by Smith, Glenn
An extremely perceptive woman. “Sergeant Graves,” he confirmed, nodding.
“But...that’s...not possible,” she pointed out, shaking her head.
“I know.” He returned to the window and folded his hands behind his back again. “Don’t ask me to explain it, Mirriazu, because I can’t. I know there were no other survivors aboard that ship, and that Dylan Graves was just a small child at the time, so he couldn’t have been there regardless. But when Commander Royer showed me that file, I recognized him immediately as the second survivor in my nightmares.”
“I...I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” Hansen confessed, shaking his head, “but my gut tells me that if we do send someone back on this mission, it absolutely has to be him. No one else.”
“Based solely on a nightmare?”
He faced her again. “I know it sounds crazy,” he admitted. “Hell, I can’t explain this gut feeling of mine any more than I can explain his appearance in my nightmares in the first place. Maybe... I don’t know. Maybe I’m just losing my mind. Or maybe somehow, in some...some kind of parallel timeline somewhere...in one of Professor Verne’s alternate universes perhaps, we’ve already sent him back on the Timeshift mission and he somehow got himself assigned to my team afterwards.”
“Which, if true, means that he was unable to return to his own time,” she concluded.
Hansen sighed. “At least up to that point in time. A logical assumption, unfortunately.”
“But even if you are correct, how and why would that effect your nightmares?”
“Hell if I know,” he answered honestly. Then he faced away again and cleared his throat. “We’ve never dealt with time travel before.” He started pacing again. “Maybe this theoretical parallel timeline is somehow connected to our own. Maybe they intersect or are intertwined in some way. I don’t know. All I do know is that I’ve got a very strong hunch that Dylan Graves must be the one we send back, if we send anyone at all.”
“Ordinarily, I would trust your hunches more than most other officers’ facts, Nick, but this is all very strange.”
Hansen snickered. “You’ll get no argument from me.”
“What if you cannot convince Sergeant Graves to join your agency?”
“Then we’ll have to send someone else, assuming you approve the mission.”
“Regardless of what your gut tells you?”
“I feel very strongly that it has to be him, as I said, but I won’t allow my feelings to interfere with my duty. If you do order the mission, then I will send someone.”
“Perhaps we should call the professor back in here and discuss...”
“Absolutely not,” Hansen insisted, rudely cutting her off. Under her slightly perturbed glare he returned to his seat and took more care to guard his tone. They were friends, but she was still the president. “I still have a few enemies in powerful positions above me, Mirriazu. If word gets out that I’m having those nightmares again after all these years, some over-zealous fleet doctor somewhere is apt to declare me unfit for duty. Let alone for command of the agency. I remind you, though I’m sure it’s unnecessary, you agreed that all this was off the record. I’m counting on you to keep it just between us.”
“Very well,” she agreed. “I assure you, I’ll do that.”
“Thank you.”
“And on the record, Admiral, if your gut, as you say, tells you that Sergeant Graves must be the one, then I want you to do your very best to recruit him. If the question of our survival comes down to my approving this mission, I’ll want to be confident that you have someone you believe to be the very best choice for the job standing by.”
“Understood, Madam President.”
“In the meantime I want you to continue with your duties as if this resolution were not an option, because right now I consider it to be our very last resort, and I doubt very much that that will ever change.”
“Also understood,” he assured her. “The Joint Chiefs and I are meeting on Monday to finalize plans for a Rosha’Kana counterattack.”
“Very good. Now, if you will excuse me, Nick, I have a lot of bureaucratic nonsense to attend to.”
“Certainly.” Hansen stood, but the two of them had long since gotten over the need for formalities between them—the use of each others’ first names acted as a sort of signal between them, for one to let the other know that they were communicating as friends rather than as professional colleagues—so he didn’t bother snapping to attention and saluting. “Try to have a good day, Mirriazu.”
“You also, Nick. Say ‘hello’ to Heather for me, and please, express my deepest apologies for missing her birthday.”
“I will.” And with that, he turned on his heel—not quite a picture perfect about face—and headed for the door.
She watched him go and almost let the door close behind him, but she had to know. She hit the button, holding the door open. “Nick,” she called out.
Hansen faced around and, when she waved him back in, stepped back into her office yet again. “Ma’am?”
“You said earlier that you are a soldier and a patriot. I understand that, but I really want to know your opinion of this whole ‘Timeshift Resolution’ question,” she told him frankly. “Is it worth all this attention or not?”
Hansen considered his response very carefully. There were things he knew, things he’d done through the years and things he’d learned as a result that he couldn’t admit to her no matter how long they’d known each other. No matter how long they’d been friends.
“I live in the here and now, Mirriazu,” he began. “My concern is for the security of Earth in the here and now. I don’t know anything about time travel, altering the past, or creating a new reality. To be perfectly honest the whole thing sounds like science fiction to me, regardless of the change in my nightmares or anything else. What I do know is that the Veshtonn have taken over the most important star system in the Coalition and that we’ve got to take back, and fast, before it’s too late to make any difference.
“The Rosha’Kana counterattack, Madam President. In my opinion, that is where we should concentrate our efforts.”
“So you agree with Professor Verne, then,” she tentatively concluded. “You stand against the ‘Timeshift’ mission.”
“I will continue to do everything I have to do in order to be prepared to go forward with it, should you give the order. But to tell you the truth, I think it’s a waste of time and effort.”
“Despite everything you’ve said in the last few minutes.”
He hesitated for the briefest moment, then avoided the question altogether by answering, “You asked my opinion.”
The president considered his answer for several seconds, then thanked him and sent him on his way.
As he strolled down the hall, all alone—Chairman MacLeod and Professor Verne hadn’t stuck around to wait for him, and why should they?—he had little doubt that, given the proper training, Graves could indeed accomplish the mission. The bigger questions were one, was there still enough time to convince him to join the agency and send him through the academy, then get him to Window World and through the Portal before the Veshtonn swept through that sector? And two, if he did make it back twenty-two years into the past, and if he did succeed, would his actions really give them a second chance at survival? Would they even know it, if and when he brought about a change?
His previous experience from six years ago was not encouraging.
Chapter 16
As his private shuttle crossed out of Earth’s atmosphere and into the cold, dark vacuum of space and fell into orbit, Admiral Hansen sat totally oblivious to the wondrous beauty of that giant turquoise jewel that was mother Earth hanging just outside his window. While it was true that he’d seen her from that same perspective literally thousands of times before and could readily see her that way again whenever he wanted to, it wasn’t just her familiarity that blinded him to her majesty. It was distraction. It was preoccupation. He’d left the presiden
t’s office hours ago, but his thoughts still lingered there.
Her question about whether or not a hypothetical time-traveler would have the means to return home had caught him off guard—he hadn’t expected her to think that far ahead so soon—and for a moment he’d feared she might follow it up with a few more questions he wouldn’t have wanted to try to answer. Questions that had been touched on but not yet asked of him directly. Questions he’d asked himself many times over the past six years. Questions like, even with the recall device, was it really possible for a time-traveler to return to the future he came from, since for him, once he’s in the past, that future would not yet exist? Or, if a traveler is in the past for six months before he affects a change, would six months pass for the people he left behind in the future as well, or would that change come immediately for them because it happened in their past? Or finally, as he’d asked himself outside the president’s office, would a time-traveler’s actions really give them a second chance?
Would they even realize any change had occurred? That remained perhaps the biggest question of them all.
Thank God the president hadn’t taken the time to research the various theories for herself before the meeting. Who knew how many more questions she might have come up with?
“Admiral Hansen?” the pilot’s voice called out over the intercom. “Sir, we’re on final approach to Mandela Station. If you’re up and about, please return to your seat and fasten your harness, sir.”
“I’m already strapped in, pilot.”
“All right, sir. Thank you.”
Mandela Station, the United Earth Federation’s enormous international space complex, contained an enormous combined military and civilian space dock facility, separate office areas for each group of representatives from both the member nations of the Earth Federation and the member worlds of the Coalition, dozens of commercial corporations’ offices, literally hundreds of smaller businesses, a myriad of recreational facilities, and Solfleet Orbital Headquarters. Not to mention atmosphere-controlled housing facilities for all the residents and their families. It floated, or rather free-fell, high in geosynchronous orbit above a different part of the Earth every month, visible to the naked eye on clear nights to the people far below. This particular month it had hung over New York City. In September its maneuvering thrusters would carry it south, over Rio De Janeiro, Brazil.
All totaled, Hansen had been assigned to the station for well over half of his career—long enough that it had become his permanent home. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing. That kind of stability was virtually unheard of in the life of a soldier. He was very fortunate to be able to enjoy it, even at his level, and it had made raising his daughter as a single parent a lot easier than it otherwise would have been. Relatively speaking, of course.
He was also fortunate, he reminded himself once more, to still have a career, and not just because he and Commander Royer had so far been able to keep what they did six years ago a secret. As Chairman MacLeod’s allusion to the tragic incident of twenty-plus years ago had reminded him, his career might have ended long before he and Royer ever even thought about sending her brother through the Portal. Long before he ever met Royer, for that matter. If the fleet hadn’t so desperately needed to garner as much positive public opinion as possible at the time, things probably would have turned out much worse for him.
But as fate would have it, the needs of the fleet had not only saved his career, but had also guaranteed his continued ascent through the ranks. The only downside to the whole deal was the fact that even if he served for another thirty years, he’d probably still never see another field command.
He thought about stopping by his quarters and changing into his class-B’s before heading to the office, but by the time his shuttle docked and he disembarked, he’d changed his mind. Commander Royer would be anxious to talk to him as soon as possible. She could be quite abrasive when she wanted to be, even with her superiors, and if he made her wait longer than necessary, she’d want to be. Besides, the station operated on Greenwich Mean Time. The work day was already half over, so why bother?
He made his way directly to the agency’s offices and greeted the commander’s wrinkled old crone of a secretary with a slight nod of his head and a “Good morning, Misses Applegate,” as he passed by her desk and approached the commander’s desert-rose door. Somehow, even while sitting in her chair, the elderly woman managed to look down her crooked, hooked nose at him, and she offered no reply whatsoever. She’d been close to Jonathan Harkam and his family back in her slightly younger days, had apparently thought of him like a son, and had never forgiven Hansen for what he’d done. Her coincidental employment with the Solfleet Intelligence Agency was just one more cruel twist of fate in Hansen’s life.
He touched his finger to the buzzer and the door slid aside, disappearing into the desert-tan wall to admit him.
“Come in, Admiral,” Royer said from her seat behind her artificial cherry desk. She was talking to a young ensign in class-A’s who was seated across the desk from her, the stubble-haired back of whose head Hansen didn’t recognize. He sat up straight as a board when Royer spoke, and upon turning and seeing the admiral he practically jumped to his feet, nearly tripped on the leg of his chair, and snapped to attention. Royer, on the other hand, made a slight adjustment to her pinned-up platinum-blond hair as she stood, but never actually made it to the position of attention before Hansen spoke and eliminated the need. Not that she ever really tried to anyway.
“As you were,” Hansen said automatically. Then, without having to look, he reached back to the left of the door and tapped the ‘hold’ button, preventing it from closing behind him—a silent signal to Royer telling her to dismiss the ensign immediately, and that he would be staying...at least for a little while.
“Good morning, Admiral,” Royer said cheerfully as he approached her desk. “How was your flight?”
“Commander,” he responded with a curt nod. Then he looked at the young man to his right—the very young man to his right—who’d barely relaxed at all, and added, “Ensign.”
The younger man stared dead ahead and swallowed nervously. He looked like he was about ready to puke. “Ad...Admiral Hansen, sir,” he responded, his voice a little shaky. “Good morning, sir.”
Jesus. Had Fleet grown so desperate that it had started recruiting kids right out of high school? “Relax, Ensign. That’s what ‘as you were’ means, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Yes, sir. I mean no, sir. I haven’t forgotten. Thank you, sir.” But after all that, he still didn’t relax. He was too busy staring wide-eyed at the rows upon rows of colorful ribbons centered perfectly above the admirals left breast pocket.
“Admiral Icarus Hansen,” Royer began, her slight grin betraying her amusement, “allow me to introduce Ensign Martin Pillinger, the agency’s newest recruiting officer. I understand you didn’t have an opportunity to meet him before he left on assignment.”
“No, I didn’t,” Hansen confirmed. “Pleased to meet you, Ensign Pillinger,” he said as he extended his hand toward the young officer. The kid—he was what, twenty-two or twenty-three years old? He was clean-shaven, had a slight pinkish tint to his cheeks, and he wore his light brown hair buzzed high and tight in the traditional style still required by the United States Marines and favored by most of Solfleet’s combat troops. God, he looked so young. Hansen couldn’t help but see him as a kid.
“The pleasure is all mine, sir,” Pillinger gushed as he shook the admiral’s hand as firmly, and as briefly, as he could. “I’ve heard a lot about you, sir.”
“All of it good, I hope,” Hansen quipped.
But the joke was completely lost on the ensign. More than that, it actually seemed to frighten the hell out of him, as if it were some kind of accusation directed right at him. “Uh, yes, sir!” he assured the admiral. “Of course, sir! All of it good.”
Royer shook her head ever so slightly and fought back the amused grin that threatened to
break out as she observed the interaction in front of her. The poor kid was making a complete ass of himself right in the face of his top-level commanding officer. Amusing, but certainly not the best way to begin a career.
“Just back from Cirra, aren’t you?” Hansen had just asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“How was your trip?”
“Uh, just fine, sir,” Pillinger answered after a slight hesitation. No doubt the last thing in the world the young ensign wanted to have to do was admit to that same top-level commanding officer that he’d failed in his first assignment. “The food was actually pretty good, and the ship’s accommodations were excellent, sir.”
“Where they really? I guess junior officers’ quarters have improved a lot in the years since I was a young ensign.”
Pillinger glanced at the three glistening golden starbursts that adorned Hansen’s epaulets, then gazed once more at the rainbow of ribbons on his chest as he answered with a firm and decisive, “Yes, sir.” The words had escaped before he could stop them, and the poorly disguised look of horror that twisted his baby-faced features was absolutely priceless.
Royer bit down on her lower lip to keep from laughing out loud.
“I mean...”
“You’re dismissed, Ensign,” Royer interjected, no longer able to hide her amusement and knowing how relieved the young man would be to hear those three words at that moment. “Take the rest of the day away from the office and finish up your report.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” To Hansen he said, “Pleasure meeting you, Admiral.” And with that the young officer executed a picture-perfect left face and marched, very quickly, out the door. Royer tapped the ‘close’ pad on her desk panel.
“Is he always that stiff?” Hansen asked.
“Apparently so,” Royer answered as she pulled off her duty jacket and draped it over the arm of her chair. “At least he has been whenever I’ve seen him anywhere. He never sits back and relaxes, he addresses his superiors as ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ much more often than necessary, and he marches when he walks. Tell you the truth, Admiral, I don’t think I’ve ever met such a nervous young officer before.”
