Nova’s eyes lit up with the brilliance of twin suns. “Really? Maybe you can show them to me sometime. See, my old man used to haul mining equipment between Drakkus and the Outer Rim in a Mark-IV before the war. He even took me on a few runs with him before I joined up. Until today, I hadn’t seen one in ages. I bet it’d bring back some really great memories to sit inside one again.” He seemed to realize that, in his excitement, he’d lost his military bearings. Recouping from the misstep, he ended with a deliberate “sir.”
Shawn realized instantly that he could grow to like this young man. “Sure, Jerry. I’ll give you the grand tour sometime, assuming Krif doesn’t try to dump it out an airlock.”
“No way that’ll ever happen.”
Shawn knew that was the case, but decided to press Santorum anyway. “What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s more rumors, sir, but I hear the order came from the OSI Director himself that the Mark-IV was to remain on board as long as you’re attached to the Rhea. That’s what got me all excited about going aboard her to begin with.”
“Interesting,” Shawn replied, as much to himself as to Nova. He was still having a hard time wrapping his head around why Sector Command wanted him there in the first place. Now, to hear that the Director of the OSI had ordered that Sylvia’s Delight be untouched, his curiosity was doubly piqued.
Jerry seemed to sense that Shawn was deep in thought, and tried to make a discreet exit. “Say, I gotta go, sir. Is there anything I can get you before I take off? Commander Brunel would raise hell and stick a chunk under it if I didn’t follow her orders to the letter.”
Shawn chuckled at the remark. “No, I think I’m good for now.”
“Great. I’m gonna go grab a shower. I feel like I’ve been out running with the bird dogs. Say, maybe we can head down to the mess hall in a bit and grab a little chow? If you need anything in the meantime, just access the ship’s library core from your terminal. It’ll tell you everything you need to know, where to find it, and the fastest way to get there. Hell, it’ll even tell you how to unzip your—”
“Thanks,” Shawn said, cutting off anything else the talkative lieutenant could have said. “I’ll do that.”
The young man grabbed his helmet and strode to the exit, then out into the passageway once the door was fully opened. “I’ll head back here on my way down to the lower decks. See you in a little bit, Skipper.”
“Thanks. See you then,” Shawn said, then realized after a long moment how Jerry had addressed him just as the cabin doors had closed. “What…what did you call me?”
In the intervening seconds it took Shawn to get out into the passageway, Lieutenant Santorum had mysteriously disappeared. Shawn surmised that he must have ducked into one of the dozen or so identical doors lining the corridor. Shawn looked at the placard beside the door opposite his, checking for the identity of its occupants. “04-05-16S-197?” he read aloud. “Well, that’s no help. Don’t people have names anymore?” He noted with disdain that all the compartments were organized by their physical address only, and that their occupants’ names were strangely absent. He retreated into his quarters, grabbing the secured file folder from his bedside and tossing it onto the desk near the foot of his bed.
When the file landed, the flap that had secured the contents inside flipped open and papers began spilling out onto the tabletop. Resigning himself to the mess, he dumped the remainder of the container out and inspected the materials. Aside from the small stack of loose papers, there were two reports, one encased in a yellow folder labeled CONFIDENTIAL and the other bound in red and labeled SECRET. There were two small holographic storage cubes, and two stacks of Unified currency totaling two-thousand credits. That almost covers my costs so far, he thought wistfully. Finally, there was a single gold key with the number 0218 etched on both sides of its surface. He walked to the wall-mounted safe above his bed, a standard feature for command officers to have in their quarters. Tossing in both the credits and the key, he quickly programmed the safe with a new combination and locked it. Moving back to the desk, he grabbed the first holocube and placed it in the access tray on the side of his computer terminal, giving the terminal time to load the data as he began to organize the small pile of papers before him.
On the screen, after an image of the Sector Command logo had faded from view, William Graves, dressed in an admiral’s uniform, appeared. William’s neck was a little thicker, and his angular face was slightly more rounded. His long mustache, once a deep black in his youth, was now a salt-and-pepper gray with white. It instantly occurred to Shawn that this video had probably been produced recently; this thought was confirmed when a date of approximately nine months ago appeared briefly in the lower right corner of the video. The presentation was in the typical style of an intelligence report, much like Shawn had seen during his wartime tenure. Graves was seated behind a large desk in an otherwise nondescript office. Behind him was a large display screen that came to life as he spoke. Bill talked about the alarming reports of Kafaran attempts to rearm themselves, and of the planets and solar systems that might align themselves with ‘the enemy’ at some point in the future. The video served to confirm what Toyotomi Katashi had already told both Shawn and Melissa while they were on Persephone. The only new information Shawn gleaned was that the Unified council appeared aware of the unrest in Kafaran space and was doing something about it: a fleet had been dispatched to ascertain the facts about the Kafarans’ current state, and to dispel any rumors in the process. It was the Fifth Space Flotilla, with the carrier Valley Forge in the lead. “The Valley Forge,” Shawn whispered, remembering that this was the carrier squadron which had gone missing at the same time Admiral Graves had. “Katashi, you old space dog. You were definitely on to something, weren’t you?”
Before Shawn could scan through the remaining files, there was a quick rap at his door before it slid open of its own accord. It was Lieutenant Santorum, freshly bathed and ready for chow. “You coming, Commander?”
Shawn pulled the cube off the tray, cutting off the remainder of the feed. He quickly stuffed it into his pocket with the remaining cube. “Yeah, Jerry,” he said, knowing that he probably looked like he’d just pulled his hand from the proverbial cookie jar. “But you’ll have to lead the way, though. I’m afraid I don’t know my way around here yet. Say, I didn’t tell the door to open.”
“Oh, that? We’ve been having minor computer glitches lately. Nothing to be alarmed about, just a few trivial inconveniences and oddities.”
“But nothing serious?”
Nova smiled and shrugged noncommittally. “Not yet. Anyway, if you ever get lost, all you have to do is query the ship’s computer. It’ll tell you anything you need to know and give you maps to anything your IDC has on file.”
“My IDC?”
“Oh, right. I almost forgot.” Nova reached into his pocket and withdrew a small metallic card and handed it to Shawn. “There have been some new procedures implemented since you left the service. Two years ago, Sector Command began issuing IDCs to all active space units. It’s basically an encrypted identification card that contains all the holders’ access privileges on it. Whenever you come to a door or a compartment that has a card reader on it, you just swipe your IDC. If you have the proper access then you’re in; if not, you get a red light and a warning chime.”
Shawn noticed that the back of the card had his name and serial number etched into its golden surface. “What happens when you get a warning chime?”
“Nothing, at first. After three consecutive chimes your card is locked out of the system. When that happens, you won’t get access to anything, and you’ll have to call the NAMS to unlock the card.”
“NAMS?” Shawn repeated, having never heard the acronym before.
“Sorry, the Networking and Applied Mainframe Security specialists. They’re the undisputed technology masters on the ship. Anyway, if the compartment you’d tried to enter has highly classified material inside, you may have to speak to th
e old man before your card will work again.”
“Krif?”
“Yes, sir. And he doesn’t like to deal with that sort of stuff. In fact, I’ve seen him get hotter than the hinges of hell for less. It’s better to know your access level ahead of time—that way you don’t get locked out unnecessarily. And without your IDC you’re up a creek without a paddle around here. Not only will you need it to get from deck to deck, you’ll also use it to get into and start your fighter.”
“My what?”
Jerry looked as if Shawn had asked him if there was a third arm growing from his head. “Your fighter, Skipper.”
“Okay, first off, no one said anything about a fighter or, for that matter, about me flying anything but my own ship. Secondly, why do you keep calling me ‘Skipper’?”
“Oh, I get it,” Jerry offered with a grin and a chuckle. “This is a test, right? I heard from some of the other pilots that you might do something like this.”
“What pilots? What are you talking about, Jerry?”
Santorum only laughed. “You think you can catch old Nova on the sly, but I’m onto you, sir. You won’t lure me in with one of those famous practical jokes.”
Shawn brought his hands up and placed them gently on Jerry’s shoulders. He looked deeply into the lieutenant’s eyes, speaking as calmly as he could muster. “Look, Nova, I think you’re a pretty fair guy, but I don’t want to have to throttle the truth out of you. Now, I need some answers…and I need them now.”
Jerry saw that Shawn was definitely not kidding on this matter. “I thought—I mean—didn’t Captain Krif explain everything to you?” he stammered.
“The Captain and I don’t exactly see eye to eye, Lieutenant. I admit, I have a hard time reading between the lines with him, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t mention anything regarding flying a fighter.”
Jerry’s tone was laced with caution. “Then I should assume he didn’t say anything to you about taking over for Lieutenant Commander Brunel?”
Shawn chuckled, trying to decide if he’d heard the young man correctly or not. “Take over for what?”
“Umm…the squadron, sir?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Yes, sir. Raven informed most of the pilots less than an hour ago. You wouldn’t know it to see it, but I think she was pretty upset about the whole thing.”
Shawn nodded slowly as shock set in. “I know how that feels.” He removed his hands from Jerry’s shoulders and paced back a step before licking his lips and coming to a resolute answer. “You and I—and Commander Brunel—are going to have a nice little chat with Captain Krif and get this all straightened out right now.”
Jerry gave Shawn a desperate look, as if he were a puppy being scolded. “But…what about chow?”
“Now, Lieutenant.”
Nova’s shoulders slumped. “Whatever you say, Skip—”
Before he could finish, Shawn pressed a finger firmly to Jerry’s mouth, silencing the remainder of the word. “Let’s not say that again, okay? ‘Sir’ is just fine with me, all right?
With the commander’s finger held against his lip, the Lieutenant managed to utter, “Yes, sir,” from the side of his mouth.
“Good boy. Now, let’s go find Raven, then we’ll go to Oz and find out what the Wizard knows.”
“The who?”
“Never mind. Let’s just go.”
*
With a simple query, the ship’s computer notified Shawn that Roslyn Brunel was eating in the officers’ main galley. While his stomach told him that he should be doing the same, all the questions raised by Lieutenant Santorum’s statements needed to be answered first.
With Jerry in the lead, the two men traversed the seemingly endless maze of corridors, making more left and right turns than Shawn could keep track of. Every corridor looked identical to the one before it, and Shawn briefly entertained the idea that Jerry was stalling for time by leading them around in circles inside the bowels of the ship.
After one final turn they came to a stop in front of two metal doors, each inlaid with a square window emblazoned with Sector Command logos. Beyond the doors, Shawn could see roughly thirty officers, representing nearly every department on the ship, sitting down to their meals. Some were conversing with crewmates, others were eating, and some seemed to be lost in their own thoughts as they sat at small tables. As the two entered, Shawn and Jerry noticed Roslyn at the same instant, sitting alone in the far corner of the dining compartment.
As Shawn stepped closer to Raven he noticed that she seemed to be idly playing with the food on her plate, neither eating it nor totally ignoring it. When they came within speaking distance, she suddenly looked at the two men.
She shifted her eyes from one man to other, nodding wordlessly to Nova, and then went back to reorganizing the food on her tray into a more palatable position. “Is there something I can help you gentleman with?” Her words were directed at her plate. She definitely wasn’t happy; that much was certain.
“I’ve been told that I’m relieving you as commander of the squadron. Please tell me there’s been a mistake.”
Roslyn scooped up a small pile of mashed potatoes and regarded it briefly. “Afraid I don’t know much more about it than you do, sir.” She then hefted the fork into her mouth.
“Then what—”
She swallowed slowly. Knowing there was no way she could possibly enjoy fleet food, Shawn decided the leisureliness was deliberate. “The order came directly from Captain Krif within minutes of you reactivating your commission.”
Not waiting to be offered a seat—and knowing it wouldn’t happen anyway—Shawn took the opportunity to sit in a chair next to the dark-haired, evasive pilot, and lowered his voice. “But I’m not qualified. Hell, I haven’t even logged a single star hour in a fighter in years.”
Not bothering to look at him, Roslyn swallowed more food and then reached for a purple, fizzing drink. “You’re preaching to the choir.”
“So you agree?”
“Oh, yes. Yes I do.” Her tone was emphatic.
Shawn glanced at Nova and then looked back to Raven. “At least someone has some sense around here.”
“Unfortunately it’s not contagious. The upper chain of command seems immune,” she replied dryly.
“And you told Krif as much, I assume?”
She slowly placed her glass back on the table, taking all efforts to make it as smooth a gesture as possible. However, Shawn had the impression Raven was fighting back the urge to hurl the glass across the room—or worse, at him. “Of course I did, Lieutenant Commander,” she growled, then immediately lowered her voice when she realized all eyes in the galley were now on her. “Giving you this assignment is not only foolish, it’s exceedingly dangerous. You have no idea what you’re doing. Besides, these new fighters are more advanced than anything you’ve ever flown. Hell, they’re more advanced than anything anyone has ever seen before. It took me seven months of simulator training just to get into the cockpit of one of these things, and now I’m supposed to simply step aside, let you have one with little or no warning, and give you my command to boot?”
“I can see you’re upset—”
“Upset?” she spat back. “Oh, no. This isn’t upset. This is just mildly pissed off. You don’t want to see me upset.”
“That’s for sure,” Nova whispered.
Roslyn could have turned Santorum to stone with the glare she gave him.
Pushing his personal safety aside, Shawn tried to bring her attention back to him. “And you couldn’t get Krif to see things differently?”
“Yeah, right,” she scoffed. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, I’m sorry sir. Begging your pardon, but did you wake up with your head stuck up your ass again?’ I’m sure that wouldn’t have had the desired effect.”
Again? Shawn tried not to laugh, knowing that Brunel was just as frustrated with Krif as he was. “It’s worked for me.”
She shook her head, turning her attention despondently bac
k to her food. “Yeah, well…I’m not you, apparently.”
“Meaning what?”
“You’ll have to talk to the Captain about it. All I know is that I was asked to step aside and hand the squadron over to you, and to give you a full briefing and tour of inspection tomorrow morning at 0900 hours.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” She grabbed a forkful of deviled ham and stuffed it into her face. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have a meal to finish.”
Lieutenant Santorum placed a hand lightly on Shawn’s shoulder, indicating that it was time to go.
When Shawn made an attempt at an apology, Roslyn discharged his words with a nonchalant wave of her hand. “You’re dismissed, Lieutenant Santorum. And take your friend with you.”
When the two men had exited the galley, they stepped to one of the wall-mounted computer terminals. Shawn withdrew his IDC and held it to the screen, then requested the location of Captain Krif. The computer’s sultry feminine voice responded, “Captain Krif is in his cabin, Lieutenant Commander Kestrel.” Half expecting the sentence to end with a lip-smacking kissing sound, Shawn gave the computer a questioning glare. “Is that the way it always sounds?”
“Bad maintenance overhaul a few weeks ago. I’ll tell you about it another time. Do you want the computer to notify the captain that we’re on our way?”
“No. I’m sure he’s expecting me. And if he’s not, I really don’t care.”
Chapter 2
At approximately 1630 hours, an understandably upset Shawn Kestrel—with Jerry Santorum in tow—arrived at Captain Richard Krif’s cabin. More out of habit than respect, Shawn gave the door a firm knock before entering. He was greeted by Krif’s brusque voice coming through the small speaker embedded in the door’s surface. “Just a moment, Kestrel.”
Icarus Page 2
