by Smith, Glenn
She smiled a little, but it was obviously forced. She wasn’t used to being put in her place like that and she likely resented it quite a bit. “Thank you, sir,” she said. Then she turned on her heel and left his office, perhaps just a little faster than usual.
The second the door closed behind her Hansen shut down his computer terminal, leaned back in his chair again, and stared at the door as if he could see right through it to watch her go. From the moment she’d told him that she was planning to go to Cirra herself, he’d known that it wouldn’t do them any good. He’d been absolutely sure of it, and she’d been well aware of that from the beginning. Still, she was a proud and dedicated officer, and having to report failure, even though that failure had been expected all along, clearly hadn’t been an easy thing for her to do. He’d known exactly how embarrassed and ashamed she felt, too, and he’d empathized with her completely. But in the end she’d been vindicated. An amazing stroke of luck maybe, but vindication all the same, and he felt happy for her. Well, relieved at least. After what he’d so thoughtlessly done to her and Karen about an hour and a half ago, he owed her that much.
Even if she had tried to keep secrets from him.
So ended another day. Another very long day. And despite having just received the good news from Sergeant Graves, his spirit quickly sank to its usual disheartened state as he looked back on the day’s events.
It had been another terrible, costly day for Coalition forces in the Rosha’Kana system, and still Mirriazu hadn’t called with her decision. He’d known her well for years and was used to having to wait for her to make her most difficult decisions, and this one certainly qualified as one of her most difficult. But considering what was at stake, even he couldn’t understand why she was taking so long. So how much longer would it be? More importantly, and more tragically, how many more soldiers, airmen, and Marines would pay for her prolonged indecisiveness with their lives before she finally, inevitably, authorized the Timeshift mission? The numbers grew more devastating with every passing hour, and his patience with his old friend was quickly wearing thin.
Then again, how much of his loss of patience was genuinely her fault, he wondered as he stood with a heavy sigh and pulled his jacket down from its hanger on the narrow brass rack behind him, and how much was really just misguided frustration over Royer’s deceitfulness? He’d never known Liz to hide anything from him before and the fact that she’d done so this time and then tried to lie about it when he gave her an opportunity to come clean really annoyed him.
He barely had one arm through its sleeve before his comm-panel buzzed again. He froze for a second or two, once more fearing another casualty report, then pulled his coat on the rest of the way as the panel buzzed a second time. It probably was another casualty report. What else could it be at this time of night?
He fastened his jacket, then reached down as the buzzer sounded for the third time and opened the channel. “Yes.”
“This is Crewman Wilkerson at the comm-center again, Admiral,” the young man on the screen said.
“What is it, Crewman?”
“Sir, President Shakhar is calling for you on your red channel. It sounds pretty urgent.”
“My red channel? Why didn’t it come directly to my office?”
“I don’t know, sir. That doesn’t happen very often, does it, sir?”
“It’s not supposed to happen at all, Crewman,” he replied. “Re-encrypt the signal and send it through to me, then get somebody to work on that comm system right away. I want to know why this transmission went through your center and I want to know sooner rather than later. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of that right away and get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Negative. Report to your supervisor. Use your normal chain of command.”
“Aye, sir. Stand by for the president.”
Speak of the devil. Hansen sat down again. Could this finally be the call?
The president’s image replaced the young man’s. She looked even more stone-faced and much more tired than usual. “Good evening, Admiral Hansen,” she said, a little too formally for his liking. “I am glad I caught you before you retired for the evening.”
“As am I, Madam President,” he reciprocated, anxiously anticipating the order that would finally transform the Timeshift Resolution into an operational mission. “Although, I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t just stay here the rest of the night. Might give me a little head start on tomorrow morning.”
“It’s tomorrow morning right now where I am, Nick, and this isn’t the first time I’ve made that same mistake. I wouldn’t recommend it.”
He grinned. “No, I suppose not. So what can I do for you?”
“I have already spoken to Chairman MacLeod and Professor Verne. I wanted to speak to you first, but for some reason I could not get through to you on any of the usual channels earlier, including this one. I suggest you have your comm systems looked at.”
“Yeah, I just found out there’s a problem with it. I’m having it checked out as we speak, so for right now I suggest we guard what we say.”
“A wise precaution. As you might have guessed, I’m calling you because I have made my decision regarding the subject we discussed in August. The answer is no.”
Hansen was careful not to react in any way, one way or the other, for the moment. Better to wait until she explained her decision first.
“Chairman MacLeod is at this very minute making plans to reintroduce the resolution to the Earth Security Council for another vote, but I doubt the outcome will be different. Especially since he woke them all up in the middle of the night. My decision will stand.”
Was that it? Was that all he was going to get—her final decision without any explanation at all? “Madam President, have you been following the events in the Rosha’Kana system since Operation Mass Eviction began?” he asked.
Her demeanor softened as she leaned closer to the camera and rested her forearms on her desk. “I have indeed, Nick. I know things are not going very well out there right now, but some among my circles predicted that circumstances would be a lot worse by now than they are. That says a lot, and I firmly believe that we can survive this crisis without taking such a drastic step.”
“I wish I felt as sure as you do.”
The president straightened again. “I must say I find your reaction somewhat puzzling, Nick. I thought you believed all this...subject matter...to be a waste of time.”
“I did, ma’am. Perhaps I still do to some extent, but as I reminded you that day in August, I am first and foremost a soldier and a patriot. I’ve dedicated my life to the protection and defense of the Earth and her colonies, and what I’m watching unfold in the Rosha’Kana system on a daily basis is not encouraging.”
“You make a valid point, Admiral. But I still believe in us.”
“As do I, Madam President. But even we have our limits.”
“True enough, unfortunately,” she reluctantly agreed.
“You should know, Madam President, just in case you do consider changing your mind down the road, that as of tonight the individual we discussed that day in August has agreed to join the agency.”
“That’s good to know, Nick, but I doubt anything will change. Good evening to you, and may God bless us all.” The screen went dark.
Hansen leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I am, first and foremost, a soldier and a patriot, Madam President,” he reflected.
Chapter 49
Mandela Station, Ten Weeks Later
Thursday, 2 December 2190
Dylan had had Beth trim his hair back to regulation length last night before they went to bed, and had finally bowed to her wishes during his morning ritual and shaved off the thick, dark brown moustache he’d started growing as soon as he’d left Cirra. The shorter hair didn’t bother him at all—he’d been in the service his entire adult life, so he was used to it—but after wearing the moustache for more than two months he
’d gotten used to it and its sudden absence felt as odd to him now as wearing it had felt when he’d first grown it.
He’d missed Beth a lot while he was away at the S.I.A. Academy. Much more than he would ever have anticipated, considering how little time they’d had together before he left. But even while sitting in the terminal last night, awaiting her arrival, a part of him had been afraid to face her—afraid that she might be angry with him for leaving her in the hospital the way he had. For leaving her to face recovery on her own.
And then she’d arrived and quickly dispelled his fears. Still a little sore from her wounds, she’d run into his arms and embraced him as though she intended to never let him go again. She’d explained then that she’d missed him, too, more than he could know, but that she’d understood why he had to leave. All that mattered to her was that they were finally back together again, and that had been all he’d needed to hear. The second she’d released him he’d taken hold of her hand and slipped the engagement ring over her finger and asked her to marry him, earning himself another long embrace.
He cared for her a great deal, but as he’d already learned the hard way, marriage was a huge life-altering step. He sincerely hoped that he hadn’t made another mistake.
He slipped the wide black pleather belt through the loops around the waistline of his dark olive-burgundy and black Marine Corps class-A jacket—that unique color just had to be a trick of how the individual fibers were woven together to form the fabric—then fastened the shiny gold buckle as he sidled over to the full-length mirror to check himself out. One look and the absence of his short-lived moustache was of no consequence.
It felt like years since he’d worn that uniform, but in fact it had only been about nine months—the Second Infantry Division’s change-of-command ceremony late last February. To the men and women who wore it, it was a very special uniform indeed. Like those of the fleet’s other branches, it sported the standard Solfleet badge, rank insignia, and multi-colored ribbons to signify the wearer’s individual achievements. But in lieu of specialty-specific collar regalia, all Marines wore a pair of gold-plated Solfleet Marine Corps crests known as the ‘Falcon, Sun, and Planets.’ An obvious offshoot of the United States Marine Corps’ Eagle, Globe, and Anchor, the Falcon, Sun, and Planets were no less coveted and respected. With its wings spread wide in flight, the falcon clutched the blazing sun in its talons as two planets and a cluster of moons representing Earth, Mars, and all of the solar colonies, orbited their mother star in safety. They were an insignia and a uniform with a relatively short but highly honored history, and Dylan was proud to wear them both one more time.
And to think he’d elected to give them up of his own free will.
“You’re going to miss it, aren’t you,” Beth observed, stepping up from behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist. Her long raven hair was still mussed from sleep and the old faded blue cotton pajama shirt with the top two buttons missing that she’d slept in was the only thing she was wearing.
“Yes,” he answered honestly. He turned to his fiancée, took her by the waist, and kissed her. “Then again, I missed the Military Police Security Forces for a while, too, but I got over it.”
“At least this job will be a lot less dangerous,” she said, mostly to reassure herself.
“Of that I’m sure,” he agreed, at least outwardly. No need to add to her anxiety. Better to allow her the luxury of believing that he wouldn’t be going into any more dangerous situations.
“At least you won’t have to worry about ending up in another combat unit the next time you transfer,” she continued.
“That’s true.”
She sighed and her gaze fell to the floor, her forehead to his chest. “I know it can still be dangerous work,” she conceded, “but I’m trying not to think about that.” She looked up at him again. “I love you, you know.”
“I know. I love you, too.” He pulled her close and kissed her again. Then he gave her bare bottom a couple of gentle taps and said, “I have to go or I’ll be late for my meeting.”
She held him tight. “Is it that time already?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so,” he answered.
She hugged him even tighter, once again as though she intended to never let go.
“Of course, if you want me to,” he added, “I could call the admiral and tell him he’s going to have to wait until I’m ready to see him.”
“Yeah, right,” she said with a snicker as she released him. “Go on. Get out of here before you get yourself court-martialed.”
“There isn’t a judge or jury in the galaxy that would convict me, once they meet you.”
She smiled. “Flattery will get you anything you want, after you’ve seen the admiral.”
He smiled back and said, “See you then.” He gave her one last kiss, then left their guest quarters. He never said ‘good-bye’. Those particular words always sounded too permanent, even when they weren’t intended to be.
He made his way as quickly as he could through the enormous station’s labyrinth of curving, crisscrossing corridors and arrived less than two minutes early for his appointment with the Chief of Solfleet Intelligence. “Squad Sergeant Dylan Graves,” he introduced himself to the pretty civilian secretary. “I have an eight o’clock appointment with Admiral Hansen.”
The woman looked up at him as if he were little more than an irritating piece of peasant trash and said, “You can go right in.” and then seemingly dismissed the fact that he existed at all as she returned to whatever it was she was doing.
Dylan glanced at the engraved wood grain nameplate on her desk. ‘Victoria Kennedy-Sands,’ it read. Kennedy-Sands. Well, that explained the attitude, assuming that she was in fact related to that infamous American political clan. Over the past two hundred years or so, the more prominent and/or notorious among them had seemed to grow more and more conceited with each successive generation. Apparently, no one had thought to remind this one that she was nothing more than a government-employed secretary.
“Thank you,” he said.
He approached the admiral’s office door. When it didn’t open for him automatically, he reached for the buzzer, disregarding the secretary’s instructions to just ‘go right in.’ An enlisted man didn’t just walk right into an admiral’s office without announcing himself, NCO or not, no matter who told him to do so. He touched the pad.
“Come in,” came a voice from the other side of the door.
He straightened his jacket as the door slid open, then marched into the spacious office, came to attention two steps in front of the standard Solfleet-issue desk, and rendered a sharp salute. He found himself looking at an older yet strikingly handsome man with short, thick, graying blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard and moustache. The facial hair was new. The admiral had been clean shaven when he saw him on the comm monitor two months ago.
“Squad Sergeant Dylan Graves reporting as ordered, sir.”
The admiral returned his salute, then said,” Relax, Sergeant.” His deep voice was gentle yet commanding. Dylan stood at ease. “Your uniform looks regulation-perfect. I’m impressed.”
It was regulation-perfect. Dylan had made sure of that. “Thank you, sir.”
“Please. Have a seat.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dylan repeated as he sat somewhat stiffly in one of the two chairs that faced his desk and waited for him to begin the briefing.
“I trust you remember Commander Royer,” he said, nodding toward the door.
Dylan peered back over his shoulder as that not very tall, near middle-aged blond woman with the touch of gray in her hair stepped forward. The woman he’d first seen in the base hospital on Cirra, wearing a doctor’s lab coat that didn’t belong to her. The woman who’d failed to understand the meaning of the word ‘no.’ The woman who’d come to his home the day he was released from the hospital and had tried for over half an hour to get him to come to the door before she finally gave up and went away.
“Good morn
ing, Sergeant,” she said as she took a seat in the chair beside him. “You’re certainly looking a lot better than you were the last time I saw you. How are you feeling?”
“Fully recovered, Commander,” he answered without emotion. “Thank you.”
“That was one hell of an encore you pulled off.”
“I left the first show a little early.”
She grinned. “So you did.”
“I don’t believe the sergeant needs to be reminded of all that, Commander,” Hansen said.
Royer glanced at her superior officer and agreed, “No, sir, of course not,” then looked back at Dylan. “My apologies, Sergeant. I didn’t mean to stir up any bad memories.”
“Apology accepted, ma’am.”
“I’ll get right to the point,” she continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “How much do you know about the starcruiser Excalibur?”
“The Excalibur?” he asked. What was this about? Why would she want to know how much he knew about his father’s ship? What did that have to do with anything? Maybe he’d find out after he answered her question. “Well, for starters, its last captain was...”
“...was your father,” Royer finished for him. “Yes, we know about that. What I mean is, specifically, how much do you know about its loss?”
Dylan shrugged his shoulders slightly. “Not much, really. The basic facts. Pretty much what’s in all the publicized reports, I guess. I was only six when it happened. Why do you ask?”
She looked across the desk at her superior. “Admiral?”
Hansen hesitated for a moment, then said, “Before we say anything more, Sergeant, I want you to understand that this entire conversation is strictly top secret. You will repeat nothing of what is said in this room. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“All right, then here it is. It has recently come to our attention that Tor’Kana females have some kind of biological connection to their home planet that makes it impossible for them to travel away from there for more than a few days. If they’re forced to breathe anything other than their natural, native atmosphere for any longer than that, they die.”