The Next Morning
Earth Standard Date: Tuesday, 7 December 2190
The oldest jumpstation in the solar system, Trident Station had been designed and built to accommodate the smaller classes of military vessels that were in service at the time of its construction. Now relegated almost exclusively to the needs of small commercial and privately owned jump-capable vessels, the station nonetheless still had to maintain its original orbit along the path it shared with the planet Neptune, on the opposite side of the sun, where the relatively lesser but still immense gravitational forces it generated couldn’t do any harm. Had it been what was now considered to be a full-sized station, of course, it would have to have been located much farther outside the system, beyond the Kuiper Belt, whose nearer objects tended to get a little excited during a jump as it was.
The appropriately named starskiff H.G. Wells passed through what was still an enormous vortex generator ring as far as Benny was concerned, despite the ‘smaller’ scale, and darted into jumpspace. Only then, when there remained no possibility of being intercepted and boarded—they could still be attacked and destroyed, however—did he enter the coordinates of their top secret destination into the nav-computer. Once he’d done that, he turned the pilot’s chair around to face Dylan and sat back and relaxed. “Now we just enjoy the ride,” he said.
“I’ve been enjoying the ride for the past nine hours,” Dylan commented, still leaning back in the co-pilot’s chair with his feet propped up on the edge of the console and staring out the starboard side windows.
“I noticed,” Benny told him. “You’ve been like a child on Disney World, like you’ve never even been in space before.”
“You know how it is, Benny. Fleet vessels don’t have a lot of windows. This ship lets us see all the way around us, above us, and below us. It’s great.”
Benny smiled. “You have the heart of a true explorer, Dylan.”
Now that they’d jumped, there wasn’t a whole lot of anything to look at anymore, except for the colorful little donuts directly ahead of and behind them, which he’d seen before, so Dylan finally peeled his eyes away from the windows, dropped his feet to the floor, and sat up. “Speaking of exploring, how much longer are you going to make me wait before you tell me where we’re going?”
Benny grinned. “Ah yes. Where we’re going. Sit back and relax, Dylan. I have quite a fascinating story to tell you.”
The chairs had been designed for comfort as well as for functionality, so Dylan felt fine just as he was. But he sat back a little anyway, just to please his elderly companion. Besides, given Benny’s apparent age and his outgoing personality, he had a feeling the guy was ready with more than just one story, so he wanted to be as comfortable as possible.
Benny began as soon as he saw that Dylan was ready to listen. “You noticed my outdated uniform before. This was one of the uniforms I wore when I served as a technician in the old Solar Defense Command more than forty years ago. Of course, my waist size was a bit smaller back then and my shirt had sleeves,” he added with a smile.
Dylan laughed politely.
“I served most of my time aboard the starcruiser Australia. She was a primitive tub by today’s standards, a bit smaller and slower, but she was still a lovely vessel, bless her fusion reactors. She was like a loving woman, only a lot easier to love back, and the officers and crew were the finest collection of spacers I’ve never known.” A look of melancholy crossed the old man’s features. “Da,” he said, nodding slightly. “Space can be a wondrous place, but it can be damned unforgiving, too. I’ve lost a good number of friends over the years, and a piece of myself with every one of them.”
Sadness suddenly weighed heavily on Dylan’s shoulders and his gaze fell to the floor. “I know what you mean,” he said quietly, thinking not too far back on his days of combat—on one terrible night in particular. “I’ve lost a few friends of my own, most of whom were serving under my leadership when they were killed.”
A look not of pity but of sadness and understanding crossed Benny’s features. “I know you have,” he said with heartfelt compassion. “Commander Royer told me a lot about you, including your role in the mission I think you’re referring to now. It’s a terrible sadness what happened to your squad. There’s truly no worse experience for a leader than that.” He drew a deep breath. “But, life goes on. Da?”
“Da,” Dylan answered, his use of the Russian word soliciting a grin from Benny. “Life does go on.” He paused for a moment of silence, then looked Benny in the eye. They’d only just met a little more than eleven hours ago, but somehow, at least at that moment, he felt closer to the man in front of him than he did to anyone else in the world. Except for Beth, of course. He felt like he could tell him anything, even bare his soul to him if need be, and he decided to do just that, within reason, though he didn’t know why. “But it can be really hard sometimes, you know?”
“Yes, it can be,” Benny agreed.
“Sometimes I wonder why I’m still here when so many of my friends and comrades are gone. I wonder why I didn’t die with them.” Their holophoto faces were still fresh in his mind and tears began to well up in his eyes. “What right do I have to still be alive?”
“I asked myself those same questions many years ago, Dylan, more often than anyone should ever have to, and I found the answer to be quite simple really. You have the same right to be alive that everyone else has. You didn’t kill those marines in your squad. The enemy did. So set the survivor’s guilt aside and don’t beat yourself up over being alive. Honor their memory always, but go on with your life. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Yeah, I understand. It’s just not that easy.”
“No, it’s not. It will take some time, but you can do it. You must.”
“I hope so.”
“You have no other choice, my boy. Especially if you intend to marry that lovely lady friend of yours and stay married to her.” Dylan looked at him with questioning eyes, but Benny ignored that for the time being. He’d have plenty of time to explain how he knew about her later. Instead, he continued, “If she has agreed to build a future with you, then you owe it to her not to...not to live in the past as it were.” The expression that crossed Dylan’s face told Benny that the younger man had recognized the double entendre behind his words. “So, if you can’t do it for yourself, or even if you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for her. ‘Beth’ is her name, is it not?” Dylan nodded, smiling at the sound of it. “There it is,” Benny said, smiling as well. “That’s much better.” He gazed at the younger man for a moment, then got up, crossed to one of the storage compartments near the top of the starboard bulkhead, and took out a tall bottle and a pair of shot glasses.
“What’s that?” Dylan asked.
“Only the best vodka this side of the galaxy,” Benny answered proudly, slightly over-enunciating the ‘V’ in his effort to pronounce it in the proper English way.
“Vodka? At four o’clock in the morning?”
“It is only four o’clock in the morning if you have been to sleep,” Benny pointed out as he returned to his seat. “We have not been to sleep, so for us it is four A.M., very late at night.”
“And I’ve been up for what...more than twenty-one hours?”
Benny scooted forward to the edge of his chair and handed the glasses to Dylan, then opened the bottle and filled them. Then he closed the bottle again, set it down on the deck out of the way, and took one of the glasses. “Here’s to old friends and fallen comrades,” he said, raising his glass in a toast.
Dylan wasn’t much of a drinker, but how could he refuse to share that toast with this man? A man who had suffered the loss of comrades many times over, just as he had. A man who had been there, exactly where he was now, in that dark emotional limbo, unsure of how he was supposed to feel.
A man who was absolutely right. Old friends and fallen comrades were to be honored. Dylan raised his glass, touched it to Benny’s with a clink, and drank.
And then it was Benny’s turn to smile first as Dylan tried and failed to suppress a fiery cough. “I hope they appreciate this, wherever they are,” Dylan barely managed to say before the coughing fit took hold of him again.
“Da, it does pack a satisfying punch!” Benny commented with a laugh, licking his lips.
“To say the least,” Dylan heartily agreed, recovering. “You sure that’s just vodka?”
Benny smiled.
More than anything at that moment, Dylan wanted to direct their conversation back to the here and now. He wanted to know where they were going and exactly how long it would take them to get there. He wanted to know everything. But as he gazed at the elderly gentleman in front of him he saw a man who, for whatever reason, still needed to tell his story. Still needed to reminisce with someone about old times. Times, it somehow seemed, that he longed to return to, despite what he’d just said about living in the past.
“I’ll bet you’ve got some great stories to tell, Benny,” he said, providing him an opening.
Benny looked Dylan in the eye and understood immediately what the younger man was doing. He smiled again. “Speciba, Dylan. But there will be plenty of time for that. I suspect you would like to know where in the hell we’re going first.”
“Well...”
“Da, you would. But don’t worry. There’s a story that goes with that, too.”
“I thought there might be,” Dylan bantered.
Benny chuckled, then began his tale. “Not too long into Australia’s deep space mission... By the way, we were the first Earth ship ever to visit another star system. Did you know that?”
“Yes, I did. I remember learning that in history class.”
“History class?” Benny exclaimed, but with a smile. “Am I really that old?”
Dylan smiled with him. “Sorry, Benny.”
“Anyway, we were orbiting this previously uncharted planet when our scanners showed a large mass of refined metal on the surface. Now keep in mind, man had never been to this planet or ever met any aliens before, so this was an wonderous find.”
“What did you do?” Dylan asked, genuinely interested in how a crew of that day and age would have handled such an astonishing discovery.
Benny poured himself a refill—when had he finished his first one?—gulped it down, and poured himself another, then set the bottle aside again.
“We assembled a team of scientists, techs, and security personnel and shuttled right on down there. We didn’t know the upper atmosphere was so violent. Like rough surf on an angry sea, so bad the jostling threatened to shake us apart. Our pilot damn near lost control of the shuttle and crashed, but once we came out of the clouds everything was fine. The air was calm and quiet. Problem was, we’d been blown so far off course and used so much fuel fighting the winds that we had to touch down half a dozen kilometers from the metal mass or risk not making it back to the ship. We had to walk the whole way to the metal mass.”
“What did you find?” Dylan asked, totally engrossed.
“Ruins. A lot of them. Fallen columns, collapsed walls, crumbled building foundations. An entire city’s worth of ancient ruins. And right in the center of it all, a short ramp leading up to the most unusual old relic I’ve ever seen.
“Looking down at it from the top of the ramp it looked like an old swimming pool. The kind you assemble above the ground, but with a rim at least a foot wide. It was perfectly round, about three meters across, and looked to be filled with some kind of liquid metal that gave off steam but no heat. Nothing held it up, either. It had no walls or foundation of any kind. It just floated there, about a meter and a half or so above the ground.”
“What was it?”
Benny looked Dylan dead in the eye and answered dramatically, “The Portal.”
“The what?”
Benny took another drink, then explained, “It was a...a kind of window, or more like a doorway actually...a doorway into the past, although we didn’t know that at the time. It took our scientists over a dozen years to figure out vhat it...what it was, and to get it vorking. I vent back vonce, after they finally did, and learned de most incredible thing. You can actually set it for any time period at any place on Earth and drop right through into the Earth’s past! Theoretically, at least.” Dylan was smiling. “Vhat?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on. Out vith it,” Benny insisted.
“Okay. It’s just that I’ve noticed when you get emotional a lot more of your accent creeps into your speech, and the more emotional you become, the stronger the accent is.”
“Oh, nyet! Is not de emotion. Is de wodka! Yoo shood hearrr me vhen I get really drunk!” he said, humorously over-exaggerating his accent.
They shared a brief laugh, but Dylan wanted to hear the rest of the story, despite the fact that it was quickly becoming too incredible to believe. Then again, the whole concept of his mission was too incredible to believe, yet here he was. He coaxed Benny along. “You said this Portal can show you the Earth’s past?”
“Da! I mean, yes.”
“Why just the Earth? Why not other planets?”
Benny cleared his throat, as if to keep from snickering at a rather stupid question. “Dylan, the Portal isn’t some old science-fiction drama’s all-powerful guardian of time,” he explained, concentrating on not reversing his ‘V’s and ‘W’s. “It’s a real-life doorway into another time and place. When you’re in your house, you can’t step from your living room into your bedroom and end up in the kitchen, can you?”
Dylan shrugged his shoulders. “Had you asked me that a week ago I would’ve said no. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Of course you can’t.”
“So where did this Portal come from?” Dylan asked, still feeling a little doubtful.
“The ancient Tor’Rosha built it.”
The Tor’Rosha? That name, that one small bit of information, caught Dylan off guard and completely changed his perspective, casting Benny’s ‘Portal’ story into an entirely new light and leaving him momentarily speechless. As far-fetched as such a device might have sounded, it was a fact that the long-extinct Tor’Rosha were known best for their ancient yet incredibly advanced technologies. Suddenly, despite his better judgment, he believed.
“You mean this thing really exists?” he finally asked.
“Of course it exists!” Benny exclaimed. “Vhat? Did you think I vas making the whole thing up? The Tor’Rosha built dozens of them, all over vhat...what...is now Coalition space. And those are just the ones we know about. Who knows how many more of them might exist further out? Each one is a doorway onto one specific planet.”
“And each one displays the history of its target world?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s pretty incredible, Benny. How can they do that?”
“You got me. I just know what I saw it do.”
“Do the Tor’Kana know about the Portals?”
“They must, almost certainly. But they don’t know about this one in particular, as far as we know. We have certainly never told them about it. We’ve been sitting on it quietly ever since we found it.”
“Why? The Tor’Kana probably could have helped our scientists figure it out a lot faster.”
“Yes, they probably could have.”
“Then why...”
“For planetary security. Think about it, Dylan. If we had reported the discovery of a Portal aimed at Earth to the Tor’Kana, chances are the Veshtonn who now occupy their home world would have learned of it. And what do you think they’d do with that knowledge?”
Dylan considered that for a moment, then answered, “I don’t know, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be anything good.”
“I’ll tell you what they would do. They would pounce on that Portal so fast we wouldn’t know where they came from, and they would send a whole legion of varriors into our past to vipe us off the face of the Earth! That’s vhat they’d do!”
“Of course,” Dylan said, feeling a little stupid. The answer had been pretty obvious. “I hadn’t thought of that. I even brought up a similar argument myself during my mission briefing, though in a different context.” He took another sip of his vodka and shook his head. “All this time-travel stuff. I think I’m getting a headache.”
“It’s the wod...vodka. Take another swig. It’ll probably go away again.”
“No, it’s not that, Benny. It’s just... I’m thinking about my mission. I’ve read theories about all this time-travel stuff, but the reality of it is brand new to me. I’ve served as a Military Police Security Forces troop, a criminal investigator, and a Marine Corps Ranger. The planets I’ve visited weren’t strange new unexplored worlds with bizarre alien technologies. Hell, I’ve never even been aboard an Explorer class starcruiser before, let alone been out there beyond the fringes of the frontier where all you first-contact explorers have your adventures. Well, with the exception of Tamour, that is.”
“Do I detect a bit of dissatisfaction in your voice?”
Dylan drew a deep breath and sighed. “Sorry, Benny. It’s just that...well, sometimes we make decisions in life, then years later realize that some of those decisions were the wrong ones all along.”
“Like growing up and marrying the wrong woman and wishing for years afterward that you’d never broken up with that one special girlfriend you had in high school?”
Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know...”
“Never mind. Let’s just say that Commander Royer checked you out very thoroughly, and that my briefing was just as thorough.”
“Damn, Benny, did she tell you the girl’s name, too?” Dylan asked sarcastically.
“Actually, yes. Diane Hawkins, I believe it was?”
Dylan was speechless. He couldn’t believe Royer had actually given his high school sweetheart’s name to the old captain, or that she’d even bothered to find out what it was herself. After all, why was that of any importance? What did it mean to her? What did it have to do with anything at all, for that matter?
When he did finally respond to Benny, he confirmed her name with a simple, “Yeah,” and then said, “Anyway, I was referring to this mission. Maybe I should have stuck to my guns and refused it.”
“Refused an order from an admiral?”
“He didn’t order me at first. He gave me a choice and I declined. It wasn’t until later that he ordered me to go.” He sipped his vodka, then shook his head slightly and added, “Maybe I should have just stayed in the Corps. In fact, if I could live my life over again I think I’d go to the Solfleet Academy and request assignment to an Explorer class starcruiser.”
“But you can’t live your life over again,” Benny pointed out. “However, if you complete your mission, perhaps things will be different for you when you come back.”
Dylan grinned. “I hadn’t thought of that, either,” he said. “Well, actually I have thought about it, but not in a positive way. But you may be right, Benny. Maybe things will be different. Who knows? Maybe I’ll end up serving on an Explorer class after all.”
“Maybe.”
Dylan’s grin faded as quickly as it had appeared.
“What’s the matter now?” Benny asked.
“Beth. My fiancée. What if...”
“Every theory of time traveling I’ve ever studied says that you should retain a complete memory of your entire life before, during, and after your trip into the past,” Benny explained. “If she’s not your fiancée when you return then you can pursue her all over again. Or, if you prefer, you can look for Diane.”
Dylan considered that, but only for a moment. He still wasn’t sure that any of it made sense, but one thing he did know. Diane had married and started a family of her own years ago and he wouldn’t take that away from her, even if he had the chance. Nor would he rob her or her husband of the opportunity to have that with each other again, should he successfully complete his mission and return to an altered world. Besides, he loved Beth and he wanted to marry her. Diane would always hold a special place in his heart, but their time together was passed, a happy and painful memory. Happy, because theirs had truly been a loving, caring relationship. Painful, because it had ended so abruptly, thanks to the enemy—and to his own stupidity, he reminded himself. He’d joined the fleet of his own free will after all, despite her having given him every reason in the world to stay with her instead.
“What about you, Benny?” he asked, changing the subject.
“What about me?”
“Have you thought any about how my mission might affect you, should I succeed?”
Benny sat up and turned the pilot’s chair back toward the controls console and started making minor, possibly even unnecessary adjustments to the skiff’s systems, then answered, “To be honest, I prefer not to think about it. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen and there’s not a thing I can do about it. Besides, there’s a whole lot more at stake here than my remaining years. Now why don’t you go back and get some rest. Like you said, you’ve been up a good twenty-one hours already, and it’s a long trip.”
“Yeah, okay. I am pretty tired.” Dylan got up and started toward the back, wondering what tender chord he’d inadvertently struck. Then he turned to ask one more simple question. “Hey, Benny?”
“Da?”
“What’s this Portal planet of yours called, anyway?”
“Its code name is ‘Window World’, but your Admiral Hansen assures me that it’s still classified, so you can’t ever tell anyone about it when you get back.”
Dylan chuckled. “No problem there,” he agreed with a shake of his head. “Everyone I know would think I was crazy if I told stories like the one you’ve been telling me.” He turned his back and headed aft. “Good night, Benny.”
“Good night.”
The Next Morning
Wednesday, 8 December 2190
Professor Min’para had told Miss DeGaetano and her fiancé the Solfleet lieutenant that he enjoyed a good mystery, but he’d had no idea then, he’d since come to realize, what he was getting himself into. He’d been at it for more than four rotations of their world below. What did the Terrans call them? Was it days? Yes, days. He’d been digging through the records for more than four Earth days. More than ninety-six of their hours, and he was finally beginning to feel exhaustion overtaking him.
Not to mention a certain amount of apprehension, as his suspicions grew ever stronger.
After a long and exhaustive search, the necessity of which alone was enough to add a measure of credence to those suspicions, he finally found and called up the decades-old issue of “Technological Sciences” online magazine he’d previously flagged for quick recall. He scanned forward to the article on advances in cybernetic and biotronic technologies, then switched his handcomp back on and called up the copy of that same article that he’d downloaded from the magazine to the device four nights earlier, right after the session with the lieutenant. He sat back in his chair to carefully reread and compare the two versions, but he’d barely gotten comfortable before his suspicions were finally and positively confirmed. The two versions no longer matched one another. The online original had been modified since the first time he read it. Someone was altering the records.
They were onto him.
But who were ‘they?’ He suspected that the S.I.A. leadership, specifically Vice-Admiral Hansen and Commander Royer, were involved in one way or another, though he hadn’t figured out exactly how yet. But if not them, then who? Someone who could hurt him, to be sure.
So why was he even getting involved? He had no stake in it. He was Cirran, not Terran. He was a master mentalist—a university professor. What did corrupt Terran government officials and high-level military conspiracies and cover-ups within their Solfleet have to do with him? Absolutely nothing. Besides, Lieutenant Graves had left the station more than thirty Earth-hours ago and Miss DeGaetano had gone not long after.
Why was he getting involved? Because he’d given Miss DeGaetano his word and he could not go back on that. That was why, and that was all there was to it. Period.
With any and all second thoughts permanently brushed aside he refocused on the task at hand. Whoever ‘they’ were, they were obviously trying to mislead him, probably to protect some hidden truth that reached far beyond what they’d done to the lieutenant. But what truth? What were they hiding? He had a couple of working theories, but so far those theories were still based almost entirely on his probe of the lieutenant’s mind. He hadn’t yet uncovered any real proof of anything, one way or the other.
Yes, Admiral Hansen and Commander Royer were clearly involved somehow. They had to be. In fact, they were probably right in the middle of everything. They ran the agency after all. This kind of thing couldn’t possibly go on right under their noses without their knowledge. But were they acting alone? That was another question entirely, and the answer was...probably not. In fact, they couldn’t possibly have been acting alone. To do what he now strongly suspected they’d done, they would have needed the help of a variety of scientists and specialists.
He was tired. He was having trouble thinking straight—trouble concentrating.
So who was working with them? Who were their co-conspirators and how far did the conspiracy reach? And most importantly of all, if and when he did find sufficient, significant evidence against them, to whom could he safely voice his suspicions?
What in the gods’ and goddesses’ names was he thinking? Voice his suspicions? Solving a mystery from the outside was one thing—he’d given his word, he reminded himself again—but getting personally involved in it was another thing entirely. The more he dug the deeper he went, and he was in way over his head already. Voice his suspicions? Absolutely not. What he needed to do was get off the station and go home. Now. Besides, now that he knew someone was altering the records, there wasn’t any point in continuing his research. Not only could he not count on any additional information he might find to be authentic, he couldn’t even be sure of the accuracy of what he already had anymore.
Still. Corrupt government officials, high-level conspiracies and military cover-ups... All the makings of an intriguing mystery novel were there, and he did so enjoy a good mystery. He wanted to solve this one, if only for himself.
He downloaded the altered version of the article—not the most conclusive evidence by itself, but still not a bad place to start—giving it a different file name so it wouldn’t overwrite the four day old copy, then reached out to shut down the terminal. But it occurred to him before he did so that whoever was altering the records might also be monitoring his use of the computer. That being the case, his wisest course of action would be to hide the fact that he knew he was being misled. So, rather than shutting down, he called up the next page to make it look like he was still reading, then programmed the terminal to automatically flip to each successive page every two to three minutes, and then to close the file when it reached the end and pick the next article at random.
He stayed put for several more minutes to make sure the program worked, and despite having already determined his wisest and most logical course of action, not to mention his safest, he spent that time reconsidering again what he should do. But heading for home right away was still the only plausible answer he could come up with. He didn’t particularly like the idea of running away, but he liked the idea of inadvertently walking into the hands of the co-conspirators even less. So he had no other choice but to take the information he’d gathered, along with what he’d learned from the lieutenant, and do just that. And he probably had very little time.
The last page faded. The file closed and another opened. The program appeared to be working perfectly. The time had come to leave.
* * *
Commander Royer leaned back in her chair with a sigh and flipped the hair out of her weary, bloodshot eyes for about the hundredth time. She hadn’t cut it since before her trip to Cirra, what...three and a half months ago already? Karen had told her the longer hair made her look even younger and sexier than she already did and had asked her to let it grow for a while longer. She’d colored out the silver streak in her bangs a few weeks after returning home, and she had to admit, as objectively as she possible could, that the woman who’d been looking back at her from the mirror lately was pretty hot stuff. Karen was right.
But longer hair could be a real pain sometimes, too.
She gazed across the shadowy room at her lovely wife’s indistinct form—the light from the screen glowing in her eyes made it hard for her to see into the relative darkness—sound asleep in their bed as she had been for hours. Lying naked on her stomach with the sheet barely covering her bottom, she was at complete peace with the galaxy. Lucky her. Liz wanted so badly to join her. She wanted to strip off her panties and pajama top and climb into bed with her wife and wrap her arms around her and make love to her and then sleep with her until morning.
Nothing but catnaps and no lovemaking at all for the past five nights. She was exhausted and horny as hell, all at the same time.
The display changed, drawing her attention back to the screen. Another article. “Doesn’t this guy ever take a break?” she whispered under her breath.
“Please restate your question,” the terminal instructed, startling her. She’d switched off the audio three times already. Hadn’t she? She was sure she had. She’d have to have a technician take a look at the damn thing.
“Disregard,” she said quietly.
“Muh?” Karen mumbled as she rolled onto her back and kicked the blankets away.
“Nothing, sweetheart,” Liz answered. “Go back to sleep.”
“Hmm.” And that was it. Karen apparently drifted off, back into the dark abyss.
Liz stared longingly at her, licking her suddenly dry lips as she gazed into that shadow-veiled place between her thighs. She spread her legs and slid a hand down into the front of her panties and started slowly, gently, massaging herself. But then she decided that she just didn’t have the energy, so she stopped.
She stretched her arms up over her head and yawned, then brought her feet up onto the chair and hugged her legs to her body. She glanced at the chronometer in the upper right corner of the screen but it only confirmed what she already knew in her tired, aching body and in her mind. It was past 3:00 A.M. The professor had been working, apparently non-stop, for over a hundred straight hours, and she’d been doing her best to mislead him for well over the last thirty, barely managing to stay one step ahead of him all the way. She hadn’t even taken a shower, and since Karen had been tied up at work for most of that time—something to do with irregularities in the inventory—her meals had consisted of nothing more than whatever she could dash into the kitchen and grab during the professor’s all too brief search queries. Mostly toaster pastries, dry cereal, and cheese crackers. She was exhausted, disheveled, and grungy. She felt even worse than she had at the end of her long voyage home from Cirra.
The article currently on her screen, the same article that Professor Min’para was at that very moment reading in his own stateroom, suddenly disappeared and the familiar laundry list of reference materials began scrolling by as it had so many times before, each line rolling up the screen much too quickly for her to read in its entirety. Then it stopped abruptly. Once again the professor had known right where to find whatever it was he was looking for.
Okay. So he was an accomplished mentalist. Still, over a hundred hours? How could he possibly be so alert after so much time?
Royer barely focused on the title before the first page of the new article replaced the list, but when it did she recognized it immediately and felt relieved. It was an article the professor had called up before. At least twice before, in fact. It was an article that she’d anticipated he would want to read when he started all this. It was an article that she’d been able to make the necessary changes to before he ever saw it. Good. Now she had a minute to grab another cup of coffee and a stim.
She dropped her feet gently back to the floor and quietly stood up, then grabbed her mug and headed into the kitchen, reaching up behind her and peeling her sweat-dampened pajama top away from her back as she walked. The environment was perfectly controlled. She and Karen always kept it at seventy-four degrees, so why was she sweating?
She set her mug on the counter and took her top off—that felt much better—and tossed it over the back of the nearest chair, then dumped the cold remains of her last cup of coffee, at least two hours old, into the sink and picked up the half-full decanter. But the comm-panel above the counter top started flashing the bright blue-green words “INCOMING COMMUNICATION” before she could even begin to pour. She sighed, then flipped her bangs out of her eyes again. Who the hell would be calling her at this hour?
“Receive incoming communication and open a two-way channel,” she said. Then she glanced down at her bare breasts as she suddenly realized that she hadn’t specified audio only. “No! Belay...”
“Incoming communication is audio only,” the panel advised her. “Security encryption is engaged. Please provide decryption access code.”
She sighed with relief, and even grinned. Good thing it was security encrypted. Otherwise those next moments might have been pretty embarrassing. “Royer, Elizabeth,” she said, lowering her voice. “Commander. Beta five dash six one one alpha gamma. Return audio only.”
“Positive match. Access code accepted. Audio channel open.”
Royer poured her coffee, then set the decanter back in its place and took a careful sip—oh, that was good—then said, “This is Commander Royer. Go ahead.” She took another sip.
“Sigma one-seven here, Commander,” the caller said first to identify himself. Sigma one-seven. The agent in charge of the surveillance on Min’para. “I’m sorry to disturb you at such an ungodly hour but subject-one is finally on the move. He signed out of his guest quarters and bought a ticket for the oh-five-thirty flight to Cirra.”
Min’para? “That can’t be right. He’s...” Then it hit her. “Oh, that clever son of a bitch.”
“Ma’am?”
She let go another heavy sigh, shaking her head, not caring that her bangs fell back across her eyes again. How could she have let herself be fooled so easily? “He knows we’re onto him, Mister Preston. Damn it all! He must have programmed his terminal to keep calling up research materials at random. That’s why it’s been scrolling down the list so damn fast.”
“Say again, ma’am.”
“Never mind. Put someone on that flight with him. Someone he couldn’t possibly have seen yet, even in passing. But have him hang back as much as possible. Apparently, subject-one isn’t as naive as I thought he was.”
“Understood.”
“And, Mister Preston.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
She drew a breath to speak, to give the order, but hesitated. She’d given a lot of thought over the past several hours to the choices she might have to make and to the orders she might have to give, should the professor make a run for it. She was painfully aware of how dangerously close to insubordination some of those choices might bring her—how close some of them would bring her, but one question had lingered in her mind the entire time. How was her disobeying Admiral Hansen any worse than the both of them disobeying the president?
She sipped her coffee again and then chose her next words very carefully. “Whatever happens, we cannot allow subject-one to visit our embassy when he gets home. Or any of our other governmental or otherwise sensitive facilities for that matter. He claims to be Cirran and his documents support that claim, but he could just as easily be a Sulaini spy, and we’re still not exactly sure why he’s here or what he’s up to. He may very well be a C-U-F terrorist, or even a professional assassin.”
“Understood, Commander. For the record, is use of deadly force authorized?”
She closed her eyes. There it was, the question she’d known she would eventually have to answer. The moment she’d been dreading, the moment when she had to decide whether or not to act on her own in direct violation of the admiral’s explicit orders, was at hand.
“Ma’am?”
She opened her eyes and drew a deep, deep breath, then exhaled very slowly.
“Commander? Are you still there?”
“Yes, Mister Preston, I’m still here.”
“Did you copy my question?”
“I heard you.”
“And?”
Another deep breath. Another sigh. Her hesitation only served to prolong the inevitable and she knew it. Preston needed an answer and he needed it right away. She sipped her coffee and flipped the hair out of her eyes one more time. “And, Mister Preston,” she began, “if you find yourself in a situation where you have no other choice, you and your team are authorized to use whatever force might be necessary to protect Federation and allied personnel and resources from potential harm. Royer out.”
The panel went dark.
She poured whatever was left of her coffee down the drain and set her mug in the sink, then turned and was startled to find Karen standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb with her arms folded beneath her breasts.
“What’s going on?” she asked, gazing at her through barely opened eyes.
“Nothing,” Liz answered as she went to her. “Just business as usual.”
“Does that mean you’re finally coming to bed?”
“Yes, it does.” Liz took Karen into her arms and kissed her.
“About time.”
Liz smiled. “Miss me?”
“Always.” They kissed again, and then walked back into the bedroom.
Professor Min’para settled into a chair against the back wall in the passenger terminal’s gate-3 waiting area, in the corner farthest from the corridor and directly opposite the ticketing and check-in counter, hoping that would put him far enough out of the way to avoid being noticed by anyone. He would have preferred to delay his departure until late morning when the terminal would no doubt be filled nearly to capacity by a bustling crowd of commuters with whom he could easily blend in, but he’d had to weigh that preference against his need to get off the station as soon as possible, before the conspirators figured out that he knew they were onto him and came after him. As it was, there were only a very few people scattered here and there.
He’d known from the beginning that the program he’d left running in his stateroom wouldn’t continue to fool the conspirators if he left it running for too long, so he’d set it to shut down automatically at seven o’clock to make it appear as though after more than a hundred straight hours of intensive research, he’d finally had enough and gone to bed. He’d based his plan on the admittedly unlikely hope that they would stand by for the next several hours and wait for him to wake up and continue, but he didn’t dare bet his life on that. If he was lucky, he’d bought himself enough time to escape the station undetected.
Activity at the ticket counter caught his attention. He looked up, anticipating the boarding call, but was disappointed to see that it was only another passenger—a distinguished looking gentleman dressed in a simple but impeccably tailored gray suit—buying a seat on the flight. He glanced up at the chronometer above the counter. There was still an hour to go before the flight would begin to board. He sighed. Another whole hour.
Might as well have been another day.
Having apparently completed his transaction, the gray-suited gentleman stepped away from the counter and walkerd over to the rows of blue hard-plastic chairs that filled most of the waiting area, but rather than taking a seat in one close to him, he bypassed nearly every row, finally entering the next to last one. The row directly in front of Min’para’s.
Why that one? With over a dozen empty rows to choose from, why had he bypassed so many and chosen the one that would bring him so close?
As he approached he flashed a friendly smile and nodded to the professor and greeted him with a simple, “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Min’para returned as the man walked by.
The man turned away and headed toward the front again, but then stepped to his left and took a seat at the near end of the single row of the chairs that faced the large windows looking out on the moored vessel.
Who was he? Just another gentleman taking the early flight to Cirra? If so, then why had he taken such a roundabout route to that chair when it would have been much easier and more direct for him to walk across the front row and down the window row from there? It didn’t make sense. No. He wasn’t just a fellow passenger with a bad sense of direction. He was more than that. More likely the conspirators had already discovered what he was up to and had assigned that man to watch him. Or worse. Min’para knew that he was going to have to be very careful.
How he coveted the security of his own home back at the university.
As he turned his gaze from the suspicious man it fell on another suited gentleman—a blue suit this time—standing in the opposite corner of the terminal and he did a quick double-take. He could have sworn that man had been looking his way at first, but now he didn’t seem to be paying him any attention at all. Instead, he was struggling with the periodicals panel in the wall, stabbing his finger to it repeatedly, apparently having trouble with a download. The panel eventually surrendered, and once it completed the download—at least the man acted as if he’d finally gotten what he wanted—the man walked away without so much as a glance in the professor’s direction and disappeared down the corridor.
Realizing that he was growing more nervous with every passing minute, Min’para drew a deep breath and let it out slowly and silently, trying to relax. If only he could speed up time.
His stomach began to rumble, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything in almost an entire Earth day. So, despite knowing that he might draw attention to himself with even the most insignificant movement, he stood up, pressing his hand briefly against his suit coat to reassure himself that his handcomp was still safe and secure in the oversized inside pocket, and headed up the corridor toward the nearest restaurant for some breakfast. As he walked he made a point of carefully observing his surroundings, as though he were nothing more than a curious newcomer to the station taking in the sights. That way, he hoped, the occasional glance backward to see if he was being followed wouldn’t look so suspicious.
He walked into the restaurant and made his way to a booth against the back wall that a tall, artificial, large-potted floor plant partially obscured from view. He sat facing the entrance and looked around the room.
The place was warm and comfortable, furnished with finely crafted dark falsewood tables and chairs upholstered in fabrics of dark green and shades of maroon and earth tones. The table lights glowed low and intimate and even flickered a little to mimic candle flames, and the aromas that filled the air were nothing short of mouthwatering. It was also practically empty, with only a handful of customers sparsely scattered throughout the dining area, all of whom had already been served as far as he could tell, so service was going to be quick.
As though out of deference to his thoughts, a young waitress arrived and took his order in less than a minute, and when she brought his food out to him not long after that he ate slowly and deliberately, and paid careful attention to what was going on around him at all times.
Those other customers finished their meals and left the restaurant sporadically, some by themselves, others in pairs. Only one new one arrived—a young mother who also sought out a relatively secluded part of the dining area, sat down, and then promptly opened her blouse to nurse her fussing baby, who quickly fell silent and eagerly began suckling. Min’para watched her for a few moments, but as tricky as an agency like the S.I.A. could be, he doubted very much that she was an agent conducting surveillance on him. After all, what mother in her right mind would expose her infant child to that kind of potential danger?
He followed up his breakfast with two more cups of the hot beverage known as coffee, which he’d acquired an avid taste for a number of years earlier during his contiguous foreign studies at Harvard, Yale, and Drexel Universities. He’d nearly finished his second cup when the young mother, who’d employed both of her swollen breasts to satisfy her infant’s voracious appetite, finally got up and left, leaving him alone in the dining area. So, when he finished he just sat there and waited until the call to board his flight finally came.
Looking ahead as he strolled past gate-4 on the way to board his flight, he saw that at least seventy or eighty more passengers had arrived and had already formed a roughly single-file line that stretched from the entrance to the aerobridge, across the front row of chairs, and into the causeway where it turned ninety degrees so as not to block pedestrian traffic. He fell into the back of the line just as the boarding official at the keyed the aerobridge’s pressure door open and started scanning the passengers’ identicards and as they passed. He knew that boarding wouldn’t mean he was out of danger, but as he slowly shuffled forward, watching each of the passengers intently as the agent scanned their identicards, he nonetheless felt himself growing more and more anxious to do so.
Where was his emotional control when he needed it most? He was allowing the potential danger of inherent in his circumstances get to him.
Another step forward, and the back corner of the waiting area where he’d originally sat down came into view. The man in the gray suit still sat facing the windows, clearly watching the passengers as they filed past the boarding official. That didn’t necessarily mean anything, though. He had bought a ticket. He might simply have decided to wait until the line got shorter. Nevertheless, Min’para decided that it might be wise to turn away and not let the man see his face, so he did just that...
And he found himself looking right at the blue-suited man who, once again, appeared to be having trouble with a periodicals download. Coincidence? Possibly. But in the professor’s mind, not very likely. No, the conspirators had eyes on him. He could feel it. They knew right where he was and where he was going, and chances were they were sending someone with him. They were just waiting for him to board. Once he did, he’d be trapped.
He no longer had a choice. He had to take what he’d discovered to the Terran authorities. Then he could bow out gracefully and be done with it. They’d provide him with protection for the flight home, and once there he’d be safe. Then he could forget about the whole thing and get on with his life.
But to which agency could he go and still maintain a reasonable expectation of safety? Solfleet Intelligence was out of the question, for obvious reasons. Their Criminal Investigations Division? A separate command perhaps, but still a part of Solfleet, so that option wasn’t much better. Hansen and Royer likely would have friends among the agents there and he might end up talking to one of them without even knowing it.
No. He had to go to someone outside the fleet, but whoever that someone was would still have to be a part of Earth’s central Federation government. Any lesser agency might not have the authority necessary to take action. Given the nature of the cover-up, that left him with just two or perhaps three agencies to choose from. The civilian-run Federation Bureau of Investigations, the Central Intelligence Agency, or the Federation Bureau of Cyberclone Affairs. Which of those three could he trust more than the others?
As he continued shuffling slowly but steadily forward and drew closer to the turn in the line, another idea suddenly occurred to him, and the more he thought about it, the more he felt like it would be the best way to go. He didn’t necessarily have to go to a law enforcement or intelligence agency at all. He could go directly to the central Federation government itself—to the Earth Security Council, or possibly even to its parent body, the International Council on Solar Affairs. Yes. Chairman Brian MacLeod, the United States’ representative to the Federation Congress. He had quite the reputation for getting things done. He was the one who could, to use one of his Terran expressions, get the ball rolling. He was the one. But to meet with him quietly, Min’para was going to have to go to Earth.
He stepped out of line and strolled back down the causeway at a leisurely pace as though he didn’t have a care in the world. First thing first. He needed to buy a few things. A small knife or scissor. A portable sewing kit. And something to wrap his handcomp in so a security scanner couldn’t pick it up. Perhaps a null-reflective static-wrap of the type manufacturers of intricate electronic equipment used as packaging would do the trick. Yes. That should work. Afterwards he’d buy a seat on the first flight to Earth he could get. Well, the first flight to New York City at least. MacLeod’s office was in Manhattan. Then, at the last possible moment, he’d exchange the ticket he’d already purchased and hurry aboard.
* * *
“In the kitchen, Admiral,” Royer called without bothering to get up as Hansen stepped into her quarters and the door slid closed and auto-locked behind him. Normally she would have cleaned herself up, pulled on a fresh uniform, and asked the admiral for an early meeting in his office. But circumstances were anything but normal this morning. For one thing, the two of them were playing a dangerous game that necessitated their being even more secretive than usual. For another, she’d gotten fewer than three hours’ sleep. So instead she’d just taken a quick shower and thrown a robe on over fresh underclothes, then contacted him via secure comm-link a few minutes before seven, about the time he normally left home for the office, and asked him to come to her quarters without going to the office first. The privacy they would afford them was, in her mind at least, imperative. Then she’d sat down with a light breakfast to wait.
“Good morning, Commander,” Hansen said as he approached her dining table. “You look surprisingly refreshed this morning, considering what you’ve been up to for the last several days. Did you finally get a good night’s sleep, or are you still taking stims?”
“I’m done with the stims, sir,” she answered, “unless you count a cool shower and lots of caffeine. And although I wouldn’t exactly call it a good night’s sleep, I did manage to get a couple hours worth.” She raised her cup of coffee and gestured toward the pot on the counter. “Coffee’s fresh.”
“Only a couple of hours?” he asked as he stepped over to the counter and took a mug out of the overhead cabinet.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I guess that’s better than nothing.” He poured his coffee and replaced the decanter, then faced her and leaned back against the counter. “At least it explains what I’m doing here and why you’re still in your bathrobe instead of in uniform on your way to the office.”
“Yes, sir. Well, that’s one reason.”
He sipped his coffee, then asked, “There’s another?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered as she turned her chair to face him more directly and crossed her legs, not even caring that her robe fell open and bared her thigh as she did so. In fact, she was glad it did because she intended to revisit what had clearly become a forbidden subject with the admiral, and although he was her commanding officer, he was also a man. And as far as she was concerned, when it came to some things, men were still just men, squad sergeants and admirals alike. What worked on one would likely work on another, at least to some degree.
Besides, she’d disobeyed his orders. She’d authorized the use of lethal force, if necessary, against Min’para. For that reason alone she and the admiral weren’t completely on the same side anymore, so a little extra psychological advantage on her part certainly wouldn’t hurt.
“I’m waiting, Commander.”
Royer sipped her coffee, then explained, “I haven’t had a chance to sweep either of our offices for bugs yet, but I have swept my quarters.”
“Bugs?” Hansen asked, seemingly at a loss as to what she was talking about.
“Hidden transmitters, sir,” she clarified.
“Yes, Commander, I know what bugs are,” he told her, a little perturbed.
“Of course you do, sir. Sorry.”
He took another sip, then asked, “So what’s going on? What prompted you to sweep your own quarters for hidden transmitters?”
“Professor Min’para is...”
“Wait a second,” he said, raising a hand to stop her as he peered out into her living room. “Where’s Karen?”
“Still sound asleep, sir.”
“All right,” he said, dropping his hand. “Quietly. What about the professor?”
She knew Karen couldn’t hear her, but she lowered her voice a little more anyway, for the admiral’s sake. “He’s onto us, Admiral. He’s aware that I’ve been tracking his use of the library computer, and I have no way of knowing how long he’s known. He programmed the terminal in his stateroom to make it appear as though he were still conducting his research, and while I was being yanked around the online library like a puppy on a short leash, he snuck out and bought himself a one-way ticket to New York City. He’s already off the station.”
“How the hell did he get past your surveillance?”
“Oh, he didn’t get past it, sir. I assure you.”
“You’ve got someone on him.”
“Yes, sir. I’d already set up rolling surveillance as a contingency, just in case he tried something like this. He initially bought a ticket back to Cirra, but something spooked him and he exchanged it for the one to New York. We’ll know every move he makes as he makes it, both during the flight and after he arrives at J-F-K. The big problem is that there’s only one reason for him to want to go to New York in the first place. Only one that I can think of, at least.”
“Humor me.”
“I’d bet a year’s salary that he intends to report whatever he’s pieced together, Admiral. And we have no way of knowing how much that might be.”
Hansen pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. He rested his elbows on the table’s edge and took a long, slow sip of coffee, then gently set his mug aside and asked, “What about his stateroom? Is there any way we can determine how much he knows from whatever he might have left behind?”
“He didn’t leave anything behind, sir. At least, nothing of any consequence. Not even an electronic trail. If he made any written notes, he took them with him. If he contacted anyone before he left, he didn’t do it from there. He fed his search program directly into the room’s terminal. Whether he programmed it by hand there or pre-wrote it and then downloaded it from another computer, we haven’t been able to determine yet. I’d sure like to know what kind of equipment he might have at his disposal.”
“What about Miss DeGaetano? Any indication he might try to meet up with her?”
Royer shook her head. “She’s at her aunt and uncle’s house in Italy. We’re watching her every move and tracing every call that she and her relatives make or receive. We’ve even set up surveillance on everyone they’ve had more than casual contact with. We’re spread pretty thin down there, but I can tell you with absolute certainty that none of them have been in contact with the professor or anyone else aboard this station in the last day and a half since she left. I’m beginning to think the professor might actually be pursuing this matter alone.”
“We’re talking about her fiancé, Liz,” Hansen reminded her. “Do you really think she’d step away from it so easily?”
“She’s out of the service, sir,” Royer reminded him right back. “She has no clearance and no resources with which to pursue the matter.”
“True enough,” Hansen acquiesced. He took another sip of his coffee, and then another as he considered what to do next. On the one hand, Liz’s people could have overlooked something. Whatever Min’para was planning to do in New York—and he agreed with Liz that reporting whatever he’d uncovered was the most likely scenario—their surveillance of Miss DeGaetano might yet reveal something...if the two of them were working together. But on the other hand, Liz had just told him they were spread pretty thin down there, and there was always a chance they might need more manpower in New York at some point very soon if Min’para raised a real stink...whether they were working together or not.
“All right,” he said, having finally decided. “Terminate all surveillance on the DeGaetano family and their contacts. Divert those teams to New York and put them on standby.”
“Are you sure that’s wise, sir?”
“To be honest, no, I’m not. Not completely. But I think we have to risk it. Tell you the truth, Liz, the more I think about it, the more I doubt that whoever the professor is on his way to see will take his information seriously. But according to regulations they’ll have to conduct at least a preliminary investigation to determine whether or not there’s any merit to what he says. They might want to talk to Miss DeGaetano and her family, as well as to anyone else they might have talked to. If we don’t call off the surveillance, then we run the risk of its being detected.”
“I disagree with you on that, sir,” she responded confidently. “Our people are the very best at what they do.”
“Yes they are, Commander,” he wholeheartedly agreed. “But surveillance techniques are generally the same no matter what agency you work for. Our people might be the best at employing them, but they aren’t the only ones who do it well.”
“Hm. You’re worried about the possibility of counter-surveillance,” Royer concluded as her mind started racing ahead.
“Possibility,” Hansen confirmed, nodding his head. “Besides,” he continued, “didn’t you just tell me you suspect the professor is pursuing this matter alone?”
“What I said, sir, was that I’m beginning to think he might be. I’m not convinced of that yet though, and until I am I think we should continue to assume he’s not. But even if he is, I suspect that’ll change if you’re right about what the authorities will do after he talks to them.”
“I am right.”
“Yes, sir. I know you are.”
She took a mouthful of coffee and swallowed. Twice. There was no point in delaying any further. The time had come to revisit that forbidden subject. Too bad she couldn’t put that psychological advantage she’d hoped for to use. If only he hadn’t sat directly across from her, where the table blocked his view of her legs.
“And that brings up another point,” she said as she leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on the corner of the chair to her right. At best, he could maybe see her knees, if he even bothered to look. No advantage there. He’d seen her bare knees a million times.
“That point being?” he inquired.
“It’s almost certain that if they do talk to Miss DeGaetano, they’ll conclude that whatever the professor will have told them does, in fact, have merit. Therefore, sir...” She hesitated, but only for a second, “I really think it would be in our best interest to make sure the professor never reaches his destination.”
Hansen set his mug down somewhat less gently than he could have, spilling a little coffee on the table, then sat back and glared at her. “I told you, Liz...”
“I haven’t forgotten what you told me, sir.”
“Good. Then I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
“Sir, it’s the only way...”
“I said no, Commander!” he barked angrily, slapping a hand down on the table and making her jump as coffee sloshed from both of their mugs.
Royer sighed. “Admiral,” she said calmly, “there’s far too much at stake here. This goes way beyond our careers. You’ve got to authorize the use of lethal force if absolutely necessary. You’ve got no other choice at this point. You must see that.”
“You listen to me, Commander, and you listen good,” he said after a moment, glaring at her while at the same time doing his best to reflect her level of calmness, “because I’m not going to repeat myself again. I’ve made a lot of extremely difficult decisions over thirty-five years of service. I’ve violated some of the highest laws of our world. I’ve committed crimes and orchestrated cover-ups and conducted unauthorized investigations, all in the name of planetary security. Now I’m bordering on treason by acting against the president’s orders, and I might be standing on the wrong side of that border already. But I absolutely will not authorize or be party to the coldblooded murder of anyone, for any reason.”
When Royer didn’t respond, Hansen stood up, stepped away from the table, and pushed his chair back underneath it. “Do whatever you have to do, Commander, short of that.” Then, as he started backing toward her living room, he added, “Terminate all surveillance operations on the DeGaetano family and all related parties. Then get some rest.”
“Yes, sir,” she said as he turned and walked away. Then, after he’d gone and the door had closed behind him, she quietly added, “Whatever you say, sir.”
With one last quick jolt that pressed Min’para forward against his harness, the spaceplane finally came to a stop adjacent to a gate and powered down. The professor looked out through the small window beside him to see the aerobridge extending toward the fuselage. Then, relieved that the stomach-churning flight was finally over, he unfastened the harness, stood up, and drew a deep breath as he gladly stepped into the line of passengers collecting their carry-on luggage and filling the aisle, waiting to disembark. It hadn’t really been that long a flight—actually, the word ‘drop’ probably described it more accurately—but susceptibility to mild motion sickness had always been his one unconquerable weakness, so it had seemed like hours. He’d started to perspire, heavily, but at least he hadn’t vomited.
As he followed the other passengers off the plane, up the gently sloping ramp through the fully extended accordion-like aerobridge’s subdued amber light, and out through the security scanner toward the significantly warmer and brighter gate G-27 waiting area, he started feeling better. He stepped aside as soon as there was room enough and allowed those few stragglers who’d exited the plane behind him to pass, and to his dismay, the suspicious gentleman in the finely tailored gray suit was among them.
How could that be? He’d been so careful to make sure no one followed him to the other gate. When could he possibly have boarded the plane?
According to the agent who’d changed his reservation for him, it was rare for even one person to show up in need of a reservation change at the last minute. Especially for one of the early morning flights. Early morning passengers usually took care of those things the day before. And yet right there in front of him was the second passenger to apparently have done that this morning—he being the first one himself, of course. Even more than his bizarre behavior back at the station terminal, that made Min’para very suspicious of him.
He was beginning to feel a little like a protagonist in one of Earth’s famous spy thrillers and was actually beginning to enjoy it, despite the perceivable danger. Perhaps he should...how did the Terrans like to put it?...‘turn the tables’ on him and follow him for a while.
What in the fires of the underworld was he thinking? These people were dangerous!
Common sense had already won out when, just moments after he’d nearly lost all sense of reality, his suspicions were laid to rest. A number of the other passengers had stopped here and there to exchange handshakes or hugs with those who’d been waiting to greet them. The gray-suited man had maneuvered around them all and was making his way toward the corridor, looking about in all directions when a young woman with long brown hair, wearing a silky white blouse and a short black skirt—too short, in the professor’s opinion—appeared out of nowhere and threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him to the floor.
“Welcome home, Daddy,” the professor heard her say. Then, when the two of them finally separated, they looked at each other and smiled just long enough for Min’para to notice the family resemblance. Then they headed down the corridor, arm-in-arm.
Min’para laid his hand over his handcomp, despite knowing that he couldn’t possibly lose it, even if he wanted to—he’d wrapped it in the electronics packaging and sewn into his coat’s liner—then drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly to relax. “You’re getting a bit paranoid in your old age, Professor,” he mumbled quietly to himself. “Calm down now.”
He repeated the breathing exercise several more times, then crossed the waiting area and approached the large tinted windows that looked out over the next gate in line, where a sleek atmospheric airliner with four distinct engines mounted on wide-spanning wings appeared to be in the process of boarding. The morning sun shone brightly through the thick transluminum pane—its light shone a bit more yellow than Caldanra’s, he noted—and felt like a warm compress against his face, and he could just make out the low drone of that airliner’s idling engines. Finding the combination of those two sensory stimulants to be oddly soothing, he folded his hands behind his back, raised his face toward the sun, and closed his eyes.
He stood there, quite relaxed, long enough for the waiting area to empty, then made his way to the nearest exit as quickly as he could without drawing attention. He hoped.
The heavy southwesterly breeze hit him like a sudden blast from a wind tunnel’s engine the moment he stepped outside, blowing his thinning desert-gray hair in whatever haphazard manner it chose and carrying with it a myriad of interesting scents. Some of them were familiar, others not so much. The aromas of a variety of foods blended into a mouth-watering bouquet. The smells of the sea, both good and not so good were present as well. There was even a hint of jet propellant, though that particular odor proved quite difficult to discern. Thank the gods the Terrans had stopped burning fossil fuels decades ago. Otherwise that dreadful odor would likely have overwhelmed all the others.
The breeze itself didn’t surprise him at all. Aerospaceports everywhere always tended to be windy. But December marked the end of autumn in Earth’s northern hemisphere, so he’d expected the air to feel bitterly cold, the way it had all those years ago. Especially in New York. And yet the day was already surprisingly warm. Not warm enough to prevent him from feeling a little chilly as he stood there, but warm nonetheless.
The weather patterns on this world certainly could be unpredictable at times.
He turned up his collar and gathered it tightly around his neck, then hurried up the spiral ramp to board the free skytram for the city. He chose a sun-side window seat near the front of the car and sat down. That way, not only would he stay as warm as possible during the ride, he’d also be able to get off quickly when they reached his stop.
Several minutes ticked by, during which time a number of other passengers boarded the tram. Min’para reached out to each one of them in turn with his mind as they walked by, trying to touch their thoughts—trying to get a sense of any hidden agenda that might be lurking there. But he was a touch telepath, as all Cirran telepaths were, and he simply couldn’t do it.
One thing he did notice, however. A fact that was no doubt painfully obvious to telepaths and non-telepaths alike. As far as the Terrans were concerned it was a warm day in New York City. Without exception, everyone he’d seen since his arrival had either dressed in anticipation of a sweltering afternoon or had begun to remove whatever superfluous outer clothing they could do without. Those in business attire, males and females alike, had either left their suit coats behind or were carrying them over their arms. Shirt and blouse collars were open—some of them, particular some of the women’s, were more open than others—and sleeves were rolled up.
Some of those not in business attire were barely dressed at all, at least by his standards. A few were so scantily clad, in fact, that they might even have been bordering on public indecency.
The two young females who’d boarded the tram last, both of whom looked to be in their late teens at most in Terran years, were perfect examples. The first, a moderately dark-skinned young woman with straightened shoulder-length brown hair—probably of African or Caribbean descent, he surmised—was dressed in nothing but a skimpy bright yellow bikini bottom with little gold fasteners on both hips and a beige fishnet tee shirt that she needn’t have bothered wearing at all, considering how her chocolate brown nipples peaked out through the meager fabric. The other, a fair-skinned Asian with long, lustrous black hair was wearing an extremely short denim skirt—gods only knew if she had any underwear on underneath it—and a short-sleeved, half-length, sheer light blue blouse with only a single button between her breasts to hold it closed and quite obviously nothing underneath.
How could they possibly get away with dressing in that manner in public, Min’para wondered as his averted his eyes? What an immoral and barbaric culture these Terrans had created for themselves.
Yes. There was a lot of bare skin onboard, some of it glistening with perspiration. But the same air that had made everyone else so uncomfortably warm had actually given him a chill. He couldn’t wait to get to Manhattan and go back inside a building. He only wished he knew right where to go.
Granted, he was used to the much warmer and more humid climate of Corietta Province. After all, except for those two years he’d spent on Earth as a student, he’d lived there his entire life. But generally speaking, there wasn’t really that much difference between the two worlds as a whole, and he could remember many days at Harvard, Yale, and Drexel, when he’d perspired right along with his much younger Terran classmates.
But never in December.
What in the names of the gods was wrong with him? Where had his mental discipline gone? His thoughts were jumping from one subject to the next and back again like those of an undisciplined child.
Still, he knew he shouldn’t be feeling so cold on a day that was so uncomfortably warm for everyone else, Coriettan or not. Was he even more nervous about this real life drama he’d gotten himself involved in than he’d realized? Or was old age finally catching up to him?
Once the tram finally pulled out from the station, he tried to relax again. But before long he started feeling jittery instead, as though someone were staring right through the back of his head. As difficult as it was, he resisted the urge to turn around and look so as not to give away the fact that he’d felt the eyes upon him. Instead, he closed his eyes and reached out with his mind once more, stretching his telepathic abilities to their limits and beyond. But it was no good. No matter how hard he concentrated, what he did manage to pick up amounted to nothing more than unintelligible background noise. He couldn’t zero in on any one person’s thoughts, and he was just too weary to keep up the effort for very long.
He kept track of the tram’s progress on the small video screen that protruded from the ceiling. Nearly half of all the passengers in his car got off at the first stop, a large interchange terminal in the center of downtown Queens. The tram sat and waited with its doors open for an additional minute after the last person exited, but no one else stepped aboard. At the end of that minute an off-key chime sounded four times. Then the doors closed and the tram pulled away from the terminal.
The two scantily clad teenage girls, both of whom had demonstrated a severe case of the whispers and giggles along the way, got off halfway across the New Queensboro Bridge at the Roosevelt Island stop. They exited through the right side doors—the left doors hadn’t opened this time—and crossed over to the platform on the left, then walked past Min’para’s window in the direction the tram had come from toward the crowded lift that would carry them down to the island. Down to the ‘Roosevelt Island Clothing-Optional Family Water Park,’ he recalled from his days living in nearby Connecticut. A clothing-optional family water park! He shook his head as he watched the giggling girls squeeze onto the lift.
Yes, indeed. A truly immoral and barbaric culture.
The tram suddenly exploded with screams and shouts of terror. Min’para faced front just in time to witness a man with a handgun being tackled to the floor by another man. The weapon discharged with an ear-splitting CRACK and a wisp of blue smoke that smelled of gunpowder, but harmlessly into the ceiling. No one was hurt, thank the gods.
The hero rolled the shooter onto his stomach with ease—at least he made it look easy—then wrenched his arms back and pinned his hands behind his back by kneeling on them. Neither of them uttered a word as the man on top slapped a set of metal restraints on the other’s wrists, hauled him to his feet, and then half carried him off the tram as the passengers applauded.
Min’para’s pulse was racing as though he’d just run an entire city block at top speed. Had he been the man’s target? Had the conspirators discovered his trickery and sent someone after him? Did they intend to kill him?
He’d learned early during his first visit to Earth that Terran society could be explosively violent at times. Even the very communities in which he’d lived hadn’t been immune to that violence. But never had he personally been so close to it before. Even under Veshtonn rule back home he’d always been sheltered and protected.
He drew a deep breath and started going through a quick calming ritual as the tram finally started moving again. But one thought stood firm in his mind. On Earth, especially in the United States, an assassination could easily be passed off as a random crime.
When the tram pulled into his Manhattan stop a few minutes later, Min’para made sure he was the first one to the door. Once it came to rest at the passenger platform and the door opened, he made his way quickly to the escalator and down to the busy street below. Then he stepped aside, just as he’d done at J.F.K., and waited for the other passengers who’d gotten off behind him to walk by and go on about their business. That way he could be sure that none of them were following him. He might still have been acting paranoid, he readily admitted to himself, but as the Terrans liked to say, it was better to be safe than to be sorry.
Now he needed to ask someone for directions.
As though on cue, a rather scruffy looking child with fairly long and wind-blown sandy-blonde hair stepped out of a store to the professor’s left and slammed the door closed behind him. Probably in his very early teens, or perhaps her very early teens—Min’para couldn’t decide whether the youth was a boy or a girl—he or she was dressed in faded and tattered denim jeans and a multicolor striped tee shirt that looked at least two sizes too large for him/her. Thus Min’para’s quandary.
“Excuse me, young...one,” he said, noticing the odd looking pair of hard-shelled boots the child was wearing. The child stopped and looked up at him. His/her lips were stained bright red, no doubt from something he/she had just had to eat or drink. “Can you tell me how to get to the Federation Building from here?”
“The Federation Building?” the child asked, squinting against the sun. The voice was that of a boy. At least, it sounded more like a boy’s than a girl’s. A boy then, Min’para decided.
“Yes, that’s right. The Federation Building.”
“I’m really sorry, sir. I’m afraid I don’t know,” the boy answered politely. But then his entire demeanor suddenly changed and he shouted in a loud and ear-piercing voice, “Try running for political office, asshole!” He laughed as obnoxiously as he possibly could have, then kicked his heels together, floated a few inches up off the sidewalk, and raced away, apparently skating atop a cushion of air.
Min’para sighed and shook his head. “I should have expected that from the youth of this city,” he reminded himself as he watched the young...boy...disappear around the corner. “Why did I even bother to ask? I’ll do better trying to find it myself.” He looked to his left and then to his right, up the street and down the street, then picked a direction at random and started walking. A few minutes later he crossed paths with a local police officer who sent him off in the right direction. He hoped.
About half an hour after that his cautious faith in the officers of the New York City Police Department proved warranted when he found himself closing to within two blocks of his destination—the site of the original United Nations Headquarters, now New York City’s Vincent Giovanni Federation Building. But as he drew closer to it, that uneasy feeling that someone was watching him suddenly struck him again. But who, and from where? This was New York City, after all. There were a lot of people around.
He kept walking but looked around as discreetly as he could, being careful to maintain his same casual pace. People walked in every direction all around him, but no one was following very closely behind him that he could tell. In fact, the closest person to him was actually...
The woman who’d been walking ahead of him for the last three blocks—the woman on whom he’d slowly but steadily been gaining ground until he could almost reach out and touch her—suddenly whirled around and pounced on him and jabbed a syringe into his chest, but he managed to grab her wrist and bend her arm back at the elbow, withdrawing the needle before she could depress the plunger and inject the contents. He twisted her wrist until she dropped it and then forced her arm up behind her head as he stepped forward, between her legs, and threw his body into hers, pinning her against the front fender of a parked car. Then, as she continued to struggle, he got his first good look at her face and recognized her as the young woman he’d seen welcoming her ‘daddy’ home at the aerospaceport. Gods! She hadn’t changed her clothes or tried to alter her appearance in any way! Why hadn’t he recognized her earlier?
She was obviously much younger than he was, and given his advanced age chances were she was physically stronger as well. But the advantages of weight and leverage were clearly his, so now that he’d pinned her she had no chance of escape. So he took a moment while she continued to struggle and glanced into her mind, and saw exactly what he expected to see. She wasn’t alone! She had backup nearby, and they had orders to stop him at any cost!
Regret flashed briefly through her mind as she realized she’d blown her chance to take him down quickly. And then a word... No. Not a word, but rather an idea took form. An instant passed and a firm decision followed.
She grabbed hold of the front of her own blouse with her free hand and tore it open, then screamed at the top of her lungs, “HEEEEELP! RAAAAAPE!”
“Hey you!” someone hollered in response to her cries, much too quickly for it to have been a mere coincidence. “Stop! Let her go!”
Min’para looked up. Two men in business suits—the same two men, the only two men he’d seen since leaving J.F.K. who’d actually been wearing their coats—were running toward him from down the other side of the street.
“Leave her alone!” one of them yelled. No surprise, it was her ‘daddy.’
That second of distraction almost proved to be all the reprieve the young woman needed. She raised a leg and planted her foot firmly against Min’para’s chest, but before she could even try to push him away he let go of her wrist and knocked her foot aside with his elbow, then swung his arm down and around her leg and lifted, dropping her the rest of the way onto the hood of the car.
“Let her go!” one of the men shouted again.
Min’para grabbed up her other leg, pushed her away, and slid her off the car’s front end, dropping her shoulders-first to the pavement. Then he grabbed the syringe and took off running toward the Federation Building’s front doors.
“Stop! Police!”
He reached the building in less than half a minute and pushed his way through both sets of smoked-transluminum double doors faster than they could open for him on their own, then stopped suddenly near the center of the lobby when he spotted a pair of uniformed security officers approaching him with their hands on their sidearms.
“Hold it right there, sir!” one of the guards yelled as he drew his sidearm and aimed it at him. The second guard drew his and took aim as well, and two United States Marines in dress blues—a sergeant and a corporal if he wasn’t mistaken—stood by not far behind, no doubt ready to assist should he give them a reason.
“What’s that in your hand?” the first guard demanded. Still gasping for air, Min’para held the syringe out for him to see. “Drop it on the floor, now!”
Min’para complied.
“Who are you,” the second guard asked, “and where the hell do you think you’re goin’ in such a hurry?”
Min’para bent forward and rested his hands on his knees, huffing and puffing, still barely able to breathe. “My...My name is...” he began between labored breaths, “...is not important. I’ve got... I’ve got to see...Chairman MacLeod of...of the Earth Se...the Earth Security Council.”
“You got an appointment with him?” the first guard asked.
“No, sir,” Min’para answered, shaking his head. “No I don’t. But it’s...vitally important that...that I see him.”
“I’m sure it is, sir, at least for you. But I can’t let you go up there unexpected. If you ain’t made no appointment, you’re gonna have to leave.”
“Leave?” the second guard asked his partner, being careful to keep his weapon trained on the old man. “We can’t just let him leave. He ran in here with some kind of needle! Maybe he came in here to kill somebody! We gotta hold him for the police!”
“We ain’t got that kind of authority,” the first guard replied. “All he did was run in here. He ain’t broken no law yet for us to hold him on. All we can do is maybe confiscate that needle as drug paraphernalia.” He started inching cautiously toward the old man. “Step back, away from the needle,” he ordered.
Min’para straightened and held his arms out to show they were empty. “You do not understand,” he told the advancing guard, breathing easier now. “I must see...”
“I said step back!” the guard shouted. Min’para backed away and the guard continued forward until the syringe lay right at his foot. “You got him covered?”
“I got him,” the second guard answered.
The first guard holstered his sidearm and then squatted down and picked up the syringe.
Gambling, literally betting his life that the guard who had him covered wouldn’t actually shoot him, and that he was fast enough to get passed the two marines, Min’para suddenly dashed forward and made a run for the stairs. But the guard squatting in front of him reacted faster than he’d anticipated and grabbed him by the arm, stopping him almost before he could get started. “Whoa, buddy!” he shouted. “You ain’t going nowhere!”
“But I must see Chairman MacLeod!” Min’para insisted as he tried unsuccessfully to free himself from the less than eloquent guard’s iron grasp.
“Not without an appointment!”
“I didn’t have the time to make an appointment!”
“Well you’re just gonna to have to make the time to make an appointment,” the guard responded, tightening his grasp on the old man’s arm and pushing against his chest with his own forearm, “because you ain’t gettin’ up there without one!”
“Wait a moment!” Min’para cried out, struggling against the guard’s efforts to push him back toward the front doors. “Stop! Please!”
“I said leave!” the guard demanded, pushing harder. “Now! Or we will call the police!”
“But I must see him now!” Min’para cried as he finally started pushing back. “Before it is too late!”
The second guard holstered his weapon and hurried to his partner’s aid. He grabbed hold of the old man’s free arm, and together the two of them more easily muscled the belligerent old man backward, toward the exit. “It’s already too late for you, old man,” he said.
“No! Wait, please!” Min’para pleaded as he struggled. “You do not understand! I must see him! There is a... There is a conspiracy going on in your Solfleet! It is a matter of your world’s security!”
“Not without an appointment! That’s for the chairman’s security!”
“Let me go!” Min’para roared, struggling more violently. Somehow he managed to break free and he made a second run for the stairs.
“Marines!” the guards yelled in unison.
The marines dashed across the lobby and tackled the old man to the highly polished hard tile floor in such a way as to avoid injuring him too seriously...hopefully. Then they grabbed him none to gently by the arms and hauled him back to his feet.
“Let’s go, sir,” the sergeant said as they practically dragged him back toward the exit.
“No!” he yelled. He tried to break free again but quickly realized that his efforts were in vein—that he didn’t stand a Cirran’s chance on Sulain against a pair of United States Marines—so he decided to try a different tactic. “Wait a moment, please, sir,” he pleaded in a much calmer and quieter tone of voice. “There is someone out there. Two men. They have been chasing me. They are trying to kill me!”
“We might kill you if you don’t get the hell out of here,” the corporal told him. And with that they dragged him out through the doors and pushed him away from the entrance.
“And if you even think about coming back in here, sir, you will be arrested,” the sergeant advised him.
If he even thought? Could the sergeant read his thoughts? “But I...”
“There he is!” someone shouted. Recognizing the voice, Min’para whirled around to find those same two men walking quickly up the sidewalk toward him.
“Police!” the older looking one, the ‘daddy’, yelled as they approached. “Stop right there, old man!”
Min’para ran at the marines and tried to force his way past them, but they stopped him easily and held onto him for the civilian officers.
“Look, mister!” the sergeant said sternly into his ear as he and the corporal waited for the two policemen to take him off their hands. “I’ve had just about enough of you! Whatever kind of trouble you’re in, you’re not bringing it into our building!”
“But I did not do anything wrong!” Min’para desperately cried as the marines suddenly twisted his arms up behind his back and held them there while one of the two policemen fought to cuff his hands together.
“Of course you didn’t,” the corporal replied sarcastically.
“Honestly, I did not!” Min’para insisted as he continued to resist. “Do you not see? These two men are not really police officers!” He felt the cuffs lock around both of his wrists. They had him.
“Of course they’re not,” the corporal responded. “They’re just a couple of average guys who happen to carry handcuffs who picked you at random because they thought it would be fun to chase someone through the city streets and pretend to arrest him!” To the policemen he said, “He’s all yours, gentlemen,” and then he and the sergeant allowed them to take control.
“No!” Min’para shrieked as he struggled against their grasp.
“Thanks for holding onto him, Marines,” one of them said. “He’s a lot stronger and a whole lot slipperier than he looks.”
“No problem, Detective,” the corporal responded.
“He is not a detective!” Min’para shouted as they started to haul him away. “They are not police officers!”
“Shut up, old man, before I knock you out!” the younger of the two suited men hollered. “You’re under arrest! Deal with it!”
The men turned him away from the building, but he kept on struggling against them and looking back and shouting at the marines. “They are not the police!”
The younger man suddenly belted him across the mouth hard enough that he would have fallen to the ground had they not been holding onto him. “I said shut the fuck up!”
But the professor continued to resist as violently as he could, even as they hauled him back to his feet. “You are going to have to report this to your commanding officer, Sergeant!” he cried over his shoulder, spitting blood as they dragged him away. “What are you going to tell him when he asks you if you verified the arresting officers’ identification?”
The sergeant gazed at the old man and saw, perhaps for the first time, the unbridled terror in his violet eyes.
The look did not go unnoticed. “Go on, ask them!” Min’para begged. “Ask them for their identification! Please!”
The sergeant exchanged doubtful glances with the corporal, then looked back at him just as he started to do what was probably the oddest thing he could possibly have chosen to do at that moment. He started to sing.
“From the halls of Montezu—uma to the shores of Tripo—li. We will fight our country’s ba—attles on the land and on the—sea.”
“Gentlemen!” the sergeant barked, interrupting the old man’s song as he started following them toward the street. “Excuse me for a moment, but the prisoner is right.” Following his superior’s cue, the corporal started forward as well. “I do need to see your identification. I’ll need your names and badge numbers for my incident report.”
Min’para stopped struggling as the men on his arms stopped and looked back.
“We’re in a bit of a hurry, Sergeant,” the older one said.
“I just need your names and badge numbers for my report, sir. Then you can be on your way.”
“Fine. I’m Detective Lieutenant Mark Smith, badge number two three seven zero, and this is my partner, Detective Sergeant Paul Winters, badge number...”
“Three one one two,” the younger man supplied.
“I’m sorry, Detective, but just telling me isn’t good enough,” the sergeant advised him as he closed the distance between them. “Regulations require me to physically check both you and your partner’s credentials.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant, but that’s going to have to be good enough. The fates just dropped a felony investigation into our hands and we’ve got to get a positive subject identification from the victim before she’s taken to the hospital.”
The sergeant rested his hand on his sidearm, and his voice suddenly grew deathly serious. “Show me your credentials, sir, and you can be on your way.”
“You’re outside the Federation Building now, Marine!” the maybe-detective reminded the sergeant. “Outside your jurisdiction!”
“That gentleman extended my jurisdiction when he forced me to drag him out through those doors behind me, sir,” the sergeant explained. A real policeman should have been aware of that fact. He adjusted his grip on his sidearm. “Show me your credentials, now!”
“All right! Fine! We’ll be right back after the victim makes her I-D.”
The men turned away in unison, but before they could take another step, both marines drew their sidearms and took aim, and the sergeant hollered, “I officially request that you show me your identification now, sir!”
The older of the two men—the one who’d called himself ‘Smith’—the one who’d done most of the talking and who was clearly the senior partner whether they were policemen or not—faced the marines again and hesitated just long enough to draw a deep breath and sigh, then said calmly, “Very well.” He let go of his prisoner and reached inside the back of his jacket as he stepped toward the sergeant. Then, in one sudden fluid motion, he sidestepped the sergeant’s aim and pulled out a pistol. But the corporal fired first, a double-tap, striking him in the center of his chest with both shots and dropping him to the sidewalk, very likely dead.
The sergeant dropped the other man an instant later after he’d thrown the prisoner to the ground and tried to draw his own weapon. Bystanders in the street screamed and ran for cover, or dropped straight to the ground and covered their heads with their hands, like ostriches burying their heads in the sand.
And then it was over.
The marines looked around, scanning their surroundings to be sure there was no more danger. Most everyone who’d dropped to the ground was already getting back up again. A small crowd of curious onlookers was beginning to gather across the street and to either side of the building’s front walkway, but so far it seemed that no one felt brave enough to come any closer than that.
The sergeant slowly holstered his weapon but didn’t fasten the thumb strap. “Looks like the old man was right about them after all,” he said as he hurried toward the prisoner—toward the gentleman—who’d managed to sit up and was trying unsuccessfully to climb to his feet.
“Seems that way,” the corporal agreed. He approached the younger of the two imposters cautiously, weapon still in hand and trained on him. He was only wounded, clutching his hands to his abdomen, moaning and groaning and writhing in pain. There wasn’t very much blood, the corporal noted, and he guessed that the wound probably wasn’t fatal. “Looks like this one will make it if we get him some medical aid quick enough, Sergeant.”
A faint sound like a whistling zipper passed between them and another shot rang out from somewhere out in the street. As frightened civilians’ screams once more filled the square, the marines instinctively hit the ground and rolled, taking cover behind two of the large plasticrete tree pots that were placed at equal intervals along the two foot high polished marble walls that lined both sides of the wide walkway.
“What the hell!” the corporal exclaimed. “Where did that come from?”
A second shot rang out. More screaming, and the old man yelped and collapsed.
“Right there, Corporal!” the sergeant advised his partner, pointing across the street and to the left where he’d just spotted two more men dashing from behind one parked car to another. “Behind the cars, just to the left of the bakery door! I don’t have a clean shot!”
“I think I do, Sergeant!” the corporal advised him as he took aim. Then he shouted as loudly as he could, “United States Marines! You have committed a hostile act against United Earth Federation property! Cease fire and throw out your weapons immediately!”
The gunmen ignored his order and fired a third time, blindly, over the hood of the car, just missing the sergeant’s head as he low-crawled toward the wounded old gentleman who lay motionless where he’d dropped.
“I say again!” the corporal screamed. “Cease fire and throw out your weapons! Now!” But the gunmen fired yet again, and the old gentleman cried out in pain.
“Son of a... If any of these bastards are cops, I’m Donald Duck,” the corporal commented under his breath. He fired a single shot through the car’s headlight and left fender, dropping one of the gunmen to the sidewalk. The other reached out from farther back along the car’s far side, grabbed hold of the man’s shirt, and dragged him to safety. “Go, Sergeant! I’ve got ‘em pinned down!”
“If you get a chance, take ‘em out!”
“You got it!”
The wounded imposter raised his head up off the ground and tried to level his weapon at the old man, but the corporal put a bullet through his head before he could squeeze off a shot.
The all hell broke loose. Screaming filled the streets again as someone fired another shot, this time from somewhere much farther off to the marines’ right, beyond the end of the wall where the corporal couldn’t see.
“Aw shit!” the sergeant yelled. “I’m hit!”
The corporal looked back and saw the sergeant on his back, holding his bleeding right leg with one hand and dragging the badly wounded and bleeding old man back up the walkway with the other, using his shoulders and his one good leg to wriggle his way back toward the doors and leaving a smeared trail of bright red blood behind them.
“You okay, Sergeant?”
“I’ll live! Watch yourself! Don’t worry about me!”
The corporal rolled to the base of the wall, peered up over it, and almost lost his right ear as the air cracked beside his head. “Shit!” he exclaimed as he quickly ducked back down. But he’d done what he needed to do. He’d zeroed the new target—a long-haired, bare-footed young woman in a short black skirt and a white blouse that looked like it had been torn open and was falling off her left shoulder, and a white bra—and assessed its movement. It, or rather she, was running straight toward him and closing quickly, holding a pistol out in front of her, ready to fire again.
He fired twice into the car that, as far as he knew, the second pair of men were still hiding behind, just to keep them down. Then he rolled once to his left and sprang up from behind the wall and fired twice more at the woman at almost point blank range, striking her dead center in the chest with both rounds. She returned fire as she collapsed, but the single shot she got off went high or wide enough that he didn’t even hear it whiz by him.
He stood there for a moment, shaking his head as he gazed down at her lifeless body laying there on the lawn not more than ten feet in front of him. “Perfectly good piece of ass gone to waste,” he commented. Then, remembering that the danger hadn’t yet passed, he crouched, turned back toward the car, and dropped back behind the protective cover of the tree pot.
Apparently having decided to abandon his wounded partner in favor of affecting his own escape, the unwounded attacker behind the car suddenly broke cover and made a run for it. But he must have realized that he wasn’t going to make it because before the corporal could safely take a shot he threw his arm around a screaming woman’s throat from behind and used her to shield himself as he crossed the marine’s field of fire, he also started firing wildly in the corporal’s general direction in an obvious effort to pin him down.
The corporal kept his weapon trained on them, but he couldn’t take the shot. The risk that he might hit the hostage was too great.
An entire squad of marines outfitted for combat suddenly poured out of the Federation Building and fanned out. Then, having quickly assessed the situation, four of them slung their weapons over their shoulders, grabbed up their wounded comrade and the old man, and rushed them inside to safety while the rest of them took cover and cut off the last attacker’s escape route by firing across his path only a few feet ahead of him.
The hostage cried out in terror and struggled to escape her captor. The man returned fire as he doubled back the other way, but the marines cut off that route as well. He had nowhere to go and he froze, and at that instant one of the marines fired a single, carefully aimed shot. The back of the man’s head exploded, splattering bright red blood and brain matter all over the wall behind them.
The hostage fell with him to the ground, screaming even louder and more frantically, but was likely otherwise unharmed.
The immediate threat had been eliminated. The Quick Reaction Force would take care of the follow-up. The corporal holstered his weapon, jumped up, and ran back inside.
“Where’d they take Sergeant McFarland?” he asked one of the security guards.
“To the infirmary,” the guard answered. “He and the old man both. Doc said there wasn’t no time to take them to the hospital now.”
“Damn! How bad are they?”
“I don’t know, Corporal. I think the sergeant only got it in the leg, but the old man looked pretty bad.”
“What do you want to bet he gets his appointment with Chairman MacLeod after this?”
“Maybe so, if he lives long enough. Either way,” the guard added with an amused grin, “you’ll still be here writing your statement. Shots fired, personnel down, fatalities. You’ll be here all night, Corporal.”
The young Marine glared at the guard. As if paperwork was the first thing on his mind right now.
The perpetually lingering and always familiar scents of hospital sterility—alcohol and ammonia was it?—hit Chairman MacLeod square in the face the second the elevator doors opened onto the second floor, making his eyes water and triggering a short sneezing fit. Had he been brought in blindfolded and unconscious he still would have known he was in a hospital. Fortunately, his fit only lasted for a few moments and it only took a few quick blinks to clear his eyes afterwards. By the time his personal security detail—they were an always well dressed but stone-faced brother and sister team who’d been assigned to him ever since that nearly successful attempt on his life a few years ago—allowed him to step off the elevator into the hallway, he’d recovered.
Of course, the smell hadn’t affected either one of them at all. Sometimes he wondered if they were even human.
He spotted the nurse’s station a short distance up the hall to the right and headed for it. “Excuse me,” he said as he stepped up to the off-white, L-shaped counter.
The plump and pleasant looking gray-haired older woman in nurse’s uniform sitting behind the counter looked up from her computer screen through big brown eyes and flashed the obligatory smile, which quickly disappeared when she saw the bodyguards flanking him. “Um... How may I help you, sir?” she asked, obviously at a loss as to what to think about them.
“Good evening, nurse,” he greeted her with friendly smile, hoping to quell her apparent discomfort and put her at ease. “I’m looking for the patient who was shot outside the Federation Building this morning. I was told he’s in this ward.”
“Are you a family member, sir?”
“No, ma’am, I’m not,” he answered honestly. “My name is Brian MacLeod, chairman of the Earth Security Council, and I need to talk to the patient immediately about an extremely important matter.”
“Oh, you’re with the government.”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“Well, I guess it’s okay then. May I see your identification, please?”
“Certainly.” MacLeod reached into his inside coat pocket, withdrew his identicard, and handed it to her. “There you are.”
“Thank you,” she said as she took it. She gazed at it for a moment, compared the small holophoto to the face in front of her, then swiped it through a scanner on her desk, which verified its authenticity. Then she handed it back.
“The patient you want is in room two ten, sir.” She pointed down the hall to MacLeod’s right. “Left around the corner, then third door on the right.”
He glanced in the direction she was pointing as he put his identicard away, then nodded politely and said, “Thank you,” and then headed for the room.
“You’re welcome, sir,” the nurse answered to his back.
One bodyguard, the sister, stepped ahead of MacLeod and led the way while her brother stayed close behind him and didn’t take his eyes off the nurse until they rounded the corner. When they reached room 210, MacLeod knocked lightly on the door and paused to listen for a response. The door opened almost immediately and MacLeod found himself standing face to chest—until he looked up—with a very large, very dark-skinned uniformed Federation police officer. It was a wonder they’d found a uniform big enough to fit the man.
“Chairman MacLeod,” the officer said in a deep bass voice. “Good evening, sir.”
Seeing three chevrons on the large officer’s sleeve, MacLeod replied, “Good evening, Sergeant.” Then he asked, “Is he awake?”
“I’m not real sure, sir,” the policeman replied. “Seems like he’s in and out. He mutters a little sometimes.”
“I need to try to talk to him. You can wait out here with...”
“You can talk to him if you like, sir, but my orders are not to leave this room under any circumstances until I’m properly relieved by another officer.”
“I’ll only be a few minutes,” MacLeod advised him. The sergeant folded his massive arms across his equally massive chest, cocked his head slightly to one side and glared down at him defiantly. “And apparently, you’ll be in there with me the whole time.”
The sergeant dropped his arms to his sides and stepped back, out of the way.
MacLeod turned to his bodyguards and told them, “Wait out here by the door. I suspect I’ll be well protected.”
“Yes, sir,” the brother said.
MacLeod stepped into the relative darkness and the sergeant closed the door behind him. “Sir?” he called softly. The patient didn’t answer. “Sir?” he repeated, slightly louder this time. “Can you hear me?”
Across the room the life-support unit’s indicator lights cast a soft, ghostly rainbow glow over the man’s face. That, combined with the steady, rhythmic whisper of the respirator that helped him breathe and the heart/pulse monitor’s faint, pulsing tones, filled the room with an eerie, haunted air. Despite its uncomfortably humid warmth, an icy chill washed over him as if an unseen phantom had just passed directly through his body. He could literally feel Death’s presence, could almost see the Grim Reaper itself—the tall, black-cloaked skeleton, sickle held tightly in its bony hand of dry rotted flesh—standing watch over the helpless old man, waiting patiently for him to die.
MacLeod cleared his throat and tried to shake it off. “Can you hear me, sir?” he repeated again. But the elderly man still did not respond.
He grabbed the only chair in the room, a well padded office chair on casters, and rolled it over to the head of the bed, then sat on its leading edge and leaned forward. He placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder and shook him gently. “Can you hear me?” This time, finally, the old man responded. Just a slight, quiet moan, but a response nonetheless. “It’s Chairman MacLeod, Earth Security Council. Can you hear me?”
“Chairman Mac...” the old man whispered weakly.
“Yes, that’s right. Brian MacLeod, chairman of the Earth Security Council. I’m told you were trying desperately to see me when you were hurt earlier today.”
“Hurt?” he questioned, his voice still very weak but his speech at least a little clearer than it had been the moment before. “I was...hurt?”
“Yes. You were shot and badly wounded just outside Manhattan’s Federation Building. Do you remember that?”
“I was... I was shot.” His voice seemed to be growing slowly but steadily stronger, but forming intelligible words still appeared to be a struggle.
“That’s right. You ran inside the Federation Building and demanded to see me, but the guards stopped you. They dragged you back outside and you were shot by someone who’d apparently been chasing you through the city. Two men, posing as New York City police detectives. Do you remember any of that?”
For a moment he didn’t answer, but then, nodding slightly, he said, “I remember.”
“Good. That’s good. So I came to see you, to find out who you are and why you were so desperate to see me this morning.”
“Where... Where am I?”
“You’re in the intensive care unit at Manhattan Memorial Trauma Center.”
“Then...I’m alive.”
MacLeod grinned. “Yes. You’re alive.”
“I feel like...like I’m floating.”
“That’s to be expected,” MacLeod explained. “You underwent emergency surgery again a few hours ago. It’ll probably take a while for the anesthesia to wear off completely. But if you feel up to it, I’d like some answers right now.”
“Answers?”
“That’s right.”
“Wh... What...”
“Well, for starters, just tell me who you are and why you were so desperate to see me.”
The old man turned his head slightly and slowly opened his eyes, squinting and blinking several times as he tried to focus on the chairman’s face. “Chairman MacLeod?” he asked, as if he were just realizing who it was he’d been talking to. “Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me. Brian MacLeod.”
“I need to...talk to you.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Are we alone?”
MacLeod started to look back over his shoulder, but nothing he might say was going to convince that police sergeant to leave the room, so he didn’t bother to try. Instead, he simply told the old man, “Yes, we’re all alone. You can speak freely.”
It clearly took some effort, but with the ventilator’s help he managed to draw a deep and obviously painful breath, which he then released very slowly. “All right,” he finally said. “But take heed...Mister Chairman. You can...trust no one with...with what I’m about to tell you.”
“I understand,” MacLeod assured him with a nod.
“There’s a handcomp...sewn into the lining of my suit jacket...wherever that is. All my notes...summaries of my theories. Everything you need to know is...is there.”
“In the handcomp, sewn into your jacket.”
“Yes,” the old man confirmed.
“What’s going on?” MacLeod asked impatiently. “What’s on that handcomp you want me to see?”
“Everything...is there,” he repeated, closing his eyes. He was fading fast.
“Sir?” MacLeod gently shook him again. “Sir?”
The old man opened his eyes again, but even in the dark MacLeod could see they weren’t focusing on anything. And his next words hardly made any sense at all. “Used cyberclones... Desperation... Conspir...Conspiracy...” His eyes wanted to close but he fought to keep them open. “My jacket,” he whispered. And with that, he lost his battle. His eyes rolled back into his head and he slipped into unconsciousness.
“Sir?” MacLeod said, gently shaking the old man again. “Sir, can you hear me? Can you at least tell me who you are?” The vital signs monitor suddenly flat-lined and the heart/pulse monitor’s beeping tones changed to a steady, high-pitched whine. MacLeod practically jumped out of the chair as he shouted, “Sir!” and shook him more vigorously. He barely had time to draw another breath before the emergency personnel he was about to cry out for burst into the room, slapped on the lights, and pushed past him as though he weren’t even there.
“Cardio stimulus!” one of the medics ordered.
“Clear!”
MacLeod glanced at the monitor as he backed out of the way. The little spot of light pulling the blue-white line across the screen behind it like a comet’s tail spiked as the old man’s body jumped, but then the flat-line instantly returned.
“Again!”
“Clear!”
This time his body nearly jumped off the bed and the monitor beeped twice in time with the spiking light spot, but then the flat-line returned once more.
“Mister Chairman, please leave the room,” the med-tech apparently in charge requested as he emptied a hypo full of something directly into the old man’s chest.
“But I need to...”
“Now, Mister Chairman!” he demanded.
MacLeod hesitated another moment, but the look on the med-tech’s face made it very clear that he wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer. That in addition to the Federation police sergeant’s hand that found its way to his shoulder made for a very persuasive argument, so he started backing toward the door, slowly, still watching as the medical team tried frantically to revive the old man.
“Have a nice night, sir,” the sergeant told him as he stepped in front of him and ‘helped’ him to back away.
MacLeod bumped into the door, then reached back and opened it and stepped into the hall while still observing as much of the medical team’s valiant efforts as he possibly could until the door finally closed in front of him.
He turned his back and, with his bodyguards once again at his sides, went in search of the patients’ property storage room.
Her long platinum hair fluttered freely in the fresh evening breeze blowing in off the open sea and cooled her bare, suntanned skin. As she strolled along the unspoiled beach’s hard wet sands, holding Karen’s soft, warm hand in hers, small waves—just minor swells that rose above the smooth surface of the tranquil sea—succumbed to the shallow depths and rolled up onto the beach with a sound like the tinkling of crystalline wind chimes, lapping at her feet and chilling her toes with salty foam. The swollen orange-red sun painted a glowing rainbow across the distant clouds as it slowly sank into the sea beyond the indistinct horizon, bathing Karen in a soft golden glow that enhanced her radiant beauty. Somewhere off in the distance seagulls screeched for reasons known only to the gulls themselves.
“Our world is so beautiful,” Karen said, her melodic tone like a tender song in Liz’s ear.
Liz stopped walking, and Karen with her, and turned to her. “Not so beautiful as you.”
Karen gazed at her through those gentle eyes and smiled her warm, loving smile. “I so love you, Liz,” she said.
Liz stepped closer, touching her breasts to Karen’s, and kissed her softly. “I love you, too,” she told her, unable to speak above a whisper. She kissed her again, then took her into her arms and embraced her.
“Incoming communication.”
“What did you say?” Liz asked as she pulled away, though only far enough to look Karen in the eye.
Karen looked at her oddly, but didn’t reply.
Liz let go of her, then stepped away from the water, up the sloping beach toward the line of giant palm trees that sheltered their home from the elements. She chose a spot at random and spread their blanket out on the fine, dry sand.
“Incoming communication.”
Liz turned to find Karen standing at her shoulder. “Why do you keep saying that?” she asked her.
Karen flashed her that same odd look, but followed it up this time by saying, “I didn’t say anything, my love.”
“But I...”
“Make love to me,” Karen said. Then she lay back on the blanket and stretched out her arms, beckoning to her.
Liz knelt on the blanket, straddling Karen’s right leg, then leaned forward onto her hands and knees and lowered herself into Karen’s waiting arms.
“Incoming communication.”
She gazed into Karen’s eyes once again, but this time she didn’t ask. What did it matter? Closing her eyes then, she touched her lips to Karen’s, stroking and gently pinching her nipples between her fingertips as they kissed. She dragged her fingers lightly down between Karen’s breasts as the flames of passion burned inside them, over her stomach, through her silky pubic crown and into the moist, warm folds of soft flesh between her legs. She kissed Karen’s chin, her jaw, her neck. She dragged her tongue lightly along her collar bone and down over her right breast, then began licking and suckling tenderly on her nipple.
“Incoming communication.”
Liz ignored Karen’s odd words, shutting them completely out of her mind. She quivered and moaned with pleasure, feeling Karen’s fingers sliding deep inside her.
“Incoming communication.”
She let Karen’s right nipple spring back from her gentle bite and turned her attention to the left, and—dropped her head back into the soft, overstuffed pillow.
“Incoming communication.”
Liz jumped, startled by the suddenly deeper voice behind her. She turned to find Admiral Hansen standing at their feet and staring down at them.
“Admiral Hansen!” she exclaimed, red-faced with embarrassment. She couldn’t believe he’d caught her naked—that he’d caught them in the act of making love.
“Incoming communication,” he said.
“What?” She looked at Karen, then back at Hansen. “Why are you both saying that?”
Hansen just stood there staring down at her for what seemed like several long seconds, then repeated, “Incoming communication.”
Liz was about to turn back to Karen and just ignore him when he suddenly bent down and grabbed her firmly by the arm. “Incoming communication!” he barked.
“What are you doing?” Liz cried, struggling to break free of his grasp. “Let go of me!”
He pulled her to her feet and started dragging her away from Karen toward the water.
“Let me go!” she insisted. She twisted and pulled against his grasp, pounded on his arm repeatedly with her fist, even hauled off and punched him right in the mouth, but she couldn’t break free. “Admiral, please!” she pleaded. “Let me go!”
“Incoming communication!” he repeated as he pulled her into the water.
Ankle deep. The receding waves swept the sand from beneath her feet, robbing her of what little leverage she could find. She couldn’t break free. She looked back to her wife, who’d risen to her feet and stood gazing after her. “Karen!” she screamed.
“Incoming communication!”
Knee deep. The receding waves pushed against her legs, further defeating her efforts to resist. She couldn’t break free. Her wife walked to the water’s edge. “Karen!” she screamed again. “Help me!”
“Incoming communication!”
Hip deep. The current pushed against her. She couldn’t fight it. She couldn’t break free. Her wife only stood there and watched with tears running down over her cheeks, unable to do anything as the admiral pulled her farther out to sea. “Karen, please!” she cried as her own eyes filled with tears. “Don’t let him take me!”
“Incoming communication.”
Liz opened her tired eyes and blinked back her tears, but she couldn’t see a thing. The bedroom was as dark as a moonless midnight. Even the headboard clock’s dim blue-green glow was missing. Karen must have switched it off. She closed her eyes again. She’d been sleeping on her stomach, she realized—something she rarely ever did, usually only when she was completely exhausted—and was lying on her right arm with her hand tucked between her legs.
“Incoming communi...”
“All right!” she shouted, finally silencing the computer. “Damn it!”
She remembered that Karen had taken the day off work. She stretched her left arm across the width of the bed but found only the empty sheets. Karen had gotten up already. “What time is it?” she asked.
“The time is nineteen twenty-seven hours,” the computer responded.
Jeez! She’d slept the whole day away! She pulled her right arm out from under her body and reached for the comm-panel in the wall to answer the incoming call, but then realized that her fingers were wet. So instead she tossed the blankets aside and threw her legs out over the floor and sat up. “Lights,” she said. Despite the hour, the lights only came up to the same dim level they did each morning. No doubt Karen’s doing. She’d have to remember to thank her. She reached out to the panel with her other hand and set it for audio only, then stabbed her index finger to the answer pad.
“Elizabeth Royer here,” she said. Her voice was scratchy.
“Sigma one-seven here, Commander.” There was something immediately apparent in his voice, and Royer knew right away that she wasn’t going to like this call. “Better go silent and secure, ma’am. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
No. She wasn’t going to like this call at all. “Stand by,” she said. She put the call on hold. “Where is Karen?”
“Karen is not presently at home,” the computer answered.
Not presently at home? Where might she have gone? Had she made plans for the day? Liz couldn’t remember anything. Perhaps she’d just gone out shopping or something.
She stood and stretched every muscle in her body—the room’s cool air felt good on her bare, sweat-moistened skin—then went into the bathroom to wash her hands. She picked up her short, pearl-white Japanese silk mini-robe off the back of her chair as she made her way back through the bedroom but thought twice about pulling it on, preferring to take a shower first.
“Is there anyone else besides me anywhere in these quarters right now?” she asked. Not that there should have been.
“Negative,” the computer responded.
She hung her robe on the door hook and left the bedroom without putting anything on.
She smelled coffee. She went into the kitchen and found a freshly brewed pot waiting for her. Karen once again. God bless her. She’d thought of everything. The comm-panel above the counter top was also waiting, flashing “COMMUNICATION ON HOLD” in its familiar bright blue-green letters.
“Resume communication, audio-only,” she said as she grabbed a mug out of the cabinet.
“Security encryption is engaged. Please provide decryption access code.”
“Royer, Elizabeth,” she said as she poured her coffee. “Commander. Beta five dash six one one alpha gamma.”
“Positive match. Access code accepted. Audio channel open.”
“All right, Mister Preston. Let’s have it.”
“It’s bad, Commander.”
She sipped her coffee—it had never tasted better—then asked, “So, are you going to tell me or not?”
“Yes, ma’am. I just lost four of my agents.”
That hit her head on like a freighter zipping through jumpspace. “You just what?” she asked, hoping she’d misunderstood him but fearing that she hadn’t.
“I’ve got four dead agents, one badly wounded, and one in civilian police custody.”
She set her mug down and grasped the edge of the counter with both hands, feeling a little lightheaded all of the sudden. “What the hell happened, Mister Preston?” she demanded. “Tell me everything. I want every detail.”
“One of my men tried to grab subject-one off the city tram when it stopped at Roosevelt Island. I don’t know what went wrong or why yet, but I do know that a plain-clothes police officer wrestled him to the floor of the tram and dragged him away in restraints.”
“What about subject-one?” she asked urgently.
“He got off in Manhattan and headed for the Federation Building. We tried to take him into custody before he got there, but... Everything went to hell, Commander.”
“Mister Preston, ‘everything went to hell’ doesn’t sound like every detail to me.” What little patience she had started with was growing shorter by the second. “What happened?”
“Subject-one fought off the next agent who tried to take him and got away. Her back-up moved in as fast as they could, but by that time he’d reached the Fed Building and dragged the U.S. Marine guards into the picture. There was a shootout, and...”
“What!” she gasped, glaring at the comm-panel. “A shootout between whom?”
“My agents and the marines, ma’am.”
“Are you kidding me?” she shouted. “Your agents traded gunfire with the United States Marines?”
“I’m afraid so, ma’am.”
“In the middle of New York City and in broad daylight? What the hell were your people thinking? Are they fucking crazy?”
“I don’t know, Commander!” he shouted back. “Four of them are dead and the fifth one probably isn’t too far behind them, so I can’t very well fucking ask them, can I!”
“Don’t forget who you’re talking to, Preston! Jesus Christ! Admiral Hansen is going to blow a gasket when he finds out about this!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What about the... What about subject-one? Where is he now? Do you have him in custody? Are the marines all right?”
“One of the marines was wounded, but word is it was just a leg wound and he’ll make a full recovery. Subject-one was wounded as well and is in the intensive care ward at one of the local hospitals where we can’t risk going after him.”
“Why can’t you risk going after him?”
“My people tell me there’s too much security around him.”
“That didn’t seem to matter to you at the fucking Federation Building, did it?” she asked sarcastically. He didn’t respond. “My God, Mister Preston! You’d better pray he dies in that hospital! How the hell am I going to break this to the admiral?”
“I don’t know, ma’am, but I sure don’t envy you the task.”
She stopped talking to think for a moment. Then she told him, “Keep subject-one’s name out of the news, Mister Preston. I don’t care what it takes. Threats, blackmail, payoffs, I don’t care. Just keep his name out of the news. Do you understand me, Mister Preston?”
“Yes, ma’am. I understand you perfectly. Anything else?”
“Yes. Be ready to travel at a moment’s notice.”
“All right. Where might I be going?”
“That’s ultimately for you to decide, but if Hansen finds out about this the farther the better, for your own sake.”
“What do you mean ‘if’ he finds out?”
“Leave that to me.”
“Got it. Sigma one-seven, out.”
Royer slapped the panel, closing the channel, then leaned down on the counter, resting on her forearms, and let her head sag forward. “I do not believe this.”
Loson Min’para. A Cirran mentalist. A university professor. How the hell had he gotten himself caught up in the middle of an Earth Federation political conspiracy? If that even was in fact what was going on.
Well beyond frustrated, Chairman MacLeod switched off the professor’s handcomp and set it down among the others on his abnormally cluttered desk, sat back in his oversized black leather captain’s chair, and rubbed his tired, burning eyes. He’d been at it non-stop for hours, but he wasn’t any closer to the elusive answers than he had been when he began. ‘Cyberclones,’ the professor had said. ‘Desperation.’ ‘Conspiracy.’ What did it all mean? What had the professor stumbled onto that was so vitally secretive that someone had felt it necessary to kill him in order to keep him quiet? And who exactly was that someone? Vice-Admiral Hansen and his deputy, Commander Elizabeth Royer? Their names were certainly prominent enough in the professor’s materials. Were the two most senior officers of the Solfleet Intelligence Agency really involved, as the evidence seemed to indicate, spotty as it was? Were they the ones who had something to hide? And what did this Lieutenant Dylan Graves person the professor had written about have to do with any of it?
Questions. Nothing but questions. Questions and no answers. Where were the answers? Where in God’s endless universe were the answers?
His stomach rumbled. He glanced at his watch. It was late, long past even his ‘later-than-anybody-else-on-Earth’ dinner time. He hadn’t eaten anything since lunch and he was hungry to the point of getting the shakes.
Like it or not, he was going to have to stop soon.
He leaned back in his chair as far as it would go, propped his feet up on the corner of his desk, and laced his fingers behind his head. He closed his eyes and took a few moments to mull over what little bit he had been able to figure out.
Not long ago, Lieutenant Dylan Graves had been a Solfleet Marine Corps squad sergeant stationed on the planet Cirra in the Caldanra star system with a Special Operations Ranger unit. During a mission, the specifics of which were still classified, he’d apparently fought in close quarters against something that had almost killed him. Something so completely alien to his experience that he couldn’t even begin to identify it. Or even describe it, for that matter. But his memories of that conflict had allegedly been altered, presumably through the application of a memory-edit, which might possibly have been ordered by either Admiral Hansen or Commander Royer...or perhaps both. A memory-edit which, for reasons as yet unknown, had apparently not been entirely successful. If it had ever really been performed at all.
He opened his eyes. That was it. That was the extent of what he’d been able to figure out. A few simple facts loosely laced together by little more than wild allegations and presumptions.
He stared at the half dozen handcomps and the piles of data chips that were strewn across the well worn surface of his desk. Why all the material on cybernetic and biotronic technologies? And why, according to Professor Verne, who despite their personal differences had been good enough to cross-reference what MacLeod had forwarded to him against the identical reference materials in Drexel’s own library, had someone gone to all the trouble of altering or deleting certain parts of some of the publications, while leaving other parts untouched? And what the hell did any of that material have to do with aliens and memory-edits?
More questions. MacLeod yawned.
The sudden, multi-pitched warble of the door tones pierced the lingering silence with what at that moment seemed comparable to the blare of an emergency klaxon, startling him nearly out of his skin. He glanced at his watch again and was surprised to see just how late it really was. Who in their right mind would expect to find him in his office at this hour? For that matter, who in their right mind would be in their office at this hour?
The tones warbled again. “Come in,” he called out.
The door swung open and his personal executive secretary stepped in carrying a covered tray. “Good evening,” she said.
MacLeod dropped his feet to the floor, sat up, and laid his arms across the arms of his chair. “Kathleen. What are you doing back here so late? You got off work hours ago.”
“Yes, I did,” she replied. “And when I left, you were wearing that same look on your face that you get when the day ends before your work is done.” She shoved the handcomps aside and set the tray down in front of him. “I figured you’d still be here and I knew you probably wouldn’t have eaten anything yet, so...” She lifted the lid to reveal a large plateful of steaming spaghetti in meat sauce, green beans, and Italian garlic bread. “I brought you dinner.”
He smiled down at the food and took a big whiff. “Oh my God, this smells fantastic,” he told her. Then he looked up at her again. “I really do appreciate this, but I don’t have any...” She reached into her pocket and whipped out a set of silverware wrapped in a napkin, which she then set on the tray next to the plate. “Thank you.”
“I also brought this,” she said, pulling a bottled soft drink from her coat pocket. “And there was a gentleman outside dropping this off,” she added, handing him an envelope along with the soda, “...just as I arrived.”
He set the bottle aside and tore open the envelope. Inside he found a single sheet of paper folded into thirds, which he unfolded and began to read silently.
“What does it say, if I may ask?” Kathleen inquired.
“It’s a summary of a series of coroner’s reports,” he answered without looking up.
“Coroner’s reports? Whose?” she asked with concern. “Who died?”
He refolded the paper and stuffed it back into the envelope, which he then set aside, and looked up at her. “Thank you for the dinner, Kathleen,” he said abruptly. “It was very kind of you, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”
“You want me to go?” she asked, clearly disappointed.
“I’m sorry, but I have a lot of work ahead of me. I promise I’ll eat first.”
She sighed. “All right.” She leaned down and gave him a quick peck on the lips, then asked, “Coming by my place tonight?”
“If I manage to get out of here sometime before sunrise, yes, but don’t count on it.”
“All right,” she said as she turned. Then, as she walked toward the door, she added, “If I don’t see you tonight, I guess I’ll see you here in the morning. Goodnight, Brian.”
“Goodnight, Kathleen.”
Thirteen Days Later
Earth Standard Date: Tuesday, 21 December 2190
For the first time since he and the old captain had left Mandela Station, Dylan donned his Military Police uniform. Then he went forward to join Benny in the cockpit.
Two weeks. Actually, fifteen days. A long time to be cooped up in such a small vessel with only one other person for company. The ship had seemed so spacious and comfortable when they started, too. Spacious and comfortable enough for two people, at least. Funny how the bulkheads had seemed to close in on them as the time passed slowly by.
Still, the trip had been as relaxing as it had been long and Benny had suffered no shortage of tall tales with which to fill the time. Dylan had heard stories of everything from espionage and murder to epic space battles to heroic pets alerting their masters to imminent danger. He’d heard more stories of discovery, such as that of the relatively primitive Naku, a hardy humanoid race whose frozen world had become a Coalition protectorate almost as soon as it was discovered. He’d heard stories of unusual anomalies in space and of alternate universes, though he seriously doubted the authenticity of those particular tales. Each successive story had seemed more bizarre than the one before and Dylan couldn’t help but wonder, though he’d never voiced his doubts, just how many of them had been nothing more than figments of Benny’s imagination.
Of course, Dylan had managed to squeeze in a few stories of his own, too. None of them had been as fantastic as Benny’s adventurous tales, but at least they’d all been true.
He gazed over at his traveling companion as he strapped himself into the copilot’s chair and contemplated all that he’d learned about the man behind those piercing jade-green eyes. Not the old Solar Defense Command officer or the highly skilled technician, but the man himself. The human being. His interests differed from Dylan’s. He had different tastes in music and art and entertainment, and immensely different recreational preferences. After all, he was a man of a different generation. More than that, he was a man of a completely different century. Dylan had been shocked to learn that Benny had been born in 2079, back during the pre-jumpspace days when sleeper-ships were the newest and most state-of-the-art method of interstellar travel known to man. The days when a single deep space assignment could last an serviceman’s entire career. He looked as though he was only in his mid-sixties and he was as healthy as a man a decade younger than that. Not bad for someone with one-hundred twelve years of life experience under his belt.
Yes. Figuratively speaking, Dylan and his traveling companion were men of entirely different worlds. And yet, as they had discovered over a few shots of vodka—actually, over an entire bottle of vodka—they were of one spirit. That of duty and honor, of loyalty and service to one’s home world. And as their journey through deep space had progressed, so too had their unlikely friendship.
But now that journey was coming to its end, and so too was their time together. Dylan was back in uniform, back on the job. Benny had spun his last tall tale and was fully engaged now with bringing the H.G. Wells out of jumpspace.
“Counting down,” the old captain said. “Three...two...one...jump.”
As Dylan watched, the violet-blue ring of stars directly ahead began to lighten to more of a blue-green shade and swell outward in all directions. Then, suddenly, it exploded into millions of sparks like a thousand burning embers snapping in a campfire all at once as the stars darted back to their true places all around them. Normal space.
Where the ring of stars had been, a small, seemingly dead dark orange and red globe now floated, growing larger and larger until it eventually filled the window. As they drew closer to the planet, what Dylan had at first thought was a thick, rolling blanket of dark storm clouds instead revealed itself to be a series of long, narrow, curving ranges of rocky, charcoal-peaked mountains separated by wide expanses of deep, almost featureless rust-red valleys and plains. They looked so much like row after row of giant, rotting, decay-blackened shark’s teeth that Dylan could almost smell the fishy stench in his imagination.
Which reminded him... “Where are the oceans?” he wondered aloud.
“There aren’t any oceans,” Benny told him. “Window World is a lot like Mars, but with a breathable atmosphere and temperatures that don’t vary nearly so much in extremes. In fact, the average temperature at the outpost can be uncomfortably warm in the summer, even at night.”
“But a breathable atmosphere means plant life to produce oxygen, doesn’t it? And in order for there to be plant life, there has to be water.”
Benny looked at him, grinning slightly—the experienced traveler amused by the naivety of a child—and asked, “How many alien worlds have you visited during your career, Dylan?”
“I don’t know. Eight or nine maybe.”
“All similar to Earth?”
“Pretty much. For the most part, I guess. Why?”
“My friend, there’s a world out there where a billion square mile forest of three hundred foot tall naturally energized crystals provides a breathable atmosphere to the inhabitants. There’s another so hot that water only exists as vapor and the plant life draws it right out of the air, then splits it into hydrogen and oxygen much like our fusion drives do. I’ve already told you stories of at least a dozen more alien worlds.”
“Point taken.”
“However, in this case you’re at least partially right. There is water down there, but only in the form of thousands of underground fresh water rivers and lakes. The native plant species developed deep root systems to tap into it. If there ever was any surface water down there, it’s long since evaporated, but as far as I know, there’s never been any evidence of...” He fell silent as something on the overhead display caught his attention.
“What’s wrong?” Dylan asked.
“Yeah, I was afraid of that,” Benny said as he gazed up at the short-range scanner screen on the left.
“Afraid of what?”
Benny pointed up at the screen. “Reception committee.”
Dylan gazed up at the two slow-moving bright red triangular blips Benny had just pointed out to him. Angling in on them from two widely separate points on the screen, each was pulling a seemingly random series of letters and numbers along behind it. He knew, of course, that those readouts were their identification tags, but he didn’t have a clue what the codes stood for. “Any idea who they are?”
“Solfleet Military Police patrol boats,” Benny answered. “Vectoring in on two different intercept courses. Looks like it’s going to be a red tape landing.”
“A what landing?” he asked, looking at the old captain.
“A strictly by-the-book kind of landing, I’m afraid,” Benny explained, clearly not thrilled with the prospect. “Lots of unnecessary chatter and extra safety and security procedures.”
“Oh.” Hoping to lighten Benny’s suddenly sour mood, Dylan quipped, “I think you’ll do all right with it, Benny. After all, you’ve been flying this boat for two weeks now. You must have the hang of it by now.”
And that was all it took. Benny looked at him, eyes and mouth wide open in exaggerated response but smiling at the lighthearted insult. “I was flying starskiffs...”
“...over sixty years before I was born,” Dylan finished for him with a grin. “Yes, I know. You’ve told me.” Throughout their journey, Benny’s prideful ‘I-have-more-life-experience-than-you-could-ever-dream-of’ response had become a standing joke between them.
“More like sixty-five,” Benny amended, just to get the last word more than to correct the minor misstatement. They shared a laugh, but only a short-lived one.
“Unidentified Earth skiff, this is Solfleet Military Police Patrol Boat three-zero-five. I have you on my scanners and show you on standard orbital approach to the planet directly ahead of you. Please identify yourself and explain why you’re not transmitting your vessel’s identicode.”
Dylan looked to Benny for guidance and asked, “We’re not transmitting our code?”
“No, we’re not. Admiral Hansen told me not to, for security reasons.”
“But they were expecting us here, right?”
Benny looked him in the eye. “No, they weren’t, for the same reasons. This facility is a very sensitive and highly classified one, Dylan. The admiral didn’t tell anyone we were coming.”
“Then...what should I say?”
“It’s your show,” Benny reminded him with a shrug. “I’m just your pilot.”
Dylan might not have been a pilot, but communications protocols among Earth’s various space-faring organizations were all standardized for simplicity sake, so knowing and following the proper procedures, at least, wasn’t a problem.
He switched on the comm-panel. “P-B three-oh-five, this is Lieuten...” He clamped his mouth shut and checked himself, realizing his mistake even as he made it. He was supposed to posing as a sergeant, but he’d said too much to be able to disguise it now.
“Say again, skiff. I did not copy.”
“P-B three-oh-five, I say again. This is Lieutenant Dylan Graves of...the Solfleet Military Police, aboard the starskiff H.G. Wells. We’ve been running silent all the way from Earth to avoid enemy detection. Prepare to receive our identicode and landing authority burst.”
“Copy that, Wells. Standing by.”
Dylan thumbed the data-transmit pad as a third patrol boat joined the escort group from behind the Wells, sending everything the senior patrol officer needed to know in order to allow them to land at the Window World outpost in a nanosecond burst.
“Burst received. Stand by.” There was a brief pause, then, “Starskiff H.G. Wells, adjust your course to heading three-five-seven mark zero-two. We’ll guide you in.”
“Affirmative, patrol.”
“H.G. Wells, this is P-B three-zero-five. Power down your engines and prepare to be guided down to the landing pad by magnebeam.”
“Acknowledged, P-B three-oh-five,” Dylan responded. “Powering down engines now.” He nodded to Benny, who complied with the instructions without question just as he would have if those instructions had come from his own commanding officer.
After a moment, the view finally shifted from what had been starting to look like an impending collision with the ground to that of a normal landing gear down vertical descent. A few minutes later they touched down safely on the ground, and Benny didn’t waste any time in shutting down all systems.
“Now that’s what I call a perfect landing, Benny,” Dylan told him as they both released their harnesses, “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” Benny replied with a smile as they stood and started walking toward the access hatch. “Especially since I didn’t have to land it. I’m just glad it wasn’t as rough a ride as the last time.”
“Yeah,” Dylan snickered. “From the way you described it, so am I.”
As soon as Benny opened the hatch a blast of very warm air hit Dylan square in the face—Benny hadn’t been kidding when he said it could be warm—but he didn’t find it all that uncomfortable...yet. But by the time they stepped off the bottom of the ramp and Benny started what Dylan assumed was a routine post-flight walk-around check of the vessel, he felt himself beginning to perspire a little. Ignoring that as best he could, he stood fast and waited for the inevitable welcoming committee, which didn’t take long to arrive.
There were three of them. In the center and ahead of the others by a single step, a fairly short and slightly overweight looking Asian gentleman wearing a somewhat threadbare white lab coat hanging open over Solfleet naval class-B’s that looked like he’d slept in them led the way. His ghostly complexion was a bit rough and peppered with age spots, and his thinning salt and pepper hair, while cut fairly short, was nonetheless unkempt and badly in need of a trim to clean it up. He also wore old-fashioned silver-colored wire-frame eyeglasses. Eyeglasses! Who wore eyeglasses anymore? Flanking him were two very serious looking Security Forces troops in battle dress uniform with full combat gear, armed with large caliber box-magazine fed automatic rifles of a type Dylan wasn’t familiar with.
“Gentlemen,” the squat Asian began as he approached, smiling warmly and extending his hand. “Welcome to the middle of nowhere. My name is Lieutenant Commander Toshiro Akagi. I’m the commanding officer of this outpost.”
“Lieutenant Dylan Graves,” Dylan responded, shaking the officer’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Commander.”
“Likewise, Lieutenant,” Akagi responded. Then, offering his hand to Benny’s back, he asked, “And you, sir, would be?”
“Captain Benjamin Sedelnikov, semi-retired,” Benny answered as he turned away from the craft and stepped forward to grasp the commander’s hand. And as they shook hands he added, “And I would be back on Mandela Station tending to my dear Selena if I hadn’t been tasked to bring the lieutenant all the way out here.”
Akagi looked as if he were seeing a ghost. “Captain Benjamin...” His voice trailed off, but his eyes maintained their gaping stare.
“Sedelnikov,” Benny finished for him. “Yes.” The younger officer still just continued to stare at him, and that was clearly making Benny feel a little uncomfortable. Finally, when he’d had enough, he asked, “Are you trying to stare a hole through my head, Commander?”
“What? Oh...sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just...”
“You didn’t mean to stare?” Benny asked. “Then I suggest you see an eye doctor.”
Akagi grinned. “It’s just that... I recognize your name, sir. I can’t believe...”
“That I’m still breathing?”
“Well, frankly sir, yes, but that isn’t what I was going to say.” He shook his head in wonder. “To think that you have actually come back here in person after all this time. Benjamin Sedelnikov, chief technical engineer of the Australia and co-discoverer of the...” He glanced at Dylan, then concluded, “...of these ancient ruins.”
“In the flesh, Commander. And quite a bit more of it than the last time I was here, I might add. But enough of the hero-worship. Please, just call me Benny.”
“That’ll take some getting used to, sir, but I’d be honored.”
“Thank you.”
The three officers just stood there for the next several seconds and just gazed silently at one another under the Security Forces’ watchful eyes. Then Commander Akagi finally spoke up again. “Well, gentlemen. If you’ll follow me.”
He turned on his heel and led them toward the small building he and the SFs had come out of. As they approached the door he looked Dylan over and said, “I’m obviously not one to be pointing out flaws in the wearing of the uniform, Mister Graves, but unless there have been changes that I’m not aware of, yours is standard enlisted Military Police issue. And I know those are still the stripes of a staff or a squad sergeant, depending on your job.” He touched his fingers to a series of buttons on the control pad next to the door, then put his hand on the reader panel. “Why do you identify yourself as a lieutenant?”
“I’m actually a lieutenant J-G, sir,” Dylan informed him.
“Then why the enlisted uniform and sergeant’s chevrons?”
“To mislead anyone who might have seen us departing Mandela Station. To make them think I’m just a regular MP escort on an official run. Officers don’t normally pull that duty.”
“I see,” Akagi responded with obvious apprehension. He looked as if he were beginning to suspect some kind of trouble. He pulled his hand away from the panel before the system granted them clearance to enter. “I take it you’re not just a regular MP escort on an official run.”
“No, sir,” Dylan admitted hesitantly.
When he didn’t elaborate further, Akagi didn’t hesitate to ask, “So who are you really?” and the expression on his face evidenced his suspicious expectation.
Dylan looked at Benny, silently asking his advice.
“I think you can tell him the truth,” Benny told him. “I’m sure he knows well enough to keep it to himself.”
“Of course I do,” Akagi confirmed. “And so do the guards. We all had to swear a special oath of secrecy before being assigned here.”
“Besides,” Benny continued, having gotten the impression that Akagi was a man who would most likely not just let them do what they were there to do without knowing exactly what was going on, “you’ll have to tell him soon enough, I think.”
“You’ve got that right, sir,” Akagi firmly verified.
Dylan looked back at the commander and said simply, “S-I-A.”
Akagi noisily blew out his breath and threw his arms out to his sides as he turned his back and stepped away from the door. “I’ll be a... Son-of-a-... I should have known!” he exclaimed. He slapped his thighs in disgust, then faced Dylan again and comaplained, “It’s bad enough your Admiral Hansen has taken to wasting my valuable time by grilling me over the comm-channels every three days! Now he’s sending his agents here to give me the third degree in person? What the hell does he think I’m holding back?”
“Whoa! Take it easy, Commander,” Dylan said, raising his arms in surrender. “Admiral Hansen doesn’t think you’re holding anything back. At least, not as far as I know. I’m not here to interrogate you.”
“Oh no?” the commander asked doubtfully. “Then why the hell are you here?”
“Well...” Dylan hesitated, then folded his hands behind his back, taking on a calmer and more professional posture. “I’m sorry, Commander, but I can’t tell you that. It’s classified.”
“Oh really? What a surprise.”
“Nothing against you, sir,” Dylan assured him, “but like Admiral Hansen says, it’s just the nature of our business.”
“Oh, I see. It’s just the nature of your business,” Akagi mocked, clearly dissatisfied with that particular response. “I swear, if I had ten federals for every time I’ve heard that line... It may be the nature of your business, Lieutenant, but it’s not the nature of mine.”
“But it is, Commander,” Benny pointed out. “You and your staff keep this very outpost shrouded in secrecy at all times.”
“Yes we do, Captain, but that’s entirely different. I’m a scientist, not a spy.” To Dylan he said, “Next you’ll be telling me that ‘Dylan Graves’ isn’t even your real name.”
The commander’s sarcasm was growing heavier by the second, but sarcasm was a game at which Dylan was an age-old expert. “No, ‘Dylan Graves’ is my real name, Commander,” he told him. “At least as far as you know.”
“Oh, you’re very funny, Lieutenant,” Akagi responded. “If I laugh any harder I’ll need to have my ribs sewn back into place.”
“Why does Admiral Hansen call you so often, Commander?” Benny asked, hoping to deflect the younger officer’s misplaced wrath away from Dylan.
“Hell if I know,” Akagi answered in disgust, though in a much calmer tone of voice, as he stepped back up to the door, shaking his head. Then he reentered the access sequence and placed his hand back on the panel as he added, “Judging from his seemingly pointless and painfully long line of questioning, which remains exactly the same every time he calls me, my guess is that he’s looking to confirm his suspicions about something. But his questions are never simple or straight forward. There are always questions within questions or questions that don’t seem related to each other. I swear...I just don’t understand why all you Intelligence types insist on playing the same old cloak-and-dagger games, generation after generation after generation.” The locks finally disengaged and the door slid open. “It’s like you all still live in the paranoid culture of decades past or something.”
Dylan and Benny exchanged grins as the commander finally led them inside.
There wasn’t much to it. Just a security scan, an identicheck, and beyond the retractable barrier a narrow flight of stairs that led down into the underground bowels of the outpost. The newcomers eased through the formalities of identifying themselves and ‘signed’ in to the facility. As a test, Dylan used one of the half dozen false identicards Royer had provided him with. It worked flawlessly. Then he and Benny followed Akagi down into a long, dimly lit man-made tunnel. The SF guards peeled off and stayed behind.
“So, what can you gentlemen tell me about why you’re here?” the commander asked, continuing to lead the way as they headed deeper into the tunnel.
“I’m on special assignment from Solfleet Central Command,” Dylan told him.
Akagi snickered. “You say that like you’re on some kind of holy mission from almighty God, Lieutenant. I assumed that much. What I want to know is exactly what your assignment here entails. What are your orders?”
“I have a question for you, Commander,” Benny said before Dylan could even draw a breath to respond.
“What’s that, Benny?”
“Don’t you know better than to ask an S-I-A agent his business?”
The innuendo in the semi-retired captain’s voice came through loud and clear. His word still carried a lot of weight, and Akagi didn’t need the inherent warning to be spelled out for him to hear it. “I guess I do at that, sir,” he answered. “My apologies, Lieutenant.”
“Accepted, Commander,” Dylan responded.
“And I have another question for you,” Benny continued.
“What’s that?”
“You knew who I was even before I introduced myself. How did you recognize me?”
Akagi’s entire demeanor seemed suddenly to change. Gone was the sarcastic officer who was angry at being constantly harassed by a far away superior with nothing better to do with his time, replaced by a pure scientist—by a man obviously filled with child-like fascination over the many strange wonders that filled the galaxy. “I’ve familiarized myself with the circumstances surrounding your first visit here, Benny,” he answered enthusiastically, “and I’ve reviewed all the footage your reconnaissance teams recorded back then...several times. I’ve also seen a lot of holophotos of you over the years from later in your career. You’ve changed some since the last one I saw was taken, but not so much as to make you unrecognizable.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, sir. After all, you were a major player in one of the most important discoveries in Earth’s history.” He waved a hand in the air, indicating the unseen world around them. “Anyone who knows anything about all this would recognize you.”
“Is there a way to watch that discovery as it happened in the Portal?” Dylan asked.
Akagi stopped short and spun around so quickly that Dylan almost dropped back into a defensive stance. “How the hell do you know about the Portal, Lieutenant?” he demanded.
Dylan relaxed, then answered, “I’m an Intelligence agent, remember?”
“That doesn’t matter! Admiral Hansen is the only one of you who’s supposed to know anything about it!”
“Is that right?” Dylan asked, echoing Benny.
“Yes, that’s right! He told me he’d keep its existence classified top secret for as long as my team and I needed to study it! He promised!”
“I assure you, Commander, it still is top secret,” Dylan told him. “But it’s also the reason we’re here.”
Akagi backed off, wearing a puzzled look on his face as his gaze bounced back and forth between the two of them. “You two came all the way out here just to study Earth history?” he asked, much calmer. “That’s your special assignment from Command?”
“Not exactly,” Dylan answered.
“What the hell do you mean, ‘not exactly?’” Akagi snapped.
“Why don’t we save the details for later, Commander,” Benny suggested. “Let’s show the lieutenant what all the fuss out here is about.”
Akagi drew a deep, calming breath, then answered, “All right.” Then he turned his back on them and walked off, continuing down the tunnel.
“Commander?”
Akagi stopped and faced back toward them. “We didn’t want to disturb any of the ruins, Captain, so the engineers built most of our facilities and an entire network of tunnels underneath them.” He pointed back over his shoulder with his thumb, as if hitching a ride. “The Portal is this way.”
“Oh. Well then, wait up a moment. I’m not as young as I used to be, you know.”
Dylan smiled. Benny wasn’t as young as anyone used to be.
As they strolled through the tunnel Dylan reminded their reluctant host, “You didn’t answer my question, Commander. Is there a way we can set the Portal to show us Benny’s recon team as they discover it?”
“I’m afraid not, Lieutenant,” Akagi answered, shaking his head. “The Portal can only show us events that took place on Earth.”
Dylan felt disappointed. He would have enjoyed seeing the look on Benny’s face as he watched his younger self and relived one of his adventures.
They walked in silence for several hundred meters, then came to a fork in the tunnel and veered to the left. Then, after another two hundred meters or so, they stopped at a security barrier. Akagi tapped a code into the control panel and placed his hand over the scanner plate, then identified himself verbally and stood through a retinal scan before the barrier finally opened and allowed them to pass.
“Commander,” Dylan continued as they resumed their walk. “During the trip out here Benny told me about his last visit, but he didn’t tell me a lot about the Portal itself. You asked me if we were here to study Earth history. Does the Portal actually teach?”
“Not exactly,” Akagi answered, sounding as though he were opening a university class lecture. Maybe the Portal didn’t teach, but now that he could talk freely about the object of his life’s passion without having to worry about compromising classified information, it quickly became apparent that Akagi had at one time or another been some sort of instructor himself. “All you have to do is enter the right commands into the panel and the Portal will show you any period in Earth’s history that you might desire to see, right up to the present day. Of course, it shows all events that occurred at each moment everywhere on the entire planet simultaneously. At least, we think that’s what it does. So you have to have a handcomp ready to make a high-speed recording, and even then you’ll miss a good ninety-eight percent of whatever you’re watching. Probably more than that. A handcomp does have a limited capacity, after all.”
“Benny said it could be set for a specific time and place.”
“I thought you said he didn’t tell you much about it.”
“He didn’t tell me much more than that,” Dylan clarified.
“I see. Well, that’s true in theory, but actually doing it has proven rather difficult. We’ve tried many times and have usually missed our target by several weeks, if not months. On those rare occasions when we do manage to come close, specific events still flash by too quickly to record in any detail. Pinpointing and recording any one brief, specific event on a particular day, for example, has been virtually impossible for us. So far, at least.” The tunnel finally ended at the base of another flight of stairs. “Here we are, gentlemen.”
They emerged from the tunnels to find themselves standing amidst a random scattering of large, nondescript boulders. But not far ahead, the ruins of an ancient, long forgotten population lay scattered for as far as the eye could see. The three men walked forward, past another pair of heavily armed SFs, and made their way carefully among the crumbled, dust-covered and severely weathered remnants of what many centuries ago had been towering, intricately carved stone columns and polished marble-like walls.
“How old are these ruins?” Dylan asked.
“Old,” Akagi answered simply. “Eons older than the Portal itself.”
“Then the civilization...”
“Was long extinct before the Tor’Rosha ever set foot on this world. Had they still been alive, the Tor’Rosha wouldn’t have put a Portal here.”
They rounded one last, huge boulder, the canine-like head of an ancient stone statue, its finest details smoothed away by thousands if not millions of years of exposure to the wind-whipped sands. Then they turned to their right.
And there it was. The Portal—the thick floating ring whose semi-reflective metallic finish seemed completely out of place amidst the otherwise interesting but unremarkable ruins.
A chill crawled up Benny’s spine and passed through his entire body when he saw it. A manned security post had been erected a couple of meters to its right, but he took little notice of that. His companions thoughtfully held back whatever words might have come to them and allowed him a moment to himself, and he suddenly grew aware of his own heartbeat as it gave rhythm to the howling of distant winds. As he gazed at the familiar yet mysterious structure, he felt as though he were being drawn backward in time merely by standing in its presence.
“Benny?” Akagi said in a near-whisper. If Benny heard him at all he gave no outward indication of it. In fact, it appeared as though he wasn’t even aware that his own mouth was hanging open or that he was shaking his head ever so slightly in awe. “Captain Sedelnikov?”
“Benny!” Dylan shouted.
That snapped him out of it. “What... Oh.” He looked back at Dylan. “Sorry.”
“You were right,” Dylan said.
Akagi gave Dylan an odd look.
“Come closer, Dylan,” Benny suggested. “Take a good look.”
“Hey now, wait just a minute there,” Akagi warned. “That security barrier is there for a reason, gentlemen, and no way am I going to authorize shutting it off until you tell me exactly what you’re here to do. I don’t care if you are S-I-A, Lieutenant. I want to know what your orders are—what you’re looking into—and I want to know right now.”
“Commander...”
“We’re not looking into anything, Commander,” Benny advised him, apparently having decided that the appropriate time to divulge their true mission was upon them and knowing how reluctant Dylan would still feel to do so. “Lieutenant Graves is going through.”
“What!” Akagi exclaimed in shock, his magnified eyes bulging white and wide as saucers behind his lenses. The guard at the security post stood to his feet but otherwise kept his place.
“I said, the lieutenant is going through the Portal,” Benny calmly repeated.
“What the hell... I heard what you... Absolutely not! That’s...that’s just crazy! No, no, no, Benny!” he exclaimed, shaking his head and waving his arms back and forth in front of him as though he were calling a base runner safe at home plate. “That is completely unacceptable! Out of the question! Do you have any idea how dangerous that could be?”
“I know very well...” Dylan started to answer.
“Calm yourself, Commander,” Benny said evenly, interrupting.
Dylan fell silent and just stood there and watched the exchange. The guard, still standing fast at his post, did the same.
Akagi shut his mouth long enough to bring his temper under control, then asked, “Has Central Command completely lost its collective mind?”
Benny snickered. “Now that’s another question entirely,” he said. “One that I’ve asked myself many times over the years. But the fact remains, Commander Akagi, that Lieutenant Graves has very specific orders, and those orders include his stepping through that thing.”
“Oh no,” Akagi said, shaking his head. “No way. I’m sorry, Benny, but I cannot allow him to do that. In fact, I’m not allowing him anywhere near the Portal until I receive official confirmation of those orders. And I’m talking about direct confirmation, too, straight from Command Admiral Chaffee if I can get it or from Admiral Hansen if I can’t. I won’t accept some vague ‘go-ahead’ from an anonymous junior level yes-man.” As an afterthought, he added, “I’m referring, of course, to the lieutenant here when I say that.”
Benny sighed. “If you must have it, Commander.”
“Oh, believe me, Benny, I must,” Akagi assured him.
“Then stop wasting time and make your call.”
“I will.” Taking a deep breath and softening his tone, again, Akagi added, “But until I do receive that confirmation, please, make yourselves comfortable. We’ve got dinner and a couple soft beds for you. I’m sure you’re tired after your long voyage out here.”
“I’m not the tired old man you might think I am, Commander, but I sure could use a hot meal that doesn’t come out of a ration pack. Thank you.” To Dylan he said, “Come on, Dylan. Let’s go eat some real food.”
“You know, it’s funny,” Dylan commented as the three of them started back toward the tunnel entrance.
“What’s that, Lieutenant?” Akagi asked.
“The Portal. It really does look like the top of an old swimming pool.”
Benny smiled. “Wait ‘til later, Dylan. Just wait ‘til later.
- - - - - - - - - -
Somewhere deep in the blessed interlight, a light started flashing on a laborer’s console. The laborer reported the flashing light to his Vessel Priest. The Vessel Priest ordered a long-range scanner sweep of the surrounding light systems. The scanner sweep detected four small vessels orbiting the median world of the Zielepchtah light system.
Demon vessels.
Tseirran vessels.
Whatever was calling forth the temporal waves they had detected earlier, the Tseirran demons had found it first.
That, simply stated, was unacceptable.
The Next Day
Wednesday, 22 December 2190
Crewman Anwaar al-Assari had been assigned to Mandela Station’s Central Solfleet Communications Center for a little over a year, ever since he graduated from technical school, but had always worked the day shift before—a shift filled with near constant activity that had a way of flying by so fast that it would often be over before he knew it. Sometimes even before he realized he was hungry enough for a lunch break. Not at all like the midnight shift, which he’d just been reassigned to thanks to the asshole ensign who ran it.
He’d always made it a priority to not be a clock watcher, but that too had changed, he realized as he gazed up at the wall chronometer for what he figured to be about the hundredth time. He was on the midnight shift now. ‘The graveyard shift,’ his coworkers unofficially called it. Now he understood why.
To simplify daily operations, Solfleet did it’s best to keep all of its vessels, space stations, and even as many of its planetary facilities as possible on the same timetable—in the same time zone, so to speak—so al-Assari had known from the moment his commanding officer informed him of the rotation that the midnight shift was going to be boring duty. But he’d had no idea it would be this boring. Six and a half hours so far and not one bit of comm traffic. Not even a stray signal.
Wasn’t there supposed to be a war going on somewhere?
“Cheer up, Crewman,” the ensign said from across the room where he was busy pouring himself another cup of coffee. He was lucky. As the officer in charge of the shift he didn’t have to sit on his ass and stare at a quiet panel for eight hours. He could read whatever he wanted, get himself a cup of coffee whenever he wanted, and even take a cat nap if he wanted to, as long as he ensured that his people got their meals and bathroom breaks when they needed them. “Look on the bright side,” he went on. “After you get some sleep in the morning you’ll have the whole afternoon and most of the evening to do whatever you want. That’s what’s so great about this shift. It’s almost like not working at all.”
For some of them it was not working at all, al-Assari mused. Then he said, “Personally, sir, I’d rather be busy. That’s why I like day shift. Besides, I’m a morning person. I’d rather get up early and work all day, then have the whole evening to do what I want and all night to sleep.”
The ensign grinned. “Come on. It’s not so bad.”
“Yes it is,” al-Assari disagreed. “Hell, I’ll probably end up sleeping through dinner.”
“Maybe at first,” the ensign assented as he set the coffee pot down. “But only until you get used to it. After about a week or so, you’ll fall into the rhythm.”
“Why did you have me switched, anyway?” He’d been waiting the entire shift to build up enough courage to ask that question.
“Because, I wanted...”
“Hold on a second,” al-Assari interrupted, grabbing his headset off the console and holding the speaker up to his ear.
“What’s wrong?” the ensign asked as he raised his mug to his lips.
“Nothing’s wrong, sir. I’ve got a message coming in.”
The ensign sipped too much of his steaming coffee and swallowed the entire mouthful before he could stop himself. His eyes teared as the liquid burned its way down, and before he could set his mug aside he started coughing so forcefully that he spilled half of its contents onto the floor. When he finally stopped coughing, he grabbed his chest and drew several quick, deep breaths, trying to ease the pain, until he became so lightheaded that he had to lean on the counter to keep from falling down.
“You okay, sir?” al-Assari asked. Not that he really cared. Actually, he’d found the entire spectacle mildly amusing.
The ensign nodded, though it wasn’t any more sincere than al-Assari’s show of concern. When he could finally speak again, he asked, “You’re telling me we’re actually receiving a transmission? At this time of night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, sir, I’m not. I’ve got incoming traffic.”
“That’s pretty unusual for this hour.” The ensign stepped over behind al-Assari’s console. “What is it?” he asked, his voice still tight and raspy.
“I’m not sure yet,” al-Assari answered as he listened intently. Then, after a few moments, he said, “That’s strange.”
“What’s strange?”
“It’s definitely an official message, encrypted and scrambled with all the proper codes and everything, but whoever sent it doesn’t identify themselves. There’s no indication of where it originated, either.”
“None at all?”
“No, sir. Nothing. And it seems to be bouncing all over the stellar relay network. I’m getting it directly from three very different bearings and picking up echoes from at least a dozen more. It’s overlapping itself, drowning itself out...” He continued to listen intently, periodically making slight adjustments to his console, then added, “There’s another direct link and several more echoes. That’s four directs now. No, make that five. I just got another one.”
“Is there any way you can track it back far enough to find a convergence point?”
“I’m trying, sir,” al-Assari answered, shaking his head as he spoke, “but I’m almost at maximum range now and the signals are still spreading out.”
“All right, forget it,” the ensign instructed impatiently. “This is getting ridiculous. Who’s the message addressed to?”
The signal terminated as abruptly as it had begun. al-Assari listened for another minute or two just to be sure, then set his headset down on his console, sat back, and looked up at his supervisor. “It’s addressed directly to Command Admiral Chaffee, sir. For his eyes only. Do you think he’d be in his office this early?”
“Knowing him, probably. But I sure as hell don’t want to be the first one in the morning to call him.”
“Why not?”
“Have you ever met Admiral Chaffee, Crewman?”
“No, but...”
“Trust me. The old man can be pretty damn cranky in the morning. Especially before he’s had his breakfast. Besides, there’s really no need for us to bother him personally anyway. Tag the message with an audio call and then forward it to his office. His terminal will beep at him until he manually accepts it. Let him yell at that first.”
“Yes, sir.”
The ensign rubbed his chest and took another deep breath, then headed for the exit. “I’ll be in Medbay if you need me. I think I scorched half my vital organs.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And do me a favor, Crewman.” He pointed down at the coffee he’d spilled. “Clean that up for me. It’s a safety hazard.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks,” the ensign said. Then he left.
“Asshole can’t even clean up after himself?” al-Assari mumbled.
* * *
Chairman MacLeod had hoped to make short work of the information in the professor’s handcomp, but he’d been so busy with his own day to day duties that he hadn’t had much time to devote to it. What little time he had been able to spend on it, however, had only served to draw him further into the mystery. So, much to Kathleen’s chagrin, he’d devoted the entirety of the last several nights to that singular pursuit.
And he was exhausted.
He drew a deep breath and exhaled noisily, then set the fifth or sixth or maybe even the seventh handcomp he’d put to use during the night down atop the wobbly stack he’d piled the others into. He rifled through the notepapers and printouts and data chips that were still strewn from one side of his desk to the other in complete disarray as they had been for the last two weeks until he found the ones he was looking for. Then, as he began rereading some of them for the second or third time in as many days, the answer dawned on him like the sun’s rays suddenly breaking through a thick midday cloud cover.
“Well I’ll be a son of a...” he mumbled, his eyes growing wide.
He grabbed one of the handcomps from the middle of the stack and glanced at it, ignoring the others as they crashed to the desk and at least one slid the floor. Wrong one. He set it aside and grabbed another one. Wrong again. “Come on,” he grumbled impatiently as he dropped it on top of the first. Third try. That was it. That was the right one. He began rereading very carefully, paying meticulous attention to one particular set of design and performance specifications.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said aloud as he compared the data table on its screen with that which appeared on the printed page. “So that’s what this is all about.”
He reached out and jabbed at his comm-panel. “Kathleen, are you there?”
“Where else would I be at two o’clock in the morning after you’ve told me you’re going to be here all night?” she asked sarcastically.
MacLeod stood up and started gathering the materials together. “I know it’s still early in Geneva, but I need you to contact the president’s office right away. Have whoever you reach let her know that I’m on my way down there with some very important information. It is absolutely vital that I see her immediately upon my arrival.”
“I doubt anyone will be there this early.”
“I don’t care if you talk to the cleaning crew, Kathleen! Call Geneva! Now!”
“Yes, sir!” she responded in a huff. The channel closed.
She had a right to be upset, he decided, but she’d get over it. He’d make it up to her later.
As he prepared to leave, he spoke to whatever restless essence of the old Cirran professor might still be lingering in the physical world...not that he really believed in that sort of thing. “Min’para, my friend, I promise you, you did not died in vein.”
- - - - - - - - - -
The order came, as he knew it would. The High Priesthood had even added its praise for his Pod laborers’ vigilance. A great and blessed honor indeed.
The Pod Priest sneered with satisfaction. He would be elevated for this, perhaps even to the High Priesthood itself. But first things first. He had orders to carry out. He gestured, and the laborer seated at communications obediently opened a channel to the Pod’s subordinate vessels.
The Pod Priest gave the word.
“Good morning, Madam President,” Chairman MacLeod said as he walked right into her office, handcomp in hand. He’d stopped by his new home in the exclusive neighborhood of Astoria to clean up and change his suit before rushing over to LaGuardia to catch the earliest and fastest possible flight to Geneva, so although he was still very tired he at least looked fresh and presentable. President Shakhar, on the other hand, looked as though she’d chosen her wardrobe in the dark. Her forest green and black African serape would have been all right by itself, but the red-brown wrap she’d pulled on around her shoulders clashed with it something awful and had definitely seen better days.
Sitting straight-backed behind her desk with her skeletal arms folded across her spare chest, she stared at him with a sour expression on her face, and a curt nod served as the only response she offered to his greeting.
Ignoring her demeanor, or perhaps not even noticing it at all, MacLeod quickly took a seat in the same chair he’d occupied during his last visit—had that meeting really been almost four months ago already?—and said, “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice again.”
“I suppose you’re welcome, Mister MacLeod. Although I fail to understand why your secretary asked my secretary if she was part of the cleaning crew.”
“Uh, inside joke, ma’am,” he replied. “Something just between the two of them, I think.” He’d have to have a little talk with Kathleen when he got back.
“I see.” Getting down to business, she asked, “So then, what is so terribly urgent that I had to jump out of the shower, throw on whatever happened to be within reach, and rush up here to meet with you before I even had a chance to enjoy my morning tea?”
Uh oh. It was a fact as well known as her infamous wrath that the president hated to miss her morning tea. Really hated to miss her morning tea. Maybe that was why she’d been so short with him the last time.
“I sincerely apologize for that, Madam President,” MacLeod told her, hoping to smooth things over. “But I think...”
“Apology accepted, Mister MacLeod,” she interrupted. “Now, please, get on with it.”
She was definitely not in one of her more patient moods.
“All right. I won’t trouble you with specific details unless you ask me to, but I have some information here...” He briefly held the handcomp up where she could see it, “...indicating that sometime between six and seven years ago, roughly a year or so after he took over the Solfleet Intelligence Agency, Admiral Icarus Hansen, probably with the assistance of his Deputy Chief, then Lieutenant Commander Elizabeth Royer, as well as with that of several members of her research and development team...”
“Get on with it already, Mister MacLeod,” the president insisted.
“Yes, ma’am. I have information indicating that Admiral Hansen and Commander Royer produced an army of clones six or seven years ago, and that they made arrangements to have them enhanced with combat cybernetics in direct violation of the Brix-Cyberclone Cessation Act of twenty-one sixty-two.”
“What information?” the president asked, unfolding her arms as her entire demeanor changed to one of genuine concern.
“Further, this information also indicates that Hansen did, in fact, issue orders that would send at least some of those cyberclones into combat as soon as they were ready.”
“What information do you have, Mister MacLeod?”
“And not only that, Madam President,” he went on, still ignoring her questions. “Three and a half months ago, when it happened that the facts of what they had done were in danger of being revealed, they took some incredibly drastic steps to insure that their secrets would remain secret.”
“Just a minute, Mister MacLeod,” the president impatiently interrupted, raising a hand to stop him. “First of all, violation of the Brix-Cyberclone Act is a very serious allegation to make against anyone, let alone two of the finest officers in Solfleet.”
“Yes, ma’am. I realize that.”
“And secondly, that same act put an end to all human cloning and related research the day it was passed, before any success in age acceleration testing was realized. If, in fact, a group of clones was bred six or seven years ago, they wouldn’t be near ready for cybernetic enhancement yet, let alone be old enough for combat training. How could they possibly have been sent into actual combat already?”
“How indeed, Madam President?” he asked in return. “How could they possibly have had enough...time...to grow to adulthood, undergo cybernetic enhancement, and train for combat in only seven years?” He fell silent and waited, allowing her a few moments to ponder the possible answers to those questions.
Only one possible answer came to mind, and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one damn bit. “My God,” she muttered. “Do you have proof of this?”
Raising his handcomp between them again, he answered, “Overwhelming proof, Madam President. I wouldn’t have brought this to you if I didn’t.”
She hesitated, but she had no choice in the matter, and she knew it. “Perhaps you’d better trouble me with those specific details after all, Mister MacLeod.”
“I thought you might say that.”
* * *
Command Fleet Admiral Winston R. Chaffee, commanding officer of the entire Solfleet, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, answerable only to the president and to the secretary of Solar Defense, greeted the numerous members of his personal staff and their hordes of support personnel with a friendly smile and a nod of his mostly bald head as he made his way briskly through the outer offices. Then, finally, he escaped into his own.
As soon as the door slid closed behind him, he relaxed his abdominal muscles and let his generous belly press against his almost blindingly white uniform jacket, which felt a little tighter than usual this morning. Actually, it had been feeling a little tighter every day lately. As a kid he’d been downright skinny, but adolescence had played a cruel trick on him and he’d been fighting a weight problem ever since. Not so long ago he’d finally begun to win that battle, but he’d been so busy in the months since taking over the top office that he’d had no spare time to spend keeping himself in shape, and the fact that he’d been neglecting his body for over a dozen weeks now was really beginning to show.
At least, it was readily apparent to him. No one on his staff would ever say anything, of course. They were always too busy sucking up to him and bowing down like he was some kind of deity or something, no doubt hoping that their blind devotion would prove helpful in their efforts to advance their own careers. God, he hated that!
Before he took another step, he heard the communications console on his desk bleeping at him. “Oh, for crying out loud,” he mumbled as he approached his desk. “Can’t I sit down and drink my coffee in peace just once before the galaxy throws its daily crisis at me?” He reached across to the far side of the desk and thumped the comm-panel’s ‘receive’ button with one beefy finger. “Admiral Chaffee here,” he grumbled.
When no one answered he walked around his desk and looked down at the screen, and noticed the message’s prominent ‘Command Fleet Admiral Chaffee’s Eyes Only’ parameter. Suddenly serious, he set his coffee down on his desk and took his seat, silently praying that the message didn’t contain news of another terrible defeat at the hands of the Veshtonn. Especially a defeat in the Rosha’Kana star system, which sadly enough had been looking inevitable for some time now.
“Computer. Special security voice recognition sequence, classification Top Secret-Eyes Only,” he said.
“Special security voice recognition sequence, classification Top Secret-Eyes Only initiated,” the computer responded in its standard voice. “Commence procedure.”
“Recognize Chaffee, Winston Ronald, Command Fleet Admiral. Serial number S-C, two two five two, dash nine nine three eight seven. Commanding Officer, Solfleet.”
“Chaffee, Winston Ronald, Command Fleet Admiral. Serial number S-C two two five two dash nine nine three eight seven. Commanding Officer, Solfleet. Voice recognition verified. Please enter security access code manually.”
Chaffee did so, and in less than a second the decrypted message appeared on his screen. “Okay,” he said aloud to himself. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
TO: Commanding Officer, Solfleet.
FROM: Commanding Officer, Station X-ray One.
SUBJECT: Request Confirmation of Orders.
BODY: Admiral, an S.I.A. agent has recently arrived
this station. His mission orders are, to say the least,
unusual, and I would like you to confirm them for me
before I allow him to proceed. Orders indicate...
Chaffee stopped reading and rolled his eyes with a sigh and shook his head in disgust. He should have been used to it by now, he supposed. Throughout his forty-plus year career with the fleet there had been many hundreds, perhaps even thousands of days that had started out bad and grown steadily worse. But it was just too damn early in the morning to have to deal with any of Commander Akagi’s bitching.
Actually, he reconsidered as he glanced at his watch, it wasn’t really all that early. But Akagi had contacted him on far too many occasions over the past few months for far too few legitimate reasons, most of them trivial and some of them hardly worth his attention at all, like Admiral Hansen’s periodic calls, and he’d long since grown tired of hearing from the sniveling little twerp. Due to Station X-ray One’s sensitive nature and to the very real importance of the commander’s research, he’d tolerated the seemingly constant annoyances in the past, but lately it had really begun to get ridiculous.
Yes, he was the command fleet admiral—the overall commanding officer of the entire solar space fleet and all of its facilities. But did that mean he had to be advised of every detail of every mission that every member of the fleet was assigned to? Of course not! That’s what the joint chiefs and the myriad of division and agency commanders were for. He was too damn busy with too many other things to micromanage the whole damn fleet! If Akagi wanted confirmation of S.I.A. orders, then he could contact the S.I.A. chief to get it.
“Computer, my authority, delete ‘Command Fleet Admiral Chaffee Eyes Only’ parameter and rescramble and encrypt the message. Forward to the Office of the Chief of Solfleet Intelligence, status unread.”
“Confirmed. Do you request confirmation of receipt?”
“Negative.”
That done, Admiral Chaffee sat back to enjoy his morning coffee.
* * *
President Shakhar slowly rose from her chair and stepped over to the window. Gazing out over the city below, far beyond the distant snowcapped peaks and the sparkling sapphire lake, beyond even the sky itself, she asked, “Is there any possibility at all that your conclusions are wrong, Mister MacLeod? Could the both of us, you and I, be missing something? Some small detail that might change what this material you have inherited implies?”
“Change the implication of intentionally altered records, Madam President?” he asked in response. “I remind you that Professor Min’para was murdered on a busy city street in broad daylight for this material. If he wasn’t close to uncovering something criminal, why would anyone so desperately need to silence him?”
“They wouldn’t,” she conceded. She turned and faced him. “I was just hoping that you might say something...anything...that might give me some legitimate reason not to issue a presidential arrest order against a man who just happens to be one of the finest military officers I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”
As he looked at her, as he listened to her simple explanation, MacLeod realized that this predicament was much more painful for her than he’d expected it would be, and he couldn’t help but sympathize. He’d seen a few of his own friends’ careers come to shameful and premature ends over the years himself. Such a thing was never easy.
“I’m sorry, Madam President,” he finally said. “I truly am. But I see no other alternative.”
She sighed heavily. “Nor do I, Mister MacLeod,” she said, shaking her head sorrowfully. “Nor do I.” Then again... She turned back to the window and stared outside once more. No. No way. An absolutely unacceptable option. But still she asked, “Have you told anyone else about this? Anyone at all?”
“I did get in touch with Professor Verne during my research, but I only told him what was absolutely necessary to get what I needed from him,” he answered, none the wiser. “Mostly I just lied to him. He doesn’t know anything about Min’para or about the allegations I’m making here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Professor Verne wasn’t stupid. That went without saying. If something were to happen to MacLeod now, so soon after he’d gone to him for help, he’d have questions. And sooner or later he’d probably take those questions to the police. She shook her head, ashamed. It was a horrible idea and she silently scolded herself for even considering it.
“Stop by the military magistrate’s office on your way out. There will be arrest warrants issued for both Vice-Admiral Hansen and Commander Royer by the time you get there. Once you’ve picked those up, go to the C-I-D office and advise the commanding officer there of what’s going on. Have him assign an agent to accompany you to Mandela Station.”
MacLeod was taken aback. “To accompany me, Madam President?” he asked.
“Yes, Mister Chairman, to accompany you. We’re talking about presidential-level arrest warrants here. The agent will have the authority to arrest, but I want you to serve the warrants personally.”
“But I’m not a law enforcement officer...or an officer of the court.”
“You’re not a criminal investigator either, and yet here you sit after having conducted a criminal investigation.”
“Yes, ma’am,” MacLeod said as he stood up and started toward the door, though he was anything but enthusiastic over the idea. “And Madam President?” She didn’t turn. “Once again, I’m very sorry this had to happen.”
When she didn’t respond, he walked out without another word.
“So am I,” she whispered after the door closed behind him.