by Cheryl Angst
“Tell the Minister of Defense he’ll have my risk assessment on his desk by noon tomorrow.” Nate ended the video call. Damn minor functionaries. They always pestered him for something. If he had information to report, he would.
Nate stabbed his communications panel and swore as he bruised his fingertip. “Bob, I’m doing some critical research. I do not want to be disturbed for any reason short of a national disaster. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, sir. No interruptions under any circumstances.”
“Good.” He toggled off the panel and began scanning the latest packet from the Firestorm. He skimmed the entries of the captain and executive officer, looking for references to John, the mission, or anything that could be construed as suspicious. Finding nothing, he opened the diplomatic officer’s logs, prepared to skim the contents as well, but his eye caught John’s name and he began to read in earnest.
Professor John Thompson remains a mystery. As part of my duties as the senior diplomat on board, I have made myself available to address his needs. He has been invited to several social functions, but he seems to prefer to remain in his cabin.
Nate snorted.
I took it upon myself to become familiar with his work, and he has, somewhat reluctantly, been willing to discuss the avians over a quick meal in the mess. I am left wondering how someone so shy and awkward could be the best choice for this mission.
Nate wondered again if sending John had been a good idea. If he couldn’t cope with an uneventful space flight, how might he react to a potentially dangerous meeting with an avian agent?
While Captain Forbes has not shared the specific details of the purpose of the mission among the crew, and Professor Thompson is unwilling to discuss anything beyond generalities, I believe I understand why we’re taking him into avian space. I’ve been hearing rumors that we should not trust the avians. At such a critical point in the peace talks, I can only imagine the damage such gossip might do.
Nate scanned the remainder of Lt. Santiago’s logs, searching for further references to the rumors. The person responsible for spreading dissent might be the conspirator Nate needed to find. As if to deliberately thwart his efforts, Lt. Santiago failed to identify the source of the gossip. He needed an excuse to send her a message.
Chapter 16
The talk at the captain’s table revolved around crossing into avian territory the next day. Some of the officers wanted to uphold the tradition of initiating all the crew who had never crossed the line before. Cheng was one of the idea’s strongest proponents.
John sat alone at a table in the corner and tried to ignore the conversations taking place around him.
“The UESF has traditions,” Cheng exclaimed while hoisting his glass, “and we need to honor them.”
A chorus of “Hear, hear,” greeted his words.
“The UESF used to prohibit officers from fraternizing with fellow crewmembers,” Santiago replied. “Do you want to bring back that tradition too?”
“That policy was just plain cruel.” Cheng pouted, raising a bout of laughter from the nearby tables. “This tradition serves a purpose.”
“Tradition,” Targersson chimed in.
“And what purpose does stripping your fellow crewmembers down to their undergarments and covering them in corn syrup and goose feathers serve?” asked Santiago.
“Bonding,” Cheng shouted.
“Camaraderie,” added Targersson.
“For you or them?”
“For us.” Cheng and Targersson laughed as they raised their glasses and toasted each other.
John grimaced in disgust. He wanted to escape the talk, disappointed that such feelings still existed in the UESF, but decided to watch what Forbes would do.
“You two are hopeless.”
“Come on, Santiago. We’re just trying to have some fun,” replied Cheng.
“Mass public humiliation isn’t my idea of fun.”
“Perhaps if you dated--”
“My personal life has nothing to do with this conversation.” Flushed with more than the wine, Santiago set her fork down. “I just don’t understand the point.”
“The point is to let loose a little and have a bit of fun. The mission has been routine to the point of boredom, and the crew need a chance to relax.”
John admired Santiago’s vocal opposition. At least one member of the senior staff possessed ethics he agreed with.
“And you find underwear, syrup, and feathers relaxing?”
Cheng laughed. “On the contrary, with the right company, I find underwear, syrup, and feathers to be highly stimulating.”
John hid a smile as Santiago blushed. She walked into that one.
“There’s something to be said for the bonding experience of an initiation,” Forbes spoke as soon as the laughter subsided. “After all, each of us remembers our commissioning ceremony and all our subsequent graduations from various training courses.”
“Why do I feel a ‘but’ coming?” Cheng asked.
“Because there is a ‘but’ coming.” Forbes grinned. “But, I don’t feel a tradition born during a time of hostility and hatred toward the avians is a suitable thing to resurrect when humanity is on the cusp of establishing a long-term peace with them.”
Cheng refused to meet the captain’s gaze. John watched as Forbes waited for Cheng to glance back at him. As soon as their eyes made contact, Forbes spoke firmly. “There will be no initiations of any kind, particularly ones related to crossing the avian line. Is that clear?”
All signs of friendship disappeared. This was the captain giving a direct order to his subordinate officers. “Yes, sir,” replied Cheng and Targersson.
John’s estimation of Forbes increased by several notches. He may have been young, but he had a good head on his shoulders.
* * * *
The communications packet arrived just before they crossed into avian territory. Rebeccah’s duties became more challenging when the ship travelled at trans-light speed, as it outstripped the UESF’s ability to engage in real-time communication. To compensate, small relay stations were set up throughout human space to pass messages along, but not fast enough to satisfy her need for timely information. At their current distance from Earth, messages arrived roughly three days after they were sent.
Rebeccah frowned in consternation when she read the contents of the packet. Tucked in among the various messages from HQ was a short memo addressed to her. Innocuous enough, it appeared to be a simple request for a summary of her current diplomatic assignment. Such requests weren’t uncommon as HQ felt obligated to justify the money spent on equipping ships with diplomatic officers in times of peace, and most were accompanied with an attached form for the officer to complete and return. She opened the memo and bit her lip to keep from gasping.
Instead of the usual directives outlining the procedure for filling in the document, she found an anonymous message that set her pulse racing.
Information exchange: investigate and log all rumors. Attachment should prove ample compensation for your time.
Rebeccah opened the attached file. At almost fifty times the size of the standard form, Rebeccah estimated the document was close to two hundred pages long. She wondered why the sender hadn’t requested an investigation through proper channels. After downloading and decoding the document, Rebeccah wanted to know the identities of every person granted access to her logs. Someone in HQ was playing outside the rules.
Rebeccah stared in amazement at the confidential record of Fleet Commander John Thompson. Why would the government want her to read this?
* * * *
“Sir,” the technician at the engineering console said, “there’s a glitch with the quantum field generators in Gen Four.”
Rebeccah looked up from her reading.
“What sort?” asked Forbes.
“I don’t know yet, sir.” He consulted his readout. “The chief engineer says he and his crew are on their way to investigate.”
Cheng jumped out of his chair.
“I’ll go give them a hand, sir.”
Rebeccah smiled. Cheng had never been good with sitting still during routine bridge shifts. This was just another excuse to get out from under the captain’s watchful eye.
“All right,” Forbes replied. “But I want a sitrep in five minutes.”
“Aye, sir.” Cheng winked at Rebeccah as he left the bridge. “One situation report coming up!”
Forbes shook his head and returned his attention to the remaining crew on the bridge. After a few moments he said, “Lt. Santiago?”
“Sir?”
“You’ve been bent over your console for almost two hours now. What on Earth is so engrossing?” He grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re analyzing the waste disposal outputs of transport vessels in an attempt to track human smuggling.”
She smiled in return and replied, “Nothing quite so grand, sir. I’m going over the personnel files of the latest crew to board the Firestorm. I haven’t had a chance to be as thorough as I’d like.”
“Have you found anything unusual?”
Only if one counted an officer who’d survived imprisonment and torture five times, lost his wife and child in a terrorist raid, witnessed the annihilation of thousands of civilians on various colonies, and was one of a handful of survivors of the battle at the Epsilon Sector as ”unusual.” Aloud she said, “Not a chance, sir. Only the best are chosen to serve on this ship.”
Forbes laughed. “That’s what I want to hear--”
The captain’s internal communications panel beeped. He shrugged at Rebeccah as he opened the channel. “Forbes here.”
“Sir,” Cheng’s disembodied voice echoed across the bridge. “I know you wanted a report, but quite frankly we’re not sure what to make of this.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s what’s not going on, mixed up with what is going on but shouldn’t be going on, that’s the problem.”
“Commander, you’re not making any sense.”
“Neither is what’s going on with this reactor, sir.”
Rebeccah caught a hint of anger in Cheng’s voice. He prided himself on being brilliant, and anything he didn’t understand rankled. She had to agree though, as far as sitreps went, that one was about as nonsensical as they came.
“Commander--”
“I think you better check this out, sir.” Cheng paused. “The chief engineer thinks we should shut Gen Four down just to be safe. We can still make our rendezvous running on the others.”
“Understood. I’ll be right there. Forbes out.” He rose from his chair and looked at Rebeccah. “Don’t get too sidetracked by those reports. I need you to watch my bridge until Cheng or I return.”
“Aye, sir.” She lowered her gaze back to the file as soon as Forbes disappeared through the aft doors.
Chapter 17
Pathetic termites.
Meredith absently slid the nails of her index fingers between her front teeth as traffic crawled beneath her high-rise windows. The inky shadows pooling in the recesses of her office matched her somber mood. Her gaze flicked toward the desk lamp as she contemplated turning it on before it got too dark.
She didn’t move.
She continued to sit with her back to the deepening gloom, tapping her foot to the rhythm of her thoughts as she stared at the congestion below. They had no idea, scurrying around, worrying about meals and school and sex and rent. What did it all boil down to? Money. They thought money would make their worries drift away. That fortune brought a carefree lifestyle with no burdens, no responsibilities.
She snorted.
She refused to be the Llewellyn who destroyed the company. Her father’s mocking laughter still haunted her despite his death almost a decade ago. She’d kill herself keeping the business afloat before giving the bastard the satisfaction of seeing her tossed out like slag from the refinery. She out-worked him, out-earned him, shattered every milestone he ever set in the twenty-five years he ran the company; each accomplishment a tiny dagger of revenge against the man she could never please.
Her scowl melted as the last of the light bled from the room. Her obsessive determination to erase all traces of her father’s disdain was something Patrick Brooks understood far too well. Her ex-husband--third ex-husband--was the only man she’d ever met who refused to be cowed by her. They’d come together with the force of two atoms colliding. They’d parted two years later in an explosion of anger, lies, and betrayal. Yet, somehow beyond all reason, they’d remained friends.
Which was why he’d approached her three weeks ago as she exited her mother’s long-term care facility. He followed her into the company shuttle without an invitation and gestured for her to activate the privacy screen between the pilot’s compartment and their own luxurious cabin. After directing the pilot to cancel her earlier plan to return to Llewellyn’s main office, she instructed him to take them on a flight around the countryside.
She settled back in her seat, freshly-pressed orange juice, with a shot of vodka, in hand, and waited for Patrick to speak.
“How’s Diana?”
“Fine.” Her mother had lost all connection with reality years ago. The doctors had yet to determine its cause or cure. Meredith blamed her father and his decades of domineering abuse.
“Is she awake?”
“Yes.” She would slip into a catatonic state for months at a time, lost to the world until, just as suddenly, she’d return with no recollection of ever having been gone.
“I’m glad.”
“She doesn’t understand why she’s in there.”
“I thought she didn’t remember anything from before the first coma.”
“She remembers him.” She made no effort to hide her bitterness. Her mother recognized Meredith as the “nice lady who visits on Tuesdays.” The one person who loved her for who she was, who showed her kindness in the face of her father’s contempt, now treated her like a hospital candy striper or charity volunteer.
Silence built steadily around them.
Meredith shoved the melancholy thoughts about her mother away, and turned to the more pressing concern of Llewellyn Industrial’s fiscal solvency. As she sipped her drink, waiting for Patrick’s bomb to drop, Meredith wondered how long she had before she’d have to put the shuttle up for auction.
“I need your help.”
Meredith nodded. She’d do just about anything for him, short of toasting the bride at his next wedding.
“It could save Llewellyn Industrial.”
She hardly dared to breathe.
“I need you to get your workers back on the floor.”
Meredith almost choked on her lungs. “And what the hell do you expect me to pay them with? Magic beans?”
“Your mother still has the proceeds from his will--”
“Have you lost your mind? That money’s the only thing keeping her--”
“You’ll make it back a thousand-fold.”
“It’s not an option.”
Patrick leaned forward and removed the glass from her hand. He wrapped her slender fingers in his cold hands, breaking their long-held taboo on intimate gestures.
“Mere--”
Startled by the contact, but determined not to let it fluster her, she said, “What the hell would possess you to suggest such a thing?”
“I think I just started a war.”
She’d wondered why he wasn’t wearing his uniform. Patrick was a publicity hound. He rarely went anywhere without informing the newsfeeds. If he didn’t make the prime networks at least three times a week he sulked for days.
“You’re joking, right?”
“Mere, I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Shit. Do I want to know--”
“No.”
“Shit.”
He smiled weakly. “Yeah.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“I need you to start producing munitions.”
And so she’d
done it. Robert still didn’t know where she’d found the money, but he grew more suspicious each day. She wouldn’t be able to keep him in the dark much longer.
She sat in her darkened office, the glow from thousands of lights reflected across her pale skin, wondering if she’d made the right decision. She hadn’t had the courage to visit the hospital since that first meeting with Patrick.
How could she tell her mother she was penniless and was being moved to an overcrowded government shelter for the mentally ill?
Her father’s laughter echoed throughout the room.
Chapter 18
A violent explosion rocked the ship. Alarms wailed throughout the corridors and cabins, bouncing off the bulkheads, echoing and reverberating on already stressed ears. Another explosion sent John lurching, and now smoke tickled the back of his nostrils.
The avian cruiser launched a squadron of raptors. The deadly craft buzzed around the wounded warship like hornets at a barbeque. Looking to strike her most sensitive areas, they remained out of the reach of the ship’s cannons. John ordered the flyers scrambled to meet the challenge, but the main hangar had been badly damaged in the initial blast. Even if he could get some out to take on the raptors, he didn’t know how many crafts or pilots he had in serviceable shape. Reports flooded the bridge--along with a stronger tang of ozone--indicating heavy casualties on the lower decks.
He coughed on the smoke. “Get that damn alarm silenced. I know we’ve got problems.” John stood behind his tactical officer and asked, “What have you got for me?”
The man looked up and hacked to clear his lungs. “We’re a sitting duck, sir.”
“That’s not good enough.” John paced the deck. “I’m not going to stand here while this ship gets taken apart by those bloody vultures. Get the thrusters online, and get me some damn flyers out there.”
A grey pall thickened and pooled around them as the crew worked to meet his orders. Choking and holding the sleeve of his shirt over his face, he added, “And get the air filters back online. We won’t have to worry about an avian boarding party; the smoke will kill us first!”
John coughed hard to clear his burning throat.
