by Glenn Smith
In the short amount of time he’d known him—’been acquainted with him’ was probably a more accurate way to think of it—he’d come to like Commander Suarez. He’d shown himself to be relaxed and personable and hadn’t come across as having any of that ‘I’m an officer, so I’m better than you’ attitude that Dylan had seen in so many other officers over the years. As a matter of fact, were it not for the differences in their ranks and positions, differences that would make developing and maintaining a true friendship difficult at best, they just might have begun such a friendship. They’d spoken for quite a long time and had discovered they shared a few common interests. But as things were, with anything more than professional relationships between officers and NCOs within the same command generally frowned upon by Command, justifiably so, they could only hope to remain friendly acquaintances.
And, Dylan had realized the moment the commander had introduced himself, it certainly wouldn’t hurt his efforts to be able to count the operations officer of the Mars Orbital Shipyards among his potential allies, should he run into any difficulties.
With those very clear limitations on their potential friendship in mind, Dylan hadn’t taken any offense when Suarez excused himself and took his leave for the last few hours of the flight. Instead, he’d been thankful to get some time alone and had spent it reviewing his mission orders again, wanting to ensure that he’d familiarized himself with every aspect of them as thoroughly as possible. His mission objective was simple. Make sure the Albion doesn’t leave dry-dock in order to prevent it from being used in the attack against the Excalibur that had ended in her destruction. The mechanics of how he was to go about doing that, on the other hand, were another story entirely. He knew police work and field security. He knew soldiering and combat. Unfortunately, he didn’t know anything about working with electronics.
Then there were the so-called ‘secondary mission objectives,’—additional objectives that Hansen and Royer expected him to pursue and achieve so that his mission could be classified a complete success. First, he was to try to learn what had happened to Commander Royer’s older brother, Doctor Günter Royer, whom Hansen and Royer had sent back through the Portal six or seven years ago on a mission of his own, and bring him back home if possible. Second, there was the mystery of why everyone assigned to the Mars Orbital Shipyards when the Excalibur was destroyed had died or had been killed within the following three years.
How the hell was he supposed to solve a mystery that didn’t even exist yet?
He felt a sudden but gentle push forward against his harness. The vessel was beginning to slow down. As soon as it stopped, the pilot’s voice came over the PA system, saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. I’d like to welcome you to the Mars Orbital Shipyards. The local time is approximately seventeen forty-five hours. We ask that you please remain seated and harnessed until the docking clamps have secured our vessel and the ‘Fasten Harness’ light goes out. On behalf of the crew, it’s been a pleasure serving you. Thank you.”
Dylan peered out through the window to watch but couldn’t see the clamps, although he certainly heard them when they eventually made contact with the vessel’s hull. As soon as that happened, the aerobridge swung out from the terminal wall toward the fuselage, extended to the door, secured itself into place, and pressurized. Seconds later the ‘Fasten Harness’ lights winked off, the cabin door opened, and the passengers started to stand and disembark.
Once inside the passenger terminal, which in Dylan’s opinion resembled an old railroad platform, he and Commander Suarez and a few others filled the nearest available tube-car and rode it to the administrative offices area. Despite having distanced himself for the last few hours of the flight, Suarez invited Dylan to dinner and offered to show him the way to the Security office afterwards, but Dylan gracefully declined, saying that he had some ‘I arrived okay’ calls to make to the family back on Earth. That was a lie, of course. The truth was that he didn’t want any of his potential new co-workers to see him socializing with a high-ranking officer, and he certainly didn’t want to report for duty with the chief of operations guiding him by the hand. So, with a handshake they said their goodbyes and went their separate ways. Dylan found the nearest interface panel and told the computer to show him the way to the Security Operations Center.
“May I help you, Sergeant?” the desk sergeant asked over the speaker set into the thick, blast-proof transluminum that protected him and the control platform as Dylan approached the high counter. No way would any potential assailant ever get to him or any of the equipment on the platform. Not with that barrier up there.
“Sergeant Dylan Graves,” Dylan answered, holding his identicard up against the window. “I’ve just been assigned to the security police unit here.”
“Outstanding!” the desk sergeant shouted with enthusiasm. “It’s about friggin’ time we got some more N-C-O’s assigned out here. We’ve been working twelve hour shifts for months!”
“Don’t get too excited, Sarge,” Dylan warned him, smiling. “As far as I know, I’m the only one they sent this time around.”
“That’s all right,” the sergeant proclaimed. “One is better than none. Besides, maybe it means the brass at headquarters is finally getting off its collective ass and doing something about our personnel shortages. Anyway, welcome to the Mars Orbital Shipyards, Sergeant Graves.” He pointed off to Dylan’s left, to a row of chairs against the wall. “Have a seat over there. I’ll let the chief know you’re here.”
“Thank you,” Dylan said with a nod. Then he walked over and took a seat, but before long he stood up again—he’d sat long enough on the flight—and started looking over the various ‘proud to be security police’ posters hanging on the wall while he waited.
Barely a minute later the desk sergeant called him back over to the window. “The chief will see you in his office,” he told him. “Come through the door and go around my platform to the right, through the door and down the hall. It’s the last door on the right.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Dylan politely replied. Then he approached the security door and the desk sergeant buzzed him through. Then, per the sergeant’s instructions, he headed through the interior door and down the hall, and stopped at the last door on the right. The metal plate on the partially open door read ‘Major Frank Ross: Chief of Shipyard Security.’ Dylan peered inside. The brown pleather high-backed chair behind the dark-stained falsewood desk was turned facing the back wall, but he could just see the top of the major’s apparently bald head. At least, he assumed it was the major’s head, rather than someone else’s. He knocked twice and then approached the desk, snapped to attention, and saluted. “Sergeant Dylan Graves reporting, sir.”
The man spun his chair around to face him, returned his salute unceremoniously, and then said with authority, “Have a seat, Sergeant.” Obviously, he was indeed Major Ross. He was easily in his mid-forties—prior enlisted, then—had a light complexion, and was totally bald, with squinty eyes—either hazel or brown, he thought, though he couldn’t tell for sure—a long thin nose, and a narrow chin sporting a thin gray goatee.
Dylan dropped his salute, said, “Thank you, sir,” and then sat down in the chair nearest to the wall. This office was significantly smaller than Hansen’s, but he still felt a little like he was back in the admiral’s office again, facing the unknown. Classified mission or not, he was still the new guy.
“Welcome to the Mars Orbital Shipyards, Sergeant Graves.”
“Thank you, sir.” The man seemed pleasant enough, but he had an almost presumptuous assertiveness about him that told Dylan he wasn’t a man he’d want to cross.
“Have you had a chance to meet any other station personnel yet?” he asked.
“I met Commander Suarez on the flight out, but other than him, no, sir,” Dylan answered. “Well, except for the desk sergeant out front, of course.”
“Commander Suarez is a fine man.”
“That was my impression, s
ir.”
“Your impression was right, Sergeant. He’s a good friend of mine, but enough about him. Let’s talk about you. I was just looking over your service record,” he said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the terminal sitting on the small table behind him. “It says you resigned from the security police after about eight years to join the Solfleet Marine Corps’ Rangers.”
‘Resigned from the security police after eight years to join the Solfleet Marine Corps’ Rangers,’ Dylan repeated in his mind. Hansen and Royer really were keeping his cover story close to the truth, although the record apparently made no mention of his having gone to the C.I.D. Academy and served as a special agent for a year before joining the Marines. “Yes, sir,” was the only reply he offered in response.
“That’s a tough gig,” the major acknowledged. “I’m impressed. But we don’t have much need for commandos around here, Sergeant. The war’s over, and we’re too far from it even if it wasn’t. I’m afraid you might find your return to law enforcement a little boring by comparison.”
“I’m counting on that, sir,” Dylan told him. The war was over and they were too far from it even if it weren’t. If only that were really the case. If only the current peace could ultimately amount to more than just a brief reprieve. “I need the change of pace, at least for a while. Serving with the Rangers gets a little too exciting sometimes.” That much was certainly true.
“I don’t doubt it, what with the way those last few months were going. Hopefully, this ceasefire will turn permanent and we’ll finally be able to lick our wounds and recover.”
“Yes, sir,” Dylan agreed with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. His knowledge of what was coming made saying it with any real conviction a little difficult.
“Anyway,” the major continued, “you’re going to find life here at the M-O-S a lot slower than what you’re used to, so I suggest you make regular use of the gym and recreation center. We also have an extensive library and a pretty nice theater.”
“I’ll be sure to check them out, sir. In addition, I have a few hobbies I haven’t had much time for in a while. I’m sure I’ll be fine, no matter how slow things might get around here.”
“Excellent,” the major intoned. “Hobbies are good. What do you like to do?”
“Well, for exercise I like to go rock climbing and play hockey, mostly,” Dylan answered truthfully. Then, looking ahead at what he was going to have to do during a lot of his time off, he added, “I also like to tinker around with electronics sometimes. You know... take things apart, see what makes them tick, put them back together.”
“I play chess and run long-distance myself,” the major told him, “but I encourage hobbies of any and all kinds. Now, as far as your work schedule goes, I have good news and not so good news. The good news is, adding you and the three new privates we got yesterday to our ranks will enable us to revert back to eight hour shifts immediately. The not so good news is, I’m going to have to start you off on the graveyard shift. Now... we do have some regular crew rotations coming up in a couple of months and I can probably move you to days or swings at that time, if you want to be moved, that is. But for now those shifts are going to be full. I’m pretty sure no one will want to switch with you and I think it’s only fair to honor their wishes, since they’ve been here longer.”
“I agree, sir. I don’t have a problem working the midnight shift.”
“Good.” The major leaned forward slightly in his chair. “You know, Sergeant, this is one of those assignments where the fun factor depends largely on your own attitude. Whine about the boredom and monotony all the time and you’ll start hating it here inside a month. But if you maintain a positive attitude and try to get everything out of it you possibly can, then you’ll enjoy it here. Pursue those hobbies of yours and I don’t think you’ll have any problems. Now, why don’t you head to Personnel and get yourself assigned to some quarters. Settle in, relax for a little while, and get used to whatever time change you’re dealing with. I’ll expect you to report for duty in three days.”
Whatever time change he was dealing with? Ha! If he only knew. “Yes, sir,” Dylan said as he stood up and came to attention. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome, Sergeant. Dismissed.”
Dylan executed an about face and marched out of the office.
So far so good. His identicard, his personnel records, his assignment orders—nothing had been questioned. Yes, his card had suffered minor glitches a couple of times and would probably have to be replaced, but it had gotten him this far. Per the major’s instructions, he headed to the Personnel office to get quarters assigned, and that, too, went smoothly.
“Anything else, Sergeant?” the clerk asked him.
“Yes, as a matter of fact there is,” Dylan replied, remembering his identicard. What better chance to replace it with a real one from this time period, before one of those glitches finally did raise the alarm on a reader. He took it out and held it out to the clerk. “This thing has been giving me a lot of trouble lately. Can you issue me a new one?”
“Sure can.” The clerk took the card without question and slid it into the reader/duplicator, then tapped in his personal code to start the process. Dylan leaned forward on the counter so that his arm just happened to lay across the disposal slot. As soon as the new card was ready, the clerk handed the old one back to him and said, “It’s no wonder it was giving you problems. There was all kinds of garbage data on it. Drop it in the disposal.” Dylan pretended to do so, then secretly slipped it into his waistband the moment the clerk looked away. Then the clerk had him sign for the new card, gave it to him, and let him go.
Dylan went straight to his new quarters to unpack—his bag had been delivered—and to settle in. He found he’d been assigned single quarters, which was unusual for an unmarried, mid-ranking enlistee, even in his own time. Unusual, but very welcome. It would make his task that much easier. He changed out of his uniform and into a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt, then put his things away and rearranged the room the way he wanted it. Then he grabbed his uniform belt buckle—he’d need his tracker to find his way around for a while—and left his quarters to go find something to eat.
He found a dining facility not too far away and went inside. He moved through the line quickly and grabbed the first prepared platter he saw, not even caring what it was, then grabbed a glass of water and took a seat at the first empty table he came to. He lifted the lid off the platter and the aroma of freshly baked tuna casserole with ribbon noodles, green beans, and a pair of buttermilk biscuits wafted around him before he even set it down on the table out of the way. He picked up his fork and dug in like a man who hadn’t eaten in two days.
There remained one more thing he really wanted to do before he turned in for the night, and there was no time like right after dinner to do it. The earlier the better. He ate as quickly as he could, then left the dining facility, found the nearest computer interface panel, and touched his hand to its face to activate it. “Computer,” he said. “Direct me to the starcruiser... to... the... dry-docks. Direct me to the dry-docks.”
“Please activate your personnel tracker,” the computer instructed him. Dylan complied, and the computer directed him to follow the flashing green arrows.
Too close. He’d almost asked the computer to lead him directly to the Albion. That would have been... what? His second slip up since beginning his mission? His first had been when he’d identified himself as a lieutenant to the patrol boat pilot as he and Benny approached Window World, when he was posing as a sergeant. He hadn’t done any real harm when he did that, but that mistake had necessitated his fabricating a second cover story, albeit a simple one. And the thing about cover stories was that the more complex and multi-layered they became, the harder they became to remember. That was the whole reason behind keeping his cover story as close to the truth as possible.
He was going to have to be more careful in the future... so to speak.
As he
meandered through the labyrinth of corridors with the computer’s blinking green arrows directing him along his way, he imagined what might have happened had he specified the Albion’s name to the computer. His request would have been stored in the computer’s memory, just like any other. Then, if someone like a technician or a programmer or a proactive criminal investigator with nothing better to do happened to come across the record of that request in the near future, his apparent interest in a particular vessel to which he had no apparent connection might have been questioned. And then... who knew? Maybe nothing more than a basic inquiry, but that kind of attention he definitely did not need. Yes. He’d have to be more careful... much more careful... in the future. Or rather, here in the past. Or the future past, or...
He was starting to feel a headache coming on.
It took him more than an hour, but he eventually found the object of his search tucked neatly away in its own private berth in dry-dock 12-B. The reason he’d come back in time—the U.E.F.S. Albion. Old and dull gray, heavily weathered, and bearing the scars of what might have been dozens of minor mishaps, she looked a lot more utilitarian than the starcruisers of his day, whose main hulls were more a sculpture formed of graceful lines and artistic curves than an assemblage of hard-angled pre-fabricated modules. Well... some of them anyway. But she was a beauty in her own right, nonetheless. Interesting, though, that she only had one pair of jump nacelles. His father’s ship had had two pairs, forming the familiar wide “X” that appeared to cross behind the hull when viewed from off the bow. The Albion, while significantly older than the Excalibur had been, wasn’t that much smaller. He’d assumed it would have two pairs of nacelles as well.