Battlecruiser Alamo: Not One Step Back (6 page)

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

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

 “What for?”

 “Traffic projections. Nothing too exciting.”

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

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

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

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

Chapter 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “I see, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Sponsor?”

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

 “She passed.” 

 “Barely, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Indeed.”

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

 Nodding, Marshall said, “Dismissed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Et tu, brute?”

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

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

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

 “Steele can handle it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Well…”

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