The process took time, but when Gloria opened her eyes, she realized that her husband had definitely changed these past years. He had not become a completely different person, but he lacked his former patience. He was more prone to act independently and to keep secrets.
For the next few days, Gloria studied the problem of long-term stress. Jon was the Supreme War Leader, making grand strategic decisions. Not only that, but he led the main fleet, accepting the mental traumas of battle. More than once, others had attempted to assassinate him. That would only add to the forces pressing down on him. Yes, the unrelenting pressure of this war would psychologically cripple anyone.
Gloria concluded that most people would have broken under the strains Jon accepted daily, and had been under for years.
Gloria chided herself. I should have seen this already.
For the next few days, she watched her husband with a mentalist’s eyes. He had ticks and mannerisms that she did not recall from their first year together. He did become angrier faster. He was almost curt with some people.
One night, as they lay in bed, watching a show on a computer slate, she asked, “How are you feeling?”
Jon did not answer, pointedly watching the comedy on the slate.
Gloria put a warm hand on his wrist. He glanced absently at her, smiling automatically and then went back to watching the comedy.
“Are you feeling well?” she asked.
He reached out to the computer slate and raised the volume.
“Jon,” she said. “I want to talk to you.”
He sighed, waited a second and tapped the slate, freezing the show. Then he faced her.
“How are you feeling?” she asked again.
“Tired.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m tired and would like to unwind so I can go to sleep,” he said tersely.
“Am I bothering you?”
He frowned at her. “What are you getting at?”
“Just asking about your day,” she said.
He stared at her longer. “No. It’s more than that.”
“Jon… Do you realize that you’re curter than you used to be?”
“What? Curt? This is because I yelled at a rating today?”
“Yes,” she said.
“The rating had done a sloppy job. If we’re going to defeat the AIs we have to hone ourselves to perfection.”
“Is that also true with you?”
Jon scowled this time. “I push myself as hard as I push anyone else,” he said defensively.
“I know. That’s what worries me.”
“Worries?” he asked.
“You push yourself hard, harder than anyone. How long can a person keep that up?”
“Once I’m dead, I’ll relax.”
“No, Jon,” she said, squeezing his thick wrist. “You have to find times to relax now.”
“Is this about you needing a roll in the hay?” he asked.
“We haven’t…enjoyed each other as much as we used to.”
That made him pause. “I’m working more,” he said.
“I know, honey. That’s what I’ve been saying.”
The scowl returned. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Gloria kept a straight face. Was this the time to tell him her findings? No, she decided. She needed to do a little more checking first.
“I worry about you,” she said.
The scowl softened but didn’t disappear altogether. “I worry about everyone,” he said. “How—” The scowl resumed with full force. “I’m going to defeat the AIs. I’m going to do it or die trying. Now, let’s watch the rest of the show. I can’t sleep if I’m all wound up.”
“Of course,” Gloria said.
They resumed the show and watched until its end. Jon shut off the slate and set it aside. He was snoring softly an hour later.
Gloria couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t his light snoring keeping her up. She was used to that. She didn’t know her next move. Finally, in the middle of the night, she knew what to do. It would be a risk, but she was certain Walleye was the person she needed to see about Jon.
-7-
Walleye the Mutant was a small man with strange eyes—no one could tell where exactly he was looking. He was from Makemake, a dwarf planet in the Solar System’s Kuiper Belt. Walleye had been a hitman on Makemake, one of the best.
He lived with the beautiful June Zen, a stunning creature quite a bit taller than him. These past two years, Walleye had been an on-again, off-again scout-ship captain. Otherwise, he was an official troubleshooter for the Old Man, the Intelligence Chief.
Walleye was in a shooting range, practicing his marksmanship. He used a variety of pistols, firing a spring-driven needler when Gloria sat down behind him.
Walleye hadn’t looked back, but he knew she was there. He kept items around him with mirrored surfaces. A flicker of his eyes had shown him the Supreme War Leader’s wife.
After firing a magazine of sliver-thin needles at a target downrange, he turned and nodded to the mentalist.
“You knew I was here,” she said. “I could tell by your body posture.”
Walleye did not smile or nod, waiting patiently for her to continue.
“Could I talk to you about a sensitive matter?” Gloria asked.
“Certainly,” he said.
“It regards the Supreme War Leader.”
Walleye thought about that.
“Does that change your mind?” Gloria asked.
“No.”
“Frank Benz died—”
“This is not the place for such talk,” Walleye said, interrupting the mentalist. “Let me pack my belongings and we can take a stroll.”
“I’d prefer that we not be seen together.”
Again, Walleye did not comment. Instead, he put his various guns into a carrying bag, finally slinging a cord around a shoulder.
“You want to talk, but you don’t want anyone to see us together. In other words, you’re ensuring that people begin to talk about us because they notice we’re staying out of sight.”
“What?” Gloria said.
“Reason it out. You’re a mentalist.”
Gloria frowned at him and almost became angry. Her good sense came to her rescue, and a moment later, she thought it out. Oh. Yes. Walleye had a point. It was better to hide in plain sight than to try to sneak around.
“Yes,” Gloria said. “Let’s take a stroll.”
They left the gun-range area of the cybership and soon walked through a normal-sized corridor that led to a nearby cafeteria.
Along with the gun bag, Walleye wore a long buff coat. He wasn’t cold, but he found the bulky coat a good place to conceal weapons. People were used to seeing him wear it, so the coat didn’t set off any internal alarms.
“I’m not sure where to begin,” Gloria said.
Walleye waited for her to figure it out.
“You’re not much help,” she said.
He still did not comment, but continued to walk and wait.
“Have it your way,” Gloria said. “I think…I think Jon is carrying too much on his shoulders.”
Walleye glanced at her.
“You’re right,” Gloria said. “It’s more than that. The pressure is changing him…maybe for the worse.”
Walleye had known that the talk wasn’t going to be good, but this…this was bad. Maybe it was more than he should hear. No, he decided. For some time now, he’d noticed a subtle shift taking place in those around him. They got angrier, sulkier, or something negative more often than they used to. At first, Walleye had figured it was him, a new way he was looking at life perhaps. Later, he knew it was them.
Why wasn’t he acting different in some way? He’d been a loner most of his life, but he doubted that was the answer.
Walleye did not know it, but the TP waves from the Provoker did not irritate his mind in any way. The same mutant mental structure that had given him immunity against the Magistrate Yellow Ellowyn’s
mind powers protected him from the Seiner machine deep in the engineering access tube.
In the here and now, Walleye decided that he was the best man on the flagship for a truly sticky situation such as Gloria was attempting to hand him.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Talk. I’m listening.”
Gloria began to pour out her thoughts, going over of each of them in mentalist detail.
Walleye listened to everything without comment. He saw where she was going with it before she ever got there.
“You think Jon might be unfit for the role of Supreme War Leader,” Walleye said.
“Whew,” Gloria said, staring at him. “When you say it…it sounds like mutiny. What do you think?”
“I agree. It does sound like mutiny.”
“That wasn’t my question,” Gloria said. “What do you think about the pressures of command having worn Jon down?”
“Stress hits everyone,” Walleye said. “A good hitman can only ply his trade for a time. When he gets older, each hit comes back to haunt him. I know that’s true, as I’ve known many of the greats on Makemake. One of them told me that every kill takes a year off your life.”
“Is that true for you?” Gloria asked.
Walleye looked at her. “There’s another old saying. I think Napoleon coined it. ‘A commander only has a season for war.’ After that, the commander is not the war-leader he used to be. Some commanders have long seasons. Some have short ones. Are you suggesting that Jon’s season for battle leadership is over?”
“That sounds horrible,” Gloria said.
“It’s also avoiding the question.”
Gloria bit her lower lip, finally saying, “I keep studying the evidence. Jon seems to be doing things differently these days. And yet, he’s succeeding. Maybe he’s growing into command. That’s the change we’re seeing.”
“Maybe,” Walleye said.
“You don’t think so?”
“Maybe means I don’t know.”
Gloria eyed him. “You’re the hardest person I know to read.”
“Thanks.”
“You enjoy being an enigma, don’t you?”
Walleye shrugged, and he jutted his chin at an approaching hatch with the word CAFETERIA on it. “I don’t think we should eat together. A small walk is one thing. More than that and tongues will begin to wag.”
“But there’s so much more I need to tell you.”
Walleye shook his head. “You’ve unburdened yourself.” He paused before adding,” What do you want me to do?”
“Analyze the Supreme War Leader.”
Walleye had figured out that much. “And?” he asked.
“Give me your opinion when you’re through.”
Walleye slowed his step and she slowed with him. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it. Give me—”
“Two weeks,” Gloria said. “We’re heading in to the battle station. I want to know what to do with Jon as soon as possible.”
“Two weeks,” Walleye mused. “That’s too fast, in my opinion, but I’ll do what I can.”
She reached out and touched one of his hands. “Thank you, Walleye. I appreciate this.”
“Let’s hope you still say that once I’ve finished with my investigation.”
-8-
The fleet continued in-system as Walleye began his investigation, as Gloria worried, Bast drank and Hon Ra fretted about the gross insult to the Star Lords of the Roke. At the same time, the Provoker continued to radiate TP waves at setting four.
Meanwhile, the Centurion ran war-games with the fleet marines and special assault raiders. The assault raiders would use unique crafts known as breach-makers.
A breach-maker was heavily hulled and built to absorb tremendous shock. Like old tank shells of ages long ago, the breach-maker had shape-charges in front of the nosecone. As the breach-maker neared an enemy vessel, the nosecone gun would repeatedly blast shape-charged shots against an enemy hull, doing so in an extremely small area. The blasts would theoretically weaken the hull so the breach-maker could smash through, inside the enemy ship. Once the assault craft came to a grinding halt, cocooned assault raiders would break out and begin their march toward the cybership or battle station’s brain-core.
In essence, the tactic was like old-time pirates attempting to board an enemy ship in order to capture it. Would the space-age boarding tactic work? That was one among many questions that Jon tormented himself by repeatedly asking.
The Supreme War Leader noticed Walleye one day, and it occurred to Jon he’d seen the little mutant here and there more often than he should.
What was the little troublemaker up to this time? Jon decided to keep his eye on Walleye, and he notified the Old Man to do the same. Jon had enough on his plate without the ex-hitman prowling around where no one wanted him.
***
Walleye had been an excellent hitman. One of his strengths had been that he’d known when his target had made him. Not only had Jon Hawkins noted him, but now he had an Intelligence team trailing him most of the time.
Should he back off or quit his investigation? Walleye decided to plow ahead. There was something odd going on. He might not have noticed it if Gloria hadn’t talked to him. Now that she’d mentioned it, too many people were acting strangely. It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t quite place it.
In any case, the Intelligence tail accelerated Walleye’s timetable. Two days later, he notified Gloria that he’d come to his conclusion.
The mentalist approached him like the first time, at the gun range.
Walleye practiced sniper shots from a greater distance than before. He put a slug in the center each time. Once finished with his practice, he broke apart the slender rifle and inserted the pieces into a carrying case.
Gloria sat on a chair behind him, with earmuffs over her ears.
Walleye picked up the carrying case and walked to her. She took off the earmuffs.
“This gun hardly makes a noise,” he said.
“Insurance,” Gloria said, as she stuffed the earmuffs in her purse. “Should we walk?”
Walleye didn’t need to look around to see if anyone was watching them. Two Intelligence people leaned nearby, pretending to talk about something.
Instead of answering Gloria, Walleye set down the gun case and grunted as he lifted a foot onto her bench. He had absurdly short legs, making the move a chore. Once done, he slid the retied shoe off the bench, leaving a tiny spool where his foot had been.
“Do you see?” asked Walleye.
“What?” she asked.
Walleye coughed twice in the direction of the tiny spool.
The mentalist wasn’t dumb, but she wasn’t a trained Intelligence agent either. He had to cough once more before she noticed the spool.
“Oh,” she said, looking at him oddly.
“You’re right,” he said. “All around right,” he added.
A touch of fear colored her cheeks.
“Good day to you,” Walleye said. “I’m bushed. I’m going to rest, and then I’m going to take June Zen to a play tonight. I hope you enjoy yourself, Mentalist. I must be off.
***
Gloria watched the little mutant cart his oversized rifle case. He looked like a child carrying it, although a closer inspection showed he clearly had enough strength for the task. It was his stumpy legs more than anything else that made Walleye seem like an overgrown child, at least from a distance.
She had seen the spool and understood the implications of what he had just done. There were spy devices or spies watching them. Did Jon mistrust her?
Gloria doubted that. She would have been able to tell by Jon’s mannerisms if he was suspicious of her. She was too good a mentalist for him to disguise that big a change in trust. The spies or spy devices had to do with Walleye.
Gloria slid along the bench and palmed the spool. Then she got up and left.
Thirty-three minutes later in her quarters, Gloria put the spool in a computer slate and studied the terse repo
rt:
The subject is highly stressed and exhibits erratic mannerisms, but I do not believe he is unstable. I do think he is more prone to sudden and possibly rash decisions. On reflection, I suspect this has helped the great effort instead of hindering it.
My recommendation: do nothing as long as we are winning. I would also give him one bad move or decision. No one guesses right every time.
Gloria did not physically reread the message. Instead, she permanently erased the spool. Then, she took a walk, “rereading” the message in her nearly photographic memory.
Jon was changing. The stresses would not relent, she knew. How long would her husband continue to be a great war-leader? He had a season for war. She dearly wished she knew the length of the season, and if it would be long enough to win a strategic victory against the fantastically huge AI Dominion. Or would she have to witness her husband’s collapse as he made a terrible battle decision that ruined everything.
As she continued walking, Gloria began to worry in earnest…
-9-
Two days later, an Intelligence team picked up Walleye at the shooting range and brought him to an interrogation cell. Walleye knew what a two-way mirror looked like and that the Old Man or possibly Jon Hawkins himself watched from the other side.
Walleye no longer wore his buff coat, and the Intelligence people had thoroughly frisked him. He did not have any weapons on his person except for a ring on his left hand. It had a hidden pop-up prick that none of them had found. On the tip of the prick was a deadly fast-acting poison.
A slim, black-clad interrogator came in and began the process as he sat across from Walleye at the cell’s only table. Later, a burly individual barged through the hatch and started yelling at Walleye, spit flying out of his mouth as he shook a steel crank bat.
It was standard interrogation procedure, and Walleye played along, pretending to cow at the bully and nod in appreciation when the “nice” interrogator shooed the other fellow out and restarted the quiet questioning.
A.I. Void Ship (The A.I. Series Book 6) Page 8
