by P. R. Adams
The contact was distracting. A game. Part of the evaluation.
Voegel’s eyes tracked the captain’s movement. “Elevated heart rate and breathing. Your skin has taken on color and is dampened by perspiration.”
“It is almost as if I might be experiencing some sort of stress.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
The captain stopped, mouth opened to respond, then he realized honesty was a trap. “No.”
“Your mental health—”
“My mental health was set when the architect of my dreams sliced the first strands of DNA to engineer—” He tapped his brow. “—this!”
“The body and mind act as a closed system. It is more than just the capabilities of your brain. Chemicals in your bloodstream can affect—”
“Spare me the biology, Commander. Better to discuss the influence of the soul than the influence of the body. Mine was designed for perfection, after all.”
Tap tap tap. “Do you believe in the soul now?”
“I believe in science and fact. That was the point of my design.”
“Is that something you resent?”
Again, Morganson stopped himself from answering at the last second. He settled in front of the desk again, barely glancing inside the case before sliding open a drawer. He held up a bottle of amber fluid. “Could I interest you in some bourbon, Commander?”
“Have we abandoned our mission?” The doctrine officer cocked an eyebrow. “Or is this for a medicinal purpose?”
“Strictly medicinal.”
Tap tap tap. Voegel closed the binder and returned it to the attaché case, then took the bottle. Rim to lips, head tilted back—the doctrine officer took a long swig. Bourbon lingered on the analyst’s pale, full bottom lip until licked away by a pink tongue. “Medicine for the soul.”
Morganson took the bottle back. “It is.” He took a long pull himself.
Voegel pushed the attaché case aside and settled on the desktop. “You have been taking pills to sleep.”
“That is what they were given for.”
“For when you cannot sleep otherwise, yes.”
“I cannot sleep otherwise.”
“You should have called me. The role of the doctrine officer is purely supportive of—”
“I know your damned role.”
The doctrine officer placed a hand on the captain’s shoulder. “Is it fear?”
“Fear?”
“Of failure. This is what keeps you awake?”
The captain took another drink and passed Voegel the bottle. “You understand the pressure of being designed for a purpose, to have expectations and no allowance for variance.”
“Yes.” Voegel set the bottle down and stood. “Not pressure, but I understand the demands of design-based expectations.”
“For you, it is only this need to keep me functioning.”
“Yes.”
“For me, it is deciding the fate of thousands of sailors and Marines. It is rising to the top of a hierarchy of near-equals—”
“You have no true equals.”
“Must everyone die for me to see my rewards?”
“You must prove yourself.”
“Yes. Prove myself. Proving over and over. It is satisfying a master who cannot be satisfied. It is—” His voice cracked. “It is finding solutions where no such thing exists.”
Voegel unbuttoned the tight-fitting black coat and draped it over the back of the captain’s chair. The shirt beneath was white, crisp, and even tighter. “Do you trust the Supreme Leader, Captain?”
“How else could I possibly feel?”
“And the teachings? The superiority of our people?”
Morganson swallowed as the analyst unbuttoned the cuffs of the tight shirt. “Y-yes. Although, there are times when I worry.”
“Worry can be constructive. It can be informative.”
“Yes, well—”
The analyst unbuttoned the top buttons of the tight shirt, revealing flawless flesh. “Tell me about your worries.”
“Confusion, actually.”
“Tell me about your confusion.”
“How is it that we are superior, yet we turn to others for advances?”
“The forerunners? The shadow technology?”
“Yes.”
The doctrine officer’s belt buckle sparkled a silvery white. “They were an older race, not even human. Simply by virtue of time, they arrived at solutions we would have arrived at ourselves. Using their technology is merely a means to accelerate our own advancement. It is nothing to do with superiority.”
“Yes.”
“The Azoren are destined for hegemony over the galaxy.”
“The Azoren are destined for hegemony over the galaxy.”
Soft fingers traced along the captain’s jaw, then the doctrine officer smiled. “Through purity, the Azoren will find the path to rise above.”
Morganson nodded. “Through purity, the Azoren will find the path to rise above.”
“You accept these teachings?”
“Yes.” The captain shivered. “But I still cannot understand—”
Voegel turned the chair around and settled onto the captain’s lap, pressing against him. “You have been alone too long.”
“No. My concern is with how we lose. We are smarter, stronger—”
“Success is inevitable, but it is not linear. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes. Of course. Setbacks. Surprises. Humans are—”
“Unpredictable.” The doctrine officer pressed cool lips to Morganson’s quivering mouth until he calmed down. “What makes humans so intriguing is the dynamic nature of their minds. It grants advantages, but it also creates terrible risks.”
“Some things are quite predictable.” Morganson reached for the bottle, but the analyst grabbed it first. They struggled for a moment, at first a silly exertion to show dominance, then a bit more when the captain realized he wasn’t going to be able to pull the bottle away. “I want another drink.”
Voegel pulled the bottle free and emptied it in a deep gulp, spilling the amber fluid over lips, chin, and chest. “You do not need another drink, Bryce.”
Morganson gasped when the bourbon-flavored lips pressed against his again. He felt powerless. There was an undeniable attraction—that was how design worked—but there was no freedom. The doctrine officer was grinding now. The fingers no longer seemed delicate but powerful, tearing the captain’s T-shirt open and pinching his flesh.
He tried to push free, but Voegel pressed down hard.
“Please.” Morganson felt like he was being smothered. “I apologize for the questions. I am tired. It is nothing more than that—fatigue.”
“You need re-indoctrination.”
“No. It is only the fear. I felt inadequate. All the expectations. Like I said. I have had dreams about my brothers being killed. I—”
“Your dreams should be of greatness. You were meant to rise to the top of your family.”
“I have. I will!”
Voegel pressed the captain’s face to the cool skin of the pale, bourbon-dampened chest. “You wanted your bourbon. Drink it.”
Morganson whimpered; he gasped for air. The breasts were small and shapely, the flesh soft to the touch. “I accept. Through purity, the Azoren will find the path to rise above. The Azoren are destined for hegemony over the galaxy. The Supreme Leader knows the path to our ultimate destiny.”
“Good. Very good.”
Voegel rocked against the captain. There was no heat coming off the body. The only dampness was the bourbon yet to be licked from the flesh. The rhythm of the rocking was mechanical, flawless. A sound began deep in the doctrine officer’s throat, but it was recorded, a simulation.
Morganson tried to push free again, but his hands were pinned against his chest.
The analyst reached past and pulled the leather packet out of the case. “I need to file a report for you, Bryce.”
“Sasha, please.”
&
nbsp; “There are concerns you are inadequate to the task.”
“I—” The captain pressed his forehead against the pale chest. “It is just fatigue, nothing more. You know this.”
Fingers cupped beneath Morganson’s chin and lifted his head up.
Voegel held a respirator up, then pressed it against the captain’s quivering lips. “Breathe, Bryce. Take in the gas.”
Morganson fought it for as long as he could, but there was no escaping Voegel’s grip. Finally, he sucked in the gas—biting, sharp, sweet.
Tension slowly oozed from him. His body relaxed.
The doctrine officer smiled and nodded. “Your dreams should be of greatness, Bryce.”
“My dreams…greatness.”
Voegel set the mask aside and lifted him from his seat, then carried him to the bunk and finished undressing him. “We are connected. Always connected.”
“Connected…”
“Creation. You remember. You birthed from the glass womb, me from the assembly line. Just for you.”
“For me…”
“Your success is my success.”
“Success…”
The android slipped into the bunk beside him. “Relax, my captain. You must find your strength inside. I will help you. Through purity, the Azoren will find the path to rise above.”
“Azoren…rise above.”
The fingers were delicate again, sensitive. Demanding. “You accept these teachings?”
“I accept these teachings.”
“All hail the Supreme Leader.”
Morganson gasped. “All…hail…”
But he couldn’t finish. He was on a beach with bright blue skies and white sand that burned the bottoms of his feet. The salty surf was like an animal roar, crashing, calling to him, white foam washing up to where he lay.
The peace…the peace…
16
Nothing had changed about Varudin since Benson had last visited nearly three years earlier, yet everything was different. Her shuttle skimmed over the Avenue of the Founders on its way to the Grand Assembly Plaza. The vehicle interior was fresh and clean, maybe even manufactured in the last month. Towering, marble scholars and politicians scowled at her through the polished windows as she folded and then unfolded her hands on her lap. A young man in Navy whites sat at the piloting console, absorbed in maneuvering the aircraft through the Kedraalian capital city. He was the only other occupant besides her, Grier, and Halliwell, who sat in the seats across the aisle, looking sharp in the distinctive Marine gray coat and blue pants. Benson hated the stuffy and stiff full-dress black uniform she’d been told to wear, but where she was going required it.
“You gonna be okay, Commander?” Grier’s face seemed to glow.
“Okay?” Benson glanced at Halliwell, whose mind was somewhere else.
Hers should be, too. She should be trying to figure out who was behind the smear campaign, trying to undermine her command.
She’d had lunch with Commander Lo the day after landing.
Lo was a kind man, patient and understanding. He didn’t eat much and seemed distracted the whole time. “There’s not an officer in the fleet who hasn’t had a scandal, Commander Benson.”
“Faith, please.”
He nodded. “I never saw in all my years something like…”
“I would hope not. What they did was…disgusting.” She couldn’t remember some of the audio and video, but what she could remember had been manipulated, taken out of context. Even excerpts from her records had been changed. But the source material had been authentic. “This has to go high up the chain.”
Lo’s eyes narrowed. “Not really. Records can be accessed by very junior people. They just need appropriate security.”
“And malicious intent.”
“How well do you know the intelligence community, Faith?”
“I’m learning more each day.”
“They’re trusted with the most critical roles and should be held to the highest standards but rarely are.”
“I’d heard about people being punished for violations.”
“The junior people, certainly. Those they hold responsible. But the senior people? People like this Patel?” The old man shrugged. “Most of my career, people like him operated without the slightest oversight.”
“Thank you again for alerting me to—” She blushed.
“I’ll find out where it originated. I have an old friend looking at the communication trail. Seriously, my crew is hardly a good target. There’s no shortage of animus among them, obviously, but you weren’t the one who drew them out of retirement.”
“I’m really sorry about that. About…all of this.”
“But it wasn’t your doing, was it?” He smiled, and his gaze drifted off. “We should have let Dramora leave the Republic.”
“At the end of the war?”
“Loyalty isn’t something to be forced.”
“But that would be impractical. They’re one of the largest planets in all the holdings. If they leave, that’s a big section of space with mineral resources we’d have to give up.”
“It would have meant stability.”
“By giving the Azoren even more resources?”
Lo shrugged. “Appeasement.”
“It doesn’t work. And not all Dramorans wanted to leave.”
“Most did.”
“I think they just wanted to have their way. They can’t stand the idea that they aren’t running everything.”
“How is it matters have become so bad? The founders did a good job selecting stable, rational people.”
“You can’t weed out all the negative aspects of being human. We have to actively monitor ourselves.”
Lo arched a white eyebrow. “How many people self-evaluate?”
“Not enough.”
“No. Not enough. I would think it best you keep a friend at your back at all times.”
Just who were her friends, though? Benson couldn’t be sure.
Grier’s voice cut through Benson’s thoughts. “Commander? You sure you’re okay?”
“I guess. After a week hidden away at the Academy, I think I’m ready for anything.”
“You scared, ma’am?”
“No. I think we’ve faced worse.” Have I? Those images, the videos…
“You ever speak before parliament, ma’am?”
“No.” Benson’s heart raced. She couldn’t swallow for a moment.
You’re going to survive this. You’re going to survive this. You’re going to survive this.
The mantra wasn’t helping.
“Commander?” Concern pinched Grier’s features.
“It’s all right.” Benson shut out the whine of the shuttle engines and tried to count how many times she’d seen her mother speak. All as a child, before the schism formed. Eight? Ten? More, most likely. “Just remember that they’re all public servants, same as us, and you’ll do fine.”
Grier looked down at her thumbs, which were scraping against each other. “Where I grew up, you never even thought about seeing Kedraal. Varudin? Parliament. All the museums and businesses. It’s all so pretty.”
“People here put pants on one leg at a time, same as you.”
“But they look so good doing it.”
“No one looks any better than you, Corporal.”
The corners of the young woman’s lips quirked up. “Th-thanks, ma’am.”
A tone warned of imminent descent, which seemed to bring Halliwell out of his thoughts. He frowned. “Guess you were right.”
Benson cocked her head. “About?”
He nodded toward the broad windshield. “Setting down in the plaza.”
“Oh.”
The fight—argument—they’d had about security, that was what he was hung up on. His insistence they needed significant protection, her insistence that she wasn’t the one who was a threat to SAID. It was Stiles whose life seemed most at risk. She was either destined for prison as a murderer or…
Be
nson wasn’t sure what the Directorate would do about a rival agency protecting someone who claimed to have seen evidence of a conspiracy. With the evidence apparently lost, maybe everyone would let it go.
Then it would come down to whether or not Stiles could convince her superiors that she’d killed Agent Patel in self-defense.
Regardless, all eyes would be on the young lieutenant, not Benson.
Unless she could convince the Parliament of what she believed. And that was what made Lieutenant Stiles truly dangerous, because if her claims proved true, what Benson said before the ruling ministers would be damning.
But without the evidence, all that existed was circumstantial data and common sense. With the sharply divided legislature, would that be enough? The prime minister had every reason to be open to the evidence after what had happened, but…
They settled with a soft bump, and the pilot popped the hatch. “All clear, Commander.”
“Thank you.”
Benson unbuckled, adjusted her coat, then followed her Marines down a ramp to the concrete landing platform. McLeod was there, along with a stubby, olive-skinned woman squeezed into an admiral uniform and a blockish Marine general with cold, gray eyes. Benson saluted, then fell in behind the three officers as they hurried toward the pyramid-like glass-and-steel home to the heart of Kedraalian government. It sparkled like a jewel in the morning sun. Off to her right, flags whipped atop poles bracketing a blue-green fountain that represented the oceans of Earth, the world that had birthed the Republic. Mist rode the wind, along with the smell of flowers—violet, red, gold—lining the walkway.
McLeod twisted slightly. “The full assembly should be here today. Everyone’s been recalled.”
The admiral grunted and leaned forward. “All nice and stirred up.”
They pull their pants on one leg at a time.
The Marine general didn’t look back but said, “You receive the approved speech, Commander Benson?”
Benson’s command tablet buzzed in her pocket. “Approved speech?”
“From the Senior Command Staff. They wanted to be sure the message was clear.”
“They’ve had my draft for nearly a week.”