by Glenn Smith
“Yes, ma’am,” he acknowledged dismissively, not at all concerned about her bruised ego. Then he added, “If you do determine that it’s safe, have Corporal Robins bring it directly here. We’ll have to log it in as possible evidence and handle it accordingly while you or one of your people tear it apart to see what makes it tick. No leeway on that issue, Lieutenant.”
“Understood, Sergeant,” she responded sharply. “Torrance out.”
“They certainly can be a pain in the ass sometimes, can’t they?” came a vaguely familiar voice from behind him—a man’s voice, full of authority.
Dylan hesitated for a moment, just briefly, and then turned toward the voice and inhaled sharply when he recognized its source, despite the fact that he knew before he turned who it was. Despite the fact that Lieutenant Tran had already warned him about the man’s impending visit. “Sir?” was all he managed to say.
“Augmentees who don’t understand the importance of the rules of evidence, I mean,” the man clarified as he approached, extending his hand in greeting as he introduced himself. “Major Icarus Hansen.”
“Uh... Sergeant Dylan Graves, sir,” Dylan returned, shaking the major’s hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Sergeant,” the major told him. Then he released Dylan’s hand and asked, “Mind bringing me up to speed?”
* * *
Being careful not to cut himself on any sharp edges or to put too much weight on any one spot in case the blast had weekend the remaining structure, Robins pulled himself up through the blast hole and out into the shaft. He switched on his wrist-light, then lay down on his stomach, pulled himself across what was left of the car’s roof, and peered down into the space between the car and shaft wall. He saw something, or at least part of something, but the space was narrow and the angle was difficult, and he couldn’t be sure what it was.
“See anything?” Lieutenant Torrance asked him.
“I think so,” he answered, “but I can’t tell what it is.”
“Can you reach it?”
“I think so.” He reached down into the space—trying to keep his wrist-light on the object without blocking his view with his own arm wasn’t easy—stretching for all he was worth until his shoulder pressed against the shaft wall and he couldn’t reach any farther. He felt the tips of his fingers brush against the object’s smooth surface. So close, but not close enough to grasp it. Grunting and groaning, he stretched some more, until he finally trapped an edge between the tips of his thumb and his first two fingers. “Got it!” he exclaimed. But when he tried to pull it up he realized that it was pretty well jammed in place. “At least I think I’ve got it.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know yet,” he answered, trying not to shout at her. Hadn’t he just told her that he couldn’t tell what it was? “It’s stuck.”
“Can you get it out?”
Robins sighed. Why did he have to work with this woman? Why couldn’t he work with another SP? “I’m trying,” he assured her, “but if it falls any farther we’ll never get it out.”
“Okay, take your time,” she told him. “We don’t want to lose it.”
“No shit,” he mumbled under his breath. Sweating profusely with the effort, he willed his arm to stretch beyond its limits, but no matter how hard he tried he just couldn’t get a better grip on it, and the grip he already had wasn’t enough to pull the object free.
He heard a couple of hard footfalls followed by a thud and the lieutenant grunting below him, and the object suddenly came free. “You all right, Lieutenant?” he asked as he pulled it up out of the narrow space.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she answered, though she sounded more like she was in a little bit of pain. Then she asked, “Did that help?”
“Yeah, whatever you did knocked it loose,” he answered as he rolled onto his back and sat up. He turned the object over in his hand almost by reflex, but it was pretty obvious what it was. “It’s a handcomp,” he told her. “Looks like standard Solfleet-issue.”
“Appearances can be deceiving, Corporal,” she reminded him. “Be careful with it.”
“Trust me, I will. Any change in the readings?”
“No, they’re still holding steady. Bring it down. I’ll call it in.”
* * *
“That’s about it, sir,” Dylan concluded. “We’ve been searching ever since.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Graves,” Hansen said. “I’m very sorry to hear about the deaths of your comrades, but it sounds like your C-O has things well in hand.”
“Yes, sir, and if that team has finally found something on the Albion, then...”
“Lieutenant Torrance to Security,” her voice called through the panel again.
“Speak of the devil. Excuse me, Major.” Dylan turned back to the console and opened the channel. “Security Control, Sergeant Graves here. Go ahead, Lieutenant.”
“We found it,” she reported. “It’s a handcomp. We’re on our way there with it now.”
“Are you sure it’s safe?”
“Robins retrieved it without blowing himself up or keeling over dead, so yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s safe.”
Dylan sighed and shook his head. Fucking know-it-all lieutenants. The fact that he was in reality a lieutenant himself now hadn’t done anything to alter his opinion of them.
“Lieutenant Torrance,” Hansen interjected as he stepped up beside Dylan, who stepped aside to give him plenty of room, “this is Major Icarus Hansen, Solfleet Security Police Special Assignments. Being ‘pretty sure’ isn’t good enough. Are you sure it’s safe or aren’t you?”
A few seconds passed in silence, and then she replied in a much more subdued tone of voice, “Yes, sir. I’m sure it’s safe.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Hansen stepped back and gestured for Dylan to step in again.
“All right, Lieutenant,” Dylan said as he did so, deciding that he liked this version of the admiral. “We’ll be here. Security Control, out.” He closed the channel.
“Some lieutenants’ egos bruise easily,” Hansen quipped.
“So I’ve noticed, sir,” Dylan replied.
Ten or fifteen minutes later—not fast enough as far as Dylan was concerned—Corporal Robins walked into Security Control, all alone, recovered handcomp in hand, and greeted Major Hansen with a, “Sir,” as he headed over to the cabinets on the back wall to get an evidence tag.
“Where’s Lieutenant Torrance?” the major asked him.
“Off duty, sir,” Robins answered as he fastened the tag to the handcomp’s body and then touch his thumb to the mini-scanner. “I think she went back to her quarters.”
“You should do the same, Corporal,” Dylan told him. “You’ve been aboard that old ship searching for hours.”
“Soon as I log this into evidence, Sergeant,” the corporal replied.
“Sign it over to me,” Dylan directed, holding out his hand. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Dylan answered, nodding.
Robins walked over to him and held it out. “Thanks, Sergeant. I appreciate it.”
“No problem,” Dylan replied as he accepted the handcomp. He placed his thumb over the tag’s mini-scanner to record his taking possession of the device while Robins watched, noting that the corporal had affixed the electronic tag to the cover door, which was going to make things a lot easier. About time he caught a break. Then, just as Robins turned to leave, Lieutenant Tran stormed back in through the door as though he were furious enough to kill someone.
“I just ran into Lieutenant Torrance from Engineering,” he practically shouted, angrily, apparently not having noticed Major Hansen standing off to one side of the room. “Where is this handcomp she told me about?”
“Right here, sir,” Dylan answered, holding the device up for him to see as he watched Robins make a hasty beeline for the exit.
Tran snatched it away from him and asked him in a very accusatory tone, “Do you have an explanation for this, Serge
ant?”
Did he have an explanation for what? “Sir?” he prompted.
“What was your assignment here tonight?” the lieutenant asked, glaring at him.
“I was to coordinate the search efforts onboard the Albion, sir,” Dylan answered firmly, glaring right back at him. Rank had never intimidated him. Not even flag officers’ starbursts. That was one thing that would never change.
“And what were your orders, should any of the search teams find anything?”
“I was to notify you, sir.”
“And did you notify me when those two found this handcomp?”
“No, sir. I didn’t.”
“And why not, Sergeant?” the lieutenant demanded.
“Because, Lieutenant, while I was talking to them I was still bringing Major Hansen up to speed,” Dylan answered, tilting his head toward the major when he dropped his name.
“Oh,” Tran replied more calmly as his looked over at Hansen. Then, swallowing audibly first, he addressed the major. “Uh... Welcome to the Mars Orbital Shipyards, sir.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Tran,” Hansen replied.
Tran looked back at Dylan, seemed to consider what to say for a moment, and then told him, “Even if you didn’t have a chance to contact me, you should have known better than to let them bring anything emitting strange readings inside this facility.”
“That was my call, Lieutenant,” Hansen told him.
“Your call, sir?” Tran asked timidly, looking back at him.
“Yes, my call. The sergeant did remind Lieutenant Torrance of the regulations and told her not to bring it in unless she was absolutely sure it was safe.”
“He did?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Oh, well that’s... that’s different.” He looked at Dylan again and handed the handcomp back to him. “Carry on, Sergeant,” he said. “I’m going to go, uh... I’m going to go brief Major Ross, if he’s awake.”
“I’ll go with you,” Hansen told him as he started toward the exit.
“Great, sir,” Tran responded, looking as though he might throw up.
Hansen winked at Dylan, who couldn’t help but grin as he watched the major follow Tran out into the corridor.
He definitely liked this version of the admiral.
As soon as he felt sure that he was going to have enough time alone to do what he needed to do, Dylan hurried into the back and pulled a standard, present-day handcomp from the back of the supply locker—one that probably hadn’t been used in a while and probably wouldn’t be any time soon. He carried it and his own handcomp over to the small workbench standing against the wall and removed the backs from both units, swapped their power cells, which he already knew to be physically interchangeable despite their inherent operational differences, and then switched their cover doors. Then he reassembled them, stuffed his own unit into his shirt, and then logged the other one into evidence and secured it. Hopefully, no one would ever know.
He sighed with relief. He had his handcomp back. One less thing to worry about. Now all he had to do was avoid being identified as Doctor David Baxter.
Chapter 40
Earth Standard Date: Sunday, 5 June 2191
The staterooms aboard the S.I.A.’s top secret long-range stealth shuttle Infiltrator—now there was an overly dramatic name if ever there was one—were small, hardly deserving of the designation. At best they were temporary quarters. More realistically they were utility cabins, not much larger than a nice walk-in closet. There were six of them in all. Three to port and three to starboard off of a central corridor that ran from the galley at the stern forward to the flight deck, where it widened around a tactical display table between the head and a large equipment storage locker. The two forward most cabins, those closest to that table and the flight deck, were reserved for the flight crew, two men and two women in this case, all of whom were Solfleet Aerospace Force officers, and the other four were for the passengers. Each housed two over-under bunks, a desk and chair, a computer terminal, and a built-in combined closet and shelves, leaving barely enough room in the one remaining corner to store empty suitcases or other sundry odds and ends. Twelve bunks and twelve people, Nick mused. Rod had thought it all out ahead of time... almost. Assuming they succeeded in rescuing O’Donnell, where were they going to put her?
Then again, Rod probably hadn’t expected him to want to bring Heather along. That little twist aside, it seemed Rod really had thought everything out.
Which meant that he’d known ahead of time they would be taking the Infiltrator or one of the other vessels like it. Why they needed a bolamide-hulled stealth ship to make the journey from Earth to Cirra, Nick couldn’t venture a guess. Ships both military and civilian traveled openly back and forth between those two worlds nearly every day. When he’d asked Rod about it, Rod had answered simply, “It was available,” but somehow he thought there was a lot more to it than that.
Nick shared PS-1 with Rod—Passenger Stateroom number one, the center cabin on the port side—whom he could hear snoring softly above him. Nick had awoken from his nightmares a couple of minutes ago and calmly opened his eyes. He hadn’t lurched gasping for air or sat bolt upright in bed—had he done that this morning, he would have smacked his head on the bottom of the upper bunk—or had to lie there and shake off any confusion as to where he was. None of that happened to him anymore. Seemed he was getting used to suffering the nightmares every night. Or maybe having slept in a jail cell for the previous twelve nights had something to do with it. Either way, it was a frightening thought.
He rolled onto his side and sat up, dropped his feet to the floor, and stood up, all in one flowing motion, and then remembered to silently thank Rod for letting him have the bottom bunk. Had he rolled out of the top bunk that way, the results of his hitting the deck likely would not have been pretty. He’d slept in an old pair of gray sweatpants and a plain white tee shirt and decided that was good enough for the time being, so he just slipped on his watch and his slippers, left the room, and headed up the corridor toward the head. He didn’t see or hear anyone else on his way there. Apparently, everyone had decided to sleep in. Everyone except for whoever was manning flight deck, of course, assuming someone was manning the flight deck.
He dropped his pants and planted himself on the toilet, then glanced at his watch. 0712 hours, mountain time. He considered changing it to Earth Standard Time, but then asked himself, why bother? It wasn’t like they were going to be checking in with any Solfleet stations along the way. Besides, they were going to have to reset their clocks and watches to local time when they arrived on Cirra anyway, so there really wasn’t any point.
He finished his business and washed up while the toilet auto-flushed, then headed back to his cabin, but he hesitated before going inside. Rod had still been sound asleep when he left. Why disturb him? Besides, Nick still hadn’t told Heather where they were going or why. He’d sat down with her to tell her everything after they launched last night, but she’d really worn herself out throwing that pool party and had fallen asleep almost as soon as she climbed into her bunk—also on the bottom. That had been nearly ten hours ago, so maybe she was awake now. If so, now was as good a time as any to fill her in, so he turned to his left and stepped back to PS-4, the aft cabin on the starboard side, which Heather shared with Squad Sergeant Axton, the only other female onboard. ‘Max,’ he reminded himself. She preferred ‘Max.’
Actually, Max wasn’t the only other female. Two of the four members of the flight crew were women as well, but the crew had their own cabins and none of them were cleared for access to any mission information anyway, so they tended to keep to themselves.
He stood at their door and listened for a few moments. He could hear something coming from inside their cabin but he couldn’t make out exactly what it was. It was an odd sound, a little like some kind of animal grunting in time to pulses of steam escaping from a cracked pipe. He listened for another few seconds—he couldn’t even guess what it might be�
�then reached up and pressed the buzzer.
The unidentified odd sound stopped suddenly, and a few seconds later the door slid aside to reveal Max standing there staring at him, breathing heavily and sweating as though she’d just run a marathon, nipples pushing hard against the fabric of her tight black tank top. Nick caught his gaze lingering on her chest and quickly raised his eyes to hers—was that a grin trying not to form on her lips?—and then said, “I’m sorry, Sergeant. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting anything, Admiral,” she told him. Then she let that hidden smirk blossom into a warm, friendly smile and added, “And please, call me Max. I count it an honor to be working with you.”
“Max it is,” he replied.
She stepped back and off to one side to make room. “Come on in, sir. I was just getting in my morning workout.”
“Thank you.”
She turned her back on him and stepped over to the corner, and he took the opportunity to look her over more thoroughly as he approached the bunks. Her fleet-issue top and matching black underpants—he assumed those were her underpants, as they certainly didn’t look like outerwear—covered what they were supposed to cover sufficiently enough, but didn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination. Max was elegantly tall and slender, quite shapely, and virtually all muscle. She didn’t look like she had an ounce of excess fat on her anywhere. If he were a decade or two younger...
Heather lay on her left side facing the wall with her blankets pulled up over her shoulder as though she were cold. Come to think of it, the cabin did feel quite a bit cooler than his had felt. No doubt Max had lowered the temperature for her workout. Nick sat down on the side of Heather’s bunk and gave her shoulder a gentle shake. “Heather?”
“Hmmm,” she moaned.
“Are you awake?”
She snickered, then answered, “Uh huh.”
“I thought I’d take some time this morning and tell you where we’re going and why, if you’re awake enough to listen this time.”
The grunting steam escaping from a cracked pipe noise started up again in the corner of the room as Heather rolled onto her back. Nick glanced over toward that corner to see Max down on her hands and feet knocking out a series of pushups, head up, back perfectly straight, grunting and blowing air out through her gritted bright white teeth with every push, looking like she could go on for an hour. She was obviously one very tough woman.