by Smith, Glenn
“As for why the information came to Crewman O’Donnell in the first place, she and the Tripoli’s communications specialist were classmates at their Tech School. Apparently, he sent the Veshtonn computer data to her out of friendship instead of informing his commanding officer like he should have. Otherwise, you’d have received this a lot sooner.
“We’ll do our best to clean it up and see what else we can pull out of it that might be of some use, but the old man wanted you to hear it right away. Let us know if you need anything further, Admiral. Europa Field Office out.”
The message ended and the wall screen winked off and became indiscernible from the rest of the wall once more. Hansen sat back—he hadn’t even realized he’d leaned forward—and gulped another mouthful of his coffee. Was it really possible, after more than twenty years, that a member of the Excalibur crew could still be alive, particularly somewhere in Veshtonn space, where the speaker had sounded like he’d claimed to be? Doubtful—the Veshtonn weren’t known for taking prisoners—but not necessarily impossible.
And what of the rest of the message? Was any of it genuine, or even partially so? True, the recording wasn’t very clear, but it had sounded like the speaker claimed the Excalibur wasn’t destroyed by the Veshtonn at all, but rather by the starcruiser Albion and two other ships from some corporation—the something-‘star’ Corporation, it had sounded like. Shining Star Builders, Home Star Development Corporation, Newstar Corporation—who knew? But the idea that one Solfleet starcruiser had led an attack against another and destroyed her with all hands? That was even harder to believe than the possibility that one of the Excalibur crew still lived. Again, hard to believe was not the same as impossible, but as far as Hansen was concerned, that claim made the entire message as a whole a lot harder to take seriously.
Still, he couldn’t just dismiss it outright, no matter how ridiculous it might have sounded. To do so would be an act paramount to sacrilege in the Intelligence community. The message had to be followed up on like any other scrap of information would be. It had to be run through the gauntlet. It had to be confirmed or positively proven false and dismissed if at all possible. The life of at least one hero and possibly more from the earliest days of the renewed war might depend on it. And if it was true—if forces from within Solfleet itself had in fact led the attack against Excalibur, then Solfleet still had one very big problem on its hands.
But first things first. He leaned forward and tapped the intercom ‘call’ button.
“Yes, Admiral?” his secretary’s voice flowed from the speaker hidden in the center of the ceiling.
“Vicky, I realize it might be a little difficult right now, but see if you can get me an open channel to the captain of the Tripoli. If he has a few minutes, I need to discuss one of his people with him.”
“Right away, Admiral.”
“He’s in the middle of a combat zone, Vicky, so make sure you give him the option to call me back later instead, whenever he has time.”
“Will do, sir.”
‘A lot of them were killed in action’, Quinn had said of the Marines who’d recovered the data from the enemy ship. Cold and emotionless, as if they were nothing more than pawns on a chessboard. Icy words to complement here icy complexion.
Perhaps they were pawns in the grand scheme of things, but they were also Solfleet Marines—comrades in arms, sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, and perhaps mothers and fathers as well. Gone, like candle flames in the wind. Snuffed out, leaving only the wisps of their spirits to drift off into eternity.
Tears welled up in his eyes as he thought back over the decades. So much death. So many young men and women...
“I have the captain of the Tripoli for you, Admiral.”
Chapter 3
By the time Admiral Hansen finished filling the Tripoli’s captain in on what Stefani O’Donnell’s former classmate had done, he felt confident that the young man, whoever he might be, would quickly receive an education regarding the error of his ways. To say that his captain had been very unhappy about the whole situation would have stood a gross understatement. Understandably, no commanding officer wanted to hear about his people’s misdeeds from an admiral, whether that admiral fell into in his direct chain of command or not, but no sooner had Hansen explained the reason for his call when this particular commanding officer had turned beet red and clenched his jaw tightly enough to bite through the hull of his own ship.
Upon seeing the captain’s reaction—granted, he was in the middle of combat operations and really didn’t need the distraction to begin with—and speaking strictly off the record, Hansen had recommended that he not bust the crewman down in rank over what he’d done, provided his previous track record warranted such leniency. After all, he wasn’t out to destroy the poor kid’s career. But in the end that decision lay with his captain, and while Hansen had no reservations at all when it came to providing information, he would never consider actually interfering with another competent officer’s command.
That done, it was time to get on with the business at hand.
“Good morning, Hal,” he said as he turned on the coffee brewer built into the wall behind him, knowing without having to check that Vicky had already prepared it for the day—yes, it was good to be an admiral.
“Good morning, Nick,” the computer responded in the soft melodic male voice of the artificial intelligence featured in Hansen’s favorite classic science-fiction film, old as it was—the Discovery’s HAL-9000 from ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’. Not long after his wife’s tragic death, Hansen had considered reprogramming the voice to match that of the sequel’s female sounding SAL, but his grief counselor had strongly advised against it. Probably for the best, he’d eventually come to realize. Over the ensuing years he’d come to think of Hal almost as a living being and a friend, and although he’d never lost sight of the fact that he—that it—was just a machine, he’d fast discovered that single fatherhood could be a very lonely world. The idea that he might actually develop feelings for a female artificial personality, as preposterous as it had sounded to him when the counselor brought it up, had begun to make a certain amount of sense.
“How may I be of assistance this morning, Admiral?” Hal asked.
“Sorry, Hal,” Hansen said, apologizing to the computer as if it were a living being. Hell, why not? “I need you to run a records check for me.”
“Certainly, Nick. I would be happy to do that for you. What are the parameters?”
The Lieutenant Commander on Europa—Quinn was it?—had told him that her office had already confirmed the assignment of a Lieutenant O’Donnell aboard the Excalibur. Nevertheless, he decided to start from the beginning and do so again anyway. “Check the crew roster of the starcruiser U.E.F.S. Excalibur, destroyed in combat near the Caldanra star system in late June, twenty-one sixty-eight. I’m looking for someone by the surname of O’Donnell.”
“Checking.” Then, almost instantly, “Confirmed. Lieutenant Robert William O’Donnell is listed as tactical officer. Current status: Missing In Action.”
“Call up his personnel record and read off the names and current status of any listed dependents, please.”
“There are four dependents listed. Spouse and primary beneficiary: Helena Marie Carter-O’Donnell. Current status: Living. Son and co-secondary beneficiary: Robert William O’Donnell, Junior. Current status: Living. Son and co-secondary beneficiary: Thomas Patrick O’Donnell. Current status: Living. Daughter and co-secondary beneficiary: Stefani Marie O’Donnell. Current status: Living.”
“Cross-reference with Solfleet personnel database and identify any commonalities.”
“Checking.” Then, “Two commonalities identified. There is currently a Lieutenant Junior Grade Thomas Patrick O’Donnell assigned to the One-hundred seventeenth Tactical Interceptor Squadron aboard the starcarrier U.E.F.S. Victory as an IF-thirty-six starfighter pilot. There is a Crewman First Class Stefani Marie O’Donnell assigned to the Solfleet Intell
igence Agency’s Europa Field Office as a Decoding and Decryption specialist.”
“Thank you, Hal.”
“You’re welcome, Nick. May I be of any further assistance at this time?”
“Yes, you may,” Hansen answered as he spun around to refill his mug. He pulled the old-fashioned glass decanter out of the slot and asked as he poured, “What was the official status of the starcruiser U.E.F.S. Albion in June of twenty-one sixty-eight?”
“Checking. That is odd.”
Hansen froze briefly in mid pour, then finished, put the decanter back in its place, and turned back to his desk and asked, “What’s odd, Hal?”
“According to fleet records, the starcruiser U.E.F.S. Albion was decommissioned on four February, twenty-one sixty-two, and dry-docked at the Mars Orbital Shipyard facility until three April, twenty-one sixty-nine.”
“Why is that odd, Hal?” He knew of one reason of course, but it was always possible that Hal had found something else that he wasn’t yet aware of.
“That information conflicts with that contained in the recording that was attached to the message you received earlier this morning.”
Then again, maybe not. “The authenticity of that recording has yet to be confirmed,” he told his soothing, silicon-based assistant. He gently blew across the surface of his coffee and took a tentative sip—it was extremely hot—as he considered what to do next. Not that it really required much thought. A basic rule of any investigation stated that when faced with conflicting accounts of any given incident or event, an investigator should seek out eyewitnesses. “Hal?”
“Yes, Nick.”
“Do me a favor and compile a list of all personnel who were assigned to the Mars Orbital Shipyards during the time period the record indicates the Albion was dry-docked there. I want both civilian and military personnel listed. And do your best to determine each person’s current status and whereabouts as well.”
“Certainly. It may take several minutes to recall pertinent information from the civilian database, but I will inform you as soon as I have completed my task.”
“Thank you, Hal.”
“You are welcome, Nick.”
Hansen leaned back, kicked his feet up on the desk, and sipped his coffee while he waited patiently for Hal to perform its task. He thought about his earlier exchange with Heather and his heart quickly filled with regret. Seemed all he ever did anymore was correct her misbehavior and lecture her about every aspect of her life. When was the last time they’d gone somewhere or done something fun together? Hard as it was to believe, she was almost fifteen years old already. She’d be a sophomore in high school soon. Time was flying by and he was fast running out of it. Next thing he knew she’d be off on her own, hopefully to college, even more wrapped up in her own life than she already was. Then they wouldn’t have any time for each other at all. Not that they had much now.
He sighed. If she’d just make an effort to improve her overall...
“Nick?”
Hansen looked at his computer console. Finished already? “That was fast, Hal.”
“I have not entirely completed my task yet, but I have discovered an apparent pattern that I think you will find quite disturbing.”
Hansen set his coffee down, dropped his feet back to the floor, and sat up. “What have you discovered?” he asked.
“While compiling the list, I dedicated some of my resources to determining the current status and whereabouts of personnel, as requested. So far, I have determined that one hundred percent of the nine hundred thirty-seven personnel I have positively identified are listed as deceased.”
The little hairs on the back of Hansen’s neck suddenly stood on end as a chill ran down his spine. Nine hundred thirty-seven personnel who served in the same place during roughly the same relatively recent period of time, all dead? The odds against something like that happening had to be...astronomical, and unfortunately, the odds against all of them having died of natural causes had to be even more incredible.
“All of them?” he asked. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. According to all available information, those personnel were all declared deceased within three years after the destruction of the starcruiser Excalibur.”
Something was definitely very wrong. “Thank you, Hal. Continue with your task. I’ll inquire as to the results later. And Hal, you’re to disclose that information under my voiceprint identification only. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
Given a choice, Hansen would have preferred to keep the information completely quiet for the time being—to follow up on it himself and see where it might lead, but his position didn’t afford him that luxury. He was a Sofleet officer, a man of duty, and one of his duties as Chief of Solfleet Intelligence was to advise the Earth Security Council of any potential significant threat to Earth in as timely a manner as possible. The way things were stacking up, he was beginning to think there might be just such a threat.
He reached for the intercom. “Vicky?”
“Yes, Admiral?”
“Get me a direct channel to Chairman MacLeod, please. Priority...priority three should do for now.” In all honesty, Hansen suspected there might be more than just a ‘potential’ threat at this point, but with all that was going on in the world, elevating the situation to priority-two so quickly might have alarmed the chairman unnecessarily, and he wanted to avoid doing that as much as possible. MacLeod had a tendency to be overzealous and get carried away sometimes.
“Right away, Ad... Sir, you have a call coming in.”
“All right. Hold off on calling MacLeod for now and transfer the incoming to me.”
“Go ahead, sir,” she said immediately, apparently having anticipated his instructions.
The wall screen came to life once again, but this time it was neither an agency underling nor a starcruiser captain whose image appeared. In fact, it wasn’t a military service member at all. Well, not a current one anyway. It was Sir Nigel Worthington, retired British colonel, now the sole proprietor of the most exclusive and therefore most expensive jewelry store in the entire Rotunda. He was a pleasant enough gentleman in his own right, but a gentleman with whom Hansen’s dealings had been unavoidably less than enjoyable.
“Uh oh,” was all the admiral managed to say by way of greeting.
“Sorry to call you at your office, Admiral,” the merchant apologized in his always regal sounding British accent, “but I’m afraid ‘uh oh’ is right.”
Much like the captain of the Tripoli a few minutes earlier, Hansen clenched his jaw, drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly to calm himself down before the temper storm had a chance to hit. Then he closed his eyes and asked, “What did she try to steal this time?”
“A gold necklace. Nothing too incredibly expensive, but...”
“But the cost doesn’t matter,” Hansen finished for him as he opened his eyes and looked at the gentleman again.
“Quite so. You’ve always done right by me, Admiral, so I thought I’d ring you first.”
“I appreciate that, Colonel Worthington, thank you.” Hansen almost always addressed him by his rank as a matter of respect. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
The gentleman nodded politely. “We’ll be in my office, Admiral.”
The screen went dark.
Hansen drew another deep breath and sighed, then shot to his feet and stormed out of the office. “Be back as soon as I can, Vicky,” he barked, eyes glaring straight ahead as he marched past his secretary, whose knowing eyes followed him with sympathy.
“She’s just a kid, Admiral,” she reminded him, calling after him.
The simple fact that she knew exactly why Sir Nigel had called was telling, and Heather had finally pushed the boundaries one too many times.
Chapter 4
Worthington Custom Jewelers. Of all the hundreds of private businesses operating on Mandela Station, Sir Nigel Worthington’s always spotless store held the distinction of being the oldest and most res
pected, as did the gentleman proprietor himself, among both his peers and his customers. Three times a hero of the cyberclone revolt of 2160-61, the British government had awarded him both the Distinguished Service Order and an unprecedented two Victoria Crosses, each for separate and specific acts of conspicuous gallantry. Now, having long since retired from one life of selfless service to another, Sir Nigel enjoyed a reputation for serving his clientele as honorably as he’d served the British Crown.
Admiral Hansen stopped for a moment just outside the gold-trimmed, smoked plastiglass door and took one more deep breath to calm down before he dared go inside. He’d learned a long time ago that if he lost his temper with Heather and started hollering at her, she’d simply shut him out, turn within herself, and refuse to hear a single word that came out of his mouth, no matter how loud it might be. Besides, he was in uniform and in the public eye, in the civilian section of the station no less, and from what he could see through the large pane window, there were more than a few well dressed shoppers inside, scattered throughout the store. It was important that he maintain his professional demeanor, most especially as a member of the admiralty, and represent the fleet in a positive light at all times.
Sufficiently calm, he hoped, and as ready as he’d ever be, he went inside. Some of those well-dressed shoppers threw curious glances his way as he marched toward the back of the store, eyes straight ahead, but quickly turned their attention back to their own business and left him alone. Others paid him no attention at all. As residents of the station—he assumed they were residents, and not just visitors—they’d no doubt grown used to seeing military personnel in the area on a regular basis. In fact, chances were good that at least a few of them were military personnel themselves, or at least military family members.
