Space Fleet Sagas Foundation Trilogy: Books One, Two, and Three in the Space Fleet Sagas

by Don Foxe

  “Your home is monitored, and your files hacked,” he added. “You must have stirred someone’s soup.”

  “Or it could be normal procedure to keep the previous commander of Space Fleet under watch,” she said. “The new commander may be concerned about my ultimate loyalties.”

  “Terrence Singletary is a prick,” Paris said, with venom in his voice. Clearly, he held little regard for the current Space Fleet Commanding Admiral. “His political connections placed him in a position to oust and replace you. It is a decision that will one day bite the UEC, and the Board of Governors, in their collective asses.”

  “He is politically savvy. And paranoid. It would be within his nature to have security scan my personal files.”

  “But it wasn’t him,” Paris replied.

  “Because?”

  “You said the files were compromised by one of the intrusion scans. You also said you had classified documents. Documents illegal for you to possess since you are retired. If Singletary knew you had them, a team of security agents would have descended, confiscated your systems, and arrested you. He is jealous of your history, Pam. The man hates you.”

  “Granted. Not him, but someone with a great deal of influence.”

  “Which is why you must be careful,” he said. “Be circumspect about your investigation. Use this room when you need it. Keep your notes on flash paper only. People cannot hack paper, and you can flame it to ashes in seconds. I will set the security protocols to allow you access to the building, and to this room. You still have the Fell communications and translation chip embedded in your neck?”

  “How do you know about the chip?” she stammered. “Never mind. Of course you would know about a secret communications devise. Does everyone at UESE know?”

  “Just me,” he assured her. “But the scans will recognize you, and it. Guards will simply ignore you and there will be no records kept of your visits. Is there anything more I can do?”

  “You’ve done everything, and more.”

  The top spook gave his long-time friend a most serious face. “When you find out who is behind Tab’s death, you will let me know, immediately.”

  “You have a lot of faith in an old woman who hasn’t run an investigation in decades.”

  “You are far from old, Pam. Your skills as an investigator have never been in question. And, yes, I have a lot of faith in you.”

  UESE Office of Director

  “How much does she know?”

  Cassel brushed imaginary lint from the front of his slacks. The motion a nervous tick. After decades in espionage, nervous meant staying alert. Meetings with this man required vigilance. If observed together in the wrong place, by the wrong eyes, the fall-out could ruin years of planning.

  “She doesn’t actually know anything, yet,” he assured the fashionably dressed man. “Pam suspected Barnwell’s suicide bogus since the day it was reported. I don’t believe she has anything hard to substantiate her doubts.”

  “Why don’t you see what’s on her computer?”

  “Naval Intelligence once considered Patterson their best analytical mind. She was top flight as an investigator, and a counter-intelligence agent. She will know if her computer is accessed. Since I’m the one who placed it in secure storage, I would be the only suspect. I’d prefer to keep her off my scent.”

  “How did she discover the intrusion beams?”

  Cassel checked his wrist chronometer, not because he cared about the time, but the devise also checked the immediate area for electronic eavesdropping. No bugs and no beams registered.

  “She didn’t say, and I didn’t press. Like I said, she’s as good at counter-spy field craft as data analysis. I’m more surprised her computer was compromised before she realized the beams were aimed at her home. If she plans on continuing to investigate Barnwell’s death, she’ll need to use the secure room at the agency. I’ll be available as a sounding board. If she learns of anything that could damage our operation, I’ll handle it quickly.”

  “That may be too late,” the dapper gentleman said. “She was important enough to have her removed from Space Fleet. Her nosing into Barnwell’s suicide makes her a target. If she retired and took up a useless hobby, she’d be safe. As it is, she’s made it clear she remains a threat.”

  “Maybe. If she leaves the research alone and doesn’t go looking further, she may remain safe.” Cassel was uncomfortable discussing the potential demise of his life-long friend, but would never let it show.

  “Admiral Patterson never struck me as the kind of person to leave things alone,” the other man replied.

  “No,” Cassel agreed. “But we can hope.”

  “Anything regarding Cooper?”

  “She’s receiving updates from a site with security systems more advanced than those we use,” Cassel answered. “Most likely updates on Captain Cooper. Time-stamps are consistent, so he’s stationary. He probably remains in a coma.”

  “But we cannot be sure, if the security is as strong as you say.”

  The security chief shrugged. “Educated guesses,” he admitted.

  “You cannot warn her, Paris. She’s your friend, and I appreciate that, but we are engaged with events which will determine the direction of this entire world for decades, possibly centuries to come. One person is not more important than the work we have already accomplished, or the end game.”

  “I realize that. If she continues to look into Barnwell, I’ll try to send her in the wrong direction. It may be enough to keep her alive.”

  “Or not,” the other man countered.

  CHAPTER 11

  Toronto

  Village Plaza

  (North of Bathurst Campus)

  Rosz and Billy stood in front of a shop window frosted over, not by the cold, but with non-transparent film. The door displayed the number three, CHIBA DOJO in block english letters, and symbols beneath the english, presumably Japanese script.

  The storefront one of a dozen located in Village Plaza. The spaces on either side of Number Three vacant, with old newspapers covering the inside of the shop windows and door glass. FOR LEASE signs and a voice-call number taped to the inside of each display window.

  “What do you think?” Billy asked.

  “It was the nearest martial arts studio to the campus,” Rosz answered. “Should we go in?”

  “That or freeze to death.” Billy pushed, and nothing happened. Next, he pulled and the door swung open. The two college students entered a stark dark world.

  They stood on woven carpet. The six-foot wide strip lay in front of all four interior walls. The carpet framed a twenty by forty bamboo floor. Ambient light emanated from walls and ceiling. The surprising size of the interior due to the for-rent spaces on either side incorporated into this one. Where newspaper-lined windows showed outside, textured wall-paper covered flat walls inside.

  “Hello?” Billy called, expecting an echo.

  “You don’t think they leave the door open when no one is here, do you?” Rosz asked.

  Billy shrugged. “I wouldn’t think so. Look at that back wall. Swords, spears, and fighting sticks. All kinds of weapons. I don’t think they would leave those unlocked.”

  “I do not.”

  The two boys jumped, spun, and sputtered.

  The reply came from a man knelling on the carpeted aisle to the right of the entrance. His fisted hands rested at the top of his thighs. His posture erect and relaxed at the same time.

  “Was he there when we walked in?” Billy whispered the question.

  Despite the earbuds, and ever present music, Rosz replied, “Must have been.”

  He addressed the man. “Sorry if we disturbed you. We were interested in martial arts lessons.”

  “Were? Now you are no longer interested?”

  “No. My translator sometimes gets my words right, but my meaning wrong. We are interested in martial arts.”

  The soft light made it difficult to see the man clearly. He looked oriental, with dark hair. His
eyes remained focused at the bamboo floor in front of him.

  “I do not teach martial arts. I train most in karate. I instruct a few how to defend themselves. Some, how to use a weapon.”

  Rosz turned to his friend and said, “Hiro Kimura uses karate. Coop told me.”

  The man turned his head, and eyes, on the two. “Sensei Kimura is a karate Master without equal. Would ‘Coop’ refer to Captain Daniel Cooper?”

  “Yes, he’s my friend,” Rosz replied. He could not disguise the pride in his statement, even through the translator. “Do you know Hiro Kimura or Daniel Cooper?”

  “By reputation only,” the man said, rising as if his body consisted of air and water. “Why do you want to learn to fight?” He stood before Rosz, who stood five-inches taller.

  “To protect my friends,” the Bosine replied.

  “And you?”

  “Same. And so I’m not afraid to do something if I need to,” Billy answered.

  “You should never fear the consequences of protecting someone who needs help,” the man said. The room seemed brighter, but it could have been the boys’ eyes becoming accustomed to the dim interior.

  “I don’t fear the consequences. I fear failing,” the Canadian admitted.

  “Fifty credits for each ninety-minute lesson,” he said.

  “I’ll have to see if I can afford that,” Rosz said.

  “I can cover us for a few sessions,” Billy said.

  “You don’t need to do that. I just need to see what I can come up with.”

  “I don’t mind. This way we can get started sooner.”

  “I should pay for myself.”

  “Enough,” the karate master said. He did not shout, but the force of his voice stopped any more conversation. “You can stay after sessions and clean for half the cost. You do not mind work, do you?”

  “No,” both replied. “But we need to train in the early afternoon. It’s the only time we have,” Billy added.

  “This time tomorrow. We begin,” was his answer.

  “Great,” Billy said. “I’m Billy, and this is Rosz, he’s a Bosine from Osperantue. What do we call you?”

  “You call me Sensei. And, in case you told me about your friend to see if it would make a difference. It does not. I do not care where my students come from. I only care about your desire to learn. And your honor.”

  He gave a short bow, and passed them, headed to the rear of the studio. He exited through a curtain.

  “Do you think he’s serious?” Billy asked.

  “I think he gets twenty-five credits and two maids,” Rosz replied. “We’ll see what happens tomorrow. We can always quit.”

  “I don’t know, Rosz. Sensei doesn’t seem the type to appreciate a quitter.”

  “And we don’t tell Chaspi or Stacey about this.”

  “Nope. Though I did think about asking Stacey to train us,” Billy admitted.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Any idea how long the house has been under surveillance?” Sam Patterson asked. In one of life’s little quirks, Pam met, feel in love, and married a man with the same last name. In the beginning it took her friends and colleagues time to adjust. After more time passed, new people assumed she took his last name.

  “No,” Pam admitted. She decided her husband deserved to know intrusion scans invaded the home they shared. Scans made by unknown agents. Forced, as an intelligence operative and a military officer, to keep secrets from him since they married, this did not represent one kept for national or world security. This concerned their home, and the life they shared.

  They sat on a metal bench, the park’s frozen pond an invitation for people living nearby to lace skates and ride the ice. They often came here and watched the kids learn to skate as parents glided in protective circles.

  “Glad I erased that porn collection,” he quipped.

  Sam Patterson worked as a trade alliance mediator. The unification of Earth came without a multitude of problems. Trade values and establishing a worldwide currency or credit system topped the list. Mediators were necessary to establish actual value of goods and services relative to other commodities. Attempting to quantify millions of items, services, even concepts was going to require a couple of lifetimes. A sense of humor helped get him through each day.

  “I hope you didn’t have anything on our home systems that could cause you problems at work,” Pam said, ignoring the porn remark.

  “My appointment calendar is the only work thing I bring home,” he answered. “I have been more than happy to leave my work at work.”

  “That’s funny. I never brought my work home until I retired.”

  “Retired? I’m pretty sure you were forced to resign, and I have a sneaky feeling the files you did bring home may have something to do with that.” Her husband took her left hand in his right. “Whatever you need to do, Pam, please do. I know you never wanted Space Fleet to suffer from the political intrigue that plagued so many government branches, before or after the pandemic. Because of my job, I see a lot of assets moving around the world that do not make fiscal sense. When politicians start acting up, and covert financial activities increase, something bad is in the wind.”

  “Any hints as to what?”

  “Not one,” he admitted. “You might be the opening move in a power play, or you might be part of the end game.”

  “Is there a way to tell how much time we have before something bad happens,” she said.

  “Daniel’s murder attempt, your resignation, the scanning of our home, and Paris Cassel wasn’t surprised by your visit. I’d guess we have less time, not more.”

  “You keep saying ‘we’”.

  “You bet I do. Our home was invaded. Before the pandemic, following the uproar about government intrusion into the lives of private citizens last century, that would never have been allowed. When political parties decided to use the power of government agencies to spy for political gain, they brought about their own destruction. Controls on spy agencies became death-grips. Since the pandemic, it seems more and more of the old political mistakes are making a comeback.”

  Sam watched a four-year-old land hard on his butt. The youngster laughed, and got right back up.

  “Our lives have been upended. I have the contacts to watch for odd cross-national financial transactions, and you have the brains to figure it all out.”

  “Go Team Patterson,” Pam said, and gave his hand a squeeze.

  Aster Farum 3

  “How long have you had the younger Soren under surveillance?”

  Captain Covane, a thirty-something career officer and communications specialist removed her earpiece. She heard the Admiral’s query, but needed a moment to make sure she framed the reply in a way that would answer his question and make sense.

  “We do not actually have him under surveillance, Admiral,” she replied. “I have a back-channel relay from a tower the Zenge have not destroyed. The tower is connected to an old com-satellite in mid-space. The satellite bounces the signal to a system patrol boat near AF2. Information is sporadic at best.”

  “But enough information to know what Soren is planning?” he asked.

  “All I can tell you, factually, is a technician on Flame broadcasted an open message on the system patrol’s emergency bandwidth. He said Soren sent an experimental drone with wormhole-creation ability to the planet Earth system. He is inviting them to discuss a truce, and blames his father and AF3 for the Zenge attacks against other worlds.”

  “He’s using the truth as a lure.” The observation made by Major Willmer, a small man in a rumpled black and silver uniform. Even seated, it was obvious he might be five-six. Light brown skin and white hair buzzed close to his skull. His weak chin showed a day’s worth of white stubble, and his right hand tapped pinky-to-index over and over on the desktop. He did not look at anyone when he spoke, keeping his eyes on the display boards in front of him.

  The conversation occurred in a war room located several reinforced floors beneath the surface, sa
fe from weapons fired from space. Above the command center resided 20,000 Mischene elite soldiers. An additional 10,000 military personnel and civilians crowded into the underground complex following the Prophet’s invasion.

  A semi-circular conference table dominated the center of the war room. Admiral Lexton sat center, on the outside of the arch. A massive situational display projection filled the wall in front of him. Data and video streamed across different blocks on the display, providing real-time updates from around the planet and within the system.

  Behind him, a dozen Mischene military people engaged system controls; sending information, relaying information, or analyzing incoming information.

  The attack on the Aster system occurred fourteen days earlier.

  “Amos Soren planned on using his son as the scapegoat for the attacks he ordered against the other Trading Alliance worlds. Governor Soren planned on eliminating Atticus and was too full of himself to realize his son saw what was coming. Atticus beat his father to the punch,” Lexton told the assembled.

  “Now it appears he intends on continuing his father’s plan for Mischene dominance across the galaxy. Where greed drove the elder Soren, Atticus believes he is actually the Prophet of the Tahbita.”

  “He wants the humans to come to him under the guise of peace talks,” Willmer said. “He realizes they represent the greatest threat to his grand design. Governor Soren planned on convincing them Atticus stood behind the Zenge. Atticus Soren will use the truth, that Amos Soren masterminded the attacks, to lure them here.”

  “If they send envoys, can we make contact, Captain?” Lexon asked the communications specialist.

  Covane shook her head. “Without knowing how they communicate, I don’t think we will be able to reach them with the limited capabilities we have left.”

  “The Prophet’s ships are not attacking beyond Aster Farum 3,” Lexton said. To Willmer he asked, “Do you have a guess as to why not?”