Steele can handle it.”

 “How many Captains do you know who would let her even try?”

 “Damn it, Deadeye, we’re in hendecaspace…”

 “If you are about to suggest that nothing can go wrong, I’ll have to hurt you.” The two of them chuckled, and she continued, “None of this is a criticism, not at all, but you have to bear in mind that you won’t always get the crew you want; you have to take the crew you’ve got. The Fleet’s changing, maturing. We’ll have our own Academy soon instead of relying on cast-offs from the other services – and I don’t know how much longer they’ll last.”

 “So I need to accept and embrace the changes that are coming?”

 “I certainly don’t think you’ll get very far fighting it.” She glanced at his datapad, reading some lines before he could turn it off. “Something I shouldn’t see? That looks like Cunningham’s report on Jefferson.”

 “Reviewing some old files, some of it’s Top Secret stuff.”

 “I am Tactical Officer, remember. Outside you and Cunningham, I’m the only one with a Top Secret clearance.” 

 “Well…”

 She smiled, “You’re still looking for your father.”

 That served as as good a cover story as any. It even had the benefit of being true.

 “You know I am. I’m convinced that Hercules is out there, somewhere, and if I can work out where, I can convince the brass to let us go look for him.”

 “Tramiel would let you. Remek too, likely,” she nodded. “There are good, sound strategic reasons to bring that ship home, to say nothing of your own personal desires – but you’ve got to be careful, Danny. You can’t push things too far.”

 Changing the subject, Marshall said, “What do you think of our new Second Officer, anyway?”

 “Hell, I’m just glad that you didn’t give me the job,” she replied, relaxing in her chair.

 “Go on.”

 Sighing, she replied, “She is my senior officer. I know that she’s not in my direct chain, but I still have to work with her.”

 Almost on cue, the door burst open, and Cunningham walked in, his face red. He looked down at the two of them, scowling.

 “Something wrong, Jack?” Caine asked, smiling.

 “Yes, something’s wrong. I just had a ten-minute lecture on how the Operations department was poorly organized and managed, and how it was in need of a total procedural overhaul.”

 “Zebrova,” Marshall said.

 “Hell, yes. Apparently it was being run in a way more appropriate to wartime than peacetime, with insufficient possibilities for cross-training and advancement.” He did a reasonably good job of imitating her accent.

 “Was she right?”

 Fixing Marshall with a stare, he replied, “It’s the difference between running a department on paper and running it in practice, especially under the conditions we’ve been under lately. Hell, I had quieter patrols during the damn war than we’ve had since I got on board.”

 “Hopefully Spitfire will be a bit quieter,” Caine said, shrugging her shoulders.

 “I always loved your naivety, Deadeye,” Cunningham replied. “Really, never change.”

 “Let her have her head, Jack,” Marshall said, trying not to laugh. “She might have a point, and if she can bring something new to the table, all the better. If it’s any consolation, I think she recommended that I reduce Orlova to the ranks again.”

 “I already had a word with her about dealing with this one, Danny. You want me to slap Zebrova’s ears back as well?”

 “Appealing as the mental image might be, no. Let sleeping officers lie, at least for the moment, and keep an eye on her. You know the people involved.” Marshall’s terminal blinked, “And already she has a problem to deal with. Apparently our observer has requested Ryder’s help for the next five days.”

 “Five days?” Caine said, shaking her head, “What the hell does he want to do with her?”

 “He is a spook, right?” Cunningham said.

 Marshall smiled, replying, “I can neither confirm nor deny your hypothesis, Lieutenant. I think that’s the proper phrasing, isn’t it? I’ll just be glad to get him off the ship, and if I have to toss a junior officer to him to keep him out of the way while we get to Spitfire, it’s a small price to pay.”

 “Poor Ryder,” Caine said.

 “Well, that’s what Sub-Lieutenants are there for.”

 “Is there more to this mission that you’ve said, Danny?” Cunningham said.

 “Isn’t there always? The real question is whether there is more to this mission than I’ve been told, and that’s what’s worrying me about this one. There’s something we’re missing about all of this, and I have a horrible suspicion that it’s going to come back to haunt us.”

 “I’ve read the data,” Caine said, “and this doesn’t look too controversial. Espatier stop-and-searches of traffic in system, and a few missiles to knock out the pirates when they turn up. It’d be easier if we had fighters, but I don’t think this will be much of a problem.”

 “If it was that easy, Deadeye, Cornucopia would have handed it themselves,” Caine said, “Danny’s right, there’s something else going on here.”

 “What have they got, anyway?” Marshall asked

 Pulling out a datapad, Caine read, “Small tactical security force, a few transport shuttles for inspections, but Cornucopia’s dealt with a few private security agencies before, Danny, and they certainly have the money, and the desire for secrecy, out here.”

 “Maybe there is something going on that they want us to know about,” Cunningham said, frowning, peering over Caine’s shoulder. “Or perhaps we’re reading too much into a simple patrol mission.

 “When do we ever get a simple patrol mission?” 

Chapter 6

 Orlova had learned from bitter experience that the ship’s cuisine was far better at the beginning of a cruise – when the ship’s galley was stocked with at least a modicum of fresh food – than it was later on, when they were entirely dependent on reprocessed rations. No matter how the chef dressed them, they all still tasted like plastic; she scooped an extra helping of potato onto her plate, then took her tray over to her usual table.

 Zabek was sitting opposite her; an empty chair was waiting for Ryder, but if she didn’t hurry, she was going to miss dinner. Zabek looked up from her soup, waving her spoon in the air and throwing a few brown droplets onto the table.

 “Zebrova still giving you trouble?”

 “Last night she pulled a surprise inspection on my department – at least, she was going to.”

 “That’s the third in four days, isn’t it?” She paused in between mouthfuls, “What do you mean, going to? She changed her mind?”

 “Harper hacked into her system,” she chuckled, “and canceled the alert – leaving a series of instructions about how to improve her security for good measure.”

 “I take it that didn’t leave her in a particularly good mood?”

 “No. It didn’t.”

 Leaning forward, Zabek asked, “What did you think?”

 “Harper shouldn’t be hacking into a senior officer’s personal systems, but on the other hand, she was using her initiative to anticipate a problem, and the hackers to have standing orders to seek out holes and patch them. I’d have probably left it to a stern lecture; she wanted to throw her in the brig for security violations.”

 “What happened?”

 “The Captain ended up walking in on a major argument and told us all to get back to bed and stop disturbing him; I put Harper on extra duty closing all the security holes she’d found.”

 “You realize she’ll just put new ones in. She probably put them there in the first place.”

 Shrugging, Orlova said, “I wouldn’t put it past her, but I did tell her that she needed to use a lot more discretion in the future, and said something about allowing senior officers to have their fun. It’s not as if we needed the drill, anyway; response time to threat is down under thirty seconds. Fleet record, I checked.”

 “You’ve got a good team there.”

 “Damn right, I just wish I could find a way to convince her of that.” She took a bite of her food, and smiled, “Let’s not talk about it, though, I don’t want anything to spoil the meal. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow it’ll be coming out of a carniculture vat.”

 “Gagh,” Zabek said, shaking her head, “I wonder what the food will be like out at Spitfire.”

 “Terrible. No anti-grav. Lots of spice and heavy sauces. Gagh.”

 “Leave?”

 “It’s smaller than Alamo. Just a tiny little habitat with a load of man-tended space junk whirling around it. Not exactly in the Rough Guide to the Galaxy. I had a word with Deadeye about it, and it boils down to a couple of bars and a strip club.”

 “Better than nothing.”

 “Not much better, though.”

 Ryder walked into the room, fury on her face, and snatched up a tray from the counter, loading food onto it with gusto in heaped piles. Grabbing a fork, she slammed her lunch down on the table and looked between the two of them.

 “Having a bad day?” Zabek asked.

 Orlova shook her head at Ryder’s scowl, “She’s having a bad day.”

 “Zebrova as well?”

 “What? No, hardly seen her. Too busy doing grunt work for ‘call me Logan’. I haven’t sat my watch since we entered hendecaspace.”

 “The PCO?”

 “PCO my ass. He doesn’t know the first thing about ship operations, doesn’t know anyone much in the fleet, and has had me running traffic analyses.”

 “Where?” Orlova asked.

 “All over the damn place! Barnard’s Star, Proxima, even Luhman.”

 “He’s got traffic data for Spitfire Station?”

 “Yes,” she said, in between quick mouthfuls. “I’ve still got three more years of that rubbish to analyze tonight.”

 “Where the hell is he getting it from? I could really use that sort of information for the operational plan – any chance you could get me a copy?”

 Shaking her head, Ryder replied, “No can do. Don’t ask me why, but he classified the whole lot Most Secret. Why traffic files are graded as a security risk is totally beyond me – but he isn’t fleet.”

 “Who is he, then?” Zabek asked, wide-eyed.

 “Intelligence,” Ryder and Orlova said at the same time, chuckling as they looked at each other. Orlova continued, “Obviously some of the brass back home are more interested in this Spitfire business than we thought.”

 “Either that,” Ryder added, “or they’re keeping an eye on the Captain in case he goes wandering off again.”

 Shaking her head as she continued her meal, Zabek replied, “You think he might?”

 “I almost hope he does,” Orlova said. “I’d love to see the look on Zebrova’s face if he did.”

 “Say, you hear about Quinn?” Ryder said, looking between the two of them. “I heard he got married!”

 “Yes, I cornered him about it earlier. Apparently Dixon asked him when she found out she was getting transferred to the Curtiss; they tied the knot on Mariner that day.”

 “Unbelievable,” Zabek said. “You’d think he’d have told us.”

 “Never mind telling us, I was there on the bridge when he told the Captain!”

 The three of them chuckled, and Orlova looked around the mess. Two of the midshipmen were sitting by themselves in a corner, both of them pouring over datapads – no doubt they’d been set some homework they were attempting to master over lunch. Sitting alone by the currently blank viewport was the new Science Officer, Carpenter. She’d been keeping herself to herself since she’d come on board, and was pushing what looked like chicken around her plate idly with her fork.

 “Sub-Lieutenant?” Orlova called across the room to her. “Would you like to join us?”

 Carpenter looked over, as if pondering for a second, then walked across the room, slightly unsteadily, clutching her drink, her food left discarded on the table. She looked around at the three others, then pulled across an empty chair.

 “I’d eat up while you can,” Ryder said. “It gets a lot worse later on.”
 Turning slightly green, Carpenter replied, “I’ll take my chances.”

 Zabek looked at Orlova, then asked, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you spacesick?”

 “A little. It’s the rotation, I’m not used to it. Doctor Duquesne gave me some pills to take.”

 “Not ill, are you?” Ryder asked, frowning. “We usually all get colds a couple of days out, someone’s always managed to pick up a bug on leave.”

 “No, I always get this. I usually get better after few weeks.”

 “A few weeks? I thought you were transferred?” Ryder said.

 “Not transferred,” Carpenter replied. “Activated.” She leaned in close to the table. “Do any of you know if there is anything...strange about this mission? You see, I wasn’t really briefed, but from what the Captain’s said, I’m not sure what I’m doing here.”

 “You’re the Science Officer, aren’t you?” Orlova said.

 Ryder continued to poke at her food, “I was wondering about that myself. We’ve never had one before. Well, we did for Desdemona, but that was a team for a specific mission. You’re permanently assigned, aren’t you?”

 “For the rest of the tour,” Carpenter replied, nodding. “But now that I’ve got the lab tidied up, well, I don’t really have much to do. I’ve been helping out Mr. Mulenga down in the sensor sections, but that’s not my field.”

 “You aren’t an astrophysicist, then?” Ryder asked. “What’s your doctorate in?”

 “Biochemistry? Xenobiology?” Zabek said.

 “Paleontology,” Carpenter replied, and all of their eyes widened. Orlova and Ryder shared a knowing look, but knowledge of the discoveries on Desdemona was still confidential. “I know, I know, I think that someone’s made a massive mistake here.”

 “The fleet had a reserve paleontologist?” Orlova said, shaking her head. “How the hell did that happen?”

 “Last year of the war, I served with the planetary ground forces. Never even made it into space, but I stayed in the Mars Reserve. Paid me a few credits a month, twice a year I’d get a good workout during the physical training sessions.”

 “Ground forces? Not space?”

 “No, just the militia. I’d just finished my course at Mutch Tech, and…”

 “The Mutch Technical Institute teaches paleontology now?”

 “Actually I was just using some of their facilities; I was doing it long-distance from Zurich,” she replied, turning away from Zabek as she nibbled a piece of zucchini. “Anyway, the day after I graduated I was informed that I had been reactivated, commissioned in the Triplanetary Fleet, and had been assigned to this ship as its Science Officer. I got confirmation, but no-one seemed to know what I was supposed to do.”

 “Have you seen the Captain?” Orlova asked.

 “This morning. He told me to make myself useful, get accustomed to the ship, and that I’d have something to do later on. I don’t know what, though.”

 “You think he arranged it?” Ryder asked Orlova. “He’s planning to fly off again?”

 “I thought we were going to Spitfire Station? Look, Sub-Lieutenant…”

 “Maggie.”

 “Susan, then. Look, Maggie, you might some extra help with those inspections, yes? I’m not even on the duty roster, but I know how to use a firearm. It’d give me something to do.”

 “Who’s your department head?”

 “I don’t even know that. According to Alamo’s org chart, I report right to the Executive Officer.”

 “He won’t mind,” Ryder said, shrugging. “If you’re really bored I could try and throw you to Winter. I could do with the break, I’m beginning to forget what the bridge looks like.”

 “Good luck with that,” Zabek said, “Unless you’ve got Most Secret clearance, I doubt he’d even let you look at his lunch order.”

 “Why not?” Orlova said, nodding. “I’ll clear it with Cunningham, and get you integrated into the mission plan. I’ve never known us to have too many people to deal with a situation yet.” 

 Looking from side to side again, Carpenter said, “Is it always like this here? Some of the crew were telling me about your past missions. This seems a bit mundane by comparison.”

 “Trust me,” Ryder said, “Serving on this ship is always interesting. I’m going to miss it.”

 “Are you leaving?”

 “Three months from now,” Orlova said, grinning, “our friend here gets promoted to full Lieutenant, after which she will be far too grand to associate with we mere mortals.”

 “You’ll be there yourself in a year,” Ryder replied, “assuming you don’t keep on getting on the wrong side of Zebrova.” She turned back to Carpenter, “I don’t see any gaps in Alamo’s roster opening up any time soon, so when we get back the Mariner, I’ll probably end up pulling shore duty for a while.” She shook her head, stabbing a piece of meat with her fork.

 “Don’t you want to go home?”

 “I didn’t join the service to have an office job. Still, with the buildup I’ll probably get onto another ship before too long.” She smiled, “And there’s another lesson here, ladies, and that is not to tell anyone that you want a posting. Back when I thought it was going to be Captain Winter, I asked him if he was looking for officers. Admin work was not what I was hoping for.”

 “Probably thinks you’ll need the practice. Any idea where you might be going?” Zabek said.

 “Deep Space Fleet Headquarters on Mariner, apparently. The skipper dropped a few hints at my last performance evaluation. At least I’ll still get to read about what all of you are doing.”

 “You couldn’t order us a few months leave at High Vegas, could you? That’s a place that really needs exploring,” Orlova replied, chuckling.

 “Have you ever been there?” asked Zabek, wide-eyed. “I’ve heard the stories…”

 Before she could reply, an alarm began to ring across the room, and she pulled out her datapad to glance at the alert, starting to chuckle as she read it.

 “Surprise airlock drill of the Operations office,” she said, laughing. “At least it isn’t me for once, and I think Zebrova’s on sleep period as well.”

 “Maybe the Captain decided to get a little payback,” Ryder said, but then Orlova stopped laughing, her face dropping.

 “Christ, it’s Harper, isn’t it.”

 Stopping only to snatch a cereal bar from the table and stuff it in her pocket for later, she sprinted to the door, hoping that she might get down to her section before Zebrova. Somehow she had the feeling that it was going to be a very long shift today.

Chapter 7

 His eyes snatching up at the clock, Marshall attempted not to let his frustration show. In less than five minutes, they would be emerging from hendecaspace at Luhman 16, and their mission – the prelude to their real assignment – could begin. In the meantime, he was referring an argument between Zebrova and Orlova over the fate of Harper; that situation had been occupying far too much of his time for the last few days. Finally, he broke in.

 “Lieutenant, Harper accepted non-judicial punishment, and has been confined to the brig for seven days as a result – the maximum sentence I can impose under Fleet Regulations. Sub-Lieutenant,” he said, turning to Orlova, “I will not switch that decision to confinement to quarters when not on duty.”

 “She should be court-martialed,” Zebrova said. “I’ve been saying that for days. Simple administrative punishment…”

 “This is just because she was able to hack into your system – twice,” Orlova shouted. “Part of my department’s job is to sniff out weaknesses in critical systems, and correct flaws. You’d rather it was an enemy vessel that hacked into the ship?”

 “Are you telling me that you condone this hooliganism?”

 “Of course not!” she said, throwing her hands into the air, “but her crime was not to hack into the system, it was to make changes – and all she did was wake you up.”

 “She made significant software alterations, Sub-Lieutenant, and if this is how your department normally operates…”

 “Enough!” Marshall yelled. “Both of you. I’ve made my decision and it stands. End of discussion.”

 “Captain…”, Zebrova said.

 “End. Of. Discussion,” Marshall said, with finality. “Dismissed, both of you.”

 “There was something else, Captain,” Zebrova said, while Orlova turned to leave the room.

 Frowning, he replied, “This had better be a very different topic, Lieutenant.”

 “It is, sir.”

 “Very well. Sub-Lieutenant, you may leave.”

 Saluting, Orlova replied, “Aye, sir,” and walked out onto the bridge. Zebrova remained, and Marshall glanced up at the clock for a second before turning to her.

 “Make this one quick, Zebrova.”

 “I will, sir. I’ve been evaluating the general condition of the ship, as well as our current supply load-out, and I have some concerns.”

 That caught his attention; Spitfire was the last place they could top up on anything they were mission before they made the big leap.

 “Such as?”

 She pulled out a datapad, “We have sufficient food for a year, sir, as well as spares designed for extended use, rather than a standard combat load-out. It’s almost as if this ship has been readied for a long-range mission; we don’t need most of this equipment for our current assignment, even with the potential extension to Proxima.”

 “What’s your point?”

 “Your name is on most of these requisitions, some of which were made just a few days ago. We have no fighters, even though they would be extremely useful for this mission…”

 “Fleet’s having trouble filling up Wright and Curtiss as it is, Lieutenant…”

 “...but additional shuttles, specifically surface-to-ground.” She dropped the datapad onto the desk. “Sir, we’re equipped for an extended flight, and the evidence suggests that you are the one responsible.”

 “You think there is a problem with being prepared?”

 “In the past you have indicated that I should feel free to speak freely when in private.”

 Gritting his teeth, Marshall replied, “Yes.”

 “I think you are planning to go looking for your father again. Refueling here – which is on our schedule in any case – would provide enough fuel for you to return to Jefferson.”

 “That, Lieutenant, would be a substantial violation of my orders.”

 “To be blunt, sir, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

 Marshall had to prevent himself from chuckling; he had to admit that she had a point.

 “I assure you, Lieutenant, I plan on obeying my orders from Commodore Tramiel to the letter.” Complete honesty there. “We’re simply stocked up because I and the Commodore were not inclined to have Alamo dependent on Spitfire Station for anything – technically, we don’t even need the fuel, though I’m going to take it. Between you and me, I suspect that the station administration is likely involved with this pirate activity.”

 “That was my suspicion as well, Captain.” She glanced at the clock – there were only a couple of minutes to go. “You think this mission could take that long? We could easily arrange for a resupply by tender if necessary.”

 “I have been informed that our auxiliaries are already overstretched supporting our efforts at Jefferson, Ragnarok and Sagdeev.”

 “But…”

 Another voice broke in over the speaker, the crisp tones of Sub-Lieutenant Kibaki, “Transition to normal space in one minute.”

 “They’re singing my song, Lieutenant. We’ll have to continue this discussion later.” Without waiting for her to reply, he walked out onto the bridge, sitting down at the vacant command chair. Caine was sitting at Tactical and threw him a quick sympathetic look before returning to her station, and Orlova was loitering at the rear.

 “Thirty seconds, Captain,” Kibaki said, focused on his station. Midshipman Makarova had her hands poised over the controls, like an animal waiting to strike; if she was nervous, she was at least hiding it well. She stared up at the clock, watching the countdown, ready to act if the computer failed, but her care was not needed; with a flash of light, the universe reappeared in the viewscreen.

 Marshall turned to look at the holodisplay as a map of the system winked on, the stars and planets leaping into the positions calculated by the computer, then imperceptibly flickering as the data immediately corrected. He looked closely at Kumar, the gas giant they were making for; its orbital track was littered with debris, a thin scattering of asteroids and numerous abandoned space platforms and ships.

 There’d been a few battles fought here during the war, as well as a lot of skirmishes, and it showed – but what showed more clearly was that humans had been in-system for decades, and without any regulations against littering or clean-up operations. The place was a mess. A course track leapt from Alamo to Spitfire Station, their objective, and despite the best efforts of the midshipman at the helm, dozens of tiny course corrections were marked in sulky orange, tainting the otherwise smooth green line.

 Lots of small ships in-system as well, quite a few of them heading around the gas giant, probably skimming. Standard enough money-saving scheme in the commercial interstellar fleets, if you didn’t mind waiting around for a few weeks while shuttles laboriously drew the fuel from the atmosphere. Before he could order Makarova to implement her course, Caine turned to him.

 “There’s something strange going on around Freighter Two-Four.”

 Marshall peered at the numbered target, “I don’t see anything.”

 “You aren’t looking at the course projections. Here.” She manipulated controls, and elements of the holoprojection faded away as the image zoomed in, a maze of lines flooding his view then disappearing as she removed targets. Only five lines were left – and all of them focused on the freighter, which seemed to be trying to vector away.

 “Sensors…”, Marshall began.

 “Already on it, sir,” the spaceman replied, not glancing away from her screen for a second. Zebrova walked over to stand behind the technician as she examined her readouts. “Targets are...fighters, sir! Five fighters, Starslammer class.”

 “Confirmed, sir,” Zebrova agreed. “Those are…”

 Nodding, Marshall interrupted, “A UN design, obsolete before the war. I’ve fought them. Ortega, has the freighter tried to contact us?”

 “No, sir,” the communications technician replied.

 “That’s odd,” Zebrova said, looking over at the station.

 “They probably have other things on their mind right now, Lieutenant,” Caine said.

 Scowling, Zebrova looked over at guidance, where the midshipman was staring up at the screen, and snapped, “Midshipman, calculate an interception course. You’re supposed to anticipate!”

 “Sorry, ma’am,” the young officer replied; she belatedly began to type commands into her console.

 “Additional target, sir! Coming up over the horizon. Larger craft, scout type, behind the fighters. Reads as UN Pleiades-class.”

 “The same as our Mariner-class,” Marshall said, “and capable of jumping to hendecaspace.”

 “Freighter is flagged out of Phobos, sir,” Kibaki said, “Registered as the Demeter, Cornucopia Mining, Captain Jennings commanding.”

 “That name sounds familiar…” Caine said.

 Orlova took a step up to stand next to Marshall, “He was the senior officer of the ships captured on Ragnarok.”

 “Not a lucky man, then,” Marshall replied, glancing up. “Midshipmen, implement your interception course as soon as you have it, and make it best-speed. Ortega, hail the Demeter.”

 “You’re on, sir. Time lag just over a second,” he replied.

 A worried face winked onto the viewscreen, a flicker of familiarity coming through his tired eyes as he looked up, his frown turning into a battered smile.

 “Captain Marshall. My God.”

 “Captain Jennings,” he replied with a curt nod. “My I offer my congratulations?”

 “Eh?” the merchant said, then glanced down at the rings on his sleeves, “Thanks, I was a little surprised about it myself. Hell of a first month on the job.” Looking over Marshall’s shoulder, he said, “Hi, Maggie. That job offer’s still open if you ever want it.”

 “Job offer?” Marshall asked; he noticed Zebrova’s eyes arching with disbelief.

 “She joined Cornucopia, she’d have her own ship in three years on the fast-track program.”

 “I’m happy where I am, thanks,” she replied.

 “I presume you want our help, Captain,” Marshall said, looking up at his Security Officer with a wary gaze.

 “Oh, let me think about that for a second…,” Jennings replied, grinning, “I think we might find your presence of use in our negotiations.”

 “Have they contacted you?”

 “Just an automated message, I’m sending it to you now. Basically we are to hold orbit and prepare for boarding by the fighters.”

 “Boarding? With Starslammers? What are you carrying?”

 “Bulk stuff, luxury foods mostly. I suppose I could give them a sandwich wrap, but there isn’t really much we have that they could want.”

 Marshall quickly looked back at Ortega; she nodded back at him. “We’re en route now, shape to avoid them. I think you’ll find that they have more to worry about.”

 “I hope you’re right. Good Luck.”

 “Alamo out.” Marshall turned back to the communications station again, “Try hailing the fighters.”

 “Aye, sir,” Ortega replied. She muttered into her microphone, flicking switches and pushing buttons on her control board; Zebrova was moving over towards her, but Marshall forestalled her by rising from his seat and making his way over to her first; the gray-haired technician looked up at him and grinned.

 “Anything, Spaceman?”

 “Nothing, sir. No sign of traffic, but we aren’t really close enough to pick up any tight-beam transmissions.”

 “Vector change, Captain,” Called Yorkina from the sensor station. “Scout is accelerating to catch up with the fighters. The formation is not attempting to follow the freighter.”

 “Saving their delta-v for the battle.”

 “Is there going to be a battle, sir?” Caine asked, a smile on her face.

 “Damn right, Deadeye. Midshipman, implement your course change. Get us there.”

 “Aye, aye, sir!” she replied, working her board.

 Zebrova, by his right, said in a voice soft enough that only he could hear, “Is this needed, Captain? We’ve attained our objective in protecting the freighter, and gathering intelligence might be of greater value.”

 “We’ve got them nailed, right here, and while they are fuel-vulnerable. That formation is no match for Alamo, and they know it. I think the odds that they will surrender are excellent.” Marshall turned back to the helm, “Time to intercept?” 

 “Two hours, ten minutes, sir.”

 Turning to Zebrova, Marshall said, “Battle-stations in one hundred and twenty-five minutes, then, Lieutenant. Pass the word to all hands.”

 “Doctrine calls for a fifteen minute advanced preparation, sir.”

 “This crew knows what to do, Lieutenant,” he began. He was about to argue further, but caught a look from Caine, “but do as you think best. I’m heading down to the mess for a few minutes.”

 “Good idea,” Caine said, standing up and gesturing Orlova to her station.

 “Zebrova, you have the deck.”

 “I have the deck,” Zebrova replied, walking over to the command chair and sitting down as Orlova logged in. Caine followed Marshall into the elevator, waiting for the doors to close before turning sharply towards him.

 “You need to let her have her head more often.”

 He raised his hands, “I know, I know. I’m just not quite used to having someone quoting regulations and doctrine at me.”

 “This is how fleets work, remember. You realize she’s been put here to remind you of that.”

 Smiling, eyebrows raised, he replied, “I do know how Tramiel operates, Deadeye. Not many people manage personnel transfers just to teach lessons to their commanding officers.” He pushed the ‘hold’ button, and the elevator jerked to a stop.

 “This battle we’re about to fight.”

 “Yes?”

 “I’d like Orlova to handle Tactical. Not to be overconfident, but this one should be fairly textbook...”

 “Danny, I’ve never seen a ‘textbook’ battle, and neither have you…”

 “...and we should handle it easily. Let’s see how your backup handles herself in a real ship battle.”

 “I know how she manages in battle.”

 “But not this kind.”

 Sighing, she replied, “Fine, fine. I’ll sit down in Weapons Control and keep an eye on things down there. Probably do the technicians good to have me watching them work for once.”

 “Always good to give the lower ranks something to talk about.” He turned to Caine. “What is it?” 

 “You don’t really think that it is going to be this easy, do you?”

 “Hell no. Even if this is the whole of the ‘pirate fleet’, and I don’t think Cornucopia would have bothered calling us in if it was, they’ll still have a base somewhere.”

 She shook her head, “Where?”

 “That’s your job. Find it.”

 “You love giving me the easy jobs, don’t you. There must be ten thousand places for a group that size to hide.”

 “You always did like a challenge.”

 “I never said that.”

Chapter 8

 The bridge was a hive of activity as Logan strolled through the doors, his eyes wandering from station to station as he looked for the Captain. Up on the viewscreen, a countdown was flicking down, just passing the hour mark as he watched. He recognized the tall blonde sitting in the command chair, and put on his best smile as he walked down to her.

 “Senior Lieutenant Zebrova, I presume.”

 “Mr. Winter, we are all very busy. If you have come to help…”

 “Actually I need to have a word with the Captain.”

 She looked up at him with a withering gaze, “We are going to battle stations in less than an hour.”

 “That didn’t sound very much like directions.”

 “He’s in his office,” she said, looking back down at a collection of datapads gathered in her lap.

 “Good enough,” Logan replied, ignoring her scowl as he walked over to the door. He considered signaling for entry, but given that Marshall was in a hurry, used his security override to open the door and walk in.

 “I’m rather busy, Winter,” Marshall said as he scanned reports.

 “Everyone’s saying that at the moment,” Logan replied as he crashed down into a chair. “I need a shuttle.”

 Marshall took a deep breath, laid down his datapad, and looked up, “You need a shuttle.”

 “I was looking through the sensor records, and there’s a hopper out there that’s going around some of the old wrecks.”

 “Just someone pulling junk.”

 “No salvage license. I checked the records.”

 Rubbing his hand across his forehead, Marshall replied, “In about an hour, I’m going to be leading this ship into battle. I expect to be victorious, but nevertheless I have about a thousand things to deal with. Someone stealing stuff that no-one wants is not high on my list of priorities right now.”

 “I’m not asking you to take Alamo out there…”

 “Good.”

 “That’s why I want a shuttle.” He paused. “This can’t really wait; the window to intercept that hopper is closing while we’re talking.”

 The sigh was deep this time, “Winter, I have a lot of problems right now…”

 With a wry grin, he replied, “Well, you can either have one more, or one less. Look, I’m a licensed pilot, so I can handle this one by myself. It’s important.”

 “Is it,” Marshall replied, deadpan.

 “It is. Trust me.”

 “Now you are asking the impossible.” Pausing, he continued, “I’ll call down to the hangar deck and get them to prep one of the transfer shuttles for you. Don’t come back until after the battle.”

 “Fair enough.” Turning, Logan walked out of the room, waving to a disgusted Zebrova, and jumped into the elevator. His finger poised over the button for the hangar bay, but he paused, and instead punched for the brig. He’d been impressed with both Harper and her software, but her unfortunate incarceration had prevented him from speaking to her. Perhaps he’d now have a chance.

 The elevator took its time, traveling almost the entire length of the ship. A part of him almost regretted leaving before the battle, but the potential randomness of space combat didn’t appeal to him that much. Even with a mismatched duel such as this, anything could happen, and he’d rather be watching from a distance. Besides, he had work to do, and he wasn’t getting it done sitting in his quarters on Alamo.

 The door slid open, and putting on his best military bearing he walked out into the corridor. As he expected, one of the espatiers was standing outside the cell door, at parade rest. Vaguely, Logan had hoped that the guards might have found something better to do in the middle of a battle, but presumably Zebrova had decided not to take any chances.

 “Can I do something for you, sir?” the espatier said, snapping to attention.

 Logan looked him up and down, “You can return to your quarters, Private, and give me the pass-key to the cell.”

 “No can do, sir,” he replied.

 “Don’t I outrank you?”

 “Yes, sir, but Captain Marshall outranks you.”

 Nodding, Logan replied, “True enough. I need to speak to the prisoner, though, and you haven’t got the security clearance to hear the conversation. Give me the key, and leave the area for five minutes.”

 “No can do, sir,” the trooper said again. “I’d come back in five minutes to find an empty cell and a court-martial charge waiting for me. Lieutenant Zebrova made it quite clear that she would look extremely badly on anyone who allowed the prisoner to escape.”

 “You aren’t stupid, are you, trooper.” 

 “A childhood spent reading bad adventure novels, sir.”

 He liked this one. “I do need to speak to her. Tell you what, let me in, lock the door behind us both, keeping the keycard, and then go for a walk for five minutes. I’ll even give you a written order to that effect.”

 “A written order?”

 “Why not.”

 Shrugging, the trooper reached into a pocket and pulled out a datapad, passing it over to Logan. This one thought of everything, it seemed, and he quickly typed out his instructions, adding a signature to the end with the flourish of an electronic stylus.

 “That looks fine, sir,” he said, pulling out his datacard.

 Stepping to the door, Logan said, “One last thing. Who are you?” 

 “Private Volski, sir, First Squad.”

 “I see. Open the door, Volski, and then I will see you in five minutes.”

 The door slid open, and the trooper stood aside to let Logan through, “I’ll be counting the seconds, sir.”

 “I’m sure you will.”

 Harper was sitting cross-legged on the floor, not even looking up from the pile of print-outs – evidently Zebrova didn’t trust her even to have a reader – laid out carefully on the floor, seemingly some sort of hacker journal. The door closed, bolts slamming shut.

 “You left a paper trail?”

 “No, your best friend did. My stylus is very good at putting other people’s signatures to documents.” 

 “I’ve got to get one of those.” She looked up, brushing her green hair back over her eyes. “What do you want?”

 “I need to borrow you for a bit. It’ll be more interesting than being locked in here is likely to be.”

 “That won’t be difficult. What do you need?”

 “I don’t know, yet, I just know that I’m going to need a hacker over on Spitfire.” He glanced up, “I presume the surveillance equipment in here is ancient history?”

 “The equipment’s still there. It just desperately needs maintenance.” 

 “Good. Well, let’s get out of here.”

 She raised an eyebrow, “Look, I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

 “Yes you are.”

 “If I was to break out of this cell – even with you watching – that would be a court-martial offense, and that bitch on the bridge would certainly throw the book at me.”

 Smiling, Logan replied, “And if I was to order you to open the door, Spaceman Harper?”

 Reaching over with an arm to a panel, she tapped a code into a maintenance keyboard, and the door slid open. With a grin, she said, “Yes, sir.”

 Volski was still four minutes away from coming back, and neither of them wasted any time as they raced down the corridor to the elevator, slamming the button for the hangar bay. Tensing up, Logan waited for the alarm that would follow a failed attempt to override the system – naturally, his first priority had been to make sure that he had the final say on where they went – but it seemed that everyone was too busy for that. Two minutes, thirty seconds before their disappearance would be missed.

 The door slid open on the corridor immediately behind the launch bay, and they hurried out towards their waiting shuttle, the only one exposed to view. The rest were stowed away in their battle positions, safely cocooned in the elevator airlocks. A pair of technicians were walking around, conducting preflight checks, another over in the corner with petty officer’s stripes surrounded by a collection of portable terminals.

 “All set, chief?” Logan waved.

 Shaking his head, he unwrapped himself from the terminals and walked over, a slight, notable limp. He looked over at the shuttle, then at Logan, and all the time he was thinking that that now he had only a minute to go before alarms would start going off.

 “You’re the one who dragged my men and I away from our actual duties for this?”

 “That’s me, chief.”

 “It better be damned important.”

 “I assure you, it is.”

 He looked across at Harper, shaking his head, “Just keep her well away from anything that can be programmed.”

 The hacker was already climbing into the shuttle’s cockpit, and with what he hoped was a reassuring smile, Logan followed her, settling down into the pilot’s seat and slamming switches down to activate the launch sequence. Tapping a button, he called the bridge.

 “Shuttle Four, requesting launch clearance.”

 “On request, Shuttle Four,” Orlova’s voice replied.

 “Thank you, Sub-Lieutenant,” he replied, tapping a button. The shuttle descended into the airlock, a bang on the door from one of the technicians to see him off, and the last thing that he saw of the inside of Alamo was the red face of Volski running into the hangar bay. Sliding a datastick into the controls to make sure that the lower airlock would open – and to instruct the navicomputer to set the course he wanted – he sat back in his chair and waited for the shuttle to drop out of the battlecruiser and curve off into space.

 After a quiet count down to ten, he was pressed gently back into his couch as the shuttle engines fired, kicking them rapidly away from the rotating mothership and towards their distant target. He began another countdown, and at its conclusion, the communicator began to sound. With a wry smile, he acknowledged.

 “Shuttle Four here. What is it, Captain?”

 “I’m going to ask why you felt you needed to break one of my crewmen out of the detention cell.”

 “Quite simple, Captain, I knew that you wouldn’t give her to me if I asked, and I need her for my mission. I presume that you’ve seen the authorization paperwork I gave the guard?”

 “Yes, and we can have words about forging documents when you get back.”

 “You’re assuming I’m coming back. Captain, my mission starts when I touch down on Spitfire Station, and you’re running around the system chasing space pirates. We both know that I’m doing what I need to do.”

 There was a brief pause, “Do you really need my best hacker for this job?”

 “Captain, do you honestly think that I would have taken the risk of breaking her past a very smart espatier otherwise?”

 “Probably not.”

 “Then I assure you I will put her to good use.”

 A long sigh sounded over the speaker, “You’d better. And I want that damn shuttle back, as well.”

 “You’ll get it.”

 “I’ll handle the paperwork on this end, arrange it to look as if I released her into your custody.” Before Logan could object, Marshall continued, “And yes, this time there actually has to be paperwork, though I presume that your cover story was put in place for a reason. No point if you never actually use it. I suppose I should be grateful that you’ve only borrowed one of my crew.”

 “Thank you, Captain. Have a good fight.”

 “Will do. Alamo out.”

 Logan turned to Harper, sitting smiling in the co-pilot’s seat, “See? Easy.”

 “Still a risk.”

 “Possession is nine-tenths of the law, Harper. Remember that.”

 “Is that standard in intelligence?”

 Logan smiled, “Knowledge like that is precisely why I need you where I can at least keep a nominal eye on you. The hacking software?”

 “No, I’m not going to tell you where I got it.”

 “I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking. It’s already a generation out of date, anyway.” He pulled a datacrystal out of a hidden pocket and tossed it to her, “Feel free to make a copy.”

 “Does this mean I’m a spy now?”

 Chuckling, Logan turned back to his console, working on the course, “Oh, yes. A real femme fatale.” He looked back for a response, but the hacker was already leaning over a terminal, basking in the intrusion software, smiling as though Christmas had come early. Shaking his head, he looked back out at the stars.

Chapter 9

 Orlova sat at the Tactical console, her eyes running over the controls and readouts. The amount of sheer destructive firepower at her disposal was awe-inspiring; six missile launchers now, following the upgrade, each of them with a wide-range of scalable death at the touch of a button, and the massive central laser cannon at the heart of Alamo. Billowing reflectors were racing out from the side, ready to spill the intense heat generated by every shot out into the infinite coldness of space.

 Almost as much heat as she was feeling on her now from the rest of the bridge. They’d completed a shift change a few minutes before the battle stations call, and so it was Ryder sitting next to her, McGuire just beyond at guidance control. Marshall was on the bridge, doing his level best not to focus on any one officer for too long, but nevertheless his eyes bored into her whenever they wandered in her direction. Worse was Zebrova; she wasn’t even attempting to hide that she was spending all of her time watching Orlova. Cunningham was at the rear of the bridge, swinging from a handhold by the elevators, quiet and still, content just to watch.

 She tried to focus on the combat environment ahead. Kumar’s gravity well dominated the area, and she’d checked three times to make sure that the control computers on the missiles were bearing that in account – while they should do that automatically, she’d had a long hour waiting for battle stations, and it was just one more thing she was determined to check.

 Ahead, in a slightly broken arrowhead, the enemy formation. The scout at the rear, the fighters in a loose formation ahead, only barely above the atmosphere of the gas giant. The guidance controller had done an excellent job at hunting Alamo in over them, buying them a nice long firing run which would give them the gravity gauge; she couldn’t believe that the pirates wouldn’t try and evade, even as late as the last minute. The atmosphere would likely be their best bet; those fighters were designed to operate in atmospheres that thick, fifty-year-old designs built for dogfighting in high atmosphere as well as space. The scout, on the other hand, was on its own.

 Still three minutes before they entered firing range, and she tried to relax a little. This wasn’t that different from sitting in a fighter, not in terms of what she was actually being asked to do. Indeed, in some ways, this was easier – in a fighter, she was flying the ship at the same time as managing the tactical systems, and the window of opportunity for attack was usually narrower.

 In a fighter, though, the only one who would pay for a mistake was her. This was the key chair during a battle – between her and guidance control, Alamo would live or die. There was a reason that the new configuration had the watch officer sitting between the two of them, her board configured to allow her to take either station at a second’s notice.

 “Two minutes to range,” she found herself reporting.

 “All weapons ready, Sub?” Marshall asked, leaning forward on his chair.

 “All weapons and defensive systems show ready.”

 She ran her fingers down the countermeasure sub-systems, ready to unleash a series of destructive computer viruses at any incoming missiles. She’d spent thirty minutes memorizing the warbook on those vessels, and she was expecting a series of salvo shots, presuming that they would spend their arsenal in the early stages of the battle to allow them to concentrate on defensive maneuvers in the latter stages. Assuming, of course, that there were no surprise modifications waiting for her, and she didn’t intend to take anything for granted here.

 “Any communications from the formation, anything at all?” Marshall asked.

 “Negative, Captain,” replied the crisp accent of Ivanov. “No signals, and if they are transmitting between themselves, they’re doing it on a very tight beam.”

 “Keep sending at all times.”

 “Ninety seconds,” Orlova said. Her mouth was dry, cracking; she reached under her chair for a bottle of water and squeezed a mouthful out while Zebrova gazed on disapprovingly. One more thing to unnerve her. She concentrated on her station, her universe ranging from fingers to controls to displays, with nothing more.

 “Do I let them take the first shot, sir?” Orlova said.

 “Standard doctrine…” Zebrova began, but Marshall broke in.

 “They threatened a Triplanetary-flagged freighter and have ignored all calls for surrender. You may fire at will, Orlova.”

 “Aye, Captain.” Those were the sort of orders she liked to hear, ones that would provide her with additional tactical options rather than limiting her, restricting her moves. She started to line up trajectories, selecting combat yields and targeting specific sub-systems. This couldn’t simply be a shoot-to-kill, not unless there was no other choice; the scout, certainly, could provide an excellent yield of prisoners.

 “Sixty seconds,” she said, as much to herself as to everyone else on the bridge. Another clock stood by to begin its countdown above her, ready to count down the five and a half minutes they would have in firing range. More than enough time given their comparative argument – at least, she hoped it would be enough.

 The seconds seemed to take forever to tick down, her hands resting gently over the missile controls. In her head she had plotted out her opening moves, as if she was about to play a game of chess where she knew every physical limitation of the board and the pieces, but with no idea what her opponent was thinking. She set up to make full use of Alamo’s armament – there didn’t seem to be any point holding back.

 “Guidance,” she began, “I’ll be wanting a straight-line firing solution seven seconds after we enter firing range on the scout. Engines for preference.”

 “Aye, ma’am,” McGuire replied. She glanced across at the young near-officer, and saw her hands shaking a little, slightly uncertain as she moved to set up the maneuver. Before Zebrova could say anything, Orlova cut in.

 “Don’t give them any warning, Midshipman. Execute it as one swing, just set it up for now.”

 “Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

 “Try and relax,” Ryder said. “Twenty seconds.”

 Hastily, Orlova threw on the countermeasure screens, sending confusing pulses of electronic noise out into space, and readied a dozen decoys for launch. She had a few new tricks she was looking forward to trying, and given how close they were going to be – less than a thousand kilometers at closest approach, she marveled – she suspected that she would have ample opportunity.

 “Red light!” she cried, and slammed down the missile release. Six missiles dashed out of their tubes, and automatic mechanisms hastily reloaded from the magazines at Orlova’s direction. They leaped forward as one, before spinning off into a carefully calculated star formation, one rushing towards each of the targets, sending their formation into pieces. On cue, Alamo began to swing down at the scout, the power building up in the laser cannon with every second. Orlova waited for the moment, then fired, an instant behind the computer.

 A lance of light instantly danced through space, only to miss the scout by half a mile. Nothing in cosmic terms, but from the point of view of the scout’s crew, it was as if Alamo hadn’t fired at all.

 “Damn,” Marshall said.

 Glancing up, Orlova replied, “Forty seconds to laser recharge. First wave missiles running true, second wave in thirty seconds.”

 “Leave something in the magazines, Sub-Lieutenant,” Zebrova said, coldly.

 “Energy spike!” called Bryant at the sensor systems. “Incoming missile salvo!”

 “Orlova…,” Marshall said.

 “On it. Countermeasure systems engaged,” she said, slamming down a series of switches, hearing a satisfying array of clicks as the ship’s computers began to duel with the incoming missiles. Warbook images flashed onto her display – these were nothing particularly special, old Lunar Republic vintage, again from before the war. Dozens of generations of hacking software out of date, and it took only a few seconds for all of them to spill wide.

 Alamo’s missiles were still on track, though, and the fighters were ducking and weaving in an attempt to escape. The scout was being bolder, holding its course, and she could guess why; she began to instruct the computer to prepare to hack into the scout’s next missile immediately on launch, but when the flare spilled away into space, there simply wasn’t time before the two missiles collided.

 Three small explosions, and a quick smile from Orlova, “Three fighters destroyed. Ready on second salvo.”

 “Hold,” Marshall replied, turning back to Ivanov. “Patch me in.”

 “You’re on, sir.”

 “Pirate formation, this is Lieutenant-Captain Marshall of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo. I personally guarantee a fair trial and safe passage back to Mars if you surrender immediately; else I will be forced to destroy you.”

 It seemed short and to the point, but no-one really seemed to believe that it was going to work. The only response came a few seconds later as the scout began to accelerate, pulling away from the two fighters. Orlova frowned, and adjusted the programming on four of the missiles resting in the bay. The Mark Fourteens they were using were some of the most adaptable ever known, and she was going to make full use of their abilities.

 “Abandoning their comrades,” Zebrova said, as though personally offended.

 “Orlova,” Marshall began, “concentrate all fire…”

 “Captain, I think I can get all of them.”

 With an approving nod, Marshall replied, “Then by all means, do so.”

 She pressed down a pair of buttons, and four missiles raced from the tubes, turning towards the fighters, a pair of each of them. They were sluggish, slow to move, but she had guessed right; the fighters were diving towards the gas giant, heading into the protective embrace of the atmosphere – which is why she had reshaped the missiles in the tubes, extending their surfaces to provide them with greater control, and slowing them enough that they would be able to spend some time using that maneuverability in the atmosphere.

 Ignoring the fighters for the moment, she turned her attention to the scout, rapidly climbing away as it gained speed. It’s acceleration was far greater than Alamo, and even if the lumbering battlecruiser were to fire at full-burn immediately, it would be unlikely to make much of an impact on the rapidly reducing firing speed. Furiously tapping buttons with her left hand, she smiled.

 “Midshipman, I’ll have a laser pulse ready in fifteen seconds. You have the call.”

 “Me?”

 “You, midshipman, yes. Any time between twelve and eighteen seconds from – now – will be plenty of time.”

 The nervous officer looked over her instruments, playing them with her fingers as Alamo began to swing. She almost spoke out again, but Orlova quickly saw what she was doing – feinting with the scout, forcing it to make its counter-move early so that she could compensate for it. Good flying.

 “No more missiles, Orlova?” Zebrova said.

 “Not until after the laser pulse, ma’am. Don’t want to spoil the shot.” Not a second time, anyway, was her unspoken thought. Another four missiles were dropping into the tracks, but she’d fire with just the two she had if necessary, both of them tightly targeted on the engines. She carefully set up the laser shot, standing back-up to the computer.

 “Ready!” McGuire yelled, and Orlova fired, once again only just being beaten by the computer. This time the pulse of energy briefly connected the two ships, long enough for an angry red gash to appear over the engines, causing all acceleration to cease. Inwardly debating for a second, Orlova fired a single missile after it, setting it to chase towards its target.

 Two more explosions to the rear; the missiles targeted at the fighters had found their target, and those vessels would be on their way down to the core of the gas giant in pieces, slowly compressing to nothing; she hoped that the pilot’s hadn’t ejected. That would be a terrible way to die.

 “Call them again, Ivanov,” Marshall said. “They might be in more of a mood to talk now.”

 “You’re on, sir.”

 “Unidentified vessel, there is a missile on track that will destroy what is left of your engines in less than a minute. At that point I will be launching an espatier force, and the only question at the moment is whether they will be coming to provide emergency relief or to board and storm. I repeat – those boarding shuttles are on the way. Surrender.”

 A faint crackle replied, “We have many wounded, serious damage. We protest your attack upon our vessel and demand reparations.”

 “Demand and be damned, sir. Surrender.”

 There was a long pause, and Bryant called out, “They just launched an escape pod, sir, but…”

 “But?”

 “It’s just falling into the gas giant.”

 Cunningham finally spoke, “I presume they are disposing of their sensitive material before giving in. Clever.”

 “I’ll try to track them,” Bryant said, but immediately shook her head, “No chance, sir. They just fired off about a dozen decoys. I’m already having trouble tracking them, and as soon as they hit atmosphere I’m going to lose them.”

 “Do what you can, Spaceman,” Marshall said.

 The intercom crackled again, “We yield, Alamo.” The voice was different, and this one was dejected, defeated.

 Marshall pushed himself up from his chair, a grin on his face, “Good work everyone. We can get the spin back on now, and let’s get the Espatier shuttles into the air. Mr. Cunningham, you have the conn.”

 “Where are you going?”

 “Over to the enemy ship,” he replied. “I want to see it for myself.”

 “I protest, sir,” Zebrova said, “That ship has not been secured.”

 “Let him go, Lieutenant,” Cunningham said, “We’re not going to win this one.”

 “I’ll have a platoon of espatiers for company,” Marshall replied, and glancing at Orlova, “and I think the security department should be in on this as well. Orlova, you’re with me.”

 With a smile, Orlova called Caine up to the bridge to take her station, and yielded it to Cunningham to hold it for a moment while she pushed off, racing after Marshall; he was already on his way, presumably before anyone else could object.

Chapter 10

 A loud rattle shook the shuttle as it locked onto the hopper. Harper was ready at her console in case the pilot of the other ship was planning to try anything silly at this point, but with a series of bangs, the airlock slowly opened, a grinding noise from the mechanism that made Logan smile; this ship was maintained about as well as the ones he usually rode.

 Peering from above, a tall, portly man looked down out of the gloom of the hopper into the shuttle. A pistol was jammed into a holster at his belt, but his hand was well clear of it. Food wrappers and bits of debris were drifting down, pulled around by the air ventilators, and the smell was beginning to come with them. Harper wrinkled her nose as she brushed a piece of wet tissue away, shaking her head.

 “Who the hell are you bastards?” the pilot said in a thick accent.

 “Call me Logan. This is Harper. Who are you?”

 “Boris Petrov. This is my ship you have boarded. What gives you the right?”

 “Well, technically you were conducting an unauthorized salvage operation, but really I just wanted to talk to you. Can I come in?”

 “If you want,” he grunted. pushing himself back with practiced grace. The pilot grabbed a handhold as Logan followed, quickly getting his first impressions of the hopper. They confirmed all of his suspicions – a battered, old in-system shuttlecraft with a single cabin, cramped cockpit at the front packed with obsolete equipment, most of it held together with hope and chewing gum. Cables reached across the compartment, the hallmark of a lazy engineer, but not a careless one; every critical system looked in good order, just the luxuries being ignored.

 A single spacesuit hung to the right, well-patched with a series of repairs – and it was obvious that the helmet was not the original, and that it had been cracked at one point. No-one with any money would have dared take the risk of going up in a craft such as this, and just keeping it flying would have been a full-time job. He noted the Triplanetary and Republic components scattered everywhere, scavenged bits and pieces doing jobs they were never designed to do.

 “This a safety inspection?” Boris asked, wiping his nose across a sleeve already covered with numerous stains.

 “No, not a safety inspection,” Logan replied, twisting to speak to the pilot. “Look, Boris – can I call you Boris?”

 “You can call me whatever you like.”

 Harper was drifting in at the rear, and Logan continued, “Boris, I’ve seen enough here to arrest you on about five charges of illegal salvage, not to mention have your shuttle impounded as a menace to navigation.”

 “My little shuttle in this big universe?”

 “I presume you plan on going to different places on occasion.”

 The pilot looked around his little world, “What’s it going to take?”

 “Take?”

 “To stop me. I know you military types, and if you were actually planning on doing anything, you’d have done it by now. It isn’t money, I haven’t got any. Or I’d be sitting in a penthouse whoring on High Vegas right now.”

 “Are you suggesting a military officer would take bribes?”

 “Yes.”

 “Well, Mr. Petrov, I think you have a very bad impression of us, and I see it as part of my job to engage in some improvements to community relations.”

 “What’s that mean?”

 “It means that I’m not going to press any charges, and that I’m not even going to ask for a bribe.”

 “Great,” Boris said, frowning.

 “In fact, I’m going to go one better.”

 “Better?”

 “I’m going to offer you some help so that you can get back to Spitfire Station – you are going back to Spitfire Station, I presume?” He waited for a grunt from Boris, “So you can get back as soon as possible.”

 “What do you mean? Give me a tug or something?”

 “No, I mean that your crew just expanded by two.”

 Boris’ eyes opened. “Wait a minute…”

 Holding up his hand, Logan continued, “A man like you keeps alive by scurrying in all the quiet little places of the station. I’m sure that you could arrange to dock somewhere quiet and out of the way, and to allow the two of us to get on board without anyone noticing.”

 “I couldn’t add you to my crew roster,” he replied. “I’m not that good a hacker.”
 “I am,” Harper piped up, immediately moving over to the cockpit. Boris made to stop her, but was blocked by an extended arm from Logan.

 “Now, let’s allow your newest crew-member to work in peace, shall we.”

 “That’s a lot more peace than you’re going to get when we arrive at Spitfire. I can get you onto the station without any trouble, sure, but that’s not going to be enough for you.”

 “Whatever do you mean?” Logan replied, raising an eyebrow.

 “You’ve got some sort of mission, a secret mission.”

 “Now, Boris, you’ve been reading far too many bad novels. There’s nothing secret about our mission, we’re simply out to take down this group of pirates.”

 The blood drained from Boris’ face, an impressive effect in zero-gravity. “As soon as you pop your head up, someone will try and shoot it off.”

 “How bad is it over there?”

 “That depends if you are willing to quietly get on with your own business and ignore everyone else, or whether you’re the sort of person who asks questions.”

 “And if you are?”

 Boris looked up, locking on with beady eyes, “They don’t tend to last long enough to get any answers. We went through half a dozen Security Chiefs before they gave up looking for a new one.”

 Harper turned from her work, an evil grin on her face, “You mean that no-one runs security out there?”

 “Oh, if you were to try and do something that might sabotage the station, you’d be stopped, but otherwise, no. We don’t really need any. Not as long as no-one asks any questions.”

 “Wonderful,” she replied. “Logan, I’ve got everything ready with the computer.”

 “Good.” Logan took off his uniform jacket and slung it down into the shuttle hatch, figuring that he would get by with the shirt and trousers. Harper did the same, and looked up from the hatch.

 “Want me to send it back to Alamo?”

 “Near as you can, anyway. They can bring it in when it gets close.”

 “Right.”

 Logan swung himself into the cockpit couch, Boris nervously looking over his shoulder as he programmed a course back to Spitfire Station. It took him four tries to weave a path around all the orbital debris with any sort of speed, and finally the nervous Boris started poking buttons over his shoulder, helping to guide him through the difficult spots.

 “All ready!” Harper yelled, pulling herself up into the hatch.

 “So are we.” With the tap of a control, Logan closed the airlock and detached the ship, leaving the shuttle to make its own way home, then was pushed gently back as the hopper’s thrusters began to fire, sending it on a slowly spiral course gently towards the high orbit of the station.

 “Want me to put some music on?” Boris asked, but when met with no response drifted back to the rear of the cabin, hovering near a terminal. Logan gestured to Harper who peered over his shoulder before returning to the cockpit, peering through the grimy viewport.

 “Do you have any sort of a plan for when we get on board?”

 He looked up, grinning, “Not in the slightest. I figure the best plan is to scope out the situation, try and get a feel for who the players, movers and shakers are before we actually do anything.”
 “What does that mean?”

 “It means we’re going to find a bar.”

 “This sounds like my sort of mission.”

 Logan shouted back to Boris, “I take it Spitfire has a bar?”

 “It’s got two. Lilith’s is the only one you’ll get into without serious money.”

 Shrugging his shoulders, he replied, “Then I guess we’re going to Lilith’s.” He looked up at Harper. “You armed?”

 “With a gun?”

 “You make it sound like the last thing you’d think of. Fine, try not to get into trou…”, he paused, aware of what he was saying, “not to get into any trouble where I’m not there to back you up.”

 A series of flashes, proximity alarms, registered on the detectors, but none of them were red; the hopper was flying past some scattered pieces of wreckage close enough that he could see them glinting from the dim sun, and it was then that the retro-thrusters kicked in, sending him hanging briefly on his seat restraints as the ship trimmed its course.

 “That’s Spitfire?” Harper said with disbelief, and Logan could quite understand why. It didn’t look particularly impressive to the casual observer, and for that matter, it didn’t look like much after a second glance either. A fairly traditional design, about two dozen inflatable modules slung around a double-keel central core, all hooked together by girders and walkways, but it looked old. Some of those components were obviously not on their first use when they were hauled out here.

 A trio of freighters were moored up close by, and though there was ample docking space for them, none of them had chosen to use them. Another shuttle was lazily drifting towards the station from the farthest freighter, and he could see a few spacesuited figures flying across, the occasional pinprick of light from control jets speeding their way. There were plenty of shuttles docked around the central core of the station, though some of them looked as if they hadn’t been moved for years, and at the far end, what appeared to be an old frigate was hooked in.

 “That’s Lilith’s,” Boris said, pointing.

 “The frigate?” Logan replied, frowning. “What the hell is a frigate doing out there anyway?”

 “That’s not a frigate, that’s one of the old Clarke-class cruisers.”

 “Smallest darn cruiser I’ve ever seen,” he said, looking at it again. Three decks, some control surfaces for a hendecaspace drive, a few empty spots where missile – or even railgun – turrets had been at some point in the distant past. Smaller even than the scoutship he’d rattled back from Neptune on.

 “UN stationed it here as a guardship back in the twenties, and it became a permanent fixture. Lilith picked it up cheap at auction, so I heard.”

 “Does it work?”

 “Hasn’t moved in twenty years.”

 Harper looked at the two of them, “Shouldn’t we be thinking about docking with the station at some point soon?”

 “I knew I’d bought you along for a reason. Boris?” He gestured the pilot to the controls, and he slid in with surprising grace to activate a series of manual thrusters, rocking the ship back and forth as he forced it onto a new trajectory.

 “Er, what’s your name, kid?”

 “Harper.”

 “Harper,” Boris said, “hack me into Trafficom, will you? It isn’t passworded.”

 “Not much of a hack,” she sniffed, heading over to the inventory terminal.

 Logan tapped the pilot on the shoulder, “Traffic Control is open?” 

 “Makes sense,” Boris shrugged. “That way the computer warns you if you’re doing something that’s going to end up being stupid, but everyone gets to keep some privacy. Like I said, Spitfire isn’t a healthy place for people who ask questions, but that doesn’t mean we’re dumb.”

 “How long have you been out here?”

 Looking up, squinting, he replied, “That thing about questions applies to me as well, you know.”

 “Yes, but we’re old friends, now, aren’t we?”

 “Since the war,” Boris barked, “I was demobbed here. When the UN pulled out in ‘54 they left a few of us behind, and I just never ended up moving on.”

 Looking the pilot over, Logan said, “You seem fit enough for someone who’s spent a decade and change in zero-gravity.”

 “Exercise machine in the rear compartment. Just because I’ve been stuck out here for the last ten years doesn’t mean I want to stay out here forever.” He looked around. “You couldn’t see your way to organizing my passage home, could you?”

 “Not today, Boris, but there is always a tomorrow.”

 “That’s what my first ex-wife said on our honeymoon.”

 The side of the station was looming larger and larger; Boris had aimed them for a port directly in between a pair of the once-white modules, and the faded text indicating that they were approaching an emergency access port could just be seen through the grime. The hopper touched the station, and bounced back again. With a series of Russian oaths, Boris stabbed down a pair of buttons and pushed them back, and on the second try the docking clamps engaged with a series of unnerving rattles.

 “Well, you’re there. Now if you don’t mind getting out of here before I’m seen with you two…”

 “Don’t be so hasty, Boris,” Logan replied, “I could use the help of someone like you.”

 “If I hang around with someone like you I’m the one who’ll need the help. Lilith’s is down at the far end of the station.”

 “Are you going there as well?”

 “Probably, but we aren’t going there together, and I won’t recognize you when I get there.”

 Harper was already poking her head out of the airlock, wrinkling her nose at the smell; Logan was forced to admit that she had a point. Every artificial environment had its own distinctive odor, and Spitfire Station smelled like old socks. At least they’d get used to it soon. Drifting after the hacker, he looked up and down the corridor, and couldn’t see anyone at least as far as the next airlock junction. Boris knew his stuff.

 “The bar?” Harper asked.

 “Not so hasty. I don’t want to go into a bar dressed like this, we need to find a way to scruff ourselves up a bit.” He looked at the grimy hacker, and continued, “At least, I do. I don’t want someone putting two and two together and getting Alamo as their answer.” He pushed off down the corridor, looking for a locker; he finally found one that hadn’t already been pushed in, and pulled a keypad out of his pocket, clipping it to the lock.

 “We’re starting with theft?” 

 “Let’s just say I’m hoping this guy is my size. I’ll bring it back when I’m done with it.” The locker popped open, and inside was hanging a battered brown jacket, festooned with all manner of stains. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a ticket stub for a Port Lovell Pitbulls game, and tossed it to Harper.

 “I don’t follow hockey.”

 “If you did you’d know that the Pitbulls moved to Mutch years ago. I don’t think I’m going to need to worry about the owner.” He pulled at the sleeves, and nodded, “Pretty good fit, actually.” There was nothing else in the locker but some tatty slipshoes and a box of old datacrystals, so he closed the locker again and pushed off down the corridor.

 “Now that you’re dressed…” Harper said.

 “We can get on with things. Why are you so eager, anyway?”

 “I’ve been stuck in that cell for days, I want to stretch my legs.”

 The pair passed through the junction into the central corridor, and this was much more crowded; dozens of freighter crewmen and assorted low-lifes floating around, in and out of the modules. Most of them seemed to be residential, though he floated past a dream den and junk bazaar that attracted his interest. The first decent smell for hours hooked him more, though, and he saw a stallholder that was selling some sort of fried kebab.

 His head reached for his UN credicard, and with a quick swipe he found himself the owner of a metal spike precariously holding three spheres of meat, covered in a thick barbecue sauce. He eagerly wolfed one down, taking it in with four careful bits, then waved the stick over at Harper.

 “Want one?”

 “No thanks,” she said, shaking her head. “Do you know what that’s likely to be?”

 “It’s fresh, so probably rat. Gerbil if I’m lucky. Nice and juicy, though, and I haven’t had real meat in ages.” He took the rest down as eagerly as the first, then made a point of wiping his greasy hands on his trousers, leaving long stains down the seams.

 “I can’t take you anywhere,” Harper said, shaking her head. She gestured to a flashing neon sign at the end of the station, flickering ‘Lilith’s’; it was attached to one of the old cargo airlocks, a couple of dozen feet across, and the two of them drifted inside with the crowd.

 Obviously, the main bar was the former cargo bay, and Logan quickly sized it up. A few dozen booths with anchor points at all levels, and a wide bar at the far end with a variety of exotic drinks advertised with flashing holograms, most of them towards the lower-end of the market. The smell of food abounded, and – of greater interest – a lot of games of chance seemed to be taking place up near the ceiling, at least two or three poker games. Harper nodded at a corner, and he smiled to see that Boris had somehow beaten him too it, holding an obviously well-earned drink.

 He was about to head over to one of the poker games, hoping to gather some information the old-fashioned way, when he heard a round of applause coming from the crowd, and saw a tall, elegant woman in a flowing emerald dress, cut for zero-gravity with a perfectly-held tail behind her, drifting towards a microphone in the middle of the room. His attention was rapt as she started to sing, his eyes focused on her as he watched, drinking in her soft voice and full figure.

 The crowd was fixed on her every movement, and she began to slowly glide around the room, obviously on a carefully calculated course that took her from table to table, and she swung past him almost close enough to touch. It took Harper tugging on his sleeve to bring him back to some sort of reality.

 “Don’t we have work to do?” she whispered.

 “Come on, she’s an artist. Fifty credits says that’s Lilith.”

 She concluded her performance on a flourish, and the crowd erupted in cheers, Logan unashamedly joining them, Harper just shaking her head.

 “Thank you all,” she said. “The next ten drinks are on the house!”

 Logan was right – that evidently was the owner, and that was pretty smart business as well; he managed to dive for the bar first, attempting to blend into the crowd, while Harper stayed at the rear, watching the room.

 “Sirian Sunrise, please,” he said to the nearest barman, who nodded and quickly mixed up the white-and-orange drink for him. At some point he’d have to work out what was in it, though he did know that it didn’t have much of an effect on him. “And a Vitazade as well.”

 “We usually serve real drinks in here, friend.”

 “It’s not for me.”

 With a shrug, the barman passed over the drinks. “That’s three-fifty. You’re the twelfth customer.”

 He’d counted his predecessors at the bar, and by his reckoning he was seventh or eighth, but it didn’t seem important; he used his UN card again rather than risk Triplanetary scrip, and made a mental note to stick to Terran currency while he was here. Grabbing the two containers, he pulled the straws out and drifted back over to Harper.

 “What the hell is this?”

 “You need to keep your mind on the job.”

 “I’ll remind you of that next time the singer comes out. What now?”

 “Now I join one of those games up there while you drift around a bit and see what you can pick up. See if you can find anyone who works for the station. I’ll hit the criminal groups.” He was peering around for a high-stakes game, and thought he’d found one; a lot of magnetic chips were resting on the table closest to the ceiling.

 Just as he was putting himself into the persona of an enthusiastic amateur, he saw a man who was nursing a wound in his shoulder, and for a second, they locked eyes. A second too long. He recognized the gunman from the poker game at Neptune, and worst of all, the gunman had recognized him.

 “Crap!” he yelled, hoping that Harper would melt into the crowd, diving for the door as the gunman pushed off after him. He knew this dance, and now as definitely not the time to have to play it. He saw the shrug of a sleeve, and managed to hook a flailing leg around a booth to catapult him just out of the path of the bullet. Within a second, his gun was out and the trigger pulled, and for the second time in two weeks the gunman was crying in pain, tumbling end-over-end as blood spilled from a wound. He held the gun, swinging around.

 “I’m a Triplanetary officer,” he said, improvising. “Everyone stay where they are!”

 There were two more shots, one from below and one above, and he turned to see another of the poker players sprawled against the ceiling, gasping in pain. He looked down to see Boris holding a gun, a look of disbelief on his face.

 “Thanks for the help,” Logan said.

 “I’m as surprised as you are,” Boris replied.

 “Well, let’s get these two people to the medical bay and then put them in detention.”

 “You’ll hear about this!” a voice yelled out from the crowd as Harper snatched the gun away from the still-tumbling gunman. The singer came drifting out from the back room again, her face flushed red as she looked at the site of the battle.

 “What the hell is going on?” she said. 

 Mustering a smile, Logan replied, “Just taking out some trash, ma’am, complements of the Triplanetary Fleet.” He tossed his UN card to her. “The drinks are on me for the next fifteen minutes.”

 Using the pandemonium, he, Harper, and Boris managed to flee the scene, the two would-be assassins in tow behind them, unconscious.

 “That’s your idea of a covert operation?” Harper said as they passed through the airlock. 

 “No, Harper, that’s my idea of a botched operation.” He sighed, and said, “Let’s see if at least these two know anything at all. At least one of them is an old friend…”

Chapter 11

 Marshall sat contentedly in the pilot’s seat of the transfer shuttle, glancing left and right to visually confirm that the others were still with him – though he would have been alerted long before if they had deviated from their course. Spread across the three shuttles were two squads of espatiers and a medical/engineering rescue team, hastily put together to provide aggressive emergency relief to the scoutship that Alamo had spent considerable effort to damage a few moments before.

 The architect of that damage was sitting next to him, occasionally glancing with frustration at the pilot’s seat, but there was no way that Marshall was going to pass up a chance to fly for himself; they were coming too seldom for his taste as it was. Behind, Alamo loomed overhead. It might be out of weapons range, but it could still provide some support if necessary, and there was no way that the scout could break away from its grasp. He just hoped that the crew of the pirate ship knew it.

 The dominant presence underneath was the gas giant, all swirling purple and orange clouds, its gravity a constant pull on their course, especially this close in. He peered down into the clouds, shaking his head; this was a lot closer than he usually cared to get in an orbital shuttle, and he kept a constant eye on the navicomputer.

 “Shuttle One to Shuttle Flight,” he said. “One minute to contact, all good?”

 “Shuttle Two,” Zabek replied, “All good here.”

 “Shuttle Three here,” echoed the uncertain voice of Makarova, “All fine here, ready to dock.”

 “Ensign Zabek’s espatiers will take the lead. Form a defensive perimeter as a first priority, then the medical and engineering teams can move in. I want a full survey within ten minutes of touchdown.”

 “We’re ready, sir,” Zabek said.

 Orlova turned to him and nodded, “We’ll get it done, Captain.”

 He’d spent the first few minutes of the flight glancing over the specifications of the shuttle, and was aiming for the high-side docking ports on the starboard side; three of them were clustered closely together, ironically intended for emergency evacuation. Now came the difficult part.

 “Shuttle One to Scout, we are approaching for dock. Request you turn your lights on.”

 “Scout to Shuttle One. Please stand by for five minutes.”

 Marshall looked at Orlova, “Scout, we’re coming in now. If we have to cut through the hull it’s just going to make more of a mess. Turn lights on and stand by for docking.”

 Without any further contact, the lights went on down the side of the ship, and Marshall braced himself for the impact. The computers were handling this one for split-second precision, and were taking no chances, spending fuel with abandon to make them as safe as possible from a last-minute attempt to betray the surrender. He breathed a sigh of relief as the lock clamps engaged, then began to unstrap himself, reaching for a pistol and holster from the overhead locker.

 Orlova was already putting hers on, preceding him through the airlock; already a squad of espatiers had secured the corridor, Sergeant Forrest predictably taking the point. He glanced back at his commander and nodded, and Marshall stepped out onto the deck. Aside from the espatiers, there was no-one in sight; it seemed the crew had decided to keep well clear of their visitors.

 “Is this normal?” Orlova asked, looking down the corridor.

 “I’d have hoped that there would have been someone waiting here to meet us.” He grabbed his communicator, “Zabek, report.”

 “No contacts yet, sir,” she replied from the deck below. “I’ve got Midshipman Makarova in Elevator Control, but it was abandoned.”

 “Very good. Secure Life Support and Gunnery.” He turned to Orlova, “You take a firing team and start looking at the cargo. Full report as soon as you can.”

 “On it.” She looked around, shaking her head. “Jackson, you and your boys are with me.” She began to walk down the corridor, and with a quick action Marshall locked down the shuttle, the airlock door slamming shut. “We’re heading for the bridge, Sergeant.”

 “Shouldn’t we leave someone to watch the shuttle, sir?”

 “No need. I don’t think they’re going anywhere.” He looked around. “I don’t think there are that many people left here to steal them.”

 He stepped into the elevator with the firing team, cramped in the confined space, and waited a few seconds for the doors to close. Maintenance didn’t seem to be the top priority of the crew. There was a feel to this ship that he just didn’t like, a strange crawling sensation. Perhaps it was the surrender; he’d been on ships that had lost a battle before, and that was bad enough, but he’d never been on a ship that had given up. Not that he’d given the pirates much choice, but it still seemed wrong.

 The doors slid open, and his initial assessments of the state of the ship were confirmed. Three crewmen sat at work stations, keeping ship functions going, but they looked as if they had seen better days, all patchwork repairs and temporary rush jobs. The command chair was empty, and though the crew turned to him, none of them seemed ready to make the first move.

 “You are all under arrest, charged with piracy,” Marshall said, and the three of them looked at each other. “It will go a lot easier for you if you cooperate at this point. Who is in charge here?”

 Finally, a gray-haired woman broke ranks, “I’m Latham, and I suppose I’m in charge of the bridge now.” He recognized the voice from before, the same defeated tone.

 “Lieutenant-Captain Marshall, commanding Alamo. I take it your officers left.”

 She nodded, curtly, “They rode down in the escape pod just before the surrender.” Looking around at the others, she continued, “Captain, none of us are Triplanetary citizens.”

 “I don’t think either the Republic or the United Nations look particularly highly on piracy, Ms. Latham.”

 “No, but we…”

 “Let me guess,” Sergeant Forrest intervened, “You were all hired yesterday, and had no idea that you were doing anything wrong until your nasty bosses told you this morning that you were going to attack a freighter, and you didn’t think there was anything you could do to stop them.”

 Marshall shot a stare at his NCO, then turned back to Latham, “Well?”

 “We have casualties on B Deck, after medical bay. If you’ll see to them, then I’ll tell you everything I know.” She sighed, “I warn you, it isn’t much.”

 “Anything is better than nothing, Ms. Latham.” He picked up his communicator, “Zabek, get your medics down to B Deck. Casualties waiting for them. Make sure you send a fire team along.”

 “They’re on the way now, sir,” she replied, and he could hear her giving orders as he broke the circuit.

 “Do you want to speak in private, Ms. Latham?”

 She looked at the silent crewmen, then gestured towards an airlock, “That will do, I think.”

 “Fine. Sergeant, secure the bridge and get the prize crew up here. Get these two – and anyone else you find – down to one of the cargo bays for processing.”

 “Are we keeping the ship, sir?”

 “For the moment, anyway.”

 “There are twelve of us remaining on board, Captain, out of twenty,” Latham volunteered.

 “Verify that, Sergeant.”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Ms. Latham?” he gestured to the airlock, then led the way, making sure that it was impossible for the outer door to open while they were standing inside it. The inner door sealed, and the two of them were alone. She looked up at him, fright in her eyes.

 “I can offer you protective custody, ma’am.”

 “We’re going to need it, once they find out that we have surrendered. Not that we know that much.”

 “Where are you from?” 

 “Thalassa. I’m technically a United Nations citizen, but right now I’m a fugitive as well.”

 His eyes narrowed, “You’ve been hitting the UN colonies as well?”

 “No,” she shook her head, “I was an indent, and technically I’m still under contract for another four years. I broke my indenture, and, well, this was the only job I could get.”

 “Doing what?”

 “Mostly smuggling. This is the first time that we’ve ever actually engaged in piracy, though I have to admit that I was pretty sure they were obtaining their goods this way. Not that it ever seemed that important or high-value; I was just getting paid.”

 “What did you do?”

 “Flight Engineer. The others were on my work crew. I know just about enough to keep a ship in a stable orbit, so McAllister – he was the captain – called us up to the bridge.”

 “Eight in the pod, you say.” He shook his head. “Do you know why they would commit suicide?”

 “They wouldn’t. Didn’t. Captain, I’m fairly sure they’ve got a base inside the gas giant.”

 Eyes widening, he replied, “This wasn’t the launch point for the fighters?”

 “No. We moved into orbit and hooked up with them. Given what they were, I presume they came from the gas giant itself, and McAllister isn’t the sort to take risks, if you know what I mean.”

 “So they cast off, and left you and the others to face the music. Doesn’t seem fair.” His communicator squawked, and he pulled it to his face. “Marshall here.”

 “Orlova, Captain. I’ve tried to get into the computer down in the sysop room, but there’s nothing, and I mean nothing. Total purge and reset to system defaults, which is why the ship’s systems are still working. No data of any interest at all. The memory modules have been pulled out and destroyed.”

 “Could they be repaired?”

 “I think they used a plasma pistol on them, skipper.” She broke off for a moment, “Wait a…” There was a loud crashing noise, and the communicator went dead.

 Marshall looked iron at Latham, “Where?”

 “Deck A, Section Nine.”

 He was running to the elevator quickly enough that he grazed his shoulder on the door of the airlock as it opened, his communicator still up to his mouth.

 “Fire team to Deck A, Section Nine, right now. Medic to the same area.”

 Even under normal circumstances, elevators usually moved a lot too slowly for Marshall, but this one was dragging. The door opened just up-corridor from the room, and he heard the grunts and clangs of reinforcements – he hoped – on the way. Pistol out, he tapped the door release, and when it didn’t open, he smashed the emergency override with his elbow and pulled it free.

 Instinct took over; he fired at the figure looming over the unconscious body of Orlova, sending her flying towards the wall and him back to the corridor. He kicked into the room and grabbed her assailant, wearing the uniform of a maintenance technician, now dead. A pair of troopers dived into the room, one heading for the body, the other – a medic – for Orlova.

 “She’s alive,” the medic said after a quick examination, “but I think she’s broken her shoulder. No point waking her up until we get her back to Alamo.”

 “Take her. The body of the assailant as well, have an identity check run on him.”

 The other guard looked up, “Nice shot, sir.”

 “Thanks, Private.”

 He looked down at the two bodies, shaking his head, then pulled his communicator out again, spending a second tuning it to the ship’s internal communications frequency, his reward for success a brief feedback whine.

 “This is Lieutenant-Captain Marshall. One of my people has been attacked; the assailant is dead. Any further attacks on our people will likewise be met with such force; if anyone else is hiding, they should disarm immediately.”

 “Forrest, sir,” a reply came quickly. “Latham wants to speak to you.”

 “Put her on.”

 “Captain, I assure you that we didn’t know.”

 “Whether I believe you or not is besides the point, Ms. Latham. This ship will be searched from stem to stern, and I will hold you responsible for any further attacks.”

 As Orlova was taken out, he looked at the computer systems again, shaking his head. Suddenly, he really didn’t want to be on board this ship any more, and he kicked off after the medic.

 “I’ll fly the shuttle back, Private,” he said. “You can ride shotgun.” He flicked frequencies for Alamo, “Marshall to Alamo. I’m on my way back…”

 “With a casualty, I know,” Cunningham’s voice replied. “How is she?”

 “Broken shoulder, apparently, but nothing worse. Have Doc Duquesne standing by anyway.”

 “You think I have to ask her? Are you coming back? If that ship has saboteurs on board…”

 “Way ahead of you. Send, ah, Ryder over here to take charge for the moment. She’s to give me an indication on whether this ship can be brought back to operational capacity, I’d like to send it back to Mariner with the prisoners if possible.”

 There was a pause longer than the communication lag before the reply, “I’ve already got a cargo bay ready to take the prisoners, sir.”

 “I don’t want them on Alamo for any longer than I can help, and the ship is now an asset for a prize court; I reckon the re-insurers will be very interested in seeing what they can make of her after the forensic boys have finished.”

 “Aye, sir.”

 “And tell Caine to concentrate her search on the gas giant itself.”

 “Inside?”

 “Afraid so.”

 “That’s going to complicate things a bit, Danny.”

 He was coming up to the shuttle dock, an espatier standing beside to help Orlova into the cabin; the young officer was beginning to groan from the pain.

 “I know. See you in fifteen. Marshall out.”

Chapter 12

 “Does that hurt?” a harsh voice asked Orlova, as she felt a finger prodding her in the shoulder, sending her gasping in agony on the bed.

 “Yes.”

 “Good. Might teach you not to head off by yourself without backup next time.”

 She opened her eyes to see Doctor Duquesne looming over her, shaking her head. Craning her head around, she could see that she was the only one in sickbay, at least; the rest of the boarding operation must have gone reasonably well.

 Noting her concern, Duquesne said, “Yes, you’re the only one stupid enough to get ambushed.”

 “What sort of doctor are you?”

 “The only one for six light-years.”

 With an effort, Orlova attempted to sit up, found her head swimming and her vision start to blur. Taking a deep breath, she tried again, and this time felt a supporting arm behind her back, propping her up on the bed, leaning her against the wall.

 “Let that be a lesson to you.”

 “I’ve got to get back on duty, Doctor.”

 Shaking her head, she said, “I suppose you want to attend the staff meeting, then.” 

 “Staff meeting?” She started to struggle again, “Doctor, I’ve got to get going.” Looking down at her shoulder for the first time, she could see it encased in a plastic shell, immobilized, her hand sticking out of the other end; she experimentally tried to wiggle her fingers, and just about managed it.

 “I thought you’d be one of my stupid patients, so I arranged for the cast.” Orlova felt a brief jab in her good arm, and suddenly her vision began to clear. “That’ll stop the disorientation and nausea. Now technically you should stay here for at least a day, and in your cabin for two or three more.”

 “Three days?”

 “I love how you assume the best-case scenario. Given that I don’t want to have to listen to you moaning for the next half-week, I’m going to release you on restricted duty – but I mean restricted, Sub-Lieutenant! You can sit in an office and do paperwork and boss people about, but no more than that. No heavy lifting, no flying, nothing. I’m serious.”

 Smiling, Orlova clapped the doctor on the shoulder with her good arm, “Thanks, Doc.”

 “Don’t thank me, Sub-Lieutenant. Come back every eight hours and I’ll top up that injection for you. The cast can probably come off tomorrow if you are sensible, the bone’s knitting together pretty well.”

 Struggling to her feet, Orlova reached for her uniform jacket, and with an effort, managed to drape it over her bad arm, shrugging her good arm into the sleeve. Duquesne, shaking her head and muttering, quickly helped her dress, and then propped her up as she got to her feet.

 “Don’t you dare fall over and mess up all of my work. That shoulder took me half an hour to treat, and I don’t want to have to do it again.”

 “I’ll be careful, doc.”

 “Careful presumably meaning that you will try very hard not to get into a fistfight with someone. I know you, Sub-Lieutenant. Now get out of here and head for the briefing room.”

 “Thanks, doc!” she said as she raced out of the room – that injection was really working, whatever it was. The elevator was waiting for her at the corridor, and she belatedly realized that Duquesne must have called it for her. She stepped inside and pushed for the briefing room, holding onto the guard-rail as the doors slid shut and it began to speed on its way.

 Voices came from inside the briefing room as she stepped inside, and the officers looked up, varying degrees of surprise on their faces; Zebrova looked almost startled, but Marshall simply waved her down to an empty seat with a faint smile on his face.

 “Sorry I’m late, sir,” she said as she sat down. “The doctor had to help me get changed.”

 “Should you be here at all?” Zebrova said, shaking her head almost imperceptibly.

 Orlova managed a smile as she replied, “Doctor Duquesne cleared me for light duty, so here I am.”

 “You haven’t missed anything but the preliminary chatter anyway, Sub-Lieutenant,” Cunningham said from his seat next to Marshall.

 “I still think that we are running a wild goose chase,” Quinn said. “There’s no reason not to think that we haven’t already accomplished our mission here.”

 “It’s all too easy, though, Lieutenant,” Marshall replied. “For a start, there is no evidence that the fighters were operating from the scoutship.”

 “All of the prisoners agree on that point,” Zebrova said, “even under close cross-examination. Sub-Lieutenant Ryder’s report indicates that she failed to find any support equipment or spares for the fighters, nothing that could have been used to maintain them. I conclude that the pirates have another base in this system.”

 “I agree,” Marshall said. “That escape pod was going somewhere, after all.”

 “The risks…,” Cunningham said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t want to catapult myself into a gas giant, even in a modified escape pod.” 

 “What if they had a rescue ship waiting?” Orlova said. “A shuttle in the upper atmosphere, hiding in one of the eddies. Our sensors don’t work that well in an atmospheric environment that thick, and there was a lot of debris flying around.”

 “I’m working on some sensor modifications right now,” Zebrova said, “I agree with the reasoning.”

 That made Orlova’s eyebrow rise. “It also suggests that there is a base on the gas giant itself, in the atmosphere, then.”

 “One of the prisoners suggested as much, though she didn’t have any evidence,” Marshall said. “Your thoughts, Caine?”

 “I’m glad you’ve decided to consult Tactical at last,” she replied, shaking her head. “I ran a check, and there are about a dozen aerostats floating in the upper atmosphere – which is six more than should be there according to our records.”

 “Illegal mining operations?” Cunningham said. “We’ve got every excuse to conduct a thorough investigation, then.”

 “No,” Marshall replied. “Not that we haven’t got the motive and the means, but I don’t want to tip our hand.”

 “Our shuttles could send in assault forces…,” said Zebrova, reaching over for a datapad.

 “And I’d guess that eleven of those aerostats are exactly what they appear to be, Ms. Zebrova. Unmanned flying gas-bags sucking helium-3 from the atmosphere for fuel transfer. I want the pirates to think that they have fooled us.”

 “Fooled us?” Zebrova replied.

 Orlova turned to her, “That attack was a bit convenient.”

 “Exactly, Sub-Lieutenant,” Marshall replied. “We jump into the system and immediately are presented with a nice battle to fight, all tied up into a bow for our amusement. We fight, win, and assume that the battle is over – with a prize ship presented to us with a cargo of prisoners for the courts. Then we go home, and three months later everything starts up again.”

 “That’s a bit of a stretch, sir,” Cunningham said. “How could they arrange a fight for us, timed that well?”

 Caine started typing into the computer, and raised a fist, “I’ve got it. Someone told them.”
 “Lieutenant?” Zebrova said.

 “Moored by Spitfire Station is a ship identified as the Honest Horace,” she said, “flagged as an independent freighter. It was docked at Mariner, left just before we did.” She looked down at her terminal again. “Three hours before, to be specific. Our departure was a matter of public knowledge, and the Horace would have been able to provide them with details of the time. Then all they had to do was pick a freighter to attack.”

 Zebrova stood up, “Sir, permission to lead an espatier force to the Honest Horace.”

 “Denied,” Marshall said, waving her back down to her seat. “For the same reasons that I’m not authorizing an attack on the aerostats. I don’t want the pirates to know that we are on to them.”

 “Then you propose to simply sit here and wait, sir?”

 “For the present, Lieutenant, I plan to do precisely that. Mr. Quinn?”

 “Sir?”

 “I want you to prepare three probes, to be placed in Kumarosynchronous orbit. We’re going to set up a blockade, but I want you to be quiet about it. Rig them to be as stealthy as possible, and try and hide them in some of the debris.”

 “How will we camouflage laying them, sir?” Cunningham asked. 

 “We’ll use shuttles, plant them under the guise of salvage missions or something like that. I’ll leave the details to you.”

 “Five flights, I think,” he mused, “and they’ll have to look real. Let me know when you are ready, Quinn, and I’ll get that moving.”

 “Aye, sir.”

 Marshall tapped a button on his desk, and a new voice echoed across the room, “Ryder here, sir.”

 “Status of the pirate ship, Sub-Lieutenant?”

 “Engineering survey completed, sir, and the damage is not that severe. The major work is going to be the engines, but the hendecaspace drive is intact. I think we can have her ready for space in thirty-six hours, if I can get round-the-clock crews onto it.”

 “Start work immediately, Ryder. Liaise with Mr. Quinn.”

 “Aye, sir.”

 “Keep me informed on your progress. Alamo out.” He looked around the room, “I’d like to salvage that ship if at all possible.”

 “A prize crew to head back to Mariner?”

 “Something along those lines,” he replied. “Ryder can stay in charge for now while I decide what to do with her. Ultimately she’ll be given back to the re-insurers to help pay for their expenses, I suspect, but that doesn’t mean we might not be able to make some use of her ourselves for a bit.” He looked at Orlova, examining her arm, “I want another thorough search of that ship. Are you up to it?”

 “Yes, sir,” Orlova replied, smiling.

 “Head over there after the meeting, then. Take a work crew with you – and no heavy lifting.”

 “That’s exactly what the doctor said, Captain.”

 “Then for once we agree. Mr. Mulenga?”

 The dark-skinned astrogator looked up, breaking silence for the first time in the meeting, “Captain?”

 “Your department’s been a bit under-used since we arrived, and I think it time to put an end to that. I want you to run an analysis of the systems in jump range of here, a focus on those that aren’t settled. Those pirates came from somewhere, and I’d like to know where.”

 “That data will all be in the computer…”

 “Nevertheless, take it again. Good practice, in any case.”

 With a toothy grin, he replied, “I shall endeavor not to let my assistants know that they are engaged in make-work, Captain.”

 “What about the prisoners, sir?” Zebrova asked. “I’ve done some background checks, and all but one of them are United Nations citizens, eight of them still under indentured contracts with various mega-corporations.”

 Cunningham frowned, “Indents. We’re back to that again, are we.”

 “The eleventh?”

 “Belt citizenship, sir.”

 “So at least one of them has origins that aren’t controversial.” Marshall looked around. “I don’t have any particular desire to turn them back to the United Nations.”

 “Their crimes were committed against Triplanetary citizens in Triplanetary space, sir. We have an excellent argument that they should be tried here, and if found guilty, imprisoned.” Zebrova replied. “I was simply asking whether you wish to hold them on Alamo.”

 “I was talking to Jennings earlier, and he’s heading back to Sol in a few days,” Caine said. “I suspect he’d be willing to take them back with him. After all, it was his ship that they were attacking.”

 “There seems a certain poetic justice in that, doesn’t there. I’ll call him up and make the arrangements after the meeting. One shuttle should probably do it.”

 “Should we detach a fire team to escort them back to Mariner, sir?” Zebrova asked.

 Marshall paused for a second, then shook his head, “I’d rather not dilute our forces at this stage, Lieutenant. I don’t think Jennings will take any chances with them, and the hold of a ship tends to make for a rather effective prison.” He looked around the room. “Is there anything else?” Silence answered him, and after a minute, “Then I won’t keep you from your duties any longer. Dismissed. Sub-Lieutenant Orlova?”

 “Sir?”
 “Please stay a moment.”

 The group filed out of the room; Zebrova gave her an icy look before departing, and Cunningham quietly patted her on her good shoulder. After a minute, it was just her and the Captain, and the doors slid shut.

 “Is something wrong, sir?”

 “I wanted to discuss your conduct during the battle with the pirate formation, Sub-Lieutenant.” He raised his hand as her face started to redden, “Don’t worry, this isn’t a dressing-down. After all, it was your first time in the big chair during a battle.”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “How would you rate your performance?”

 “We won, sir.”

 Stifling a chuckle, Marshall replied, “I suppose at the end of the day that’s the main thing, isn’t it. However, there is an old maxim – that we learn more from our defeats than our victories.”

 “I missed with the first laser pulse.”

 Leaning forward, Marshall asked, “Why?”

 She took a deep breath, “I made a tactical error, sir. When Alamo moved into firing range, I launched the first wave of missiles prior to firing the laser. That meant that the target was already actively maneuvering, and gave them an advantage.”

 “Correct. Had we been fighting an opponent a bit nearer our weight, that could have been a critical error, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 Reddening again, she replied, “I know, sir.”

 “Sitting in that chair isn’t much fun, Sub-Lieutenant. You spent the time before the battle thinking it over in your head, plotting move and counter-move, yes?”

 “I wanted to be ready, sir.”

 “That’s why I sent you to Tactical School. So that you would be ready. Space battles are fought in seconds, you know that – but we have hours to prepare for them, which is the curse of our profession. The greatest temptation, and one which all too many commanders and tactical officers have yielded to in the past, is to think every action and move to death before the battle.”

 “Are you saying that I shouldn’t prepare, sir?”

 “Not at all, but there is a great risk in over-thinking as well. There’s a reason that it is humans sitting in control of these ships, rather than turning them over to computers, and that is the uncertainty factor. You never know what the opponent is going to do, so you have to be able to react quickly.”

 Frowning, she replied, “Are you telling me that I should trust my instincts, sir?”

 “Do you know what instincts actually are? Training. Your instincts are the sum of your natural ability and all of the training you have received while wearing that uniform, as well as the battle experience. Take the missiles, for example, that you programmed for atmospheric flight – that wasn’t something you’d planned, was it.”

 “No, sir. I realized when the scout accelerated away that the fighters only had one place to go, and that was down into the atmosphere.”

 “That was good, quick thinking. Sub-Lieutenant, the service doesn’t simply trust to raw instinct, but we demand reaction times fast enough in action situations that we can’t allow you time to think things through. Hence we train your instincts so that when the time comes, you will make the right decision, quickly. I think you have that quality.”

 “I hope so, Captain.”

 “I know so, or you wouldn’t have sat in that seat. You’ll sit in it again.”

 She looked down at the desk, “I made a mistake, sir.”

 “And you won’t next time. That’s all. Dismissed.”

 Orlova stood, managed a salute, and walked out of the room, lost in thought.

Chapter 13

 Logan sat behind a dirty desk, looking at a picture of a bald man surrounded by his family attached to its surface, presumably the last head of station security. He hadn’t left many other traces of his presence, though there was a worrying splatter of blood on the rear wall close to where he was floating that he suspected might match the man in the photograph.

 Glancing up, he saw Boris fumbling with a first aid kit, treating the two gunmen; neither of the resident doctors had been willing to provide any assistance whatsoever, preferring to remain uninvolved, but Boris then volunteered that he’d been a field medic during the war. Neither of them were seriously injured, and a bit of combat surgery was all that they needed, but he would have preferred if they had been in a position to talk in the near future.

 “You’re pretty handy with that medical kit, Boris,” Logan said. “What was it you did during the war again?”

 “I was a combat engineer with the UNSF. Spent most of my time trying to stop you guys smashing everything we’d just built.”

 “Well, I’m glad you were paying attention during your training. That was a pretty good shot down there in Lilith’s.”

 Boris paused, scowling down, “Pretty good?”

 “There’s always room for improvement, isn’t there? I have to admit I was a bit surprised, but I’m certainly glad you’ve decided to throw in with me after all.”

 Waving his hands, the pilot protested, “Wait a minute, I never volunteered for any man’s army. I did enough of that during the war.” He glanced up at the gunman, “I just don’t like to see someone shot in the back, that’s all.”

 “Looks like you’ve volunteered to me, Boris.”

 “I could get into my hopper right now and never look back.”

 Harper, leaning over in the corner over an antiquated data terminal, said, “You don’t think they’d get you before you’d flown a hundred miles?”

 “I think that the bad guys have probably concluded you’re working for me now. Besides, I don’t think you’ve got much choice.”

 “Huh?”

 Logan gestured at the unconscious form on the ceiling, “You pulled out a gun and shot a man, Boris. Now I personally am very glad you did, don’t get me wrong, but technically that’s still attempted murder.”

 “You’d turn me in?”

 Mustering a hang-dog expression, Logan replied, “Well, I might not turn you in, Boris, but his boss might. Or he might make some sort of complaint when he wakes up.”

 “Twenty years for attempted murder,” Harper said, chiming in.

 “Don’t worry, Boris, I’ll testify for your character at the trial.”

 “They’ll give me forty years,” he replied. “You’d sit back and let that happen?”

 “Well, it doesn’t have to be this way at all,” Logan said, smiling. “If you were in the Triplanetary fleet, for example, then you were simply following orders to protect your commanding officer from danger. That’s the sort of thing that gets you commendations and medals, Boris.”

 “Who wants a medal? And I’m not in your military.”

 Shrugging, he replied, “I did make you an offer to that effect on the ride over, Boris. Let’s just say that I’m giving you a chance to retroactively take me up on it.”

 Boris looked over at Harper, then back at Logan, “I don’t have much choice, do I?
 “I’m glad you agree, Spaceman.”

 “At least give me my old rank back.”

 “Sure, that’s no problem. What was it?”

 “Admiral?” Boris squinted back. Logan shook his head.

 “Let’s say Petty Officer, that sounds about right.”

 “So this is some sort of intelligence operation I’m in, then,” Boris said. “I guess you’re an officer.”
 “In a manner of speaking, but most of the time I’m an acquisitions expert.”

 “A thief?”

 “That’s a very unjustified and unfair statement, Boris. People want certain information, and I see that they get it. This intelligence agent business is really a bit of a sideline, these days.”

 “What does she do?” he said, gesturing at Harper. Logan tilted his head towards her.

 “I’m a hacker. And Senator Harper’s daughter.” 

 Slumping resigned against the wall, Boris said, “This is crazy. You’re planning on taking on the whole station with a hacker, a thief and a dru...pilot.”

 “No drinking on the job, Boris.”

 “This gets worse by the minute. I’m not sure I’m up to this sober.”

 Logan leaned back, swinging on the wall restraints, “The drinks are on me when all of this is over.”

 There was a knock at the door, and all three of them instantly reacted, guns coming out of holsters and into their hands. Boris and Harper were making no secret of their aggressive stance, but Logan placed his in a previously prepared hole in the desk, keeping it out of sight and safe.

 “Come in,” he said. “It’s open.”

 The door slid open, sticking briefly, and a tall, balding man slid in through the door, wearing a standard station jumpsuit with the logo of Cornucopia Mining emblazoned on his shoulder, battered and tatty. He looked around at the surrounding firepower, then down at Logan.

 “Is this how the Triplanetary Fleet operates these days?”

 Logan glanced up at his comrades, who placed their weapons away, but he left his safely in its hidden slot, his hand close enough to the trigger that he could reach it in a second if necessary.

 “That’s a little better. I’m Anton Sokolov, Station Commander and representative of Cornucopia Mining on this station.”

 “Doesn’t that constitute a bit of a conflict of interest? What if the needs of station and corporation don’t coincide?” Logan said.

 “My job is to make sure that they always do.” He gestured to the ceiling, “They will be released to my custody immediately.”

 “No.”
 “I don’t think you quite understand.”

 Logan smiled, “I’ve been told before that I’m a slow learner.”

 “I order you to release them.”

 “Well, that would be a problem. I’m Senior Lieutenant Logan Winter, of the Triplanetary Fleet; that is Petty Officer Boris Petrov…”

 “Petty is appropriate,” Sokolov interrupted.

 “...And Spaceman Kristin Harper. These two men launched an attack on me, an unprovoked attack, while I was simply trying to get a drink. I’m afraid I can’t just release two people who are under arrest for attempted murder. I did come to turn them over to the head of Station Security, but you don’t appear to have one.”

 “That’s my…”

 “So I’ve decided to take the job myself, at least for the moment. After questioning, charges will be filed – I think I can assure you that there will be plenty of them – and then will be shipped home for trial on Alamo.”

 “They can go back on a company ship.”

 “Nice try.”

 Sokolov slid in front of the desk, “Mr. Winter, I have certain friends…”

 “Do you? That’s excellent. Everyone should have friends. I have friends as well. Boris, Kristin, a battlecruiser, lots of friends in the military. Maybe our friends should all get together sometime.”

 “That was what I had in mind. I’m going to contact some people back home, Mr. Winter…”

 “Call me Logan, by all means.”

 “...and they will make my life very unpleasant.”

 “I see.” He paused, then said, “This wouldn’t be an attempt to pressure a serving officer, would it?” 

 “These men are under my orders and are my responsibility?”

 Logan’s eyes widened. “Are they? Under your orders?”

 “Yes.”

 “Well, then, Mr. Sokolov, I’m forced to place you under arrest for compl….”

 Sokolov slammed his hand down on the desk, pushing himself up towards the ceiling; he scrambled for a second, before Boris reached down and dragged him towards a handhold.

 “Don’t be stupid, Winter. That’s not what I meant. Release these men immediately.”

 “No.”

 “I don’t think you understand your situation here.”

 “Oh, I understand completely. You’re going to go back to your office now and talk with your staff about what to do, and perhaps you will come to a very silly solution. I assure you that your friends are here, are safe, and are going to remain under constant guard – and as you know now, my men and I are excellent shots.”

 “You haven’t heard the last of this.” Sokolov turned around and pushed himself out of the office, catching his sleeve slightly on the door as it opened.

 As the door closed, Logan replaced his pistol in its holster, and looked up at the white Boris still hanging by the bodies on the ceiling. Harper turned back to her console, still trying to work with the antiquated system.

 “He meant it, you know,” Boris said. “He’ll come back with reinforcements.”

 “I doubt it. Not with a battlecruiser in the system. He’ll need to be a lot more subtle than that, and he knows it, and I don’t for a second think that he’s actually got the guts to contact anyone back home either. This is an embarrassment for him, and he won’t want to risk looking weak – this is his problem. How are you doing, Harper?”

 “I’ve got control of life support in this section slaved to this console, so he can’t try any tricks with it, and all of the emergency pressure doors.”

 “What about the rest of the station?”

 “If you’re going to hack a network you have to have a network to hack. There are huge gaps, physical gaps, and no way to bridge them. Cheap security, but effective.” She looked down at him, “And no, I can’t get into the Cornucopia offices. First place I tried.”

 Logan pushed himself up from his desk, “Well, I’m going to go for a walk. Keep an eye on things.”

 “You’re going out there?” Boris said.

 “Yes.”

 “Alone?” 

 “Yes.” He smiled, “Look, I don’t think I’m in any real danger. You stay here and keep an eye on our two sleeping beauties up there, and help Harper take control of all the local computer systems.”

 “And where are you going?”

 “Intelligence gathering.”

 Logan pushed out of the office, drifting past someone wearing a rather shabby flight suit who was obviously assigned to keep an eye on him; he kicked down on the floor to spin himself around, waving at his would-be stalker, before steadying himself up and resuming his flight down the corridor. He quickly found himself in the main traffic flow, noticing that he was being given a wide berth, a few people glancing to see if they could spot his hidden weapon.

 His destination was once more the far end of the station, down towards the bar, but he was as curious about whether anyone would attempt to stop him as anything else. It was getting late enough in the evening, station time, that most people had settled into wherever they planned to sleep for the night, and sure enough Lilith’s was on the brink of closing, only a few people still lingering over their last drinks as bartenders looked on, eager to close. All of them looked up at him as he drifted through the door.

 “Came to get my card back,” Logan said, to no-one in particular. “I was in a bit of a hurry to leave before.”

 The singer drifted down from a hatch near the ceiling, somehow managing to make sliding through space seem an act of total grace; she had his card clutched in her hand, and span it down to him; he snatched it out of the air.

 “Thank you. You must be Lilith.”

 “I am indeed,” she replied. “I deducted for the damages as well. I hope you don’t mind.”

 “Not in the least; I hope that it isn’t anything that will prove difficult to repair.”

 She slid down to his level as the last of the remaining patrons began to scurry out, the bartenders finally running out of patience. It gave him a brief opportunity to look her up and down again, confirming everything he had seen before.

 Unfurling her arms to make her robe flow, she said, “I take it you approve?”

 “Of all the bars I’ve been in firefights in, this has the best-looking patroness, that I will say.”

 “This happens to you often?”

 “Far too often, and I suspect again in the near future.” He looked around, “Is it usually this lawless out here?”

 “We don’t get that many gunfights in the bar, but this isn’t exactly the safest place to be. If you’re about to offer me some sort of protection, I assure you that I am well-capable of defending myself.” 

 “Probably far more capable than I at the moment. I probably ought to be asking you for help.”

 “I take it the Sock paid you a menacing visit?”

 Logan smiled, “I’m afraid he went away disappointed.”

 “Happens to him all too often; this has been a frustrating posting for him. I think he was hoping to extort protection money from the businesses, but there were a few...incidents...that convinced him to stay well clear of everything that goes on, and just concentrate on protecting Cornucopia’s cut.”

 Frowning, he replied, “If he usually just sits back and does nothing…”

 “Then you’ve really stirred up a hornet’s nest. What are you out here to do, anyway?”

 “I’m hunting pirates.”

 “You are in trouble.” She paused again, “Have you any leads?”

 “None at all, but I have a lot of suspicions. Proving them is going to be interesting.”

 She looked him up and down, shaking his head, “And you are now the station’s Chief of Security. That’s not a job with a very long life expectancy.”

 “Are you suggesting that the private businesses won’t like the idea of having one at last.” 

 “That depends on how he does.”

 He smiled, looking around, “Between you and me, I’d be rather happy with the idea of this being a short posting in any case. Just as long as it ends with me buying a ticket home rather than my body being shipped back to my folks.” He waved his arms, gesturing at the bar, “How do you come to own a starship, anyway?”

 “After the war, I had quite a bit of money saved up, and I was looking to invest. I figured that if things didn’t work out here, I could just move my bar somewhere else, but it always seems to need one more repair. She hasn’t flown in twenty years, anyway. I got her cheap as war surplus.”

 “Still impressive. It usually takes a multi-millionaire to own their own ship.”

 With a tinkling laugh, she replied, “What makes you think I’m not one?”

 “Most multi-millionaire’s I’ve met would choose rather better places to dock their yachts.”

 She nodded, then looked at him again, from battered jacket to grease-stained trousers, “You don’t look like most military officers I’ve met, either.”

 “This is really a part-time arrangement for me. I won my rank in a poker game, back during the war.”

 A bartender floated across with a tray bearing two drinks; Lilith took one and past the other to Logan, who took an experimental sniff – it didn’t smell particularly alcoholic, and he took a quick sip and confirmed it; a cloying, pleasant drink.

 “You’re joking,” she said.

 He shook his head, “Totally serious. I worked in intelligence, and there were four of us up for a promotion, but it didn’t make any difference to what we were actually doing, just a few credits more a month and a slightly better pension.” He took a larger drink. “So we sat in a back-room dive on Phobos and played cards for it. At the time, I thought I’d won.”

 “And now you’re back in the service.”

 “Only temporarily, I assure you. The sooner I can get out of this uniform the better. It doesn’t seem to fit me very well these days. I never did like following orders that much.”

 “Then what are you doing here?”

 “I owe a large favor to an old friend, and he’s rather shameless in exploiting that.” He finished the drink. “I’d better get out of here before Boris starts to panic again.”

 She grabbed him by the sleeve before he left, “There’s a sound basis to his fear, Logan.”

 “I know that, I just don’t intend to let it worry me.” He kicked off from the deck, drifting back through the corridor, a small smile on his face, his eyes still marking the two people who were making a poor attempt at hiding their attempt to follow him. They weren’t the ones that worried him – it was the ones he couldn’t see that had him concerned.

Chapter 14

 The prisoners were flanked by a full squad of espatiers on the hangar bay; Zebrova had opted to take no chances, and Marshall certainly couldn’t fault her for that decision. The prisoners wore expressions ranging from terror to defiance, and Latham looked the most nervous at all. He could easily sympathize with that; she was responsible for their fate, and he walked over to her.

 “What’s going to happen to us?” she said, sneering slightly at his approach.

 “My recommendations are all in my report; certainly there is evidence enough to convict you all of a wide series of charges. Naturally it will all come down to a judge and jury, but you will be tried in a Triplanetary court.”

 “You aren’t turning us over to the UN?”

 “Not given where you committed your crimes, no. I suspect that they’ll try and get you extradited, but I doubt any Triplanetary judge will pay very much attention to that. My suspicion is that – if you plead guilty – you’ll end up with sentences of around three or four years each, with good behavior.”

 She sighed, “Then we end up back with the indents again. They’ll be waiting when we’re released.”

 Frowning, Marshall asked, “What will they do to you?”

 “The usual practice for a contract violation is to add four years for every year you missed. That’ll probably give me about twenty, thirty more years.”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “Apply for political asylum. I’ll sign my name to it when the time comes. Besides, a lot can happen in three years.”

 The technicians had finished servicing the transfer shuttle, and the espatiers gestured at the prisoners to step on board; each of them grabbed the single holdall that they had been permitted to take with them – after a thorough search, naturally – and filed slowly through the airlock, all of them lingering in the hangar bay. Latham paused at the airlock, taking a last look around, and Marshall waved at her as she stepped inside, then stepped away as the shuttle dropped down into the elevator airlock.

 He stepped into the deck officer’s office – thinking for about the hundredth time that he probably should get one of those at some point – and contacted the Demeter, waiting for a moment for the duty communications technician to make the connection. The face of Captain Jennings appeared on the screen, smiling.

 “My sensor tech tells me the shuttle has just left Alamo.”

 “That’s right, they should be with you in about ten minutes. You’ve got all the paperwork?”

 “All signed, sealed and approved; you have a very conscientious Operations staffer there.”

 “Good. Fleet will pay for the transfer, naturally, and probably a decent enough rate. I’m sure your money boys back home will be able to drive a good, hard bargain.”

 “Not for me to say, but between you and me I’d have no objection to doing this one for free. Seems like the least we can do after you ran in to our rescue.”

 “That’s all part of the service, Captain. When are you heading back?”

 “Tomorrow, probably. I want to run a few more systems checks before we leave, and I need to check in with the company office on the station before I head home. I’ll let you know when I go so we can take any of your messages – though I expect you’ll be heading back before long yourself.”

 Marshall checked himself, switching back to the cover story, “No such luck. Once we’ve tidied up the loose ends here, we’re off to Proxima for a couple of months for exercises.”

 “I don’t think your crew needs the practice, Captain.”

 “Feel free to tell them that at Admiralty when you drop off the prisoners.”

 Jennings chuckled, “Will do. Demeter out.”

 Closing down the terminal, Marshall walked out through the hangar bay, looking at the deck gang sitting around waiting for the shuttle to return, and headed for the elevator, glancing at his watch. He was off-duty – quite long off-duty – and punched the button for his quarters, tapping his shoulder as he waited for the doors to open. He pulled out a datapad and started scrolling through the preliminary reports from the crew; Mulenga had been quick off the mark with his reports, but aside from some interesting bits and pieces at Innes’ Star, there didn’t seem to be that much of interest.

 He wasn’t really looking where he was going, and as he walked into his quarters, tossing his jacket vaguely at a chair and missing by quite a bit, it took him a second to realize that Caine was sitting on his bed, shaking her head.

 “Christ, Deadeye, you really startled me there. How did you get in?”

 “You haven’t changed your password since you came on board. I think half the crew knows it.”

 He walked over to his chair, pulled it out to face her, and sat down, “That’s something I should probably do, then.”

 “If you want to keep classified material lying around.”

 Looking her up and down, he said, “This isn’t just a friendly chat, is it?”

 “No, this is an old friend deciding that you need to have some advice. That is what I’m doing out here, isn’t it?”

 He nodded, “I seem to remember that’s why I talked you to rejoining the service.”

 “Well, Jefferson aside, I’m glad you did.” Her face fixed for a moment, then she continued, “Just don’t leave me in command again.”

 “I probably have the least ambitious group of senior officers of any commander in the fleet.”

 “Don’t worry, Zebrova certainly has us all beaten there. She’s quite open and honest about it, at least; firmly expects to be named to a command when we get back, one of the scouts, maybe.”

 “I’m not so sure. She turned down a command to take this posting.”

 “Really? That’s interesting, she certainly seems to see herself as command-material; granted she seems to have the abilities to back that up.”

 Shaking his head, Marshall replied, “I’m just not sure she’s as good as she thinks she is.”

 “Because she eats rule-books for breakfast and dares to suggest that some of your key personnel might have weaknesses you don’t want to acknowledge?”

 He nodded, with a thin smile. “Something like that. She really managed to rile Cunningham.”

 “I know, he was complaining to me about her as well. She had a point, though; Operations wasn’t being run as well as it could be, and she’s working on that. You need to give her more opportunities to shine, frankly, listen to her more.”

 “I did just about manage to pick up on your little signal on the bridge.”

 “She could be a real asset to you, Danny, and you know it. You need someone who thinks regulation, and still stay on your side – and I genuinely think that she is on your side.”

 “Fine, fine, Deadeye. I’ll give her more of a chance, though I still think she’s wrong about Orlova.”

 “Is she? Look at Maggie’s record; a mustang who was in the service for about five minutes before you commissioned her, and now she’s a section head on a capital ship with two years’ experience. There are a lot of officers who did a lot more than her – on paper – to earn that rank and position.”

 “She’ll be a lieutenant in a year.”

 “Probably, and then she’ll be serving somewhere other than Alamo, most likely.” She smiled, “I know the way your mind is working, Danny. You’ve got the idea that you’ll wangle another tour as Alamo’s commander, never mind that it would do bad things to your career…”

 “I’m young for my rank now, remember.”

 “And that she can take over from me as Tactical, while I move upstairs to Operations, maybe – assuming I stay in the service. I’ve known you long enough to have some idea how you think.”

 He smiled, sitting back in his chair, “That’s why you are so valuable to me, Deadeye.”

 “Say it doesn’t work out the way you’ve planned though? Or more likely – say you push her too far, too fast, and she cracks. That could have been a serious problem during the battle.” She paused, folding her hands together. “I know she pulled it back again, but it wasn’t the greatest start. I presume you intend to try her again?”

 “I was planning on using her as your alternate.”

 Caine nodded, “I ought to be on the bridge next time, just in case. Ready to take over. She needs that pressure.”

 “She’s a good officer.”

 “I agree. You need to give her a chance to grow into a great one.” She paused, lounging back on the bed like a cat waiting to pounce, “All of this is just a prelude for what I actually came here to talk about, of course.”

 “And that is?”

 Taking a deep breath, she said, “You’re taking Alamo out again. After the Cabal, after your father.” She raised her hand, “Don’t bother trying to deny it – as I said before, I know you too well. I suspect that you are operating under orders, and that you somehow managed to talk Tramiel into it, but I think you’d go whatever happened.”

 He waited for a long moment before replying, “There’s not much point trying to keep this one secret, is there.”

 “Half the crew is expecting it. The mess is buzzing with it, and I think the crew are eager for it.”

 “Yes, then, I am going out. Proxima is just a cover story. I’m going Cabal hunting.”

 “Under orders?”

 “We’re going, Deadeye. Right now that’s all that you need to know.”

 She smiled, “Good. I wasn’t looking forward to a boring tour, though this one has begun interestingly enough.”

 “Since when have we ever had a boring tour.”

 “True. I presume you’re keeping it quiet in order to prevent any intelligence leaks?”

 He nodded. “That’s the idea. No-one else knows, not even Cunningham.”

 “Don’t worry, I promise to contain my boundless excitement at another chance to risk my life for the Confederation. You really ought to bring Mulenga into the loop, though. Give him a chance to get some course plots done.”

 “If he was doing any work along those lines, half the ship would notice the time lags. Do you have any idea how much processing power we’re talking about using?”

 “Well, now that your Tactical Officer is in on this, I can probably arrange some sort of cover story. Systems security upgrades, or something like that. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.” She chuckled.

 Marshall smiled, replying “I’ll have a word with him tomorrow, get him moving.”

 “Where are we going?”

 “That is the big question. We haven’t really got any new leads to speak of. I was planning on heading out to Sagdeev first, refuel there at the new supply station, and curve off from there out Jefferson way.”

 “No leads at all?”

 “That spook we brought with us is supposed to be trying to shake some out from us over at Spitfire, but I haven’t heard anything except some sort of report from a local news agency that a Triplanetary officer was involved in a gunfight in a bar.”

 “Sounds exciting,” Caine said, shaking her head. “I thought he was on a covert mission.”

 “In any case, I haven’t heard a thing from him, so I’m assuming we’re on our own.”

 “What about the pirates?”

 “Good question, though if there is any Cabal connection there, it’s eluded us so far. That’s why I put Orlova on the job, she’s the best bulldog we’ve got. What do you think?”

 “I think I probably agree with you. There was a lot of ground we didn’t cover, and we can range out from Jefferson with Sagdeev as a base, cover quite a bit of territory. I don’t think they found any other decent prospects for colonies, though.”

 “Those reinforcements you fought had to come from somewhere. Any information we’ve got could be vital.”

 “Just how serious do you think this is?”

 “I think the Cabal is the greatest threat we have faced since the war. Maybe even greater, because we know so little about it.”

 She nodded, and her face grew serious for a moment, “And what about Hercules? There’s a chance it is out there as well.”

 “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t on my thoughts, Deadeye. Especially since we found Orlova’s father.”

 “I can’t imagine how that must have felt.”

 “I’ve tried, a few times, Deadeye.” He sighed, “Too hell with this, let’s have a drink.” Reaching under his desk, he pulled a bottle of swirling purple liquid out, as well as a pair of glasses,  “I’ve been wanting to try this one for a while.” She sat back while he began to pour.

Chapter 15

 Orlova banged her head on the guidance control console as she heard the doors to the scout’s bridge creak open; Carpenter walked in, looking around. Rubbing her forehead with her good hand, she pulled herself to her feet, trying not to knock her shoulder to the deck; it was still giving her a throbbing ache despite the best efforts of the doctor.

 “Knock next time, Susan,” she said, shaking her head.

 “Sorry,” Carpenter replied, looking sheepish. “I came over on the last shuttle, thought there might be something I could do to help. I got chased out of Astrogation a while ago, some sort of secret project going on I wasn’t allowed to look at.”

 “Secret? In Astrogation?” She smiled. “The Captain’s taking us out again.”

 “Out?”

 “Out after Hercules. Back out after the Cabal. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense – not least you being here.”

 Carpenter sat down in a chair at the rear of the bridge, replying, “I thought we were heading for Proxima after this mission, training exercises.”

 “A week’s pay says that’s just a cover story.”

 “I certainly hope so, after they dragged me all the way out here.” Orlova shook her head, and Carpenter continued, “Have I said something wrong?”

 “It’s just the idea of not wanting to be out here. Seems strange.” She pulled herself back over the console, tapping a couple of buttons to start another search cycle. “What did you expect to be doing right now, anyway?”

 “Starting work at the family business; we make life support components for asteroid bases.”

 “What does that have to do with palaeontology?”

 “I just wanted to study it. It’s always fascinated me, since I was a kid. My folks had the money to support me through it, and, well, someone has to be the Triplanetary Confederation’s leading expert.”

 “Didn’t expect it to end up being useful, though.”

 “So far all I seem to be doing is dogsbody work. Matsumoto even had me helping out with the Captain’s paperwork.”

 “One day she’ll get that backlog down.”

 “What are we doing, anyway?”

 Orlova smiled, waving her arm around the bridge. “Looking for something, I don’t know what. Anything that might give us any sort of a lead on the pirates. Could be as simple as a dropped datacrystal or a discarded food wrapper.”

 “Find anything yet?”

 “Only that this ship has a rat problem.”

 Carpenter grimaced, saying, “They didn’t tell me about that when I signed up.”

 “Don’t worry, Alamo’s pretty clean. Quinn runs a tight ship, exposes anywhere that might be a problem to space every few weeks or so. Best vermin control in the galaxy. Not like some places I’ve been.”

 Orlova drifted around the console to the elevator, and Carpenter rose to follow her. As she moved across each console, she set off another search cycle; they’d already checked the data storage twice, but checking again couldn’t hurt – and Harper had told her where to find some of her special search algorithms, which might make a bit of a difference.

 “Where are we going now?” Carpenter said.

 “Cargo deck. Most of the bottom deck’s been stripped down, run into one big storage section. Seems like a pretty good place to look.” She tapped the button, continuing, “Anywhere that isn’t visited very often in the normal course of ship operations – I want to find places where the cleaning routine might have been lax.”

 The elevator proceeded down the decks in fits and starts, lurching on occasion, sending the two of them bobbing up and down. She poked a couple of buttons, trying to smooth out the ride, but there were some fundamental maintenance problems in the guts of the system. Finally, the doors opened and they drifted out into an empty, cavernous space, lights flickering overhead.

 “You check the air filters, I’ll take the awkward corners.”

 Orlova pushed off towards the far end of the cargo bay, watching Carpenter push up to the ceiling. In zero-gravity, anything dropped would tend to travel towards the vents; it was an unpleasant enough job to clean them that it was something that a lot of lax crews would postpone until the build-up presented a problem. Of course, sorting through them would also be a messy process, and one she hadn’t been craving.

 She kicked off at the rear of the bay and cursed; she’d misjudged the approach and was bouncing back off into the room. The wall had reverberated, and she could see it shaking – and that instantly made her suspicious, sending her kicking back down towards it. She tapped her hand on the metal, and heard an echo, and started to run her fingers down it.

 “Get over here,” she yelled to Carpenter; the science officer gratefully pushed herself over, leaving grubby hand marks on the wall, coming to rest just by her.

 “Found something?”

 “Feel around for a seam in this section.”

 The two of them ran their hands across the grimy walls, feeling with their fingers around the area, Orlova periodically tapping with her fist to work out how wide the space was. Finally, Carpenter got her fingers into a seam, and started to run her nails down one side while Orlova worked the other, eventually coming to a catch. The hidden door slid open, and Orlova drifted inside.

 She had been expecting some sort of sealed containers, or perhaps an empty room, but what she found was a series of consoles, and a ceiling festooned with cabling and equipment. There was a square scorch mark on the wall with dangling, torn wires leading to the primary console; being careful to keep well clear, she looked at the connectors.

 “What is this?” Carpenter asked, looking around, eyes wide.

 “Communications equipment. Really high-spec stuff, as well; some of this is more advanced than the kit we have on Alamo.” She gestured to the burned-out section. “I’d say that was the memory storage unit. Data can always be recovered – as long as the physical memory remains. This must have been taken out on that escape pod.”

 “What’s it for?”

 “High-speed data transfer.” She tapped a few commands into the console, then picked up her communicator. “Orlova to Alamo.”

 “Steele here. Go ahead.”

 “Any aspect changes on the scout, anything change on the exterior?”

 There was a slight delay, then she replied, “Nothing we can see from here.”

 “Patch me through to the duty communications technician, please.”

 Another wait, this time followed by a crackle. “Weitzman here.”

 “Spaceman, stand by for a transmission. I’m not sure what frequency, so you’ll have to track them all. The source will probably be somewhere on the underside of the scout as seen from Alamo, near the main cargo bay.”

 “Wait one, Sub-Lieutenant.” Orlova looked at the console, experimentally pressing a few buttons and seeing the responses. The configuration seemed standard, and the core systems memory was intact.

 “Ready over here,” her communicator said.

 “Right. Stand by.” She tapped a few buttons in the sequence she thought would work.

 “Wow,” Weitzman said. “Strong signal, almost exactly where you said.”

 “Data transfer potential?”

 “It’s just a test pattern, but…God, it’s four times ours. I want to take a look at that kit when I go off watch; might be worth getting a full evaluation of it.”

 “Probably a good idea. Orlova out.” She looked over at Carpenter, still hanging at the door.  “Well, I think we know what this ship was doing, now.”

 “We do?”

 “This ship wasn’t carrying cargo, and it wasn’t stealing it either. Oh, they probably carried enough to use as a cover, and I’m sure they’d have taken anything they could find that was high value. They were stealing information, and that actually makes a lot of sense.”

 “Information?”

 “Info-jacking happens all the time. My guess is that their boarding parties set up the other end of a high-speed remote datalink, and they grab anything of interest from the database. This set-up isn’t really configured for hacking, more information sorting; they’d probably have counted on the crew helping them at gunpoint.”

 “Wouldn’t that have been in the reports of the pirate activity we got?”

 “Now that is an interesting question, because it wasn’t...but to be honest, info-jacking is the only real way anyone ever made piracy pay anyway.”

 Carpenter frowned, “Didn’t Alamo do some during the war?”

 “That was denying critical supplies to the enemy as much as anything else, it wasn’t really worth storming and boarding, except to steal fuel.” Orlova looked behind the console, and gave a big smile. “I think we’ve found what we were looking for.”

 “What?”

 Being careful of her wounded arm, Orlova lowered her datapad behind the console and took a picture; the flash briefly shot through the room. Pulling it back out, she waved the image of the identification number at Carpenter, and started a data search.

 “An ID number?” Carpenter said. “Are you thinking…”

 “That we should be able to match that to the ship; this is the original hull here, and I think someone was a little careless. We haven’t found anything useful in the rest of the ship, but this is the only secret compartment we’ve found.” The datapad blinked, and Orlova read the display, “Hull Panel DQ-25291, listed as Eurasian Union Starship Orion. We’ve found it.”

 Carpenter had her own datapad out, “I’ll start a search of the files. Should we tell the Captain?”

 Glancing at her watch, Orlova shook her head, “He’s in the middle of a sleep cycle right now. This is important, but it isn’t really urgent.” She looked over at the equipment again. “I want to get that report on this equipment, as well. I should call over that evaluation team now.”

 “Got it. Listed as missing in space, 2134. More than thirty years ago.”

 “This equipment was installed within the last year. It certainly isn’t pre-war.”

 “There’s a crew list as well. Five officers, thirty-four crewmen. Twenty years old when it went missing, third ship of the line.”

 Looking up at the hull, Orlova replied, “This feels like an old ship.”

 “The last commander was Second Rank Captain Ivan Sulikov. Listed as missing, presumed dead.”

 Orlova jerked into life, “What was that?”

 “Ivan Sulikov. Heard of him?”

 “No, his status.”

 “Missing, presumed dead.”

 She took the datapad and read it herself, before looking up at Carpenter. “Take it from one who spent three whole days getting a deceased notation corrected, that isn’t right. After eight years they switch that to a legal declaration of death – marriages terminated, wills enacted, that sort of thing. If he went missing that long ago…check the rest.”

 “Captain Third Rank Serik Manov, listed as second-in-command, missing presumed dead. They’re all got the same notation.”

 “This isn’t a one-off error.”

 Frowning, Carpenter replied, “Couldn’t it be a clerical mistake?”

 “Are you suggesting that thirty-nine families would be perfectly happy to leave the estates all tied up indefinitely? Someone would have been bound to raise a protest, unless…

 “Unless?”

 “Unless they were still alive, and the families knew it.”

 “Are you saying that this is some sort of a United Nations plot? Using a ship thought lost thirty years ago?”

 “No, I’m not. This equipment is a lot more advanced than anything we’ve got out in the field, and unless our Intelligence people have been asleep, the UN doesn’t have anything like this either. Nor does the Republic. That leaves only one possibility. These pirates are working for the Cabal.”

 “Out here? I thought the Cabal was operating out at Jefferson.”

 Orlova sighed, “I’m afraid, very much afraid, that the extent of the Cabal is going to turn out to be a lot more than we had thought.” She paused, “Where was the ship lost, anyway?”

 “Second – and last, incidentally – Eurasian expedition out from Alpha Centauri, assigned to investigate mineral deposits at SIPS 1259-4336.”

 “Battered old red dwarf star.” She chuckled, “I think we’ve just given the Captain a starting point on his Cabal-hunting expedition.”

 “Do we wake him up now?”

 Orlova pulled her communicator out of her belt, “Yes, I think we’d better wake him up now.”

Chapter 16

 Breakfast was a rather odd way of describing the meal he was currently eating; he’d braved a noodle bar fairly close to the security office, not wanting to venture too far, but the result was not quite what Logan had hoped for. Whoever had prepared it had skimped on the sauce, and he was chasing a significant portion of his serving up towards one of the air vents. Suddenly the military cuisine on Alamo had an appeal to him, if for no other reason than that Alamo at least had gravity.

 While he reached up for the flying globule of noodles, he glanced down at his bowl and saw that most of the rest of it was escaping, and deciding to try and salvage the majority of the meal, he dived down to try and scoop it up – and then heard a crack fly past his ear, slamming into a flashing screen behind him which immediately shattered, sending a shower of safety glass flying at his shirt.

 Instantly, he turned, ducking and weaving in what he hoped was a random enough manner to throw off any shot; looking around, he saw a figure retreating from the scene, pushing through the crowd, but did not immediately pursue. These assassins were good; the odds of them using an ‘innocent’ decoy were excellent, and with a second glance, he saw the person he was looking for – at least, his eyes connected with hers, a flicker of panic in her eyes, and she dived off down the corridor, pushing herself through the gathering crowd to gain speed.

 Logan dived after her, yelling, “Station Security! Clear the way!” The pistol that slid into his hand was a more effective method of crowd control than his voice, and the mob hastily began to dive into shops and bars, clearing a path down the long, central corridor. He could see his target at the end, about to turn into one of the side tunnels, and thought about taking a shot for a moment, but decided to hold his fire; if at all possible, he wanted to take this one alive. The two gunmen he had captured before were proving totally uncooperative – perhaps this one might be more compliant. At the very least, he could use another bargaining chip.

 Grabbing a handrail, he nimbly twisted himself down the side passage, trying not to hit the wall and lose speed; his would-be assassin already had a good head-start on him, and there was no reason to provide her with a greater advantage. He could just see her ducking down another access point; evidently she not only knew the station well, but was also experienced with zero-gravity. All he’d managed so-far was a VR tour of the scenic fleshpots during the ride out from Mariner – it took time to learn all the shortcuts and hidden areas, time he had not yet had.

 All he could do was try and keep her in sight, and hope that she ran out of station before she got out of sight. Now they were in the underlevels, the large section originally designed for station expansion that had never been bothered with – and the home of the transient population who couldn’t afford to stay in the rented rooms above.

 No thought of using his pistol in this area; he dived past a group of children playing some sort of complicated game, and their parents looked up at him with fear in their eyes. A tall, gangling, black-bearded man, looked at him with empty eyes as he flew past, and a young man with only one-arm cheered him on. He could just see his target at the end of the corridor, and idly wondered for a second if any of this bothered her as much as it did him.

 He felt sure that she would double back soon, as he twisted his way through the crowded corridor. At the far end was the mothballed manufacturing complexes, all supposedly long sealed-off for want of profits to sustain them, but those would simply be large, empty rooms – unless, as seemed worryingly likely, someone had decided to use them for other purposes without bothering to tell anyone.

 It belatedly occurred to him that he could easily be drifting into a trap; it wasn’t as if he had much in the way of reinforcements in any case, and those he did have were now at the far end of the station, and furthermore, had no way of finding him if he went missing. He could fix that, at least; while he drifted down the corridor he reached down to the communicator at his belt and switched it on. Though he wasn’t exactly able to give a running commentary of his progress, it would at least alert someone that there was a problem.

 She reached the end of the corridor and turned, drawing her weapon and firing in a single, smooth shot; while Logan instinctively dived towards the wall, the bullet flying past, he managed to get a good look at her face – cold, blue eyes framed by a short haircut, a scar running across her forehead, testament to some previous battle. Behind him, he heard a child screaming, and he realized where that bullet had gone. Hiding behind a piece of cabling, he finally pulled for his communicator.

 “Logan to Boris. I’m at the far end of the station. Get down here with that medikit of yours; someone in the crowd’s been shot.”

 A series of coughs and grunts replied, “Wha?”

 “Damn it, get down here! A kid’s been shot.”

 “On my way.”

 He turned back, saw the woman moving through a side hatch, and finally realized what she was doing – that was one of the maintenance airlocks, and there would be plenty of spacesuits present. At least, there would be now, though he’d bet his month’s pay that she would spend the depressurization cycle doing as much damage to them as she could.

 His fists slammed on the airlock door, and he could see her donning a suit through the small observation window. A pair of dangling wires drifted lazily in space where the manual override should have been, and he felt something tugging at his arm.

 “My boy’s been shot!” a harsh, angry voice said – Logan recognized him as the father of the kids he’d seen floating in the corridor earlier.

 “I’ve got a medic on the way,” he replied, pulling loose. “Let me get the bitch who shot him.”

 The father looked at the airlock, then back up to Logan, his eyes filled with fire, “If he dies…”

 “He won’t. Here.” He passed a Republic credit card to him. “My medic will be here in a minute. If he can’t help him, take him up to one of the doctors on the upper level. On me.”

 The man ran the card through his fingers, “Is this real?”

 “It’s real. Go help your boy.”

 The airlock had finally finished its cycle, and he could jab his finger on the release door to get inside. He had moments before the assassin would be out of sight – certainly he couldn’t expect any help from station command, their sensors would no doubt be engaged on ‘more important’ matters at the present.

 Hastily, he pulled the spare spacesuits out of the locker; she’d made some serious attempts to damage them, but there hadn’t been time for her to do too much. He selected a helmet that didn’t seem to be broken, and a suit that now had a long rip down the side; it took the patches from four suits to seal it up, and he had to ignore the manufacturer’s directions that multiple patches should not be used – not to mention that their last ‘maintained’ date was ten years ago – but he pulled the suit on with practiced care, placing his pistol in a side pocket and switching magazines.

 Taking a deep breath, he activated the depressurization sequence, and waited as the atmosphere leaked away into space, his hand over the override button, his eyes looking at his temporary patchwork. The heads-up-display flashed a series of amber warning lights, and the text ‘recommend immediate servicing’ winked on and off, but as the pressure reduced to nothing, the suit held, and the door slid open, revealing the outside of the station.

 He looked around at the tangle of antennas, pylons and emplacements that gave the outside of the module the appearance of twisted wreckage; he immediately kicked himself away from the sharp edges and tangle points with his suit thrusters, dropping out of the airlock and activating his suit sensors on the second try. Immediately, he saw an object fleeing along the underside of the station, spending fuel carelessly, and with a quick twist, he followed her.

 This was an arena he did know well; Martian Intelligence had given its agents excellent training in all manner of fields during the war, including a mandatory tour with the Martian Marines – it hadn’t been particularly pleasant at the time, but the experience had proven useful many times since then. His target was wasting fuel, correcting her course, ducking and weaving to try and stay out of sight, but he didn’t simply follow her, he started to lead his target, using a series of precision pulses on his jets to draw him to where she was ultimately going to be.

 “Logan?” a voice echoed in his helmet, catching him by surprise; he realized that he must have left his communicator on, but was slightly surprised that the remote interface was still working.

 “I’m busy. Make this quick.”

 “I’ve reached the airlock, patched up the kid. There’s no suit here, if you want me, I’m going to have to go forward.”

 He paused for a moment; he didn’t have any idea how good Boris would be at zero-gravity combat, and in a duel of this sort, he had no time to think of anyone other than himself.

 “Go forward, get suited up and ready, but don’t come out unless I send for you.”

 “Right.”

 He focused on his prey, still ducking and weaving, but she finally decided that her dodging wasn’t going to work, and instead kicked off from the hull, white-hot blasts from her thrusters kicking her out into space, sending her into a twisted spiral. He had to take back his previous thoughts; she was good at this.

 Fumbling with his pocket, he managed to get his pistol into his hand; the Service Special was designed to be used in a spacesuit, a second trigger mounted on the front. Less accurate, especially with the solid-fuel bullets he would be using, but still effective.

 Firing a weapon while floating was an art form; he had a hand on his thruster control, ready to correct himself as he pressed the trigger, but he still went bobbing around from the recoil as the bullet sped towards its target, a tiny blue spark leaping out into space. Her evasive maneuvers were effective enough, and she managed to push herself out of the way. The heads-up display was refusing to provide him with any sort of course calculation – he glanced down and saw that the control circuitry had been hacked at, something he had missed in his too-rapid check back in the airlock.

 He sighed, realizing he was going to have to guess this by eye, and from what he could see, fuel wasn’t a concern for her. Of course it wasn’t; she had friends out here who could come to her aid, whereas he had only the wary Boris. Turning around, he fired a trio of shots in quick succession, speeding him on his way, then spun around again to find that he was heading right for a thin protrusion, some sort of antenna complex. No time to do anything, no time to avoid it, and he went barreling into it, hoping for the best.

 At least the suit’s stabilizers were working; he was thrown into a tumble, surrounded by bits of broken equipment, but there didn’t appear to be any damage – though some shrapnel had embedded itself in the outer layer of his suit, the integrity of the material was still intact. He was closing on his target, as well; she seemed to be trying to reach the far side of the station, undoubtedly hoping for safety. With two bullets left, and plenty of fuel, Logan was determined that she should not find it.

 He worked a slider on the side of the pistol, slowing down the velocity of the bullet as low as it would go; he didn’t want to hit her, he wanted to drive her down to the side of the station. The shot was wide, to the right, but close enough that she would simply think that his aim was poor; she dived exactly where he hoped, close in to the bulge of one of the inflatable modules, and heedless of fuel, he slammed on his thruster control, sending him flying towards her.

 Frantically, she worked her suit jets, trying to pull away, but he still had the pistol, and another bullet blocked her passage, sending her diving down again. Warning lights began to flash across his screen, collision alerts, but he ignored them all – this was exactly what he had been hoping for. With a crash, he slammed into her, sending the two of them diving towards the station, and he reached down towards her thruster controls with his hand, stopping her from escaping. He clamped his helmet on hers, knowing that she could hear him.

 “Talk!” he said. “Who sent you?”

 She twisted her head, writhing in his grip, “Sokolov.”

 Nothing he didn’t already know. “Are there more of you?”

 Before she could answer, the momentum sent the pair of them slamming into the side of the hull, and she went limp in his arms, blood spilling from her mouth into her helmet. Logan’s eyes opened wide as he saw what had happened; she was impaled on a piece of jutting equipment. Even had she not been wounded, her suit was fatally compromised, and while he eased her out to try and save her, the light flicked out of her eyes, and her suit monitors went dark.

 Shaking his head, he let her body drift off into space, assuming that her friends would collect it later on, and cautiously made his way to the nearest airlock, staying well clear of the side of the station. A part of his mind was reeling from what had happened, but another part was telling him that this was the person who was quite happy to fire shots towards children at play; there was some justice here.

 “Boris?” he said.

 “Yeah, I’m here.”

 “Meet me at Airlock Twenty-One.”

 “Be there in a minute.”

 He drifted slowly into the airlock, grabbing the handles and tapping the button to cycle through the sequence, the door slid open gently and he drifted in, waiting for his suit systems to tell him that the outside pressure was safe before cracking his helmet. The inner door opened, and Boris and Harper were floating on the other side.

 “Did you get her?” Boris asked, eagerly. 

 Logan fixed him with a stare, “Yes, I got her. She’s dead.”

 “Dead?” Harper said, growing pale.

 “Caught on one of the fixtures outside. It’s damn dangerous out there.”

 Boris looked at him, shaking his head, “I patched up that kid, sent him up to one of the doctors. I think he’ll be fine.”

 Pulling off his suit, Logan replied, “I damn well hope some good comes out of this.” He looked at the two of them. “I’ll tell you both something; we’re taking the fight to them. I’m not going to let anyone else get hurt because of this. It just isn’t worth it.” As he drifted down the corridor, heading back to the security office, he could still hear that kid’s scream in his mind, see the look on the dying woman’s face. More fuel for his nightmares.

Chapter 17

 Marshall lay on his bed, scanning the report that Orlova had sent to him for the third time. Finally some proof of Cabal involvement in the pirates' activities, even if it was circumstantial, and another potential location to explore. For hours he had weighed up Caine’s advice in his mind, trying to work out which direction to jump; the irony of his current dilemma didn’t escape him. When he was growing up, longing to lead an expedition into unknown space, he had longed for the freedom to rove and wander where he wanted. Now, in a once-in-a-career situation, he had the freedom, but couldn’t decide what to do with it.

 His reverie was broken by the communicator, and he placed the datapad to his side, took a quick sip of water, and responded; the face of Ortega appeared on the wall by his bedside.

 “Marshall here.”

 “Sir, we’re getting a message from Spitfire Station.”

 “From Lieutenant Winter?”

 “No, sir, from the station commander, a Mr. Sokolov.”

 He nodded, replying, “About time he decided to speak with us. Put him on.”

 “Patching you through, sir.”

 The screen switched to an immaculate office, evidently designed for zero-g. There was a picture on the wall that he vaguely recognized as the head of Cornucopia Mining, who had a vague familial resemblance to the man on the screen – who was red-faced with barely controlled anger.

 “Are you Marshall?” he barked.

 Raising an eyebrow, he replied, “I am Lieutenant-Captain Daniel Marshall, commander of the Battlecruiser Alamo.”

 “Don’t crawl behind your rank, Marshall. I want that bastard off my station immediately.”
 “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific.”

 “Winter! He’s holding two of my people captive, and another of my operatives was just found dead outside. There have been gunfights in the public areas, damage to property, and I’m sending you the bill. You’re supposed to be here to help us, dammit.”

 Marshall looked away from the screen, shaking his head. Winter was in uniform, but he didn’t really think that he would accept a recall order even if he chose to give it, and he didn’t have time to do anything about it himself – not to mention the realistic possibility that the man he was speaking to was in some way involved with the pirates.

 “Well?” Sokolov growled.

 “I will speak to Mr. Winter about these actions, and if I deem it appropriate, I will forward you the relevant sections of his report.”

 “You will get him off my station, Marshall, or I will do it myself.”

 “I assure you, Mr. Sokolov, that any action you attempt against a serving officer of the Triplanetary Fleet will receive an instant response, and one that I doubt you will appreciate.” 

 “I have friends, Marshall, and…”

 Marshall interrupted him, “I don’t care. He’s doing his duty, and so am I. Why is he holding your people?”

 “Some trumped-up charge.”

 Leaning closer to the pickup, Marshall said, “What?”

 “Attempted murder.”

 His eyes widening, he replied, “And you expect them released? Mr. Sokolov, Cornucopia Mining is not above the law – and for that matter, neither are we. I see that an investigation into Mr. Winter’s actions is conducted at the appropriate time, but for the present, I’m rather busy tracking down your pirates for you.”

 “This is urgent, damn it!”

 “Why? Are these critical, key personnel?”

 “They are two members of my staff. Answerable to me.”

 Sighing, Marshall replied, “They are answerable to the Outsystem Legal Code of the Triplanetary Confederation. Your protest has been noted and logged.”

 “You haven’t heard the last of this.” 

 “Good night, Mr. Sokolov.” He turned off the screen, closed his eyes, and counted to ten in three languages, very slowly, trying to fill his head with calming thoughts, then called the bridge again.

 “Ortega here, sir.”

 “Did you hear any of that, Spaceman?”

 “Most of it, sir. I think the whole bridge did.”

 Shaking his head, Marshall replied, “Patch me through to Lieutenant Winter.”

 “I’ll try, sir.” There was a long delay, Ortega’s head dropping out of shot as he leaned over his console, Marshall glancing around his room while he waited, picking up the datapad and scanning a couple of pages of the report, looking over the list of names. Finally, Ortega looked up.

 “I’ve got him, sir.”

 “Thanks.” He paused, “Mr. Winter, can you speak?”

 “Probably more securely than you.”

 “I’ve just had a Mr. Sokolov complaining to me about you…”

 “That’s funny,” Logan cut in. “He starts with two attempts to kill me, then tries to report me to my superiors.”

 “I presume that’s the attempted murder and the other body?”

 “Yes.”

 “I see. Well, I’ll back you as far as I can, Winter, but I need something from you.”

 “Isn’t that always the way.” Logan paused, “What is it?”

 “The location of the pirate base. We know it’s somewhere in the atmosphere, we know it’s on an aerostat, but we have no idea where – and we need that information.”

 There was a long sigh, “Don’t I get a day off? I’ll see what I can do, Captain. Winter out.”

 Marshall looked at the screen, still shaking his head. He glanced up at the clock, saw that he was back on duty cycle in just a couple of hours, and decided to give up on the idea of sleep for the present. He took another swig of water to get rid of the bad taste in his mouth, and pulled on his uniform jacket, doing up the buttons as he left his room. Two of the midshipmen were loitering outside their shared cabin, and both of them snapped salutes as him as he past; he returned them as he drifted into the elevator, punching for the Astrogation deck.

 The doors opened on the lower level, and as he’d hoped, it was quiet as he walked down the curving corridor towards Mulenga’s nest. He walked into the room, and the astrogator was looking up at the stars, at a map of local space that surrounded him, lines dancing from one to another at the touch of a button.

 “Good morning, Captain,” he said, not turning around. “Should you not be in sleep cycle?”

 “I couldn’t sleep; have you read Orlova’s report?”

 “Fascinating reading. I take it you are here to see what I make of it from an astrogation point of view?”

 Marshall paused, “To an extent, but there was something else I needed to talk to you about.”

 “Our impending expedition to locate the Cabal?” He turned, a twinkle in his eye, and smiled at the startled Marshall. “Come, Captain, I can read between the lines as well as anyone. Suddenly I am given an assistant to train, a full upgrade to my software, new astrographic data. For a simple triangular mission to here and Proxima I need none of those things, nor do we need a hastily recruited Science Officer.”

 “I was coming down here to talk to you about it.”

 Nodding, he replied, “I’m glad you feel that you can trust me. What does Lieutenant Caine think?”

 Rubbing his hand across his eyes, Marshall said, “Am I really that transparent?”

 “Only to those of us who have worked closely with you, sir.”

 “I see.” He paused, looking up at the charts, “If you were in command, where would you go looking?”

 “We don’t even have any sailing orders this time?”

 “Commodore Tramiel told me to go where I thought I should look. Frankly, I suspect he knows I’d have gone a-hunting anyway if I’d found a lead.”

 “I see.” Manipulating controls, a simulated Alamo jumped from star to star, roving across local space. “As far as I can tell, it boils down to two choices, neither of them a certainty. The first would be to follow up the leads from Jefferson, to refuel at the new depot at Sagdeev and explore that cluster. There are several viable possibilities, but my analysis of the data does not provide any more helpful information.”

 “No more Jeffersons?”

 Smiling, Mulenga replied, “It is my understanding that every astrophysicist in the fleet has been working on this problem since we returned. New analysis of the data has found some new planets, yes, but nothing habitable. Which does not, of course, mean that they do not exist.”

 “Because they are only analyzing old data gathered from instruments that are now obsolete, and at range.”

 “At some point the Confederation should consider a more thorough analysis of this problem. Four ships at the right stars could tell us a vast amount with a few weeks’ observation. Still, this is not the time or place for such a debate.”

 “So Sagdeev is the first option. What’s the second.”

 He pushed another button, and a red dwarf appeared on the screen. “Innes’ Star. One jump from here, and reaching to a vast number of potential systems. Until our discovery of the scout, we had no reason to suspect that the Cabal would be anywhere near that location, but that may be changing.”

 “One jump away,” Marshall mused. “What’s there?”

 “Six planets, no gas giants, a rather large Kuiper Belt. Two previous expeditions reported nothing of interest, the last of them thirty-nine years ago.”

 “That long?”

 “No reason to push out that far, in that direction. The second visit was part of the last Eurasian expedition, and I rather suspect that we must discount their findings.”

 “You presume some sort of a cover-up?”

 “Given our recent discoveries, I don’t think we dare assume anything else.”

 “At least it narrows it down to two choices. Which would you take?”

 The astrogator shrugged, “With this little information to work with, we might as well toss a coin, Captain. Ideally, we would use two ships and follow both leads.”

 “The scout?”

 “Potentially, but I personally wouldn’t want to be on board that vessel for an extended period, certainly not without a full overhaul.” He looked up at the stars again, “I’d be tempted for Innes’, though.”

 “Why?”

 He turned, smiling, “I’ve never been there.”

 Marshall shook his head, “I wish that was sufficient reason for going.”

 “In a sane universe, it would be.” He paused, “How are you getting on with our new Operations Officer.”

 “She seems to be doing her job well enough, though I wish she wouldn’t antagonize everyone she dealt with quite so much.”

 “Perhaps you should discuss this with her?”

 “I’ve only known her a week; it took me long enough to decide to trust you with this. You realize that you are the seventh person in the Confederation to find out about this mission?”

 “They really are concerned about security violations this time, then. Wise, though given that much of the crew is expecting this assignment in any case, I’m not certain it is necessary.” He looked out again at his starscape. “If you don’t trust her, Captain, how can you expect her to trust you?”

 Quietly, Marshall nodded, replying, “You might have a point. I should bring Cunningham into the loop as well.”

 “If only because he will assume command should something happen to you, that would be wise.” 

 “I’ll have a word with him tomorrow. With both of them.”

 “I understand that Lieutenant Zebrova takes her breakfast alone, in the observation deck, at about this time of day.”

 With a smile, Marshall said, “I think I might go up there and take a look at the view myself. Thanks.”

 “Any time, sir,” Mulenga replied, as Marshall turned to head back for the elevator shaft. He still had a datapad in his pocket, and while he waited for the doors to open, he called up Zebrova’s record, wondering what led the Commodore to assign her to his ship. He was still uncertain whether she was supposed to be a lesson for him to learn from, or the reverse – or both, for that matter.

 He slid through her record, noting the summary of her career again, and then tapped to look at the transfer documentation, and his eyes widened as he read her request. She hadn’t simply been assigned to Alamo, she’d specifically requested the posting – and had managed to get it. The doors opened, and he stepped in, punching for the observation deck, frowning.

 During the trip through the decks, he read her request three times. It was heavily couched in official jargon, all the usual phrases included, with a notation that she specifically is not requesting a senior command posting – more surprising, when he knew that she had been offered her own command. Certainly she didn’t lack ambition, that much was obvious.

 The door opened, and he stepped into the room, basking in the purple storms of Kumar’s upper atmosphere that dominated the view. Zebrova was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a food container in front of her, a pair of chopsticks in her hand, both of them ornately decorated; she didn’t get those from a food dispenser.

 “Good morning, Lieutenant,” he said, sitting down on the deck next to her.

 “Captain,” she replied through a mouthful of rice.

 “This is the big perk of the job for me. The view.”

 “I can imagine. This is the first time I’ve left Sol; I don’t know what I was expecting, but this is more than I had hoped for.”

 He raised an eyebrow, “Another of the born tourists we find ourselves with.”

 “Is that a problem, sir?”

 “Not at all, I approve completely.” He paused, pulling out his datapad, “I’ve been reviewing your personnel file. You told me that you had turned down a command to take this posting.”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “You didn’t tell me that you had specifically requested this assignment.”

 “I heard that you had a vacancy for an Operations Officer, and I volunteered.”

 “Why? I’d understand if the Exec’s position was open, but that’s a step down for you.” 

 She put her chopsticks down into the bowl, and turned to face him, “I felt that this was a better place for me to be. I’d like to be your Executive Officer, I think I’d do a good job…”

 “Better than the incumbent?” Marshall asked with a quick smile.

 “That is not for me to say, sir. Nevertheless, I felt that this was where I needed to be.”

 “Why?”

 “Because you need me, sir. Did you see my last appointment?”

 “Military aide to the Extrasolar Affairs Committee.”

 She nodded, “It was an excellent assignment, and allowed me to evaluate all of the ships going interstellar, and their commanders. I judged you to be the best of them, and Alamo the best ship.”

 Frowning, Marshall replied, “You judged us?”

 “The results of your missions to date speak for themselves, and my observation of the other command crews suggest that not all would have performed so well. I wanted to serve on the best ship in the fleet, and once I saw your opening, I couldn’t get my application in quickly enough.”

 “I suppose I’m honored, Lieutenant.”

 She nodded, curtly, “I apologize if I’ve overstepped myself.”

 “Not at all. I’m flattered, if slightly surprised.” 

 “I identified the Operations department as that most in need of my services in any case. I know that it will take a little while, but you will see definite improvements in the next few weeks. I’d like to discuss a few other changes to the rotation…”

 Marshall raised his hand, “Later, Lieutenant. There’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”

 She paused, nodding, “Yes, sir?”

 “You speculated earlier that Alamo was going out, after the Cabal. Instead of continuing to Proxima.”

 “Again, sir, if I misspoke…”

 “No. As it happens,” he paused, “you were quite correct. I’m operating under sealed orders.”

 She smiled, nodding. “Then I was correct. Thank you for bringing me into the loop.” She frowned, “Though I am now the one that is surprised.”

 “Because you haven’t been on board for a long time? I trust my officers, Lieutenant. If I didn’t, then this ship simply wouldn’t function. What I need now is your advice.”

 “Sir?”

 “Our destination has been left to me; I’ve been given no specific sailing orders.”

 “Interesting.”

 “There are two choices – either to head back up to the area around Jefferson, or to proceed to Innes’ Star.”

 “Following up on Sub-Lieutenant Orlova’s report?”

 “Yes.”

 “I would suggest Jefferson, via Sagdeev, based on the information we have now.” She continued before Marshall could reply, “However, I would not want to commit at this point. We don’t know enough.”

 Marshall smiled, replying, “I was hoping that you had come up with something I hadn’t.”
 “There simply isn’t enough information for a definitive decision at this point. You do realize, if it helps, that we aren’t the only ship assigned to this operation?”

 Frowning, he said, “What do you mean?”

 “Everyone would be expecting Alamo to be sent after the Cabal. Were I in Commodore Tramiel’s chair, I would send Alamo as a decoy, with a second ship sent on the same mission more quietly.”

 “That...hadn’t occurred to me, Lieutenant.”

 “I thought you might find it helpful, sir. If you fear that you might be missing a potential option, another ship will likely follow it up.”

 Marshall smiled, “Actually, it does. Thank you, Lieutenant, I’ll leave you to finish your meal.”

 “My pleasure, sir.” She turned back to the view as Marshall rose to his feet, walking out of the room.

Chapter 18

 “Damn it, it’s just not going to work,” Harper said, smashing her hands against the keyboard. “I can’t hack a network that doesn’t exist. They’ve broken every connection I can think of.”

 Logan crouched against the wall, shaking his head, “We’ve got to get through. That’s the only place that has the information we’re looking for.”

 “What do you want to do, walk in and ask?” Boris said through a mouthful of food.

 “Why not?” Harper replied, looking up.

 Sighing, Boris said, “It’s a crackpot organization where I’m the voice of reason.”

 “No, I’m serious.” She started to type again, calling up a series of station schematics. “There are dozens of points where the station’s network ought to be plugged in, and all we have to do is reconnect them.”

 “Could you do that quickly?” Logan said, as there was a faint knock at the door. Boris and Harper reacted quickly, the latter crouching beside the door, the former drawing his pistol. Logan looked at Boris and waved his pistol away.

 “Do you honestly think that they’re going to attack us in the security office?”
 “Just wanted to be careful,” Boris said, sheepishly putting his gun back in its holster.

 “Come on in,” Logan said, and the father of the boy who had been shot drifted into the room, looking around nervously at the group. He held Logan’s Republic card in his hands, running it along his sleeve.

 “Er, hello,” he said.

 “How’s your son?”

 “Better,” he said, nodding, “he’s going to be fine. Thanks to you – there’s no way I could have afforded the surgery.”

 “The doctor would have refused without payment?” Logan said, shaking his head.

 “No free clinics here. I’d have had to indent myself.” He tossed the card over to Logan, “I spent two thousand, three hundred. I’ll pay you back…”

 “No, you won’t.” Logan said, tossing the card back to him. “How long have you been out here?”

 “Seven months. I was looking for work, but…”

 “The recruiter sold you down the river,” Boris said. “Same old story.”

 “I wanted a better life for my kids, damn it.” He looked down at the card.

 “Where’s home?”

 “Mars,” he replied. “Point Hay.”

 “There’s seven thousand on that card now,” Logan said. “Take it. Go home. Your kids are on the borderline for gravity adaptation.”

 “Don’t you think I know that?” He looked at the card, pale, “I can’t take this.”
 “Yes you can. Some day you’ll have a chance to pay someone back for it. Remember it then.” He leaned forward, “There’s a ship heading back to Mars in a couple of days. Be on it. If I see you on this station after that…”

 “I won’t waste this. I swear,” he said.

 “Now don’t tell me who you are, and don’t tell anyone about this. That’s your end of the deal. Understand.”

 The man looked at Logan, shaking his head, “I won’t. If you insist. But I’ll remember, and so will my boy.” He looked at the two of them, and turned, drifting back out into the corridor.
 “You think he’ll go?”

 “He damn well better.”

 Harper shook her head, “You’re really a soft touch, you know that.”

 “Don’t tell anyone, I have an image to maintain.” He looked her up and down, “How are you in a spacesuit?”

 The hacker’s face began to match her green hair, “You aren’t serious.”

 “Very serious.” He said, “Look, Boris is right, we can’t just walk into the module and connect up some data cables. That means going outside.”

 “They’ll see us coming,” she said.

 “That might not matter. If you connect up, just start grabbing data as fast as you can.”

 “Where to? If you want me to hold the fort here myself...” Boris said.

 Logan shook his head, “That’s about the one thing that would force them to grab us.” He glanced at the two gunmen, sullenly sitting in their cell. “And get Butch and Sundance here out of hack as well. No, we’ll use your shuttle.”

 “My shuttle?”

 Harper’s eyes widened, “That shuttle’s ancient. It actually makes the equipment here look good.”

 “Thank you very much,” Boris said, reddening. “My shuttle can do anything you need it to do.”

 Shaking her head, Harper said, “If I spend a few hours making some upgrades to the network…”

 “No,” Logan replied. “We need to get moving on this. What equipment do you need?” 

 “Just a high-speed transmitter, a connector jack, and a light electronics toolkit.” 

 “I’ve got the toolkit,” Boris said. “Not sure about the rest of it.”

 Logan smiled, replying, “I think I can help you with the other two items.”

 Harper smiled, “From the same source as the hacker programs?”

 “Oh, yes,” Marshall grinned. “Come on.”

 “What about those two?” Boris said, gesturing at the gunmen.

 “Leave them. We’ll find out if their friends care about them enough to come looking for them, and if they don’t, perhaps they might decide that talking would be their best chance of avoiding,” he grinned at them, “problems in their near future.”

 The two of them looked at each other, but continued to exude the same insolent confidence they had demonstrated since they had regained consciousness. Logan reached into his pockets, fumbling around, and pulled out a small black case, tossing it to Harper, who started to inspect the contents with satisfaction, and then a large holster.

 “Is that what I think it is?” Boris said.

 “What do you think it is?”

 “A plasma pistol.”

 “Nothing wrong with your eyes, Boris.”

 The pilot looked down at the pistol, shaking his head, “You could take out half the station with that thing.”

 “As long as I get to pick which half. Come on, let’s get out of here.” He activated the charging cycle, and stuffed holster and pistol into his pocket. The three of them pushed out down the corridor, heading for the shuttle dock. This time there were a few looks from the crowd that actually bordered on respect, though the usual group was demonstrating expert ineptness in staying on their tail – one of them turning to look at the security office.

 The lock on the hopper was undisturbed, and they went straight in, running a quick check on the ship’s systems in case of sabotage. Logan would still be reluctant to go any distance in it – at least, not without wearing his spacesuit – but it should suffice for the job he wanted it to do. Harper was back at the rear console, inserting a series of data crystals and loading some of her software.

 “Boris, hack into the traffic control and program as if we’re heading for Alamo.” 

 “They’ll work out where we’re going in about ten seconds,” he grumbled. 

 Smiling, Logan replied, “It’s a question of what they’ll expect us to do, now. I don’t want them to think I’m holding them in contempt.”

 “Aren’t you?” Harper said.

 “They shouldn’t know that, though.” With a lurch, the hopper drifted away from the station, Logan using the atmosphere from the lock to push them out as he settled into the pilot’s seat. He knew exactly where he was going, the newest module on the station – Cornucopia’s offices. Carefully, gently, he used the maneuvering thrusters to run them in, gentle taps rather than the full power of the engine. With a pair of smooth burns, he brought the shuttle to station-keeping, a hundred meters away from their goal.

 “Right, let’s get suited up,” Logan said to Harper. He pulled two suits out of the locker, taking the largest for himself and passing the smallest to the hacker. Tugging at the sleeve, he saw the flash of the Titanian Militia, and looked over at Boris.

 “I’m assuming you didn’t pay for these.”

 Shrugging, the pilot replied, “I’d have gotten around to paying someone at some point. Seeing as you’re using them, though…” 

 “At least they’re better than the ones on the station.” He unclipped the life support system at the back and began to struggle into the suit, this one a single unit, and grimaced as his left hand pushed into something slushy. “Did you clean these?”

 “I was going to.”

 “Ugh. Come on, Harper,” he said to the hacker, who was still looking at her suit. “Let’s get on with it.”

 The hacker took a deep sigh, and started to climb into her suit, aided by Boris, while Logan turned on his suit’s systems and pulled the toolkit from a cluttered locker. Plenty of air, enough for more than twenty-four hours, and the suit thrusters were half-full – that should be more than enough. There was even a holster on the side of this one, and he placed his plasma pistol carefully inside, a snug fit.

 He looked back at Harper; Boris was just putting her helmet into place, locking it closed with a thumbs’ up sign, and the two of them walked over to the airlock. Logan went first, cycling through quickly and holding onto the rail outside, looking out over the module, trying to evaluate the possible exit points. Harper seemed to be taking a long time, and when she finally emerged, he turned to remonstrate with her – only to see her panting, her eyes darting back and forth.

 “Easy,” he said, tapping her suit controls, “I’ve added some more oxygen to the mix. It’ll help you breathe.”

 “I. Don’t. Like. Spacesuits,” she said, her breathing slowing.

 “Don’t like them much myself. Let’s get this over with and go home.”

 She nodded, stiff through her suit, and Logan locked his safety line onto her belt before gently tapping his suit thrusters, once, then twice, sending them carefully away from the hull. He’d have rather gone at full speed, but with Harper having problems, he didn’t dare risk it. He could still hear her breathing too rapidly over her communicator, and periodically turned to check on her, before pulling himself back on his course.

 Finally, the two of them hit the module, bouncing off the fabric; but Logan was ready, and snapped a second line into place. He hunted around for the network point, and gestured towards Harper; she nodded, and drifted over to the hull, pulling tools out of her back. They’d done a good job of voiding the warranty on the module; scorch marks all across the access panel, and Harper was having to dig away, trying to find the inner cabling.

 “Come on, how much did you pull out, you bastards,” she muttered under her breath. Then Logan saw a burst of gas from above, and before Harper could say anything, he unclipped himself from her, drifting up to meet their guests. He tapped his communications panel, hunting for their frequency, and pulled his plasma pistol from his pocket.

 “Hello, my friends,” he said.

 Two spacesuited figures had scrambled out of an airlock; he’d managed to catch them before they could prepare themselves, but one quick tap of a thruster would see them spinning out of range. He had no intention of permitting them that option.

 “I know you can hear me, so listen. This gun is fully charged and pointed right at you, and will certainly kill you both. It doesn’t have to be that way; all we want to do is go about our business of...repairing this module.”

 “He won’t do it,” one said to the other.

 “Did you see what he did to Mikky? He will,” the other replied, and they slowly raised their hands.

 “Stay absolutely still. This won’t take long.” He switched frequencies, not taking his eyes from the pair for a second. “Harper, what’s the score?” 

 “I’ve got the connector in, just setting up the antenna now. Got it.”

 “Grab what you can. What’s the security like?”

 “Rudimentary. I guess they must have relied on their physical protection too much. My intrusion software’s already digging into it.”

 “Boris, you getting the feed?”

 “Coming through now. Get on with it.”

 Logan’s gaze was fixed on the two figures, both of them still hovering by the lock. He thought about ordering them back inside, but dismissed it; inside they could try something else, but outside they were rather effective hostages.

 “How long, Harper?”

 “To get the lot? An hour. How long do you want to wait?”

 He looked at the two figures, and shook his head. Though he had no idea how long Sokolov and his lackeys would give him, he didn’t think for a moment that he would just sit in his module for an hour and wait while he committed wide-scale data theft. He was about to ask Harper to try and prioritize her search when he felt a ripple from the hull beneath, and risked a glance.

 Then the universe began to tumble as he felt a blast from underneath him, throwing him away from the surface. As he tumbled, he looked around and saw that the whole side of the module’s outer skin had been burst, the seams all torn and battered. They’d blown out the outer hull just to throw him clear. He looked around the sky for Harper as his suit began to compensate; thinking quickly, he turned off the stabilizer. There were still two people, presumably armed, by the airlock, and sure enough he saw a small pinprick dance past him.

 His sensors began to sound off with collision warning alarms, and he cursed; the station was surrounded with debris fields, and he was heading straight towards one.

 “Harper, where are you?” he yelled. “Harper?” There was no reply, and he kept on scanning the sky, until he finally saw a tumbling figure in the fetal position. Another pinprick danced past him, but it seemed to be for form’s sake rather than any serious attempt to kill him – the debris was going to do that nicely, and would give Cornucopia a nice alibi. If they could find any of his next-of-kin, they’d probably even give them a payout and an apology for the ‘maintenance error’.

 He didn’t have time to change his course, but he did have a chance to head for Harper, and he tapped his thrusters to kick him towards her as the station began to visibly recede. Switching across the frequencies, all he could hear was a faint whimpering; at least she was alive. With only a minute to go, he grabbed onto her, clutching her and locking on his safety line.

 “Harper, do you hear me? Harper?”

 “Go away.”

 “Come on, Harper, snap out of it.”

 Another collision warning sounded, this one imminent, and he braced himself for the end, when the warning abruptly faded and he looked up – to see the hopper drawing up alongside, twisting to turn its airlock to face them.

 “Get in, quick! I’ve got to do a full burn in twenty seconds!” Boris yelled, and Logan quickly fired the last of his thruster fuel, burning it in a series of quick pulses, and planted his palm on the emergency button, tumbling Harper in. It seemed to take an age for the airlock to cycle, and he started to count down the seconds, looking at the sensor display and watching the tumbling wreckage as it drew nearer.

  When the green light came on, he dived inside the airlock, slamming it shut. Boris didn’t bother waiting for him to get inside, slamming him abruptly against the wall as he threw on the short burst of acceleration to get them away. Logan stepped into the cabin, and started to scramble out of his suit.

 “Boris,” he said, “you can fly the hopper in future.”

 “I can fly my own ship,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “Thanks, boss.”

 “How’s Harper?”

 “I’m fine,” the hacker said, standing in front of a console. She looked up at him, and he imperceptibly nodded; he wouldn’t have wanted to acknowledge a weakness, either.

 “Take us home,” he said to Boris, who dived for his chair before Logan could change his mind. “How much did we get, Harper?”

 “No idea. That explosion killed the feed. I’ve got to run all this through decryption.”

 “Let’s just hope it’s enough.”

 “Damn right,” she replied. “I’m not doing that again.”

Chapter 19

 Marshall looked again at the holographic projection of Kumar, Caine standing next to him. The twelve aerostats were drifting in the upper atmosphere, projected in the view, deeper than Alamo could ever dare go. He shook his head, then turned to her.

 “Let’s see a schematic of the aerostats again.”

 “They’re all different, sir.”

 “The nearest one, then.”

 Nodding, Caine tapped a few buttons on the control panel, and the planet winked out, replaced with a line schematic. There was nothing particularly complicated about the design; a trio of huge gas bags suspended over a large gondola and a scoop, brackets for fueling shuttles to dock and a small module intended for man-tended operation. Not that Marshall would want to spend any time there.

 “This is just what we have in the system, of course,” Caine said. “We can’t get good enough resolution to see what modifications might have been made.”

 “Good place to use as a hideout,” Marshall replied. “Sling half a dozen fighters into those brackets, adapt the scoop to fuel them up, and even a bit of space to stow some small bits of cargo.”

 Reading off a monitor, Caine said, “This model has a maximum capacity of twelve.”

 “With eight in that escape pod,” Marshall said, nodding. “I presume there are larger models.”
 “We haven’t got full data of some of these in our database. Largest one we’ve spotted would have an unmodified capacity of sixteen.” 

 “Enough for a decent staff. Defenses?”

 Caine arched an eyebrow, “These are basically just floating bags of gas. I’m not sure what you could do to defend them – other than station a few fighters down there in that soup. We know they had at least one wing that was capable of it, I can’t imagine they haven’t got more.” She looked across this schematic. “Don’t assume that this will provide anything other than a rough idea. There are a dozen ways I can see to modify it, and I’m not an engineer.”

 “Like an anti-missile battery, for example.”

 Nodding, Caine replied, “We’re not going to get anywhere with an orbital bombardment, even if we knew which of the aerostats we wanted to take down. Down in that soup, everything slows down, and incoming missiles from this range would just be easy target practice.”

 “And the laser wouldn’t get ten miles before dispersing.” 

 “I’ve got to hand it to them, they’ve picked an excellent spot. I’m preparing a report to send back home; what worries me a little is that someone could pull this trick out at Uranus, or Neptune – or for that matter, at any of the extrasolar gas giants.”

 “Good idea,” Marshall said, musing. “Could we modify the missiles somehow?”
 “I don’t see how. They’d be traveling slowly enough that you could dogfight with them.”
 Nodding, Marshall walked over to his chair. He glanced at the image of Kumar on the viewscreen, and tried to imagine what it would be like to be stuck hanging there for days, weeks or months, tossed around in that tempestuous atmosphere, storms and lightning blasts crackling around.

 “All I can think of is a blockade. If we use the scout, we can get full coverage. It’s going to take time to starve them out, though,” Caine continued, still looking at the schematic.

 Marshall shook his head, “There’s a better way.” He tapped a button on his command chair, “Mr. Quinn, report to the hangar deck on the double.” Without a word, he ran for the elevator, Caine chasing after him. A surprised Zebrova was in the elevator when it arrived, but Marshall just ran in and stabbed a button, slamming the doors shut before she could step out onto the bridge. 

 “What’s going on?” she said. 

 “At a guess, Danny has an idea.”

 “He does,” Marshall said, tapping a button on the wall, “Mr. Cunningham, report to the hangar deck.”

 “Even if we had our fighters, they’d be no use down there anyway,” Zebrova said.

 “We used them on Jefferson,” Caine replied.

 Marshall shook his head, “With a fuel endurance of, what, five minutes? No, that’s not what I’m after.” The doors slid open and he walked out onto the deck, underneath the three landing shuttles hanging from the ceiling. A puzzled Quinn was waiting, standing up on the gantry.

 “What’s the emergency, Captain?” he said, looking down. 

 “Danny, if you’re thinking…”, Caine said, and he smiled.

 “These shuttles will work fine in the upper atmosphere of the gas giant,” he said. 

 “Emphasis on ‘upper’, Captain,” Quinn said. “I’d have to calculate the crush depth.”

 “Enough to reach the aerostats, though.”

 “What are you going to do? Ram them?” Caine asked, shaking her head.

 “Not at all. Quinn,” he said, looking up, “How long to fit a weapons package on these shuttles?”
 The engineer rubbed a greasy hand across his face, “Not long, sir. This model is designed to be used for ground bombardment.”

 “I need air-to-air missiles.”

 “Air-to-air?” Quinn said. “That...will be interesting. Give me eight hours, I’ll have to dig some specifications out of the computer, modify some of our missiles for the job.”

 “But you can do it?”

 “Yes, sir, I can.”

 “Good,” Marshall said, “Get on it right away. Take any help you need from any department, this is top priority.”

 Cunningham walked out through the elevator, buttoning up his jacket, “What’d I miss?”

 “The Captain has a plan to use the landing shuttles as missile bombers,” Caine said, shaking her head.

 “Good idea,” he replied. “Wish I’d thought of it.”

 Zebrova looked at the two of them in disbelief, “We don’t have any fighter pilots on board, sir.” She paused, then continued, “I’ll ask for volunteers from the shuttle pilots.”
 Marshall brushed the wings on his jacket, “Just because we don’t have any fighters on board doesn’t mean that we don’t any pilots. I’m still flight certified…”

 “No,” came a chorus from Cunningham and Zebrova. He looked at her, and she continued, “Sir, you are the commander of this ship, and unquestionably your place is on the bridge.” 

 “Under normal circumstances, Lieutenant, I would reluctantly be forced to agree with you, but this time is different – I’ve done this before.”

 “Saturn,” Caine muttered.

 “Exactly. Right near the end of the war, the UN tried to launch a sneak attack on the Saturnian fuel scoops. I had to lead a training squadron out to defend them, and we did do some fighting in the top of the atmosphere.”

 “Top being the word. This is deep down, sir. Not really comparable.”

 “We can’t send shuttle pilots to do this by themselves. We need a squadron leader to command the flight. These shuttles aren’t much worse than the Starslammers, and I’m sure that Mr. Quinn will provide an excellent weapons and countermeasures package – but still, the shuttle pilots just aren’t trained for this sort of an operation. I am.”

 Zebrova shook her head, “Sir, this is so far outside normal practice…”

 “Lieutenant,” he replied, “Our job is to defend the lives and property of Confederation citizens. We have no more important mission to complete. Anything else is a bonus. There’s no other way of getting at them with the equipment we have.” He looked around at the officers, noting that everyone in the room was looking at him. “Don’t get the idea that this is some sort of a debate. This mission is happening, and I’m flying lead.”

 Cunningham turned to him, and quietly said, “I need to speak to you in private about this one, Danny.”

 Marshall nodded, curtly, and walked over to the deck office, Cunningham in his wake. The rest of the officers were waiting around outside, most of them obviously hoping that he would be argued out of it. Quinn had already left the room, beginning to work.

 “Well?” Marshall said, hands leaning down on the desk.

 “We’re both going.”

 The captain looked up, eyes narrowing, “What?”

 “All of the arguments that you presented are good ones, but they work just as well for me as they do for you.”

 “You’re ten years older…”

 “But thanks to a certain Lieutenant-Captain Marshall – you may have heard of him – I have a waiver that gives me flight status. And I’ve flown in gas giants, which gives me an advantage. I don’t mean atmosphere skimming, back before the war I flew servicing runs on those big bags.”

 “You didn’t say that outside…”

 He smiled, replying, “It isn’t really on my service record. For servicing, read skimming; you know I had a slightly shady past before I joined up. Nevertheless, I know what to expect.”

 “John…”

 Cunningham raised his hand, “This is happening, Danny, so make peace with it. Opting to head this mission yourself robs you of any right to complain or protest – by rights, I should be leading this mission and you should be sitting on the bridge.”

 “Why aren’t you arguing that, then?”

 “Because common sense is our watchword out here, and there are two people best qualified to fly this mission – and both of them are in this room.”

 Laughing, Marshall replied, “Am I the only one feeling deja vu here? How many times did we argue about this back in the War?”

 “A lot. Back then I won because I had the seniority; I’m going to win this time because I’m right.”

 Looking out through the one-way viewport, Marshall said, “That leaves Zebrova in command.”

 “Gagh. I knew this plan had a flaw.”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “No, I trust her with the job. The whole job, if the worst happens. She’ll do what’s necessary – she won’t do it the way I would, or the way you would, but she will do it.” He looked over at Cunningham again. “I’ve briefed you on the mission, you know everything I do.”

 “Nerves, Danny?”

 “Maybe it’s that sense of responsibility beginning to kick in.”

 “Just in case, are you giving me any orders?”

 “Only to go find the Cabal. I’ll say the same to Zebrova before we leave; I’m not going to tie you down. I’ll say that at the moment I’m leaning towards Sagdeev, simply because we have the greatest chance of finding the Cabal out there, but you need to feel free to proceed as you think best.”

 “I will.” He clasped Marshall’s arm, “I’ll get the job done if you can’t.”  The two of them glanced around the room. “We really need to get a deck officer, don’t we?”
 “The last one we had tried to sell the shuttlecraft. It rather soured me on the idea. I suppose we could give it to one of the midshipmen.” He paused. “Can I talk you out of this?”

 “No more than I could talk you out of going. Someone needs to have your back, Danny, and that isn’t a job I’m going to leave to a shuttle pilot.”

 “Third spot?”

 “There are a few people on board who are eligible; I’d suggest throwing it open to volunteers. Knowing this crew, you’ll have to beat them off with a stick.”

 Chuckling, Marshall nodded, “It’s a hell of a ship. And a hell of a crew.” He looked out, “Let’s go and break the good news to Zebrova.”

 He walked out of the office, Cunningham behind him with a smirk on his face. Zebrova and Caine had been talking, but their conversation was broken by their approach.

 “We’re going to revise the mission plan a bit,” Marshall said; he was going to enjoy this. Zebrova was nodding, a smile appearing. “I’m flying lead, Mr. Cunningham has convinced me that he is the obvious choice as my primary wingman.”

 “What?” Zebrova said, her eyes widening. “Sir, all command protocols…”
 “I have the authority to override them. The flight will launch as soon as we have determined the location of the aerostat; I just hope Mr. Winter comes through with the goods. You will assume command for the duration of the operation.”

 “Sir…,” she said.

 “I have every confidence in you, Lieutenant.” He looked over at Cunningham, “We’d better head over to the briefing room and start some sort of a mission plan.”

 “Right.”
 “Wait a moment,” Caine said, “who’s flying third?”

 “Captain’s going to put out a call for volunteers,” Cunningham said.

 “Well, you’ve got at least one,” she said, leading to another incredulous stare from Zebrova.

Chapter 20

 With a loud crack, Orlova’s cast came off in Duquesne’s hand, and she tossed the pieces into a waste receptacle before beginning her examination of her shoulder. It had been a complete mess a couple of days ago, but now the only evidence of the injury was an angry red line and the compression marks of the cast. She tried a few experimental movements, and felt arcing pain down her side; with a great effort, she kept her expression neutral.

 “How do you feel?” the doctor said.

 “Fine,” she replied.

 “Liar. I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

 “But I’m fit for duty?”

 The doctor snorted, replying, “Hell no. Light, restricted duty only. I suppose that I can certify you for the bridge now, though I’d suggest taking some painkillers first, but that’s as far as you are going.”

 “What about…”

 The doctor poked her on the shoulder in a carefully calculated spot, sending another wave of pain through her.

 “I know you want to join the Captain’s kamikaze mission, but I have objections to seeing all of my hard work wasted. So no, I will not certify you for flight. You couldn’t take the g-forces at the moment; frankly, you should be grateful that I haven’t restricted you to quarters.”

 “The Captain needs me.” 

 Sighing, the doctor replied, “Captain Marshall has the services of more than a hundred crewmen at his disposal, and I’m sure he can cope without one junior officer for a few more days. I mean it, Orlova; if you push yourself too hard you’re going to crack. There’s no point sending someone on the mission who isn’t physically up to it.”

 “The Captain and Lieutenant Cunningham are both flying on waivers,” she said, frowning. “What’s the difference?”

 “The difference is that they only need the waivers because some keyboard jockey back home has decided to set an age restriction on fighter pilots. Both of them have had full physicals within the last week, and I was happy to sign off on those waivers. Neither would be flying unless I approved it – whatever the Captain might think.” She looked at Orlova’s shoulder, “You, on the other hand, are walking wounded. Act like it.”

 She jumped off the bed, again feeling the pain from her shoulder, and looked over at the doctor, “There must be something you can do.” 

 “Even I can’t work miracles, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 “Thanks, Doc,” Orlova said as she walked out of sickbay, making her way for the elevator. If she couldn’t convince the doctor, maybe she could convince the Captain; as she pushed for the bridge, she made sure to use her bad arm to do it – it hurt a little, but it felt fine. The grip was a little weak, but she could work with that. She’d flown in worse condition when she was an independent pilot.

 As she walked across the bridge, she rehearsed her arguments in her head, running over his objections. She wasn’t even sure that the Captain could override a medical objection, but she did know him well enough to know that if she could convince him, he’d turn a blind-eye to the regulations. Taking a deep breath, she pushed for entry.

 “Come in,” Marshall’s voice echoed over the speaker. She walked into the room, he looked up, and said, “No.”

 “Sir…”
 “Doctor Duquesne just called me and said you were on your way up. Sit down.”

 She complied, leaning forward on the desk, “Captain, I know my limitations and abilities…”

 “So do I.” He paused. “Sub-Lieutenant, all things being equal, I would be only too glad for you to fly this mission. I mean that; you’re an excellent pilot and a good tactician – but that does not compensate for the fact that you are not physically fit.”

 “I’m fine, sir.”

 “No, you aren’t. Lieutenant Caine will fly third on this mission. That’s my decision.” She looked down at the floor, and he continued, “There comes a time in everyone’s career when they have to sit back and watch others take the risks. That’s the curse of command, Sub-Lieutenant, and one I fear I know all too well. This time you have to sit on the bridge and watch.”

 “Those shuttles are two-man, maybe you could use a co-pilot to handle the electronic warfare systems? I could find other volunteers from the security staff.”

 “Mr. Quinn is confident that they can be flown by a single pilot; I don’t see any need to risk more people than I have to.” He smiled, “And for your information, he volunteered as well.” He waved a datapad in the air, “As did fourteen other people. Including a couple I would not have considered under any circumstances. You are in extremely good company.”

 “Is there nothing I can say?”

 Marshall took a deep breath, and said, “If we’re waiting out here for longer than a couple of days I might reconsider my decision if you can pass a medical; having said that, if we’re waiting that long, the odds of the mission taking place at all won’t be promising.”

 “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t want to let you down.”

 He looked at her arm again, “There’s nothing to apologize for, Sub-Lieutenant. You were wounded in the line of duty, after all. Technically you don’t even need to be on duty; if you’d like a spot of medical leave…”

 “No, sir. I’m fit enough to continue my duties.” She glanced down at the datapad, “If there is some way I can help with the mission planning, sir…”

 “That’s the spirit.” He passed her a datapad. “Everything Cunningham and I have outlined is here. If there is anything we’ve missed, I want to know about it yesterday; I never claimed to be infallible.”

 “I’ll take a look, sir,” she replied, placing the datapad in her pocket.

 “Dismissed, then, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 She stood to attention, snapped a salute, and walked out of the office, crossing the bridge to the elevator without a word. Technically she wasn’t on duty for hours, so she punched for the officer’s quarters, pulling the datapad out of her pocket and starting to skim it. As she read, she could picture herself flying through the atmospheric layers, flying through the storms; it was a toss-up whether it was a sense of duty or simply a desire to experience that environment that was driving her on.

 The door opened, and she almost walked into Steele in the corridor; she waved a quick salute at her and wordlessly walked past, stepping into her cabin and flopping down on the bed, pushing a couple of plates off onto the floor with an outstretched arm. Settling down amid the cushions, she began to read, and was just starting to make notations when the door chimed.

 “Yes?” she said, and Zebrova walked in. She looked around at Orlova’s clutter, her collection of old artifacts scattered around the room on shelves and stacked on the floor, her uniforms mixed in with her civilian clothes on the rail, and the brand-new holopicture of her and her father on the wall over her bed.

 “Is this a room inspection?” Orlova asked.

 “We’ll get to that later, Sub-Lieutenant. Suffice to say that you’d fail one.” Using her fingertips, she picked up a collection of old mission patches and transferred them from chair to desk, and then sat down opposite her. “How’s the shoulder?”

 “Fine, ma’am.”

 “Good. I’m going to need you on the bridge when Captain Marshall launches his mission; I want you to handle Tactical.”

 Frowning, she replied, “I thought you’d want Ryder, or would take it yourself.”

 “I did consider both of those options, but I believe you to be the best choice for the job given the absence of Lieutenant Caine.” She shook her lead, “Having so many senior officers off the ship at the same time does rather limit my options, I fear.” 

 “Ma’am, can I speak freely?”

 “These are your quarters, Sub-Lieutenant, and I believe you will anyway, so you might as well go ahead.”

 “Can I ask what I did to offend you?”

 A thin smile crossed Zebrova’s features, “Sub-Lieutenant, I am new to this ship. My initial evaluation of the officers in my department was based on the personnel records at my disposal, and I frankly find yours wanting. Your initial performance on the shuttle simply reinforced those opinions.”

 “I saved your life, and the lives of everyone on that shuttle.”

 She nodded, “You were correct. On that occasion. The time will come, however, when you will need to follow the opinions of others than yourself, especially when you are involved in a command situation – and given the estimation of Captain Marshall and Lieutenant Cunningham, I consider it likely that you will face such a situation in the future.”

 “Can I ask a question, ma’am?”

 “Certainly.”

 “How many battle stars do you have?”

 “I have never been in a combat situation, Sub-Lieutenant; however, in nine years of service I have faced many dangerous situations requiring equivalent quick thinking.”

 Orlova shook her head, “You haven’t seen the elephant, ma’am.”

 “Elephant?”

 She smiled, plucking out a datapad and passing it to her, “There’s an old expression, ma’am, dating from the wars of the nineteenth century back on Earth. Soldiers used to tell recruits that they didn’t know what war was until they had experienced it for themselves, until they had seen the elephant.”

 Zebrova reddened, “Are you comparing me with a raw recruit, Sub-Lieutenant?” 

 “Only in that...ma’am, sometimes there isn’t time to take a consensus, and such times occur frequently in a battle situation.”

 “I passed at the top of my class in Tactical training, Sub-Lieutenant…”
 “And this wasn’t really covered in that class. It all comes down to making the snap decision at the critical moment. I think that’s the difference between us as officers.”

 “You think that I’m not able to make a snap decision?”

 Orlova shook her head, “No, ma’am. You are a senior officer, placed in that position by officers who know your skills and abilities well. They have decided that you can make the decision, but in my experience, ma’am, you don’t know what it feels like until that day dawns.”

 “And for you…”

 “I’ve seen quite a few.”

 Zebrova leaned back on the chair, then stopped as it creaked alarmingly, “I have to admit, this has been one of the more unusual conversations I’ve ever had with a junior officer.”

 “Welcome to Alamo, ma’am.”

 Twice she had smiled in as many minutes; Orlova was evidently making some progress. “I will be most interested to evaluate your performance at Tactical, assuming Alamo plays a significant role in the engagement to follow.”

 “I’m running over the mission plan now, and I think I’ve spotted a few ways we could potentially play a part.”

 “You think it likely that the pirates will attempt to escape?”

 She nodded. “If the Captain is successful, I rate that as near-certain. I would in their place.”

 “Then prepare an action plan with that in mind, and put it on my desk before you go on duty. I agree with you that the probability of such an escape attempt is high.”

 “Yes, ma’am.”

  Zebrova rose, carefully pushing the chair back under the desk. She walked towards the door, pausing at the threshold and turning towards Orlova.

 “I might never have seen your elephant, Sub-Lieutenant, but I do know that the most valuable subordinate officers are those who are not afraid to speak candidly to their superiors in the correct context. You certainly succeed in that regard, if nothing else.”

 “Thank you, ma’am. I will continue to do so, if you wish.”

 “Please do.” She looked around the room again, shaking her head, “And clean up this place if you get a chance. It really is a mess.”

 “Yes, ma’am,” Orlova replied as the door closed behind her. She started to page through the datapad again, then pulled out another one with the physical specifications of Kumar – then a third with the current location of all nearby ships. If it was a report that Lieutenant Zebrova wanted, then she was going to get a good one.

Chapter 21

 Logan leaned over Harper’s shoulder, watching data streaming across the screen, while Boris guarded the door, his pistol out and pointing into the corridor. Her hands were furiously working the keyboard, stopping occasionally to swap out datacrystals to add new decryption programs into the fray, but the information was still just a collection of meaningless numbers and symbols. She looked over her shoulder at him.

 “Give me some room, for God’s sake. Your breath on the back of my neck is not making me work harder.”

 “Come on, Harper, we’ve got to get that information.”

 “You know they’ll be after us any minute,” Boris said, his eyes darting nervously about as Logan pulled out his pistol. “Why are you using that thing?”

 “Because if I use my plasma pistol I’ll take out most of the corridor.”

 “We could close the blast doors.”

 “Actually, we can’t,” Harper said while she typed. “They might have left their two friends in their cells, but we did give Cornucopia plenty of time to undo all of my work with the station systems in this area.”

 “Great,” Boris said, shaking his head. “Just great. So what’s the plan now?”

 “Hold our ground until we find the data we’re looking for.” He looked across at Boris. “If you want to make for your shuttle, I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

 “Don’t be stupid. They’d swat me out of the sky. I’m stuck here just like you are.” He turned back to the hacker, “Can’t you go faster?”

 “If I was using a computer system that was built in the last decade, maybe, but this old junk barely works any more. And breaking my concentration is only going to slow me down, guys.”

 “Let her work, Boris,” Logan said, peering out into the corridor. Unsurprisingly, there was no-one outside; the corridor vendors had all decided to find safer pitches for their wares, and the shops were all closed and shuttered. The lights were beginning to dim, as well – presumably someone had managed to do a little bit of tinkering with the systems – and shadows were gathering outside, providing plenty of cover for approaching enemies.

 “We ought to go outside, try and get better firing positions.”

 “With two of us?” Boris said, shaking his head. He jerked forward, “Someone’s coming.”

 Gliding out of the shadows, Logan saw the lithe figure of Lilith catching onto a handhold, drifting towards the security office. He dropped his sidearm, placing it back in his holster, but Boris was less trusting, keeping the gun trained on her all the way to the door, whilst still looking around for anyone who might be with her.

 “If I’m not welcome,” she said, looking at the pilot.

 “Not at all. Excuse the mess, we’re just expecting the imminent commencement of hostilities,” Logan replied.

 She looked around, “You don’t look particularly prepared.”

 “Well, we don’t have much of an official military presence on the station for the moment, and I won’t lie that the staff shortages are having an impact.”

 “They’re coming.”

 His eyes widened, “When?”

 “A few minutes. One of my people saw them assembling by their module.”

 “How many,” Boris said, his eyes still darting around.

 “Twenty; he’s called out the whole staff. All of them are armed, all of them have body armor.” She looked at Boris and Logan again, “Where’s yours?”

 “Alamo,” Logan replied.

 “Logan, the three of you can’t hold them off for long.”

 “We don’t have to. All we have to do is get that information to Alamo.”

 “Can’t you just send it to them?”

 “Not enough bandwidth. I can send a short voice message in the clear, but that’s about the best we can do. Cornucopia cut off access to all of the antenna complexes, we’re stuck with my hand communicator.”

 “You’ll be killed.”

 “Possibly.”

 Glancing at the two of them again, she said, “Look, I’ve been hearing things about you. Good things. You don’t need to die here, and I don’t mean risking your lives to his hopper either. I’ve got a shuttle of my own, back in the bar. I’ll lend it to you, get back to Alamo.”

 He shook his head. “Boris and Harper can take you up on that…”

 “Still busy…,” Harper said.

 “Well, Boris then. I’m not going.”

 “This is suicide,” Lilith said, shaking her head.

 Sighing, he replied, “When I joined up, I knew what I was doing. I might not want to be in this uniform, but I know what it means to wear it. We need the location of the pirate base, and we need to know what the Cabal connection is, and my job is to get that information. If I can live through it, so much the better, but I can’t just run away.” He rubbed his chin, “I’ve got to look at myself when I shave in the morning.”

 “I’d just grow a beard,” Boris said.

 “Get out of here, Boris, I mean it. No need to stay.”

 “Don’t be stupid.”

 Logan looked at Lilith. “You could help us. I know you’ve got men of your own…”

 “She owns half the businesses on the station,” Boris mumbled, and Logan raised an eyebrow.

 “If you threw them into the fight, we might have a chance.”

 She shook her head, “I never swore an oath, I never gave my word – except that I would keep my people safe. Committing them to this would be a death sentence.”

 “Perhaps even I think that some things are worth dying for.”

 “I can’t,” she said, shaking her head. “If it was just me, I might.”

 He smiled, nodding, “I know. You’d better get out of her before the shooting starts.”

 She turned, grabbed him, and kissed him on the lips, then without a word turned and pushed off down the corridor, swinging from hand-hold to hand-hold, hurling herself away without looking back. Boris looked at Logan, shaking his head.

 “I’ll be damned,” the pilot said, as Logan winked at him.

 “Natural charm,” he replied, looking down at his watch, “I’d say we’ve only got minutes. Any last requests?”

 The two of them settled back, one on either side of the door, Logan periodically glancing back at Harper, urging her on with his eyes, but he was enough of a hacker himself to know that what he was asking her to do would take time, time that he was afraid they simply did not have. Patting his pockets, he checked his magazines; at least he’d have enough ammunition to last out.

 “Who’s this coming?” Boris said, peering into the shadows.

 “We seem to be overwhelmed with well-wishers today,” Logan said, shaking his head.

 They held their fire, and they recognized the father of the boy Boris had patched up; he was waving his hands over his head, but the pistol nestled in it drew them to leave their pistols trained on him. 

 “I thought I told you to get out of here,” said Logan, gesturing at the gun. “What the hell is that?”

 He waved it around, “After I’d bought our tickets home, I had enough left over for half a dozen of these and some ammunition.”

 “What did you want six pistols for?” Boris said.

 The man turned, waved his arms, and five more people drifted forward, a group of people Logan recognized from among the transient population. He shook his head; these people were wearing old, grimy jumpsuits, all of them looked too thin and had obviously been in zero-gravity for too long, but they were drifting forwards wielding their pistols.

 “You’re the first person I’ve met in a while who seems to actually give a damn about us,” the man said, “and I’m not going to let the men who saved my boy die if there is something I can do to stop it.”

 “We’re going up against corporate security,” Boris said, “not a gutter gang.”

 “None of you need to do this,” Logan said. “Get the hell out of here.”

 “What are you going to do, arrest us?”

 He shook his head, then replied, “Fine, let’s make this official.” He darted back into the office and snatched a datapad off the desk. “All of you sign this.” He tossed it to the farthest of them, who started to sign his name with the stylus.

 “What is it?”

 “You’re all volunteering in the Triplanetary Fleet. Which means no-one’s going to come after you with any criminal charges when this day is over.”

 Some of them looked at each other, “What if we don’t want to join?”
 “You can resign tomorrow morning.” He chuckled, “I don’t think I’ve actually got the authority to do this anyway, but what the hell, I don’t think anyone will complain if we pull this off.” He turned to Boris. “Let’s get some better firing positions set-up.” Indicating the abandoned stalls, he continued, “Break up some of that and build some barricades.”

 “Plasterboard doesn’t stop bullets that well,” Boris replied.

 “They can’t see through it, though.”

 Nodding, Boris drifted out into the corridor and started gesturing people into positions, pushing bits of debris around to provide firing positions, shaking his head most of the time. Logan looked back, occasionally offering direction but otherwise content to watch; he picked out his position near the ceiling, behind one of the larger fans. It wasn’t going to give him much real protection, but it would give him mobility, and it also meant he was the first to see Sokolov drifting down the corridor, flanked by a pair of bodyguards who were obviously designed to intimidate; well-muscled bruisers, they didn’t have the usual catlike stance of one used to zero-gravity.

 “Mr. Winter?” Sokolov said, looking around as the activity came to a stop.

 “Lieutenant Winter, to you,” he replied.

 Shaking his head, he said, “Turn over my people and all of the data you stole, and I will permit you and this rabble to have safe passage from the station.”

 “I’m meant to trust your solemn oath on that, am I?”

 “I will provide any reasonable assurances.”

 “How about this? Surrender you and your men to you and I will recommend leniency at your trial. There’s enough information in that data to send you to jail and force your company into bankruptcy.”

 “You haven’t possibly had sufficient time to download any data, nor would any information accessed in that manner be acceptable in any court.”

 “Except the court of public opinion.”

 “Oh, our public relations budget is quite extensive, I assure you, and our lawyers will be only too glad to engage yours in battle.” He looked at the ramshackle fortifications, “You don’t really plan to make a fight of this, do you? There will be a lot of deaths.”

 “My people are fighting because they want to, yours are fighting because they are getting paid.”
 “I take it you don’t claim a salary from the Triplanetary Fleet, then? In any event, it matters not.”

 Logan drifted forward, hand moving towards his pistol, “As senior officer present in a government installation, I am officially notifying you that I am declaring martial law, rendering civilian administration null and void.” At this point, he was pulling things out of the ether. “You are hereby ordered to stand down, and prepare your facilities for full investigation.”

 “That was a mistake, Winter,” Sokolov said. “Until now, there was an outside chance that I might choose to permit you to live. You have sixty seconds to surrender.” He looked around, addressing the others, “If any of you wish to individually surrender, you should feel free to do so.”

 He turned around, starting to drift back down the corridor, undoubtedly to join his men. The bodyguards waited a second before following, covering his withdrawal, and Logan turned back to the open office door.

 “Harper, I need some good news around now…”

 “I’ve got some for you. In about three minutes I’ll have the information you need.” She looked at Logan, and continued, “And no, I can’t speed it up. I’m sucking processor power from everywhere I can think of as it is.”

 He tossed his communicator to her, “When you get the location of the pirate base, tell Alamo instantly. Then you can feel free to join the fight.”

 “I’m really not good with guns.”

 “Call it on-the-job training.”

 There was no time for him to do anything other than gently drift back into his position. He checked his pistol one last time, making sure the magazine was home and full, and pulled another out of his pocket, tucking it behind a strap on the wall.

 “Let them fire first,” he said, setting his communicator to ‘record’ and strapping it in a position to record the battle. Somehow he had a feeling that he might end up needing some evidence of this one.

 The first wave drifted cautiously down the corridor, riot shields and pistols at the ready. It seemed likely that they had received the same orders, not to engage the enemy unless fired upon, which promised to make it a very boring gunfight – until someone fired the first shot. Logan had no idea who, the noise was ambiguous, but bullets started to crack all around his position, smashing dents into the metal, tearing gouges in his improvised protection.

 “Fire!” he yelled, setting the example with a carefully aimed shot. Instantly, the battle had become chaos; almost no-one seemed to have any real experience at firing in zero-gravity. Logan and Boris had both had the wit to hold onto something when they fired, but the recoil was tossing the rest of the combatants around the corridor. At least it made for a target-rich environment, and Logan put down two of the enemy with two shots.

 A cry of pain came from ahead of him, one of his men wounded. Redoubling his efforts, he fired another shot, and the corridor was now a mess of drifting bodies, all of them out of the battle, but still potentially targets, whether intentionally or unintentionally. Then the second wave came forward, and Logan understood Sokolov’s strategy; these were firing while holding hand-holds, then swinging themselves up into cover in between shots.

 “Concentrate on the second wave,” he said, as much to Boris as to anyone else; most of the rest of his army were scattered all over the place, and some of them were smashing at the enemy with their fists or the butts of their weapons. Droplets of blood were drifting around the corridor, splashing the walls where they hit, and he squeezed off another trio of shots, clicking out the empty cartridge and letting it fly through the air.

 He grabbed the next one and rammed it home with a satisfactory click, and looked around the battlefield; the second wave had excellent cover, and were starting to pick off anyone they could see. His men were pinned down, caught behind whatever protection they could find, not daring to shoot for fear of the effects of the recoil – at least three of them were drifting, out of the battle one way or another.

 Peering into the darkness at the far end of the corridor, he made out a third wave approaching, these ones barreling right down the middle. The end game was approaching as they remorselessly advanced towards them, crouching behind their shields, not even bothering to fire. Why did they have to? They’d be mopping up the wounded soon enough.

 The air circulators were beginning to clear the corridor, helpless bodies being dragged towards the wall, and it gave him another shot at a careless member of the second wave, who found himself tumbling into space, clutching his arm, until another shot ended his problems forever. He looked ahead, saw another piece of cover up the corridor, and realized it would be an excellent place for a crossfire. Without thinking twice, he pushed off, bouncing off the wall to put his trajectory into a spiral.

 A fusillade of shots rang out, first from the enemies then from his own side, who suddenly had some available targets to play with. The Cornucopia corporate troops were good – he was going to need a new shirt when this battle was over, but he reached his cover, taking another shot for good measure. The third wave continued to approach, but then he heard a triumphant yell from the rear.

 “Got it! Alamo has the location!” Harper yelled, and Logan came within a heartbeat of cheering. He had hoped that the failure might have caused the attack to be called off, but that was obviously not in the minds of his assailants, who continued their charge. His side had spent their ammunition carelessly in the early stages of the battle, wasting it on the decoys of the first wave, and a series of clicks and curses suggested that he probably should have given them some instruction on fire discipline.

 “Going to be one hell of a last stand, Logan!” Boris yelled, as he fired a shot.

 Logan slapped another magazine home, tapping his pocket, then cursing; he glanced behind him and saw four magazines floating behind him, then looked down at his pocket – which now had holes at both ends, courtesy of Cornucopia Mining. All he could do now was make each shot tell, and he lined up to try a futile shot at the third wave. As he pulled the trigger, two of them recoiled forwards, tumbling end over end, and he glanced at his gun. Even if he was that good a shot – and he wasn’t – they would have fallen backwards.

 The explanation was immediately apparent as Logan saw a group of six people, armed with low-velocity rifles, diving down the corridor. These were professionals; small thrusters on their backs to correct for the recoil from their weapons, and the third wave quickly descended into total chaos as they scrambled to turn, to face their new enemy. The second wave was even more confused.

 “Come on, let’s get them!” Logan said, swinging himself into the corridor, scooping up his magazines with an outstretched hand, and firing into the fray, kicking himself into the action. A dozen more shots later, and it was all over.

 “We surrender!”, a gruff voice cried.

 “Cease fire!” Logan said. “Throw away your weapons.”

 The gunmen complied, and he and the new arrivals soon had them facing the wall, hands secured behind their backs. He turned to Boris, who was grimly looking out at the carnage.

 “How bad?”

 “Bad,” he replied. “I’ll get them down to the doctor. Can I borrow your card?”

 Logan shook his head, “They’re either Triplanetary spacemen or prisoners. If he doesn’t treat them, start breaking things until he co-operates.” He turned to see Lilith drifting down at the rear, a rifle in her hand. “You changed your mind.”

 “I decided that this station would be a lot better off with you running it. Those bastards are bad for business.”

 “We’re going to finish them off.” He turned, “Anyone who can still fight, follow me.”
 “Where are you going?” Harper said, drifting through the door.

 “Cornucopia’s offices.” He slapped another magazine into the pistol. “I want Sokolov.”

Chapter 22

 Marshall tipped the coffee pot into his mug, and grimaced as the only reward for his effort was a few dark brown drops. Cunningham looked at him, gesturing to the dispenser; his turn to top it up. The deck office at least had a half-decent coffee maker; he idly noted that he should ask Quinn to get one of his crew to move it up to the bridge at some point. A twenty-million credit refit, and he still couldn’t get a decent drink in his office. The water swirled and gurgled in the pot; then Marshall’s attention was drawn to his beeping communicator.

 “Marshall,” he said.

 Zebrova’s voice answered, “Sir, Spitfire Station just sent us the co-ordinates of the aerostat.”
 “You’ve checked them?”

 “Deep-scans indicate that it’s there, sir.”

 “Right. We’re on our way.”

 Caine looked up from her datapad, “They’ve found it?”

 “Location will be feeding into our navicomputers now.” He looked around, shaking his head, “Squadron scramble, I guess.”

 “Oh, sweet memories,” Cunningham said, shaking his head as he walked out onto the hangar deck. Three shuttles sat on elevator airlocks, all of them swarming with technicians under the agitated supervision of Quinn; when he saw the three pilots approaching, he turned to his staff.

 “Right, that’s going to have to do. Pack this lot up and clear the deck.” He turned to Marshall, “I think we’re about as ready as we’ll ever be, sir.”

 Walking to the airlock of his shuttle, Marshall said, “You’ve done a good job in the time, Lieutenant.”

 Quinn gestured at the wings, “We’ve modified the control surfaces to give you some extra grip, and added a few extra backups in case you have some problems. Two missiles each, housed in the cargo bay – so you’ll be dropping them like bombs instead of firing them, watch for the back-blast.” He tapped the nose, “Railgun mounted forward.”

 “That’s a bit old-fashioned, isn’t it?”

 “Sir, this is going to be an old-fashioned kind of battle. Ranges are going to be short down there, dozens of miles instead of thousands. You’re back to the twentieth century in that soup.”

 Running his eyes over the lines of the shuttle, Marshall nodded, “Countermeasures?”

 “Standard package with a few upgrades Orlova suggested, and the aft science airlock’s been fitted with half-a-dozen short range intercept rockets. No room for any decoys, I’m afraid, but in that environment…”

 “They probably wouldn’t work anyway.” 

 Quinn looked up at the shuttle, “Sir, really I ought to be going on this mission.” 

 “Alamo needs her Systems Officer.”

 “She needs her Captain more.”

 Marshall smiled, clasped Quinn on the shoulder, and shook his head, “This is my job, Lieutenant. There are times that a Captain has to lead from the front. Besides, you’re married now; can’t be taking crazy risks any more.”

 “You’ve met my wife, haven’t you?” Quinn replied, smiling. “Good luck, Captain.”

 “Thank you, Mr. Quinn.” Marshall climbed into the pilot’s airlock and waited for it to cycle. A spacesuit had been laid out for him on his couch, but he put it out of the way. If there was a problem with the shuttle when he was down on the gas giant, the suit would only be of dubious help, and he’d find the extra agility valuable when working the controls.

 Sliding his command key into the console, he watched the controls slide around the panel to his preferred locations, and rested his hands on the guidance systems. He glanced up as the pre-flight checks slid down one after another, all green, and the heads-up display updated with a calculated course projection.

 “Shuttle Two, you ready?”

 Cunningham replied, “All systems go, ready for launch.” 

 “Caine, how about you?”

 “Ready to go.”

 Switching channels, Marshall said, “Bridge, this is Shuttle Flight, requesting clearance for launch.”

 Orlova’s voice echoed through the cabin, “Shuttle Flight, launch when ready. Good luck.”

 Tapping a series of buttons, the elevator airlock engaged and the shuttle receded into the deck, settling into the pit. The upper doors slammed shut, and his sensors read the atmosphere outside fading away to nothing, until the lower doors opened and he slowly began to drift out of the ship. A quick tap of the thrusters sped the process, and he fell away from Alamo. The other two shuttles were behind him in a loose arrowhead, and he locked the pre-plotted course into the navigation systems.

 “Engage engines in five seconds, mark,” he said, and the computer, picking up on his verbal cue, started a quick countdown. He had his hand resting on the control, but the autopilot picked up on time, pushing him back into his couch with the deceleration; the ship was braking to lower its orbit, and a series of amber warning lights began to flash overhead. Smiling, he tapped the override, instructing the safety systems that he did indeed want to dive into the atmosphere of a gas giant.

 “Alamo, burn complete.”

 “Roger, Shuttle One. We show you right on course.”

 “Any change down there?”

 “We’ve got the installation under constant observation, sir,” Zebrova said, cutting in, “and there is no change to target aspect thus far.”

 “Keep looking out, inform me immediately if there is any change.”

 “Will do, Shuttle One. Alamo out.”

 He looked around his cockpit, flicking switches and looking down at his improvised fire control system. Quinn really had managed to work some miracles in the hours he’d been given, fitting in a full combat sensor package, by the looks of it stripped out of a missile. He ran a couple of quick simulations, making sure that he didn’t waste a missile by accident, and smiled.

 “Remind you of anything?” Cunningham’s voice echoed.

 “Advanced Flight Training.”

 Cunningham chuckled, “You’re exposing your youth again. This is the sort of patched-up crate we were flying in the first couple of years of the War. You don’t think we had hundreds of fighters lying around, do you?”

 “No, I suppose not.” He looked around, “This does bring back a few memories, doesn’t it.”

 “The wait. We rush to launch, then end up sitting around for an hour waiting for the fighting to begin, knowing that the bad guys can see us coming.”

 “I should have brought a deck of cards,” he said, patching Caine into the conversation. “We keep this simple in the attack. Cunningham and I will split off and deal with any fighters, Deadeye, you go in and knock out the aerostat.”

 “It’s a flying gas-bag, Danny. The railgun will probably do the job.”

 Marshall nodded, glancing down at the other control system; there wasn’t much automation there, a trigger spliced into the console controls just under the afterburner. His eyes widened, and he slid the control across; the last thing he wanted to do was get those two buttons mixed up in the heat of battle.

 “Don’t get overconfident. If you get a missile track, by all means use it.”

 “I’ve done this before, Danny. Don’t worry, that aerostat will be falling fragments by the time we’re finished with it.”

 He looked ahead at the approaching gas giant. The fighter was curving down towards the atmosphere, and every thirty seconds he was having to confirm his course; the navigation systems really didn’t seem to like where he was planning to go. They’d be dipping down into it, spilling most of their speed; they’d need every ounce of fuel to make this flight work, and he glanced back at what was normally the passenger section, all of it stripped down to make the shuttle as light as possible. Putting it back together again was going to be quite a job for Quinn and his gang; he just hoped that he would have the chance to do it.

 “Last chance to call this off, Danny,” Caine’s voice said. He glanced down at his communications board; this was a person-to-person tight-beam. No-one else could hear them.

 “There’s no other way to take out that base, Deadeye.”

 “Wait for them to surrender.” 

 “We could be stuck here in orbit for months. They must have some support systems down there, I can’t imagine that they’ll be totally dependent on outside supply. Too big a risk.”

 “I suspect you are right about that.” She paused, then said, “I just wanted to make sure you knew the risks we were running.”

 “If this goes wrong, Alamo can continue with its blockade.”

 “True.” She paused. “If this does go wrong, then just so that you know – I don’t regret coming along.”

 “Thanks, Deadeye.” A warning light popped on. “We’re about to hit atmosphere.”

 “Yeah, my system’s flashing amber again. See you on the other side.”

 Marshall settled down in his couch, relaxing into the most comfortable position. The throttle was still under automatic control, and the engines fired intermittent bursts, sparkling into life to keep the curve of the shuttle’s course on its pre-planned trajectory. Behind him, the other two shuttles began to weave back and forth, compensation burns keeping them as close as possible to the formation. That was going to change in a moment.

 A light winked red, and the shuttle entered the upper levels of Kumar’s atmosphere, and now the engine turned on constantly, starting at low power as it fought back against the increasing gravity. The fuel gauge began to roll down at an ever-rising pace, the numbers flashing by too quickly for Marshall to read, pausing everything ten seconds to provide him an unnerving report. Quinn had loaded as many extra fuel tanks into the passenger compartment as he could, but there was only so much extra mass he could carry. 

 The stars vanished as the atmosphere thickened, flickering red flames dancing around the shuttle’s nose as it crested through the tops of the clouds, an altimeter flashing on the heads-up display, slowing a descent curve that was right on the projected path, fuel dropping at the planned rate. The control surfaces were starting to bite, providing extra lift, easing the load on the engine as the pressure grew on the outer hull. The flames began to trickle off, and Marshall settled back for a moment to enjoy the view.

 He glanced down, into the deep clouds, and for a brief second saw a black spot underneath him; for a moment he thought that he might have overshot, but his tactical computer read it as another aerostat, just a few hundred miles down and to the rear. Evidently this was a rich seam of gas to mine, and the flying fuel scoops were congregating on this area.

  Taking the controls for a second, Marshall tilted and dived, swinging the nose around and playing with the flaps, getting a feel for the handling of the shuttle. Despite the seriousness of the moment, his face erupted in a smile. This was flying, flying the like of which he had rarely experienced. No computer auto-controls, no navigational trajectories computed to tens of thousands of miles distance. This was just he and his machine, one unit operating in harmony to guide his path through the clouds.

 A red line appeared at the bottom of his altimeter, and he instantly switched back to computer control; crush depth. Below that limit, still many miles below, but potentially only a single mistake away, the shuttle’s manufacturers could not guarantee the integrity of the hull. Engineers were usually a conservative bunch, and there would probably be a comfortable margin of error built into that, but he certainly didn’t want to test that out for real. Fuel might be the least of his problems; indeed, while he was slowing slightly, the engine was burning more more smoothly now, using fuel more slowly. They were on the glide path, cruising through the hydrogen clouds.

 Everything went dark for a second, and Marshall’s heart beat a little faster, until he realized that the shuttle had flown through a cloud, blocking out the golden light. He chuckled, trying to hide his nerves, then glanced at his sensors. His two wingmates were scattered across the sky, both of them trailing behind him and to the right; while he watched, Caine turned on the acceleration for a second in an attempt to catch up, and he shook his head, worrying about her use of the excess fuel. Cunningham seemed to have a better idea, he was curving further to the right. If they played this well, they’d have the pirates caught on multiple sides.

 “Alamo to Shuttle One,” the communicator crackled; Marshall strained to hear it.

 “Shuttle One here. Be advised signal strength is very poor, very poor.”

 “Alamo to Shuttle One,” it repeated; obviously they hadn’t heard him.

 “Shuttle One calling Alamo. I read you very faint, but I read you.”

 There was no response, and Marshall wasn’t surprised. Alamo had a thousand times the signal strength as these tiny shuttles, and he was fighting through the roaring static of the gas giant. Any communication at all was more than he had expected; he just hoped that whatever the message was, it wasn’t important.

 Then, glancing at his screen, he saw what Alamo had been about to tell him. Three contacts, far ahead but closing on them. No sign of the aerostat yet, that was still some time away. The computer started a countdown to combat range, and he assumed manual control of the helm.

 “Shuttle One to Shuttle Flight. Bandits ahead. Break and attack.”

Chapter 23

 Logan drifted down the central corridor, focused on his goal at the far end of the station – Cornucopia’s offices. Behind him, a dozen men armed with a variety of weapons followed, most of them equipped with the riot shields borrowed from their erstwhile adversaries. Harper drifted at the back, followed by Lilith; he was expecting several opportunities for her to make use of her skills.

 A crowd had gathered, as if wanting to watch the battle to come, all hanging back by the corridor walls to keep out of the way. He glanced at a couple of the ubiquitous Cornucopia operatives trying to blend into the crowd, no longer concerned with following his movements but simply attempting to shield their own. No doubt they would be fleeing the station at the first opportunity, but that didn’t concern him at the moment. He had one goal on his mind – Sokolov. None of the people he had captured up to this point could provide the key intelligence he needed. Only the station’s commander – former station commander, he corrected in his mind – could give him that.

 There were no guards outside the module, and immediately he sensed the possibility of a trap. The door was closed, sealed, and he pulled himself up, raising his hands to signal the rest of his men to stay clear. No sense risking any more lives than he needed, not at this stage. Too much blood had been spilled already, too many lives hanging in the balance in surgery. He scanned the door with his eyes, looking for any traps or surprises, but he couldn’t find any.

 “Harper, get up here.”

 Nodding, the hacker pushed herself in, and Logan reached out an arm to stop her tumbling down the corridor, guiding her gently to the entrance panel. She started to enter a series of codes, shook her head, and pulled a small tool out of her sleeve, working around at the components.

 “It’s safe,” she said.

 “Get out of the way, then,” Logan replied, pulling his pistol out of his pocket as he worked the entry mechanism. The door glided smoothly open, and he dived him, gun proceeding him into the module. Quickly, he looked around the room, hunting for an ambush, but there was no-one there. Monitors were flashing test patterns, scattered boxes and crates drifting around the room, even a couple of empty mugs were dancing around each other in the air. Four doors, all of them sealed, surrounded the room, and he immediately dived for the one marked ‘Commander’.

 The door was locked, jammed, and Harper dived forward, only to be waved off by Logan. He had a better way of opening it, and fired a pair of shots into the material, stepping up the blast power to maximum. The bullets ripped into the toughened fabric, tearing away at the material, and the lock opened, Logan bursting inside with fire in his eyes.

 Hiding behind a desk – made of real wood, no less – was Sokolov, a gun drifting in the air nearby. A crowd was gathering behind Logan as he dived in, snatching the weapon and stuffing it into his belt, then grabbing the commander by the scruff of the neck. 

 “Lay a finger on me, and my men will finish you,” Sokolov said with as much bluster as he could manage.

 “It’s your men that are finished, you bastard.” He turned to Harper, “Have the others search the module. There must be more out there, I want them found.”

 “Right.”
 Logan turned back to Sokolov, who was growing pale before him, his gun thrust close to the commander’s face. The man tried to shrink away, but Logan had an iron grip tight on his jacket.

 “Give me one good reason not to end you.”

 Gulping, he replied, “Our expense accounts are extensive here, Lieutenant. I’d be willing to spend them lavishly on you and your men.”

 Responding with a barking laugh, he replied, “You think I’m in this to extort you? That would be sinking to your level, you bastard.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “I don’t mind that you tried to kill me – twice. That’s part of the game. You sent your thugs out to murder people, and you didn’t give a damn who got in your way. There’s a kid up in the medical bay, and now a dozen more with him, all because of you. So tell me, once again, why you shouldn’t join them there.” 

 “Logan!” Lilith said. “You can’t kill him. He’s got to stand trial. Or you have sunk to his level.”

 He turned, red-faced, “This is Triplanetary business.”

 “I didn’t know the Triplanetary Fleet conducted summary executions.”

 Pausing, he turned back to Sokolov, shaking his head, and flung him back into the wall. “You aren’t worth wasting the bullet. You’re going to get your day in court, and they’ll be enough murder charges – and treason if I can make it stick – to see you spend the rest of your life in prison.”

 Brushing himself off, Sokolov replied, “You just gave my lawyers a big advantage, Winter. There are laws against brutalizing a prisoner.”

 Lilith narrowed her eyes, “Your life is hanging by a very thin thread, you idiot. I don’t think now is the right time for a wisecrack.”

 “Logan,” Harper said, “We’ve searched the rest of the module. There’s no sign of anyone.”

 “No-one at all?”

 “No.”

 He turned to Lilith, “Keep an eye on him for a moment.”

 “With pleasure.”

 Drifting back out into the module, he looked around for himself; all the doors were now open, and he peered in each one. This just looked like a standard administration module, no major modifications or changes.

 Harper shrugged, saying, “I guess they all decided to run for it.”

 “Check the computers.”

 Nodding, she dived for the nearest terminal, logging in far too easily. Furrows raced across her forehead as she furiously began to type, sliding in a datacrystal to run a series of search algorithms, but after a moment’s frustration, she turned back to Logan.

 “There’s nothing here!”

 “Nothing? That’s impossible.”

 “They’ve purged the memory, totally. Everything’s back to factory defaults.”

 “You’re sure that there isn’t a hidden firewall?”

 “No security at all, that’s gone as well.” She dived under a console, looking at the panels. “Some good news, though – the memory store appears to be intact.”

 “So you think the data can be recovered?”

 “Probably, but we’re talking days rather than minutes. And some serious equipment that I don’t have here, we’ll have to ship all of this over to the spooks on Alamo.”

 Sokolov’s voice whined out of the corridor, “All of that equipment is Cornucopia property, and I don’t think you have a search warrant. I certainly don’t remember issuing one.”

 “Shut him up,” Logan said, looking around. “There’s something wrong here.”

 “We’ve still got the information I leeched out before. It had a lot more in than just the location of the pirate aerostat, and probably enough for a good bundle of convictions.”

 “Not enough,” he said, and quietly continued, “Besides, he has a point. We’d never be able to make much of this in court, though I don’t think they’d dare risk pressing any charges on us. We need something really big.” He glanced across at a console, drifting over to it. “Well, this is interesting.”

 “What?”

 “Station sensors actually seem to be working. I’m picking up three shuttles, heading away at high speed, out towards the parked freighters.”

 “Rats deserting the sinking ship,” she replied. “Are you surprised.”

 “I guess they decided to leave their glorious leader behind.” He smiled. “No doubt they will blame the total failure of this operation on him – and we’ve got more than enough witnesses of his actions that we can have some fun in court, at any case.”

 “They’ve gone?” Sokolov said. “What?”

 “Yes, your friends have decided that discretion is the better part of valor today. Probably weren’t looking forward to their employee evaluations this year.” 

 “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he muttered. “They were supposed to come back for me.” 

 “Looks like there was part of the plan no-one told you about,” Harper said.

 “Keep working on the computers, see if you can work out where the shuttles are going,” Logan said, drifting back into the office. “Now, Mr. Sokolov, are you a little more willing to talk?”

 “I’ll say nothing without the presence of a lawyer.”

 He looked up at Lilith, then back again, “You’re in luck. I took a correspondence course once. Talk.”

 “My lawyer, a company lawyer. I have the right to legal counsel.”

 The heat of anger had left Logan, and he simply shook his head in disgust, “Talk and I’ll be able to get you some leniency. The bigger the beasts you bring down with your testimony, the less time you spend in jail.”

 “I don’t trust you,” he replied. “If I was to tell what I know, you’d just use it and be damned. I want a lawyer.”

 “Damn!” Harper said from outside, “Get out here right now!”

 Logan swung himself out of the office, “What’s wrong?” 

 “The station’s reactor. They’ve set it to run wild.”

 “What?”

 “You mean it’s going to blow up?” one of the men said. They all started glancing around, pushing slowly towards the door.

 Logan shook his head, “Just fill the station with enough radiation that none of us will live long enough to testify. How much damage have they done?”

 “Enough,” she said.

 “How long?”

 “Ten minutes.”

 He looked around, diving for a console, and pulled out a microphone, frantically tapping out a series of commands. A cluster of red lights popped onto the screen, and he hoped that enough people would hear him to have an effect. Harper reached over, putting her hand on his sleeve.

 “All you’ll do is cause a panic.”

 “Can you stop it?”

 She looked over at the console, “I don’t see how.”

 Turning to the deadly countdown, be replied, “Fine, you can’t stop it. What can we do? Where is the damn thing?”

 “Aft of the station, right at the rear. Connected by a long support strut.”

He dived out towards the door, “Have Boris meet me at the hopper.”

“There’s no time to plant explosives, and the auto-separation is disabled.”

 “I’ve got a better idea.” Logan swung from hand-hold to hand-hold, diving down the corridor towards the docking port, swinging himself in the maintenance corridor. He wished that he’d had Harper give him a countdown, so he just assumed that he had no time at all to do what he had to do. Precious minutes ticked away as he raced back down the station, seeing Boris, panting, hanging by the airlock.

 “What’s going on?”

 “I need to borrow your hopper.”

 His face grew cold, “You’re not running out on us.”

 “Quite the reverse. Don’t worry, the Triplanetary Fleet will reimburse you for the damage I’m about to cause.”

 “What? Wait a minute, I’m going with you.”

 Logan could see that Boris was going to brook no argument, so he decided not to give him a choice, knocking him unconscious with a carefully calculated blow to the side of the neck. He carefully pushed him down the corridor, then dived into the hopper, pushing through the clutter to the pilot’s seat. Tapping a button, he closed the airlock, and without waiting for it to cycle, detached himself from the station.

 “Logan,” a voice echoed through the hopper, Lilith’s he thought, “You’ll be killed.”

 He didn’t respond, instead programming a quick series of course adjustments into the computer. The old autopilot was robust, it wasn’t going to simply let him compute a collision course with the station, not without a prolonged argument, in any case. He didn’t have time to reprogram it, so he was going to have to disable it.

 First things first. While the hopper traveled the length of the station, he floated back over to the suit locker, picked on the one that seemed the best fit, and started to climb into it. He was going to have trouble manipulating the controls with the gloves on, but that couldn’t be helped. Glancing up at the viewport, he saw the hopper settling into station keeping by the reactor, less than five hundred meters away. He thanked the long-dead designer for his wisdom, and reached down underneath the console.

 Shaking his head, he took a deep breath; it was a tangle of cables and wires. He couldn’t even see where the autopilot was connected in the long-botched repairs. Glancing up at the station again, he tried to input the course, but when he attempted to fire the engines, his only reward was a series of flashing red ‘abort’ lights. No chance.

 He sat back in the couch, balling his fists with frustration. Kicking it away, he ducked under the console again, and traced back a different set of cables – the sensor controls. This was an old model, all of the critical systems wired in here – what he wanted to do was to trick the autopilot into thinking there was nothing ahead of him. Even in this old craft, there would be backups aplenty to stop him simply tearing wires out of the sensor controls, but he could just about make up a faint, worn black tab at the rear of the cabling.

 It was far too small for him to fumble with his spacesuit, so he reached into a pocket for a small depressor, stabbing down at the tab. On the third try, he clicked it, and the sensors immediately began to run a diagnostic mode, the screen flashing with data from the testing systems. With a tap, he executed the course, praying under his breath, and this time the safety systems gave no protest.

 The engine burned for a brief second, building up the speed he needed, and then the sensors began to snap back online, warnings sounding. He kicked off to the airlock, diving inside, and with a last, brief look into the hopper’s cabin, slammed down the emergency release. Both doors opened at once, slamming him out into space; he tucked in his leg to avoid crashing into the wall, and spun around on his thrusters to watch the fun.

 His suit systems were a lot more sophisticated than those of the ship he had just left, and collision warnings were sounding in his ear as his thrusters started to play again, kicking him up and away from the station, using the last of his fuel to throw him clear. Beneath him, he watched the hopper spin around, the autopilot trying at the last second to stop the collision, but it was too late.

 Shards of metal flew everywhere was the shuttle crashed into the support strut, sending it into a twisted tangle, the whole station pivoting as the reactor bobbed around, and finally, reluctantly, snapped, spinning off into space. The hopper was still just about visible, embedded in the station. It didn’t matter now if the reactor went critical, it was drifting rapidly away to a safe distance.

 He turned his head away as a millisecond blinding flash came from the reactor, and his geiger counter began to click on; he looked at the readings, and while a little high, they were just about within safe levels. Pinpricks slid into his arm as drugs pumped into his veins to counter the effects of the radiation he was absorbing, but all of that was just a precaution.

 “Logan to Spitfire. Anyone there?”

 “Harper here. What the hell happened? We just lost all power.”

 “You’ll need to find some backup power from somewhere. Spitfire Station doesn’t seem to have a reactor any more.”

 “My god.”

 “Get someone to go get Boris, then start running some checks on the station. If you could find some time to come out and get me, I’d be grateful. I’m just about out of fuel.”

 “Will do. Sokolov’s singing like a canary now, by the way – it looks as if being abandoned to die by his friends has had an effect on him.”

 “Good. Get everything transmitted to Alamo as fast as you can, just in case anything else goes wrong. What about the shuttles?” He looked around, trying to see them.

 “Wait one.” There was a brief pause, then she continued, “Still heading towards the freighters, I’m beginning to think they’re...they’re heading for Demeter. Captain Jennings commanding.”

 “Cornucopia, of course,” Logan said, “Patch me through to Alamo, as fast as you can.”

 “Damn,” Harper replied, as a crackle began to sound. “I think they’re putting on a jamming field. Being stuck on emergency power isn’t helping.”

 “Lasers, smoke signals, anything. Find a way to contact Alamo.”

Chapter 24

 Orlova sat at the Tactical console, looking at the fighters approaching Marshall’s flight on her board, running her fingers over the missile aiming keys. She’d programmed two of them for atmospheric flight just on the off-chance, and the urge to call for permission to fire was all but overwhelming her. She kept running through scenarios in her mind, trying to work out how she would fly the mission, what tactics she would use – and how little she could do sitting up here on the bridge, with the action hundreds of miles below.

 “Alamo to Shuttle Flight, come in Shuttle Flight,” Weitzman said at the rear.

 “You might as well stop, Spaceman,” Zebrova said. “By now the fighters will be on their scopes anyway, and there’s no reason to give them another distraction to deal with. They’ll need to concentrate on the battle.”

 “Aye, ma’am.”

 “There has to be something more we can do,” Tyler said from the helm.

 “Mind your station, Midshipman,” Zebrova said.

 “They also serve, those who stand and wait,” Spinelli muttered as he scrutinized his console for any change. “Wow!”

 “Not much of a report, Spaceman.”

 “Aspect change from Spitfire Station, ma’am! Big time! A shuttle just smashed into the reactor complex – and now I’m getting some serious radiation spikes from it. I’d say we’re looking at a meltdown in progress.”

 “What about the station?” Orlova said, turning in her chair.

 Spinelli shook his head. “I think it’s too far away to effect them, but it definitely represents a serious navigational hazard.”

 “Log it for destruction at the first opportunity,” Zebrova said, turning back to the viewscreen.

 Steele leaned over to Tyler, “Plot a course back to the station, just in case.”

 “Yes, ma’am,” the midshipman replied. “I didn’t think…”

 “You need to learn to anticipate. It’s not as if you have anything else much do while we’re sitting here in orbit.”

 Orlova listened to the exchange with half an ear, still watching her console like a hawk. She glanced up at the freighters, still floating there in free orbit, hanging close to the station. Frowning, she tapped another series of controls.

 “Spinelli, I’m reading an energy spike from Demeter, could you take a closer look?”

 “Probably just powering up to move away,” Steele said. “I would with that reactor around.”

 “Confirmed, energy spike from engines. Aspect change as well, she’s heading for the hendecaspace point.” He glanced down at his console. “The dogfight will be starting down there in a minute or so, want it thrown onto the monitor, ma’am?”

 “There’s nothing we can do to influence the fight. Continue to monitor, and report significant progress,” Zebrova replied. 

 She was quite right, of course, but that didn’t make it any easier. Orlova continued to watch the Demeter, plotting its course to give her something to distract her from the battle below, then started to frown.

 “Spinelli, are you reading what I am from Demeter?”

 “Full-power burn.”

 “Is this germane?” Zebrova asked.

 Orlova turned to face her, “Freighters don’t use full-power burns unless they have to – they don’t want to waste any fuel, it’s their bottom line. They coast. So why are they traveling at full speed?”

 “I’m seeing some shuttles leaving Spitfire now. Heading for Demeter.” 

 Zebrova responded, “There’s no reason to suspect any suspicions behavior. It’s just as likely that they are evacuating some company personnel.”

 “There’s no reason not to suspect it, either. If Cornucopia is involved in this, then we need to stop that ship.” She paused, “I recommend that you attempt to contact them, order them to stop for inspection.”

 “On what grounds, Sub-Lieutenant,” she replied. “I can’t just stop a civilian ship because I have some suspicions about it.”

 “Then I recommend keeping our options open. Break orbit, head for Spitfire. How long would it take, Midshipman?”

 “Thirty-one minutes, ma’am.” 

 “They might need help over there anyway.”

 “Has any distress signal been received, Weitzman?”

 “No, ma’am, but…”

 Zebrova turned to face him, “But what, Spaceman?”

 “There’s a lot of interference building up. It could be the radiation from the reactor, or it could be a deliberate attempt at jamming.”

 “We’d be abandoning the Captain,” Steele said.

 “Five seconds to fighter engagement,” Spinelli said.

 Frowning, Zebrova glanced at Orlova, then nodded, “Break orbit, full speed to Spitfire Station, and I want an interception course for Demeter as soon as you can make it happen, Mr. Tyler.”

 “Yes, ma’am,” the midshipman said with relish as he implemented the course.

 “There’s nothing we can do for Captain Marshall at the moment,” she said, “He’s going to have to work out his own salvation. We’ve got to stop them from escaping. Mr. Weitzman, hail the Demeter.”

 “Aye, aye,” he said, working his console. Orlova started to reprogram all of her missiles for maximum speed, suddenly getting the idea that she was going to need all of the weapons in her arsenal.

 “Losing sensor contact with surface...gone. I’ve lost the Captain and the others,” Spinelli said.

 “Focus all resolution on Spitfire Station and on Demeter. Anything, Weitzman?”

 “Nothing, ma’am, and I know we’re punching through the interference. They can hear us.”

 Steele frowned, “What if they can’t respond?”

 “They could use a message laser if they wanted, we’re well within range.”

 Focusing on her work, Orlova knew that everyone on the bridge was worrying about the battle taking place on the planet below, trying not to think about it. There was nothing they could do to help – nothing other than watch. It was impossible for them to provide any meaningful support, but breaking orbit and leaving them behind was a very hard thing to do. The acceleration was pushing her down on her chair imperceptibly, a reminder of what they were doing – of what she had advocated they do.

 “Still nothing from Demeter, ma’am,” Weitzman said, “and nothing from Spitfire Station, either.”
 “Shuttles closing in,” Spinelli reported, his head crouched low over his panel.

 “Time to intercept?” Zebrova asked. Tyler started working on his instruments, typing away, consulting his panel, which she stared at him with those iron eyes. Finally, she turned to Steele, who leaned over and worked on the panel for a few seconds, tapping a pair of buttons.

 “Forty-one minutes to intercept with Demeter, at the latter’s current rate of acceleration,” she said.

 “Very good. Take guidance, call Mr. Kibaki to the bridge.”

 Both Steele and Tyler looked at her; she nodded, but Tyler said, “I wanted to make sure the course was as fast as I could make it, ma’am.”

 “Explanations are not needed, Mr. Tyler, nor will they be of any use to Alamo in a combat situation. Sometimes,” she looked at Orlova, “instant decisions are needed. This is not a demotion from the bridge; I will assign you additional simulations later.”

 “Aye, ma’am,” Tyler said, looking down at the deck as he walked off the bridge. He paused, and turned, “Permission to remain on the bridge as standby crewman.”

 Orlova clenched her fist under her station, and Zebrova turned to face him, looking him up and down, pausing for a heartbeat, before finally nodding.

 “Permission granted.”

 Smiling, he moved to the rear of the bridge, wrapping his wrist around one of the arm restraints as the elevator opened, and a heavy-eyed Kibaki walked out, the top button of his uniform undone.

 “Is there a problem, Lieutenant?” he said.

 “Take the bridge operations station, Mr. Kibaki. I anticipate the possibility of imminent hostile action, and want experienced hands at their stations.”

 “Aye, ma’am.” He glanced at Tyler, then walked around the bridge to assume the recently vacated station, sliding comfortably into place before glancing at guidance and tactical, quickly taking a look at the current situation. Raising an eyebrow when he saw their projected course, he turned to the viewscreen and began adapting the console to his settings.

 “The shuttles have docked now, ma’am. Demeter is maintaining its course and speed.”

 “Weitzman, anything?”

 “No, ma’am,” he replied, fiddling with his earpiece. “I’ve got the gain turned up as high as it will...ARGH!” Snatching the earpiece out of his ear, he dropped it to the floor, shaking his head.

 Tyler snatched the medikit from the wall, racing over to him, “What is it, Otto?”
 The technician looked up, tears in his eyes, “Signal. Strong signal.” He tapped the console, “Got it recorded.” 

 “Orlova…,” Zebrova said, but she was already on her feet, walking over to the console. Tapping a few buttons, she nodded, and started to type and extended sequence.

 “It came from Spitfire. High-intensity data burst, very high. I’m unscrambling it now, but it’s headed with a video feed. Putting it on.”

 “Good.”

 The image of Logan Winter appeared on the screen, somewhat battered and bruised, a gash on his forehead that was still wet with blood. He was obviously wearing the bottom half of a damaged spacesuit, hands propping him up.

 “Lieutenant Winter to Alamo. Cornucopia Mining is connected with the pirates, and probably the Cabal as well. All the data we have is included in this broadcast. Critical that you intercept Demeter; the bulk of the conspirators are on board. We’ve got serious power problems, and unlikely we’ll be able to cut through the jamming again for a while. All systems otherwise nominal. Winter out.”

 Zebrova nodded, “You heard the man. Steele, can you shave any time off our path?”

 “I’ve been going over it ma’am, but I don’t think so. Tyler set a pretty good trajectory.” The midshipman beamed at the praise, but Zebrova simply nodded. Orlova started paging through the data, looking at random files.

 “There’s enough material here to keep Senate committees tied up for months. Most of this material is fabrication blueprints, but there’s also listings of ship design specifications, personnel files, psychological profiles. They were info-jackers, working for the Cabal, at a guess.” She stood up, shaking her head, “If this can be connected to anyone specific, it’s the biggest counter-intelligence coup for a decade.”

 “We can worry about that later, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 Nodding, Orlova walked back to her station, “Yes, ma’am.” 

 Weitzman, after a few painkillers, had returned to his station and gingerly replaced his earpiece, starting to cycle through the frequencies again. He turned sharply to Zebrova.

 “Demeter responding sir. Captain Jennings speaking.”

 “Very good. Put him through.”

 Jennings appeared on the screen, wearing a fresh jumpsuit; the control room behind him was a hive of activity, and most of the figures behind him were a lot more disheveled; Orlova recognized a couple of the captives from the pirate ship.

 “You wanted to speak to me, Lieutenant Zebrova?”

 “Captain, I’m ordering you to cease acceleration and stand by to receive boarding parties. You have on board individuals wanted by the Triplanetary Confederation on charges of murder and treason. Heave to.”

 He shook his head, “I’m operating under company orders, Lieutenant, to proceed to Sol immediately.”
 “This is a military order, Captain Jennings. Under Triplanetary law, you must heave to.”

 “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Do you have a warrant from a judge?”

 “Damn it, you bastard,” Orlova interrupted, “we risked our lives to save you. We’ve got everything we need to convict the people you are protecting of treason.”

 “Sub-Lieutenant,” Zebrova said, sharply. “Control yourself or leave the bridge.” She turned back to Jennings, “Unless you cease acceleration immediately, I will be forced to take measures to compel your compliance.”

 “You do what you have to do, Lieutenant. As will I. Demeter out.”

 The screen winked out, and Zebrova turned to Orlova. “As the officer in command, Sub-Lieutenant, I will speak for this ship. That is my prerogative, not yours.”

 “Yes, ma’am.”

 “I do not expect a repetition of such behavior. Do I make myself absolutely clear, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 “Yes, ma’am, you do. I apologize for my actions.”

 “Very well, apology accepted. This time,” she replied. “Call all hands to battle stations, if you please.”

 With a wolfish smile, she nodded, tapping a series of buttons. Sirens began to sound as Zebrova addressed the ship, “All hands, report to your battle stations. Repeat, all hands report to battle stations. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill…”

Chapter 25

 Grimacing, Marshall pulled his shuttle into a tight turn, swinging around his target. His sensors were drifting in and out of missile lock, and he struggled to pull around to get his shot, his finger dancing close to the railgun in an attempt to take him down the old-fashioned way. The two of them were thrown to the right by a gust of wind, a storm brewing in the sky. He caught a quick flash of explosion to his right, Cunningham’s missile tracking into its target.

 Shaking his head, he dived down towards his prey like an avenging angel, and was finally rewarded with a flashing green light, the missile locking on, and took the shot. Curving lazily away to the left, he glanced down at the missile camera as it sped towards its target, and pumped his fist as another explosion reduced the enemy numbers to one.

 Still one left, and he looked around the sky, his sensors drawing him to the rear. Acting on instinct, he hurled his craft to the left, and his countermeasure warning lights all flashed on, a missile in the air, targeted at him. He tapped another button twice, and a pair of his anti-missiles flew from the rear airlock, catching their deadly target from both sides, slamming in with a satisfactory explosion.

 Caine dived in behind him, using the brief distraction, and a beam of dancing light leapt from the nose of her shuttle, ripping through the clouds until it connected with her target, tearing it to pieces as the fragments crumpled into nothing. Marshall glanced at his fuel gauge; he still had plenty of time on target before he had to return to the safety of orbit.

 “Shuttle One to Shuttle Flight. Good work, everyone, now let’s continue to the target.”

 “Shuttle Three to Shuttle One, these railguns are great. We need to get some for Alamo.”

 “Not sure we’ll be doing much dogfighting with battlecruisers.”

 Cunningham’s voice was less certain, “Am I the only one who thinks that was too easy?”

 “Crap,” Caine said. “Better look at your scanner.”

 Marshall looked down, and his eyes widened as he saw six more fighters weaving through the sky, flying at full burn from the direction of the aerostat. He’d expected three, maybe six in total, but nine – that meant the aerostat had been more heavily modified than he thought.

 “We’ve only got four missiles left, Danny,” Caine said. “We could try taking down the aerostat with railguns, but I’m the first to admit I got a lucky shot with the dogfight.”
 “I think we should consider an abort,” Cunningham said. “Wear them down with attritional warfare.”

 Shaking his head, Marshall replied, “Negative, John. If we pull out now we’re just giving them a chance to get away. We’ve got to do this now.”

 “How?” Caine said.

 Looking at his scanner again, he said, “Forget about the fighters. We go full-burn for the aerostat, one of us launches our attacks while the other two provide cover with the railguns.”

 “Those railguns can only fire for three seconds until they run out of ammunition!” Cunningham replied.

 “I guess we’ll just have to make each shot tell, then. I’ll go in first, you two cover. Full burn for the aerostat.”

 Pushing down the afterburner, he felt the acceleration pushing him back in his seat, a familiar and comforting feeling, but he had to ride the controls carefully as swirls of wind tossed him aside. Behind, the other two shuttles were following suit, each of them flanking him from a different direction. They smashed through the approaching formation without trading a shot, and Marshall allowed himself a brief smile; they’d take time to recover from that, precious seconds wasted while they made their way back to the target they were meant to be defending.

 The aerostat loomed ahead, appearing on his short-range sensors, and Marshall took a careful look at the design. Two extra gas-bags, racks for fighters, an extra underslung module; it was lying low in the atmosphere, and he suspected that they were pushing the engineering of the design as hard as they could. The trick was the gas bags – hit one of those, and the whole complex could simply crash down to crush depth before they could react.

 “This is Shuttle Flight to Aerostat,” he said, not really expecting an answer. “You have thirty seconds to surrender; we are beginning our attack run.”

 “Is it wise to warn them, Danny?” Caine said. 

 “I doubt they think we’re playing tag,” he replied, as he swooped in towards the aerostat. The pirates were throwing out all sorts of jamming signals, sending his sensors into a crazy, distorted mess, so he flicked over to visual acquisition. For five seconds he held a close course, giving the missile plenty of time, and then fired, swinging around and to the left, punching his afterburner for a second to dive away.

 Watching his scanner, he willed the missile towards its target, watching it fly straight as an arrow, but then two smaller objects raced from the underslung module, homing in on their target, and the explosion was a mile short of the aerostat. Cursing, Marshall pulled his shuttle back around, racing back towards the approaching fighters.

 “Cunningham, you’re next, I’ll cover. Caine, you go last, let them both fly at once. Don’t use any missiles under any circumstances.”

 “Shuttle Two, making attack run.”

 The six fighters were turning back towards the aerostat now, obviously spending fuel at a furious rate, in two clusters of four and two. Without a second thought, Marshall dived towards the larger group, his finger hovering over the railgun trigger. As he approached, stabbing at the heart of their diamond formation, they split into four directions, giving him a millisecond shot; he tried a couple of quick bursts, but they harmlessly slid past.

 Caine was lancing away at her duo, swooping and diving around them, taking advantage of her increased agility as she tied them in knots; Marshall wished he could have watched her, but behind him, Cunningham was settling in for his attack run. The fighters were scrambling across the sky, and he pulled around to fire another quick burst at the nearest, sending him scurrying away.

 “Missile away!” Cunningham yelled, and Marshall glanced at the scanner, shaking his head with frustration as the screen began to fog up again; the pirate’s electronic warfare man was doing his work well today.

 “Negative impact,” Cunningham said, dejectedly. “Deadeye, your turn. Swing back, I’ll cover you.”

 “Wait one,” Marshall said, “I’ve got a better idea. John, hold them off for a few seconds. I’ll ride in with Deadeye and cover the missiles with my e-war screens.”

 “How much fuel have you got left, Danny?” Caine said.

 Marshall glanced at his indicators, his gauge running down close to the red line, and with a smile, replied, “Plenty.”

 “Six boys for me, then,” Cunningham said, arcing around in a tight curve and swooping around to fly past Marshall, dipping his wings as he dove for the pack. Caine closed in underneath him, barely a few meters away; this was formation flying at its finest, and a stray gust of wind could lead to disaster. Marshall’s hands rested on the controls, maintaining the level flight path as best he could, trying to anticipate the air movements and the eddies.

 The aerostat was getting closer again, and he readied his railgun for a last-ditch shot. In this environment, the missiles were going to outpace him considerably, and he was going to have to ride the afterburner hard to keep up. Caine, beneath, got caught by a stray wind, almost tossed into his fiery wake, but compensated just in time.

 “Hurry up, guys!” Cunningham said, “I’ve got two on me!”

 “It’s dangerous around here,” Caine replied, “Stand by, getting visual lock.”

 Marshall took a deep breath, “I’m ready on your mark. When you fire, go back into the pack, then burn out of here.”

 “You’re assuming we hit it, then.” She paused for a second, “Missiles away!”

 Twin plumes of flame raced out from her shuttle, and Marshall slammed onto the afterburner, staying as close to them as he dared, recklessly spending his fuel. Slowly they pulled ahead of him despite all his efforts, and he flicked on his e-war package; as expected, they were doing their best to swat the missiles out of the sky.

 Then the expected – at the fifteen-mile mark, almost the wink of an eye from the target, a pair of anti-missiles raced out. This time Marshall was ready, and the railgun burst into life, an arc of death racing ahead of the shuttle. It didn’t stop the missiles, but it did confuse them, and Caine’s missiles slammed home into the gas bags as he scraped over them by a matter of a few feet.

 Turning back, he saw a huge flash. The explosion must have caught a pocket of hydrogen gas, and combustion was instant; all that remained of the pirate base on Kumar was a sprinkling of debris being tossed in the wind. His celebration was short-lived; the two anti-missiles were still out there, and had locked onto him. He tapped his anti-missile switch, but instead of an explosion to his rear, his heads-up display started to spew out text, headed with the words ‘Critical Malfunction’.

 Frantically, he threw switches, diving back and forth, slamming on his afterburner, sending his fuel gauge dipping underneath the red line. One of them veered away, diving out of control into the distance, but the other stayed on him, locked in to their mutual destruction.

 “Danny, what’s going on,” Caine’s voice said.

 “Got one locked on. Get out of here, you two, back to Alamo. I’ve got this.” 

 He started to dive, desperately trying to gain speed, and alarms started to sound in the cockpit as he tried to pull up. Finally, his defenses did their job, but only a split second before they hit the hull, and he heard a loud bang in the rear compartment as alarms started to go off; he had a hull breach, and the now-empty fuel tanks were filling with the toxic gases from outside.

 Tapping his communicator, all he got was a red light. The system had been knocked out by the near-collision, both aerials ripped away, and signal strength was lousy down here as well. Pulling up, he tried to gain altitude, but his status board was reading angry red, only a few amber warnings to break the pattern, and his afterburners had also failed. The altitude reading continued to fall, and sirens sounded as his ship passed the crush depth, the hull starting to creak and groan.

 Calmly tapping a button, he turned all the warning indicators off, and all was silence, interrupted only by the creaking of the hull. He settled back in his couch, still burning his crippled engines at their maximum, trying to maintain height, but there was no way he could pull back up, not even onto a suborbital trajectory.

 The battle was over; no-one was going to trouble him down here, and at least he could have the satisfaction that he had accomplished his mission, that the pirate threat was gone. Cunningham would be more than capable of finishing the work he had begun.

 He began to enjoy the amazing view, purples, oranges and greens swirling around each other in a whirlpool of beauty, the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the sky. No human had ever been here before, never dared to go this deep into Kumar. A few adventurous souls had risked their lives to go deep into the atmosphere of Jupiter and Saturn, and some of them had even returned to tell the tale, but this was new.

 His communicator was still working, at least after a fashion, and the roaring of the storms outside filled the cabin as he turned the volume up, waves of sound washing over him. Inexorably, the shuttle began to fall, the thrust failing to match the pull of gravity dragging him down towards the core. The designers of the craft had evidently done their work well, it was surviving miles deeper than their estimates, and Marshall idly wondered what it would be like at the end, whether he would have any time to know what happened to him.

 There was a slam on the hull, and he braced himself for the end. No time to put on a spacesuit, not that it would have done him any good anyway. Then a series of loud bangs, and the topside hatch began to open. Scrambling out of his couch, he saw Caine’s head bobbing through the docking port.

 “Come on, for God’s sake,” she said. “Hurry, my afterburner won’t hold much longer.”

 In four strides, he reached the hatch and jumped up into it, swinging himself through the narrow port and into the other shuttle. Caine was already closing up behind him as he raced for the co-pilot’s seat, and she slammed on the afterburners to maximum, sending the shuttle roaring up through the atmosphere, leaving his craft behind; he looked at it for a second before it descended out of view.

 “Damn it, Deadeye, what are you doing?”

 “Rescuing you.”

 He tapped the panel, “You don’t have enough fuel to get out from this far down. Now we’re both dead.” 

 “Not yet, we’re not,” she replied, tapping her communicator. “John, you ready?”

 “All set, Deadeye.”

 Up ahead, the other shuttle was waiting, and on a single pass, Caine tapped her control thrusters and brought them in for a hard dock. She turned to him and smiled, then threw a switch to enable remote control of thruster and guidance control while the rear hatch once again swung open.

 “We’ve turned the shuttles into a two-stage rocket.” Glancing down at the fuel gauge, she continued, “Come on, hurry up. We need to move!”

 “You first, Deadeye,” Marshall said, lingering by the controls. With a curt nod, she raced to the hatch, and Cunningham snatched her up into his shuttle.

 “Come on, Danny!” he said, and with a last, quick look at the doomed craft, he followed her into the last of their three shuttles. Caine had already settled into the co-pilot’s seat, and he looked around, cursing that all of the passenger seats had been stripped out to save weight. With nowhere better to sit, he crouched down by a bare patch of wall.

 “Riding the two ships up,” muttered Cunningham as he struggled with the controls, and the heads-up display showed the course he was attempting to chart, the curve gently rising, finally poking up out of the atmosphere. He glanced down at his fuel display, then nodded.

 “We’ve got it. Enough fuel to circularize the orbit when we get back out into space.”

 “What about the rest of the fighters?”

 “They headed off into orbit themselves; they’ve got nowhere else to go. Alamo can mop them up later, though I doubt they’ll give us any trouble. What exactly can they do?”

 The atmosphere thinned out as they continued to climb, and Cunningham started his final burn to free them from Kumar’s gravity, swinging them up into a stable orbit.

 “Just enough, but we’ll have fumes in the tanks at the end of this.” He glanced at his passengers, “Didn’t count on your weight.”

 Caine frowned, “Shouldn’t we have heard from Alamo by now?”

 Marshall walked up to the console and tapped a button, “Marshall to Alamo, come in please.” He paused, then repeated, “Shuttle Two calling Alamo, come in.”

 Looking down at the sensor, Caine shook her head, “All I see in orbit is a small cluster of fighters up ahead. No Alamo.”

 “Where the hell are they?” Marshall asked, as he continued to search the sky for his ship.

Chapter 26

 There were muted cheers across Alamo’s bridge as they saw the single shuttle climb out of the atmosphere of Kumar, though tinged with concern; two of their colleagues and friends had failed to return, it appeared. They were getting deep in the jamming field, the communications systems swamped with data.

 “Try and get a message laser lock, Mr. Weitzman,” Zebrova said, her eyes not wavering from the viewscreen.

 “I am, ma’am, but it’s at extreme range.”

 “I think it’s Shuttle Two, ma’am,” Spinelli said from the sensor station. “Lieutenant Cunningham’s ship.”

 Zebrova nodded, then turned to Orlova, “Ship status, Sub-Lieutenant?”

 “All systems nominal, ma’am. Espatier squads ready for boarding action, shuttles at last-stage preparations for launch. Missile bays ready for firing, laser charged and cleared for action.”

 Kibaki added, “All decks report at action stations, all department heads prepared, sickbay ready to accept casualties.”

 “Damage control teams prepared on all decks, systems good.” There was a slight quiver in the voice of Prentis, new to the flight engineering station, but his hands were steady on his controls.

 Zebrova nodded, “Time to intercept?”

 Steele turned her head, “Between two hundred and two hundred ten seconds, dependent on changes to target aspect. Optimum firing range twenty-five seconds after intercept, window of opportunity approximately seventy seconds.”

 “Very good. You may take the spin off the ship.”

 Kibaki tapped in a sequence on his panel, then spoke into his headset, “Flight Operations to crew. Stand-by for zero gravity in ten seconds.”

 Orlova noticed quite a few of the bridge crew slipping their Garn pills into their mouths, Steele squirting a quick gulp of water to wash it down. She counted herself lucky that she was at home in zero-gravity; she’d spent enough time in it over the long hauls of her youth to remove any trace of spacesickness. She glanced up at Zebrova; she hadn’t taken a pill either. Sliding a restraint over her waist, she continued to monitor the ship.

 “Offer them one more chance, Mr. Weitzman,” Zebrova said.

 Working his panel, he said, “Alamo to Demeter. Surrender and prepare to be boarded. This is your last chance. I repeat, surrender and prepare to be boarded.” He looked up, “They’re replying, ma’am.”

 “Put them on.”

 Jennings’ face appeared again, “This action is being undertaken in contravention of the rules of free space, and we deny your request and demand that you cease your pursuit.”

 “I’m sorry you feel that way, Captain,” Zebrova replied, “But you will be receiving our espatiers in a few minutes. Alamo out.”

 “You’re sure they’re unarmed?” she asked Orlova.

 She nodded, replying, “Probably will have basic countermeasures, but there are no visible missile ports or emplacements. They might try and improvise something, but all of our systems are ready if they do.”

 “Aspect change on target!” Spinelli said. “Change to outer hull, aft. Energy spike!”

 “What the hell?” Orlova said, looking at her display.

 “Hidden weapons?” Zebrova stood up, taking cautious steps to stand behind her.

 She craned her head to look up, “Hidden afterburners.”

 “Demeter is gaining speed!”

 “Time to firing range is now three hundred seconds. Three hundred twenty. Three hundred forty,” Steel said, reading from her console. “Ma’am, they will now reach the hendecaspace point before we can intercept.”

 “Damn.”

 Orlova shook her head, looking futilely at her board, the laser ready for action, the missiles prepared to launch. Her eyes widened and she tapped down on her control board.

 “Mulenga, this is Orlova on the bridge. Have you a stand-by course programmed in?”

 “Yes, for Sol, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 “Send it up to my station.”

 Zebrova coughed to attract her attention, “You have a course of action to suggest, perhaps?”

 She looked up, “We can’t reach them in time, and we can’t do anything to them at this range, but if I fired a missile within the next twenty seconds, it will get within electronic warfare range.” 

 “What good would that do?” Steele asked.

 “Plenty, if I can hack into their astrogation systems. If I can make a few changes,” she called down the Mulenga again, “Lieutenant, can you program that course to, say, Shakespeare Station?”

 “Easily, Sub-Lieutenant, it’s a minor change. I’ll get started.”

 She looked up at Zebrova again, “I need to fire now, I can make the modifications as we go.”

 “Do it,” she replied, returning to the command chair. Orlova stabbed down on the launch button, and the ship briefly shook as the missile raced away. Calling up the on-board computer, she started to work, frantically; she was going to have to guide it in all the way, make sure that Demeter couldn’t do anything to stop them.

 The missile raced ahead, and she tapped a button to jettison the warhead. Just excess weight now, and the extra acceleration might prove invaluable. When it got close enough for her to begin her hack, she was going to need every second to make it work – and she rather expected they’d have better than normal security to fight through.

 “Missile window of opportunity fifteen seconds,” Steele said. She slowed Alamo down, saving fuel for later; there was no way the battlecruiser was going to catch the freighter until it was too late, in any case. Orlova tapped a series of buttons, turning off all the safety controls, feeding every scrap of fuel she could into the missile’s engine, heedless of the risk; she needed those seconds.

 While one hand was optimizing the engine, the other was feeding intrusion protocols into the missile, purging every unnecessary scrap of code from the system; no need for guidance control when Alamo’s own systems were doing the job.

 “Demeter is pulsing its countermeasures,” Spinelli reported.

 “I’m on it,” Orlova said, focusing on her work. Naturally enough, they were focusing on preventing a collision, so she played along with that, sending the missile a few degrees to port, not enough to affect her window of opportunity, but enough so they would assume they had been successful. No decoys, nothing that might throw the missile out of its track.

 With a winking light, the course she had requested came up from astrogation. A big file, of course, big enough that it was going to take an appreciable number of seconds to send, but that was not a problem. If she got her initial hack right, she’d have those seconds and more. She paused for a couple of seconds, flexing her fingers. This was going to be a very busy twenty-nine seconds.

 “In range!” Steele said, and Orlova furiously began to type, firing her intrusion software at Demeter’s systems. They had been boosted, but she and her team had been working on improving these programs for months, and all of that work was now paying off. Sneaking through the first couple of layers of protection, she set programs hunting around for the astrogation files, dumping anything she could find back towards Alamo for later analysis; there was one file that almost seemed to throw itself at her when she dived into the system, and that automatically went behind a firewall as a precaution.

 Faster and faster she typed, and quickly she got where she needed to go, setting up a datalink. A lot of the course computations would be similar, so it was just a question of overwriting the system – and at the same time, trying to make it look as if she was attempting the much easier job of deleting it. The enemy sysop was good, but not good enough – he was going after the decoy hack, not her main target. Just as she wanted.

 She spent a brief second glancing up at the clock, fourteen seconds to go. The software was all busy doing its job, she was now just monitoring, feeding the new course into the computer. Grimacing, she quickly started to type again; the sysop had worked it out, and was trying to move the backup course into the system. Ten seconds, now, this one was going to be tight. Her course was in the computer system, locked down, so all she had to do was defend it, make sure that it couldn’t be changed. Once they were in hendecaspace, they would be stuck; they’d have their choice of where in Uranus-space to end up, but that was all.

 Four seconds to, and she was beginning to think they were going to make it, but they were launching a series of attacks on the missile now, probing at it to try and disable it, reacting just a little too late for it to make a difference.

 “Two seconds,” Spinelli said. “One. Zero.”

 With a bright blue flash, Demeter disappeared into hendecaspace, and Orlova continued to work her station, trying to make out whether she had managed to protect her hack or not. Zebrova drifted up behind her, all acceleration now off, looking over her shoulder.

 “Report, Sub-Lieutenant.” 

 “Wait one, ma’am.” She continued to work, then looked up, a smile beaming on her face. “Demeter will be appearing at Shakespeare Station in about five days, ma’am. No doubt they will be disappointed not to be arriving at Sirius.”

 Zebrova smiled, and clapped her on the shoulder, “Good work, Sub-Lieutenant.” She turned over to Weitzman, “Spaceman, that jamming field should be clear now. See if you can contact Shuttle Two.”

 He glanced down at his console, then smiled, “They’re already calling us, ma’am.”

 “Put them on.”

 “Marshall calling Alamo, come in Alamo…” The rest of his message was drowned out by the cheer sounding across the bridge, and it was a good twenty seconds before order was returned; Orlova yelled along with the rest of them, and Zebrova made no effort to stop them, simply picking up an earpiece.

 “Alamo here, sir.”

 “All three of us are on Shuttle Two, we’re in a stable orbit around Kumar, and there are six fighter pilots in orbit that are just begging to surrender.” He paused, “Now could you tell me what the hell is going on out there?” 

 “Alamo broke orbit to pursue the freighter Demeter. It’s left the system, but thanks to a bit of trickery from Sub-Lieutenant Orlova, it will be arriving at Shakespeare Station in the next few days. We should follow them at the first opportunity.”

 “Well, for the present, come back and pick us up. This shuttle is cramped for three with no passenger compartment. Good work all. Marshall out.”

 Zebrova turned to Tyler, who was still standing at the rear of the bridge, a smile on his face. She gestured towards the guidance control station.

 “I think you can resume the helm now, Mr. Tyler. We can run through a few battle simulations later.” Turning back to the front, she said, “Mr. Kibaki, you may return to your quarters now.”

 “Thank you, ma’am, but I’m wide awake now,” he replied, smiling.

 “In that case you might as well go down to the hangar deck and assist with the incoming prisoners; no doubt Captain Marshall will wish independent interrogation.”

 Nodding, he pushed himself off the console, drifting clear, “I’ll see to it, ma’am.”

 As he left the bridge, Zebrova turned to Orlova, “I’d like to see you in the Captain’s office. Steele, you have the conn. Have spin returned to the ship as soon as possible, and inform me instantly if anything changes.”

 “Yes, ma’am.”

 Zebrova drifted with ease into the office, Orlova turning to follow. They both took positions facing each other, hanging close to the floor to prepare themselves for the return to gravity.

 “I’d like to discuss your performance during the battle, Sub-Lieutenant.”

 “Yes, ma’am.”

 “Do you think you made any mistakes?”

 She nodded, “I should have anticipated that Demeter might have hidden modifications; we might have been able to change the battle plan to compensate.”

 “Perhaps, but unlikely; I didn’t consider that option either.” She frowned, continuing, “I had an initial impression of your abilities that was, I feel, to an extent unjustified. Your service record to date is somewhat unconventional, but I am confident that it will improve over time.”

 “Thank you, ma’am.”

 “And I trust that, in your assessment, I performed well in the battle as well.”

 Orlova’s eyes widened in disbelief; she was teasing her. “I think you did a good job, ma’am.”

 “I’m glad to hear it.” She turned, looking out at the starscape again, “You may or may not be aware that I turned down a command of my own to take this assignment.” At Orlova’s raised eyebrow, she continued, “I had reasons for being here, and still do. Nevertheless, when Alamo’s current tour is completed, a few months from now, I anticipate receiving my own command, and I intend to request you as my Tactical Officer.”

 “Ma’am…”

 She raised a hand, “Naturally, you have no obligation to accept, but I would suggest you consider it.”

 “Thank you, ma’am.”

 “Now, shall we go and capture the remaining pirates?” She began to drift out of the office, and Orlova followed her, an eager smile on her face.

 “Aye, aye, ma’am!”

Chapter 27

 “You can’t be serious,” Logan said over the communicator.

 Marshall, sitting behind his desk, nodded, “I’m totally serious. You are the obvious choice as military commander of Spitfire Station.” 

 “Except that I don’t want the job.”

 “Hmm...let me see. I’m a Lieutenant-Captain, and you are a Senior Lieutenant. That means I outrank you, and if I chose, could assign you as Officer Commanding Zero-G Toilets. You’re getting off lightly.”

 “Damn it, Marshall, this whole thing was supposed to be temporary.”

 Waving a datapad in the air, he replied, “Read your contract. You agreed to sign on for a minimum of three years…”

 “Yes, but that was with the understanding I wouldn’t have to.”

 “Really?” Marshall smiled, “I wasn’t at that meeting.” He paused, shaking his head, “I know you want to get back to your life of crime, but right now I need you on that station. I’m sure that it will only be temporary; no doubt Admiral Delamar will send a more senior replacement shortly.”

 “Can’t you spare one of your people?”

 “No. I’m already losing one, and I can’t strip the ship further. To be blunt, Lieutenant, I don’t need you. Besides, you did well on the station, and they actually seem to like you over there.”

 “I resign.”

 “Not accepted. And no, you can’t accept your own resignation when I’m gone, either.” 

 “What makes you think I won’t deliberately screw things up?”

 Shaking his head, he replied, “You’ve got just enough pride in yourself – and even in the bits of uniform you are wearing – not to do that.”

 With a deep sigh, Logan replied, “I want a bribe.”

 “What?”

 “A bribe.” He looked to his left, “Look, I’m on my own out here, and you don’t think I can run a station by myself, do you? I’ve got to sleep sometimes.”

 “What do you want?”

 “Ryder’s up for a promotion, isn’t she?”

 “Yes,” Marshall said, cautiously.

 “Fine. Give it to her and send her over as my deputy. I need someone good over here, if only to handle all the paperwork and admin stuff.”

 “She’s not going to thank me for this…but agreed. I suppose that’s fair enough.”

 “I want some espatiers as well.” He paused, and before Marshall could reply, said, “I know where you are going, granted, but I need some. You’re sending some off on Orion anyway, give me some of those. A fire team, and you can promote Volski and put him in charge.” 

 “Private Volski? Why?”

 “Because he was smart enough to come to my attention, but not so smart to realize that it might not be a good idea.”

 Tapping commands on a datapad, Marshall looked up, “I’m processing the transfer orders now, but that’s as far as it goes. One officer, four troopers, you’ll have to manage.”

 “And Harper.” 

 Sighing, he replied, “I need her…”

 “She knows far too much about critical intelligence software.”

 “You gave it to her!”

 “The source of her information isn’t really relevant. Besides, she’s over here, and possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

 “Fine, Harper as well – but that is it, Winter!”

 Nodding, Logan replied, “Just make sure all of our stuff gets shipped across on the transfer shuttle.”

 “Will do.”

 “And the best of luck with the big trip, I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

 “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

 Turning off the communicator, Marshall looked over at Cunningham, sitting in the corner of the room, out of shot. His face was still cracked with a smile, and it was obvious that he was making an extreme effort not to laugh. 

 “He really hustled you there, Danny.”

 Shrugging, he replied, “He probably has a point. I can’t just leave him out there by himself – and Ryder might as well enjoy her promotion. She might be waiting for months otherwise.”

 “You could always send her out with me.”

 “Sorry, John. She’s needed here.”

 Cunningham looked out at the scout, drifting beside Alamo, “Are you sure about this?”

 “Not much of a first starship command, but she’s got some pretty advanced hardware. I suspect they’ll just name you as commander permanently when you get back; I think the re-insurers will be too busy taking Cornucopia to the cleaners to protest about the fleet taking the ship. I’d fight to keep that communications suite if I was you..”

 “Don’t worry, I will.” He paused. “Why not give it to Zebrova? She wants a command.”

 “She turned down one of those, and with good reason.” He stood up, looking out of the viewport. “It has to be someone senior, and it has to be someone with connections. You’re taking all of the data that Winter and Orlova sucked out back with you, as well as a memory store that could see some of the most prominent businessmen in the Confederation tried for treason. Not to mention that your first act will be to capture a freighter.”

 “I hate to say it, but…”

 “Alamo should go back? Under normal circumstances, it would, but we have a mission to complete. I know that Commodore Tramiel would probably be happy enough with the outcome, but…”

 “You just want to go.” 

 “Yes,” he nodded, sheepishly. “If we don’t head out now, we might not get another chance for months – if ever. I’ll settle for being a little short-handed.”

 “Me, ten crewmen and now just four espatiers – to guard seven prisoners.”

 “Keep them locked in the hold.”

 “With guns trained on the door, I know.” He looked around the room again, “I’m going to miss all this.”

 “I’d like to have you with me out there, but…”

 “I know. I’ve got a job to do, and I’ll get it done. You realize this makes Zebrova your new Exec.”

 Grimacing, Marshall said, “I’ll adjust. Who knows, she might actually be good for me.” He paused, then said, “Thanks for coming after me.”

 “You’d have done the same for me. In fact, you did, when I first came on board. I won’t forget that.” Holding out his hand, Marshall shook it firmly. “It has been a pleasure serving with you, and I hope to do so again.”

 “So do I. When are you heading out?”

 “We’re completing the last few system checks now, so in around three hours. Alamo?”

 “As soon as I decide where we’re going.”

 “You still haven’t?”

 “Two choices. I might end up tossing a coin.”

 Nodding, Cunningham made for the door, “I’d better go over to my ship, get them moving.” He paused, turned and saluted, “Permission to disembark, Captain.”

 “Granted, Lieutenant,” Marshall replied, returning the salute. “Have the drinks lined up when we get back.”

 “I will.” He walked out of the office, and Marshall turned to sit down behind his desk, pulling out the datapad with the two courses projected on it. Both of them could take him out to the Cabal, but equally, both of them could lead nowhere. The hardest choice of his career, and he had no information to work with.

 Trying to distract himself, he browsed over the summary of the data retrieved from Spitfire. Undoubtedly, it was fantastic material – proof that the ‘piracy’ was nothing more than a ruse to transfer data to operatives of the Cabal. The only question that remained was why Alamo had been sent for; all he could think of was that the insurers had started to complain, and that Cornucopia had decided to ask for help in the expectation that they wouldn’t receive it. Had Tramiel not had other things in mind, they’d have been right. His reverie was disturbed by the door chime. Dropping the datapads down to the desk with a clatter, he looked up.

 “Come in.”

 Orlova walked in, clutching a datapad, her knuckles white. She looked as if she had been struck on the head, and sat down with a daze opposite Marshall; she had tears in her eyes.

 “What’s wrong? News from home?”

 She shook her head, then placed the datapad down on the desk opposite him, “When I ran the hack on Demeter…”

 “Nice piece of work, by the way; I’ve put you in for a commendation.”
 “There was a file that seemed to jump out at me when it recognized the intrusion software. I thought it was a virus, so I placed it securely behind the firewall, and I started to examine it half an hour ago.”

 “And?”

 “It’s a video file, tightly compressed. I’ve checked it out, and I know it’s genuine. The date readings indicate that it was made six years ago, and the header makes it clear that it is intended for senior Martian or Triplanetary officer present.”

 “Interesting,” Marshall said. “What does it say?”

 “I don’t know, sir. I only watched the first second or so, just to make sure it was real. I can assure you, with absolute certainly, that it is.”

 “Well, throw it up on the monitor, let’s take a look.”

 She shook her head, standing up, “No, sir. This one is for your eyes only.”

 “Your clearance is only one step behind mine, besides, you found it.”

 “No, sir.” Her hand was shaking. “I’ll have the senior staff meet in the briefing room in fifteen minutes. I think you’re going to want them when you’ve seen it.”

 “I thought you didn’t know what the message was.”

 “Trust me on this one, Captain.” She paused, “If you need to talk, afterward, then feel free.”

 Looking down at the datapad, Marshall frowned, then nodded, “Very well, Sub-Lieutenant. I’ll see you in the briefing room shortly.”

 Nodding, she turned, leaving the room. The door slid shut behind her, and he looked down at the datapad, rubbing his hand across his chin. He couldn’t imagine what would make the implacable Orlova act like that. Settling himself down, he activated the message, and then immediately hit pause.

 His father’s face was looking up at him from the screen. Marshall’s eyes shot up to his picture on the wall, then back to the datapad. It was him, could be no-one else. A few more lines, hair turning gray, but it was his father. Taking a deep breath, he played the message.

 “This is Major William Marshall, formerly commander of MSS Hercules. If you are reading this message, then you have successfully hacked a spaceship operating under the aegis of the Cabal, an organization that dominates a stretch of space beyond Sol System. Their intentions, to the best of my knowledge, are to ultimately take control of all human space.”

 “I must regretfully report that my ship was taken by subversion; infiltrators were able to control all critical systems, forcing my surrender. The loyal members of the crew and myself are to be disembarked on a world on the outer limits of their empire, the sixth planet out from Innes’ Star. My understanding is that they are providing us with needed support systems, and we are being treated as prisoners of war under the terms of the Fifth Geneva Convention.”

 “This message is being made without the knowledge of our captors. Attached you will find a list of those who are stranded, those who have opted to turn traitor, as well as my current impressions of the tactical situation, and everything we know about Innes’ Star.”

 “I request that you immediately pass this message on to higher authority, and attempt to organize a rescue mission. My men and I will be waiting for you at Innes’ Star; we’re counting on you to save us.” Someone spoke off-camera, and he glanced to the right, “Also – pass a message to Second Lieutenant Daniel Marshall, my son. Tell him that I love him.” He looked off-screen again. “Good luck. Marshall out.”

 He stared at the empty screen for what seemed like hours, then played the message again, watching every frame, then closing his eyes to listen to his father’s voice again. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he rubbed them with the back of his hands to clear them, reaching for a tissue. He pulled out the datapad again; the choice of destination could not be more obvious now.

  Looking at his father’s face up on the wall, he said, “I’m coming for you, Dad. I’m coming to bring you home.” Then he tapped the intercom, “Captain to crew, attention. Stand by for hendecaspace transition in twenty minutes. All personnel proceeding to other postings, report to transfer shuttles on the double.”

 Tapping for the bridge, Steele’s face appeared, “Sir?”

 “Make best speed to the hendecaspace point. You will conclude jump immediately on arrival.”

 “To Proxima Centauri, sir?”

 “No.” Tapping for astrogation, he said, “Mulenga, implement your course for Innes’ Star.”

 “Excellent,” he replied, “We’re going somewhere new. What decided you?”

 “I’ll tell you at the briefing.”

 With a smile, he replied, “I’ll see you there.”

 He stepped out onto the bridge, looking around at the faces who turned to him as he approached, confusion on their faces.

 “Mr. Weitzman, please seal the ship of all outgoing communications. Nothing in or out.”

 Frowning, he nodded, “Aye, Captain.” He tapped a sequence of buttons, “All secure, sir.” 

 Settling down in his command chair, he said, “Thank you. Put me on speaker.”

 “You’re on, sir.”

 “This is the Captain again. As you know, our mission following the removal of the pirate threat was to proceed to Proxima Centauri, to engage in field exercises. That mission is now canceled; I am operating under sealed orders, direct from the President.”

 Faces turned to each other, and he continued, “Our orders are to head out into unexplored space, and attempt to locate the Cabal. This is the most important mission we’ve ever had, and it’s going to require each and every one of you to do their best. We won’t be coming back home for a long time, and I apologize for the deception.” He paused again, clutching the datapad, “Our first destination is Innes’ Star, where we will proceed to rescue personnel from MSS Hercules.”

 Those of the bridge crew who knew his connection to that ship began to smile, Weitzman nodded to himself, and Spinelli started to beam.

 “All hands, stand by for jump.” He sat back in his chair, heedless of the officers waiting for him below, and looked back at the picture of his father. Fourteen years without any word, any hope, and he might be seeing him face to face in a week.

 “Course ready for hendecaspace point, sir,” Tyler said.

 “Then by all means, Mr. Tyler, lets get on with it.” He sat back in his chair as Alamo’s engines fired, urging it to its destination. Seven days. That wasn’t long to wait.

Thank you for reading 'Not One Step Back’'. 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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Coming Soon...

Battlecruiser Alamo, Book 6: Battle of Hercules

Spitfire Station, Book 1: Triple-Cross

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27