by Glenn Smith
“You think someone will be there at this time of night?”
“Absolutely,” she assured him. “It’s open twenty hours a day, seven days a week, oh-five hundred to oh-one hundred.”
“Okay, I will.” He smiled once more and briefly gazed into her eyes—he might need an ally here someday—then said, “Good night,” and headed for the exit. The doors parted, and as he stepped through and turned to the right as she’d instructed, he glanced back and caught the young woman looking herself over again. Then she looked up and smiled at him just as the doors closed between them.
Dylan grinned, wondering if perhaps that smile meant she had finally figured out what kind of trouble he’d been referring to when he mentioned her uniform. Something told him he was going to see her again before he left the station.
He followed the directions she’d given him and passed through the doors into the station proper, where he found a computer interface in the bulkhead directly in front of him. He touched his hand to the panel, bringing it instantly to life, and addressed it as though he were talking to another person. “Computer, I need directions to the Solfleet Transportation Office.”
“For guidance to the Solfleet Transportation Office, please activate...”
“Belay that,” he interrupted, recalling the advice the young woman had just given him. “New request. Direct me to Solfleet Logistics.”
“For guidance to Solfleet Supply and Logistics, please activate your personnel tracker,” the computer responded in the same familiar feminine voice that Solfleet would still be using in twenty-three years. Dylan tapped the small button on the top of his belt buckle to activate his tracker as requested, and the computer continued, “Please follow the flashing amber arrows on the corridor panels.” The first arrow appeared, flashing, pointing to the left.
He headed down the corridor in that direction. Each time he approached an intersection a flashing amber arrow appeared on the computer panel in front of him, pointing in the direction he needed to go, and then winked out as he passed. As soon as he made one particular right turn and followed a slightly narrower curving corridor around to the left, things finally started to look familiar and he soon realized where he was. The corridor that led past the offices of the Solfleet Intelligence Agency. At least that’s what it was... or rather would be... in twenty-two years or so. Whether or not it was that now he had no idea, but he would soon find out.
Less than thirty feet ahead of him a rear-admiral stepped out of an office and then turned around and faced back inside. The elderly gray-haired and bearded gentleman was dressed in Solfleet Naval tan class-A’s, his heavily adorned jacket unbuttoned and hanging open and his shirt collar unfastened. He obviously wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Dylan had no idea who he was—he’d probably retired by the time Dylan enlisted—but moved to the inside of the corridor anyway and stood still and quiet, just out of his view.
“So who’s the Security Police Duty Officer tonight?” the admiral asked of whoever was inside the office he’d just walked out of.
“I believe Major Hansen is pulling that duty himself tonight, sir,” a woman answered, barely loud enough for Dylan to hear.
Major Hansen? Coincidence?
“I thought Major Hansen was off station for a while, conducting his inspection tour,” the admiral said.
“I believe that’s been postponed a week or two, sir,” the woman told him, “but if you’d like to wait a moment I’ll double-check for you.”
“Please do.”
Major Hansen. Major. Could that possibly be a younger version of Vice-Admiral Hansen? The timing was more or less right, given typical promotion rates, but... what were the chances? Was it possible the admiral had been assigned to Solfleet Orbital Headquarters in 2168, or even that he’d spent his entire career here and had never been stationed anywhere else? Possible, yes, though the second theory wasn’t very likely. Still, if Dylan could fall through a floating circle and travel back in time, then anything was possible.
He started walking up the corridor again, having decided that it would be safer to let this admiral see him walk past than to risk letting someone else catch him hiding in the shadows from him. Yes, it was possible that Hansen had spent most of his career here, though given standard procedures it wasn’t very likely. Perhaps he had been assigned to the station more than once with tours of duty elsewhere in between, and his presence here now was simply a coincidence. Then again, this major they were discussing might not have been the Admiral Hansen he knew at all.
But what if he was? What if the officer they were discussing was in fact the future Vice-Admiral Icarus Hansen, commanding officer of the S.I.A., the man who’d sent him back in time? Wouldn’t it be interesting to sit down and talk to him now and then return home after completing the mission and ask him if he remembers their meeting twenty-two years earlier? He knew, of course, that he couldn’t actually do that. He couldn’t risk arbitrarily altering the flow of time in some unforeseeable way for something as trivial as a pointless experiment. Admiral Hansen had made no mention of their ever having met before and hadn’t acted as though he’d recognized him when they met. So, most likely, they hadn’t met in the past, which meant that he had to avoid running into him now, while he was here.
If Major Hansen was in fact a younger version of Vice-Admiral Hansen.
“Sir,” Dylan said with a polite nod as he walked past the admiral.
“Sergeant,” the admiral replied, glancing at him only briefly.
Dylan felt the admiral’s eyes on his back as he walked on and feared that he might call out to him at any moment—that he might stop him and start asking him a bunch of questions about why his uniform looked so disheveled. Only when he rounded the next corner and stepped out of the admiral’s line of sight did he finally feel safe and allow himself to exhale the deep breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding.
This was never going to do. He couldn’t continue walking on eggshells indefinitely. He needed to relax. He needed to relax and act naturally. Even though he was only passing through the station, he needed to act like he belonged there so that he would look like he belonged there.
He picked up his pace, wanting to put as much distance between himself and that admiral as he could as quickly as possible.
About ten minutes later he finally arrived at Base Supply and Logistics. The light on the wall panel beside the door that led into the Clothing Issue Department glowed green, indicating that it was open for business. The door slid open for him as he approached and he walked right in and found the lone clerk, who didn’t seem to notice his arrival, sitting beyond the counter in the far corner of the shallow room with her shirt and boots off and her feet propped up on the desk, twirling a lock of her short dark hair around her fingers while she watched a vid on her computer monitor. Her shirt was draped over the back of her chair and Dylan saw that its sleeve bore only a single tan chevron—a crewman, enlisted grade two, probably fresh out of tech school.
Newbie gets the nightshift. Some things never changed.
“Excuse me, Crewman,” he called out.
She looked back over her shoulder at him, seemed to freeze with indecision for one brief moment—she was a fairly pretty girl, though very young looking—and then quickly swung her feet off the desk and jumped up as a look of surprise and horror found its way to her face, almost as though she’d just been caught sleeping on the job by her own commanding officer. “I’m sorry, Sergeant,” she declared, straightening her tee shirt and ensuring it was tucked in as she scurried up to the counter in her stocking feet. “I was really into my movie and didn’t hear you come in. I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”
“No, I just got here,” Dylan told her.
“Okay, good,” she said, relief clearly evident in her voice. “I’m usually not so inattentive, you know. It’s just... I just got here from tech school two days ago and I’m not used to the time change yet and I’m really tired and they put me on this shift because i
t’s not a very busy one so, I watch movies to stay awake and...” She finally paused long enough to breathe, then continued, “I’m sorry. I’m babbling. I tend to do that sometimes. Especially when...” She paused again, and then she seemed to notice Dylan’s appearance and asked, “You want a new uniform, don’t you, Sergeant?”
“I’d appreciate it, yes,” Dylan answered. “But first I want you to take a deep breath and let it out real slowly. You’re not in Basic Training or Tech School anymore. You can relax a little bit.” The girl closed her eyes, and as she inhaled deeply Dylan couldn’t help but notice the way her breasts seemed to grow right before his eyes as they pushed against her brown tee shirt—and a pretty impressive pair of breasts they were, too, for such a slender, fragile looking young woman. “Better?” he asked her after she exhaled and opened her eyes again. She nodded and smiled at him. “Good. Now about that new uniform?”
“What’s wrong with yours?” she asked, looking over the one he was wearing.
“It’s dirty,” he told her, pointing out one of the worst spots. “I don’t have another one with me to change into, and with all the brass on this station I really don’t want to walk around looking like this.”
“Oh... I’m... sorry, Sergeant,” she replied hesitantly, shrugging her shoulders. “I... I can’t give you a brand new uniform just because that one’s a little dirty. If the laundry unit in your quarters isn’t...”
“I don’t have any quarters here, Crewman. I’m in transit, just passing through.”
“Oh. Well, then the base laundry can...”
“I’d have to drop it off,” he pointed out, shaking his head, “and I don’t have anything else to wear while I wait.”
She stared at him for a moment, then asked, “You’re in transit and you don’t have any other clothes with you?”
Dylan drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled as he gazed into her dark eyes. She was a young one and probably still quite impressionable, and he was a man with authority—a cop—who also happened to outrank her. Perhaps he could charm a new uniform out of her. Hell, for that matter, perhaps he could charm her out of her uniform. She was pretty cute, after all, and she was working alone, and... No. He didn’t have time for that. And even if he did, he was a good ten years older than her, and he was an NCO. He didn’t need that kind of trouble complicating his mission. And he was engaged for God’s sake! Shame on him for even thinking about it! Besides, he had a better idea. “What’s your name, Crewman?” he asked her.
A smile slowly found its way to her lips. Perhaps his question had given her the wrong idea. Or perhaps she’d read his thoughts though his eyes, if such a thing were possible. Anything was possible. “Ami Sarandakos,” she answered in a slightly seductive tone of voice.
“Tell you what, Ami Sarandakos. You exchange my uniform for a new one for me and I’ll forget I found you out of uniform and half asleep in front of a movie when I walked in here.” He knew it was a mean thing to do to her and he hated to do it, but he needed the uniform. He couldn’t risk drawing too much attention to himself. There was far too much at stake for him to worry about hurting someone’s feelings.
Her smile faded quickly, replaced by obvious anger as her gaze fell to the countertop. She appeared to think it over for a moment, then pulled a stylus and pad out from under the counter and set them down none too gently in front of him. “Write your sizes down for me, Sergeant,” she coldly demanded. Dylan wrote them down as requested and then waited patiently while she went into the back to get what he needed.
She returned a few minutes later carrying a brand new uniform and dropped it onto the counter in front of him without saying a word. Dylan checked to verify that she’d pulled the right sizes, then took the uniform with him into the changing room and undressed.
He pulled on the new trousers—a perfect fit—then carefully tore the small Portal recall device from its hiding place inside the lining of his old shirt and pocketed it. Then he transferred his identicards, badge, stripes, and regalia from the old shirt to the new one and pulled it on. He looked himself over in the mirror as he fastened it up—much better—then pulled his belt and boots on, gathered up his old uniform, and returned to the service counter.
Sarandakos took his old uniform from him, balled it up, and unceremoniously tossed it like so much trash into a nearby bin, then pointed at the small screen built into the end of the counter. “I need you to sign for it, Sergeant,” she told him.
Dylan moved down to the screen and verified that his new uniform was the only thing on the ‘Issued’ list, then swiped his identicard through the reader, punched in his code, and laid his thumb on the scanner to confirm. “Thank you, Ami,” he said when the scanner blinked off again. Sarandakos didn’t reply and Dylan left without another word and, with continuing help from the computer interface panels and their flashing amber arrows, headed for Transportation.
A short, pudgy, black-haired corporal with dark circles under his close-set eyes met him at the counter before the door had even closed behind him, almost as though he’d been standing there patiently waiting for a customer to show up and give him something to do. But his manner was anything but welcoming. “What do you need?” he asked impatiently, as though Dylan were inconveniencing him just by being there.
“Transport to the Mars Shipyards,” Dylan answered. “I’ve been reassigned there.”
“Well bully for you,” the corporal replied sarcastically. “Why don’t you do us all a favor and take all your fellow S-Ps with you when you go?” He extended his hand. “Identicard,” he demanded.
Dylan gazed at the open hand in front of him and imagined that the instructions ‘Request identicard as rudely as possible with one hand extended, palm facing upward, fingers together’ must have been printed in the Transportation personnel handbook. He pulled his card out of his sleeve pocket, but before he handed it over he looked the younger man dead in the eye and said, “You know, Corporal, you’re the second person who’s given me attitude tonight and I’m getting a little tired of it. I don’t know what you’re problem with the S-Ps is, but...”
“I’ll tell you what my problem with the S-Ps is, Sergeant,” the corporal interrupted. “I was all set to finally P-C-S off this station. I had my orders and everything and was celebrating at the enlisted club with my friends. Next thing I know I’m in the stockade charged with drunk and disorderly and my orders are rescinded, pending adjudication. I was out of this fucking brass factory and you fucking S-Ps busted me and wrote me up and went to the Staff Judge Advocate to press charges!”
“Oh, so it’s the S-Ps’ fault that you got into trouble for something you did wrong.”
Predictably, the corporal offered no response to that. He just stood there holding his hand out, waiting for Dylan to hand over his identicard. Dylan hesitated for another moment, but then finally did so, deciding once more that it would be best not to complicate things.
The corporal stepped away from the counter and slipped Dylan’s card into a terminal that looked a lot newer than the one the woman back at the Philadelphia Aerospaceport had used. Then he punched in some commands, waited for a moment, and eventually gave the card back to him. “Look at the red dots in the viewer and don’t blink,” he instructed.
Dylan complied, and a moment later the computer reported, “Duel retinal scan positive. Solfleet identification confirmed.”
“You’re on a flight out of here at oh-six-hundred, day after tomorrow,” the corporal told him. “And don’t...”
“The day after tomorrow?” Dylan asked, interrupting. “Don’t you have anything leaving tomorrow?”
“No, Sergeant, I don’t have anything leaving tomorrow,” the corporal answered in a very condescending tone of voice. “If I did have something leaving tomorrow, then I would have put you on it and told you that you were leaving tomorrow.”
“Lock up the smart-ass attitude, Corporal!” Dylan ordered. Funny. Admiral Hansen had had to snap at him for pretty much the same thing not al
l that long ago. Talk about karma. “I’m not one of the S-Ps who had to bust you because you screwed up and I don’t want to hear your bullshit!” Sometimes an NCO just had to put a person in their place in no uncertain terms.
The corporal glared laser beams at him, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth together for several long seconds before he finally spoke again. Fortunately for him he chose not to give voice to whatever insubordinate replies might have been running through his mind. Instead, all he said, and in a much less aggressive tone of voice, was, “I advise you, Sergeant, not to show up late for your flight because it will leave on time, with or without you.”
“Thank you, Corporal.”
“You’re welcome, Sergeant,” the corporal answered unenthusiastically but at least a little less indignantly. Then, almost as though his mouth had switched to auto-pilot and he couldn’t stop himself, he added, “Enjoy your trip.”
Good tidings were the last thing Dylan had expected from the corporal and hearing them took him by surprise. Perhaps he’d realized that he was wrong and was trying to make up for it. Dylan could respect that, so he replied, “Thank you. I will.”
“And get yourself a new identicard, soon as you can,” the corporal quickly added. “That one’s defective enough that my reader almost couldn’t read it.”
“Will do, Corporal. And from one N-C-O to another, try to keep your attitude in check. You’ve already gotten yourself in trouble once, and those black marks don’t go away quickly. You don’t want to bring any more problems down on yourself.”
“Yes, sir, Sergeant, sir.”
Dylan shook his head as he left the man to his doldrums, and he wondered as he left the Transportation office behind if anyone had ever retired from military service after spending their entire career as a lower-ranking enlisted man or at best a junior NCO, as that clerk appeared destined to do. Probably not, he concluded. The fleet likely wouldn’t hold onto anyone who couldn’t move up out of those ranks.
