by Glenn Smith
Chapter 46
Dylan opened his tired eyes, blinked several times to sharpen his focus, and then lifted his head from his pillow and checked the time. It was a few minutes before 1700 hours. Time to get up. He had just enough time to shave and shower and then go pick up the pizza before Doctor Royer was due to arrive at 1800. Of course, he could order the pizza over the comm and request that it be delivered at 1800, then take his time cleaning up and getting dressed, but he wanted to go out, at least for a little while, before he settled in for what was probably going to be a long evening of discussion and planning.
He threw his blankets off, rolled out of bed, and strolled into the bathroom.
* * *
Major Hansen’s most immediate hopes had been fulfilled. Firstly, some of the agents in the office were indeed coffee drinkers and had brewed pot after pot as needed all day. Whenever he’d wanted a refill it had been there waiting for him. Secondly, his review of all the archived security footage had not been in vain. He’d watched “Baxter” sneak aboard the Albion from three different angles now—four, if he counted the more distant angle that didn’t show any real details and therefore wasn’t going to be of any real help—and one of those angles had caught several seconds of pretty clear footage from almost directly ahead of him.
Hansen selected those several seconds from the archive and set the computer to play them back in a repeating loop until he stopped it. It did so, and he watched the loop over and over and over again, and then finally captured the single frame that he believed would be the best one for the computer to work with. He saved that frame as a separate image file and then he blew it up large enough to fill half of the monitor screen, which he then set to split-screen display. Finally, needing a break from the command board—he’d avoided voice commands up to this point, not wanting to risk being overheard—he switched to voice command, picked up his coffee mug, and sat back in the chair to relax for a little while.
“Computer.”
“Ready,” the terminal responded in the standard though not entirely unappealing feminine voice that they all came with from the manufacturer. Personally, he’d have preferred something a little more soothing.
“Call up the Solfleet personnel record of Sergeant Dylan Graves, Solfleet Security Police, current assignment: Mars Orbital Shipyards.”
“Requested record accessed,” the terminal told him. Then it repeated, “Ready.”
Yeah, he definitely would have preferred something more soothing. That standard voice was a little grating. “Analyze the subject of the security camera image displayed on the left and compare it with Dylan Graves’ photo of record. Question: Might they be the same person.”
“Subject of image and Dylan Graves are both human male. Subject of image and Dylan Graves are both Caucasian. Subject’s height appears to be identical to that of record in Dylan Graves’ file. Subject’s apparent weight appears to approximate that of record in Dylan Graves’ file. Subject’s hair color does not match that of record in Dylan Graves’ file. Subject’s eye color appears to be identical to that of record in Dylan Graves’...”
“Stop.” He had an idea. “Can you compare their eyes by retinal scan?”
“Security camera image is off insufficient resolution for retinal scan.”
Hansen sighed, disappointed, but then moved on quickly. After all, there was no point in dwelling on something that wasn’t helpful. “Percentage of probability that Dylan Graves and the man in the security camera image are one in the same person?” he inquired.
“Insufficient data.”
“What about...”
“Anomaly detected,” the terminal interrupted.
Anomaly? What kind of anomaly? “Identify anomaly,” he instructed.
“Unexplained dermal anomaly present on subject appearing in security camera image.”
“Skin anomaly?” Hansen asked. “What, like the guy has acne or something?”
“Negative.”
Hansen sighed. “That was a rhetorical question, computer” he told the terminal, which he realized as soon as the words escaped from his mouth was an exercise in futility. Then, getting back on track, he instructed the terminal, “Describe the anomaly.”
“Portions of subject’s facial skin lack expected levels of translucence and ambient light refraction and emission and dissipation of body heat.”
So some of the skin on his face wasn’t translucent enough, didn’t refract the area’s light correctly, and wasn’t releasing body heat. Obviously, it wasn’t real skin. But was it artificial skin of the kind that one might receive as part some kind of medical treatment, or was it something else entirely? “Possible explanation?” he asked.
“Skin may be low-grade, first-generation artificial dermal replacement.”
First-generation? That stuff hadn’t been used in decades. What were the chances that a doctor somewhere might still be using it? In the fleet, not very likely at all. There had to be some other explanation. “Might the subject be wearing artificial facial appliances intended to alter the apparent structure and appearance of his face?”
“Affirmative.”
“Pause inquiry.”
Hansen lifted his coffee mug to his lips only to find it empty—funny, he didn’t remember finishing it—then set it aside. Male Caucasian, same height, same approximate weight, same eye color. The hair was a different color, but if his suspicions were correct, that was just part of the elaborate disguise. Facial appliances and a wig... or hair coloring. A search of Sergeant Graves’ quarters was in order. The proper thing to do would be to pass that responsibility on to the SPs or C.I.D. and see to it that they conducted the search in strict accordance with the law as an official part of the ongoing investigation. But Graves likely had friends among them, and if those friends happened to be among the ones assigned to conduct the search, they might not try all that hard to find something. No, he decided. If he wanted to be sure the search got done right, then he was going to have to conduct it himself.
He still wanted it to be legally legitimate, though. If it wasn’t, then whatever evidence he might find, if he found any at all, wouldn’t be admissible in Graves’ court-martial, if it came to that. It would all be labeled ‘fruit of the poisonous tree’—a rules of evidence concept that went back more than two centuries. If Graves lived in civilian quarters, then a search warrant would be required. Fortunately, he didn’t. He lived in military quarters, and all military facilities, including assigned quarters, were subject to search at all times. All he needed was Graves’ commanding officer’s verbal authorization.
“Computer, identify Dylan Graves’ assigned quarters and display its location relative to Central Security Control.” Dylan’s quarters number popped up on the monitor over the relative part of the facility’s deck plans. Hansen committed the number to memory and visualized the route from CSC to get there, then told the terminal, “Switch to live security feed and show those quarters on the monitor.” A live image of the corridor outside Graves’ quarters instantly filled the monitor, and before Hansen could tell the computer to contact Security Chief Major Ross on the comm, Sergeant Graves exited his quarters and headed down the corridor.
Hansen checked his watch. 1740 hours. Graves was likely going out for dinner—maybe even for the evening, as this was the first of his two nights off. Now was the perfect opportunity to conduct a thorough search of his quarters. There was no time to contact Major Ross first, but Hansen decided that likely wouldn’t pose a problem. He’d get the security chief’s authorization later, after the fact, one major to another... if the search turned up anything.
He just wouldn’t specify when he got that authorization relative to when he conducted the search when he filed his report.
He logged off of the terminal and shut it down, then hurried out of Barrett’s office.
* * *
Doctor Royer had been looking forward to planning their withdrawal all day and hadn’t been able to sit in his quarters and wait for anoth
er moment. Once he’d left his quarters—finally being on his way to Mister Graves’ quarters had helped with the anxiety... a little—he’d tried to walk slowly, to take his time and not be in such a hurry, but it looked like he was still going to arrive a good ten to fifteen minutes earlier than Mister Graves was expecting him. He only hoped that the younger man would be ready for him when he got there, which, he realized when he spotted the right door just ahead, was going to be in about ten seconds. He didn’t know how much more sitting and waiting he could take.
He approached the door, reached up and tapped the buzzer, and then waited. And waited. After several long seconds he raised his hand toward the buzzer again, but before he could tap it a second time the door slid open to reveal Major Hansen standing there staring at him. Royer had known almost since the day Hansen arrived that he’d come to the yards and had done everything that he could to avoid crossing paths with him. Seeing the man standing right there in front of him, staring back at him, took him by surprise and left him momentarily speechless.
“Can I help you?” the major asked him. He was wearing civilian attire, Royer noted. Was he paying Mister Graves a social visit then?
“Uh... I uh... I’m looking for M... for Sergeant Graves,” he finally managed to articulate.
“Again?” the major asked him, looking him dead in the eye as though he suspected him of some wrongdoing. “You just spoke with him at breakfast this morning, did you not, Doctor?”
Royer drew a breath to answer, but hesitated when the tacit meaning behind the major’s words revealed itself in his mind. Hansen had seen them sitting together and talking at breakfast? In all that vast sea of personnel who had filled the dining facility, Hansen had picked them out. Obviously, he was watching them, perhaps even following them, or having them followed by others. He suspected of something. Or one of them, at least.
“Are you all right, Doctor?” the major inquired. “You look a little pale.”
“Uh... yes. Yes, I’m fine. Thank you. I uh... I just... I have something to add to our earlier conversation. I was hoping to catch the sergeant in his quarters.”
“I see,” Hansen replied, looking no less suspicious.
“Is... Is he here?”
“Of course he’s here,” the major answered as though the fact should have been obvious. “Do you think I’d be in here without him?” When Royer didn’t respond to that, he went on to explain, “We’re in the middle of an important conversation right now, however. Police business that can’t wait. You’ll have to come back later, Doctor.”
Doctor. That made three times the major had addressed him as ‘Doctor,’ despite the fact that he hadn’t introduced himself. Major Hansen knew who he was—presumably excluding his status as a time-traveler—even though he hadn’t been anywhere near the shipyards when Mister Graves saved his life. As a matter of fact, the major hadn’t arrived until more than two weeks later, and until this morning Royer hadn’t made any contact at all with Mister Graves since they got together for breakfast that morning after the C-I-D interviewed him. The major had definitely been doing some digging.
“Doctor?”
“What?” Royer asked. Then he recalled what the major had just told him—‘You’ll have to come back later’—and replied, “Oh. All right, sir, I will. Thank you.” And with that he turned and walked off, hurriedly, and he could have sworn that he felt Major Hansen’s eyes on his back until he finally heard the door close behind him.
What was going on? Why had Major Hansen felt a need to find out who he was, and what was he doing in Mister Graves’ quarters? He was obviously suspicious of him, or more likely of both of them. Was he interrogating the young agent at that very moment, right there in his own quarters? One other thought suddenly crossed his mind and filled his heart with dread enough that it made him gasp. God forbid, had the major discovered that Mister Graves wasn’t exactly who he claimed to be and shown up to arrest him?
He quickly rounded the corner into the first cross corridor he came to—the more distance he put between himself and Major Icarus Hansen as fast as possible, the better—and almost ran face-first into Mister Graves, who’d obviously gone out to pick up their pizza himself, as he was carrying it. “Mister Graves!” he said as soon as he’d recovered from the shock enough to speak, carefully guarding the volume of his voice. “Thank God!”
“What’s wrong, Doctor?” Dylan asked him with concern.
“I just came from your quarters,” Royer replied, obviously worked up about something. “Major Hansen was there, God knows why. He told me you were in there with him, but that was obviously a lie. Said the two of you were discussing important police business that couldn’t wait. I’m guessing you didn’t let him in before you went out for the pizza.”
“No, I didn’t,” Dylan confirmed. “He’s a security police officer,” he then reflected aloud, rolling the sudden change of circumstances over in his mind. “He wouldn’t have broken into my quarters without good reason. Or at least not without what he believed to be good reason.” He looked Doctor Royer in the eye. “He must be onto me, or at least suspect me of something.”
“You need to leave here, Mister Graves,” Royer concluded. “If he discovers that you’re not exactly who you claim to be, or has already discovered that...”
“Then he’ll have me arrested and confined.”
“Exactly,” Royer confirmed. “Go. Get away from here while you can. If there’s a way for you to complete your mission somewhere else, then do that. Then, if you get an opportunity you can come back for me. If you don’t...” He sighed and dropped his gaze to the deck. “Well, I’ve been here for more than a dozen years already. I suppose I can live out the rest of my life here if I have to.”
Dylan’s brow furrowed as he looked at the doctor. “The rest of your life?” he inquired. “Wait a second. You do still have your own recall device, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t,” the doctor confessed, still staring down at the deck. “I actually lost it some years back.”
“You lost it?” Dylan asked, hardly able to believe his ears.
“It was unavoidable, really. I had to hide it fast when the authorities came to my labs to seize my materials. I thought I knew right where I put it, but... I never found it again.” He lifted his gaze back to Dylan’s and continued, “That’s the real reason I’m still here, Mister Graves, I’m ashamed to say. If I could have, I would have returned home that very day, mission aborted, but I didn’t have that option.” He shrugged his shoulders. “So I continued my work, as I explained to you before. That’s why I wanted to sit down with you and plan our withdrawal. I was hoping to tag along when the time comes for you to return.”
“I told you before that I wouldn’t expect you to stay behind after I complete my mission,” Dylan reminded him. “I still don’t. If you need me to come back for you, then I’ll come back for you. That’s a promise, Doctor.”
“I appreciate that. In the meantime you have a mission to accomplish, and whatever that mission is, it’s important or the admiral and my sister wouldn’t have risked sending you back. You can’t afford to stick around here and risk being taken into custody.”
‘Whatever that mission is.’ Dylan wondered if, now that he was going to have to leave the shipyard, he should tell the doctor what his mission was. Might there come a time when he’d have to know what his mission was? When he’d need to know what to listen for on the news in order to prepare for their withdrawal? Maybe. It was certainly possible. Under the circumstances, he decided, that was enough. “There’s a rather long story behind it,” he began, “but essentially, my mission is to prevent the starcruiser Excalibur’s destruction late next month,” Dylan finally disclosed. “Admiral Hansen and your sister somehow got their hands on some kind of record that indicated the Albion led the attack that resulted in her destruction. That’s why I’m here at the Mars shipyards—to babysit the Albion and make sure it doesn’t go anywhere.”
“And that’s supposed
to change the future?”
“So they tell me.”
“Well... it’s obviously not safe for you here any longer.”
Dylan couldn’t disagree, much as he might have wanted to, so he considered the situation as logically as he could and came up with a hasty if not unreasonable tentative plan. “If I can’t stay here to babysit the Albion anymore, the next best thing is probably to go find the Excalibur herself and warn my... warn its captain what’s going to happen next month.”
“You intend to tell the captain you’re from the future?”
“If I have to, yes.”
“Hm. Well, that’ll be your call to make, of course,” Royer stated evenly, “but you have to get there first. If Major Hansen suspects you, and it’s pretty obvious at this point that he does, then he’s probably made arrangements to be alerted immediately if you try to leave the facility. My guess is you won’t be able to set foot on a military vessel without getting caught. And all the commercial transports are still being scanned and searched before they depart, including all the drop ships to the Martian surface.”
A drop ship to the Martian surface. That was the answer, Dylan realized as he looked at the doctor with thanks. “You’re right, Doctor,” he said. “Drop ships to Mars are being checked. I was on that detail for a while myself. Thing is, we had to search each one fast and hard and then move on to the next one because there are so damn many of them, and a high speed search equals a less than thorough search. If I can sneak aboard one of them and hide somewhere, in the cargo hold or maybe the engine compartment, then I might just make it out of the here. Once I’m down on Mars I can hire a private trader or somebody to take me out to the Caldanra sector.”
