by John Bowers
Regina didn't mind the basement's isolation, the lab's cramped quarters, or the haphazard filing system, if one could call it that. Boxes, files, and equipment were stacked and scattered everywhere. Much of the equipment didn't work, and Zintz spent much of his time trying to repair things, usually without success. But he refused to part with anything, as most of his requisitions had been misplaced or ignored.
Three weeks wasn't much time to put together a decent script and locate holo clips to illustrate it. Actually there were less than three weeks, for Zintz was supposed to present something for his superiors to view, which gave Regina two weeks or less to design the product. She automatically assumed total responsibility for getting it done, as nothing about Zintz had impressed her so far. She didn't need his help — he would only slow her down.
She set to work immediately, mentally canceling all her personal plans until the project was done. But less than twenty-four hours after she began, Zintz interrupted her.
Admiral Leach wants to see you," he said, his left eye twitching.
Regina stared at him in shock, feeling the blood drain out of her face.
"He wants to see me?" she echoed. "When?"
"Today. Right now."
"Now?" Regina felt a momentary panic. It was Saturday, she was wearing blue jeans and a flannel shirt, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She'd met a few admirals before, her father's guests, and remembered them as pompous and powerful. Since taking this job, she'd met no one of higher rank than Zintz. "What does he want?" she asked, trying to keep her voice even.
Zintz shrugged, looking no more pleased about it than she felt.
"I-I told him what you said about our data on Sirius. I think it has something to do with that."
"Oh, shit."
It was the first time Regina had been in the Polygon proper. She and Zintz passed through several layers of security checkpoints on their way to the top floor, and finally arrived at Admiral Leach's office. No one was visible in the reception area, and Zintz announced them using the automated equipment by the door.
Leach opened the door himself. He was less imposing than Regina had imagined, no taller than her father and only a few pounds heavier. Instead of the uniform she'd expected, he wore a white shirt with insignia on the sleeves. He didn't exactly smile, but his greeting was pleasant enough.
"I'm Admiral Leach," he growled, squeezing her hand gently. "You're Miss Wells?"
"Yes, Admiral."
"Pleasure. Come inside, please. You, too, Major."
The office was pleasant and airy, the winter sun shining through armored windows. Regina remained standing until she was waved to a chair. Zintz sat stiffly beside her. Admiral Leach offered them soft drinks, which they declined, then settled behind his desk and regarded them curiously. Regina felt his eyes scan her petite frame quickly, but then he was all business.
"Miss Wells, the major here has informed me that you find our historical data on Sirius to be inaccurate. Is that true?"
She felt her stomach tilt to the left and was tempted to gulp. Instead, she nodded assertively.
"Yes, sir."
"Would you care to explain the problem to me?"
She glanced at Zintz, but he was staring at his shoes. She met Leach's eyes resolutely.
"At least thirty percent of the information is inaccurate, Admiral. I understand it hasn't been updated in several years, which is understandable, but unfortunately much of it was wrong from the beginning."
Leach stared at her intently, his beefy face impassive. Finally he lifted his chin slightly.
"Is that so?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, sir."
"How do you know what is accurate and what isn't?"
"Sir, I'm only weeks away from a Bachelor of Science in Sirian studies …"
"Which college?"
"Uh — Berkeley."
"And you think the U.F. Berkeley knows more about Sirius than we do?"
"No, sir, not necessarily. I've been studying Sirius for years, sir. My family vacationed there several times when I was growing up, and I have a number of Sirian acquaintances. I've spent over a year of accumulated time on Sirius."
The Admiral's eyes narrowed, and he smiled tolerantly.
"How old were you when the war started?" he asked.
"I was sixteen."
"I trust you haven't been to Sirius since then?"
"No, sir." She flushed as he smiled.
“You had to be pretty young when you were there.”
“Yes, sir. I was nine the first time, eleven the next, then we went back when I was twelve, thirteen, and fifteen.”
He nodded, never taking his eyes off her face.
"So you spent about a year on Sirius in your early teens, more or less. And that qualifies you as an expert."
Regina colored a little more as her pulse increased with impatience.
"No, sir. But it does give me an edge over the average Federation citizen. What makes me an expert is that my father has a complete database on Sirius. Some of it is classified, but most isn't. I've seen everything except the classified material."
Leach scowled. "Your father?"
Zintz spoke up for the first time.
"Admiral, Miss Wells is the daughter of Senator Henry Wells. Solar Conservative, North America."
Leach was stunned. He leaned forward, his manner changing completely.
"Senator Wells is your father?"
"Yes, sir." Regina enjoyed his reaction.
"I see." Leach looked flustered for a moment. "I apologize. I didn't realize. Senator Wells has been a champion of the armed services for nearly three decades. If it wasn't for him … "
"That's right, Admiral. My daddy pushed all those appropriations through for military hardware. Without him, you'd be fighting the Sirians with pitchforks!"
Leach nodded, either missing or ignoring her smugness.
"We'd have lost the war already," he agreed. He gazed at her with new eyes, no longer condescending. "So, what kinds of problems have you found in our Sirian data?" he asked.
Regina shrugged. "As I was telling Major Zintz, it's hard to know where to start. A lot of it is correct, but the rest reads like some kind of horror story. It gives a misleading impression of what the Sirians are actually like. It paints them as bad people, and by our standards they certainly are, but — how can I explain this? Admiral, in your data they come off like the villain in a holovid. I mean, they're so bad they're unbelievable."
"You do agree that they're bad, then?"
"As a government, as a civilization, yes. As individuals, they're no worse than we are in most cases. But the danger I see is that, by painting them inaccurately, we may miss the true threat they pose."
"I'm not sure I follow you."
She sighed in frustration. She knew what she wanted to impart, but was having trouble articulating the thought.
"Admiral, have you ever heard of Uncle Tom's Cabin?"
Leach frowned in thought, then shook his head. "Some kind of mountain resort?" he ventured.
"No, sir. It was a book, several hundred years ago. It was about slavery. President Abraham Lincoln jokingly credited the author with starting the American Civil War."
Leach nodded, listening.
"That book became an American classic, but the problem with it was that it told only a part of the story. It sensationalized one aspect of slavery during that period, but it ignored the broader issue. The net result was that it did contribute to the public attitude that led to war, but it also vilified the enemy, demonized them. North-South tensions have existed ever since.
"Sir, we have the opportunity to write our own version of Uncle Tom's Cabin, in AFIO. We could make holovids for the troops that paint the Sirians as absolute demons. We could say that they eat babies and wash them down with human blood, and our guys would go out there with murder in their hearts and win the war …”
Admiral Leach was grinning. "Would that be so bad?"
"Well, it might win the
war, but it might also inspire our troops to commit atrocities against civilians when we finally invade their home world. In which case we would be as bad as they are." She frowned, her eyes bright with intensity. "Admiral, I believe that wrong information is as bad as no information. I want our soldiers to know and understand the Sirians, but they should know what they are really like. Not some fiction dreamed up by an ad agency just to make them fight harder."
Leach shifted in his chair. The grin was gone, and he nodded in agreement.
"I'm with you, Miss Wells. Now give me some examples of errors in our data."
Regina tipped her head back briefly, pulled the first example that came to mind, and began talking.
"Your data states that most Sirian men — white men, that is — routinely rape black women, and that most of them keep black or Spanic women in their homes as sex slaves. That's misleading."
"It is?"
"Yes, sir. The truth is that only about five percent of white males over the age of thirty commit sexual assault on a regular basis. Serf rape is widespread, but it's mostly a young man's sport. Teenagers do it, and many continue the practice into their twenties. But most men give it up when they marry. As for holding serf women as sex slaves, very few men ever did that, and once the slave industry became established, even fewer continued to do it. Most sex slaves are white women taken from other worlds. The first was Beta Centauri, and for the last twenty-odd years the only slave worth having had to be a Vegan."
"But Sirian men do hold slave women for the purpose of rape."
"Yes, and no. They do hold slave women, but more as concubines than for rape. You don't pay twenty thousand sirios for an exotic woman and then endanger her health by continuous rape. Most slave women, especially Vegan women, are hypnoconditioned so they will participate willingly."
"And that makes the Sirians nicer than we first thought?"
"No, sir, of course not. Hypnoconditioning is a dreadful practice all by itself. But my original point is this: you put out the kind of propaganda we have on file, and you'll have every black and Spanic soldier in the Federation thinking he's in a race war against the Confederacy. That's going to be counterproductive at best."
"Miss Wells, I think you're making far more of this than necessary."
"I disagree, sir. If we're going to hate the enemy, then let's hate him for what he is, rather than some fiction. Let's tell our men about the maternity camps, where teenaged girls are bred like cattle to produce baby girls that are genetically engineered for sexual slavery. Let's tell them about the government homes where unwanted babies are raised for the same purpose, and where the boys are raised to become soldiers."
Leach stared at her in surprise. Clearly he hadn't heard of those institutions.
"You didn't know about that, Admiral? During the Vegan war, the Sirians decided it was too costly to let only white men into the military. They raised up entire divisions of serf troops, most of them orphans. They've been trained to hate everyone and everything. They kill without conscience, and the Sirians use them as shock troops. They throw them into the hottest part of the battle, let them absorb the highest losses, and save their citizen soldiers for the less dangerous fighting. I think our fighting men need to know that kind of information, don't you?"
Leach was staring hard at her. His face had gone pale.
"You can document all this?"
"Yes, sir. I won't use anything I can't document."
"How long will it take you to clean up the data?"
Regina glanced at Zintz again. His eyes had widened as he sensed victory.
"Major Zintz says we have three weeks. A little more time would be nice … "
"How much time?"
"Two months? Minimum?"
Leach pulled a deep breath into his lungs, biting his lip thoughtfully.
"Can you have me a rough draft holo in ninety days? With everything cleaned up?"
"Oh, yes, sir. Ninety days would be just about right."
Leach stood suddenly and reached across the desk, squeezing her hand again.
"Get on it, Miss Wells. And if you need anything, let me know. My door is always open."
Chapter 8
Thursday, 27 March, 0228 (PCC) – Pearl Harbor, HI, Pacific Ocean, Terra
A Polynesian girl in a grass skirt danced on a dais as forty Space Force officers in a semicircle stared up at her and clapped in rhythm to the music. Smoke swirled and the music was deafening, but no one seemed to mind, as all eyes were riveted to the grass skirt, in case it should yield any secrets. The girl's skirt might be considered traditional, but the music decidedly was not; it was a synthesized blend of ancient hula and the latest dancing craze called Supernova Rock, with just enough steel thrown in for flavor. The girl's gyrations were also untraditional — she threw her body all over the dais with perfect balance, yet the basic motion of her hips was rooted in the islands.
Wade Palmer watched from the bar as the music hammered at him like a physical force. His drink tasted watery and weak, but he didn't mind. He'd come more for the change of scenery than the booze. That very afternoon he'd received his commission as Ensign, and with it, his orders to the Polygon.
Pearl Harbor had been a bitch, even worse than Montana. The major difference was that here he had the option to quit. At any time he could have checked out and accepted a posting to a combat unit. But he wanted to be an officer, and had accepted the challenge. He looked forward to working in the Polygon, so he stuck it out, though the physical trials were almost more than he could take. His only solace during the past eight weeks had been that, with his analytical mind, he had aced the classroom instruction. Only the physical rigors had stood between him and his commission.
The girl's dancing became more frantic as the music crescendoed, then both girl and music stopped suddenly in a dizzying finale. For just a heartbeat silence filled the room as the officers caught their breath, then the cheers broke out and the girl smiled broadly as she slipped sideways to avoid the grasping fingers, blowing kisses as she exited through the flower curtain behind the dais. The music picked up again, quieter this time, and the officers began to wander back to their tables and friends. Conversation became possible again.
Wade put his back to the bar and looked around. Ensign. It sounded good. It was a minimum rank, but he was now an officer, entitled to drink at the O-Club, to be saluted. He'd worked hard, earned it — he was prepared to enjoy it.
"If you'll pardon me for saying so," a sensuous voice said at his elbow, "you look like a shave-tail."
Startled, Wade turned and looked into a pair of lovely dark eyes that, just for a moment, set his pulse racing. The eyes belonged to another officer, according to the insignia on her shoulder, but certainly the prettiest one he'd ever seen. Unlike his uniform, which was white, hers was dress charcoal. Recovering from his surprise, he grinned weakly.
"I'll pardon you for saying so," he said, "if you'll tell me your name."
"You can call me Dianne," she said in that same sensuous voice.
"Okay. Dianne. Then what's your real name?"
"Lieutenant."
Wade's grin widened. "My real name is Ensign. But you can call me Wade."
Her eyes sparkled and her lips curved, but she didn't quite smile.
"What are you drinking, Dianne?"
"Whatever you're having, Wade." She waited while he ordered the drink, then tilted her head slightly. "Your first time here?"
He nodded. "Just got my tail shaved this afternoon. OCS."
"I thought so. Your brass is too shiny. Doesn't even have fingerprints on it."
"And what about you? You're in the Fighter Service, aren't you?"
"Oh, my, they did teach you a lot," she said, teasing him with her eyes. "Yes. I'm a gunner. ZF-303. How long have you been in?"
Her drink arrived and she lifted it. They spotted an empty table across the room and Wade guided her toward it. Seated, he answered her question.
"Twenty-one weeks. Just getting
started."
"So you haven't seen any action yet."
He winced inwardly. "Not yet."
"I've got almost four years," she told him without being asked. "Just got back from Outer Worlds. You've heard of Outer Worlds?"
Wade smiled, playing along. If she wanted to tease him, what the hell.
"Something to do with retaking Titan, Ganymede, Europa — or was it the other way around?"
"No. You got it right."
"So, how'd you do? Kill lots of Sirians?"
"Four. But we lost half our squadron." The humor in her eyes faded for a moment as memory flooded back. "And my pilot."
"I'm sorry."
She caught herself, looked at him again, studying his face.
"It's okay," she said finally. "We weren't married. Seemed like it sometimes, though."
"I hear pilots and gunners are pretty close."
"Like man and wife." She swallowed a slug of whiskey and frowned. "This stuff is weak. How's yours?"
"Weak. You want it stronger, I'll get it stronger."
She passed the glass to him and he returned to the bar. A moment later he came back. The drink was a darker amber than before. Dianne sipped it and nodded.
"Better. Thanks."
"So what're you doing in Pearl Harbor? You stationed here?"
"No. It's my first stop on the way home. I live in Maui. I just made planetfall this morning. But … I'm not quite ready to go home yet. My folks are gonna try to talk me into getting out."
"And you don't want to get out?"
"I've thought about it. Four years is a long time, and I've been in four actions. This last one was the worst. I'll have the option to rotate out in another year if I want to." She gave him an ironic look. "They let women fight, but they don't force us to. If a man wants to get out, he's screwed, but a girl can quit almost any time she wants. Just claim DSCS."
"DSCS?"
"Deep space combat stress. Everybody suffers it, to one degree or another. If you want to quit, it's a sure thing."
"You don't sound like you're going to do it," he observed.
Dianne smiled for the first time as she stirred the puddle of water that had sweated from her glass.
"Crazy, huh? I can't explain it, but it gets in your blood. Every time I go into battle, I'm absolutely certain this is it, I'm gonna buy it. But so far, I've always come out the other side. I even have eleven kills. Not exactly Onja Kvoorik, but what the hell." She looked directly into his eyes, the smile gone. "I'm proud of those kills, Wade. I like killing the bastards, and I want to keep on doing it."
