Battlecruiser Alamo: The Price of Admiralty Read online

  THE PRICE OF ADMIRALTY

  Battlecruiser Alamo: Book 1

  Richard Tongue

  Battlecruiser Alamo #1: The Price of Admiralty

  Copyright © 2013 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved

  First Kindle Edition: June 2013

  Cover By Keith Draws

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

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

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

  Editorial Assistance Provided By Peter Long

  We have fed our sea for a thousand years

  And she calls us, still unfed,

  Though there's never a wave of all her waves

  But marks our English dead:

  We have strawed our best to the weed's unrest,

  To the shark and the sheering gull.

  If blood be the price of admiralty,

  Lord God, we ha' paid in full!

  There's never a flood goes shoreward now

  But lifts a keel we manned;

  There's never an ebb goes seaward now

  But drops our dead on the sand --

  But slinks our dead on the sands forlore,

  From the Ducies to the Swin.

  If blood be the price of admiralty,

  If blood be the price of admiralty,

  Lord God, we ha' paid it in!

  We must feed our sea for a thousand years,

  For that is our doom and pride,

  As it was when they sailed with the ~Golden Hind~,

  Or the wreck that struck last tide --

  Or the wreck that lies on the spouting reef

  Where the ghastly blue-lights flare.

  If blood be the price of admiralty,

  If blood be the price of admiralty,

  If blood be the price of admiralty,

  Lord God, we ha' bought it fair!

  Except from 'The Song of the Dead', Rudyard Kipling

  Chapter 1

  The view through the upper dome never ceased to amaze Marshall, no matter how often he visited the Mariner Station's Officer's Club. During the war, the dome had always been covered by protective shielding, as much to reassure the patrons as anything else, but he'd always thought that the view was worth the risk.

  He looked down at his watch; most of the station staff would be on shift at the moment, but the place was still surprisingly crowded. The Club was always a popular destination with visiting ships. Looking at his new uniform, he began to feel conspicuous surrounded by groups of people wearing the rusty red of the Martian Space Service, the uniform he had been wearing himself just a fortnight ago.

  Clustered by the bar were a rowdy group of young officers wearing the sky-blue of the Callisto Orbital Patrol; opting to avoid a potential confrontation he instead made his way over to a far corner of the room, gesturing in a forlorn bid to attract the attention of one of the waiters.

  The room was decorated with the spoils of eight years of war; shrapnel from an assortment of damaged or destroyed UN vessels, the flag that was taken down when the station was originally captured, odd bits and pieces scattered around making for a somewhat eclectic display of past glories.

  As ever, his attention was drawn to the far wall around the door, the long list of names of those based out of the station who fell in the course of the Interplanetary War. He didn't need to look closely; he had it memorized. His father was six from the left, nineteen down, one of far too many with 'Missing In Action' listed next to their names.

  A babble of attention caused him to look over to the elevator; a striking woman strode out wearing casually cut civilian clothes, but filling them out in a way that attracted quite a few of the younger officers. Marshall smiled and shook his head, waving his hand loosely in the air. If someone wearing the uniform of the new Triplanetary Fleet was causing a stir, a civilian in the Club seemed to have caused a bigger one. Sidling past a couple of ambitious Second Lieutenants, presumably on their first deep-space deployment, she slid down into a chair opposite Marshall, her request for a waiter answered rather more quickly.

  "What'll it be, Danny?" She looked him up and down, a slightly disapproving frown drifting onto her face.

  He smiled, "It hasn't been that long, has it?"

  She looked back up at the waiter. "Large vodka for my friend, and I'll have a non-reconstituted whiskey."

  The waiter's eyes opened wide at the second order. "Are you sure, ma'am?"

  She nodded, looking back over at Marshall, "I'm on an expense account, might as well take full advantage while I can."

  The waiter snapped a look between the two of them, nodded, and made his way over to the bar. Marshall regarded his companion more carefully; long brown hair carefully positioned to not drift in variable gravity, a dress that somehow she was still managing to wear like a uniform, and the faint trace of red in her left eye that testified that it was not the one she was born with. He settled back in his chair, clasping his hands together.

  "It must be three years since our paths last crossed. When the Wright was out Ceres-way on those exercises you were covering."

  "If you only dragged me out here to reminisce, I might work on getting annoyed." She shook her head again, "What the hell is that you are wearing, anyway. Looks like you are on your way to a business meeting, not sitting on the bridge of a starship."

  He looked down at the black jacket, three silver rings emblazoned on his sleeves, a pair of golden wings sown above his chest pocket. "New Triplanetary duty uniform. Issued this morning. I rather like the cut, has a nice formal air to it. Not like those old wartime jumpsuits."

  She looked around the room. "You seem to be the only one here wearing it."

  "We're still new."

  "I suppose I should congratulate you on getting a command." She frowned. "Not that I expect you'll have it for long. You don't think that this Triplanetary Fleet of yours is going to last, do you?"

  The drinks arrived at the table, and Marshall took a sip out of his, gagging a little at the harsh metallic taste. No matter how good, the reconstituted drinks could never even come close to matching the real thing. Sometimes he contemplated giving them up altogether, but those aberrations passed quickly.

  "I'm a fighter pilot that's already been flying on a waiver for two years. Brass told me that I'd have to find something else this cycle. What choice did I have, Deadeye? "

  "It's a big enough fleet, isn't it?"

  Marshall took another drink, and shook his head. "Not for me. Not with the two carriers being placed in reserve. I ought to be up for Operations Officer on one of them right now, working my way up to command, maybe in ten years or so. Without that, I'll spend the rest of my career either down at Port Lowell or up at Deimos."

  "Or out here."

  He laughed, a trace of bitterness entering his voice. "Only for a couple of years. Last Defense Review recommended this station be closed down. Apparently it can be replaced with a frigate." He spat the last word. "I don't think there are more than a dozen people in active service in the Space Service who went up for a transfer to Triplanetary. It was a safe enough bet, but somehow I didn't believe they'd give me a command." He paused for a second shaking his head, "You should have heard the lecture General Harper gave me when I put my application in."

  She smiled. "So, congratulations then. At least you get one last swan-song. Seems silly, though. You've been complaining about being stuck at Captain for years. You finally make Major, and then you end up as a Lieutenant-Captain. Whatever one of those i
s."

  "Don't ask me where they dug the ranks up. I think the only requirement was that they sounded as different as possible from any other service." The two of them laughed, both taking longer sips of their drinks.

  "Why am I here, Danny?"

  He pulled a datapad out of his jacket pocket, and slid it across the table. She looked at it, disbelief flashing across her face, then grabbed it. "This can't be what I think it is." She waved the offending item in the air to gesture her points.

  "First Lieutenant Caine," Marshall began in the most formal-sounding voice he could muster, "I am officially informing you that your commission has been reactivated, with the option of a transfer to the Triplanetary Fleet. Naturally, Mars not being in a state of war, you are at liberty to decline, but this would mean the suspension of your reserve status."

  She slammed the pad down on the table with sufficient force to cause Marshall to worry that he might need to get a new one. "What the hell do you want me for?"

  Marshall looked out at the stars, glistening through the transparent dome. "I'm under no illusions about what I'm going to face when I get on board the Alamo, Deadeye. Most of the Martian personnel are reservists who probably haven't been on a ship in years."

  "Like me. Danny, I haven't worn a uniform since the war. And what is this – Tactical Officer? I'm a fighter pilot."

  "You had the best mind in the squadron. If you'd stayed in, you'd have made Captain ahead of me and we both know it."

  She sat at the table, fuming. "What about the rest of the crew?"

  "Callisto didn't give their people the luxury of choice. They just assigned whoever they didn't want who was serving on the ships that were being transferred over. As for the mob from the Titan Militia – well, at least they're all volunteers, and they've probably been on ships recently, but almost all of their experience will have been on merchant ships, and in-system at that. Not to mention the collection of green recruits I've been given. I need at least one crewmen I know and can count on. Someone I can trust. That's you."

  "What makes me so special?" She took another deep swig of her drink.

  "You were my wingman for three years. I need you to cover my back again. More, we're going interstellar. Our mandate prohibits us from operating within Sol System. Not one serviceman in ten has been out there, but you've knocked around the local systems a bit writing those travel pieces of yours. You know the territory a damn sight better than anyone else I can find."

  Caine shook her head. "This forces the issue, Danny. I don't like it much."

  "Will you do it?"

  She sat back in her chair. "Never mind the career bull. You've got the credentials to get a damn good flying job as a civilian. Or you could retrain as a frigate jockey. It might take a little longer, but your record is more than good enough to make it stick. So what do you really want?"

  Marshall stood up, his chair rattling against the ground, and made his way over to the dome, Caine following him over. He ran his hand against the wall, feeling the bitter cold on his hand, as he looked up at the stars.

  "I didn't see the stars that often when I was a kid, back in Sheffield. Too much light pollution. I remember when we emigrated I spent hours just staring out of the viewports, trying to catch up on what I had missed out on. Look at them, Deadeye. Alamo is an FTL ship, and our mission is going to take us out there. Flying the flag, seeing what lies beyond the known. I flew fighters because that's what they needed me to do. Not because it's what I wanted to do."

  "Isn't the Force keeping a few battlecruisers?"

  "Only for hopping between here and Proxima. If I want to see what's out at the Perimeter, or hell, beyond, then there's only one fleet I can join that gives me that opportunity. I might have a crew that's mostly been press-ganged, I might have a ship that's twenty years old, and I might have all the politicians trying to pull me back, but I'm going out there, Deadeye. They're not going to stop me this time."

  She perched on the top of a chair, her legs swinging back and forth. "Is this about your father?"

  Marshall turned his head to face her. "Is it so wrong for me to want to follow in his footsteps?"

  "That depends if you are going to follow him, or blaze your own trail."

  "I want this, Deadeye. More than I've wanted anything in my life. I can't really explain why, even."

  "At least you're still honest with me. Aside from the opportunity to once again risk life and limb in the service of my planet – forgive me, it's all three of them this time – what exactly am I getting out of this arrangement again? Aside the pitiful service paycheck?"

  He looked back out at the stars, then turned again to his friend, "I need you, Deadeye. Badly. A hundred and twenty lives are about to rest on my shoulders, three crews trying to work together for the first time, either untrained, resentful, or worn-out. I need one person I can count on, out there in the dark."

  "You can't use me as a crutch, Danny."

  "Better that than fall over. There's too much at stake." She glanced aside for a moment, and Marshall continued, "Think of the adventure. I've read your articles, seen your documentaries. You're running out of places a publisher can send you. The Fleet has a longer reach."

  "Might be a few books in it, I suppose." She tipped her head back, looking up at the stars again, "Besides, you aren't going to take no for an answer, are you?"

  "No."

  "Then I accept. Sir." She chuckled, "That's going to take some getting used to."

  Chapter 2

  Marshall continued to tap his fingers down on his borrowed desk. Once again the soon-to-be-former commander of Alamo had refused his request to come on board and inspect his new command. He'd spent most of the afternoon going over the Patrol's regulations, trying to find any requirement for him to be allowed on board, but no such regulation existed. The practice of the incoming commanding officer being granted a tour of the ship by his predecessor was one of the oldest in both services, but it seemed that Flight Commander Zubinsky had decided not to extend him that courtesy.

  He began to mentally compose another letter, pondering how to word it more strongly, mindful of the fact that in three days he would be assuming command in any case, but then called up another list, and found his name listed near the top. He did have security access to Alamo, even if the captain wouldn't allow him on board. Shrugging out of his uniform jacket, he threw it loosely onto his chair, logged off his terminal, and stepped out of his office, being careful to lock it behind him.

  A few second thoughts briefly passed through his mind as he walked around the outer ring of the station. It was busy; the duty shifts were changing over, and the corridor was full of rusty red. He paused at a viewport, looking at a flare in the distance, a transport ship decelerating to dock. Probably carrying some of his crew.

  His real attention was beyond, and he slid his hand across the window to magnify it, looking at it for about the hundredth time. He saw a long cylinder, three spokes reaching out to the outer, inhabited areas of the ship, the laser cannon running down the long spoke of the vessel parallel to the FTL drive, the whole ship slowly rotating on its axis. Brief flashes of light from the superconductor ring wrapped around the central core, evidence of some work being done on the powerful energy grid. Shuttles queuing up to transfer personnel and equipment back and forth from the station, probably taking everything not absolutely necessary to ship operations back to Callisto, tankers topping up the internal fuel store with Helium-3, enough for four hendecaspace transits.

  He knew that Zubinsky had fought an impressive, albeit doomed rearguard action to try and retain Alamo, even as the ship shaped its way out to Mariner, and had complete sympathy for him – but he couldn't wait any longer to take a look at his first command. His pace quickening, he continued out to the docking ring, moving past the military bays to the few civilian berths.

  Half a dozen shuttles were docked, but no-one seemed to be about. A noise drew him further down the corridor, where he saw a few prefabricated tables
scattered around an abandoned workshop, a vending machine precariously propped against the wall, and what he presumed to be pilots lounging around, drinking one concoction or another.

  "I need a ride. Anyone interested?" Marshall said, looking around hopefully. None of the pilots seemed to have paid him any attention, but one over in the corner, a slight, nimble woman who barely seemed old enough to have her license, ill-kept auburn hair dropping down over the back of a battered old leather jacket that probably was on its fourth or fifth owner, stood up and looked at him, finishing the can she was drinking.

  "Where to?" She had the usual twang of a Martian accent, but with a slightly odd mix to it that he couldn't quite work out.

  "Over to Alamo. Part of the crew transfer."

  "Got any papers?"

  Marshall frowned slightly, then shook his head. "If I did, I'd be at one of the military shuttles. I've got clearance to board, though. All signed, sealed and approved."

  She shrugged. "I'll get you there, and hang around to get you back. If they chuck you out of an airlock, I charge extra for daring rescue missions."

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  With a half-reluctance, she stood up and made her way casually over to the most decrepit looking of the shuttles, nimbly working the airlock controls. The inside was a mess of food wrappers, spare parts and disposable datapads, but the pilot's chair and console seemed well-kept enough. He just hoped that the working systems of the ship were better maintained than its dubious passenger facilities. The pilot seemed to sense his concern, and craned her head back.

  "No refunds, bud."

  "Not looking for one. What's your name, anyway? In case I need it for the accident report."

  She turned back to her console and started flicking switches; with a jolt the airlock separated and they began to float free, a touch of thruster speeding them away from the station. "Funny. Name's Margaret Orlova. Buy me enough drinks and flowers and you can call me Maggie," she said, grinning.