VICTORY OR DEATH

Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 3

Richard Tongue

Battlecruiser Alamo #3: Victory or Death

Copyright © 2013 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

First Kindle Edition: August 2013

Cover By Keith Draws

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

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

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

There's a race of men that don't fit in,

A race that can't stay still;

So they break the hearts of kith and kin,

And they roam the world at will.

They range the field and they rove the flood,

And they climb the mountain's crest;

Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,

And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far,

They are strong and brave and true;

But they're always tired of the things that are,

And they want the strange and new.

They say: "Could I find my proper groove,

What a deep mark I would make!"

So they chop and change, and each fresh move

Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs

With a brilliant, fitful pace,

It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones

Who win in the lifelong race.

And each forgets that his youth has fled,

Forgets that his prime is past,

Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,

In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;

He has just done things by half.

Life's been a jolly good joke on him,

And now is the time to laugh.

Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;

He was never meant to win;

He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;

He's a man who won't fit in.

'The Men That Don't Fit In', Robert Service.

Chapter 1

Roaring applause echoed around the room as the champagne bottle hit the side of the station, dozens of officers and men mingling with the combined dignitaries of five planets in a wide variety of styles. It wasn't often that even two ships' crews were in the same place at the same time, but the Triplanetary Fleet had managed to assemble four of them for the ceremony, mixed in with the crews of Ragnarok's Home Fleet. Through the window, the long shapes of Alamo, Samar and Thunderchild drifted at station keeping, while a squadron of fighters flew in at high speed, cutting just past the station in a well-rehearsed flyby.

Counter-Admiral Remek looked back from the window and grasped the podium with both hands, the long black hair that had become her trademark flowing around her shoulders as her severe eyes seemed to lock on everyone in the room, bringing the crowd to silence. With her left hand she made a swift gesture to the band in the corner, before turning to address the room.

"I hereby dedicate Hunter Station, headquarters of the Triplanetary Deep Space Fleet!"

The band started to play the Triplanetary anthem to thunderous applause, albeit most of it single-handed with most of the crowd now wielding champagne glasses. Lieutenant-Captain Daniel Marshall stood at the forefront of the crowd, looking at his espatier officer, Ensign Esposito, loitering around near the back with the junior officers. Sergeant Hunter had been her first NCO; it hadn't taken much lobbying on his part to have the Triplanetary base that was hastily constructed around the newest addition to the Confederation named for his sacrifice during the short civil war on the planet below.

An older woman came forward out of the crowd as the anthem came to an end, Remek stepping back to allow her to pass. The Governor-General of Ragnarok, recently elected in the colony's first democratic elections, stepped up to the podium; Governor Cooper had eschewed any formal wear, instead choosing an old but obviously well-cared-for uniform. She looked across at the band, and nodded; the local musicians were looking forward to this part.

"As the Governor-General of Ragnarok, I hereby welcome the Triplanetary Fleet for what I hope will be a long stay! Boys?"

With a flourish, the band started 'Waltzing Matilda', and with a final round of applause, a pair of flags began to rise up flagpoles at the rear of the room, flanking the viewport; the left the black and green of the Triplanetary Confederation, the right the black and yellow of the Republic of Ragnarok. The crowd began to spread out, and Marshall made his way over to the bar; Esposito and Sub-Lieutenant Orlova, one of his other junior officers, were sitting around talking quietly.

"Quite a show," he began.

"We were just talking about Hunter," Orlova said, taking a sip of her drink. "I think he'd have loved this."

"I still can't believe they got this station finished so quickly. Mostly modular materials, I know, but the construction engineers really did their stuff this time," the Captain replied.

"Can I get you a drink, sir?" Esposito asked, glancing at his glass.

"Thanks, Ensign, another champagne, I think. Good year on the Martian vineyards this time; I think they're finally getting the climate controls right." He turned back to Orlova, "Getting used to being a department head yet?"

She shook her head, "My department still hasn't turned up yet, I'm still a one-man band."

"That's fine, Maggie, you always work best that way," Esposito said, "Besides, the last security chief didn't exactly leave a high bar for you to jump over."

The three of them smiled, though Marshall was forcing it a bit. "If you want to have a good long-term career in the fleet, Sub-Lieutenant, you're going to have to get used to running a department. Which means paperwork, personnel issues, all sorts of fun."

"We have different ideas of fun, sir."

"Oh, I agree with you. That's why I filched Matsumoto as my Admin Officer."

Esposito put the refreshed glasses on the bar, taking her card back from the busy bartender, before looking more seriously at the Captain, "Sir, are we going somewhere?"

"Not that I know of. We're still waiting for assignment. I wouldn't be surprised if we're going to be here for a bit, though; with the Republic grabbing Sirius and Procyon I hear that they're planning to wave the flag pretty high for a while."

"Just before we left for the party, I got notification that my third squad was being returned."

Marshall frowned, "When?"

"Immediately. Corporal Forrest handed me the orders himself; apparently he and his squad were shipped out on the Mullane. I double-checked, and we didn't receive any advance warning from Mariner."

"That's odd. I'm not turning it down, though. Nice to have a full platoon on board again."

The door opened, and a crowd of pilots walked in, still wearing their flight jackets, setting off a brief twinge of envy from Marshall, who rubbed his wings unconsciously with his left hand. The squadron leader, a tall blonde with short-cropped hair, made her way over to the bar, calling out to the barman for a double vodka. She slid into seat next to Marshall, knocking back her shot in one then gesturing for a champagne.

"You Marshall?" she asked, grabbing her glass by the stem.

"Yes," he replied, somewhat taken aback.

She slapped him on the shoulder, then smiled as she saw his wings, "We're going to get on. I'm Tabby Dixon."

"Pleased to meet you," he said, baffled. He gestured across to the others, "Ensign Esposito, Sub-Lieutenant Orlova."

"Read about you two. Both got your wings out at Shakespeare, yeah?"

Before either of them could reply, Marshall interrupted, "You seem oddly well-informed, Lieutenant."

She chuckled, "I should be. I'm your Squadron Leader. Me and two of my gang are coming on board. You've already got one holdover, Douglas, right?"

"Hold on a minute. You have been assigned as my Squadron Leader?"

"As of this morning. Transfer right here," she patted her jacket pocket, "Didn't anyone tell you?"

"I didn't even know we were carrying fighters." That was a half-truth, but he'd gone to some efforts to keep the fighter his chief engineer, Lieutenant Quinn, had been rebuilding out of old components a secret.

"Well, now you know. Where are we going?"

Marshall drank his champagne down in one gulp, then shook his head, "I didn't even know we were going anywhere."

The familiar figure of Lieutenant Caine, his Tactical Officer, was making her way through the crowd towards him, a puzzled expression on her face that mirrored his own. There seemed to be some movement at the rear of the room; the other captains were making their way out, and Flynt's dates were making a bit of a scene about it. There was no sign of Remek, either. She seemed to have vanished immediately after the dedication ceremony.

"Gotta go, Danny," Caine said.

"If you have any idea what the hell is going on, then I would really like to know now, Deadeye."

"All I know is that all commanding officers are to make their way to the flag office immediately for a crash briefing. Tactical and Executive Officers are getting one as well."

"Who's this?" Dixon asked, gesturing at Caine.

"Ah, Lieutenant Caine, my Tactical Officer, meet Lieutenant Dixon, our new Squadron Leader."

"What?"

"That was my reaction. We'd better get out of here and compare notes later. Esposito, make sure no-one gets too drunk in case we have to get out of here in a hurry. Better get them back to the ship after they finish what they're drinking."

Caine shook her head, "We finally get a party, and we have to bug out after the speeches. Typical."

Clapping her on the shoulder, Marshall hurried out of the room, jogging down the corridor towards the elevator. Flynt had beat him to it, holding the door open with an outstretched arm as the young captain raced in. The doors slammed shut as he leapt inside, Flynt tapping the button to send it down the decks.

"You know what this is about?"

"Only that there are five Captains present."

"Five?"

"Skippers of the Mullane and the Makarov beat me to the door."

The door opened a few seconds later on a bustle of brass; three other Lieutenant-Captains were standing outside the closed flag office door, their conversation brought to an abrupt halt by the arrival of the elevator. Marshall knew one of them; he'd been at the Academy with Frank Rogers, captain of the Mullane, but he'd no idea that his old friend had transferred across from the Martian Space Service. Lieutenant-Captain Ben-David was the commander of Thunderchild, he'd never met her before, but knew that she had recently transferred across from the Callisto Patrol. The third man he had never met; his face was dour, a frown seemingly a perpetual resident of his face. His nameplate read, 'Gorski', his uniform so fresh that it must have been new. Before he could speak to Frank, the door opened, and a fresh-faced Lieutenant wearing the shoulder braid of an Admiral's Aide stepped through.

"Admiral Remek will see you now."

The five of them filed in, taking seats at the rear of the table. Remek was talking with Commodore Tramiel, commander of the Deep Space Fleet – and that came as a big surprise to all present, as he was supposed to be at Mariner Station. Only Frank didn't display any shock; obviously the grizzled old commander had taken passage out on the Mullane. An Espatier Lieutenant-Major sat looking down at a datapad on Remek's other side, another new face to Marshall. Displayed on the holoprojector by the wall was something that immediately caught his eye – a starchart, with a trio of trails dancing across it from star to star. Tramiel noticed his interest, and a hint of a smile crossed his lips.

Remek turned to the officers, placing her hands on the desk, "Well, Captains, I'm sure you are all wondering why I took you away from the party. Not to mention what your next assignments are to be. I'll start with an announcement that I am certain will be good news to all of you; as of a week ago, the Triplanetary Senate has assigned funding for the next four years of Fleet Operations. We're here to stay, gentlemen. Which is why there are five of you here, not three; the Michael Mullane and the Oleg Makarov are among the assets being transferred to form our Auxiliary Fleet."

There were smiles around the room from all but Gorski, who continued to stoically look forward. Marshall, looked up at the chart again, and asked, "Admiral, I found out a few minutes ago that Alamo's been assigned another Espatier squad and a fighter wing."

Tramiel looked at Remek, then turned to Marshall, "Security restrictions meant that all personnel transfers for this operation had to be kept tight, Captain. I'm sure you'll find uses for them where you are going."

Flynt gestured up at the chart, "And where might that be?"

Remek stood up, and walked over to the holoprojector, all eyes following her, "The mission involves all five of your ships, the entire Deep Space Fleet. Home Fleet will handle the normal patrol duties for the duration of this assignment. We're calling it Operation Dampier, the exploration of deep space routes beyond Ragnarok, beyond Lalande 21185."

She paused for a second to let that sink in, before continuing, "With the recent establishment of a Republic colony on Procyon III, our prospects for future interstellar expansion are threatened. This is the aim of your mission; to find out what lies in those worlds before the Republic can get to them." Tapping a series of buttons, the routes illuminated one by one, "Each of you has been assigned a flight path to examine strategically placed stars along the routes from Ragnarok. All three of those routes begin and end right here, at this station – which will be the jumping-off point for all future exploration from this system. That's why we threw it together in such a hurry."

Marshall was stunned. All his life, he had dreamed of leading an expedition into deep space, to probe the limits of the unknown, and now he was finally going to get to do it. Flynt and Ben-David were grinning, Rogers looked enviously at the other captains, and Gorski continued to look as if the whole concept bored him.

Finally, he said, "What about the Makarov, Admiral?"

"We're keeping a tanker and a pair of tenders here in case they are needed. The Brandenstein will be joining us in a week."

"For a potential rescue mission?"

"Or support." She looked seriously at each of the exultant battlecruiser captains, "Before you get the idea that this is some sort of wild adventure, you should realize that on three occasions in the last year we have lurched close to war with the Republic. If they are out there, then our mission analysts suggest a realistic possibility of a military confrontation. I do not rule out a surprise attack. It might be thirty or fifty years before we seriously start exploiting the territory that you will be heading into, but we must prevent a Republic land-grab at all costs."

Ben-David arched her eyebrow, "Including war, Admiral?"

"As a last resort. Don't start a war, but if they push it, you are authorized to respond." She tapped a button, and the display switched again to a series of tactical projections. "Our intelligence indicates that they have two battlecruisers stationed out at Procyon, and I can't imagine they are just sitting there waiting for Godot. I believe they are out there, and if there is something out there – another Ragnarok, another Desdemona, then we need to find it first."

"How long have we got, Admiral?" Marshall asked.

"We're keeping this one open-ended; after all, we don't know what you are going to find out there. We'll expect you back in six months, and someone will come looking for you after that. You should have enough supplies to last a year at least, more if you stretch them." She looked around the room again, "I've seen that you have all the resources we've got. All holes in your crews are filled, and between the three of you are two full squadrons and an Espatier company. Do what is necessary." She waited for her last bombshell, "And your departure time for the nearest egress point is in three hours."

"Three hours?" Flynt and Marshall spoke almost together; Flynt continued, "Admiral, I'll be lucky to get all my crew back on board in three hours."

"What's the urgency, anyway?" Ben-David asked. "Last time an expedition this big left known space, they spent three years getting everything together."

"Security. I want to stay a jump ahead of the Republic, and I don't doubt that they still have sympathizers on Ragnarok. No non-military traffic will be leaving this system for ten days after your departure. Hopefully that will give you all an advantage." She looked around the room again, then down at her watch, "Right now, your senior officers are being given a substantively similar briefing by members of my staff. Once you are underway, feel free to brief your crews."

She returned to her seat, turning the holoprojector off, continuing, "This could be one of the most important missions you are assigned. Your discoveries could shape Triplanetary policy for the next three decades. I don't need to tell you all to get this right. I'm sure that you are all eager to return to your ships. Any more questions?"

Silence filled the room; Marshall caught himself looking at the door. "Then dismissed." As Marshall stood up, Remek raised a hand; "Not you, Captain Marshall. Please remain a moment."

The rest of the staff filed out, Flynt tapping him on the shoulder as he talked to Ben-David on his way out of the room, and Tramiel throwing him a sympathetic smile as the door slid shut behind him. Remek sat, looking at Marshall, holding him in eye contact with her gaze as if she was trying to scrutinize his soul.

"Admiral, if this isn't urgent...", Marshall said, thinking of a thousand things he needed to be doing rather than sitting here.

"Jack Tramiel talked me into assigning you to this mission, Captain." She raised her hand, "This has nothing to do with your record, and I still have every confidence in you as a battlecruiser commander. I have concerns, however."

He'd been trying to suppress that thought, but now it came racing back, "My father's ship was last heard from out at Procyon."

"I have concerns, Captain, that you might choose to expand your mission parameters. That's why you aren't heading out that way – though it means next to nothing. Hercules had full tanks, and could easily have made its way into your exploration area."

"Admiral, I hope you know that I will dedicate myself entirely to this mission. Exploring deep space has been my dream since, well, the war. I have no intention of passing up the chance."

"And if you find evidence of Hercules out there? Evidence of your father? What then?"

He weighed his answer for a few seconds, before replying, "That would have to depend on the circumstances, Admiral. I can give no more honest answer than that."

She actually smiled in reply, "I don't think I would have believed any other answer. I know, Captain, that if you find direct proof that your father is out there, you are going to go to any lengths needed to bring him home. You would do that whatever I said, and all we'd get is an embarrassing court-martial. Am I close to the truth here?"

"Yes, Admiral. If you think that means that I am not suited to this mission, I can only apologize."

"Not at all." She looked down at a datapad, then slid it across the desk, "I know that Captain Flynt at least would probably do this anyway, but I've made Hercules a secondary mission objective for Dampier. Any information relating to the disappearance of that ship is to be brought back. If returning the ship is reasonable in the circumstances, then by all means bring it home. Bring me a good case and I'll put together an expedition to retrieve it if necessary."

"Thank you, Admiral."

"I want you to do something for me in return."

Marshall frowned, "Admiral?"

"Don't do anything stupid, and don't take any unnecessary risks. I'm going somewhat against my better judgment in sending you on this assignment, and I would appreciate it if you don't do anything to undermine Commodore Tramiel's faith in you. Is that absolutely clear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then have a good trip, and by all means, good hunting."

She stood up, and saluted; Marshall rose to attention, snapping off as good a salute as he could manage in return.

"By your leave, Admiral?"

"Dismissed."

He walked from the room, heading to the elevator, but his head was in another place entirely. As the door closed behind him, he started a data search for the three stars that Alamo would shortly be exploring, then tapped a button to recall the crew. He tapped for the shuttle bay, then paused, and added another search term - 'MSS Hercules'.

Chapter 2

Alamo's security room was a mess. Quinn's technicians had only just finished moving in the specialized programming workstations for the hacker team; what had been a wardroom for half a dozen security guards was now meant to be a sophisticated electronic warfare defense suite. Orlova looked around her new home, shaking her head – a small cubicle-sized office on one wall, dominated by a desk with a couple of chairs seemingly squeezed in as an afterthought, and five workstations in various states of repair, lockers filled with grudgingly acquired and badly packed spare parts. Taking off her uniform jacket, Orlova started to tidy up the room, picking up some of the more delicate components and putting them away.

There were two schools of thought regarding the role of a security officer; the Patrol way, and the Martian way. In the Callisto Orbital Patrol, security chief meant bodies walking the decks with guns, men standing outside critical installations to protect against physical sabotage. For the Martian Space Service, security meant hacking. Computer warfare, protecting ship systems and aggressively attacking those of an enemy. When Captain Marshall had given her the job, just a fortnight ago, he'd made it clear which of the two he was expecting her to focus on. The Espatiers could pound the deck if need be; she, on the other hand, had managed to demonstrate a knowledge of basic hacking techniques.

A stocky woman with beady eyes walked into the room, shaking her head, wearing the uniform of a Chief Petty Officer. The seams were crisp and fresh, the Alamo patch new to her shoulder. She walked over to a workstation, ignoring Orlova, and started to log into the system. When the young officer stopped to walk over to her, she turned back, scowling.

"You've got a lot of work to do, Spaceman. I suggest you stop gawking and get on with it. Have you seen the Security Officer?"

Silently, Orlova walked over to her jacket and slid it on, making sure that the rank insignia were visible; she could swear that the chief rolled her eyes when she saw the officer's marks on the shoulder.

"That would be me, Chief. Sub-Lieutenant Orlova."

"Chief Petty Officer Washington." She looked around the room. "You just arrived as well?"

"Just transferred down from the bridge. Mr. Quinn was a bit reluctant to get us set up."

"Those engine jockeys don't understand software. Answer to everything is to hit it with a hammer. We got a crew yet?"

"They're supposed to be along shortly."

Washington frowned, "Don't you know?"

"No more than I knew you were coming. Alamo's had a lot of new personnel in the enlisted ranks we weren't expecting this morning."

"Huh. Well, I'll set up the duty rosters for your approval once I've met them." She gestured towards the office, "I expect you'll want to get yourself set up in there, Sub."

Orlova looked at her cubby-hole of an office as the chief made herself at home, and replied, "I tend towards a more hands-on style of command, Chief. Once we have our new staff, I'll go over the roster. I'll have a one-on-one with each of them when they arrive."

The Chief turned from her workstation, "This is your first department head position, right, Sub?"

"Yes."

"Let me give you some advice..."

"Officers tell the NCOs what to do, Chiefs get on and work out how to do it."

That caught the chief by surprise; an eyebrow rose. "Usually it takes a while for that to sink in."

"I was enlisted myself not that long ago."

The chief smiled, "Ah, a mustang! That's a bit better. So you've actually worked for a living, then."

"Yeah."

"I think you might be a bit easier to break in. I don't know much more about the roster than you, Sub, but we've got one rookie coming in. That much I know. Figure I take her on Beta Watch, you and the second-best guy on Alpha, and the best one on his own on Gamma. Use the spare to fill in gaps."

Nodding, Orlova replied, "That's about what I would have done."

"Probably take us most of our next transition to get everything set up. Any idea if we're going into combat?"

"All I know is that something big is going on. Captain was just in some meeting with the brass."

"Always means trouble."

A tall, gangly man peered around the door, wearing a spaceman's uniform. He looked around at the piles of components on the floor as if he was about to have second thoughts about entering.

"Senior Spaceman Chapman, reporting, ma'am?"

"Come on in, Spaceman," Washington said. "There are a lot of boxes around here with your name on them."

He looked around, shrugged, and made his way over to the heaviest before replying, "The rest of the division is on the shuttle after mine."

"Fine. Put them to work as soon as they get here," Orlova said. She was interrupted by her communicator buzzing, and she pulled it out of her pocket, "Orlova here."

"Executive Officer here, Sub-Lieutenant. All department heads wanted in the observation room."

"The observation room?"

"That is correct, Sub-Lieutenant. Immediately."

"On my way, sir."

As she placed the communicator back in her pocket, she felt the gravity begin to change, the rotation slowing down, replaced by acceleration. Alamo was on the move. As she walked out of the room, Washington was shaking her head.

"Trouble, like I said."

Orlova ran down the cramped corridor; Alamo's sensor decks were essentially the 'bowels of the ship', and showed it. Always the last to get the cosmetic maintenance, and with all the stores they had received lately, even more crowded than usual. The elevator came as soon as she called it, priority to her hand-print; as the doors were about to close the dark figure of Senior Lieutenant Mulenga, Alamo's Astrogator, stepped inside.

"Ah, of course. You will be attending these meetings henceforth," he said.

"More meetings. Is that what promotion means, sir?"

"Usually. The mark of a good officer is getting eight hours work done in whatever time remains after dealing with administrative requirements." He smiled, white teeth glaring, "I suspect, though, that this meeting might be worth it. I take it you were not notified of our departure, either?"

"You weren't? Sir?"

He shook his head, "I would be wary of informality with Mr. Dietz, or Mr. Cunningham, Sub-Lieutenant. I called the bridge; apparently the Captain returned from his meeting and ordered an immediate departure. The remaining transit shuttles are burning to catch us up, I understand. Obviously we are in a hurry."

The doors opened, and the two of them were the last to arrive, attracting an irritated stare from the stiffly formal Executive Officer, sitting bolt upright on one of the chairs. Quinn was lounging in his work jumpsuit as usual; Orlova strained to remember the last time she had seen him wear a formal uniform. Esposito was sitting next to Cunningham, the new Operations Officer, and Caine next to Dixon, the new fighter commander. The Captain had been looking around at the view; when he heard the elevator he turned to face the room.

"I'm afraid we're out of chairs."

"I can stand, Captain," Mulenga said. Orlova perched on the arm of Esposito's chair, getting another look from Dietz.

"First, sorry for not warning you about our departure. My orders were that Alamo should sail at the earliest opportunity, and aside from a couple of shuttles that should be with us in a quarter-hour, we were ready to go." He looked around at his officers, a smile on his face. "This mission is top priority, and involves the entire Deep Space Fleet. Basically – we're going exploring."

Orlova and Esposito looked at each other, smiling; Mulenga seemed content as well, though Dixon was frowning; the fighter pilot asked, "What are my guys going to do? I get that you might need some grunts," she gestured at Esposito, "but what about us?"

"You are here because we don't know what we're going to be facing. We know – at least, we assume – that the Republic is poking around out there, and if we end up toe-to-toe with a battlecruiser, I want a fighter group ready for launch."

Dietz's brow furrowed, "Is that a realistic possibility, sir?"

"Hell, its a big galaxy," Orlova added.

"That I don't know. There is also the possibility of contact with a hostile alien power, or even another human culture such as that on Ragnarok. We're going out to see what there is to be seen. I have no intention of provoking a fight, but I certainly want to be ready to face one if it comes to it. I expect us to be out for at least six months, possibly longer. Thoughts?"

"All bridge stations are ready. I'm still concerned about having midshipmen as guidance controllers, though," Cunningham said.

"Consider it a good sign that we have midshipmen now. This should be good experience for them. Tactical situation?"

"A lot of unknowns. I'll have a rummage through the files. Where are we going?"

"Starting at FL Virginis. See if you can come up with a briefing pack for the crew. Mr. Mulenga, our course is FL Virginis, Wolf 358, Ross 128, then back to Lalande. Run through the course computers, see what other options we might have if it becomes necessary."

"I would recommend not altering our flight path, Captain," Dietz said.

"Always good to have options, Lieutenant. For that matter, Caine, expand your search to every star within range of those. If something might be about to leap out at us, some advance warning would be nice."

"I'll see what I can do, skipper."

"Mr. Quinn, your thoughts."

"Should be fun."

Marshall rolled his eyes, then replied, "Engineering reports?"

"Usual wartime routine, I figure. I'll get the lads cannibalizing spares rather than throwing them out, get the fabricators on repair projections for a long cruise, and keep a close eye on the hendecaspace drive. Normal stuff. Going to take us a while to inventory all the stuff we got loaded on."

"Make that a priority."

"Aye, sir." He looked over at Orlova, "Can I talk about the computer security situation now, Cap?"

"My department should be fully operational by the time we reach FL Virginis, sir," Orlova said, attempting to forestall a debate she knew might prove difficult to win.

"Good, Sub-Lieutenant. Mr. Mulenga, given that we don't have a scientific team on board for this mission, I'd like you to do double-duty as Science Officer. Your scanning section will be doing most of the work, anyway."

"I will take a look through the personnel roster, sir; it may be possible to transfer some people with useful qualifications into the Astrogation department, at least on a temporary basis," Dietz said.

"What about the small craft, Lieutenant Dixon?"

The pilot leaned forward, shrugging; she was still wearing her flight jacket, patches of half a dozen squadrons proudly sown onto the sleeves. "I found out about Quinn's fifth fighter; if I can tap some of the wings on board, should be able to put up all five fighters without any trouble at once. Already got my guys dueling in the simulators."

Cunningham rubbed his chin, "What about the shuttles, Lieutenant?"

"Technical Officer Salgada has that covered. All six look good."

Quinn turned to the pilot, "I'll come round and work on some maintenance schedules, if you want."

"Sure, have a word with Salgada next chance you get." Quinn's face dropped slightly; evidently maintenance schedules weren't the only topic on his mind.

Going past the disappointed engineer, Marshall walked over to Esposito, "What about your platoon, Ensign?"

"I wasn't expecting to get Third Squad back, but they're all old Alamo hands, so it should be fine. Sergeant Kozu's setting up a revised training program right now."

"Good." Marshall looked around, "Speaking purely personally, this is the mission I joined the service to fly. Let's make it good. Mr. Dietz, we should get back to your cross-training program as soon as possible. Put a focus on our middies. Actually, Caine, fancy being training officer?"

"No, sir." She grimaced at the prospect.

"Thank you for volunteering. I'm hoping your department will have the quietest time, but..."

"Keep the lasers ready and the missiles hot. Aye, Captain."

"There is one other matter, one that I believe most of you are aware of. Aside from keeping an eye out for the Lunar Republic, our secondary objective is to look for any sign of the MSS Hercules."

Orlova looked up, "She was lost in this area."

"Last around Procyon-way. I'll be preparing a briefing pack for everyone myself, but you should all review the materials on the ship. Any trace, any sign, is to be reported and thoroughly investigated."

Cunningham frowned, replying, "This is an official mission objective?"

"It is indeed, Lieutenant."

"I'm missing something," Dixon said, looking around the room.

Caine volunteered, "The commanding officer of MSS Hercules – lost, what, twelve years ago – was Major William Marshall."

"My father. Sub-Lieutenant Orlova's father was on that ship also. I won't deny that I have something of a personal stake in this, but I assure you all that I will remain objective." Orlova nodded, not at all certain whether she was capable of the same level of objectivity. Come to that, she wasn't sure that Marshall was, either.

The Captain continued, "We'll be jumping for Virginis in about nine hours. If we're missing anything vital, we need to know before then. That's all, dismissed. Sub-Lieutenant Orlova?"

"Sir?"

"Would you hold on a minute?"

"Aye, sir." The rest of the officers filed out of the room, most of them excited, even if some of them wouldn't admit it. Dixon looked the most disappointed; her pilots were likely destined to spend more time flying shuttles than fighters. Not quite what she would have expected given Alamo's combat record. The door closed, leaving the two of them alone in the observation room as Ragnarok appeared in the viewscreen, slowly receding as Alamo gained speed.

"Don't worry about Quinn, Sub-Lieutenant. Just do a good job and you'll stay an independent department."

"I was planning to do a great job, skipper," she replied, smiling.

"How's Washington?"

"Bit of butting-heads, but I think we'll get on."

"She's good. I put in a request for her. Ten years ago she bashed some sense into a rookie squadron leader who thought he knew it all."

Orlova smiled, and nodded, "Is that all, sir?"

"No." He pulled out a pocket holoprojector, and displayed a head-shot of a teenager; green hair sprouting from her hair in a semi-random style. She looked vaguely familiar; it took Orlova a few seconds to recall.

"Isn't that Senator Harper's daughter?"

"I'm afraid so. He's been on the fence with the Fleet, and I gather he decided to get someone at Personnel to do him a favor."

"She's not..."

"She is. According to the proficiency tests, she's actually a pretty good hacker. I think we'd better try doing something useful with her rather than instantly assigning her to scrubbing the decks."

"Sir, I know that my start in the service wasn't exactly orthodox..."

"You were a smuggler when I hired you. That's probably as far from orthodox as I can imagine, especially for a security chief." He paused, "I hate to dump this on you, but she fits most logically in your department."

"Her reputation..."

"Is none of our business, Sub-Lieutenant." Marshall crossed his arms, "She's just another Spaceman Third Class. If she becomes a real problem, then I'll bury her somewhere she can't do any harm, but I think the Senator would look favorably on the fleet if we could, well..."

"Tame her?"

"Something along those lines."

"Is this one of those tests of a new officer, sir?"

Marshall laughed, "We all get lumbered with this sort of assignment from time to time. Even Captains. Do your best; that's all I ask."

"I will, sir. Maybe I'll get her to switch to career."

"Let's not expect miracles, Sub-Lieutenant," Marshall said in between laughs.

After the laughter subsided, Orlova looked up at Marshall, "Sir, if we find any trace of the Hercules..."

"I give you my word that I will make sure you are in on the hunt. I certainly will be. If she's still out there, then we'll find her."

Chapter 3

Caine browsed through the datapad nestled in her hand, skimming over the records of the three midshipmen for the third time; what she had done to make Marshall give her this duty she couldn't imagine, but she was already considering some sort of scheme to get even. Training rookies was not her idea of fun, and neither was preparing tactical briefings that usually ended up as six thousand words of 'we know nothing, anything could be there, just make sure we are ready for the unexpected'.

They'd been issued with two Martians and one Callistan, all of them just out of the respective service academies, and for some reason they had each been released to the Triplanetary Fleet instead of their home service. Their instructors had provided long and detailed letters of recommendation that seemed to read almost identically, as if they had all known that they needed to tick off a series of boxes – which, of course, they did.

The door to the midshipman's mess opened, and the three new recruits were sitting around, silently. Two women, one man, though all of them had identical standard-issue haircuts. Michelle Steele and Laura Zabek from Mars, and Ivan Varlamov from Callisto. They bolted up to attention as she walked in, one of them managing to knock a half-filled glass to the deck, its contents fizzing across the carpet. Zabek looked down, aghast, while Steele tried to hide a snigger.

"If that's the worst thing that happens to you, Midshipman, consider yourself lucky," Caine said. "You and Steele can clean it up later." Steele's face dropped, flashing into a quick scowl before she managed to mask her face again. It'd take quite some work before that one could sit down at a poker table.

"I'm Lieutenant Caine, Tactical Officer, and as of now, your final instructor. I'm aware that you have all passed out of your service academies," Steele was preening herself at her words, "but I don't care about that. You've been taught what the buttons do, but you don't have any real experience of how a starship operates."

Steele snapped to attention, "Ma'am, I spent three months on the Gilgamesh last year. Advanced Field Training."

Caine smiled, "As I said, no real experience about how a starship operates. What was the Gilgamesh doing, wandering around the inner system? What about the rest of you?"

"One patrol, ma'am, on the Poseidon," Varlamov said, "but it didn't amount to much."

"Honest, at least. Zabek?"

Zabek stuttered, "I didn't..."

"What?"

"I didn't get good enough marks for the advanced courses."

"This is your first time on a starship?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"So two of you are starting out ahead of the other." Caine stopped Steele's smile cold, "As Zabek and Varlamov don't have to unlearn as much. We operate very differently from the other fleets; our doctrines are still forming up. Anything you learned about how the Martian Space Service or the Callisto Orbital Patrol operates isn't really relevant. That's why I don't care about your class standing, or anything like that; I'm going to act on the assumption that you graduated with some basic level of competence, and that you are qualified to sit at the guidance control station. It'll be what you do with your learning that will be interesting." She gestured to the seats. "Sit down. No need to stand at attention when I come in the room again. We don't usually do things that formally out here; we're all too busy doing our jobs."

The three of them took their seats, Varlamov with a formality that vaguely reminded her of Dietz, Steele leaning back, and Zabek perched precariously on the edge of her seat. Caine took pains to sit down as casually as possible, then pulled out her datapad.

"You should all have received your flight assignments by now; Zabek's on Alpha shift, Varlamov on Beta, Steele on Gamma. Of course, you'll be spending a lot of your time on other duties around the ship, especially while we are in hendecaspace. I'll probably put you to work myself. What did you all specialize in?"

Steele leapt in first; that seemed to be a trademark. "Tactical, with a minor on Astrogation." A fairly typical combination for someone aspiring for command, especially deep-space command.

"Logistics for my final year. Tactics and Flight, as my other specialties," Varlamov volunteered. "I was hoping to end up in administration ultimately."

"Tactical also. Secondary in Intelligence Theory."

"Interesting mix. I see all of you fancy a fight. I presume that's why you all signed up for the fleet." Steele nodded in agreement, but Zabek looked around the room, avoiding eye contact.

"Ma'am," Varlamov asked, "If you can tell us, what is our mission?"

"The whole crew will be briefed shortly, so you might as well know; we're going on a long-range exploratory mission. Six months out in the wilds of deep space. Before you all get your hopes up, this likely means an awful lot of very boring survey work, but I'll try to see each of you has an opportunity to stretch your legs a bit. If you earn it, naturally. That gives you your time-frames to a full commission, as well; when we get back you'll all be going up before the Board back at Mariner. Any questions?"

Varlamov nodded impassively; Caine made a mental note to find out if he was any relation of Dietz. Steele was looking as if her selection was a mere formality, while Zabek continued to fidget.

"When will we get our training program, ma'am?" Steele asked.

"First of all, spend the rest of the day wandering around the ship. Get familiar with it, work out the best ways of getting from one key area to another. Routes to escape pods. While you're at it, see the Doc for your medical; and remember that her bark is worse than her bite. By the time we get to hendecaspace, you'll have your schedule for that jump."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"I would like to volunteer to assist with administrative duties, ma'am, if that is an option," Varlamov said.

"I'm sure Sub-Lieutenant Matsumoto will be only too glad to have the help. Anything else?" No-one spoke, so Caine concluded, "You'll be spending some time with our Espatier force, as well; your duties, on occasion, might involve embedding with them. Ensign Esposito will organize that, I'm sure she'll make it fun for you. I think that's all for now, so go settle in and explore. Zabek, if you would wait a moment?"

Steele and Varlamov rose, saluted, and walked out of the room; Zabek looked after Steele with narrowed eyes, before turning back to Caine as the door closed. The Lieutenant made her way over to the drinks dispenser, and returned with two drinks, placing them carefully on the table between them.

"Have I done something wrong, Lieutenant?"

Caine smiled, shaking her head, "Not a thing, Midshipman. I'd just prefer you not to be scared of your own shadow. I'm getting the feeling that you aren't particularly comfortable here."

"Twenty-eight, ma'am," she muttered.

"I'm guessing that was your class standing. I already told you I don't care about that, and neither will the Captain."

"You got the top and the bottom, ma'am," Zabek almost shouted. "I don't deserve to be here. I'm here because I managed to scrape a pass at the bottom of the barrel, and the Service didn't want me. My supervisor told me that it was this or nothing. Steele demanded this, she didn't want to end up 'stuck' in Sol when this was where the action is."

"I'm guessing you two have a history."

She blushed; "When we were freshmen; it didn't last. She was the golden girl, I was always the one sitting up in the middle of night preparing for a test I knew I wasn't going to pass."

Caine's eyes widened a bit; that was territory she hadn't intended to intervene in. "I'm sorry to hear that, Midshipman. I didn't mean to pry..."

"I won't bring it up again, ma'am."

"Oh, damn it, if you need to talk, you might as well talk to me as anyone else." She shook her head, "In one sense, your instructor was right. Most of the planetary fleets seem to have got the idea that this is a dumping ground for everyone they have given up on, and Alamo is no different. We're a crew loaded with people who were either desperate enough for adventure that they threw out their old careers and decided to take a gamble, or that no-one wanted back home. Want to know something?"

"What?"

"It's the best damn crew I've ever served with. I don't believe in giving up on people. You see the cadet sitting up in the middle of the night and still failing; I see the cadet sitting up in the middle of the night determined to give it her best, determined to try despite knowing the odds were against her. Take that attitude to Alamo and I think you'll do fine here. To hell with those bastards back home, and if Steele tries to lord it over you, feel free to refer her to me."

"She's better than I am, ma'am."

"That's not for you to judge, Midshipman. That's my responsibility, and the Skipper's. Six months from now you'll be up before the board for certification, and we'll have to see what they say. If you push like you have been doing, then I'll see what I can do. I've got your first job for you, by the way."

"Ma'am?"

"Prepare a briefing on FL Virginis for the senior staff. I'll be doing the tactical assessment myself. If it's any good, you can present it at the next meeting. I was going to give each of you one star; you might as well get the first bite. Get it to me in, say, thirty-six hours."

"I'll do the best job I can for you, ma'am."

"I know that much. Now run along and get to work."

She stood up, saluted, and left the room, clutching a datapad, already beginning to call up statistics and figures. Caine relaxed in her chair and pulled out the pad, curious about a couple of things. Steele's record was about as Zabek had indicated; top marks in every class, and glowing recommendations from all sides. As much as her first instinct was to dislike her, she'd be willing to tolerate her if she actually did as good a job as the reports suggested. Zabek, on the other hand, was a bit of a disaster area. Several failed courses, and that she scraped through at all seemed to be a minor miracle. Her instructors reports only became glowing after her transfer request to Triplanetary service had been submitted, and it was easy to see why.

Flicking over to the ship's library, she called up a few of Zabek's papers, skimming through the contents. Her conclusions were sometimes a bit obvious, but that was the nature of the beast. Her turn of phrase was rather too embellished, though; some of them read more as if she was writing a novel than preparing a report. Quite a focus on the Lunar Republic. More than half of her optional papers were analyzing their strategic plans. In fact, most of her optional papers were on strategy rather than tactics, even where the latter was indicated in the instructions. Interesting.

Finally, Varlamov. Top quarter of his class, with his grades indicating him as a solid, steady performer. No demerits during his entire time at the Academy. He hadn't been one of the stars, but somehow she was getting the impression that he didn't particularly want to be. Flicking over to his personnel file, she smiled; he was Dietz's nephew. The thought briefly crossed her mind that he might have pulled a few strings to get his relative on board, but Dietz being Dietz, she dismissed that immediately. Looking down at the forgotten spill on the carpet, she shrugged her shoulders and headed out to her office. Just in case, she'd better prepare her own report on their target star. Frowning, she pulled out her datapad and began a search, her eyes glazing over as the first page of impenetrable astrographic data flashed onto the screen.

Chapter 4

The hangar deck was more crowded than Orlova had ever seen it; it seemed like most of the crew was hurriedly loading the transit shuttles that were still swarming in, cargo holds filled with last-minute essentials requested by every department. Crates and containers were being loaded onto trolleys to be taken deep into the bowels of a ship; one of the crewmen cheered as he uncovered a large box loaded with food flavoring, which suggested that the meals prepared by the auto-chef would be tolerable for at least the first part of the journey. Dixon was ruling the roost in the overhead gantry, going over the fighters with a practiced eye while Quinn followed along behind, trying to keep up.

Sirens sounded from the central elevator airlock as another shuttle began to rise onto the deck, the last personnel transport from Hunter Station. A little voice inside her head was rather hoping that at least one member of her team had failed to make the shuttle in time. Glancing down at her watch, she realized that the last shuttle back was going to have to leave in twenty minutes, or run out of fuel on the journey back; the Captain had Alamo racing off at a tearing pace to get to the hendecaspace point. The plot showed that Flynt also had the same idea, and the ship's betting pool was taking wagers onto which ship would get there first.

The airlock slid open, and half a dozen crewmen walked out, two of them with faces she recognized from the hastily memorized personnel dockets. Evidently they had spent the journey over looking at her file; as soon as they saw her they snapped to attention, dropping their kit-bags to the deck and saluting. She returned the salute.

"Vakil and Neumayer?"

"Yes, ma'am," one of them said.

"Go get your kit stowed away, then head right to the security office. We'll have to do orientation later." She peered into the airlock, "Harper in there?"

The two crewmen looked at each other, then back at Orlova, one of them replying, "She's still in the shuttle, ma'am. There was a little trouble on the ride over."

A green-haired woman wearing a battered jumpsuit was dragged out of the shuttle by an espatier, the flash of C Company on his shoulder. He was managing to push her out with one hand while carrying a pair of datapads in the other.

"Get your damn hands off me," she said. Orlova walked over to her.

"You must be Spaceman Third Class Harper."

"I'm Kristin Harper, and who the hell are you?"

"Your boss." She turned to the espatier, "What did she do?"

"Hacked the shuttle computers and tried to route us back to Hunter. You have a seriously unimpressed shuttle pilot in there."

"And you?"

"Lance-Corporal Haskins; just transferring in as your armorer." He looked across at her, baring his teeth, "Which means I know enough to spot clumsy work like that when I see it."

"It wasn't clumsy, just quick. If both of you know what is good for you, you'll send me back right now. When my father hears about me being hijacked like this, all hell will break loose."

Orlova rolled her eyes, "He'll have to shout pretty loud where we're going. Corporal, would you do me the favor of dragging her out to the security office for me?"

"With pleasure, ma'am."

"I had a bag, damn it," Harper spat at Orlova.

On cue, a disgruntled looking pilot leaned out of the airlock with a beaten-up old bag, festooned with patches. She swung it out by the handle onto the deck, a smashing noise suggesting that it had not been properly packed.

"You'll pay for that," she said.

The pilot laughed in her face, "Send me the bill. I'll send you the bill to fix my naviputer." Turning to Orlova, the pilot said, "I've got a nice nightmare to fly now, Sub-Lieutenant. She's the last one, and you're welcome to her."

"Safe flight, Spaceman."

"More chance of that now." The airlock closed, and Orlova picked up the bag, hefting it; surprisingly light. Evidently she hadn't been given much chance to pack. Her protests were subsuming as the corporal half-dragged her out of the room, and she shook her head as she looked after her new recruit. Even at her worst back in the old days, she was never that bad. She took her time making her way to the security office; Petty Officers were legendarily good at dealing with new arrivals like this in their own special way, and hopefully Washington would be no different.

She arrived to see Washington glaring down at Harper, who was sitting at a desk while the other three recruits were moving around components. Another trolley was parked in the corridor, loaded down, and she had no idea where they were going to store it all. Everyone except Harper stood and saluted as Orlova walked in, in a move rehearsed sufficiently that she knew it had been pre-arranged. It didn't seem to make any impression on the disgruntled girl, though.

"Harper on report yet, Chief?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"My office, Harper. Now."

"Or?"

"You won't like the food in the brig."

Curling her lip, the green-haired recruit slouched into the tiny office, sitting down. Before following, Orlova turned to Washington, leaning down over the workstation; she was reading through the incident report logged by the shuttle pilot. Quickly scanning the report, she caught herself smiling at the quick job; the expression on the old Petty Officer's face showed that she had the same idea. She walked in, sat down, and closed the door behind her.

"You've still got time to send me back."

"Give that one up, Spaceman. You're on this ship for the duration. Don't think that I like the idea any more than you. Incidentally, I'm giving you administrative punishment now for the trick you played on the shuttle. Confinement to quarters when not on duty for two weeks. Consider yourself lucky; under other circumstances that would be brig time."

"Am I supposed to be grateful?"

Orlova laughed, "I would be surprised if you were. I'll be honest, that was good, fast work you did."

"Crap security."

"I'll bet. Mil-spec is either years ahead of the game or decades behind. Nothing in between. A fast transit shuttle is nothing to brag about, though."

Shaking her head, Harper replied, "Is this some of that reverse psychology bullshit? Dad tried that on me. Never worked."

"Fine. We'll cut the crap. I spent my teenage years flying ships, smuggling, and aiding and abetting Mum's heists. What'd you do?"

That caught her by surprise, "What are you doing here?"

"The skipper decided that I could make myself useful here. And a brave man died not that long ago to convince me of it. Now answer my question."

"I'm a hacker. Damn computers educated me anyway, parents couldn't be bothered. This is Dad's idea of teaching me discipline," she spat out each syllable, "and I know it."

"So you decided to hang around with a seedy crowd, according to the news-net have spent half your life on one narcotic or another, going from one pointless night to the next, one doomed relationship after another. Right?"

"My life."

"Not any more." She scanned the datapad on her desk, "I get that your father arranged this, but the judge gave you to us for a year. Presumably Alamo was his idea to put you out of the way."

"He's up for re-election this year. I'm embarrassing." She leaned forward on the desk. "We can get through this easily."

Shaking her head, Orlova replied, "Only if I give up on you. The Captain wouldn't like that. I don't plan on doing it."

"I'm a pain in the ass. I know that, too."

"I have my bad days too. Look, if you play the game you'll get to hack for us. That's what we do – hack enemy systems and protect our own." She gestured through the partition, "Those people out there have spent a couple of years sitting in a classroom learning theory, pitting themselves against simulated test shots. All except the Chief, and she's just scary."

"So?"

Orlova sighed, "Look, you can spend six months in hell, or six months playing with the computers. Your call. If you want to try hacking for an actual living, then this'll get you the credentials to do it. If all you want to do is sit in a corner and 'rebel', then go ahead and do it. I don't care which you pick – except I could use a good hacker, and you look like you might be one if you grow up. Dismissed." She paused, then said, "Which means go outside and get some work done. I'm sure the chief could come up with something for you to do."

Harper sat staring at the young officer, then stood up and left the room. A few seconds later, Washington squeezed into the office, perching herself opposite her, shaking her head. Through the partition, they could see Harper poking at a workstation while the others continued unloading, casting her the odd resentful glance. Orlova shook her head, then began to chuckle.

"What is it, Sub?"

"I think I just gave her a slightly rearranged version of the lecture the Captain gave me when I first reported on board. I was never that bad, though."

"I hope not. From what I heard, you've done a reasonable job."

"She's going to need watching like a hawk."

It was the Chief's turn to chuckle, "Wouldn't be the first time. You want me to give her full access?"

"Yes, and I think I know who is going to be sharing your watch with you."

"You should read the shuttle pilot's report. She really managed to mangle his navicomputer."

"And yet they weren't in any danger. Inconvenienced, not put at risk."

"I noticed that too."

"We're supposed to turn her into a decent crewman. That's going to need some work. I'm going to bet she'll run rings around the rest of the gang, though."

"You might be right about that. Look, how far do you want to go with this, Sub? I can probably bury her in grunt work for the next six months and keep her away from anything important."

"She'd notice, and just get worse."

The Chief sighed, nodding, "You want her tied in to everything. Full package of duties. I'll push her, Sub. I can drown her in pointless programming or I can drown her in responsibility. One of those usually works, but the second option's risky in this case."

"Go ahead and throw her in at the deep end, Chief. We'll both have to keep an eye on her. If it's ever actually critical to the ship, someone else has to sit next to her while she's working. Still, it's her ass on the line as well, and she's got to know that."

"Yeah." Washington stood up, stooping slightly under the curving ceiling, then paused before leaving, "I think I might actually have been given a half-decent officer for once, Sub. Don't tell anyone I said so. I'd lose my reputation."

"Thanks, Chief. I won't tell a soul."

Orlova watched Washington walk out of the office, heading over to the sullen Harper; she actually felt sorry for her for a brief second. Lip reading hadn't been a skill she'd ever thought to acquire, something she now regretted; the Chief would likely have taught her a few new words if she'd been able to listen. Shaking her head, she went back to her desk, wondering when exactly she had managed to grow up. Pulling out the first set of equipment requisition reports, she began to regret that decision, at least a little, then took another look through the one-way partition, and decided she was probably better off wading through the paperwork.

Chapter 5

Alone in his office, Marshall looked out across the datapads spread out in front of him, sifting through the volume of Hercules data that Matsumoto had gathered for him. He was determined to do this one himself; after all, if anyone on this ship was an expert, he was, but somehow he hadn't realized that it would be this difficult. He glanced up at the picture of his father on the wall.

"Damn it, Dad, how the hell did you generate this much paperwork. I've only got a week to get through this rubbish."

He picked up a datapad at random, browsing through a set of fuel consumption reports. All they confirmed was what he already knew; the last reported contact with Hercules was from the fleet support ship Cernan, which topped the battlecruiser up with fuel in the outskirts of Procyon, before wishing them good luck. A year later, they were officially listed as overdue. He tossed the datapad aside, and picked up another one; this contained downloads from the personal logs of the crew, at least those that their families had released. The screen was displaying the last entry of the ship's medical officer, Haskins; a picture of the command staff clowning around outside a bar on Phobos Station. Naturally enough, his father was in the heart of things.

The door rescued him from his memories; Caine walked through, taking a seat opposite him without waiting to be asked, a furious expression on her face that faded to understanding when she saw what he was doing. Reaching across, she took the datapad from his hand and looked down at him, smiling.

"Your father looks like quite a character, Danny. Isn't that Orlova's father there in the corner," she said, pointing.

"I think so. Strange that I'd never connected the names before."

She folded her fingers on the desk, "Danny, maybe you should get someone else to do this. Matsumoto, maybe. Or Cunningham."

"No, this one's my job. I spent long enough with this data before, during the hearing." He tapped a couple of buttons on his desk, and another file appeared on a datapad, "Look at this. Last recorded analysis of the Hercules data, as recorded by one First Lieutenant Marshall. Nine years ago. Feels like a lifetime."

"Nothing's changed. No new data to report."

"That's interesting by itself, Deadeye. How many times have people reported finding Discovery, Leonov, or Slayton out there? All those lost ships of the early expansion. Yet not even any obviously false sightings or reports."

Frowning, Caine replied, "You aren't suggesting some sort of cover-up, I hope."

"No, not at all. Just that no-one much seems to have come out this way. Ragnarok never had the capability."

"Danny, you've been sitting in here for two days. I know Dietz was surprised when you didn't come out for the hendecaspace transit."

"Too busy."

"You're the Captain. People need to see you out and about a bit, not stuck in your office or your quarters. Keeps everyone reassured if they see a confident commander."

He looked up at her, shaking his head, "Remind me again why you never went after promotion?"

"Because I'm happier being the power behind the throne. Come on, let's go and walk the decks. Maybe we could go down to the mess and get a bite to eat."

"Fine, mother. You win." He pushed some of the clutter on the desk away, and stood up, knocking some of them to the ground. A look from Caine suggested that he could retrieve them later; the two of them made their way onto the bridge. Kibaki was on duty; he nodded at the Captain as he emerged. Steele, at flight control, saluted as he walked out. A puzzled frown on his face, he returned the salute, then looked at Caine, who shook her head as they stepped into the elevator.

"Your kids certainly seem keen enough, anyway."

"Why did I get saddled with that job?"

"Cunningham would probably have tried to chat them up."

Her eyes widened, "Don't tell me he's getting back to his old habits again?"

Marshall chuckled, "Esposito tipped me off. Apparently Lance-Corporal Riley has been spotted sneaking to his quarters after hours. She quietly told her to be a little more discreet."

"I'll be damned," she said, shaking her head. "I suppose it's a good sign, right?"

"Hell, as long as discipline isn't affected, I don't mind. The Espatiers are outside his chain of command, anyway."

"Where did you punch for?"

"Hangar deck. That, er, Zubik gave a fair briefing. How much coaching did you give her?"

"Zabek. A bit. Nervous as hell, that one. Steele just has a superiority complex that we need to deal with, and Varlamov is Dietz's nephew."

"You're joking."

"Like uncle, like nephew. He actually volunteered for logistic work."

The door opened onto a near-empty flight deck. It was the middle of the night watch, and with the ship transiting hendecaspace, there wasn't much need for a full staff on duty. The five fighters hung up in the overhead racks, silently gleaming from carefully positioned spot-lamps, and the six shuttles lay astride the elevator airlocks, ready for launch. Three large, three small. As Marshall was watching, he felt something fall past his ear, dropping with a clang; he looked up and saw a red-faced Quinn on top of one of the fighters, a toolkit open, his hand empty.

"Sorry, skipper! I must have let one go!"

"What are you doing up there in the middle of the night?"

Stepping onto the gantry, the embarrassed engineer climbed down the access ladder to the main deck, replying, "Tab, ah, Lieutenant Dixon was complaining about some of the topside thrusters during a simulation run. I thought I'd come down and see if I could do anything about it."

"Don't you have technicians for that? This is your sleep period, isn't it?"

"Is it? I must have lost track."

Caine looked at Marshall, smiling, then both of them looked back up at the unkempt engineer, "Carry on, Quinn. Just make sure you're fit for duty in the morning."

"Aye, sir!" He retrieved his wayward tool, then clambered back up the ladder to the maintenance gantry. The two of them walked through the hangar deck to the far end; as they reached it, the main door flew open to reveal a platoon of espatiers at full sprint- and full volume – rushing down the corridors. Three of them – the three at the front – were holding small pieces of cloth; Esposito and Sergeant Kozu were racing after them, obviously measuring their pace to stay at the rear and urge on those lagging behind. As he watched, one of the espatiers ran forward, snatched the cloth, and took the lead; he almost knocked Marshall to the deck with a wayward elbow.

"Sorry, skipper," the trooper replied. Marshall reached in and grabbed Esposito by the elbow, dragging her to a stop.

"Ensign, what the hell are you doing? It's the middle of the night."

"Training exercise, sir. Thought we'd have a little fun while we're doing it."

"Capture the flag, Ensign?" Caine asked.

"Squad relay, Lieutenant. Which ever squad gets their flag back to the barracks deck first wins." She looked after her departing men, panting; the last of them was about through the door. "By your leave, sir?"

"Oh, feel free, Ensign. Have fun."

She smiled, saluted and sprinted down the corridor, just scraping through the door before it closed. Silence once more descended on the hangar deck. Shaking his head, Marshall turned to Caine.

"Is it always like this down here in the middle of the night? I'm surprised the shuttle pilots aren't holding gladiatorial games in the maintenance pits."

"Oh, Alamo has a seedy underbelly all of its own, sir," Caine replied, chuckling. "Remember some of the stuff we used to get up to in our off-hours?""

Sighing, Marshall replied, "Makes you long for the days of Duncan's Musical Theater Company."

"You going to do something about it?"

"Not in the slightest. But I do think that something a little quieter might not be a bad idea. Shall we see what the mess deck is offering as a midnight snack?"

"Sounds like a plan, Danny," Caine replied, making her way over to the elevator. It sped through the decks before abruptly stopping at the security level, the doors opening. Marshall tapped the button, twice, but got no reply. Shaking his head, he tapped the emergency operator button.

"Captain to maintenance section."

"Maintenance. Elevator problem, sir?"

"Security section. Seems to be jammed."

"Every elevator in the ship just locked off at a deck, Captain. Looks like a computer fault; we're working on it now."

"Let me know when it's working again. And find out what happened – this is a priority system."

"Yes, sir."

Caine walked down the corridor, turning her head, "Mess hall's just a couple of decks up from here, Danny. I don't mind using the ladders this once."

"If I thought the meal at the end would be worth it..."

As they passed the security office, they heard shouting coming from inside; Marshall recognized it as Chief Petty Officer Washington, but the other voice was unfamiliar. He opened the door to see the Chief shouting at a green-haired crewman sitting at a workstation; she seemed to be committing the cardinal sin of talking back to a senior enlisted.

"It's a gaping hole in security! I can fix it now I've found it."

"You need to report holes, not expose them to show off," the chief replied, still unaware of Marshall. Caine coughed, and the two of them looked up. The Chief stood to attention, saluting; Marshall returned the salute.

"Dare I ask, Chief?" Marshall said.

"Spaceman Harper decided to report a hole in the elevator security systems by exploiting it."

"I didn't, damn it!" Harper said.

Raising his hand to prevent another outburst by the Chief, Marshall asked, "What exactly did you, do, Spaceman?"

Crossing her hands, she replied, "I phreaked the network. All the systems talk to each other, and there are usually some holes. I spliced together something to find and exploit them at once. I figured better to find out now, rather than later."

"You hacked the system."

"Yeah. Not that many holes, either. Just knocked out the elevators, missile guidance, food printers and some of the indexing programs."

Caine did a double-take, "Missile guidance was compromised. Missile guidance."

She nodded, "Yeah. Don't worry, I set it to flag any systems that the computer rated as essential. You know, life support, dimensional compensators, that sort of thing."

"That sort of thing," Marshall said.

"Sir, I give you my word that this will not happen again," Washington said, looking daggers at the surly subordinate.

"Well, I suppose I'd rather find out that our missile guidance is compromised now than in the middle of a battle. We have procedures for reporting holes in system defense, Spaceman. I expect them to be followed in future."

She slammed a hand down on the desk, "I've already fixed them. It doesn't work that way; I couldn't find out about some of the deep holes without exploiting them."

The Chief looked down, "You've fixed them?"

"All one program. Randomized the relevant passwords, installed some new screening of mine, did it all in one."

Marshall turned to Washington, "Mind if I do the discipline this time, Chief?"

She grinned in response, "Take your best shot, sir."

He looked down at Harper, "First of all, I want you to incorporate your program into the standard screening protocols. I'd like it ready to be used on other ships as soon as possible. With all required documentation, of course. How long?"

Harper looked up at Washington, smugly, then back at Marshall, "If I can work uninterrupted, a week."

"Forty-eight hours."

Her face dropped. "What?"

"What, sir," Washington prompted.

"I'd have to work non-stop."

"Fine. Chief, see that she has access to a workstation until she's finished. If she isn't done in the time, then I'll leave her to your tender mercies. Feel free to come up with something interesting. Mr. Quinn is always looking for volunteers to clean out the lower levels, as I recall."

"I'm sure I can come up with something good, sir."

"And Harper?"

"Yes?"

"I'd learn the word 'sir'. Every time you forget from now on, you get an extra watch. See to it, Chief."

"With pleasure, Captain."

Caine and Marshall walked out of the room; she was shaking her head, looking back at the door as she left.

"That kid managed to find a hole our best software engineers couldn't get at."

"Would they have tried an exploit that would knock out our systems? I doubt it. She's got the right idea looking at it from that perspective."

"Come on, Danny, she was just showing off."

"I seem to remember doing unauthorized acrobatics more than once during my flight training."

"That was different."

"No it wasn't. She's either going to end up being Orlova's dream come true or her worst nightmare."

"Probably both."

Smiling, Marshall started to walk down the corridor, leaving Caine standing by the door, saying, "I'm going to skip the mess; I think I've got some rations in my cabin. Right now I'm tempted to hide under the covers and hope nothing jumps out from under the bed."

Shaking her head, she hurried after him, but as they reached the end of the corridor they could hear loud music echoing up one of the emergency shafts. Marshall peered down, then scrambled down the ladder towards the sound. He dropped down into an old maintenance room, which by the look of it had gone unused for years, probably forgotten in one refit or another, but which was now occupied by Alamo's fighter pilots – and Doctor Duquesne, who was pouring some sort of pink concoction into glasses. The pilots looked up as she arrived, Dixon cut off in mid-giggle; Duquesne simply shrugged and poured two more glasses.

"Got to have a squadron rec room, sir," one of the pilots said.

Dixon added, "Quinny signed off on it." Looking from side to side at the rest of the pilots with a growing grin, Dixon continued, "Care to join us, Captain?"

Smiling, Marshall pulled up a crate and accepted the drink.

Chapter 6

Leaning forward in the command chair, Marshall anxiously waited for the screen to clear. The bridge was filled with senior officers; Dietz had grabbed the watch officer's chair, co-opting Ryder, who loitered over the already nervous Midshipman Zabek at the guidance station. Cunningham was leaning on the guide rail by the tactical holoprojector, Caine was at Tactical – at times, she almost seemed to live at that station – and Quinn had displaced Spaceman Makala from the Flight Engineer's station. When he'd seen the senior staff drifting in over the last few minutes, Marshall had almost been tempted to send Alpha Watch off-shift; only Mulenga was missing, and he was down in Astrogation waiting for the first sensor feeds to come in.

"Zabek, you're getting an amber light," Ryder said.

"Er, yes." The young midshipman tapped a button. "Displacement from hendecaspace in thirty seconds."

All that was in the Triplanetary records about FL Virginis was what could be ascertained by interstellar-range observation. A red dwarf fourteen-and-a-half light years from Sol with a scraggly system of rocky planets hanging close to the star. Not even a gas giant in-system. The five planets were close enough into the primary to make it easy enough to transit between them; Marshall had picked the one planet that was in the 'Goldilocks Zone' where the temperature would be suitable for life, though without any expectation of a habitable planet. None of the worlds in the system were any bigger than Mars, far too small for any reasonable atmosphere. Still, there was always hope.

"Five seconds," Zabek said. "Three, two, one, transit!"

The viewscreen winked on, the stars returning after nine days' absence. The sensor station began to light up as data flowed in, and the tactical hologram burst into life, displaying the projected orbits of the five planets and an ever-growing sphere as information reached them. The orbits jumped, moving slightly in position, the system automatically making observation-based adjustments. Marshall's eyes were immediately drawn to the nearest planet, a faint image in a low orbit around it. Cunningham turned to face Marshall, nodded, then enhanced the image; four jagged chunks of debris slowly rotating around each other.

Turning to the sensor operator, Marshall asked, "Analysis, Bryant?"

She peered at her instruments for a second, then replied, "Long-period space debris, no heat signature. Deep cold, and I'm picking up some micrometeorite damage. I'd say its been there for a while. Not a ship, a station; no sign of engines, or anything that might have been engines."

Weitzman looked over from his communications station, "Signal, Captain!"

With two paces, Marshall leaped up from his seat to the technician, "Details, Spaceman."

"Assistance requested, Sagdeev Colony. It's already repeated twice. Played in three languages, computer reads them as French, Russian and Tatar. Originating from the far side of the fifth planet, I think they're using the station as a reflector."

"Tatar?" He paused, "Aimed at us?"

"No, sir. General broadcast. Strong, too."

Marshall turned to Dietz, "I'd say we have an obvious target for our first survey, Lieutenant."

"Indeed." Dietz turned to Zabek. "Midshipman, plot a course for the fifth planet, best-speed."

"Aye, sir." Marshall was slightly surprised at the delay; in her position he'd already have started plotting the course when he heard his commander expressing an interest. He waited impatiently for half a minute before a course appeared on the viewscreen, duplicated on the tactical hologram.

"Course plotted, sir, on the screen."

Nodding, Marshall replied, "Then by all means, implement. Time to target?"

"We'll be entering orbit in ninety-seven minutes, I think."

Sharply, Dietz asked, "You think, Midshipman?"

Zabek haltingly replied, "Ninety-seven minutes, sir."

Standing up, Marshall made his way over to the elevator, turning to his executive officer, "The bridge is yours, Mr. Dietz. I'm going down to Astrogation to get a close look at the data. Alert Ensign Esposito; I want her to be ready with a squad in Shuttle One as soon as we reach orbit."

"What's the hurry, Captain?" Cunningham asked.

"That's a call for help. I'd hate to arrive five minutes too late." He paused for a moment, "Better have Doctor Duquesne report as well."

"That'll leave one empty seat, sir. You'll need a tactical assessment," Caine leapt in. Quinn looked as if he was about to speak, but closed his mouth; evidently Caine had managed to jump the gun on him.

With a smile, Marshall shook his head, "I'm afraid my Tactical Officer will have to remain here. I'll be leading the party myself."

"Sir, you should remain on board. Lieutenant Caine is perfectly qualified to command this flight," Dietz said.

"Not this time, Mr. Dietz. You have the ship while I'm gone."

"Very well, Captain." Dietz stood up and moved over to the command chair; Ryder quickly moved back to the watch officer's chair before someone else could grab it. As Marshall made his way over to the elevator, Cunningham walked over to join him. As soon as the doors had closed, he'd pushed the 'hold' button, stopping the elevator car in between decks.

"May I speak freely, Captain?"

"I don't think I could stop you, Lieutenant. Go right ahead."

"This is a mistake."

"Wow. That's pretty frank of you, Lieutenant."

"You are the commander of this ship, and have no business leading the first landing team."

Crossing his arms, Marshall replied, "Lieutenant, this is my decision. This is a rescue party, and I want to lead the first landing myself."

"That spot should be given to another officer. Frankly, one that is expendable."

"If the worst came to the worst, Mr. Dietz could step into my shoes and complete the mission. I'm not indispensable, Lieutenant, though I'm flattered that you think so."

Shaking his head, Cunningham said, "Is this going to be normal procedure for landing missions, sir?"

"Everyone's going to get their turn, if that's what you mean. I want everyone to get experience at this sort of mission; if we're lucky, we might be doing a lot of missions out here. Now, shall we proceed, Mr. Cunningham, or do you want to argue some more?"

Reluctantly, he took his hand off the button, "You told me you wanted me to warn you if you are being reckless, sir."

"I know. This time I think I have to lead from the front." The doors opened, and Marshall stepped out; Cunningham remained in the elevator as the doors closed behind him. Astrogation was crowded; Mulenga had corralled the off-duty midshipmen to assist him with the sensor interpretation, though probably it didn't take much persuading. Walking into the room, he looked up at the holodisplay, shaking his head as the computer continued to highlight points of interest.

"Captain," Mulenga said, turning his head, "We're making some fascinating discoveries today. Just in the last few minutes."

"Any more detail on the settlement?"

"Not until we get into orbit. That space station, though, matches a type used by the Russian Space Agency in the middle of the 21st century. I'd say the chances are excellent that we are looking at another Ragnarok, Captain."

"The signal was in a language called Tatar."

Steele walked over, brandishing a datapad, "I ran a quick data search, Captain. Sagdeev was the last name of a prominent Tatar space scientist in the 20th century. Tatarstan was a component state of the Russian Federal Union, before unification."

"Interesting. So another culture that might have had the capability to throw itself out to the stars."

"I presume you are heading the landing party, Captain," Mulenga said.

Frowning, Marshall replied, "Don't tell me you're going to complain as well."

"Not in the least. I would not presume to judge my commanding officer, and your instinct for such matters is usually good. I should be interested in any astrographic data they have gathered over the decades, though; anything we can get as a baseline could be valuable. Also, a team should take a look at that space station."

"That's just a drifting hulk. No heat, no power."

"Nevertheless, it may still have computer systems to access."

"I'll have Orlova take one of the small shuttles over there. Give her a chance to stretch her legs a bit. What about the rest of the system?"

Mulenga turned back to face the display again, "Plenty of targets that we should consider taking a look at in-system, but I'm taking another look at the long-range sensors. Now that we're closer, we might be able to get more information on nearby systems."

"Make sure the system we are currently in is the priority, Lieutenant."

"Naturally, sir, but we can handle both jobs at once."

"Prepare a list of priority targets, though I have a feeling that we're going to be orbiting the fifth planet for a while."

"We could at least reach the fourth planet with a shuttle configured for long-range flight, Captain. Its orbit is taking us well within range."

"Have Mr. Quinn prepare Shuttle Three, just in case."

"Yes, sir." Mulenga turned to the other midshipman, "Varlamov, have you finished your initial analysis yet?"

"I have, Lieutenant," he said, passing over a datapad and turning to the Captain. "In brief summary, the planet below is incapable of supporting any kind of life. Thin trace atmosphere only, mostly nitrogen and methane. Some polar ice caps, probably carbon dioxide rather than water. Gravity about that of Mars."

"Not a place to try and plant a seed, then," Marshall mused. "If anyone settled this planet, then I doubt they had much of a choice about it."

"I would tend to agree with your assessment, sir," Varlamov said. "I have prepared a chart of the most likely sites for colonial establishment on this side of the planet. Until we get to the far side, we'll be unable to scan any colonial activity."

"Any signs of settlement at all, Midshipman?"

The young officer walked over to the display, and manipulated some controls, "In one of the prime sites for establishment, our scanners have detected a large crater. Almost certainly man-made."

"How large?"

"Maybe half a mile in diameter."

Marshall whistled. "You're talking about an asteroid impact, Midshipman. How can you tell it isn't just a fluke, even if it is recent?"

He manipulated the display again, "The impact is dead center on the computer's projected site of the colony. Of course, that was based on our preliminary mineralogical analysis. It could still be a coincidence, but the odds are dramatically against it."

"Even during the war, neither side tried throwing asteroids at each other, Midshipman. Do you realize what you are suggesting?"

Steele piped in, "Sir, that was because of the balance of terror. Neither side could risk being the party to start that, so neither side did."

"I'm familiar with the Armstrong Accords, Midshipman," Marshall said. His communicator beeped, and he pulled it out of his belt, "Marshall here."

"Weitzman, sir. The signal has just changed, cycling. Now it's broadcasting in Mandarin."

His eyes widened, "Any other changes?"

"A burst of code before each message. Not one we've decoded, but definitely the Lunar Republic. I've started a cryptographic analysis."

"Dietz here, Captain, cutting in. Given the circumstances, I would suggest once again that you remain on board."

Visions of Ragnarok flashed through his mind, "No, Mr. Dietz, I still intend to go down. But have the balance of the espatier platoon ready and waiting on the other two shuttles, and have Dixon put up a pair of fighters to escort us down. Put Alamo on stand-by alert."

"Aye, sir."

Mulenga reached over, putting his hand on Marshall's shoulder, "Is going down yourself still wise, sir?"

"I need to start leading from the front, Lieutenant. I'm not going to sit up here and wait while others risk their lives, not this time."

He smiled, "As you say, sir."

Steele turned, again, "Permission to fly the Captain to the surface, sir."

"You have a current certification?"

"Top of the class, sir," she replied, standing taller."

Mulenga shrugged, and reluctantly, Marshall nodded, "Very well, Midshipman. Report to the hangar bay for preflight, and co-ordinate our approach with Lieutenant Dixon."

A smile beaming, she saluted, then ran down the corridor, Marshall shaking his head as he looked after her, "I hope I wasn't that big a pain in the ass when I was a Third Lieutenant."

"Mr. Cunningham seemed to think so, as I recall."

"So he did." He looked down at his watch, "I'd better go and get ready. See if you can have a report on the system when I get back."

"Good luck, Captain."

Nodding, Marshall turned and walked down the corridor, moving past a couple of crewmen, a spring in his step as he made his way to the hangar deck.

Chapter 7

Orlova walked down the crew quarters corridor, passing half a dozen barracks before stopping at a door marked 'Female Spacemen, F-K'. There was a short wait before a sleepy spaceman opened the door, her eyes blinking from the light. The room was dark inside; evidently she'd managed to wake someone up.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" a tired voice said.

"I'm looking for Spaceman Harper."

"She doesn't bunk here any more, ma'am, I'm afraid."

"The roster says she does."

"Not since the first night, ma'am. Took her bags and moved out. I don't know where."

Frowning, Orlova nodded, "Thanks, spaceman. Sorry to disturb you."

"Sorry I couldn't help, ma'am." She closed the door, and Orlova went back down the corridor. She didn't particularly want to knock on anyone else's door, especially as she didn't know which of the rooms Harper might be in, so reluctantly decided to turn this into a formal security issue – another entry in the growing file of complaints.

"Bridge, this is Sub-Lieutenant Orlova. That Bryant?"

"Yes, ma'am. Can I help you? I've sent the data package on the station to Transit One."

"Thanks, but this is something else. Can you run a trace on Spaceman Harper, please? I can't find her."

"Log says she's in her quarters, ma'am."

Shaking her head, Orlova replied, "I've just been there."

There was a brief pause before Bryant said, "Odd. Apparently she's in the crawlways. Two decks up from your current position."

"The crawlways?"

"Stationary."

"Send the location to my datapad. Thanks, Spaceman."

"My pleasure, ma'am."

Looking at her datapad, the young officer shook her head; the elevator didn't run anywhere near there, so she was going to have to do this the hard way. Opening a service hatch, she climbed up a ladder, muttering under her breath. Suddenly, it went dark; she looked up and saw that a long shape was swinging back and forth, periodically blocking out the lights. She could hear a low rumbling noise coming from the shape, and deduced what it was.

"Wake up, Harper!" she yelled at the top of her voice.

The shaking increased rapidly, gyrating from one side of the crawlway to the other, "Wha?"

"Harper, what the hell are you doing in here?"

"Trying to sleep."

"Do you realize how many regulations you're breaking? Get down from there at once."

"Gotta unstrap." The hacker fumbled at her waist, then swung herself up and down out of the hammock.

"You have a perfectly good bed in the crew quarters, Harper."

Grunting, she replied, "Didn't get on with them."

"Then move to a different set. You get assigned alphabetically when you join the ship, but no-one cares if you swap with someone as long as it's logged. You can't just move into the crawlspaces."

"Why not?"

"What if there was an accident and someone had to get past you?"

"I'd move. Besides, I looked at the specs. No critical systems round here."

Sighing, Orlova replied, "That's not the damn point. You're a long way from your damage control station, as well, not to mention off the elevator routes. If we got called to battle stations now..."

"I'd be there in ninety-four seconds. I checked already. Relax."

"With you around?" She shook her head, "I'm going to get one of the maintenance crews to clean out this walkway tomorrow. By then I want you sleeping in a proper bed."

"You propositioning me?" Harper looked up and down at Orlova, "I mean, you're not really my type, but I might go for it as a one-off."

"You know what I mean. Now get into your uniform, we've got a mission."

"Huh?"

"We're braking into orbit around FL Virginis V now. Captain wants us to check out some sort of bashed-up space station."

"Send someone else. That slave-driver had me working the last four days."

With a quick move, Orlova reached out and unclipped one of the straps of the hammock, sending it sliding down to the side of the walkway, almost catapulting Harper out of it before she could grab onto the hand-holds. Her eyes burning, she looked down at her.

"What the hell?"

"What the hell, ma'am. Now move it."

The sullen Harper pulled on her uniform jumpsuit and slowly climbed down the ladder, Orlova leading the way and peeking up to make sure that she was still being followed. They emerged in the corridor and walked towards the elevator, the officer glancing at her watch. Only ten minutes before the shuttle was meant to launch. The car slid down the decks, Harper staring at Orlova with ill-disguised contempt all the way. Finally she broke the silence.

"What's your problem with me, anyway?"

Orlova turned her head, "Nothing, if you do your job. Look, some of the rules are there for good reasons. You'd have a hell of a time getting to an escape pod from there. Not to mention if your boss wants to find you in a hurry."

"I could set up an interface from there into the comm system. Wouldn't take long."

"Why do you want to be up there anyway?"

"I like a bit of peace and quiet. How'd you like to sleep in a room with five other people?"

"We haven't got room for everyone to have their own cabins, Harper."

"You've got one."

"I'm an officer."

"I know more than you about the computer systems already."

Orlova smiled, replying as the door opened, "It takes a damn sight more than that, Harper. Now come on, I've got some systems for you to play with."

The hangar deck was filled with espatiers milling around under Kozu's supervision; Esposito was checking out a flight profile with Dixon in the corner, the pilot pulling on her flight suit as she talked. Four of the shuttles were being prepared for launch by the harried maintenance crews, the small one at the far end for Orlova and her team.

"Garrison, Smythe?" she asked of the two maintenance techs standing by her shuttle.

"Yes, ma'am," they replied, in unison.

"Which of you is the archaeotech expert?"

"Me, ma'am," the bald man on the left said. "Smythe's an EVA tech."

"EVA?" Harper said, looking uncertainly at the shuttle.

Orlova turned, smiling, "Station's been in vacuum for a long, long time. You must have been checked out in Basic, right?"

"Yeah, of course."

"You three suit up on the ride out. Captain wants us to disembark immediately, see if we can find something that might help the ground team. Let's move." She scrambled up into the passenger's compartment and closed the airlock, hastily running through her preflight. Harper looked reluctant, finally hesitantly stepping into the passenger airlock. With the final lights, green, Orlova called the bridge.

"Transit One to Bridge. Requesting launch clearance."

Caine's voice chuckled over the communicator, "Bit of a change for you, isn't it? You have clearance to launch, elevator ready. Good luck."

"Thanks, Lieutenant. Catch you when I get back." Switching back to internal comms, she continued, "All good back there?"

Three voices replied, and she shut off the panel, not wanting to be disturbed. Normally she'd prefer to fly the shuttle out herself, but this time she opted to throw it entirely over to the automatic systems, calling up the datafile on the space station as the airlocks engaged, sending the shuttle drifting out into space before its main engines fired, kicking it onto the correct trajectory, before spinning the craft around to begin the deceleration sequence.

There were plenty of pictures of similar stations; apparently it was a design sold privately around the middle of the previous century, and the images were taken from a 'showroom' station in LEO. Half a dozen long modules around a central core, designed to be launched from Earth itself on heavy-lift boosters. Station staff of only twelve, so it would likely be pretty cramped over there, and already she could see numerous potential problems with the four of them drifting around inside.

"Change of plans, people. Garrison, Smythe, you might as well stay in here. Harper and I will go in, find a data port and get it working. We'll run the first analysis here, dump everything into Alamo's computers after a quick look-see."

"Can't I watch on the monitors?" Harper whined.

"Might need your special skills out there, Spaceman. Get suited up."

"Ma'am, this is my job," Smythe said.

"I need you here if something goes wrong, Spaceman. Be ready at a second's notice if needed."

Smythe was probably right, but she wanted to see the station for herself. The planet loomed large ahead as the shuttle decelerated into orbit to match the tumbling wreckage; she could just about make it out on the screen with the help of the heads-up display. Obviously the core had been disrupted at some point, but the modules were still connected by enough loose wires and cabling to keep them tumbling together. Narrowing her eyes, she looked a little more closely at one of the modules, a huge rupture in its heart. A hole that was inwards, rather than outwards. This wasn't a decompression problem, someone had actually punched a hole in the station.

"Alamo, this is Transit One. We sure there's no space activity in this system?"

"Nothing on scanners, Transit One," Caine replied, "And nowhere big enough for anyone to hide for long. Why?"

"I don't need a data dump to tell me that someone attacked this station, and did a pretty damn good job of it, too. I'd say every module's been hit, definitely from the outside."

"You want to abort, Sub-Lieutenant?" Concern filled the Tactical Officer's voice.

After musing for a second, Orlova replied, "No. We might need the data, but, well, be extra careful. I want somewhere to come back to."

"Don't worry, we'll be watching. Sing out if you see anything. Alamo out."

Behind her, Alamo was breaking into its own orbit, and she knew that Marshall would be taking his party down to the surface in a few minutes. She envied him that job; if she'd had her way she'd be sitting in the pilot's seat of Shuttle One right now, not some upstart midshipman, but at least she was commanding a little mission of her own right now. Even if she had decided – for a reason that now was beginning to escape her – to turn this into Harper's chance to prove herself. The computer pinged twice; it had stopped short of the minimum set distance, issuing warning calls of debris surrounding the station. About two hundred meters to go.

"Get ready, Harper, I'll be out in a minute." Orlova started to pull on her suit, double-checking each seal as she went, then clipped on the helmet. The mix looked right, but she took a couple of experimental breaths just to be on the safe side. Locking the controls over to remote operation from Alamo, she stepped into the small pilot's airlock and activated the release cycle, clipping her safety line to the rail. Outside, the station tumbled ahead, just over the purple sands of the planet below, with the angry star in the background.

"Orlova to Alamo. About to head over to the station; have we checked on the star lately? Looking a bit angry."

"Alamo here. Mulenga says it reads quiet, but doesn't want us to linger. Go in and get back as fast as you can."

"You don't have to tell me twice. Out." She switched frequencies, "Harper, you there?"

"Hang on a minute."

"Hurry up."

Drifting out around the hull of the small ship, Orlova saw the passenger airlock cracking open, and a suited figure emerge. She attached her secondary line to the figure, then gave a thumbs up, and detached her connection to the shuttle.

"Should we do that?" Harper said.

"Two hundred meters to jump; the line won't do any good and could get in the way. I'll guide us over, just concentrate on keeping yourself steady. Set your auto-thrusters."

"Yeah."

With practiced ease, Orlova tapped in a pair of buttons and started to move towards the station, quick bursts from her suit thrusters drawing her across the void. This was such an easy hop that she did it on manual; the computer would warn her if she messed up too much. A heads-up display dropped down in front of her, showing her the tracks of the debris, and again, she flicked it off. If there was any danger of collision, the computer would take the needed action instantly. As the slack was drawn out of the connecting line, she felt herself being dragged downward, spinning around.

"Harper, did you set your thrusters right? You're dragging."

"Hold on a minute, I can't work this thing."

Shaking her head, Orlova tugged on the line, bringing the two of them together. Reaching to Harper's wrist, she set the controls to the needed settings, lamenting that the designers hadn't built in proper remote suit operation. She looked up at the hacker, and saw that her face was covered in sweat; she was turning pale.

"You all right?"

"I don't like these things, that's all. I can do this."

"If you're going to have a problem, go back. Smythe can take your place."

"I said I can do it. Let's just get on with it."

"OK, Spaceman. Hold tight."

The drift was slow and easy, the computer making periodic adjustments to tug them out of the way of a drifting piece of debris from the long-ago destruction of the station. Orlova had picked the command pod initially, but it looked to be a total wreck as they approached, holes gouged through in four different places. The interior was a tangled mess of metal, with a spacesuited figure hanging inside, frozen blood where his suit had been torn. Harper gasped, and started to breathe deeply.

"Ohgodohgodohgod,"she said, her eyes closing, her torso turning.

"Hold it together, Harper. Tap the green button, that's a relaxant."

"Got it."

"Let's try the Science Pod. That looks less damaged, and it might have the files we need."

"Yeah."

The two of them moved slowly across the surface of the station, Orlova shaking her head at the damage. This station wasn't merely destroyed, it was almost pulverized, as if someone wanted to make absolutely sure that it could never be used again. Drifting past a smashed solar array, she reached down to the science pod; there was a single gaping gash in the hull, but the inside of the pod didn't look as bad, and after a quick look, she could see why. A missile was sitting in the far wall, undetonated. Her eyes widened, and she turned back to Harper.

"I see a data port, over there," Harper said.

"Wait a minute." She switched over to the main frequency again, "Alamo, I've found an undetonated missile. You should be getting some images now, what does the warbook say."

"One mi...," Caine said, then replied, "That's a Mark VII Whirlbat. Martian-build."

"Martian? Are you sure?"

"Don't get close. It might still trigger."

"Caine, this is the most intact pod. If we're going to get the data we need, it will be here."

There was a long pause, long enough that Orlova knew that this decision was being pushed further up the command chain. She hung in space, one hand reaching for the hull, and started to examine the missile more carefully, looking for the serial number. Cursing under her breath, she realized that it had been burned off in the impact. It would long ago have run out of power, and setting up a generator would probably cause a rather nasty explosion, so the on-board databanks were inaccessible.

"Sub-Lieutenant, this is the Captain." The voice was distant, obviously going through a relay; by now the Captain was sitting in a pilot's seat of his own, taking a shuttle down to the surface. "Proceed with extreme caution. If you have any doubts, get out of there immediately."

"Understood."

"Be careful. Marshall out."

Orlova turned back to Harper, "I'll get the memory core powered up. You go tap in."

"What are you going to use?"

"Suit power should do it. We only need a few minutes."

Pulling herself up, being careful to stay as far away as possible from the missile, she swung around to the nearest emergency power socket. The adapters had been standardized decades ago, and there hadn't been any reason to change; one quick tug, and she connected her suit power pack to the onboard systems. As she got close, her heads-up display translated the Cyrillic into English with a flicker, and she isolated the circuits to keep the power where it was needed – the module's independent computer core. Taking a deep breath, she threw the final switch, and a couple of overhead lights began to flicker into life, illuminating the far end of the module.

She almost jerked it out again. A pair of bodies were drifting on the far end of the module, locked in an embrace, both of them obviously the victims of explosive decompression. One of them seemed to be grinning at her, his face frozen in its final posture, and she jabbed down the green button on her wrist, calming herself down chemically, and started to take deep breaths.

"Don't look at anything other than your work, Harper. That's an order."

"Gotcha." The hacker pulled out a couple of small data storage boxes and connected them up to the system, fumbling slightly in the unfamiliar gloves. The lights flickered briefly, and Orlova turned back to the power supply station, shaking her head. The damage was extensive, quite a bit of leakage. She isolated all the circuits she could dare close, then turned back to Harper, who was beginning to enter data into the computer at a frantic rate.

"Take your time, Harper. We've got at least five minutes."

"I thought you wanted to get out of here. I'm putting in a data spider."

Orlova frowned, "Just do a data dump. We can sort out the information later."

"Faster to do it now in its native environment."

"Do it the safe way."

"Relax, I've got this one."

Turning back to the power console, Orlova focused on keeping the power stable. The systems were failing again at an increasing rate, but the power flow was stable. She flicked on a diagnostic, but the text streamed down the screen faster than her system could translate it. Her Russian was lousy, she was only picking up one word in ten or so, but it didn't look good. Then the lights went out.

"I can't work in the dark, damn it," Harper said.

"Power's stable. The activation circuit isn't working." She flicked a button again, "Damn it. Harper, that spider, it's intrusion-based?"

"Obviously."

"You've triggered an anti-virus package. The OS is purging!"

"Impossible. It's far too advanced for anything this old."

"And they couldn't have upgraded?" Orlova's suit warning lights flicked on – her computer was reporting an intrusion in her own software, and systems were starting to blink on and off. "I've been hacked!"

Pulling the cable out returned the station to dormancy, but didn't solve her problems; her on-board anti-virus package wasn't coping with the problem. One by one, systems were being wiped, and the back-ups simply couldn't keep up with the rate of data deletion. Without waiting for Harper, she swung out of the station, leaping out into free space.

"What the hell? I lost data, damn it!"

Orlova didn't reply. She had to get back to the shuttle before the virus wiped out something she couldn't live without. Like the life support package. Stabbing down on her thruster controls, all she received was an error message. Red lights were dancing inside her helmet, and she realized that her core systems had already been infected. She gulped deep breaths, trying to take in as much oxygen as she could.

"Harper to Smythe. Orlova's in trouble!"

"On my way."

Smythe had evidently been ready in the airlock; Orlova could make out a figure heading towards her, thrusters burning recklessly to get to her as rapidly as possible. Her warning lights went from red to black; all of her systems had now failed. All she had left was the air in her suit, enough for only a few minutes. The universe swam in front of her, stars dancing around, and then everything faded out. The last thing she felt was hands reaching for her.

Chapter 8

Settling down into the couch, Marshall peered out through the viewport at the planet below, slowly growing closer as they raced towards the horizon. The shuttle passed over glistening ice draped over the pole, and he started to run a sensor check. In a matter of seconds, a dozen small points had registered on the other side of the planet, scattered across the hemisphere. His brow furrowed; that didn't make any sense. Colonies were usually kept within easy travel distance in the early years, unless there was some desperate reason to spread out. Even then, there would still be one central point, if only for space-to-ground infrastructure. He played with the communications sequences, but found nothing on any frequency. If anyone had been transmitting, their presence had caused them to cease.

Steele, sitting in the pilot's chair, turned her head, "Where do you want me to set down, Captain?"

"Pilot's discretion. All of the heat points look similar enough; pick whichever looks like the easiest approach."

Biting her lip, she replied, "None of them look particularly easy, sir." Adjusting the descent to buy her some time, she looked over the computer summary of the best three landing approaches, finally selecting one near the equator. Banking around, she adjusted the course plot towards her new target. Marshall picked up a headset.

"Marshall to Alamo. How's Orlova doing?"

Caine's voice was hesitant, "There was some sort of accident. Spaceman Smythe reports that she's fine, but unconscious, some sort of suit failure. Be back aboard in a few minutes."

"Do you need the Doc?"

"Shuttle automed says that she'll come around shortly. Other than a checkup when you get back, I think she'll be fine. I'll let you know if anything changes."

"Thanks, Deadeye. I'll call again when we're on the ground."

Above him, Alamo was breaking into synchronous orbit overhead, an orbit designed to get shuttles to the surface in the minimum possible time. After playing around with the channels again, Marshall pulled out his datapad and looked up Russian emergency frequencies. No-one was transmitting, but they might just be listening.

"This is Lieutenant-Captain Marshall, of the Triplanetary," he caught himself before identifying as a warship, "spaceship Alamo. A shuttlecraft is descending to your equatorial belt. We come in peace but are able to defend ourselves if attacked. If you have specific landing instructions, please reply."

He set the message to auto-repeat until they were on the ground, then looked over at the young midshipman. Her face was a mask of concentration as she focused on the approach, bringing them in low over a jagged mountain range and curving into a long, wide canyon. Five lights sparkled at the end of the canyon, glistening red; as they grew closer, the lights flickered out.

"I'm beginning to get the feeling we're not welcome." He pointed at a rocky outcrop, half a mile from the settlement. "Put her down behind that. I want the shuttle to have some cover."

"Aye, sir. Be good to get my feet on the ground."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Steele, but you're staying in that pilot's seat until I'm sure we can risk leaving the shuttle unattended."

Her face fell, but it didn't seem to affect her concentration; playing the thrusters underneath the craft, she kicked up a cloud of dust, the accumulation of millennia, and extended the landing legs. With a slight jolt, the shuttle came to a halt. Marshall clapped her on the back.

"Nice touchdown." He threw a switch. "Everyone back there get suited up."

"Sir," Esposito said from the rear compartment, "You'd best remain on board until we can get the landing site secured. Shouldn't take more than a few minutes for my gang to get firing positions set up."

He thought about arguing for a second, then replied, "Very well, Ensign. Under no circumstances are any of the troopers to fire first. Let's keep the high ground on this one."

"Aye, sir." She sounded a little hurt as the channel closed. He climbed out of his seat to the rear of the compartment and donned his spacesuit, Steele checking over the joints and connections as he did so. His helmet on, he climbed into the pilot's airlock; though he was going to wait for Esposito's all clear, he wanted to be out on the surface as soon as possible. Frustration crept across Steele's face as the airlock door closed.

Chatter danced across the comm channels as the squad deployed, dividing up into fire teams and assuming cover positions where they could do the most good. No sign of any opposition so far, in fact, no sign of anything. If it wasn't for the lights going off, he might be tempted to suspect that his settlement was abandoned.

"Gabi, can I come out and play now?" Duquesne said over the channel; Marshall smiled in response.

"Area secure, Captain," Esposito formally reported, and Marshall tapped the button to exhaust the airlock, taking his first step onto the desolate terrain. The purple dust was everywhere, staining his boots; the suits of the espatiers were already covered in it. Esposito was over by the first fire team, and he made his way over to her, careful to stay in cover.

"No sign of any activity, sir," she reported.

"Time for me to go in, then."

She put her hand on his arm, "Sir, that's my job. Let me go forward with a fire team."

"If we go forward with a fire team, they'll assume we're hostile. No point inviting trouble."

Unseen by either of them, Duquesne had left the shuttle, and stepped out of cover, walking towards the structure. One of the troopers made an attempt to go after her, but an order from Sergeant Kozu brought him back to his fire position, ducking back into cover. Marshall looked after her, shaking his head.

"Doctor, come back at once."

"Someone has to try and make contact with them, instead of just standing around arguing."

Shrugging in his suit, Marshall climbed up over the rocks, heading after her, ignoring an accusatory glare from Esposito. He could make out a structure ahead, a collection of modules bolted together, a slight green tint to one of them. The structure couldn't hold more than a hundred people, he guessed; it looked like an early version of the pre-fabricated prospecting bases from the outer system. He caught up with Duquesne, and clicked a communications line between them, getting past her waving arm.

"Do we need this thing?"

"Even if they are friendly, we might need to say things they can't hear."

As they got to within a few hundred meters, a series of bullets smashed into the ground ahead of them, forming a line. On pure instinct, Marshall dove for the nearest cover, dragging the doctor after him. He looked around, trying to make out where the bullets came from, but there didn't seem to be any sign of a sniper.

"Captain? Are you all right?" Esposito said urgently.

"Both fine, Ensign. Maintain your position."

"I can be up there in support in two minutes."

"And expose yourself to fire. Hold your position unless I send for you. That's an order."

He pulled his sidearm out of his holster, holding it out in front of him, then peered cautiously over the rocks. He could just make out an airlock on the side of one of the modules, covered in the ubiquitous dust. A high, piercing whine then began to echo through his helmet, giving him a brief splitting headache before the suit managed to deaden the noise.

"Leave immediately," a voice said in Mandarin; the suit provided an instant translation, and he set his transmitter to broadcast in the same language.

"Who is this?" Marshall replied.

"That doesn't matter. Just go away, or you'll answer to the Republic!"

"The Triplanetary Confederation is at peace with the Lunar Republic. Are you their representative, or colony?"

"That is no concern of yours. Get back into your shuttle, and take off."

Switching frequencies, Marshall called Esposito, "Did you see what they fired?"

"Looked like an old low-g machine gun, sir."

"If they had anything more powerful, do you think they would have used it?"

"Probably. They'd want to impress us."

"So nothing that could penetrate the shuttle, then."

Duquesne cut in, "If they want us to leave, why don't we?"

"If the Republic has an installation here, why keep it a secret, Doctor? Either they're hiding something, in which case we need to know exactly what that is, or this is someone trying to scare us. And don't forget, we landed in response to a distress signal. Someone down here wants help, and I intend to find out what."

He changed frequencies again, "Alamo picked up a distress signal when it reached orbit. What is your emergency?"

"No concern of yours. We thought you were a Republic vessel; that signal was not meant for you."

Pausing, Marshall pondered for a second before replying, "If you are waiting for a vessel out of Ragnarok, I must inform you that it has become an Associated State of the Triplanetary Confederation. There won't be any Republic ships out of there for a long time."

"Just..." There was a loud report over the channel, then a series of scuffling noises, as if a struggle was taking place over the transmitter.

"OK, Esposito, go, go, go."

Leaping over the rocks, Marshall raced forward, taking advantage of the confusion and hoping that it extended to whoever was at the other end of the machine gun. He zigzagged towards the airlock, Duquesne following close behind. With every step he was ready to jump into cover, waiting for the blast of bullets, but they never came. With a deep sigh, he slammed his fist on the airlock emergency release, and was surprised when it flashed from red to green, and the door opened.

"Sir, wait for us,. It might be a trap," Kozu said.

"Negative. Follow when you get here." Duquesne stood next to him in the airlock as the outer door closed, looking down at the pistol still clenched in his fist. Nodding, he placed it back in his holster; if this was some sort of a trap, a pistol probably wasn't going to do him any good. The pressure indicator slowly rose, and he could hear the hissing of atmosphere filling the airlock. Carefully, he unlocked his helmet, waiting for alarms from his warning systems that never came. The inner door opened, revealing a modified habitation module that had obviously seen far better days; inside, a man lay on the floor, bruises beginning to appear on his face, and two other men stood around, both with guns out but pointed at the ground.

"How many more of you?" Marshall said.

One of them replied, "Fourteen in this complex. Another twelve in the other settlements."

"I take it your friend was less than happy to meet us."

"Our orders were to hold this planet until relieved by a Republic vessel. That vessel is now seven months overdue; that is the only reason why I have opted to undertake this course of action."

Duquesne said, "You're out of supplies, aren't you."

"The hydroponic farms here are deficient. We require nutritional supplements, medicines, and spare parts for the colony's life support systems if we are to remain on this facility until we are picked up."

"Frankly, I'm surprised the Republic hasn't come to get you," Marshall said. He was interrupted by the sound of the airlock cycling, and quickly pulled out his communicator. "Ensign, stand down. Ceasefire."

"Roger." The airlock cycled, and Esposito walked out, her rifle by her side, a pair of espatiers flanking her. Both the Republic technicians looked at each other, as if wondering if they had made the right decision.

"Who are you, anyway? You have me at a disadvantage."

"I am Xun Wu," the first one said, and gesturing to the other, "Zhao Bai. Both of us are Senior NCOs in the Republic Fleet; our unconscious commander is Senior Lieutenant Song."

"I'll make a deal with you. Alamo will provide you with the supplies you require for another, say, six months, and in exchange, you will answer some questions." He raised a hand, "I will undertake to limit my questions to details of your presence on this planet."

They looked at each other, and Xun nodded, "Our officer would doubtless object, but I have children back on Luna. I accept your terms, Captain Marshall. My counterpart will transmit our requirements to your vessel, and I will provide you with the briefing you require. In exchange for one additional request; testimony from yourself that will provide support to our actions regarding Senior Lieutenant Song."

Marshall looked at Esposito, who nodded, "I'll see you have sworn testimony from myself and two other officers before we leave. Ensign, if you would assist NCO Zhao in relaying his requirements up to Mr. Dietz?"

"Aye, sir. What about the rest of my men?"

"Have them take up defensive positions outside the base." He shrugged at Xun, "It isn't that I don't trust you, but I can't afford to take any risks."

"I quite understand."

The NCO pulled out a couple of folding chairs, placing them around a worn metal table, and Marshall took a seat, taking the opportunity for his first good look around the room. While this pod had been well-used, it had evidently also been well-loved; there were paintings and drawings on the walls, writing in a language Marshall couldn't recognize but in a hand that could only be that of a child, a rack of well-thumbed books, real paper books, on the wall. Xun noticed his eyes wandering.

"This is essentially as we found it. Unoccupied."

"The station had been abandoned? What of the others?"

"I see the interrogation has begun." Xun smiled, then replied, "To the best of my knowledge, the first expedition here discovered the settlement in its current abandoned state two years ago. Six months later our team was landed here on what was meant to be a one-year expedition, to evaluate whether this planet could be opened up as a base for Republic activities from Ragnarok." He paused, folding his hands, "Your presence here would suggest that our plans for that planet had failed."

"As of last month, Ragnarok is an Associated State of the Triplanetary Confederation."

Shaking his head, he replied, "A most impressive title. Our other goal was to learn the fate of the planet's inhabitants, and ultimately we failed in this accomplishment, though our fool of an officer disagreed." Zhao looked sharply at his compatriot, who shrugged, "I speak nothing but the truth. The great mystery of this world remains."

"Did you learn anything?"

"This planet was settled by a group from the Russian Federal Union, the Tatars. There were five thousand of them, and then a catastrophe caused much devastation; I presume you saw the asteroid impact on the other side of the planet."

"Yes."

"That was forty-five years ago. Since then the planet's population had shrunk, and some very depressing literature was written. The suicide rate was high, and the colony was failing, and without a sponsor to rescue them, they were doomed. Their last census, eleven years ago, had only nine hundred entries."

Marshall's eyes widened. "What happened to them?"

"The final log entry we could find on the colony's computers was made nine years ago. Since then, there has been nothing. No sign of life, no sign of activity, everything left to crumble and decay. It is as if a force reached down and swept this planet clear of life, overnight. Not that we have determined what that might be. My presumption is that they were evacuated, but there is no-one to evacuate them! I presume your people did not do it?"

"You presume correctly. We didn't even know about this settlement until we arrived in the system."

Leaning back in his chair, Xun said, "If the United Nations had discovered the colony and rescued its people, they would have used it as a propaganda coup. As, indeed, would my people, most likely."

"As would the Confederation."

"Which leads me to the conclusion that there is a force out there unknown to us, which nine years ago visited this planet and took almost a thousand people with it. I am not a superstitious man, Captain, but there is a quality to this place that is not natural."

"What of the space station?"

"Destroyed before we arrived. I presume a survey was made, but I was not privy to the results."

Marshall scratched his chin in thought, "Can this base be opened up again?"

"It would take substantial resupply and new construction, but it might be possible. If there was a reason to do so, the bases here could be reopened."

"I'd like a copy of all the data you uncovered about this planet. Everything you have learned about the colonists and their fate."

Nodding, Xun said, "I will provide you with the information you seek. Have you any idea why the Republic has not come for us, Captain?"

"Their resources are badly stretched at the moment. Had they told us you were here, we would have happily dispatched a vessel to pick you up."

Glancing up at the ceiling for a second, the NCO replied, "Would it be possible for us to return on Alamo? I will guarantee that my men will behave correctly."

Shaking his head, Marshall replied, "That won't be possible. Alamo has...other duties that we must attend to. However, once we have concluded our current assignment, I will report your situation to my senior officers. If the Republic doesn't get to you, one of our ships will come and pick you up."

"I suspect your Combined Chiefs would not easily reject a propaganda coup of that nature. I thank you for your consideration, Captain."

"If any of your staff need medical check-ups, Doctor Duquesne will be only too happy to provide."

"Thank you, no. Much as your doctor's prowess in combat impressed me, I think the spirit of co-operation has already been pushed as far as possible for one evening."

Esposito came over, "It's quite a list, sir, but Mr. Quinn is confident that we can have it ready in two days, without affecting Alamo's flight status." The last five words were underlined so heavily Marshall could almost see it, and the point was not lost on Xun. Was there a trace of disappointment there? If there was, it was fleeting.

"I thank you once again, Captain." The unconscious officer began to groan. "If you will excuse me, I must take steps to ensure that my commanding officer does not do anything rash."

Chapter 9

Orlova watched Foster fidget as the two of them waited on the bridge. The Captain had summoned them to his office as soon as he'd returned to the ship, and was making his way up from the hangar deck while the watch tried to ignore them, though Kibaki had thrown Orlova a few sympathetic looks when no-one else was noticing from the guidance control station. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Marshall strode through the elevator doors, marching across the bridge in three strides to his office.

"Both of you, get in here now," he growled.

Harper walked in, slouching against the desk, while Orlova made the best attempt she could at standing to attention. Marshall looked Harper up and down, shaking his head. Taking the hint, the young hacker took her hands off the desk, resting them by her side, and he sat down behind his desk. Pulling a datapad out of his pocket, he waved it at the two of them.

"I got the report on your little stunt when I was on the shuttle ride home. Have you anything to say for yourselves?"

Looking straight ahead, Orlova said, "I take full responsibility, sir."

Crunching her face, Harper turned first to Orlova then to Marshall, "I'm the one who did it."

"Sub-Lieutenant Orlova, nevertheless, is in the right. As senior officer, the mission was her responsibility." Something in his face had mellowed slightly at their words; Harper didn't know Marshall well enough to spot it, but Orlova did. At least, she thought she did.

"Spaceman Harper, did Sub-Lieutenant Orlova give you orders to use conventional data mining to obtain the needed data from the station?"

"Sure, but I knew it wouldn't work. I dug out one of my spiders instead."

"A piece of intrusion software that triggered all the antiviral protection, resulting in the loss of," he looked down at the datapad again, "more than sixty percent of the data. Not to mention damn near killing Sub-Lieutenant Orlova."

"How was I to know what would happen? I figured it was all old stuff anyway."

Slamming his hands on the desk, Marshall rose to his feet, "You weren't to know. That's the problem, spaceman. You didn't know. Had you followed the correct procedures, we would have retrieved all of the data with no risk to anyone."

"The data mining might have triggered the software, sir," Orlova said. "And if this a formal hearing, she did save my life."

"After risking it in the first place."

"I thought we were in a hurry. There was a missile fifty feet from us and debris everywhere," Harper said.

"Harper, you don't seem to understand. You aren't in charge. I am the commander of this ship, and Sub-Lieutenant Orlova is your department head. What we say goes. Instantly. Without any thought. If we want input, we will ask for it, and you will be expected to provide it to the best of your ability, but there are times when you must simply do as you are damn well told."

"Even if I know better.” A statement rather than a question.

Sighing, Marshall sat down at his desk, shaking his head, "It's a pity, spaceman, but I don't see how I can trust you. You aren't giving me any reason to. I'm going to have you t..."

Before he could finish, Orlova leaned forward, "I trust her, sir."

His eyes narrowed as he looked up at her, "She almost killed you, Sub-Lieutenant. You aren't exactly blameless, here; you should have ordered her to stop as soon as she disobeyed her orders."

"I know that, sir." She looked at Harper. "I think she has potential, Captain."

"How can I trust her?"

Taking a deep breath, Orlova replied, "I will vouch for her behavior, sir."

Marshall was silent for a long second. "You know what that means, Sub-Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. For the moment, Spaceman Harper remains in your department." He turned to Harper, continuing, "I'm fining you four weeks pay, Spaceman, and you are restricted to quarters when not on duty for the same period."

"Wha..." She paused, thinking better. "I understand. Sir."

Shaking his head again, Marshall replied, "Dismissed. And Sub-Lieutenant?"

"Sir?"

"I'd better not see Spaceman Harper in here again. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly, sir."

The two of them stepped quickly out of the office into a waiting elevator, the doors closing behind them as they sped down to the security office. Harper leaned against the wall, grinning.

"What are you so happy about?" Orlova said.

"Got away with it."

Orlova slammed her hand on the emergency stop. "We're going to have a conversation right now."

"I saved your life."

"And I'm grateful, and I will not forget it, but you damn well screwed up out there. That data could be vitally needed at some point, and now we're not going to have it, and that is all because of you."

She shrugged, "It was probably nothing important."

"I'm glad to hear it. How do you know that? We'll never know, now, and that could come back to haunt us."

"Aren't you taking this a bit too seriously?"

Her eyes widening, Orlova moved towards the spaceman, her free hand balling into a fist, "There are a hundred and twenty people on this ship, Harper, and at a second's notice all of those lives could be in your hands. We're not playing a game out here, people's lives are at stake every hour of every day. Especially in a critical department like ours."

"I didn't ask to be here."

"I don't care whether you did or not, Harper, you are here, and we've all got to make the best of it. You have a job to do, a job I actually think you are damn good at, and you're going to have to decide to do it."

"And if I don't."

Shaking her head, she replied, "Whether it happens on Alamo or later, you're going to have to decide one day whether you are going to have a life or just coast through on daddy's credit chip."

"Don't talk about my father that way. He was never around, he never had any time for me."

"My father died thirteen years ago. Listed as missing in space. My mother dragged me from one damned dump to another looking for the big score, except it always got smaller and smaller until I managed to cut loose. I think I have you beat, Harper. So don't play that crap with me."

Out of nowhere, Harper smashed a hand against the wall, sending the elevator ringing, "For a little while, I thought you might understand. I didn't have a father either, I was just something to show off at campaign rallies or holovid adverts. His idea of parenting was to tell me how embarrassed he was about me. You had someone to look up to, someone to idolize. I just had a picture on a wall."

The two of them were silent for a minute, Harper looking at the deck, moisture welling up in the corners of her eyes, while Orlova looked on. She placed her hand on the young hacker's shoulder, then sighed.

"Harper."

She looked up. "What?"

"I just put my career on the line, a career I want more than anything else, because I believe in you."

Her forehead crinkled, "You what?"

"You're the best hacker in my department. More than that, you've got the potential to be a great one. I need you, and I need you badly, and if you can just learn a bit of discipline, you're going to be one of the most valued people on the ship."

"No-one ever told me they believe in me before."

Orlova shrugged, "I'll tell you something else – if the Captain didn't think you had potential, you'd be reporting for duties scrubbing the maintenance shafts by now."

"Why didn't he say that, then?"

"Because he's the Captain. Besides, he's just been shot at, and that probably put him in a bit of a bad mood."

"It would me."

"Never mind that restricted to quarters stuff. You don't spend any time with the rest of the crew anyway. Want to start again? Clean slate?"

She nodded, "I think I would. Sub-Lieutenant?"

Chuckling, Orlova replied, "Though getting you to use my rank is a bit of a breakthrough, I think you can call me Maggie when we're on our own."

"Why do you trust me, Maggie?"

"You saved my life. I owe you that. And besides, you aren't that different to me a year or so ago. It took someone else to see that there was something in me that was worth looking at, that I should be wearing this uniform."

"Captain Marshall?"

"Uh-huh. I'm not going to let down his trust, and I've told him that you will improve."

There was a look in Harper's eyes that Orlova hadn't seen before. An earnestness, an eagerness; something that had broken through the sarcastic exterior to the human being underneath. The tears began to dry.

"I won't let you down. You need me to be the best hacker on the ship, you're going to get the best hacker on the ship."

Orlova took her hand off the stop button. "You know, Alamo isn't exactly a spit-and-polish ship at the best of times. How big is that software library of yours?"

"Pretty big."

The doors opened, and they walked down the short corridor towards the security office. Chief Petty Officer Washington was waiting for the two of them, her face scowling at the green-haired hacker as she walked into the room, now smiling. Raising her hand, Orlova turned to Harper.

"I want you to upload your, er, special software to the ship's library. Work with Chief Washington to catalog everything and test it for potential future use by the department."

Harper nodded, "You know what I went through to get that collection? Not to mention who."

"And all of that work will now benefit the ship. You might have to let someone else use your precious programs..."

"I don't mind as long as they use them right."

"Sub, are you sure about this?" Washington said. "We don't know where it came from. Some of it could be illegal."

"We're a long way from Mariner Headquarters now, Chief. That stuff could be useful in future engagements. Anything to give Alamo an edge in battle."

Hesitantly, the chief nodded, "Very well. Could I speak with you for a minute?"

"Sure." She turned to Harper, "Get started, spaceman."

"Yes, ma'am."

Orlova and Washington squeezed themselves into the poky office, the chief regarding her officer, shaking her head. Before she could say anything, Orlova held up her hand.

"I know, I'm taking a risk, and possibly compounding an error. She saved my life, Chief, and risked her own to do it. For all she knew my suit could have infected hers with the same virus."

"That doesn't forgive what she did."

"No, but it might – just – have taught her the lesson she needed to learn. Keep an eye on her, Chief, but I'm going to give her one last chance to prove herself good. Let's see what she does with it."

Smiling, the chief nodded, "If that's what you want, Sub, I'll see that it's done. I'm going to give you a bit of advice, though."

"I think someone told me never to ignore the advice of a Chief."

"Sensible person. Don't ever get the idea of thinking that you see 'something of yourself' in a subordinate. Everyone's different, thinks differently, acts differently. It's one thing to encourage talent, but sometimes people have to make mistakes. That's how life works. You can't protect someone because you wanted someone to protect you when you needed it."

Quietly, Orlova nodded, "Thanks, Chief." She smiled, "No wonder the senior enlisted run the service."

"Someone's got to, Sub." Waving a thumb at the partition, she stood up, "I'd better go and keep an eye on her before she starts hacking the master indexing file."

Chapter 10

Sprinting down the corridor, Marshall almost knocked over a passing maintenance tech as he sped towards the briefing room. It was bad form to be late to a senior officer's meeting in any case; worse when you were the one who had called it. The door slid open, and he saw the command staff sitting around the table waiting patiently, though Caine threw him a smug look as he slid down into his chair. Almost everyone, anyway; Mulenga's chair was empty. Midshipman Steele was standing at the rear, clutching a datapad, looking at the vacant seat.

"Lieutenant Mulenga, report to the briefing room," Marshall said into his communicator. There was no reply; he looked around the table, but no-one seemed to know anything. "Lieutenant Mulenga, report in."

"Maybe his communicator isn't working," Cunningham volunteered.

"Maybe. We'll start the meeting without him. Mr. Dietz, why don't you run through the situation on the surface."

The executive officer peered down at his datapad, "It's taken three days, but we've finally managed to fill all the requests of the Republic garrison. The last two shuttles are on the ground now unloading; I'd say we'll be ready to depart in three hours."

Quinn nodded, "We've run down our stores a bit, but nothing the fabricators can't replace in a week or so."

Looking over at the engineer with a frown, Dietz continued, "Doctor Duquesne has completed her medical check-up, and there is nothing serious to report."

"Are we ceding them the planet, Captain?" Caine asked.

Marshall shrugged, "I don't think it is a question of control, Lieutenant. They're in residence, and I'm not disposed to stop them, but nor do I think the Republic will renew the garrison once they've been evacuated. It isn't as if there is anything much worth having there."

"Yeah, I had a look at the specifications on those modules," Quinn interrupted, "It'd almost be easier to build new ones, though they'd be good for parts."

"Could you get them operational?"

Quinn looked slightly hurt, "Of course, sir."

"What about the rest of the system?"

Cunningham looked across at the empty chair, "Lieutenant Mulenga's been doing most of the heavy lifting on this one, sir, but with the reports provided to us by the garrison I think we have everything we need. Their survey did a thorough job. I've run a few checks with our own sensors, and everything seems to match up; we can trust it."

"That saves us weeks," Dixon said. "Less sitting around. My pilots are getting bored."

"You've had them flying around the ship since we settled into orbit," Dietz said. "I was going to bring that up; we're going to have problems with the maintenance regime. Why can't you use the simulators?"

"It isn't the same. If you were a pilot, you'd understand," Dixon replied.

Quinn looked at Dixon, nodding, "We can handle the fighter maintenance, sir."

"I'm not sure our stores can, Lieutenant," Dietz replied.

Marshall looked around the table, "Try and stick to the simulators where you can, Dixon. We're in this for the long haul."

She looked sullenly at him, "Yes, sir."

"Now, our next port of call." He tapped a button, bringing up a slowly rotating projection of local interstellar space. A long red line crossed between four stars, forming a loop, and one of them started to flash. "Wolf 358, the next target on our list. Lieutenant Caine?"

"Midshipman Steele's done the homework on this one, sir; if you'd like to hear her report?"

"By all means."

Taking a step forward, Steele leaned over to use Mulenga's datapad, bringing up a close-in look on the dim red dwarf, a couple of planets slowly rotating around it in accelerated orbits. None of them looked particularly inviting, just dull brown rocks. Dixon looked from side to side, as if trying to think of an easy way of getting out of the meeting. Before the young midshipman could properly get started, the door opened and Mulenga, panting, burst into the room, throwing a datapad in front of Marshall.

"Sorry I'm late, sir, but this you have to see."

Frowning, Marshall picked up the datapad. He saw a swirl of planetological data, readings gathered from surveys of nearby stars, then his eyes widened; the computer-generated image showed a double planetary system, two large bodies orbiting each other close to the star. There was something odd about the file, but it took looking at the data read to work out what.

"Lieutenant," he said to Mulenga, who was pushing past Steele to his seat, "this isn't Wolf 358."

"No, sir. We spent the first day here looking at our next target, but we didn't find anything at all interesting." The midshipman looked rather put out; she'd spent days working on a briefing about the 'not interesting' star. "I ordered a focus on anomalies, and we've been working round the clock in the scanning sections on this."

Marshall held up the datapad. "So where is this?"

"GJ 2097."

Dietz frowned, "Could I see the report, sir?" Marshall slid the datapad across the table.

"For the benefit of the uneducated..." Cunningham said.

Clearing the image from the table, Mulenga inputted new data, bringing up a holoimage of the star, then zooming into the innermost planet. The image stored in the ship's computer showed a large, barren world, four times the size of Earth, with a notation that indicated that its orbital path was uncertain – but that it was in the habitable zone for life.

"According to the readings from Trident Station, nothing particularly notable. Just another super-Earth, far too large for us. However, we're now a lot closer, and our data is a lot more accurate." He tapped in some more data, and the image changed. Now displayed was two objects, one almost as big as Earth, the other a third of the size, slowly rotating around each other. The computer painted in an atmosphere, water – and even vegetation.

"That's impossible," Caine said.

"It's all in the data. I was waiting for the last pass. Our readings from the planet show chlorophyll present on the planet. Not to mention oxygen and water...Captain, we've discovered another habitable planet."

"Accuracy?"

"Better than eighty percent."

Marshall sat back in his chair, shaking his head, "And we didn't see this before because?"

"As I said, sir, too far away. The planet is close to the star, which introduces its own complications. Also, well, the last examination of this star was thirty-nine years ago according to our records."

"Thirty-nine?" Cunningham said.

"It's a big galaxy, Lieutenant," Mulenga said. "It wasn't a system anyone expected to explore for a long time."

Knowing the answer to his question, Marshall asked, "Your recommendations, Lieutenant?"

"We should investigate immediately. We can reach the star in one jump from our present position; that will leave us with more than sufficient fuel for the return to Lalande."

Cunningham shook his head, "Not only does that take us well off our flight plan, but that plan was designed to fill certain tactical and strategic goals."

Orlova's eyes widened, "Lieutenant, we're talking about a habitable planet. Either we find a new world or we go and look at a couple of dead rocks. I vote for the planet."

"This is not a democracy, Sub-Lieutenant," Cunningham replied.

Caine smiled, "From a tactical point of view, there's no point being able to defend real estate if we don't have any real estate to defend. We know that the Republic is interested in this system, and that they'll be back soon to pick up their team; we don't what them to find out about it."

"They must already know," Mulenga said. "Their sensors are better than ours."

"Which doubles down on why they wanted Ragnarok," Marshall said. "Once they got Helium-3 mining going there on a serious basis, they could launch an expedition of their own. Fortunately for us, we got there first."

Caine nodded, "That's why they could launch the Procyon colony so quickly. They had everything ready for GJ 2097. Hell, they might have been there already."

Looking around the room, Dixon said, "To hell with all of this; let's go and see."

Cunningham sighed, replying, "The best course of action is to pick up the Republic colonists and return to Hunter Station. We can refuel, report our discoveries, and come right out again if ordered."

"And if we aren't?" Dixon replied, "We could be sitting on our butts at Ragnarok for weeks, months waiting for the Combined Chiefs to decide. We need to go, now."

"I agree," Dietz said, attracting the attention of everyone in the room. Cunningham's eyes widened; his expected ally had joined the other side.

Marshall smiled, nodding, "As do I."

Cunningham shook his head, "I must remind everyone in this room that we were ordered on a specific flight plan, and that this constitutes a direct violation of our orders."

"Noted, Lieutenant," Marshall replied. "Our mission, as I was briefed, was to seek out opportunities, and to get to them before the Republic could."

"Procyon's a long way from here," Cunningham said.

"Not far enough that they couldn't do it. Three jumps. With refueling tankers, they could mount that expedition," Caine said. "And put enough ships in orbit that we couldn't get in."

"We can't afford to take the risk." Marshall looked around the room, "I'm breaking off the expedition route as planned, and we will set course for GJ 2097. Mr. Dietz, when can we break orbit?"

"Alamo can be ready for space in four hours, Captain."

"Mr. Mulenga, I suspect you've already plotted a hendecaspace transit..." The astrogator grinned in response. "So please get it sent up to the bridge."

"What about Wolf 358?" Cunningham said.

"That will have to wait for a later expedition." Marshall smiled, "Good news for the garrison, as well. We'll be back here to pick them up a long time before anyone else could come out from Ragnarok. Though I wouldn't want to have to bring the news home that we're likely to give them." He paused, then continued, "I am aware that I am committing a violation of our sailing orders; I believe that this action is justified, but if anyone wishes to protest at this point feel free; it will be noted as such in my log."

Marshall looked at Cunningham, who very subtly shook his head. Though the rest of the officers looked around at each other for a few seconds, no-one indicated any opposition to his plan.

"Then in that case, let's get to work. We break orbit in four hours, and we'll need to prepare a new exploration schedule. Mr. Quinn, start checking out the small craft for atmospheric operation."

"We can adapt the big shuttles and the fighters without too much trouble. I should have them ready if we round-the-clock by the time we get there."

"Excellent. Lieutenant Dixon?"

The squadron leader straightened in her seat, "Sir?"

"I think you and your pilots are going to get some good flying in after all. Get them working on simulator flights for upper atmospheric operation, just in case. Best-guess specifications for atmosphere and gravity."

She clapped her hands together, nodding, "It's done, sir."

He mused for a second, "Just in case, I want a beacon set up in high orbit around Sagdeev. In case we run into problems, let's make sure the rescue ship knows where we are. See to it, Mr. Cunningham."

"Aye, Captain."

"Anything else?" No-one replied. "Dismissed, then. Good work, Mr. Mulenga."

He grinned as he bolted from the room, no doubt eager to get back to the data streaming in. The rest of the officers filed out of the room, Cunningham pausing at the door, turning for a second, then leaving without saying a word. Dietz remained at his seat, still holding onto the datapad, frowning.

"Quite an opportunity, Mr. Dietz," Marshall said as the door slid shut.

"Indeed."

"But that's not why you agreed with it."

Thinly smiling, Dietz replied, "You had already made up your mind as soon as Mr. Mulenga told you about the discovery of a habitable planet. Nothing any of us would have said would have prevented you."

"That's probably true." He leaned back, "But that doesn't usually stop you. What is it?"

"How much do you know about planetary formation, sir?"

"Probably not as much as I should."

Dietz frowned, "I spent some time studying it in university. After the war I contemplated pursuing that further for a while, before I decided to remain in uniform."

"And?"

"Take Ragnarok, Captain. The probability of such a world existing is not large. The number of coincidences that were required to position every part of that system, and the sub-system of which Ragnarok is a part, are substantial. Nevertheless, I accept it. Whilst the probability might be low, we had to find such a world sooner or later."

"This time it happened to be sooner."

"Precisely, Captain. Now, Mr. Mulenga has found another world orbiting a red dwarf star, a world that is even more suitable for life – specifically, for human life – than anything we have yet found. Comparable with Arcadia, certainly. But the coincidences, Captain! A co-orbital body of this scale close into the star, to prevent the main world being tidally fixed. Right in the middle of the habitable zone. Sir, it defies logic."

"Are you suggesting there is a problem with the data?"

"Lieutenant Mulenga is an extremely competent officer; if he says that this planet exists, I am more than willing to believe him. Yet statistically, it shouldn't exist. An examination of this world is essential, sir; at the very least it will mean a substantial change to our theories of planet formation."

Marshall's brow furrowed, "At least?"

Dietz hesitated before replying, "We have attempted terraforming on one occasion, Captain. While the effects were not favorable..."

"To say the least."

"We still made the attempt, sir. And a terraforming project is to be restarted on Ragnarok, also. We have been spacefarers for two centuries, Captain, and already we are remaking planets to better suit ourselves. If we are doing this, others might also."

His eyes widening, Marshall replied, "You know what you are suggesting."

"Yes."

"Not only might there be an intelligent race out here, only the fourth starfaring race ever contacted, but this race might both have the ability to terraform planets and have environmental requirements broadly compatible with our own."

"Yes, sir. That is what I am suggesting."

Standing up, Marshall started to walk around the room, "Three other spacefaring races. One of them was just mining asteroids, another was collecting data on a slow pass through our systems, and the third..."

"We know only what the United Nations told us. All of them were contacted by their representatives; our contact with any of them has been limited."

"This could be the greatest opportunity we've ever faced. Or the greatest security risk."

Dietz nodded, "That is precisely my fear, Captain. We have to investigate this planet immediately, and if we do find signs of intelligent inhabitation..."

"Then we must warn the Confederation immediately."

"Yes, sir. I will add a notation in my log that I support your decision to deviate from our orders, and will add my reasonings."

"You don't have to do that, Lieutenant. This is my decision, and the consequences are mine."

"I know that, sir. Nevertheless, I will enter the notation as I have indicated."

Grabbing Dietz's shoulder, Marshall replied, "Thank you, Mr. Dietz." He paused, then continued, "I don't think there is any need to talk to the rest of the crew about this, not yet. Better brief the senior staff, though. Quietly."

"I'll prepare a report."

"For the present, this is a standard survey. We'd better go through the First Contact protocols again, just in case."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed, then, Lieutenant."

Dietz stood up, striding out of the room, leaving Marshall alone in the briefing room. He frowned as he looked at the planet still slowly rotating on the monitor, computer-simulated oceans, clouds...a world where human beings could breathe the air and drink the water. Where the temperature was tolerable. An ideal new home for mankind. Assuming someone – or something – else hadn't managed to get there first.

Chapter 11

Alamo flew over Sagdeev on its final orbit of the planet; there was a sense of eager anticipation across the ship as word had spread of their destination. Caine sat in the command chair, Kibaki sitting next to her in the watch officer's chair. Steele was sitting at the guidance control chair, running over the course to the egress point for one last time, calculations running up and down the viewscreen.

She tapped a button on her console, "Guidance to crew. Stand by for acceleration in two minutes." She turned to face Caine, "All decks ready for acceleration, Lieutenant."

"You have the call, Midshipman." Caine turned to Kibaki, "Alpha Watch will be arriving in a few minutes; this one hasn't been timed well."

"Want my people to finish the maneuver?"

"Makes most sense. Once we're set on course, we'll do the switch. It shouldn't take more than ten minutes."

The door slid open, and Zabek walked out, making her way over to the command chair. Steele glanced over her shoulder at the arriving midshipman then returned to focus on her station.

"You're early, Midshipman," Caine said.

"Shift chance was scheduled for just after the burn, ma'am."

"You hurried for nothing, I'm afraid," Kibaki said, "We won't be handing over until the burn is completed."

"On the other hand," Caine said, "given that the Alpha guidance is here." She paused for a second, glancing up at the clock. "Take guidance, midshipman."

Steele turned, a frown on her face, "Course implementation in seventy seconds, ma'am."

"If everything is prepared, that's no problem. Zabek, take the helm."

Zabek walked over to the guidance station, her control key already in her hand. Reluctantly, Steele yielded the helm, standing by the side of the console as Zabek took her seat, rapidly working her hands over the systems, watching the controls move to her own custom settings.

"Thirty seconds to burn, ma'am," Zabek said.

Caine settled back in the chair, watching the two of them carefully. Zabek was eager, poised, ready; Steele was still hovering around, reluctant to leave the bridge. Her stomach turned over slightly as the rotation slowed to a stop, the brief sensation of floating ready to be replaced by acceleration from Alamo's drive. She thought about reaching for a pill, but decided not to bother; it would only be five seconds.

"Malfunction," Zabek said, her voice raising. "Er, primary override's engaged."

"Bypass," Caine said, calmly.

Zabek looked over the controls, working through the problem, while Caine leaned over her shoulder, pointing at a control section. Zabek shook her head, and started typing in an override sequence, as the optimum firing time came, and went. The countdown clock ticked on, and Kibaki made to stand up, but Caine put her arm out to stop him.

"Let her work this one. We've still got ninety-two seconds."

"Damn it, it's that one," Steele said, reaching for a control.

"Not on this configuration. I've got this."

Steele pushed past her and tapped a three-button sequence, and an array of lights flashed from red to green. The door to Marshall's office opened, a stern look on the Captain's face as he carefully drifted out, then grunted as the engine fired, bringing gravity back. Zabek turned to look at the officer's behind, a mixture of fury and embarrassment on her face.

"What happened, Lieutenant?" Marshall said to Caine.

"Minor malfunction. We're on course just, er," she looked up, "twelve seconds late. I was just about to get Quinn onto it."

"Tell him to spend less time running around fixing Dixon's fighters and more time on the primary systems. Carry on."

The Captain returned to his office, and all eyes turned back to the front of the bridge. Steele was still leaning over the guidance console, one hand resting on Zabek's shoulder and another on the console. The frustrated Zabek was trying to work, but was obviously flustered, finding it difficult to concentrate while someone was breathing down her neck.

"Midshipman Steele," Caine said.

She turned her head, "Yes, ma'am?"

"Your shift is over. You can leave the bridge, now."

"Ma'am," she replied.

"Now." Caine turned to Kibaki, "All yours, Joe."

"For about three minutes, anyway," the gray-haired watch officer replied.

Steele walked haughtily towards the elevator, Caine following her, taking a last look at Zabek sitting at the controls. She seemed to be relaxing a bit now, monitoring the course and implementing the corrections required to get Alamo back on the correct flight path. Hopping in before the door closed, she tapped for her office. Steele was about to push a button herself, but Caine shook her head. The trip was silent, the doors opening on a lower deck. Gesturing towards her office, the two of them walked down the corridor.

The room was barely big enough for two, pictures of various space scenes decorating the wall in holo-frames, cycling from one image to another in a random pattern. The desk was a mess; Caine swept her hands across it to make a space, sending paperwork of various types to the sides. Steele stood at attention, facing her,

"You wanted to see me, ma'am?"

"Not particularly, but you didn't leave me much choice up there. What did you think you were doing?"

"Technically, I was still on duty as guidance control officer, ma'am, and we were pushing past optimum firing time."

"So you decided to just take action yourself."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I shouldn't have to tell you how out of line that is."

Steele looked up at the wall, "I judged the ship to be at crisis, and that action needed to be taken instantly."

"You were showing off." Caine paused. "I'm assigning you to work with Lieutenant Quinn down in engineering for the next ten days. Mr. Kibaki can handle guidance control for a while." Not waiting for a protest, she held up a hand, "Dismissed, Midshipman."

Saluting, Steele turned on her heels and walked out of the room. Caine shook her head and started to log the shift change; as she expected, Kibaki had no objection to performing double duty for a while. She started to work on the ever-increasing backlog of paperwork, wishing that she'd thought to make Steele work on it, when her communicator beeped.

"Caine here."

"Marshall here, Deadeye. I've just had a duty roster change logged; Steele's been relieved of bridge duty of the last ten days."

"That's right, I did it myself."

"Does this have something to do with what I, erm, didn't see happening on the bridge when we made the burn?"

She nodded, "I can't let that sort of behavior take place without comment, Danny. What would you have done?"

"Given her a stiff talking to about protocol. Forget about Steele; what are you doing about Zabek?"

"Zabek?"

He audibly sighed, "She froze up on the bridge, Deadeye. And she's not exactly the star performer of this particular crop of middies, if I'm honest. I think you're being too hard on Steele – but I put you in charge, and if you think it appropriate, I'm not going to question that. Zabek, on the other hand, is on the verge of becoming an issue of ship's safety, and that's something I can't afford to ignore."

"I'm not asking you to, Danny. She just needs a little more time to settle in."

"Look, I understand. She scraped through the Academy just about wash-out level, and you want to give her another chance. Fair enough, I approve. But not all of these stories have happy endings, Deadeye. Have you considered that maybe she just can't cut it as a bridge officer?"

"I thought about it."

"And what are you going to do about it? Look at it from a skills point of view; you just relieved the best guidance officer of the rotation in favor of the worst."

"Danny..."

"Steele's essentially taking hendecaspace off. Fine, she'll be back on duty by the time we re-enter normal space. Zabek needs watching, Deadeye. Like a hawk."

"I'll handle it."

Marshall's voice lowered, "I know Steele's a bit of an arrogant ass, but a lot of us were back when we were kids. That'll pass in time."

"I know, Danny. I'll ease up on her a bit."

"Just remember that it was us ten years ago. Marshall out.”

Caine sat at her desk, pulling out the files again, going over the reports. Dixon really had been profligate while they'd been orbiting Sagdeev; she'd seen squadrons in combat tours with less exhaustive parts requirements. Maybe that was the answer to the Steele problem. Closing down her workstation, she walked out of her office down to the elevator, punching for engineering. The door opened to reveal the usual bustle of activity that preceded an hendecaspace jump; Quinn was sitting in the corner of the room at a workstation, preparing a maintenance schedule for the fighters.

"Hey, Caine," he said, waving her over.

"Busy?"

The engineer looked around the room at the swarming technicians and shook his head, "Nah, everything under control. Anything I can help you with? You don't come down here that often."

"One of my midshipmen."

"Steele?"

"Got it in one."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I've assigned her to work with you down here for a few days."

"Pointless makework? I've got piles of that around here. Some of it might even turn out to be some use once in a while. Any preferences?"

Caine looked from left to right, uncomfortably, "Actually, I want you to give her something important."

"I've got lots of jobs like that as well, Lieutenant."

Tapping the screen, she said, "All that fighter maintenance work? I'd say you need a liaison between you and the squadron, to help you co-ordinate everything. That'll free you up to handle everything else. Captain seems to think we've got something big coming up."

His face dropped, "I suppose...that does make some sense. It's not necessary, though, I can handle it."

"Ah, your little thing with Lieutenant Dixon," she said, quietly.

"What thing?" he hissed.

She smiled, "Come on, you've been following her around like a puppy dog since she came on board."

"It's not like that at all." His face reddened.

"Why are you blushing, then?"

Sighing, he replied, "Fine, I'll assign her as small ship liaison. At least it'll keep her out of my hair a bit."

"Everyone wins." Her communicator chipped twice, urgently. "Caine here, go ahead."

"Deadeye, get up here right now," Marshall said, quickly.

"On my way." She nodded at Quinn, "Duty calls."

She made the elevator in four steps; it stopped half-way to the bridge to admit a slightly confused Orlova at the security deck. She looked at Caine with a quizzical eye, but she could only shrug her shoulders in response. Alpha watch was on duty on the bridge now, and Ryder gestured the two of them towards the captain's office. Zabek's eyes were fixed to her console, with occasional glances up at the viewscreen. As the door slid open, they saw Marshall sitting behind his desk clutching a datapad, smiling."

"Sit down, both of you," he said. They looked at each other and took the proffered seats. "I've been doing a little digging."

"Something about GJ 2097?" Caine asked. "We really ought to give it a better name."

"That missile you found, Sub-Lieutenant," Marshall began. "We sent a probe in to take a closer look. Couldn't get the serial number, but we did get an approximate age. It was launched ten years ago."

"So?" Caine said, before a light dawned. "That missile was withdrawn thirteen years ago. Problems with the targeting."

"Precisely, I remember that whole mess. One of the armament corporations got into some trouble about it. That's not the important thing, though; do you know what the last ship outfitted with those missiles was?"

"Hercules," Orlova guessed.

"Got it in one, Sub-Lieutenant."

The young officer's face lit up, "Are you suggesting that..."

"That there is an excellent chance that ten years ago, Hercules was here. Three years after it was declared overdue and missing."

"Just before the end of the war," Caine mused.

"Then we might be on the trail," Orlova said.

Nodding, Marshall replied, "I think there's a good chance of that. I can't think of any other reason to find a missile of that vintage out there; they didn't get sold too widely outside the service because of all the bad publicity."

Caine looked at both of them, "You two need to be careful. If I might speak freely."

"Always."

"You're both too emotionally involved in this. You can't spin off a single missile into a long-lost battlecruiser."

Marshall said, "Deadeye..."

She held up her hand, "All I'm saying is that neither of you should get your hopes up. It's a bit of a leap from finding a missile that could easily have been looted from some stores depot to actually finding evidence that the ship was here."

"There's something else, as well," Orlova said. "Why?"

"Sub-Lieutenant?"

"Why would the Hercules be attacking that space station?"

"I've no idea. Let's hope that we get the chance to ask at some point."

Chapter 12

There was a palpable air of excitement throughout the ship as the bridge crew prepared for the exit to hendecaspace. Connie Franklin, the duty watch officer, fidgeted as she stood behind Marshall's chair; the sure-fingered Midshipman Varlamov was at the controls, with Cunningham leaning over his shoulder. Turning, Marshall saw Spinelli's fingers hovering over his sensor station like a pianist about to begin the performance of a lifetime; it wasn't every day that a starship made the first emergence of a new planet.

"Warning light on, Captain," Varlamov said. "Egress in ten seconds."

He tensed himself for the emergence, but as usual, hardly felt it. The viewscreen popped on, focused dead center on the planet. The oceans were there, right enough, swirling around the outskirts of a huge continent, but the major continent seemed mostly barren, an assortment of browns, ringed with dark greens and browns at the coast. He leaned forward in his chair, looking over the inhabitable portions of the planet again, taking in every detail.

"Got something in orbit, sir. I'm picking up eight stations in an equatorial orbit and two more in polar orbits, obviously some sort of satellite system," Spinelli said.

"Weapons?" Caine asked, urgently.

"Nothing I can detect. No lasers or missiles. We've just been pinged, though; I'd say we're looking at an early warning system."

"What about the planet?"

"Life, and lots of it."

"Where?"

"One big continent, with a central desert surrounded by rain forest. Hot, too; equatorial temperature's up over thirty Celsius."

"Spinelli, those satellites?"

"We've just been pinged again, but no attitude change apparent, and no sign of activity on the planet."

Marshall leaned forward, rubbing his hand against his chin, "And the rest of the system?"

"Nothing within a light-minute."

"Mr. Varlamov, take us into a nice high orbit, keep the inclination as far as possible from those satellites, just in case. I don't want to be within a thousand miles of one."

"Aye, Captain," the midshipman replied, his fingers dancing over the panel.

"What's the drill, skipper?" Franklin asked. "If you want volunteers for a landing team..."

With a chuckle, Marshall waved a hand, "Sorry, Sub-Lieutenant, I think I'll be heading that one." A look from Cunningham gave him some pause on that. "We settle into orbit, take a couple of days to survey and lob down some probes, and look more carefully at the satellites."

"We could get started on that now, sir," Caine said. "Before Alamo gets too close."

Marshall nodded. "Fire a missile. Have it get within, say, a mile of one of them. Make sure it has escape velocity, though; I don't want to accidentally bomb someone."

"No, sir!"

"And disarm the warhead. I want anyone looking to think 'probe' not 'battle stations'."

"Will do."

Ten seconds later, the ship shook almost imperceptibly as the missile arced away from the ship, the track racing ahead at a far greater acceleration than Alamo could ever manage. Marshall looked down at his console, watching a stream of reports feed in from across the ship. He shook his head, looking up at Dietz.

"Mulenga's busy. I'm already getting data from the sensor stations."

"Something interesting, sir," Spinelli said.

"What is it, spaceman?" Marshall stood up, making his way over to the chair.

"We thought one big moon, but it looks like there are two. A small asteroid, about a mile or so across, in a high orbit."

Memories of the impact crater on Sagdeev flooded to Marshall's thoughts, "Could it have been placed there?"

"Not impossible, but no heat signatures. Nothing on the side of the moon we can see, either. Oh, hold on. There are structures of some kind on the surface of the asteroid. Definitely man, well, sentient-made."

"And the planet?"

He looked up, smiling, "I'm picking up what must be settlements, sir. Scattered across the western coast of the super-continent, a couple higher up in the central desert. This planet isn't just inhabitable; it's inhabited."

Marshall clasped a hand on the sensor technician's shoulder, "I don't know whether to be glad to find some intelligent life or sorry someone else got here first."

Ivanov looked up from his communications station, "I'm not picking up any signals, sir. They must know we're here."

"With those satellites watching us like hawks, they couldn't miss us," Caine said.

"Try English, Mandarin, Russian, first. A thought struck him. And Tatar."

Dietz nodded, "Sagdeev."

"Run that cycle twice, then go for the First Contact package. Lots of good mathematics and chemical formulae for them to play around with."

"Aye, sir."

Caine looked up from her console, "Missile will be at closest approach in five seconds, sir."

Everyone looked anxiously up from their consoles at the holo-display; the only noise on the bridge was the faint burr of Ivanov recording the message for transmission. Closest approach came, and passed, and the missile arced away. More than a few sighs of relief broke the silence, and Caine looked up at Marshall.

"We should take a closer look at those satellites, just in case."

Nodding, Marshall replied, "Four man crew. You and Orlova for the tactical and security analysis, take one of Quinn's EVA techs, Smythe maybe, and," he smiled, "Steele as your pilot."

She rolled her eyes, but nodded, and started to issue the summons before leaving the bridge. Cunningham slid into her station and started to reset the controls; she paused at the elevator.

"I'll have to think of some suitable way to get my revenge, skipper," she said, quietly.

Smiling, the captain gestured towards the elevator, "As soon as you get back, Lieutenant."

Dietz continued to lean over his screen, looking at the reports flooding in, "If those are humans, then there are probably a lot of them down there. Hundreds of thousands, at least."

"Which suggests a long-established colony. With a significant space-based infrastructure to develop a satellite system from scratch like that."

Cunningham turned from the tactical console, "I've run them through the warbook. Not even a ghost of a match, sir."

"Not at all? Nothing in historical archives?"

"Nothing. That's a freshly-developed technology."

"So non-human, then. Ivanov, any response?"

"I'm afraid not, sir."

"Hmm." Marshall stood up, walking over to the holoprojector, looking out at the rapidly expanding sensor sphere. By now it was touching two of the other planets in the system, and there wasn't a sign of anything else out there. No ships, stations, or bases. Just an inhabited world surrounded by a network of satellites.

"Shuttle is away, Captain," Cunningham said, interrupting his reverie. Marshall looked down at his watch; Caine had been quick off the mark. "Track them in, Spinelli, all the way. Just in case."

"Yes, sir."

Marshall tapped a button on his console, "Mr. Mulenga, if you can drag yourself away from the consoles, I'd like your impressions."

"Amazing data coming in, sir. That planet definitely supports life, as we know it. If it is an alien race down there, then it must be one compatible with ours."

"Sir, they aren't aliens," Spinelli interjected. "I just got a nice close shot of one of the satellites. It's marked with a number '4'."

Sighing, Marshall said, "So much for First Contact, then."

"At least they don't match Republic markings, sir," Franklin said.

"I'd be more than disappointed if the Lunar Republic had managed to get that big a jump on us, Sub-Lieutenant."

He watched the shuttle race ahead of Alamo, hurling itself into a matching orbit with the satellite, and sat back in his command chair as the reports continued to flow in from all across the ship. The settlements all seemed to be occupying a huge river delta, a land of swamps and marshes; he couldn't think of a worse place to set up a colony. Visual observation of a lot of boats on the rivers and hugging the coastline, but nothing much out to sea – after all, they didn't really have anywhere to go.

"Time to orbit, Mr. Varlamov?"

"Orbital insertion in nine minutes, sir. The shuttle will be there in five."

"Hendecaspace to orbit in twenty minutes," Marshall said, shaking his head.

Cunningham leaned over, "Helps to have the big mass points nice and close by. This is going to be a haven for traders when it gets properly opened up."

"I'm surprised it hasn't already."

Spinelli turned, his face white. "Aspect change from the shuttle's target satellite, sir!"

Marshall raced over to the sensor console, "What is it?"

The technician flicked a switch, throwing an image onto the main screen. A long tube was unfurling out of the satellite, leaping out into space almost half a mile, longer than Alamo's laser cannon. The shuttle had started to change course; evidently the occupants had seen what was going on, and the bridge crew watched with a strange fascination as support struts locked into place.

"Varlamov, get that shuttle moving," Marshall yelled; he was already on the communicator, calling instructions, but it was to no avail.

"Energy spike!" Spinelli yelled, and the shuttle seemed to crack open. At least one engine was still firing, and it began to curve down towards the planet, still decelerating out of control, sending Marshall's heart into his mouth. He gripped the armrests of his chair until his knuckles turned white, and stared at the image of the shuttle, tumbling end over end.

"What the hell was that?" Cunningham yelled.

"I picked up a long series of magnetic force lines from that structure, sir. I'd say we're looking at a particle cannon," Spinelli said.

"That's theory, spaceman."

"It's fact today, sir."

Marshall shook his head, then called out to the midshipman at the hell, "Get us out of here, fast!"

The young midshipman paused for a split second and then began to work, hurriedly typing orders into the computer. In the background, Marshall could hear Dietz calling the crew to battle stations, locking down the compartments, but he only had eyes on the shuttle, slowly spiraling down towards the planet. The engine stopped firing after a long pulse, but that pulse threw them towards the populated part of the planet, and the thrusters angled the hull up into re-entry attitude.

"Someone's alive on there," he said, then turning to Cunningham. "Gloves off, Lieutenant. Spill a flight of missiles at that satellite. Let's see if we can take it down."

With a predatory grin, he complied, pressing down a trio of keys; a shudder raced through the ship as the three missiles raced out towards the satellite, as Alamo was beginning to slowly turn away, the engines firing to slew the ship from an orbital insertion into an escape vector. Fuel was burning away at a furious rate as the ship steadily changed its course, while the missiles continued along their track.

"Thirty seconds to impact, sir."

Varlamov turned from his station, "Escape orbit attained, Captain."

"Very good, Midshipman. Spinelli, I want that shuttle tracked all the way to the deck."

"I'll try, Captain, but there's a lot of cloud cover."

Cunningham yelled, "All three missiles just went dead, sir! All telemetry just winked out."

"Confirmed," Spinelli said. "They're just drifting, Captain. Overshoot by five thousand miles. Impact somewhere out to sea according to computer projections."

"Still no contact, Ivanov?"

"Not with the shuttle or the surface, sir," the communications technician replied. "I'm still trying with everything I've got."

"Keep it up as long as you can."

"Shuttle entering atmosphere now, sir," Spinelli said.

Marshall turned to the holodisplay, watching the shuttle curve down towards the surface. Those vessels weren't designed for ship-to-surface operation; the hull was strong enough that a good pilot should be able to survive a single re-entry under power, but it would take a whole new level of skill to nurse it down unpowered, only using the dynamics of the hull itself for the landing. He willed it down through the plasma sheath, looked until it disappeared into a huge bank of clouds, and vanished from view.

"I lost it at twenty thousand feet, sir," Spinelli said, mournfully. "I think they made it through re-entry, but the landing itself..."

"That will be a work of art, Spaceman. I'm just sorry we don't get to watch it." He was expressing a lot more confidence than he felt; his imagination was having no difficulty at all picturing the bodies of his crewmates, his friends, wrapped in twisted metal on some barren, forgotten wasteland. "What about the satellite."

"Returning to previous aspect, sir. No change."

"What's our course, Mr. Varlamov?"

"Extremely high elliptical orbit, sir. Best I could manage in the time."

Marshall nodded, "You did fine, Midshipman."

He looked around the bridge, and said in his most confident voice, "We're going to get our people back."

"If they survived," Franklin said in a low voice, looking down at the deck.

"They survived, Sub-Lieutenant," Marshall replied, sitting back in his chair.

Chapter 13

Smoke filled the shuttle's cockpit as Orlova carefully dragged Steele's unconscious form away from the controls and slid into the pilot's seat. Her hands were clumsy in the spacesuit gloves; had she known she was going to be piloting, she'd have worn a flight suit. Steele had managed to get them deep into the atmosphere, pulling them onto the right trajectory, but the control surfaces simply weren't working. A series of frantic button presses pulled the nose up slightly, just enough to buy them a little more glide time, but the altimeter – which had popped up in a really inconvenient place on the panel – was falling far too fast.

Thinking quickly, she pulled out the thruster controls and jammed them full on. Anything that could slow their speed would help at this point. The sensors had all been knocked out by the impact, and she wasn't hearing anything from the passenger compartment – something she tried to put out of her mind. Finally they broke through the cloud bank, and she peered down and saw nothing but jungles; tall trees bending over in high winds, rain sweeping down in thick waves. If this was what the usual weather was like, she wasn't going to enjoy her stay that much.

Assuming she lived to enjoy it at all. These shuttles didn't even have any landing gear. The altitude reading dropped down from five figures to four, and she jabbed down futilely at the main engine. One quick burst would slow them, but the warning lights were a collection of reds and blacks. Remembering her training, she tried to go limp in her seat as the jungle raced towards her, whispering half-forgotten prayers that the undergrowth would arrest their fall. There was a loud crash, and everything went black.

"Maggie?" A familiar voice called out from the darkness. She opened her eyes, and everything was an unfocused blur; she blinked a few times to try and clear it, then suddenly realized that she was soaking wet. Caine was standing over her, holding a first aid kit, a nasty cut running down her forehead. There was an odd tang to the atmosphere, something she couldn't quite work out, like tasting exotic spices. She tried to focus on Caine.

"What happened?"

Caine put an arm under her shoulder, helping her to sit up. "You managed to bring us down with a crash landing. I got you out of the wreck; it was smoldering rather nicely, but with all this rain I don't think it's going to catch fire any time soon."

Orlova tried to look around, and gave that up with a grunt of pain, "The others?"

"Smythe's dead. Killed in the attack. Steele's still out cold and I can't wake her. Can you walk?"

"I can try." With a herculean effort, and an assist from Caine, she managed to pull herself to her feet. Her legs didn't actually hurt; just her upper body. Nothing seemed to be broken. She looked around at the shuttle; it had split into three pieces on landing, and components were strewn across the jungle, some even dangling from the trees.

"Impressive, isn't it," Caine said. "While you were having your nap I ran into the wreckage to see what I could salvage. It doesn't amount to much; one revolver, ship-side issue, with a clip of ammunition, a half-used medikit, about a week's rations, a chemical testing kit, and a stretcher."

"A stretcher?"

"It will be when we finish it. No communicators, though. My datapad was smashed in the landing – so were all the others. Systems are a total write-off."

Looking up at the unbroken clouds, Orlova said, "Alamo will be looking for us by now."

"They've got to get past those satellites first. Danny'll find a way, but it could take a while. We need shelter."

Orlova looked around the sudden jungle, at the slimy purple mud running up the side of her boots. She was already feeling cold through the torn gaps in her suit, and started to take off the gloves. Caine was already mostly out of the suit, and seemed to be wearing part of a couch lining wrapped clumsily around her top.

"I think we'd better make some coats for Steele and I before we set off. Though a blanket will probably do for her at the moment."

"Agreed. You do that, and I'll go and scout around. I saw water not that far from here, just before we landed." She pointed towards the jungle.

"Don't get lost."

"That's why I'm hoping it's a river."

Caine walked off into the undergrowth, and Orlova made her way into the ruins of the shuttle. It was only then that she began to hear the noises; chirping, crackling, a low undertone of sound coming out of the shadows. Small shapes daring back and forth, strange creatures that were getting bolder. She longed for a pistol, for something, and looked around on the tattered remains of the deck. It didn't take long for her to find what she was looking for, a long piece of metal, the end of which looked satisfactorily jagged. Now armed, she started to work at the seats, tearing off the lining. In the rear compartment, she could see a sealed body bag – the remains of Smythe, sealed by Caine.

Belatedly, she realized that they hadn't conducted even the most cursory check of the atmosphere. The odds of it being breathable without any sort of protection were extraordinary. That nothing in the environment had already killed them counted as something of a miracle, but they'd lost atmospheric integrity so early into the landing that any such testing had been pointless.

A loud groaning sounded from outside, and she burst out wielding her improvised spear, only to see Steele writhing about on the ground, obviously in pain. Caine had managed to bandage her wounds and pull her out of the rain, and there were a couple of improvised splints, but the midshipman looked in a bad way. The medikit was resting on a recently toppled tree; she opened it up, pulled out a strong painkiller, and applied it to Steele's neck; she immediately began to relax, falling into a deep sleep.

Two poles had already been placed on the ground near her; she started to lay sheets of seat cover on top of them, pulling the fake leather tight and tying it on with smaller strips. It was difficult, clumsy work, but after half an hour she'd managed to make at least a makeshift stretcher. Then it hit her; Caine had been gone for half an hour.

"Lieutenant Caine!" she yelled. "Caine!"

There was no reply from the jungle, just a steadily growing cacophony of noise. Sitting down underneath the cracked hull, she started to contemplate her position. Staying here to wait for rescue was all very well, but Alamo was likely in no position to provide it, and they only had a week's rations, and that assumed they could drink the water with minimal preparation. Though given the rain, if it was going to have any really bad effects, it would have happened by now. If anyone on the planet was going to come to their aid, she then had to wonder whether they would be friendly or not. Sitting in the jungle, it was almost easy to forget that the shuttle had been shot down, rather than simply crashing.

There was a loud crack in the undergrowth, followed by a muttered curse; Orlova raised her weapon in readiness, feeling a bit silly; anyone with a gun wouldn't have much trouble dealing with her. She breathed a deep sigh of relief when Caine walked out of the undergrowth, doing a double take when she saw the spear.

"I'd have left the gun if you were that worried," she said.

Lowering the spear, Orlova shook her head, "Damn it, Lieutenant."

"I think you can call me Deadeye if you're going to swear at me." She gestured with a hand, "There's a pretty wide river that way. I was thinking we might follow the side of the river downstream."

"What about building a raft?"

"If you've ever rafted down a river anywhere, now might be the time to tell me."

Smiling, she shook her head, "I've only ever seen a river in movies."

"Walking I know how to do. The stretcher ready?"

"I think so." Orlova looked back at the shuttle. "What about Smythe?"

Caine shook her head, "He's a spaceman. That's where he should be buried. He'd want that. The body bag will serve him for a few weeks. Hopefully by then all of this will be a distant memory."

"It feels wrong to just leave him here."

"We can't bury him in this swamp, Maggie. Deal with the living first. Give me a hand with Steele."

Carefully, tenderly, the two of them eased the wounded midshipman onto the stretcher, a groan escaping her lips as they pushed her over the strut. Orlova rolled up a bit of spacesuit and placed it under her head to provide her some support, and Caine wrapped a piece of safety line loosely around her middle to keep her secure.

"Ready?" Caine asked. Orlova nodded, and the two of them picked up the stretcher, following the path Caine had followed through the jungle. After only a few meters they came across a path; evidently someone else had been here before them, but likely a long time ago. The trail progressed in a long curve towards the sound of rushing water, a noise unfamiliar to either of them. Sweat was beginning to pour down their foreheads, the unceasing rain beating down on them, dripping from leaves and branches. Still they pressed on, grimacing as twigs and vines seemed to almost grab at their ankles.

Finally they came to the banks of the river; water running down in a ferocious torrent, leaves and twigs carried downstream. They could see silver shapes dancing over the bubbling surface, fish of some kind, though almost certainly inedible. The trail crossed over to follow the back of the river both ways, but both tracks seemed identical. There was plenty of life, more than either of them had ever seen before, but of intelligent life there was no sign.

"Which way?"

Caine looked up at the sky; the clouds were still thick and heavy, and if anything, the rain was getting worse. "Let's head downstream, towards the sea."

"I wish we had a map."

"The settlements were all clustered along the rivers. We're bound to run into one eventually."

"That could be a long time."

Down the river bank they walked. Strange green shapes danced from bank to bank, half-leaping, half-flying across the river before disappearing into the undergrowth once again. Creatures skittered out onto the path, looking at the unfamiliar intruders, then vanished again as fast as they had come, and there was a sense that a hundred eyes were watching their every move. Their muscles ached in the unfamiliar gravity, and the load of Steele was only making things worse; Caine was walking with a slight limp that initially she had managed to conceal, but was becoming increasingly obvious.

She turned to Orlova, "Let's rest a minute." Nodding, Orlova slowly lowered the stretcher onto the path, making sure Steele was as comfortable as possible.

"Leg bothering you?"

Caine grunted, "I twisted it in the crash. It's nothing." She gestured up, "Don't look now, but I think it's beginning to get dark."

The clouds were beginning to darken, and the thin ruddy sunlight was fading away quickly. Already Orlova could feel a chill in the air, but the rain was finally beginning to lessen. Off the top of her head, Orlova had no idea how long the day was – or even what time of day it was.

"How long is nightfall?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. I'm really missing my damn datapad right now." She waved her hand. "My watch is still on Alamo time. Not much use here."

"I suppose we ought to make a fire, or something. That's what we do, isn't it?"

Caine laughed, a barking noise running up and down the river, "Some explorers we are. Crash-landed on an alien planet, and all we've got is one gun, your spear, and some zero-g rations. I think we're not going to have a fire tonight. I wouldn't even know where to begin."

Looking down the river, Orlova stood up again, "Let's push on. I'd hate to shiver here tonight and find out that we were only half a mile from a settlement."

Grimacing, Caine nodded, getting to her feet and picking up the stretcher; Steele tossed and turned, crying out in pain again. The path began to get wider, making it easier to walk, and the river grew calmer, now becoming a glassy surface uninterrupted by rocks. As the last of the light began to fade, Orlova spotted something glistening in the distance, as the path curved around out of sight.

The two of them hastened along, making use of the little remaining daylight, and turned the corner to see a prefabricated shelter built into the path with a long metal pier sticking out into the river, cabling all tangled around. The shelter had a pair of narrow bunks, under which were stacked several boxes, but the language on most of them was unfamiliar. With relief, they pulled the stretcher in, resting it down carefully.

"Told you," Orlova said, grinning. She ran her hand across her soggy hair, water still running down in rivulets. The rain continued to rattle down on the roof, but it felt good to be in the dry. Caine was starting to rummage through the boxes, trying to find something recognizable that they might be able to use, but she didn't seem to be having much luck. All of it was in the same language, and the cartons and tins could contain anything.

Holding up a can, Caine said, "Want to try pot-luck?"

"Not while we still have rations. If we're stopping here, I'll go and see if we can drink the water." Pulling the testing kit out of her pocket, she stepped back out into the rain, dipping the sample rod into the water, watching the lights run up and down the side of the box as the analysis began. Tapping her foot impatiently, she was rewarded by a series of green lights running down the side.

"I don't believe it," she said.

"Drinkable?"

"Yes."

Caine shook her head, "Dietz had a theory that this planet might be terraformed. I think we've got the proof of it. I wouldn't be surprised if we could eat the food as well, though I wouldn't care to bet my life on it."

"How long can this planet have been settled, then? No humans can possibly have been here for more than eighty years or so."

"This jungle took a hell of a lot longer than eighty years to grow. There's something strange going on here." Their discussion was punctuated by another groan from Steele, "We've got bigger problems, anyway. She needs real medical attention, not a half-empty medikit."

"She'll have to live without it tonight." It was getting pitch black outside, their eyes slowly adapting to the darkness. The noises from the jungle were getting louder, at least that was how it felt to Orlova. She looked longingly at the bed, but then saw Caine grimace from her leg. "I'll take first watch. Give me the revolver."

Caine shook her head, "Last time I checked, I was senior here, Maggie. You get some rest."

"Sorry, Deadeye. I'm going to commit insubordination and tell you to get some sleep; that leg doesn't look great."

The lieutenant looked down at her leg for a second, nodded, and pulled the revolver out of her pocket, passing it butt-first to Orlova. She carefully checked that it was loaded – a good habit to keep – then tucked it into her belt where she could get at it quickly.

"Wake me up in four hours, Alamo time."

"Will do." She looked out at the rain. "Don't expect me to stand out in that, I'll be here in the lee of the door. What about Steele?"

Caine slowly lowered herself onto the bunk, grimacing a little at the hard surface; there wasn't much give in the padding. "I think she's probably as well off where she is than if we try and manhandle her again."

Orlova nodded. "Sleep."

"Aye, aye, ma'am," Caine said. She lay back, facing the roof, and closed her eyes. Within a few minutes a low rumbling sound was coming from her, almost drowning out the rain, and Orlova shook her head, making a mental note never to share a room with her if it could possibly be avoided.

She turned her attention back to the darkness, longing for some night-vision goggles, or even a simple flashlight. The rain continued steadily, and a wind began to pick up, chilling her to the bone. Remembering that at least some of the ration packs were self-heating, she pulled one out of a pocket and crushed it, mixing the chemicals, then held it between her hands. Pulling the straw out of the tab, she eagerly sucked the contents out. The meal – it was too dark to see what it was, and there was certainly no way she could tell from the taste – was bland, but it was at least warm, though she felt the lack of something solid to sustain her.

Gradually, the rain finally stopped, and the clouds parted, at least a little, revealing an eerie silver light shining through, reflecting from the water; the companion planet, the co-orbital body. It cast a strange glow over the jungle, and only seemed to increase the activity around her. The darkest corners of her imagination started to conjure up strange creatures hiding in the forest, lying in wait for her, and she forced herself to push them away, to focus on the task at hand.

She shivered again. Her clothes were still soaking wet, and it wasn't likely they were going to dry out any time soon. She'd bet her next month's pay that it would start to rain again in the morning. That seemed to be the way this planet went. Ripples began to appear in the water, and a new noise began to sound – a whirling, mechanical noise that could only be some sort of an engine. Reaching for her revolver, she peered around the door, and could just make out a boat in the moonlight. This had been a day of firsts; first jungle, first river, and now first riverboat.

The craft had long, smooth lines, and a whirling wheel at the back that dipped into the water; smoke fired out of a long, thin tube from the middle of the craft, and the deck was covered in boxes and crates. She could just make out a couple of people standing on the deck, both of them carrying what could only be rifles, and an unfamiliar flag dangled from a pole, loose and limp but slowly moving in the breeze. Quietly, she turned back into the shelter and began to shake Caine, who woke with a start, her eyes fixing on Orlova.

"That's got to be the shortest four hours..."

"Sshhh!" Orlova replied. "Someone's coming. A boat, down the river. Heading in the direction we were walking." Caine started to get up, but Orlova but a hand on her shoulder, "Deadeye, they're armed."

"In this jungle, that could be sensible."

"How do you want to handle this."

"Give me the revolver."

Nodding, Orlova passed Caine the revolver. Without looking back, she walked out to the river bank, pointed it at the sky, and fired twice, then twice again, before putting it back in her belt. She then began to wave her arms and shout; the boat had obviously seen her, and turned towards the pier, the river chopping up behind it as its speed began to increase.

"What the hell?" Orlova said.

Caine shrugged, "We're stuck on a hostile planet in the middle of nowhere with no real food and someone badly needing medical attention. Right now our situation couldn't be much worse."

The boat grew closer, and one of the men tossed a cable towards the pier with practiced ease, then leapt ashore and pulled it in. The other was obviously keeping them both covered with his gun; Caine and Orlova held their hands well away from their belts, the latter kicking her spear away from her. The men were swarthy, with mustaches dominating their faces, and wearing tough, well-worn coats and hats.

"Qayan bulasız?" one of them said, first to Caine then to Orlova. They looked at each other, shrugging.

"I'm Lieutenant Caine, of the Triplanetary Confederation," Caine tried, but neither of them could understand. At least, neither of them admitted it. They pointed their guns at them, then at the boat; it was obvious where they wanted to go. Caine shook her head, pointing inside the shelter, the one on the jetty carefully backed inside, looking around, then looked again at Orlova.

"Tatarça söyläşäsezme?" he said, to their general bafflement.

The one on the boat pulled up a hatch and barked something down it, and two others came out, both fairly young women, similarly dressed to the men. One of them went into the shelter while the other took out a gun of her own. There was a brief consultation, and the two men went into the shelter, carefully bringing out the stretcher and putting it on the boat. They then gestured more urgently at the boat, and the pair began to walk on board. Before she could step on-board, one of the men reached out a hand; she pulled out the revolver and gave it to him, whereupon he nodded and allowed them on.

"Well, at least we're going somewhere," Caine said to Orlova, who shook her head.

"Qabatlıyalır idígízmí?" said one of the women in a quiet voice. Orlova looked at Caine, then sat down on the deck, head against a box, and closed her eyes. Either they were safe or they were in a worse mess; either way she might as well get some sleep.

Chapter 14

"Do you want to talk, sir?" Mulenga asked from the co-pilot's seat for about the tenth time. Marshall was beginning to regret bringing him along on his investigation of the asteroid, but the astrogator had insisted. In the politest possible way, of course. He'd been a bit surprised that both Dietz and Cunningham had not only agreed that he should lead this team, but that they had encouraged him to do so, while they began their investigation into the satellites. Quinn was sitting at the back with Midshipman Zabek; he was looking forward to potentially getting his hands on some interesting technology.

"Not now, thank you."

Shaking his head, Mulenga replied, "I think you probably should."

"They're alive. I'd know if they were dead."

"They being Caine."

"They being my crew. At least some of them made it down to the deck; Caine or Orlova had the skill to control the shuttle in that dive. Even Steele might have pulled it off." He turned to the lieutenant, "This isn't me being irrational, this is my analysis of the evidence."

"I would not presume to argue with you." He paused, then said, "Is..."

Interrupting, Marshall said, "Alamo is going to remain in orbit until we recover our crew. Or their bodies, if it comes to it. We're not leaving them behind. And my history with Caine has nothing to do with it."

Mulenga shook his head, "You wouldn't be the captain I knew if it did. I know this isn't personal, sir. So does Dietz, and Cunningham, for that matter; you would feel the same way no matter who was down there."

"Damn right."

"That does not necessarily make this the correct decision."

The captain tilted his head for a second, then returned to his instruments, "Alamo can't leave the system for a week in any case."

"And then?"

"We're going to get them back."

Sighing, Mulenga shook his head, then peered down at his instruments, "I'm starting to get better details on the asteroid now. It's definitely hollow, that much is certain."

"Amazing. It can't be natural, then."

"There are more things in heaven and earth, sir, but the balance of probability agrees with you." He looked over at Marshall, "After I had that report on the planet below, I would believe anything regarding this system. A fully compatible biosphere? Sir, the odds on that..."

"Millions to one."

"Billions. There's a mystery buried in this part of space, sir."

Marshall smiled, "You're just giving me another reason to stick around, my friend. At some point we're going to be expanding into this area, and if there is some sort of major mystery around, that's something we need to solve."

"Agreed. Oh, my."

"What?"

The astrogator tapped his panel, "That asteroid isn't merely hollow, there's some sort of entrance. A shaft that must be two or three hundred meters across."

Whistling, Marshall said, "That's big enough to fit Alamo in. With room to spare."

"That might be the idea." He looked over. "Are we going inside?"

"You need to ask?"

"I thought not, sir," he grinned. Marshall played his hands across the controls while Mulenga warned the ship that contact might be lost while they were exploring the interior of the asteroid. The shuttle gently approached the jagged rock at a speed more suited to docking than landing, and with a careful series of taps on the thrusters, he slowly spun it around the asteroid until the entrance appeared. It was smooth, circular, with fittings for docking lights placed around the rim and in a tunnel heading into the interior, all of them now dark.

"Certainly not natural," Mulenga said, sotto voce.

"We're going in. Dead slow." Marshall brought the shuttle to a stop relative to the entrance of the asteroid, then tapped the thrusters gently to direct them in. With the tap of a button, he activated the exterior lights, setting them to rotate around the ship to provide the best view. With an eye on the radar and an eye on the viewscreen, he directed the shuttle down the tunnel into a large chamber, more than a mile across, shaking his head as the searchlights switched from rock to instruments.

"Quinn," Marshall called into the communicator, "Are you seeing this?"

"I certainly am, skipper," the engineer replied. "I've seen it before."

"What?"

"A couple of years ago, I was brought in on the team for the redevelopment of Phobos Base. This was my favorite proposal; hollow it out as a giant orbiting shipyard. Lots of advantages, you see, in having the framework built in like this."

"I expect to see a copy of that report when we get back."

"We didn't do it because of the cost, skipper, but it was certainly a technically feasible project. Just an expensive one. Think of the protection, though."

"I am." He spotted something on a wall, then brought the searchlight manually back to it. "Mulenga, does that look like what I think it looks like?"

"A docking airlock."

"Let's go in. Still no heat sources?"

"Not a flicker."

"We'll need spacesuits. Everyone get suited up while we dock; Quinn, you and Zabek might as well go right in. Mulenga and I will follow."

Manual docking was always fun. Getting the line just right, tinkering with the approach velocity; normally, two computers would simply talk to each other and arrange for the docking airlocks to be in the same place at some point in the near future, but that didn't require any skill. He tapped the thrusters gently, making minute adjustments to the shuttle's course, while Mulenga readied the clamps.

"Standard airlock configuration, if that means anything. Looks a bit on the old side, though," the astrogator said.

With a loud clang, the shuttle touched the wall; a series of rattles indicated the airlock making a good seal. At that point the lights began to come on, illuminating the whole chamber; the autodimmers on the viewscreen kicked in a second too late to prevent Marshall being blinded by the flare; he blinked several times, trying to get rid of the afterimage.

"Alamo to Transit Three," the communicator crackled; the signal strength was low that deep inside.

"Transit Three here. Power seems to be coming on inside the asteroid."

Mulenga turned from his controls, his eyebrows raised, "I'm now reading an atmosphere outside the airlock, and the temperature on the other side is rising rapidly."

"Transit Three, a structure just started to fold out from the asteroid, a power array. There's a quarter-mile stretch of solar cells, I believe. Warbook indicates them as a type used by EuroFed in the 21st century, though with a slightly higher efficiency." Dietz's voice was filled with uncharacteristic surprise.

"Anything else?"

"No, sir. Are you planning on going inside?"

"That's the intention, yes. We'll keep the feeds open all the way."

"Roger, sir. Good luck."

"I hope we don't need it. Transit Three out."

Marshall stood up, pulling on the lower part of his spacesuit as Mulenga checked the seals, then returning the favor for the astrogator. The instruments indicated that the other side of the airlock was livable, but neither was inclined to check too closely. Quinn and Zabek signaled that they were ready in the rear compartment, and Marshall, his helmet securely in place, opened the primary airlock, taking a cautionary step inside.

Mulenga had a hand-held tester in his hand, "All readings nominal, Captain."

Nodding, Marshall gingerly cracked the seal in his helmet, waiting for alarms that never came. He took a quick, experimental breath, and nodded, pulling his helmet off. Mulenga followed suit, taking deep breaths of the cool, crisp air. Quinn came out without his helmet on, followed by Zabek. They were in the middle of a long, slowly curving corridor; a dozen more shuttle locks were on either side.

"Can we take these things off now, skipper?" the engineer asked.

"Not until we're in control of life support, Lieutenant. That's our first priority. Two teams of two; you and the midshipman, Mulenga and I. We'll go left, you go right, keep your communicators open and I'll expect you back in one hour from now."

"Yes, sir."

Marshall and Mulenga walked down the corridor, carrying their helmets under their arms, looking carefully around the walls. They drifted around the corridor; the gravity was so low that it effectively wasn't a factor. Handholds were conveniently placed for them to swing down the corridor, and soon the shuttle was out of sight. Finally they ran out of docking airlocks, and came to a sealed door at the end of the corridor, some writing stenciled on in red.

"French," Mulenga said.

"Can you read it?"

The astrogator shook his head, and held his datapad over it, "Office Level. Station Personnel Only."

"Let's hope office means paperwork," Marshall said, looking for a release. There was a small data terminal by the door, and he pulled out an intrusion key, one of Orlova's latest innovations for boarding parties. He slid it in, waited a few minutes for the hacking software to do its work, then nodded with satisfaction as the door slid open. The corridor seemed to continue in much the same way, but with hatches above and below, likewise sealed. A couple of lights flickered in the ceiling fittings, and there was a stale smell to the air.

"Habitation levels," Mulenga said, reading from his datapad.

"Let's stick with this one." There were a series of doors along the wall, and lacking any insight, Marshall tried the first one. It slid open, albeit a little reluctantly, to reveal a desk, two chairs, empty flagpole, and some shelves. It looked surprisingly like his own office back on Alamo, to the extent that it had been left in a mess; paperwork was scattered around the place, milk and coffee sachets left around a coffeemaker on the top shelf, several mugs on the desk, all of them obviously well-used. A terminal on the desk, all indicators dark. Drifting into the chair, Marshall spotted a note tied to it; he ran the datapad over it.

"The third draw is broken, the chair's seat restraints click twice to hold rather than once, and the coffeemaker works best on setting four. Best of luck. Lefebre, February 9th, 2155," he read out to Mulenga. "I think I might have liked this guy."

"You might still get a chance. It's only been eleven years."

"I think we can presume that the station was abandoned then. You take a look at the paperwork, I'm going to try the next office."

"Right."

As Marshall drifted back into the corridor, his communicator chirped, "Marshall here."

"Quinn, skipper. I've found the life support systems. It's based on an old EuroFed design, but looks pretty modern. Systems were set to come on automatically on this level when someone docked. I think I can turn on all the base support systems if you want."

"Do it, but carefully. Can you fix it if it breaks?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Not a problem."

Swinging into the next door, he found the place had been meticulously tidied before the occupant had left; the next three rooms were the same, but opposite the sixth he saw a plaque on the wall, obviously some sort of dedication. He held his datapad over it to translate.

"Spacedock Five, 2098."

Mulenga drifted towards him, and Marshall gestured at the plaque. "Now we know who built the station."

"I found more paperwork in there. This place was servicing a squadron of starships, but I don't know what classifications. I took photographs of all the papers I could find, I think Mr. Quinn should take a look."

"He's going to be busy, I think. We still have a bigger mystery, though."

"Why did they build it?"

"And how, for that matter."

"I have a feeling that the two questions are probably closely related." Marshall pulled out his communicator, "Alamo, this is Marshall."

"Alamo here," Dietz's voice replied, the transmission still distorted.

"Change your course to rendezvous with the asteroid, and get a couple of shuttles out here with engineering technicians. Find out who Quinn wants over here. They're to undertake a thorough search and investigation of this facility; if it's as big as I think it is, it's going to take a long time."

"Very well, sir. Should I send some espatiers?"

"No need," Marshall said, shaking his head, "This place has been abandoned for a long time."

He returned the communicator to his belt, and gestured back up to the door; the office level was coming to a dead end. He pulled open the hatch, diving down into the level below. This was obviously a dormitory level, and a long one – soundproofed booths lined up as far as he could see. Inside each was the bare essentials; a bunk tied to the wall, a small cupboard and a terminal. He wouldn't want to live in there for long, but it would be perfectly fine for a short stay. These were almost antiseptically clean, but there were plenty of signs that they had been used; one of the buttons on the terminal was obviously newer than the rest, and the handle on the cupboard was worn.

"Crew quarters?

"Probably. Officers might be the other side. There's another hatch on the floor; let's try that."

This hatch had another security seal, but the intrusion key made short work of it. Instead of the long corridor that Marshall had been expecting, there was just a small room, a pair of control consoles underneath with straps to anchor the user. All the screens were dark, the lighting reflecting from the panels as it flickered on and off. Ducking under the console, Mulenga pulled out a power adapter.

"Found a connector?"

"I think so."

"Be careful. I don't want you draining your suit battery."

Mulenga shook his head, "If this was a trap, I think we'd all be dead by now." He plugged in his suit, and the screens began to light up, data streaming down the monitors as the start-up sequence began. The clock flashed briefly up with '10-10-57', before switching to the current date as the internal systems updated themselves, then settled down. A series of readouts came onto the main monitor, under the heading 'hélium-trois'. That wasn't something either of them needed to translate.

Marshall's eyes widened as he read the numbers, "Am I dreaming, Lieutenant?"

"If you are, so am I." Mulenga tapped experimentally at some of the buttons, bringing up more data. "The tanks look to be about three-quarters full, but there's still enough fuel there for Alamo to make a couple of hundred jumps."

"A fuel storage facility."

"And a repair depot for starships. Not used for years."

Mulenga looked at Marshall, "That doesn't mean no-one else has visited this system, Captain."

"We'd better fuel up quickly then, before they come back." He pulled out his communicator again, "Marshall to Alamo."

"Alamo here."

"Change of plan, lieutenant. I want you to bring Alamo into the asteroid.”

"Inside?" Dietz sounded incredulous. "What for, sir?"

"You'll see when you arrive. Belay the engineering teams; they can walk in."

Chapter 15

The boat had been powering down the river for hours; Orlova and Caine had both dozed on and off, making sure that at least one of them was always awake to keep an eye on Steele. Soon after they got under way, one of the women had started treating her, rebinding her wounds with professional skill. It was frustrating watching her suffer; a few hours treatment in the medical bay back on Alamo was all she really needed. The crew had stopped attempting to talk to them after a while, despite several attempts for each to make themselves understood.

Casting occasional glances at the river bank, Orlova realized that they had been fortunate; the boat was traveling ten times faster than they could have managed, and there had been no sign of anything other than the occasional shelter. Finally, as the first light of dawn began to break the horizon, she saw a flickering light from the far riverbank, and the boat curved in towards it. She nudged Caine with her elbow; the lieutenant woke with a start.

"What is it?"

"Wherever it is we're going, I think we've arrived. Look."

The light was a strange green, flickering on and off; there was a large wheel in the water, rotating rapidly, sending spray flying around, and another long jetty that the boat was heading towards. At the end of the jetty was a building, roughly carved from the local wood, with an opened door sending beams of yellow light into the darkness.

One of the men came over to them and gestured – with his hand this time, rather than a gun – that they should stand by the side of the boat, and with a look back at Steele, they complied; she was getting better care here than they could provide for her. As they drew closer to the bar, the lights started to spell out a name in fluorescent green, 'Orlov's'. Orlova's eyes widened at the sight.

"It's not an uncommon name, Maggie," Caine said, putting her arm on her young friend's shoulder.

"I know, I know. Still."

A tall woman wearing a plain brown dress ran out of the building, grabbing the line and securing it fast while the men pulled the boat up to the bank. She took a look at Orlova, and her eyes narrowed; she ran back into the building, yelling something in the same language as the men. Shrugging, Caine and Orlova stepped up onto the jetty. The jungle seemed to have been cleared a bit here; behind the building they could see a wide trail leading off, pitted with old track marks. Crates and cases were stacked semi-randomly around, and the men started to unload some of their cargo to join it.

A figure emerged from the door, and shook his head when he looked at the newcomers. The woman was with him, pulling him by the hand, and suddenly, inexplicably, Orlova knew. She bolted towards the man, her arms flailing wildly about, while one of the men chased after her, his gun swinging in his hands. Leaving the woman behind, the man raced towards her, his arms outstretched, his face erupting into an amazing grin that she'd had locked in her memories for more than a decade. He'd aged; his hair was now streaked with gray and he was maintaining a long, straggly beard, but it was him.

"Papa! Papa!" she yelled, leaping into his arms.

"Maggie! Hitgaagati eleykha!" He grabbed her into a bear hug, swinging her about; the other man shook his head, smiling, and lowered his gun.

"I missed you too, Papa! What are you doing here?"

He released her just enough to look down at her, shaking his head, "I can't believe it. I never thought I'd see you again." He looked at her battered uniform, "What is this you are wearing?"

Blushing, she looked down, "My uniform, Papa."

"You joined the Service! I hate to think what your mother would have said." He shook his head with mock severity, then smiled as he saw her insignia, "An officer, as well. Maggie, I am proud of you."

Caine walked over to the two of them, a smile spread across her head, "I take it you are her father."

He jerked his head in a nod, "Yes, yes indeed." He looked around again, then said something to the woman in the unintelligible language. She smiled, nodded, then went over to talk to the boatmen, directing them to resume unloading the crates. "Come in, both of you. I want to hear everything, and that is best over a breakfast, I think."

Orlova held him tightly as they walked into the building, as if afraid that he might suddenly disappear again. She looked up at him, hardly daring to believe that he was actually here. The last time she had seen him, it was a quick video-call from Hercules as it was pushing off on its last mission, never to be seen again. Thirteen years ago.

Inside, there were a series of long benches with stools, with what was unmistakably a bar on the far side of the room, well stocked with a variety of drinks. The place smelled of woodchips and smoke; a fire was burning in a hearth. Mixed in with that was the smell of meat – real meat – cooking, and disengaging from his daughter for a second, Orlov made his way through another small door towards the source of the smell.

"Maggie, you know I have to ask this...," Caine began.

Orlova held up her hand, "It's him. No question in my mind at all."

"I couldn't be more pleased, Maggie."

He came out holding a cauldron filled with a bubbling broth in one hand, some bowls and spoons in the other; with a clunk, he dropped the cauldron on one of the tables, sending some of the contents dribbling down the side. Placing bowls in front of each of them, he ladled out a generous portion each, more slopping over the rim. Orlova dipped a spoon into the hot liquid, taking some to her mouth – and promptly took a second and a third, Caine hastily following suit.

"I haven't introduced myself yet; I'm Lieutenant Louisa Caine. Off Alamo."

"Ah, you are my daughter's superior, then? I don't recognize the uniform. At least, what remains of it!" he laughed.

In between mouthfuls, Orlova replied, "I'm in the Triplanetary Fleet, not the Service. The three planetary navies are unifying."

"It has been a long time, I suppose things change. What ship are you with?"

"The battlecruiser Alamo," Caine said, taking another spoonful of broth, a trace of the liquid escaping down her lips. "Which is still in orbit."

"The orbital defense satellites got you? That was your shuttle we saw?"

"Yes, Papa. They seemed inert when we first detected them; Captain Marshall sent us out to inspect one of them."

Orlov's eyes widened, and he slammed his hands flat down on the table, grinning. "I should have known! I knew Bill Marshall would come back to get me in the end! How is the old ben-zona, anyway?"

"Bill Marshall?" Caine said.

"What's he doing on Alamo, anyway? Did Hercules make it home?"

Orlova looked at Caine, then said, "Alamo is under the command of Lieutenant-Captain Daniel Marshall. His son."

"Danny? Danny made Captain? The last time I saw him he was about to enter the Academy, Bill showed me holo-images of him. He was going to try and pull some strings to get him on Hercules, I think he was hoping to get him my old job. I take it he's his father's son enough to try and get you back?"

"He'll get us back," Caine nodded. "Danny will find a way, if he has to stay in orbit for months."

"Hercules waited as well, as long as it dared. Three weeks it was up there in high orbit, before it left." He shook his head, "Bill winked the ship a couple of times when it passed overhead. Then it left. She came back a couple of times, but never had any luck getting me. I couldn't even contact them."

"When was that?"

"Eleven years ago, Maggie. Eleven long years." He smiled, "Your Papa made Captain, Maggie, as well! Battlefield promotion. I was on an inspection trip as well, we were hoping to scavenge for parts from those satellites. After we'd failed to make contact with the people down here."

"You didn't stop?"

"There's a war on, Lieutenant. We couldn't afford the time to see what was down here."

Caine's mouth opened. "Captain Orlov, the war's over."

He stopped dead. "Over?"

"The final peace treaty was signed at Vesta, back in 2157. Not long after you were marooned here. We won."

"Then the three worlds are free." He nodded in evident satisfaction. "This is a lot to take in, all in one gulp, Lieutenant." He looked at his daughter, smiling, "But worth it, well worth it! I'm just sorry you are stuck here."

"Danny will get us out of here, Captain Orlov," Caine said. "I assure you of that."

"I know he will try, but those particle beams are instant death." He took another mouthful of soup, then stood up, making his way over to the bar, "This is a cause for celebration, at least. My daughter, after all these years." He pulled down some mugs and bottles, bringing them over to the table. "Now, tell me what you do on that ship of yours. I remember an Alamo in the Callisto Patrol."

"Security Officer."

"And a good one," Caine added.

Orlov grinned through his beard, "I expect nothing less from my daughter. I still can't believe you joined the service."

"It's a long story, Papa. Captain Marshall convinced me that it was where I needed to be."

"He was right, quite right. Especially as it brought you here."

She looked around the room, "What is this place, Papa?"

He grinned while he poured, "You know that when the war was over I wanted to open a bar? Well, so I have. Orlov's, the finest bar in Yreka. A town of around five thousand souls."

"Yreka?"

"It's the nearest thing we have to a capital. Which also makes it dangerous; did anyone other than the Tartars see you?"

Caine looked over at the door, "I don't think so. Tartars?"

"I doubt we are in any immediate danger. This planet is called Jefferson; the original settlers arrived eighty-one years ago, a colonization party from the United States on Earth. They found a world that was totally inhabitable, a planet where humans could live, breathe, and even eat."

"Eat?" Orlova's eyes widened. "This..."

"This is local food, Maggie. The original settlers eventually decided that someone must have terraformed this planet using stock from Earth itself, tens of thousands of years ago. There was a great civilization here once, buried in the depths of the jungle, but those people are long gone." He took a sip of his drink, foam sticking to his beard, "They began to build settlements, farms, mines, and create a new life for themselves, but that changed around the turn of the century. The planet was attacked."

"Attacked?"

"Conquered from space. They called themselves the 'Cabal'. The satellites are theirs."

"Particle beams? Papa, we can't do that now!"

“Cabal?” Caine muttered, almost to herself.

He nodded, "I know, I know. Somehow they made a great leap forward. They settled in as owners, building garrisons for their Legion in the larger towns. There is one here, seat of the Governor. A spaceport high in the Central Desert. There was some unrest." He looked from side to side, "There still is."

Orlova smiled, "Why did I suspect you might have a hand in it?"

"Because you know your father, Maggie."

"The Tatars?" Caine asked, pouring herself a drink.

"They arrived soon before I; I think that is how I was able to escape notice. This has happened twice, new groups of settlers brought in, since the Cabal arrived. The Tatars were originally in a camp, but one night they overwhelmed their guards and escaped into the deep jungle. No-one would follow them there. I know of them, for I speak their language. They came..."

"From a planet named Sagdeev. We've been there. Abandoned, now," Caine said.

Orlov nodded. "Yes. All they wanted was to be left alone; I think a few massacred patrols made their point well. I trade with them for goods and supplies, and they make excellent spirits for my customers to enjoy."

"The woman," Orlova asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I am only a human, Maggie." His face turned red. "Understand that I expected – still expect – to stay here for my whole life. I met Elvira when I spent time in one of their villages; we married four years ago." He smiled, "I told her all about you. When she came inside and told me you were here, I could not believe it."

"Mother moved on years ago, Papa."

"She moved on before I left, Maggie. That was long over." He looked around grinning.

"You said there were two arrivals, Captain?"

"Sergei."

She smiled, "Deadeye."

"Ah, I see it now. In the 2120s, a group from the Caribbean Federation were brought in. I don't know what planet they were from.” He paused, taking another swig of his drink. “They settled along the coastline; back in those days, the Cabal's hold was far less tight. That has changed, though; from the stories I have been told, not long before my arrival, just a few years, they began to crack down more tightly. More people on the surface, bigger garrisons. I do not know why; they do not speak of it."

"Will they come for us, Papa?"

"They may try. There are plenty of places where people can hide; if the worst happens, my friends will shelter you in one of their villages for a time. Don't worry about your companion; she is being taken to a place of safety where she can get proper attention." He smiled. "Soon they will get bored and give up the search. "

Caine shook her head, "Hopefully we'll be on Alamo long before then." She looked around, "We need to contact the ship. Have you got a radio, or access to one?"

He shook his head, "Not here. All wireless communication has been banned – another one of the regulations that came in with the crackdown." He smiled conspiratorially, "Which does not mean that there isn't one, of course. The resistance has some, but using them is not so easy."

"Will you introduce us to them?"

"Tonight, when the sun goes down once again. You have arrived at a slightly inconvenient time for secret meetings. Come, I will show you where you can spend the day."

He stood up, leaving his now empty bowl, and walked over to the bar, fumbling around underneath it, mumbling under his breath, "Got it." With a click, the bar started to swing around as he pushed, exposing a hole in the ground, octagonal in shape. Caine's eyes widened, and her face went white.

"That's, that's..."

Orlov looked over, "What is wrong? This leads down to some of those old ruins. Yreka was built on top of one of them, I think it started out as an archaeological dig."

"It's fine, Deadeye. That was months ago," Orlova said. She looked up at her father, "We found some ruins of this type on one of the moons of Uranus, Papa. Deadeye had a bad time there."

The woman came running into the room, taking in Tatar; Orlov's ears raised, and he looked at the two of them, "We don't have any time. The Legion is on the way; I think it's just the usual guards coming off the night patrol, but we can afford no risks. Hide, and quickly."

Leading Caine, Orlova headed to the shaft; a rusty ladder had been installed, and a dim orange light was just visible at the bottom of the hold. She led the way down the ladder, Caine following, then the light from above disappeared as her father re-set the bar. She froze for a second, shaking her head, then continued to descend. The bottom was small chamber, only a few meters across, again of the octagonal design. A couple of crude stools were placed around the light, and there were cans and bottles of food and drink scattered around. Some of them were used, placed carefully in a crate; evidently this wasn't the first time her father had been hiding people from the Legion. Trembling, Caine descended the ladder, looking around the room.

"Any other ways out, Maggie?"

Orlova looked around; there was a doorway in one wall, but it was filled up with stone and rubble, obviously long ago. The only sound – beside her heartbeat – was a drip from the middle of the room, splashing down into a puddle on the floor. The perpetual rain had begun again, just as she had thought.

"I can't find any. I guess we're here for the day, then. At least we're safe for the moment."

"I hope so."

"Have a little faith, Deadeye. I've beaten the odds once today, it seems reasonable that we can beat them again." She felt underneath her seat, pulling out a box filled with magazines. She pulled out one of them, passed the box over to Caine, and started to read.

The day passed slowly in the hot and humid room; Caine and Orlova ran out of dirty jokes just before Elvira dropped down a package containing their lunch, which they wolfed down with relish. During the hours, they looked at every square inch of the room, and holding the light up managed to see some of the same patterns from the abandoned base on Desdemona. That alone sent shivers down Caine's spine; the after-effect of the shock she had experienced was going to live with her for a long time. It was a relief when the hatch finally opened, and Orlov's head peered down.

"You can come up now," he called. "I've closed early for the night."

They gratefully scrambled up the ladder, taking deep breaths of the cool air as they reached the surface, looking around the room. Inside, standing behind Orlov, were four men wearing camouflage, all armed with deadly-looking rifles. One of them, a bitter-faced man, had bars painted on his shoulders in black; the others seemed to be deferring to him.

"Are these the ones from the crashed shuttle?" the man asked Orlov.

"Yes. I'm certain, Captain. The shorter one is my daughter."

His eyebrow rose, "Your daughter? That seems like quite a coincidence."

"The word exists for a reason," Caine said. "I presume you are in charge."

He nodded, "Just call me by my rank for the moment. Mr. Orlov tells me that you want to use our radio. You understand that such an action would place us in considerable danger."

"I know."

"Who are you? In your own words, please."

Caine looked to Orlov, who nodded, then replied, "I am Lieutenant Caine, Tactical Officer of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo; this is Sub-Lieutenant Orlova, our Security Officer."

"The wounded one?"

"Midshipman Steele, one of our pilots."

"Mr. Orlov has in the past told us of the Triplanetary Confederation, but not that it had a fleet." The man was looking doubtfully at all three of them now.

"Ach, Lieutenant, it's a logical enough progression," Orlov said. "This is my daughter; I believe her."

"Why do you want the radio?"

"We need to contact Alamo to arrange a rescue," Caine replied. "It's also possible that we might be able to provide you with assistance. We have a full platoon of espatiers on board."

"Huh?" one of the men at the back grunted.

"Marines," Orlova offered.

Caine continued, "I take it you are the head of the local resistance."

"We call ourselves the Minutemen, actually. Let's just say I represent them, for the moment. Our goal is simply to drive the invaders from our planet."

"You must outnumber them. Why not just bring them down?" Orlova asked.

He grimaced, "It isn't as easy as that, Sub-Lieutenant. The orbital weapon platforms have been targeted on rebelling settlements before. If we get too active, we have been assured that they will crush us." He looked at Caine, "You understand I've got to be careful. There are five thousand people here I am responsible for."

Nodding, Caine replied, "I understand. But we need that radio. If you wish, we'll take it out into the jungle, transmit from there."

"It isn't portable," the grunting trooper replied.

"Damn it, Ray, this is exactly what the radio was built for in the first place," another said to the Lieutenant, who ground his teeth in frustration. "I trust them. Death from above, huh? If we can contact that ship, we get orbital bombardment as well."

Turning towards Caine, the lieutenant said, "If I find out that you are lying to me, I will end you. Guaranteed."

"You're threatening my daughter, Ray."

"Don't worry, if it comes to it, I'll end you both. Old friend."

Chapter 16

The usual starfield was missing from Alamo's conference table, replaced instead by the gloomy interior of the asteroid, illuminated only by a few searchlights. Marshall tried not to look at the two gaps at the table, but he'd let his attention wander for a moment from Quinn's report on the refueling. The engineer picked up another datapad.

"While we've been topping up, I've had the boys roaming around the station. This place is a maze, but we finally managed to get all the power systems working again," he said.

"What sort of complement would this place support, Lieutenant?" Dietz asked.

"At least a hundred with ease. The hydroponic gardens could support two or three times that. Everything's automated; I don't think it was ever intended that this station should operate with a permanent staff."

"Impressive," Cunningham replied. "We never managed to get that far."

"We could, sir," Quinn said. "It's just that we never had to."

"What about defenses?" asked Marshall, leaning forward over the table.

"I haven't found any."

Dietz nodded, "I doubt you will, Lieutenant. Evidently this facility was relying on camouflage. Most ships coming in system would head for the planet first in any event, and unless they had the right identification signal, the defense satellites would get them."

"Alamo certainly couldn't take sustained fire," Quinn said.

"Have you made any progress on the particle beams?"

"Captain, I'd need a research team of hundreds of people taking years, and millions of credits of equipment. We just aren't equipped for that sort of analysis. The best I can manage is threat potential, and it boils down to 'don't get hit'. We've also picked up some signs of what we believe are missile launching silos, targeted at the surface."

"If the particle beams don't get you, the missiles will," Cunningham said.

"I'd rate the missiles more as anti-planet than anti-ship," Mulenga said. "Which suggests interesting things about the planet's political structure."

Continuing with his briefing, the engineer tapped some buttons, bringing up an image of the planet surrounded by its satellites. "I have noticed that each satellite makes a slight course correction when it passes over the same part of the surface."

"Where?"

"Out in that big desert."

Mulenga unfolded his hands, saying, "I conducted an examination of the region. There is a small communications facility and a spaceport, but it is protected with a bank of anti-air missiles. A shuttle would have no chance of getting in."

"So even if we could get a shuttle past the defense platform, it would be destroyed on final approach."

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"Electronic warfare?"

"I've spoken with Chief Washington; she's been trying since we first got into the system, but there's a firewall she can't crack."

Dixon shook her head, "What I don't get is how our first missile got through."

"It was unpowered," Cunningham replied. "It probably didn't perceive it as a threat. That cannon will take serious energy, that's certain."

Quinn nodded, "I wouldn't be surprised if it was even smarter than that."

"A decoy, a lure to bring us in?"

"Possibly. The programming is certainly sophisticated enough."

"Getting through those platforms is a top priority. Can we get within laser range?"

"They shot the shuttle at not much less than our maximum range, sir," Cunningham said. "We might get a shot or two."

"And no way of knowing whether it is going to be enough," Quinn said, shaking his head. "It seems hopeless."

Marshall replied, "That's not a word in the Triplanetary lexicon, Mr. Quinn. What about the station?"

"The last evidence we have of occupancy is in 2157, nine years ago; the recording you found in the Helium Monitor station. The paperwork indicates that if there was a permanent crew, it left a couple of years before," Quinn said.

"That's nothing I didn't know already."

"I know, sir. The occupants of that station were red-hot with security; aside from a few bits and pieces left lying around, it doesn't amount to very much. I can tell you that it was heavily mothballed. They left enough on board to keep everything operating, and topped up the Helium-3 tanks, but that's all. There are workshop spaces with no tools, no components. The hydroponic systems are working, but at a very low level. Everything was designed to last; the station could easily have continued as it was for another decade without any human intervention at all."

"I presume we can keep it going?"

Nodding, the engineer replied, "We can return it to its mothballed condition easily. If you want to bring it back to full function, it's going to take a month or so. We'll need to fabricate an awful lot of components; we might even need to do a bit of mining."

"Mining?" Dixon said, shaking her head. "Some exploratory mission."

"And a crew of about a dozen to operate it," Quinn continued. "I can prepare some recommendations, if you want."

"Liaise with Mr. Dietz, in case we want to pursue that option. What about the station itself? Any theories?"

Mulenga leaned forward, rubbing his chin, "There are seven stars within range of this system. I haven't had a chance to do a proper analysis yet – but we already know one was inhabited. This could be a strategic strongpoint of some value."

"Then why abandon it?" Cunningham said. "I have a theory; I think this is a U-Boat pen."

"A what?" Quinn asked, frowning.

"During the days of submarine warfare on Earth, it was quite common for hidden installations to be built to shelter warships from attack, as well as to service them. This could be such a facility. A servicing point."

Marshall nodded, "Then this might not have any special significance; someone fighting a substantial war might have them in every important system."

"And with an inhabitable planet, I think this system definitely counts as significant."

"Then why abandon it? Why has no-one been here for nine years; if this was going to justify such an effort, wouldn't they be using it more often? Even if just to make sure it was still intact?" Dixon said.

"Perhaps they won the war, and no longer needed it," replied Cunningham.

"Or," said Mulenga, "maybe they lost the war."

"Of more importance is the use we can make of it. I'm inclined to put...," an urgent red light started to flash on Marshall's panel, interrupting him; he picked up his communicator, "I didn't want any interruptions."

"Sir," Weitzman's said quickly, "I have Lieutenant Caine for you. From the surface. Using an old Martian Service code. I've double-checked; it's legitimate."

Smiles and grins leapt from person to person around the room; Cunningham shook his head in admiration. It was all Marshall could do to stop himself from cheering; Esposito was shaking her head in relief. She'd taken the loss of Orlova as bad as he'd taken the loss of Caine. With a shaky hand, he picked up the communicator.

"Put her through, Spaceman, with pleasure. On speaker."

"Aye, aye, Captain!" Marshall could here his grin through the channel. The voice at the other end was crackly, and he strained to listen.

"I'll have to be quick, sir. Orlova and I are fine, Steele is wounded but should recover, I'm afraid Smythe is dead." Quinn's face dropped.

"I'm sorry about Smythe. Is your situation immediately hazardous?"

"Once this call gets triangulated, yeah."

"There's a satellite control installation in the mountains." Marshall could hear some low voices on the other end of the conversation, and there was a slight lag before her reply.

"The group I am with have heard of it."

"If that can be knocked out, then we can go right into orbit; it's controlling all the orbital defenses. Can you do it?"

Another delay, "No, sir. I'm told the garrison is too big."

Marshall paused, "Big enough for a platoon of espatiers?"

"How are you going to get them past the orbital defense network?"

"Let me worry about that. We've spotted an anti-aircraft missile emplacement around the control center; if we're going to get in, we need those taken out. Have you got the forces to do it?"

"We'll find a way, Danny. When?"

Quickly, Marshall scanned the surface of the planet. "Five days Alamo time from right now. We're coming to get you, Deadeye. All three of you. I'm not leaving anyone behind. Can you signal again?"

"Uncertain, but we'll be there." The line was growing worse. "I think we're <crackle> jammed."

"Get going, Deadeye. Good luck."

The line went dead. Marshall sat back in his chair with relief, folding his arms behind his head as he smiled. Esposito was similarly happy. The only holdouts from the good mood were Dietz and Cunningham, who were looking at each other, doubts flashing through their faces.

"I know, I know, gentlemen," he replied. "We've got to get through that satellite ring."

"Sir, as of now we have no ideas," Dietz said.

Cunningham nodded, "We can't get through the satellite ring without destroying the surface installation, and we can't destroy the surface installation because we can't get through the satellite ring. Catch-22."

"Could we do it from long range, with missiles? If they were guided in?" Quinn asked.

Dietz shook his head, "The particle beams."

"I mean, if we let them drift through? Only becoming active when the reached the atmosphere?"

"It's not a bad idea, but they'd just shoot then down with their anti-air. We need to get them from close range, not give them a chance," Dietz replied.

Esposito nodded, "Third Platoon volunteers to attempt a crash landing on that plateau."

"That's crazy," Cunningham said.

"We could use our best pilots, all personnel in full armor." She looked at Marshall, "The whole outfit would happily take the risk."

"I appreciate that, Ensign, but I can't sanction it," Marshall said. "There's no point stranding another thirty people on the planet. We need a better option, people, and I'd say you've got five days to come up with it. Take any resources you want from any department; I want options, ladies and gentlemen, and I want them quickly. Dismissed."

Muttering among themselves, the officers stood up and left the room, most of them shaking their heads. Dietz alone remained, his arms folded in front of him, waiting patiently for the others to leave before speaking.

"In front of the crew, Captain, I would never disagree with you."

"And now we're alone?"

"We could find a way to send Lieutenant Caine a message to wait."

"You think we should return to Ragnarok, get reinforcements."

Dietz nodded, "That would be the sensible thing to do."

"There's nothing at Hunter Station, Lieutenant. The rest of the Deep Space Fleet won't be back for months; the best case has us back out here in a few weeks. More likely the Combined Chiefs will sit on this one while the specialists back home try and dream up a solution."

"It might come to that, yet."

"And if there is a threat?" Marshall shook his head, "We're the only soldier on this part of the border, Mr. Dietz, and it is our responsibility to stand guard. This is about more than just getting back our crewmen; I don't actually expect to find anything useful on the station. They went to far too much trouble hiding their tracks for us to find anything so easily."

"You hope to find the answers you are looking for on the surface, then?"

"It seems logical, doesn't it? Somewhere down there are the people who built those satellites; that's a technology we need. If this is the outer part of a much larger empire, then we need to know about that, as well. For all we know there is a full-scale war taking place a jump away, or a power getting ready to attack. Ragnarok's not that far away." He nodded, almost to himself, "If we head back to Hunter Station now, all we have is a long list of questions."

"Sir, I agree with your reasoning, but..."

"Your job is to offer alternatives."

"A specialist engineering task force could come out here; we could use the fuel stored here to explore nearby systems."

Marshall smiled at that prospect, "Tempting. If we can't find a way to get them off the surface, then it might yet come to that. But I'm not leaving this system until we've exhausted all the options, and we're a long way from that, yet."

"Understood, Captain."

"Dismissed."

Chapter 17

Yreka looked like a nice town, though Caine didn't think she was seeing it at its best. The clouds had lifted, and the stars were blazing down as night settled in, the eerie silver moonlight strong enough to cast shadows on the ground. Jefferson's capital consisted of about a thousand roughly-built wooden buildings, houses, shops and an impressive town hall with a tall flagpole, though the white and yellow flag was one that she didn't recognize. She struggled to keep up with her guide – who looked as if he had yet to be introduced to a razor, but had a cold look in his eyes she didn't like.

It had taken some convincing to persuade Orlova to remain in her father's bar; she didn't think the two of them ought to be in the same place, at least until they were ready to leave for the mountains. Though she was eager to be on her way, the Lieutenant had been rather more reluctant, insisting on bringing her to see the leaders of the resistance, assembled in a secret meeting place. Huddled in a rough coat, she walked down a quiet side street, only a few locals out at this time of the night, mostly looking as if they were engaged in some sort of furtive business of their own.

Her heart skipped a beat when she glanced ahead, finding her guide had vanished into the shadows; she could soon see why, as a pair of soldiers dressed in blue coats, wearing kepis, walked down the street on patrol, carrying disturbingly modern-looking assault rifles. Attempting to ignore them, she continued down the street, trying not to make eye contact. As she drew level with them, one of them turned, leering at her, and walked over to her.

"What is a pretty young thing like you doing out on a night like this? You need protection, mademoiselle. This place is full of dangerous people," he said, opening running his eyes up and down her figure.

Biting a sarcastic response, she replied, "I'm going home to my husband, sir."

The legionnaire spat on the pavement, "The man is a fool for letting you roam the streets by yourself. I'm tempted to teach him the meaning of his folly." He ran his hand up and down her arm.

"Come on, Yuri," his partner said, "We can get better than that at Orr's."

"It's too easy." He smiled, exposing his teeth, "This is much more fun."

"Yuri, the commandant will be wondering where we are."

He turned to his friend; Caine could see her guide again, a pistol out, lining up a shot. "You listen too loud to that fool. One day he'll have his back to me in battle, and we will have a new commandant."

The other guard threw up his hands, "Do what you wish; I am going back to the Citadel." He turned and walked away, and after Yuri gave Caine another long look, he shook his head and followed. She breathed a sigh of relief, and the guide returned, returning his gun to his hidden holster.

"I'm sorry about that," he said. "They know my face, I can't afford to be seen on the streets."

"What for," she whispered.

He pulled out a knife, four notches carved on it, "Six more of those and I'll have my revenge. Come."

Moving cautiously behind a large warehouse, he slipped his knife into a crack between two planks, levering out a hidden door. A piece of rope dangled from the gap; he pulled the door open, and gestured inside. Nodding, Caine ducked into the dark room, the guide following her and closing the door. It took her a few minutes to adjust to the darkness; there was a quick flash, and a candle was lit in the middle of the room, five men sitting around in the shadows.

In a gruff voice, one of them said, "You may call me Colonel Bryce, Lieutenant. I understand that you plan to undertake a mission of sabotage, and require our assistance."

Standing in the middle of the circle, she shook her head, "Your assistance would make the job a lot easier, Colonel. But I am an officer of the Triplanetary Fleet, and my Captain has given me an order. The installation is going to be destroyed."

"Bold words," another voice – the Lieutenant, by the sounds of it, said. "Can you back them up with anything?"

She sighed, "Alamo is in a position to launch an attack that will end the threat of the orbital defenses once and for all. Don't you want that? Don't you want to be free?"

Laughter from the rear, and her guide said, "The old men prefer to hide in the shadows, waiting and watching for an opportunity that will never come. Freedom has to be earned, and the point of a blade is as good a way as any to do it."

"Damn it, Clark. You've almost brought the fire down on us all once too often," the Colonel said. "We have an organization that our fathers passed down to us, and we have a responsibility to wait for the day when we will have a chance to strike back."

Caine walked up to the old man, looked down at the lines on his face, the fading gray hair, and replied, "That day is today."

He looked up at her, "I don't think you realize the journey you are talking about. That installation is three hundred miles away; you're talking about doing it in five days. Less than that, now. Most of that through jungle, then up over the Mountains of the Moon to the plateau. I'm not sure we could mount that sort of an expedition in weeks, not days. Marshalling that many resources in secret, slipping them out of Yreka." He shook his head, "Not practical, young woman. Not practical."

"My fellow officer and I will go by ourselves if we have to."

"What's the secrecy for," Clark said. "We pull this off, the damn war's won! Death from above, for god's sake! The lieutenant's ship can provide the aerial cover we need, we'll have real soldiers," he placed a strong emphasis on the 'real', "to lead our irregulars into battle, proper arms – isn't this what we've been waiting for since the invasion?"

The lieutenant sighed, "We've been waiting for a lot more than a couple of people to drop out of the sky with vague promises of hope. With all respect to you, Lieutenant, this is a big risk."

"Too big," the Colonel said. "We can provide you with intelligence, and other assistance, but throwing away our military strength at this time is just out of the question. Out of the question."

Caine nodded, and turned towards the door. She looked back at the Colonel, "We're going anyway."

"I can't stress again how dangerous a course of action you are planning to undertake, young woman. You and your counterpart will be fortunate to get out of town without being caught; you had a narrow escape getting here. The Legion are tough, brutal soldiers; they'll stop at nothing. Even if you make it to the base, taking that installation would be impossible."

"I was hoping to find soldiers, allies. Not a group of tired old men sitting around a candle dreaming of old times and hoping for a miracle that's never going to come. Dreams have to be earned."

The Colonel rose to his feet, "I can't convince you to abandon this course?"

"No."

He pulled out a gun, and she heard a click, "Then I'm afraid you don't give me any choice. If you move, I'll shoot you. The Legion won't complain when they find your corpse."

Clark yelled, "What the hell are you doing? The first help we get in decades, and you draw on her?"

"I'm doing what I have to do to protect the Minutemen. You're too young to understand."

"I hope I never do." With a swift movement, Clark pulled a gun of his own, pointing it at the Colonel. "We're leaving now."

"I will fire if I have to. Kill me if you must, but I'll not let decades of work be tossed away on a madman's folly."

The silent three faded from view, disappearing deeper into the shadows, presumably making their own ways to safety. Only the Lieutenant remained seated, looking between the Colonel and Caine. Clark's arm was unwavering, his gun pointing between the eyes of the Colonel.

"We'll keep you imprisoned until the five days are up. Then you can contact your ship again," the Colonel said. "I'm not turning you in."

"Just my corpse. Alamo's attack will be for nothing, you'll have thirty lives on your conscience. Lives who died trying to save you." Caine was talking to the Colonel, but she was aiming at the Lieutenant; she saw his eyes wavering.

"Colonel, perhaps...," he said.

Shaking his head, the Colonel interrupted him. "If you won't listen to sense, you'll listen to lead."

Caine sighed, and turned away, "I don't have time for this. If you're going to shoot, get it over with. Clark, let's get out of here. I'll need you to take me back to Orlov's."

Clark slowly backed towards the door, reaching for the rope, and Caine took careful strides towards him, her back to the Colonel, her eyes half-cold. She was expecting every breath to be her last, but got to within five paces of the door before she heard two shots in rapid succession, one crack just by her ear.

Turning, she saw the Colonel crumple to the ground, a shocked look on his face as he stared up at the Lieutenant, muttering under his last breath as blood dribbled down his chin. The Lieutenant replaced his pistol in his holster, shaking his head as he looked down on the old man, then back up to face Caine. There were more noises from the shadows, more clicking noises, and the Lieutenant shook his head.

"Make this count. Git!"

She turned to run, leaping through the door just ahead of a series of gunshots, Clark just in the lead. The last thing she heard from the warehouse were a final pair of shots, followed by a loud yell – the Lieutenant. She paused for a second, turning, shaking her head.

"You heard him," Clark said, grabbing her arm. "Let's get out of here. They'll all be after us now!"

The pair of them sprinted down back streets and alleys, weaving in and out of buildings. They hadn't made it fifty meters before a loud siren started to sound, its wail echoing off the walls, and Clark redoubled his pace, ducking behind a large stack of chopped wood in a yard. Caine slid on the muddy ground behind him, panting.

"How far?"

"Look." He pointed at a group of uniformed men running down the road towards the warehouse, all of them with rifles at the ready. A man emerged from the front, then tried to turn back in; a series of bullets caught him in the back, sending him collapsing to the ground,  and the legionnaires charged forward. Clark waited until they were past them, then rose, running further down the road, Caine following him. Gunfire and explosions drowned out the whine of the siren, the minutemen giving their lives well at the last.

The guide gestured towards a ladder on the side of a tower and began to scale it, taking it two rungs at a time, hugging low to the side. At the top was a huge tank, surrounded by a latticework fence; he was up and relaxed on crossed legs long before Caine staggered to the top, collapsing in a pool of sweat to the ground.

"Will they follow us?"

"Too busy. Look." Clark pointed to a column of smoke rising from the warehouse; a couple of bucket brigades were forming in a probably futile attempt to douse the blaze. A survivor of the battle was dragged out of the burning building and thrown to the ground, where a trio of legionnaires shot him in the street.

"Damn."

"They're the ones who decided to be stupid, Lieutenant, not you. At least Uncle Ray died well, a gun in his hand. That's what he would have wanted."

"He was your uncle?"

"Uh-huh." Clark paused. "You still going ahead with it?"

"After this? There's already been too much blood spilled to go back now, kid."

"To hell with the Minutemen. I can get you ten armed fighters, if you want them."

"Armed?"

"I know where they keep their guns. We'll be armed, and know how to use them. Not all of us are willing to sit around and talk. Some of us are still ready to fight."

"Good." She clapped him on the shoulder.

He frowned, "They were right about one thing, though; it's going to be a hell of a journey."

"I'm sure the Tatars will lend us a boat and a crew," she replied, panting. "After that it's just the desert and the mountains."

Clark looked down at the street below. "Once things calm down a little more, we'll sneak down and I'll get you to Orlov's. I'll be back with my gang just before dawn."

"Fine, Sergeant."

"What?"

"Nothing."

She looked out over the devastation her arrival on Jefferson had already caused, shaking her head. That tower of smoke was probably visible from Alamo's sensors. Looking up at the stars, for once visible, she saw the twinkling of the orbital defense platforms hanging in the sky, and shook her head. She had the distinct impression that she had the easy job.

Chapter 18

Leaning forward in his command chair, Marshall eagerly watched the small shuttle dive towards the planet. Quinn was sitting at the guidance control station; he'd insisted on piloting the shuttle in himself. It had actually taken a direct order to stop him trying to ride the shuttle down; he and his crew had worked around the clock to make every modification they could think of, and he and Mulenga had spent hours trying to work out a course to take it past the fewest number of satellites. Dixon was on the bridge, looking over his shoulder.

Everyone was on tenterhooks, waiting for a response from the satellites. He knew that Dietz was hoping that they might improvise some sort of a rescue, instead of having to send the espatiers down to the planet; Marshall was still set on the idea of knocking out the satellites once and for all. It wasn't that he didn't trust the engineering crews, they'd worked miracles in the past, but somehow, he didn't think it could be this easy.

"Shuttle engines off, Captain. Now on free-descent trajectory," Quinn said, quickly turning his head.

"No activity from the satellites yet, sir," Yorkina reported from the sensor station.

"No communications from the planet, Captain," Ortega said from communications.

Marshall said nothing, his eyes – like those of everyone on the bridge – locked on the blip of the shuttle heading towards the satellites. A red line marked the distance at which the previous shuttle was hit, and a countdown ticked down the seconds. He held his breath as the countdown headed towards zero; four seconds. Two seconds. One. Zero. Plus One. Marshall stood up, making his way over to the guidance control station.

"Good work, Mr. Quinn."

The engineer looked up, a smile spread all over his face. Marshall turned to Dietz, "I think..."

"Energy spike from the satellites!" Yorkina said. "Aspect change on satellites two and three."

His face dropping into a frown, Marshall quietly made his way back to his chair, watching with horrible inevitability the particle beams on the satellites lock into place. Quinn desperately punched buttons and worked controls, trying every evasive maneuver he could think of and a few that seemed to defy rational thought, but it was to no avail. With two quick flashes, the shuttle's telemetry went dead, and the scanner blinked to reveal a clump of debris heading towards the planet.

Quinn smashed his hand against the console, "Dammit!" He turned to Marshall, "Sir, with your permission, I'll go below and start modifying Transit Three. If we..."

"No. We're down to one orbital shuttle, and I'm not going to throw them away. At best it would simply give us a lead, anyway; we'd need to modify one of the landing shuttles."

"Sir, Raven Flight will launch and try and take out one of the shuttles. If we could blow a hole in the pattern, the landing shuttles could fly through," Dixon said.

Cunningham shook his head from the tactical station, "You'd lose every fighter in your flight before you even got close, Lieutenant. And you'd have to take down three of those satellites to give us a clear path. Not an option."

"Captain," Dixon appealed, but Marshall shook his head.

"Mr. Cunningham is quite right. We're going to need another way through, people. Three and a half days remain for you to find it."

Nodding, Quinn rose from the guidance station, Varlamov sliding in to take his place, and made his way off the bridge, already poking at a datapad. Marshall looked around at the demoralized bridge crew, debated whether or not he should say anything, but realized that he had no idea what he could tell them.

"Kibaki, you have the conn," he told the watch officer, standing at the back of the room.

"Aye, sir." The gray-haired officer walked over, taking the command chair.

Marshall walked into his office, shaking his head as the doors slid shut behind him. His usual method of relaxing, looking out at the stars, was denied to him while they were floating inside the spacedock. Bare rock punctuated by the occasional glint of metal simply didn't have the same effect. At least they'd soon have finished refueling, and could return to space again. One slight comfort for him. Sitting down at his desk, he pulled out the draft plans for the assault mission; at least those were in reasonably good order, even if the first part of the mission plan currently amounted to 'we'll think of something'.

The whole platoon of espatiers would be thrown down at the planet, taking the landing strip and assaulting from there, linking up with whatever forces Caine had managed to scavenge from the local population. There was a distinct lack of abort options if that assault had failed; hopefully there would be a large explosion indicating that it would be safe to send the troops in, and he smiled at the thought.

Without warning, his reverie was interrupted by the door sliding open, and Cunningham walked in, hesitantly. "Mind if I have a word, Captain?"

He shook his head, "Pull up a chair. Did you ever have anything like this when you were my boss, John?"

"Gods, yes." He leaned forward. "Danny, we've all been through this. Remember that flight from 4th Squadron that time, those three hot-heads who managed to run themselves out of fuel? When the UN grabbed them, it was two months before we knew whether or not they were alive or dead. I seem to remember a Third Lieutenant advocating a rescue mission."

Chuckling, Marshall replied, "It wasn't just me; those marines were bored to death on the Wright. I think they just wanted an excuse to put their armor on and shoot something."

"I refused to sanction it. Made that clear to Tramiel."

"Quite right; it was a stupid plan and would have got people killed."

Cunningham paused for a few seconds before replying, "Danny, this is the same situation. Think about what you're doing – and never mind Dietz, I think he's got to a point where he realizes it's impossible to talk you out of something when you've set your mind to it."

"You're still optimistic enough to have a go, though?"

"I'm hoping you're smart enough to see sense. There's one dead on the planet's surface, and three trapped down there. Danny, they are not dead, and though one of them is wounded, she will recover."

"We won't leave anyone behind."

"They'll be fine and free. Unless they get themselves shot up on a fool's errand. You're asking two officers – neither of which has formal ground forces training..."

"Orlova's seen more action on the ground than she has in space," Marshall interrupted.

Pressing his point, Cunningham continued, "...to launch an attack on a heavily defended anti-aircraft installation. Then hold it for long enough for you to throw a platoon of unsupported espatiers into a situation where they will be outnumbered four or five to one by people who know the ground a lot better than they do."

"They've faced worse odds and won."

"Danny, the risk is too great. We don't need to fight this battle. You could be throwing away thirty lives in an attempt to save three."

"Skipping over the tactical and strategic goals, I'm not leaving them behind." Before Cunningham could protest, he continued, "The Combined Chiefs will see this the same way you do. The three crewmen are fine, so they can wait. A study group might come out here in a few months – or years – to look at the satellites, but we're so far beyond explored space now that it would require a major operation to pull off. They won't spend the money or the time." He shook his head, his eyes cold, "I'm not abandoning them."

"Danny..."," Cunningham's reply was interrupted by a chime from the door. Marshall tapped to open it, and Midshipman Zabek – who looked somewhat more disheveled than usual – walked in, saluting the two officers.

"What is it, Midshipman?" Marshall asked.

She looked nervously at the two of them, "The rescue mission that's being planned, sir."

"Yes?"

"I'd like to volunteer as a shuttle pilot." She held out a datapad, her personnel record displayed on it, "I'm fully qualified on that model of craft."

Marshall looked at Cunningham, who replied, "Midshipman, that's a matter for Technical Officer Salgada, who will undoubtedly prefer to use her own pilots. Your place is at the guidance control station."

"Sir, I..."

"Speak up, Midshipman," Marshall said.

"I've got to go, Captain. I just have to do this. I can't explain why."

"Can't, or won't?" Cunningham said. "We're professionals, Zabek." Looking up at Marshall, he continued, "Personal feelings can have no input in what we do here."

Taking a deep breath, Zabek said, "I'm fully qualified to fly the mission, sir, and I want to go. It'll be a volunteer-only mission anyway, and I thought I'd get in first." Her words were coming out in a rush. "I can do this, I want to do this, and I need to do this. And the fact that I have a personal stake in this only makes me more determined to succeed, sir," she said to Cunningham.

Marshall smiled, shaking his head. He looked down at Cunningham, who imperceptibly nodded, then up at Zabek, "You'll fly Shuttle Three on the rescue mission. I'll inform Salgada of the change."

She threw a perfect salute, a smile beaming across her face, "Thank you, sir. I won't let you down."

"I know." He paused, "Go and see if you can help Mr. Quinn. Dismissed, Midshipman."

"Sir." As she left the room, Cunningham looked up at Marshall.

"I'd have probably done the same thing."

"You did. More than once. Nothing better than a willing volunteer."

"I'll give you this, Danny. There won't be a soul on Alamo who won't volunteer for the assault." Half-laughing, he continued, "Including me, as it happens."

"I need you at Tactical. I'll make a deal – I'll stay on board if you do."

"I half-expected you to want to lead the attack yourself." His face grew more serious, "Assuming we have one at all, that is."

Marshall smiled, replying, "Quinn's the best engineer in the fleet. If anyone can dream up a way of getting through the defense grid, he will."

"There we agree." He stood up, turning to leave the room. "If I was out of line..."

"John, talks like this are the whole reason why I wanted you on board after Desdemona." He paused, "If it truly looks hopeless, then I'll find a way to tell them on the ground. Even if we have to spell out 'abort' with missile explosions. Then I'll turn back to Hunter."

"I'll remind you of that in four days." He looked at the door, "I'd better go and see if I can help Quinn make his miracle."

As the door closed behind him, Marshall pulled open the bottom draw of his desk, taking out a bottle and a glass. The first one he took out was part-full; Caine had been drinking with him a week ago, called away on some emergency or another. He briefly contemplated finishing it, but instead put it on top of the desk, clamping the lid shut. He poured himself a fresh glass, stood up, and looked at his father's picture on the wall, raising it in toast.

"To leaving no man behind, Dad. Once I get his out of the way, I'm going to keep looking for you as well."

He drained the harsh liquid in a swig, gagging slightly at the taste; for about the tenth time he regretted not having time to lay in anything decent at Ragnarok before they'd shipped out in a hurry. He sat down at his desk again, pulling up the topographical map Mulenga's team had completed, showing the layout of the area. The cloud cover was thick enough that any attempt to track Caine's party visually was out of the question, but he could work out roughly where they had to go. Jungles, deserts and mountains; it was asking a lot. He looked up at the half-empty glass on the table, and shook his head; somehow Caine and Orlova would find a way to pull it off. All he had to do was come up with something to match it.

Chapter 19

Water lapped around the boat as it purred its way up the river, the two Tatars – Orlova now knew them as Marat and Rustem – carefully navigating around rocks and obstacles in the river. Most of Clark's boys – an accurate way of putting it, as they were mostly younger than he was – were resting down in the hold, but he was sitting at the rear of the boat, silently sharpening his knife. Caine was likewise below, getting some rest; they had agreed between themselves that one of them should be awake at all times while they were heading up-river. The rain still splashed down; she was lying underneath a bench to get some shelter, pulling her newly-acquired coat around her to keep warm, looking up at the dull overcast day, and across at the deep jungle on the shore.

She looked over at Elvira, lying on the other side of the deck; she wasn't sure how to take her. While see seemed nice enough – not that they spoke the same language – and she was obviously making her father happy, it was strange to imagine him with a woman other than her mother. Eleven years was a long time, though; she tried to imagine how she would act if she was stuck on a single planet for that long. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

Switching to the immediate future, she began to ponder a plan. Twelve of them to take that base; an installation that none of them had ever seen, not even from orbit. At best they had a rough idea of what they were looking for, but hopefully it wouldn't be too difficult to find. In the back of her mind, she became aware that the noise of the engine had subtly changed. Sitting up, she moved around to the front of the boat, listening to a new noise coming from upstream – another engine. Her father had taught her a few words of Tatar, a rather combat-limited vocabulary, but enough for her to at least find out how they were doing.

Rustem looked over at her, his face fixed in a frown, "Enemy ahead. We hide."

Nodding, Orlova quickly gestured at Clark to take cover. He looked around for a second, as if contemplating staying to fight it out, but ducked down behind the side of the boat. She pulled a stinking hide on top of her, gagging at the smell, her view of the outside world now limited to a small patch of sunlight. As for those sleeping in the hold, she decided it was best to leave them there, hidden well enough; that engine was getting louder and louder, enough that she didn't want to risk emerging. Her fist tightened on her pistol, nestled in her hand, almost the only bit of Alamo equipment they still had.

The noise grew louder and louder, and the boat almost seemed to be shaking. Mentally, she pictured the Legion patrol drifting past, maybe with a few thrown insults as they went upon their way, but then her greater fears came true. The engines stopped, just as the noise was building to its loudest crescendo yet. Shouts in two different languages were passed back and forth; she recognized them now as French and Tatar, but infuriatingly had no idea what they were saying. Judging by the increasingly harsh tone, it didn't seem to be going well, and when a gunshot cracked overhead, it was almost a relief.

Acting on instinct, she tossed the hide away, pulled out her gun, and took a shot at the first target she could see – a guard holding a rifle, who had obviously fired a warning shot. She didn't believe in them; the guard dropped down to the deck, clutching a red wound in his chest. She took a second to look at the situation; the Legion boat was twice as big as theirs, and armed with a pair of machine guns, fore and aft, both of them turning on the Tatar boat. Clark didn't wait to look at the situation, firing a couple of bursts at the enemy's bridge, sending shards of glass shattering onto the deck, punctuated by screams.

The return fire tore a series of holes in the side of the boat, and Marat collapsed twitching to the deck, blood pouring out of half a dozen wounds, before he could take cover. Caine's head popped up out of the hold, and she swore as a bullet narrowly missed her; the aft machine gun started to provide suppressing fire over the hatch to keep the rest pinned down, while the fore gun began to rake the deck, bullets tearing through the sides of the ship just by Orlova.

She replied with a pair of shots and was rewarded by a cry of pain; Clark was firing in threes, but was causing more fear than actual effect. Elvira had taken a firing position, cracking off wild shots with more enthusiasm than accuracy. In the middle of the noise, she could just make out the sounds of her father calling out, but she couldn't make out the words.

Orlova didn't like where this was going. They were outnumbered, but that wasn't necessarily a problem; those machine guns were the major problem. While they were firing, their reinforcements were pinned down, and the armor plating at the front of the guns would prevent her getting a good shot at the gunners. She glanced over at Clark, who was ducking down after taking another shot, and grinned at her; he had a few more notches for his knife already. If she only had a couple of grenades, this battle would be over very quickly.

As if her mind was being read, she peered over the side of the boat to see a man wearing shoulder epaulets pulling a pin out of a small ball, raising his arm to throw; she managed to get a shot off at him, hitting his hand and sending the grenade spinning out of his hand into the water behind him. The resulting splash drenched part of the ship, spray flying high into the air. The next time she was unlikely to manage such a good shot. Taking a deep breath, she held up a hand, pointed at the boat – which had drifted now to within just a few meters of them, making the salvos of machine gun fire even worse, and counted down three, two, one with her fingers.

Screaming, "Now!" she leapt out of cover, firing a pair of wild shots to keep the legionnaires down, and jumped onto the patrol boat, shooting a nearby figure at point blank range. Clark had followed her just a second later, and as the machine guns wildly spun around, she saw Caine and the rest of Clark's squad boil out of the hold, taking firing positions along the side of the boat, returning fire with a series of salvos of her own.

That still left Orlova and Clark stuck on the Legion boat. Clark had discarded his empty pistol and restored to his knife, ducking and stabbing at targets with manic fury, while she found a little cover to fire her last few shots. The smell of blood was in the air, the deck was growing slippery with spray, and the staccato bursts of the machine guns were being punctuated with carefully timed volley fire from Caine. A pair of officers ran forward with grenades, only visible to Orlova; she was able to hit the first without trouble, sending him spinning into the river, but the second managed to throw his bomb.

The explosion tore through the deck of the Tatar boat, a column of smoke punching into the sky, splinters shooting everywhere. Clark didn't give the grenadier time to enjoy his victory, sending his lifeless corpse into the river, but their boat was definitely beginning to sink, and not slowly. Fire from the Legionnaires began to quieten, the machine guns now silent, and she heard a shout from the remains of the bridge.

"Par-dessus bord!"

In good order, the Legionnaires retreated, diving from the side of the boat and swimming to the shore. Clark and his men, whooping, took pot shots at them as they swam, a few of them dropping out of sight, trails of red running with the current, but some of them made it to shore and disappeared into the undergrowth. Orlov lowered his gun, muttering under his breath.

Stepping onto the Legion boat, Caine yelled, "Cease fire!"

Reluctantly, the men agreed, clapping themselves on the back and celebrating – one of them fired a couple of exuberant rounds into the air. Orlova looked at her old craft, shaking her head; the deck was almost below the waterline now, and Rustem was dragging Marat's body from its rest. She jumped across to help, getting a grateful smile from the quiet boatman, and they placed him gently on the deck, draping a coat over his head. Two of Clark's boys had been wounded, neither seriously. In fact, they seemed to be ignoring their wounds altogether, concentrating on celebrating their victory.

Orlov raced up to his daughter, "Are you alright, Maggie?"

"I'm fine, Papa. Elvira?"

"Just getting off the boat now." He shook his head, "What a horrible mess."

"Looks like we've traded up, Lieutenant," Clark yelled, grinning. "This should get us there much faster."

"Not to mention the guns," another said. "I want to give them a try!"

"Not yet," Caine said. "Not until we see someone to shoot with them." She looked over at the sinking craft. "Help Rustem bring anything we need over here. Sub-Lieutenant?"

Orlova looked around shaking her head, "Yes?"

"Let's take a look in the hold, see what exactly we've stolen."

The hatch to the hold was open, and the two of them carefully made their way into the hold, pistols at the ready in case someone had stayed behind. A dozen bunks were along the sides of the boats, all of them carefully made and with small lockers for their possessions; there were doors fore and aft, both of them locked. Orlova began to make her way forward, to be stopped by Caine's hand on her shoulder.

"What do you think you were doing with that stunt, Maggie?"

"My job. We were pinned down, caught. You'd rather we were captured? Assuming they didn't just shoot us?"

Caine shook her head, "That jump was suicidal."

"They thought that as well – that's why they weren't expecting it." She broke into a piratical smile, "You've got to catch the enemy by surprise if you're going to win."

She shook her head, "Next time, ask first."

Orlova looked at Caine in the eyes, then shook her head, "I'm not going to make a promise I can't keep. In a battlefield situation, when the bullets are flying, you can't wait for orders. You have to trust your judgment. That's what officers do. If there'd been an NCO around he'd have led the charge, gladly. You think Sergeant Kozu would have waited to act? Or Ensign Esposito? Or any of the espatiers?"

"You've been hanging around with them too long."

"Maybe you haven't been spending enough time with them."

Standing straight, Caine's eyes narrowed, "I would point out that I outrank you."

Sighing, Orlova replied, "Are you going to turn into one of those officers down here on the surface? Look, you've been at this game for a long time, and I respect you; but this is something I know." She paused. "You were a fighter pilot during the war. Were you ever under direct fire? I mean on a planet, or in a station?"

"No."

"It's different when you can see the person that's shooting at you. And they you. I'm not your problem; Clark is."

Caine glanced up at the deck, "He saved my life back in Yreka."

"I did what I did because it had to be done. He enjoyed it. That's dangerous."

There was a loud crackling from the forward room, breaking the air; without a second thought Orlova raced forward, charging the door, while Caine covered her. It took two heaves to break through, the door cracking loose from its hinges; inside was a collection of radio equipment, crackling away. Their eyes widened as Caine pushed past Orlova, sitting at the chair.

"Why didn't Alamo pick up any signals?"

Caine pointed, "Low power. Very low. That won't travel far, and enough of it would bounce off the planet's ionosphere that we'd hear nothing but static."

"Can you juice it up?"

"I'm trying. It's not as if the enemy doesn't know we're here." She started fiddling with buttons and dials, running her hands over unfamiliar controls. After a few minutes, she dropped her hands to her side, grinding her teeth in frustration. "If I had a damn datapad, I could read this in a second."

Orlova yelled up to the deck, "Anyone read French?" There were a chorus of negative replies; evidently the resistance group had successfully resisted French language lessons in school, as well. "Anyone know anything about radio equipment?"

A figure dropped into the hold, swinging down on his arms; he looked down at the equipment and his eyes lit up. He moved over to start playing with the dials, then peeked down at the components, grinning.

"I think I can do something with this."

"What's your name?" Caine asked.

"Oh, they call me Hawk."

"Hawk?"

"Hawking's my last name."

"Can this punch through the ionosphere?"

Hawk frowned, lines crossing his young face, "I'm not sure. Probably not, it's at maximum now. I guess you've been trying?"

"Yeah."

He shook his head, "Probably not, then. I can have a tinker with it, though. Love playing with electronics. I don't get the chance much back home, those bastards keep all the cool tech to themselves. Granddad was an engineer on the Mayflower II, he told me all sorts of stuff before he died."

Orlova looked at Caine, smiling, then down at Hawk, "Any way you can make something a bit more portable out of all of this?"

"Portable? Maybe. Not hand-sized, though. Backpack, maybe."

"Get to work. You've got until we reach the village. I'll make a deal with you – pull this off, and I'll get our Chief Engineer to give you a tour of Alamo's engine room."

"A starship?"

"Uh-huh," Orlova said, grinning. This kid she could understand.

"Cool." He looked around the compartments, finding a toolkit, and started to get to work, Caine moving out of the way. The two of them went back to the bunkroom to give him room, the door closing behind him. Caine perched on one of the bunks, looking around the room, grimacing a bit as she heard a loud crackle.

"Think he'll do it?"

"If he doesn't blow himself up first," Orlova replied. "Look, about earlier..."

"Forget it. You were as right as I was. It is different on the ground." She looked forward. "At least we've solved our communications problem. We might not able to get a signal out of the atmosphere, but when those shuttles are on the way down, we'll be able to guide them in."

The two of them clambered back up to the deck. Clark and his gang were playing around with the machine guns, mock-sighting imaginary targets on the shore, while Rustem was up in the bridge, looking around the controls. Shaking her head, Caine walked over to the gang, fire in her eyes.

"We've got a mission to complete. Let's get this boat cleaned up."

"Why?" one of them asked. Clark had a bit more sense, and clambered to his feet.

"She's right. It's going to stink in a little while. Bob, go down and see if there are any supplies, Dave, start rounding up any ammo you can find." He looked up at Caine. "That suit?"

"Fine. Let's get to work."

Orlova climbed up to the bridge, shaking her head at the scene of devastation. A lot of equipment had been shot to pieces; navigational instruments, infra-red detectors, some other things she couldn't even recognize. Much of it would have been useful, but that bridge had been well and truly shot down. Rustem was tinkering with the controls, trying to make them work again; he'd pushed a couple of decorated bodies to the rear of the room, and Orlova tossed them down to the deck for Clark's crew to deal with.

"Will it work?"

"Yes." The shared vocabulary didn't allow her to translate what she assumed from his tone were swear words, but she grinned to show her understanding. The engine spluttered into life, and they began to move upstream again, purring away from the wrecked boat. Rustem looked back at the last traces sank beneath the water, a tear in his eye. He shook his head, and looked at her.

"This better," she roughly translated. "I keep. Trade."

She nodded, and climbed back down the ladder, looking out over the river—bodies were bobbing around in the current like logs, one by one slowly sliding beneath the surface forever, leaving nothing but a red stain. Shaking her head, she clambered down to the deck.

Chapter 20

Marshall closed his eyes, still trying to get some sleep. He'd been lying in his cabin for hours, trying and failing to relax; he was never any good at resting while other people were working, even though there was nothing he could do to help. Quinn and Cunningham, drowning under a deluge of crazy ideas from the crew, had isolated themselves in the conference room with a vat of coffee and some datapads, making it clear that even a certain Captain might not necessarily be welcome. He fidgeted some more, then decided to see if Security was making any progress on tapping into the satellites. Pulling on his shirt, he flicked a switch.

"Captain to Security Department."

The voice of Chief Washington came back rather too quickly, "Sir, I'm on my way over there now."

"I think I missed a conversation, Chief. Fill in the dots."

"Damn."

His voice grew stern, "That's not much of an explanation, Chief."

Sighing, she replied, "Harper's gone missing, sir."

"Missing?"

"She was supposed to go over to the station to download some data, see if there was anything in the deleted files, and, well..."

"Let me guess; that was a surprisingly long number of hours ago."

Reluctantly, the chief replied, "Yes, sir. She went over with the second boarding party."

"That's more than a day."

"Yes, sir. I was going over now to find her; she isn't answering her signal."

Rubbing his forehead, Marshall replied, "Belay that. I'll go over myself. You might as well start filling out the transfer paperwork; this time she's gone too damn far."

"Sir, I accept full responsibility."

"My fault, Chief. I should have busted her out of the department after the incident on the station. If Orlova hadn't talked me out of it, I would have."

"Don't blame her, sir."

Chuckling, he said, "You're leaping to the defense of your officer pretty quick, Chief. Don't worry, I know who to blame. Marshall out." He flicked over the switch again, pulling on the rest of his uniform.

"Esposito here, sir."

"I was expecting a Corporal. Shouldn't you be off watch?"

"Could say the same about you, Captain."

"I need to borrow some troops. Got any spare?"

"How many?"

"Enough to find a recalcitrant crewman who probably doesn't want to be found?"

"Let me guess. Harper. I'll give you Alpha Squad if you don't mind me coming along."

"Fine with me. I'll see you at the airlock in, say, ten minutes? Just don't bring any guns."

She laughed, replying, "Aye, sir."

He turned the channel off, then sat on the edge of the bed for a few seconds before slipping on his shoes. He couldn't work up any serious dislike of Harper; at least she was giving him something to do other than mope around in his cabin, or annoy the night shift on the bridge. Stepping out into the corridor, he heard polka coming from Dietz's room; obviously he was having trouble sleeping, as well. For a second he was tempted to invite him out on this little expedition, but decided against it.

The elevator flew quickly down to the hangar deck, and for a brief second he cursed the designers of Alamo; short of killing the rotation, there was no way he could dock the rotating section of the ship with the station. No human could live in the central core for long, but something could have been improvised, perhaps – something to add to the list of requirements for the next refit. Esposito was waiting on the hangar deck while a technician prepared the shuttle for launch; she and her squad were dressed in exercise jumpsuits rather than standard uniform.

He looked around for the pilot, then asked, "Who's flying, Ensign?"

She smiled in reply, "I could, but I thought you might want to."

"You thought right." He stepped into the shuttle, another crewman tossing him a flight headset, and climbed into the pilot's seat, the troopers following to take their place. He'd been worried that they might be annoyed at having to hunt down a lost crewman, but judging from the banter, they appeared to have decided that it was a game of hide and seek with the spacedock as a rather large playing field. A siren sounded as the shuttle dropped into the elevator airlock, then faded as the atmosphere was drained away. With a quick lurch, the shuttle dropped from the ship, and he tapped the controls to bring it to station keeping.

The airlock was just two hundred meters away; he could have jumped across in a spacesuit quite happily, and he didn't see the point of programming the navicomputer. Playing the thrusters to line up the shuttle airlock with the nearest docking port, he slowly drifted across, taking his time about it, enjoying even this brief little flight. After two minutes, he was rewarded with a loud clang, and the rattle of a successful docking. Unbuckling, he drifted back with a thumbs up, and headed over to the airlock. Matsumoto – temporarily in charge on the spacedock – was waiting for him, a furious expression on her face.

"I take it you've no leads, Sub-Lieutenant?"

"Leads? Leads? She's just run off somewhere deep into the bowels of the station. We haven't properly opened up the lower levels yet, there could be anything down there. More to the point, we don't have a damn map."

"Relax, Sub-Lieutenant, the marines are here. Literally. If we know she isn't in any of the occupied levels..."

"She isn't."

"Then we'll concentrate our efforts down in the lower decks. This station isn't that big, and if we leave our autoscanners on, we'll get that map for you." He spun around, halting himself on a handrail. "Split up into twos, taking a level each. Clarke, you decide the parings. Esposito, you're with me. Once you finish your level check in with me, I'll send you down to the next one. First one to find her gets, er, bragging rights. Let's move."

Clarke grinned, "You heard the Captain. Let's move out." He turned to Marshall, "Where are you going to start, sir?"

"We'll start at the bottom level and work our way up."

"Very good, sir."

Pulling open a hatch while the espatiers got organized, he and Esposito began to drift down the levels, one after another. After five levels of habitation, workspaces and storage, the levels began to take on an unfinished air; the hatches just came to a stop, and the walls were bare rock, sealed to prevent atmosphere leak but otherwise empty. There were four of those before they reached bottom; Esposito stopped herself, swinging on a convenient handhold.

"I feel like I should be wearing a spacesuit."

"Relax, Ensign, this is perfectly safe. Like the tunnels in those alien mines they found; they've been proofed."

"I'd just feel a bit better with walls, skipper."

The level was a maze of twisted corridors and passages, no real logic to it. Marshall kicked off, diving down the corridor with a whoop, changing his course by gently pushing off one wall after another. Esposito followed him, peering around side passages as she went; the lighting was flickering on and off, casting strange shadows that came into and out of existence at the blink of an eye. After a couple of minutes, she smiled.

"I know what this place is, sir."

Marshall frowned, "Unfinished level, surely?"

"Why wouldn't they dig it out to a pattern? This is a zero-g training ground, probably for combat. I'll have to get the guys down here tomorrow, get in some training with the light-guns. If it comes to that, I think we might have found something that could approximate a leisure activity down here. The crew could have a bit of fun beating out their frustrations here, sir."

He chuckled, "Feel free to set up a league of some sort. I'll play. Damn, they built a real maze here, didn't they."

"Some ship's crew must have had a lot of time on their hands at some point." They drifted into a new section, the walls changing color slightly; there was graffiti on the walls, all of it unintelligible, and Marshall didn't see the point of pulling his datapad out to translate it. Then, all the lights went out.

"Crap."

"Ouch!" said Esposito. "I just crashed into a damn wall."

Pulling out his communicator, Marshall tapped for the control room, "Matsumoto, has there been a power failure?"

"I'm not reading one, sir." Esposito pulled out a searchlight from her belt, a beam of white light shining down the corridor.

"I'm down on the bottom level and all the lights just went out."

There was a pause for a second, then some rapid swearing in Japanese, "Someone's hacked the systems on that deck! I can't trace it!"

He looked at Esposito, "Harper's here." Speaking back into his communicator, "Can you turn them back on?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but not yet. We don't have full access to the systems ourselves at the moment."

"Let me know when you do," he replied, irritably. "We're going to continue the search."

"Aye, Captain. Sorry, sir."

Replacing his communicator into his belt, he pointed down the corridor, "We're getting close, I suspect. This way."

"We are. Look at that." Up ahead, a food wrapper was drifting down the corridor. Pushing off a wall, Marshall dived down the passage it had come from, and was rewarded with the sight of a green glow up ahead, obviously from a large monitor. The outline of a figure was in front of it, blocking some of the light.

"Harper!" he yelled, kicking down towards her. She turned, waving a hand.

"Hi, Captain," she replied.

Swinging himself to a stop on a rocky outcrop, he looked down at her, sitting with a pair of keyboards in front of her and a small drifting mass of rubbish surrounding her. "Where's your communicator?"

"I turned it off. Didn't want to be bothered."

"You didn't want to be bothered." His face was reddening as Esposito drifted up behind him, halting on the same outcrop. "I've got a whole squad of espatiers out looking for you."

She looked up, puzzled, "I haven't been gone long, have I?"

"Twenty-nine hours, spaceman," Esposito said.

Trying to control himself, Marshall shook his head, "This is the last straw. The last."

"I've found a way of getting past the satellites. I just tested it on the lighting and it works."

Marshall's eyes widened, and he let go of the outcrop, drifting back into the wall. He looked down at the grinning green-haired crewman, shaking his head.

"If this is some sort of joke, you'll be floating home."

She shook her head, "No, sir! I'm serious! Look, I want Orlova back as much as you do, so I figured the only way for me to work it out was to lock myself away somewhere for a bit. I don't work well when someone's looking over my shoulder every five seconds. This place was mentioned in some of the graffiti up above, some sort of hidden game room."

"Stay on topic, spaceman."

"Well, we're not going to sneak past the satellites, so we need to hack into the systems."

"I know that. We've been trying since we arrived. Those firewalls are tight."

Shrugging, she replied, "They're good. Adaptive. Anything I tried wouldn't work for long, and I could only do it once. That's why I decided to test it here. It's the same basic software, after all. Was always going to be, but I double-checked."

"Why didn't we think of that?" Esposito said, shaking her head.

"The lights went out," Marshall said, "so it worked?"

"Trust me, I know how to hack a system. I can suppress the sensor controls on the whole network. Not for long, but I can keep them dead for ten minutes or so, maybe a little more."

"Ten minutes," Marshall muttered.

Esposito frowned, "Where did you get the idea? The whole security department's been working on it."

"I've seen this before. Same software as was on that station." She chuckled, "You and Orlova told me to learn from my mistakes. I wasn't going to let that security package beat me. I've got a reputation to uphold."

"Are you sure about this, Harper? Are you absolutely sure?"

She sighed, shaking her head, "You probably want someone to check all this or something, right?"

Marshall drifted up to her, grabbing her by the shoulder, "Answer the damn question. Are you sure this will work?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

He grinned, squeezing her shoulder, and replied, "Keep working here as long as you need. I'll have someone send down some more food. As soon as you're finished up here – any idea how long?"

"Day or so to get everything nailed down."

"Then I want you to set all this up on the bridge. Get Weitzman to help you rig it to the communications console." He looked at his watch, "I want this all ready to go as soon as possible. Good work. Damn good work."

Esposito was shaking her head, "Ten minutes? What can we do in that?"

"Plenty. Call off the search, get them back to the ship." He tapped in for the bridge.

"Kibaki here, Captain. Is there a problem?"

"Get the senior staff to the briefing room right now. I've got an idea."

Chapter 21

With sweaty hands, Caine worked the knot on her improvised headdress again, trying to stop the sub burning down on her next. For a dim red dwarf, GJ 2097 was giving out a lot of heat. At first she'd welcomed getting out of the jungle and its constant rain, but the desert was worse. Stopping, she took a drink of warm water out of her canteen, a few drops running down her chin, then slammed the stopper back down and dropped it back to her hip. The whole day they had been marching endlessly, collapsing every couple of hours into heaps on the ground, struggling to recover for the next long march.

She looked around the featureless expanse; barren dunes rising out of the ground, broken only by the occasional piece of struggling scrub. There were fourteen of them, forming a long line across the desert, following in her footsteps; she was taking the lead with Orlova, Clark's gang was taking up the middle, and Orlov and Elvira at the rear, the old man struggling a bit in the heat but determinedly keeping pace with the rest. The only evidence of their passing was their footprints, and even they were being slowly swallowed up by the dust. Orlova caught up to her.

"Want me to take the lead for a while?"

Panting, Caine replied, "No, I'm fine."

"You look exhausted."

Caine looked at the bedraggled sub-lieutenant, shaking her head, "You should look in a mirror. This would be a lot better if we could see where we are going."

"Elvira says we should see the Mountains of the Moon by dawn."

"You're speaking Tatar now?"

The two of them started to walk again, not wanting to let Clark get ahead of them. "About two dozen words," Orlova replied. "Papa's teaching me some. Just in case."

"How are you handling all of this?"

"What do you mean?"

Shaking her head, Caine replied, "If my father turned up after being missing for more than a decade, having remarried a local girl, I'm not sure how I'd react."

"It's a bit strange. That's true enough. Still, Mother got a legal divorce a few years back, when she had him declared dead."

"You might want to get that sorted out."

Laughing, she replied, "First on my list when I get back."

Gesturing around the desert, Caine said, "This doesn't bother you at all, does it?"

"It's warmer than Ragnarok," she shrugged.

The two of them made their way to the top of a sand-blasted ridge, hoping to see some signs of their destination up ahead. Instead, they head a loud noise, a whirling nose, coming from above. Raising her hand to cover her eyes, Caine could see a long, thin object flying over the desert, heading in their direction.

"Take cover!" she yelled, throwing herself to the ground. The command was futile; they'd show up easily against the desert if anyone was seriously looking for them. Rolling around in the sand, she managed to swallow a mouthful of dust, coughing and spluttering. Lying on her back, she saw the airplane flying overhead; it looked like something out of a museum, a propeller dragging an assortment of wood and canvas threw the sky, two sets of wings jutting out from the fuselage. The figure of a pilot, sticking out of the body of the plane, was just visible; he didn't seem to be looking for them, instead heading roughly on a course for Yreka. It flew towards the sun as it neared the horizon, before the tone of the engine changed, it's wings curving around. It turned towards them; the pilot had seen them after all.

"Spread out!" The group fanned out in a dozen different directions, getting away from the barrage they knew was imminent; the rattling of a machine gun sent spatters of dust flying into the air, a line of little craters running just short of her. Pulling out her pistol, she took a couple of futile shots at the aircraft as it past overhead, lost amid the noise and the cloud of dust its approach stirred up. A couple more shots rang out from the rear of the group, others taking shots.

This had to end, and quickly. He wouldn't be content with simply strafing them for long; if the pilot wasn't already on his radio calling for reinforcements, he soon would be. As the plane came around for another pass, she rolled at the last second to evade the shot, but this time it wasn't aimed at her – two of Clark's gang had made the mistake of getting too close together, and paid the price, their blood draining into the sand.

"Return fire, damn it!" She yelled. "Volley fire!" Belatedly, Clark pointed his rifle at the plane and fired three shots in quick succession, his troops following suit. Orlov was lying in the dust, pointing his pistol carefully up; as the plane drew closer on its third pass Caine ran out of cover, trying to draw it towards the shots. The pilot opted not to pass up such a tempting target, but just as he was about to pull the trigger, a bullet hit home, lancing through the fabric of the fuselage, sending him slumping forward in his seat.

The plane just flew over the dune, and Caine began to run after it, firing a couple more shots as much to stir up the rest of the troops as to have any effect on the plane. Skipping over a final dune, the pilot finally ran out of luck, and there was an explosion loud enough to send all of them falling to the ground again, smoke billowing into the air. As soon as she'd gathered her wits about her, Caine ran on towards the wreck, Orlova at her side.

By the time they reached it, nothing was left but the blackened embers of the plane, and the body of the pilot who had futilely tried to escape from the wreck, obviously already badly wounded. There was something clasped in his hand, a piece of paper; Orlova carefully moved forward, pulling it loose from his hand, then wordlessly passed it to Caine. It was a photograph; a man, presumably the pilot, a woman, and their daughter sitting between them. Cursing under her breath, Caine put the photograph back in the pilot's hand, closing his eyes with her palm.

"We got him! That was good shooting, Lieutenant!" Clark yelled as he ran over the ridge, firing off another round.

"A man just died, Clark," Orlova replied. "That's not ever cause to celebrate."

"That man is a Legionnaire," Clark said, his face snarling, "and they've killed and looted their way across this planet for years." He spat on the ground near the corpse, "I'm glad he's dead."

"The man was a husband and a father. One day I want you to tell that to them," Orlova replied.

Caine silenced her with a sympathetic, yet firm, look, then turned back, "We've got to get away from here quickly. They'll see this wreck for miles, assuming he hadn't already called someone."

Elvira looked around gingerly, then said something to Orlov. Caine frowned; she hadn't noticed the woman acting so diffidently before, but she almost looked reluctant to speak at all. Orlov turned pale, but nodded, then looked around the group.

"There is a place near here we can hide for a time. A cave at the bottom of a crater, a few miles east of here. It isn't far out of our way."

Her eyebrow raised, Caine asked, "What's wrong with it."

"It is a...bad place. It was found by a group that were collecting salt from the mountains; there were four of them, but only one returned, and him out of his mind. Only the journal entries they made reported what they found. A twisted ruin, a dark hole."

Clark looked around at his gang, trying to muster up more courage, "If the Tatars are afraid of it, the Legion must be."

Almost hearing the next wave of planes coming in, Caine nodded, "Let's go. Elvira can lead if she knows the way."

With a last look at the smoldering wreck, Caine led the group away from the crash site, moving over the dunes as rapidly as possible in the heat. With her datapad she could have worked out how long it would be before they could expect company down to the minute; as it was, she ran through estimates and guesses in her head as they stumbled into the deepening gloom, the sun dipping down over the horizon, replaced with silver moonlight. This time they didn't stop, taking quick drinks from their canteens on the move.

At last, Elvira pointed towards what at first appeared to be simply another dune, but it rapidly became apparent that it was at least partly artificial, as if a thick layer of dust and sand had been draped across a buried structure of some kind. A gaping hole, octagonal in shape, lay at the bottom; Caine went white as a sheet when she recognized the shape, but she was only frozen in place for a brief moment as the familiar burr of an engine began to come over the horizon. Belatedly, she realized that everyone else was looking at the hole with equal fear.

"Come on, let's go," she said with more courage than she felt as she led the way down the dune, Elvira bringing up a shaky rear; she'd evidently spent years listening to stories of what lay inside the cave that she was now entering. Past experience did not bring Caine any comfort; quite the reverse. Months later, she still woke up in a cold sweat some nights no matter what chemical remedies Doctor Duquesne could prescribe. She loitered at the entrance, turning to the reluctant huddle.

"We'll go in single file. Everyone keep a hand on the person in front of them at all times, do not go off on your own, do not look at anything. Keep your eyes pointed ahead. No shooting unless I spec...in fact, I want all weapons unloaded. I mean it."

"If they come," Clark began.

She almost shouted back, "I don't want anyone shooting at shadows down there. Ricochets are a stupid way to die." Turning to the entrance, she took a deep breath, and walked in, trying to suppress her fears, listening to the clunk of weapons being unloaded. Orlova's hand grabbed her belt, a comforting link with reality. The only light in the corridor was the little moonlight reflecting in from outside.

Whether the lack of light prevented her from seeing things that might have cut her link with sanity, or whether it allowed her imagination to get free rein, she couldn't say, but all too quickly she was feeling her way through the darkness. Ahead, she saw an eerie green glow from the ceiling, and her heart skipped a beat from the terror she was feeling.

Orlova whispered in her ear, "Just bioluminescence. Want me to lead?"

"No," Caine replied, jerking her head. "Keep close." The corridor began to twist to the left, side-passages leaping out from the shadows one after another; she ignored them, not wanting to think about what might be hiding. The same geometric patterns from Desdemona were repeated here, though in a rougher form, and her eye was caught to first one, then another; it took a strong conscious effort to keep herself fixed forward. Her foot stepped on something squishy, and it took every ounce of self-control in her to stop from screaming out. Just the leavings of a local animal, one not smart enough to be afraid of what might be here. She envied it.

Round and round the corridor went; she endeavored to maintain a straight line as much as she could, hoping not to get stuck in the darkness forever, a thought that rose to the surface of her mind unbidden. Her pace increased without any conscious awareness of it, Orlova was tugging back on her, slowing her down, not wanting to leave anyone behind, perhaps to be lost forever. The only noise was her pounding heartbeat; while a part of her wanted to talk, to reassure herself that the others were still there, a stronger urge to silence lay inside her.

Finally, after what seemed like days – but which afterward would appear to have only been a matter of minutes according to her watch – a pinprick of light was visible at the end of the tunnel, and her heart skipped a beat as she half-walked, half-ran towards it, striding through a large chamber without stopping for even a second to examine it. She stopped at the exit to the tunnel, looking out across the desert and the soft, inviting moonlight that seemed to bathe her in its rays, and motioned for them all to stop.

"How far?" she said to Orlova.

"I wouldn't dare say, Deadeye."

Rubbing her eye, Caine said, "More than a mile at least, and in an odd direction. I don't think they'll be able to find us down here."

"Let's make camp for the night, then. I think we'd better do without a fire."

"Agreed." Caine looked up, a smile breaking out over her face. "Maggie, look over there! On the horizon!"

Just barely in sight, they could see a series of jagged brown peaks stabbing up from the ground, thin clouds dancing around the highest peaks, stretching all the way across the horizon. They'd found the Mountains of the Moon.

Chapter 22

For the hundredth time, Marshall looked down at the datapad, scrolling through the report that Harper had cobbled together at his insistence. His officers started to drift into the briefing room one after another, most of them in various stages of exhaustion; the ship had been working round the clock for the last three days in a bid to break through the orbital defenses. Even Dietz had bags around his eyes, and Quinn looked as if he was going to fall asleep in his chair. Taking a quick drink of water, Marshall transferred the data from the pad to the holoprojector.

"Spaceman Harper has been working for the last couple of days on breaking through the satellites' firewall," he began.

"Didn't she go rogue and hide down in the lower levels?" Dixon said. "I saw an espatier squad going after her."

Marshall raised his hand, "True. Nevertheless, her sins are forgiven." He paused for effect, then smiled, "She found a hole."

The table began to wake up; Quinn's eyes jolted open and he leaned forward, scanning the data. Cunningham looked around the table, shaking his head, as he reached the end of the report.

"Sir, can we trust this? We're not speaking of the most reliable crewman on the ship."

Laughing, Marshall replied, "She's a complete pain in the ass, Lieutenant, but she does know her stuff. She'll be riding Alamo in with us, so her life is on the line as well. I trust her."

"Ten minutes!" Quinn yelled, shaking his head.

"Ah, you've spotted the problem. The satellites are protected by a regenerating, adaptive firewall." He leaned forward on the table, linking his fingers. "We get one shot at this, and it lasts for six hundred and twelve seconds, plus however long it takes for the defense systems to activate."

"Thirty-one seconds," Dietz said.

"What the hell can we do in ten minutes?" Dixon said. "By the time Alamo got into orbit, we'd be under fire."

Esposito nodded, "The shuttles wouldn't get through in the time, sir. But the whole platoon will gladly volunteer to make the attempt."

Shaking his head, Marshall replied, "You're quite right, Lieutenant. Alamo couldn't settle into orbit in the required time period. We're not going to."

Confused looks passed around the table, "Then, sir, what use is this discovery?" Dietz asked the question on all of their lips.

Turning to Quinn, Marshall asked, "What's the status of our ballute, Mr. Quinn?"

Frowning, the engineer glanced down at his datapad for a second, then replied, "Fine, sir. Still packed up."

Dixon's eyes had lit up. She'd got it. He continued to look at Quinn, continuing, "Next question, Lieutenant. You're the best qualified here to judge this one. Based on your knowledge of Alamo's design and the capabilities of the engines...how would Alamo handle in atmosphere."

"What?" Cunningham yelled. "Captain, you aren't seriously considering this."

Quinn's eyes had glazed over. Marshall replied, "I am indeed." He looked around the table, then punched in a hastily computed course. "If we put Alamo on the right trajectory, we can be into the atmosphere in ten minutes. The particle beams are useless in atmosphere, we know that much. Lieutenant Dixon, can you launch the shuttles and fighters in this sort of maneuver?"

"Not during the plasma sheath phase of re-entry."

"Afterward?"

"How low are we going to go?" Cunningham asked, his eyes wide.

Marshall looked around the table again, "Fifty thousand feet. Low enough to be through the worst parts of re-entry."

"Fifty thousand feet!"

"We can do it, sir," Dixon said. "The fighters will need boosters to get back up again, but we've got them in store."

Esposito nodded, "It'll wreck the elevator airlocks, I guess, but they can be fixed."

"In atmosphere, Alamo's going to handle like a falling meteor, Captain," Cunningham said. "This is a step too far."

"It's the only chance we've got. I doubt any mythical team of experts is going to do much better than Harper without investment that the Combined Chiefs won't be able to put in. We're getting our people back, and we're going to find out what the hell is going on down there."

"What about the missiles?"

"I'm not worried about them. If they're anti-planet, they'll struggle to target us, and even then, we should be able to hit them with conventional countermeasures."

"It'll work," Quinn said, looking up from his calculations.

A beaming smile growing on his face, Marshall said, "Excellent, Mr. Quinn."

The engineer held up a hand, "We're going to take damage. Lots of it. And it is risky – but I think we can pull it off. Alamo's tough enough on paper."

"The ship has done aerobraking before," Dietz said. "An analogous maneuver."

"Except that aerobraking doesn't go down anything like this low."

Mulenga reached over for the datapad, "May I have a look at your calculations, sir?"

"By all means." Marshall slid it over to the astrogator, who started to pour over it. "Mr. Dietz, time to weigh in."

The executive officer was silent for a long minute, musing in his head. The table grew silent, waiting for him to speak; Marshall knew that, Captain or not, he wasn't going to pull this off without the support of all of his senior officers. Dietz looked up – and smiled.

"If Mr. Quinn says the ship can handle it, I'm inclined to agree. The maneuver is risky, but acceptable."

"I don't believe I'm hearing this," Cunningham replied. "You're putting the entire ship's complement at stake to rescue three crewmen – who wouldn't dream of asking their shipmates to take such a risk."

Marshall placed his hands down on the table. "Mr. Cunningham, your objections are noted. However, the decision is mine. And it's made. Who do you recommend fly the ship for the pass?"

Shaking his head, he replied, "Ryder."

"No, sir," Quinn said. "I'll need to do it."

Dixon looked at him, frowning, "You?"

His face snapped towards her, "I've been flying these ships since I was a kid. I know Alamo better than anyone on board, I know where her structure can take extra stresses and I know what parts must be protected. I've flown aerobrakes before." He looked around the table, "Captain, you need me at guidance control for this one. With all respects to Sub-Lieutenant Ryder."

"Quinn, you'll be needed at flight engineering," Marshall said.

"No, sir, I won't. Any of the duty flight engineers is more than capable of keeping the ship together through the dive. You're going to need me afterward to bundle it all back together again, but if you want the ship to get back into space again, I need to be at the controls."

"Maybe we could test this in the simulators," Mulenga said, but Quinn violently shook his head.

"How do we program them? This is an unprecedented maneuver, and we don't have anything like enough information about the planet to make it accurate. That's why you're going to need someone who can improvise at the helm."

Marshall looked at the young engineer's earnest eyes, then said, "Are you sure you can do this, Mr. Quinn?"

"Yes, sir." Dixon was looking at him strangely, as if sizing him up for the first time; the engineer was oblivious to the attention, too focused on the task at hand.

Nodding, he said to the table, "Mr. Quinn will take guidance control for the mission. We'll need to spend the next two days getting the ship ready, but I expect you all to get at least eight hours sleep in the day before the dive. That's an order; if I have to get Doctor Duquesne to hand out pills, I will."

"We'll need work teams on the hull. I think we'd better kill rotation now, we can use the spacedock's frames to save a lot of work."

"Make it happen as soon as this meeting is over."

"Yes, sir."

"I know that not all of you agree with this course of action. If anyone wants to register an official protest, I shall record it in my log, and I will not hold it against you."

No-one said a word. He looked at Cunningham, waiting for him to speak, to make one last spirited defense of his position, but he shook his head, looking down at the desk. Dietz was quiet, and Mulenga was still poking over the datapad, refining the course a little more tightly. Finally it was the astrogator who broke the silence.

"I'll have to object, sir," he said, holding up the datapad. "We'll bottom out at forty-seven thousand feet."

Laughter echoed around the table. "Let's make the magic happen, then. Dismissed. Dietz, Cunningham, Mulenga, please remain for a moment."

Quinn was the first out of the room, bolting for the door with Dixon in hot pursuit; the fighter pilot was trying to catch up with him and having some difficulty. Esposito was obviously already running tactical plans through her head. Only the three Senior Lieutenants remained seated at their desks, looking at the captain.

"There is one final point that we need to cover, gentlemen," he said. "I want Alamo stripped of all non-essential personnel before the dive. Mr. Dietz, I'll want a report on exactly who that is by 0800 this morning so we can get ready. Before we leave, you will assume command of those personnel on the spacedock."

"No, sir."

His eyes narrowed, "No?"

"I am not non-essential personnel, sir, and will be required on the bridge of Alamo during the mission."

Shaking his head, Marshall turned to Cunningham, "Given Mr. Dietz's reluctance, you will assume command of the personnel on the spacedock."

"You aren't going in without me, Captain. With Caine on the surface, someone has to man Tactical."

"Ryder can do it, Lieutenant."

"No."

Mulenga raised a hand, "I'll save you the bother, sir. I'm not staying behind either. I don't even have a logical reason for it; I'm just not going to stay behind on this one. If there was a mission-critical duty on the spacedock, one of us would agree to it."

"But we're not going to hide on the spacedock while you risk your lives," Cunningham said. "Whatever I think about this plan – and I'll be honest, I think a lot – I'm not missing out on this."

Dietz looked at the other two, "I venture to suggest that no-one in Alamo's complement will consider themselves non-essential, either. They will all want to go, and I believe they should be permitted that option."

"I could make this a direct order, Mr. Dietz."

"Not if you don't want to be bogged down with a court-martial tomorrow, sir," Cunningham replied.

Shaking his head, Marshall said, "I'm saddled with the craziest senior officers in the service. And I've never been prouder of that.  Dismissed."

The three of them rose as one, saluted, and began to file out of the room. Cunningham paused at the door, looking back at Marshall sitting at the desk, waiting for the other two to get out of earshot. He hesitated for a minute, shaking his head.

"I'll say this for you, Danny. I'm saddled with the craziest captain in the service, but I think he's one of the best. And..."

"As I've said before, I need someone to question me."

Smiling, the operations officer replied, "I'll make sure to do it at every opportunity," and ducked out of the room, the door sliding shut behind him. Marshall looked down at his rough mission plan again, notations and recommended tweaks already popping up on the ship's datanet. He shook his head at it, wondering what he would have said if a commander of his had proposed a plan like this, then started to ponder the enormity of what he was proposing.

He punched up a picture of the planet again, now with Alamo's projected course plotted on it in red, the lowest point directly over the mission objective. A clock was counting down, forty-seven hours remaining until the ship was committed. Grinning, he turned off the holoprojection, grabbed the datapad, and took another drink of water, leaving the empty cup on the table as he walked out of the room.

Chapter 23

Orlova lay back, looking up at the stars; she could just make out the pin-points of the satellites orbiting overhead, and beyond, a larger point of light – Alamo. As much as finding her father had meant to her, she longed to be back up on that ship, free to roam the stars once again. That, and she had a sharp piece of stone jabbing into her back that she was trying to lever out of the ground with a hand. Her father walked over to her, leaving Elvira sleeping just by the mouth of the cave.

"That ship of yours means a lot to you, doesn't it."

"Didn't Hercules mean as much to you?" she replied, still looking up.

He nodded, "I got used to it after a while. Those first couple of years were hard, very hard. Hardest was knowing that I had left you behind, that you were going to grow up without me." He smiled. "It looks like you managed fine without me, though."

She shook her head, "I got here by a very strange road, Papa. You wouldn't recognize me a year ago. Just a tramp shuttle pilot."

"I know. Deadeye told me about it; I think she thought I would not approve."

"Would you?"

He placed his hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, "Maggie, whatever path you choose to walk is fine with me. I won't deny that when I saw you in uniform, my heart skipped a beat. But I would have been proud of whatever you did. Tell me," he said, puffing himself up with mock sternness, "were you the best tramp shuttle pilot?"

"Hell, yes."

"Then I am satisfied with that. You will have to take me on a ride when we get away from here, show me your skills."

Leaning on an elbow, she turned to lie on her side, "I will." She looked down at the ground, then back up at him, "Papa, how did you get used to it? To live on one world only?"

"Elvira helped. But I had it easier than you would; I was born on Earth. Home for me was a little village on the Lena River. This is somewhat warmer, but I grew to adulthood surrounded by nature. You are a child of space, of the stars; I don't think you were on the same world for more than a year at a time before we moved you from one place to the next."

"I spent most of the war on Mars. Hated it."

"Perhaps we did you a disservice. A person should have roots; they earth you." He shook his head, "I sense you are beginning to form some of your own, though. The uniform will provide them as well. Just remember that there will be a time when you have to take it off, and have something else to fall back on."

She turned, lying on her back again, shuffling around to make herself more comfortable, "What will you do when we knock out the satellites? Go home?"

"After all these years, this is home. My customers would suffer without my services behind the bar, and there is Elvira to consider. I might visit, go and see the old places again, but this I think is where I belong now. That isn't the whole story, though."

"Oh?"

Orlov puffed himself up again, standing a little taller, a little prouder, "I remain a Captain in the Martian Space Service. What I believe you call a Senior Lieutenant." He shook his head, "Strange rank structure. Nevertheless, I have never been relieved of my duty, nor would I wish to be."

"You'll stay in the service?"

"I will go where I am needed. I venture your Lieutenant-Captain Marshall might have need of my services for a time; even if he doesn't, the war we spark off today will not end overnight. I will be needed again." He grinned, a flash of youth appearing on his face, "I must admit that the thought of piloting a starship one last time has a certain appeal, as well."

"Mind if I admit something?"

"You didn't like it."

She shook her head, "Couldn't get used to it. Not after flying fighters and shuttles. I think I'm a small ship pilot at heart."

"Nothing wrong with that. The part of me that wants you to live to your thirtieth birthday is glad you didn't stay in that part of the service."

"That's not why I left. I felt...I felt that I was needed elsewhere."

"Commanding a ship of your own?" he said with a twinkle in his eye. He raised a hand, "Don't deny it; every young officer thinks about it all the time."

"Perhaps."

"You'd make a good Captain. I've seen you in action. You scare me to death; and that's a good trait for a Captain to have." The two of them broke down to chuckles; he took a swig of his canteen, water dribbling down into his beard.

"So, Elvira? How did you meet?"

"Oh, nothing special. I spent quite a bit of time in the outlands when I first got here, trying to dodge the Legion until they got bored of looking for the crashed shuttle pilot. Her father was a good friend to me in those first days; he was killed in an accident in my first year here. She was on her own, so I decided that I would honor his memory by looking after her." He chuckled, "One thing rather led to another. Though ultimately it was her idea; we finally got married two years ago."

"After you'd been declared legally dead back home."

He shrugged, "I wasn't in a position to argue about it, was I? Besides..."

"You were getting a divorce before you left. Mother showed me the papers when I turned sixteen."

His eyes widening, he shook his head, "I would have hoped that she would treat the memory of the dead rather better. We were always different people, Maggie; that isn't a crime."

"She committed enough of those as it was."

"As did you, I suspect."

"Only some smuggling. And nothing particularly nasty, I only took gray-market stuff. Computer chips, minor drugs, that sort of thing. I had to make a living somehow after Mother took off with her latest lover," she said, crouching down. He smiled in reply, patting her on the shoulder.

"I understand, my dear." He chuckled, "You are talking about the terror of the Mariner Run, remember. Getting that amnesty when I volunteered was...useful, to say the least. I don't miss those days, though. It was just a job to me. Nothing more or less than that; it was easy to think of it that way. Perhaps I fancied that I was poking at the tyranny of the UN, even back then."

"And the service? Was that a job to you?"

"That was a duty. There was a war on, I was a trained spacer. How could I not end up in uniform? When they made me an officer, that surprised me. I never really thought of myself as the type to tell anyone else what to do."

"War does strange things. I think it's more to me."

"You want to be needed, Maggie. We all do, at least some of the time. That is why I want to stay; if Jefferson is to resume contact with the rest of the universe, someone is going to have to help them with the transition. I have a foot in both worlds, Maggie, and I can help with that. Once the war here is won."

"You think the Legion will fight, after the satellites are knocked down?"

"The old pessimist in me admits to that possibility. At the very least, a lot of pieces are going to have to be put back together after we blast Humpty Dumpty down from the wall." He smiled, "I am looking forward to seeing your ship, though. I will insist on that as a minimum."

Caine walked over, kneeling down in the dust, holding up a rather grim looking brown stick with a bite taken out; by the grimace on her face, she'd been chewing it for some time. With a visible gulp, she swallowed it, then waved it at the two of them. It didn't look particularly appealing. Orlova shook her head, grimacing.

"Fancy a bite? I can't recommend it."

"Sloth jerky is an acquired taste," Orlov replied.

"Neither of you could sleep either, then."

"Never can the night before a fight," said Orlova.

Her father chuckled, "That runs in the family. Before the Battle of Barnard's Star, I was hopeless. The doctor gave me all sorts of pills, none of them ever worked."

Gesturing over at the gang sitting around, checking over their equipment, she quietly said to the two of them, "What do you think?"

Orlova carefully looked at them, shaking her head. Clark was sharpening his knife, over and over again, honing its edge; he'd already added some new notches for the Legionnaires he had killed the day before. Hawk was the only one not going over a weapon, and he was spending every moment not marching tinkering with his improvised radio. Most of the rest seemed to be spending their time stripping down their rifles, again and again."

"Point them in the right direction, they'll shoot at the enemy. Don't count on much tactical finesse."

"I agree," Orlov said. "That need not be a handicap; they will not give up until their foe is beaten."

"We'll just have to incorporate that into the battle plan, I suppose."

Looking up at the sky, Orlova said, "I haven't heard any aircraft for hours. By now they must have examined the crash site."

"Hopefully they aren't waiting for us to move out. That sand was soft; I doubt they can have landed there. Most likely they have a party heading out on foot to take a look at it. By then we should be long gone." Sighing, Caine rose to her feet, "We'd better start thinking about moving out. In exactly thirteen hours, Alamo launches its attack. I just wish we knew what form it was going to take. I can't see how they're going to get past those particle beams."

"The Captain will think of something," Orlova said. "He always has in the past."

"Captains usually do," Orlov said, pulling himself to his feet, making his way over to his wife. Orlova watched him walk over and tenderly, quietly wake her up with a few gentle words, none of which she understood. Caine looked down at her, concern on her face.

"Problem, Maggie?"

Shaking her head, she replied, "I would have expected someone like Mother. She couldn't be more different. It's...a surprise, is all." She chuckled, "Gives me an incentive to learn the language, I guess. I was always terrible at languages in school."

"I've spent the last five days longing for the translator on my datapad. I swear when we get back to Alamo I'm going to have Quinn make us some smaller hardened ones."

"It'll be good to get back in space again, anyway. Not just that, I think; I don't like being confined here."

"And you don't want to go from being Security Officer on a ship of the line to a waitress in your father's bar."

"Maybe I could help Papa out when I go on leave," she said, laughing.

Caine joined in, then said, "It just hit me. You call him Papa and her Mother. Any reason?"

Suddenly, Orlova's face dropped, her expression suddenly growing serious. She stood up, picking up her rifle, "I liked him." She raised her hand, "End of story. Let's move out."

"I'm sorry, Maggie, I..."

"End of discussion. I mean it. She...let's just say my father was the role-model in the family, and leave it at that."

"Anything you say." Caine shook her head, "I'm sorry I brought it up."

"Come on. Let's go kill some bad guys and save the day."

Above them, the star of Alamo started to slowly move, a thin pencil of light behind it, beginning its path down to the planet.

Chapter 24

The murmuring stopped as Marshall and Esposito entered the room. A whole platoon of eager espatiers turned to face them, swinging around on their handholds. Marshall pulled himself to a stop, anchoring himself with a foot, and Esposito made her way over to a control panel, turning on a holoprojector. A couple of others drifted into the room behind them; Midshipman Zabek and Technical Officer Salgada in the rear, and Doctor Duquesne. Quietly, Marshall pushed himself over to her.

"I've never known you voluntarily attend a briefing, Doc."

"If I'm going down to the planet, I'd better have some idea what the troops are doing."

Frowning, he replied, "I don't remember ordering you down there."

"Maybe I'm just a coward who thinks Alamo's going to fall apart in your death dive. More likely I think I'm going to be needed down there. My orderly's already putting my stuff into Shuttle One, and I'd hate him to be wasting his time."

"If you want to stretch your legs, Doc, feel free," he said, clapping her on the shoulder. The last group of people drifted in – Dixon leading her fighter squadron; they took a position hanging close to each other in the middle of the room, Dixon insisting on hanging upside down from the ceiling.

"Good morning, everyone," Esposito said. "For the last five days we've been getting ready for an assault on the planet, and ten minutes ago we completed the maneuver that puts us on our way." She looked at her watch, "In exactly six hours from now, the platoon will deploy by shuttle to the surface of the planet, to take and hold this installation." Flicking a switch, a holoimage of a compound appeared; half a dozen buildings seemingly randomly scattered around a landing strip and an antenna array.

"What about the defense grid?"

"Don't worry about that," Marshall said. "We're going to fly right through it to drop you off." He paused for effect, eating up the stares of the platoon, "Alamo will be diving into the atmosphere to release the shuttles, as soon as we're through the plasma sheath."

That got their attention. A burbling of chatter leapt up from trooper to trooper, eager anticipation on their faces; Marshall couldn't blame them. Planetary assaults were rare enough that the few occasions they had taken place had passed into legend. This was something altogether new.

"Quiet down," Sergeant Kozu yelled, bringing the chatter to an end.

Esposito tapped another button, zooming out the display. "I'm afraid we miss the first part of the operation. An assault team already on the planet will be launching an attack on an anti-air missile site to the south, about a mile away, fifteen minutes before we go in. We hope that this will distract the garrison, splitting the defending forces in two. Our primary objective is the communications array; that has to be taken out at all costs. The secondary objective is to reinforce the first assault team, and take and hold the spaceport. We're going to need that airhead."

One of the troopers, Lance-Corporal Riley, bobbed her head up from the crowd, "Is this a take and hold, ma'am?"

"Hell no," Marshall roared, "I want that facility captured and our flag raised!"

The platoon cheered at that, Esposito clapping him on the shoulder. At the back of his mind remained a twinge of doubt at what he was asking them to do. If the planetary forces – forces they knew nothing about – were able to regroup and counter-attack, this mission could go wrong very quickly.

"Will Alamo be giving us any support, sir?" Kozu asked, frowning.

"Not directly, Sergeant. Lieutenant Dixon and her squadron will be launching at the same time as the shuttles to provide aerial support, but they'll only be in the air for, what, Lieutenant?"

"Four and a half minutes." She chuckled, "Our fighters have the flight profile of a brick, so once we're out of fuel, we're on the deck. We'd really like you to take that runway." That sent another wave of laughter around the troops, and Marshall smiled. They wanted to do this. A catharsis from the helplessness everyone had felt when the shuttle went down; it was leaping all over the ship.

Putting his stern face on, Marshall turned back to the platoon, "You've got a grand total of forty-five minutes to knock out that antenna complex. I don't want it captured, I want it blown up. Alamo's apoapsis is going to be barely high enough to get out of the satellite's targeting threshold. Once the complex is destroyed, those satellites just become some unusual pieces of space junk. Kill them before they can kill Alamo. Unless you want to live on that dump."

"Hell no, sir!" a voice yelled out from the back. "I just got my bunk the way I like it!"

Esposito turned off the holoprojector, drifting forward, "Most of you have fought together before. You know how the game works. This time the stakes are the survival of the ship and everyone on board. I don't have to give a long speech; let's just get the job done. That's all."

The troops slowly filed out of the room, Kozu drifting forward to talk to Esposito. Marshall moved across to talk to Dixon, tapping her on the shoulder. She spun around, a joyful smile on her face – everyone seemed too damn eager to get going with this one, to the point that it was beginning to bother him a little.

"Damn, skipper, you had me fooled. I thought this mission was going to be boring!"

"Can you do it?"

"Hell yeah," she said, clapping the nearest pilot on the back, "This squadron's good, and we've been getting ready for a good scrap. Jack's boys are doing a bit of work on the fighters right now, trying to bolt some sort of wings on."

"Jack?"

"Lieutenant Quinn, skipper," she rolled her eyes. "That guy knows his stuff. I just wish I could be up on the bridge to watch the ride down. That's going to be something special."

Marshall smiled, "Try and keep the squadron in one piece, Lieutenant. We might need it later."

"Oh, hell, don't worry about that, boss. We'll be fine."

"Good hunting, pilot."

"You too, sir!"

He turned around, looking for Esposito; she was standing in a corner, quieter than the rest of the exuberant crowd, looking over plans of the compound again. She didn't notice him drifting up behind her at first; he watched her intense concentration for a moment before making himself known with a gentle cough. She jumped a little in surprise.

"Sorry, sir, I didn't see you there."

"My fault." He looked at the plans on her screen, "Working out the attack plan?"

Nodding, she replied, "I'm meeting with the squad leaders in an hour to go over the details. Want to come?"

"No, but you should probably invite Dixon."

"Already done." She looked up at him, doubt creeping into her eyes, "I really wish we had some more intel on this place, sir. We could be facing anything from a squad to a regiment down there, and we don't even know what they are armed with."

"Their tech level can't be that high. We spotted a couple of biplanes flying over the desert."

"Primitive bullets still kill, sir. And we're talking about the people with particle beam defense systems."

Frowning, Marshall looked down at her, "If you think this can't be done..."

"Hell, sir, we can do anything. You know that, we've done it before. I just don't like the stakes, that's all."

"Nor do I."

That brought a little smile to her face, "I'm glad it isn't just me, skipper. Don't worry, we'll get that job done. I take it you want the place garrisoned?"

"I want that place held, Ensign. We're going to need a planetary base, and it's the only spaceport."

"I'll try and make sure it isn't blown to bits."

Reaching into his pocket, Marshall pulled out a datapad, hesitating slightly before passing it to her, "In the event Alamo is destroyed, here are my final orders. I suspect you're more likely to come out of this mission in one piece than we are."

She took the pad, nodding as she placed it in her pocket. "I'll see it's done, sir."

"Your promotion is in there. Don't get your hopes up, you only get it if the ship gets blown up. That order promotes you to Lieutenant, puts you in charge of all surviving Alamo personnel, and gives you orders to head for the wilderness and hide. Rescue will be coming; in about five months a Triplanetary ship will find our beacon at FL Virginis and come looking, and we're going to put another one in high orbit here to tell them what we're doing."

She smiled, "I get promoted if I screw up? That's not exactly normal, sir."

"This isn't a particularly normal operation. This is just a precaution, you know."

"I know."

"Everything's going to work out. I trust you; I trust your platoon. I even trust Dixon's Crazy Flying Circus."

She nodded, "We'll get the job done, sir. We're not going to let you down."

Marshall saluted; she returned it, "Good luck, Ensign."

"And to you, sir."

He turned, drifting out of the room towards the elevator, stepping inside as it whisked him up to the observation level. Really, he ought to be going to his cabin to rest; his orders had sent the senior staff off duty so they would be ready for the dive, but the one who gives such orders rarely carries them out himself. He wasn't surprised to see Mulenga looking out at the rapidly approaching planet, quiet and motionless. Quietly, he slid up behind him, looking at the planet; the great mass of the super-continent was slowly revolving around, the azure seas already looking inviting.

"Any thoughts, Lieutenant?"

Mulenga turned for a second, then turned back to the planet, "There are a lot of unanswered questions down there, Captain. I'm looking forward to getting an opportunity to answer them. A terraformed world, designed to fit human specifications; it seems hard to conceive."

"That alone leads to a lot of questions."

"For a hundred years man has been carefully probing out beyond his home system, but we've not gone far. War and unrest have prevented us. Now those days are fading behind us, and we can start to see what really lies out here." The stocky astrogator smiled, "I believe you told me once that this was why you were out here."

"So I did."

"I presume you are working out how to convince Counter-Admiral Remek to let us continue our explorations?"

Marshall smiled, "There's enough fuel in this system for us to explore every star within range ten times over."

"And Helium-3 on the moon, as well." He passed over a datapad, "Our probes have found supplies in plenty. Setting up a refueling station should be simple. That's why you really want this planet, sir, isn't it?"

"It's the gateway to the stars, Lieutenant."

"And the people on the surface?"

"From the little Caine told us, I expect most of them want to be free. Knocking out these satellites will give them that freedom."

"I only hope it is as simple as that."

Shaking his head, Marshall said, "It won't be. I know that much. This is the first step in a long and bloody road."

"Perhaps." He turned his head, "There are those in the senior staff who still disagree with this, sir."

Chuckling, he replied, "That was obvious in the meeting."

"They might not agree with you, but they do trust you. This is the right thing to do."

Growing serious, Marshall looked down at the deck, "I wish I had the same faith, Lieutenant. It would be so easy to just jump away, leave this one for someone else to deal with." He sighed, "But there is no-one else."

"Alamo will pull this one off, sir." Mulenga grinned, "And with style." He looked down at his datapad, "I should go and check over our course again. We might be able to pick up a bit more speed if we go lower. And we're still gathering atmospheric data all the time."

"Fine, Lieutenant."

"Good night, sir."

Mulenga silently drifted off into the elevator, leaving Marshall alone with just his thoughts and the stars to keep him company, as the planet slowly revolved beneath them.

Chapter 25

Hand over hand, Caine dragged herself up and over the ridge, trying not to look down – and trying even harder not to look at her watch. Alamo was due in at any time, and at all costs they had to reach the missile site before it arrived, but this couldn't be rushed. The frustration was greater when she thought of the gentle, sloping pass they'd spotted just a mile to the east, but Orlova had been quite right; they'd be watching that one closely. This way they would pop up just behind the target, less than a hundred yards away from the enemy. She was presuming that everyone was still following her, but couldn't work up the nerve to look. Her entire being was focused on moving from handhold to handhold, and at all costs, to do it quietly.

She abruptly found herself swinging out by one hand, dust crumpling in her fingers, and swore under her breath as she struggled to get to another handhold. Finally, she pulled herself onto a narrow ledge, a good fifty feet long, only a short climb away from the surface, and lay on her back, panting. Now she could look down, and she almost cried out as she saw how far she had climbed; it must have been more than five hundred feet of sheer face.

The rest of the group were scattered about like insects; as she watched, Elvira managed to reach the ledge, collapsing as she had done, gasping from the exertion. She dared a look at her watch, praying she would have a little time to recuperate; twenty-five minutes to go. They could afford five; indeed, to get the timing of their surprise attack right, they'd need to hold on.

Gradually, the rest of the squad managed to make their way to the top; Clark was ready to just continue on over the top before Orlova pulled him back down onto the ledge. They sat for a minute of silence, taking quick swigs from their canteens, checking their rifles one last time, making themselves ready for the action. Caine spotted Hawk at the edge of the ledge, and with some difficulty managed to inch her way over to him.

He looked up, grinning, "Don't worry, it'll work, Lieutenant."

Running her eye over the gimmicked collection of wires and circuits, she had her doubts, but hid them, "I know. I've got a special job for you."

"What?"

"I need you to stay here."

His eyes widened, "You'll need me for the attack."

"I need you here, operating that radio."

"Anyone can do that. You. Orlov."

"But not anyone can fix it if it goes wrong. I mean it, Hawk; I want you to wait here on the ledge and call the shuttles as they come down. Or warn them off if the attack fails."

"It won't fail."

She placed a hand on his shoulder, "Thirty people on those shuttles. Thirty. I don't want them shot out of the sky for nothing, and neither do you – and you know it."

For a second she thought he was going to push the radio over the edge of the cliff in frustration, but instead he nodded in silence, pulling it from his back and starting to set it up near the ledge. Nodding, she made her way cautiously back to the middle of the group, looking at them. A motley group of troops; the average age was only pushed over twenty by the forty-five-year old Orlov; most of the kids here would be turned away from a recruiting station and sent back to school. Not that there was any choice, and not that they would go back now even if she ordered it.

"Right, here's how it goes. We go over the top on my signal, in two minutes. That'll give us ten minutes to get to the launcher and blow the damn thing up. That has to happen at all costs, no matter what. That's got to be the first order of business. After that, mop up the rest and get to defensive positions. If I get shot, Orlova's in charge. Both of us, Orlov. More than that, and you've got bigger problems than working out the command structure."

Orlova added, "If in doubt, shoot at a bad guy. That'll do it. And make sure you find some decent cover when you get to the top."

"Go in shooting; we need to catch them by surprise. They've got numbers and positioning, so let's just hope we can balance that out."

"Don't worry, Lieutenant," Clark said, "We'll send'em to hell."

Inside, she counted down the seconds, tensing herself up for the attack, pulling her pistol out of its holster. With ten seconds to go, she placed her hands on handholds, looking left and right to see everyone else in the same position. Mentally running through what she needed to do one last time, she missed the count by two seconds. Hopefully they wouldn't be too important.

"Go!" she yelled, pulling herself onto the top of the plateau. Quickly, she took a quick visual scan of the terrain; the missile rack was almost a hundred meters high, controlled from a small bunker at its base; a trio of bored looking guards were standing outside, and worse luck – a larger truck was pulled up nearby, a dozen men wearing some sort of ceremonial uniform hastily disembarking as they saw her rogues emerging from the cliff face, getting themselves into cover. They had plenty; sandbags set up all over the place, but someone had done a thorough job of getting rid of any cover they might have used.

Clark beat her to the first shot – not unexpected. One of the more careless legionnaires fell into the dust, his bad choice of cover proving a fatal mistake. A fusillade of shots rang out from her people as they sped forward, trying desperately to get to the cover of the sandbags before any retaliation could be unleashed on them. Caine sprinted forward, all thoughts of an organized assault wiped from her head as dust began to kick up all around her, a pair of screams telling her that at least some enemy fire had hit home.

As she slid into the dust behind a heap of sandbags, she looked around to see what was left of her command; two of Clark's gang lay jerking in the dust to the rear, but the rest seemed to have managed to get into cover, scattered into three clumps. A couple of grenades would have dealt with them; fortunately the enemy didn't seem to have any, though the rattling of a machine gun suggested that they were still a dangerous force to be reckoned with. Orlova skidded in behind her, Clark just on her heels.

"We've got to stop that machine gun, Deadeye!" she yelled, gesturing to the right; a team of three legionnaires were manning an archaic looking death-dealer, well protected by sandbags. There was nothing but clear ground between them, and no prospect of getting across the cover without being gunned down. The other enemy troops had taken positions by the door, forming a perfect killing zone between them and their objective.

"They've got us pinned down," Caine replied, shaking her head.

Orlova shook her head, "We've only got four minutes before we need a big explosion."

Nodding, Caine turned to Clark, "Orlova and I are going to try and get to the door. You give us covering fire. Keep their heads down."

Smiling, Clark gestured to his men, but it wasn't anything like the gesture she had been expecting; he waved his arm over his head, signaling for his men to charge the enemy. Before she could stop them, before she could do anything about it, he'd jumped over the sandbags and was running forward, shooting wildly at the enemy positions, screaming a battle cry, his men along side. The machine gun started its deadly work, and four of the gang dropped to the sand with cries of agony while the rest pushed forward to get the attack home.

Transfixed, Caine could only watch as the force raced forward. Orlova, Orlov and Elvira put their rifles into position and took pot shots at any incautious figures that exposed themselves, working to even the odds a bit. With another manic scream, his knife held high, Clark threw himself behind the enemy position and out of their sight; the sounds of vicious hand-to-hand fighting the only evidence of his continued survival. The rest of his people were stranded all over the place, most of the wounded but still shooting from scraps of cover they'd managed to find. The whole charge had taken less than ten seconds.

"Those damned fools," Caine said, hearing the rattle of the machine gun; their advance had curved well away from it, leaving it intact and shooting.

"They've got the main body of the attack distracted, Deadeye. We're going to have to run for it."

"How did we get this desperate?"

"Remember – zig-zag or die."

Taking a deep breath, clutching her pistol again in her hand, she rolled out to the side of the sandbags and started to run towards the door, the longest fifty yards she would ever run in her life. The staccato fire of the machine gun immediately sprang into life, sending more dust flying to her left and right; a few pot shots from Orlov and Elvira, still concealed in cover, were not enough to stop the crew from continuing its deadly work. Everywhere she could hear the screams of the dead and the dying from both sides.

Orlova was just ahead of her, weaving from side to side on a path to the door, a few bullets leaping from her rifle at odd seconds, wildly flying nowhere near the enemy, but at least serving as a distraction. Caine tried to increase her pace, but then found herself sliding, falling, rolling to the side; her boots had slipped on something on the sand, and try as she might she had lost her balance and collapsed into a heap on the ground. Ahead, Orlova continued to run for the door; in a split-second Caine was cheering her on, hoping that she could finish the job she had failed to do, and she waited for death to take her. Three shots rang out, one after the other.

"Get moving, Lieutenant!" she heard from the rear, Hawk running and diving forwards with his gun. The machine gun was finally silent, the crew killed with three expert shots. Not hesitating any longer, she crawled to her feet and raced for the door, getting into the cover of the wall before any of the other troopers could hit her. Hawk was sprinting behind her, jumping over cover in a bid to reach the door, before himself falling to the ground, clutching his shoulder and screaming in pain.

Tensing to move, every sinew in her body, every thought in her head demanding that she run forward to retrieve the boy who had saved her life just a few seconds before, she felt a restraining hand on her shoulder, pulling her back to the door. Writhing and wriggling to try and escape the grasp, she gave up as Hawk's eyes began to slide shut, a low moan coming from him.

"Let me go!"

"No!" Orlova said. "We've got a mission to complete, or everyone out there is dying for nothing!" She began to rattle the door, cursing at the lock, then pulled her pistol out of its holster and shot the lock twice, the loud report echoing around inside. Holding three fingers of her hand up, she lowered them one at a time in quick succession then kicked the door open, firing blindly with her rifle at the inside. The shots were inspired; two guards collapsed to the ground.

Caine took one last glimpse at the carnage outside, the fighting finally beginning to subside – though she had no idea who was winning, if anyone – and ducked into the building. Inside was a long metal staircase leading up to a mesh platform halfway to the top; a couple more figures were moving about up there, and Orlova was already firing at them to little effect.

Jumping over a table, Caine clambered onto the staircase, the metal rungs rattling as she sprinted up them three at a time, Orlova hard on her heels. Bullets danced past her, missing her by inches as she ducked and weaved her way upstairs, her comrade providing her with covering fire.

Almost before she realized it, she'd reached the level, facing a pair of dangerous-looking legionnaires armed with guns. Without hesitating, she threw herself at one of them, smacking him across the head with her fists; he was obviously not prepared for the attack and crashed down, struggling in her grip. Over her head, a pair of shots rang out, and the other legionnaire collapsed on top of the two of them, blood splattering onto her clothes as she rolled to the side.

She felt a sharp blow to the chest, another to the leg, and a third to the head before her wits recovered enough to fight back with a pair of savage kicks; before she could attack again, there was another shot, and her opponent fell limp in her arms, sliding down onto the deck, his eyes rolling back as a horrible gurgle rattled in his throat. Orlova was looking down on her, a pistol in her hand.

"Interesting tactic, Deadeye. Come on!"

Running across the platform, they made their way over to a ladder heading up through a hole in the ceiling; again Caine took the lead, ducking her head inside to see if anyone was looking down, her pistol at the ready to take a shot if needed. Rung after rung, her muscles were unpleasantly reminded of the agony they had endured on the cliff climb. The occasional bang resounded from outside, and she tried not to think about what was happening out there.

Bursting through a hatch cover, Caine rolled out onto the ground, knocking a surprised operator to the ground; he seemed to be the only one in the room, which was otherwise filled with complicated machinery and equipment. He swore something at her in French, then threw himself at her, only to be felled in mid-air by a shot from Orlova, who climbed into the room and closed the hatch cover behind her. There was a narrow vision slit of the ground below, not enough to see any detail, but enough for them to tell that the firing had stopped outside, at least for the moment.

"Well, we're here, now what do we do?" Orlova said.

"We're improvising, Maggie. Any ideas?"

"I was rather hoping we'd capture some explosives. That we might have trouble blowing the damn thing up was something that hadn't occurred to me."

Caine looked at the control panel, sliding into the operative's chair. As she expected, all of the instruments were in French; she'd be pushing buttons at random rather than to any actual effect. Her eyes ran up and down the controls, looking for anything that might be a missile self-destruct – but if there was such a control, she couldn't work out what it was.

"Damn it, this is ridiculous. Each of those missiles could blow up ten of these platforms!" she yelled in frustration.

Orlova peered over her shoulder, "Let's start pushing buttons. We're trying to make a mess of things."

"We could launch them at the shuttle if we aren't careful." She turned around. "Can we hold this for long enough to get the shuttles down?"

"I wouldn't want to bet on it. There could be a dozen legionnaires running up the ladder in two minutes."

Trying to calm herself, Caine closed her eyes, attempting to visualize the launcher as she had seen it from outside. A dozen missiles pointed at the sky, all locked into a launcher and ready to fire. She couldn't see any sort of targeting controls, but they would be there somewhere – but without knowing what to break, they wouldn't be able to do it in the time.

Locked into a launcher.

"Got it!" she yelled, turning to Orlova, "Run for it."

"What?"

"If I get this right, they'll be a huge explosion in about a minute. Get moving."

Reluctantly, Orlova hefted her rifle and started to slide down the ladder as Caine began to push buttons, now with a sense of some kind of purpose. She might not be able to read the dials, but she could certainly identify manual overrides; they were usually set to make themselves as obvious as possible. And there was a bank of twelve switches that had to be some sort of launch system. She threw all twelve of them, pulling the switches down and to the left with a sweep of her hand, then started pushing every button that flashed red.

As the last of the buttons went dark, a loud siren began to echo through the chamber, almost deafening her; she barely retained the sense to follow Orlova down the ladder, not bothering with the rungs, instead just sliding down the outside with her sleeves. With a crash, she landed on the platform, almost falling over again, but knowing what was about to happen she sprinted across the platform and down the steps, taking them three at a time, nearly tumbling twice in her desperate bid to get to the ground as fast as she possibly could.

Without checking to see if the coast was clear, she ran out of the building, running as far as possible. Shouting and voices followed her on the wind, rendered inaudible by the reverberating siren, that suddenly switched to a very final countdown. She was waiting for the crack of a bullet, but none came; in the corner of her eye she could see another couple of figures running as fast as she, and she hoped they were on her side. As the countdown came to a stop, she dived for the floor, holding her hands over her eyes to protect them.

The explosion deafened her, roaring with a terrible thunder across the plateau, and the flash of heat on her back was testimony to what she had accomplished; rolling on her back, she saw a column of fire running up to the sky, the missile installation now nothing more than a twisted jumble of wreckage surrounded by corpses.

By her side, in the dust, she saw Orlov and Elvira, shaking the dust from their clothes, she gave them both a quick nod, then climbed to her feet, hands on knees, slowly walking towards the ruin she had created. She looked down at her pistol, still in her hand, only belatedly realizing that she hadn't fired it once in the whole battle.

Orlova sprinted over to her, shaking her head, "We're not going to need a radio after all. Alamo will have seen that from orbit!"

Ignoring her, Caine walked over to the bodies in the sand, some of them still groaning. Hawk hadn't even got further than the first layer of sandbags; she knelt by his side, running her hand over his face, and felt breath on her palm. She looked down at him, her eyes widening, then up at Orlova.

"He's alive!"

Orlov ran forward, pulling an improvised medical kit out of his pocket, looking up at her – and nodding. His arms were twisted unnaturally, his wounds were terrible, but he was breathing strongly. Orlov poured something into his mouth, and he began to settle a little.

"That will keep him unconscious until help arrives. I don't want him waking up until we can get him some pain relief. Go see if there are any others."

As she walked forward, Orlova mute by her side, a few other figures stumbled out of the dust cloud, most of them wounded to some degree or another; amazingly, five of Clark's gang had managed to survive the attack. As she walked around the last layer of defenses, she found Clark himself, a grin still on his face – now there forever. He was surrounded by a pile of bodies, his knife still locked in his hand in an iron grip. It was obviously not the explosion that had killed him; a bayonet was sticking out of his back, but he'd managed to have his revenge before he died.

"I hope he got all the notches he wanted," she said. "Damn it, this is stupid."

"It's always like this, Deadeye. Always." Orlova looked up at her, "We both need to know that there was a reason for all of this. They died for something. Something damned important. And they all volunteered, none of them wanted to be left behind."

"That doesn't make it any easier."

"But it's something to tell their ghosts when they come to you late at night."

Cheers were rising up from the rear, the survivors gathering around to celebrate their victory. Not a single legionnaire had survived – between their attack and the explosion, all of them had been killed. Walking past the celebration, Caine looked out to the main compound a mile away, shaking her head. Already a thin cloud of dust was beginning to gather, reinforcements obviously on the way. They'd have about twenty minutes at the most before they were going to have a counter-attack to worry about, and none of them were in any shape to fight, or to retreat.

"This could be a short celebration," she said to Orlova. Then she heard a loud roar from above, a sonic boom high in the atmosphere, and looked up.

"What the hell?"

Chapter 26

For once, Marshall had ordered the bridge cleared of all but essential personnel, despite the near-demands of half of the crew to find excuses for coming up for the ride. Ryder was sitting next to him at the Watch Officer's station, pulling at the strap that Quinn's work crews had installed just an hour ago after Dietz had realized that the ride would be rough enough to catapult them out of their chairs, not something that was usually a problem in deep space.

The engineer himself was sitting at the guidance control station, anxiously leaning forward over the console, making minute adjustments to their course and heading as Mulenga called them up from astrogation. The difference between a smooth, perfect escape trajectory and Alamo becoming a smoldering hole in the ground was narrow enough that he didn't want to take any risks. Cunningham was sitting at Tactical, tapping his hands next to the launch controls in an attempt to hide his nerves. Makala was making no attempt to hide them at the flight engineering station; not only was he about to have the damage-control run of a lifetime, his boss was sitting on the bridge periodically looking over his shoulder at him, throwing him bits of advice.

Bryant was sitting at the sensor controls, quiet and still; her full attention was focused on the satellites Alamo was now racing towards, preparing to issue a warning if they so much as twitched out of position. A couple of good shots, and Alamo wasn't going to get out of this one. The only one on the bridge who was not at all concerned was Harper, who had co-opted the communications station from Spinelli. Her fingers were dancing across the keyboard as she continued to write code for her infiltration program in what Marshall fervently hoped was just makework, a distraction.

"Sir," Quinn said, turning his head, "Final commitment in ten seconds."

Ten seconds for Marshall to decide whether or not to abort. He glanced at the green-haired Harper, then nodded. "Commit."

"Aye, Captain," he replied, eagerly turning back to his controls. One way or another, Alamo was about to make history.

"Entering satellite detection range in sixty seconds, Captain," Bryant said.

Harper craned her head around, "Ready to hack. Want me to start?"

"Not yet."

"But..."

"Not yet, spaceman. We're going to need every second that program can give us."

He watched Alamo move closer and closer on the tactical holoprojector, forcing himself to take deep, calm breaths. None of them were coming easily to him right now. The reality was really hitting home. If this program didn't work, there was no way back. No way to test it first; if it worked, it would only work once. Twenty seconds to go. He closed his eyes, counting down under his breath, then spun to face Harper.

"Do it."

"Right." Her fingers flew across the controls as the signal leaped out from Alamo's transmitters to the satellites, Spinelli watching to make sure there were no mistakes, no errors, no delays. Everyone was holding their breath as the seconds ticked away.

"Three seconds," Bryant said. "Two. One. Zero." This was it. Marshall tensed himself to watch the satellite guns unfurl, braced himself for the damage reports. "Plus One. Plus Two. Plus Three. No change to target aspect. It worked!" Bryant sounded more surprised than relieved, as Spinelli and Harper quickly changed seats.

"Good work, Harper. Damn, damn good work!" Marshall tapped a button on his console, "Captain to Crew. We're through the satellite detection perimeter, no change to target aspect. Now comes the hard part. All personnel make sure they are strapped down, you've got about ninety seconds at the most." He shook his head as he finished the message, "All hands brace for turbulence. Shuttle crews, stand by for launch."

No point going to battle stations. The enemy they were now fighting was intangible; could they pull out of Newton's grasp once they'd dared that deep into the gravity well? The bridge crew all tightened their straps one last time, and Marshall did likewise, comforted by the firm hold of the twin straps over his shoulder.

"Deploying ballute, Captain," Quinn said. They could hear the banging from the outside of the hull as Alamo nearly tripled inside, the huge ablative bag filling, protecting the underside of the ship, serving as their heat shield for the re-entry. All the external ports had been hastily sealed up in the final hours before the impact, the vulnerable laser cannon temporarily mothballed. A series of temporary bolts locked into place with a clang.

"Deployed and locked, sir," Quinn said. "Atmospheric entry in sixty-five seconds."

The planet filled the viewscreen, looming larger and larger. The curve was no longer visible as the nose pointed down, Alamo plunging towards the surface like a thrown dart. Ryder was fiddling with the instruments on her control panel; she turned and nodded to Marshall.

"All stations green and ready, sir."

"Good. Hold on, everybody."

"Oh, Christ," called Bryant from the sensor station.

"What is it?" Marshall asked frantically, thinking of the satellites now orbiting overhead.

"An altimeter just popped up on my display." She laughed, nervously, "I guess it hadn't hit home until that popped up. Sorry, sir."

Quinn craned his head, "Readings, Spaceman!"

"Two hundred thousand feet, descending."

Marshall was beginning to feel heavy, furious deceleration pushing him down into his seat. He gripped the armrests, keeping his head fixed ahead, textbook for a ballistic re-entry. In shuttles, he'd done this a thousand times, but none of that compared to this. The ship began to shake and tremble, creaking up and down the hull – every single hull plate was about to be tested to the limit. The ballute had given the ship the shape it needed to curve into the atmosphere, but it couldn't give it full protection.

The ship shook again, pulling him forward in his straps as Quinn frantically made second-by-second adjustments to his course, the guidance computers able to help him only in an approximate way; he was giving a virtuoso performance at the helm, but the ship was still lurching dangerously about, threatening to lose the attitude it needed if it was going to complete the ride. Flames started to lick around the viewscreen, a purple haze sweeping around the camera pickup.

"Altitude now a hundred thousand feet and falling! Outside temperature climbing rapidly!" Bryant yelled.

"Anything from the surface, Spinelli?"

"No, sir," the communications tech replied. "We're in the plasma sheath!"

"Hold together," Marshall muttered to himself, gripping the armrests on his chair as he struggled to remain upright. There were a series of loud bangs, loud enough to rattle the entire ship, and alarms started to go off. Makala frantically worked his station, yelling for reports from his microphone while manipulating ship's systems.

"Eighty thousand!"

"What's the news, Makala?"

"Hold one, sir."

"I can't, Spaceman!"

"Hull breaches in five areas. All contained. No pressure loss. Yet."

"Keep her together!"

"Seventy thousand, falling like a damn meteor, sir!" Bryant yelled.

Marshall, about to ask for a report from Quinn, paused as he looked at the engineer. Sweat was running down his neck, his face locked in total concentration, his fingers dancing from one control to another, making a series of fine adjustments to the computer-monitored course. The ship lurched hard to starboard, sending Marshall slumping to the side and yielding a series of swear words from Quinn.

"I think we hit a jet stream, sir!" said Bryant. "Course stabilizing now!"

The screen was beginning to clear, clouds and rolling ocean underneath. It looked awfully close, and the surface was still moving awfully quickly. To an observer on the surface, Alamo would look like a comet streaking through the sky close enough to touch; he hoped someone down there was enjoying the show.

"Sixty thousand feet! Outside temperature falling!"

"Quinn, main engines?" asked Marshall.

"Not yet. Not yet," he replied, muttering over and over to himself, while his right hand began to type in a firing sequence.

"Fifty-five thousand! Outside temperature still falling!"

The current projected course of Alamo on the tactical holoprojector had an unhappy ending in the ocean in a little over a minute. Every instinct of Marshall was to get the ship out of there, punch it away, but they still hadn't done what they had come for. The shuttles and fighters were still waiting in the hangar deck, perched on the elevator airlocks.

"Quinn...," Marshall growled, "punch it!"

"Bryant?" the engineer asked.

She paused for three seconds; Marshall could easily count them all, each seamed an age, "Go, sir,” she said, as calmly as she could.

Quinn pulled a lever, and the ship began to roll and tumble, the tattered remnants of the ballute flapping away from the ship, gliding slowly down to the surface, far above Alamo as the ship continued to descend. Marshall felt sick as Quinn struggled to bring the ship under control, to get her back onto an even keel. He spent thruster fuel with abandon in an attempt to right her, and painfully slowly, the horizon began to stabilize. Just ahead, he could make out the lines of the super-continent, the jungle coastline; he could swear the ship passed over a vessel in the ocean.

"Fifty thousand feet!"

Marshall turned to Cunningham, "Launch them! Launch them all!"

Calmly, Cunningham spoke into his microphone while typing commands into his station, "All shuttles, all fighters, immediate launch. Clearance on request. Launch, launch, launch."

As Bryant's eyes continued to widen, and the surface continued to approach, a series of loud bangs echoed throughout the ship as the pilots hurried to obey the order. The ship was still rolling slightly to the left; the three shuttles seemed to gently curve away, speeding towards their destination, the fighters leaping out after them and soon speeding ahead, their engines leaving a trail of smoke behind them. A series of bangs rattled through the ship, and Marshall looked over at Bryant for a second before realizing what they were – sonic booms from the accelerating fighters, just ahead.

Alamo was well over the continent by now, the jungle already being replaced with the endless desert, getting close enough that Marshall could make out details on the surface, see hills, tracks and trails. There were contrails in the sky beneath them; someone down there had decided to send out a plane to investigate. He hoped that the pilot would keep well clear of Alamo's wake, given what he hoped was about to happen.

"Forty-five thousand now! Falling fast!"

"All shuttles and fighters clear," Cunningham reported, his calm exterior deserting him as the ground grew nearer.

"Burn it, Quinn!"

The engineer pressed three buttons, then slid a lever forward as far as it could go. This was no time for half-measures. Marshall felt a comforting acceleration on his back as the main engine came on, a series of rapid sonic booms heralding an increase in speed as the course curve began to run up again, the red warning lights popping up as Alamo increased its apoapsis a safe level. Bryant was nodding now as she read out steadily increasing altitude readings, Quinn pouring on the speed as fast as he safely could, guiding Alamo carefully out of the atmosphere.

"Hundred thousand! Hundred and ten! Hundred and twenty!"

Now they were racing another, and final deadline. They barely had a minute remaining before the satellites would be operational again, before Harper's program would cease to work. More crashes and creaks echoed from the rear of the ship, Makala cursing as he started to run through damage control procedures one after another, technicians across the ship struggling to obey his directions through the acceleration.

"Leaving atmosphere now!"

Alarms rang from the engineering station, and nodding, Quinn shut the main engine down. "That's it until we can give her an overhaul. Twenty minutes."

"Hull breaches all over the ship, sir," Makala reported.

"Casualty reports coming in. No fatalities as yet," Ryder said.

"Quinn, our course?"

The engineer sighed, "Five more seconds and we'd have been certain. Toss of a coin, sir. We will or we won't."

Bryant's cheer was evaporating as she focused her equipment on the satellite again, Harper unbuckled and drifting over her shoulder, watching the seconds count down. She'd warned him that the hack was guaranteed for just ten minutes. There might be a few more seconds, but they couldn't be counted on. Now they needed them.

"Nine second gap, Captain."

"Count it down, Spaceman."

Work stopped on the bridge as the sensor tech counted out the seconds, "In the gap. Plus One. Plus Two. Plus Three." He might as well be counting heartbeats; they were pounding fast enough. "Plus Six. Plus Seven. Plus Eight. Plus Nine."

Marshall buried his head in his hands for a moment, a chorus of cheers echoing around the bridge. He unstrapped, drifting over to Quinn, placing his hand on the engineer's shoulder, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Our course?"

"Nominal. We'll be able to do a low-power burn when we get high enough in our orbit to stop us dipping into the atmosphere again." He looked down at the instruments, "I think we'll still be in range of the satellites for the low point of our orbit, though. Not much I can do about it on the first pass. I don't dare give Alamo too much boost until we've had a proper inspection."

"Get on it. Ryder can handle it from here."

He nodded, "I'll go aft, start making some order out of chaos."

"Good work." Marshall looked down at the rapidly receding planet, "We survived the satellites and the re-entry. All we need is for the espatiers to make it three for three."

"I wouldn't bet against them, sir," Quinn replied.

Chapter 27

Fire raced across the sky in Alamo's wake, a huge tail of smoke and flame crossing the horizon as Orlova chased across the desert towards the landing field. Seven smaller trails of fire were falling back from the battlecruiser, three of them the familiar rectangular shape of shuttlecraft, the others the fine dagger shapes of a fighter wing swooping around. She couldn't believe that the Captain had tried something so bold; she'd have loved to be at the controls for that ride, but as it was, she could help out more on the surface.

Caine and her father had stayed behind to take care of the wounded until help could arrive; technically, Orlova hadn't bothered to wait for orders or permission before taking off. As soon as she'd heard that first sonic boom and seen the light sweeping down from the sky she'd known that she was going to be needed, and that there was still a lot of fighting left to do. The trucks that had been headed toward the ruined missile installation were still on the way, but she didn't think they were going to be a problem for much longer. Her faith was immediately justified as a trio of missiles came diving down from the fighters, three explosions smashing into the ground.

The pilots didn't seem to be delaying at all; the shuttles were coming down in typical approach formation, their landing jets already beginning to kick dust up from the ground, while the fighters circled overhead, spending their fuel recklessly to protect the helpless landers on their final descent. Her pistol in her hand, Orlova stagged towards the runway, looking for any potential hazards; a quick squeeze of the trigger knocked down the only Legionnaire she could see standing around, and there didn't seem to be any anti-air on the field. Presumably they had decided that the missiles would provide sufficient protection.

Resisting the temptation to play Landing Signal Officer, Orlova decided to stay well clear of the landing shuttles, the first of them settling down onto the tarmac just ahead of the rest. The fighters dipped their wings – presumably something Quinn had concocted to give them at least a marginal aerodynamic performance, and curved around towards the compound, evidently planning to soften the way for the assault troops once they made it in. The other two shuttles settled behind the first in a V-formation, steam coming out of their exhausts.

Running up to the airlock of Shuttle One, Orlova jabbed down the 'release' button, then belatedly decided to stand well clear just in case someone inside was trigger-happy. Standing in the airlock, attired in combat armor and carrying the plasma guns that would be devastating on the surface, she saw a squad of Triplanetary Espatiers, Esposito standing at their head. The Ensign did a double-take when she saw her; Orlova realized that her attire had changed somewhat since they had last met.

"What took you so long?" Orlova said, shaking her head. Esposito jumped out of the shuttle, clapping her hand on Orlova's shoulder.

"The others?"

"Caine's back at the missile station with my father. We've got wounded back there."

"Your what?" Esposito's eyes widened. "Never mind. Doctor..."

Duquesne jumped out of the shuttle, medical kit already in her hand, "Already on the way."

Orlova gestured towards the smoke at the far side of the plateau, and Duquesne raced to help.

"Situation?" Esposito asked.

"We nailed a squad up on the missile silo, and your fighters took out a platoon and a lot of their transport. Weapons are conventional slugthrowers, like on Ragnarok. I haven't seen anything heavier than machine guns, but they might have something bigger down there."

"Right." She turned to Corporal Clarke. "Corporal, get the squad deployed. Secure the perimeter as planned."

"Yes, ma'am!" He yelled back to his men, "First Squad, tactical deployment on the double! Get moving, now!"

"Where's your pilot?" Orlova said.

Esposito raised her eyebrow, "You think I'd have missed the chance to sit in the pilot's seat myself for this one? I'm just sorry you missed it."

Sergeant Kozu ran forward, Second Squad fanning out on either side to secure positions in cover around the edge of the runway, and gave a parade-ground salute to the two officers. Over at the other shuttle, Orlova saw a woman in a pilot's suit running towards them, pulling her helmet off with her hand.

"Platoon disembarking now; Third Squad is unloading their kit. We'll be ready to move out in two minutes."

"Good."

Zabek raced up to Orlova, her eyes panicked, "Steele?"

"Fine last I saw; we left her in a village in the deep jungle." Orlova clapped her hand on the midshipman's arm, "She's getting the best care, Midshipman. Nice flying, by the way."

There was a roar from the far side of the plateau, and three small mushrooms raced into the sky. Evidently Dixon had been busy throwing supporting fire at the Legionnaires in the compound. Reaching into the shuttle's weapons locker, Orlova pulled out a spare plasma rifle and strapped the power pack onto her belt; she looked like a post-technological barbarian wearing the equipment over the ragged remains of her improvised camouflage jacket.

"Damn it!" Corporal Forrest yelled. "Ensign! We've got incoming! Looks like some sort of APC!"

"Get your sorry butts into position now!" Kozu shouted at the men, who frantically began to dive for whatever cover they could find as the jagged chorus of machine gun fire started again. A few green bolts started to race towards the horizon, wild shots by men hoping to buy themselves time to get to safety. Ahead, a pair of APCs rumbled up, both of them with familiar lines – UN combat transport vehicles, obsolete almost by the start of the last war.

The Legionnaires rolled up to the foot of the runway, periodic blasts of fire from the two deployed squads, while the third continued to hurriedly unload using the shuttle itself as expensive cover. Zabek looked nervously around, then reached for a plasma rifle of her own from the weapons locker, gingerly testing the weight in her hands. Machine-gun fire was still spilling around; but Riley had managed to creep a little closer to the transports than the others.

"Grenade!" the trooper yelled, hurling herself at the dirt as the small sphere sailed towards the first transport. It hit the side, bounced, but before the coming curse to escape Esposito's lips it exploded, a focused charge that tore through the hull like a knife through butter, leaving death and devastation where the vehicle had been a second before. A couple of shapes staggered out of the ruins, rolling on the ground to extinguish the flames on their uniform; one of them was charred to a crisp, the other seemed to have escaped largely unscathed, but lay on the ground panting, staring up at the sky.

The occupants of the second vehicle weren't going to wait to suffer the same fate, and hurriedly deployed, the machine gun on the roof providing covering fire as they charged towards Second Squad; by now they had established a killing field at the edge of the runway, and the bravery of the charge ended with a dozen twisted bodies lying in the sand, some groaning and moaning from the tearing wounds bullets had ripped through them, others lying still. Orlova looked across at Zabek; her gun tip was hot. She'd fired during the last action.

"Zabek? You with us?" Orlova said at the dazed midshipman.

"Yeah," she said with amazement, then with more certainty, "Ready to go, Sub-Lieutenant."

The squad moved forward cautiously, medics racing ahead to quickly evaluate the wounded, medikits out. Esposito pulled a pair of binoculars out of a picket, holding them up to her eyes, shaking her head. She passed them over to Orlova; there were three plumes of smoke rising from the compound ahead where guard towers had been standing a few minutes ago, but there were a lot of troops milling about, and she could clearly make out several machine gun nests strategically positioned on the perimeter. A tall flagpole stood on the highest building, a white and gold flag fluttering proudly in the breeze.

With a loud roar, the fighters skidded down onto the runway, improvised landing gear barely holding as the four machines slowed to a stop, their engines still a dull red. The pilots slid out of their ships, pistols in hand, and raced over to Esposito at Shuttle One, smiles all over their faces.

"We hit 'em hard, Ensign," Dixon said.

"Time for us to finish the job, then. Sergeant?"

Kozu jogged over to the Ensign, "Ma'am?"

"Let's get First and Second on the move. Third to follow in reserve, just as planned."

Zabek looked out at the carnage, then up at Esposito, "I'd like to go with you."

Frowning, Orlova replied, "You sure you want to see more of this?"

"I need to be where I am needed."

"Hell, I can use the extra gun. Go with Second Squad, Midshipman. Orlova, you're with me and First."

"Right."

"Let's move out!" Esposito yelled, hefting her gun as she ran towards the compound. Orlova raced after her, the two squads behind in jagged lines, dodging back and forth to defend themselves, staying in loose clumps. After a minute's steady jogging, the unit fanned into two formations, splitting in half down the middle to advance on the compound from different directions. A thin whistle filled the air, and there was an explosion behind them, smoke rising up; the troopers didn't pause. The safest place to be when artillery was firing was in the middle of the enemy. As they drew close, machine guns began to rattle, and there was a loud cry from the head of her formation as Flanagan spilled out onto the ground, swearing, grabbing her leg as she rolled into cover.

"Take them out!" Kozu yelled, and a barrage of green balls flew over the landscape towards the enemy, saturating them with fire. Soldiers began to run behind cover, leaving the machine-guns to be destroyed by well aimed plasma fire, just twisted metal.

"Cease!" Esposito said, turning to Orlova with a grin, "This is the easy bit. It's going to get a lot tougher when we get to the buildings."

"Can't wait," Orlova replied.

Another burst of machine gun fire rattled across the desert, this time towards the other squad – there was no intent to shoot, they were just trying to keep them pinned down, but some vicious cursing saw Forrest sprawling on the ground, blood pouring from his shoulder as the squad's medic, Ballantine, raced forward to treat him. Esposito looked up and around for a second, then threw a savage grin at Orlova before bracing herself to run.

"Charge!" she cried, jumping out of cover and spilling shots at the enemy as her men followed her. Orlova was hot on her heels, firing a couple of shots to keep the enemy pinned down; out of the corner of her eye she could see Zabek leading Second Squad, shouting at the troopers to advance.

The machine gun fired another burst until a lucky shot found the building it was coming from, blowing a hole in the wall with a pair of bodies falling out of it. Small-arms fire was coming at them now, and Orlova really began to wish she was wearing combat armor; the bullets would bounce off the heavy plating, but she would be less fortunate. Having said that, it made her a lot more agile, and she was beginning to pull ahead, despite still dodging from side to side. Another pair of troopers fell on the last sprint towards the perimeter trench, one groaning in pain – one not.

Rolling into the trench, Orlova fired a shot on instinct before realizing that it had been abandoned near the start of the battle when the plasma started raining down; there were scorch marks everywhere. She knelt into the welcome cover as the rest of the troopers leaped into the trench, hugging the ground carefully as bullets continued to fly overhead. Kozu was up at the far end, directing fire on the far corner; Orlova crawled over to Esposito.

"What next?"

She looked at her watch, "We've got about twenty minutes to knock out that antenna. Third Squad came down with enough explosives to do the job; I'm holding them in reserve until we've got a path secured for them."

"So we've got to make that path, and quickly. What happens in twenty minutes?"

"The defense satellites turn back on again and blast Alamo to atoms." She shook her head, "It was Harper that managed to crack the firewalls. The kid did good after all."

Orlova smiled, "Knew it." She looked over at the perimeter; six buildings, the nearest two increasingly in a state of disrepair from the sustained fire, surrounding the antenna complex. There were a few trucks parked around at the back, currently abandoned, near a trail that led deeper into the desert – the escape route for the garrison. Esposito gestured over to Zabek and Lance-Corporal Reed at Second Squad, pointing at the buildings on the left.

"Let's go!" Esposito yelled, sprinting from the trench towards the nearest building. Half the squad followed her, the others remaining in the trench to give fire support, but a series of well placed shots took down two of Esposito's troopers. Swearing, Orlova raced into the fire, swerving from left to right as bullets ranged down on all sides, not stopping for anything other than getting to the crumbling wall ahead of her. On the left, Reed stormed forward with his men, more shots spilling out; his assault managed to reach the nearest building, but he was obviously stuck, shots ringing around all about him.

"We're pinned down!" Esposito said.

"Third Squad?" Orlova said.

"I wanted to get further before we brought them in."

Rubble crashed down beside them, smoke beginning to billow out of the building they were hanging behind, "There won't be anything left of the first two squads at this rate!"

Zabek ran out of the trench, a fire team behind her, trying to cross to the far side of the compound to set up a crossfire; it was a good idea, but ran into the same problems as before. The Legionnaires had managed to get into defensible fire positions scattered around the compound, and their plasma weapons were beginning to become a problem; their enemy had a faster fire rate. Shaking her head as her platoon began to falter, Esposito reluctantly pulled her communicator out of her pocket."

"Corporal Nishiyama? Get Third Squad in right now!"

"Already on the way, Ensign," the corporal's cold voice replied; Orlova saw a cloud of dust heading down from the landing field and grinned, punching Esposito on the shoulder; the fire began to concentrate on the approaching vehicle.

"He and his boys must have bundled everything onto the APC!" she yelled at the Ensign.

The captured APC rolled on, pushing towards the trenches. The fire around the two of them began to ebb as the enemy concentrated on trying to find a weak spot. The rattle of machine-gun fire started again, this time on their side; a trooper was sitting in the domed turret, waving his left hand as he fired burst after burst at the enemy. Esposito tapped Orlova on the shoulder and they sprinted towards their goal, the antenna complex, sending bursts of plasma left and right as legionnaires ducked out in both directions.

A loud explosion send them both diving back into cover again, rolling behind a pile of smoldering debris; the APC had been hit by something heavy, and the squad was milling about behind it, trying to salvage the equipment while bullets rained down from all sides around them. On the far left, Zabek was racing forward with a fire team, dodging from cover to cover, continuing to fire at the enemy.

Esposito looked over at Third Squad, then over to Orlova, "Link up with Zabek, launch a diversionary attack. Keep them pinned down until I can bring up Third Squad."

"Got it." Firing another burst, Orlova dodged around, bullets tearing holes in the ground around her as she raced towards the remains of Second Squad. Reed popped up out of cover, firing two quick bursts over her head that came so close she could feel the heat on her neck, and she gladly dived into position behind Zabek, wiping the sweat from her forehead. She looked up at Zabek and Reed.

"We're going to attack." She pointed at a tallest building, just across the compound. "No cover fire, just a charge. We're to provide a diversion for the main attack by Third Squad and buy them time to get themselves organized."

"Right," Reed said, pulling a pair of grenades out of his pocket. Orlova looked down at the power levels on her plasma rifle, and shook her head, dropping the new-empty weapon to the ground; she must have used her last couple of shots on that charge. She slid a new clip into her pistol, hefted it in her hand, and braced herself for the last charge, counting down from five in her head.

"Here we go!" she yelled, running forward, her gun in her hand barking away at careless targets up ahead. An explosion tore up the ground to her right, one of Reed's grenades kicking smoke and dust up to conceal their charge, and the troopers advanced behind her, bursts of green flashing through the haze towards their target. A pair of Legionnaires were attempting to set up another machine gun by the building, but another blast of plasma ended their hopes.

Third Squad, on their left, began to charge with a yell, and the incoming fire split ineffectively between the two. Orlova leaped over a burned body – she couldn't tell which side it had been on – and fired a trio of quick shots toward the nearest window, rewarded with a yell of pain from inside. Another grenade followed her shots, and a thick cloud of black smoke burst out of the room, shards of glass sweeping out over the attacking troopers, shrapnel tearing down her arm.

Ignoring the pain, Orlova concentrated on getting her attack home, ducking into the Legionnaire's position at the base of the building, smoke now lapping out of the door. A pair of men ran out, hands over their eyes, screaming in pain; Orlova let them run. Third Squad was now pushing forward again, fanning out on all sides as two troopers moved forward with heavy backpacks on their back, charging directly for the struts of the antenna. The gunfire was becoming sporadic now, but what was left was concentrating on the mass moving forward in the center, three troopers falling down to the ground with blood spilling from various wounds.

Swinging the backpacks down to the struts, the two troopers pulled out detonators with practiced ease, threw a pair of switches, then started to sprint away as fast as they could, heading for cover. Taking their cue, the rest of the squad followed, fanning out in all directions, the occasional burst of green fire leaping from their weapons. Orlova looked around at the rest of her team – all of them, miraculously enough, still seemed to be standing.

"Heads down! This one's going to be big!"

It was quite a day for explosions, but as Private Lopez slammed his hand home on the detonator a bare second before Lance-Corporal Shiotani, the one that blew forth beat them all. Her ears were ringing and the smell of cordite filled the air; every unbroken window shattered from the blast as two pillars of fire raced up to the sky, twisting together as the smoke settled out, bits of metal raining down from the sky.

The only noise was the licking of flames from some of the burned-out buildings as the smoke slowly dispersed to reveal a jagged, twisted pile of blackened metal. Engines began to sound from the rear; evidently the surviving Legionnaires had decided to execute the better part of valor and live to fight another day, and none of the espatiers had any desire to prompt another battle by following them.

The medics began to move out, looking at the dead and the dying scattered across the compound, and the surviving troopers clambered to their feet, looking at the devastation they had wrought. There didn't seem to be any unwounded Legionnaires left in the compound; they'd put up the hardest fight they could. Behind her, Zabek was throwing up in a corner, the reality of what she had just done beginning to hit home. Orlova left her alone; right now she didn't need anyone, wouldn't want anyone to see her.

Esposito walked over to Orlova, shaking her head, her gun limp in her hand, "Your outfit?"

"All fine." She looked up, "Did we do it in time?"

"Nine minutes to spare. Not even exciting." The Ensign grinned, "I've got work to do, you want to call home?"

"Sure." She caught Esposito's communicator with her wounded arm, grimacing at the pain. "Orlova to Alamo, come in please."

The response was instant; Marshall's anxious voice on the line, "Sub-Lieutenant? Report."

"Installation secured, antenna complex destroyed, enemy in retreat." She paused before finishing, "Regret heavy casualties and fatalities, number unknown."

Regret tinged Marshall's response, "Understood. Medical bays ready to accept casualties. Pass on my congratulations to everyone."

"Will do. Orlova out."

She placed the communicator in her pocket, then turned as she heard a cheer coming from the flagpole; Kozu had managed to pull down the enemy flag, and was pulling up the flag of the Triplanetary Republic, the black and green fluttering in the sky as the troopers cried out in victory; at least one of them was filming it on his communicator. The enemy flag was carefully folded and placed on the ground – no doubt it would end up decorating the barracks on Alamo before long. Walking over towards Esposito, she looked around the compound, shaking her head at what they had done, and started to bandage up her arm, then looked up again at the flag waving in the breeze, and the other one lying in the dust.

Chapter 28

Marshall shook his head as he looked down the beds in the medical bay, Duquesne, her orderly, and the three medics going from patient to patient, adjusting monitors and applying injectors. One of the troopers looked up at him, struggling to raise her hand; giving up on saluting him, she winked at the Captain instead, and he returned it with a quick smile. If it wasn't for the name 'Voldinski' scrawled over the bed, he wouldn't have known who it was. Duquesne walked over to him, shaking her head.

"This is victory." She shook her head, "There are ten more in Cargo Bay 1 right now; they lost."

"What was the count?"

"Of our people? Three dead, twelve wounded." She sighed, "Nothing we can't take care of, though. We can do wonders. We've certainly had too damn much practice. Six dead of Caine's suicide squad on the surface, the rest wounded." She gestured over at one of the beds where a young man – hardly more than a boy – writhed in pain before the orderly gave him a new shot. "That kid is sixteen, damn it. He kept muttering that someone had promised him a tour as the shuttle brought him up here."

"That must be the tinkerer Orlova told me about. If he's half as good as she says, I'm tempted to offer him a job."

"I think you did that when someone put a gun in his hands and told him to charge the enemy." She sighed, "Fifteen years I've been patching people together. It's getting old."

"Sorry, Doc."

"If you were you'd stop bringing these kids into my surgery."

Marshall looked over at the door; Caine was standing beside it, looking in, her face blank. Her eyes were a different story; they traveled from person to person, horror flickering with every blink. He walked over to her, placing his hand on her shoulder, stepping out into the corridor.

"Don't put me in that position again, Danny. I mean it." Fury raged across her face.

"It's part of the uniform. I can't stop that. I won't make a promise I can't keep."

He looked her in the eyes, tears beginning to leak from her one natural eye. "Maybe I shouldn't be wearing it, then."

Marshall shook his head, looking back at the wounded, "They're in there – and others in the ground – to stop this from ever happening again. You did what had to be done."

"And civil war breaking out on the planet below? That what we fought for?"

Grim-faced, he replied, "Alamo isn't breaking orbit until we've brought peace back to this planet. That much I promise. A peace based on freedom rather than fear. That isn't what this is about."

"You know it all, don't you."

"This is about you. It's running over in your head again and again, isn't it, every moment, every decision, every move you made. You're wondering whether you could have done anything different, whether any of those kids could still be walking about today if you'd been smarter, faster."

She looked away down the corridor as Marshall continued, "I know. Because I see that when I close my eyes. Some nights the dead walk in my dreams, and there is nothing I can do about it. Except that I know that they all died for something, and that they all volunteered. From what Maggie told me, those kids were raring to go."

"I should have done more."

He held her in his arms, "You did everything you could. More than most would. And because of you, their sacrifice had meaning." He pulled her head up with his hand, "Remember that. Hold onto it with both hands."

She pulled back, shaking her head, "Any trace of desire for command is long gone. It all burned away down there."

"Pity. From what they told me, you were a damn good commander. All of those kids would follow you again."

She took a deep breath, shuddering. "I need to think. For a good long while."

"Come over to my cabin later, we'll get drunk. That's what you actually need."

"The answer's in the bottom of a glass?"

"Sometimes."

She walked away, heading into the elevator; Marshall looked after her, sighing, shaking his head. He knew exactly what she was living with, the price any commander had to pay. Quinn walked past her in the elevator, looking sideways at Caine as she walked past him, then continuing on to Marshall as the elevator door slid shut.

"How's our girl, Lieutenant?" Marshall asked.

He sighed, "Do you want the good news or the bad news?"

"Is it that bad?"

"Ninety percent of the hull plating is going to need repair. That means a complete strip down. The superstructure was badly strained in, well, a lot of places. We went so far past design tolerances that the damage control systems refused to believe it at first."

"How long?"

Quinn paused, looking nervously up and down the corridor before replying. "Eight to ten weeks."

"Weeks?" Marshall gasped.

"That's only because we're lucky enough to have access to a spaceport, skipper. Without a lot of repairs, Alamo isn't going anywhere. I don't dare use the main engines; we're going to have to get there on the reaction thrusters."

"That'll take days."

"About a week before we're docked. The good news is that nothing critical has been damaged; the fabricators are still working fine, and that's the main problem. We'll burn through all the spares we've got with us – and I've already got the scanning section looking for deposits of some ores were going to have to refine..."

"How much material are we going to need?"

"But Alamo will be good as new. Better; given how deep we're going to have to go into the guts of the ship, I'll be giving it a complete overhaul at the same time. We'll have to unload most of the crew while we're doing it; I'll get a crew over to make sure the spacedock can handle everyone."

Marshall shook his head, "Why do I get the impression you're looking forward to this?"

"Come on, the chance to tear everything down and make it work better?"

"Just make sure I've still got a ship at the end of it."

"Will do. Mind if I head off? I need to see Dixon about the, er, fighter repairs."

Chuckling, Marshall replied, "Fine, run along. Oh, one more thing."

"Sir?"

He pointed at Hawk, lying in his bed, "When he's up and about, I want him to get the fullest tour of the ship you've ever given anyone. The one you'd have liked to have when you were a kid."

"I was flying ships when I was a kid."

"You know what I mean. Get him in on the repairs, as well; and if he's any good, feel free to give him a uniform. I'll push through the paperwork."

Smiling, Quinn nodded, "Will do, sir." He saluted, making his way down to the elevator. Marshall paused for a moment, taking another look at the casualties and shaking his head before catching the next ride up to the bridge. After he'd gone about half-way, the lights flickered off and then on, and the door slid open to reveal a guilty-looking Harper standing outside.

"Crap."

"Another test, Spaceman?"

"New override software I've been playing with."

Sighing, Marshall shook his head, "Log it with the security team. Don't interrupt bridge-priority transits again, though. It might be important."

"Sorry."

He paused, looking carefully at her, "You did good, Harper. No-one else on this ship could have pulled off that stunt with the satellites. I don't think anyone else in the fleet could have managed it."

She shrugged, "It's what I do."

"Keep doing it. You didn't have to run off and hide like that, you know."

"I told you, I don't like anyone looking over my shoulder."

"You know what would have happened if you'd asked me – through Washington, preferably – for permission to go off somewhere and work on the hack?"

She sighed, "You'd have told me to file reports, follow protocols."

"Bullshit. I'd have told you to get on with it and tell me as soon as you had something."

"Really?"

"Yeah." He shook his head, "Next time maybe you'll ask first. For the moment, I'm bumping you up to Spaceman Second and giving you a commendation. I know none of that means anything much to you, so – is there anything I can do for you?"

"Anything?"

"Within reason," he clarified, bracing himself for the worst.

"Mind if I move into one of the crawlways?"

"What?"

"I've got this little space staked out, and..."

He held his hand up, "Never mind." He shook his head, "Get a communicator wired up and have Quinn mark it as off-limits. Otherwise, go nuts."

"Thanks, skipper!" That was a slight improvement. Without waiting to be dismissed, she ran back down the corridor towards the security station, a datapad already in her hand. The doors closed and he continued up to the bridge, scanning over Quinn's report as the elevator moved through the ship. Ten weeks seemed optimistic, if anything, but if anyone could do it, Quinn would.

He walked across the bridge in three strides, snapping a quick salute at Franklin in the command chair as he made his way across the bridge, making a mental note to get Quinn to install that third chair while he was tearing everything apart. Orlova was poking at the tactical station; she looked over at his office door as Marshall walked through it.

Orlov was waiting inside; he was standing over by the picture of Marshall's father, shaking his head. When he turned to face the captain, he did a quick double-take before sitting down at the desk. From somewhere he'd scavenged a Triplanetary uniform of the correct rank, by the looks of the fit borrowing it from Mulenga; it hung loosely on his shoulders.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Orlov."

The older man held up his hand, "A Captain must care for his ship and his crew first. Old men can afford to wait around for a while." He gestured up at the picture, "I was there when that was taken, you know."

"At some point in the near future the two of us are going to sit with a bottle between us. We've got a lot of history to share."

He shook his head again, "You are the image of your father when last I saw him. It's hard to get used to; I feel like I've grown old while the rest of the galaxy has stood still."

Marshall leaned forward, "For now – what can you tell me about Hercules."

"After we headed out from Procyon, we ran into a heavy concentration of UN forces blocking our return to Sol. Your father decided to head out; we had full tanks of Helium-3, and then we stumbled across a depot like this one – though not as well fitted-out – at AD Leonis. That gave us the freedom of action to launch some raids on their outer settlements."

"You were trying to break the blockade?"

He shook his head, "There was a war on; we wanted to keep as much pressure on as possible. After about a year, we got into a major battle. We won – took out one of their missile battlecruisers, the Tito, but got badly mangled ourselves in the process. It took six months for us to make repairs."

"Where was that?"

"Groombridge 1618. There was a small outpost there we managed to hit. No idea what they were doing that far off the beaten track, though, but..."

"What is it?"

Orlov paused for a second, "Your father seemed to be expecting them. He never shared his reasons, but somehow I got the feeling he was putting together the pieces of a pattern. I don't know what. Finally, he decided to try and head for home; we found the fuel dump in the spaceport and were planning on heading back. I went with a team to investigate the satellites we thought were inert..."

Marshall finished for him, "And were shot down. The others?"

"I was the only survivor of the crash. Hercules broke orbit a few weeks later. I kept on watching the skies, but yours was the first ship I saw."

"Mr. Dietz will give you a proper debriefing later, of course."

"I understand." He paused, then said, "I still consider myself in the service, Captain. I am under your orders."

"I appreciate that, Captain Orlov." Marshall emphasized the rank.

"We can make it Lieutenant, if you wish. There should only be one Captain on a ship. Besides, I would like to transfer to Triplanetary service. If I'm going to be serving here, I'd like to wear the right uniform."

"I think that can be arranged. Seniority backdated to when you were promoted to Captain, for the duration of this mission? After which I'll take you home to Mars."

"That won't be necessary." He looked conspiratorially around the room, "My daughter..."

"Is one of my finest officers in what I consider to be a damn good crop. She's a credit to the service. Give it ten years and she'll be thinking about a ship of her own."

"It was good to watch her in action on the surface." He chuckled, "I will resist fatherly admonishments to not put her at risk."

There was a knock on the door; a stern-faced Cunningham walked into the office, dropping a datapad on the desk, shaking his head.

"I think the word is out about the satellites; we're picking up radio chatter now. The moratorium seems to have been lifted. We're also picking up explosions in a couple of the towns on the surface, as well as troop movements up the rivers."

Orlov frowned, "I would say full-on civil war is brewing quickly." He turned to Marshall, "What do you intend to do about it?"

"We broke it, we'll fix it. And we're not leaving till we do."

Thank you for reading 'Victory or Death'. For information on future releases, please join the Battlecruiser Alamo Mailing List at http://eepurl.com/A9MdX for updates. If you enjoyed this book, please review it on the site where you purchased it.

The writer's blog is available at http://tinyurl.com/pjl96dj

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

<<<<>>>>

Table of Contents

There's a race of men that don't fit in,

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

Chapter 28

Thank you for reading '

Table of ContentsChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4