by Cheryl Angst
“Indirectly.”
“Still--”
Nate marveled at how the in-fighting and politicking never stopped. His smile broadened with the ease at which he deflected attention away from his own activities toward other, more scandalous topics. He left his fellow ministers to their conversation and propelled his bulk through the outer doors of his office.
Not one for flowery speeches or strutting in front of the news networks, Nate preferred to let his track record speak for his performance. Famous or infamous, depending on which party was doing the campaigning, Nate was known across the globe as the man who got results.
He ran his department the way he used to run his ship, with firm direction, strong leadership and an unmistakable chain of command. He pulled open the door to his office suite and was greeted by his harried executive assistant, Bob Jenkins. Bob peered at him from behind his computer screen.
“You have a level three coded message, sir.”
“When did it arrive?”
“About five minutes ago. It’s flagged priority RED.”
“Hold all my calls.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * * *
The coffee sat cold and forgotten on his desk. Even the blinking light on his message console failed to register. Nate focused on the words burning through his screen.
RAPTORS EYEING EARTH.
FIRESTORM SIGNALLING THE WAY.
Nate’s lunch congealed into a cold ball in his stomach as he wiped his palms on his trousers. Priority RED: Read, Evaluate, Destroy. Nate called up the details of the original transmission and verified the communication as legitimate. Not only had the message originated on the avian homeworld, but someone sent it from the office of their intelligence service. Nate frowned. Verifying its authenticity made his job a million times more challenging. He had a credible threat to humanity on his hands.
Or did he?
Maybe the sender simply wanted him to know the avians were spying on Earth. Nate chewed on the inside of his cheek. But that wasn’t news, and why reference raptors--the avian fighting craft? Why not say, “We’re watching you,” or something similar?
He shook off the mental image of Earth superimposed with a set of crosshairs as he continued to puzzle out the message.
Nate was only vaguely familiar with the climatic conditions on the various avian settlements, but he was pretty sure none of the colonies experienced firestorms. He toggled the communications panel on his desk.
“Jenkins.”
“Yes, sir?” Jenkins’ voice squeaked though the speaker.
“Does the word ‘firestorm’ spark any synapses for you?”
“Not offhand, no, sir.” Jenkins paused. “Wait... I think I recall...” The sound of fingers tapping on a console filled the silence. “Yes, sir. I found it.”
“Yes?”
“The Firestorm, sir. It’s a ship. One of the newer United Earth Space Force warships. Commissioned eight years ago, launched five years later, mostly running anti-smuggling operations among the colonies, captained by--”
“That’s enough, thank you.” Nate closed the communications channel as his mind raced to catch up to his gut. If the message were referring to the Firestorm, then the vessel was either a target or, worse yet, one of the crew was working with the avians. The possibility of an avian disguising himself as a human and getting away with the charade in the close confines of a ship was infinitesimal. Someone in the UESF was a traitor.
That notion wouldn’t sit well among the fleet captains at HQ. He’d need hard evidence to convince them one of their own was plotting treason.
Whoever sent the message had to understand a warning would be insufficient. There must be some clue, something to tell Nate how to contact him.
Understanding exploded in the front of his brain as the double meaning behind the message became clear. Brilliant.
“Eyeing Earth” meant the avian could see Earth’s sun from the meeting location, and Cerces III was the only avian colony that met the criterion.
Now Nate had to figure out how to find the avian once the human operative arrived.
Of course.
The avian agent was a master at hiding information in plain sight. He expected the UESF to send the Firestorm to Cerces III.
But, Nate wondered, would that be wise given the possibility of a traitor among the crew?
Unless...
Perhaps he was giving the sender too much credit. Maybe the message meant the agent thought someone on the Firestorm planned to defect. Nate wanted to rationalize treason out of the equation, but he wasn’t one for altering reality for anyone’s gentler sensibilities--even his own. He’d have to find a way to keep close tabs on the warship.
His primary objective remained convincing Fleet Captain Banks to authorize the insertion of an operative among the crew and order the Firestorm to make an illegal foray into avian territory. Not a problem, but he wanted to ensure the agent was someone of his choosing--just to be safe.
* * * *
Nate drummed his fingers on his thigh as he waited for Jenkins to finish compiling the list of names. Without revealing the nature of the task, he’d managed to generate an inventory of qualifications necessary for the mission and given Jenkins the unenviable job of finding suitable candidates from the private sector databases.
Too distracted to focus on replying to the messages piling up in his inbox, Nate flipped through the journals and magazines piled on the low table in front of the over-stuffed chair by his office window. His mind running all manner of worst-case scenarios, Nate didn’t pay attention to the words or images as his stubby fingers turned the pages. That is, until an article in the University of Western North America’s quarterly journal, Ivory Tower, caught his eye.
Avian Mannerisms: Reading Emotion in Alien Body Language was an insightful treatise examining the possibility of using gestures and posture to help interpret avian motives and actions. Nate flipped to the periodical’s table of contents and was stunned when he recognized the author’s name.
He stared at the page as though to look away would change the words, and walked over to his desk to toggle the communications panel. “Jenkins, stop your search and book me a spot on the next shuttle bound for Vancouver.”
A short silence greeted Nate’s command. Expecting and dreading a question--he’d fired his previous assistant due to his overactive urge to clarify things--Nate was pleased to hear Jenkins reply.
“Yes, sir. Would you like me to book executive class or common?”
“Executive is preferable, but I need to be on the next shuttle, so if all that’s left is common, I’ll take it. The flight is only an hour long.” He whistled as he packed his belongings.
* * * *
Nate settled his bulk into a leather seat in the executive class section of the shuttle. He reclined his chair, pulled out his computer, and began to type. He needed to frame his approach to the upcoming meeting carefully. He sipped his coffee as he looked over the outline of his plan. The fleet captain’s speedy agreement to the proposed mission had come as a pleasant surprise. He chuckled. Banks’ career depended on the peace process too.
Nate was happy with the preparations they’d worked out via video conference during his ride to the shuttle terminal, but part of him still wondered if it was wise to be sending the Firestorm into avian space. If a member of the crew wanted to sabotage the peace accord then they were providing him with the opportunity to do a lot of damage. Yet the message specified the Firestorm as the vessel being watched for.
He sighed as he wrestled with how much information to divulge to his chosen operative. Nate chose to work under the assumption that the man would agree to the mission, but he was wavering on sharing certain specifics. An informed operative was better able to make decisions in stressful situations, but one paralyzed by fear for his safety wouldn’t be of much use. Where did he draw the line between deserve to know and need to know?
As the shuttle touched down in Vancouver he decided the fewer things
his operative would have to worry about the better. It wasn’t like the agent was being asked to organize a military coup.
Chapter 3
John Thompson sighed as he closed yet another essay that regurgitated his lectures. Third year intergalactic studies students should have been able to come up with better thinking than this. He groaned as he read a paragraph outlining the same causes of the avian conflict as the previous twelve papers. He supposed it proved they listened. John decided he needed a respite from grading assignments. He grabbed his jacket and computer, took the stairs two at a time, and let his feet guide him along the campus trails.
John followed his usual route around the tiny peninsula that marked the entrance to Burrard Inlet. He breathed in the salt air, allowing the frustrations to melt away. His professorship at the University of Western North America generated envy among his fellow scholars, but for John, it was merely something to do to pass the time. He tilted his head back to take in the towering cedars. Whoever had thought to build a university on world famous park land was a genius in John’s books. Stanley Park--the jewel of Vancouver--had been sold to the university to help offset massive debt brought about by the global economic disaster of 2097.
Completed in 2105, the UWNA was a seamless blend of modern technology and nature. John loved walking the seawall and took every opportunity to get outdoors. The fresh breeze off the water, the smell of seaweed, and the call of the marine birds always put his soul at ease. He found the solitude among the trees and ferns soothing, and he often did his best writing sitting on a log while the mist eddied around him.
He didn’t have time to write on his lunch break today. Instead, he used his time to plan the changes he wanted to make to his course on avian sociology. John’s attention remained firmly engrossed in his lesson planning as he navigated the seawall with barely a glance at passersby.
“John?”
John looked up, wondering if he’d heard his name, and let his mind wander straight back to the computer.
“John?” He heard it again, closer.
He stopped and turned. Tina Morrison walked toward him, her petite legs moving at a furious pace to gain on his lengthier strides. Her skirt fluttered in the offshore breeze, and he couldn’t help thinking those weren’t good shoes for walking. His feet ached just looking at them.
“Hi, John,” Tina said, slightly out of breath. “I thought you might like some company on your walk.”
“Um...” John looked down at the device in his hand.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were working on something. I’ll leave you alone.”
“No, it’s all right,” he said, tucking the computer inside his jacket. “I’ve done about all I can out here.” Her look of disappointment dissolved into a smile, and he smiled in return. “I’d love some company for the remainder of my walk.”
“Only if you’re sure,” she replied.
“I’m sure,” he said as he turned to start walking again. He made a conscientious effort to keep his strides short so as not to tire her.
“So, how have you been?” she asked.
“Oh, fine. Busy.”
“I didn’t see you at the last faculty social.”
“Uh, no. I don’t usually attend those things.”
“Oh?”
“You know. A room full of stuffed shirts all more interested in talking about their latest research grant than listening to anything anyone else has to say.” He noted her scandalized expression and hastily added, “Present company excluded, of course.”
Tina laughed. “Oh, John, you don’t have to say that. On the whole, I tend to agree, but the last social was quite pleasant. Dean Hirosuki came down to mix and mingle. Were you aware he was a media reporter during the avian conflict?” John shook his head. “He told us a few stories of his adventures while embedded with a refugee transport ship.”
“Did he?” John replied.
His own memories of cramped and unwashed bodies jammed into cargo holds too small for their numbers hovered at the fringes of his awareness. The stench of illness and death had been overpowering, and the recollection knocked him off balance. John took a deep breath of cleansing sea air.
“I’m sure the dean’s stories were very entertaining.”
Tina nodded. “Yes. You should come to the next one.”
The last thing he wanted was to attend a social event, particularly if people were going to be sharing war stories. “I’ll consider it.” He decided to change the subject. “So what brought you outside on such a grey and dismal day?”
Tina blushed. “I’m not sure. I guess I just wanted some fresh air.” She smiled up at him again before adding, “How about you?”
“I came out here to be alone,” he said.
He realized his mistake as soon as the words left his lips, but he couldn’t take them back. Pulling his foot out of his over-sized mouth, he backpedalled. “I haven’t found anyone who likes walking in this weather. I like to think of it as my alone time.”
The North Shore Mountains were obscured by fog and drizzle, the gunmetal water chopped at the shore, and the filtered sunshine enveloped the world in a dreary grey. “I can see why,” she said. “It’s not exactly Vancouver, or the campus, at its finest.”
He chuckled. “But let’s be honest. This is pretty typical weather for the time of year.”
“True.” She smiled. “Sometimes when I watch the rain pelt against my window I wonder why I ever gave up my tenure at the Santa Cruz campus.”
The building housing John’s office surfaced through the mist around the bend. He had to remain social for two, maybe three minutes more before he could slip away.
“You enjoyed the climate?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” she gushed. “I had a room overlooking the ocean and I walked out to the beach right through the windows. It was always warm and rarely rained. I loved living there.”
“Why’d you come up here then?”
“You know...”
“Nicer office?”
“Not exactly.”
The silence grew denser than the blanket of fog covering the campus, but John didn’t mind. He let his thoughts wander to his schedule for the afternoon.
“To tell you the truth, I left to get away from my ex-husband.”
“Ah.” He was unprepared for her sudden admission and searched for an excuse to escape. He glanced at his watch. “Darn, I forgot.”
“What?”
“I said I would meet someone in my office five minutes ago.”
John picked up his pace, quickly leaving the shorter woman behind. He called over his shoulder, “Thanks for the company, Tina. I’ll see you around sometime.”
He felt a little guilty for lying as he rushed up the steps, but he wasn’t interested in forming friendships and didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
Flushed from his quick escape, John pulled off his jacket as he entered his office. He turned to toss it on the back of his chair and was startled by the presence of a very large man sitting at his desk.
Chapter 4
Kree closed and locked the door to his nest for the sixth time. He walked to the nearby shuttle station, stopped, and turned to go back yet again. What if someone discovered his message? They might be planning to arrest him for treason. What if Squaa or the other male was waiting for him? He scurried back toward the safety of his home, glancing over his shoulders.
Once he stood before his locked door, he realized his absence would be noted and investigated. Kree clacked his jaws in an agony of indecision.
* * * *
Kree arrived at the Agency, exhausted but on time. He walked down the central aisle, casting furtive glances with each step. Everyone looked suspicious. Was Preen watching his every move?
The journey to his desk seemed endless. He reached his station and sank into his chair, shaking and panting. Kree closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and tried to bring his heart rate under control. Kree accessed his terminal, gave a startled peep,
and nearly fell sideways.
A priority message from the human Department of Alien Affairs blinked malevolently on his display. He ran the basic decoding sequence and read the contents, expecting a standard response similar to the one his office sent to those who submitted wild claims with no proof. What he found caused his head to swim and his mouth to dry up.
Sculdan’s testicles. They wanted him to meet with them. Some idiot had assumed his message contained information on how to contact him, and now their government was sending an agent into avian territory. They were shell-cracked if they thought he was going to travel off-world to talk with a human spy.
Kree realized he was still wearing his cloak, stood to hang it on his hook, and jumped as two unfamiliar males walked onto the floor. Something about the way they scrutinized the employees made his heart race.
Relax, he told himself. They had to have clearance to be here. He was letting his imagination get the better of him. He tried to focus on his work as the males methodically made their way closer to him.
“Can I help you?” Preen’s irritated voice carried across the cubicles.
“No,” the male replied. “My associate thinks he may have misplaced an important item and we are checking the floor in case it got dropped.”
Squaa. He’d recognize that grating tone anywhere. It had haunted him through his nightmares until his alarm freed him at sun-up.
They were here and looking for something. A sickening flash of understanding brought his hands to the side of his head. Shoes. They were checking everyone’s footwear.
Kree stared at his shoes--the same footwear Squaa and the other male had found last night--and groaned when he spied the distinctive scuff across the top of the left one from when he’d tripped over a storm drain two days earlier. His unthinking, fuzz-headed action was going to get him killed.
He trembled. Scrambled didn’t even begin to describe this mess.
He grabbed a portable computer from his desk drawer and moved toward his supervisor’s office. He tried to walk naturally, each moment expecting to hear Squaa or the other male call out, or worse yet, to feel a shot through his spine. When he reached the door he had to press the buzzer three times before he could get his quaking hands to trigger the mechanism.
