The Firestorm Conspiracy

by Cheryl Angst

  The possibility of another war made John ill. He focused on his conviction that hostilities must be prevented at all costs as a means of suppressing his terror of being back in space. But space didn’t cause his pulse to race and sweat to form on his brow; the memories the void triggered did. He’d spent six heavily medicated months in a psychiatric ward unable to get the images of atrocities out of his mind. The visions had been so strong he swore he could smell the charred flesh and acidic residue from the plasma weapons. Part of his therapy required him to remove himself from anything associated with the UESF and the war.

  Two decades later, dreams depicting the loss of his family in an avian attack still haunted him, but otherwise he seemed to have recovered. His biggest fear was that a journey into space would bring everything flooding back, unleashing a torrent so intense he wouldn’t be able to function. Despite his frayed nerves, he proudly noted his steady breathing. The terrible visions he feared had yet to materialize.

  The soldiers across from him reminded him of his first transport to Alpha. He’d been young, not more than eighteen or nineteen, and horribly naive. Terrified about serving in space, but determined to hide the fact, he’d laughed and told jokes for the entire duration. Sympathy for the boys facing the exact same situation thawed some of his terror. He leaned over and said, “Hey, did you hear the one about the debutante, the police officer, and three pigeons...”

  * * * *

  The air in the corridor was strangely thick, muffling sounds and fooling the ears. People passed John as he left the dock and moved further into the moonbase. Artificial gravity, coupled with the forced air circulation, made his movements seem slow and slightly lightweight at the same time. One of the young soldiers from the transport came up alongside him.

  “Hey, old man, where you headed?”

  “Overnight Visitors’ Quarters,” he replied. John smiled as the youth fell in step with him. “I’m catching another transport in the morning.”

  “Me too,” he said. “I’ll walk over with you. I’ve studied the schematics for the base, and I think I can get us there pretty quickly.”

  John didn’t want to burst the lad’s bubble by telling him he also knew the way.

  “Is this your first time here?” the young soldier asked. “Because this is my first time. I’m being posted to a transport ship. I’m going to be working as an assistant to the quartermaster.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “It is. My mom is so proud of me getting this post right out of my Basic Officer Training Course. Most people spend at least a year or two on Earth before receiving a posting in space.” He paused for breath. “Does it feel weird here to you? I know it does to me. They warned us about that when we got our transport briefing, about how the moon’s lower gravity still exerts a force over everything, and while the artificial gravity compensates for it, the tiny fluctuations cause a feeling of mild lightweightedness.”

  “Ah.”

  “Here. I think we go this way.” He pulled John down a hallway leading to nowhere. “The schematics showed a smaller utility corridor that will cut almost five hundred meters off our walk.”

  John raised his eyebrows as the corridor opened up to reveal the entrance to the Visitors’ Quarters. Granted, two decades had passed since he last visited the moonbase, but he’d spent enough time there during his various tours of duty that he was surprised he’d never noticed the corridor.

  The line at the computer terminal shuffled at a reasonable pace and John soon found himself at the front. He swiped his ID chip across the panel and waited for the optical scanner to confirm his identity. Within seconds the machine beeped, recording the code that granted him access to the rooms beyond the steel doors.

  “Okay, old man, I’m going to leave you here.”

  John smiled at the ensign.

  “I’ve got to check in to the Junior Officers’ Quarters before twenty-one hundred hours or I’ll get the worst room.” He laughed and clapped John on the shoulder. “I’ll see you around. Take care, old man.”

  The young officer dashed off down the corridor with the speed common to men his age. John smiled ruefully, remembering his own enthusiasm when he had started out in the UESF. Picking up his bag, he strode resolutely toward the large steel doors and his first night back in space.

  Chapter 11

  “What do you mean we aren’t declaring bankruptcy?” Robert Llewellyn asked as he stormed into his sister’s office.

  “I fixed it. All right?” Meredith spun her chair, turning her back to him.

  “How?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Shit. Is it legal?”

  “Don’t you dare judge me.” She whipped the chair around to face him. “I worked my ass off keeping this company solvent. I sacrificed my marriage, my family, and some days, God help me, my sanity just to keep your father’s name on the main gates.”

  “He was your father too.”

  “He put a roof over my head.”

  Robert sighed. “I’m not going through this again. You are the legitimate child and I am the spoiled bastard. I get it. You’re better than me.”

  “Robert...”

  “You were supposed to be the son and heir to the empire. It’s not your fault, and it sure as hell isn’t mine you were born with ovaries instead of testicles.”

  Some days Robert wondered. Given her success in brokering deals that would make even their deceased father blanch, he suspected his sister had balls of steel under her razor sharp business suits.

  “He never let me forget it though, did he?”

  “Mere, what the hell have you done?”

  “I saved the company. I arranged things so you can keep your house, your car, your yacht, and your mistresses. Never fear, your job as Llewellyn Industrial’s poster boy is secure.” Robert rolled his eyes. Nominally an executive vice president, his primary duties consisted of keeping the shareholders happy. It was his job to wine and dine them--his face graced the company’s portfolio--and he was responsible for making a bad situation sound good.

  He’d been doing a lot of the last one over the past year. Cutbacks in UESF spending, the impending peace accord, and the global factory strikes had stripped the corporation of its viability. The current fiscal report projected a matter of weeks before the doors closed forever.

  Except, his sister had informed the board of directors that not only was the company solvent, but they wouldn’t need to lay off a third of the workforce, reduce hours, and cut pay--all contributing factors in the massive strikes crippling the armaments industry.

  “How--”

  “Get the union back to the table. I want the workers in the factories in forty-eight hours.”

  “What do you want them to do?”

  “They can sit on their thumbs and pick their noses for all I care, just get them back.”

  “Why?”

  “If we’re the only company with an available workforce, the orders--small as they are--will come to us.”

  “Where’d you get the funds to cover salaries and expenses?”

  “Just get it done.”

  “Mere--”

  “Damn it, Robert. I’ve done my job. Now go do yours.” Meredith spun away again. Her frigid silence was marred by the gentle ticking of the antique clock on the desk. As he turned on his heel and strode toward the large oak doors he wondered how many bottles of wine would be required to keep the shareholders from digging into the sudden turnaround.

  Chapter 12

  By the time the Firestorm reached visual range of the moonbase, Rebeccah had read every article authored by Professor Thompson on avian anthropology, sociology, and interstellar relations. She had also downloaded the syllabi from each of his courses, skimmed his required texts, and in the process, become a huge fan of his work.

  Rebeccah brimmed with excitement, envisioning long chats during her off-duty hours, plying him with questions and sharing her own thoughts about the peace talks.

  As the moo
nbase grew larger on the central screen her agitation increased exponentially. Twirling her fingers in her hair, she stalked the captain from under her bangs. The moment he moved to exit the bridge, she pounced.

  “Captain Forbes,” she said, drawing in a rushed breath, “I think it would be a good idea if your welcoming party included the ship’s diplomatic officer. Professor Thompson may have some questions that I am uniquely suited to answer, and I would hate to disappoint him upon his arrival.”

  She held her breath.

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant.” Captain Forbes smiled. “Seems like a pretty straightforward pick-up to me. I’m sure Commander Cheng and I can handle anything that arises.”

  “Yeah, Santiago,” said Cheng. “We can handle this.”

  Rebeccah’s heart twisted in her chest.

  “Besides, why do you want to stand around in a cold airlock waiting for some stuffy professor anyway?” asked Cheng as he moved to join the captain at the door.

  “He’s not just a professor anymore.” Rebeccah stood. “He’s now the UESF’s most important diplomat, and I think it behooves us to treat him as such.” She crossed her arms, daring them to object.

  Cheng scoffed and rolled his eyes, but Forbes seemed to consider the matter. “All right, Santiago, you can come too.”

  She forced her voice to remain neutral while her inner child did somersaults up and down her spine. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Since you’re so keen,” Cheng snickered before continuing, “you can carry his luggage and escort him to his quarters once the tunnel clears the exterior.” He winked as he disappeared into the corridor.

  She didn’t care in the slightest that Cheng mocked her enthusiasm. If the VIP didn’t have the gold bars of a fleet officer, he didn’t get excited.

  “Lt. Cmdr. Targersson,” Captain Forbes called as Rebeccah approached his side.

  “Sir?”

  “You have command of the bridge.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Targersson took his seat in the captain’s chair and nodded to Forbes.

  “Okay, Lieutenant,” said Forbes, “let’s get this meet and greet over with, shall we?” He gestured for her to precede him into the corridor.

  “Yes, sir.” She smiled, letting her enthusiasm show now that Cheng was nowhere to be seen.

  She made her excuses at the nearest junction and rushed to her quarters. The meeting called for a fresh uniform and some extra polish on her boots.

  * * * *

  Rebeccah alternated between tugging on her ponytail and fussing with the creases on her sleeves. She stood on tiptoe and peered through the thick window into the airlock beyond, hoping to catch a glimpse of the transport approaching the ship.

  “Relax, Lieutenant,” said Forbes. “The transport’s on schedule and will be here momentarily.”

  She whirled around and blushed. “I just...”

  Forbes laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not mocking you.”

  He came over and stood beside her, placing a hand against the bulkhead as he leaned in close to her ear. “Aside from the excitement of entering avian territory, I don’t get why you’re all worked up about him, but if you think he’s worth fussing over, then that’s what we’ll do.”

  She leaned back against the bulkhead and smiled in relief. In another situation, in another place, she’d consider reciprocating his advances. Regardless of her intentions, she would never use his feelings to manipulate him, and was relieved he seemed to respect her mind as much as he admired her body.

  “I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about him--and this mission--that’s captured my attention,” she replied.

  “What’s captured your attention?” asked Cheng as he swaggered into view. “Are you two talking about me again?”

  “Aw, stuff it, Max,” joked Forbes. “You and your big ego are going to get stuck in an airlock one of these days.”

  “As long as I’m trapped with a pretty officer, I’m okay with that.”

  Rebeccah walked over to stand beside the airlock and shook her head. Cheng could be such a pig sometimes. His comments annoyed her because they didn’t land far from the truth. Handsome, a talented officer and a charismatic leader, his career was on a definite upswing. She figured he had a year more, maximum, as the Firestorm’s XO before he would be offered a ship of his own. Cheng was one of the UESF’s golden boys.

  “Earth to Santiago. Come in, Santiago.” Cheng mimicked an old fashioned radio, complete with the sounds of static. “The transport is within tunnel range, over.”

  Rebeccah brushed past Cheng, who shook his head as he wiped tears of laughter from his cheeks, and peered through the window again. The transport rose like a leviathan from the deep as it cleared the moonbase and soared toward the Firestorm. Tiny figures moved past the windows and Rebeccah wondered if any of them was John Thompson.

  Unconsciously tugging on her ponytail, she watched as the vessel extended the Intership Transport Tunnel--ITT--and linked with the Firestorm’s main airlock. In a few minutes the door would open and their mission would begin.

  * * * *

  The transport sat on the hangar floor, looking very much like a bloated tick. Wide, round, and ungainly, the beast swallowed up passengers and crew, threatening never to disgorge them again. John approached the ship with apprehension. He swiped his ID chip, boarded through the portal on the starboard side, and took a moment to walk around before finding his seat.

  Twenty years ago, ships like this were used to ferry refugees from the outlying colonies to safer locations; thousands, if not millions, of people died in the cramped and unhygienic conditions imposed on them as they fled the avian invasion. Those vessels hadn’t been lined with richly upholstered reclining seats sporting privacy options and built in entertainment units. Refugees were fed a single bowl of nutrient mass; nothing like the hearty meals and snacks available at the cafes now around the ship.

  John ran his hand along the smooth surface of one of the enormous observation windows in the bow and was glad it no longer bore a physical resemblance to its predecessors. He took his seat a few rows back, determined to enjoy this last opportunity to surround himself with the signs and symbols of civilian life.

  When John agreed to the mission, he never once assumed he’d have to travel on a UESF vessel, let alone a warship. He’d figured Nate would book him passage on a commercial transport to help maintain the persona he’d insisted on adopting. His jaw had plummeted into his shoes when he discovered the majority of his travels would be spent on the Firestorm.

  The transport lumbered out of the hangar and began its laborious journey away from the moon’s surface. Designed to land and take off from a hangar, the transport could also dock with a space-born ship as necessary through the use of extendible airlocks. The thought of crossing between two ships with only thin accordion-like walls of ceramic tiles separating him and the void of space made John shudder. ITTs were far too insubstantial for his liking. Compared to the armored hull of a warship, or even the standard hulls of civilian transports, an ITT’s walls were terrifyingly thin. John was uncomfortable with the idea of relying on tissue paper to keep his head from exploding in the vacuum of space.

  The panoply of stars greeted the transport as it moved further away from the base. The Firestorm waited to meet the vessel roughly one thousand kilometers above the moon’s northern pole. John was the only person transferring over to the Firestorm, and he knew the unscheduled stop would irritate the business people who used these vessels on a regular basis.

  If they wanted to complain, they could take it up with the Director of Alien Affairs. He smiled wryly. Nate would love to hear from them.

  The warship came into view. In a geosynchronous orbit around the moon, she appeared to be sitting still. Her strong lines, powerful weapons systems, and predatory sleekness advertised the Firestorm as one of the deadliest ships in the fleet. Despite his misgivings about stepping foot on her, John stood at the window mesmerized by her fierce bea
uty. The UESF officer in him, so long repressed and feared, admired the lines and curves of the hull. He noted the changes in overall design--more cannon banks and OPs, a better-protected launch bay, and four additional quantum drives--compared to the warships of two decades ago.

  Now, that’s a sleek fighting machine, John mused.

  The transport slowed, preparing to dock with the warship. John’s pulse accelerated as the distance closed between the two ships. He picked up his bag and moved to the starboard side, following the signs to the airlock. Rubbing his sweaty palms against his trousers, John reminded himself the walk would only last a moment, and soon he would be safely ensconced in his quarters on the Firestorm.

  “You the lucky guy what’s going over there?” asked a heavyset man in shabby coveralls standing by the control panel.

  Lucky? That wasn’t the word he was thinking of. John made eye contact with the person responsible for aligning the airlocks and the corridor between them. He hoped those skills were better than his English.

  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “Heh? Either you is, or you isn’t,” the man--Paul Simmons according to his badge--said.

  “I’m the one going across to the Firestorm, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “’Course that’s what I was asking.” He paused. “You some kind of officer? You don’t look like one. She’s a warship, she don’t take tourists.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge that information,” John replied, hoping the man would drop the subject.

  “Eh?” Paul leaned in and whispered, his breath a mix of coffee and sardines, “You some sort of spy?” John’s shock must have convinced him of the veracity of his guess because he added, “Don’t worry, I seen lots o’ stuff I shouldn’ta. I won’t breathe a word to no one.” He winked at John.

  “Your discretion in this matter would be appreciated.”

  “Heh? I ain’t going to tell no one, don’t you worry.” He turned back to the panel and began entering commands with a speed born of experience. He continued to speak without looking up from the console. “There’s some insulation and gravity in the tunnel, but be sure you don’t take too long getting across. It gets mighty cold mighty damn fast.”