Carlisle, Harris and a technician named Angus Hawkins had been marooned in the "Scrapyard," the Federation Naval Reclamation Center located near the planet of New Ceylon in a remote corner of the Santana Quadrant, when a group of terrorists had destroyed the main occupied facility with two cobbled together, but surprisingly effective, heavily armed cargo ships. After thwarting the plans of the terrorists, by disrupting an attempt to kidnap the Meridian Ambassador and helping to liberate the New Ceylon orbital station after it had come under control of these same terrorists, Carlisle and Harris had agreed to correspond over the Naval email communications network.
The last communication from the Lieutenant had been cheerful and newsy and had brought Carlisle up to date with all of the new friends she had made and others she had met during the course of their great adventure. As she thought about it, she felt a pang of regret. There hadn't been much in the message of a personal nature but then again, what had she expected? They weren't lovers or anything. Well, at least not yet. There just hadn't been time, or opportunity.
Her thoughts turned to what she would do when they met again before being hit with the disappointment that such a meeting was likely a long ways in the future, if it happened at all. She would compose an email to him tonight, as soon as she finished with the day's business and the Academy officials returned her wrist computer.
This somewhat depressing chain of thought was mercifully interrupted by the return of the missing graduate. The noise level went up as the other five left their seats and gathered around their colleague to congratulate her and find out what her new post was. One or two of them might have looked a little jealous when the new graduate excitedly told them her destination but they shook her hand anyway. The small celebration was interrupted by the secretary who announced: "Ensign Massa Sukamoto? You're next." The young man in question swallowed nervously and asked his colleagues to wish him luck before heading into the Admiral's office and closing the door behind him.
And so it went. Carlisle had no choice but to wait as patiently as she could as each of the remaining graduates was ushered into the Admiral's office for his or her exit interview and assignment. After nearly two hours, the last of them came out of the office. They left as a group, presumably to head for the nearest bar to talk things over and make their farewells as each was scheduled to depart for his or her new assignment sometime during the next few days. At last it was Carlisle's turn.
"Dr Tamara Carlisle?" The secretary looked at Carlisle over the top of the computer monitor on her desk. "Admiral Loftgren will see you now."
Carlisle smiled slightly at the unfamiliar "Dr." in front of her name and swallowed nervously as she got up and headed for the Admiral's office. Carlisle had been a very bright but somewhat problematic student herself. Had she been a "normal" student, she would have almost certainly been a member of an elite group, like the one she had just observed, some three years earlier. Her Spacer origins had been a source of friction between her and some of the students from more traditional backgrounds. Most of Carlisle's "difficulties" at the Academy had been due to the actions of these traditionalists who had missed few opportunities to make her look bad.
She closed the door behind her and walked up to the Admiral's desk where she stopped, came to attention and saluted.
"Ensign Tamara Carlisle reporting as ordered, Sir!" she said, surprised to have gotten the entire phrase out without a "speech" incident.
Admiral Loftgren looked up from his computer monitor and met her eyes.
"Ensign Carlisle," he said, nodding his head. "At ease, Ensign. Please, have a seat. We have a lot to discuss."
Carlisle became even more nervous as the Admiral turned his attention back to his computer terminal for several minutes and rubbed his chin in thought as he considered the information on the display. Finally he turned his focus back to the Ensign.
"That was some pretty good work you did out at New Ceylon, Ensign. Very impressive."
"...Scrapyard ambush...Succession destroyer...Veritian Brotherhood...um thank you, Sir."
The admiral waited patiently for her to get the reply out before continuing. "And you've just finished a Ph.D. on a controversial subject concerning the Succession War. Congratulations, Ensign, I thought your exam went pretty well yesterday."
"Really? Um...Thank you, Sir."
"You're probably wondering just what we're going to do with you next."
"Ah...That thought had crossed my mind, Sir."
The Admiral paused for a moment to collect his thoughts and compose an explanation. He frowned before he spoke. "To be perfectly candid, we still aren't sure what you're suited for. You've always had excellent grades and you seem to be a pretty decent tactician as well as a gifted pilot. However, outside of this one isolated incident out at New Ceylon, you seem to do very poorly with any kind of team activity and then, of course, there is your notorious speech problem."
Carlisle started to speak but the Admiral held up his hand to stop her. "I know," he said, "much of the team problems were due to other students who had issues with your Spacer background. Believe me, we were well aware of what was going on. Steps are being taken to ensure that such things don't happen to any of our students in the future, no matter what their background."
Carlisle blushed but met the Admiral's eyes directly. With an obvious effort she spoke, "Thank you, Sir. I learned a lot about being a team member during that ordeal out in the Scrapyard. Those people were terrific!"
"Commander Kresge had nothing but praise for everyone involved, especially you," admitted the Admiral. "Still, I wonder about the wisdom of putting you onboard a warship when we may wind up at war sometime in the next few months."
It was an ill-kept secret that the Federation Navy was finally beginning to mobilize their forces in response to the obvious marshaling of forces in most factions of the loosely organized but very powerful Islamic Alliance.
"Everyone on a ship has to be able to function as a team member," the Admiral continued, "and I'm just not sure you're ready, in spite of your recent success with this Scrapyard incident."
Carlisle hoped her devastation didn't show. She swallowed and remained silent but continued to meet the Admiral's eyes. The Admiral gave her a wry smile.
"Don't worry, Ensign, we aren't ready to get rid of you yet." Her look grew expectant. "Something has come up. Something a little out of the ordinary that, oddly enough, you seem to be perfectly suited for." She continued to look at him. "I'll get to that in a moment," he said.
At this point he pushed back away from his desk, interlaced his fingers around the back of his neck and rocked back on his chair.
"I'm not going to pull any punches with you, Tamara. There are those at this Academy who feel that we've wasted enough time and money on you already and we should give you a nice paper pushing job at some remote outpost or simply give you an honorable discharge and get rid of you altogether."
The words, while not totally unexpected, still stung the young officer rather badly.
"I, however, am not one of those people. I still think you have a great deal to give to the Navy and to the Federation. That's why I'm going ahead and offering you a special assignment, one I think you are uniquely suited for. In fact, you were specifically recommended for the job by some very important people."
Unable to think of anything appropriate to say, Carlisle remained silent.
"I think it's very important that you know that I am not one of the people who would call you a mistake and move on, Ensign. Spacers like yourself are an untapped resource that the Federation can ill afford to go without. Not only that, I can assure you that we've had any number of 'problem students' come through these hallowed halls who have gone on to stellar careers in the Federation Navy. There's still plenty of room for outside the box thinking. If you accept this assignment, and I'm betting you will, you may very well need some of that unorthodox thinking that you seem to be so very good at."
"Thank you, Sir."
"
I suppose you'd like to hear what the assignment is?"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Before I go on, I have to order you to keep absolutely silent about this. You are to tell no one about this mission. In fact you are not allowed contact with anyone until you hear otherwise. Anyone. Do you understand?" Carlisle swallowed then nodded her head in assent. The Admiral continued. "The Meridian Ambassador and his wife are looking for a Federation Naval officer to act as liaison between them and the Federation Navy. God knows there's a list of better qualified people as long as my arm, but they specifically requested you, young lady. You must have really impressed them!"
Carlisle remained silent, dumbfounded. Those gracious, sophisticated, important people had requested her? The admiral chuckled.
"I really don't know why you seem so surprised, Ensign," said the Admiral. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with your mind and all of the background information you've had to absorb for your dissertation means that you're actually about as well informed about Meridian and the Islamic Alliance as anyone."
"Um...Thank you, Sir."
"This is your chance to silence your detractors, Ensign. Are you interested?"
"...Meridian Ambassador...Islamic Alliance...Naval liaison...,' she mumbled, eyes slightly glazed as she ran through some of the implications in her mind before her eyes refocused on the Admiral, "Count me in, Sir."
"Great!" said Loftgren. "You need to get ready to leave immediately. You are to report to the Asimov at or before 2000 hours tomorrow night."
The admiral looked at her and nodded his head gravely. "I'm glad you've agreed to take on this assignment, Ensign. It represents a golden opportunity for you. I also must emphasize that this is an extremely important mission. The level of unrest has reached crisis proportions in many regions of human space. In an effort to calm things down, the Ambassador is hosting an interdenominational meeting with a dozen or so of the most powerful religious leaders and politicians in the Santana Quadrant. These diplomats and their mission are vital to the interests of the Federation and the Islamic Alliance, not to mention continued peace. The conference is scheduled for the day after you get to the Santana Nexus Station. I suggest you use your time in transit to study up on each of the leaders and the politics they embrace. Don't let us down."
Carlisle gulped.
"I...I'll do my absolute best, Sir."
"I've no doubt that you will, Ensign. There are a couple more things."
Carlisle looked up expectantly.
"You were ordered to surrender your wrist computer before your final examination. In spite of the importance of these people, or maybe because of it, there's way too much sensitive information on that wrist computer for us to risk sending it back out there with you. Since you've accepted this assignment, we are not going to be able to return it to you."
Carlisle's eyes grew wide as she involuntarily looked at the empty spot on her left wrist. The wrist computer and its vast libraries of information and other unique capabilities had helped her and her companions to successfully get through their ordeal out in the Scrapyard and later, on the New Ceylon Orbital Station. She would be lost without it."
"No need to look so down, Ensign. The Ambassador has graciously agreed to provide you with another wrist computer, an even later model. They'll have it loaded with information about Meridian and the Islamic Alliance that will be necessary for your assignment."
"New Ceylon…ship inventory…But, Sir, what about all the ship schematics and all the other related material? As far as I know, my computer contains the only backup of the current inventory of the New Ceylon Reclamation Center."
"The engineering department has prepared a download that contains most of the information you had, minus anything that they deem too sensitive. You are to make a copy and then give the chip to the Federation Commander at the Santana Nexus Station. She will get the information out to New Ceylon on the next courier."
She looked at the Admiral and nodded silently.
"Remember, Ensign, this conference is important. Without it, we may very well wind up at war in the very near future. A briefing of what you'll need to know about the religious leaders and the information on the Scrapyard, along with most of the schematics you had on your wrist computer, are on this memory chip. You can review it while in transit to your new assignment."
Carlisle stood up and numbly accepted the chip.
"On a more positive note, Ensign, we have decided to allow you to keep your prototype command spacesuit. They're going to produce the suits in just about the same conformation as the one you have, so there's no need to issue you another one. Besides, we don't have many suits of any kind in your size at the moment. Take it with our compliments."
"Thank you, Sir," said Carlisle. "I don't think we would have beaten those terrorists without that suit."
The admiral nodded in agreement, and then added short pep talk.
"For what it's worth, Tamara, I not only think you can handle this assignment but, because of what you've recently been through, I believe you're the best person we have for the job. Go out there and do us proud! By the way, you'd better get busy with your preparations. As I said, the Asimov leaves tomorrow night and the last shuttle from groundside to the Naval Orbital Facility will boost out just after midnight tonight. Sorry, but that's the way it is in the Federation Navy sometimes. Good luck, Ensign. Dismissed."
Carlisle came to attention and saluted. "Thank you, Sir," she said and numbly left the Admiral's office. There was no cadre of excited colleagues to greet and congratulate her as she went through the empty waiting room, only a bored secretary who got up and closed the door behind her.
Chapter 8.
Piedmont Mining Station, Catskill-Soroyan system, November 29, 2598.
Deputy Director of Security Hartmann waited nervously with a group of seven other security personnel in the main airlock area of the Asteroid Mining Station. They were fanned out in defensive positions, concealed behind whatever substantial barriers they could find and each was armed with a pulse rifle in addition to carrying their regulation sidearm. All of them, including Hartmann, had donned the best defensive equipment that the security forces on this station had available, riot gear that consisted of light body armor and a helmet with a flip-up face shield and an emergency breathing system that was good for perhaps a half hour.
The chime that announced that the airlock door was about to open sounded, too loudly to Hartmann's ears, in the stillness that had permeated the station for the five minutes or so since Hartmann had silenced the other alarms.
"Easy now, everyone," said Hartmann, "Let me warn them before anyone opens fire. Maybe we can negotiate our way out of this somehow."
The airlock door cycled open, revealing two men dressed in full military battle armor, each of whom immediately exited the airlock and took up a defensive posture on either side of the door. The airlock contained another five or six men and two others also dressed in full battle armor.
"Hold it right there!" said Hartmann. "I am the Director of Station Security! I demand to know what you're doing on my station! State your business!"
In answer, one of the battle armor-clad newcomers brought his pulse rifle to his shoulder and fired a short burst in Hartmann's direction. Having detected the somewhat obvious motion in plenty of time, Hartmann had ducked back behind the bulkhead and the pulses struck harmlessly on the wall behind him, leaving scorch marks in the paint. The smell of ozone mixed with burned paint immediately filled the air.
"Fire at the faceplates of their armor!" he shouted to his companions. Immediately, all of his security personnel opened fire with their pulse rifles, delivering satisfyingly accurate fire that scored several hits to the head region of the two armored invaders. While the pulse impacts did not penetrate the battle armor, they did have the effect of disorienting and confusing the men within. Inside the airlock, the two additional armor-clad attackers moved to block the airlock opening, shielding the unarmored men who were setting up a very
formidable weapon, a light-duty assault cannon, mounted on a tripod. Hartmann and his men continued to fire. In spite of the actions of the two armor-clad invaders blocking the airlock opening, one of the unarmored men in the airlock went down.
"Fall back, everyone!" shouted Hartman, "We don’t have a prayer against that weapon here. Retreat! Protocol Alpha!"
Protocol Alpha was a Marine tactic that had the men falling back under the cover of the two most rearward of their comrades. When all of their companions had retreated past them, now leaving them as the most forward pair, the formation would then continue the retreat under cover of the new set of rearmost defenders. The formation would leapfrog away from the threat in this fashion until all of them were out of the line of fire. Just after the last of his men came around the corner into the main corridor, Hartmann heard a sharp crack and saw a blinding flash as a powerful pulse from the assault cannon blasted down the now vacant corridor. The bulkhead containing the door to a maintenance room at the end of the corridor, made of stout station hull material, sprouted a hole a full five centimeters in diameter.
"Idiots!" exclaimed Hartman, "They could blow a hole in an outside wall with that weapon!"
Hartmann took out his communicator and called the security officer he had left back in the main office. Since the mining station was not a military facility, there was no standard protocol to repel boarders. Hartmann called for the closest thing they had.
"We're being invaded by hostile boarders!" he said, into the communicator. "Sound the alarm for catastrophic life support systems failure!"
Alarm klaxons began to go off all over the station. Automatic systems kicked in to close and seal all large apertures within and between levels. On the rest of the station, personnel who had been frequently drilled on life support systems failure procedures began to close and dog all manual hatches as well. Within the next two minutes, virtually the entire station was sealed up. Whoever these invaders were, they were going to have to make their way through this station one compartment at a time. That was only one of their challenges. Another was that over ninety percent of the station's personnel were Spacers, many of them, like Deputy Director Hartmann himself, former military.
The Veritian Derelict (Junkyard Dogs) Page 5