“The day before Jim was supposed to deploy, we got a visit at home. There had been a training accident. A booster shell misaligned in one of the transport shuttles and it crashed. Jim was on it. A week later, Tom resigned from the Planetary Guard to take Jim’s place in the Infantry. He was on his way to the spaceport when a couple thugs jumped him and beat him to death for his wallet.”
The three men were silent.
Calico leaned against her propped-up palm and scoffed, coldly.
“What are the cosmic odds, huh? Different planets, different systems, different reasons. Neither one even got the chance to die in battle.” She tried to take a deep breath to cover her sniff. “You know I always hated their decision to join the army. It seemed too dangerous. They were always so determined, though… I guess I should have been more supportive.”
Phillip momentarily forgot about his objective to teach paste to fly. “So what are you doing here?”
Calico looked up, searching for an answer. Finally, she shrugged.
“I don’t know,” she said. “My brothers never accomplished what they set out to do. Someone had to finish the job for them.”
The girl half-chuckled, half-sniffled. “God. This war hasn’t even started yet and I hate it already.”
Calico took several long breaths, blinking slowly. Then, she stood up and stepped over the bench, leaving her food unfinished.
“Leaving?” Trent asked. Calico nodded, straightening her already pressed uniform.
“I have to go. There’s some stuff I need to get done before the Commander starts drilling us.” She hesitated, then added with a nod. “It was good talking with you.”
The young translator turned on her heel and strode out of the cafeteria. The three veterans eyed her as she left, watching her tightly-bound red head weave between the tables of chatting and chewing Infantry. When she’d left, Jonathan turned to the others.
“She’s so full of dogspit.”
Trent turned a steely glare on the stealthist. “Fiend.”
Jonathan reached over and seized a fistful of jerky straws from Calico’s tray and snapped half of one off in his mouth. “She thinks she stands a better chance out here if her motivations are emotion-driven. Following the ghosts of her two dead brothers so she can honor their memories? There’s a harsh reality waiting to slap her in the face.” The stealth expert bit another jerky straw and shook his head. “She’s too soft for the ESCs.”
“I say let her stick it out,” Phillip said, scooping a chunk of fruit paste onto his spoon and repositioning it on the edge of his tray. “How she wants to live, die, or chew gum is her decision, and I’ve got no qualms with that. And, I swear in advance… DANG IT!”
Phillip slammed his fist down on the spoon and sent the paste flying straight up, so high it came within a foot of the upper catwalk overhead. The glob came back down and splashed on the table, an arm’s reach away. Phillip picked up his spoon and dropped it into his mush with a sigh.
“I swear, this station’s gravity is way off.”
Jonathan stood up with his jerky straws and reached across the table, gently patting the technician on the shoulder with a wry grin.
“You’ll succeed at something one of these days, Norsehill.”
Phillip wrinkled his nose in mock disgust. “Scoundrel. I am the great Peter Leggit, lest you forget, peasant!”
“Screw you and your multiple personality aliases,” Jonathan said as he backed away. “I’m out of here. Don’t wait up.”
The stealthist turned and walked away. Trent said nothing, rolling his last piece of bread and coating it in the bits of his fruit paste. Phillip watched him go and sighed, rolling his eyes.
“What’s a brilliant mind to make of a guy like that?” he asked.
Trent adjusted his tray and stood, brushing himself off. The sniper rested a hand encouragingly on Phillip’s shoulder.
“Pick your battles, ‘Peter’.”
Trent patted the technician on the shoulder once. Then he knifed his hand down on the tip of his spoon, launching the paste-covered lump of bread off his tray and into the air. The sniper rotated and walked away as Phillip turned to track the missile. The projectile sailed in a perfect arch through the cafeteria, flying across the way before coming back down with a thick splatch, right into a particularly burly corporal’s upturned helmet.
Trent had already made his calm retreat by the time the corporal turned, wiping a sliver of sticky fruit from his face and looking down into his helmet. The privates sitting at the table with him all burst into laughter as the bulky corporal overturned his helmet with a sneer, dumping out the sloppy bread chunk onto his tray. The man turned, tracing the projectile’s trajectory, right back to the ESC’s now nearly-empty table. Phillip sat, surrounded by splats of similar fruit paste, no one else around. Suddenly aware he’d been set up, Phillip cleared his throat and stood at the same time the muscle-bound corporal did.
“Right,” Phillip said, trying to wipe the stains off his white and black uniform as he quickly shuffled toward the door. “Pick your battles.”
By the time the corporal reached the table, Phillip was long gone.
Chapter 32
On the bridge of Haven Alpha, Gordon Bryor sat almost completely alone. The only people on the bridge with him were a pair of ordinance techs going over the equipment in standard performance checks. The bridge crewmembers were in their rooms, or elsewhere in the ship. Nobody on board the mobile headquarters had strayed farther than the umbilical, and then only to parlay with the station docking managers.
The Captain hadn’t so much as set foot on Orbit Angel's deck the entire time they’d been docked. He’d turned down multiple offers/requests for ship maintenance for the ‘Kafka Dogma’, and denied several suggestions of refueling or resupplying. Gordon didn’t think it was a bad idea, but he also didn’t think it was necessarily hospitality, either. With a strange ship docked, those in command of the Orbit Angel were trying to establish their rule through offers of resources. Something about it just screamed ‘territorial’.
Gordon drummed his fingers against his armrest, watching closely as the ordinance techs tested the equipment that would see plenty of use in future days. He casually turned on the main screen, activating his captain’s console with one fluid movement of his hand. The ordinance techs didn’t even look up. Gordon silently began writing his report to Denver.
Captain’s report, number 557. Status report. Hour, twelve o’clock sharp, measured by the Solar chrono. Situation, stable.
My ship, the Haven Alpha, is entering its second day of relief here at the Guardian station, Orbit Angel. The current situation does not allow me to foresee when we may be on our way, but I suspect a turn of events is now inevitable, which in turn means that... well, I can only imagine.
Gordon Bryor sighed at his lack of insight, but continued writing his report.
The crew is taking their off-shift time on-ship, remaining aboard with orders rather than dispersing onto the station, should the call to action come suddenly. Team Alpha has gone aboard the Angel to assess any possible threat to the ESC’s integrity, and none have yet returned. As for the ship itself, very few repairs or re-arms are needed. At the very least I’ve taken the liberty of rebooting our reserve power cells for the defense grid and stealth systems. The Ion thrusters have also been recharged, which means that Haven is prepared to slip-jump to any system with a moment’s notice, should some urgent duty arise. No further emphasis on previously discussed information, but that may be a good thing at this point. As far as morale goes, my crew seems to be-
Gordon stopped short as the main screen briefly broke into static before returning to its normal display of the dictated diary. He stopped, staring at the screen.
“Cease log,” he spoke to the console. “End entry and begin system's scan. You two,” he said, pointing to the two ordinance techs. The two men stopped what they were doing and turned to the Captain. Gordon motioned to work stations on either side of
him. “Grab a monitor, gentlemen, we’re about to have an unscheduled transmission signal to isolate.”
Both techs obeyed, despite their jobs not typically requiring what they were being ordered to do. Gordon watched the screen closely, then smiled as static broke over the screen once more.
“Hello again, my elusive friend,” he muttered. Gordon looked down into the command pit. “Block all access codes.”
The techs obeyed, doing whatever they could to comply with the Captain’s orders. The static continued to build, just like it had before, breaking across the screens like jagged, digitized glass shards. Gordon feverishly worked at his own controls, trying to clear up the mess enough to make something of it.
Around him, the screens continued to emit a buzzing sound, audio mirroring the visual interference all the screens were getting. The two techs worked fast, but whatever was happening quickly got out of hand.
“I've lost grid reference,” one of the techs said. “I can't get a bounce feed from the ship.”
“Shutdown overridden,” the other tech said. “I can't block this!”
Gordon gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes, frustration setting in.
“Not this time… Not this time…” he repeated, coaxing more speed into the process.
“I got a lock!” shouted a tech. Gordon's head snapped up.
“Where to?”
The tech’s hands flashed over the controls faster than Gordon thought possible. “It looks like a hotwire link, override frequency, short range burst, to… Orbital Angel dock tower! No, wait… signal is jumping to tech station twelve on the… blast it! Signal is jumping again!”
Gordon quickly brought up a two dimensional map of the Orbit Angel. Every time the supposed ‘source’ of the signal was located, he marked it with a flashing checkmark just before it would reroute itself through another system on another part of the station. Soon, the static had reached its peak, and Gordon knew it was about to dispel its signal into silence when…
“I got it!”
The screens all snapped back to their original forms, and the only sound the Captain could hear was the ringing in his ears as the hissing faded. After a second to make sure things were back to normal with the ship, Gordon turned to the tech.
“You said you got it?”
“Yes sir!” the tech responded, sounding both surprised and proud of himself.
“Where?”
The tech swallowed to catch his breath and climbed up to the captain's chair. “It looks like someone rigged up a bunch of hotwire hacks throughout the station and ran a router through them all. It makes a trace all but impossible, and it sure is messy.”
Gordon eyed the map of the space station, and all the pulsing red marks where the signal had bounced. “Alright. You said you had a lock. Where?”
“Well, I couldn't locate the source, but just before we broke contact, I managed to nail down a single bounce.” The tech waved a hand at an area blotted on the layout map with green. “Right here.”
Gordon ran a hand over the side of his jaw, then bent down to activate the ship's comm. link.
“Orbit Angel.”
The response came back quickly. “Orbit Angel, yes?”
“This is Kafka Dogma. Please page Thomas Bracken for me.”
“Confirmed. Stand by.”
Gordon leaned back in his chair just as he heard someone come up behind him.
“You needed me?”
Gordon sighed and turned his chair around at the sound of Nathen’s voice.
“Commander Knight.” The Captain pressed the comm switch. “Orbit Angel, cancel that last request.” Gordon switched off the link and turned to Nathen. “What are you doing here?”
Nathen stood just inside the bridge as the lift doors clamped shut behind him. “I was accessing Haven's archives.”
Gordon sat a little straighter in his chair. “You didn't mention you'd returned.” The Ambassador paused, eyeing the Alpha. “You weren't in the communications room just now... were you?”
Nathen sensed something in Gordon's tone. “No. Did something happen?”
“Nothing,” Gordon said, eyes locked tight. “Our traitor sent another burst feed through our comms. Just this moment.”
Nathen frowned, glancing at the nearby ship technician. “That explains the surge in archives.” He looked back to Gordon. “Did you get a fix?”
Gordon didn't answer immediately.
“There appear to be several routers spread throughout the station. We aren't the source. But Haven Alpha is the transmitter.”
Nathen frowned. “Who's left the ship?”
“Only seven that I can think of.” Gordon's hand drifted casually to his lap, touching the holster strap of his Karl 9. “Plus you.”
Nathen's eyes lowered to Gordon's hand, then snapped back to the Captain. The two men stared for a moment, reading into each other. Gordon sat silently, letting the accusation hang. Nathen measured the implication, then relaxed his posture, arms hanging at his sides.
After what seemed like an eternity, Gordon took a deep breath.
“I can't stop the signal from here,” Gordon admitted, with a hint of shame. “Their signal is too heavily encrypted, and it seems to be overriding everything we have. This new lead is our only option. We have to crack it at its source.”
Nathen nodded. “Alright. Where do I start?”
Gordon turned and highlighted the map of the Orbit Angel. After a second, he turned back around.
“We couldn't lock down the source,” he said. “But perhaps you could follow the fuse back to the bomb.”
Nathen moved in and looked at the map. “Track down the signal routers, one by one.”
“Until you find the source,” Gordon concluded. “It’s worth a shot.”
“It’s our only shot,” Nathen said, memorizing the location on the map before turning for the lift. “I'll take it. Keep things locked down here until I get back.”
“Of course, Commander,” Gordon said as Nathen ducked into the lift and exited the bridge. “Good luck.”
The lift doors closed, sealing Gordon in the bridge with his two ship technicians. The one standing nearby broke his gaze away from the lift and looked at the captain.
“In all honesty, Captain, don't you find it a little... convenient?”
Gordon swiveled his chair and leaned on his fist. “Hmm...”
“I mean, not to overstep my bounds, but he was present during the transmission. It’s just a little... suspect.”
Gordon nodded and closed down the map. “I agree. And on that coincidence alone I should have him stopped at the hangar. There's just one problem.”
The tech frowned. “What's that, sir?”
Gordon stared out the front viewport at the slanted space station.
“I trust him.”
The two technicians could find nothing else to say. When after a moment they didn't move, Gordon sent them a sharp, disapproving glare.
“Back to work.”
The techs saluted and went back to their maintenance. Gordon sat, dwelling for a moment. Then he sat up and activated the captain's log. His detailed reports to Denver were still there, waiting to be concluded. After a moment of tapping his armrest, Gordon deleted all of it. He started over. Ten seconds later, his report was finished, and he read it.
-Situation has worsened. Initiate Plan B.-
Gordon read the report once, then encrypted it, for all the good he thought it would do, and sent it off to the light-web relay, where it would soon reach Denver. Gordon stood and smoothed his uniform.
“I want a full system's check,” he ordered. “Reports every hour.”
The techs confirmed, never complaining about their extra workload. Gordon turned and walked straight to his quarters. He was going to lie down for a while. But he probably wouldn't be able to sleep.
***
Nathen waited patiently while the communications officer dialed up the station's comm switchboard. The station was old, a
nd large. It could take several minutes to directly contact the correct person, if they weren't at their post. Nathen didn't need to contact Sergeant Donal—he already had his all-access keycards—but it was going to be a lot easier to track down the mole's breadcrumbs if they had local help. If he could enlist the help of Sergeant Donal and his men, things might go a bit smoother.
The comm officer dropped his hand away from his radio earclamp and handed a mouthpiece to Nathen.
“You're connected,” the officer said, flatly. Nathan glanced at the crewman; probably a recruit fresh from training who'd braced himself for the monotony of redundant communications management. Nathen accepted the mouthpiece and aligned it with his ear.
“Hello?”
“Wasn't expecting to hear from you at all,” the gritty sergeant said, voice scratching over the radio. “Been busy?”
Nathen got right to the point. “I'm starting a new investigation. Power distribution and structural stress points. I was wondering if you could participate.”
“Hell, wasn't expectin' you to actually offer. I'm flattered. Where did you want to start?”
“There's a thermal generator subsystem on deck fifteen. Sector B, number twenty-seven.”
There was a scratched-out groan on the other end. “Of all the rooms on this... Start somewhere else.”
Nathen frowned. “Why?”
“We had a tremor in that grid area. Surged out. I sent a maintenance team there not ten minutes ago.”
Nathen checked his wrist chrono.
12:22 – Solar Time
“I'll be there soon,” he said, severing the connection. He dropped the mouthpiece on the desk of the comm officer, who barely even looked up with his zombie-like stare. Nathen turned and left the communications substation without a word. As soon as he was out of sight, Nathen reached inside his uniform and pulled out his Elite Stellar Commando private comm unit.
“This is Knight,” he said, casting a searching glance down the hallway in case anyone was in earshot. “Someone back me up. Deck fifteen.”
Prime Alpha (Planetary Powers Book 1) Page 39