by Smith, Glenn
Hansen watched as she adjusted her black midi-skirt then stepped out from behind her desk and walked over to the more relaxed setting of her small, informal meeting area.
“Can I get you something to drink, Admiral?” she asked.
“No, thank you.” He joined her and took a seat in one of the five matching soft-cushioned chairs that surrounded her oval, frosted glass-topped coffee table. Not exactly fleet issue, but then again neither was her desk or very much else in her office. She preferred to be surrounded by her own things.
“So what’s Pillinger so nervous about?” he asked.
“He seems to be deathly afraid of failure,” she explained as she poured herself a small glass of ice water. “I don’t know. He came to us fresh out of the academy. Maybe he’s just still in awe of the whole ‘commissioned Solfleet officer’ thing.”
She set her glass down on the table, then unfastened the top couple of buttons of her new blouse and pulled open her collar. “I like the new uniforms, but this damn collar is so tight I can barely breathe,” she commented as she sat down about a third of the way around the table to Hansen’s right. She crossed one leg over the other and tugged downward on the hem of her skirt, then rested her elbow on the arm of the chair and her chin on her closed fist, and asked, “So, how was Geneva?”
“Clean and very colorful, as usual,” he answered. That had become his standard answer to that particular question long ago—the one he gave each and every time someone asked it. But this time he had something more to add, though he sincerely wished he didn’t. “I only hope I can still say that a year from now. Poor folks have no idea what’s about to hit them, but I guess the same can be said for pretty much the rest of humanity, as well.”
“Speaking of which, how’d the meeting go?” she asked more sullenly.
“I think ‘interesting’ would be the best way to describe it.”
“Really? Hmm. I expected something more along the lines of ‘boring’, considering all the time you and I have already spent on the subject over the years.”
“And you’d probably have been right, too, under normal circumstances, but this meeting was a little different than most. There was a college professor there—a guy named of Joseph Verne. He...”
“I’ve read about him. He’s head of the Drexel University Physics department.”
“That’s right. The president wanted to hear both sides of the Timeshift Resolution debate first hand, so she granted him a special security clearance. He talked about a few of the more widely accepted time-travel theories.” Hansen snickered. “I have to say that for a non-politician, he sure gave Chairman MacLeod a run for his money. If this whole situation weren’t so serious it would have been funny. He’s dead set against the Timeshift mission ever being carried out, that’s for damn sure.”
“Was there anything in what he said that might shed some light on our other problem?” she asked hopefully, referring of course to their illegal activities of six years earlier and the subsequent loss of her brother.
Ah, yes, the other problem. They’d been calling it that for so long, ‘the other problem’ had almost become its official title. Hansen shook his head. “No, not really. It was all pretty much the same stuff you and I considered back when we started that whole thing. A little more refined, maybe,” he appended, “but nothing new.”
Royer sighed. She’d been hoping for more, if not actually expecting it. “Damn it. I’m so tired of not knowing, and of not knowing if I ever will know.”
“We do know, Commander,” Hansen reminded her, as he had several times before.
“Not necessarily, Admiral. Maybe...”
“Liz,” Hansen said, calmly interrupting. “It’s been six years now. How many times have we had this conversation? Günter isn’t coming back, and so far as we can determine, nothing has changed. We can only assume that he either returned to a different timeline, or that he wasn’t able to return at all. And that’s assuming he made it in the first place.” He paused a moment, wishing he’d chosen those last words a little more carefully. But rather than try to explain what he’d actually meant—she knew anyway—he simply continued, “Knowing all of that is going to make sending someone back on this mission even harder.”
“Why?”
He looked her in the eye and sternly asked, “How would you like to be stuck in a world where you don’t belong? How would you like to leave Karen and never return to her?”
“I guess I wouldn’t like it very much,” she answered sheepishly.
“Exactly. And neither would she. You know that better than anyone. Whoever we end up sending back there is going to be leaving loved ones behind. Probably forever. They’re going to miss those loved ones and those loved ones are going to miss them, just as you miss Günter.” He drew a deep, relaxing breath, then added, “I only wish we’d thought about that a little more when we sent Günter back.”
“We did what we thought was right at the time, Admiral,” Royer reminded him. Though in truth she’d said it as much to convince herself as to comfort the admiral. Six years. Six long years. Yet somehow she still managed to cling to that slowly dwindling hope that something positive might come out of what they had done. But deep down inside she knew the admiral was right. She’d known it for years, but had avoided admitting it to herself, as if that would somehow make things different.
Günter had failed. Neither he nor any of the cloned progeny he’d taken back with him had ever returned to the present, and they most likely never would. She and the admiral couldn’t even be sure that any of them were alive. As difficult as it was, she knew she was going to have to accept that fact once and for all, sooner or later, and let her brother go.
“Did the president give any indication as to which way she’s leaning?” she asked, getting back to the subject at hand.
Hansen shook his head. “She considers it strictly a last resort for now, but she left herself room to change her mind, which was exactly what I expected her to do.”
“Really? Why?”
“Why? Come on, Liz. You’ve known Mirriazu Shakhar almost half as long as I have, and I’ve known her for well over twenty years, since long before she ever considered running for the presidency—which, by the way, makes it extremely difficult for me to mislead her. You know she doesn’t make rash decisions.”
“I know, Admiral. She analyzes every aspect of every available option and then plays out scenarios in her head based on all the foreseeable results of each one of those options. Then she has several long discussions about those scenarios with her advisory staff. You’ve explained it to me more than a few times.”
“The way any smart leader would,” Hansen pointed out. “And in this particular case, I can just about guarantee she won’t make a decision one way or the other until she’s confident that she knows with reasonable certainty what all of the results of that decision will be. And I suspect she’ll only approve this mission if she feels like she absolutely has to.”
“In other words, we may be in for a very long wait,” Royer concluded.
“That is a distinct probability,” Hansen confirmed, “which brings me to my next point.”
“Which is?”
“We know it’s going to take time to train Sergeant Graves, prepare him for the mission, and get him to Window World. We also know that the Veshtonn are on the move, en masse. We still have time, but not a lot of it. We can’t afford to put things off much longer.”
A moment passed in silence. Then Royer uncrossed her legs, sat up straight, and folded her hands in her lap and said, “Then we might have a serious problem, Admiral.”
“What problem?” Hansen asked with apprehension. But he suspected he already knew the answer.
“Sergeant Graves still hasn’t agreed to join us.”
He was right. He had already known the answer. “Ensign Pillinger’s visit didn’t help, huh.” It wasn’t a question. Having read Royer’s extensive background report on the sergeant at length, Hansen hadn’t
really expected any extra effort on Pillinger’s part to make a difference. Squad Sergeant Dylan Edward Graves was a middle child who had grown up fatherless from the age of six and had spent most of his childhood years as a social outcast with very few friends, despite his eventual rise to his high school’s varsity ice hockey team. As a young man he’d found a home in the service, especially with the Rangers, and Hansen knew exactly why. Esprit-de-corps. That feeling of belonging. That feeling of absolute unity with one’s brothers-in-arms that the children of broken homes always found so appealing. Hansen had seen it so many times before, in all branches of the service but most particularly in the Solfleet Marine Corp’s Rangers. And more often than not, almost to a one in fact, those Rangers in whom he’d seen it had stayed with the Rangers until they retired or until the day they died, whichever came first.
“The sergeant’s unit should just about be wrapping up a two week field training exercise as we speak,” Royer added. “Right before it started, Pillinger met with him at length two or three times, but he didn’t bite. I’m hoping he was just too busy preparing for the F-T-X at the time to give our offer any serious thought.
“After they deployed to the field, Pillinger tried at least three times to talk his company commander into either pulling Graves back out of the field so he could meet with him again, or talking to him about it himself. He refused, of course.”
“In other words,” Hansen concluded, “after more than half a dozen attempts, including yours, we’re no closer to recruiting him than we were before we started trying.”
“Not even a little bit,” Royer reluctantly confirmed.
Hansen sighed. That was discouraging news, because Royer had been right about Graves. Once properly trained, he really would be the most logical choice for the mission. Hansen would have known that even if he hadn’t seen him in his nightmeares. But because of his nightmares, though he didn’t completely understand why, Hansen had been hoping even more that they would succeed in persuading him to come aboard. Even more so now, since the president herself had asked him to try his best to recruit him. He’d hate to disappoint her almost as much as he’d hate to act against that gut feeling he still had.
But the sergeant had given his answer, and they were quickly running out of time. The mission itself had to take priority over everything else, and that included his own intuition and psychological well-being.
“Who’s at the top of your original list of candidates?” he asked, apparently giving up on the sergeant.
Royer was taken aback by the admiral’s uncharacteristic defeatist attitude. In all the years they’d served together, she’d never known him to give up on anything so easily, and she didn’t know what to make of it. What kind of grilling had the president put him through down there? More importantly, what could she do about it? She’d been considering the possibility of meeting with the sergeant herself, but she really hated deep space travel, primarily because of the long separations from her wife that came with it, and in this particular case she couldn’t even be sure her efforts would make a difference anyway.
No matter. Whether she succeeded or not wasn’t the most important issue anymore. The admiral’s continued faith in the mission was vital, for her brother’s sake, and the strength of that faith lay in the continuing possibility that they might get Sergeant Graves to carry it out.
“Wait a minute, sir,” she said. “I never said I was ready to give up on him just yet.”
“I didn’t say that either, Commander,” Hansen clarified. “As a matter of fact, I have no intention of giving up. On the contrary, I intend to keep trying until he agrees to sign on or until it doesn’t matter anymore. But in the meantime we have to be prepared to send someone else in case we suddenly run out of time before we expect to.”
“Understood, sir, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
“Oh? You have something particular in mind, Commander?”
“Nothing specific yet, Admiral, but I’m working on it.” She leaned forward and picked up her drink. As she sat back and tilted the glass to her lips, a large drop of condensation formed at its base and dripped onto the front of her blouse. “I’m sure I’ll have a solid plan in place by the time I get there.”
The droplet faded, absorbed by the material of her... What? ”By the time you get there?”
“That’s right.”
“By the time you get where, Commander?” Where else could she mean but...
“Cirra, sir.”
“Cirra.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, palming the bottom of the glass in her lap to keep her skirt from getting damp. “I thought that since I was the one who brought Graves to your attention in the first place, I should make one more attempt, personally, before we give up on him entirely.” She raised a hand, stopping the admiral’s retort. “I know. We’re not giving up on him.” Hansen still didn’t look convinced, so she added, “Besides, I’m afraid Ensign Pillinger might have come off wrong with the sergeant’s C-O and I’d like a chance to correct that. You never know. We might need his cooperation some day.”
“We have other recruiters,” Hansen pointed out unnecessarily. “And what about Karen?”
“Karen has been a military spouse long enough to know that long separations are part of the job description, sir,” she explained. “As for sending out one of our other recruiters, just how many people can we involve in this process before we risk compromising its secretive nature?”
She had a point, and the only logical response to that question was obvious. “As few as possible.”
“Exactly.”
Hansen considered. The idea of Liz leaving the station for the next month or more didn’t exactly thrill him. She was a valuable asset and did a lot to make his job a hell of a lot easier than it would be otherwise. He’d miss having her there. “What about the supply shipments to Charlie Colony?” he asked her, reminding her of one of her most important routine responsibilities, albeit unnecessarily. “They’re already a month behind schedule and the colonists are beginning to get a little desperate. I’ve got wartime Intelligence operations to oversee, Commander. I don’t have the time to actively devote to the colony right now.”
She took another drink. “They’re cyberclones, Admiral,” she reminded him, as if that in itself made the point of his question moot. “Trained combat soldiers, every one of them. They’re used to living with adversity for short periods of time.”
“They’re living, breathing human beings, Commander, and you’ll be gone for at least a month,” the admiral countered, glaring at her as he shifted in his chair and leaned slightly toward her. “They’re counting on us for their survival until they become permanently self-sufficient. And you know as well as I do that most of them have never even seen real combat, and that there are a lot of civilians up there with them now, too.”
Yes, she did know that. Over the past few years, despite being told that they would never be allowed to return to their homes again, thousands of men and women had immigrated to Charlie Colony, a handful at a time so as not to be noticed, to help the former would-be combat soldiers settle their new world. Thousands of weddings had been performed so far, and over the past several months many of those couples had begun having children.
“Point taken, sir,” she said in quick capitulation. A wise person would not dare challenge Admiral Icarus Hansen once he took a stand in defense of someone’s life and well being. “Tell you what, Admiral. I’ll turn colony support operations over to Lieutenant Vandenhoven until I get back.”
“Lieutenant Vandenhoven?” Hansen snorted. “Are you sure that guy can be trusted with the colony?”
The sour look on his face told Royer exactly what was on his mind. Poor Vandenhoven. Back when he was only a lowly, newly commissioned ensign who hadn’t yet been on station a month, he’d inadvertently let the cat out of the bag about a surprise party the senior staff had planned for Hansen’s mother’s seventy-fifth birthday. He’d happened across her one day wh
en she was visiting her son at his office and he was dropping something off to the admiral’s secretary. They’d struck up one of those friendly conversations that sometimes occur between strangers when they meet, during which the elder Hansen had mentioned that she’d known the admiral all his life. Having no idea who she was and without realizing quickly enough what her words inferred, he’d asked her if she was going to the admiral’s mother’s surprise birthday party, to which she’d whimsically replied that she hadn’t been invited.
The party had been a pretty big bash with a lot of important guests, and the admiral had been furious to learn that the surprise had already been spoiled. Four years had passed since that night, but the admiral apparently still hadn’t let it go.
Perhaps that had something to due with his thoughts on the idea of having an Intelligence officer who couldn’t keep a secret on staff.
“I’m sure your mother got over that a long time ago, Admiral,” Royer commented. She’d meant only to lighten his mood a little, but when he responded with a burning, laser beam stare, she quickly dropped the subject and answered his question. “Yes, sir, I am absolutely sure he can be trusted. Lieutenant Vandenhoven has been inspecting and maintaining all the Charlie Colony supply inventories for me since before we sent the first shipment. Plus, he’s pending review for promotion nomination, so he’ll be extra attentive to his duties.”
“I know, but he’s not exactly the most energetic officer we’ve got. And I hate to say it, but he doesn’t always show the best judgment, either. Is he fully aware of the absolute secrecy of the Charlie Colony operation?”
“We’re still here, aren’t we? Besides, do we ever run any other kind of operation out of this office?”
“Good point,” he admitted. Then he stood up and straightened his jacket. Royer set down her glass and stood up with him. “All right, Commander. It’s your call. If you really believe he can handle it, then go ahead and turn Charlie Colony operations over to him, but on a temporary basis only. Just make damn sure he’s aware that it’s your responsibility and his career if he screws it up.”
