by Trevor Wyatt
“Really?” Ashley replies.
“Yes. In fact, the reason why corporations came to this planet several decades ago was because of the richness of its soil, which terraforming transformed and enhanced into an agricultural and economic marvel.”
“Didn’t the ionic cloud deter them?” Ashley asks.
“Not any more than the soil deterred the early miners on Earth,” I say. “I mean those guys mined everything. They mined gold. They mined diamonds. They mined coal. They even mined oil.”
“But you see, colonies are set up in three different ways,” I continue. “Either a bunch of people discover a planet with great potential and they get financing for an exploration or a corporation finds a planet they intend to harness and run for profit.”
“There are also Terran Union campaigns,” Ashley says.
“Yes,” I reply. “Much like New Washington. These colonies are necessarily for an extension of our government.”
I notice we’ve left the heavily trafficked area of the city and are now crossing the slums. I begin to wish I brought a weapon.
“When the Terran Union forms these colonies, it asserts its governance and influence in a number of ways,” I continue. “By providing basic amenities like defense and slipstream communication. They also allow a representative from the colony to be present on the Terran Council.”
We stop by a bar in a two-story building that looks abandoned. The wet street ends in a high wall. I can see a couple of shady characters picking through the trash. All around the watery ground I see pieces of broken glass and hard drugs. I wonder what a former Admiral would be doing in such a scummy place.
“Well, husband, you would make a great professor someday,” Ashley tells me, winking. The trademark mischievousness is back. “Maybe if Guss retires one day.”
I chuckle as we enter seedy bar where we are greeted with loud music and a pungent smell. I recognize at least three banned psychotropic agents in the air. The bar is small and has a low ceiling. Dim lights flash disco style as couples dance on the dance floor. At the edges there are tables occupied by people either smoking, drinking or gambling.
I spot a couple of aliens, from Sonali to Tyreesian to the Children of Zorm. I guess the anti-alien sentiment hasn’t gotten here.
Ashley pauses by the door and scans the room. She points to a man at the other end of the bar wearing a dark clothing. She takes my hand and we push through the dancing bodies to the other end of the bar.
The Admiral spots us before we come into range. He stands to hug Ashley. They speak for a while. I couldn’t hear them because of the loud music, but I see them smile at each other and I conclude that they’re probably reminiscing over the past.
Ashley then grabs me and pulls me closer.
“This is my husband and direct superior,” she says, beaming with pride. “Vice Admiral Jeryl Montgomery.”
The man sizes me up for a moment. He has a diminutive figure, yet a commanding set of eyes. His beads have spikes of white, making him look charming and mysterious. He stretches forth a firm hand, which I take.
“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” I say, remembering my training. Just because you’re not in active military service doesn’t mean you forever lose the rank.
“Oh, my pleasure,” the admiral says. “I read all about your work. I know you’re responsible for bringing an end to the madness that engulfed the universe for five years. I’m also following up on your work to establish a galactic council.”
The man begins to observe me with a different set of eyes.
“I must say I’m impressed,” he says. “Not many are capable of a quarter of the things you’ve achieved. Greatness comes easy for you?
“Yeah, well, greatness is being threatened at the moment, which is why we’re here,” I say.
Admiral Sanchez rolls his eyes.
“Ah…The incident in New Washington,” he says.
He motions for us to sit. He winks at the barman, who brings us each a glass of wine. The admiral motions for the barman to turn down the volume a little so we can have a conversation, then tips him a little overboard.
The admiral doesn’t begin to speak until we’ve downed our glasses of what turns out to be pungent and strong wine. Then he orders for another round.
I throw a side glance at Ashley. Is he trying to get us drunk? She only smiles back at me. Sweetly, I might add.
“The death of Leader Greer will no doubt bring your Accords to an end, if you don’t manage it well,” the admiral says. “A foreign diplomat dying in your supposedly secure facility sends all kinds of bad messages. My sources tell me that the Tyreesian government is already claiming this is as an act of sabotage by would-be galactic tyrants. They’re even going as far as saying that if the human government does not contain this act and fish out those responsible, they are going to find themselves embroiled in another war.”
“What?” I blurt, shocked. “I haven’t received such communique.”
The admiral flashes me a sympathetic look.
“Then you’re in a much deeper mess than you realize,” he replies. “Isn’t it ironic? We’re concerned about pursuing galactic peace—which these negotiations will bring out, yet we’re on the verge of another interstellar war. That you don’t even know about. Because it’s being conducted at the highest fucking levels.”
I exhale loudly, anxiety having free reign over my thoughts.
“Do you know what caused the explosion?” I ask finally.
This is when Admiral Sanchez smiles, with a curious glint in his eyes.
“I know much more than you can ever hope to comprehend,” he says.
I swallow hard. Not knowing how to respond, I remain quiet.
“Would you like to know some of it?” the admiral asks.
Chapter 15
Ashley
I watch my husband do his best to play it cool in front of Sanchez. I see amusement dancing in Sanchez's eyes, but he doesn't say anything, which I appreciate. Jeryl has a decent poker face, but right now I don't think either one of us can hide how anxious we are to hear what Sanchez has to say.
Living through the madness of the New Washington protest was hell enough. Watching a diplomatic shuttle explode when so much has already been lost that day only added to the horror and helplessness.
We need to get to the bottom of this mystery to save the galactic council and our own sanity. And quite possibility our marriage.
We've been doing well despite everything, but I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a strain. Right now we’re a team, but I know he's burning inside to figure out how to get the negotiations back on track. And I don't blame him. If we don't have the council—we don't have a chance for peace. And without peace, then we don't have a future.
But after what we went through after The Ledge? We may be paying a price that includes our marriage.
I'm just glad Jeryl is taking Sanchez seriously; that they’re both listening. Because right now with all the shit hitting the fan, we need more allies and people we can trust. I know Sanchez is no bullshitter.
"Well, first," begins Sanchez, "I don't believe this was an accident."
"You mean assassination?" asks Jeryl.
Sanchez shakes his head. "No, more like sabotage. This wasn't a surgical strike. This was shock and awe."
"I don't understand," I say looking from Jeryl to Sanchez, "Greer is dead. If someone blew up his ship, then we're looking at murder."
"Well, that's the thing," says Sanchez solemnly, "I have doubts that Greer died in the explosion."
Jeryl looks at me dumbfounded.
I feel my heart start beating fast because suddenly the ramifications of what Sanchez is saying hits home. "This was a ruse," I say. Sanchez nods.
"I think so."
"But wait a minute," says Jeryl, "We all saw the explosion. How can you doubt what happened?"
Sanchez sighs, then rubs his eyes, "Because when I ask what happened—why the shuttle exploded, the only answers I get fr
om anyone official are bullshit."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"Okay, so the official response tells me that the takeoff thrusters malfunctioned and caused a chain reaction that destroyed the shuttle midflight,” Sanchez says.
"But that doesn't make sense," Jeryl and I reply in unison. We've been on enough starships to know the basics of flight procedures.
"Exactly," says Sanchez, who appears happy that we understand, "Even a green pilot knows not to engage those within planetary atmosphere. Not unless you do want things to go boom. So bottom-line: the thrusters could not malfunction because they would not have been online to begin with."
"I know that makes sense," I say, “But we’re dealing with an alien species and therefore alien tech."
"I thought of that too, but here's the thing. The Tryeesian ship has the equivalent of our takeoff thrusters, trust me—I checked, and the laws of physics apply the same to their engines as they do to ours." Sanchez replies.
I chew my lip, nodding in agreement. "But the real doozy is the part that nobody is mentioning," continues Sanchez. I arch a brow at him.
"Either one of you heard of Sherlock Holmes?" Jeryl rolls his eyes and I grin.
"Yes," I say smirking as I recall when I first mentioned Sherlock to Jeryl on The Seeker. He asked me then what ship he captained. I'm amazed I kept a straight face.
Sanchez looks a bit confused with our reactions, but he keeps talking, "Holmes had an idea that when you're trying to solve a mystery and you run out of logical solutions, you need to look at improbable ones because they are often the only possible solution left."
"So what exactly are you saying?" asks Jeryl.
"I'm saying that everyone saw an explosion and assumes Greer is dead. Officials are labeling it as an accident due to a thrust malfunction. Yet, we can't accept that has a rational answer so we need to look at the other evidence to solve this."
"You found some evidence to solve this?" I ask, feeling more confident.
"Well, “says Sanchez as he stipples his fingers in front his face, "It's not the evidence I found that is so remarkable as much as what I did not find."
"I don't understand," I say looking at Jeryl, his face mirrors my same confusion.
"No problem," says Sanchez pulling out his tablet, "I can show you." He taps a code into his tablet then holds it out for us to see, "That's the breakdown of the molecular residue left after the explosion. I'm going to give you a hint: the only thing registering in this area of space are atmospheric molecules and alloys."
Suddenly I get what Sanchez is trying to tell us, "There's no trace of organic matter."
He smiles. "Exactly, even a massive explosion would leave some amount of organic residue."
"And if there was organic debris," said Jeryl swallowing his nausea, "That would be what's left of Greer.” Sanchez' face lights up like a teacher pleased with his students.
"Yes! but according to this report either Greer never exited or..."
"He wasn't on the ship when it exploded," I say.
"That's some trick," says Jeryl, "I personally saw him get in. How the hell did he pull it off?"
Sanchez considers a moment before saying, "Most of the aliens we have encountered have technology way above what we consider cutting-edge." I see Jeryl thinking, likely replaying how different the Sonali weaponry was when we met them the first time.
"However, the three of us also know how aggressively Terran Union has worked to advance our position, so we are no longer playing catch up." Sanchez continues as Jeryl and I nod. It’s true. Our advances during and after the war meant we no longer had to turn tail and run in an alien skirmish. It no longer felt like we were bringing knives to a gun fight.
"I think the 'trick' was a successful matter transfer."
"But there is no way Terran Armada has that kind of tech, " I say, "Right?"
"They might not have it yet, but that doesn't mean it's not being worked on," says Sanchez.
"I don't understand, " says Jeryl. He's not the only one.
Sanchez looks both of us, "Let's assume that this was a matter transfer. And let's assume that the transfer was done by non-Terran technology." We both nod at him. "Okay, now imagine that Terran Armada is trying to figure out a way to transfer matter, but it wants to keep that little project under wraps."
"Of course," says Jeryl, "Armada Intelligence would want to avoid bringing any attention to tech that might expose what they are working on. It's a smart move."
"So, we're on our own," I say with a grimace.
"Yes," says Sanchez, "We can't expect or even trust any "official" intel— so you're going to have to investigate on your own."
"Any suggestions?" I ask.
"Yes, we know that no organic matter was left. We also can safely assume that it was a matter transfer—"
"And if it was transferring from Greer's ship then it would need to find a place to safety transfer that matter to."
"Which means it would need to be nearby."
"Yes," says Sanchez, "You'll need to look at the records of what ships came in and what ones left New Washington at the time of the explosion."
"My navigations officer can compile that report for us," I say.
"Great, once you have the ship narrowed down you'll need to map its flight path. That should lead you to Greer."
"I don't think he'll be too happy to be found," says Jeryl.
"No, I doubt he will," says Sanchez as he gets up. "Well, Jeryl, Ashley," he shakes our hands, "Time for me to leave. Good luck."
He leaves us together, but alone in our heads. Though when we look at each other I can tell we're thinking the same thing: a fake assassination can mean only one thing.
Sabotage.
Sabotaging something that took three years to get to this point.
I see frustration laced with anger at this betrayal on Jeryl’s face, but underneath I also see his confidence and conviction. His hope.
I lean in to him, touching my forehead to his in silent understanding. He puts his arms around me. "We're going to get through this," I say.
"I know," he says pulling me close. I rest my head on his shoulder. Marriage doesn't grant you telepathy. But time together does make it easier for you to anticipate each other's thoughts and actions. I remember saying that to a friend and Jeryl added, "Yeah, that's a cautionary tale."
Marriages, good ones, are a partnership, two people working together toward similar goals.
Right now we have a shared goal.
Find out what ship fled during the explosion.
Find out where that ship went.
And find out who the hell is trying to destroy the galactic council before it even begins.
Chapter 16
Jeryl
"Well, that was enlightening," I say to Ashley taking a seat. We're now back on The Seeker in the captain's quarters.
She smiles at me, "I told you Sanchez would deliver."
"How soon can your navigation pilot get that data to us? I want to figure out what ship we'll need to chase."
"I sent him an encrypted message as soon as Sanchez suggested it so I should get a response any minute, but isolating which ship did the transfer is one thing," She looks at me and I see the seriousness in her eyes. "But I'm more than hesitant to go after it while our crew and alien delegates are sharing the same space."
"If we don't follow the ship now we might lose it," I reply.
"We can follow it, but let's drop the delegates off first," She leans toward me emphasizing her words, "We are a flying powder keg right now. The animosity between the 500 humans we have aboard and the delegates could blow up any time. We need to drop them off."
I sit forward, one hand coming under my chin. "I don't know if we can afford the time to stop."
"Jeryl, we need to make time,” she says to me, her face tight. “We need to drop them off at a diplomatic commune or New Washington or someone else they'll be safe before we go hunting."
"But that's ju
st it," I say, "Where are they going to be safe?" My hands gesture with my words on the futility of the situation, "We just watched our peaceful diplomatic compound go to shit before it even started and on top of that a delegate’s ship exploded right in front of us! Where the hell can we take these people that will make them safe?"
"You don't think Armada Security is up to the challenge?" she asks me.
"If we're dealing with sabotage, which with everything Sanchez told us seems to be the case, then I'm not sure who we can trust on the ground. For all we know this was an inside job,” I say. “I mean it's not as though there isn't a great deal of opposition to this treaty."
Ashley rolls her eyes.
"Well, that's an understatement," she says as she sighs. "I agree it's a volatile time and we have no idea who we can trust, but what about the opposition of our own crew? Their anger at having to babysit alien delegates is going to create major animosity between everyone on board. We're going to need to deal with that which is already going to be one huge pain in the ass. Add to that the fact that we're on a ship with finite capacity. My point being there's only so far someone can go to get away from other life forms on this ship. And Jeryl," she looks straight at me, "What happens when the delegates realize we're chasing an alien vessel? You won't be able to keep our flight plan a secret for long. They'll figure out we are chasing one of their own. Then the shit will hit the fan again, but this time we'll be responsible for it."
We both hear a notification chime. It's Ashley tablet. Frankly, I'm grateful for the interruption. Our argument is just going to keep going in circles like a dog chasing its tail. She raises valid points about the tensions between our human crew and the delegate members. The war was not so long ago for anyone on board to have forgotten. Re-branding our alien enemies into friends is going to take time— and time is something we don't have.
I watch Ashley look at her tablet frowning.
"What is it?"
She hands me the tablet, "Notice anything out of the ordinary?" I take a long look at the data. It's the report we've been waiting for from the navigations officer regarding the immediate arrival and departure of ships before and after the explosion.
