***
Calvin exited the ship via the deck two jetbridge. Despite the accessways being quadruple sealed and not very long, he always hated stepping through them. Somehow he couldn’t hold back the thought of being blown out into space. Such accidents never happened, but it bothered him anyway, because he could imagine it.
He cleared the secondary hatch without any trouble and descended the ladder, starting down the long ramp that led into the terminal. Before he reached ground level, he caught sight of the concourse swarming with people. Some wore staff uniforms, others military garb—including soldiers at every checkpoint—but mostly they were civilians, scattered in hundreds of small groups, all awaiting transport on whatever ships docked after the Nighthawk was moved into long-term holding. The size of the crowds surprised him, until he realized that, while it was late at night, early morning actually, in Standard Time—what he was used to—here in Local Time it was almost midday. As if to rub it in, enormous blue digits glared at him from the wall: 1110 LT and 0230 ST.
Since he was government personnel, security ushered him over to a basic checkpoint instead of the usual customs screening with its cumbersome procedures and long lines. Immigration was tough in all Imperial Systems, especially alien immigration, but he barely gave it a thought since he was both human and in an elite branch of the government. Security waved him to the next available desk where a middle-aged guard sat at a computer station. He wore a green uniform—local security—and sported a huge mustache.
“Hello, sir, and welcome to Praxis One,” the guard said. “Hand me your ID, and press your thumb to the plate.”
Calvin complied. They waited a minute for the computer to analyze his card for tampering.
“So, uh … black and silver,” the guard said, whistling as he looked over Calvin’s uniform and saw the colors of Intel Wing—mostly black from neck to boots with a touch of silver, including his rank bar and officer’s sash.
Calvin liked the look; it was much more stylish and interesting than the standard blue and black of the navy.
“So … are you here for some kind of big assignment? We usually only get blue-and-black uniforms through here.”
Calvin fought a smile; he did like the attention, but he’d be a terrible officer if he let his ego loosen his lips. “Sorry, just on vacation.”
“Right, of course.” The man winked. “Then I wish you good luck with your vacation.” As he spoke, the computer beeped its approval, and the old guard nodded him through. “Follow the arrows to your left for accommodations, transportation, information, and anything else you need.”
“Thanks.” Calvin put away his card and wandered to the offices against the far wall. Had he actually been on an assignment, the military would have prearranged everything, and someone would have met him the instant he had stepped through security. But since he was on leave—aside from his role in the Raidan tribunal—he was effectively a civilian. Which meant civilian accommodations and having to deal with extended waits, no vacancies, high prices, and long lines. Inconveniences he’d forgotten about, because they didn’t exist in his world of starships and open space.
He fell into line, trying not to push his way too hard through the mob of people doing business with the various offices and kiosks. Calvin found himself wishing Raidan had been arrested on some small fringe outpost with fewer people, so Calvin wouldn’t have to put up with the delays.
He took a number and moved aside for others. Unable to find a seat, he leaned against the wall and wondered how he’d pass the time. That was when a random lady tried to engage him in a polite—and very boring—conversation about nothing. The idle chitchat quickly turned to questions about Calvin’s personal life—which he didn’t want to discuss with a complete stranger. And when Calvin proved less than talkative, the older woman launched into a very spirited monologue about the positive traits of her granddaughters, whom she’d love to have him court—or grandsons, if that was more to his liking. The whole conversation was very awkward, and Calvin searched for an escape. That was when he spotted a familiar-looking, extremely beautiful woman in full navy garb across the room. Even from this distance she was striking.
“Oh, what do you know,” said Calvin, interrupting the grandmother’s boasting about one of her granddaughters’ cooking skills. “I see a good friend. Thanks, though!” With that he rushed away.
The pretty woman across the room was Summers Presley, XO of the ISS Phoenix, and definitely not an old friend. In fact he’d never seen her before in his life, not in the flesh. She was breathtaking with her cascade of blond hair and exquisite physique, and her aura of certainty was disarming. He recognized her from his short investigation into the Phoenix, and there was no mistaking Summers. Her file photo had looked more like something from a model’s portfolio than a military profile, and even it hadn’t done her justice. She was probably the most beautiful woman Calvin had ever seen. A fact he hoped to ignore since it gave her an unfair advantage.
“Summers Presley,” said Calvin, catching up with her. “I’m glad I recognized you. I have a few questions …”
“I’m sorry. Do I know you, Officer?” She stopped and looked at him, seeming distracted and annoyed, no doubt because he’d just breached protocol.
Unacquainted officers in uniform always referred to each other by title or rank, never by first and last name. Casual use of given names was something unique to Calvin’s command style and certainly not encouraged by either the Imperial Fleet or Intel Wing. But this practice had now come back to bite him, especially since, officially, he was the lower-ranking officer here.
“Oh, right, sorry,” said Calvin, but the damage was done. “I’m Calvin Cross of the IWS Nighthawk.”
Her eyes jumped to his rank insignia. “Lieutenant Commander?”
“Yes. But don’t let the silver bar fool you. I’m a CO.”
Her eyebrows shot up, and she gave him a strange look—a mixture of intrigue, disdain, and skepticism.
“Listen,” he said, waving her away from the crowd of people. “I’m attending the trial of your CO, and, as an intelligence officer, I’ve had to do some research. And, frankly, several things don’t add up for me. I’m hoping you can help fill in the gaps, you know, the details that don’t make it on paper. Like habits, traits, behaviors, and anything peculiar about Raidan’s personality. I’d like it to make sense—”
“I don’t fully understand,” said Summers, interrupting him. She made no effort to mask her reluctance to cooperate. “Am I being implicated in some way?”
“Oh, no, no, not at all,” said Calvin, raising his arms innocently. “This isn’t an official investigation.” He wasn’t yet convinced she’d had no part in what had unfolded on the Phoenix, but his priority was to investigate Raidan first. For now Summers was only an intelligence asset and nothing more. “Don’t take this the wrong way. I’m just hoping you can tell me something I don’t know. All of Raidan’s, I mean, Captain Asari Raidan’s personnel notes describe you as an outstanding officer and, more important, a close friend. He trusted you. And you were near him when everything went down. Your perspective would be invaluable.”
She looked hurt for a split second. It passed almost instantly, but Calvin knew what it was when he saw it. After it vanished, she became even colder.
“Captain Asari Raidan was a very secretive man, and he kept his true feelings to himself. I’m as mystified as you are, Lieutenant Commander. But the writing’s on the wall. He either snapped and bowed to a hunger for violence, or else succumbed to a deep hatred for the Rotham people that he made us kill. Whatever the case may be, he’s a criminal and unfit for command. Nothing more to it.”
“With respect, Commander, there is more to it. A lot more. And you should be the first to realize that. You served with him for six years and were his XO for almost two. Doesn’t it bother you that a nine-time-decorated captain, from an established and affluent family, and a full citizen, would throw everything away without a reason? Especia
lly after twenty-nine years of diligent service?”
She closed her eyes for a moment and looked incredibly frustrated. “You speak as if I were somehow involved, Lieutenant Commander. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I was not.”
“No, I’m sorry,” said Calvin. “Sometimes I’m not very good at communicating what I’m trying to say. So instead, if you don’t mind, I’ll just ask you a few simple questions about the days leading up to the Beotan Incident. Beginning just before Captain Raidan ordered the Phoenix to go dark.”
Again he saw the glimmer of what might have been sincere hurt. But this time, instead of looking vulnerable, Summers’s eyes narrowed, and her voice turned to steel. “I’m sure all your musings will be satisfied by the trial, which—despite what you may think—doesn’t begin until tomorrow. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to discuss this any further off the record.”
“Yes, of course,” said Calvin, giving her an exaggerated nod. “Commander.”
She returned the nod with a fake smile and walked away.
The Phoenix Conspiracy Page 3
