by Smith, Glenn
He’d always made it a priority to not be a clock watcher, but that too had changed, he realized as he gazed up at the wall chronometer for what he figured to be about the hundredth time. He was on the midnight shift now. ‘The graveyard shift,’ his coworkers unofficially called it. Now he understood why.
To simplify daily operations, Solfleet did it’s best to keep all of its vessels, space stations, and even as many of its planetary facilities as possible on the same timetable—in the same time zone, so to speak—so al-Assari had known from the moment his commanding officer informed him of the rotation that the midnight shift was going to be boring duty. But he’d had no idea it would be this boring. Six and a half hours so far and not one bit of comm traffic. Not even a stray signal.
Wasn’t there supposed to be a war going on somewhere?
“Cheer up, Crewman,” the ensign said from across the room where he was busy pouring himself another cup of coffee. He was lucky. As the officer in charge of the shift he didn’t have to sit on his ass and stare at a quiet panel for eight hours. He could read whatever he wanted, get himself a cup of coffee whenever he wanted, and even take a cat nap if he wanted to, as long as he ensured that his people got their meals and bathroom breaks when they needed them. “Look on the bright side,” he went on. “After you get some sleep in the morning you’ll have the whole afternoon and most of the evening to do whatever you want. That’s what’s so great about this shift. It’s almost like not working at all.”
For some of them it was not working at all, al-Assari mused. Then he said, “Personally, sir, I’d rather be busy. That’s why I like day shift. Besides, I’m a morning person. I’d rather get up early and work all day, then have the whole evening to do what I want and all night to sleep.”
The ensign grinned. “Come on. It’s not so bad.”
“Yes it is,” al-Assari disagreed. “Hell, I’ll probably end up sleeping through dinner.”
“Maybe at first,” the ensign assented as he set the coffee pot down. “But only until you get used to it. After about a week or so, you’ll fall into the rhythm.”
“Why did you have me switched, anyway?” He’d been waiting the entire shift to build up enough courage to ask that question.
“Because, I wanted...”
“Hold on a second,” al-Assari interrupted, grabbing his headset off the console and holding the speaker up to his ear.
“What’s wrong?” the ensign asked as he raised his mug to his lips.
“Nothing’s wrong, sir. I’ve got a message coming in.”
The ensign sipped too much of his steaming coffee and swallowed the entire mouthful before he could stop himself. His eyes teared as the liquid burned its way down, and before he could set his mug aside he started coughing so forcefully that he spilled half of its contents onto the floor. When he finally stopped coughing, he grabbed his chest and drew several quick, deep breaths, trying to ease the pain, until he became so lightheaded that he had to lean on the counter to keep from falling down.
“You okay, sir?” al-Assari asked. Not that he really cared. Actually, he’d found the entire spectacle mildly amusing.
The ensign nodded, though it wasn’t any more sincere than al-Assari’s show of concern. When he could finally speak again, he asked, “You’re telling me we’re actually receiving a transmission? At this time of night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, sir, I’m not. I’ve got incoming traffic.”
“That’s pretty unusual for this hour.” The ensign stepped over behind al-Assari’s console. “What is it?” he asked, his voice still tight and raspy.
“I’m not sure yet,” al-Assari answered as he listened intently. Then, after a few moments, he said, “That’s strange.”
“What’s strange?”
“It’s definitely an official message, encrypted and scrambled with all the proper codes and everything, but whoever sent it doesn’t identify themselves. There’s no indication of where it originated, either.”
“None at all?”
“No, sir. Nothing. And it seems to be bouncing all over the stellar relay network. I’m getting it directly from three very different bearings and picking up echoes from at least a dozen more. It’s overlapping itself, drowning itself out...” He continued to listen intently, periodically making slight adjustments to his console, then added, “There’s another direct link and several more echoes. That’s four directs now. No, make that five. I just got another one.”
“Is there any way you can track it back far enough to find a convergence point?”
“I’m trying, sir,” al-Assari answered, shaking his head as he spoke, “but I’m almost at maximum range now and the signals are still spreading out.”
“All right, forget it,” the ensign instructed impatiently. “This is getting ridiculous. Who’s the message addressed to?”
The signal terminated as abruptly as it had begun. al-Assari listened for another minute or two just to be sure, then set his headset down on his console, sat back, and looked up at his supervisor. “It’s addressed directly to Command Admiral Chaffee, sir. For his eyes only. Do you think he’d be in his office this early?”
“Knowing him, probably. But I sure as hell don’t want to be the first one in the morning to call him.”
“Why not?”
“Have you ever met Admiral Chaffee, Crewman?”
“No, but...”
“Trust me. The old man can be pretty damn cranky in the morning. Especially before he’s had his breakfast. Besides, there’s really no need for us to bother him personally anyway. Tag the message with an audio call and then forward it to his office. His terminal will beep at him until he manually accepts it. Let him yell at that first.”
“Yes, sir.”
The ensign rubbed his chest and took another deep breath, then headed for the exit. “I’ll be in Medbay if you need me. I think I scorched half my vital organs.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And do me a favor, Crewman.” He pointed down at the coffee he’d spilled. “Clean that up for me. It’s a safety hazard.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks,” the ensign said. Then he left.
“Asshole can’t even clean up after himself?” al-Assari mumbled.
* * *
Chairman MacLeod had hoped to make short work of the information in the professor’s handcomp, but he’d been so busy with his own day to day duties that he hadn’t had much time to devote to it. What little time he had been able to spend on it, however, had only served to draw him further into the mystery. So, much to Kathleen’s chagrin, he’d devoted the entirety of the last several nights to that singular pursuit.
And he was exhausted.
He drew a deep breath and exhaled noisily, then set the fifth or sixth or maybe even the seventh handcomp he’d put to use during the night down atop the wobbly stack he’d piled the others into. He rifled through the notepapers and printouts and data chips that were still strewn from one side of his desk to the other in complete disarray as they had been for the last two weeks until he found the ones he was looking for. Then, as he began rereading some of them for the second or third time in as many days, the answer dawned on him like the sun’s rays suddenly breaking through a thick midday cloud cover.
“Well I’ll be a son of a...” he mumbled, his eyes growing wide.
He grabbed one of the handcomps from the middle of the stack and glanced at it, ignoring the others as they crashed to the desk and at least one slid the floor. Wrong one. He set it aside and grabbed another one. Wrong again. “Come on,” he grumbled impatiently as he dropped it on top of the first. Third try. That was it. That was the right one. He began rereading very carefully, paying meticulous attention to one particular set of design and performance specifications.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said aloud as he compared the data table on its screen with that which appeared on the printed page. “So that’s what
this is all about.”
He reached out and jabbed at his comm-panel. “Kathleen, are you there?”
“Where else would I be at two o’clock in the morning after you’ve told me you’re going to be here all night?” she asked sarcastically.
MacLeod stood up and started gathering the materials together. “I know it’s still early in Geneva, but I need you to contact the president’s office right away. Have whoever you reach let her know that I’m on my way down there with some very important information. It is absolutely vital that I see her immediately upon my arrival.”
“I doubt anyone will be there this early.”
“I don’t care if you talk to the cleaning crew, Kathleen! Call Geneva! Now!”
“Yes, sir!” she responded in a huff. The channel closed.
She had a right to be upset, he decided, but she’d get over it. He’d make it up to her later.
As he prepared to leave, he spoke to whatever restless essence of the old Cirran professor might still be lingering in the physical world...not that he really believed in that sort of thing. “Min’para, my friend, I promise you, you did not died in vein.”
- - - - - - - - - -
The order came, as he knew it would. The High Priesthood had even added its praise for his Pod laborers’ vigilance. A great and blessed honor indeed.
The Pod Priest sneered with satisfaction. He would be elevated for this, perhaps even to the High Priesthood itself. But first things first. He had orders to carry out. He gestured, and the laborer seated at communications obediently opened a channel to the Pod’s subordinate vessels.
The Pod Priest gave the word.
Chapter 66
“Good morning, Madam President,” Chairman MacLeod said as he walked right into her office, handcomp in hand. He’d stopped by his new home in the exclusive neighborhood of Astoria to clean up and change his suit before rushing over to LaGuardia to catch the earliest and fastest possible flight to Geneva, so although he was still very tired he at least looked fresh and presentable. President Shakhar, on the other hand, looked as though she’d chosen her wardrobe in the dark. Her forest green and black African serape would have been all right by itself, but the red-brown wrap she’d pulled on around her shoulders clashed with it something awful and had definitely seen better days.
Sitting straight-backed behind her desk with her skeletal arms folded across her spare chest, she stared at him with a sour expression on her face, and a curt nod served as the only response she offered to his greeting.
Ignoring her demeanor, or perhaps not even noticing it at all, MacLeod quickly took a seat in the same chair he’d occupied during his last visit—had that meeting really been almost four months ago already?—and said, “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice again.”
“I suppose you’re welcome, Mister MacLeod. Although I fail to understand why your secretary asked my secretary if she was part of the cleaning crew.”
“Uh, inside joke, ma’am,” he replied. “Something just between the two of them, I think.” He’d have to have a little talk with Kathleen when he got back.
“I see.” Getting down to business, she asked, “So then, what is so terribly urgent that I had to jump out of the shower, throw on whatever happened to be within reach, and rush up here to meet with you before I even had a chance to enjoy my morning tea?”
Uh oh. It was a fact as well known as her infamous wrath that the president hated to miss her morning tea. Really hated to miss her morning tea. Maybe that was why she’d been so short with him the last time.
“I sincerely apologize for that, Madam President,” MacLeod told her, hoping to smooth things over. “But I think...”
“Apology accepted, Mister MacLeod,” she interrupted. “Now, please, get on with it.”
She was definitely not in one of her more patient moods.
“All right. I won’t trouble you with specific details unless you ask me to, but I have some information here...” He briefly held the handcomp up where she could see it, “...indicating that sometime between six and seven years ago, roughly a year or so after he took over the Solfleet Intelligence Agency, Admiral Icarus Hansen, probably with the assistance of his Deputy Chief, then Lieutenant Commander Elizabeth Royer, as well as with that of several members of her research and development team...”
“Get on with it already, Mister MacLeod,” the president insisted.
“Yes, ma’am. I have information indicating that Admiral Hansen and Commander Royer produced an army of clones six or seven years ago, and that they made arrangements to have them enhanced with combat cybernetics in direct violation of the Brix-Cyberclone Cessation Act of twenty-one sixty-two.”
“What information?” the president asked, unfolding her arms as her entire demeanor changed to one of genuine concern.
“Further, this information also indicates that Hansen did, in fact, issue orders that would send at least some of those cyberclones into combat as soon as they were ready.”
“What information do you have, Mister MacLeod?”
“And not only that, Madam President,” he went on, still ignoring her questions. “Three and a half months ago, when it happened that the facts of what they had done were in danger of being revealed, they took some incredibly drastic steps to insure that their secrets would remain secret.”
“Just a minute, Mister MacLeod,” the president impatiently interrupted, raising a hand to stop him. “First of all, violation of the Brix-Cyberclone Act is a very serious allegation to make against anyone, let alone two of the finest officers in Solfleet.”
“Yes, ma’am. I realize that.”
“And secondly, that same act put an end to all human cloning and related research the day it was passed, before any success in age acceleration testing was realized. If, in fact, a group of clones was bred six or seven years ago, they wouldn’t be near ready for cybernetic enhancement yet, let alone be old enough for combat training. How could they possibly have been sent into actual combat already?”
“How indeed, Madam President?” he asked in return. “How could they possibly have had enough...time...to grow to adulthood, undergo cybernetic enhancement, and train for combat in only seven years?” He fell silent and waited, allowing her a few moments to ponder the possible answers to those questions.
Only one possible answer came to mind, and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one damn bit. “My God,” she muttered. “Do you have proof of this?”
Raising his handcomp between them again, he answered, “Overwhelming proof, Madam President. I wouldn’t have brought this to you if I didn’t.”
She hesitated, but she had no choice in the matter, and she knew it. “Perhaps you’d better trouble me with those specific details after all, Mister MacLeod.”
“I thought you might say that.”
* * *
Command Fleet Admiral Winston R. Chaffee, commanding officer of the entire Solfleet, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, answerable only to the president and to the secretary of Solar Defense, greeted the numerous members of his personal staff and their hordes of support personnel with a friendly smile and a nod of his mostly bald head as he made his way briskly through the outer offices. Then, finally, he escaped into his own.
As soon as the door slid closed behind him, he relaxed his abdominal muscles and let his generous belly press against his almost blindingly white uniform jacket, which felt a little tighter than usual this morning. Actually, it had been feeling a little tighter every day lately. As a kid he’d been downright skinny, but adolescence had played a cruel trick on him and he’d been fighting a weight problem ever since. Not so long ago he’d finally begun to win that battle, but he’d been so busy in the months since taking over the top office that he’d had no spare time to spend keeping himself in shape, and the fact that he’d been neglecting his body for over a dozen weeks now was really beginning to show.
At least, it was readily apparent to him. No one on his staff would ever say anything, of
course. They were always too busy sucking up to him and bowing down like he was some kind of deity or something, no doubt hoping that their blind devotion would prove helpful in their efforts to advance their own careers. God, he hated that!
Before he took another step, he heard the communications console on his desk bleeping at him. “Oh, for crying out loud,” he mumbled as he approached his desk. “Can’t I sit down and drink my coffee in peace just once before the galaxy throws its daily crisis at me?” He reached across to the far side of the desk and thumped the comm-panel’s ‘receive’ button with one beefy finger. “Admiral Chaffee here,” he grumbled.
When no one answered he walked around his desk and looked down at the screen, and noticed the message’s prominent ‘Command Fleet Admiral Chaffee’s Eyes Only’ parameter. Suddenly serious, he set his coffee down on his desk and took his seat, silently praying that the message didn’t contain news of another terrible defeat at the hands of the Veshtonn. Especially a defeat in the Rosha’Kana star system, which sadly enough had been looking inevitable for some time now.
“Computer. Special security voice recognition sequence, classification Top Secret-Eyes Only,” he said.
“Special security voice recognition sequence, classification Top Secret-Eyes Only initiated,” the computer responded in its standard voice. “Commence procedure.”
“Recognize Chaffee, Winston Ronald, Command Fleet Admiral. Serial number S-C, two two five two, dash nine nine three eight seven. Commanding Officer, Solfleet.”
“Chaffee, Winston Ronald, Command Fleet Admiral. Serial number S-C two two five two dash nine nine three eight seven. Commanding Officer, Solfleet. Voice recognition verified. Please enter security access code manually.”