by Dean M. Cole
He paused, giving Richard a hard look. "That brings me to the other reason I wanted you here, Captain."
With a quick look to the nearest aide, Pearson held out his hand. "You have them with you, right, Major?"
"Yes, sir," the officer said. The major gave Richard an odd smile and dropped something small into the general's open hand.
Turning back to Richard, the base commander said. "Stand at attention, son. This is the first time I've done this. So let's try to make it look official."
Confused, Richard complied with the general's order, snapping to attention.
Captain Allison saw one of the officers begin to video the general.
The base commander studied Richard's flight suit. "Well, I guess we'll pin these on your collar for now. You can have them sewn onto your shoulder later." After a brief pause, the general continued. "Hold out your left hand, palm up."
Richard complied, and the general placed two small, metallic items on his palm. Still at attention and staring straight ahead, Captain Allison couldn't see them.
Pearson retrieved one of the items and grabbed one of Richard's flight suit collars.
"Son, I'm giving you and Captain Giard battlefield promotions to Lieutenant Colonel. I discussed this with Zach Newcastle. I'm putting Colonel Newcastle in charge of all space fighters. We decided that your heroic actions against these aliens, coupled with your familiarity with Argonian systems, make you two our best candidates to head up the integration of the Argonian space fighters." After pinning the silver oak leaves to Richard's flight suit collar, General Pearson stood back and saluted Richard.
"Congratulations, Lieutenant Colonel Allison."
Richard finally snapped out of his dumbfounded trance and returned the general's salute. "Th-thank you, sir."
Lowering their arms, the men shook hands.
Richard's head spun. He couldn't believe it. A two-rank promotion! As he considered the responsibility the general had just dropped on his shoulders, the lieutenant colonel rank insignia suddenly seemed to weigh a thousand pounds.
"Thank you, sir," Richard finally said, his voice cracking. "I won't let you down."
"You had better not, Colonel."
CHAPTER NINE
Standing in the dark, the Fifth Columnist stroked the back of his head.
"Fifth Columnist," he whispered, trying the title on for size.
He liked it.
Considering the term came from Earth—likely a dead planet, although they still awaited news on that matter—he thought the title appropriate. He wondered if his contacts would know its meaning, understand the irony.
He doubted it.
The Fifth Columnist—the enemy within—stroked the back of his head again. Still it brought no relief.
He needed to take action. Worlds … hell, entire species were at stake. But the last time he took action, so much was lost.
A family.
A world.
A war.
He wouldn't contact them.
He had to.
He wouldn't.
He will.
CHAPTER TEN
"Neural mapping complete. Please initiate EON function check."
Opening his eyes, Jake blinked against the bright light and looked around. Disoriented, he thought he was back on the Turtle. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes, then froze. Slowly, Jake lowered his hands and looked down. Where his head had been, a small drop of blood shrank then disappeared. Looking at the now spotless white surface, he probed the back of his head. Finding a tender area, Jake withdrew his hand to discover a single spot of blood smeared across the tip of his middle finger.
"What the …?" Jake whispered. His eyes widened as images flashed through his mind: lights flowing through seemingly ancient bronzed halls, a strange, empty white room, a table growing from a floor. Something had swept him off his feet. Then a black void had swallowed him.
"Shit!" He leaped from the table. "What the hell?" Landing in a crouched fighting stance, he remembered a voice had woken him, but he couldn't recall what it had said.
As if reading his thoughts, the feminine voice returned. "Neural mapping complete, please initiate EON function check."
Jake jumped then shook his head. It was just the ship's automated voice, but this time its words sounded strangely flat as if the walls were absorbing the sound waves, robbing the voice of its normal echo.
"Neural mapping complete, please initiate EON function check."
Again he wondered what the hell an EON was.
"EON is an acronym for Electro-Organic Networking modem," the same voice replied.
"Well, that answers one question," Jake said, marveling at how seamlessly his implanted Argonian language algorithms converted the alien language and even its acronyms. It would be nice if the damn translation included the knowledge of what the hell an EON is, he thought.
"The EON facilitates integration with the ship's network and computer systems."
Jake looked around the room. That's spooky, almost like the computer read my mind.
"Actually, Captain Giard, the EON's interface reads your thoughts, analyzes their content, and then transmits pertinent issues to me for resolution."
Startled at hearing the computer refer to him by name and confirming his concern that the ship was reading his mind, Jake spun and yelled at the walls. "What did you do to me? Where is this EON?"
"The EON is a nanoscale brain implant—"
"Implant!" Jake screamed. Remembering the spot of blood, he ran a hand over his head again. Aside from the slightly sensitive area behind and below his left ear, he found nothing.
"The med-sys uses a transcranial injection to insert the nanites into your cerebrum," the feminine computer voice announced. "Once in position, they self-assemble into a network, harmlessly establishing neural communication pathways and protocols. After becoming operational, the EON safely communicates with the ship's network through non-ionizing subspace frequencies."
Jake continued to rub the sore spot, realizing that it must be the injection site. "The ship's network? How do I interface with it, and what can it do for me? And why does your voice sound so flat?"
"Now that your EON is functional, I am no longer employing external speakers. There is no aural output. I am communicating with you directly through your EON."
In his head or not, the computer's feminine voice took on a confused tone. "These are highly unusual questions for a uniformed Argonian. You should already be quite familiar with the EON and all of its functions."
Jake looked down at his spacesuit. "I'm not Argonian, although genetically I guess I am. I—"
A tearing paper sound filled the room. The opening in the floor closed again. It had shut after he initially entered the room. It must have opened while he was on the table. The thought reminded him about the one-hour check-in with Colonel Newcastle. Consulting his watch, he saw fifty-five minutes had elapsed.
The computer's Argonian voice interrupted his thoughts, its tone now authoritarian. "Non-Argonian, you are an unauthorized intruder. I have sealed off the room and notified security."
"Good luck with that," Jake said.
"I did not understand that language. Please restate in Argonian."
"Just read my thoughts," Jake responded in Argonian.
"The network protocols limit outputs to a synchronization carrier, data queries, and computer commands. I am unable to access your thoughts unless the EON determines you desire access to the aforementioned protocols."
"So, why did you lead me here?"
"When I detected no carrier from your life sign, I analyzed your gene code. Finding you were Argonian, I sent you the aural alerts that led you here. If you're not Argonian, as you claim, I'm unsure how you got past security, but I'm sure they will rectify it."
"I wouldn't count on that," Jake said in Argonian.
After a brief hesitation, the automated voice said, "Strangely, I am not receiving a reply."
"Haven't you noticed things are v
ery quiet on your network?"
"Yes. However, I assumed it was an extension of the Zoxyth disruptor field."
This thing doesn't even know it's alone, Jake thought. "Do you have the ability to do a life sign search?"
"Of course I do," the computer responded with an indignant tone.
So you have emotions, Jake thought. I wonder if you're sentient.
"Your query has been received. I am not sentient, as you would define it. I am programmed with logic and self-protection protocols. However, the Argonians built in strict limitations to prevent computer self-awareness."
Her words gave Jake an idea. "Listen, you and your entire fleet are in grave danger. Do a life sign scan. The ship is empty! Your entire Argonian crew has been wiped out by the Zoxyth."
The computer's voice came back less sure. "Stand by … scanning … scanning."
"Scan the entire fleet," Jake said.
"Scan complete. As you stated, aside from your life sign, I can find no others within the entire fleet."
"We need to take immediate action. Some of your ships are getting dangerously close to reentering the atmosphere."
"Argonians are required to be involved in all fleet-wide commands. I have very limited authority over the fleet's ships."
"Your ships are about to start a long tumble into the ocean below. We're not at orbital speed, but who knows what's going to happen to your drifting ships when they fall into our atmosphere. Hell, they might not make it to the ocean. The jet stream could send them crashing into mountains."
"Argonian protocols only give me the authority to prevent their destruction."
"I believe I have a solution."
"I'm all ears," it said with a sarcastic tone.
Jake paused at the apparent joke. Was this thing programmed with humor, too?
"Yes, I was."
"What? Shit, never mind. Listen, you already know that genetically I am Argonian. What you don't know is that I'm part of a lost Argonian colony that inhabits this planet," Jake said, pointing through the floor. "The GDF came here to defend us from the Zoxyth. So, in all the ways that matter, I am Argonian. You need to release me from here and give me access to bridge functions. Then I can give my people access to the fleet."
"I cannot hand over control without Galactic Defense Force authorization," the ship's computer said, more unease creeping into its electronic voice.
"You said you have self-protection protocols built in, right?"
"Yes. Although I don't see how that is pertinent to the discussion. Instituting said self-protection protocols, I placed the fleet's ships in a safer position after you told me of their peril. They are safely away from the planet's atmosphere."
"That's a good start," Jake said with a sigh of relief. "But what will happen to your ships when the rest of the Zoxyth show up? My people are putting together a large task force to ensure the protection of the fleet. However, without your assistance we may all be doomed. The next wave of Zoxyth ships will destroy this fleet and do the same thing to this planet's Argonians as they did to this fleet's."
The computer fell silent. Jake worried he'd pushed it too far, that he'd been cut off and was now a prisoner in this egg-shaped, inverted oubliette.
"Hey, do you—?"
The familiar white noise of an opening door cut off his question. Jake turned and found the floor hatch had reappeared.
"Your logic is sound," the computer announced through the EON connection.
"That's great," Jake said, but his excitement faltered as a mental tingling and disorientation swept over him—the same sensations he'd experienced when the late General Tannehill implanted the Argonian language algorithms into his brain. For a horrified moment, Jake grabbed his head with both hands. Could the edification encoder be reversed? Was the computer de-edifying him? Had she placated him just long enough to wipe his memories?
Then the sensation faded. "What did you do to me?!" Jake said as he blinked his eyes back into focus. He found he could still remember Rita Johnson, his first kiss, so hopefully the rest was still there, too.
"I upgraded your EON access and integrated it with the ship's systems. You'll find ship maps and function keys."
Jake nodded. "That's great, but from now on, I'd appreciate a little heads-up. Please let me know before you put anything else in my brain."
"I'll try to keep that in mind," the computer said sardonically. "Now I'll give you command override authority," she said in a patronizing tone as if talking to a six-year-old. "However, to employ it, you will need to proceed to the bridge."
Jake was about to call the computer a smart-ass, but the disorientating mental prickle returned and just as quickly ceased. Performing a quick inventory, he discovered a complete mental map of all ship functions and commands. Jake's irritation with the computer's patronizing tone evaporated. "This is awesome! Thank you."
Using his now full understanding of the EON and its abilities, he accessed the ship's communication center. Jake made firmware modifications, enabling one of the Argonian radios to work on the correct range of frequencies.
"Vampire Six, this is the …" Jake paused, pulling up the ship's name. "The Galactic Guardian, over."
"Captain Giard," came a relieved voice. "Where in the hell have you been? You're late for your one-hour check-in."
"Sorry, sir—"
"Hell, son!" the colonel interrupted. "You've done great! I don't know how you did it, but all of the Argonian ships have regrouped around the carrier."
"I, uh … made contact with the ship's …" Jake paused. Looking at the ceiling, he tried to think of the right words. "… computer intelligence. Convinced it to give me access to its command functions." Not waiting for the colonel's questions, he stepped toward the opening in the floor and continued speaking. "But I can only execute the important ones from the bridge. Once I'm there, I'll bring the fighters into the hangar. Then I'll let your squadron in as well."
"Good job, son!" the colonel said. "I can't wait to hear how you're doing all that, but for now, I'll stand by for your signal."
"Roger, sir. Galactic Guardian, out."
***
Air Force Captain Sandra Fitzpatrick dropped the blood-covered flight suit into a red plastic biohazard bag. After tossing in the rest of her soiled garments and boots, she kicked the whole mess into the tiled corner of the command center's shower room.
The bag came to rest next to a full-length mirror. In it, Sandy studied her nude visage. She gently probed the sealed wounds on her right waistline where the corpsman had dug out the two pellets. He'd told her she'd been lucky that it had been a ricochet and that it had only been two. Wincing, she didn't feel lucky, but she knew it could've been much worse. Sandy slid her hand to her flat stomach. The baby bump remained a future development; the corpsman had confirmed she was still pregnant in spite of the best efforts of hostile aliens and drugged-out looters.
A fog spread across the top of her reflected image, tugging Sandy from her thoughts. She stepped into the already running shower. Its jet of hot water coursed through her gore-stained hair. Gray bits of brain matter and ochre blood sluiced off of her and streamed across white floor tiles. As the meth-head's effluence washed from Sandy's body, the water faded to pink. Finally, the last of what-the-fuck-Buck ran down the drain, and it ran clear.
Sometime later, Sandy stepped from the room in the new uniform General Pearson's aide had supplied. The flight suit fit perfectly, but the boots needed breaking in. She planned to give them plenty of exercise. Sandy had no plans to slow down, not with all that had happened. The corpsman had tried to convince her to report her pregnancy, had even threatened to do it himself. However, Sandy had issued her own threats, promising the young corporal serious bodily harm if he breathed a word to anyone. After a glance at the splattered blood and brains of the last person who had crossed her, he'd clammed up.
Walking toward the Base's Command Control Center or C3, Sandy tried to minimize the limp she'd earned when she'd ejected from he
r doomed F-22. The knee brace the corpsman supplied worked better than the aluminum strut she'd fashioned into a splint, and its slim lines were barely noticeable under the flight suit's baggy legs.
Stepping into the C3, Sandy spotted General Pearson. The female major at his side, his aide, nodded at her. Sandy approached and then stood at attention. When the general noticed her, Sandy saluted.
"Captain Sandra Fitzpatrick, reporting for duty, sir."
***
"Attention!" shouted an officer as Richard entered the briefing theater. The large chamber was full of pilots. All of them stood and snapped to attention.
Stepping up to the podium, Richard scanned the room. The assembled personnel stood on arcing ledges, each higher than the row in front of it, like a theater with stadium seating. Most of the faces staring back at him were no older than he was.
Suddenly self-conscious, Richard raised a hand. "Please, take your seats … Take your seats."
Slowly, the officers sat. A nervous silence fell across the room. The American contingent filled the left half of the theater. Russian aviators occupied the right third. Pilots from Europe, Australia, Africa, and the Middle East filled the rest. All of them had segregated themselves by geography. Richard knew he'd have to do something about that. He stifled a smile when he saw the Israeli and Saudi contingents eyeing each other warily.
A wide spectrum of emotions radiated from the assembled pilots. Apprehension, excitement, dread, and eagerness stared from a thousand faces. Realizing these men and women needed more than just deployment orders, he changed his plan.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I came in here with the intention of briefing you on our short-term plan for staffing the abandoned fleet. However, by the looks on your faces, I think it would be worthwhile for us to take a moment to discuss our situation first. I'm sure you've all heard varying versions of what we're up against and the events that transpired during the 'Battle for Earth' as the news networks are calling it."
