by Cheryl Angst
“Come,” called the female on the other side.
Kree opened the door, stepped in, and closed it again. If Wheeta found Kree’s unannounced and unscheduled appearance odd, she didn’t show it. “Kree,” she said, “please, have a seat.”
He followed the movement of her slender fingers as she motioned to the chair. He lowered himself into the chair and nervously plucked at the edges of the computer in his palms.
“This is a surprise. What can I do for you?”
“I need to get away from here,” he blurted.
She started at his words, her eyes widening and her terra cotta markings darkening.
“I, uh, I mean I’d like to take a vacation.”
“I see. Well, standard protocol is to give half a sunturn’s notice, so we’re looking--”
“No,” he cried. “I, uh, need to leave sooner than that. Today, if possible.”
Wheeta’s eyes opened even wider and a small frown of irritation creased her brow. “Today? This is highly irregular.” She tapped her terminal, and said, “I can’t grant your request without a legitimate reason. If you’d followed protocol and done this a sunturn ago, I wouldn’t need to know anything about your plans, but--”
“My hatch-nurse,” he squeaked, sudden inspiration making his voice shoot up an octave.
Wheeta waited for him to elaborate.
“My hatch-nurse is ailing. I, uh, I only found out last night. I need to perform the final farewell. All the hatchlings are trying to make it back.”
“I’m sorry, Kree,” Wheeta replied, sympathy softening her irritation. “Of course you can have the time off.”
Relief coursed through his veins.
“Where are you going?” she asked as she completed his leave request.
“Where?” His mind went blank. His hatch-nurse had passed on almost ten years ago, and he hadn’t considered travelling anywhere. “I, uh...” he said the first thing that came to him, “I’m going to Cerces III.”
“Cerces III? Colonists are not permitted to become agents, even desk agents,” Wheeta said.
“I’m not,” he assured her. “I was hatched and raised here, on the Perfellon Continent. My hatch-nurse, she uh, she retired and moved there a couple of years ago. She said something about the climate being good for her bones.”
“Oh, okay.” Wheeta looked doubtful.
Kree froze. In his unthinking rush to escape, he gave Wheeta the one place he never wanted to visit.
“Kree?” Wheeta stared at him with a puzzled expression on her face.
“Yes?” He paused. “Sorry, I was thinking about the trip.” He shrugged. “I have a lot of planning to do.”
“No, you don’t,” she replied. “Part of our bereavement package includes the Agency making all your travel and accommodation arrangements. That’s what I was trying to tell you.” She pointed to his portable computer. “Everything’s taken care of.”
Kree eyed the device, holding it by the edge as though it might suddenly bite him. “Uh, thanks, Wheeta.” He glanced over his shoulder as he got up to leave. Squaa and the other male were visible through the glass beside her door. One was almost at his cubicle and the other blocked the walkway. “Can I ask for one more favor?”
“You can ask,” she replied.
“Can I, uh, leave through your side door? I don’t want to have to discuss my situation with the others on the floor.” He shuffled his feet. “You know they’re going to ask questions and peck all over me like a bunch of old hens. I don’t think I can handle that right now.”
“Of course, Kree,” she said. She stood and put a hand on his shoulder. “You have a safe trip, and remember, the Agency sends its condolences in your time of need.”
“Uh, yes, um, thanks,” he said as he slipped out her door and into the executive walkway.
“I am so scrambled,” he muttered as he trudged down the stairs and out the main entrance.
Chapter 5
Age was the one opponent Nate had yet to beat. A few too many drinks, extra servings of potatoes and gravy, and a penchant for conducting business over meals certainly hadn’t helped. Nearing his mid-sixties, Nate approached life the way a parched man approached water--mouth wide open, hands grasping, and with a single-mindedness bordering on obsession. He reveled in the dirt and the grime of real living, and he expected those around him to do the same.
It came as a huge shock then, when John Thompson entered the room. Pale, underweight, and damp, he resembled a heron stepping through the reeds more than a former UESF fleet commander. If Nate hadn’t double checked the ID markers above the door, he would have sworn he was in the wrong office.
Nate was fascinated by John, observing as his expression registered surprise, anger, and then confusion. Nate remained silent and simply gazed up at the man whose chair he had usurped.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” Nate replied.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Are you a student?”
Nate shook his head. This man was far too polite. Still, diplomacy had its purposes.
“I’m sorry,” John said, “but why are you sitting at my desk?”
“I’m waiting for you.”
Irritation flashed across John’s features. “It is customary to wait for a professor in the outer office, not by entering his room uninvited.”
“I’m sorry about that. But you see, I was invited.”
“By whom?”
“By you.”
“Me?”
Nate nodded.
“When? I don’t recall--”
“Twenty years ago.”
“Excuse me?”
He fought the urge to grin as the light of recognition flared in John’s eyes. “Nate?” John asked. “Nate McDonnell?”
Nate smiled.
“Is it really you?” John stood as if frozen.
He pushed his ample frame out of the chair and moved around the desk to face John. He held out his hand, plastered on his most sincere smile, and said, “Yes, John. It’s me.” John didn’t move. Nate grabbed John’s palm in a firm grip and added, “How the hell have you been?”
* * * *
John stared in horror at the man pumping his arm. He fought down the urge to flee, carefully removed his hand from the other man’s grasp, and tried to force a smile across his own features. “What a surprise.”
Ghostly images from their shared past warred with the present.
Two young men, both confident in their abilities, entered the Officers’ Mess. They swaggered over to the bar and each ordered a drink. “To glory ! ” toasted one.
“To an abundant turkey shoot ! ” cheered the other.
John blinked quickly to dispel the image and gestured for Nate to have a seat by the window. Nate gathered up the journals and books on the proffered chair and passed the pile to John, who carefully set them on top of a tottering stack on the floor by his desk. He shrugged at the curious look on Nate’s face and said, “I don’t get a lot of visitors.”
“I can tell.”
John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “So, what brings you to Vancouver?”
“Business,” replied Nate. “And since I was here, I thought I’d look up an old friend.”
The same two men stumbled out of the Mess, arms draped around each other’s shoulders, singing, “I dun gone shot me some buzzards. Mama’s gonna make me buzzard pie. I dun gone shot me some raptors. Die all you bastards, die!”
John winced. “It’s, uh, good to see you again.”
“You too.”
“The last I heard, you’d left the service and gone into politics...”
“Yes. I’m working for the Department of Alien Affairs now.”
“That’s wonderful. I’ve been following the negotiations. Your department is doing some truly remarkable work.”
“Thanks,” Nate replied, pulling out a copy of Ivory Tower. “And so are you, John. This article on understanding t
he avians should be required reading for everyone in the foreign ministry.”
John coughed and gestured to outside. “Lovely weather, eh?”
The image of an avian lying dead on the path in front of him hovered beyond the window.
“What?” Nate glanced at the rain running in rivulets down the pane and shrugged. “No worse than New York.”
“Is that where you settled then? After the war?”
“I travelled for a bit first.” Nate smiled. “I wanted to experience life on the colonies firsthand, rather than from a viewscreen on the bridge of a warship.”
“Really.”
Smoke and rending metal accompanied his order to abandon ship. The escape crafts, those that weren’t picked off by the swarm of raptors, plummeted to the planet below.
“Why not? That’s why we went into space, right?”
John swallowed hard. “Didn’t the war--”
“A lot of people were left with scars, John,” Nate interrupted. “But the war ended twenty years ago. Let the wounds heal and move on with life.”
“It’s not as simple as throwing out an old blanket.”
“Why not? I’ve got no use for most of those memories. Better to toss them out and build new ones in a new life.”
John shook his head. A new life didn’t mean the old one would simply disappear. He was living proof of that.
The corner of the area rug under his desk bunched up beneath one of the legs. The faded red and blue weave rippled in the shadows, pulling his mind from the conversation. He had to consciously remind himself he wasn’t alone, that propriety dictated he not drop to his knees and crawl under his desk to fix it. Dragging his attention away from the offending snippets of wool, he caught the end of Nate’s speech.
“Which is why,” Nate paused, “I need you.”
“Me?”
“You.”
John’s pulse began to race. “Why?”
“You’re the only person who can help me.”
“With what? I can’t--”
“You can, John. Your writing proves you’re just the man I need.”
John forced his shoulders to relax. He had worked on a few government contracts in the past; not his best work, but not too bad either. “You want me to do some writing for you?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Nate replied. “I need you to interview an avian and write up your findings in a report for me.”
“I didn’t think there were any avians currently on Earth.”
“There aren’t.”
Chapter 6
Space.
The blackness wrapped around his heart, threatening to squeeze the life from him. A natural phenomenon inspiring the dreams of humanity for millennia; for John it represented everything he’d left behind twenty years earlier.
“Nate...”
“Just hear me out, John,” said Nate. “This is more than a simple interview.”
Space.
His lungs fought for air at the thought of boarding a transport ship and leaving the safety of Earth. He’d walked away from the UESF for a reason. “No. I can’t do this for you. I’m sorry.”
“Look, I know you don’t like the idea of space travel, but millions of lives are depending on the outcome of the meeting--and quite probably the future of the peace accord with the avians.”
“Spare me the melodrama, Nate.”
“I’m serious. I’m trying to prevent another war.”
The sound of weapons fire and the screams of the wounded echoed between John’s ears.
“Bullshit.”
“John,” Nate leaned forward, forcing John to meet his eyes. “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”
Thousands of troops cut down where they stood by heavy bombers with sonic weapons flashed through his mind.
“Nate--”
“I need you.”
“I’m a firm supporter of the peace process--”
“I need you, John.”
“I’m sure you can find someone else--”
“I need you.”
“Someone with more experience--”
“More experience than the youngest ever fleet commander? The most decorated soldier during the avian conflict?”
John sighed. “I’m done with that, Nate. I walked away.”
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re still in the UESF. You’re on a long-term leave, but you’re still an officer.”
The cloying scent of hospitals and the cries of patients tormented by visions of war crept in under the door.
“Long-term psychiatric leave--I’m not fit for service.”
“Nonsense.” Nate shifted in his seat. “You haven’t had a psychotic episode in over a decade--”
“You went through my medical files?”
“I needed to know--”
“You needed to mind your own damn business.”
“John, I’ve left you alone for twenty years. Don’t you think if I could find someone else I would?”
“Damn it, Nate. I don’t want to go back out.”
“You’re going to hide in your sheltered little universe as everything goes to hell because you’re too scared to put on a uniform for a few days?”
“I’m done with the UESF. I’m done with ships, and space, and fighting wars! I’m done.”
“If I don’t get details on the planned avian attack, none of us will be done with war.”
John unfolded himself from the chair and moved to stand facing the large bookcase opposite the window. Distance failed to make Nate’s presence any less jarring, and he knew he was being childish pretending to ignore him, but he didn’t care.
“It’s here, staring us in the face. The actions I recommend based on the information I’m given will impact the future of humanity, and I need someone I can trust.”
John ran his hand along the spines of the books on his shelves--their warm leather a stark contrast to the ice gripping his chest.
“What I’m asking isn’t fair,” Nate said.
John shrugged.
“You’ve given your life in service.”
He hunched his shoulders. It wasn’t his life he’d lost; the war had stripped him of his soul.
“I shouldn’t ask this of you, but--”
The desperation in Nate’s voice was plain even to John’s unwilling ears. At one time he’d lived to serve. The notion of protecting innocents and standing firm against the forces of chaos used to warm his blood and propel him out of bed every morning with the strength to conquer the universe. A tiny part of him remembered that feeling.
Elation flared brightly in his mind for a moment--viciously extinguished by the terror running like a river through his body.
“John?”
He recalled his friendship with Nate fondly. He smiled, and the spark returned as snippets of adventures shared, close calls--involving both women and enemies--and drunken shore leaves dammed his surging fear.
He’d trusted Nate with his life dozens of times in the past, and he’d never been let down. Time erased the friendship, but the loyalty remained.
He wavered.
“Can I think it over?”
“Sure. I need to stretch my legs anyway.” Nate stood. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes?”
“I’d prefer only five, but I’m trying to be understanding of your situation.” Nate wrapped his thick hands around the door frame. “I’ll be back in twenty. Think fast.”
* * * *
John paced his office. He licked his dry lips and tried to ignore the tight ball of fear in his stomach.
He didn’t want to go.
He trailed his fingers along the bookshelf.
Earth was safe.
Turning, he crossed the antique carpet to the window.
It wouldn’t be if the avians attacked.
Rain droplets flowed like icy claws down the pane, forcing his eye back to the safety of his office.
It wasn’t his war.
He stared at his reflection in the smooth surface of his desk.
It would be, if what Nate said was true.
He sighed, stalked over to the window, and gripped the back of the thinly upholstered chair.
I don’t want to go.
He pushed himself away from the chair in disgust.
His gaze wandered along the shelves full of texts on avian sociology.
Dozens of people could do this.
He pulled on his lower lip as he walked back over to his desk.
Nate was playing politics.
He shook his head in denial. Nate was loyal.
An unpleasant worm of guilt slithered into the river of fear and he smacked his palm against the smooth wood surface. His life was comfortable.
He didn’t want to get involved.
* * * *
John was staring morosely out the window, watching the mist flow between the trees when Nate returned. The sound of heavy footfalls drew his attention away from the forest and he took a seat as Nate crossed the threshold. John gestured for Nate to do the same.
“If you were any other man I wouldn’t even consider this. But you were a good friend, an excellent officer, and the only person I ever wanted to watch my back in a firefight. A lot of things have happened over the past two decades, and I sat on the sidelines, choosing to remove myself from the action.”
“John, sometimes we need to--”
“Let me finish.” He softened his tone. “Please.” The rain picked up and pattered against the glass. “I support the peace process, and I think the avians are misunderstood. This is what concerns me the most.
“I don’t want to go back into space, but I’m worried about who you will choose in my stead. How many humans understand who the avians are, their lives, loves, passions, and dreams? I’m not saying I’m your only choice, but I do think I’m one of the best. We can’t survive another war, can we?” He willed Nate to lie.
Nate shook his head.
The echo of a thousand troops coming to attention in a hangar as they prepared to board their transports flashed through John’s mind. He firmly smothered the fear writhing in his belly. He couldn’t stand by while his planet was ripped apart by war.
