Solfleet: Beyond the Call

by Glenn Smith

As soon as she was good and wet she yanked her washcloth down off the rack beside her, soaked it thoroughly, and then shot it with a squirt of liquisoap and lathered up.

  “So,” she said aloud as she washed. Somewhere along the way she’d gotten into the habit of talking to herself in the shower and had come to find that she did some of her most productive thinking that way. “What’s the plan?

  “First I’ll visit Ashley,” she started off, answering her own question. “Then I’ll go to the Personnel office and drag that sorry piece of... No,” she reconsidered. “Not alone.” It wasn’t that she feared getting hurt. On the contrary, she’d been well trained and had all the confidence in the world that she could handle herself against Al-Sharif if he tried to resist arrest. But she also knew that Commander Ansara would rip her a new one if she went up there to arrest him without any backup, especially after what had happened to Ashley, and that kind of trouble she did not need. “First I’ll contact Security Control and have them send a patrol to meet me there. But I’m making the arrest.”

  She stepped back under the water and rinsed off, then squirted a dab of shampoo into the palm of her hand, spread it over her scalp, and started working it in.

  “Then I’ll drag his ass back to the office, read him his rights, and convince him the only way he can help himself is by telling me everything he’s involved in,” she went on. Of course, if Al-Sharif elected not to talk, then she’d have to go hard at his contact. And in order to do that she’d first have to notify the local civilian authorities that her office had him in custody. They only had forty-eight hours maximum from the time they arrested him to do that anyway, but she couldn’t legally interrogate him without a civilian law enforcement officer present. Military law enforcement officers didn’t have that kind of exclusive jurisdiction over civilians, even those they arrested for committing crimes on military property.

  A stupid way to do things, in her opinion.

  She rinsed the shampoo from her hair and then turned in circles to rinse the runoff from her body as well. Then she tapped the water off and started the dryer, and as the half-dozen jets of warm air circulated around her, evaporating the water from her skin and hair while drawing the steam out of the air at the same time, she suddenly remembered the lone exception to that pesky ‘notify civilian authorities’ rule. If she could demonstrate to a prosecutor in the office of the staff judge advocate that his activities, whatever they might have been, somehow posed an immediate threat to the security of the United Earth Federation, then full jurisdiction over his prosecution and subsequent sentencing could be granted to the Solfleet Judicial Authority by executive order. Of course, if that happened, then the S.I.A. would immediately step in and take over the case, but at least the dirt bag would remain in military custody.

  She tapped off the dryer and stepped out of the shower, then pulled her towel down off of the rack, wrapped it around her still damp hair, and flipped it back, out of her face. Then she walked back into her bedroom and sat down at her dresser to apply her makeup.

  * * *

  A little more than an hour later she had eaten her breakfast, poured her second cup of coffee, gotten dressed while she drank it—she’d chosen a pearl-white button-down blouse and her dark gray pinstripe suit with the black accents—and was on her way to the medbay to see Ashley. But instead of wearing a nice pair of leather boots or dress shoes, she’d put on her soft black running shoes. She just had a feeling—a gut feeling that Al-Sharif was going to try to run, despite the fact that there wouldn’t be any possible way for him to escape from the shipyards. A fact the civilian suspect had discovered the hard way.

  She went straight to Ashley’s room without bothering to check in at the nurse’s desk. If the duty nurse saw her, then the duty nurse would sign her in. The nurses all knew her by now, so whichever one of them happened to be on duty would know who she was there to visit. And if he or she didn’t see her, no harm done.

  She opened the door slowly and peeked inside. Ashley appeared to be sound asleep. Of course she was sound asleep, Jennifer told herself as she stepped in and quietly closed the door behind her. It was early—barely after seven o’clock in the morning, if it even was seven o’clock yet. She grabbed the doctor’s chair out of the corner by the door and rolled it over to the side of the bed while she stared at Ashley’s blankets to make sure they were rising and falling—to make sure she was breathing, even though the patient status display above her bed clearing indicated that she was. She was breathing, her heart was beating strong and regular, and her brain activity, though still slightly erratic, fell well within the ‘normal’ range.

  Questioning the nurses—actually, if she was being honest with herself, she’d interrogated them more than questioned them, at least in one or two cases. At any rate, by questioning them, incessantly, she had learned a lot about those displays and what they indicated.

  She gazed at her friend as she sat down—not just her friend, but her partner as well—said a quick, quiet prayer, and then reached out and gently brushed a few stray strands of hair out of her swollen eyes. The swelling looked as though it had gone down since yesterday, at least a little bit, but both eyes were still pretty badly swollen and discolored and she wondered why the doctors hadn’t bandaged them. Then again, Doctor Zapala had explained that the discoloration was the result of some sort of chemical burn. Maybe they couldn’t bandage them. Maybe they needed to remain exposed to the air for some reason.

  The relatively smaller, more superficial PPG burns on her forehead and ears appeared to be well on their way to healing, but the more severely burned areas around her face looked as though they were going to need more work in order to heal without scarring. Of course, Jennifer was a law enforcement agent, not a doctor, so what did she know? The things doctors could do these days—the seeming miracles they could perform... Her hands were still fully wrapped in what appeared to be fresh bandages. The nurses must have changed them at some point during the night. Jennifer hadn’t seen Ashley’s hands herself, nor did she really want to if they really looked as bad as she’d heard, and from what she’d been told it was going to take one of those miracles for her to regain full use of them again.

  “Good morning, Ashley,” she finally began, trying to speak as softly and as soothingly as she could. Ashley hadn’t shown any signs of waking up yet, but that didn’t matter. Jennifer felt content to just sit and talk to her anyway. “I hope you’re feeling better today. It’s Wednesday morning, around seven or so. I know it’s early and I don’t mean to wake you up, but some people have to go to work today.” She’d added that last part with a smile, but it didn’t last long. She’d only meant to be funny, to lift Ashley’s spirits a little bit, but now that she’d said it she wished she hadn’t, fearing that it might have come across more like criticism than a joke. “I’m so sorry about what happened. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to back you up.”

  Ashley made a sound. Just a low moan, but a sound nonetheless.

  “Ashley?” Jennifer prompted her as she scooted forward on the chair and leaned in a little closer, suddenly alert for the slightest sign of consciousness.

  “Hey,” Ashley whispered breathily.

  “Oh my God, you’re awake this early,” Jennifer said, smiling. “How do you feel? Do you need anything?”

  Ashley actually grinned. “I don’ feel thing,” she answered weakly. “Wutchya doin’?”

  Of course. They’d probably pumped her full of painkillers. She was probably higher than a kite—higher than the shipyards were in Mars’ orbit. “I’m just on my way to work, but I wanted to come see you first.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. I also wanted to tell you we got the guy who hurt you, and I’m going to grab a couple S-P’s and arrest Al-Sharif first thing this morning.”

  Ashley grinned again. “Go’ ‘way from yah, huh?”

  “Yeah, I’m afraid so,” Jennifer freely admitted, not at all offended by Ashley’s teasing. Very pleased, in fac
t, that Ashley felt good enough to tease her. “He slipped out of the club while the Martian war machine was doing its thing. I ran after him, but he shook me. Is there anything I can do for you before I go? Do you need anything?”

  “Sleep,” she whispered quietly, almost unintelligibly. And then, just like that, she drifted off into unconsciousness again.

  “That’s all right, Ash,” Jennifer told her. “You go ahead and get all the sleep you need. Don’t you worry about a thing.” She stood up. “I’ll take care of everything.” She leaned down and gently kissed her on an unburned area of her forehead, then left her to rest.

  Chapter 14

  Dylan laid a hand over his mouth as he yawned for what had to be about the tenth time in as many minutes, drawing a curious but brief look from the passenger seated next to him, then closed his tired eyes, leaned forward in his seat, and slowly rolled his head around in circles, first one way and then the other, cracking and stretching the muscles in his stiff neck. He was tired, really tired, and he had a headache, and he knew that he was damn lucky to have made it to the terminal in time to catch his flight. The aerobridge doors had closed on time and the transport had departed at precisely 0600 hours, just as the Transportation clerk had said it would, and he’d literally come to within seconds of missing it.

  It would have been his own fault, of course, if he had missed it. After all, he was the one who’d offered to walk Olivia back to her quarters after the play when he should have just gone straight back to his own quarters and gone to sleep. He was the one who had then let her lure him inside her quarters. And he was the one who’d failed to resist her feminine charms.

  He was the one who’d been a jerk and cheated on Beth.

  But what a night he’d had with Olivia. First they’d had some pretty spirited sex on her couch, during which Olivia had shown quite a lot of... enthusiasm. Then they’d gone into her bedroom to lie down and relax, said relaxation having then begun with them having sex again. After that, once Olivia had finally convinced him to spend the rest of the night with her—as if he’d really needed much convincing at that point—they’d melted into each others’ arms and had ended up talking into the wee hours of the morning. And then they’d capped off their long day together by making love again, though in a much more tender and loving manner, before they finally went to sleep.

  It had been one hell of a night—one that he wouldn’t soon forget—and barely two hours after he’d drifted off to sleep he’d had to wake up again. He’d had to take a shower, get dressed, say goodbye to Olivia—that in the form of a long, deep kiss that she’d been reluctant to release him from—and then rush back to his guest quarters several decks away and pack his things. Then he’d had to sign out at the Billeting office, grab a lightning fast breakfast somewhere, and then hurry to the departure terminal, all before 0545 hours, or the aerobridge doors would have closed on him and he’d have been out of luck.

  Now, little more than an hour out, he was beginning to pay the price. He felt exhausted from the lack of sleep and his muscles were already starting to tighten up on him. As a matter of fact, his lower back and the backs of his legs had gone beyond tightening up and were starting to cramp, and his headache was beginning to grow worse.

  But perhaps worst of all, however, the terrible guilt he was feeling over having slept with another woman behind Beth’s back felt as though it were tearing his heart out.

  Dylan yawned again and shook his head, which only made it pound that much harder for several seconds after he stopped. Yes. Unintended though his behavior last night might have been, there was no excuse for it. He’d cheated on Beth. No amount of rationalization on his part could change that. But at the same time, as bad as he felt about what he had done, he also knew there was nothing he could do to change it, so there was no point in beating himself up over it, either. The best thing he could do now would be to forget about it and go on with his mission. What was done was done. The long voyage to Mars was going to afford him plenty of time to catch up on his sleep and review the information on his handcomp, and he intended to set all distractions aside and do both. Starting with sleep.

  He yawned again as he stretched his cramping muscles once more as best he could in the small space between him and the seat in front of him, then leaned back in his seat and relaxed, and started thinking about the period of history in which he found himself.

  March, 2168. Earth and her colonies had been at war with the Veshtonn Empire for years. The Federation government had finally convinced the enemy that an immediate ceasefire was truly in the interests of both their peoples. First contact with the Tor’Kana Coalition was still about eight months away and Solfleet stood on the precipice of total defeat. In fact, conventional wisdom in Dylan’s own time stated that had the Veshtonn known just how devastated Earth’s fleet really was, they never would have agreed to the ceasefire in the first place.

  Because so many ships of the line had been destroyed and so many of those that remained had been forced into battle again and again when they were barely even spaceworthy anymore, a number of the fleet’s older and slower vessels, most of which had already been decommissioned and sat inactive for years, had been refurbished and brought back into service to take care of the more routine transportation needs, such as interplanetary flights within the solar system and rear echelon supply runs. This, of course, included the vessel that Dylan currently found himself on. According to its dedication plaque it was almost thirty-eight years old, and the pamphlet in the seat pocket in front of him indicated that its best speed only approached about one one-hundredth the speed of light. With Earth and Mars currently orbiting on opposing sides of the sun, almost directly opposite one another in fact, that meant the voyage between the two planets was going to take over thirty-five hours at maximum safe cruising speed.

  Funny. He and Benny had flown from Mandela Station out to the Trident Jumpstation in Neptune’s orbit, roughly twenty-five times the distance, in less than a third that amount of time. What a difference twenty-two years made. If only he could have brought the H.G. Wells back in time with him somehow. At half light speed they could have made the trip to Mars in less than thirty-five minutes rather than in so many hours.

  The H.G. Wells, he ruminated with a grin. How appropriate to his mission its name had been. So appropriate in fact, now that he thought about it, that he started wondering if maybe it had been renamed specifically for his mission. Then he decided that it probably hadn’t been—that its name had more than likely just been a coincidence. After all, why would Admiral Hansen and the S.I.A. go through so much trouble to keep the Portal’s existence quiet for all those years and then name the starskiff assigned to ferry him to Window World after the man who’d written ‘The Time Machine’ of all people? It wouldn’t have made any sense.

  Dylan decided he was too tired to care one way or the other. He loosened his seatbelt to give himself a little more freedom of movement, then tilted his seat farther back and extended his footrest. He drew a deep breath and yawned one more time, then pressed the button to inflate his pillow and closed his eyes.

  “First time away from Earth, Sergeant?” he heard someone ask in a deep baritone voice with a slight Hispanic accent. A few seconds of relative quiet followed, but then the voice asked, “Sergeant?”

  Sergeant. The guy had said ‘Sergeant.’ Twice. Was he actually talking to him? If so, was he blind or just incredibly rude? Couldn’t the guy see he was trying to get some sleep?

  “Sergeant?” the voice repeated once more.

  Dylan sighed. The guy was obviously talking to him. If he weren’t, someone else would have answered him by now. He lifted his head up off the pillow and looked to see who the guy was, fully intending to give him a piece of his mind and not giving a damn about what the other passengers around them might think. Then he spotted the guilty party. Across the aisle and one row ahead, a friendly looking, fairly light-skinned black gentleman with close-cropped black hair slightly graying at the temples ha
d turned in his seat and was looking right at him.

  “Sorry to bother you, Sergeant,” the man said with a friendly smile. He was dressed in a Solfleet Navy uniform and, more importantly, was wearing lieutenant commander’s diamonds on his collar.

  So much for giving the man a piece of his mind.

  Rank didn’t intimidate Dylan. It never had. But he was portraying someone else now, and that someone else couldn’t afford to draw any undue attention to himself, so he had to play the part of a good little NCO and not call the man out for his complete lack of consideration. “Were you speaking to me, sir?” he asked the officer instead.

  “Yes, I was,” the commander answered.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “First I asked you if this was your first time away from Earth, and then I apologized for bothering you.”

  “You’re not bothering me, sir,” Dylan lied. After all, the guy had apologized. That had to be worth something. “And no, sir, it’s not my first time away from Earth.”

  “Of course it isn’t,” the commander said. “You’re a Solfleet Security Police sergeant and there isn’t an N-C-O in your career field anywhere in the fleet who hasn’t been away from Earth longer than they’ve been there. In any career field for that matter these days. But you looked like you could use a little friendly conversation, so...” He twisted farther around and offered his hand. “Lieutenant Commander Emilio Suarez.”

  Dylan raised his seat back and then reached across the aisle, grasped the officer’s hand, and gave it a firm shake. If he already knew that Dylan had to have been away from the Earth before, then why had he asked? Seemed pretty stupid in Dylan’s opinion. Not that he’d tell the commander that. “Sergeant Dylan Graves,” he replied. “Nice to meet you, sir, and you’re right. I could use a little friendly conversation.” Not nearly as much as he could use some sleep.

  “I think we all could, now that we’ve finally earned a respite from the damn war.” The commander released his hand and then tapped his seat’s pivot release and spun his chair around to face him directly. A look of realization crossed his features. “But you weren’t thinking about the war, were you, Sergeant.”