by John Bowers
Chapter 19
Saturday, 7 June, 0228 (PCC) — Washington City, DC, North America, Terra
"How is your Southern accent?" Peter Miller had asked her. His fingers were still steepled, and he was still smiling.
"My Southern accent?" Regina was confused.
"You lived in Georgia, did you not?"
"Yes."
"Then you must be familiar with that particular accent. Can you impersonate it?"
Regina nodded slowly. "I had a devil of a time getting rid of it," she said, "after we moved from there."
"Then you shouldn't have any trouble doing it again, should you?"
"Okay, I can do it. But what does that have to do with this discussion?"
"It has everything to do with this discussion," Peter Miller said. "Let me explain."
The smile faded. He was down to business now, and for the next hour Regina sat transfixed. Before he finished, she was filled with a deep, pervading dread.
"Miss Wells, you know the reputation of the Agency. We've been accused of everything from spying on private citizens to assassinating heads of state. We're not above doing either, but never without grave cause. The Agency goes back several hundred years, and all that time we have been concerned with one thing and one thing only — the safety of the Federation and its citizens. At the present time, with the Federation involved in a war for its very survival, our role is more critical than ever.
"We have watched the Sirius situation for several decades. We've had people on Sirius, on Beta Centauri, and on Vega all that time. We knew well in advance of the Vegan war that Sirius was going to invade. Your father had access to much of our intelligence, which is one important reason he knew it as well. He wasn't at liberty to divulge that information, of course, and he never did. But he was right, thanks in no small part to our activities.
"We were reasonably sure more recently that Sirius was planning an attack on the Federation as well, but unfortunately we never did pin down the exact schedule of events. The attack wasn't unexpected, except for the timing, because it happened a full year ahead of our best estimates. But that wasn't our fault, and I'll explain why in a minute.
"Since the war began, our operatives on Sirius have worked under extremely difficult conditions, for the Sirians know we have people there. Indeed, they've successfully eliminated several of them, a fact which weakens our intelligence capabilities. That sort of thing is to be expected in wartime, of course, but is tragic nonetheless."
Peter Miller stopped long enough to take a sip of water from a glass at his elbow. Steepling his fingers again, he pinned Regina to the chair and resumed his narrative.
"Just as we have operatives on Sirius and its allied worlds, Sirius has people here, too. Don't look so shocked; it only makes sense that, well before they initiated hostilities, they would put people in place here. Years in advance, I might add. Possibly ten or twenty years in advance. Yes, they were planning to attack us that long ago, even before the Vegan war.
"As a result, the Sirians have the ability to some extent to water down our intelligence. On more than one occasion they've managed to feed us false information. That's how we missed the target date of their attack at the start of the war. But, far more sinister than that is the fact that some of their people are in a position to know our military intentions, and to leak the information back to Sirius. You may have heard that the attack on Titan was almost a military disaster; our casualties were sixty percent higher than we anticipated. What you haven't heard, however, is that we're ninety-nine percent certain that Sirius knew in advance exactly when and where we would attempt a landing, and they were waiting for us. The entire 33rd Star Marines was wiped out before they could reach the surface, thanks to that leak."
Regina stared with numb disbelief at the slender man behind the desk. The things he was saying sounded very logical, but she'd never once considered the possibility that Sirius had spies inside the Federation. She slowly shook her head, her mouth hanging open, but couldn't think of a thing to say. But Peter Miller had stopped talking and was looking at her, apparently expecting some kind of response.
"What … What does all this have to do with me?" she asked shakily.
"Because, Miss Wells, we want you to find the leak."
Regina almost jumped. Peter Miller hadn't spoken; the statement came from Andrew Lockner, who hadn't opened his mouth since she arrived. She stared at him in absolute disbelief, feeling her skin tingle as the blood drained out of her face.
"Me? Why me? You — you have people there! Already in place. Surely …"
"They've been trying for seven years, Miss Wells," Peter Miller said, his eyes now hard points of obsidian. "We're no closer now to the leak than we were seven years ago. More than that, we know for certain that the Sirians have identified a number of our agents, but are leaving them alone in order to feed us disinformation. Unfortunately, except for a handful, we don't know which agents they've uncovered, so if we do get a name it may not be the right one. We might eliminate an innocent person, and the leak would still exist. Costing more military lives."
"Seven years? You've known about the leak that long?"
He nodded. "When the war first started, the only thing that kept the Sirians from winning a complete victory were our fighter bases in the asteroids. We had no spacecraft carriers then, and for several months we were very close to collapse. The Sirians had the ability to bomb us almost at will, but they could never quite close their fist around us, because we had those fighters out there. Every time they almost had us beaten, our asteroid squadrons would bloody their nose. So they went to work on those hidden bases, trying to take them out one at a time.
"We had three dozen bases, Miss Wells, scattered all the way around the solar orbit. By the end of the second year of war, the Sirians had taken out twenty-five of them. We have excellent reason to believe those bases were sold out. Someone here in the Federation told the Sirians exactly where those bases were located. One or two might have been discovered by accident, but the circumstances surrounding the loss of those bases were far too coincidental for all of them to be accidents. Someone inside the Federation gave that information out. And we damned near lost the war because of it. If it hadn't been for your friend Johnny Lincoln and his famous gunner, I personally believe the war would be on the ground right now. Sirian troops would be on Terra, and we'd be fighting on all seven continents trying to stop them."
Regina felt weak all over. She found it difficult to breathe.
"I can't believe this!"
"It's true, Miss Wells. I swear to you it's all true."
"But — but — what can I do?"
"We need a new operative on Sirius. Someone the Sirians don't know. Someone we know they don't know. Someone whose information we can trust."
He smiled again for the first time since he'd started talking.
"We need you, Miss Wells."
* * *
She'd gone incommunicado immediately. No contact with her family, no contact with Wade Palmer. A blanket of silence had fallen over her. Quarters were arranged for her at the FIA building. She had effectively dropped out of sight.
For the next few weeks she underwent extensive psychological and medical testing, lengthy indoctrination sessions, and hypnoconditioning. She didn't see Peter Miller much after that first night; instead, she was taken in tow by her "handler", a moody, bearded man in his thirties who called himself simply Wayne. He was alternately kind and rude, gentle and harsh, as he deemed necessary. Regina wasn't sure she liked him very much.
"Why is the hypno stuff necessary?" she asked during one session.
"We can teach you far more far faster that way," he replied. "You have no idea how many ways you can be compromised. A simple phrase, delivered in the wrong context, can give you away. Believe me, if it wasn't necessary, we wouldn't do it."
"What exactly are you going to put into my head?"
"A lot of stuff you may never need. You won't even be conscious of
most of it, but when you need it, it'll be there. Suppose, for instance, someone mentions Quicksilver. What does that name mean to you?"
She shrugged. "As a name, nothing. It's an ancient term for mercury."
"Spoken like a Feddie. To a Sirian, however, it's the name of Lucius Clay's cat." He grinned. "Thought you were an expert on Sirius, didn't you? Didn't know that one, though."
"No," she admitted ruefully. "I didn't even know Lucius Clay ever had a cat."
"He was crazy about cats. Which makes him all the more sinister. How could a man who loved animals create a government that treats people so badly?"
"So you'll be giving me stuff like that?"
"Thousands of details. Stuff you could only learn by growing up on Sirius and living the day-to-day life. It's details that keep agents alive. Details they can never get by conscious study."
"What else?" she pressed. "I'm still not crazy about the idea of letting someone walk around inside my head."
"Don't blame you." Wayne sat on the edge of his desk and grinned, the most relaxed she'd seen him since they met.
"In this kind of work, any normal person would be scared half to death. A couple of centuries ago that would have been okay. But modern technology has developed equipment that can smell fear, and the Sirians have it. We'll be conditioning you to control that fear. I don't mean that we're going to make you so relaxed that you could step out of an airlock, but we'll reduce your anxiety to normal levels. If someone puts you on the spot about something, you won't panic. More likely, you'll react out of indignation rather than guilt. Which would be normal for a natural-born Sirian in that situation.
"We'll also be giving you a new identity. You'll be studying that identity, but along with it we're going to give you inherent memories. If someone asks what color your grandfather's eyes were, you won't have to try to remember — you'll know. You'll be able to tell people about the climate where you came from, what the humidity is like at a certain time of year. You'll know what a barbecued tripod rat tastes like, and how long it has to cook to prevent it from being tough. You get the picture?"
Regina nodded, her clear, emerald eyes wide with amazement.
"I always thought hypnoconditioning was used just to control emotional response. I had no idea you could do all that."
"We can do all that and a lot more. I think you're going to be surprised."
"When I get back," she said slowly, not daring to entertain the possibility that she might not, "will you be able to erase all this?"
"We can remove everything. We can give you amnesia for that matter. But we usually don't take everything. There's no harm in knowing what a tripod rat tastes like." He grinned. "Unless the idea of eating one turns your stomach."
"What is a tripod rat, anyway?"
"See? You don't know everything about Sirius. A tripod rat is a three-legged mammal, looks something like a kangaroo, except it's not a marsupial. They're indigenous to southern Texiana. They're considered varmints, and people kill them because they eat the crops, but they're also popular as barbecue."
"Ugh."
July - August 0228 (PCC) – Washington City, DC, North America, Terra
During the final weeks of her preparation, Regina was given her new identity.
"After today, your name is Scarlett Wallace," Wayne told her one afternoon.
"Oh, puh-lease!" she retorted. "Does it have to be so melodramatic? I suppose my boyfriend's name is Rhett Butler?"
Wayne didn't smile. "Look, to you and me it's corny as shit, but we're talking about Confederates here. Their most popular name for first-born sons is Junior, and after that it's Booger. They love to name their daughters Ruby and Bobbie, okay? Scarlett is a natural."
"Christ!" she muttered.
"Okay. Scarlett Wallace is from southern Texiana. You're the only child and sole heir of L.D. Wallace, a plantation owner. You've been pampered all your life and you're used to getting your way. You're one of those privileged Sirian belles who is immune to the fact that women are second-class citizens. You know that women of lesser status are dominated, but you don't give a shit, because your daddy dotes on you. Men fall over themselves for you at home, and you expect the same or similar treatment everywhere you go. Anyone who doesn't kowtow to you is beneath your contempt. Got it?"
Regina nodded slowly, trying to grasp the concept.
"You think I can pull this off?" she asked.
"You can and you will. Believe me, Miss Scarlett, your life depends on it."
She ducked her head and shivered. Wayne didn't seem to notice.
"L.D. Wallace is not only a plantation owner, he also owns controlling interest in an interstellar freight line. One of his major customers is Altair. On his last trip to Altair, he took you along for a sort of vacation — your mother died when you were ten, and you're devoted to your father. But he was killed in a Muslim uprising and you got stuck there. You've been there ever since, waiting to be rescued, but the war has made that next to impossible. Half the Muslims are pro-Sirian, about a third are pro-Federation, and they're fighting one hell of a civil war right now, with both Sirius and the Federation involved. You've been caught in the middle of that, and only now have you managed to make your escape."
Wayne stopped and flipped through a document on the table; it was as thick as a two-inch manuscript.
"I won't go into all the details right now. This is just to prep you for the hypno-education. One thing you need to know consciously is the information about your contact. We have a man on the inside that we're fairly certain hasn't been compromised. I won't give you his name or his description, because if I tell you, the Sirians could get it out of you. But the contact is a man, and he knows you're coming. You won't know who he is until he identifies himself. Any information you uncover you will give to him. He knows how to get it to us."
"How will he identify himself? How will I know he's the right one, if I don't know his name or his description?"
"He'll give you a code phrase. A sort of password."
"Which is?"
Wayne grinned. "I won't tell you that, either."
"Then how can I —"
"You'll know. Trust me. When you hear the code, there'll be no doubt in your mind he's the right guy."
Regina didn't like the sound of that. It was like being sent into battle without a weapon, and being told that when the shooting started, she would know where to find one. It didn't make sense.
But, the more she thought about it, this whole affair didn't make much sense. She was already reasonably sure she should have turned Peter Miller down.
"Can I get out of this?" she asked suddenly.
"Out of what?"
"This. All of it. I'm starting to think I don't want to do it."
Wayne stood perfectly still, staring at her. His dark eyes glittered frighteningly, and she felt a sudden chill of fear. He shook his head.
"No," he said. "It's too late."
* * *
"Okay," Regina said, "let me get this straight. I'm a spoiled rich girl who's been stranded on Altair for some time. I guess I'm supposed to just walk into a Sirian camp and swoon, or something like that. Right?"
"Exactly like that," Wayne confirmed.
"Then tell me this — how is a girl like that going to get access to Confederate military secrets?"
Wayne chuckled smugly. "Because I didn't tell you everything yet."
"Oh."
"In addition to his plantation and his shipping interest, L.D. Wallace is also a member of the Confederate General Staff. He's a retired general, took part in the conquest of Vega. But when he retired he remained on the General Staff as a reserve, and was active in planning the attack on the Federation."
Regina sat speechless, staring at Wayne as if he were a ghost.
"You mean … this man is real?"
Wayne looked surprised.
"Of course he's real. You don't think we could invent this person, do you? Your Sirian existence has to be authentic, because someon
e will check."
"Scarlett … ?"
"She's real, too."
Regina blinked rapidly. It was one thing to play a role, but to replace a real person put everything in a different context. She wasn't sure how she felt about that.
"Where is she now?" she asked, fearing the answer.
"Safe."
Regina frowned. "I take it that you mean we have her?"
"She's safe," Wayne repeated.
"And her father?"
"Dead."
"Are you sure?"
He nodded. "Absolutely sure."
"How can you be so certain?"
"Because we killed him."
She stood up and walked around the room, her mind reeling. She felt numb. Behind her, Wayne continued talking.
"To finish the story," he said, "one of the officers on the General Staff is a man named Martin Vaughn. Early fifties, wealthy, rugged and handsome. He was eighteen during the last months of the Vegan war and only saw action during the final push to capture Reina. But he became a genuine war hero when he personally captured Queen Ursula. Got a medal for it and his military star has been rising ever since. The word is that he's in line for the top spot, General Field Marshal."
Regina turned slowly and shook her head. She'd been distracted and missed most of what he had said.
"I know who he is. Why are you telling me about him?"
"Because he wants to marry you."
"What!"
Wayne grinned. "Vaughn and Scarlett were engaged before she disappeared."
"How old is this Scarlett?"
"Seventeen when she disappeared five years ago."
"She'd be twenty-two now," Regina mused.
"She is twenty-two now. Don't talk about her as if she's dead."
"Sorry." Her eyes widened in alarm. "But Vaughn is past fifty!"
Instead of answering, Wayne swiveled and thumbed a remote control to the holoviewer against the wall. Regina's own face appeared; he fast forwarded a few seconds and returned to normal speed. The Regina Wells in the holo was talking about Sirian social customs.
"It isn't unusual for teenaged girls to marry older men," she was saying. "Sirians practice what they call a Virgin Rite, in which a girl gives up her virginity at age sixteen. This is supposed to make her a woman, and social custom demands that she surrender herself to an older man, usually a friend of her father. The Virgin Rite isn't mandatory, but it is customary, and those who fail to perform it are often stigmatized.