by Jacob Gowans
“Not that I know of,” Thomas laughed and took a long swig of his hot chocolate. “So what have we got so far on the cruiser caper?”
24. Plans
May 2, 2086
“REALLY? SHE WANTS PURPLE FLOWERS?” Byron asked Albert. He sat in his office talking to his son over video conference, taking notes on the young couple’s wedding plans. Since Emily wasn’t alive to help, Byron was determined to do as good a job as two parents would. He’d even gone so far as to order wedding catalogs to help him understand what it meant to plan a wedding.
“Yeah, she’s got it all listed right here.” On screen, Albert tapped his holo-tablet. “She’s very organized.”
“I do not want to intrude on your plans, but . . . purple flowers?” he asked again. “I have never seen any purple flowers in these catalogs, have you?”
Albert laughed hard. Byron joined him. “You’ve been reading up, huh, Dad? Well, remember, her wedding colors are purple and white.”
“Wedding colors, huh?” Byron repeated. He flipped to the glossary of one his books. Wedding color(s): A color or series of colors around which the wedding decorations, flowers, and ceremonial clothing is arranged. “Yep, wedding colors.”
“Oh, come on!” Albert said when he saw his dad look up the term. “You act like you’ve never planned a wedding!”
“I never have.”
“Yeah, well, at some point you must have done something . . .”
“I like planning parties as much as I like bowling. And my best bowling score—”
“Is ninety.” Albert rolled his eyes. “Great joke five years ago. But Marie and I aren’t getting married on a whim—”
“It was not on a whim. Emily and I—we just saw no need to go through all these . . . preparations.”
“It was a whim,” Albert said, still chuckling.
Byron let the argument slide. “So where am I going to find purple flowers?”
“Marie said you could order them from the floral shop down the street from the history museum.”
“Do they handle large orders like that?”
“Oh yeah. All the time.”
“Then I will look into it,” Byron told his son.
“Thanks. Do you have anything new on the other thing?” Albert’s tone implied that he was referring to Byron’s secret investigation into a possible mole in the Alpha hierarchy.
“Nothing. I checked transmission records of everyone. I saw no suspicious records. No unusual expenditures or income. We have no record of anyone except aircraft engineers visiting that hangar where the stealth cruiser was kept. Whoever did this has been very careful.”
“No one with ties to the CAG?”
“Honestly, Albert, I have the closest ties to CAG of anyone in Psion Command. However, I have no plans of giving up. Rest easy on that.”
“And no word on Sammy, right?”
Byron folded his arms across his chest. “You already asked me that. Do you really think I would forget to tell you if I heard something?”
Albert rolled his eyes. “I know, I know. Thanks for the chat. I got to go.”
“I am excited for your wedding, son. You know that, right?”
“I know, Dad, really. But I’ve still—”
“Got to go. Talk to you soon.”
Albert’s face disappeared as the screen on Byron’s wall went blank. The commander leaned back in his chair and enjoyed the moment of being able to help his son with wedding plans. It was true, he had not gone through the same process with his wife because of the hurried nature of their wedding.
His screen flashed again. At first he thought his son had forgotten something, but it was not Albert. It was Victor. He looked at the clock and realized it was almost midnight.
What could he want? “Accept.”
“Walter,” Wrobel said right away. His face appeared on the screen, looking more tired and drawn than Byron had seen him in quite some time.
“Victor, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I need a favor, Walter. I’m absolutely swamped.”
“You look swamped,” Byron said with a gentle smile.
Wrobel took the joke in stride with a friendly smile of his own. “You haven’t lost your charm.” His face turned serious again. “Have you read through the latest briefing for the moon launch?”
Due to the lateness of the hour, Byron had to take a moment to pick his brain. “Sent by you two days ago?”
Wrobel nodded. “General Wu didn’t like it. He wants two squadrons at the launch. Along with three dozen Elite.”
“And you would like my help . . .” Byron finished.
“My plate is full just working with the Elite. Plus, I’ve got two upcoming Panels to organize for your Betas.”
“My son is getting married in a month, not to mention I run this entire complex,” he said with an implying tone of voice. “Are any of the other commanders able to pick up some slack?”
“Believe me, Walter, I’ve checked. I really need your help on this.”
Byron suppressed a small sigh. He knew that he was going to say yes, and decided to do so just to have the conversation finished. At least this was a very short-term project.
“Okay, send me the info.”
Wrobel looked as if a huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders, and his boyish charming smile returned. “Much thanks. I’m sending you a file with everything you’ll need.”
“I look forward to it,” Byron responded with his best not-excited smile.
“Let me know if you have questions.”
“Will do, Victor.”
Commander Wrobel’s face disappeared, and Byron downloaded the file his friend had just sent. A strange feeling passed over him as he looked at the file waiting to be opened, perhaps he should have thought twice before accepting Victor’s request. He’d felt similar promptings before, and usually listened to them. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour, or maybe just loyalty to his friend, but he opened the file and went over the maps and mission data Victor had sent.
Dear Moon Launch . . . how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways, Byron mused to himself.
The Alphas had nothing to do with the upcoming launch, code-named Artemis, except to serve as a precautionary security measure against an attack. Byron remembered ten years ago when they’d gone through a similar hullabaloo over the first moon launch, Pioneer. The Pioneer had carried the seeds of the first moon station. Over the last decade, astronauts assembled and tested it meticulously to ensure its safety for living.
Apparently the Pioneer was a success, because the upcoming Artemis shuttle would carry even more cargo and two hundred fifty passengers to the moon. The first moon settlers. The moon colony, the Pioneer and Artemis launches, all of it was top secret until the big announcement the day before liftoff. Rumors had been out there for many months, but so far the secret had stayed well-kept. According to General Wu, special media invitations had been extended to cover the event, and its announcement would happen only hours before the Artemis shuttle took off.
The Alphas and Elite would be nothing more than babysitters with front row seats to the launch. After re-reading the brief and looking through all the squadron schedules, he sent emails to two squad leaders telling them he’d assigned them for the task, and that they were to meet to discuss specific assignments. All of that took about an hour.
A glance at his clock told him it was time to retire. He stretched as he got up from his desk and felt his knees groan. Just as he was about to turn out the lights, something stopped him. It was another call.
“My goodness,” he grumbled. “Who is calling now?”
His screen showed an unidentified number incapable of video feed.
Tango squadron.
It had only been two days since their last check-in, and another wasn’t scheduled for another five days. Risking too many calls was dangerous—this unexpected contact must be important.
He accepted the call and heard screaming in the background.<
br />
“Commander! Commander! Can you hear me?”
“Hello?” His eyes went wide as he gripped the edge of his desk. “I hear you. Are you all right?”
“Commander, this is Shamila. You’re not going to believe this!” the voice shouted. The connection was poor and there was the occasional break up with static, but Byron realized the screaming was celebratory. “You’re simply not going to believe it!”
“Well, what is it?” Byron asked. He felt his own excitement climbing. “Did you find him?”
“Just listen.”
After those two words came a perfect feed of a news broadcast from Los Angeles. Byron sank down into his chair as he listened, not knowing how Sammy had done it, but absolutely certain those words were meant for him.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Shamila said, “somebody’s trying to tell you something. Don’t you agree?”
Byron tried to laugh, but emotion choked him. He gripped his desk hard as a silent prayer escaped his lips. “Thank you, God. This is a miracle.”
“Are you there, sir?”
“Yes.”
“What are our orders?” Shamila asked.
“Get to the coast. I will clear everything with Wu and meet you there ASAP. Be ready for my arrival.”
The joyful shouting continued over the com link. Byron clapped alone in his office. “Good work. Tell your whole squadron that.”
“Yes, sir,” Shamila said through the static, “We’ll see you, sir!”
The line went dead. Byron stood back up, rubbing the last of the sleep out of his eyes. After getting a long drink of water, he sat back at his desk and put through a call to General Wu on urgent status. Byron thought about what he would say. He had a lot of explaining to do.
25. Doug
May 2, 2086
THE QUEEN DROVE HER MOTORCYCLE back into Wichita following the GPS coordinates to the last place Sammy and his traveling companion had been seen on satellite. Downtown Wichita. A ghost city. The trail had stopped here and no matter how hard she searched, she could come up with no sign that they’d left town. Unfortunately, she had no evidence that they’d stayed, either.
Come out, come out, wherever you are, Sammy.
She’d been here seven times in the last month. Each time, she grew more moody and restless. All she wanted was something to take her frustrations out on. Driving slowly on her bike, she rode through downtown, passing building after building. As she passed them, she aimed her infrared thermometer at the windows. All of them were the same: seventy-one degrees, virtually the same temperature as outside.
Something is going on here. She brought the bike to a stop and stared around the block. On her left was an old building that looked like a castle. On her right was a tall office building. A block away was a giant, round convention center. She revved the engine and shot recklessly toward it, pointing the device into these windows as well. Then something caught her eye.
One of the doors moved just slightly, as though she had barely missed someone going inside. She wasn’t even certain it hadn’t been a trick of the light, but checking it out seemed better than driving around the city. She pulled the bike to the curb and hopped off, jogging up to the door.
There was a scent in the air. Then she spotted the source on the ground. A cigarette butt, hastily snuffed and kicked, but not well enough.
The interior of the building was only dimly illuminated by the natural sunlight streaming in from the large street-side windows, and opened up to a large foyer with yellowed signs pointing visitors to different halls, theaters, and an adjacent hotel. A thick layer of dust covered the faded carpets. Footprints ran through them. Fresh ones.
“Sammy?” she called out as she examined where the prints led. “Don’t you know that smoking can kill you?”
The Queen stalked after her unknown prey, flashlight in hand. The tracks led around the circular building and into a giant exhibition hall. Inside, it was completely dark. The prey runs blindly. The thought made her smile. She put away the flashlight and retrieved a gun with a mounted light.
The tracks cut straight across the hall. She hurried onward. The air was so still that the smell of sweat mingled with nicotine and tar hung in the air. A door in the back took her into an adjacent hallway. This one had hundreds of chairs facing a stage. She kept her light trained on the floor several paces ahead of her, shining it upward every ten steps to see if her prey was in sight.
The steps went across the room, around all the chairs, and toward another door. She set her sights on it, but something told her to stop.
Either she heard it or felt it. Sometimes her intuitions were basically the same, but she sensed the faintest movement near her, behind a row of chairs. To a mind trained as well as hers, even the smallest of movements was too much.
The boy had tried to lay a trap. He had retraced his steps through the dust, and hidden like a cornered cowardly snake.
No snake was fast enough to bite her.
She whipped her body around just in time to see a tall, middle-aged man rushing at her as fast as stealth would allow with a large wooden chair raised high above him. He brought the chair down at her head, but she deftly maneuvered away and kicked him in the stomach. The chair slipped from his hands, crashing to the carpet. The man doubled over, and she sent an equally vicious kick to his face.
SNAP!
Blood gushed from his nose as his head jerked back sending him into the air and landing hard on his back. The Queen pressed her foot down his throat, closing off his windpipe. The man’s large hands wrapped around her foot and tried to push and pull it off as his face grew redder.
“Your efforts are a waste. You know it. I know it.”
Her words had no effect on him.
“What’s your name?” she asked, relieving his windpipe of just enough pressure to allow him to speak.
The man choked out several colorful words, none of which could possibly be his name. She pulled a tube from her belt and withdrew a needle from it. The man saw it and shook violently.
“Futile,” she said as she injected its contents into his shoulder.
A small burst of joy erupted in her mind, accompanied with a slow sigh of relief.
Today is going to be a wonderful day . . .
“Hello.”
Twenty minutes later, the man opened his eyes and looked directly into the Queen’s. She saw his pupils dilate from fear-induced adrenaline.
“I gave you a small paralyzing agent so I could undress you without trouble. Do you understand?”
The man gasped sharply, stammering all over himself. Slowly he realized he was bound like a hog, wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle, and wrists to ankles. She’d dragged him near the hall door and propped it open so that the light from windows could illuminate their pleasant scene.
“If you are wondering why it’s cold, it’s because you’re naked.” The Queen held up the man’s wallet and he looked at it. “Is your name Richard Berkeley?” she asked, holding up his driver’s license.
“Yes!” he cried. “Please, I don’t understand what’s going on!”
Lying.
“And you live in Papillion, Nebraska?”
He nodded and licked his lips.
Lying again.
The Queen noted his tells. No training in lying. He will be easy.
“I found your little pill inside there, too. And since you’re not on birth control, I’m guessing it’s a suicide pill. That, along with the fake ID of Richard Berkeley, tells me that you are a very naughty boy. Part of some silly anti-CAG terrorist group maybe?”
The man made no sign for or against it.
“I sure hope so. We had lots of fun with those resistance fighters from a decade back.” She fished around in her bag and finally pulled out a small device about the same size as the metronome her mom used to put on top of the piano when she was younger. She held it up so the man could see it. “Do you know what this is?”
The man nodded again.
“Good
. Then why don’t you tell me your real name.”
“You know I won’t.”
“Why?” the Queen asked. “Is it nobility or stupidity? I already have a sample leaking out of your nose!” she screamed, smearing his blood over his face roughly.
His nasal bones crunched with her hand’s pressure, making him pale and groan from the pain.
“It will take about an hour to search the database for your record. Know what I’ll do during the time I’m waiting for your name to come up? I’ll hurt you. And then I’ll have your name, and you’ll be no better off than before.”
The man’s face was defiant. “Do it the hard way.”
His screams went on for seventy-five minutes. Despite his pain, the Queen knew he wasn’t broken. It didn’t worry her, she hadn’t played the trump card yet. When her device started beeping, she picked it up and read the display to him.
Doug Corri
With the name came all the information she could want to know. She removed her blunted instrument from the sole of his foot, and sat down on the floor near his head.
“So, your name’s not Richard. You’re not from Papillion. And I’m guessing you don’t like long walks on the beach. Right, Doug?”
Doug’s tear and blood soaked face jerked in her direction.
“I found this in your wallet,” she said, brandishing a picture of his family and then dropping it on his bare chest. He raised his head just high enough to see himself standing next to his red-haired wife and three red-haired daughters all wearing Los Angeles Dodgers shirts and sitting perfectly arranged for a family portrait. “I’m betting this is real.”
For the first time since he had woken naked, the Queen noted, Doug looked genuinely terrified. He sputtered a little, spraying flecks of blood, spit, and tears, but she quieted him with her own words.
“We’ve had some fun. You held out while I gave you a real strong dose of pain. But now that part is over, Doug.” As she said this, she stroked his hair lovingly, the way her father did for her when she was sick. “I don’t care about your family. They aren’t involved. In truth, I didn’t come here for you or your little band of Merry Men, either. But now that I’ve found them, I’m going to look for them. I’m being honest because there’s no use in lying to you. You’re already dead, and we both know that.”
