by Cheryl Angst
“Think of this as making amends.”
“But you could have lived,” Quarl cried.
“At what cost, avian?” Konrad retorted. “My freedom? The lives of my crew, friends, and family? My soul?” He’d already sold them out once, he wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.
He stood and moved toward the door. “If I were you, I’d clean up your foot before the military arrives. They might wonder how you came by such an interesting wound.”
“What if I tell them the truth?” Quarl glared defiantly at Konrad.
“After what you just broadcast across the quadrant, I doubt they’ll believe anything you say. Besides,” he grinned darkly, “I’ll be long gone, blown to smithereens. Your military won’t find a trace of me to corroborate your story.”
“Why?” Quarl wailed. “Why’d you choose to do this? What about living the rest of your life?”
“I chose this mission rather than face the possibility of imprisonment by my own people. Do you honestly think I’d choose imprisonment among aliens instead?”
“You’re a criminal? Why didn’t you say so?” Quarl said desperately. “We could have reached an accord. I’m sure we could--”
“Goodbye, avian.” Konrad turned on his heel and walked back the way he came.
Quarl’s high-pitched wail of frustration followed him through the empty corridors.
Chapter 57
Konrad shivered as his mind played tricks on him in the cold cockpit. His oxygen supply was almost gone, and the sluggish fog descending over his brain made his reactions slower than normal. It wasn’t until the first raptor fired on him that he realized he wasn’t hallucinating.
“Damn,” he swore as black smoke poured into the cockpit, pooling around his legs.
The craft shuddered as a second raptor peppered the hull with weapons fire. A direct hit on the starboard quantum drive sent the ship spiraling out of control. Konrad hit his head on the steering column, almost losing consciousness.
Engine coolant vented into space, and the coppery taste of blood stung the back of his throat as he tried to bring his own weapons systems online.
He should have activated the self-destruct hours ago, but a desperate need to prolong his life kept his finger away from the button. He’d gambled on no one finding him.
He’d gambled and lost.
The story of my life, he thought wryly.
The shriek of metal against metal reverberated through his flyer as he bounced along the hull of a raptor that came in too close. The lack of oxygen affected his spatial judgment as well as his reaction times. A cold fog of indifference settled over him.
The staccato thud of gunfire piercing the hull no longer caused his pulse to jump in response. A strange calm settled over him as he brought his mortally wounded craft around for one last sweep. A fighter to the end, Konrad refused to surrender or trigger the auto-destruct while he still had an ounce of fight left.
Three against one. He figured that made the odds about equal. Outmanned and outgunned, Konrad ignored the furthest raptors and focused his system monitors on the nearest target. The avian craft hung, seemingly suspended in space, as he locked his forward weapons on its engines. Fingers steady despite the frigid cold seeping into the cabin, he pressed the trigger.
Through the tunnel of his fading vision, Konrad smiled in satisfaction as his shots found their mark. He coughed on the thick, cloying air as his prey shifted from a sleek metal fighting machine into a writhing flower of orange and purple flame and then into nothing.
The two remaining raptors dove in for the kill. He moved his numb fingers toward the destruct button. He needed to wait until the raptors were close enough to be damaged by the impact of the explosion. His vision darkened until he was looking through a black tunnel at his wavering finger and the deadly button behind it.
His craft shook so violently from weapons fire he could barely remain in his seat. Rationalizing the two ships would come in close for the final strafe, he waited, blind, hands blue.
The proximity alarm changed pitch. There! He firmly pressed the button under his hand.
I’ll see you buzzards in hell, he thought as his world exploded into white heat and blackness.
Chapter 58
Nate fussed with the wording of his report; not because he was dissatisfied, but because completing the document meant he needed to submit the damn thing. John’s death in an ambush proved the veracity of the warning. Without any evidence to the contrary, Nate felt compelled to advise the senior government and military officials to prepare for an attack.
A large portion of his report speculated on the nature of the possible forms the attack might take. He’d devoted a lot of time and energy into preparing recommendations for defensive strategies, despite knowing the UESF would run its own in-depth analysis, and appended a recommendation to suspend all diplomatic talks with the avians.
“Jenkins,” Nate called toward the outer office.
“Sir?” Jenkins appeared in the door.
“Are you sure you can’t find anything else for me to be doing?” Nate asked, as he lamented the poor timing of a cleared schedule.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Jenkins replied. “I’ve tried to reschedule any number of your upcoming meetings, and the Human Resources Department won’t accept annual personnel reviews done a scant three months after the last set.”
Nate sighed, “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Sir?”
“I needed an excuse to delay completing a project for another day or so,” Nate explained. “However, it seems that fate is conspiring against me, and I will have to sign off on the report and move on.”
“Well, sir, I know it’s not yet noon and God knows you never leave work early,” Jenkins spoke quickly, “but if you were feeling unwell and had to go home, your current project would have to wait another day.”
A slow smile spread across Nate’s face. “You’re right, Bob, I have been feeling a little under the weather lately.”
“Yes, sir. And you look quite ill, sir.” Jenkins added, smiling, “Are you sure you should be at work today, sir?”
“You know,” Nate replied, “I’m not sure I should.” He coughed lightly. “I think it might be best if I take the remainder of the day off in order to rest and recuperate.”
“I agree, sir. We need you functioning at top efficiency, and that cannot happen when you are hovering at death’s door.”
“Let’s not get too melodramatic here, Bob.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m assuming you will log the appropriate paperwork for my absence?” Nate smiled. “I can’t remember the last time I called in sick, I’ve forgotten the proper protocol.”
“Yes, sir. I will ensure the documentation is completed and approved as soon as you’re off home to rest.”
“Thanks, Bob.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Nate rolled his shoulders as though he’d shrugged off a major burden. Never one to procrastinate, he thought he finally understood the thrill of avoiding a task despite knowing he’d still have to get the job done.
* * * *
What if he refused to submit the report?
Nate poured himself a brandy and collapsed onto the over-stuffed sofa in front of the video screen. Engrossed in his personal dilemma, Nate neither turned on the latest news feeds nor checked his own communications terminal.
What if the warning proved false?
If he made that assumption he would save a peace process over a decade in the making and preserve the lives of over fifteen billion humans.
But what if the avian was correct and he failed to act?
Nate would be condemning millions of innocents to death, and assuring a war he believed Earth could not win.
Once in government and military hands, the report would guarantee the end of friendly relations with the avians, turning humanity’s future toward another conflict where billions would die. Even if Earth could prepare for an at
tack, the UESF couldn’t guarantee the safety of everyone. Would those forewarned deaths be any less tragic than the unsuspecting ones?
Nate tossed back his brandy and rolled his head to stare at the ceiling. He continued to let his thoughts run around in circles. The failure of John’s mission left him with no choice regarding the warning of an impending avian attack.
He was so close, damn it. Nate grimaced and took another swig of his drink. He’d worked too hard to have everything destroyed by a single transmission.
Nate let his head bounce against the cushion. He wasn’t facing a lesser of two evils decision--both sides were equally dismal. All that was left to do was to decide how and when his fellow humans would die.
* * * *
Nate shambled into his office, oblivious to everything around him. He’d spent most of the previous evening, and several hours early that morning, wrestling with his conscience. He tossed his coat onto his chair, powered up his computer, and sat staring into empty space.
Jenkins bustled into the office and placed a steaming mug of coffee along with several important communiqués on Nate’s desk. Nate accepted the mug out of habit and scanned his latest messages with only half an eye.
A recent packet from the Firestorm caught his attention. He thought Jenkins had cancelled his feed. He prepared to delete the logs, unread. Nate’s finger hovered over the delete function, his mind already on the subsequent messages.
A small tingle behind his left ear brought him up short. The same sensation had always told him when he was being watched by an enemy. He’d survived dozens of firefights, relying on the little tickle. Moving with the deliberateness of a fly walking on syrup, Nate shifted his cursor to open the Firestorm’s logs.
Choosing the XO’s report, he wasn’t surprised to see she hadn’t taken on the position of acting captain. He scanned her entry, expecting to see a summary of repairs and a description of their patrols along the border. Instead, the report read like a synopsis straight out of an entertainment thriller; complete with the triumphant return of the hero.
“Hot damn!” Nate shouted. He pounded his desk in jubilation. “He’s alive. The son of a bitch is alive.”
Jenkins appeared at the door, concern on his face. “Sir?”
Nate jumped up, clasped his assistant in a vigorous bear hug, slapped him on the back, and said, “John Bloody Thompson’s alive.” He began to pace around the small space, gesturing wildly with his arms as he spoke. “That man has more lives than a cat. What is that, five, no six. Six escapes from avian custody.” He shook his head. “Not only did he escape, but he helped uncover a plot to frame the UESF for the murder of thousands of avian civilians.”
“Excellent news, sir. I’m relieved to hear your friend is alive and safely returned to the Firestorm.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Nate waved a hand at Jenkins’ effusive outburst. “It’s great John’s alive, but do you understand what this means?” He grinned at his assistant. “It means I can offer the ancient sea dog and his pet minister an alternative to ending the negotiations. All our hard work has been saved.”
Nate lowered his frame into his chair and called up the report he’d written an eternity ago, when everything seemed to be flowing smoothly; before the explosion on the ship, before John’s disappearance, back when he’d been sure he would save the day by proving the rumors false. He grinned at Jenkins as he submitted his “new” report. “I think I can smell a medal for this one, Bob.”
“Uh, fabulous, sir.” Jenkins shook his head slightly. “If there’s nothing you need…”
“Nope. I am good. I am so good…” Nate leaned back in his chair, glowing like a victor in a death match as Jenkins slipped out of sight.
* * * *
Meredith pulled the covers tighter and reached for Patrick. She opened her eyes when her hands encountered an empty pillow and cold sheets.
Sleep beckoned to her, but she tossed on her robe and went in search of her ex-husband-turned-lover.
She found Patrick standing on the balcony overlooking her billion dollar view of the valley below. He turned to meet her eyes when she moved to lean on the railing beside him, but said nothing.
“Why can’t you let him go?”
Patrick snorted. “Hmm, let’s go through the reasons, shall we? He’s the most decorated fleet commander in the history of the UESF and the media love that he’s back.”
Meredith rolled her eyes. Patrick’s pride bruised too easily.
“And he uncovered my connection in the affair.”
“He didn’t identify you.”
Patrick scowled. “He might figure things out.”
“And what will you do then? Have him killed?” Meredith crossed her arms. “You said yourself the media loves him. You won’t be able to touch him without unleashing a media storm from hell.”
“Not if I convince the fleet that he’s grossly incompetent. Get him drummed out with a dishonorable discharge. No one would believe a washed-up has-been. They’d write his accusations off as resentment.”
“Patrick.”
He flinched but refused to back down. “The choice is him or me, Mere. And I know who I’m rooting for.” He pinned her with his glare. “What about you? Whose side are you on?”
Meredith held his gaze. She shouldn’t even have to think about her answer. The man standing beside her had made her company the most powerful armaments supplier on the globe. Yet, this Captain Thompson--he’d risked his life, escaped certain death, and all for the greater good of the human race. She shook her head. Actions should be weighed against personal loss or gain, not altruism.
“You. I’ll always back you.”
Still, part of her would be disappointed to watch the captain’s ruin.
* * * *
The beeping of his terminal pulled Nate from a fantasy involving an international day of celebration and a new medal in his honor. He dropped his feet to the floor from their perch on his desk and the rest of his body nearly followed when he discovered a coded transmission from John.
He tapped his stubby fingers on the polished surface of his desk while he waited for the algorithm to decode the message. Realizing John would be given some of the credit for preventing an intergalactic war, Nate decided John should receive a medal too, but he’d be damned if he was sharing the parade.
Besides, John would rather hide in his precious campus in the forest than bask in public adulation. Nate grinned.
The grin, and most of the color, drained from his face when he read:
“Threat is real. Not from avians. Watch your back.”
Nate swore under his breath as he stared at the cryptic message. The parade might have to wait.
Chapter 59
John stared at the man sitting across the table from him. Rather than meeting Nate in his office, John had insisted they meet at a tiny café in the heart of New York’s shopping district. Leaning back in the wrought-iron chair, letting the warmth of a setting August sun seep into his bones, John watched his former friend for signs of deception.
“I’m telling you, John,” Nate said as he leaned forward, “I had no idea about a government conspiracy.”
“But you’re keeping me in the dark about something.”
“What do you mean?” Nate asked, pulling away.
John sighed. “Nate, I’ve known you for over thirty years. Granted, it’s been a long time since we spent any time together, but we lived in a cabin the size of a postage stamp during our first space tour.” John smiled. “I played poker with you for years. You may be able to fool your constituents and the media, but I can tell when you’re lying.”
John followed Nate’s gaze out over the bustling street. Fifth Avenue had been turned into a heritage boulevard almost eighty years ago. Limited to pedestrian and tour shuttle traffic, a series of fifteen blocks had been protected as a National Heritage Site devoted to preserving the allure of the twentieth century shopping experience.
“John, you have to understand there are
some things in my position as Director of Alien Affairs that I--”
“Can’t discuss. I get that,” John replied, dismissing Nate’s excuse. “I’d like to believe you’re not involved, but with everything I’ve been through--”
“You’re looking great, by the way,” Nate interrupted. “The trip back to Earth seems to have agreed with you.”
John glanced away. “I was on reduced duty for much of the voyage.” He didn’t feel the need to tell Nate most of his time had been spent in trauma counseling.
“Still,” John smiled, “I enjoyed being back in the ‘big chair’ again, if only temporarily.”
“You’re sure you’re going back to Vancouver?” Nate asked. “The UESF needs men like you.”
John laughed. “The UESF needs young, active officers, not dinosaurs from a different era.”
“I’m serious, John,” Nate replied. “I’ve heard from reliable sources there’s a command with your name on it if you want one.”
“Really?” John arched an eyebrow in surprise. “I would have thought they’d want to get rid of me seeing as I almost started an intergalactic war.”
“Wrong,” Nate said, pointing a finger at John’s chest. “You averted one. You’re a Goddamn hero--again.”
“A hero in whose eyes?” asked John, trying to hide his bitterness. “Somebody’s got to be pretty mad at me for spoiling things.”
Nate’s face clouded over. “Yeah, well, at least we know about the conspiracy now. Even if we can’t prove anything, at least we can keep watch.”
“What do you mean, ‘We’?” John asked. “I’m done, remember?”
“Of course you are,” Nate replied as he fiddled with his coffee cup. “You’re a changed man, John. You’re more alive now than you were when I walked into your office all those months ago. Hell,” Nate paused, smiling, “you’re more alive now than you were twenty years ago. I can’t believe you’re going to lock yourself up in an ivory tower for the rest of your life and expect to be happy.
“In fact,” Nate continued, “I’m willing to wager you’ll be desperate to escape the university within six months of returning. You aren’t who you think you are anymore, John.”