TIP OF THE SPEAR

Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 4

Richard Tongue

Battlecruiser Alamo #4: Tip of the Spear

Copyright © 2013 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

First Kindle Edition: November 2013

Cover By Keith Draws

Editorial Assistance from Peter Long

With Thanks To: Mark Berryman and Jon Clivaz

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

The minstrel boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you'll find him;

His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him;

"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard,

"Though all the world betrays thee,

One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell! But the foeman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under;

The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder;

And said "No chains shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the pure and free

They shall never sound in slavery!"

The Minstrel Boy, Thomas Moore

CHAPTER ONE

Sub-Lieutenant Margaret Orlova clung to the rail in the overcrowded shuttle, wondering whether to be happy or not that her rank had given her the opportunity to claim a window seat for the hair-raising flight over the jungle of Jefferson. Naturally, she'd feel a lot happier if she could be flying the shuttle herself; the pilot, Midshipman Steele, only recently out of the hospital, was following a river towards the capital of the planet, Yreka. The city was currently in the throes of a revolution, with the rebels on the verge of defeat against the entrenched forces of the Legion. Hopefully, in a few hours' time, that would all be changed.

She looked around the cramped cabin at the squad of espatiers she was to command for the drop. All of them arrayed in battle armor, plasma rifles strapped tightly to their legs, the unaccustomed parachute backpacks secured to their shoulders. Shaking her head, she wished that she hadn't introduced the sport of parachuting to the troops; ever since she'd executed an emergency escape back on Ragnarok – which seemed like years ago, even though it was only a matter of months – all of them had been anxious to try it. Certainly they'd been quick enough to suggest it during the tactical briefings when Captain Marshall had called for a rapid strike on the city.

Her communicator buzzed, and she reached up to her helmet microphone to clear the channel. The voice of Ensign Gabrielle Esposito – her current boss as head of Alamo's overworked Espatier contingent – rang into her eyes, loud and clear.

"Tabby says that we'll be over the city in one minute. Everyone ready for the jump?"

Orlova glanced at the faces of her squad, "About as ready as they'll ever be. Sergeant Kozu's force?"

"All set to go. I'm just worried that the troops are looking forward to this a bit too much."

"They'll change their minds after they've actually tried this. See you on the ground."

"Roger, Esposito out."

Shaking her head, Orlova smashed her hand twice on the hull, the loud metallic ring stopping the murmured discussions of her squad. Corporal Clarke, the grizzled senior NCO, clapped a couple of the younger privates on the back when they continued to talk; within a few seconds everyone was giving her their full attention.

"We'll be dropping into Yreka's main street in about thirty seconds. Remember that your chutes will open immediately, and that you will be vulnerable to ground fire until you hit the ground."

"Hell, we've been shot at before, Sub!" the boisterous Private Flanagan – who had a brand new scar decorating most of her left cheek, replied.

"Not like this. It's open season on anyone wearing a Legion uniform, but try not to burn the city down. We're going to need it." She smiled, "But we're going to need you more, so don't take any risks." The troops laughed, clapping each other on the shoulder, before she stopped them by raising her hand. "One last thing. It's happy hour in my dad's bar when this is over...so if anyone torches it, they're walking back to Alamo!"

The lighting dimmed in the shuttle as it banked to gain altitude. Strapping herself to the ceiling rail, she braced herself for the jump. The doors slowly slid open, wind gusting into the cabin, buffeting them about. Yreka opened out beneath her, and without a second thought – because she was afraid what that thought might be – she took a step out into space, launching herself out of the safety of the shuttle cabin into the air. With a loud rip, the cord tugged her parachute open, and she raised her hands to the strap, getting herself in the correct orientation.

When she'd done this trick on Ragnarok, she was using an emergency escape chute. The designers hadn't particularly cared where the users would come down, simply that they made it down to the surface in as near as possible to one piece. This time, she had the benefit of a day's work by Alamo's engineering team, and as usual, Lieutenant Quinn had managed to pull off a miracle. The canopy was being gently adjusted back and forth to compensate for wind, guiding her gently down to the pre-arranged rendezvous point. She rocked forward as the chute spilled some air, taking it down to the target area.

Tipping her head forward, she dropped the image intensifier from her helmet, picking out targets on the ground. Evidently they'd managed to arrive in the nick of time; a group of men wielding old rifles were crouched behind an improvised barrier taking pot-shots at legionnaires that were getting awfully close, and she could see more of them heading around through side alleys. Columns of smoke from other parts of the city showed battles in progress elsewhere, but if the situation had devolved down to isolated street fights, then the rebels were on the brink of defeat. One of them looked up at her, waving his rifle; she grinned back at him.

A pair of bullets cracked past her, tearing holes in the canopy that the self-sealing fabric quickly dealt with – another one of Quinn's touches. Her feet planted on the ground, and she ducked and rolled as her canopy detached, billowing across the street; she beat the rest of the squad to the deck by only a couple of seconds. She used them to scramble into cover, leaping behind the barrier to join the surprised rebels. Her plasma rifle in her arms, she fired a couple of shots at the ground to kick up smoke and dust, buying a little time for the rest of her squad to deploy.

"Sub-Lieutenant Orlova, Battlecruiser Alamo," she said, glancing around at the bedraggled rebels.

One of them, an old man with faded red hair part-way down his back and a mean grimace on his face, replied, "Captain Montgomery. You our reinforcements?"

"Damn right. Two other squads are deploying right now. My orders are to take the fight to the enemy and get Jefferson's flag over the capital!" She'd rehearsed that several times; Captain Marshall had impressed upon her that this was not a battle to win Jefferson for the Triplanetary Confederation; they were liberators, not conquerors. Given that her father was one of the ones they were liberating, she was forced to agree – and so did the rebels, who cheered loudly. Even Montgomery cracked what was obviously a rare smile.

"Let's go get them, then," he replied.

Orlova peered through the smoke, seeing a pair of flashes of green fire lighting up the street, and smelling wood smoke; evidently her squad had already found it essential to disregard her orders about torching the city. She lined up a shot at a pair of legionnaires still slowly advancing, and squeezed the trigger. One second they were there, the next, all that remained was a cloud of dust and ash. Almost too easy.

"Corporal, I want the first fire team advancing up this street towards the capital building. Rebels will follow up in support," she glanced over at Montgomery, who nodded, "and two pairs running parallel up the side street. I don't know who started shooting at buildings, but they'd better have good targets."

"Roger, Sub-Lieutenant, we're on it."

Hefting her gun in her hands, noting the admiring stares of the rebels, who started to look down with disdain at their primitive rifles, Orlova started to make her way down the street, letting the fire team take point. The gunfire was beginning to ebb, and she was getting the impression that the legionnaires were falling back, giving the ground they had so recently won. The rebels, following, were looking around nervously, almost as if they were finding it hard to believe they were actually winning.

She looked around at the buildings as she made her way forward, the crackle of fire and the smell of smoke on the air. There was plenty of damage, but she'd seen worse before; most of the buildings could probably be repaired, especially with help from Alamo's converters – assuming that they were not tied up repairing the damage the ship had sustained taking this planet. As the unit began to turn down a street, she felt rough hands on her back, pushing her to the ground, as a bullet cracked into the road by her head.

"Sniper, Sub!", Corporal Clarke said. Following the grizzled veteran's hand, she looked over at one of the few remaining undamaged buildings, shaking her head. Balconies all across the front of the building, lots of places to hide. It looked as if the bullet had come from the top floor, and she glanced over at the corporal and nodded; he slid a long tube out of his backpack and settled down to firing position.

"We can storm it, Sub-Lieutenant," Montgomery said, crawling across the ground.

Shaking her head, she replied, "They've got the advantage of position. You could lose all your men and still not get close." She tapped the Corporal on the shoulder. "Take your shot."

With a look of horror on his face, Montgomery watched a blue bolt arcing towards the building, slamming into the wall and neatly demolishing the top floor, a column of smoke punching its way through the clouds. That stopped the shooting dead for a second, as everyone in the battle turned to look.

"What the hell are you doing? You're causing more damage than the Legion!" Montgomery yelled, clutching at her shoulder.

"Listen, Captain," she stressed the rank with mild contempt, "I want to win this fight without losing any more men than we have to. Buildings can be rebuilt, soldiers can't." She gestured up the side street, at the Governor's Mansion ahead, "Come on, we take that and this battle's won."

Her communicator chirped, "Esposito here. That was a hell of a bang."

"I think it had the desired effect. We're about at the Mansion, you guys all set?"

"Got them from three angles."

Another voice burst in, "Kozu here. The enemy units that can't make the mansion are streaming into the jungle. Should I engage?"

Somehow, Orlova could tell that Esposito was shrugging, "They're a problem we can worry about tomorrow. Let them go; Captain wants that mansion taken. And no heavy fire, stress that! We need that building intact if we're going to get any intel from this."

"See you at the top."

"Now you care about public property?" Montgomery said, shaking his head in disgust."

"Use your head, Captain. That's got all the command and communications you are going to need to establish control, and we both badly need the records they'll have stored inside."

Turning her back on the rebel, she followed her fire teams down the side of the street, cautiously moving from shadow to shadow as the fire began to resume, the occasional crack of a bullet. No machine guns, she noted with relief. She paused in the entrance of a barbershop, staring in for a second at a couple of terrified civilians hiding under a counter, flashing them what she hoped was a reassuring smile, then turning back to the building.

When they'd built the mansion, they'd certainly opted for the 'impressive terror' look. Ten feet walls surrounding a tall tower, balconies protected with plenty of cover, nozzles of machine guns bristling out from all sides. There was another tower at the rear; the orbital recon had found a small airstrip inside the compound, just big enough for their primitive planes to take off. For any attack the rebels could have mounted, this would have been an extremely difficult nut to crack. With the plasma guns the espatiers were carrying, it was just a matter of picking the key targets without doing too much collateral damage. And the men inside would know that.

She glanced down at her watch, counting down the seconds before her attack, then heard a low rumbling sound coming from behind the building; it took her a second to recognize the noise, a biplane struggling for altitude. Someone was obviously making a run for it; a few green balls shot into the sky, none of them making contact with the target – obviously a good pilot. Pity he was wearing the wrong uniform.

"Right, open fire!" she shouted, and with her order a cluster of plasma bolts burst from half a dozen guns, explosions erupting on all sides of the compound, opening large gaps in the wall and ripping holes where fortifications once were. She slowly began to inch forward, waiting to face a final, desperate charge, when she was thrown to the ground by a terrific explosion, chunks of concrete thrown through the air, a deafening roar sending her hands slapping to her ears a second too late, her rifle dropping to the ground as she rolled on the street. Lying on her back, she saw a low mushroom cloud start to rise, and there was a brief flash of panic before she realized that her dosimeter wasn't reading a thing. A conventional explosion, the largest she had ever seen, and the cloud kept on getting bigger and bigger.

The air was full of dust, and she could only tell where her troops were by the choking and expletive-laden spluttering. Looking up at the ever-growing cloud, her communicator chirped twice – a call from Alamo. Turning the volume up as far as it could go, she slid the earpiece home.

"Orlova here," she yelled.

"Sub-Lieutenant? What the hell was that, we tracked it from orbit!"

Looking up at the cloud again, she said, "Regret to inform the Captain that our primary objective has failed. We've got Yreka secured, but we're not going to get anything out of the Governor's Mansion other than a reconstruction contract."

"Damn." There was a brief pause. "Start cleaning up the mess, Sub-Lieutenant. Alamo out."

She looked around at the wreckage, shaking her head. That was going to be a difficult order to fulfill.

CHAPTER TWO

Marshall shook his head as he finished Esposito's after action report on the Battle of Yreka, slamming it to the desk as he read the last line with such force he briefly worried he'd broken the datapad. They'd needed the intelligence in that building, needed it badly. He didn't consider the enemy forces remaining on the planet to be a significant threat, but what lay beyond it certainly was. There was an enemy out there, one with advanced space-based weaponry – but one which was arming its planetary forces with equipment that was centuries out of date. Something was missing from the equation, and he badly need to know what.

Not that he could follow up on a lead if he had one. He glanced outside his window at the rocky walls of the spaceport, then up at the clock; in nine hours, most of the personnel were going to be leaving while Lieutenant Quinn tore the guts of his ship apart. The ride through the atmosphere had been quite an experience, but it had wrecked Alamo's superstructure. Not that his engineer seemed to mind. Every time he spoke to him he was grinning with glee at the prospect of all those interesting repairs. Sighing, he rose to his feet; time for his staff meeting.

He walked through the bridge, returning the salute of the bored-looking Sub-Lieutenant Franklin, sitting in the command chair. Aside from the flight engineer, no-one else was on the bridge; they weren't needed at the moment, so most of the bridge shifts were over on the spacedock helping to make it ready for occupation. And playing zero-gravity tag down in the lower levels, most likely. He wasn't particularly looking forward to the ship's spin being taken off.

The elevator doors slid shut, and he sighed once again. As a junior officer he had detested meetings like this, and being promoted to the point where he was running – and calling – such meetings had not made him enjoy them any more than he had back when he wasn't wearing any braid on his shoulder. Everything was a lot simpler when he had been sitting in the cockpit of a fighter, his responsibilities limited to his own survival, and that of his wingmate.

He arrived at the briefing room, once again wondering why the Callistan engineers who had converted the ship back during the war had elected to place it so far from any of the useful areas of the ship, and almost tripped over the green-haired figure of Spaceman Harper, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a pair of terminals at her feet, connected to a series of systems with a tangle of cables.

"What the hell are you doing, Spaceman?" he said, looking down.

"Huh?" She looked up, "Sorry, boss. Didn't know anyone was coming down this corridor."

"You are supposed to check the scheduling before starting maint...what are you doing, anyway?"

"Just some tests on the security sub-systems."

Shuddering inside as he remembered the consequences of some of the young hacker's previous 'tests', he asked, "Anything I need to be worried about?"

"Just about finished." She patted the wall. "Finally beginning to get this beast up to some sort of spec."

Smiling, he replied. "Good. Tidy up and get into the briefing room."

"What?"

"Make it quick. Meeting starts in two minutes."

"What do you want me for?"

"Only one way to find out, Spaceman." Carefully stepping over the tangle, he walked into the briefing room and took his seat at the head of the table. His Executive Officer, Senior Lieutenant Dietz, was already there, waiting; he gave his commander a curt nod before returning to the datapad he was scrutinizing. Through the door, he heard a curse, and turned to look. Sub-Lieutenant Matsumoto, his diminutive Administration Officer, was sprawled on the deck, swearing at the spaceman in vicious-sounding Japanese. Glancing up at Marshall, she saluted and hastily rose to her feet, walking quickly into the room.

"Sorry, sir. I wasn't looking where I was going."

Raising his hand, Marshall replied, "I'm just glad I don't know Japanese. I'm probably not old enough for some of the language you were using." His Operations Officer, Senior Lieutenant Cunningham, walked in while he was talking, followed by the ebullient Lieutenant Dixon, his squadron leader, who was waving her arms about in what he presumed to be some sort of demonstration of fighter tactics. She flashed him a quick grin as she sat down. The next two entrants were also engaged in shop talk; Lieutenant Quinn and his senior NCO, Petty Officer Sipos, seemed to be having a good-natured argument about the hendecaspace drive, and they took seats next to each other, ignoring the rest of the room.

Walking stiffly with one leg, the result of a wound in the recent battle, Ensign Esposito followed, taking a seat next to Marshall, and Harper scampered into the room behind her; Marshall gestured her into Orlova's vacant chair. Finally, the last three arrived, just as he was about to have them paged. Petty Officer Washington, standing in for Orlova while she was down on the surface, followed by his Astrogator, Senior Lieutenant Mulenga, and reluctantly by Lieutenant Caine, his old friend and Tactical Officer.

He looked at her most closely of all; her face was a mask, carefully concealing any thoughts she might have had, but there was a look in her eyes that he recognized, and one he didn't like. She'd gone through a small piece of hell down on the planet just a week ago, and Marshall knew that in the back of her mind she was reliving that action again and again, trying to work out what she did wrong, what mistake she had made that had cost so many lives. Marshall's personal opinion was that she hadn't made any, but getting her to see that would be a very different thing.

"I think that's everyone," he said, and the room fell silent. Washington looked over at Harper with surprise; the young crewman shrugged as she slouched in her seat. "First of all, I'd like to thank Lieutenant Quinn for getting us here in one piece. Have you revised your repair estimates?" He asked with more hope than expectation.

"I'm afraid not, skipper. With a little luck, I'll have the old girl back together again in five weeks or so. Better than new."

Cunningham turned to look at the engineer, "And if you prioritize the hendecaspace systems?"

"It's the superstructure that's the biggest problem there, sir. We'd never survive the transition in our current condition; frankly, most of the bells and whistles are stuff I'm doing while we're re-stressing the skin. That takes time, and there's nothing much I can do about it."

"Sub-Lieutenant," Marshall looked over at Matsumoto, "You've been over at the spaceport for the last couple of weeks. Is it ready for occupancy?"

"We can take as many as you want, sir. More than a hundred and we'll be hot bunking."

"That won't be necessary." Marshall punched some buttons on his desk, and an image of Jefferson, the planet below, flashed up. "This is our primary concern for the moment, ladies and gentlemen. We made a mess here when we decapitated the planetary government, and from what I've seen of the rebels down there, they're going to need our help to fix it."

"Surely that's their own affair, sir," Dietz said.

"We broke it, we bought it. I'm not installing a Governor or declaring martial law, but I am committing Alamo's resources to helping them. Certainly we need to at least get the local situation to the point that they can contain it on their own, which means reinforcing the planetary defense forces until they can stand on their own two feet."

Nodding, Esposito said, "I've been working on this assumption, Captain. The platoon's ready for action, and we didn't sustain any serious casualties during the drop on Yreka. I'd like to keep Sub-Lieutenant Orlova for a while, if that's not a problem."

With a wry smile, Marshall replied, "Oh, that's certainly not a problem." He slid a datapad across to her, "I'm brevetting you to Lieutenant for the duration of our stay on Jefferson."

Lines crinkled across her forehead. "Sir, that's not necessary. I appreciate the gesture, but..."

"If you're commanding a company, you need to have the rank."

Across the table, all the officers and crew were looking at each other in surprise; Marshall sat back for a moment before continuing, punching up a revised crew roster to appear over the table, Jefferson flicking out as the text danced in the air.

"Mr. Quinn, you only need about forty people to complete your repairs, correct?"

Shrugging, he replied, "Basically, yeah. As long as it's the right forty people."

"And most of the rest will just be sitting on the spacedock anyway, waiting for you to finish. Heck, you could house most of those forty on the interior sections of Alamo. You're only tearing off the outer skin."

"I guess so, sir. It won't be very comfortable.”

"Mr. Cunningham," he turned to the frowning officer, "I presume all the crew are up on their small-arms training?"

"They aren't espatier-quality, sir," Esposito added. "I wouldn't want to risk them in any sort of a battle."

"Nor would I, Lieutenant," he replied. "What I have in mind is quite simple. I'm giving you a provisional company, about ninety with the espatiers you have. You'll need to split your NCOs up a little, but I want two platoons suitable for garrison duty, and one platoon that we can use as a strike force."

She nodded, "That makes sense, actually. One at the spaceport, one at Yreka. Where am I getting the platoon officers from?" She glanced around the table. "The shift leaders?"

Shaking his head, Marshall replied, "I want those on Alamo. I'm leaving the flight crews on board just in case, as well as the maintenance crews and the fighter squadron." He gestured up at the roster. "All three of the midshipmen have had one semester of Espatier training anyway, so they're current. I'll brevet them to Ensign and they can have the job."

"They've had one semester of training, about a year ago," Cunningham said, shaking his head, "Are we really this desperate?"

"That's a lot more recent than any training anyone else has had," Marshall said. "I don't like this any more than you do, but those platoons need officers."

"Zabek's certainly up to it. She fought like a demon down at the starport; I have a feeling she missed her calling. I'm not sure about the others, though. Is Steele fit?" Esposito asked.

"Doctor Duquesne seems to think so; she's been cleared for duty. Obviously that crash didn't shake her up that badly. Put them where you want..."

"And impress upon them that they are to listen to their Sergeants." She smiled, "Yes, sir."

"Good. I'll be transferring down to the surface to assume overall command down there. If you left anything in one piece, then I'll set up shop down in Yreka."

"You aren't staying on board?" Dietz asked, a frown on his face.

"It's a war zone, Captain," Cunningham said. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"If a platoon of espatiers can't keep me safe, Lieutenant, then we've got bigger problems." He folded his hands together, continuing, "The political situation down there is nightmarish in the extreme. Someone's got to put the pieces together, at least until the real diplomats arrive, and that's my job." With an evil grin, he continued, "Yours too. I want you down there as well."

"Then I am to assume command, Captain?" Dietz said, his expression suggesting that he had anticipated this.

His eyes widened as Marshall replied. "No, Mr. Dietz. I want you to assume command of the starport. I need someone over there to go over it with a fine tooth-comb. Take a couple of the spooks with you," Harper bristled at that description, "and a few others. Our desperate need is for intelligence, and that goes for everyone. We know next to nothing about the spacefaring potential of the Cabal. All we know is that the name has been thrown around, but we don't know whether it has fleets, colonies, ground troops...don't know if they are preparing for an attack right now."

With a sigh, Mulenga replied, "Then I am assuming command?"

Marshall shook his head, "Of the spaceport down on Jefferson, where you will do the same as Mr. Dietz. If there is anything down there, I want to know about it – and feel free to poke at those alien ruins, as well. There's a picture building up. Lieutenant Caine?"

"Sir?" she replied, disinterested.

"As of my departure, you will assume command of Alamo until my return."

Her eyes widened, panic briefly flickering, "Sir, surely Mr. Quinn would be a better..."

"He's going to have his hands full fixing the ship. You are the next in line, in any case."

Dixon looked over at Caine and then back at Marshall, "If you need a volunteer..."

"I appreciate the offer, Lieutenant, but this is Lieutenant Caine's job." He leaned over towards her, "You can handle it, Lieutenant. Just keep her in one piece until I get back."

She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and replied, "Aye, Captain."

"Much as I'm enjoying this, Cap, I've got work to do," Harper said, drawing a stare from everyone in the room.

"Spaceman Harper, you will consider...," Dietz began.

Raising his hand, Marshall interrupted him. "We're going to have a lot of spots in the org chart to fill. Lieutenant Dixon, you'll be assuming the role of Exec, and Sub-Lieutenant Matsumoto, I want you as Operations Officer."

Smiling, Dixon nodded; Matsumoto replied, "Aye, sir."

"Petty Officer Sipos, if needed you will assume the duties as Astrogator."

"Huh?"

"You do have a masters in cosmology from Titan Tech, yes?"

"Well, yes, but that was a while ago."

"Better hope you aren't needed, then. Petty Officer Washington, you'll be sitting in at Tactical."

"Understood, sir."

"And Spaceman Harper, you will be sitting in as Security Officer."

Looking around from side to side, she replied, "You've got to be crazy."

Getting his reply in first, Marshall said, "Calling me crazy is a prerogative of Senior Lieutenant rank, Spaceman." That sent a series of chuckles around the table, and turned Cunningham's face red. "You're best qualified for the job, just get it done. I told you a while ago that I'd be happy to give you a free hand where needed; have one. I want this ship to have the best intrusion and counter-intrusion package in the Fleet."

"I get any help?"

"Nope. I can't spare anyone. I'm sure Petty Officer Washington will be available to answer questions as needed." He shook his head with a wry grin, “I thought you worked better alone, anyway.”

Looking up at the stout woman, Harper shook her head, "I'll manage. Thanks, skipper."

"I'll leave the final details for the department heads. Get me updated rosters in three hours, and I want the company to be disembarking before the spin gets taken off. That's all, dismissed."

Almost everyone stood up, standing to attention; Harper had to be nudged by Washington before she copied the others, beginning to file out of the room. Dietz and Cunningham, exchanging looks that Marshall recognized, remained after the others had left.

"I thought you'd want words, gentlemen."

Dietz looked at Cunningham again, then back at Marshall, "Sir, as it happens I think we both agree with your reasoning in taking charge on the surface."

"But you think one of you should be in charge."

"Yes, sir."

Nodding, Marshall gestured at the pair to sit down. "It isn't any reflection on your abilities – or those of Mr. Mulenga, for that matter."

"Lieutenant Caine's performance since her return...," Dietz began.

Cunningham interrupted him, "She's lost the spark, Captain. Just going through the motions."

"I agree," Marshall said.

"Then why leave her in command?"

"Because I'm expecting her to request early resignation from the Fleet when we get back to Ragnarok." The two looked at each other again, and he continued, "She had a bad time on the surface. Her first real independent command, and though she accomplished the mission, the price was too damn high."

There was a haunted look on Cunningham's face as he replied, "I've been there."

"We all have. It's a bridge we all have to cross at some point in our careers." He paused for a second. "At some point in the next month, she's going to have to have a moment when she realizes that despite the cost, it's worth it. The best place for that to happen is sitting center seat. I'm giving her the opportunity to have that moment."

"And if she doesn't?" Cunningham asked. "If she screws up?"

"If she still puts in her request then I will recommend it be granted. There's no point keeping an officer in the service who doesn't want to be there, not in peacetime. If there's a problem, then you, Mr. Dietz, are moments away, and I can be here in a shuttle in less than an hour. This isn't high risk."

"Dixon wants it, you know," said Cunningham. "She's got the hunger."

"Then having someone snapping at her heels might help even more." He glanced down at the datapads again, then back up, "That's all. Dismissed."

As they left the room, Marshall put the datapad back on his desk and looked up again, wondering for about the tenth time whether he was doing the right thing. Shaking his head, he plunged back into his reports. There was a lot left to cover before he could get his boots dirty.

CHAPTER THREE

The liquid swirled around the glass in Caine's hand as she watched, contemplating whether or not to take a drink; she'd been resorting to it more and more to try and get some sleep in the last few nights, but that didn't seem to be stopping the ghosts. Her desk was crowded with datapads and assorted junk; she'd never been one to maintain an orderly office, but of late Matsumoto had been dropping increasingly blatant hints about working down her paperwork pile. Raising a toast to the wall, she drained the drink down in one, placing the glass down on the deck.

There was a knock on the door; she ignored it, considering whether to pour herself another drink. The knock came again, more insistently, and then a red light flashed above it. Someone was using a security override, and she couldn't bring herself to care. The door finally, almost reluctantly slid open, and Cunningham walked into the room, a look of disgust creeping onto his face.

"Hi John. Want a drink?" she proffered the bottle towards him.

With a quick, furtive look behind him, he walked in, sitting down opposite her. "Of course I don't want a god-damned drink, and a look at the clock should be enough to stop you as well."

"I'm not the first officer to drink on duty. Doubt I'll be the last. If you want, tell the Captain."

Leaning forward, Cunningham snatched the bottle from the desk, slammed the stopper home, and placed it in a drawer, "You want off the ship? That'd be a good way to do it. You want to let him down? That'd be an excellent way of doing it."

She shook her head, "I'm a mess, John. And don't think I don't know it."

He tossed a packet of pills out of a pocket. "Take one. I want you sober for this."

Leaning back in his chair, Cunningham tried to soften his look with limited success, "How the hell did you manage it, Deadeye?"

"Manage what?"

"You got through four years of the worst war in a century without losing someone you were responsible for. I know you managed to dance out of any command jobs, but even so. It must have happened."

"That was different." She was getting a mild headache; the pills were taking effect quickly. "That wasn't me. I wasn't the one ordering them in."

"God only knows what you must have thought of me, or Marshall for that matter."

"I tried not to. I saw what it did to both of you." With a bitter laugh, she continued, "Why do you think I never sought command. I know I didn't want it, didn't what what it was going to do to me." She pushed a datapad across the desk. "I'm leaving the service. If I get this to Danny before he leaves, maybe he'll see sense and leave someone competent in command."

"He already did."

Shouting, she replied, "They're dead, damn it! Six boys aren't going to get to grow up because I led them into battle."

"They wanted to go."

"I should have stopped them."

Cunningham stood up quickly, sending his chair rattling across the floor. "You damn coward. Don't you think they knew what they were up against? I read your report – and more to the point, I read Orlova's. She thinks very highly of you, by the way."

"Danny should have left her in charge."

"Maybe he should have." Her eyes widened. "She seems to have fewer compunctions about doing what is necessary." He sighed. "This is my fault. I should have given you a flight when you were under my command. You'd have been through this already."

"You were more interested in sharing my bed at the time."

He smiled, shaking his head a little, "Look, I'm not going to pretend you get over it, because you don't. You've got six ghosts? I've got more like six hundred. I'm damaged goods, and damn well know it. Our Captain's no different. On his first mission, his first command, he had a mutiny and twenty-one crewmen died. That's going to stick with him until the day he dies." He paused, looking down at the draw. "I had my affairs, and I won't pretend that the Captain doesn't find relief in a bottle on occasion."

Despair filled Caine's eyes, "And now I'm back in command again."

"Of a ship in dry-dock, Deadeye. Look, this is the Captain's idea to get you back in the saddle. You know what; he's wrong. I'd have put you in charge of an espatier platoon."

"Don't be stupid."

"I'm being serious. You've got to get over this, and just quitting the service isn't an option. Running away doesn't work." He stood up, making his way over to the door.

"Wait."

He turned, "What?"

"How do you live with it?"

"Damned if I know, Deadeye. You just do." He turned, slamming his hands on the desk, "And you damn well better get over it quickly. I mean it, Deadeye. Like it or not, we need you in the service. You're one of the best Tactical Officers I've ever seen, and I have the distinct impression we're heading for another war."

She tossed her head, looking away, "With who?"

"Read the news! The Republic's spoiling for a fight, and we just finished a battle down there on Jefferson. You were at the briefing. There's something out there big and nasty calling itself the Cabal, and we're going to be on the front lines for it." He shook his head. "The Captain brought you out here because he needs you watching his back. You aren't going to do that in this state."

She looked down at the desk, replying, "Don't you think I know that." She looked up, defiance in her eyes, "I also know he needs someone sitting at Tactical who won't hear screams in her head when her finger is over the firing button, who won't hesitate at the critical second that makes the difference between victory or defeat. We both know how important that is. It isn't even as if I'm the only one who could do it – you could sit at that station quite comfortably, John."

Sighing, he turned again, then looked back at Caine one last time before leaving. "Give it a chance, Deadeye. Go sober for the next four weeks, give that seat a try. You might find it suits you; you owe Danny a chance to see if you have what it takes. And damn it, you owe it to those kids as well. And to yourself."

She paused for a long second as he walked through the door, "I'll do what I can."

"That's all I'm asking." The door closed behind him, and she looked at it for what seemed like minutes before collecting herself, and looking around her office. It was still a mess, and didn't seem to be cleaning itself up any time soon. So was she; she quickly changed uniform tops and stepped out of her office, making for the elevator with a datapad clutched in her hand. Tapping for the observation room, she tapped her foot on the deck as the car raced up the shaft.

As she stepped out of the elevator, she almost stepped back in shock; the room was dominated by the familiar red hues of Mars, looming large to aft, bright lights of ships and stations blazing everywhere. A hand grabbed her shoulder, and she turned to see Lieutenant Orlov, Orlova's father, wearing a brand-new Triplanetary uniform.

"Forgive me, Lieutenant. They'd turned on the imagers when we entered this spacedock; I thought I'd have a little look at home while I could." He tapped his forehead, "It's all in here, but after a decade, I wanted a refresher."

Caine crashed down in one of the couches, "It must have been hard for you down there, all that time."

Smiling, the old man replied, "Jefferson is my home now, Lieutenant, but there were times I was longing to be out in space again, wearing the uniform. Not many people get to live out their dreams; I am blessed." He chuckled, "I'll be back with my daughter again soon; the Captain's taking me down to the surface to act as his adjutant. Seems no-one else can speak Tatar, and computer programs never have managed to pick up the nuances."

"You think you'll be staying down there?"

"I want to take the wife back to Mars, visit some of my old friends, maybe pay my respects to some of them. Then, well, that depends on circumstances. I've been thinking about this all week; if I'm needed elsewhere, then I am wearing the uniform of the Triplanetary Fleet, and I will go where I am sent."

"They'll probably end up assigning you here as a liaison."

"I never knew logic to influence military decision-making. Has that much changed while I was planet-bound?"

That made her chuckle, "I don't think that will ever change."

The two of them looked out at the far-distant planet, and Orlov turned to her, "That was your first time, on the planet, wasn't it."

"On the ground, yes."

"It is different in space. All you have to do is push a button." He shook his head, "The screams are still there, we just don't hear them. You've killed men before."

"Those weren't..."

He turned to her, a savage look in his eyes that wasn't there before, "Your people? But they were someone's, Lieutenant, and either that officer was crying in his quarters the night after you pushed your button, or the last thought flashing in his mind before he left this world for the next was how much he had failed his men."

She could feel tears beginning to well up in the corner of her eye, and she turned towards the elevator, "Is that supposed to help?"

"Yes. It is." He placed a hand on her shoulder, "You aren't the only one going through this. Those boys died to free their planet from a tyranny that had oppressed them for a century. They went in the prime of their life, knowing that what they were doing was right. Would it have been so much better if they had died in bed seventy years from now? Already their names are honored." He smiled, "Lieutenant, those boys will live forever, long after we are forgotten."

"They were boys. They didn't know what they were doing."

"Did you, the first time? Yet someone had to order you into battle." He smiled. "You did good, Helena. Everything we can now do is because of the mission you led."

"Have you been through this?"

He smiled again, "I was a helmsman. No, I haven't. But I know one who has."

Awareness dawned in her face. "Maggie."

"My daughter suggested that you might need a catharsis. She's worried about you; I think she feels somewhat responsible. You could do worse than talk to her."

"She's on the planet."

"I don't think that remarkable engineer of yours has dismantled the communication system."

Caine nodded, "I will."

"And Alamo needs a Captain right now. As I understand it, that is you. Go take command. Go sit in the chair and see how it feels."

She looked at him, nodding. "I'll see you later."

"I will take my daughter your good wishes."

She stepped into the elevator again, pushing for the bridge. Inside her emotions were swirling around, and when she closed her eyes, those faces were still there. Still, four weeks sitting in spacedock. Four weeks that should simply involve making sure Quinn didn't do too much damage while he was putting Alamo back together again. Danny could handle the rough stuff on the planet's surface. The doors slid open, and Sub-Lieutenant Kibaki stood to attention.

"Captain on the deck," he said, facing front. This was the first time she'd ever seen him even attempt proper procedure; all of this had the appearance of being choreographed, and she idly wondered whether it was Danny, Cunningham – or both. Thinking further, she didn't really care.

"I have the deck," she replied, walking towards the vacant command chair, and carefully sitting in it, resting back on the armrests as she looked across the bridge, Kibaki sliding across into the watch officer's chair. Maybe she'd sit here for a while. That paperwork could wait.

CHAPTER FOUR

Pulling rank, Marshall had claimed the pilot's seat for the shuttle ride down to the surface, accompanied by what could technically be called his staff; looking at the controls with an envious and wary eye, Cunningham sat in the co-pilot's seat, periodically reading out instrument reports as the ship flew above the waves, the low mass of the planet's super-continent loomed ahead.

Behind, in the passenger bay, was the first squad of his temporarily drafted espatiers, most of them attempting to familiarize themselves with the weapons issued a few hours ago; Lieutenant Orlov, looking forward to returning home, was sitting next to the airlock. The nominal pilot was also stuck in the back, probably not enjoying his ride down very much. The poor guy would have plenty of opportunities for flights over the next few weeks, though.

He smiled as the shuttle flew into a cloud, the exterior view briefly whiting over as they blasted through; this was real flying, the sort that hitherto he had only managed in a simulator. Jefferson was going to be extremely popular once they got it properly opened up; the tourist trade alone from the home system was going to make someone rich. A series of blinking lights started to flicker on his control panel as the beacon signal activated, and he swung the ship a few degrees to port to compensate.

While he was looking forward to the ride ahead, a big part of his thoughts remained back up on Alamo, though he was far more concerned about Caine than the ship. Quinn would put her together again, he knew that; the engineer was the best he'd ever worked with. Whether anyone could put Caine back together again was another question entirely. He caught a part of himself contemplating crew reassignments, who to move up to Tactical if it came to it, but dismissed those ideas with a shake of his head. She wasn't going to quit. Not if he had anything to say about it.

"Yreka coming up, Captain," Cunningham said, glancing down at a navigation plot. The shuttle was passing over the coast, moving over delta regions, swamps through which a hundred forks of water raced. A few spare patches showed areas which had been laboriously cleared for food cultivation – and that itself brought some new possibilities into mind. A lot of people who had invested heavily in experience hydroponic plants for luxury food production were going to hate him when he got home. Which wouldn't stop him enjoying a few nice meals while he was on the surface; and he made a mental note to arrange for some resupply for Alamo if he got half a chance.

As the shuttle slowed, he followed the river as the swamp turned to jungle, then cleared out again to more cultivated areas. He'd studied the layout on the satellite maps a dozen times, but this felt as if it was close enough to touch, and being on a living world – with the exception of Ragnarok, which was just snow, ice and lichen – was a new experience to him.

Finally, Yreka loomed ahead, the nearest this world had to a city. A collection of a few thousand wooden shacks and a few hundred more modern buildings clustered around one side of the river, criss-crossed with roads, columns of smoke rising from a dozen places. Even from a thousand feet up, it was obvious that there had been a huge battle here, and recently.

"Orlova to Shuttle One," the communicator crackled.

"Shuttle One to Orlova," Marshall replied, "Requesting landing clearance."

"Clearance granted, come on down."

The beacon was behind a huge, smoldering pile of rubble; belatedly, Marshall realized that they were using the landing strip behind the old Governor's Mansion. An attempt had been made to make enough space for a vertical landing, and he played the landing jets around, back and forth, clearing more bits of debris away. A few people were standing around, mostly Alamo espatiers as well as a couple wearing camouflage jackets, presumably local dignitaries.

"Green light. Contact with surface," Cunningham said.

Flicking a couple of overhead switches, Marshall replied, "Right, engine stopped. Will you handle post-flight while I go out and pow-wow with the locals?"

Raising an eyebrow, his co-pilot replied, "Oh, you can have the pleasure, sir. I'll be sure to do an extremely thorough job. Airlock...," he paused, remembering that for once an airlock wasn't needed, "hatch opening."

Clapping him on the shoulder, Marshall unstrapped, pulling himself out from behind his console and scrambling down from the pilot's cabin to the still warm runway, coughing at the smoke in the air. At least he could breathe it; there was a brief sense of panic before he remembered that the spacesuit he briefly thought he'd forgotten was unnecessary. He jogged over to the cluster of people, returning a hasty salute from the waiting Orlova.

"Good work down here, Sub-Lieutenant," he said, noting a series of frowns from the civilians.

One of them grunted back, "Yeah, good work at demolishing Lincoln Street."

A smile fixed on his face, Marshall replied, "I should introduce myself; I'm Lieutenant-Captain Daniel Marshall, commander of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo."

"Are you sending more troops?" another asked with a whiny, nasal voice.

Glancing quickly at Orlova, he said, "Two more platoons are on the way now. First squad's back in the shuttle, the rest to follow." He looked around at them; three of them had evidence of recent battle marks, the others didn't. "You have me at a disadvantage."

Orlova grimaced slightly, "I'm sorry, sir. These are representatives of the local resistance leaders."

"The Provisional Government of Jefferson," nasal voice interrupted.

With a sharp look, Orlova continued, "This is Major Green," indicating nasal voice, "Captains Montgomery and Howe, and Lieutenant Sanderson." Sanderson was the one without a scratch on him, Marshall noted.

"I'm pleased to meet you all, and look forward to working with you on the reconstruction of your planet."

Howe pointed up at the Triplanetary flag waving over the landing strip, "So it is still our planet, then."

Turning to Orlova, Marshall said, "Sub-Lieutenant, would you please take that down and replace it with the local flag."

"I'll see it's done at once, sir." A brief burst of shooting interrupting her, and the whole group looked around. "Sorry, we're still dealing with a few pockets of resistance."

The aft airlock door opened, and Orlov bounded out; his daughter's face lit up as he ran up to her, throwing himself into a very non-regulation hug while the rest of the group looked on, the espatiers slowly filing out behind her. Marshall smiled, looking at the four militiamen; their expressions ranged from understanding to disapproval, a frown seemingly permanently set on Green's face.

"Sub-lieutenant?" he said, still smiling.

She broke away, looking over at him, her face red, "Sorry, sir."

"I should think so," Green said. "Is this the sort of discipline you have in your Fleet, Lieutenant-Captain?"

"Knock it off, Hank," Montgomery said, "Sergei hasn't seen his daughter in ten years. Pull your head out of your ass for once."

"Do we have a forward command center set up?"

Still red, Orlova replied, "My father's bar, sir. It seemed expedient."

Marshall assumed that it was probably well-protected by the ground forces at the moment; crews tended to earmark bars for their own exclusive use when they were in port, though it was rather unusual for them to be owned by the father of their commanding officer. His thoughts were interrupted by a series of shots in the distance, and Orlova began to fidget.

"I take it you think that is something you need to deal with, Sub-Lieutenant."

Nodding, she replied, "By your leave, sir."

"Run along. Esposito's coming down with the rest of the company over the next couple of hours, company briefing at 1900 local. Make sure you are there, and bring your platoon sergeant as well."

"Will do." Snapping a quick salute, she sprinted off towards the sounds of the guns, flanked by a trio of the espatiers. Marshall looked around at the new troops that were still spilling out onto the runway; most of them were shuttle technicians, sensor operators. There wasn't an NCO among them who was any more aware of what was needed. Leaning back into the hatch, Marshall saw Cunningham laboriously working through the post-flight checklist.

"Lieutenant, get that finished and take charge of the runway, will you? I'll see you at Orlov's in an hour or so."

Cunningham smiled; evidently the prospect of spending time with the dignitaries had not appealed. "Will do, Captain."

Turning back to the dignitaries, Marshall asked, "Do you have a headquarters established?"

"The office of the Bank of Yreka," Howe said. "I'm the manager, in more normal times.”

"Shall we, then?"

Nodding, Howe turned, leading the way; a pair of espatiers followed the group at a discrete distance. The street was a mess; there wasn't an unbroken piece of glass anywhere, no doubt due to the after-effects from the explosion, and teams of bucket brigades were hastily trying to dampen the fires. They'd had to pick one of the few dry days to launch the attack, but Marshall hadn't considered what effect that might have to the collateral damage. In space, fire was rarely something he had to concern himself with.

"You see the damage the battle did," Green said. "We're going to be months cleaning up the mess." His voice was punctuated by the occasional ring of machine gun fire and a following explosion. Evidently Orlova was on the job.

"I'm sorry about the mess, and any casualties you suffered, but there wasn't any choice, Major. Not if the city was to be taken. We evaluated going in from the river, but the airborne assault had the greatest chance of success with the fewest casualties." He looked around, seeing a pair of corpses being carefully retrieved from underneath a pile of rubble. “There seemed to be time considerations as well.”

"At least the attack was a success, let us not forget that detail," the hitherto silent Sanderson said. "We would appreciate some assistance with the clean-up, though; I understand you have fabrication technology on your ship."

Marshall had anticipated that one. "Our fabricators are working overtime trying to get Alamo back in condition. There remains the possibility of a space-based attack, and that has to be our top priority."

The devastation was ebbing slightly as they moved further away from the battle lines; some of the shops were actually opening up, and several bars seemed to be doing a roaring trade. He couldn't see anyone wearing Alamo uniform, but he'd probably have forgiven anyone who'd opted to stop and enjoy the celebrations for a little while.

The group drew level to one of the few concrete buildings, an imposing three-story structure with a blue-and-red flag waving above it, presumably the flag they had selected for Jefferson. Green pushed the door open and walked in; a group of men were huddled around desks, scribbling notes on maps and pieces of paper. None of them seemed to pay him any heed, but they saluted Montgomery as he walked in, and Marshall's uniform seemed reasonably popular.

"Should we come in, sir?" Private Voldinski asked.

Shaking his head, Marshall said, "Hang around outside. Stay within earshot, just in case."

Nodding, Voldinski gestured to the other espatier, and the two of them made their way across the street, immediately attracting attention from passers-by. A group of children ran up to them, looking with fascination at their weapons; with a nod, Marshall turned back into the building, where the four officers had taken seats around a table. Marshall pulled up a chair, took a cup of coffee, and sat down.

"I'm going to be blunt, because these guys are going to dance around on this one. Are you planning to turn us into a Triplanetary Protectorate?" Montgomery asked, taking a swig of coffee. "We've heard some of your men talking about a place called Ragnarok where something like this happened."

"Ragnarok requested Protectorate status; last I heard, it had been granted. That's a prelude to full membership in the Confederation." He looked around at four disbelieving faces. "This is your planet. Hell, if you want, we'll pull back to the spaceport until we're ready to leave, and just go. I can't imagine you'd want that."

Howe fixed Green with a stare, then replied, "There may be some among us who would prefer just such an outcome. I think I can speak for the Chamber of Commerce; we'd rather have access to the wider galaxy."

"If the price is simply trading one master for another..."

"I repeat," Marshall said, holding his hand up, "Protectorate status is an option you can explore. It is not a requirement. We're here to help. Period. As far as I can see the immediate issue is dealing with the Legion; they've lost two bases, but they still have a substantial presence in the jungle."

"Don't you think we can handle it?" Howe said, turning to look at Montgomery.

"As things stand, I think if I were in your shoes, I'd be grateful for whatever help I could get."

"And the strings attached, Captain?" Sanderson asked.

Looking at the slight figure, Marshall said, "As a minimum, we'd want a trade agreement and access to your system's Helium-3 deposits. A lease on the starport in high orbit as well, I believe. This is all a matter for the diplomats."

"Right now Alamo is in the starport, using those facilities, is that not so?"

Sanderson was remarkably well-informed; Marshall made a mental note to instruct the troops to be careful who they talked to. "Repairing damage incurred in liberating your planet, Lieutenant."

"Perhaps some sort of rental...," Green began.

Montgomery slammed his hands on the table. "Bullshit. I've fought with these people, and they're helping us with our war right now, while we sit here talking.” He looked around at the others, a scowl on his face, then back at Marshall. “Captain, take whatever you need from the starport to get your ship back in one piece. Hell, there's nothing we could do to stop you anyway. Anything else beyond that, we can get the diplomats to deal with."

Howe smiled at Montgomery's outburst; evidently this was not uncommon. "Do you recognize us as the Planetary Government, Captain?"

There was a trap Marshall had no intention of falling into. "As the government of Yreka, Captain Howe." He stressed the rank. "I don't see any representatives from the Caribbean or Tatar communities here. And only Montgomery from the farming settlements.”

"Those pirates?" Green said. "Don't be silly, Captain. Those coast-draggers will never co-operate." He leaned forward, continuing, "You would be much better dealing with us. The farmers will be governed from here in any case."

"Don't be so damned sure about that, Hank," Montgomery said. Marshall realized he was liking the gruff Captain more and more by the minute. "Captain Marshall isn't going to hand us the whole of Jefferson on a platter. He'd be court-martialed for it, and how much do you think the Caribbeans would care anyway? We're going to have to patch something together, and damn it, we need his help." He waved a finger around. "I don't want Protectorate status, but realistically we're going to have to deal with the Triplanetarians for a long time. Best get off on the right foot."

Nodding, Marshall said, "There are some things I can authorize, and some things I can't. As operational commander in the field, I'm happy to use my forces to help push out the Legion and give you a chance to organize yourselves properly. We're soldiers, not politicians." As he said it, Marshall knew that he was only about half-right. Montgomery's instincts were close enough to his; Green, Howe and Sanderson had other goals in mind, and he expected to see them in suits rather than uniforms when next they met. Most of them were just local dignitaries, and the closest thing they had come to a fire-fight before today was in an old war movie.

"Why don't we work out the details, gentlemen," he continued, "and rough out some sort of a strategy?"

CHAPTER FIVE

Orlova could not help but think that all staff meetings should be held in bars. Certainly the drink sitting in front of her – complements of the house, free drinks to anyone with an Alamo insignia on their uniform while the fighting with the Legion was continuing – was rather more appealing than the fake coffee that was their usual fare. The three midshipmen didn't look comfortable with the idea, but Sergeant Kozu seemed to be enjoying himself. Somehow, from somewhere, her father had managed to scare up a bottle of sake, and he was on his second glass. Esposito had only sipped from her beer for the present; Orlova had opted to follow her example.

"Our orders are very simple. Captain Marshall and the Provisional Government have come up with the idea that we need to secure the rivers, and in particular one that you are pretty familiar with, Maggie – the connection between this city and the pass leading to the spaceport."

"Couldn't we just ship directly into Yreka?" Zabek offered. The formerly reluctant midshipman seemed to be in her element as an Ensign.

Shaking her head, Orlova replied, "The situation's still too unstable here, and it would amount to our selection of the American-descendant colonists as the government of this planet. Having a secondary base, one with our flag flying over it, is just too important."

Esposito nodded. "We've got a full company to play with, so I'm going to use it properly." She pulled out a map of the area, unrolling it across the table. A few wet patches began to run through, staining some of the rivers. "Two platoons are essentially garrison strength, so they're going to be used as such. I want Third Platoon – that's going to be yours, Ivan," she said, gesturing to the sole male officer in the room, who nodded curtly, "to be stationed right here at Yreka. I'll be here as well, and we'll be working with the local authorities to make sure this area is cleaned out."

She paused to take another sip. "First Platoon's going to have the bulk of the regular espatiers, and I'm keeping that at the spaceport. Steele, that's yours, as well as Sergeant Kozu." A curt nod to the veteran sergeant left no real doubt about who would actually be in command. "I want your force out on the desert, looking for anything out there. Primarily, you're the ready reserve for any operations we execute."

"What about Second, Lieutenant?" Zabek asked.

"You get the fun job." She stabbed down at a point on the river with her finger. "This is about the mid-point. I want an outpost established there, garrisoned and held. It's about a day's march from a couple of Tatar villages, and I want you to liaise with them. I'm giving you a squad of regulars to stiffen the ranks a bit, and hopefully I can scare up some local militia as well. Your job will be to launch river patrols, to actually hold this line."

Smiling, Orlova looked over at her friend, "I'm guessing you're putting me there, as well."

"I figured that was the best place. You're the only one I've got who's actually walked through that forest."

"We getting any help?"

"Alamo prefabbed a few buildings for us before the repairs got kicked into high gear. How you lay them out is up to you. A shuttle will bring them in once you've got the area secured."

Nodding, she began to run through a few ideas in her head. "I think we can handle it."

"The last of the troops will be down in about an hour, and the platoon sergeants will have mustered them by then. You three," she gestured to the temporary Ensigns, "should go and familiarize yourselves with them, and your personnel rosters. Remember that you tell the sergeants what to do, and they see it done. That's their job." She paused for effect to ram it home. "Your NCOs are a hell of a lot more experienced than you are, so if they give you any advice, consider that you have a standing order to listen, but remember that you are in command."

The three of them looked at each other, nerves cracking even through the usually confident Steele. Zabek had a slightly different look on her face than the other two; she'd actually seen action during the Battle of the Spaceport, and she almost looked eager to get started. Nervous, but ready. The others? Who knew how they would fare under combat until the day actually dawned.

"Any questions?"

The three of them looked around, all of them waiting for the others to speak first. Steele broke cover, "Are we clear to engage the enemy?"

"Unless otherwise informed, yes. Our intelligence is pretty limited; I'm afraid the jungle's making pretty good cover, and we don't have the satellite coverage we'd like. Expect surprises. And try and avoid friendly fire."

"What sort of surprises?" Varlamov said, in all seriousness.

Chuckling, Orlova replied, "They wouldn't be much of a surprise if we knew that, Ensign."

"May I make a suggestion, ma'am?" Zabek said.

"By all means."

"Garrisoning is a start, but not the end of the process. We're going to have to go into the jungle and track them down. The Tatars could help us as guides, track us into their bases and hit them hard."

Orlova's eyes widened, and Esposito glanced around the table. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, Ensign, but they know the terrain a lot better than we do. I'm hoping that we can get them to the negotiating table before it comes to that; an operation such as you propose could take months, not weeks. Outside our remit."

"But if the opportunity presents itself?" the young ensign pressed.

"Then we will be sure to take advantage of it. Is there anything else?" The lieutenant looked at silence around the room, then said, "Best get moving, then. Dismissed."

The Ensigns stood up to attention as one, saluted, and left the bar, Kozu following with a waved salute to keep an eye on them. With the lower ranks gone, Orlova took a longer drink of her beer, savoring the taste. A drink that could would cost hundreds of credits on Mars; she wanted to enjoy it while she could.

"We're going to have a fight on our hands keeping the troops out," Esposito said.

"The sergeants will handle it. I think you'll need to be a bit generous with the leave, but if this is mostly going to be garrison work, that shouldn't be much of a problem. Except that most of them are going to want to retire here."

"I'll be rotating the platoons, naturally. One of us is going to need to be here the whole time."

"Mulenga's up at the spaceport, yes? I noticed that you arranged things so that none of them will actually have an independent command at any time."

Raising her glass, Esposito took a drink, "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Turning to look at the door, Orlova said, "You realize that it was us a year ago."

"Seems like centuries."

"We've fitted a lot in since that first fight at Mariner."

Sighing, Esposito replied, "I envy them, a little. I wish I'd had someone to hold my hand the first time out." A thin smile of remembrance crossed her face, "Someone who doesn't slap me around the face."

"Yes, sorry about that. It seemed like the thing to do at the time."

"Oh, hell, I needed it." She took another drink. "What do you think of those three?"

"They look green as hell."

Both of them laughed at that, "No worse than we were back then," Esposito said.

"I was never that green," Orlova replied, draining her drink.

"Yes, you were. You just didn't have all that crap at the Academy to un-learn." Esposito looked to the side, around at the bar, "I'm sorry for sticking you out in the jungle. I'd understand if you'd want to be with your father."

"The Captain offered me leave while we were on-planet," she replied. "I declined. There's too much work to do. I expect to be talking to him every night, and I'll probably take the Skipper up on his offer for the ride back to Ragnarok, but right now both of us have jobs to do. I know he's alive and well, and that's enough for now. The rest can come later."

"I can't believe you're taking it so well. If it happened to me, I'd be a wreck."

Smiling, Orlova made her way over to the bar, "I'm just a good actress, Gabi. Another?"

"One more, then we'd better get on duty ourselves." She drained the rest of her first glass. "You sure you can handle it out there?"

"I'd like to borrow at least some of First Platoon to get the buildings up if they can be spared. Buildings up, some sort of perimeter fence, that should be enough. We can use one of the shuttles to burn a killing ground around the perimeter."

Shaking her head, Esposito replied, "You've really got to grips with this ground-forces stuff, haven't you."

"Experience is a hard teacher. I've been reading some of the manuals; Security Officer isn't that demanding a job with hackers like mine around."

"Thought about transferring?"

She shook her head, "Alamo only needs one Espatier officer, Gabi." Pausing, she continued, "You still out in two years? Last time we talked you were hot to get back to university."

Sighing, she said, "I'm honestly not sure. I might decide closer to the time. I thought about taking a couple of years to get my Masters then coming back in, if I could arrange it." Looking down at her insignia, she said, "I'm getting comfortable in the uniform, though. What about you? Any regrets?"

"Not a one. I'm enjoying it too much."

"I don't think every ship's like Alamo."

"Maybe. I'll cross that bridge when I get to it. Still a long way left in this tour of duty before I have to worry about that." She paused. "Zabek worries me a little."

"Too eager."

"Too damn eager."

"Keep an eye on her. If it looks like she's going to be a problem, I'll rotate her out to the spaceport. She can't get into too much trouble there, but she is the most experienced of the three at ground engagements."

"Caine told me that she was the one that was struggling. I'm not seeing it."

"Let's see if we can focus her a bit. Maybe she's found her calling."

"If combat's her calling, that's a sad thing." Orlova paused. "She's got the right idea, though. I'll admit that much."

"If I had a couple of companies to play with, I'd be willing to go along with it. What we have is a slightly understrength platoon. I'm not sending the Alamo crew out into the jungle unless there's absolutely no other option on the table. We don't even have proper orbital reconnaissance any more. Quinn could barely spare the parts for a single bird up in Jeffersonosynchronous orbit. I had to argue to get that one."

"We could use the shuttles, take low flybys."

"They aren't really built for it, but it isn't a bad idea." She grinned. "You just want an excuse to get some more flight time."

"Guilty as charged."

"You realize if I posted you here, you'd be spending all your time liaising with the local political types. Don't think that I'm giving you the hard option."

"Yeah, I think I might pass on that one. Spending a month out in the jungle playing with the insects should be child's play in comparison. Might if I recruit some of the Tatars?"

"If they'll bite. I figure you might need to borrow your dad for that, though."

"He's the only Tatar speaker we've got."

"I'll see if I can clear it with the Captain. That's another little mission for you; find their leader, their headman, and get him down here as fast as possible. Captain wants to get them on-board as fast as possible, and they were eager enough to help you take the spaceport."

Taking a drink, Orlova shook her head, "I thought I wasn't going to be dealing with the political types?"

"Hell, got to spread the joy a little." Esposito took another drink, and smiled.

CHAPTER SIX

Caine sat in the command chair, looking at the screen as it moved from one helmet camera to another, each showing a slightly different view of the rocky devastation on Jefferson's moon. Something traumatic had happened here, probably fairly recently in cosmological time; the surface was gouged and pitted, huge craters punctuated by fissures, and it was down one such fissure that the geological survey team was descending. Under other circumstances, she would have jumped at the chance to lead the team herself, anything to break up the monotony a little, but this time she had not even been tempted.

Quinn was sitting next to her in the watch officer's seat, Kibaki displaced to the tactical station at the rear; at least for once he had somewhere to sit, rather than hanging around on the bridge. The lack of gravity hadn't been a problem for Caine – she'd spent long enough in varigrav that she was pretty immune to such things by now, but half the crew were guzzling down Garn pills by the handful to keep themselves working. The engineer was leaning on the edge of his seat, excitement dancing across his face; it had taken a direct order to stop him from going.

"Ryder here," the leader of the team called back to Alamo. The young sub-lieutenant had been the first of the three bored watch officers to step forward when Caine asked for volunteers.

"Alamo here, go ahead," replied Ortega, the duty communications technician.

"We're coming across a wide gap in the tunnel, Alamo. Detectors are beginning to dance off the chart; I think the titanium deposits here are going to be bigger than we thought."

Breaking in, Quinn replied, "Mark sites for easy surface access. We can leave the auto-miners here after we've finished, get a steady supply of hull material processed."

"Any sign of problems?" Caine asked.

With a slightly baffled tone, Ryder replied, "Just bare rock, Lieutenant. Nothing to worry about. All suit systems are green across the team."

"Keep an eye on it. You're a long way down if something goes wrong."

"Carpenter here, Ryder," a slightly tinny voice spoke, cutting into the main channel. "I think I've found what we're looking for, a real smooth surface to anchor."

"Right, coming." The helmet camera swung from side to side as Ryder carefully lowered herself further into the fissure. Caine turned as the elevator door slid open, and a barely-dressed Harper stumbled out, obviously having only just woken up. Quinn looked on with amusement; Caine shook her head.

"Spaceman, I don't know what you are doing here, but you might want to take another pass at dressing, then come back."

"What?" She looked down at the parts of her uniform she'd put on, then shook her head. "No, this is important."

Kibaki, sighing, said, "You are addressing your commanding officer, spaceman."

Ignoring the pepper-haired sub-lieutenant, Harper walked over to the scanning station, pushing aside the hands of the duty controller and starting to work. "I had a thought as I was about to turn in. This is the biggest source of titanium on the moon, right?"

Quinn replied, "According to the orbital survey, yes."

"Couldn't you have simply called the bridge, spaceman?" Caine asked.

"Why is it still there?"

Caine's forehead furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"This spaceport was built to service ships, right? So why is there no sign that the titanium's been mined? I mean, if we can find it, so can the people who built the station."

Caine looked at Quinn, then turned back to the monitor, "Ryder, is there any sign of man-made activity down there? Anything at all."

The line crackled in reply, "....hear, Alamo. Re..."

Switching channels, Caine called the winch operator on the surface, "Salazar, get them back up immediately."

"Ma'am?"

Harsh urgency filled her voice, "You heard, spaceman. Get them up now."

Harper was still working away at the sensor console, running over the logs of the orbital analysis; she looked up, shaking her head, "Clean."

"Well, Harper, I appreciate your enthusiasm..." Caine began.

"No," the young hacker interrupted. "Too damn clean. There's something wrong."

"Don't you think you might be a little paranoid, spaceman?" Kibaki said, looking over from his station. "Sometimes a failure to find something just means that there is nothing there to find."

A loud scream echoed through the bridge, and Caine immediately raced up and down the channels. "What's going on! Someone, report, now!"

Quinn turned to his station, "Tabby, get a rescue team and get out to the moon yesterday."

A sleepy voice replied, "What's up?"

"Don't know," Caine said, cutting in, "but something. Get out there right now."

"On my way."

The helmet cameras were swinging back and forth as the cable curved, and there was nothing but an ominous silence from the speakers. Harper continued to play with the sensors while Ortega worked the communicators, calling constantly with no reply. Kibaki began to shake his head.

"Harper, you reading what I am?"

With a sigh, she replied, "Yeah."

Caine rose from her chair, drifting over to the tactical station. "What is it?" she asked in a low tone.

"Explosion on the surface, just near the fissure."

"Salazar?"

Harper shook her head, "Nothing up there could have lived through it."

"What about the fissure?"

"Relay must have been damaged," Ortega said, as almost on cue, the helmet feed winked out. "I'm not even getting any telemetry."

Sighing, Caine turned to Kibaki. "Notify Captain Marshall and Lieutenant Dietz. One crewman dead on the moon, two probables, rescue team on the way. I'm going into the office."

Pushing herself towards the door before anyone could say anything, she slid into Marshall's office, grabbing a handhold to swing from the ceiling. His empty chair sat there, as if he was looking at her. She tried to imagine how he'd be handling it; badly, at a guess, but probably a damn sight better than she was. Acting Captain for three days in dry-dock, and already there was a casualty; she was on the verge of contacting the station to call Dietz to come and take over when the communicator cheeped from the bridge.

"Caine here."

"I have Captain Marshall for you, ma'am."

Blessed relief. "Put him on."

There was a ten-second delay from ship to surface. "What happened, Deadeye?"

She paused before responding. "A booby trap on the moon, near that rich titanium deposit."

"Is there anything you could possibly have done to prevent it?"

"Harper thought there was something wrong. I should have seen what she did."

The pause was longer than the speed-of-light delay. "When did she come to you with these concerns?"

"Just before the explosion."

"Then there wasn't anything you could have done about it, Deadeye."

"Damn it, Danny, three people are dead!"

Another long pause, a crackle of noise. "One person is dead. Two are unaccounted for. Sheltered by the cavern, I'd bet they're fine. You've got a rescue team on the way?"

"Dixon's on her way out there right now. Danny, you need to put Dietz in command."

Somehow, Marshall had managed a slight chuckle. "For someone who professes not to want a command, you spend an awful lot of time ordering me around, Deadeye."

"I mean it."

"How long have you known me?"

"What?"

"Answer."

"More than ten years."

There was a soft, gentle tone in his reply. "Do you honestly think that I would hesitate for a single moment – our friendship aside—from relieving you of command if I thought for a single second that you were not up to the job, that you were culpable in the least over what just happened down there?"

She thought about that for a few seconds. "No, probably not."

"I should have seen it as well, Deadeye. Not finding any traps on the spaceport may have lulled us into a false sense of security."

"Why did you call so quickly?"

"Because I knew that if I didn't, you'd be stewing up about this until I did, and I figured it would be easier to stem your self-pity now."

The door knocked, and Harper glided in. Caine looked up, "Spaceman, I'm in the middle of a conversation."

"Huh? This is urgent. I found something interesting."

Caine caught herself before snapping back a reply; Harper might be many things, but if she believed that something was urgent, then it probably was. As recent events had proven.

"Stand by one, Captain," she said, then looked up at the hacker, "What have you got for me?"

"I think I've found a message embedded in the explosion."

Her eyes widened. "You're going to have to explain that one more carefully."

"One microsecond before detonation, there was a beacon signal, one pointed at the planet. If we hadn't been in contact with the surface at the time we never would have spotted it, not on that tight a beam."

"A tight-beam signal? To where?"

Harper leaned over the desk and started tapping out instructions, "I've got a first-guess plot, and it looks like about a thousand miles up the coast from Yreka. I'm going to bet that it's some sort of secret base on the planet, something that we definitely want to take a much closer look at."

"No bet, Spaceman. Captain, did you get any of that?"

"Enough to insist that you get the co-ordinates to me immediately. I'm not sure quite what we can do about it at the moment, but I certainly want to do something."

"Good work, Harper. Keep doing what you are doing."

"Thanks, Lieutenant," she peered down to the microphone, "Captain."

She slid out, the door drifting shut behind her as Caine glided around to the other side of the desk. There were periodic voices on the other side of the speaker, Marshall dictating something to someone. It was more than a minute before he spoke again; she welcomed the opportunity to go over her thoughts.

"Still there, Deadeye."

"Right here, Danny."

"Good. Looks like Salazar didn't die in vain; that's going to be useful. It's slap in the middle of Caribbean country, and getting in touch with them is way up on my to-do list in any case."

She shook her head, "How can you just write him off like that?"

"Antonio? I'll miss him at the mess, he was always good for a song, and he told some excellent dirty jokes, but as with everyone else, he knew the risks going in. You might want to hold off on the memorial service until we all get back on board."

"He's dead, Danny."

"And if I could change that, I would." He paused. "I can't. We've got to grit our teeth and move on."

She shook her head, searching for something to change the subject, "What's the situation on the surface?"

"I'm just in the middle of another meeting with the local provisional government. I couldn't tell you if we were making any progress or not."

"Sounds like fun."

"At least Orlova's father runs a decent bar. You need to get down here at some point. Schedule yourself some leave."

"Can I do that?"

"Once things settle down. No point you missing out; the shooting's just about stopped, and I think it's only fair to give the maintenance crews a bit of leave."

"Won't they get that at Ragnarok?"

Another long pause followed, "I'm not sure we're heading back as quickly as that. If we get some decent intel that the Cabal are close at hand, we're going to have to take a look. Which is why it's critical that Alamo gets back up to full flight status as quickly as possible."

"Understood."

There was a more respectful knock on the door; this one waited for Caine to acknowledge, before it opened to admit Kibaki.

"Wait one again, skipper." She looked up. "Any news?"

"Looks like there's been a little subsidence, enough to open a gap. We're getting some telemetry from Ryder and Carpenter."

"And?"

"Both fine, Lieutenant. Dixon will be there in an hour, with a little luck we'll have the site opened again in six."

"Exercise extreme caution. Where there was one explosive there might be others."

"Definitely agree, ma'am. Shall I inform the ship?"

"By all means."

He smiled, nodding as he left the office. "I heard that, Deadeye," the communicator crackled. "I told you they were fine."

"That doesn't help Salazar, though, Danny." She paused. "I'd better get back to work."

Hesitation was in Marshall's voice, "Call me if you need anything, or even just to talk. I know it hurts."

"Just another ghost for my collection. Alamo out."

She sat in the office, staring at the stone walls of the spaceport through the office viewport. Try as she might, she couldn't picture the dead crewman. Turning down to the computer, she started to run his personnel file; the computer had already updated, and 'Deceased' flashed across it as the file opened.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Replacing the headset on the wooden desk, Marshall took a quick sip of his coffee – marveling once again at the taste of real coffee with real sugar in it – and stepped back out into the impromptu conference center. Half a dozen people were sitting in the shadow of a tennis net on folding chairs, a couple of tables scattered around, with about another dozen in uniform. Presumably the children that usually used this sports hall were playing elsewhere today, Marshall mused; it seemed unfair that they were being displaced for a lot of pointless political chatter, but all the sensible places that had been considered were still being searched for traps and hidden bugs; no-one thought that the Legion might have wired a tennis court for sound. Not that Marshall hadn't made sure that it had been discretely checked beforehand.

Cunningham was rolling his eyes at a comment from Green, who as usual seemed to have managed to say exactly the wrong thing; Montgomery – the only Jeffersonian there who was still wearing a uniform, a prediction Marshall took no satisfaction in having come true – was guffawing, taking a deep drink from his battered mug. Sanderson was the one that interested him the most; he wasn't saying very much, but he seemed to get to the point – to his point – very quickly with everything he did say. Looking around the group, Marshall sat back in his vacated chair.

"If you've finished chatting to your friend, Captain, we still need to decide on the location of this Triplanetary barracks," Green said.

"One of my crew is dead," Marshall replied. A look of shock flew around the table, largest on Cunningham's face.

"Who?", his Operations Officer asked.

"Spaceman Salazar. He found a booby-trap up on the moon, the hard way. Ryder and Carpenter are fine; rescue team on the way."

Howe frowned, rubbing his hand on his chin, "What were they doing on the moon anyway?"

"Geological survey party, Mr. Howe," Marshall replied. "Prospecting for titanium for repairs to our outer hull."

"My commiserations for your loss, Captain, but that's something we should have been consulted about first, I think," Green said. "That is, after all, Jeffersonian property."

Shaking his head, Marshall replied, "You assured me that I could take what I needed to repair my ship. One of my men has died, Mr. Green, and..."

Sanderson cut in, "Quite right, Captain. It's not as if we have – as yet – reached our moon. Would you be willing to share your survey data with us, though? It would save us time later."

Marshall saw a warning look from Cunningham a second too late, replying, "Certainly." Damn that Sanderson; that data would have been a useful bargaining chip in later negotiations. Green and Howe were nodding, and there was nothing he could do about it now except try and bring the meeting back under control.

"We have some new intelligence that I do intend to share; a microsecond before the explosion, a communications pulse was sent down here, to Jefferson. To a point a thousand miles up the coast, which I understand is in Caribbean territory."

A new addition to the group, a teacher named McIntosh, replied, "Surely that isn't a problem, Captain? One of your shuttles should be able to make it there quickly enough."

Cunningham rolled his eyes, "I suspect the Captain was considering that this area is claimed by another government."

The gray-haired man peered at him through his glasses, replying, "I thought we were at war."

"We are," Marshall said, "but that doesn't mean we can simply ignore territorial borders." Unless we have no choice, he thought. "We need to open communications with them immediately."

"Easier said than done, Captain," Montgomery said. "I sent a few scouts downriver this morning, though. Nothing back yet."

“Perhaps we should bring Pemberton in on this,” McIntosh suggested, frowning.

“Who?” Marshall asked.

With a snort, Montgomery replied, “He's a trader, runs the shipping line between here and the coast. And skims quite a bit off both ends, I assure you.”

“Mr. Pemberton is just a businessman, Captain Montgomery,” Green said with a wry smile. “I will happily contact him when he comes into town. Perhaps his connections may serve us where your riders fail.”

"There are more immediate concerns, I feel," Howe said, raising his hand as he looked around the room. "We are still a leaderless mob, at present. Civic order must be reestablished."

Montgomery rolled his eyes, "Damn it, we have better things to do than have an election. The shops are still open at the moment, and now the last of the legionnaires has been shot, the streets are quiet enough. We're still in the middle of a war at the moment."

"And we need strong civilian leadership to promote that war," Green replied, a steely look on his face suggesting that he knew full well who should be in charge of it.

"I will not acknowledge any government that does not have the consent of the people," Marshall said, looking squarely at Green. This sort of crap had come up time and again during the Interplanetary War; somehow the Confederation had danced around the issue without falling to dictatorship or collapsing into anarchy, though there had been a couple of narrow escapes.

Green puffed himself up, "This is an internal political matter, Captain, regarding the Government of Jefferson."

"The American segment of it, anyway. Unless the Tatars and Caribbeans are involved, this is simply the civic government of a city, nothing more than that," Marshall insisted.

Nodding, Montgomery added, “I think the farming settlements will want a say as well.” He looked at Green, “They are, right now, providing most of the military.”

“Is that a threat?”

Sanderson looked at Green and Montgomery, then back at the group, "The Captain is quite correct. I suggest that we select an interim Mayor of Yreka, to hold office for, say, three months, and that at the end of that time an election should be organized." Marshall couldn't see anything wrong with that, and the tone of the room seemed to be going along with the idea. Sanderson smiled thinly as he continued, "I suggest Mr. Howe; as head of the Chamber of Commerce he has already been elected, albeit by a limited electorate."

Howe looked around from side to side. It was obvious that he hadn't considered this possibility at all, and Green looked as if he was about to explode. Sitting back in his chair, Marshall admired Sanderson's artistry; he didn't have a stake in this decision, and who was running the civil government of the city didn't seem to matter that much as long as they were doing a good job and not getting in his way.

"I accept the nomination," Howe said.

"Captain?" Sanderson said, turning to him. "Would you object to running the meeting for a moment? As an outsider, no-one can question your neutrality."

Cunningham looked over at him, smiling as he shook his head. Another trap, and there just wasn't much he could do to avoid it. Now whatever decision this committee made was going to have the stamp of Triplanetary approval, whether he liked it or not.

"I think it's a splendid idea," McIntosh said.

"Very well, if there are no objections, I will take the chair. Are there any other nominations?"

Green looked around, waiting for someone to suggest him; when the silence in the room continued, he shook his head, obviously realizing that if no-one was going to nominate him, no-one was going to vote for him either. When there was no comment from anybody, Marshall nodded.

"Then I think we have it that Mr. Howe is Mayor of Yreka for the next three months, pending an election."

There was a brief, perfunctory round of applause that Marshall used to take a swig of coffee; Howe seemed to sit a little stiffer on his seat, and Green looked towards the exit, before turning back to the group. Sanderson just sat in his chair, smiling; this was exactly what he wanted, and Marshall could not figure out why.

"Thank you, Captain. I'll try and do my best," Howe began. "I think the first priority for us is the clean-up from the battle, making sure the city is fit to live in again, as well as supporting Captain Marshall in his fight against the Legion."

"Our fight, Howe," Montgomery said. "We need to get the militia organized on some sort of a proper basis, and that's a damn sight more important than anything else. The Captain and his boys can help, but this is our war and we have to win it."

"Quite right, quite right," the new Mayor said, much to Marshall's relief. "Organize as many men as you can."

"I could do with equipment," Montgomery replied, looking at Marshall; evidently the plasma weapons and body armor used by the espatiers was inspiring some envy. Not that Marshall was going to supply arms to a neutral power. That trap he'd seen well in advance.

"Medical supplies we can help with, and I'd like to get you integrated into our communications set-up as well, but I'm afraid that we haven't got any sidearms to spare – and with Alamo's fabricators tied up, I can't spare the capacity to make them."

"Fair enough. I guess it would take too long to get my guys up to speed anyway. I'll have words with Lieutenant Esposito, see what we can do to help."

"Something else, Captain," Sanderson said. "Captain Montgomery is still in our militia; you're going to need a liaison with the local administration."

"Can you do that, Sanderson?" Howe asked, looking around for any more objections. Neither Green or McIntosh wanted the job, that much was evident from the way they seemed to retreat into their chairs. "Then it is settled."

"I'm looking forward to working with you, Captain Marshall," Sanderson said, turning to him.

"Likewise," Marshall replied, trying to conceal his puzzlement. "I'd like to get a shuttle out to the capital of the Caribbean settlement as soon as possible."

"I'd be happy to accompany you and your team."

"Fine. Dawn tomorrow?"

"Certainly, Captain." Sanderson looked around the room. "I think this would be a good time to take a break."

Nodding, and eager to get out of the room, Marshall stood up, drained the last dregs of his coffee and walked into a side room, followed closely by Cunningham. He took a set on a pile of sandbags, shaking his head as the older pilot closed the door behind them, grabbing a rope swinging from the ceiling and leaning against the wall.

"How the hell did that guy trap me twice, John?" Marshall said.

Smiling, Cunningham replied, "He's a politician, and a good one. No shame in being beaten by a master. It could have been worse; we could have ended up with Green in charge out there. Howe strikes me as the sort who'd rather live a quiet life."

"Those mineral concessions..."

"It could have been worse," he shrugged. "I suppose some corporate suit might complain a bit, but they'll need our help to exploit them in any case. Heck, might even help – this way they know there is something out there to find, and it might encourage them to get some good corporate contracts."

"Don't be too sure they'll need our help for long. A century ago this was a spacefaring, a starfaring culture, and I'm going to bet that all of that knowledge is still buried down here somewhere. They've got the start of the industry they need – given a bit of clever negotiating, we'll still be in uniform when their first ship hits space."

His face locking, Cunningham replied, "Is that such a bad thing, though? We're going to need allies out here."

"All the more reason to get them into the Confederation, certainly." He looked around the room, shaking his head, "You know, when I was dreaming about leading a mission like this, I never thought it would end up with me sitting in an old gym discussing politics."

Cunningham looked over at the door, then back at Marshall, "We need to talk about Caine."

Holding up a hand, Marshall said, "I know. This wasn't what I expected. She's taking it about as well as I could have hoped, though."

"You're running the risk that she could crack."

Shaking his head, the young captain replied, "I don't think so. She's tougher than that, and death isn't a stranger to her."

"Responsibility for it is."

Marshall paused for a moment, thinking. "You think I should put Dietz in charge?"

"I think you should consider it. We're not talking about putting an officer back on the horse, she might have something deeper wrong with her. We don't carry a therapist on board – and you know, for the first time I'm actually regretting that."

"She'll survive, John. I'm certain of it." He smiled. "Hell, we both did."

"Not everyone is fit for that center seat. You know that." He sighed, continuing, "What happens if she does resign?"

"I'm not thinking about that right now."

Fixing his captain with a stare, Cunningham said, "You damn well should be."

"I know, I know. Let's just hope that it doesn't come to that."

Their attention was drawn to a soft, almost diffident knock on the door. It opened to admit Sanderson, who carefully walked in and closed the door behind him. He had a thin smile on his face, one which didn't tell Marshall anything. He'd hate to play poker with him.

"Captain, Lieutenant," Sanderson said, nodding.

Marshall looked up, "Meeting resuming?"

"Actually, the meeting has been ended for the day. I think Green's gone off to stir up some trouble, and Howe wants to get back to his bank. I'll try and make sure that the next meeting is in," he looked around the room, "more suitable facilities."

"We'd better get back to the war, then," Cunningham said, only half-joking.

"I just wanted to assure you that I was on your side."

"I didn't know there were multiple sides," Marshall said.

Leaning forward, Sanderson replied, "I'm on the side that wants organized, democratic government on this planet, Captain. I assure you, there was more than one side in that room." He straighted up, "If dealing with your people helps us avoid trading one tyrant for another, that's a price I'm more than happy to pay."

Marshall exchanged glances with Cunningham, then said, "I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Sanderson."

Turning, Sanderson began to leave the room, then stopped, "I'll see you at dawn for that flight to the coast, Captain." He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

"Great," Marshall said dryly, to no-one in particular.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The boat rocked gently back and forth as it slowly made its way upriver, the purr of the engine drowning out the sound of the creatures on either bank. Half a dozen espatiers worked on the deck as Orlova cast a wary eye around, her hand never far from the pistol in her holster; most of the men under her command were far more at home operating machinery than with the weapons on their shoulders. Sitting to her right, her eyes closed, was Elvira – her stepmother, she'd been surprised to learn a few weeks ago. With a start, she woke, looking around at the river.

"We are almost there. That headland, it is close to my village." She was smiling, evidently glad to be on her way home. As the boat made its way around a bend, Orlova could see a rough jetty sticking out into the water, a couple of wooden boats moored at anchor. A trio of fishermen were scrambling for weapons, but didn't seem to be in any hurry to use them.

Ivan Melnik, a Senior Spaceman who usually worked in the sensor division, turned to Orlova, pointing at the tree-line. "See that, Sub?"

Shaking her head, she replied, "What?"

"Communications antenna. Lashed to that big tree."

Following his finger, Orlova could see what he was talking about; it wasn't obvious, but there was about a meter of metal pole sticking out above the top level of the canopy. She looked at the guns more closely – they seemed newer than she might have expected, no trace of rust or wear. It might simply mean that they were careful about maintenance, certainly a requirement of the climate, but even so, it was potentially cause for some concern. If someone was arming the Tatar tribesmen, then that somebody might not have the same goals in mind as the Alamo crew. Elvira shouted something in Tatar at the fishermen, causing Orlova to turn her head in a hurry. Smiling, the young woman turned back to the officer, then waved her hand in the air a few times.

"It is well, Maggie. They will take us to the headman."

Melnik steered the boat towards the jetty, and Orlova braced for an impact; she had been insistent that her platoon learned how to operate the pair of boats they'd scavenged from Yreka, as she had no intention of taking unarmed civilians into a war zone, but their education had been rather briefer than she would have liked. Obviously the portly sensor technician had a natural talent, though; he steered them in gently, a couple of the soldiers grabbing ropes thrown to them by the fishermen and pulling themselves fast to the side of the jetty.

Elvira was first off the boat, not waiting for any signal from Orlova, and she raced ashore, hugging one of the fishermen and turning back to the soldiers. She must have noted the suspicious look in Orlova's eye, and she grinned, tightening her grip on the fisherman.

"Be calm, my daughter! This is Azat, my brother. Your uncle." Azat muttered a few words at her, and she quickly nodded. "He is pleased to meet his niece for the first time, and offers you the hospitality of his home."

"Thank him for me; I don't know if we'll be here long enough to take advantage of his generous offer, but if we are, I will certainly take him up on it." She turned to the soldiers. "Loganov, you take charge of the boat and maintain contact with the camp. Melnik, you're coming with me." A cheeky grin sprang onto her face. "I've always wanted to say this." Turning to Elvira, she said, "Could you tell him to take us to his leader?"

That produced a series of guffaws from some of the soldiers, but was met with only a blank expression by the Tatars. Elvira turned to Azat, and they had a brief conversation. Surreptitiously, Orlova glanced down at her datapad, but its microphone wasn't picking up enough of the conversation for it to translate. She didn't want to be too obvious, and Alamo didn't have any espionage equipment in its stores, a lack that she was intending to remedy the next time they went to anywhere civilized enough to provide it.

"He will take you to the hall. There you may speak with our leader, Ildar. He speaks English."

Orlova hoped that Elvira didn't see the sigh of relief; speaking through an interpreter was annoying, and even the best efforts of the computerized translation might miss nuances that she was going to need. If they were going to hold the fort they were establishing, this village was likely to be key; it was just ten miles away, and they knew the terrain a lot better than anyone in her platoon, or even the Americans down-river.

"Come on, Ivan," she said to her NCO. "Sidearms only." The two of them shrugged their plasma guns from their shoulders onto the deck, and one of the fisherman stepped forward, as if to take it; Loganov gave him a menacing eye, and the man backed off, all grins. Orlova couldn't blame them; under these circumstances, a plasma gun in the wrong hands could make someone the lord of all within range, at least until the power pack ran out of juice.

The jetty led to a narrow path through the jungle; Azat and Elvira took the lead, setting a pace that made it difficult for the off-worlders to keep up. It was obvious that a lot of effort went to keeping the path clear; pieces of dangling creeper were strewn on the ground, and a pair of machetes were embedded into a tree stump. After a short walk, they emerged into a clearing. Orlova looked up at the canopy, shaking her head; they'd gone to a lot of trouble to camouflage this place from detection, cutting trees whilst leaving the canopy itself intact. The effect left the village bathed in a green glow, the occasional sprinkle of sunlight flashing through.

Naturally enough, the two of them were the immediate center of attention. The village itself consisted of a couple of dozen huts, surrounding an open clearing with some penned animals and a larger structure in the middle. A group of children were in the middle of a lesson, but as soon as they saw the newcomers they raced away from the teacher and ran towards them, babbling in a combination of Tatar and English.

"We are trying to teach the children the language of the majority of this planet," Elvira explained. "When we were on Sagdeev, that was not necessary, but the times are different."

The ever-observant Melnik pointed at the chalkboard, propped up on a trestle; the children were evidently learning algebra, not something that would generally be required for a jungle dweller. These people had ambitions. While they might be hiding in the jungle for the present, that was not something that would last forever, and they were doing their best to prepare their children to face the future. The teacher, accepting the situation, patiently waited for the children to return.

Orlova looked around at the smiling, eager faces, "Who here can speak English?"

There was a chorus of cries of, "Yes!" from the crowd, and she glanced at Melnik, smiling.

"Where are you from, miss?" a bright-eyed young girl asked.

"I've come from the stars, young one," she replied.

Beaming, the girl said, "Can I go there?"

"One day, little one," Elvira replied. "For now you must return to your lessons."

A chorus of groans followed, but the children slowly filed away, back to their waiting teacher, who beamed a smile over at the two soldiers. She'd rubbed the algebra off the board, and was drawing an image of the local stars in its stead; evidently she'd decided to theme today's lesson based on their arrival.

"We ought to set up a recruitment post here," Melnik said.

Turning back towards the hall, Orlova replied, "In all seriousness, that might not be a bad idea. We ought to look into getting some materials down here from Alamo. Remind me to get that arranged before we leave."

"Certainly, sub." The two of them walked to the hall, through the open door and into a large room. Sitting on a throne in an obviously choreographed posture was a gray-haired old man wearing the remains of an old flight suit, a well-worn pistol at his belt; flanking him on his right was a matronly-looking woman, and a younger man stood on his left, a rifle strapped to his back. The man slowly pulled himself to his feet.

"Introduce yourself to the headman," the young man said.

Orlova replied, "I am Sub-Lieutenant Margaret Orlova, Security Officer of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo, and currently commanding the garrison we've established up-river. This is one of my men, Senior Spaceman Ivan Melnik."

The old man grunted, "And when he isn't wielding a gun, what does he do?"

"I'm a sensor technician, sir."

He chuckled, "And what brings you to our world?"

The two of them looked at each other; Orlova said, "We're here to help you fight the Legion, for the present. Though we are also happy to provide humanitarian assistance as well, where needed."

"Why?"

"Sir?"

"Why are you helping us fight the Legion? I think everyone on the continent saw your ship launch that attack, and I was briefed about your attack on the starport, but now that you have destroyed the satellite network, why are you remaining?"

"Do not give us any false words," the young man said. "We will know."

Orlova's eyes darted across the room; there was a frayed patch in a tapestry hanging behind the throne, and a little glint of a lens. "We are exploring this region of space to see what lies beyond; it is only recently that we learned that they might be human colonies out here. After visiting Sagdeev," she paused for a moment as the three Tatars looked at each other, "we found our way here. Where we found an orbital defense network beyond our current technical capability, as well as three populations being held captive by a fourth."

"Are you at war with the Cabal?"

Her eyes twitched, and she quickly debated what to say; the chief picked up on her pause, and said, "Do you know anything of the Cabal other than the name?"

Honesty trumped politics. "No, we don't. All we know is that there is something out here oppressing human colonies. If they are going to represent a threat to us, we need to know about it; if we can help others free themselves, so much the better."

"Tell me, do you speak with the words of your superiors, or are these yours?"

"They are mine. I know my commander feels the same way, though I could not dare to speak for the Senate."

"Politicians," the young man spat, "were one thing the Impactor rid us of."

"Yet I would have all of that back in a heartbeat, my son, and so would you, if it restored our world to us." He turned to Orlova. "If you can be honest with us, then we can work with you." He broke into a huge grin, "I am Ildar. This is my wife, Andrea, and my son, Timur. Welcome to our village."

Smiling, Orlova said, "Thank you. We can certainly use all the help we can get."

His hand rose, "Mind, this cannot be one-way. I will require your assistance as well. I can provide supplies, manpower, some equipment. And guides to help your people become acclimatized to this environment; we spent years learning some very hard lessons, and I would spare you the lives that they cost us."

"That sounds better than I could have hoped for. What would you like in exchange?"

The old man paused for a moment, then replied with words he had obviously carefully considered. "When I was a young man, I called a small, prefabricated hut on an airless world home. We loved it with all our hearts, but certainly this is a better place for a child to grow up. Clean air, real food, fresh water. And yet we have traded this paradise – and even with the Legion, that is what we have – for the future. I was a mechanical engineer, later a union leader. My boyhood dreams were of flying to the stars, to seeing what might lie beyond."

He noted her eyes twinkling, "Yours too, I see. My son was ten when we came here; he was hoping to become a doctor like his mother. Circumstances have forced us into a different path, but I venture that they might be about to change again. I became a grandfather last month, Miss Orlova. A little girl out there, healthy and strong. I would give her a better chance that I could give my son."

The young man's face turned red, and he looked up at his father with narrowed eyes, "My daughter is my responsibility, father."

"You would have her learn to use a spear, to make simple tools, to fish in the river?"

Orlova interrupted, "Naturally, we can provide some educational materials. Solar-powered computers, training software. Longer-term, we could probably arrange for some teachers to come out here."

Ildar nodded, "All of those things would be of benefit to us, but they are not what I had in mind."

"And what was that?"

He leaned forward, "I want citizenship in your Confederation, for myself and for my people. I am a greedy old man; I want them to have this world, and I want them to have the stars."

Orlova's eyes widened, and she looked at Melnik, who was as shocked as she. She turned back to the chief, "I'll...have to speak to my Captain."

Leaning back, the chief replied, "Take all the time you need. Tahir will provide you with the frequency of our transmitter." He smiled again, "We get all the use we can out of the technology we have.”

Leaning forward, Orlova asked, “What of the Cabal? That would be a greater enticement; anything you know would be vital.”

Shaking his head, Ildar replied, “I fear we know all too little. Ten years ago, their ships arrived, and they offered us the means of escape from the deathtrap our world had become; with reluctance, we accepted. All of us were transported here in a pair of large freighters, obviously old but reliable.”

“Herded like beasts in their hold,” Timur said. “They never let us see anything sensitive.”

“Upon our arrival, they turned us over to the Legion, placed us in a work camp.” He smiled, “They were not expecting the ferocity of our people. We escaped six months later, most of us, and made our way into the jungles, making them our greatest ally.”

Orlova could not hide her disappointment, “Is there anything more you can tell us?”

“I have already told you much; they have interstellar travel and are accustomed to moving large numbers of people, and are secretive to a fault; there is much they wish to hide. Their spacemen were talented in the art of silence; few of them ever spoke to us.”

Nodding, the young officer rose, “I should return to my post. I will convey your request to my commander, and ask him to make a quick decision.”

Smiling in reply, Ildar said, “Then may God go with you, young one.”

CHAPTER NINE

The briefing room seemed extremely empty to Caine; she'd taken her usual seat, leaving the head of the table empty. When Dietz walked into the room he had looked at the empty chair, over at Caine, and then taken his customary place. Quinn had cried off the meeting, at last report buried somewhere in the bowels of the laser array. It wasn't often he had a chance to look over it himself without remotes.

Dixon and Marshall were both teleconferencing, Marshall through a speaker, Dixon with a hologram that occasionally flickered off and on as the signal strength came and went. Matsumoto was sitting patiently, and Harper – at Caine's insistence, and after some 'encouragement' by Washington, was also there.

"Dixon, I think you need to start this one; could you tell everyone what you told me in your report?"

There was a brief pause as the signal raced back and forth from the moon before the pilot replied, "We found three more devices in the area, at all the obvious landing sites. It took some work, but we managed to disarm them; they're on their way back to Alamo for analysis, along with Ryder and Carpenter. Both of them feel fine, but I thought it best they get a full check-up before returning to duty. Once we had the entrance to that fissure cleared, I went down for another look. There's something down there, Lieutenant, some sort of artifact, and it's way, way down in the bowls of the moon. Our radar images aren't telling us much."

"What about the titanium?" Dietz asked.

"Amjad and Makala are getting the extraction equipment set up now. Thirty hours before our first yields."

"That's still our top priority, Lieutenant. Are there any other signs of possible sabotage?"

"Nothing we can find."

Harper broke in, "We thought that last time."

"Quite so, spaceman," Dietz said. "Nevertheless there is a reasonable prospect that we can safely extract the needed materials from the moon. Incidentally, I have completed my report on the incident at Lieutenant Caine's request, and I find no evidence that anyone on Alamo could have prevented the loss of Spaceman Salazar. I have also recommended Spaceman Harper for a citation for her conduct during the incident."

The nice words didn't make Caine feel any better. "Thank you, Lieutenant, I appreciate that," she replied, politely.  

"What about the artifact?" Dixon asked.

"How deep did you say it was?" Caine replied.

"About twenty miles down. Perhaps sixty miles of tunnels to get to it according to the radar mapping. It's going to be quite an expedition to go get it, Lieutenant, but we can definitely do it in the time. I've done some asteroid caving, and we can get all the equipment we need from stores – or from the fabricators."

Matsumoto turned to Caine, "I have reviewed Lieutenant Dixon's list, and the fabrication time required will be minimal; it will have no significant impact on the repairs. Mr. Quinn has queued the required fabrication time."

Shaking her head, the lieutenant replied, "Can we send an automated probe down?"

"Constructing something to do the job would take time; that would affect our repairs," the sub-lieutenant replied.

"I've got a team ready to go right now," Dixon said.

"No," Caine replied. "Our best option is to focus on the primary task at hand, and that's getting Alamo ready for space again. I certainly couldn't spare you in any case, Lieutenant; that fighter screen of yours is our only protection at the moment in case of attack."

"Fine, then send someone else; I suppose you are right about the fighters," Dixon said, "but we've got to take a look at this thing."

"The artifact – whatever it is, assuming it isn't some sort of booby trap – has been there for a long time, Lieutenant, and it can certainly wait a little while longer."

"I disagree," Dietz said. "I agree with you, Lieutenant, that Lieutenant Dixon cannot be spared from her duties on Alamo, but an investigation of the artifact could prove invaluable at this time. Captain," he spoke to the microphone, "I would like to lead the expedition myself. My investigations in the starport are not proving fruitful, and I should be able to find a couple of volunteers to accompany me."

"I couldn't agree more," Dixon said from the moon. "We've got the means, let's get it done!"

The microphone crackled, "You understand the risks involved, Dietz? The chances of rescuing you should this go wrong would be problematic, and Caine could easily be right about this being some sort of trap."

"I quite understand, Captain."

"Very well. Lieutenant Caine will assume joint command of the ship and station, Mr. Dietz will lead a three-man expedition to the moon, to depart as soon as possible. Don't take any unnecessary risks – this is important, but I doubt very much that the information you are likely to find is worth three lives."

"Very good, Captain," Dietz replied. "We'll leave in eight hours; I'll select from the crew assigned to the starport."

"Don't take anyone that might be essential to the repair work. Is there anything else?"

Matsumoto spoke up, "We've been ignoring the satellites throughout all of this, Captain. They are still there in orbit, albeit inert."

"And I think we'd all rather they be kept that way, Lieutenant. Hands off the satellites; that's a job I want a top engineering team to do, and the only one I have on hand is busy at the moment."

"Work is proceeding well on the ship, Captain," Caine said. "The outer hull is now mostly off, and we're about to transfer command and control over to the spacedock. That's scheduled in a couple of watches. We've finished the sensor upgrades that Mulenga wanted, and I think we're going to have the missile tracking modifications ready by the next watch."

"The life support systems have all been refreshed," Matsumoto added, "and Alamo is now fully fueled."

"Good, that puts you about on schedule. I think that's about everything for now, unless anyone else has anything?" When no-one replied, he continued, "I think I'd better be off, then; I have a shuttle to catch. Good hunting, Dietz."

The meeting effectively over, the officers stood up, beginning to file out of the room; only Dietz remained, sitting in his chair, looking at Caine very carefully as he waited for the last of the junior officers to leave. There was an odd look in his eyes she'd never seen before, perhaps a trace of sympathy.

"I was surprised, Lieutenant," he began.

She interrupted, "Surprised that I was opposed to your expedition?"

"Surprised you didn't ask to lead it. Your degree in archeology would have made you too obvious a choice to be turned down; Captain Marshall would probably have let you go."

Slumping in her chair, she replied, "I didn't think of it."

"You would have, normally." Dietz shook his head, "The very reason we are here, Lieutenant, is to acquire knowledge. Without that we would still be sitting back on Earth. Sometimes that means taking risks, and sometimes that means people die. That does not mean that we stop pushing outward, seeing what lies beyond. When I learned about this mission, I was exultant. It was everything I dreamed of when I first signed up for space duty."

The admission caught Caine by surprise; the normally recalcitrant Dietz had never opened himself up like this before, "It was for me as well. I didn't expect..."

"To have to go through what you did on the surface?" He paused, "It was a terrible thing you had to do. What were your alternatives? Those six lives gave themselves up..."

"For hundreds, I know," she abruptly interrupted. "This isn't a numbers game, not to me."

"Good. Every one of those lives matters, a thousand times more if you are in command. This is something I have observed in the past." He smiled, "Captain Marshall believes that I will soon have a ship of my own. Before I leave for the surface, I thought you should know that I would be honored to have you serve under me if that becomes the case. I rate you as a fine officer."

"Thanks, Lieutenant," she said, slightly baffled.

"It is worth it, Lieutenant. All of this,” he gestured around the room. “is worth the sacrifices. That is how I deal with my ghosts, and I have more than a few myself. All of us are here because of thousands of sacrifices. Our penance is to live our lives they way they would want us to, to make use of those sacrifices. Don't ever forget that. It is how I sleep at night."

"I'll try and remember that, sir. Thank you."

"Don't let anything stop you trusting your instincts, Lieutenant. From my observation, they are sound."

He smiled again, rose, and walked out of the room, leaving Caine shaking her head. She looked over the reports again, then down at her to-check list. It kept on rising, and perhaps dealing with the paperwork pile would take her mind off things. Then she smiled, an idea beginning to filter into her mind. Nodding to herself, she punched a button on the desk.

"Spaceman Harper, report to the briefing room on the double." Pondering, she tapped the speaker again, "On the double, spaceman!"

She waited for a moment, and the doors slid open, the green-haired hacker ducking her head inside, looking around. Caine gestured towards a chair, and with some reluctance, the young woman slid back into her recently vacated seat, leaning back and looking at the lieutenant.

"Forget something?" she asked. "At least my seat's still warm."

"No. How are the security upgrades coming?"

"To a standstill. Quinn's got all the bandwidth I need tied up at the moment. I was going to have a play around with the starport systems, see about getting those upgraded. Hell, if I can break into those systems, there are others who can as well. I've got some ideas, if you'd help me talk Quinn into giving me some fabricator time."

"No." Caine shook her head, "That's important, but I have a more important job for you to do."

Harper's left eyebrow raised. "Shoot."

"You were the only one who came close to picking up on that trap in time."

"My dad always said I was hopelessly paranoid. He was one to talk."

"Well, I think I can use it. We're all forgetting that basically, we're stuck helpless in a system that for decades has been the possession of an enemy power. Those booby traps on the moon could be the tip of a very large iceberg."

Comprehension dawned as Harper's face lit up, "You want me to be paranoid, right?"

"Got it. I want you to go over every scrap of data we've gathered, everything we've found up to now, and tell me if there is anything else we need to be worried about in this system. Take any resources you need that aren't being used in the repairs, and if you want anyone to assist you..."

"I work a lot better alone."

"I've noticed. If you think of anything, at any hour of the day or night, then I want to know about it instantly. If going through me will take to long, contact the bridge; I'll tell them to be on standby."

She shook her head, "First the Captain, now you. Why the hell is everyone trusting me all of a sudden?"

"Because you have the good habit of being right, and neither the Captain nor I want to waste that. Keep proving us right."

"Sure," she smiled. "I'll need a few days of ration packs."

"That's all?"

"And don't bother chasing after me this time. The Captain knows where I'll be if I'm needed."

Frowning, Caine nodded. With a big grin on her face, Harper bounded out of the room, leaving the lieutenant on her own again. She wondered what the pay-off would be on this particular gamble.

CHAPTER TEN

Marshall peered out of his window at the rolling jungle below, almost close enough for him to reach out and grab a chunk of foliage. The shuttle lurched from left to right, caught in turbulence; it really wasn't designed to fly this slowly, and the pilot – Steele, taking the opportunity to grab some flight time – was having to use the landing thrusters to race down the river. Sanderson was sitting in the seat in front of Marshall, looking as green as the jungle, and after a few seconds more he gave up and reached for the sick bag, racing down the isle to the toilet.

"At least there's something he isn't good at," said Cunningham, sitting to Marshall's left.

Nodding, Marshall turned back to the view, "I'm still surprised you didn't complain when I left the espatiers behind."

"We aren't planning an invasion, and it isn't as if we can't rain fire from the sky on demand."

Chuckling, the captain replied, "I really hope it doesn't come to that."

While he was looking out at the view, a part of him was still considering the report Orlova had sent in before he left. Giving the Tatar colonists Triplanetary citizenship was certainly an...interesting idea, and not one that those elements wanting independence for Jefferson would particularly welcome. Still, it would give them a foothold on the planet, though how much use it would be to have a single enclave surrounded by hostile forces was another question entirely.

Steele's voice crackled over the intercom, "Coming to the mouth of the river now, Captain. Approaching the settlement."

Marshall looked down beneath the shuttle as Cunningham scampered to the other side of the shuttle to see for himself. Rolling beneath them was a collection of rafts, anchored to the shore with thick cables that were visible even from this high up, tall ships scattered around amongst them rolling at anchor, some of them laden with cargo. Tiny stick figures raced around, and Marshall could make out a couple of anti-aircraft guns, primitive and obviously improvised, turning towards them; Steele had obviously seen them as well, and the shuttle danced to the side in a random walk evasive pattern.

The politician emerged from the toilet, still a little pale but with no trace on his clothes, which impressed Marshall not a little given the maneuvers Steele was pulling. Cunningham gestured down at the guns, shaking his head.

"I just saw tracer shots. They're shooting at us," he said, calmly.

Tapping the intercom, Marshall called Steele, "Is there anywhere good we can set down?"

"Quite a few places on those rafts, Captain. I don't know how fireproof they are, though."

"Good point." He paused, "Fancy trying a water landing?"

Cunningham's head turned quickly towards Marshall, "No-one's ever done that, skipper."

"The shuttle's rated for it. Dixon checked the specifications before we left."

Crackling over the intercom, Steele said, "I'm making my approach now. Going to try and set us down aside that big raft."

"What about the anti-aircraft fire?"

"Light caliber rounds by the look of it, sir." Almost on cue, there was a loud rattle from the rear of the hull, "Nothing that could penetrate our armor according to the warbook."

"Fine. Take us down, and switch me over to the exterior speakers."

A loud clunk. "You're on, sir. Mind if I concentrate on this?"

"Go ahead and make history, midshipman."

Cunningham was playing with his fingers, periodically looking at the closed cockpit door, longing to take the controls for himself, though whether he wanted to punch them away and out into orbit or be the one to make the landing, Marshall couldn't say. Sanderson simply looked straight ahead, trying to ignore the world around him. Marshall pulled a microphone from a slot on the wall, pausing for a second.

"We are unarmed, and friends, who seek only to speak with you and your leaders. We seek an alliance to fight the Legion."

Sanderson raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing as Marshall continued to speak, "We have come in peace, and if after we have talked you have no wish for further contact, we will leave the same way."

Marshall looked out at the water below; it was getting awfully close, spray kicking back as the landing jets played across the ground. Water landings had been simulated as a possibility before in structural tests, but he couldn't recall any examples of actual landings. Certainly not off-Earth, anyway. Steele wasn't letting that stop her; the shuttle gently descended towards the ocean, stabilizers flying out in all directions, and the largest raft just a few meters away. The banging on the outer hull had ceased, at least.

He counted heartbeats through terminal descent, the shuttle passing the point of no return, as waves began to lap back up at the heat shield. A few degrees to port, a few to starboard, and finally with a splash the shuttle dropped smoothly into the ocean, beginning to roll back and forth with the waves.

"Good work, midshipman," Marshall said into the speaker."

"We're drifting, sir. Away from the raft," the young pilot replied; Marshall cursed himself, realizing that he should have considered that. He pulled himself cautiously to his feet, grabbing one of the hand-holds as the shuttle continued to roll.

"Pop the hatch, midshipman."

"Sir, the hull might be too tough for their bullets to penetrate, but...

"I'm not. Get the hatch open." He turned to the others, "Better stand back, just in case."

Cunningham shook his head, stepping forward, "This is my job, sir."

"Open the hatch, Steele."

The passenger hatch cracked open, and the smell of salt and spray billowed into the cabin, the musk of damp wood and old rope, and a collection of exotic spices the like of which he had never experienced before; it was an almost intoxicating array of flavors assaulting his nose. A trio of dark-skinned, well-armed men were standing on the deck, one of them with a coil of rope in his hand. Looking with suspicion at the craft, he tossed one end of the rope through the hatch, and Marshall snatched it out of the air, tying it to a convenient handhold.

"Hold on," one said, "We'll get you a gangplank." A few seconds later, a wobbly piece of word slid down from the deck into the shuttle, rivulets of water spilling down onto the clean floor, mud scraped on the sides of the airlock. Without a word, Marshall stepped onto the slippery plank and scrambled onto the deck, taking the proffered arm of one of the men.

Somehow, Marshall figured that formality was not likely to be a priority here, "Daniel Marshall, Captain of Alamo," he said.

The man nodded, "The ship that flew overhead last week?" Marshall nodded. "Lyndon Pemberton. I gather you wanted my help," He pointed at a double-masted ship, sails furling in the wind while people moved around, unloading cargo. "You're lucky I was in dock; old Ron would likely have kept on shooting."

"Old Ron?"

Pemberton tossed his head in the direction of one of the anti-aircraft emplacements, where a tall, fat man with a long, straggly beard who looked as if he had stepped out of a history book was barking obscenities and orders with equal measure. He looked at Marshall with a sneer, then staggered over towards him.

"I want you off my raft," he said, spit flying from his mouth.

Marshall shook his head, "You're in charge?"

"I'm the dock-master."

Pemberton said, "No, he isn't. Not while Captain Pryce is at dock, anyway."

"The Council of Captains should remember who maintains their pretty boats when they are at anchor, whelp." He looked at Marshall, his eyes narrowing, "The last thing we need is another trickster offworlder trying to rob us blind."

In explanation, Pemberton said, "The Legion had the habit of taking what they wanted, without bothering with formalities such as payment, you see."

"The Triplanetary Confederation pays its bills, Mr. Chambers."

"We'll see." He turned and walked away, barking more orders at the gunners and anyone else who happened to be passing with range. Pemberton shook his head, turning back to Marshall.

"I apologize, Captain. Tell you what, I will make you an offer. I will take you to see Captain Pryce, in exchange for a look inside that shuttle of yours. My grandmother used to tell me stories of such things when I was a small child, and I should like to see them for myself, even if just once."

"If I had may way, Mr. Pemberton..."

"Lyndon."

Marshall smiled; some progress, at least, "Lyndon, if I had my way there'd be a starport here within a year."

"A nice dream, Captain."

"Dreams can come true, Lyndon. And my name is Danny."

Pemberton shook is head, grinning, "I'd better not get into the habit of calling Captains by their first names. Not healthy around here."

"Take me to see Captain Pryce, and Midshipman Steele will give you that tour." He ducked in, "Steele, you're staying with the ship. Take off at the first sign of trouble," and return with the espatiers, he left unsaid. "Cunningham, Sanderson, let's go."

Cunningham cautiously climbed up onto the deck, almost falling over on the slippery surface before Marshall threw out an arm to steady him. Sanderson had no such trouble getting to his feet, but the instant he left the airlock became the victim of a series of vicious looks.

"What's he doing here?" Pemberton asked.

"Mr. Sanderson is a representative of the Yrekan government."

Pemberton shook his head. "He can speak with Old Ron if he wants to. The Captain will only speak with sailors." Marshall expected Sanderson to say something, to react in some way, but he only shook his head, perfectly composed.

"Would it be acceptable for me to have a quiet look around, Mr. Pemberton?" he asked. "I will cause no trouble."

Pointing at one of his companions, he replied, "Giles will keep an eye on you."

"I don't need an escort, thank you."

"Yes, you do." Pemberton turned back to Marshall. "Follow me."

The two officers followed the sailor across the deck, stumbling over ropes, cables and crates, the subject of curious stares from everyone else on the dock. Marshall caught himself looking out across the emerald sea, reaching as far as the horizon, and instantly understood the appeal. He'd felt the same way when he'd looked through his first telescope; Pemberton caught sight of the expression and laughed.

"You've got the far look, Captain Marshall. We might make a seaman of you."

"To hell with a tour, Lyndon, we've got to get you up into orbit."

“I'll take you up on that, Captain.”

With another grin, the trader scrambled up another gangplank to his ship, pulling himself up by a handy rope; Marshall and Cunningham cautiously followed suit, jumping down after him to the deck. The crew looked at them in the same manner as the cargo loaders, but the red-haired man who pushed open a hatch and climbed out in front of them did not. Wearing a battered old uniform, obviously re-cut and repaired more times than could be counted, he squinted at the pair of them before looking over at Pemberton.

"More vagrants, mate?"

"These are from that starship, Captain."

Rolling his eyes, he replied, "I didn't imagine they'd washed up onto the deck, lad." Turning to the others, "You'd best come down with me, we can talk with something worth talking over." He grinned at the two of them as he walked back down the stairs; shrugging, Marshall followed him down, Cunningham behind him. Looking up at Pemberton, he saw the trader shaking his head.

“I'll be up here if you need me; I've got some cargo to care to.”

Nodding in reply, Marshall made his way down. The steps were as slippery as the deck, and only a few lights swung from the ceiling, flickering as the electricity came on and off, gave him a clue about where he was going. At the bottom of the steps, Pryce kicked open a door and stepped inside, crashing down onto a wooden chair.

Marshall had to stoop to get inside; Pryce waved towards a crate on the deck and he perched precariously on it. A gurgling came from the middle of the room as Pryce poured three drinks. Looking around the dark room, his eye was drawn to a chart on the wall, a map of the coastline that almost matched the satellite images they had. This one had several markings on it, scribbled in an incomprehensible scrawl.

"I'd imagine that you can give us better charts than that, lad," the old captain said. "My name's Pryce, and this is my ship."

"Captain Daniel Marshall, commander of Alamo. This is my Operations Officer, John Cunningham."

Nodding curtly, Pryce replied, "Happy to meet you, though there are many on this world who aren't." He took a sip of his drink; the smell was putting Marshall off for the present. "You were quite the topic at the last Captain's Council, though we knew nothing but that a madman was swinging a starship into a crazy trajectory. Is it true that the satellites are disabled?"

"Yes."

He nodded, "That night, all the legionnaires packed up and moved inland. There were never that many out with us anyway, I don't think they liked getting their feet wet." He grinned. "Out at sea, it was too easy to arrange accidents, and so few witnesses to them. They usually contented themselves with trading, anyway. Stealing, more usually."

"What do you trade?" Cunningham asked. "And who with? The Yrekans don't have much contact with you."

"None that we can help, lad," he replied. "They haven't got anything much we want, and the first time we met they tried to make us toe their line. Collect taxes, and rubbish like that." Pryce spat at the deck. "A Captain takes care of his crew. That's all the government we've ever needed." Shrugging, he continued, “We trade with them from time to time, of course. Pemberton works as our agent.”

Marshall smiled; he liked this old man. "Things are changing, Captain."

"The tides come and go, Captain, but the end result is usually the same. With the Legion gone, they'll have to be some sort of reckoning, and I get that you'll be wanting to open up trading with us. I'd have no objection, so long as you dealt honestly."

"I suspect that we'll be wanting more than that."

"Settlers, I reckon. That's not for me to decide." He sighed, "We're going to need another Captain's Council. I'll tell my radioman to call the gang together." Evidently Marshall's surprise showed. "Yes, we have radio. We just don't use it any more than we must. Most of us have secrets out on the waters, you see."

"Secrets?"

"They wouldn't be secrets for long if I told everyone, would they?" He sighed, "I suppose I can tell you this much; the Yrekans think that it is just us, them and the Tatars on this world. They are wrong. There are half a dozen more pocket colonies out there on the island chains that I know of, maybe more. All settled from the diaspora, back before the Big War."

"Half a dozen?" Marshall's eyes widened. "Where from?"

"All over Earth, Captain. The Cabal picked them up from all across this part of space, settled them here. Didn't give any of us a choice about it, though we'd all have taken it if asked."

"What do you know about the Cabal?"

"A question for a question. What are your intentions here?" Pryce's face was locked, his eyes fixed on Marshall.

"Ultimately, to bring this planet back into civilization. You could join the Confederation if you wished, or remain independent as you will. We both have a lot to offer each other."

"Your Confederation, lad?"

"Condensing a century of history down...we're the ones who stayed in the solar system. Mars, Callisto and Titan rebelled from the United Nations, and made it stick. We formed the Triplanetary Confederation, a group of independent colonies; Alamo is in the Triplanetary Space Fleet."

"And the stars? How far have you got?"

"This is the furthest extent of our explorations. We had no idea that any other humans had left the solar system until last year, when we encountered a lost colony on Ragnarok. Now...we're seeing what else lies out here."

"And you stumbled across us. I'll take you to the Captain's Council."

Marshall smiled, "Excellent. What are the co-ordinates?"

Pryce shook his head, his gleaming teeth locked in a grin, "No, I'll take you. I'd like a look at that shuttle of yours, but if you want us to trust you, it needs to go both ways or it doesn't mean anything. You come in my Lucky Lady, the two of you. Unarmed, but take a radio with you. I give you my word, one Captain to another, that you will come to no harm."

He stood up, draining the rest of his drink in one, "I reckon you'll want to talk about this. Meet me up on deck when you've made up your mind."

Cunningham looked at Marshall, nodding almost imperceptibly, and Marshall took a swig of his drink, instantly regretting it as his head started to swim from the cloying concoction, his mouth gagging from the bitter aftertaste.

"What the hell is this stuff?"

"Just a shot of grog. You'll get used to it."

Shaking his head, Marshall replied, "I don't need any time to decide. We'll go with you. We'll just have to pick up a couple of bits and pieces from the shuttle, and then we can be on our way."

Clapping him on the shoulder, Pryce nodded, "You're a captain at that. I'll arrange quarters for the two of you. We'll set sail when you come back."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Dammit, you should have cleared it with me before you sent them," Orlova yelled at Zabek, her voice reverberating from the plastoform roof of her makeshift office. In front of her, the young midshipman looked at her feet, her face red, before looking back up at the sub-lieutenant.

"Sergeant Forrest approved it, ma'am. I looked over the topographical maps again, and that rise looked like the perfect position to set up a forward observation post."

"So you sent three troopers with no experience of jungle fighting out into the bush by themselves to set up the equipment. You did this twelve hours ago, and the first I hear of it is arriving back at base to learn that three of my men are now six hours overdue."

Her jaw locked, but her eyes trembling, Zabek responded, "Ma'am, you left me in command."

Orlova sighed, and looked up at the roof, shaking her head. "Midshipman Zabek – never mind those pips we lent you, it's still Midshipman – your decision may have cost the lives of three men. You took it upon yourself to take an action without consulting the garrison commander, without consulting the company commander. There is a time and a place to make that sort of a decision, Midshipman. That is not now." She sighed. “It isn't that important a job, Zabek. Not worth three lives.”

The young woman was looking from side to side, her hands twitching. A part of Orlova, a very large part, wanted to say something to console her, something that would help her get over the pain she was feeling, a pain that she knew all too well. She couldn't; if she was going to break, now was the time to do so. The example of her friend up on Alamo was far from lost on her. She tried to conjure up the ghosts of Marshall and Cunningham as she addressed the young officer.

"Zabek, you broke the chain of command. It exists for a reason, principally that inexperienced officers like you don't have the experience to operate independently except in dire circumstances. You don't do it on a whim, you don't do it because you finally have a command of your own and want to see what you can do. Those three men have families, and there's a good chance I'm going to have to write some letters to them now."

"Ma'am, I..."

"I have not given you permission to talk." Orlova looked down at the young woman. Chronologically, she was less than a year younger than her; Orlova felt decades older. "You scraped your way through the Academy back on Mars, spent your time on Alamo breaking even. Why?"

Defiance flashed across the midshipman's face, "Because people like you kept telling me I couldn't. My instructors, my parents, even my lover all said I wasn't going to make the grade. And I guess they were right." She turned to leave the room, the back of her neck reddening.

"Turn around, midshipman. I haven't dismissed you." She spun on her heel to look at Orlova.

"What right have you got to lecture me, anyway? You never even went to the Academy, you got yourself mustanged in after one mission. It's all come so damn easy for you. I had to work like hell every minute, every second, just to break even."

"On my first mission, when I was a Spaceman, I had to lead a charge down a hill and order a man to give up his life to accomplish the mission. On my second, I got to watch a man I admired sacrifice himself to prevent a war. On my third, I had to lead a group of boys on a suicide mission on the chance that Alamo could pull off a miracle." She was talking to herself more than the midshipman; those remarks had hit home. "You know, you are right. I got lucky. I found a ship where I could make a difference."

Shaking her head, she continued, "Do you know why you are out here, Midshipman?"

"No, ma'am."

"Because Lieutenant Esposito and I rated you as the top midshipman for field duty."

Surprise flashed on her face, "I thought you wanted me out of the way."

"Bull. Varlamov's sitting on a near-derelict spaceport running work gangs, Steele's playing chauffeur for the Captain. You are where we expect the action to be, if there is any."

"Why?"

"I didn't go through the Academy, so I can't say this first-hand, but I do know this – there's no way to tell a good officer from a merely competent one in the classroom. Any good training program can make a competent officer. To become a good one takes something more." She paused. "What were you about to do to find the missing team?"

"I was going to take a fire team out to take a look. Myself, Forrest, Blake and Grant."

"Good call. I'm making one change."

Zabek nodded, "You're going to lead it yourself."

"Got it in one. You just might get there yet. Go out and send Forrest and the others in here, and then get the gangs to work reinforcing the perimeter."

Zabek turned and saluted, "Yes, ma'am."

Before she left the office, Orlova said, "I wouldn't get so angry if you didn't have what it takes, midshipman. Which is also why you are still here and not on the next boat home. You still have my confidence."

Pausing at the door, the young officer replied, "Thank you, ma'am. I'm sorry about what I said earlier."

"I didn't hear a thing. Now get out of here."

Orlova sat down behind her desk, looking over the satellite images of the jungle. The worst part of it was that on one level, Zabek's plan actually made some sense; if she'd been certain that there was no imminent risk of attack it was something she might have done herself. Sending an unguarded three-man engineering team, a group of soldiers with no real experience or serious training, that was a bad call.

Still, under normal circumstances, with proper aerial surveillance and air support, it wouldn't have been that bad an idea, especially with the limited manpower they had. To be fair, such events were buried deep in their operating procedures – no-one had ever expected to fight this sort of a battle. All of them were starting from scratch.

There was a knock on the door; Orlova grunted, "Come in," and Forrest stepped into the room, flanked by the other two privates. All of them were old friends of hers, all three of them had been with her on the Ragnarok mission. She couldn't believe how old Grant looked;  the last time they had fought together he had been a fresh-faced young man. Now his face bore a pair of scars, a permanent reminder of his battle on that snowy moon.

Forrest saluted, "Ma'am, may I say something first?"

"I understand." Orlova looked up, "You are as guilty as Zabek, you should have seen the danger, should have given better advice. Does that about sum it up?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"All of that is true. But unless I missed something, Zabek is the officer and you the NCO. That means it was her responsibility and her mistake, and I consider it as such. If you think that unfair, then resolve to do better next time."

"May I speak freely, ma'am?" The old veteran smiled thinly at her as she nodded. "You've really grown up this last year. Takes a rare officer to talk to an NCO like that."

"I'm glad you approve." She pointed down at the map. "There's an obvious way through down the river that I have no intention of taking. The engineering team will undoubtedly have followed that path, then cut inland here." She gestured with a hacking motion. "We'll go through the bush, parallel to the path. Close enough to hear someone crying for help, not close enough to be seen."

Blake whistled. "That's going to take a lot longer, ma'am."

"Better late than dead, Private. We strike to the observation site and then head right back for the river. Fire off a flare and one of the boats can pick us up. Any comments?"

Forrest nodded, "None from me, Sub. Looks watertight."

"Couldn't we just take a boat upriver?" Blake asked. "We'd get there a hell of a lot quicker."

"You just don't want to get those new boots of yours muddy," Grant said.

Smiling, Orlova replied, "If there's someone out there, I want to give them a nice surprise. If we go down the river on a boat they'll hear us coming with enough time to melt into the undergrowth."

That made the sergeant frown, "Ma'am, they know this terrain a hell of a lot better than we do. Most likely they would be the once giving us the surprise."

Orlova reached under the desk, pulled out her plasma rifle, and dropped it down with a clatter, "Peace through superior firepower, Sergeant."

"Doesn't work if there's a sniper about," the sergeant pressed.

"In that terrain?" Blake said. "We can't see ten meters through that undergrowth."

Grant looked nervously from side to side, "Ma'am, I know we've got to find out what happened to Dobson and the others, but is the ambush realistic? We could just strike in from the river, bring them home, and head back."

Looking at the three of them, Orlova shook her head, "Then we cede all of the initiative to them. They know this jungle better than we do. Today. We've got to change that, as best we can."

The door opened, and the lithe figure of Tahir walked into the room, looking around at the soldiers.

"Am I interrupting you?" he said in his accented English.

Orlova's eyes widened, "I didn't even know you were here."

"I arrived a few moments ago; Ensign Zabek suggested that I might be of use to you."

That made the young sub-lieutenant smile. Evidently her midshipman was beginning to learn. "You can indeed. Three of our men are missing, out on this hill here."

The Tatar peered down at the map, nodding. "I will leave at once, and return by nightfall with news of your men. If I can borrow a radio, I can tell you if they require medical assistance." His tone did not suggest that he considered that at all likely. In her heart of hearts, neither did Orlova.

"That isn't how it's going to be. I'd like you to lead the four of us through the jungle."

"Loaded down with all of that equipment, and weapons such as those? They will see you miles away, hear you still further."

"Perhaps, but they are our men." She placed her hands on the desk, and continued. "The four of us are going, that much is settled. The only question is whether you are going to accompany us or not."

The young hunter raised an eyebrow at that, but nodded, "Very well."

"Thanks. We've got to learn the jungle if we are going to fight in it. This is as good a time as any to start."

"I suppose there is some wisdom in what you say. Nevertheless it feels as if I am trying to teach a child to swim by throwing him in the river without a rope."

"Draw what equipment you need from the stores."

Tahir nodded, and wordlessly left the room. Silence descended as the four of them did anything over than look into each other's eyes, examining the map, the walls, the gun. Finally it was Forrest who said what they were all thinking.

"Sub, do you trust him?"

Orlova sighed, and replied, "I don't think we've got very much choice but to trust him. We've got to make some friends on this planet. We certainly have enough enemies to go round." She shook her head again. "You'd better go over to stores yourself and get kitted up. Remember that we're traveling light."

"A light pack certainly sounds good to me," Blake said, a cheeky grin on his face.

"Dismissed," Orlova said, watching the three of them as they left the room, then turning back to face the map. She was about to lead three men into the jungle, led by a man she had met the day before who she suspected didn't like them very much, to face an unknown group of enemies who had probably already killed on team out there in terrain they knew better than she knew the corridors of Alamo. Perhaps she wasn't so much smarter than Zabek after all.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Her head swimming as she read the report on the datapad, Caine looked up at Dixon, hanging from a handhold above her desk. The pilot swung slowly back and forth, waiting for her to finish.

"This report says nine to twelve days to clear the rockfall. How long is it actually going to take?"

"I think we can do it in three. I had a look at the tunnel myself before coming back. It's a confined space, not much room to work, but if we can work in shifts we should be able to get them out." She smiled, "Those engineers are always far too conservative."

Shaking her head, she continued, "And Dietz and the others?"

"They were well clear of the collapse, at least half a mile ahead before the roof went down. There's a good chance they didn't even know anything was wrong until they missed the regular check-in time. They've got enough supplies for three weeks down there, so there isn't any particular hurry."

"Except that I don't like having three crewmen trapped in an underground complex for any longer than I can help," she sighed. "I see you've drawn from the security section for the rescue party."

Dixon shrugged, sending her bobbing up and down. "They weren't doing much over there on the spaceport anyway. We need all the hands we can get if we're to keep to the repair schedule, and Jack's already complaining about all of these distractions."

"Fine. Send Petty Officer Washington to command it; Harper will just have to work unsupervised for a while."

Shaking her head, the pilot replied, "I've got the caving experience, Lieutenant. I ought to be commanding this party."

"You are also one of the few remaining senior officers I've got, not to mention that if we run into any other problems, we might need those fighters of yours."

Just as Dixon was beginning to reply, sirens sounded throughout the ship, sending them both dashing to a status monitor. This sound was one that Caine had been dreading since Marshall had left for the surface, the double-pulse that called the crew to battle stations. Caine looked over at Dixon, the pilot's face turning white.

"Get your fighters in the air yesterday."

Looking over at the alarm for a second, then back at Caine, she nodded. "On the way."

Tapping a button on the desk, Caine said, "Bridge, this is Caine. What the hell's going on up there?"

The normally calm voice of Kibuki replied, his words all running together, "A ship just jumped into the system at the fourth planet. Unidentified."

"I'm on my way. Get our fighters in the sky as soon as Dixon reports readiness, and have what senior officers we have report to the bridge on the double. Harper as well."

"Yes, ma'am."

Caine glided down the corridor, swinging frantically from handhold to handhold, knowing that every second could count. She hastily tried to conjure up a picture of the system in her head, attempting to work out what sort of a potential threat this mysterious unidentified object might post.

The elevator was waiting for her at the end of the corridor, sent by the bridge, and she swung in with a single movement, pushing off on the far wall as the doors slid shut behind her. She pulled out her datapad, calling up a status report that she hastily scanned – large sections of the ship hadn't made it to battle stations, some of them didn't have any personnel in them to make the attempt. Most of the remaining crew was on the starport anyway, waiting for the skin of the ship to be replaced; only a few key areas were inhabitable at all.

The doors opened, and she pushed out onto the bridge, sensing a dozen pairs of eyes on her, watching as she smoothly glided towards the command chair. None of this felt right to her; she ought to have been the one watching Marshall come onto the bridge, waiting to see what he would do to save the situation. As she sat down and strapped herself in, the ship shook three times, and the three fighters flew out of the spaceport to take up a defensive formation outside. Looking up at the nervous watch officer, she silently composed herself.

"Report, Mr. Kibaki."

"Spaceman Harper picked up an echo when she was running some scans of the outer solar system, and we determined that a dimensional event was taking place. A ship emerged less than a minute later, coming out close to the fourth planet. They scanned the starport immediately; they know we're here."

Frowning, Caine turned to Harper, swinging above Tactical, "What were you looking for out there?"

"I figured that other planets of the system might have resources that were being exploited. We never did get out that far."

"Change in target aspect, ma'am," Yorkina said from her sensor station. "Vessel is changing orbit, I think it's heading for the egress point."

Kibaki's mouth opened, and he looked silently at Caine, "They only jumped into the system a few minutes ago. They can't be planning another jump now, the hendecaspace drift..."

Harper shook her head, "Obviously they've got better dimensional compensators than we do." She leaned over Yorkina's shoulder, "They're picking up some speed, as well."

"Ortega," Caine said, turning to the communications station, "Put me onto them. All standard frequencies, and put it into as many languages as possible. I want to give them every chance possible to hear us."

The young technician worked a few controls, frowning at the translation database, "You're on, ma'am."

"This is Acting Captain Caine of the Triplanetary spaceship Alamo. We send greetings, and wish to initiate peaceful contact." Turning to Yorkina, she said, speaker off, "I want to know everything there is to know about that spacecraft, as rapidly as possible."

"Already working on it."

"Tactical track completed," Matsumoto said. "They could be here in five days, ma'am, assuming current acceleration profile."

"Plenty of time to prepare them a nice surprise."

A holoimage of the mysterious spacecraft flicked onto the bridge, replacing the display of the planet, and Caine drifted over towards it, scrutinizing every detail. A double-domed ship linked by a stubby central corridor, a ring of engines around the rear dome, the forward dome festooned with sensors and scanning equipment. A dozen bays that could be designed to launch shuttles – or fighters. No name, but a painted number '5' on the rear hull, faded orange on the gray metal hull.

"I'd like Mr. Quinn's opinion on this, get it down to his station," she said to Ortega.

Kibaki drifted over to her side, "I make it a prospector, not a warship. Harper's hunch was right," the spaceman grinned at the mention of her name, "by the looks of it. I'd say that there is something on that planet they want, and we just happened to be here."

Turning to Ortega, Caine asked, "Any response to our message, spaceman?"

"No, ma'am, and I've been repeating it constantly in more than a hundred languages. No reply, and no evidence of transmissions at all."

Harper looked over at the technician, "What about a tight-beam? To the satellites?"

Caine's eyes widened, but Ortega shook her head, "They're far enough away that we'd probably pick it up."

“And the other way?”

“Planet to ship?” The communications technician shrugged. “No way we'd intercept that.”

"No evidence of change to satellite aspect," Yorkina said, looking up from her station with relief on her face. "Unidentified ship is gaining speed, acceleration stable. Egress point in one minute, ten seconds."

"Call the Captain," Caine said.

"I can't raise anyone on the surface, ma'am."

Caine's eyes darted away from the screen to the technician, "No-one at all?"

Her mouth opening and closing for a second, she replied, "No senior officers, ma'am. Captain Marshall and Lieutenant Cunningham are out of Yreka, and Lieutenant Mulenga is out at the excavation, underground."

"One minute to egress," Yorkina called out.

Kibaki frowned, looking over at the sensor operator, "Where else could they be going on that vector?"

"Nowhere in system. I'll run a scan along their course."

"Wait until you are sure they are staying in system," Caine ordered. "I want everything we've got looking at them right now."

"I still can't believe they're going to do it," Kibaki said.

Harper laughed, "They've got weapons decades ahead of ours, you don't think they might have better FTL tech as well?"

Caine looked over at the hacker; she might be insubordinate, but she was also absolutely right. There was no telling what technological advantages that ship might have, and if this was a civilian ship – and by the looks of it, a rather old one – the military vessels of this unidentified group would likely be even more advanced. There was silence on the bridge as the ship crossed over to the hendecaspace egress point, and with a bright blue flash, disappeared. Kibaki was shaking his head, unbelieving.

"They did it," Matsumoto whispered.

Silence continued to reign on the bridge, broken only by Harper making her way over to the unused tactical station, starting to pull up survey records. Caine drifted over to the spaceman, putting her hand on her shoulder.

"What are you looking at, Harper?"

Not looking up from her work, the spaceman replied, "I'm calling up the long-range sensor records of that planet. If there were there to prospect they must have been prospecting for something."

Caine frowned, "So?"

Looking up, Harper replied, "If we can work out what, we should send someone out to take a look. There might be mine workings or something like that out there, some sort of evidence that could tell us where they come from. Maybe abandoned equipment, or at least traces of something that might give us a lead."

Nodding, Caine said, "Fine. Not a shuttle, though; we're about out anyway supporting the rescue efforts on the moon and the surface party. Get a probe away as fast as you can." She stabbed down at a button on her console, "Dixon, this is Alamo Actual."

"We saw that flash, Lieutenant."

"Get back as fast as you can." She pushed another button, "Mr. Quinn, report to the bridge on the double."

Quinn emerged from the elevator as the fighters began to dock a few moments later, clutching his favorite battered old datapad in his hand, an outline of the unidentified vessel on it. He fumbled slightly, missing a handhold in his eagerness, and Kibaki grabbed his belt as he went sailing past, pushing him in the direction of a chair.

"This vessel is amazing, Lieutenant. We've not used the spherical design in a long time. The double-sphere technique has some real advantages, but..."

Caine rose a hand. "The analysis is going to have to wait, Lieutenant. We don't have the time now." She looked back at the display. "They aren't that far ahead of us. We can manage a dimensional transfer of about seven days, I doubt they could do much better." Pausing, she looked around the room. "There are a couple of stars within four days of here. I'd say we can expect a visitor of some sort in eight or nine days, and I don't think they'll send a prospecting vessel this time."

"Eight or nine days?" Quinn's eyes widened. "Lieutenant, do you have any idea what you are about to ask me to do?"

"Yes."

"The skin is off, and getting the new one laid down will take weeks. We haven't even finished fabricating it yet. All the internal system upgrades aren't completed, the laser needs some serious repair work, half the power transfer linkages are shot."

"I know."

Quinn sighed, shaking his head, "I never thought I'd ever say this, Lieutenant, but I don't think that it can be done. Not if we had a full work crew and were drifting off Mariner Station, not pulling twenty-four hour shifts."

Something was changing inside Caine, a resolve she thought she had lost beginning to appear. For once it was extremely simple, now all the decisions had been taken from her, and she knew precisely what had to be done.

"Mr. Quinn, you have eight days to get Alamo to flight status."

"I'll never get her fit for a hendecaspace jump in the time."

She shook her head, "I'd say you've got eight days to try." Unspoken was a thought in her head; Dietz would be back well within that time. Whatever decision was going to have to be made, at least she wasn't going to be the one that had to make it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Orlova grunted as she pushed back another heavy branch, the rain pouring down the neck of her uniform, droplets flicking back at her. Tahir looked at her, shaking his head in contempt; his top had been soaked almost instantly, but it didn't seem to be affecting him at all. When the standard espatier field uniforms were designed, they were contemplated for shirt-sleeve environments. Cold-weather clothing they had, but even that had been improvised from emergency spacesuits. A committee was designing a special Ragnarok uniform, and presumably another would be formed for Jefferson in due course. Under normal circumstances Alamo might have provided something appropriate from historical stock, but Quinn had been guarding the fabricators like a jealous husband.

Shaking the water from her hair, she pushed forward down the trail, narrowly avoiding putting a foot into a steaming pile of animal droppings. Despite being soaked, she was thirsty; the temperature was rising as they closed upon noon, and the humidity was beginning to get to her. Blake and Grant were openly grumbling, and while Forrest wasn't saying a word, the old veteran's forehead was caked in sweat, and his breaths were coming more and more rapidly. She raised a hand.

"We'll halt here and take a break. Tahir, how far have we come?"

He looked around at the dense undergrowth, "About a mile in that last march. I'd say we're getting close to the observation post."

"Seven hours," Blake said to himself. "And seven hours back again. Sub, couldn't we go along the river? Hell, I could call in for someone to pick us up."

"I've already gone through that, Private. The whole point is to surprise anyone else out here." She took a deep drink of water. "Besides, we've got to acclimatise to this sooner or later."

"We need to update the training program," Grant said, looking around at the jungle. "We were trained in spaceship warfare, heavy stuff wearing a spacesuit. Nothing like this."

Forrest chuckled, "You ought to be grateful, lad. No heavy spacesuit to carry around in all of this gravity. You'd be bent double."

"Perhaps I should go ahead," Tahir said, looking at the winded espatiers. "I could scout around the perimeter, see if there was anyone lying in wait."

"We should stick together," Orlova said.

Shaking his head, the scout replied, "I would have a far better chance of gaining the element of surprise working alone." He gestured towards a pair of trees; it took Orlova three looks to see the small path between them. "I can work my way where you cannot. If you head down this hunting track towards the observation site, I will meet you at the far end."

Without waiting for Orlova to agree to his plan, he rose, grabbing his gun and silently moving into the undergrowth. She frowned; they really needed the assistance of their guide, but he wasn't under her command. Blake and Grant were too busy recovering to care that much, and Forrest was pulling out a nutrient bar, wolfing it down in half a dozen quick bites. Orlova smiled; they were surrounded by real food out here in the jungle, and her sergeant was preferring to take his chances with processed junk. That wouldn't last. If Jefferson joined the Confederation, it was going to end up one of the most popular garrison postings for the food alone.

Looking around again, she pulled herself to her feet. "Let's get moving, guys. Blake, you take point, Grant gets the rear."

Grumbling, the two privates took their assigned positions and the little group continued to hack their way through the jungle, the rain continuing to beat down on them, the ground turning to soft mud that squelched around their boots; more than once Orlova had to grab onto a tree to prevent herself from falling over, and none of the others were faring any better.

Gradually the path began to open out a little, and she stopped with a start as a glint of metal caught her eye. Holding up her arm to get the column to stop, she leaned down, pulling it out of the mud, rubbing it clean on her sleeve. It was a bullet, still gleaming, unused – presumably dropped from someone's pocket. Grant waved something else in the air, a ration pack with French writing on it.

"We're getting close. Be ready."

The group cautiously advanced down the path, their senses all ready to respond to the slightest movement, the slightest vibration. A snatch of bird song sent Grant's head tossing skywards, the crack of a twig against a stone drew their gaze to Forrest's boots. With their guns pointed and at the ready, they made their way into the clearing, and Blake screamed, a cry that echoed around the forest. Looking down on them from three tall trees in the heart of the clearing were the bodies of their comrades, gently swinging by their necks, blood splattered across their tunics.

"Calm down, lad," Forrest said, grabbing Blake by the shoulders. "Calm down. There's nothing we can do to help them now."

Orlova closed her eyes, then looked down at the jungle floor, cursing under her breath. Forrest and Grant moved forward, pulling knives out of their belt to cut them down, Blake sitting slumped in the mud underneath a tree.

"Wait," Orlova said. "I want a record of this." She pulled her datapad out of her tunic and took a series of pictures of the three of them. "Go ahead."

As the two troopers gently lowered the trio to the ground, a figure emerged from the undergrowth – Tahir. He looked over at the bodies and shook his head, then examined them more closely, mumbling under his breath in what Orlova presumed was Tatar. He turned to Orlova, sorrow in his eyes.

"Typical Legion terror tactics. Intended to inspire fear into their enemies." He turned to Blake, "If you remain sitting in the mud, they win a victory."

"Where?"

"There are tracks moving towards the river. I suspect that is how they came in, drifting on the current. Very silent."

"In and out the same way. That suggests..."

"That there are likely other parties scouting ahead right now. Sub-lieutenant, I would recommend the most expedient means of returning to base, especially if you wish to recover these bodies. I would recommend burying them here..."

Grant said, bitterly, "We're taking them home."

Inclining his head, Tahir replied, "That is your decision; I will not judge it." He walked over to a thin tree, taking out a machete, and started to hack away at it, cutting diagonally into the trunk. As the four of them watched, the tree toppled onto the jungle floor with a loud crack, sending a host of creatures scurrying for new cover in the shadows.

"What are you doing?" Forrest asked. "Everyone for miles could hear us."

Wiping his hand across his forehead, the hunter said, "Everyone for miles has heard you already. I'm preparing a stretcher to carry them out of here and down to the river."

"Can we help?" Orlova asked?

Shaking his head, "I know this land, you don't. I know what trees to cut, what leaves to take, what vines to pull. You're better off keeping watch."

"You don't want us here, do you?"

He looked up, teeth bared through a savage smile, "No, I don't. You know how I spent my childhood? Sitting in a leaky metal can watching oxygen monitors, wondering if I was going to wake up in the morning. People were dying as all of our systems failed, one after another. I'd have spent my life tinkering with broken machinery, trying to squeeze a little more life out of it."

Orlova looked down at him. "It must have been terrible."

"I didn't understand. Don't you see, Sub-Lieutenant..."

"Maggie."

He nodded. "Maggie. I thought it was normal. I thought that's how childhood was meant to be, I didn't know that there was something more to it. When we came here, it was weeks before I dared to leave the prefab huts in our settlement. I was terrified." He smiled, "I came to revel in it, Maggie. This is my home, and I want no other. I want my daughter to grow up to know what it is to breathe clean air, to walk in the forest, to swim in the river. For all your technological marvels, you cannot offer me that."

She shook her head, "I've seen it myself. This place," she looked around, "is different from everything else I've ever known."

Tahir started to hack away at a second tree, chips of wood flying through the air. "I have no hatred for your people, and I certainly have no love for the Legion. I'll help you fight them, but I have no wish to become part of a star-spanning alliance. I just want my village, and my people, to be safe."

Kneeling on the muddy ground, Orlova said, "And what if your daughter has other ideas?"

"To be enticed by the luxuries of the world outside? That's her choice. But my father would have us leave here. You should have heard him talking after you left, talking of going back to Earth, live in cities again." He barked a laugh. "We can have all we need right here."

"We won't take that away from you."

"Really?" he said, frowning. "You mean that your corporations won't come to exploit our land, to start intensive farming, to clear the jungle to grow crops, to tear the minerals from the desert, to dam the river to strengthen the harvest, then to build the cities that will be filled with people who don't understand." He looked up at her, mud splattering down his cheeks as he sorrowfully shook his head, "I had time to read plenty of history, Maggie. I know what we did to Earth, and is it really any different now? I might be a century out of date, but our ancestors were fleeing a nuclear war. That cannot be allowed to happen here."

She looked down at the ground, "The UN is trying to clean up Earth."

"Why let Jefferson be destroyed in the first place?" He shook his head. "No. You spacefarers can have your technological civilization. Out there you need it, and I acknowledge that there is meaning out in the stars. But we have no need of it here."

The second tree crashed to the ground, and this time none of the guards so much as flinched. With well-practiced ease, Tahir pulled down a cluster of vines from the undergrowth, cutting them to length with his knife with a few smooth actions, then started to lay them out to form a lattice between the tree trunks, wide enough to carry all three bodies."

"You want to leave a marker here, something like that?" Forrest asked.

"How long would it last in the rain and the mud? We'll paint their names on Alamo's Memorial Wall. That's were they belong." She turned to Blake, "While we're here, get the perimeter sensor set up."

While Forrest, Grant and Tahir strapped the three bodies to the makeshift stretcher, Blake pulled a cord from his pocket, looping it around a tree, and then strapped a small metal box to it, tapping a pair of controls to activate it. Tapping his foot on a nearby root, he waited for the test cycle to complete, and then pulled his datapad out of a pocket, wiping the screen clear of water before connecting it to the datalink.

"Hurry up, Private," Orlova said. "I want to get out of here. Forrest, call base and get a boat out here. Tell them we expect to link up with them shortly."

"Just a minute, Sub," Blake replied. As the cycle completed, his eyes widened.

"Incoming targets! Five of them, closing on our position."

Orlova's eyes darted around the undergrowth, "Take cover, prepare for contact!"

"They're close, ma'am!" Blake yelled. "Two hundred meters!"

Tahir almost seemed to melt into the undergrowth as the rest of the squad dived for cover behind logs, trees, anything that might give them a little protection. Orlova slammed her plasma gun into its charge cycle as she went face down into the mud, lining the sight up to her left eye, her finger resting gently on the trigger, ready to attack. A pair of bullets rang out, smashing the sensor, setting Blake cursing, but only for a second; another bullet caught him in an exposed elbow, sending him spinning down to the ground.

Instinctively, Orlova pulled the trigger, sending a pair of balls of green flame into the undergrowth, fire and smoke leaping into the sky where it touched. She thought for a brief second that she had heard a scream, but could not be certain; the smoke quickly grew into a thick, viscous cloud surrounding the clearing.

"We'd better get out of here. Can you walk, Blake?" Hugging his wounded arm, Blake nodded.  "Then take point. Let's get moving to the river. Shoot at anything that moves."

Tahir reappeared, picking up one end of the stretcher. "That's the problem with your plasma guns, Maggie. They help the enemy more than you." He turned, "They're still out there, watching."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Marshall's first night at sea had gone reasonably well. The hammock had been very comfortable, and something about the calm of the sea, the slow rocking back and forth with the waves, had managed to give him the best night's sleep he'd had in months. Cunningham had fared less well, learning that all the zero-g adaptation he had accumulated did not help him at all with his seasickness; Captain Pryce had offered a variety of local remedies, most of which were nauseating enough to make him worse. As he staggered into Marshall's cabin, his face white, Marshall could not help but laugh.

"After what you said about Sanderson."

Bleary-eyed, Cunningham looked up, replying, "With all due respect, sir, shut up." He hugged his stomach, "I feel terrible. I think some of that crap they gave me is finally beginning to work, though."

Marshall peered out of his porthole, "Looks like we're approaching another ship." He gestured through the battered glass at another ship, similar to the Lucky Lady but a little larger, drifting close towards them. As he watched, he saw ropes thrown across the gap, and felt them pulling away, drawing the two ships together. He looked up at a knock on the door, and a crewman poked his head through without waiting to be invited.

"Captain's complements, you're wanted on the deck. The Council will be meeting in a few minutes."

Cunningham shook his head, "God, Danny, this one's going to be rough."

"Relax," he said, as his datapad chirped. "Everything's going to be fine." As he read the report feeding onto his datapad, his face suddenly dropped. "Damn."

"What is it?"

Rubbing his face, he replied, "I think we just ran out of time. About fifteen minutes ago, Alamo detected another ship in-system."

"What?" All trace of weariness disappeared from Cunningham's face, extinguished by growing worry lines.

"Jumped out again a few minutes later. Deadeye thinks – and I agree – that we can expect company in a very short time, eight days or so."

Sitting down on the hammock hard enough to set it swinging, Cunningham replied, "Caine's dodgy goods to be leaving in command for that."

"Despite that damn cave-in, Dietz will be back in a few days. If it comes to it, you can go up there yourself." He sighed, "Much as I want to do something about it, the reality is that there isn't that much we can do. It all comes down to Quinn, to whether he can put the ship back together in time."

"What does Quinn say?"

"That it can't be done, but that he'll try his best. If he can just get her into position to limp out of the system, I'll settle for that at the moment. We're going to have to pull everyone back in for an evacuation."

Shaking his head, Cunningham replied, "That could be easier said than done. Never mind that we've got teams scattered across the planet, most of them are all that is keeping the wolf from the door."

"Then we will have to resolve the local situation first." He raised a hand, "At least sufficient to last until we can get some more strength out here."

"And if they don't want us?"

Marshall looked out of the porthole again, "Then we will just have to leave. I'd be inclined to see if anyone wanted to come with us; we could probably squeeze a few more into Alamo if it came to it. Especially if we can replenish our stores."

"One thing Quinn has been doing is stocking up on supplies. We'll eat well on our flight home." Cunningham looked at Marshall's face, frowning, "What's up?"

Punching his fist into his knee, Marshall replied, "Damn it, John, this feels like running away. This world is a paradise, the jewel of known space, and damn it all, I like enough of the people I've met here that it doesn't feel right leaving them to the Cabal. You realize that they will probably launch reprisals for what we did."

"Maybe. We could leave the espatiers behind to hold the line until we came back."

"We both know that could be months, or years. Or never. I won't leave a single crewman behind. Orlova, maybe, if she wants to stay with her father and he decides not to leave. I'd argue against it, though."

Frowning, Cunningham replied, "Under such circumstances, you realize that desertion might be a problem." At Marshall's shocked face, he continued, "You said it yourself, Danny. This planet is a paradise. I can imagine quite a few of our crew would rather stay here and defend it. Or enjoy it, for that matter." He gestured at the porthole, "Tell me you wouldn't be tempted."

"I can't. I would be; hell, I am." Sighing, he continued, "If anyone really wants to stay, I'd be inclined to let them. They wouldn't do any good in a cell back at Mariner awaiting court-martial."

"I wouldn't say that too loudly. You might end up being the one in the cell." The datapad flashed again. "What now?" asked Cunningham.

"Another report, this one from Orlova. Damn. She found Kenner's team, hung from a tree. Skirmish with the enemy, one minor injury, bodies retrieved for evacuation." He threw the datapad to the floor, burying his head in his hands. "It's racking up, John."

"We're doing the best we can. All of them knew the risks they were running."

Looking up, Marshall replied, "Maybe I'm seeing Caine's ghosts." He sighed, "We can't just run out on this planet, John. We've spent too damn much on it already to just walk away."

There was another knock on the door, and the crewman's head poked in again, "You coming?"

Marshall looked up, nodding, "We're on our way."

The two of them rose from the hammock, leaving it swinging in their wake, and walked out onto the deck. Three ships were now lashed together, their main decks turned into one long platform; a table had been set up in the middle of the platform while the three crews mingled on the outskirts. Pryce was sitting in the middle chair, flanked by two others wearing similar uniforms. One of them was as dark-skinned as he, a proud smile on his face as he took a drink of some sort of purple concoction on the table, the other lighter tanned, sporting a thin mustache, a long, peaked nose and a wicked-looking scar across his face.

Pemberton walked over to them, "You're to speak to the Council; they'll decide what to do. The Captain's neutral in this, but he's a fair man."

"Is this it? Just three of them?" Marshall whispered.

Nodding, the trader replied, "Each of them speaks for a flotilla. Rare we can get all of the captains together, certainly not at this notice." He gestured at the mainmast, a long, thin aerial strapped to it. "The others are being kept informed." Looking around again, he said, “I'm on your side, Captain, but I need to appear neutral in all of this. I have to live with these people after you've gone.”

“I understand,” Marshall said. Looking across at Cunningham, he nodded. "Wish me luck, John."

"I just hope you don't need it."

With long strides, Marshall walked over to the table, trying to blot out the messages he had just received and the murmuring of the cloud. The sun was beaming down on the deck, glistening off every surface, and his long shadow blended into those of the masts as he stood in front of the table. No chair had been provided for him; he presumed that was all a part of the act.

"Identify yourself to the Council," Pemberton, standing nearby, said.

Turning to the three of them, trying to make eye contact with each of them, he said, "I am Lieutenant-Captain Daniel Marshall, captain of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo currently in orbit over this planet." This was the time for a grandiose act, he decided.

"You know me, Captain," Pryce said. Gesturing to his right, he said, "This is Ted Miller, captain of the Neptune's Gift, and," turning to his left, "Lester Thomas, master of Albatross. We are here to discuss the arrival of your starship at Jefferson, and more to the point, to ask you about what you intend to do while you are here."

"Are you going to annex us?" Thomas barked at him. "I warn you, you'll face a fight you'll never forget."

"I've fought one war in my life, Captain Thomas. I don't have any wish to fight another," Marshall replied. "We're not here to conquer you, annex you, or do anything other than help you. We have driven the Legion into the jungles, and our forces are currently engaged with them."

Rubbing his chin, Miller said, "So, you want us to help you fight your war?"

Eyebrows furrowed, Marshall replied, "It is not our war, Captain. We're helping the people of Yreka, but as far as I can see, you both have the same enemy."

"So we have a war, whether we like it or not, then," Pryce said.

Slamming his fist on the table, Miller said, "No. We still have a choice. We could reject this man, make a deal with the Commandant ourselves, and let the Yrekans play in the jungle. Not our problem."

"You'd hide behind the people of Yreka?" Marshall said, hoping he had judged his man correctly.

"I won't hide behind anyone," Miller said through grinning teeth, "But I've been a Captain long enough to know when someone is trying to play me. I'd advise you not to try it again."

"Captain Marshall, we have had a rather different relationship with the Legion than your friends," Thomas stressed those two words, "at Yreka. Here they were an inconvenience, but one we could live with. Are you proposing that we ally with the Yrekans against the Legion? Or a full-scale planetary government?"

"Why not?" Marshall said.

"Allow someone at Yreka to dictate our affairs?" Miller said.

"Let them join us," Thomas replied. "I'd give them a seat on the Council. That seems more reasonable."

The crowd were getting rowdy, and Marshall stepped forward, "They have ten times your population..."

"And we're the ones who are exploring this planet. We've been to places they have never even seen, trade across half a hemisphere. We're the future, Captain. Not they."

"Captain Thomas, Alamo is going to have to leave in a week." He looked up at the sky, shaking his head, "There's an enemy ship coming, and my ship was damaged sufficiently when we freed your planet," he paused for emphasis, "that we cannot fight them off. We'll be back, though, and in force. This planet is too important to the future of mankind." He looked around. "You realize what you have here is the most suitable planet for humanity to inhabit that we have ever found, or are ever likely to. That's a precious resource."

"Why should we share it?" a voice from the crowd yelled.

"When you run away, we're stuck with the war you started, is that it?" Miller pressed. "So you start a war and then run away before it is finished."

Pryce was banging his club on the table, and no-one was paying any attention. The crowd's voices surged like the sea, waves washing over him, and finally something snapped inside Marshall. Taking four strides forward, he clambered up onto the table, turning his back on the council and speaking to the assembled crews.

"Look at yourselves!" he shouted. "Look at what you have been given. Paradise. We had that on Earth once, a long time ago, and petty fighting and wars destroyed it. It'll never be the same again, because of people like you. Like all of you. Not willing to share, only greedily holding onto what is yours – not caring about the future."

He looked down at Thomas. "You talked about the future. You want to see the future? Industrialized Yreka eventually deciding that enough is enough, that those seafarers need to be brought to heel. War. Or one of your successors deciding that those islands you trade with need you, that you have to secure your interests. War. Nation-states, that specter risen from the dead once again."

Sweeping his gaze around the now silent crowd, he continued, "That won't necessarily happen. If the United Nations finds out about this planet, they'll send in a task force and start shipping in settlers by the thousand, by the million! They'll build the largest ships ever built and stuff colonists in like cattle, and you'll have to kowtow to their Governor. Or one of our corporations – I won't pretend to scruples we don't have – will try and move in."

"You've got to protect this planet. You didn't do anything to earn it, you stumbled across it. You want to know who has earned it? Senior Spaceman Kenner, Spaceman First Class Ostrowski, Spaceman First Class Dobson. Three of my men who died fighting the Legion yesterday. We found their bodies hanging in a clearing. They're dying for a world that isn't theirs, because the pursuit of freedom is the right thing to do. Don't pretend that the Legion – or the Cabal behind them – are benevolent. You just never felt their full force."

He turned back to the Captains, kneeling to face them, "You will, though. Say the Yrekans win, by themselves. Say that happens. Why would they fight for you? They'd just drive the Legion away from their city, their towns, and leave you to rot. Fighting today is in your best interests tomorrow, and only if you form a planetary government afterward do you have a chance of protecting this freedom of yours."

Standing up again, he turned to the crowd, focusing on the man who had shouted earlier, "I won't lie. I'd like to see this planet join the Confederation. We'd be good for each other, and I think you'd find we had similar ideas about freedom. You offer us paradise, we offer you the stars. That isn't a bad trade. But the decision must be yours. Don't let hatred and fear make it for you."

Jumping down to the deck, he walked towards his cabin, not turning back. Cunningham turned to follow him, patting him on the shoulder as he walked beside his commander. The crowd began to mumble, talking among themselves; he couldn't work out how they felt.

"Captain Marshall," Thomas said, "We still have questions."

Briefly turning, Marshall replied, "I've said everything I have to say. The specifics will only matter after you have made a decision. Just make the right one."

The two of them walked down the corridor towards Marshall's cabin, ignoring the growing tumult behind them. Kicking the door closed, Marshall sat down on the hammock and began to laugh.

"You enjoyed that," Cunningham said.

"Damn right. For once I got to tell someone what I actually wanted to say, what I think they needed to hear. No bullshit, no tricks, just the truth."

"A novel idea." Cunningham grinned, "Perhaps you should think about a career in the Senate when we get home." He paused. "It had to be said, though, and you said it well. I hope they listen."

There was a sound of hasty footsteps outside, then a heavy knock on the door. Pulling himself to his feet and carefully adopting a more serious, measured expression, Marshall walked towards the door and opened it; Pemberton was standing outside.

"Captain Marshall, the Council has decided."

Cunningham's eyebrows rose, "That was quick."

"We don't mess around when it is important," the gruff voice of Miller said. "Anyone who can out-talk that windbag Thomas is worth talking to in my book." He smiled, "I just wanted to know if you were a captain or a politician. You answered that question for me. The vote was two-to-one to help you. All the way."

"All the way?" Marshall said.

"We'll join your war, provide you with troops, ships and intelligence to fight the Legion. We'll even send a delegation to Yreka to see if we can come to some sort of arrangement. Frankly I'd be tempted to just drag into that Confederation of yours, but I doubt your politicians have your ability to outshout the idiots."

Sighing, Marshall replied, "I meant what I said. I think Jefferson would be a good fit."

"You were nervous as all hell, weren't you," Miller said. "It didn't show."

"It isn't supposed to. Not when you are out on the deck."

Clapping him on the back with a blow that almost knocked the wind out of him, Miller said, "See, I knew you were a Captain. We're sailing back to your shuttle, I'm coming with you to talk to those windbags at Yreka. Might be able to pound out some sort of a deal."

Cunningham's eyes narrowed as a smile played across his face, "You just want a ride in the shuttle, don't you."

"Hell, I'm hoping to convince you to let me have a tour of that ship of yours." He looked at Marshall again, nodding, "We'll get them, Captain. And hold them until you get back."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The monitor was showing the live feed from the helmet cameras of the crew working on the moon as they cleared away the last of the rockfall. Caine watched eagerly; they'd managed to break through twenty-four hours earlier than had been hoped, the approaching spacecraft – presumed approaching spacecraft, she corrected at the back of her mind – proving a spur to faster work. Two days were gone, only six remaining, and while Quinn was still working miracles, there was only so much that even he could do.

"Don't forget you have a radio, Chief," Ryder said from her shift commander's chair.

"Sorry, Sub," Washington said in between grunts. "Scans have us with just a few meters to go, we're clearing the last of the rubble by hand. I'm pretty sure that they're working the other side, but I haven't heard anything yet."

Turning to Weitzman at the communications station, she asked, "Anything from the Captain?"

"Heading for Yreka, the scenic way. Apparently he's putting on a show for some local dignitary, but he just called us. He'll be on the deck in about twenty minutes.

"Keep listening out." She heard a faint crackle over the speakers. "What was that?"

"Didn't come from us," Washington said, "but I heard it a lot louder."

"*****tre****edic***ergency," rattled over the speaker.

Caine leapt to her feet, "I got that last word."

Preempting her next order, Washington said, "We're going as fast as we can...I think...yes, I can see their helmet lights. Lieutenant Dietz?"

Coming though clearer now, Caine could hear the voice – but it wasn't Dietz, it was Spaceman Prentis, one of the technicians who had accompanied him. Suddenly she had a very bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if a black cloud was beginning to descend upon her.

"Chief! Thank God," he said, a desperate raggedness to his voice. "Thank God."

"Alamo here, Spaceman. What's happened to Dietz?"

"Lieutenant?" Prentis seemed distant, his voice almost lost, "He's back down in the caves. Olsen is with him. I came up to try and clear the fall."

"What happened?" Caine leaned forward in her chair.

"He saw...something. We reached the artifact, and he went into the chamber first," the words babbled across the channel, almost incoherent, "There was something down there. I only caught a glimpse of it, but he staggered out and collapsed. We can't wake him."

"Damn," Caine muttered. She turned to Weitzman, "Get Duquesne up here now. I don't care what she is doing, we need her up on Alamo. Tell her we have one serious xenopsychosis case, long exposure."

"On it, ma'am."

"Washington, you'd better get the others back as fast as you can. And collapse that damn tunnel behind you again."

"Ma'am?"

"I don't want anyone going down there without proper safeguards. Collapse the damn tunnel!" she shouted into the speaker, all eyes on the bridge focused on her. She remembered her own case of xenopsychosis, a few months ago. She still had nightmares of those moments, still woke up screaming sometimes. Likely she always would. Looking around at the bridge, she turned to Ryder.

"You have the bridge. I need to speak to the Captain."

She rose from the command chair, and carefully drifted around the bridge to Marshall's office. Ryder looked after her for a second, then started organizing the departure from the moon. Before the doors closed, she heard Weitzman speaking to Duquesne; she seemed to be pressing the technician for all the details he had. They could deal with that, they were a good crew, but her safety net was gone. Sitting down in the chair opposite Marshall's, she punched for a channel to the surface.

"Caine to Marshall." She'd scrambled the frequency; this needed to be secret.

After a slight delay, the line crackled, "Marshall here. Ryder just called me, told me about Dietz."

"It looks bad, Danny."

"We've both been there."

"There was a medic with the right drugs moments away when it happened to us. Dietz has been like this for hours, maybe days. Prentis looks like he's had a touch of it."

Sympathy crossed through the speaker, "It wasn't your fault, Deadeye. Hell, you argued against it. Dietz and I overruled you. Guess we should have listened." He paused for a second, "He'll have the best of care, and they can do amazing things for xenopsychosis now. It isn't like the early days. Give it a month or two, and he'll be back on duty."

"It should have been me. I'm the one with the degree in archeology."

"Then I'd be having this conversation with Dietz, and nothing else would be different. He wanted to go, Deadeye, he volunteered."

"I heard about the three on the surface. This planet's a jinx, Danny. How many more are we going to lose here?"

She waited longer than the speed of light gap for a reply, "Do you want me to send Cunningham up to take over?"

Letting go a deep breath she hadn't realized she was holding, she replied, "Yes. Or you."

"I can't be spared for the moment; I think we're actually making some progress down here. All I have to do is bash a few heads and we might get some sort of sanity out of the local political climate."

"Sanity out of politicians would be a nice miracle in itself. When can he get here?"

"You are eager, aren't you? Shuttle's going to need a quick service when we get down, so probably a few hours. I understand the Doc's on her way up now."

"First thing I did."

"Saved me the trouble, anyway. I'm sorry I put you through this, Deadeye." He paused again, background crackle filling the gap. "I shouldn't have put you through it."

"I figured it was one of your little schemes," she replied, almost smiling.

"Better break off now – believe it or not I'm standing in the toilet. Don't want any of the local dignitaries to hear, I don't think this is something they need to know right now."

The door slid open, "Lieutenant," Weitzman said, "We've got a problem."

"So do I, Danny. Have fun with your politicians."

"I'll call later. So we can talk."

She nodded, though he couldn't see her. "Looking forward to it." Closing the channel, she looked up at the spaceman, drifting in the doorhole. "What is it?"

"I just had a signal from Acting Ensign Varlamov, up at the desert spaceport." Another memory to send a shiver up her spine. "Lieutenant Mulenga's overdue on a check-in. More than three hours."

"Three hours? That isn't like him."

"I've tried to contact him myself, ma'am, but no luck."

"Can we get a scan of the region?" she asked, pushing out of her chair and swinging back onto the bridge. Ryder looked up at her, then back at her station as she made her way over to the sensor station. Bryant was poking at the computer, trying to coax more focus out of the system.

"See anything, spaceman?"

The silver-haired technician looked up at her, "Our observation satellite's overhead now, we caught a lucky break. I'm just trying to get the useless piece of garbage to work."

Over at the flight engineer's station, the gruff Makala said, "I spent a day on that, Bryant."

"Should have used something other than a hammer to calibrate it." She smiled with satisfaction. "Got it. Focused image of the ruins." Her smile quickly faded as she looked at the image; a pair of dead bodies on the ground, tracks everywhere, including several wheel tracks heading towards the jungle.

"Follow the tracks, Bryant." She turned to Weitzman, "Get back to Varlamov, we need his boys in the air now."

"We can't," Ryder said, sighing. "Their shuttle's just left atmosphere with the doctor. They haven't got any other transport."

"How fast can they be moving?" Caine said. "Tell Quinn I want the fastest turnaround of a shuttle in the history of the service."

"Tracks lead into the jungle, about thirty miles away. I can't see anything beyond that, but the river is pretty close by."

"How close?"

Punching up a satellite map, Bryant replied, "Maybe half a mile."

Frowning, Caine replied, "Call the Captain. Right now."

"He'd be about down on the deck by now," Ryder said.

Weitzman was back at his station, talking into an earpiece, manipulating controls, shaking his head. "I can't get through, ma'am."

"What?"

"Not a thing."

Turning back to Bryant, "The satellite?"

"Working."

The wait seemed endless; Weitzman continued to try and call the shuttle while Caine fidgeted at her chair, tapping on the arm rests as Bryant tried to convince the recalcitrant satellite to switch its focus over to the city. Finally a new shot hove into view on the main screen, and the focus zoomed into the shuttle fast enough to give her a trace of space-sickness. A pair of explosions tore into the ground by the shuttle, and she could just make out four bodies being dragged from the hatch and placed into a truck, an ATV such as the Legion used.

"I can't raise anyone in Yreka at all! There's some sort of jamming field, and a really good one," Weitzman said. "Adaptive design, it's switching as fast as I can switch encryption codes."

"Can you get anyone at all?"

"Sub-lieutenant Orlova has been trying to call, wanting to know what is going on."

"As soon as I know she will," Caine replied, then threw her hand across her eyes as a huge explosion flicked onto the screen, the shuttle erupting in smoke and flame. The ATV was clear, but the landing strip was a wreck.

"I've got a signal!" Weitzman said. "Laser bounced off the satellite. Putting you through."

A ragged voice came over the speaker, "Sergeant Clarke to Alamo. Come in, please!

"Alamo here," Caine replied, "What the hell's going on down there?"

"We were attacked twenty minutes ago, street gangs but well co-ordinated. We were putting them down when a force of legionnaires attacked us, hit and run. They grabbed Lieutenant Esposito and Lieutenant Orlov, then bugged out. What was that explosion, ma'am?"

Caine was silent, and it was left to Ryder to reply, "They just blew up the shuttle, Sergeant. Taking the Captain and Lieutenant Cunningham, as well as Acting Ensign Riley."

"Christ."

Ryder looked across at Caine, then back at Weitzman, who shrugged. "What's your immediate situation, Sergeant?"

"We're secure, so is the City Council. I think the gangs are fading back into the undergrowth. We should have everything under control in a couple of hours."

"Right. Make that a priority, let Alamo know if you need any reinforcements and we'll get some to you."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Satellite going over the horizon, ma'am," Bryant said.

"See what you can do about the jamming field, Sergeant, and try to take it intact." As the channel faded, she turned to Caine, "What are your orders, ma'am?"

A haunted look on her face, Caine swung from a handhold, clenching her free hand into a fist. Long seconds passed before she replied, "Notify Orlova, move the troops around as necessary, and have Varlamov prepare to face an attack." She shook her head. "You have the bridge, Ryder. I'm going down to my office."

Ryder's eyes widened, "Ma'am?"

"You have the conn, Sub-Lieutenant. I'll be up presently."

Frowning, Ryder nodded, "Very good, ma'am."

Caine pushed off towards the elevator and glided in as it opened. Her safety net was torn into shreds. Evidently the Legion had decided that the best course was to decapitate Alamo's leadership, and they'd managed to do a damn good job of it. With a jabbing finger, she paused the elevator on its track; being in her office wasn't going to help that much. This was worse than before; she genuinely had no idea what she could do next. Marshall missing, the ship in pieces with enemy vessels on the way, and the situation on the surface falling down around her. She hung in the middle of the elevator, staring at the wall, and unthinkingly released the switch, letting the elevator continue to her destination.  

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Crouching around the communicator, Orlova and Zabek were following the battle taking place in Yreka, picking up snatches of communications from the troops as they finished clearing the gangs from the cramped streets. Periodically, one or the other would contact Alamo, but no-one up there seemed to know anything more than they did – and there was a disturbing lack of any sort of command. Ryder was sitting on the bridge, and seemed to be every bit as frustrated as Orlova.

Sergeant Forrest poked his head in through the door, "Any news, Sub?"

"Nothing intelligible."

"We've got the boats ready to move out, ma'am."

Zabek looked up at the old veteran, "What's the point? By the time we could get there the battle will be over, one way or another. Unless there's any prospect of a shuttle pickup?"

Shaking her head, Orlova replied, "I've been trying to whistle one up, but no-one seems to know what the hell is going on. We just lost one shuttle, and the others are both up at Alamo. I suppose that makes most sense at the moment, in case Caine decides to evacuate." She looked up at the ceiling, "Come on, Deadeye, make a damn decision."

Looking across at Orlova, Zabek said, "You're the senior officer on-planet now, ma'am."

"And if I had a shuttle, I'd damn well...," her eyes widened, and she turned to the sergeant, still standing at the door, "Battle stations! Everyone ready for action, right now!"

The look on his face made it obvious that Forrest had no idea why his commanding officer had suddenly decided to panic, but he was too seasoned a veteran not to obey such an order immediately, and he started to bark out orders as he ran from the room. Zabek had no such experience, and her lips started to curl in an incredulous frown as she watched the sergeant run.

"I'm missing something," she said.

"You said it yourself. I'm the senior officer on-planet now, and no offense intended, the only one with any real combat experience."

The young midshipman's mouth widened, "Damn. You're the only piece of the puzzle..."

"And we know they've been going out of their way to knock out any early warning we have."

Racing from the room, Zabek sprinted towards the central tower, hand over hand scaling the tower to the observation platform, almost knocking the duty guard over the rail in her eagerness to get to her post. Orlova jogged into the compound, looking around the hastily constructed garrison; a trio of barracks made of standard interior hull material, a pair of smaller buildings, one her office, one the communications shack, and the observation tower, all of it surrounded by a thrown-together stockade made of crudely chopped pieces of wood.

The shuttle that had delivered the base components had burned out a killing zone around the area, sweeping away the undergrowth in a fifty-meter radius around the compound with its landing thrusters, but that didn't seem anything like large enough to Orlova. Another on the long list of jobs that they hadn't had time to properly finish.

"No sign of anyone!" Zabek yelled.

"Keep a sharp look-out." Orlova walked over to one of the weapons lockers, pulling out a plasma rifle and activating the power-up cycle, watching the lights all flicker from red to green. Hefting its comforting weight, she started to make her way over to the perimeter, moving from one fire team to another. Most of the soldiers seemed grateful for something to do; all of them knew about what was going on in Yreka and ached to be there with their comrades, those that didn't simply want to get away from this planet for good.

Forrest pointed at the horizon, "Look, up in the sky!"

Everyone's eyes followed his finger, tracing a line from it to a small black dot that seemed to be growing larger; and now that she was listening for it, Orlova could hear a dull whine, one that she had heard once before on this planet. Putting the rifle to her shoulder, she lined up the cross-hairs and pulled the trigger, a ball of plasma leaping out over the jungle towards the approaching biplane. It made for a satisfying explosion, but just before she fired, someone jumped out of it, parachuting down into the jungle.

"Good shot, sub," Grant yelled from his spot on the barricade.

Smiling back, Orlova replied, "Thanks, Private."

Instinct sent her falling to the ground, rolling into cover, as the rattle of machine gun fire opened up from the trees; bullet holes raced up the side of one of the barracks behind her as she started to crawl towards the nearest piece of cover. The biplane had been nothing more than a decoy, a ruse to distract her. A fusillade of plasma bolts rained hell onto the jungle nearest them, but all they managed to do was start fires, sending smoke billowing into the air, and the machine guns continued to fire.

Crouching behind a crate that seemed awfully flimsy, Orlova tried not to concern herself with the volley of fire that was heading in her direction. They weren't interested in the base as a whole, that was clear; this was an assassination attempt, not an assault. More plasma bolts rained into the undergrowth, but it wasn't doing any good – all that smoke was providing great cover for the snipers, and making it harder and harder to see the enemy. She looked up at the tower, and saw Zabek turning her plasma rifle towards her; she froze in place, her mouth opening as the midshipman fired.

Three bolts slammed into the ground around her, one of them just in front of the crate; the resulting blast created her own protective layer of smoke, and with a wild grin on her face she sprinted for the safety of the communications room, ducking and diving in order to evade a pair of machine gun bursts fired blind in her direction. Peering through the window, she looked out at the smoke and flame billowing out from the jungle, the machine gun bursts beginning to peter out.

A minute later, Zabek burst in through the door, "I think they've pulled back."

Orlova looked up at the panting midshipman, shaking her head, "You scared the hell out of me back there. Good shooting, though."

The rattling of machine gun fire was slowing to a crawl, and Orlova made the leave the room, restrained by an arm thrown across the door by Zabek. After shooting her a withering look, she dropped her arm and allowed her to leave; she walked back out into the compound, looking from left to right. A fire team was poking its way out into the smoke, cautiously seeing if there was any trace of the enemy. As she watched, the leader – Grant, again – raised his arm.

"Couple of bodies over here. Close hit by the looks of it."

Shouting after the group, Orlova said, spluttering through the smoke, "Pull back to the perimeter, Grant. They'll be just as dead tomorrow."

Forrest, his eyes darting around as if hunting targets, came over to the pair, "You need to get back inside, sub, preferably with a fire team covering you."

"I'm not going to do any good hiding under a table, Sergeant." Looking back at the concerned faces of Zabek and Forrest, she said, "I probably should contact Alamo, though."

Walking over to the communications hut, she was conscious of the fear she was now feeling from the jungle. There could easily be a Legion sniper waiting for her to make a move; she knew that most likely the plasma fire had forced them to retreat from the flames, but that base fear still lingered as she walked over to the transmitter. She heard boots stepping to attention outside; Forrest had been as good as his word and put a guard on her.

"Orlova to Alamo."

Ryder's voice replied, "We saw gunfire. What's going on?"

"You still minding the store?"

"For the moment," the sub-lieutenant said in frustration. "Everything's going crazy up here."

"We're not having much fun down here either, Ryder. We just got attacked by a group of legionnaires, and it was pretty obvious that I was the target they had in mind. They've been repulsed, at least for the moment, but I want another shuttle here as soon as possible to burn us a wider killing zone. Never mind a hundred meters, I want a good clear two hundred meters."

"By the look of the fire you started most of that's going to be done for us, but I'll get it done. Shuttle Two's on its way back down now; I'll have it stop off."

"What are its orders?"

"It was supposed to be heading out to pick up Varlamov and his platoon, move then in with Kozu to reinforce the city."

Shaking her head, Orlova replied, "That's crazy. Varlamov can't take command down there, he's greener than the jungle."

After a brief pause, Ryder said, "I don't think anyone's been thinking straight up here."

"Have the shuttle land here. I'll leave Forrest in command of the fort, at least for the moment, and I'll go over and take command myself."

"I'm not sure we can risk a shuttle landing."

"By the time the shuttle gets here, Clarke should have everything under control out there."

"Then why the rush?"

"Have you looked at the status reports the Captain was filing? Right now there are half a hundred petty politicians trying to work out what to do – and let's not forget that the representative of the Council of Captains just got captured as well. Unless someone's going to come down and take over, I'm senior down here."

"I'll cut the orders. I just hope you know what you are doing."

"Fine. If you get any instructions from Caine, let me know immediately."

"Will do. Alamo out."

Orlova dropped the microphone to the desk, walking over to the door and shouting, "Zabek!"

The midshipman came running, shouting a couple of quick orders to one of the fire teams, "Yes, ma'am?"

"We've got a shuttle coming down in less than half an hour. Have the men throw out some beacons for a landing pad out in the cleared area."

"Right."

"I'm leaving Sergeant Forrest in command."

The young midshipman's face fell, but she nodded, "Understood."

"You'll be coming with me as my adjutant. In the event something happens to me, you'll have to take over. Given how many people seem to be gunning for senior officers at the moment, that seems a realistic possibility."

Disappointment turned to shock on the young woman's face, "Wait a moment. If you get killed, then I'm in command down here?"

"Realistically. I doubt Caine's going to strip anyone else from Alamo. Most likely that means you get to organize a rather hasty evacuation."

Shaking her head almost spasmodically, Zabek collapsed down on a chair. "Sub-lieutenant, I'm a screw-up. Last in my class at the Academy, which I left four months ago. I'm not even ready to head a shift on the bridge, and I'm certainly not ready for this."

With a laugh, Orlova replied, "I never even went to the Academy. You're ready for this because you are wearing a pip on your shoulder that says you are ready for this, and you are ready for this because I'm telling you that you are ready for this, but there is a factor that is far more important than either of those."

"What?"

"There's no-one else around to do the job. I find that a fairly frequent motivation to improvement." She clapped her gently on the shoulder, "Now go and get your kit, we'll be taking off as quickly as possible. I don't want to have any shuttles down on the ground for any longer than I can help."

"Aye, ma'am."

"And tell Grant and his fire team to pack up as well; I'm taking them with me. I figure we can strip a few more people from this base who know what they are doing."

"Aye, aye, ma'am."

As the midshipman walked out of the office, Orlova looked down at the communicator again. "Come on, Caine. Do something."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A rhythmic pounding echoed on the door of Caine's office; she'd been ignoring it, but whoever was outside was obviously not going to go away. She stopped typing, saved the letter she was working on, and opened the door to see a red-faced Dixon floating outside, Quinn sheepishly taking up her rear. Smiling, she gestured them in; Dixon hadn't waited, diving through the door and hanging in the air.

"In case you hadn't noticed, you're in command of the ship. Why is Ryder sitting on the bridge by herself? Or failing that, why didn't you call me and tell me to get up there. I wouldn't have wasted so long getting the squadron stowed away if I'd known what was going on."

"We don't know what's going on at the moment."

"Two of our ground installations are under attack, half a dozen of the crew have been kidnapped, including all of the senior officers – and by god, that was one hell of a job of decapitation, their intelligence people really must know what they are doing – and you are sitting here typing out reports. What is that, anyway?" Dixon snatched the datapad off her desk, scanned it, and tossed it to Quinn. "You damn fool."

"I'm resigning." She raised a hand, "It takes effect as soon as we get back, but if you really want it, you can have this job now."

That silenced the brash pilot. Quinn glided in a little further, and the door closed behind him; he tossed the datapad back towards Caine.

"We're in the middle of a major crisis, and all you can think about is handing in your resignation. Hell, things are looking a little difficult, why don't I resign too? Everyone can resign, we can give command to Harper. She's the junior enlisted, isn't she? There'd be no one left for her to resign to."

Smiling, Caine replied, "It's certainly made me feel better, Dixon. Mr. Quinn, what is the status of the repairs?"

"We won't be finished in time."

"Is there no chance at all of getting us ready, at least to limp away from here?"

The engineer shook his head, "I thought of that, but we're too reliant on the starport for repairs. We simply can't do most of this while we're underway."

Tapping a button on her desk, Caine said, "Ryder, any word from the planet?"

"Lots, and all of it bad. Orlova's heading to Yreka to assume command of the ground forces from there. Any orders?"

"Find the Captain and get him back. That's her top priority right now."

Dixon shook her head, "You're going to cut and run."

"I'm certainly going to have a damn good try at it, Lieutenant. If we can get the crew back into one piece again, well, that's a start." She pushed another datapad across, "Medical report on Lieutenant Dietz. It could have been a lot worse, but he's going to need weeks in hypno-therapy. We've got the tools for the job on board, but it's going to take time. He certainly isn't in any condition to assume command."

She looked at the two of them, "I don't think either of you appreciate just how bad our situation actually is. We're on a ship that can't leave the system, the planet's political situation is imploding, the legion's forces seem to be launching a series of extremely well-targeted counter-attacks that about have me convinced that we have a spy on board, and an enemy vessel – or maybe even more than one – is heading for us, and will be on us in less than a week. Our options are running dry."

"There's always a solution, Lieutenant," Quinn said.

"I'll write the recommendation for your Star Cross myself if you can think of one. I'll certainly write one if you can find a way to get the ship up and running again. You'd better get on with it."

Quinn looked at Dixon, then back at Caine, "I suppose I could supervise the fitting of the dorsal hull plating. They should be starting that now."

"Find a way to make it faster."

Sighing, he nodded, "I don't know how, but there must be a way to get the job done. I'll think of something."

As he left the room, Dixon looked after him, then back at Caine, "Simply hoping that Jack will come up with a miracle isn't a plan."

"As I said, if you want my job, you are welcome."

"Don't you get it yet? This isn't about me being ambitious – hell, I don't want your job, I don't want to command a ship. I'm on the fast track up to Wing Commander, and do you know what would happen if I was stupid enough to take a bridge position? I'd get stuck there. Being your Exec, temporarily, that looks good, but an acting command might give someone the idea that I want to do this permanently."

"Then what do you want?"

Dixon turned to the door, "May I speak freely?"

"You haven't been?" Caine raised an eyebrow. "Go right ahead."

"Snap out of your damned funk. You've been stuck down there on the surface ever since you had to fight that battle, and we need you up here. The Caine I knew on the trip out would have pulled something off."

"I'm not her."

"Then, dammit, find her! Because right now we need someone to take command of this situation, not sit in her cabin writing letters of resignation to make her feel better. If we're going to have to spend months on Jefferson waiting for pickup, then we have things to prepare."

"You haven't realized yet, have you?"

"What?"

Taking a deep breath, Caine said, "Alamo cannot under any circumstances be allowed to fall into enemy hands."

"Naturally."

"I can't ask Quinn to do this. I think it would break his heart; I need you to pull half a dozen warheads from the missile racks and place them strategically throughout the ship. There can be no usable wreckage."

Dixon slumped, "I hadn't...certainly, I'll get right on it."

"I know, it doesn't seem right. For Alamo to end up like that, after everything she's been through."

The pilot patted the hull, "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I really don't want to go what you are going through."

"I hate to see us go down without a fight, either." She paused, then looked up at Dixon, "A fight."

"What?"

She slammed a button down on her desk, "All senior officers report to my office on the double. Harper, Washington, you all get down here as well." Frantically, she began to type into her keyboard, calling up file after file on system operations and performance.

"What?" Dixon repeated, but Caine ignored her as she continued to type.

Quinn drifted into the room, "Something happened?"

Looking up, Caine said, "Stop all work on the hull repairs."

"Stop work?"

"We've still got six days," Dixon said, "Surely it must be worth a try."

Matsumoto, Kibaki, Harper and Washington spilled out of the elevator, drifting in the corridor outside her office; in retrospect, Caine realized, she probably should have held this meeting in the briefing room. A sea of puzzled faces bobbed up and down, looking at her and at each other.

"A moment ago, I gave Lieutenant Dixon an order to rig Alamo to be destroyed by remote, so that she would not fall into enemy hands." Quinn's eyes opened wide; she raised a hand to forestall his protest. "To hell with that. We've – I've – started to fall into the trap of thinking we haven't got a chance. This is a Thermopylae-class Battlecruiser, and we've got a chance against anything anyone can throw at us."

"That's more like it," Dixon said, grinning.

"Harper, just as a precaution, I want you to rig a dead man's switch into the computer systems. Everything destroyed in the event we lose this battle." She turned to the officers, "We're going to stop rigging Alamo for a hasty retreat from the system. We've spent enough blood already on it."

"The ship's in no condition for a fight," Quinn said, shaking his head. "The laser's still non-functional, and the outer hull..."

"Forget the outer hull. Get the laser functioning, missile bays ready, sensor systems to full function. Concentrate solely on the combat functions."

Matsumoto's eyes were widening, "Only four decks are habitable..."

"Then either install relays to places that are, or we can crew in spacesuits if we have to." She looked around. "We have a very simple choice; either we give up, evacuate, and blow Alamo up as we maroon ourselves on Jefferson, possibly for the rest of our lives, or we make a fight of it. If we lose, then Alamo is just as destroyed as if we had done it ourselves. If we win, then we win big."

"I'm in. Less talk, more work," Harper said. "I'll get pushing on those system upgrades."

"Hell, I'll be riding fire whatever else is happening," Dixon said, smiling.

Looking around, Caine said, "There is naturally a high risk factor here. Evacuation guarantees us all a safe ride to the surface; this way if we have to bail out, it will be right in the middle of a firefight. The odds of escape would be low. I want you to go to each department and stress that this is volunteer only, and that neither I or the Captain would have any objections to someone taking the sensible option. We'll be going into battle with a skeleton crew, anyway – only those we actually need for the fight. The rest can wait it out on the spaceport."

"We're so low on people now I don't see who we can spare, but I'll go through the lists again."

"That includes all of you, by the way," Caine said.

Her officers looked around at each other, all wondering if any of the others would take a step forward, announce that they were going to choose the certainty of survival over the desperate bid for victory. None of them did, and Caine nodded.

"Then we've got a lot of work to do and very little time to do it in. Oh, Harper, any luck on that investigation?"

"The probe should reach Harper's World...", she looked around, her face a mask of innocence, "Hell, no-one gave me a name for it. The probe should reach the planet in about three days. Might give us some sort of a lead."

"Good, keep me informed. Dixon, you stay, the rest, go get to work." She tapped a button on her desk. "Ryder, this is Caine again. Get me Orlova, top priority, then start running battle simulations."

"Battle simulations?"

"You heard. Just use the watch crews, no-one else, have the computer automate the rest. I want us sharp for the battle."

"Yes, ma'am," Ryder replied, a satisfied tone in her voice. "Switching you over now."

"Orlova, this is Alamo Actual."

The reply crackled through the speakers, "About time I heard from you, Deadeye. Make it quick, I'll be heading for landing in a few minutes."

"You're flying yourself?"

"Still the best pilot around. That includes the Squadron Leader I'm guessing is standing behind you."

Caine looked at Dixon, seeing amused fury on the pilot's face. "I've abandoned the attempts to get Alamo out of the system; we're going to make our stand here. That means I need you to start unleashing your usual brand of hell."

"Who, me?"

"Yes, you!" Caine replied. "You pulled off a miracle on Ragnarok, and this time the Captain's laid the groundwork for you. Find some way to get him back, and try and keep the politicians on side. If this goes wrong Jefferson could be our home for a while, and a civil war is not going to help."

"I'll do what I can."

"One more thing. If there is anything you need down there on the ground from Alamo you'd best let me know as soon as possible. There might not be an opportunity later."

When Alamo was a collection of drifting particles in a high orbit around Jefferson, she thought.

"Will do. I need to concentrate, now, Deadeye, so I'll report in later."

"Good luck."

"You too. Good to have you back. Orlova out."

Dixon floated behind her, nodding, "It is good."

Caine looked at the pilot, "You're assuming again. Everything's in pieces on the ground, and we're still venturing into last stand territory here. It finally occurred to me that I seem to be in a position where I don't have anything to lose."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Hands were shaking Marshall, forcing him out of his long sleep; his head ached with a chemical hangover, and the dripping of water onto the cold stone floor by his feet did nothing to help his headache. He looked up and saw the concerned face of Cunningham, sweat beaded on his forehead, shaking his head. Over in the corner, another figure squatted by the door on watch – to his shock, it was Mulenga, his astrogator, who he thought was hundreds of miles away in the desert.

"Come on, wake up," Cunningham said.

Grunting, Marshall replied, "What's Mulenga doing here?"

The astrogator turned to him, "I got snatched right out of the dig site I was working at. Some sort of knock-out gas; we'd lost communications just before. No chance of early warning."

"Damn." He looked around, "I guess that low technology was a bit of a smokescreen."

"They've got some good kit, just not much of it. It gets worse; Esposito, Orlov and Steele are in the cell across the corridor."

Pulling himself to his feet, Marshall rubbed his hand across his forehead, trying to clear the fog from his brain. He looked around the cell again; the only light source came from a small window, just above head level. Cunningham walked over to it, looking up at the sunlight ruefully.

"I can give you a hand if you want. I had a look through before you woke up; there's nothing much to see. We're high up, on a cliff overlooking a beach."

Wrinkling his nose, Marshall replied, "I can smell that much. What else is out there?"

"I see a few prefabricated buildings on our side, some defenses, and what looks like an anti-aircraft system – like the one at the spaceport."

"Why the hell didn't we see it?"

"Well-camouflaged, from the air. Less so on the ground."

Stumbling across the cell to the door, Marshall looked through the narrow, barred window, up and down the corridor where electric lights flickered on and off, and across to another door. He saw Esposito looking back at him, who curtly nodded when she saw him.

"How are you three?"

"Orlov's still sleeping off whatever it was hit us, Steele and I are fine."

"What about Captain Miller?"

"He isn't here."

Marshall swore under his breath, then said, "Can you see anything we can't?"

"We're in a tower of some kind; we've got the other side of it. Looks like it's made of concrete and stone. There are a few buildings on our side and a silo, nicely sealed, and what looks like a control shack next to it. Shadow from some sort of antenna on our side, as well. Just the jungle beyond."

"Keep someone watching the corridor and someone watching outside at all times. If you see anything, let me know." He looked over at Cunningham, who was glancing up towards the window. "Have you seen anyone?"

"I just woke up here about an hour ago, Mulenga a little after me. I haven't seen anyone yet."

"We're too valuable as hostages to treat badly," Mulenga said. "I expect we will be called upon to make some sort of ransom demand in the near future."

Marshall started looking at the ceiling and the walls, looking at the cracks in the stone. Cunningham smiled and nodded.

"Almost certainly bugged, but I can't find anything."

"Which just suggests to me that they know how to plant a bug. They could even be under the floor, heck, there could be something just outside the window."

Grinning, Mulenga replied, "Not that we have the tools to do anything about it if we found one."

"True." Marshall paused. "So assuming that someone is listening to us, let's talk about what we might be able to offer in exchange for our freedom."

"Would we offer anything?"

"I'd be willing to let the Legion forces evacuate the planet without resistance, if it was tied into a cease-fire. That's about as far as I could go."

Frowning, Cunningham shook his head, replying, "I don't know if the planetary governments would go along with that. Too much blood split."

"We've all suffered casualties, the important thing is for the fighting to end. To hell with the planetary governments; I reckon the Council of Captains and the Tatars would go along with it. Two out of three will do for this. If they want to continue the fighting afterward, that would be their problem, but without spaceflight they might find that difficult."

"That will not be sufficient," Mulenga said. "As matters stand, they effectively have what they want in any case. If they were to evacuate the planet to the approaching starship, they could do that without interference. Not to mention that there are likely too many legionnaires for them to evacuate in one trip. Could we guarantee the co-operation of the planetary government, assuming one is created, for months on end?"

"Probably not," Marshall replied, shaking his head. "That doesn't leave us with many options."

"Captain," Esposito said, quietly, "Someone's coming."

Footsteps echoed down the corridor outside; the three of them moved back out of sight of the door window. A rattle came from the door, the sound of a bolt being thrown back, and the door burst open, a tall, brutish looking man wearing an olive uniform standing in front of it, carrying a rough wooden tray with three bowls and a jug on it. He looked around at them

"Your lunch," he said with a thick accent. "I hope you enjoy it."

The three of them looked at each other – yes, he was alone, and though there was a pistol at his belt, both his hands were full. Obviously this was some sort of trap, but Marshall thought it might just be possible that they could still find a way out of there. The first step to avoiding a trap was simply to know it was there.

He leapt first, seconds ahead of Cunningham and Mulenga; the three of them piling in from all sides quickly sent the guard to the floor, and with a quick blow to the forehead he was down on the ground, the tray flying against the wall leaving a trail of foul-smelling gruel. Mulenga snatched the keys from the guard's belt and raced across the corridor to unlock the other door while Marshall took the pistol. As he had assumed, it was empty.

"We split," he shouted across the corridor, racing out into it. Cunningham and Mulenga were hard on his tail as they sprinted down the corridor to a circular staircase at the end, and he leapt down them three at a time, only stop abruptly as he heard the click of rifle bolts being pulled back. A loud Russian oath from up above said that Esposito's group had fallen into the same trap.

A smiling man with a thin mustache, slightly stout in a well-fitting white uniform, walked up the stairs with a pistol covering the three of them, followed by a trio of guards wearing the same olive fatigues as the guard. He placed out his hand, and with a wry grin Marshall placed the empty pistol into his hand.

"I hope that served as a suitable catharsis, Captain Marshall."

Looking at the white-clad figure, he replied, "You have me at a disadvantage."

"I know, and I intend it to stay that way for as long as I can. It will suffice to call me Commandant; such is my rank." Marshall turned to head back up the stairs, but the Commandant shook his head, "I have matters to discuss with you, Captain. Your friends will return to their cells, and will enjoy a rather better cuisine than otherwise, but you and I will go elsewhere."

"Can't I take my staff with me?" Marshall said, raising an eyebrow.

"I think not." He turned to one of the guards, saying something in a language that Marshall didn't recognize; it certainly wasn't French. "Come with me."

The Commandant led Marshall down the staircase to the next floor into another corridor, and without waiting to see if he followed, pushed a door open and took a seat behind a desk. The room was filled with documents and paperwork, books strewn on shelves around the walls, and despite everything, Marshall smiled. This was a man with the same sort of ability to manage a desk that he had; he could certainly sympathize with that.

Gesturing Marshall to another seat, the Commandant pulled a carafe filled with red liquid out of a draw, and placed a couple of glasses on the desk. Pouring two equal measures, he pushed one towards Marshall; nodding, Marshall reached across the desk and took the one the Commandant had reserved for himself.

"Very sensible, Captain, but if I wanted to give you some sort of serum, I would simply do so." He took a sip of his glass. "I certainly would not sully such excellent wine."

Marshall took a bigger gulp, earning a frown from the Commandant, "Spirits are more my usual forte."

"I presume that Mars is still having the same trouble with decent wines as it always has."

That earned a frown from Marshall, "You are well informed, then?"

"Oh, we get some news from Sol on occasion. Even the occasional ship. There is so much traffic in and out of the system that who would notice an extra ship here or there, especially if we go out of our way to keep ourselves hidden." He pulled a file out of another draw, placing it on the desk, and started to glance down at it. "Your photograph really does not do you justice, Captain."

"Even I didn't know we were coming here until we arrived," Marshall replied, shaking his head, "You've had numerous opportunities to take photographs of me."

Angling his head, the Commandant said, "That is perfectly true, we did not know that Alamo would arrive here. Nevertheless it was a foregone conclusion that the Triplanetary Fleet would find its way out here sooner or later. I have dossiers on all of your ships." He pulled another folder out, tossing it towards him, "Lieutenant-Captain Frank Rogers, of the tender Mullane. An old friend of yours, I understand."

"You really are well informed." He crossed his arms, "I suppose asking where you got this information from would be too much."

"Far too much. I will give you some other information, however."

"And what is that?"

Leaning back on his chair, the Commandant pulled out another file, passing it to Marshall. "I had this one translated for you. The court-martial and summary execution of the two Legionnaires who hung your crewman down by the river. Battle was one thing, that was something else."

"You had them shot?" Marshall's eyes widened. "How can I trust this?"

"I suppose asking you to trust my honor would be far too much. You may visit the graves if you want, but I suspect that will not suffice either. I would ask that you consider what I might possibly have to gain from a deception." He took another drink, continuing, "We are not savages, Captain, though I cannot speak for some of the men I command, I regret."

"Why am I here, Commandant? To show me this?"

"Partly," the Commandant nodded. "Also because we potentially have an opportunity to discuss terms."

"Where is Captain Miller?"

"Ah, the redoubtable corsair is in his own quarters. We will have to make separate arrangements with his government, unless you now speak for it."

"No."

The Commandant laughed, "You will find the domestic political scene rather disappointing, I fear. Little of the finesse of our civilized worlds."

"You have others?"

"Naturally. Just as naturally I will give you no details, save that this world belongs to the Legion, which in itself is a part of the Cabal."

Raising his glass to his lips, Marshall took another deep swig; the wine tasted remarkably good, but with a somewhat bitter aftertaste. "Cabal is hardly a name to inspire joy and hope in those who belong to it."

"Nevertheless it is a reasonable description." The Commandant leaned forward, "First let us discuss the terms of your release."

"I presume you have already heard them."

Nodding, he replied, "And as your Lieutenant Mulenga suggested, those terms are unacceptable. I could make assurances that you and your crew could leave the system unharmed, even provide you with assistance in the repair of your vessel. Certain citizens who wished could travel with you back to the Confederation, that would be acceptable."

"In short, you are willing to concede anything so long as you remain in control of this planet." Marshall uncrossed his arms, laying them down on the table, "Likewise, I will concede anything that does not leave you in control of this planet."

"You wish to conquer it for your Confederation, as you did Ragnarok?"

Marshall's cheeks turned red. "The Triplanetary Confederation is not some expansionist empire. We will not conquer this planet; Ragnarok chose to join us..."

Raising his hand, the Commandant interrupted, "After a certain Lieutenant-Captain Marshall oversaw the overthrow of the established planetary government in exchange for one that looked more favorably on Triplanetary membership." He shook his head, "You do not have clean hands, Captain, and it is fruitless to pretend you do."

"Perhaps. It didn't seem that way at the time."

Clenching his hands together, the Commandant said, "You are a patriot, Captain. That is understandable; I would be more surprised had you turned out not to be. You are willing to fight for your government despite its foibles. I am the same." He took another drink, then refreshed his glass. "Naturally we cannot come to terms for the future of this planet that will be of satisfaction to us both. Such is out of the question."

"I'm afraid you are almost certainly right about that."

"I will, of course, transmit my offer to your Lieutenant Caine. It is possible she may see things differently."

"I doubt it."

Standing up, the Commandant walked over to a window, looking out across the ocean. "This planet stands on a knife-edge. The future is of greater importance now, though." He turned, resting his arms on the back of his chair. "Tell me, Captain, what do you perceive the Cabal as? What do you imagine it to be?"

"I'll freely admit that we have little knowledge of it."

Raising his hands, the Commandant replied, "Yes, yes, but what do you think it is?"

"A collection of colonies out in deep space, that formed some sort of controlling empire with a desire to control all of human space."

"But why, Captain? Even if you are right – and you only touch on the outer limits of the truth – then what motivation could we have? Might it be that we have just as good reasons for seeking interstellar hegemony as you, and might there be a chance that we are right to do so, and you are wrong?"

Shaking his head, Marshall replied, "Everything I have seen here on Jefferson, and back on Sagdeev for that matter, tells me otherwise."

"Consider. We settled the survivors of failed colonies all over this part of the galaxy here on this planet, where they would be safe and live in peace.

"The peace of the gun, and the safety of slavery."

Smiling, the Commandant said, "I will tell you know, that you are the safest man on the planet. One way or another, you are going to be going home to your people. Either you will win the day – I feel the odds are against you, but no doubt you think the same of me – or you will lose, and we will ship you back home. In either case, I would like you to take a message back to your government."

"I have no intention of serving as your courier."

"The Cabal would welcome the Triplanetary Confederation as a member. I will tell you this much, as it could save much trouble; the Cabal is a union of many, not a single unitary state. We are stronger together than individually. That is important." He leaned forward, "Consider my offer. I speak for my government in this matter. We might be forced to seek other arrangements, if our efforts with you fail."

"The Lunar Republic? The United Nations?" He shook his head, "You've answered your own question. If you would happily work with tyranny, then I can't see how we could ever work together."

"A pity, Captain. Though I venture that your Senate may prefer such terms to a war."

"Is that a threat, Commandant?"

He laughed, "Captain, I would say that the war has begun. Our armies mass on battlefields, our ships will soon clash in orbit. You have launched an attack on a Cabal world, and that cannot stand unpunished."

"You had our citizens held captive."

"I venture that the winner will blame the loser for the conflict. Such is often the case in war." His fingers reached under the desk to push a button, and a moment later a guard appeared at the door. "The Captain is to be returned to his cell."

Standing, Marshall drained the rest of his glass, dropping it back down to the desk, and walked out of the room, the guard hard on his heels as he climbed the stairs. He returned to the corridor to find that this time it was well guarded, with two men on each side, both of them conspicuously armed; of the man they had knocked down, there was no trace. Returning to his cell, he found Cunningham and Mulenga sitting on the floor tucking into the remains of a substantial meal.

"Didn't know if you were eating with us," Cunningham said through a mouthful of cheese. "I think we left you enough, though."

"What did he want?" Mulenga asked.

"He made an offer we couldn't accept, and another I certainly hope the Senate won't even consider." Ignoring the food on the floor, he walked over to the window, looking up at the sky through it. Six days from now his ship was going to fight the biggest battle of its life, and as things stood, all he could hope for was a ringside seat.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Playing the suit thruster cautiously to the right, Caine drifted along Alamo's central core, looking across at the long laser assembly, taking stock of the new connectors and power conduits. Quinn's team was still working at the far end of the ship, close to the primary reactor cores, carefully piecing together the complicated circuitry that fed the battlecruiser's primary weapon.

Tapping her thruster again, she span around to look at Alamo herself, and shook her head; most of the outer hull was still off, and the ship looked naked. Inner bulkheads were exposed to space, whole compartments that were normally occupied were bare, empty. The ship looked like it had already lost a battle.

Secured to the walls of the spaceport were huge, long strips of armor that, if all went well, would be fitted to Alamo's key areas before the battle. Anywhere that was not critical to ship or combat operations would simply have to tend to itself, and the damage that a single missile hit would do to an unprotected compartment was something that she was trying not to think about. It was all to easy to picture the ship a cluster of spinning wreckage in high orbit around Jefferson, but if she didn't make the attempt to fight the enemy vessel she was expecting, then that was going to happen anyway.

The thought had struck her – and presumably everyone else on board – that this might be a lot of hard work for nothing. Though the prospecting vessel had sped out of the system, they had no way of knowing how far they were going to have to go to get help. Caine was operating on the idea that help was a single jump away, and hence only a week away, but they could easily have to go much further. That was a hope that was so tempting to cling to, but one she had to resist. With luck they would just be ready to face an enemy in five days' time; any more time they had on top of that was a bonus, an opportunity to get more of their repairs completed, to put more armor on the outer hull. Possibly even leave the system, head home to get help.

A light flashed on in the lower left side of her helmet's heads-up display; she'd booked an hour of EVA time, and there were just five minutes to go. Carefully twisting the controller in her left hand, she carefully ran down the side of the hull towards the nearest airlock, firmly grabbing hold of the handrail and clipping her safety line to it. With a tap of a button, the outer door opened, and she was pushed back a little by the trace of atmosphere – something that Quinn and his boys were still trying to take care of. Swinging into the compartment, she tapped a second button and the outer door closed, the chamber immediately filling with atmosphere, the hiss beginning to fill the air.

"Bridge to Caine," a voice echoed in her helmet, almost drowned out by the growing noise of the incoming air.

"Caine here. Go ahead."

"We're getting a message from the surface. A ransom demand for the Captain."

Her eyes widened, mouth opened; she was glad that there was no-one there to see her. "Can you patch me in?"

"Not a conversation, ma'am. It's already repeated twice; they're bouncing it off our surveillance satellite."

"Right. Have Lieutenants Dixon and Quinn meet me up on the bridge." She paused, continuing, "Spaceman Harper, as well. I'll want Security's view on this."

A voice broke in, "Already up here. I'll have my analysis ready for you when you get upstairs."

Smiling, Caine replied, "Right. See you in a minute."

Green lights flashed up in a row in her helmet, confirmation that there was a safe atmosphere outside, and she stowed her spacesuit in one of the lockers on the wall before drifting back out into the corridor, right to a waiting elevator sent down from the bridge. It sped the length of the ship, opening on a crowded bridge; evidently word of the message had spread quickly. Matsumoto was sitting at Operations, and all three of the watch officers were present, crowded around the communications console; Harper was struggling to work as people drifted around her.

"Clear some space, everyone," Caine said as she drifted onto the bridge. "Could someone play the damn message?"

Ortega reached over Harper and tapped a couple of buttons, and an unfamiliar figure appeared on the screen. He was wearing the same uniform cut that the legionnaires had worn on the surface, but white instead of olive; a thin mustache crept over a softly sneering mouth, an air of superiority on his eyes.

"I am the Commandant of the Legion forces on this planet. I hold Lieutenant-Captain Marshall, Senior Lieutenants Cunningham and Mulenga, Lieutenants Orlov and Esposito, and Ensign Riley." A series of images from a camera flashed onto the screen, of a pair of cells housing the six people he mentioned. "As you can see, all of them are in excellent health and are being well treated. I have no intention of harming any of them, I can assure you of that."

He looked to his right, and his hands made a motion that suggested he was sliding something in front of him, "I fear that I have no intention of releasing them either, unless my demands are met. They are very simple; I want you to leave Jefferson immediately. I will guarantee you and all your personnel safe passage with an immediate ceasefire, and will even provide you with assistance with the repair of your spacecraft. Any residents who wish to leave with you have my permission to do so, and I will offer an amnesty for anyone who stays. Those are my terms, and they are non-negotiable."

Leaning backward, he folded his fingers together, "I will not hold my prisoners responsible for any attacks on my forces, but should you find my compound and attack it, well, I am unable to guarantee their safety. As soon as you agree to my terms, the prisoners will be released. I sincerely hope that we can come to an agreement and end the fighting; I have no wish to launch any further attacks on your forces. Jefferson out."

Ortega looked over at Caine, "That's being repeated every minute, has been at least three times now. I've been trying to trace it, and the best I can do is the same area that the signal from the moon flashed down to after the first explosion."

Looking over at the technician, Dixon said, "We've taken recon shots of that whole area and come up with nothing, Spaceman."

"It's a reflector," Harper said, still tapping away at the console. "Small enough that it can be hidden from space. The resolution on those cameras isn't up to much."

Leaning forward on her chair, Caine slowly looked around the bridge. There was no defeat in anyone's eyes, the whole crew was eager to do something. An expectation that she would come up with some sort of miracle. She gestured towards Dixon and Quinn.

"The office, I think, Lieutenants," she said, pushing off from her chair towards the door, gliding through as the doors opened just in time to admit her. Catching a handhold, she swung herself around the desk as the others glided in. Quinn had his face buried in a datapad, looking over reports; Dixon just looked combative, balling her hands into fists and opening them again.

"Tell me you're not thinking of accepting their offer," Dixon said as soon as the door closed behind her. "We can't write the planet off like this."

"I've got to give it serious consideration, Lieutenant," Caine replied. "On the face of it, this is an excellent offer." She paused, "If we'd been offered it a month ago, the opportunity to get all of our people off the planet and head home without a fight, we'd have taken it without thinking."

"We've spent a lot of blood since then."

"You want to add the entire crew of Alamo to it?" Caine said.

Frowning, Dixon looked out at the viewscreen, "What do you think Captain Marshall would do?"

"That isn't relevant in the slightest, Lieutenant. He isn't here. I am, and I am in command." She stopped again, looking around the room, "Alamo is in no serious shape for a fight."

That seemed to wake up Quinn, "She'll put a hell of a punch in when the time comes, Lieutenant. The laser cannon will be working, missile bays ready."

"And if we get hit by a missile? Or that incoming ship has particle beams?"

Quinn smiled, "We'll think of something."

"And if we don't have to?" Caine said. She pulled up her datapad, reading over the transcript of the message again.

Dixon pressed forward, "We need to get our people back, and to secure Jeffersonian self-government. That's what we went back down again to do. Do you think the people of that planet would thank us for throwing them back to the Legion – and I don't for a moment believe that nonsense about reprisals. These are the people who hung three of our soldiers. Hung them."

Looking up from the datapad, Caine said, quietly, "He's conceding a lot, isn't he."

"What?"

Tapping the screen, she continued, "He's offering us a lot of perks. No reprisals, safe evacuation, repair of Alamo? That seems like an awful lot."

"It had to be a good deal or we wouldn't go for it."

Shaking her head, Caine said, "Why offer it at all, then?"

"So I'm right, and it's a bunch of crap, and he won't live up to it. There will be some reason why our people can't come home, something like that."

"No. I think it's genuine, but I also think that he's desperate. He's playing poker with a weak hand."

Nodding, Dixon said, "All the more reason to stand and fight, Lieutenant! We can take them!"

"We don't have a particularly strong hand either, Dixon."

The door slid open, and Harper burst in, looking around at the three serious faces looking at her with her exuberant smile. Tossing a datapad towards Caine, she grabbed hold of the desk, swinging into it.

"Come on, we've got them on the run!" she said, smiling.

Dixon nodded, but Caine shook her head, "I admire your confidence, Spaceman, but we don't even know where they are. And perhaps you could knock next time."

"Is that all that you're worried about?" Harper replied. "I know where they are – or at least how to find them."

An eyebrow arched, Quinn looked at the green-haired hacker, "How? We haven't got the manpower to land a team at the reflector, assuming it isn't guarded."

"I thought of that. A good chance they would have anti-air, and we haven't got time to get there overland."

"Walk there?" Harper said, disbelief on her face. "Why go there? We'll just send them a message and follow it."

"Without ground installations to track it? Damn sure it'll be tight-beam." Caine said.

"They've got them, haven't they? Certainly they've got some means of sending and receiving. We just use theirs."

Opening her mouth, Caine replied, "You've cracked their system, haven't you."

"Weeks ago; it's the same one they used for the satellites." A beaming grin leapt across Harper's face. "All we have to do is send a signal through their system, and we'll have them where we want them."

"They'd expect us to try a hack for their reply," Caine said, her brief flash of hope ebbing away. "Damn, I thought you had something."

Harper violently shook her head, the grin remaining firmly fixed in place. "Of course it isn't that easy, but remember how we found the reflector in the first place? That explosion up on Jefferson's moon."

"So, what's the answer?"

"Blow up another one."

Three sets of eyes turned to look at the hacker; she looked around at them, seeming to retreat slightly under their burning gaze. "After I've made some modifications to the transmitting programs, naturally. I'll put a virus into that communications pulse – it doesn't have to do anything complicated, just transmit a short signal back up to Alamo."

"A millisecond pulse would be enough to locate them," Quinn replied, nodding. "Lieutenant, this actually could work."

Caine turned to Harper, "Spaceman, you are aware, I am certain, that there are likely to be booby-traps on those bombs intended to stop just such meddling. And that you can't do this remotely; you'll have to be sitting by the bomb as you reprogram it. No network interface."

"Sure. Why would they build one in, it's just a big dumb bomb, after all."

"Just to be sure that you know the risks you are running."

Harper smiled, "I'll be riding on this ship when it goes into battle, Lieutenant. As far as I can see it, risk is our business. That's what makes it so much fun."

Dixon burst out laughing. "As long as you're having a good time, spaceman, I guess all of this is worthwhile."

After a brief second, Caine said, "Permission granted, Spaceman. Take one of the shuttles, and anyone else you need with you."

"I'd probably better just take a pilot. No point risking anyone else, they'd only get in the way anyway. I'll let you know when I'm ready to transmit."

"Good." Harper pushed back on the desk, diving back onto the bridge before anyone could dismiss her. Caine rested back, looking around the room at Dixon and Quinn. Somehow there was a feeling at the back of her mind that this might actually work, that there was a chance they could pull it off. She tapped a button.

"Ortega, get me Orlova. Top priority and scramble."

"On it, ma'am." There was a brief delay before the communications technician replied, "I've got her, ma'am."

"Orlova here, go ahead."

"New orders for you, Sub-Lieutenant."

"Twice in one day?"

"We've received a ransom demand for the return of the Captain." She looked around the room again, and took a deep breath, "I'm rejecting the offer. We hope to know where he is being held very shortly. I need you to put together a strike force of some sort to get him back. Pull in anything you can, any espatiers, any planetary forces. We're going for broke with this one." She smiled, "I'd rather like him back on the bridge before the battle."

There was a pause from the planet, "Will do, Deadeye. I don't know how, but will do. Orlova out."

Caine closed the channel, and looked up at the others, "Dismissed." Quinn left the room first, but Dixon loitered for a moment.

"I seem to keep on shooting my mouth off, Lieutenant."

"Danny would probably say that it's what a good Executive Officer is meant to do." She paused, "This is what he'd want to do, I know him well enough for that. But command isn't about what someone else might do under the same circumstances, it's about what you think you should do. I know that much."

"I shouldn't have said it."

"No, you shouldn't." Caine shook her head, "You were right about one thing, though. We've spent a lot of blood here, and I'm damn well going to make sure that the Legion, the Cabal, whatever force had this planet is no longer in control of it when we leave. Six boys gave their lives to rescue our people, and they died to free their planet. I'm not going to go back on my end of the bargain." Her eyes were looking at Dixon, but they seemed to be focused farther away. Perhaps this was how to put the ghosts to rest. "Dismissed, Lieutenant."

Wordlessly, the pilot turned and left the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Putting the headset back down on the rough table, Orlova looked around her father's bar, then down at the hastily-drawn operations plan on the table. Zabek sat at the far end, scowling at the map as if her mood might make a material change to what was described on it. A pair of troops stood at the door, standing at parade rest; Orlova couldn't really spare them from combat duty, but Sergeant Kozu had effectively ordered her to keep them with her at all times in the event the Legion chose to take another crack at grabbing her.

“What's the story?” Zabek asked.

“That was some guy called Pemberton. If we need any sea transport, we've got it.”

“A thousand miles up the coast? By sail? How long will that take?”

Shaking her head, Orlova replied, “Too damn long, but at least we're getting some help from someone.”

“That and a couple of dozen Tatar warriors.”

“It's a start.” As Orlova watched, another figure walked up to the guards, and after a few seconds they waved him through; the political liaison, Sanderson, walked into the room, stuffing a piece of paper in his pocket.

"The Provisional Government is, I understand, willing to meet with you."

Orlova frowned, "Provisional Government of what?"

Sighing, the political liaison replied, "Jefferson." He raised a hand, "I know, I know, they've gone beyond their remit."

"Beyond?" Zabek exploded. "Has Howe bothered reading any of the operations reports?"

Looking down at the floor to his right, Sanderson replied, "I haven't seen Howe since I got back. Green's running the show."

Rising to her feet, Orlova said, "I understood that he was defeated in the election."

"He was."

"Where's Montgomery?"

A tall figure pushed his way past the guards, into the room, "Right here. And on my way back home."

Zabek looked at Orlova; the sub-lieutenant replied, "Home?"

"To tell the farmers that Yreka's hostile territory. That bastard tried to impose some sort of food levy for the Government." He spat on the floor, "We didn't throw one tyrant out to install another. His bully-boys are no match for my men."

Orlova looked around the room, "I have just received orders from Lieutenant Caine to raise an army for an attack on a Legion installation in close proximity. Our goal is to rescue Captain Marshall and the prisoners – and hopefully finally knock out the Legion leadership."

Slamming his fist on the table hard enough to spill some beer from the mugs placed around the map, Montgomery replied, "Damn right. I'm in for that one, Miss, if no-one else is. I can probably round up some boys to help out."

"How much does Green have, anyway?" Orlova asked.

"About five hundred militia. He was sitting on a lot of money, and he's spending it like water. Those were guys I've fought with, dammit. I thought they were better than that."

"At least you learned this way rather than in battle," Orlova replied, shaking her head. "Dammit, I don't have time for this." Turning to Zabek, she said, "Go find Howe. Sanderson, you go with her. Take a couple of squads, and take no bullshit. Try not to use lethal force, certainly don't fire first, but get him to the Town Hall."

For a second, she thought that Sanderson might argue, might object to being ordered around, but one look at her convinced him that this was not a battle he was likely to win. Nodding, he made his way to the door, looking over at the young midshipman still sitting at the table.

"Coming?" he said.

"Where are you going, Sub?" Zabek asked.

Picking up her uniform cap and placing it squarely down on her head, she replied, "To see Green, of course. I suppose there is at least an outside chance he might elect to be sensible. On the assumption that he isn't, move as quickly as you can. And have Kozu standing by." Smiling, she continued, "See if you can get any of those boys of yours, Montgomery, as well."

Walking out of the bar, she made her way down the street flanked by her two guards. The efforts to repair the damage caused by her original assault – which seemed like years ago, but was in fact only a few days – seemed to all have been in vain. All the recent street fighting had undone all the work, and the people on the streets that had been cheering the espatiers on earlier now looked at them sullenly, when they looked at them at all. She couldn't find it in her heart to blame them; it was their world that had been torn apart. If it had happened to her, she'd have felt the same way.

From somewhere, the local militia had obtained uniforms, rough camouflage jackets worn over whatever other clothes they could wear. As she approached the town hall, an impressive structure in the middle of town that somehow reminded her of the now-ruined Governor's Mansion, they were present in greater and greater quantities, and the ordinary citizens seemed to have melted off the streets. A group of them sat in a bar, drinking, and the look on the bartender's face as he looked at her out of the window suggested that they were not paying for their refreshments. She climbed the steps to the entrance, stopped by a pair of guards at the door.

"Only you, Sub-Lieutenant," one of them said with a sneer. "Your thugs have to wait outside."

"And how many thugs does Green have, inside?" she asked.

"No weapons either," he said, gesturing to the pistol at her belt.

Smiling, she pulled the pistol out of its holster and passed it to one of her guards, turning and saying, "Wait here until I come out."

"Yes, ma'am," they replied, as they took up positions standing at attention outside the door. Without a further word, she pushed her way in, inwardly laughing at the amateurs that hadn't even bothered to search her; the pistol in her shoulder holster was still intact.

It was obvious immediately that money had been spent here, money that would probably have been far better spent on the rest of the town; the floors were polished stone, with intricate workmanship, and a series of spiral staircases curved up to a higher floor. At the far end of the room, sitting at the head of a table flanked by flunkies – she only recognized Woodford from earlier – was Howe.

"We'll be with you in a minute, Sub-Lieutenant," he said.

Recognizing a deliberate power play when she heard it, Orlova walked forward, "You'll be with me now, Green."

"My title is more properly Mr. President, Sub-Lieutenant."

"Call yourself whatever fancy name you want, but I won't." She looked around the table, "I need a strike force for a rescue operation for Captain Marshall. How many men can you give me?"

"It isn't so simple as that," Woodford said. "There are issues of domestic security to consider."

"Meaning that you are planning to subjugate the other planetary governments while we deal with the Legion for you." She shook her head, "That simply isn't going to happen."

Smiling, Green replied, "I don't think that you will leave your Captain and the others in the lurch out there. I have every confidence in your ability to deal with the situation. By all means let me know how it turns out."

Sighing, Orlova said, "The Triplanetary Confederation was formed to resist exactly that sort of tyranny. They certainly won't deal with a government that has forced its way into office at the point of a gun."

Rising slowly to his feet, Green looked down at the young sub-lieutenant, "Maybe we're sick of being pushed around. Maybe this was our planet first, before anyone else showed up, and we want it back again. Maybe we think we're better off without you." He laughed, "At the end of the day, it is none of your business how we conduct our affairs."

Taking a careful stride forward, right up to the edge of the table, Orlova said in her lowest voice, "If it were not for the assault on Yreka, you would still be occupied by the Legion. We made you, Green, and we can damn well break you as well. I'm not going to sit around and watch you become dictator here."

A few nervous faces looked at each other across the room, but Green's was not amongst them, "We outnumber you. And you will be leaving soon, anyway, if you haven't sold us out first."

He knew. Those words confirmed to Orlova what she had already suspected; this was all part of the Legion's power-play to resume control. No doubt Green would be President, probably with the powers the old Governor had. Propped up by a Legion that would be only too happy to walk back in and take over as soon as they were gone.

"I will ask one last time. I need your troops, your five hundred troops, to help me recover the Captain and throw the Legion out."

"And for the last time, I say no. Leave before I have you arrested."

Praying that she'd bought enough time for Zabek, Kozu and Montgomery to do their work, Orlova pulled her communicator out of a hidden pocket in the inside of her uniform jacket, selected the 'allcall' frequency, and as ostentatiously as she could, began to speak.

"This is Orlova. Feel free to come in."

Green responded first, "If this is some sort of threat, Sub-Lieutenant..."

"We're past words, Green." A pair of explosions tore through the main door of the hall that she had walked through a few minutes before, the bodies of the two thugs at the door flying through them as a squad of espatiers marched into the room. Behind them, a dazed-looking Howe was walking in, flanked by Sanderson at his side; Zabek had a bandage wrapped around her head, blood spilled into it, but otherwise looked fine. Montgomery strolled in after them, a group of civilians walking behind him carrying guns Orlova hoped they knew how to use.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Turning on her heel, Orlova said to Zabek, "I am declaring a state of martial law to keep the peace, effective immediately. As commander I am appointing Captain Montgomery of the local militia."

Nodding, the burly man stepped up towards Green, a smile on his face, "You and the rest of these bastards are under arrest, for sedition and, in all likelihood, treason." Gesturing towards his men, they raced forward and seized them, pulling them up from the table, chairs clattering to the ground. "I would appreciate the loan of some of your people to help escort them," he said to Orlova.

"Certainly," she replied. "Have Sergeant Kozu accompany you with a detail." Turning to Howe, she said, "The Triplanetary Government still acknowledges you as the Major of Yreka, sir."

Mumbling, he nodded, "Thank you, thank you." There were bruises around his head, and his eyes looked as if they were struggling to focus. With help from Sanderson, he stumbled over to the chair at the head of the table, and carefully sat down, looking across the room.

"What happened?" Orlova whispered to Zabek.

"I think they were trying to get him to resign, or something like that. He wouldn't; they were working him over pretty throughly when we got there."

"Damn. What state is he in?"

"Mild concussion, shock. I've got a medic on the way to look him over, but you said you needed him here in a hurry."

Nodding, she turned back to the table. Now it was Howe, Sanderson and Montgomery; McIntosh made his way forward from the crowd and took a seat. She wouldn't care to guess which side he had been on in the recent fighting, but he had obviously managed to develop a talent for choosing a winner.

"Mr. Mayor," she said, addressing Howe, "a few minutes ago, I asked Mr. Green for forces to help me in an operation to rescue Captain Marshall, and strike a serious blow against the Legion. He refused, not that he was in any position to officially accede or reject. I now ask you again – will you provide us with the troops we're going to need to pull off this operation?"

"Hell, yes," Montgomery said.

Howe nodded for a second, then looked over at Sanderson, "What do you think?"

Turning to Orlova, the politician said, his voice shaky and uncertain, "What happens if we say no? Do you throw us into jail and place Captain Montgomery in charge? You already have control of Yreka."

"No, sir. Captain Montgomery has control of law and order until peace has been restored here, a condition I very much hope will resume soon. If you reject my request, then we will attempt to complete the mission by ourselves. You are the officially recognized government of Yreka, and we will listen to what you say. I won't like it, but I won't throw you out."

Sanderson nodded, looking at Howe, "We should do this."

"Very well," Howe said, coughing. "Montgomery, you organize this. Do everything you can to help."

"Use the troops Green gathered," Sanderson said, a suggestion that had the force of an order. "We want them off the streets."

"Thank you," Orlova replied. "We'll make good use of them."

Nodding, Sanderson said, "I'm sure you will. If you don't mind, we have a lot to deal with now. Please co-ordinate with Captain Montgomery to get the streets cleared, we appreciate any assistance the Triplanetary Confederation can offer."

"Certainly." Standing to attention, Orlova turned to leave, but Sanderson stopped her.

"One last thing."

"Sir?"

"If Green had given you troops, would you still have ousted him?"

She paused for a second before replying, "You are the government we recognized, Mr. Sanderson. We stand behind you."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Roars of thunder echoed through the cell, lightning flashes briefly illuminating the worried faces of Cunningham and Mulenga. Marshall was over by the window, looking out at the storm, a light patter of rain drizzling onto him. Thick clouds blocked out the stars, but he fancied he could see them anyway; certainly a large part of him was up at Alamo, longing to do something, do anything other than wait.

"It's getting to you, isn't it?" Cunningham said, standing up and walking over the Marshall.

He replied, "Sitting down and waiting for something to happen is bad enough when you are the one making the decisions. Just sitting and waiting for something to happen if a thousand times worse."

"We went through this often enough in the war, Danny."

Turning to face him, Marshall replied, shaking his head, "This is different. Now I'm the one they're going to risk their lives for. Stuck here in this cell." He smiled, "We both know that Orlova will turn up here sooner or later, and so do our friends downstairs. These defenses weren't built for fun."

"You think she'll attack?"

"I don't think, I know. She'll find some way."

Cunningham pondered the storm for a moment, listening to the clatter of the rain. "I'm not so sure about Deadeye."

"Nor am I," Marshall replied, pacing across the room. "I should have left one of you up there as well."

Mulenga looked up, "You could not have known that Dietz would fall victim to an accident."

"As soon as he went underground, one of you should have gone up to take his place."

"We were doing important work," Cunningham said, "and your reasons were good ones. There was no way you could have expected that something would have been pulled like this; I'll freely admit that the Legion has exceeded my expectations in that regard."

With a quick chuckle, Marshall replied, "I'm sure that all of our listeners will be pleased to hear it." He raised his voice, "Can you hear us all right? Is there a microphone you want us to speak into?"

Rising, the astrogator placed a hand on Marshall's shoulder, "There is no sense in second-guessing yourself, Captain. We both know the sequence of events now. Orlova will make an attempt to rescue us, one way or another. She still has considerable resources at her disposal."

"And even if Deadeye rejects a plan, I'd bet my next month's salary that she'll go ahead anyway."

"I just...," Marshall began. "I'm just a bit disappointed by all of this. I'd hoped we would have left all of this behind us, that when we pushed deeper out into space we would have a chance for exploration, for discovery."

"Is this not sufficient," Mulenga said, an eyebrow raised.

"This is at the barrel of a gun. Weapons, espatiers, battles. It isn't quite what I had in mind when I dreamed about this back at the Academy." He looked up at the clouds again, sighing, "I wanted this. But I didn't think it would cost this much."

"You're still thinking about the Commandant's offer, aren't you," Cunningham said. "You were right to reject it; this planet is too important."

"The cost, though. And the other thing he said, the offer to join the Cabal."

"We might as well rejoin the UN, Danny," Cunningham replied. "From everything I've seen, this doesn't sound much better."

Walking around the cell, Marshall shook his head, "It's this damn waiting. Four days until the Cabal starship arrives."

"You are assuming one is on the way," Mulenga said. "Thus far that is simply conjecture, a worst-case scenario."

"All of this was planned. Capturing us, the fighting in Yreka, all of it. Planned and timed to coincide with something. They know that a ship is on the way, a tight-beam message would have taken a microsecond to dispatch. Company's coming, and I'm sitting down here in a cell rather than sitting on the bridge of my ship where I belong."

"Caine will do a good job if it comes to battle," Mulenga said. At Cunningham's doubtful expression, the gray-haired astrogator smiled. "She is over-thinking everything right now, but in battle there is barely time to think – and she has too strong a sense of responsibility to the crew to freeze in a battle situation. If Alamo has any chance of victory, she will find it."

"I hope so."

The rain continued to thunder down as the storm began to move away, strong winds starting to blow it out to sea. Mulenga, cross-legged on the floor, managed to get to sleep, and Cunningham began to doze on the floor. Marshall should have been able to sleep as well, but he couldn't. There was something inside him that prevented it, something that stopped him from resting. If he was on Alamo, he'd have taken a pill and been out like a light, but that was the whole point.

Restless, he leaped quietly up to the window, hanging onto the bottom and pulling himself up to look through. His arms quickly began to ache as he scanned the compound again, but he quickly forgot that as he saw something in a far corner, close to the jungle – a group of legionnaires wearing some sort of protective clothing, pulling away some camouflage netting.

Underneath was a silo, larger than the one Esposito had reported, and immediately fears of some sort of attack began to leap unheeded into Marshall's mind. They were rapidly dispelled as a platform began to raise, uncannily similar to the elevator airlocks on Alamo, and a smile began to race across his forehead.

Though the rain was still coming down in sheets, he could see clearly enough what was down there – a shuttlecraft of some sort. Stubby wings, and large boosters, a powerful brute-force look about it as it rested on a pair of runners. There didn't seem to be any way for it to land, so it had to be one way – some sort of escape system.

It was by no means large enough to evacuate the entire complement of the garrison, but it was certainly large enough to hold the Commandant and a few others. He examined it carefully, looking over every detail before his aching arms forced him to drop back down to the floor, his feet crashing down with enough noise to wake Cunningham, though Mulenga continued to slumber.

"What the hell, Danny?"

"Get up to the window and look over to the right. Do it right now."

A puzzled frown on his face, Cunningham walked over to the window and leapt up, looking in the direction Marshall had indicated. His eyes widened as he saw the shuttle, and he swore under his breath before dropping back down to the ground. He looked up at Marshall, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

"I know exactly what you are thinking." He shook his head, "I can also give you a dozen reasons why it won't work. Most of them focusing on the number of people between us and them."

"You haven't put the pieces together yet, have you? Remember, the Commandant said that we were going to be bartered off, taken back home no matter what to tell the Senate about the Cabal's offer. That shuttle's going to be our ride."

Glancing back up at the window, Cunningham replied, "That's a rather big assumption."

There was a knock on the cell door, then the bolt slid back again as the Commandant walked into the room, his white uniform gleaming and untouched. Marshall, squatting on the floor, looked up at him as Mulenga spluttered into consciousness, coughing a couple of times as he emerged from an enviable deep sleep.

"I'd offer you a chair, but we don't seem to have any."

"My apologies. Furnishing our cells is one of the lower budgetary priorities I have. I presume you have seen our shuttle."

Smiling, Marshall looked at Cunningham and then back at the Commandant, "I gather your bugs are still working."

"It was a foregone conclusion." He looked over at the window, "What do you think of it?"

"I'm sure it'll do the job, even if it looks a little old-fashioned."

"Reliable is the term I would use," the Commandant replied. "Our sources in Yreka have suggested that your Sub-Lieutenant Orlova is planning something extremely foolish. I was wondering if you would like the opportunity to talk her out of it."

His smile growing, Marshall said, "Does this mean that you are wanting to surrender, or accept my terms for a safe withdrawal from this planet? Those offers remain on the table."

"No, it means that I was giving you another chance to be reasonable. You've seen the defenses we have here; any attack on this complex will result only in excessive casualties. Surely you would rather spare your people such a bloodbath, especially one with such a poor chance of success."

Standing up, Marshall walked over to look the Commandant square in the face, taking advantage of the couple of inches he had on him, "I have the fullest faith in my junior officers to execute battle plans correctly. If Sub-Lieutenant Orlova is on her way, then she is coming with everything she needs to execute a battle plan that will see this facility fall." He smiled, "Perhaps you are unable to provide your juniors with such latitude."

"And training in mass ground combat is a standard part of fleet training?"

"The ability to learn on the job certainly is."

Turning on his heel, the Commandant marched out of the room, angling his head back towards Marshall as he left, "I hope that her education does not prove too expensive, Captain. For either of us; remember that you are in this facility also."

The door slammed shut, the catch springing home, and they could hear marching down the corridor as a pair of feet sprang to attention outside. Marshall looked over at Cunningham and Mulenga, all of them now both well and truly disturbed from their rest. Outside, the first glimpses of light were beginning to appear; the rain was continuing, but at least the gloom was beginning to lift a little.

"Looks like she's on the way," Cunningham said. "That didn't take long."

Looking at the door, Marshall replied, "He's getting desperate, and he isn't sure he's going to win."

"Are you?"

Glancing up at the ceiling, he shouted, "For public consumption, damned right I'm sure. Orlova's going to turn up here with something and teach these people how to fight."

"The only question is whether Alamo will still be here afterward," Mulenga said, looking morose.

"Right now none of that matters to either of us," Marshall said, pulling himself to his feet. "The first duty of every prisoner of war is to attempt to escape."

"We tried that once, and it didn't work out that well," Cunningham said, frowning.

Shaking his head, Marshall replied, "We made our escape on their terms, not ours. Next time we're going to be the ones determining the manner of our escape, but I'll tell you one thing – and I don't particularly care whether our captors hear me or not – I have absolutely no intention of going meekly into that shuttle and being taken into exile, however benign the ultimate intent might be."

"Great," Cunningham said. "Now we're going to get dragged on board in straight-jackets." He cracked a smile, "Just joking, Danny, sir."

Smiling in return, Marshall turned back to the window, leaping back up to look outside once again. It was critical for him to learn every detail of the compound, every part of it. All possible escape routes, guard schedules, everything. He groaned a little as his arms started to ache, and he dropped back down to the ground, rubbing his forearms.

"Problem, sir?" Mulenga asked.

"I'm going to come out of this with a good workout if nothing else." He turned back to the window, "Give me a hand."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

This time, Caine had insisted on being on the scene. She couldn't find it within herself to sit back on Alamo and wait while Harper was playing around with a bomb; when the time had came to select a shuttle pilot for the mission, she had pulled rank and taken it out herself.

Chuckling, she recalled the times when Marshall had sat in his office fuming, or had managed to find a way to get onto a mission despite logic suggesting that he should remain on board, and now she knew exactly how he felt. She'd never really been that active at stopping him in the past, but now she'd be tempted to encourage him.

She tossed a datapad loosely into the vacant co-pilot's seat, the last status reports from Alamo with just three days left before the presumed arrival of the enemy starship. They weren't even sure what government's flag it would be flying, but she suspected that they would not come in peace. At least Alamo's teeth would be ready for the fight, even if its shell was still stuck in pieces at the starport. Three days to get the ship ready for battle, and another two weeks after that to get her ready for deep space; Quinn had been forced to undo some of his work to get the work on the battle systems completed more quickly.

Her fingers tapped gently on the panel in front of her as she watched Harper outside, the telescopic filter on the heads-up display making it seem as if she was just outside the shuttle; in fact, she was almost a mile away – Dixon had insisted on a distance that would reduce the possibility of any sort of shrapnel to nothing. While she waited, there was a chirp from the communications system, a signal from Alamo.

"Caine here. Go ahead." She was catching herself getting more and more curt.

"Dixon here. Latest update from Orlova, tight-beamed. Request scramble."

Tapping a sequence of buttons, Caine replied, "The line is now secure."

"She's managed to raise a force of around six hundred men, including all the espatiers. Transport's going to be a problem, but she's rustled up enough to give her an effective radius of operation on the order of a hundred miles in the time alloted. A bit further by sea if we're hitting somewhere on the coast.”

"What about another airborne assault?”

"Apparently she doesn't want to risk the shuttles without proper orbital support."

Shrugging, she replied, "I can't say that I really blame her. Those missiles would have made a real mess of an incoming shuttle at the spaceport, and it's far too much to hope that they only had one of those installations available."

"How are things going on the surface?"

"I think Harper's getting close, but she's being about as communicative as ever. Is Medical standing by?"

"Though I'm almost at the point of posting a guard to stop Duquesne going back down to the surface, we're ready to go."

Another crackle broke in, "If you two have finished chatting, I'm trying to concentrate here."

"Spaceman, this is a secured line," Caine said.

A chuckle. "You're using my security, remember. I'll be detonating in about five minutes. The programming is complete, and I'm throwing the switch."

"Wait a minute, you're sure it works?" Dixon asked.

"Sure, why wouldn't it? I thought we were in a hurry."

"Be careful, Spaceman," Caine said, urgently. "There's no need to activate it until you get to the shuttle."

"I know that much."

Caine watched the young hacker make her way across the terrain, far too quickly. Given her dislike of spacesuits she was doing rather well, but she was still bounding her way over the ground a lot more rapidly than Caine would have liked. With nothing else to do, she started to run the shuttle through the preflight cycle, only to be interrupted by a series of expletives through the channel.

"Harper, what's wrong."

"The detonation cycle's activated!"

Leaning forwards in her chair, Caine said, "How long?"

"Four minutes now."

Even if she went as fast as she could, she'd never make it to the shuttle in the time. In her head, she quickly calculated the distance Harper might be able to make, and the effects of shrapnel from the explosion at that distance – and she didn't like the results she was getting.

"I'm on my way," she replied, throwing switches and hitting overrides, bypassing the usual safety checks to get the shuttle into the sky.

Dixon's voice sounded in her ear, "Caine, you can't take the risk. You'll be going within a few hundred meters of the explosion."

"If I get this right, we'll be well clear when that explosion happens."

"And if you don't?"

"Too many people have died on my watch already, Dixon! Not this time." She turned off the channel with the flick of a switch, locking to the short-range channels. A series of amber warning lights flickered on her heads-up display – just cautionary alerts, nothing she had to take too seriously. Angling the landing thrusters, she launched, sending gray dust flying into the air all around her. With a careful twist of a dial, she pivoted the thrusters forward, just enough to keep her at a steady altitude while providing forward thrust.

This was a game all rookie pilots played during training, hot-dogging with their practice shuttles across the surface of Phobos, racing across the unpopulated deserts of Mars. The challenge was always to beat the opponent while remaining under a specified altitude, sometimes as low as a hundred feet. It tested the skill of a pilot in a way simulators never could, and there was the periodic casualty to remind everyone that it wasn't a game, it was deadly serious.

Of course, on Mars the on-board computers had all the information on planetary conditions that anyone could ever want, providing a crutch for the pilot through the use of guidance computers. Here all she had were a few hastily taken measurements by an overworked sensor technician, and while perfectly sufficient for takeoff, landing and simple maneuvers, here she was trying to do something a whole order of magnitude more difficult.

All of these thoughts flashed through her mind in a second; she seemed to be processing information a hundred times more faster than normal, a familiar sensation from her fighter days back in the War. Up ahead, the sensor indicator marking Harper's position winked on and off as she approached; another consideration she had to bear in mind was that she couldn't afford to obscure Harper in a dust cloud, or still worse, injure her while attempting to rescue her.

Playing the thrusters, trying to conjure up skills from long ago, she angled around to take a slightly more circuitous course, one eye on the clock, another on Harper's position. She ducked over a low, jagged ridge of rock stabbing up from the ground, then around the rim of a crater; to save time later, she tapped another button to open the airlock. The gravity was so low that Harper would be able to jump into it, especially with some help from her suit thrusters. If she could just get close enough in time, of course.

A hundred meters to go, and she had to resist her impulses to step up to faster speeds to finish her run, easing back on the throttle. Behind her she could see a pair of tracks blasted into the ground from her engines; she certainly couldn't afford to do that in the area around Harper. Ahead, she could see the bomb site, the few bits of equipment scattered around the record the communications pulse, a warning that she was now well within range of the explosion – which was now just over a minute away.

Finally, she was over Harper. "Spaceman, get on board!"

Focusing her camera down, she saw the hacker brace herself for the jump, and with a pair of quick blasts from her thrusters, leap up into the air alongside the shuttle. Keeping the shuttle steady was difficult, a thruster played one way and another. With her left hand, she tapped out a series of trajectory calculations, and confirmed her suspicions; Harper had misjudged her jump and was going to fall short. Taking the throttle again, she eased down on the thrust, bringing the shuttle in line with the flying Harper.

"Got it!" Harper said, a clang from the outer hull confirming that she was hanging onto the rail.

"Get inside, as fast as you can. I'll hit the engines as soon as you get into the airlock."

Seconds sped by as Harper clambered into the airlock, Caine having to carefully manipulate the thrusters again and again in a bid to keep the shuttle stable as the weight distribution changed. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she was inside, and as the airlock cycle began, she tipped the nose up with a long pulse from the forward thruster and engaged the main engines, pressing her back into the seat. Less than twenty seconds left before the explosion – no time to have any consideration for the orbit she was going to end up in, she simply had to get away from the blast area as quickly as possible.

With an almost anticlimactic flash, the bomb exploded, toppling the nearby equipment; she hoped that the sensors had done their work before detonation. This was far too risky to try again. Easing back on the throttle, she tapped out a sequence on the autonavigator to take them back to Alamo.

"Harper, all secure back there?"

There was a short delay before the hacker replied, "I think so. The suit's a bit bashed around, but the airlock's pressurized now. I'm making my way into the passenger cabin."

"Good. Just sit tight, I want to get you checked over by Doc Duquesne as soon as we get back. No arguments."

"You won't get one. And thanks for coming after me."

"Any time." She flicked the communication channels back open with an outstretched finger.

Dixon was still speaking, "...calling Caine, come in please!"

"Caine to Alamo. All secure, shuttle undamaged. Have a medical team standing by to take a look at Harper when we come in, but it looks like everything's fine."

"Thank God for that." There was a brief flick, the two of them going to a private channel. "If you ever do something that stupid again, I'll relieve you of command and to hell with the consequences."

"You'd have done the same for one of your pilots, wouldn't you? Or if you had been flying the shuttle instead of me."

"Damn right. But I'm not the commander of Alamo, and you are."

"Yes, mother." She smiled, "Did we get the data we wanted?" She could hear shouting from the other side of the transmission, the sound of celebration on the bridge. "Dixon?"

"Wait one."

Caine waited as patiently as she could as the shuttle angled back onto the track that would take it back to Alamo, thrusters firing to get it back onto the right course. "Dixon, what's the story?"

"We've found them. You can tell Harper that the signal pulse worked exactly as planned; I don't think there's a receiver for ten million miles that wouldn't have picked it up."

The hacker's voice piped in, "I told you it would work!"

"Well, where are they?"

"That's the bad news. Three hundred miles up the coast, above a beach. That's well outside the radius of operation for Orlova's ground forces. That means they're going to have to go in by sea."

"At least we know where to look now." She paused. "Let's raise the stakes a little, shall we. Harper, I presume that they'll know what just happened?"

"No way they wouldn't."

"Well, that's too bad, but we can probably use it. Get a recon satellite overhead, I want Orlova to know every detail of the installation right down to the inch. Every guard, every installation, anything. I want a complete map of that area as well."

"They might move the hostages now."

Shaking her head, Caine replied, "I'd send enough missiles down there to turn it into a small version of Hell if they did that. The hostages are the only reason I haven't done that already. I think they know that."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"It doesn't seem possible, does it," Orlova said, turning to Zabek. She gestured up at the billowing sails above her, then across the waves to the six other ships that were bearing their army, all hugging the coast. "Representatives of an interstellar space fleet, and we're traveling up the coast in ships that wouldn't have looked out of place five centuries ago."

"I must admit, this isn't exactly what I expected when I signed up," the young midshipman replied, looking out at the other ships. "I've never seen this much water before in my life."

"I have, once. My parents took me down to Earth when I was four, said that I should at least get a look at the place." She laughed, "Actually I think they were smuggling something or other off-world; we landed in the most inhospitable place you could think of, up in the North Indian Badlands. I swear you could see the glowing cities as we flew in." She shook her head, "But we landed by the sea, and were there for a week waiting for someone to turn up. I even got to swim."

Zabek looked around her again, "I never even left Mars until the first Academy training flight."

Frowning, Orlova turned to her, "What made you sign up, then?"

"I wanted to see what was out there. The Fleet seemed the best way."

"There are easier ways, you know. If you were good enough to pass the entrance exams, I'm sure you'd have been good enough to get a spaceman's license and work for one of the shipping companies."

"I figured I'd try the hardest way first. See if I could."

Orlova turned, looking at one of the seven provisional companies training on the deck behind, running in circles as an amused-looking Private Blake – temporarily wearing the stripes of a Sergeant – got to give out some of the punishment he'd been used to taking. There were an awful lot of privates bossing platoons right now, or serving as company NCOs; she'd kept the battle plan as simple as possible, hoping against hope that it would work out on the day.

"Problem?" Zabek asked.

She was getting quite perceptive. "This really isn't what I was expecting to do. No-one ever told me that I'd be leading troops into battle." Laughing again, she said, "I've spent more time at the sharp end on one planet or another than I have on shipboard. I should have joined the espatiers."

"You do seem at home in the uniform. You could always transfer."

"That's Esposito's job, and one she's good at. Alamo only needs one Espatier officer."

There was a long pause, and Zabek said, "Do you think the Captain would keep me on after the cruise?"

"I'm sure he'd consider it, but it isn't really down to him. Once you get your commission, you'll have to go where the service sends you, and Alamo doesn't have any gaps at the Sub-Lieutenant level at the moment."

This time it was Zabek's turn to laugh, "You don't actually think that I'll pass my boards, do you? I'll be happy if I do well enough to take a second crack at it."

"That bad?"

Sighing, the young midshipman replied, "It just doesn't come naturally to me."

"From what I've seen, you lead well. That's the biggest part of it."

"But the academic side, Sub-Lieutenant, that I just don't seem to be able to master."

Shaking her head, Orlova replied, "I think we've gone far enough down the road for you to call me Maggie, at least when we're alone."

Shouting echoed down from the deck; the marching was over, and now Blake seemed to have decided to switch to marksman ship, ordering men forward to set up targets on the side of the ship. Orlova hoped that Captain Pryce wouldn't have any objection to the inevitable results of misses; she braced herself for an imminent claim for damages. The Tatars seemed to be the best shots among them – something which gave her a little satisfaction.

Turning back to Zabek, she said, "You've piloted Alamo."

"With a lot of help from the Watch Officer. I'm a pretty decent shuttle pilot, but it just doesn't translate. And when I try to tangle up three-dimensional combat – I just can't picture it." She sighed, "I wouldn't even have passed the exams if they hadn't needed someone to pass through to the Triplanetary Fleet. I know that much."

"Is this so bad?"

Her eyes opened wide as she looked up, "Oh, no, that's not what I meant at all. I've loved it here, well, aside from all the shooting and all. I really feel like I'm making a difference."

"You are."

"That's just it, though. I don't want that to end." She looked up at the cloudy sky, "I want to stay on Alamo, and I just hope I can get the chance."

Nodding, Orlova replied, "In about eighteen hours we're going to be getting into rowboats and heading towards a beach, probably under heavy machine gun fire, storming a well-fortified location. Worry about that for now."

"I am, believe me, I am! Do me a favor, Maggie."

"What?"

"Don't die. Seriously." She gestured around, "I wouldn't know where to begin."

Orlova tried to conjure up herself a year ago. "Tackle each problem as it comes up, and just keep shooting at the bad guys until they stop moving. That's about the extent of my battle plan anyway." She clapped the midshipman on the shoulder, "I'd better go down and have a word with Captain Pryce." A blast rang out from the deck as fifty rifles fired at once; any idea of equipping the locals with plasma weapons had promptly been dismissed by all concerned. "While there's still something left of his ship, that is. Go down and give Acting Sergeant Blake some supervision – I get the impression he's enjoying it a bit too much."

Making sure to hold onto the rail, Orlova walked down the stairs to the lower deck, throwing a salute at Blake as she clambered down the hatch to the lower level. A group of annoyed looking sailors were trying futilely to sleep, rocking back and forth in hammocks slung in their barrack rooms. Trying to ignore their stares, she knocked twice on the Captain's door, pushing it open with the second knock. He was slumped over his desk, looking down at a map through an eyeglass, shaking his head. A communicator was lying next to him, the channel open.

"Come in, Sub-Lieutenant," he said without looking up, and she took a seat.

"Problems?"

He looked up, shaking his head, "These maps are several orders of magnitude better than anything I've ever used before. The charts you've given us will pay for this expedition alone, but I'm having some trouble convincing the rest of the commanders that they can be trusted."

"They're accurate, Captain. I'd bet my life in it."

"Good. You are. If these charts are wrong and we run aground, we haven't got enough boats on board to get half the crews off; we're a bit overloaded right now." A series of bangs punctuated his words, more practice shooting from the deck above, "That's presuming I have a ship left by the time we get there. Is that really necessary?"

"Most of these troops have somewhat...limited training. We're taking the opportunity to bring them up to speed."

He smiled, replying, "When you came to me with this plan of yours I thought you were crazy. Now I know you are. If they weren't holding Captain Thomas as well, it would have been a harder sell." He laughed, "That offer he made us was insulting. I don't think he wanted us to take it."

"The status quo has changed; they want it to end up in their favor."

"Whereas we just want all of this over so we can get back to plying our wares again – and giving our children the opportunity to do so in a somewhat wider sphere." He pulled a bottle of some sort of deep purple concoction from a shelf, leaning back on his chair to reach, and placed it on his desk.

"You'll join me?"

"As long as I'll be conscious for the attack tomorrow."

He poured two fingers of the liquid into a pair of glasses; Orlova watched the thick mixture swirl around as she reached for a glass, "To crazy plans."

Smiling wider, he replied, "To the Triplanetary Confederation, though from what I've seen up to now, we're toasting the same thing."

The two glasses clinked, and they both sipped their drinks; a sugary sweet concoction with a harsh bitter aftertaste, and Orlova coughed at the taste. Something about it was appealing enough to compel her to have a second taste, and she placed the half-empty glass down on the table again.

Pryce smiled approvingly, "Not many people can stand one of my home brews." His smile then turned to a frown as he heard a buzzing sound from overhead. The two of them leapt out of their chairs over to the porthole, straining to look up at the sky. Orlova could just make out a small shape buzzing overhead, and with a look at Pryce she burst out of the cabin, taking the rungs of the ladder three at a time as she clambered onto the deck. She looked up again, and shook her head. Another biplane.

"Blake!" she yelled, "Shoot that damn thing down!"

Nodding, the acting sergeant turned to his men, "Aim in front of the target, remember to lead your shots, and in your own time, fire!"

A series of shots began to ring out, hot cartridges springing out onto the deck; a plasma rifle would have made short work of the approaching aircraft, but it would be out of range by the time anyone could get one. While she watched, the plane executed a perfect loop-the-loop, turning back northward and towards the compound. A second series of shots rang around the deck, then a third, but at that range it could be nothing more than a distraction for the pilot; Orlova didn't really have any expectation of hitting it. She couldn't just sit there and let it get away without an attempt to bring it down, though.

As it passed across the horizon, she saw a ball of green flame from the furthest ship in the formation; evidently Kozu had tried to get a plasma gun ready in time, and had come very close to making it. Close, but not close enough. She could swear that the pilot wiggled his wings as he flew out of sight, a gentle salute to the enemy; something in her hoped that she might get a chance to meet that pilot at some point.

Zabek raced down the deck towards her, looking back at the disappearing plane as the whine of its engine began to fade into nothing. Fury was etched on her face as she slammed another clip into her pistol; if using the rifles had been a long shot, trying the shot with the pistol was simply a waste of ammunition, albeit an understandable one.

"There goes the element of surprise," she said, shaking her head at the sky. "They know exactly where we are, and should be able to predict exactly when we're going to hit the beach. You can bet they'll have all manner of hell waiting for us when we land."

Sighing, Orlova replied, "I'm not going to cancel the operation."

"I didn't suggest that," the midshipman said, "but it's liable to make the cost a lot higher."

"Not at all," she said. "We'll just have to think of something. We've got a starship up in orbit, haven't we? There must be something they could do to provide assistance."

"They've got problems of their own at the moment, haven't they? Besides, we don't dare use an orbital strike without knowing exactly where the Captain is."

"I'm not talking about launching an orbital bombardment. There must be something more they can do." She paused, and smiled, raising her communicator to her head, "Orlova to Alamo. I need to speak to Lieutenant Quinn, top priority, and scrambled, if you please. Tell him I have a little job for him."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Caine shook her head as she read the report of the probe of Harper's World. She'd expected something interesting, but not this. There was some abandoned equipment on the planet, most of it of United Nations vintage; all old, though, decades out of date. The probe had collected serial numbers and logos in a bid to identify it – already the computer had traced some of it as being manufactured on Mars before independence.

That just about clinched it; the Cabal obviously had some sort of contact with someone back in the home system. When they got back, Fleet Intelligence would have something to work on. As she put the report back on her desk, the door buzzed; she clicked it open to admit Quinn, a huge smile on his face, a datapad thrust towards her. Scanning it, Caine looked across at the eager engineer as he gently rocked from side to side on his handhold. She dropped it down to the desk, then shook her head.

"I don't know how the hell you did it."

"All preliminary checks are completed, I'd like to go out and give the laser a few test shots to knock the kinks out of the recharging process."

"Can't you do that inside?"

Shaking his head, the engineer replied, "Not enough room to deploy the radiators."

"Fine, we'll schedule a test for the start of the next watch." She looked across at a clock, "Alpha goes on shift in fifty minutes."

The engineer bobbed up and down as he nodded his head, "That'll give me time to double-check the systems. We're getting close, now, Lieutenant. Most of the actual engineering is done, it's just a question of getting everything calibrated again."

"Five days to get Alamo back into fighting trim. You've worked a miracle, Quinn."

He shrugged, "My guys and I just did engineering. We've still got a miracle yet to work, I think."

"How about your project for the assault downstairs?"

"Ready and waiting in synchronous orbit. It should give those Legionnaires a nice surprise in, what, half an hour."

"Something like that." She sighed, "I'm not looking forward to listening to the play-by-play on that one."

Frowning, Quinn replied, "Have you considered calling it off?"

"I'm not convinced that Maggie would if I ordered her to. Hell, if I was in her place I'd probably be all fired up as well." Caine's desk began beeping urgently, and she slammed a finger down on the button, "Caine here, go ahead."

"Lieutenant?" Kibaki's voice had a trace of panic in it. "You'd better get up here right now. We're picking up dimensional interference."

"After seven days?" Quinn's eyes widened. "I'd love to get a look at the kit they're using."

"I hope you get a chance," Caine said, as she replied, "I'm on my way." Closing the channel, she pushed off into the corridor, grabbing Quinn's sleeve as she drifted past. "Come on, Quinn."

The elevator seemed to take its usual eternity to make its way up to the bridge; it almost seemed that the more urgent the need for speed, the longer it took to travel between levels. Two levels short, it paused, and a red-faced Dixon swung in from the corridor, almost crashing into Caine; if Quinn hadn't reached out a hand to snatch her, she'd have bounced back out into the corridor before the doors could close.

"Sorry, mistimed my trajectory," the pilot said.

"Don't do that in a fighter," Caine replied.

"You think this is it?"

The doors opened onto a nervous bridge; Kibaki gratefully yielded the command chair to Caine as soon as the doors opened. Yorkina looked at her, eyes widening as she drifted in to look at the sensor station. Quinn bounced over to Ignatov at flight engineering, throwing switches and tapping screens in frustration.

"Well?" Caine said.

"Started fifty seconds ago, Lieutenant," Yorkina replied. "Same pattern as last time, but closer. At the far Jeffersonian hendecaspace point."

"Right." She drifted over to the command chair, settling down into it. For the first time, it actually felt right.

"Hendecaspace transition in progress," Yorkina said, and alarms began to go off on the bridge. "Threat alert!"

Leaning forward, Caine said, "Show me."

An image flashed onto the screen, transmitted from one of the cameras on the exterior of the spaceport. A small sphere, with a series of small engine nacelles at the rear and a cluster of a hundred long tentacle-like antenna at the front. She'd never seen anything remotely like it before – except for the prospector, which definitely had a family resemblance. It certainly was maneuverable; it rotated quickly as its engines began to fire. Caine didn't need a report from the astrogator to know where they were heading – there was only one course they could be traveling on. Direct for Alamo.

“About a third the size of Alamo, Lieutenant,” Yorkina said, glancing up from her station.

"Hail them, Ortega," Caine said.

After the communications technician threw some switches, she looked up and shook her head, "They aren't accepting any signals, Lieutenant."

"Put me on, all channels, translated as widely as possible."

Nodding, Ortega replied, "You're on, ma'am."

"This is Acting Captain Caine of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo." The time for playing down their strength was long past. "We are present in this system at the invitation of local authorities, and request that you identify yourselves immediately." She counted the seconds required for a message to travel back and forth from the incoming vessel, waiting for a reply. None came. "We will not attack first, but are more than capable of defending ourselves. Please identify yourselves."

She turned to Ortega, "Nothing?"

"Not on any frequency, ma'am. No sign of anything at all."

The elevator doors slid open, and Harper – her elbow bandaged at doctor's orders following her recent injury – slid onto the bridge,  standing next to Ortega. Caine looked at the expectant faces on the bridge.

"Mr. Quinn," she said, "You informed me that our laser was ready for action."

"After calibration," he said, frowning.

"You'd better do that on the move. Take the helm, please."

Quinn looked at the vacant flight control station, turned, and nodded with a smile on his face. He'd held that station during numerous battles during the War, and his skills as an engineer would be solely needed after the battle, not during it.

"Aye, aye, ma'am," he said, sliding gracefully into the station.

Caine turned to Dixon, "Go down and get your fighters ready for launch. We'll be wanting them shortly."

The pilot took a last look at the screen, then back at Caine, "Aye, aye. Good hunting."

"And to you." Turning to Quinn, she said, "Clear all moorings, helm."

"Aye, ma'am, clearing moorings."

She tapped a button on her chair, "Sub-Lieutenant Ryder, report to the bridge on the double." Looking over at the frowning Kibaki, she said, "I need her to take Tactical."

"All umbilicals detached," Matsumoto said from the rear station. "We are now on internal power and support."

"Plot an intercept course, Yorkina. Heads-on approach."

"Heads on, ma'am?"

"We haven't got the plating to dance with these devils all day, spaceman. Let's get this over with."

"Aye, ma'am."

Quinn turned on his chair, "Ready on thrusters, ma'am."

Caine shook her head, a smile beginning to grow, "We might need the minutes using the thrusters will take, Lieutenant. Main engines, one-tenth ahead."

Matsumoto looked anxiously across, "That will do considerable damage to the starport, ma'am."

"Either we'll live to fix it or we're scorching the earth for the enemy, Sub-Lieutenant." She turned back to Quinn, "Take us out, if you please, Lieutenant."

Turning back to his station with a smug grin on his face, the engineer replied, "Aye, aye, ma'am." He manipulated controls, and Caine felt serious gravity again, pushed gently back into her seat as Alamo's powerful main drive began to fire, throttling down to its lowest possible acceleration. The ship slowly lunged towards the exit corridor, plasma streams curling behind, sending fragments of rock flying around.

It seemed to be taking an awfully long time for them to maneuver to the tunnel, and for a few seconds Caine was certain that they were going to crash right into the side wall, but finally Quinn managed to get them lined up, and with a deft flick of the throttle turned the engines up to maximum to barrel them back out into space, seemingly rushing towards the stars. It was amazingly liberating to be surrounded by space again, Jefferson hanging like a jewel in the darkness over to one side. She realized suddenly how confined they'd been in there.

"We are free and clear to navigate," Quinn said.

Turning to Yorkina, she asked, "How's that course coming?"

Without looking up from her work, the sensor technician replied, "I'm feeding it through to Flight Control now, ma'am. Estimated time of intercept is in fifty-two minutes, assuming the enemy maintains its current rate of acceleration."

"They'd be going faster if they could, I suspect, Spaceman. Implement the course, Mr. Quinn."

Ryder drifted onto the bridge, and Kibaki waved her towards Tactical; she shook her head as she looked at the state the console was currently in, red lights on almost all the system reports; Quinn turned to her with an apologetic shrug before returning to the helm.

"Think you can get it together in the time, Ryder?" Caine asked.

"I'll find a way, Lieutenant. I know what's at stake."

Nodding, Caine tapped another button on the side of her chair. "Now hear this. Acting Captain to Crew. We'll be going to battle stations in about forty minutes from now. I know that we're short-handed, and I know that the ship's still hanging together in pieces, but I have every confidence in all of you. This is a battle that we must win; there can be no retreat, no surrender. That is all."

She looked at Ortega again, closing the channel with the flick of a switch, "Any reply to our transmissions, anything at all?"

"Still nothing. I've got them pulsing constantly."

Sighing, she said, "You'd better contact Orlova."

A few seconds later, "I've got her, ma'am. On scrambler."

"Right." She picked up a headset. "Maggie, do you hear me?"

"Loud and clear. Going to wish us luck?"

She shook her head, "The vessel we've been waiting for just jumped into system, Maggie. We'll be going to battle stations in about forty minutes; I'm giving you control of Quinn's little surprise package."

"That's about ten minutes after we're scheduled to hit the beach."

"Everything ready for that?"

"As ready as we'll ever be." She paused, then continued, "It's been a pleasure, Deadeye. Just in case."

"Same to you. Good luck."

"Yeah. You too. Orlova out."

The channel closed, Caine replaced the headset on the armrest of her chair. She looked around the bridge as everyone focused on their appointed tasks, busily preparing the ship for battle. Everyone but her; all she could do now was wait for the fighting to start. A brief temptation to take Ryder's place at Tactical crept into her mind, but she dismissed it; the best people were at their stations right now. No point replacing them.

"I'm going into my office for a moment," she said. "Mr. Kibaki, you have the conn. Inform me immediately if there is any change in target aspect."

"Aye, ma'am."

Caine pulled herself up out of her chair – getting used to gravity again after a week spent floating was proving tough – and walked carefully towards the Captain's office. She'd occasionally wondered what Marshall, and other commanders before him, had found to do in there before the battle. Now she knew; nothing. In a little over forty minutes, they would be fighting a battle. Nothing could change that now. All the other options were exhausted, and she didn't really think for a moment that the enemy would simply stop and let them take Jefferson.

She looked out at the stars, slowly curving as Alamo altered its trajectory to speed closer and closer towards its target, Quinn fine-tuning the course to scrape an extra second of advantage one way or another, to try and put them in the best position to fire. The lights flickered briefly as Ryder started charging the laser, and there was a brief flapping movement outside as the mile-long radiator began to deploy, black against black, though that would quickly change when they started to fire. She tried to picture the battle in her mind; she'd fought enough of them in her career to be able to do it, but this time she couldn't.

An unknown enemy in a barely-explored system. They didn't know what their adversary was armed with, they didn't know its vulnerable spots, or even if it had any. She shook her head, driving that from her mind – they'd have weak spots, and she just had to find them. Simple as that.

She turned to head back from the bridge, then stopped, reaching behind to desk. She knew where Marshall kept a bottle of something, in case the occasion demanded; this qualified. Pulling out a zero-gravity container, she poured out a single measure of vodka from the bottle, stowed it back in the desk, and sealed the container shut. She wasn't going to drink it now – but after the battle, she intended to have reasons to celebrate.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Marshall sat in the cell, fuming. Days of watching guard rotations, observing troop movements, and none of it amounted to anything useful for an escape plan. The captives had managed to get a good picture of the compound's defenses, but as it stood there was nothing much they could do with it. Adding to his sense of frustration was Alamo; he had no idea whether Caine had left the system, opted to stand and fight, or was already coming down to the surface. His ship could be torn wreckage in orbit already, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Danny," Cunningham said from the window. "We've got something."

Dashing over to the window, Marshall jumped up next to Cunningham. Out on the horizon he could see seven ships bearing down on the fortress, sails furled. He gave a loud whoop and dropped down to the floor, shaking Mulenga on the shoulders to wake the astrogator.

"The marines are here!" he said. "Orlova's made it."

"Which means she's about to launch an assault on a heavily fortified shore installation," Cunningham said, breathing deeply. "I'm not quite as confident as you are, Danny."

"She wouldn't have launched the operation unless she had something up her sleeve."

Hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor, and the door slammed open to reveal a trio of guards, all of them nestling submachine guns in their arms, led by the brute who had brought them their food on the first day of their imprisonment. The guns swung towards Marshall and Cunningham.

"Outside. You are being taken elsewhere."

"No," Marshall replied.

The bolts clicked home, "You will come or you will be shot."

Marshall looked at Cunningham, shrugged, and stepped forward. He still had no intention of being taken anywhere, he just wanted to see how close he could get to the trio before they stopped him. It turned out to be just close enough; he swung a savage chop to the thug's neck, sending him diving to the side as he squeezed the trigger, a series of bullet holes thudding into the stone. Cunningham and Mulenga were on the other two before they could react, leaping underneath their guns to tackle them to the deck as Marshall kicked his foe in the stomach, yanking the gun from his fingers.

Sirens began to echo down the corridor; evidently someone had managed to raise the alarm, and they were going to have company in a matter of minutes. While Cunningham quickly made sure that the trio of guards would remain unconscious for a while and rifled their pockets for ammunition, Marshall raced out of the room.

"Stand back," he yelled, as he squeezed the trigger at the door, almost blasting it from its hinges. Orlov, Esposito and Steele raced out of the room, Esposito leaning down to snatch a pistol from the holster of the thug.

"Where to, sir?" Esposito asked.

"Up. There must be a communications set-up. Down takes us right to the guards; I want somewhere we can hold for a while." Before he had finished speaking he was racing down the corridor, the rest of his people hot on his heels. Pointing his borrowed gun in front of him, he angled it down the stairs and fired the rest of the clip; he was rewarded with a series of screams and cries that told him he had bought at least a little time as he raced upstairs, fumbling another clip into the gun.

With a kick, he knocked the door to the corridor down, and he and Cunningham both fired blind through the doorhole, though this time they'd only damaged the stonework at the far end. There were three doors, the largest marked 'Radio'. Without a second thought, he kicked that door down as well, his leg beginning to throb as splinters flew past him. A surprised looking guard, sitting at the radio, rose his gun to point at Marshall, but he reacted first with a pair of precise shots sending him crashing to the ground.

"Cunningham, Esposito, take the other rooms and clear them. No finesse needed." He dashed into the room and looked at the radio, then began to swear fluently in three languages.

"What?" Mulenga said; his eyes widened as he walked into the room. The technician had been in the middle of overhauling the equipment, and there were components strewn everywhere, an open toolkit on the floor. Marshall took a step forward, being careful not to stand on anything, but he couldn't even work out where to begin.

"You three get this damn thing working," he said to Mulenga, Orlov and Steele, who dashed for the components; Marshall took the submachine gun from Mulenga and stepped back into the corridor; Esposito was stepping out of another room and giving him the thumbs up sign, and a burst of fire from the other indicated that Cunningham had completed his task.

“I've found Captain Miller, Danny! Drugged, I think, out cold anyway.”

“Make sure he's safe and get back out to the corridor,” Marshall replied. Tossing the spare gun to Esposito, he said, "The communicator's out of order. We need to hold this ground for a while."

Nodding, Cunningham started tossing spare magazines to the others; they'd used their ammunition like water, and there were only four clips each. It didn't seem like much to hold off an entire garrison.

"We've got company coming," Esposito yelled as she took a position facing the opposite staircase. Cunningham dived back into his room, peering around the corner towards Marshall's staircase; he was the only one not in the communications room. The sound of swearing and electrical crackle came from the radio, followed by a deafening high-pitched whine.

"John, you got a forward-facing window where you are?"

Frowning, he replied, "Yes."

"Good. You're going to be spotter. We know where all the defensive emplacements are, and I bet Orlova's got all the plasma guns she can find with her. As soon as we get a signal through, we start providing firing instructions for her gunners."

Nodding, Cunningham said, "I wondered what you wanted the communicator for."

"Alamo might be able to provide some orbital support as well, with a little luck.”

"Here they come!" Esposito yelled, as she unleashed a torrent of fire on the corridor, sending a body tumbling back down the stairs. Marshall fired at the same time, operating on pure instinct, carving a series of bullet holes in the far wall; he swore that he could see a shadow trembling at the top of the stairs, waiting to charge; he couldn't blame the man for hesitating. They were in an excellent defensive position – for as long as their ammunition held out, anyway.

Another loud whine resounded from the radio as the shadow made his charge, a young man with desperate fear in his eyes; he was put down by an expert shot from Cunningham in the leg, tumbling to the ground moaning as blood spurted out. An officer behind him crept forward, a pistol in his hand, and Marshall sent him flying back down the stairs with a pair of quick bursts. He clicked again and nothing happened; already he was running short of ammunition. He tossed the empty clip into the corridor as he slammed in another.

More gunshots echoed behind him, Esposito using up a clip in a series of quick shots. He couldn't spare the time to see what was going on behind him – all that could concern him right now was the small patch of corridor ahead of him. This time a pair of legionnaires ran forward, pistols in hand, unleashing a short succession of wild shots that cracked all around Marshall as he opened fire, sending one of them falling to the ground and another throwing himself downstairs, by the sounds of it tumbling into another advancing group.

"Radio, how's it going?" he yelled in between bursts.

"Getting there, sir," Orlov replied, "Still got a few pieces left to put back!" A loud crackle came from the room, followed by some Russian swearing; perhaps it wasn't going quite as well as he'd hoped. He fired a few shots as a precaution into the wall, then saw a small sphere flying down the corridor from the staircase.

"Grenade!" he yelled, swinging the butt of his gun like a club towards it, battering it back away from him then diving for the ground. The explosion deafened him as rubble flew through the air; dust swept out from the walls as he staggered back to the door, the rattling of covering fire from Cunningham over him. He ran his hand across his forehead and it came back smeared in blood; his uniform top was gashed in a dozen places with fragments of rock, and as he looked back out into the corridor he realized just how lucky he had been.

Half the ceiling had come down, and rubble was still tumbling down the staircase. There was a hole in the wall he could see the sky through, and the floor was covered in debris. His head swam for a second, and without a word he tossed his gun over to Steele, who took his place at the door, firing a couple of shots into the gloom. When he saw him, Mulenga broke away from the radio and snatched a box marked with a red cross from the wall.

"You sit there for a minute, Captain."

Waving his hands, Marshall replied, "Get back to the radio," but Mulenga insistently started to pull out bandages, sliding antiseptic pads across his forehead that add stinging to his list of woes. He shook his head back and forth in an attempt to clear it, then found himself gagging on a drink; Mulenga had found a bottle of something and had poured some of it down his throat, it tasted like some sort of foul fruit juice, but it was at least making him feel a little better.

More shots rang out from the corridor, and he peered carefully out of the door, pushing Mulenga aside. Cunningham was tossing Esposito another clip; obviously she had run dry. They didn't have much time left in their glorious last stand, and he turned to look at the radio again, smiling as he saw Orlov replacing the panel. He dashed over to the console, placing a headphone to his ear as he spoke into the microphone, his other hand playing with the frequency tuner.

"Marshall calling any station, any station. Marshall calling any station, respond."

A series of shots echoed from the corridor, followed by swearing from Steele who dived back into the room, a gash running down her arm. Orlov took her place at the corridor as Mulenga began to treat her, leaving Marshall at the radio.

"Marshall calling any station, any station, come in please!"

He was almost deafened by a loud crackle, then a disbelieving voice replied, "Alamo here. Spaceman Ortega here, verify please."

Shouting into the receiver, Marshall replied, "Alpha-Tango-Bravo-Niner. Put Caine on."

It took a few seconds, and he could hear worrying sounds of sirens in the background as she replied, "Caine here."

"What the hell is going on up there?"

"I've just put Alamo on battle stations, am engaging enemy in eight minutes. Repeat, engaging enemy in eight minutes." The line was terrible, static almost drowning out the words. "Has Orlova got to you already?"

"Negative, staged a little breakout." He paused, the temptation to start commanding the ship by remote almost overwhelming. He could do it – but he didn't have any of the sensor reports, couldn't get any status updates. "Have Ortega switch me through to Orlova. Then you can get on with your little battle."

Another burst of machine gun fire resounded through the corridor, "You sound as if you're having a bit of fun yourself. Is there anything else I can do?"

"Not at the moment. Contact me as soon as the battle is over. Don't worry about giving me a running commentary." He paused. "Get this one thing clear. Take any action necessary to protect the ship. Disregard the ground forces, we can look after ourselves if we have to. Do anything that is necessary." Taking a deep breath, he continued, "And if it comes to it..."

"Alamo won't fall into enemy hands, Danny, you have my word on that." She mumbled something away from the microphone, "Patching you through to Orlova now."

"Good. Good hunting."

There was a brief pause, interrupted only by a combination of machine gun fire and swearing. Only two of their guns were firing now; it sounded like Cunningham was dry. Just as they were getting into contact with the ground forces, it looked as if they were about to be overwhelmed. At least they'd managed to create a nice distraction.

"Orlova to Marshall?" a quizzical voice replied.

"Marshall here. Good work Sub-Lieutenant. I presume that is you out there."

"We'll be coming in shortly." She paused, then chuckled, almost manically, "We were coming in to rescue you."

More machine-gun fire. "Oh, we still need rescuing." He took another breath, "But you have my permission to abort. If you think the butchers' bill is going to be too high, then don't do this."

He knew she'd heard him, but she acted as if she hadn't. "First boats will be hitting the water in a couple of minutes, we're just loading the last troops now. Have you got a good view?"

"Good enough for Cunningham to call in some targets for you. Have your plasma gunners standing by, and make it quick. We expect to be overwhelmed in a matter of minutes, our ammunition is about out." It belatedly occurred to him that others might be listening to him, but they'd have known how much ammunition they'd been able to grab during their breakout.

"Great, get those markers relayed to us. And Captain?"

"Yes?"

"I suggest you close your eyes. We've got a little surprise coming in about a minute, and I don't think you'll be having too much trouble after that. They're going to be far too busy with the assault force to worry about a few people crouching around a radio."

His mouth opened for a second, then he quietly whispered around the room, "Eyes closed, pass it on." He glanced out of the window and could see something falling from the sky, on a trajectory to take it straight for the landing site. Clamping a hand over his eyes, he waited for Orlova's surprise, while Esposito fired a final burst of shots into the corridor, emptying her clip. Whatever Orlova had planned, he hoped it was going to be good.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Orlova's eyes were still watering from Quinn's flare, but it seemed to have done the job. The fire from the beach was sporadic rather than the waves of machine-gun fire she had been fearing, and she began to think that there might actually be a chance of pulling this off. Her paddle hit the water in time with the others in her boat, and she glanced up and down the line.

Fifteen boats in the first wave, each with fifteen men, and another twelve in the second wave to follow up. The only Triplanetary hand she had with her was Sergeant Kozu, who had insisted on sticking with her; the rest were militiamen from Yreka wearing ill-fitting camouflage. It briefly flashed through her mind that they might as well have worn standard jumpsuits; the green and black pattern would provide excellent cover in the jungles but wasn't going to be of much help while they charged up the beach.

Closer and closer they paddled, flashes of green flying over their head from the ships behind them at targets pinpointed by Cunningham. All of the NCOs had been briefed on their location to avoid any accidents in the middle of the battle, she just hoped that they'd all been listening. She was carrying the same basic rifle as the rest of them, and patted her pocket to make sure that the spare ammunition clips were present.

For about the tenth time she wished they'd at least had an opportunity to make some modifications to them, or at least to spend some decent time practicing. The idea of recoil was something she wasn't enjoying getting used to, and her shoulder had the bruises to prove it.

As the shore grew ever closer the machine guns began to open up again more accurately, ripping into the water by the sides of their boat. She heard screaming to her right; the fire had been accurate enough to rip through a nearby boat, smashing into the soldiers inside. There was nothing she could do to help them now as the shore grew closer, and she began to hear a grinding noise from the underneath of the hull, the oars began to move them forward less and less.

"Right, let's get moving!" she yelled, leaping over the side of the boat and splashing waist-deep into the water, struggling forward as fast as she could while keeping down as low as possible. Her rifle was in her hand, a comforting crutch, and she plunged the butt down into the water to push her towards the beach more rapidly; she had been told time and again that these were extremely rugged and dependable weapons, and she was certainly putting that theory to the test today. Explosions ripped into the water all around her, covering her with salty spray, and another wave of plasma bolts slammed into the compound ahead, thinning out the fire a little as she began to crunch sand beneath her feet.

She had spent hours pouring over the satellite images beamed down from Alamo, and now all of that was being put to the test; she almost felt as if she had been here already. Just ahead was a ridge of some sort of debris, recently tossed up from the water, and that was her immediate target, sprinting into its shadow with the rest of the men from her boat behind her. She turned her head briefly for the first time, realizing that she had just assumed that they were following her. Ten men were in her wake, Kozu at the rear with his pistol in his hand, and a pair of bodies drifted back on the water, casualties from the initial charge. That still left her missing three men, but she couldn't think about that.

Hurling herself into the shadow of the cover, she peered over the top. She couldn't see any legionnaires, all of them were far too well protected at the top of the beach, but she could see a lot of shattered walls where defensive fortifications had once been; the plasma gunners were certainly doing their job, and Cunningham was guiding them in nicely.

Hopefully they could hold out on the tower long enough to buy them the time they needed to get ashore; she looked up and down the beach and could see men streaming forward in long waves, heading for their preassigned cover, but there were dozens of bodies lying in the water and at the shoreline, a few of them moving about and groaning in pain, rather more of them still. The only one she could recognize was Grant, a grin now permanently fixed on his face.

Pulling her communicator to her face, she called, "Zabek, this is Orlova. Report."

"We've reached the first holding objective, coming under heavy fire. Plasma gunners informed."

"Good. We're about there ourselves, I'm going to call in the second wave. On my signal, get your men up the beach."

"Right, Zabek out."

She reached into her pocket for a long cylinder, dropping her rifle to the sand, and caught it before it could roll away on the ground, then planted it by the wall and pushed a button. A bright orange light flashed from the top of it, rising a hundred meters into the sky before exploding – a standard Triplanetary distress flare scavenged from the ruined shuttle. The second wave dropped down from the ships and began to row forward under worse fire than the first wave had faced. Killing that was now her top priority.

"Advance!" she yelled, leaping over the cover and running towards the top of the beach, belatedly realizing that she'd forgotten to pick up her rifle again. The idea of going back for it was dashed by a burst of machine gun fire that crackled within a few feet of her, killing the man immediately behind her. Even if they wanted to pull back to the boats now, it wouldn't be possible – most of them were likely in ruins anyway.

This time she was angling to the right, leading a hundred men in a wave of small clumps towards the jungle cover on the side of the beach; trying to simply charge forward under that much fire would simply have been a quick way of committing suicide, and she had other plans. She quickly glanced behind; Melnik was huffing and puffing, trying to keep up, his rifle dragging in the sand behind him.

Another series of green flashes shot overhead, and slammed into the high wall of the compound; the machine-gun fire stopped again, and she took a second to survey the beach. Her forces had broken into two wings, exactly as planned, all racing for the cover of the jungle. There was still a killing zone to worry about up there, but a much smaller one. Staggering at the rear of the formation were her own machine gun teams, and the wreckage at the bottom of the beach told her that quite a few of them had been lost. There were more than a few people sprinting ahead with no weapons at all, obviously abandoned or forgotten in a bid to get out of the firing line.

Out at sea, the second wave was speeding towards the beach as rapidly as possible, Montgomery in the lead with Varlamov by his side – and that she could see him from that distance suggested that he wasn't making enough of an effort to make himself inconspicuous, but there wasn't much she could do about that right now.

Resuming her sprint, pushing a couple of slower troopers on the back in a bid to speed them up, she suddenly heard a loud cry from the rear, and saw Kozu rolling back down the beach, clutching a wound in his leg as blood poured out of it. Her first instinct was to stop and run back to him, but she felt a hand grab her on the back and start to pull her towards the jungle.

"Let go, damn it," she yelled.

Blake replied, "We need you up there. The medics in the second wave will get him. Come on!"

Cursing, she followed the private into the tree-line, then slowly began to make her way around to the rear of the building, gathering her troops together with some hand gestures. The mass rapidly advanced through the undergrowth, crashing through the leaves and pushing aside anything that might be in the way, more fire was opening up into the undergrowth but they didn't have anything like enough targets to work with, not with all the cover they were using.

Pushing forward to the tree line, she quickly looked out at the compound; the wall in this section was still intact, a trio of machine gun nests perched on top of it. Only the wall had been on the satellite images she had seen – evidently the commander of the garrison had been busy over the last few days. She paused for a second, panting for breath, and looked up and down the line at the waiting men. Even if they all advanced at once, it would take them too long to get in – and by that time, the machine gun could have raked the entire column.

"Zabek to Orlova," her communicator crackled.

"We're hung up, Ensign. You?"

"Same, four machine-gun nests on the wall, look brand new. We'd have too far to run."

"Wait one." She dropped the communicator down to her side and looked out at the wall again, contemplating a quick run. They had grenades, but they wouldn't be much use until they were right on top of them.

"We'll take it from this side, attack as soon as we get the wall."

"I don't know what magic you're going to use, but we're here."

Taking a couple of deep breaths, she looked across at Blake, who nodded, and at the same instant they broke out of cover, rushing towards the machine gun nests, racing from side to side as bullets tore at the ground by their sides. She had a grenade already in her hand, ready to throw, as she ate up the distance between her and the wall. Covering fire began to belatedly open up from the tree-line, and a group of militiamen began to advance forward, drawing fire for the last few seconds required for her to throw the grenade up into the air and slide down into cover.

The resulting explosion showered small pieces of debris down to the ground, and she began to climb the wall as the militiamen surged forward. Hand-holds abounded in the hastily built wall, and she could easily scale to the top, though Blake was able to beat her to it, taking out the guards at the top with a couple of shots. The machine guns were twisted ruins, unfortunately, but the nests provided some protection from their counterparts on the far side of the compound as they turned to rip into them. Crouching down into cover, she pulled her communicator out again.

"Montgomery!" she shouted. "What goes with the second wave!"

There was a rattle of machine gun fire in the background as he replied, "Advancing under heavy fire, casualties moderate, proceeding up the beach."

"Keep back for a moment."

"We can't, the fire's too heavy. We need to go forward now!"

She paused for a second; she wanted to co-ordinate the attack better than this, and her forces were coming under heavy fire again, but he was the man on the spot. "Right, hit that wall with everything you've got! We'll push our attack from the rear."

The only reply was a muffled explosion; she hoped that the message got through, that it had simply wrecked the old campaigner's communicator. Raising a fist in the air, she pumped it twice, and a pair of volleyed shots burst from the line into the far wall. They'd organized that defense well, two guns pointed at her, two still firing at Zabek's wing. Inside the compound, legionnaires were dashing from cover to cover, bodies scattered around amid piles of smoldering debris from the plasma shots. A huge missile emplacement lay deserted in the middle of the compound, as large as the one at the desert port; useless in this sort of a fight.

At last the fire from her side seemed to be having an effect, and some of the machine gunners slumped down in their defenses, but her first wave was taking a bloody toll. There was a cry from her right, and Blake tumbled back down the wall, shouting obscenities all the way to the bottom – she couldn't spare the time to even see what had happened to him, could only hope that the medics following up behind would be able to do something for him.

"Zabek, make your run. We can't wait any longer," she said into her communicator, as another series of plasma bolts rained overhead; they must be running low on targets. All the machine guns turned back to the jungle as they opened up on the advancing soldiers, but they only managed to get a few bursts off before her force, now free of distraction, could finish off the crews.

"Over the wall!" she yelled, climbing out of her cover – which was now only tatters of cloth and spilled sand – and sliding down the ladder to the interior of the compound. The tower was just a short run away; a startled legionnaire reacted to slowly to avoid being dropped by Orlova's left hook; she only belatedly remembered that she still had a pistol strapped to her side, but there didn't seem any time to draw it and fire as she sprinted across the open ground, bullets from all sides felling the few remaining legionnaires.

Zabek's forces began to spill over the wall themselves, many of them sporting wounds from the recent battle; the midshipman herself was leading the assault, a jagged gash down the side of her cheek and her pistol in her hand, a wild-eyed look in her face as she urged her forces on. On the other side of the compound, it sounded like the first elements of Montgomery's second wave had made it up to the wall, and the firing was finally beginning to abate.

As she knelt by the side of the tower, a squad of men behind her while the rest started to break into the other buildings, she pulled her communicator out again, "Orlova to Pryce, cease fire. Cease fire."

Without waiting for a reply, she kicked at the door to the tower; it was well made, refusing to budge, and she finally found a use for her pistol as she emptied the clip into the lock. At the next attempt it simply slid open, revealing a hastily evacuated office; charts were spread across the table, a half-finished cup of coffee still steaming away – she had to resist the urge to finish it. Running down the stairs, his arms covered in cuts, his uniform in tatters and a bandage hastily strapped to his forward was Marshall, his arms opened wide.

"Damn it, Maggie, I'm glad to see you."

She shook her head, "Likewise, sir." Managing to snap a salute, she continued, "We've just about got the compound secured, Captain. Just finishing up now." She paused for a heartbeat, “My father?”

"He's upstairs, manning the radio. We had a good view from up there– as soon as your attack began to hit home, they ignored us other than a few sniper shots. Just as well, we haven't got a round of ammunition among us."

"Plenty around now, sir."

"Did you secure the shuttle?"

Her face went blank, "What shuttle?"

Marshall's eyes widened as he gestured out of the door, "Out in the jungle, cut in a little way, is a silo where they have a shuttle ready for launch."

Orlova suddenly realized that the only bodies she had seen, the only people she had fought, had been enlisted and fairly junior officers. It was almost as if they had left the bulk of their men to fight a last stand while they were going...somewhere else.

She turned back to the Captain, "You'd better wait here, sir. With a little luck it won't be too late." Zabek burst in, a heavily-armed squad at her back, "Follow me, Ensign, we've got a job to do yet."

Without a second glance, Zabek fell in as Orlova unceremoniously raced out of the tower to the far side of the compound. Her soldiers seemed to have everything under control now, and the shooting had trickled down to the occasional burst as some of the legionnaires refused to see sense and surrender – or her troops decided that taking prisoners might be too great a risk. Montgomery, red-faced, had managed to get through the gatehouse and was taking charge inside, so she didn't have that to worry her as she dashed out into the jungle through a recently-blasted gap in the wall.

The path through the jungle was obvious now she was looking for it, a narrow trail cut into the undergrowth, the path obviously well-used. If anyone was planning any sort of an ambush right now they would have easy pickings; there was no element of stealth or care in what she was doing, her goal was simply to get to the shuttle silo before they could take off.

Familiar whines began to sound ahead, engines warming up for a launch, and she redoubled her pace, the rest of her squad struggling to keep up. She burst into the clearing and immediately dived for cover as a machine gun began to fire, high over her head; Zabek hurled herself in the other direction and returned a burst while Orlova quickly reloaded her pistol; in all the haste she had forgotten. Too much time using weapons that automatically recharged when not in use.

Ahead, the shuttle was rising up on its ramp, the rear engines already beginning to glow a dull red. If she'd had a single plasma weapon with her, she might have been able to do enough damage to be meaningful; in a futile gesture, she emptied her recently loaded pistol at the hull, and Zabek followed suit with her rifle, but all they were doing was damaging the paintwork.

"Heads down! Cover your ears!" she yelled, diving to the ground with her hands clamped down on her ears while the roar of the engines grew, until the clamps of the ramp were released and the shuttle burst into the sky, smoke and flame cascading behind it into the trees. The last remaining legionnaire, wobbling from side to side, threw his gun to the side and raised his hands. Orlova stood up, walking out into the clearing and looking up at the departing shuttle.

"Damn," she said, to no-one in particular. Turning around, she walked back down the path as Zabek's squad grabbed their prisoner, heading down to the compound. Marshall was waiting for at the far end, looking around at the devastation as the medical teams began to do their work, stretchers taking people down the beach to the hastily-prepared medical bays on the ships out in the bay.

"Well, we did it," she said.

Marshall looked up at the sky, nodding, "Yeah. Let's just hope Deadeye makes it two for two."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Alamo continued to close on the strange ship, everyone available studying it for any sign of weakness. Though the design obviously worked, it didn't seem to fit into any known design heritage; nothing ever flown in space seemed to match it. Ortega had finally given up trying to contact them after twenty minutes, clearing the air for signals from the surface – and her seat for Harper; the hacker had managed to commandeer the communications station, and was busy loading up intrusion programs. Looking up at the display, Caine watched the last few minutes ticking off as the ship moved into combat range.

"Are we still letting them take the first shot, Lieutenant?" Ryder asked from the tactical station.

Quinn looked around from the helm, concern etched onto his face, "The first hit could be the last in Alamo's current condition."

Caine nodded, glancing down at the status boards. Stations that would normally be occupied by damage control teams were open to vacuum at the moment. There'd been no point in recalling the bulk of the crew for this action; Alamo wouldn't have been able to house them in any case, and in what she had to admit was the likely event of an evacuation, it would have just meant more casualties.

Reluctantly, she shook her head, "We can't be the ones to start an interstellar war. They'll have to take the first shot, and I'm counting on both of you to make sure that it misses. Any sign of a vulnerable spot, Ryder?"

"Not yet. I'm still trying to work out what half of their equipment does."

"Weapon status?"

"I think we've got the laser calibrated," her voice sounded uncertain, "and all missile tubes are loaded and ready to go. We've got four reloads in the armory."

"Four?" Caine turned to face the sub-lieutenant, who shrugged in response.

"We don't have crews to work the fabricators under battle conditions. Sixteen missiles is going to have to be enough."

Tapping a button on her chair, Caine said, "Dixon, is your wing ready?"

"All three fighters are loaded for bear, Lieutenant. We're just waiting for clearance to launch."

She looked up at the clock. Two minutes to go; the seconds seemed to be crawling by as she waited for the battle to begin. All she wanted was to get this over with, one way or another, and that was typically the way of space battles. The windows of opportunity for engagement rarely lasted more than a minute or two, after which the best ship and crew would be alive, and the worst would be riding a drifting hulk into eternity.

"Energy spike from the enemy spacecraft!" Ryder yelled. "Looks like a missile launch!"

Caine's head turned sharply towards the tactical station, "How many?"

"My God. Thirty missiles in the first salvo. They had tubes all across the craft."

"Thirty missiles? How the hell?" Quinn said, looking up from his station.

Yorkina looked over from the sensor station, "A lot smaller than ours. Much lower yield." A red light flashed on, "Radiological alarm! I'd say low-kiloton yields on each warhead."

"Low kiloton? They'd have to get a direct hit to be effective." She shook her head, "Countermeasures?"

"Already on it, nothing seems to be working," Ryder said, frantically tapping out sequences of commands at her station.

Harper looked up, brushing green hair out of her eyes, "Nothing here either. I can't break in."

"Fratricide then, get a missile into the air as soon as possible."

A puzzled frown on her face, Yorkina turned towards Caine, "They aren't heading for us."

"What?"

The sensor operator switched her view onto the main screen; it showed a series of trajectories in a conical pattern, slowly fanning away from the incoming vessel. None of them was aimed at Alamo.

"Could it be some sort of malfunction?" Caine asked.

"Maybe this is a surrender?" Kibaki volunteered. "They might be showing they have disarmed themselves."

"Then why have them under power?" said Harper.

Ryder shook her head, "I don't believe this, second salvo launch. Same as the first one, and following a similar pattern."

Sitting back in the command chair, Caine rubbed her hand across her face, watching the launch tracks curl around. They were obviously in some sort of planned formation, but she couldn't work out what it might be. The usual practice was to simply fire the missiles directly at the target; these were burning considerable fuel in the wrong direction.

"Still no luck hacking into them," Harper said, "It's like they don't even have inputs. I can't handshake."

"Random walk, Mr. Quinn, and I think this counts as a hostile act, so you may fire when ready, Ryder."

Quinn's fingers began to dance across his helm controls with the skill of a practiced virtuoso, making Alamo dance to his tune. As the ship lurched in random directions, the engines pulsing to throw the approach into an unexpected pattern, Caine kept watching the missiles. Their course didn't change, still arcing away.

"Third wave!" Ryder yelled. "We now have ninety enemy missiles in the air."

Frowning, Caine asked, "Could they be heading for the orbital dock?"

"Or the defense satellites," Kibaki added. "They might be trying to destroy the technology. Maybe we aren't the goal of this at all."

"Shuttle coming up from the surface, ma'am," Ortega said, leaning over Harper. "Looks like from the site of the battle." She grinned, "I just had a report from the surface, from Sub-Lieutenant Orlova. Looks like they pulled off a win downstairs."

"We just need to do the same. How about it, Yorkina?" Caine asked.

"I've run the figures through five times, I can't see them on a reasonable course to anything within practical range. Hold on, change to target aspect."

"Are they turning on us?" Caine asked.

"Twenty seconds to firing range," Ryder volunteered. The seconds were flying by a lot faster now.

"No." Ortega said, furrows emerging on her forehead. "I don't understand, it's as if they are aiming behind us."

"Fourth salvo," Ryder said, shaking her head. "Is this a warning shot?"

Suddenly, Caine realized what the enemy ship was up to. Leaping up from her chair and dashing to the tactical station, weaving about in the variable acceleration, she pushed Ryder's hands away from the controls and began to type in course projections. A new image appeared on the screen – the missiles were going to hit Alamo, all right. After they had formed a sphere around her, one that she couldn't escape from. Projected courses flashed onto the screen as the guidance computer began to calculate probabilities of escape vectors, but all of them meant that Alamo would be hit by at least a few of the incoming warheads.

Kibaki looked across at Caine, shaking his head, "We could try a full burn, pull out that way?"

"We can't even abandon ship," Ignatov said from the engineering station. "The missiles would hunt down our escape pods."

"No survivors," Quinn said.

Caine sat back in her command chair, looking at the enemy ship in the middle of the tactical display, "Then let's make their victory expensive. Get a salvo in the air. Laser to fire as soon as it is within practical range."

"Aye, aye, ma'am," Ryder said, setting up the shot.

"Harper, any luck on the missiles yet? I need one of your miracles right now."

"No, I...", Harper looked up, then sprinted from her chair over to Ryder's station, reaching under her hands to tap in a revised missile launch sequence. Alamo rocked as a single missile fired from its forward tube, arcing away from the incoming vessel.

"What the hell?" Ryder yelled, pushing the hacker's hands away.

"New salvo, Ryder," Caine said. "Harper, get off my bridge."

"Wait a minute, it's ranging," she said, "There's no point just knocking random chunks from the enemy ship."

"Where did you send it?" Kibaki said, his voice level.

Walking over to the screen, tumbling to the wall as Quinn added a new course change, she pointed at the missile track on the screen. "I couldn't handshake because there's nothing there to find. Those things are so damn small that they haven't got room for all that equipment."

"Sixth salvo!"

"So?" Caine said.

"So they aren't autonomous like ours, they're controlled from the mother ship."

The missile turned and slowed down as it approached the almost completed sphere, braking to take it in between the missile and the control ship. Harper ran back to the sensor station, watching the indicators from the missile as it passed through the net. Everyone else on the bridge was silent.

"Got it! Tight control laser."

Yorkina looked up and grinned, "I can project an approximate location for the laser projector on the control ship."

Punching the air, Caine turned to Ryder, "Get those missiles up."

"They won't be accurate enough."

Shaking her head, Caine replied, "They don't have to be." She punched another button, "All fighters, immediate launch. Your objective is to home in as many missiles as we can get into the air on a laser projector." She looked around, "Those missiles are just drifting junk without it, right? Let's take it down."

"Our first salvo is away," Ryder said.

"Fighters launched," Kibaki said from his station; all of them could feel the ship shaking as the fighters engaged their engines, curving away from Alamo on their new track.

Stepping over to the rear of the bridge, Caine put her hand on Ryder's shoulder, "More missiles, now!"

She looked up, "It's taking longer to get them reloaded. Too many parts of the ship are in pieces."

"The sphere will be complete in less than a minute," Ortega said. "Enemy vessel beginning random walk."

"They must be constrained," Kibaki said. "Every time they make a change, they need to update the course of their missiles."

Turning from the helm, Quinn looked over at Ryder, "Firing solution for a laser pulse in twelve seconds."

"Right, I'm on it," the eager-eyed sub-lieutenant replied. "You have the call."

"Now!"

A bolt of light raced from Alamo, connecting with the target and leaving an ugly glow forward, well away from the reflector. Alamo's radiations glowed as they hastily dispersed the heat into space, while the capacitors charged for another shot. The fighters were well ahead of the missiles, burning fuel with no regard for the consequences on courses designed to take them as close to the enemy vessel as possible. If they had any more missiles, any more countermeasures, any point-defense devices, those pilots were as good as dead.

Dixon's pilots were good, though, spilling left and right in a series of random maneuvers to fool any incoming fire. Long cylinders dropped from their hulls, laser range-finders. Each fighter had two small missiles ready to go, but they were unlikely to do the job. The three missiles in their wake, each one tuned to a different fighter, had the edge.

"Second salvo away!" Caine yelled, triumphantly. Alamo wasn't going to go down without a fight.

Yorkina looked up from her console, her eyes wide with fear, "Dimensional anomaly! Close aboard!"

"What?"

Space rippled nearby; they were close enough to the hendecaspace point now that they could just about sense something, an essential wrongness in the fabric of nearby space-time, something that just shouldn't be. With a bright flash of blue, a ship approached, but this one had far more familiar lines.

Immediately the flash dispersed, a call crackled from the incoming ship, "This is Lieutenant-Captain Rogers of the Triplanetary Starship Mullane, calling Lieutenant-Captain Marshall on Alamo."

"Sphere complete in thirty seconds, fighter closest approach in twenty-four, first salvo impact thirty-nine," Ortega called out, reading from her displays.

"Visual," Caine yelled at Ortega.

An image of a close-cropped officer wearing a Triplanetary fleet uniform flashed onto the screen, sitting at the heart of a well-ordered bridge, surrounded by officers. His eyes widened as he glanced down at a sensor display.

"Deadeye, what the hell's going on? What are you doing in the driver's seat?"

"No time to explain. Get a missile salvo up, target-locked on the range-finders on my fighters."

He nodded, then looked off-screen, "Mr. Wesley, go to battle stations. Mr. Singh, get our birds in the air!" He turned back to Caine, "We'll do our part."

"Alamo out." She looked over at the displays again. The fighters were getting closer and closer to their target, and then a pair of bolts of crimson light ripped from the side of the sphere, tearing away at the rear two fighters. One second they were there, the next they were gone.

"What happened?"

"Particle beams," Quinn spat. "Ultra-short-range, probably point-defense."

"Dixon to Alamo," the fighter pilot called in. Caine could see Quinn relaxing a little. "Pressing attack. Request pick-up of survivors."

Both of them knew that was pointless. "Will do, Dixon."

Yorkina was tensed over her controls. They needed the targeting lock from the fighter if they were to have any chance of hitting the target. On the tactical display, Caine saw a pair of missiles racing forward from the Mullane; they were quick off the mark. Course projections had them impacting between Alamo's second and theoretical third salvo. Assuming they had time to fire one.

"Got it!" Yorkina yelled.

"Course lock transfered to missile bus," Ryder said. "Readying third salvo."

"Sphere complete!" The missiles surrounding Alamo – a hundred and eighty of them – turned and burned directly for the vessel at the heart of the sphere. A series of warnings ran down the screen, as if the computer could hardly believe what was happening. A hundred and eighty missiles on converging courses, some of them drifting in and out as Quinn tried to make evasive maneuvers, but the advantages were all with the enemy. Caine felt a hand on the back of her chair and looked up to see Harper, her eyes widening as she looked at the incoming tracks. It was hard to remember that this was her first real battle.

"First salvo, impacting!"

Caine looked at the display, the three impacts clear on the spherical ship.

Yorkina shook her head, "Three misses. That thing rotates too damn fast."

"Sneak up on it with the next shot, Ryder. Play them around a bit, try and compensate. Bring in the two missiles from the Mullane."

"Working on it, working on it," Ryder said, engrossed in her station.

Dixon's fighter began to curve onto a long arc; despite the frustration the pilot was no doubt experiencing, she'd played her part on the battle. All she had to do was keep that laser fixed. For a fleeting second, Caine thought she might be trying to ram the enemy, but she just didn't have the delta-V to pull it off, not that quickly. The Mullane bore down on the enemy, preceded by its missiles; it might only be a fleet tender, but it still had a bit of a punch.

Shaking her head in disbelief, Yorkina said, "One hundred eighty impacts, thirty-one seconds." Ignatov was sitting with his hands folded at the flight engineering station. After that many impacts, there would be no repairs for him to coordinate.

"What about the shuttle?"

"Closing on the enemy vessel. They're accelerating at quite a rate, Lieutenant. Rendezvous in nine and a half minutes."

"Third salvo, away!" Alamo rocked again, but there was no way that these missiles could do anything other than provide a measure of revenge. By the time they hit the enemy, Alamo would quite simply have ceased to exist. All their hopes lay in the five missiles converging on the enemy sphere from two sides, merged together into a single formation.

Two more crimson flashes burst out, and two missiles – one from Alamo, one from Mullane, vanished from the sensor tracks, wiped out with a single shot. At least the enemy had weaknesses, even if they did have a superior technology. The seconds to impact trickled down, one after another.

"It's been an honor," Caine said.

"Salvo impact!" Ryder said.

"Missiles going dormant! Incoming missiles falling off the track!" Yorkina shouted.

"Quinn...," Caine said, as the engineer began to frantically tap at the helm controls. The red indicators warning of a projected missile strike began to wink to green in huge swathes as Alamo darted away from the heart of the sphere. It seemed the missiles still had some ability to maneuver, but not enough to make the difference. The last indicator winked green with less than a second to go, and a huge explosion ripped through space as the enemy missiles self-destructed.

Smiling, Ryder said, "Laser charged for another shot. Third salvo impact in thirty seconds. Mullane reports they have a salvo ready to go."

"Keep our missiles on the way, but hold off on any more firing. Ortega, hail them again. Maybe they'll be in a better mood to surrender now."

Another explosion tore on the screen, this time from the spherical spacecraft. Warning lights flicked onto the sensor station warning of a radiological event in close proximity, but not close enough to do any damage to Alamo even in its current condition. The image resolved into a tumbling pile of twisted wreckage, too small to be of any possible benefit.

"The shuttle's gone too," Yorkina reported, dazed.

Shaking her head, Caine said, "Destroyed rather than surrender. What the hell do they have to hide." She sighed. "Mr. Quinn, shape a course back to the spaceport. I suppose we can continue our repairs in peace now. Ortega, give Mullane a course to follow us in. They can start repairing the damage we did. Then – contact the surface, and tell them that the victory party can begin."

With a brief smile, Quinn turned to his station and began to input the course, and slowly Alamo curved away from the site of the battle. Caine sat back in her chair, resting her hands on its armrests, looking forward. The rest of the crew were still taking stock of their survival, everyone too shocked to celebrate. That would come later. For now, it was over.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The provisional company of Alamo's espatiers was having a glorious final day as it marched down the main street of Yreka, plasma rifles gleaming in the sun. Marshall had managed to 'arrange' a nice day with a spot of cloud seeding from a pair of shuttle passes the night before, and he was making the most of it, standing with his officers on an improvised platform on the opposite side from the town hall. The citizens had made a major effort to clear up for the occasion; you could hardly tell that there had been a battle here only four weeks ago. Standing to his left, Rogers looked uncomfortable in his dress uniform – some things never changed.

Though he was enjoying the display, Marshall was a tad weary; this was his third ceremony in as many days as he handed over control of the other fortifications to the Provisional War Council, flags that were still the prospect of angry debate being raised over the ruined ramparts as his troopers withdrew.

He looked again at his men marching proudly; he knew that most of them were anxious to get back to their usual duties on Alamo, but at least they seemed to be enjoying this part of their job. Acting Sergeant Forrest turned and saluted him, the men following copying his example; standing to attention, Marshall returned the salute.

Another ceremony had been unpleasant the day before, laying half a dozen of his men to rest. All but two of the casualties had left requests to be buried in space; Marshall had opted to interpret that as the establishment of a memorial graveyard on Jefferson. The War Council hadn't liked the idea, but he felt that it might be good for them to remember occasionally who had paid some of the price for their freedom. For as long as it lasted.

The troopers paused, turned to face Marshall, and stood to attention. He looked over at Esposito, still wearing her Lieutenant's stripes, and nodded; she stepped forward with three precise strides.

"Alamo Provisional Company, dismissed!"

As one, they saluted, and fell out, heading in different directions, mostly back to the spaceport. Alamo was scheduled to break orbit in a few hours, finally patched together sufficiently to make the journey back to Ragnarok for better repairs – with the Mullane alongside to provide any patchwork as necessary. Both engineering complements had been working around the clock to get Alamo back into shape; foremost on Marshall's mind was the possibility of another attack.

Sanderson walked across the street, looking at the dispersing espatiers, comparing them with the militiamen that had managed to attend the ceremony, and climbed up to the Triplanetary platform, easing his way past the senior officers.

"Captain, the War Council is ready to see you now."

"Thank you, Mr. Sanderson. I'll be along in a minute."

With a nod, the politician turned and made his way back towards the Town Hall. Marshall turned to see the three midshipmen, now returned to their previous insignia, clustered at the back of the podium. Zabek was excitedly recounting her role in the battle for the compound for about the hundredth time; at least it was nice to see that she had broken out of her shell. Marshall waved at her, gesturing her over. She looked, smiled, and made her way to him.

"Sir?"

Frowning, Marshall replied, "Sub-Lieutenant Orlova has informed me of your request to remain on Alamo."

"Yes, sir."

"You really have that little faith that you will pass the Commissioning Board?"

Sighing, she replied, "I'm sorry, sir."

He nodded, "I've looked over your work records and logs, and I'm afraid to say you are probably right. Based on that, well, frankly I can't see the point of you having a second tour as a midshipman on Alamo."

Her mouth opened, and she looked down at the ground, "I'm sorry to have let you down, sir."

Marshall placed his hand on her shoulder, and with his other hand pulled a small box out of his jacket pocket, pressing it into her hand. She frowned as she opened it; inside was a freshly-fabricated set of Ensign's insignia. She looked up at him, eyes opening.

"I'm giving you a battlefield commission as an Ensign in the Espatier Corps. From everything I've heard and seen, you're probably right in that you don't have what it takes to be a fleet officer – but you seem to be more than up to the task of being an espatier officer. It's a different skill set, and you seem to have what it takes." He smiled again. "With seniority backdated to your original assignment to the Provisional Company."

"Sir, I don't know what to say."

"Thank you is traditional."

She nodded, rubbing the pin with her hand, "Thank you, sir. I won't let you down."

"I know that much." He smiled again, "You realize that this will almost certainly mean that you are the first member of your graduating class to be commissioned."

Zabek's mouth opened again, "I hadn't thought of that."

"Don't rub it in too many faces. I suspect you'll have to take a couple of courses when we get back, then you'll be assigned to a new posting. Probably not Alamo – I don't think Esposito will be moving on soon." He smiled again, "But if she does choose to move on, you'll always be welcome on any ship under my command."

"Thank you, sir. That means a lot." She turned, then faced him again, gave one of the sharpest salutes she had ever seen, and walked over to Steele and Varlamov, a grin on her face a mile wide. Orlova shook her head as she walked over to Marshall.

"Was I ever that bad?"

The smile still on his face, Marshall replied, "It's the Academy training. I think they take courses in 'eager'. Well, I've had my little fun, now I need to go over and have my last words with the War Council. You can run along and help your father pack."

"Thanks for taking my mother-in-law back with us as well, sir."

"Think nothing of it; we've got the room, and I don't know how long it will be before he can come back." He paused, "And you can consider yourself on leave for the rest of the trip home. Now that we're finishing up here you can finally have a chance to spend some time with him."

"I'll take you up on that, Captain."

Nodding, Marshall replied, "Dismissed." He watched her run down the podium, then took a deep breath and walked across the street towards the Town Hall, shaking his head. Waiting until the last moment to promote Zabek had been deliberate, he admitted; this was a meeting he wasn't looking forward to.

A pair of militiaman saluted him as he walked through the hole where the doors had been before Orlova blew them up – repairing them had been a fairly low priority. With long strides, he walked down the hall to the far end, where a collection of dignitaries from all over Jefferson were busily arguing. Sanderson banged a gavel on the table, bringing them to order on the fifth try. A lot of the faces were new; Howe had quietly resigned a few days before, and most of the original council were in the cells. Pemberton had managed to find his way into the crowd, though, and most of the Council of Captains were there – Miller sporting a series of scars on his head that managed to make him look even more piratical.

"Thank you, Mr. Sanderson. Do I have the floor?"

About half the delegates looked as if they were about to object, but he managed to win the battle of stares. "You do, Captain, by all means."

He looked around the room, "I envy you. All of you. You have inherited a jewel of a world, a shining paradise that most humans can only dream of. You have been constituted as a War Council; while you cannot forget that the threat of the Legion still remains, you have a greater job than that – you are the guardians and protectors of this planet, the most precious yet found, and I beg you to protect it well. Don't let petty arguments hold you back; you owe your people far more than that."

Pausing, he took a breath before continuing, "Alamo and Mullane are leaving now, but other Triplanetary ships will be here soon. Military advisers to help you win your war, experts to help you bootstrap your technologies, and diplomats that will urge you to consider joining the Confederation."

He raised his hand, "I can't lie; I hope you seriously consider that option. We need each other. I simply ask that you do what you think is in the best interests of the planet and its people, whatever it may be. Twelve of my people have made the ultimate sacrifice for your world; don't let that be in vain."

Sanderson rose to his feet, looking around at the delegates, "I think I can speak for everyone when I say that we are grateful for the efforts of you and your crew. The name of Alamo will always be remembered here, for as long as humans continue to walk on this planet."

There was a round of applause, some of it enthusiastic, some of it perfunctory; that was about what Marshall had expected. He'd been impressed at the way Sanderson had maneuvered himself into the Provisional Presidency – he wouldn't bet against him winning an election for the job when the time came. As Marshall turned to leave, Sanderson walked over to him, a document in hand.

"I thank you, Captain, for what you did here. You didn't make many friends when you rejected the Tatar calls for Triplanetary citizenship."

"If you join, you all need to join."

"Quite so." He passed over the document, "That was signed this morning, a presidential order. It grants Jeffersonian citizenship to you and any member of your crew on request, at any time in the future." He smiled. "It's really the least we can do." Sanderson extended his hand towards Marshall.

He grabbed it, shaking it firmly, "Thank you, Mr. President. I wish you the best of luck; I think you're going to need it."

"And to you."

The document still in hand, Marshall walked out of the Town Hall, planning to make a bee-line for the shuttle so that he could change out of his dress uniform. Caine was waiting at the entrance, talking to Rogers; he waved at him and walked away as soon as he approached, leaving him alone with Caine.

"I found your resignation on my terminal when I went back to Alamo yesterday," he said. "It was in my deleted folder."

"You check that?"

"Whenever someone else has been using my office." He smiled, "Are you sure about this? I'll sign it if you want."

She shook her head, "I learned something during that battle, Danny. That what I want doesn't have much to do with anything right now." His eyes narrowed, and she continued, "All we know is that there is some hostile force out there with a technology capable of besting ours. We don't even know what class of ship we defeated. It was a lot smaller than Alamo. That suggests to me that there is something worse out there, and if they've got bigger ships...”

"You don't need to stay, Deadeye."

"Yes I do. You need me out here, especially now. I think I can live with the rest of it, at least for the moment." She smiled. "It beats being drafted."

"That it does." He sighed, "We're really bringing back some fun news when we head home. Contact with a hostile human power, and all we know is that it has technology superior to our own and a propensity for warlike behavior."

"We've beaten them. We can beat them again. Quinn thinks he might have an idea to deal with that missile sphere."

"I would expect nothing less," Marshall replied, smiling. He looked up at the sky, Jefferson's sun beginning to descend towards the horizon, "It's worth it, though. Just for moments like this, it's all worth it. New worlds to explore. That's all I ever wanted."

"Let's go find some more," Caine said, and the two of them walked towards the shuttle.

Thank you for reading 'Tip of the Spear'. 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

The minstrel boy to the war is gone,

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Thank you for reading '

Table of ContentsChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4