Solfleet: The Call of Duty

by Smith, Glenn

  ‘C-I approaching’, he reflected. C.I. stood for Confidential Informant. It was a standard term that all such agencies used, including his own. It usually referred to someone he didn’t really care much about on a personal level, such as a spy who’d gotten caught, a criminal facing serious charges and trying to make a deal for leniency, or simply someone who was down on their luck and trying to make a little extra cash. Usually, but not this time. This time the C.I. was his own daughter.

  “All right, stand by, everyone,” someone else responded, apparently in charge. That had to be Franco, though it didn’t sound very much like him.

  Hansen returned to his chair, sat down, and waited nervously...and waited...and waited some more.

  Finally, after a few more long nervous minutes, Heather stepped into frame on the far left monitor, and the first thing Hansen noticed was that her hair and face were made up well beyond her years, and that she was wearing a much too provocative combination of skintight, low-rise blue jeans and a short-sleeved half-length blouse that left her midriff bare—far too much of it for a girl her age. Far too much of it for a girl of any age for that matter, whether she was his own daughter or not. When all this was over, he decided right then and there, he was going to have to pay a lot closer attention to her wardrobe.

  She glanced around for a few seconds, presumably to make sure the coast was clear, then reached into her back pocket—how she managed to get her fingers down in there was a mystery to him, her jeans were so damn tight—and pulled out what looked like a keycard of some kind. She glanced around once more, then slipped the card into the maintenance department door’s control panel and punched in the access code.

  Where the hell had she gotten the card and the code for that door?

  She slipped inside, stepping into view on monitors 2 and 3 from opposite sides, and quickly closed the door behind her.

  Slowly, cautiously, she made her way down the narrow, poorly lit hallway, shrinking in the distance on monitor-2 while growing closer on monitor-3 as she slowly approached the storeroom door, which nearly filled monitor-4. Was she normally so tentative and cautious when she went in there, or was she afraid because of what she was about to do? If the former, then okay, good for her for at least trying to be careful, but if the latter, he could only hope the dealer wouldn’t see it in her eyes and get spooked. God only knew what he might do to her if that happened.

  Why the hell was he letting her do this?

  She stepped into view on monitor-4 as she reached the door, turned and glanced back up the hallway, then turned her back to the camera and faced the door. She pressed the top two buttons on the panel to its right. The door opened inward to reveal only darkness beyond, but monitors 5 and 6 did brighten a little bit as the light from the hall spilled into the storeroom. Then, with one last glance up and down the hall, she went inside.

  To his relief, at least a little, she turned on the lights and looked around before she closed the door. Then, when she started wandering around the room and looking at things more closely, apparently to better familiarize herself with her surroundings—perhaps she had a lot more street smarts than he’d given her credit for—he leaned closer to the monitors and checked things out with her as carefully and completely as he possibly could.

  He saw a variety of brooms, mops, buckets, and cleaning supplies, one of those vacuum cleaner-looking things that maintenance technicians were always running back and forth a few inches above the deck—just what the hell were those things, anyway?—numerous shelves full of thick maintenance manuals, spare lighting fixtures, assorted electronics parts, dozens of spools of various gauges and colors of wires, rolls and strips and sheets of assorted materials, small tool kits and larger tool boxes. Everything he would expect such a room to contain was there, with nothing to indicate that he was looking at anything more.

  Just a well-stocked storeroom with no one hiding in the shadows. No one there but his daughter.

  Oh, how he wished that she wasn’t there, either.

  “Suspect is approaching the area. Looks like he’s not alone.”

  Hansen’s heart sank. There was more than one! Was the team prepared for that?

  “Copy. That was expected. All units, be ready to go on my say so.”

  That answered that question. But expected? He didn’t remember Franco saying anything about there being more than one suspect during the briefing. Perhaps the sergeant had only said that for his benefit, to prevent him from worrying even more than he already was. What if...

  There they were. He caught a brief glimpse of their backs on monitor-1 as they ducked through the entrance, then got his first good look at them in the hallway on monitors 2 and 3. Both were young men, perhaps in their early twenties, white, with long dark hair. But that was where the similarities ended. Where the slightly shorter and more slender of the two was clean shaven and wore his hair pulled back into a ponytail, the taller and much stockier one had a moustache and a goatee and wore his hair loosely and unkempt. And where the slender one was well dressed in black slacks and boots, a gray button-down shirt, and a brown pleather sport coat, the stocky one wore old jeans and a tight, short-sleeved pullover shirt that left his very muscular and heavily tattooed arms to be seen and feared.

  The dealer had brought his muscle. Hansen squirmed in his chair and drew a deep breath, fearing for his daughter that much more.

  The dealer led the way confidently down the hall and into the storeroom as if he owned the place.

  “Hey there, Heather girl,” the dealer said in what sounded like a fake accent, either Italian or Latino, while he eyed her suspiciously. “You looking pretty good tonight, Chica. How you doing?”

  Latino, Hansen decided, but not a very good one. He didn’t even swap his ‘y’s and ‘j’s.

  “I’m good, Paolo,” she answered coolly, looking him right in the eye. “How are you?”

  Good girl, Hansen told her in his mind, wringing his hands harder than ever. Just stay calm and play it cool. Be cordial, but don’t overact.

  “Oh, I’m good, Heather girl. But I’m a little mystified.”

  “Mystified? Why is that?”

  “Well, you see...” He started wandering around the room, moved around behind her, “I been supplying you for over six months now, and in all that time, you never asked me for anything more than a couple weeks’ worth for personal use,” then stopped beside her and leaned very close to her ear. “Now, all of the sudden, you wanna buy a whole kilo?”

  Hansen’s sunken heart suddenly leapt into his mouth. What the hell had she done? Why had she broken her routine like that?

  “God damn it!” Franco exclaimed. “All units, stay on your toes. Be ready to move in hard at a moment’s notice.”

  Heather looked right at him again. “Call it an entrepreneurial endeavor,” she responded calmly, with confidence. “I need to make some money in a hurry.”

  He had to hand it to her. She was good. He only hoped her larger than usual order hadn’t blown the whole thing.

  “And you think you can resell my shit, on my base, without my blessing?”

  She dropped her gaze to the floor and appeared to think it over for a moment, then looked back up at him and said, “I’m sorry, Paolo. I guess I didn’t think about it that way.”

  “No. I guess you didn’t.” He backed off a little and resumed wandering silently in circles around her.

  After several moments of that, Heather asked him, “So then, would it be all right with you if I did this, just this one time?”

  He stopped suddenly and got right in her face and shouted, “Fuck no it wouldn’t be all right, you stupid little bitch!”

  To her credit, Heather barely flinched. The poor girl must have been scared to death.

  “This is my base!” Paolo went on. “These are my customers!” He grabbed her by the chin—Hansen flinched and clenched his fists—and pulled her face closer to his. Almost close enough to kiss her. “What the fuck are they gonna think if I let some ha
lf-pint little cunt move in on my operation without doing something about it, huh?”

  “All right, that’s enough,” Hansen mumbled, fidgeting again. “Get in there, fellas. Put an end to this before it gets out of hand.”

  “I’ll give you a cut of whatever I make, if that’s what you want,” Heather offered.

  Hansen couldn’t believe how calm she still was. He was a nervous wreck!

  “You try to play me for a fool and I’ll give you a cut! Scar that pretty face of yours!”

  “All right, guys,” Hansen went on, knowing of course that the detectives couldn’t hear him. “He just threatened to hurt my daughter. Get your asses in there now.” Then he realized that he couldn’t hear them anymore, either.

  Damn them! The sons-of-bitches had cut him off! All he could do now was watch and wait, but if they let that scumbag hurt his little girl...

  “I’ve known you for almost a year, Paolo,” she was saying. “I think I know better than to play you for a fool.”

  “Do you?” he asked. “You wanna know what I think, Heather girl? I think...” Quick as lightning, he pushed her backward into the shelves behind her—she shrieked briefly—with both hands and held her there.

  Hansen leapt to his feet, fists raised as if to attack. “Son-of-a. . .!”

  “I think you’re trying to set me up!”

  He grabbed two fistfuls of her blouse, eliciting another short shriek, and tore it open. Then he grabbed hold of the mini-transmitter that was clipped to her bra and yanked it off. He made a show of looking at it for a few seconds, then threw it aside and glared at her. “You lying little bitch,” he said, all traces of his fake accent gone. Then he leaned in close and shouted, “You fucking cunt! You think you can fuck me, bitch! I’ll fuck you! I’ll fuck you like you ain’t never been fucked in your life!”

  He grabbed her and practically threw her over to his sidekick, who grabbed her by the arms and held her tight.

  “Tell them to move in now!” Hansen hollered to any cops who might be within earshot.

  “Hold her!” the dealer commanded his muscle. Then he moved in on her and grabbed the front of her jeans. “Get ready to bleed, bitch!”

  “NO!” she screamed...

  ...and for one brief flash of a moment, Hansen found himself back on Vice-President Harkam’s shuttle, beaten and bloodied and forced to watch while that sadistic, demonic alien beast raped and tortured and brutally murdered Misses Harkam and their teenage daughter.

  Heather kicked and screamed and struggled and squirmed, but she couldn’t break free of the big man’s grasp.

  “Get my daughter out of there!” Hansen shouted angrily, wide-eyed.

  The dealer popped the fastener and broke open her zipper, then yanked her jeans down from her hips and lifted her feet up off the floor as he stepped back and stripped them off of her, pulling her shoes off with them. He threw them aside, then made a show of licking his lips in anticipation. “Ever been raped before, little girl?” he asked her, wearing an evil grin.

  “I’ll fucking kill you, you son-of-a-bitch,” Hansen warned the image on the screen.

  “No!” she pleaded as she began to cry. “Please, Paolo, don’t!”

  “Scream all you want, bitch,” he told her. “Nobody’s gonna hear you in here.”

  He stepped forward and grabbed hold of her panties, but before he could pull them down she launched her foot up between his legs like a catapult and nailed her obvious target so hard with what might very well have been testicle-crushing force that he actually came up off the floor before he collapsed to it.

  “Oh!” Hansen exclaimed, surprised and impressed at the same time. “That’s my girl!”

  She punched the big man as best she could in the same place, but he barely flinched.

  “Dat was a big mistake, little girl,” he warned her. “Paolo was jus’ gonna rape you. I’m gonna split you in two.” He spun her around, lifted her up off the floor, looked her in the eye and added, “By de time I finish doin’ you, you’re gonna wish you let Paolo have you instead,” but before he could do anything the door burst open and the detectives swarmed into the room. “Let the girl go, now!” one of them hollered, pointing his sidearm directly at the big man’s head. He glared at the detective for a moment, but then did exactly as he was told and raised his hands in surrender.

  The suspects offered no resistance as the detectives quickly and quite convincingly took them into custody. Not at all surprising where the dealer was concerned, considering the fact that he was still rolling back and forth on the deck, clutching his crotch in both hands and moaning in what must have been excruciating pain when they got to him.

  Hansen took a deep, deep breath and exhaled loudly while he watched Franco pick up Heather’s jeans and shoes and hand them back to her. Thank God they’d gotten there when they did. He’d have to be sure to thank them. Either that or he was going to beat them all senseless for waiting so long.

  He watched while they waited for Heather to get dressed—the male agents all turned their backs while one of the female agents watched her and then handcuffed her for her own safety, as they still had to make it look like she was also under arrest—then practically fell back into his chair and sighed with relief. After his promotion ceremony, he’d wondered if he might actually make it to retirement before what he and Liz had done six years ago came to light. Many more anxiety-filled evenings like this, he told himself, and he probably wouldn’t live long enough to have to worry about it.

  Chapter 11

  “Commander Rawlins?” a voice called out, firmly but subdued. “Sir?”

  Rawlins opened his weary eyes, blinked a few times to bring the world around him back into focus, then quickly lifted his head up off his fist when he realized that he’d fallen asleep sitting at the command station on the bridge. He stretched his stiff neck and opened and closed his mouth to flexed his sore jaw—apparently, he’d been resting it on his fist for quite some time—and wiped a small rivulet of saliva from the corner of his mouth.

  “Sir?” the voice repeated.

  Sergeant Noonian. Rawlins turned and faced him. “What is it, Sergeant?” he asked.

  “The RIG’s team leaders are reporting all work complete and are requesting permission to detach,” the communications specialist told him. “Commander Marshall confirms.”

  Finished already? “How long has it been?”

  “Three hours and forty-seven minutes, sir,” the sergeant told him, without having check.

  Three hours and forty-seven minutes? It certainly didn’t seem as if he’d been asleep that long, but a glance at his watch confirmed it. 2024 hours. When he’d looked at it last, it had read 1650-something, and he felt pretty sure he dozed off shortly after that.

  “Permission granted, Sergeant,” he said, “and extend my thanks and my complements for a job well done to the team leaders. Then get me Commodore Van den Engel.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Three hours and forty-seven minutes, he reflected as he faced front again, still flexing his sore jaw and trying to work the kinks out of his stiff neck. Three hours and forty-seven minutes, and he’d slept through at least three and a half hours of it, in front of the entire bridge crew no less, right through their shift change. How could he have let himself do such a thing? Not only was that kind of lapse extremely unprofessional and totally unacceptable, especially for a commanding officer, it was also embarrassing. How could he ever enforce discipline aboard ship again after...

  That’s right, he suddenly realized. Shift change had come and gone almost half an hour ago. So what was Noonian still doing on duty? Twelve straight hours was long enough, even for a cyberclone. He might have been...enhanced, but in the end he was still a human being.

  As he turned to ask Noonian why he was still on duty, he noticed that the sergeant wasn’t the only one who had stayed. The entire bridge crew had remained, and had apparently notified their relief not to show up, since no one from the night shift was present.


  “I have the commodore for you, Commander,” Noonian reported.

  “Put him up on the main screen.”

  An image of Commodore Van den Engel sitting behind his large executive desk replaced that of the enormous jump ring ahead of them. One look at him betrayed the fact that he was clearly a man of substantially advanced years. As a matter of fact, Rawlins recalled upon seeing him that scuttlebutt among command rank officers throughout the fleet said he’d long since passed the age of mandatory retirement, but that he had some serious dirt on someone very high up in the pecking order that pretty much guaranteed he could stay on active duty for as long as he might want to.

  All that aside, the commodore nonetheless commanded great respect and admiration. He’d been Solfleet’s Rosha’Kana Sector Commander for almost ten years, and in all that time he’d never had so much as a single personal complaint filed against him. In fact, it was well known both within the sector and without that his subordinates absolutely adored him. With his handsomely chiseled features and his full head of silver-gray hair, they tended to think of him as a sort of surrogate grandfather. He had a gentle disposition, but could be firm when he had to be, and he always, always, treated his people fairly.

  And rumor had it that he was as physically fit as any man thirty years his junior.

  “What can I do for you, Commander?” he asked.

  “I just wanted to thank you for your help, Commodore. Your teams did an outstanding job, and in record time, I believe. I only hope...”

  “Commander!” Irons shouted, interrupting. “Sensors are picking up three large vessels approaching from directly astern!”

  An all too familiar sinking feeling grew in the pit of Rawlins’ stomach as he stared at the tactical officer and waited silently, anxiously, for her to complete her report.

  After some of the longest seconds in his life, she finally met his gaze and said, “I’m not reading any Solfleet or Coalition transponder signals, sir.”

  Veshtonn! It had to be. “Can you identify them at all, Lieutenant?” he asked anyway.