Solfleet: The Call of Duty

by Smith, Glenn

  “Beth,” Dylan responded patiently, briefly rolling his eyes. “You know how I feel about people messing around in my head.”

  “I know, but...”

  “That especially includes telepaths.”

  “He’s not just a telepath. He’s a mentalist priest of the highest level. He won’t...”

  “I don’t care if he’s one of the Cirran gods themselves, Beth,” he proclaimed. He finished his water with one last gulp, then set the glass in the sink as he went on to explain, “I’m not letting any arguably psychotic religious fanatic wander through my mind looking for monsters.”

  “He’s not a psychotic religious fanatic!” she insisted. “He’s an accomplished mentalist! Why can’t you at least let him try? If he can help you to...”

  “No, Beth! I’m sorry, but I’m not comfortable with the idea.” He leaned back against the sink and crossed his arms in front of him. “Besides, I couldn’t go back to Cirra now even if I wanted to. I’ve got orders coming any day now.”

  “You don’t have to go back to Cirra,” she told him. “Professor Min’para is here on the station. He’ll be attending the banquet tomorrow night.”

  Dylan wavered for a moment, but quickly caught himself. His mind was made up. “No way, Beth,” he told her with finality, shaking his head and looking her in the eye. “I’m sorry.”

  She went to him and laid her hands gently on his shoulders. He uncrossed his arms and took her by the waist and pulled her close as she gazed up at him through sad, doe-like eyes and pouted like a child. “Promise me you’ll at least think about it before the banquet?” she pleaded.

  Dylan sighed. How could he say ‘no’ to that face? “All right. I promise I’ll think about it. But don’t count on me changing my mind.”

  She smiled. “Fair enough.”

  She kissed him, then retreated toward the window, pulling him along with her. She kissed him again. And again. He responded, and as their ever-fervent passion began to smolder once more, he stepped between her legs and gently laid her back on the window. He opened her shirt and slid his hands up over her breasts, stroking her nipples with his thumbs as they kissed. But just as he felt her tugging down on his shorts, the darkness behind his eyelids lightened. He opened his eyes and looked outside.

  “We should go back to bed,” he whispered.

  “Why?” she asked between heavy breaths. “What’s wrong with right here?”

  “Nothing, if you don’t mind an audience.”

  Beth looked up at him, then cocked her head to get a look at what he was staring at. “Oh my god!” she yelped, pushing him off her as she scurried away from the window, out of view of anyone who might have been peering out through the windows of the old astrobus that was drifting slowly by not more than a hundred meters off the station.

  Dylan laughed and pulled up his shorts, then put his arm around her and walked her back into the bedroom.

  Chapter 51

  The Next Night

  Friday, 3 December 2190

  Dylan’s mind had been wandering for most of the evening—he couldn’t stop thinking about that time-travel mission he’d turned down—but the sudden applause roused him from his reverie. Still standing behind the wedge-shaped transluminum podium at center stage, the pudgy Tor’Kana ambassador—Dylan couldn’t even begin to remember his name—had just finished delivering his long-winded speech and was rapidly clicking his scythe-like mandibles together in front of his mouth in the Tor’Kana equivalent of a gracious smile and waving all four of his four-fingered hands in thanks to the appreciative crowd. Though there were a number of physical differences, not the least of which was the obvious disparity in size, the Tor’Kana had always reminded Dylan of big red-brown ants.

  He didn’t have a clue what the ambassador’s speech had consisted of, but considering the grim future that the few Tor’Kana...people, for lack of a more accurate word...who remained were facing, he couldn’t understand how their long-time representative on Earth had found it within himself to say anything positive enough to evoke such an enthusiastic response from his audience. Then again, he was Tor’Kana, and the Tor’Kana as a people were well known not only for their military strength, but also for their unwavering optimism. Maybe he’d laid out some unrealistic plan assuring the crowd that continued cooperation between Earth and the rest of the Coalition would somehow lead to the salvation of his species.

  On second thought, he couldn’t have done that even if he’d wanted to. The true extent of the Tor’Kana situation—the fact that they were on the verge of extinction—was still classified, most likely to prevent wild speculation and panic from spreading through the general populous, so the ambassador wouldn’t have said anything about it.

  But he’d obviously said something that pleased the crowd.

  Truth was, Dylan didn’t really care what the ambassador had spoken about. It wouldn’t have had anything to do with him and he had much more important things on his mind, like figuring out how to talk his way out of having to let Beth’s Cirran telepath friend take a casual stroll through his mind.

  “All right, Lieutenant,” Admiral Hansen said from across the blue, green, and tan cloth-covered table as the ambassador returned to his seat and the classical portion of the music program began. “That ends the formalities. You’re free to steal your lovely fiancée away from us and enjoy the rest of your evening in peace if you’d like.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Eager to escape the brass-heavy gathering, he turned to Beth—God, she was even more beautiful with her hair up than she was with it down—and asked, “Ready to go?”

  “Go?” she asked, gazing at him as though the very idea of leaving such an event before it was over were a completely foreign concept to her. “No, I’m not ready to go. It’s still early and I paid good money for this gown. I’m ready to dance.”

  “You want to dance?” he asked with trepidation. He wasn’t a dancer. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

  “Yes, I want to dance.”

  “Why don’t you ask your young lady to dance, Lieutenant,” the admiral suggested, not grinning just enough to make it obvious that he was thoroughly enjoying Dylan’s sudden discomfort.

  Dylan threw Hansen his best ‘thanks for nothing’ look, to which the admiral responded with just the slightest of mischievous grins. At least the admiral wasn’t still upset with him—not that he was showing, at least. Then he stood up, tugged downward on his formal gray uniform jacket, and offered Beth his hand. Like a true gentleman—if he was going to do it, he was going to do it right—he bowed formally and asked her, “May I have this dance?”

  “You may indeed, sir,” Beth answered, smiling beautifully as she slipped her black-gloved hand into his. She stood up—Admiral Hansen stood as well—and bowed slightly to her fiancé’s superiors. “Admiral, Commander, it was nice meeting both of you.”

  “Miss DeGaetano,” the officers responded together, the admiral bowing in return. And though he couldn’t be sure, Dylan thought he glimpsed Commander Royer checking Beth out in something less than a professional manner.

  Beth turned to the commander’s wife. “Karen, it was a pleasure to meet you as well and I look forward to seeing you again at the spouses’ group. Thank you for inviting me.”

  “You’re very welcome, Beth,” Karen answered. “I’ll see you there.”

  Dylan and Beth pushed in their chairs and took their leave, and as they started toward the dance floor Beth quietly whispered into Dylan’s ear, “Not only may you have this dance, but you may have anything else you like as well.”

  Dylan smiled at her appreciatively and asked, “Do you always make that offer when a gentleman asks you to dance?”

  “That depends on the gentleman.”

  “Oh, really? And what is it about a gentleman exactly that makes you decide to tease him like that?”

  “Tease him?” she gasped, pretending to be shocked by the accusation. Then, emplying an artificial but very convincing southern bell accent
she said, “My deuh suh! I find the vera idea that you could possibly think me capable of indulgin’ in such unladylike behaviuh to be quite insultin’.”

  Dylan smiled. “Of course you do,” he said, playing along. “Please forgive me.”

  “I assure you,” she continued, “I would nevuh tease a gentleman in such a way! I only offuh myself to a gentleman when I am genuinely prepahyed to give mahself to him.”

  “But you’ve already given yourself to me,” he happily reminded her. “Numerous times, I might add.”

  They reached a spot near the center of the crowded dance floor, well out of sight and earshot of the admiral and the commander. Beth wrapped her arms around the back of Dylan’s neck and gazed into his eyes. “And I intend to give myself to you again,” she assured him, dropping the accent. “And again, and again, and again, for the rest of our lives.”

  Dylan took her by the waist and drew her close and kissed her, then said, “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  “As long as you’re holding me.”

  He kissed her again, then took her hand into his and wrapped his other arm around her bare waist. Then, in perfect time to the ancient music, he started leading her in what was, if he did say so himself, a fairly reasonable facsimile of a waltz. Once he was sure he’d managed to match their rhythm to that of the music, he said, “I don’t know about all this.”

  “About all what?”

  “All this. Ceremonies, formal balls, social events. I’ve never really been much of a social animal, but now that I’ve been commissioned I’ll be expected to attend functions like this all the time. The high price of being in the officer corps.”

  “Now you know why officers get paid the big money,” she quipped.

  He grinned. Then, peering down inside her very fashionable and equally expensive new gown’s plunging neckline, he said, “Speaking of big money, that really is a beautiful gown you’re almost wearing.”

  “Hey, boy,” she playfully scolded, “you’d better watch yourself. This gown just happens to be an original Francis Black two-piece.”

  “I can see that it’s a black two-piece, but...”

  “No, no, no,” she smiled, shaking her head. “I didn’t say it’s a black two-piece,” she informed him. “I said it’s an original Francis Black Two-Piece.”

  “Oh!” he said, pretending to be overly impressed. “So who’s Francis Black?”

  “Are you kidding me?” she asked. “Francis Black just happens to be the top women’s formal fashion designer in the world right now. Two-Piece is the name of his line. These designs are very popular right now. Knockoffs are popping up all over the place.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, please forgive me once again, I beg you.”

  She smiled. “I’ll think about it.”

  For the next few minutes they just danced cheek-to-cheek and enjoyed the orchestra’s flawless performance almost as much as they were enjoying each other. But then, as they turned for the umpteenth time and Dylan faced the back of the ballroom, he caught sight of something that he simply had to share with her.

  He stopped dancing and let go of her hand. “Look there,” he said, pointing it out to her.

  “What am I looking for?” she asked as she looked back over her shoulder.

  “The Tor’Kana ambassador. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a Tor’Kana trying to waltz.”

  When Beth finally spotted the barely five foot tall alien ambassador through the crowd, she immediately saw what Dylan was referring to. There weren’t any Tor’Kana females in attendance—come to think of it, she’d never seen one of their females anywhere before—but that wasn’t stopping the ambassador from at least trying to have a good time. He’d found a no doubt reluctant but willing partner in the person of some politician’s or officer’s wife and was cutting a rug with the best of them. His upper thorax tended to bounce a little bit with each step, making him nearly as tall as his partner on the up-beats, and his timing wasn’t quite right. But other than that, he wasn’t doing too badly.

  His turns were what made his dancing so funny to watch. With each one his upper thorax not only bounced but also rotated ahead of the rest of his body as though being unscrewed. Then, when he stepped back to realign himself, his leg over-shot and his pelvis twisted underneath him, briefly protruding beyond his lower thorax. Fortunately, the Tor’Kana wore loose robe-like clothing instead of something more formfitting. Otherwise, his performance would likely have been more disturbing than comical.

  Beth smiled and turned back to him. “You’re so bad,” she said as she took hold of his hand again.

  “Am I wrong?” he asked as they resumed their dance.

  “Behave yourself.”

  Okay. So she was too kind a person to enjoy a laugh at someone else’s expense. That was one of the many things he loved most about her. ‘Behave yourself,’ she’d said. He stepped back and glanced at her cleavage, then down at her flat, bare midriff and her smooth, shapely legs. “Behave myself?” he asked. “That’s not going to be easy.”

  “And why is that?” she asked with a knowing smile.

  “Why do you think?”

  “My charming personality?” she quipped.

  “Well, yeah, that too. But that gown. I must say, if this Francis Black guy is at the top of the women’s fashion industry, I’ll bet it’s the men of the world who put him there.”

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely.” He drew her close again and spoke more quietly, so that only she would hear. “With all that cleavage showing, and if the bottom half sat any lower on your hips, or if those leg slits were any higher, everyone here would know what color underwear you have on.”

  “That is a gross exaggeration, Dylan, and you know it,” she responded. “Besides,” she continued, grinning mischievously as she brought her lips close to his ear. “what makes you think I’m wearing any?”

  He backed slightly away and looked her in the eye again, but before he could decide whether or not he thought she was serious, she said, “Stop trying to avoid the inevitable.”

  He pulled her back to him again and asked, “What do you mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean,” she told him confidently. “Have you given any thought to my suggestion?”

  “The one about this Professor Min’para character of yours?”

  “He’s not a character of mine, but yes.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “And?”

  Dylan sighed. “I don’t know, Beth.”

  The orchestra brought the music to its bold, climactic end. Everyone on the floor stopped dancing, turned toward the musicians, and applauded.

  “Come on, Dylan,” Beth continued as she applauded as well. “He’s right over there.” She pointed briefly toward the refreshment tables, then gently took hold of Dylan’s arm.

  “What makes you think he’ll be willing to help me anyway?” he asked her. “We’ve never met, so he doesn’t have a clue who I am. Nor does he have any reason to care. He’ll probably take one look at me and...”

  “I don’t know if he’ll be willing to help you,” she admitted. “But if we don’t ask him, then we’ll never know, will we?”

  “I can live with that.”

  “Well I can’t,” she countered. “Not while I know you’re suffering those nightmares.” She waited a moment, then added, “Please?”

  There were those big, doe-like eyes again. Dylan sighed with resignation. “All right.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.” She took his hands in hers and leaned in close and whispered, “I’ll make it worth your while later tonight.” Then she turned and started leading him toward the professor. “Come on.”

  “He probably won’t do it,” Dylan said hopefully.

  “We’ll see.” She towed him by the hand to within a few feet of the elderly Cirran’s side, then coaxed him along slightly ahead of her. “Excuse me,” she said to get the Cirran’s attention. “Professor Min’para?”

  Th
e very distinguished looking professor’s penetrating violet-eyed gaze shifted to her and brightened with recognition as he responded, “Miss DeGaetano,” annunciating her name without a trace of accent. “How are you this evening?”

  “Fine, thank you, Professor. And you?”

  “I am well. Thank you.”

  She gestured to Dylan. “Professor, may I present my fiancé, Lieutenant Dylan Graves. He’s the one I was telling you about.”

  Dylan looked at her and knew right away that he shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d already spoken to him. She’d planned the whole thing, even before he’d agreed to it. There were certain patterns of behavior that women everywhere seemed to have in common, and that was one of the big ones.

  “Indeed. How do you do, Lieutenant Graves?” the professor asked, once again without a hint of Cirran accent, disguising it being a talent that Dylan had heard was common among the strongest of their telepaths.

  “I’m well, thank you, sir,” Dylan answered. Then, looking at Beth again as he spoke, he added, “Except that I seem to be suffering from a sudden and very acute case of conspiring fiancée syndrome.” He watched as Beth almost succeeded in hiding her sheepish grin, then looked back at the professor as he explained, “I wasn’t aware she’d already spoken to you about me. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t even aware you existed until last night. Beth’s never mentioned you before.”

  “Do not hold it against her, Lieutenant,” the elderly professor said. “ ‘Conspiring Fiancée Syndrome,’ as well as the much more serious ‘Conspiring Wife Syndrome,’ is an affliction shared universally among all humanoid races throughout the known galaxy. And I know from what Miss DeGaetano has told me that she loves you very much. I would submit to you that it was that love alone that motivated her to come to me.”

  “I see. Well then, since you already know why I’m talking to you, all that remains is for you to explain to her why you will not do as she has requested. Then we’ll leave you in peace to enjoy the rest of the evening.”