Solfleet: The Call of Duty

by Smith, Glenn

“I won’t,” she promised.

  “And remember, even though you’re not grounded anymore, you’re still not allowed in Mister Worthington’s store without me.”

  “I know. I won’t forget.” She returned to her seat, and for the first time in a long time, in much too long a time, they enjoyed their meal together.

  Less than an hour later, as Heather happily left for the day, Admiral Hansen wandered over to his recliner with a nice big cup of coffee, sat back, and picked up ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’ for the first time since he’d pulled it off the shelf eleven days ago, hoping that he might actually make it past page one this time. It had been a good choice then, and was an even better choice now, because not only did it have little to do with politics, at least when compared to the rest of his library, and nothing at all to do with interstellar war, it most especially had nothing to do with little girls growing up and becoming beautiful young women.

  Before he’d allowed her to leave, the one condition he’d required Heather to agree to was that she put on her swimsuit and let him see her in it first. He’d been to the station’s artificial beach many times over the years and he’d seen the suits that typical teenage girls liked to wear these days. Some were okay, or at least acceptable, but others were much too skimpy in his opinion, leaving far too little to the imagination for decency’s sake, and where Heather was concerned, his opinion was the one that counted. No way in hell was he going to let his daughter wear one of those.

  Heather had complied with that condition without argument, and although he’d found her suit to be adequate—as he’d expected, she’d bought herself a new bikini, but to his surprise she’d actually chosen one that was age appropriate—he’d nonetheless been taken aback by how...how sexy she’d looked in it. There simply wasn’t a more parent-appropriate word for it. Like it or not, his little girl was growing up.

  Back to his escape. ‘Primeval Night, Chapter 1: The Road to Extinction.’

  The door buzzer sounded.

  Hansen dropped his hands, and the book, to his lap and sighed. Who the hell would be coming to see him on a Sunday morning? He set the book aside and got up. The buzzer sounded once again as he approached the door. “I’m coming,” he announced, less than patiently. The fact that whoever was on the other side couldn’t possibly hear him didn’t even occur to him. Not that it would have made any difference.

  “Open.”

  The door slid aside to reveal a tired looking Commander Royer, standing there holding a handcomp in blue jeans and a plain black tee shirt with her hair cascading freely down over her shoulders. “I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday morning, Admiral,” she said before the door had even finished opening, as if she knew beyond any doubt that she truly was disturbing him.

  “That’s all right, Commander,” he told her. “Come on in.” He took a step back and to one side. “I assume you’re here about that list of agents you’ve been working on?” he asked as she stepped in and quickly glanced around, as if to make sure they were alone.

  When the one week he’d originally given her to research their agents’ files and come up with a list of the ten best candidates for the mission had ended on Wednesday, she’d come into the office first thing in the morning with her recommendations but had made it clear that she wasn’t completely satisfied with any one of them, for an assortment of reasons, and had asked for more time. As was often the case with government agencies, the Earth Security Council’s discussions and deliberations had been moving along much slower than expected, so he’d been able to give it to her.

  “Yes, sir, I am,” she answered. He gestured toward the couch, and followed her over to it.

  The council had started focusing its attention on the starcruiser Excalibur and had pretty much settled on trying to prevent its destruction, but hadn’t even begun to discuss how best to go about doing that. Why it had taken them an entire week to start looking more closely at that situation was beyond him, considering the intelligence the O’Donnell recording had provided them with. At any rate, he had filled Royer in on that and on everything else he’d learned during the week, and had given her one additional week to work on the list. He wasn’t at all surprised that she’d only taken half that time.

  Royer sat on the leading edge of the corner of the couch closest to the recliner, looking as though she wasn’t quite comfortable being alone with him in his quarters, despite all the years they’d worked together. Hansen wondered for a moment why that might be, but at the same time realized that that was a topic for another time. They had business to discuss.

  He turned the recliner to face her, then sat down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Their mutual posture betrayed their mutual states of mind. This was an official meeting, not a social one.

  Why did she look so on edge?

  “Where’s Heather this morning?” she asked.

  “She just left for the beach,” he answered. Then, wanting to get down to business so he could salvage the rest of the day to relax, he asked, “So what have you come up with?”

  “Sergeant Dylan Graves,” she answered succinctly.

  “Sergeant who?” Hansen asked. Whoever Dylan Graves was, he’d never heard of him.

  “Squad Sergeant Dylan Edward Graves. Son of the Excalibur’s Captain Richard Graves,” she explained. “He’s one of our Special Operations Marines, stationed on Cirra. Not one of our agents, obviously, but he has a pretty impressive record, and uh...I was thinking, if this mission is going to somehow involve the Excalibur, then it might be advantageous to have its captain’s own son carry it out.”

  Hansen considered that for a moment. Was that what had her so on edge—her decision to step outside their normal operating parameters and recommend a non-agent for what promised to be the most vital mission they’d ever have to prepare for? Understandable, he supposed, given the familial relationship. But a Marine wouldn’t have had the kind of training he’d need in order to carry out such an assignment. At least, not enough of it to have a shot at actually succeeding. Add to that the fact that the captain’s own son would almost certainly make the mission personal and the results could potentially prove disastrous.

  On the other hand, maybe she had a point. Maybe someone who’d make the mission personal was exactly the kind of someone they needed. He decided to play devil’s advocate for the moment to see just where her head was.

  “Then again, Commander, it might be distinctly disadvantageous,” he countered. “There is something to be said for not wanting someone who’s too close to the situation. Objectivity often provides for a clearer decision-making process.”

  “That’s true,” she agreed, but clearly not without exception, “but since we don’t yet know exactly what the mission is going to be, I think we should at least keep him in mind.”

  So much for gaining any more insight into her thought process. “We can certainly do that, yes,” he agreed. Then he glanced down and nodded toward the handcomp she’d brought with her. “That his information?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said as she held it out to him. “His official photo and his entire record.”

  Hansen accepted the handcomp and took a look, then suddenly had to gasp for air as a ghostly chill washed over him. “Oh my God,” he uttered.

  Royer sat up straight as all the color drained from the admiral’s face before her very eyes. “What’s wrong?” she asked, genuinely concerned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Nothing,” he answered, too quickly. He looked up at her and swallowed hard. “Nothing at all.” He handed the handcomp back to her. “I want an agency recruiter on the first flight out of here tomorrow morning. That’s our man.”

  “Yes, sir,” she responded, more than a little bewildered.

  Chapter 15

  Federation Center, Four Weeks Later

  Friday, 27 August 2190

  President Mirriazu Shakhar stood before her large twenty-fourth floor office window in somber silence, folded her slender arms tightl
y across her narrow chest, and gazed out over the sharply sloped rooftops of the waking metropolis. The early morning sun shone through the tinted plastiglass and warmed her chocolate brown face, which in recent months had finally begun to betray her age. Most mornings she enjoyed the breathtaking view. Especially at that moment when the sun’s first golden rays beamed like spotlights from Heaven over the rocky, snow-capped peaks of the Alps and danced across the sparkling sapphire surface of Lake Geneva’s southern fingertip. Indeed, losing herself in that living picture postcard as she sipped from a steaming porcelain cup of oriental green tea had become a fundamental part of her daily morning ritual over the last three and a half years since her landslide re-election and subsequent relocation to the new facility. A part that had no doubt made each day seem just a little bit brighter than it might otherwise have been.

  Most mornings, but not this morning. This morning was different. This morning she had forgone her usual cup of tea and had offered the beautiful mountains and the pristine lake little more than a cursory glance. This morning she suffered from a heavy heart, for it was the people far below that were foremost in her mind.

  Her gaze fell to the narrow city streets, lined as always with hundreds of brightly colored decorative flags. Fiery reds and oranges, dazzling yellows, deep blues and rich ocean turquoise, emerald greens, and royal purples and lavenders fluttered in the gentle summer breeze. Despite her somber mood, she grinned. The peace-loving people of Geneva, Allah bless them, certainly loved their flags.

  The people, she considered as her grin faded. Seen from so high above the old city they looked so small and insignificant, going about their daily routines like so many thousands of faceless worker ants, oblivious to the impending doom that was inching its way ever closer to their world. But they weren’t small and insignificant at all. They were human beings. They were individuals with lives to live, families to love, and their own unique purposes to fulfill.

  And she was their president. They were depending on her to protect them and to keep their families safe. As Commander-in-Chief of Earth’s unified military space forces, that was every bit as much her responsibility as it was that of the brave men and women who directly commanded those forces. But in recent weeks it had become an ever increasingly more difficult responsibility to live up to, and now that the Veshtonn were closing in on the last remnants of Tor’Kana survivors, it was very soon going to be nearly impossible.

  Commander-in-Chief. Even after nearly nine years in office it was almost funny when she thought about it, as long as she didn’t think too hard. The enormous weight of all that responsibility resting squarely atop her narrow shoulders. Career officers, battle-hardened admirals and generals with enough fire power at their disposal to level an entire planet, all of them waiting for her to make the tough decisions that would guide their next actions. Decisions that would determine where their troops would fight and where, inevitably, many of them would die. And she’d never even served a day in the military.

  For the last several years there had existed a small but steadily growing movement in the world. A semi-organized group of vocal citizens, mostly military veterans, who believed that no one who hadn’t served in the military should ever be allowed to serve as the military’s ultimate commander—should never be allowed to serve as president. Perhaps they made a good point.

  “Excuse me, Madam President?” her temporary secretary’s voice called down from the small speaker recessed in the center of the cloud-white ceiling. She sounded tired, poor girl. A Political Science major, she’d just begun her senior year as a foreign exchange student at the University of Geneva last week, and already her studies were keeping her up very late at night. She’d been a great help over the last couple of months and the president sincerely hoped she’d find a way to work it out so she could stay on to the end of her internship in the spring.

  She also hoped that mankind would be around long enough for it to matter.

  “Yes, Regina?” the president finally responded without turning away from the window.

  “Chairman MacLeod and his party are here to see you.”

  She sighed. MacLeod. He’d been a real pain lately. She didn’t really want to see him, but she had to. “Send them in, please.”

  “Right away, ma’am.”

  Two quick, solid raps on the old-fashioned wooden door—at least she liked to think of it as real wood—immediately followed the intern’s acknowledgement. The door wasn’t really made of wood, of course. No one used real wood in construction anymore and hadn’t for over a century. To do so wasn’t legal anymore. Federation law protected what was left of the world’s forests. Not that the Federation actually ruled over the governments of its member nations. It didn’t. But some laws, those that the majority of nations had agreed really were for the good of the world as a whole, had been put into place and were enforceable everywhere on Earth. Anyway, the door looked like real wood and was beautifully crafted. That was good enough.

  It would have to be.

  Having waited a few seconds for a response that never came, Brian MacLeod, easily the International Council on Solar Affairs’ most outspoken and paranoid sub-council chairman, pushed the door open and led the way into the spacious but sparsely decorated office. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Madam President,” he said to the frail, sixty-three year old Bantu woman’s back as he approached her broad, darkly stained oak desk—an almost priceless antique that had been in her family for countless generations. “I realize how extremely busy you are these days.” A hint of the old Scottish brogue, which he’d learned over many years spent in the United States to effectively disguise, made itself evident in his boisterous voice—a sure sign that he felt unusually anxious about this particular meeting.

  As well he should, the president thought, after the way he’d spoken to her earlier.

  She turned around to greet her visitors properly, but under the circumstances none of the normal pleasantries seemed appropriate, so she merely acknowledged each one with a slight nod of her head. As she’d requested, as if ‘either-bring-them-with-you-or-don’t-bother-coming-at-all’ could be considered a request, two other gentlemen accompanied the chairman. Professor Joseph Verne, the highly-regarded, sophisticated yet approachable and always ‘professorly’ dressed head of Drexel University’s award-winning physics department was out of his element in the presence of the president to say the least, and it showed in his awe-filled yet nervous expression. The recently decorated and promoted Vice-Admiral Icarus Hansen, on the other hand, a long-time trusted friend and confidant, appeared perfectly relaxed.

  Admiral Hansen brought up the rear and closed and locked the door behind him. Never one to let himself be outshined by members of what he’d long ago branded as ‘the human sub-culture of poorly disciplined civilian suits’—at the time he’d been referring not just to the apparel, of course, but to the people who wore it as well—the admiral had donned his brand new black and tan class-A uniform for the impromptu meeting, complete with all of his ribbons and gold-plated accoutrements, several of which, though he’d earned them in the truest meaning of the word ‘service’, he owed in some way or another to her unwavering support.

  “Indeed I am busy, Mister MacLeod,” the president finally responded. Unlike the good chairman, she never bothered trying to suppress her accent when she spoke English. But she’d received all of her higher education in the United States just as he had, so she had learned to annunciate her words precisely enough to make herself clearly understood. “But these days we must be prepared to do anything and everything on short notice,” she continued. “We live in very desperate times, and we are all looking for an answer to the dilemma that had befallen us. And, I must admit that I am most curious as to the details of this particular proposal.”

  “Well, ma’am, I’ll certainly be glad to...”

  “Nevertheless,” she interrupted as she stepped behind her desk and sat down, “I would not have agreed to see you at all concer
ning this matter had you not in return agreed to let me hear both sides of the argument for myself, from someone other than you alone. This so-called ‘Timeshift Resolution’ of yours is, to say the least, a most unusual proposal, and if there ever comes a time when I am forced to make an ultimate decision one way or the other, it will no doubt be the most difficult and possibly the most final decision a president has ever had to make for her people. And from what I understand, there were not nearly enough affirmative votes among the members of the Earth Security Council to override a veto, should I choose that avenue.”

  That last statement lingered in the air between them, sounding very much like a threat, which was exactly how she’d intended it to sound. The Chairman knew he had his work cut out for him.

  “Well, we appreciate your time, nonetheless, ma’am,” he said.

  She nodded politely in response, then said, gesturing across her desk toward the three antique, wooden high-back chairs that she’d inherited along with the desk, “Please, gentlemen, be seated.”

  She waited while all three settled in. Then, without further preamble, she got right to the point. “All right. So the Earth Security Council has passed this resolution. I understand the basics of what you are planning, Mister MacLeod, but I have not had an opportunity to familiarize myself with the details, so I would appreciate it if you would do so now. And while you’re at it, please explain to me exactly why you think this action could be the answer to our problem.”

  “I’d be glad to, Madam President. It’s our opinion...”

  “Ah, excuse me, Mister Chairman,” Professor Verne interrupted, clearly as annoyed with MacLeod as the president seemed to be. Apparently, the two of them had already exchanged a few words of their own before their arrival. “What you are about to say might be your opinion, but it’s not my opinion at all.”

  “Please, Professor,” the president said before MacLeod could respond to his protest, “I am well aware of how adamantly opposed you are to this resolution. That in fact is exactly the reason why I asked for you to be here this morning. You will have ample opportunity to voice your concerns, I assure you.”