“Hello, Tim, this is my daughter, Fleet Captain Cheryl Wallace.” He beamed with pride and made no effort to hide his feelings.
Secretary Tim Deveraux stood to shake her hand. “It’s a pleasure, Captain Wallace.”
They sat, and her father and the secretary began speaking. Cheryl, keeping her back straight and chin up, listened to a conversation filled with acronyms, insider abbreviations, and unfamiliar names. As a Fleet officer, she spoke this way on a daily basis. It had never registered to her that when the alphabet is scrambled and the names are changed, the chatter sounded like a foreign language to an outsider.
The broader outlines of the exchange made it clear they were both taking the situation seriously as they debated methods and maneuvers for the next steps. Given her tenuous evidence, she gained comfort from their evident approval of her actions. Being proactive had been the right choice.
As the discussion ended, Deveraux turned to her. “Cheryl, thank you so much for your thoughtful leadership and discretion in this difficult situation. We’re pleased with your initiative. You’ve done the Union a great service by coming to us today.”
She knew this was a statesmen’s equivalent of saying hi. Politicians seem to begin every conversation with a string of all-purpose compliments and generic patter. She nodded her head to acknowledge his words.
“As you just heard, our people have been looking into certain activities at Crystal Fab.” The secretary sat back and folded his hands across his ample stomach. “A staffer stumbled across some information that caused us concern, but it centered on their profiteering at the expense of the Union. Combine that with the fresh intel you bring us today, and you have our attention.”
Deveraux reached to a sideboard next to his desk, lifted the lid from a glass jar, and popped an orange candy ball into his mouth. He offered the jar to Cheryl and her dad, who both declined. As he spoke, Cheryl could hear the candy click off his teeth as it bounced around his mouth.
“The Union Assembly funded the Alliance as a first step of a buildup that will allow us someday to confront the Kardish. That’s what the supporters of the construction initiative claim, anyway. What you describe may prove they were prescient in their planning.” He leaned forward, supporting his weight with an arm on his desk. “This Juice Tallette, do you believe her story? Is she on our side?”
“Well, Mr. Secretary—”
“Tim,” he said.
“Tim,” she echoed, though the word felt awkward on her lips. “Yes, I think Juice is doing right by the Union, and Brady Sheldon is acting for himself. But this is all instinct. Given the personal dynamics I witnessed when I visited the site, another alternative is that the crystal has a scheme going, and Tallette and Sheldon are being manipulated.”
The secretary turned to look over at the senator, but continued speaking to Cheryl. “Captain, it would be a great service if you’d remain involved and help us as we develop this case. It’s possible that we’ll have to play along, maybe even wait until the crystal is moved to your ship. We can watch to see if the Kardish become aggressive and respond accordingly.” He looked back at her. “It could get dangerous.”
“Absolutely, sir. If the Kardish are the aggressors, then the Alliance was built for this job.”
“Now hold on here,” said the senator. “This could blow up in a dozen different ways. I don’t want my daughter in the thick of something so risky.”
“Excuse me, Senator,” Cheryl said with an edge in her voice. “I believe this is exactly what I’ve signed up for.”
He gave her a long look. She could see the concern on his face, but she stood her ground.
Wallace turned to the secretary and spoke like a man with a major influence on the secretary’s departmental budget. “I want two things here, Tim. Have your best people teaming with her. This is vitally important, and we have to identify and stop whoever is behind this affront to the Union. And find me a team leader who won’t give up until this is over and she’s safe.”
The secretary smiled broadly. “Done, and done.”
Chapter 5
Secretary Deveraux walked with Cheryl out to his staff area. “Thank you again, Captain. We’re counting on you to work this situation for the benefit of the Union.” He motioned to one of his staff. “Denise will help you from here.” Before his assistant had a chance to stand, he was back in his office.
The door closed behind the secretary just as Sven Preston entered through a side door. “You heard me, Sven. I just made a huge promise to the guy who funds us. How can I keep it?”
Sven, director of the Defense Specialists Agency, led an elite force of covert warriors. The DSA existed to serve the needs of the secretary, and its agents thrived on just this kind of challenge—the sort where Deveraux expected them to deliver the impossible.
“We know who you’re going to choose,” said Sven. “Let’s just pull the trigger.”
The secretary squeezed the arms of his chair as he eased himself into it. He and the chair sighed at the same time as his mass came to rest on the seat. “Every time I send an improviser on a job, the property damage is horrific and the body count is worse. I like the guy, but give me some alternatives.”
“We don’t know who the bad guys are or what they have for means and motive,” said Sven. “The situation is fluid as hell. Other than keeping the senator’s daughter safe, we can’t even express what success looks like. That’s exactly what improvisers are trained for. He’s the best there is, and he’s not in the field at the moment.”
“Why not send a ghost or a toy-master?” asked Deveraux, knowing the answer but asking nevertheless.
“Ghosts are talented at slipping in and out of places undetected. Toy-masters use gizmos and gadgets to do their dirty deeds. It’s not clear how either of these specialties alone are the right choice for this job.” As Deveraux watched, Sven’s face brightened. “Here’s a bonus. If we send him, we get his partner, our only agent equally qualified as both a ghost and a toy-master.”
The secretary looked up at the ceiling and started rocking in his chair. It squeaked in rhythm to his movements. “What’s that phrase—insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?”
“He’s our most successful agent. That’s not insanity. We want the same result.”
He stopped rocking and popped a yellow candy into his mouth. “I wasn’t talking about him. I’m the one who has this same conversation over and over with you.” He shifted the candy from one cheek to the other. Click-click.
Sven changed topics. “What’s your take on the intrigue with the crystal? Do you believe it has superpowers? She made it all seem over-the-top.”
“The legacy I’ve set my sights on is a Union with a first-class space fleet. I think this crystal hits the sweet spot. If it gins up tensions with the Kardish, then the politicians will have to fund more ships. If it helps make construction cheaper, we can afford more ships. And if both things happen, we hit the jackpot.”
He rocked some more, thinking how proud he’d feel if, by the end of his term, the Union had a dozen Horizon-class ships in Fleet.
His musing was interrupted when Sven stood up and looked at him expectantly.
“About the improviser?” The candy clicked. “Have him handle it.”
* * *
Sid sat on the porch, nursing his third beer and watching the world go by. His com signaled with an urgent message, interrupting his well-earned reverie. He’d sustained a number of minor injuries on his last assignment and been given leave to rest and recuperate. He knew it was the agency calling to ask him to come back early. Annoying, but duty came first. He acknowledged his com.
The message was short. “Your date is waiting at the restaurant and needs help preparing for a journey. Your week is free. Please handle it.”
He stood up, smiled as his beer buzz swirled in his head, and stepped inside his apartment. As he dressed, he reviewed the message. The communication was typical DSA code.
“Your date” meant he would recognize his contact. “The restaurant” referred to a local Irish pub. “Needs help” indicated a sense of urgency. “Handle it” confirmed he was being deployed as an improviser.
Which meant this assignment would likely progress into a shit storm.
Sid made his way to the pub, entered, and scanned down the row of booths across from the bar. He looked for a familiar face; they saw each other at the same time. His adrenaline spiked, stopping him dead in his tracks. Agents would occasionally see friends and acquaintances when on assignment. They learned how to keep the mission moving in such situations. But seeing her was so disorienting that he hesitated.
Training kicked in and he moved back on task. He ticked through his action list: locate and protect the contact, maintain cover, find secure shelter, create goals for the next twenty-four hours, and move the mission forward.
He scanned the booths again, looking for someone on the job, and still didn’t see anyone that made sense for this circumstance. His eyes returned to hers; eyes he never thought he’d see again.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, still motionless in the entryway. The din of the crowd drowned out the sound of his voice.
Time passed and he remained rooted. He’d already broken procedure. Unable to put off the inevitable any longer, he walked toward her, still searching the pub for his assignment. When he reached her table, their eyes locked. His cheeks flushed in shame.
* * *
Cheryl followed Denise out of the office suite. “I guess today’s the day you become a spy,” the assistant commented, leaving Cheryl to ponder that statement as they traveled another maze of hallways and stairs that eventually exited the building onto the street. Denise stopped, pointed south, and said, “Two blocks. Number 3267. It’s on this side of the street. Big glass entrance on a red brick building. Can’t miss it.”
She stood there waiting, and Cheryl did the only thing she could think of. She pointed down the street and repeated, “This way to number 3267.”
Denise winked. “Good luck, Captain.” She disappeared back into the building.
Cheryl started walking, not exactly sure where she was headed, but believing this was a good sign. She mentally reviewed the events that had occurred with her father and the secretary as she made her way down the quiet street. It had gone well. Her dad seemed genuinely glad she brought the issue to him, and the secretary acted sincere when he said the situation had their attention.
As she replayed the conversation, she realized the discussion focused on the behavior of the Kardish more than anything else. They had only briefly touched on the notion that the crystal could be a self-aware intelligence with a potential to become extremely disruptive. She was mulling this over when she arrived at 3267 and its big glass doors. Her thoughts returned to the present.
A youngish fellow, well-groomed and dressed in colorful garb, greeted her at the entrance. “Captain Wallace, please come in.” He made a show of looking her up and down. “He is going to love you, honey.” Then he took off at a fast pace, hips swiveling, as he led her into the depths of the building.
Cheryl rushed to keep up. As they walked, he spouted a rapid-fire spiel that sounded interesting but had no more substance than the political patter she’d listened to from the secretary. They entered a brightly lit room, and he got her seated in a comfortable upholstered chair. As he walked to the door, he waved good-bye with his fingertips. “Ta ta.” The door closed behind him. When enough time passed for him to take perhaps ten steps, she heard him bay a creepy howl.
She waited for a few minutes, and then decided to attack the ever-expanding work log accumulating on her com. She’d made it through a few tasks on her list when a man and woman entered through the same door she’d used.
“Hello, Captain,” said the man. “So sorry for the wait. I’m Johan and this is Verra.”
She watched as they pulled chairs over to form a tight group. When they sat, their knees almost touched. Johan, perhaps Cheryl’s age, had a bushy mustache that danced with his lips as he asked her, “What do you know of the Defense Specialists Agency?” The woman, middle aged and with perfectly coiffed hair, nodded her head, unconsciously keeping rhythm with the bouncing mustache.
The next hours were a blur as the two gave her a crash course in the basics of spycraft. They explained what she should expect and how best to contribute. They both personally knew the agent that the secretary had picked to lead the mission and would refer to him only as “Captain Crunch.” It seemed that real names weren’t used by DSA operatives. Camaraderie through a shared culture, Cheryl surmised.
Seemingly unwavering in their awe of this agent, they impressed on her that he was the best in the business, with a reputation for being able to prevail when odds were longest and hope had dimmed. After so many glowing comments about him, she was eager to meet this amazing man—if only to measure the man against the legend.
She got to the pub early and, as instructed, sat in a booth facing the door. They told her she would recognize him, so she systematically evaluated each person who entered. There wasn’t a familiar face in the lot.
Until Sid walked in.
She began to tremble and brought her fingers to her lips. She’d spent the last four years pretending he was dead. It was the only way she’d been able to move on with her life. Why is he here, and why now? she wondered. She made a move as if to leave, but her professionalism prevailed and she remained seated.
Years ago, right after Sid had discarded her, Cheryl fantasized about bumping into him at some random place, like maybe a party she was attending. In those fantasies, an unlikely sequence of events would play out, and the two of them would end up back together, happily ever after. But in time, she recognized these as childish dreams. Resolving never to be hurt again, she started construction on her wall. Day after day, brick by brick, she built a fortress protecting her heart. While some men in the past couple of years had weakened the structure, no man had succeeded in breaking through it.
And now, the reason for the wall was standing in front of her. At the worst possible moment. After all of the times she had dreamed of a random meeting, she found herself concerned that his presence would jeopardize a vital mission.
He walked toward her while looking around the room as if he’d lost something. She shifted her eyes between him and the front door, hoping the agent would arrive to save her from this awkward drama. Then he stopped at her table.
Their eyes locked and she was cornered. He slipped into the booth seat across from her, and as he did, dozens of questions that had been consuming her for years were answered.
“Captain Crunch,” she said, using the code words as instructed. Her voice sounded foreign to her ears.
“Aye,” he whispered, struggling to complete the contact phrase. “Crispy and delicious.”
They sat quietly for several minutes, looking at each other but not moving.
Finally, he spoke. “Cheryl, I’m sorry.” The statement hung there in the empty space between them. They sat some more.
As the shock of seeing him faded, her brain resumed processing information. She stated what was now clear to her. “You left me, you left us, to become a spy.”
He met her gaze and held it, then looked down at the tabletop. “Yes.” Looking back up, he added, “We should leave this place and move somewhere private. Let’s keep a low profile until I learn what this is about and how I can help.”
He told her about a DSA secure room down the street and suggested they meet there. Getting up, he headed to the back of the pub. Following his instructions, Cheryl went out the front.
Her mind was in turmoil as she made her way to the secure room. She briefly toyed with the idea of requesting a different agent but knew that was neither feasible nor professional.
They’d spent time together those years ago—enjoying, sharing, loving each other. Sid treated her well and made her feel good about herself. She was attracted to his quiet confidence and the
air of mystery and danger he projected. He had captured her heart, held it for most of a year, and then he disappeared.
In those first hours of his absence, she thought he might be hurt or in trouble. When she called him, her com told her that no such person existed. This didn’t make sense, yet she hadn’t been able to locate anyone who could give her a reasonable answer.
Using her substantial technical skills, she had searched for him. She was dumbfounded when every tool she tried reported that he did not, nor had he ever, existed. She broke protocol and asked the camp commander, who had told her, quite bluntly, to forget the past and focus on the future.
It had been three days before she learned from a well-placed colleague that Sid had left camp for a new life. She recalled lying on her bunk, cycling through feelings of grief, anger, denial, and betrayal. The pain had been intense, and the emotional wound healed slowly and left a scar on her psyche.
As she crossed a street on the way to the secure room, she willed herself to stop dredging through the past. Focus on your duty, she commanded herself. Protecting the interest of the Union in the intrigue with the crystal, the Kardish, and her ship—that task transcended everything else.
Chapter 6
Sid heard the tap on the door, and his com confirmed Cheryl’s identity. As the door closed behind her, he stepped over to a thick, insulated lockbox, placed his com inside, and motioned with his hand. She followed his lead.
“They’re amazing technology,” he said after closing the lid. “But clever people keep finding ways to pull information from them. When we’re on alert status, I find it best to treat them as spies.”
As she removed her coat, he looked her up and down for weapons or anything out of the ordinary. His survival skills required that he evaluate everything all the time. That task complete, his mind took him to enjoying her lovely face and form. How can you be more beautiful than I remember? He felt a stir, and then his shame over his past behavior returned. He looked at the ground. He’d lost the right to that pleasure.
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