He turned, half pushing past the demi-precentor to look at Kursk. “Status?”
“Primary coil is at point zero seven variance,” she replied with a puzzled tone.
“Bring down the power to the beta coil to standard,” he said, sucking in a long gasp of air. His extremities were tingling; he didn’t know whether it was lack of oxygen or excitement.
Adept Morial spoke up. “I have pings back from the network. Test packets received and processed. No degradation. I’m getting a solid signal.”
“The core?” Faulk demanded.
“Stable,” Adept Kursk replied. “We’re receiving test data and buffering is holding.”
Tucker’s face wore a small smile as he ejected his program disk and slipped it back into his pocket. He stared at the main control board and saw that the green bars were all solid and unmoving. Tucker tapped the keyboard again and the control display changed to the ComStar logo, which only appeared when an HPG station was active and ready for transmission. Leaning forward, he tapped another pair of keys. The logo flickered away and was replaced with data.
Tucker read the words out loud. “We have received a confirmation code from our target station, the Thorin HPG. Standing by for secondary confirmation.”
The minutes seemed to take forever to pass. The room was painfully quiet as they waited. Suddenly, almost anticlimactically, a stream of data appeared on the screen. Tucker adjusted his glasses and read it carefully.
“Well?” Faulk demanded.
Tucker turned and smiled, broadly this time. “Package received intact, and we have secondary confirmation. Demi-Precentor Hutchinson on Thorin sends the following: ‘Wyatt, welcome back to the universe.” ’
A cheer rose from the techs. For the first time in three years, an HPG had been restored to active status. Tucker joined in the elation. He looked around the room and saw the happy faces of the ComStar personnel. It was a turning point, he could feel it. Then he met the stern gaze of Demi-Precentor Faulk—the only person in the room who did not seem overjoyed.
“What did you do?” he demanded. The tone of his voice drew the attention of the Knight Errant, who stepped closer and gave the two men a puzzled look.
“I did what was necessary,” Tucker responded. “I used a program to fine-tune the core with a harmonics pulse, and manually adjusted the frequency.”
Faulk’s face flushed red. “I distinctly remember giving you a direct order not to do that.”
“I apologize for going against your orders, sir, but if I hadn’t,” Tucker said evenly, “we would have fried this core, too.”
Faulk stared at Tucker, breathing heavily.
“We will have to send your algorithms to Thorin and Terra for review,” he finally said, and held out his hand for the program disk.
Tucker gave it to him. “That’s only part of the solution,” he replied bluntly. “Most of what I did is up here,” he tapped his temple.
“Don’t get cocky with me, Adept Harwell,” Faulk responded.
Alexi Holt cut in. “It sounds to me like you should be congratulating Tucker, not castigating him,” she said smoothly. “If what he says is true, he’s responsible for saving that HPG core. Maybe he’s earned the right to be a little cocky.” She threw Tucker a quick smile.
No matter what that windbag throws at me now, she knows the truth. And that’s got to bother him as much as I do.
“Knight Holt, you may be missing the larger picture here. This isn’t just about Wyatt,” Faulk replied. “First of all, what he did was reckless, even if it did work. As it turned out, the risk was worth the reward—but it as easily could have gone the other direction, and taking that level of risk is not a decision Adept Harwell is authorized to make. Second, his success has widespread implications: replacement HPG cores have died on hundreds of worlds. If Tucker has created some sort of patch for the system, there’s no telling how many planets may be able to be restored to active status. A solution of that magnitude is not something that should be undertaken by the seat of our pants.”
Faulk stopped talking, and Tucker realized in that moment that the stakes were much higher than his wildest imagination could have dreamed up. What have I gotten myself into?
* * *
Legate Singh sat back and considered her words. Once again, Alexi Holt was amazed that he kept his office so immaculate: even his desktop was completely empty of paperwork. Even from the legates on more prominent worlds, she had come to expect a certain amount of clutter. Singh was different, she reminded herself once again.
“Word will spread to other systems that we have a working HPG,” he said, stating the obvious.
“The news will spread slowly, even with Thorin and Terra aware that we’re active. We’re not anticipating another ship in-system here for a month or so. But with each ship the word will spread,” Alexi confirmed. “The risk for Wyatt increases as word spreads. With interstellar communications at a bare-bones minimum, any world with a functioning HPG is considered a prized target. It provides you with something that most worlds don’t have: access to information.”
“What level of risk do you think we’re facing here?” he asked. The legate didn’t seem concerned; or if he was, his voice didn’t betray it.
“I don’t know. The fact that we don’t know the full scope of the risk was part of the reason I came and brought the hardware I did. Wyatt’s been off the charts for awhile; it could be that no one will be interested in us. But we have to be prepared if someone is.”
Edward Singh leaned forward in his chair and frowned. “The last thing I want to do is panic the population, Knight Holt. The governor will be furious if I mobilize the militia and get people worried over nothing.”
She crossed her arms before she could stop herself. She didn’t want her body language to broadcast the things she couldn’t say out loud, and anyway, at the moment the legate was right—there was no immediate threat to Wyatt. But even he had to be aware of how quickly that status could change. “I understand your position, Legate. You have to deal with political implications. My only job is to protect the citizens and worlds of the Republic.”
“What would you recommend?” he asked coyly.
Better preparation . . . giving the population an honest warning of what might happen. Out loud she said, “Legate Singh, if you feel declaring a full-scale alert will cause undue concern among the citizens, we should go to standby alert instead. It will be seen as precautionary by the ordinary citizen, but will allow the Wyatt Militia to effectively prepare to deal with a threat should it emerge.”
He said nothing for what seemed like a long time. Finally he refocused his gaze on Alexi and leaned back. “I believe the governor will find standby-alert status acceptable. I’ll contact the governor and the media. Thank you for your insight, Knight Holt.”
Alexi clenched her jaw. Stone forbid that this man be in charge of my fate if and when a fight comes to Wyatt. The planet will be overrun and the governor out of office before he makes a decision.
“You’re welcome, Legate” is all she said, and left to make her report to Paladin Sorenson.
* * *
It had been the longest day of Tucker’s life, and it still was not over. The demi-precentor had interrogated Tucker and his technical staff for hours, to no avail. Tucker had not involved his team in his backup plan, so they could not explain to Faulk what had happened. And the demi-precentor refused to accept Tucker’s explanation of his actions, even when he went into detail about the program he had written and his theory of the meaning of the chant that had inspired his work.
All the while, another team of technicians was busily running additional tests, and had discovered that the adjustments Tucker performed seemed to have increased the HPG’s capacity to the highest level of its specifications. His program had been transmitted to ComStar on Terra, but they had yet to receive a response.
Outside of the ComStar compound, the city of Kinross seemed to have come alive. The movement of the antenna ar
ray and the throbbing of signal transmission spread the word that the HPG was operational again. His sister Patricia had found him and congratulated him, and informed Tucker that there was a line of people stretching for five city blocks outside the compound waiting to send messages.
Demi-Precentor Faulk already had assigned three administrative assistants to walk along the lines and explain how long it would be before communication resumed at anything resembling a normal level. They were also prepared to describe the procedure ComStar would use to prioritize the messages. The sabotage of the HPG network had cut off communications between families, businesses, and governments, and everyone else. Now people felt that all of that was restored.
Patricia was elated. Tucker felt trapped somewhere between numb and weary. Finally, in the late afternoon, the demi-precentor emerged from his office to find Tucker pacing the hallway. Tucker stopped short and Faulk slowly walked over to his subordinate, halting only a few inches from Tucker so that their conversation would not carry. “Mr. Harwell, you’ve put me in a tight position.”
Tucker stared at him impassively.
Faulk continued. “Terra indicates we can begin transmitting any time. Whatever it was you did, they’re satisfied that this station is now stable.”
He didn’t let that slip by. “You’re welcome.”
Faulk had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “I deserved that, I guess.” He paused. “Terra has reviewed your program and the final harmonics settings, and they agree with your claim that you performed the most critical adjustments on the fly. This poses a problem for ComStar, and I’ve been asked to address it.”
“What do you mean?”
“The fact that you found a way to restore our HPG may mean that it is possible for ComStar to restore dozens, if not hundreds of the damaged HPGs in the Inner Sphere. Many stations have working cores but no transmission capability. If your technique can effectively recalibrate the surviving cores, it may be possible to bring back a significant portion of the HPG network.”
Tucker’s mouth hung open. Again, he was taken by surprise at the scope of the bigger picture. His mind boggled at the idea that his work could solve something against which the entire ComStar organization had been struggling. The only thing he could say was “Wow.”
“Wow, indeed,” Faulk continued. “Precentor Buhl and the other folks on Terra have asked that, as much as you can, you document the details of what you did—every minuscule element. We will route the report through Thorin in a secured data package under my security code . . . highest priority.”
Tucker nodded. “I can write down what I did, but a lot of it was sort of instinctive.”
Faulk smiled at Tucker, for what seemed the first time. “I understand, and I’ve already warned them that that was the case. They are checking to find a JumpShip and DropShip that can be diverted here to take you back to Terra. Right now the ships are spread fairly thin with the other crises in The Republic, but ComStar is working on it.”
“Is that really necessary, sir?”
Faulk glanced around to make sure they were alone. “Tucker, the solution in your head has just made you the hottest commodity in the Inner Sphere. I’m ordering a pair of our security people to shadow you from this point on. As much as I hate to, I may have to speak to our visiting Knight Errant and ask her help as well. In fact, it’s important that you stay here in the compound until further notice.”
“Sir?”
Faulk’s breath was hot on his face. “Your work has made you a hero, Mr. Harwell, and you’ll get the credit, never fear. But also know this: every faction and government out there would like to control the man who can get the HPG system working again. You’ve become a commodity, but you’re also a risk.”
“You don’t really think they’d come for me, do you?” For the first time, he felt worried. The fact that the demi-precentor was willing to give him credit for what he had done was a big clue that something had changed dramatically.
“We just need to be prepared,” Faulk responded. He patted Tucker on the shoulder. “I know we haven’t gotten along very well so far, but I’m happy to acknowledge that you pulled this off. Congratulations.”
Demi-Precentor Faulk stuck out his hand and gave Tucker a genuine, colleague-to-colleague handshake. Then his boss turned and walked away, leaving Tucker with a wave of fear suddenly rising in the pit of his stomach.
* * *
Today was a good day for ComStar, a very good day. Historically, ComStar had never been big on press conferences, so the press room in the compound was small. When Gray Monday had devastated the HPG network, the Wyatt media had camped out for weeks in this room, demanding answers that the demi-precentor could not provide. Now, three long years later, Faulk felt he had finally regained the advantage. Every media outlet on Wyatt had a representative shoe-horned into the cramped room, and as Faulk entered the room, cameras locked onto him and pulse-strobes went off like a thousand explosions. One step behind him, where he felt she belonged, was Knight Errant Alexi Holt. She had done nothing so far to help reactivate the HPG; he was happy to give her the assignment of guarding Tucker Harwell. If nothing else, it would get her out of his hair.
He strode to the podium, put his hands on either side of the wooden stand and gave the media a big grin. Tonight, all across Wyatt, his image and the ComStar logo on the front of the podium would be the most-watched broadcast in years.
“I will be reading a short statement. I will not be taking questions at this time,” he began. He knew the media would ask questions regardless of his stated intentions. When the network had gone down, he had been roasted alive on holovid screens across the planet. Today, refusing to address their questions was his payback.
“This morning, at 1035 hours, a select team of ComStar technicians initiated the startup of the new hyperpulse generator core that was delivered several weeks ago from Terra. I’m pleased to report that this attempt was successful. At present, the HPG station on Wyatt is up, running and connected to the existing system.” He paused and let them drink that in for a moment.
“We have begun processing transmissions from our backlog of maintenance patches and are currently sending priority Republic transmissions for the government and military. Civilian transmissions are being accepted at this time and buffered for future release. While this will create a temporary backlog, we are doing everything in our power to work through this and return to a normal operating schedule. In the meantime, I ask for your patience.
“I want to take this opportunity to thank Knight Errant Holt, who assisted us with quality assurance aspects of this project. Also, I wish to extend my thanks to my superiors in ComStar on Terra for sending in crack personnel and the right hardware to ensure that Wyatt once again is connected to the rest of the Inner Sphere.
“Finally,” he said, taking another pause, “I want to thank the technical lead on this project, without whom this project would not have been successful. Tucker Harwell of ComStar Terra played a pivotal role. His solution for restoring our core may one day help restore hundreds of other HPG stations throughout the Inner Sphere. Quite literally, what happened here on Wyatt could usher in a wave of restoration of communication that could impact billions of individuals.”
The questions flew at him like a tornado. Demi-Precentor Faulk smiled and nodded, and Knight Holt stood solemnly behind him. He was content for the first time in a long time. His chief problem, like a nagging headache, had suddenly been cured. He was getting a satisfactory amount of the limelight, and ComStar had scored a major public relations coup by reactivating Wyatt.
Most importantly, if there was anything else that went wrong, or if trouble came to Wyatt as a result of the HPG going live, no one would come for him. Trouble had a new target—Tucker Harwell.
Yes, today was a good day.
9
ComStar Compound
Kinross, Wyatt
The Republic, Prefecture VIII
9 May 3135
For Tucke
r, the days following the HPG restart made him feel like he’d been trapped in a hurricane. Despite his personal feelings about Demi-Precentor Faulk, he had to admit the man had media savvy. His superior hailing Tucker as the hero of Wyatt caught him off guard. Based on everything he knew about Faulk, he expected the demi-precentor to claim credit for repairing the HPG. That was before he realized the implications of Faulk’s strategy.
Tucker had been hauled out like a trophy and put on display for the media. Faulk answered all the questions but constantly deflected the credit back to Tucker, keeping him in the spotlight. On the second day after the restart, he had tried to meet Reo Jones for dinner as usual but had been ambushed by holo-cameramen and reporters. Tucker had answered a few questions and tried to leave, but soon realized that he’d never make it to The Crimson and retreated back inside the ComStar compound. Dinner was a lonely affair.
The day after that, he found himself the star attraction at a formal dinner at the governor’s palace in the hills overlooking Kinross. The governor seemed a nice enough man, but within an hour Tucker’s hand hurt from being gripped enthusiastically by fat men smoking cigars, who slapped his back and thanked him over and over. It gave him a headache. The only thing that made the evening bearable was Patricia’s supporting presence.
So far, Patricia had been a rock for him. Instead of thanking him for his work or showering him with praise, she simply told him that she was proud of what he had done. She sent word of his accomplishment to their parents, and the response of quiet joy and shining pride in their son’s contribution almost made the rest of the media circus worthwhile.
A local elementary school in the city sent him hand-drawn thank-you cards, most showing him as a stick figure next to an oversized HPG dish. They were charming and Tucker wanted to reply to each one, but he quickly realized he didn’t have that kind of time. The capital city newspaper, The Beacon, ran an article about him and got most of the facts about his childhood and history with ComStar wrong. He wanted to ask the paper to correct the article, but Patricia assured him that it would be a mistake: a follow-up article would only generate more interest. He trusted her. She knew best about such things.
Target of Opportunity Page 10
