by John Bowers
"Wade, why?" Tears streamed down her cheeks as she stared at him in anguish. "I've been out there! I know what it's like! You don't."
He nodded soberly. "Maybe that's why," he told her.
"What do you mean? That makes no sense at all!"
"Dianne —"
"I love you, Wade! Don't you know that? I love you! And you're going to go off and leave me?"
"They killed my dad," he reminded her.
"So you want them to kill you, too?"
"No … "
"You had it good here! You did important things! And it was safe!"
"Dianne, when this war is over, I have to live with myself. My dad went out to fight, you went out to fight — why should I be the only one who stays safe?"
She turned her back and lowered her head, wrapping her body with her arms as she wept. He stepped up behind her and put his arms around her, pressing his cheek into her hair.
"I'm sorry, Dianne. I have to do it."
She just shook her head.
"I guess it doesn't matter," she said. "I always knew we wouldn't last forever."
"Did you mean what you said earlier? About loving me?"
She nodded. "I didn't tell you because I didn't think you loved me."
He didn't respond to that, because he didn't know. Did he still love Regina Wells? He and Dianne had been together two and a half years, and they'd had fun — but was it any more than that?
He wasn't sure.
"There is one other thing," she said, drying her eyes and lifting her chin. She turned to face him and gazed into his eyes. "I went to the doctor today."
"What's wrong? You sick?"
"No. Pregnancy is not an illness."
Wade felt his head spin, his face flushed hot.
"Pregnant?" he gasped. "I thought you were —"
"I was. But in the service they update it every few years. I don't know if hypnoprotection wears off, but statistically, the longer you go the more likely you might get pregnant. And it's only ninety-nine percent guaranteed anyway."
Wade was thunderstruck. He looked at Dianne with brand-new eyes. She was carrying his child.
"What — what do you want to do?" he asked lamely.
"Have the baby," she said. "If you get killed, at least I'll have that much."
"And what about — I mean, if I don't get killed?"
She smiled wryly, no humor in her eyes.
"Are you proposing to me, Wade? Because of the baby?"
"I-I don't know," he admitted. He felt confused.
"I wish you'd told me what you were planning to do before now," she said. "I've been pretty sure for the last week that I was pregnant. Maybe you would've changed your mind."
"Maybe I would have."
But they both knew it was too late now. He had orders in hand, and a simple pregnancy wasn't going to get them rescinded. Wade Palmer was on his way to war.
25 October, 0232 (PCC) - Wallace Plantation, Texiana, Sirius 1
"I would like you to return to New Angeles with me," Martin Vaughn said to his wife as they lay naked together in her bedroom at the plantation. "I have been away from you entirely too long."
Scarlett snuggled up against him, running her hand over his hairy, muscular chest.
"Does this mean that you're not goin' to be so busy for a while?" she asked.
Martin sighed.
"No, I'm afraid not. Actually, I am goin' to be quite busy very shortly. That is why I would like you to be nearby. It will be quite impossible for me to come here after the first of November."
"Why, what in the galaxy do you mean?"
Martin sighed again. Staring into the darkness, he merely shook his head.
"The Feddies are about to attempt an invasion of Beta Centauri. We are ready for them, don't be concerned about that, but I will be occupied for several weeks."
"Are you sure we are ready for them?" Scarlett sounded worried.
"Oh, yes! Very sure. They are plannin' to take the planet in a single thrust. They believe that if they can capture Periscope Harbor, the planetary defenses will fall. But they will be quite surprised, for Periscope Harbor is about to become a death trap."
"What in the galaxy is Periscope Harbor?"
Martin smiled tolerantly and squeezed her.
"My poor Scarlett. If it don't live and breathe on Sirius, you have never heard of it. Periscope Harbor is our headquarters on Beta. The Feddies hope to pinch off our head there, thinkin' the planet will roll over and die when they do. But we know all about their plans."
Scarlett smiled. "Mister Lonely again?"
"Yes."
"Well, I hope his information is better than it was at Alpha Centauri. The Feddies defeated us there, didn't they?"
Martin winced at the irony in her voice.
"That was not his fault, my dear. The Feddies simply got lucky. That won't happen this time. Beta is a Confederate world. The Centauris are ruthless fighters, even more than our own soldiers. They will not give up their planet to the goddamned Feddies as long as one of them remains alive. Trust me, my love. You will see."
Scarlett didn't respond. She remained silent for several minutes, then leaned over and kissed him. He stirred, and sensing his carnal return, she became more urgent. Soon neither of them had any energy for lingering thoughts about Periscope Harbor.
* * *
In the basement, Kim chewed her lip as she watched Scarlett and Martin make love. At one level, it excited her, for no one had ever made love to her; yet at a deeper level, it brought back the horror of Capt. Davenport and his relentless violation of her youthful body. She felt her blood turn cold as she remembered the two nights he'd come to her in this very room, using her for his own carnal needs without a thought for her feelings. She watched the Field Marshal and his lady only because she had to.
Vaughn seemed to pass out after the sex, and Kim waited a half-hour to see Scarlett slip out of bed and into the bathroom. For several minutes there was no movement at all, then she saw Scarlett glide out the door into the main hallway. Seconds later, the video pickup in Davenport's room resumed the drama.
"Captain!" she heard Scarlett whisper.
She saw Davenport sit up. Scarlett whispered urgently to him for thirty seconds, and Kim heard every word. Davenport buried his face in his hands and shook his head.
"I can't get out of here tonight," he said. "Vaughn brought his security people with him. I think he wants to get me recalled."
"I thought you said that couldn't happen!" Scarlett accused.
"It shouldn't have. I altered the orders in the central computer to make the assignment indefinite. But I think Vaughn is jealous or something. I'm gonna have to think of something else."
"Listen, you've got to get this back to the Federation! You've got to! November first is a week away! Those Star Marines will be slaughtered!"
"I will, don't worry. But this might be the last time you and I can talk for awhile. Try to find out who Mr. Lonely is, will you?"
"How can I do that?"
"I don't know. Work on him. You're good at that."
"I have to do it tonight, and he's asleep. I can't just wake him up and ask him!"
Davenport was silent a moment.
"Did he bring a pocket computer with him? Maybe it's in his personal database."
"Oh, Jesus! That's risky!"
"This is war, Regina. Risk is what it's all about."
Kim frowned at the alien sound of the name. Regina? Why did he call her that? None of this made much sense to her, except that she now had proof that Davenport was a Feddie. Field Marshal Vaughn could decipher the rest.
She watched as Scarlett returned to her own room. Vaughn was snoring heavily, and Scarlett watched him for a moment, then carefully opened his briefcase. She lifted something out of it, closed the briefcase again, and slipped back into the bathroom.
She was in there twenty minutes.
She opened the briefcase again, replaced what she'd taken, and closed it. Then she returned to Davenp
ort's room. Even over the video system, the electricity in her voice was unmistakable.
"I've got it!" she hissed when Davenport looked up at her. "I know who Mr. Lonely is!"
Chapter 50
Washington City, DC, North America, Terra
Orville Sutton opened a beer when he got home and settled heavily on the hoversofa to drink it. He was tired, as always. His job as subspace operator at the Polygon was tense and demanding; there was no room for error when handling sensitive military communications. His supervisor was a bitch, too, one of those prissy women who thought her shit didn't stink. A black bitch, to boot, which made it doubly difficult for Orville not to break her jaw when she became abusive.
Orville was a Sirian by birth, had grown up there, and understood the value of racial segregation. Back home, if a niggo bitch insulted a white man the way Commander Tawny Green insulted him on a daily basis, she'd be taken into the box canyon by a dozen or so good ole boys and taught a lesson. It would be a party she never forgot, even if she survived it.
But this wasn't Sirius, and Orville had to take it. He didn't like it, but it was all for a good cause. He was doing his part for the war effort.
Orville had been in place for thirteen years, a Sirian mole who looked and acted exactly like a Feddie. His job was to be a Feddie until activated. Since the war began, he'd waited in vain for that opportunity. He'd never once been contacted. Sometimes he wondered if they'd forgotten about him.
Orville finished the beer and dug in the nitro-cooler for another. He was divorced now and had the apartment to himself. He'd been married for six years as part of his cover, and had divorced almost casually, to make himself look no different than any other Feddie. His ex received alimony payments, which he didn't mind, since he was building one hell of a bank account back home. When the war was over, and Sirius had won, he would retire a rich man. He might even get to take Tawny Green home with him as a slave.
By the time he finished the second beer on an empty stomach, he was buzzing slightly — not exactly drunk, but no longer completely clear-headed. He decided to check his mail in case there was an activation order. Not that it would do much good, for there'd never been a single communication in thirteen years.
He pulled up the mailbox on his terminal, sorted through the usual bills and junk mail … and stared, dumbfounded.
It looked innocuous enough; just another piece of spam, but the code word was there. His heart thundered in his chest.
You're Invited!
Annual Fund Raising Dinner
November 1, 0232 8:00 PM
Gray Ghost Society
There were details, but they were window dressing. "Gray Ghost" was the code, and he sat back in his chair as sweat beaded his forehead. He remembered what he had to do now. There would be a message, or instructions of some kind. He logged onto the SolarWeb and accessed an electronic mailbox; he'd never done this before, didn't even consciously know the address, but it had been implanted years ago with hypnopreparation. When he needed it, it was there. The e-mail address had a package waiting for him, and he downloaded it breathlessly. When the download was complete he logged off the network and read the cover note.
URGENT AND CONFIDENTIAL
RECOGNITION ID GRAY GHOST
Urgent that you print hardcopy of attached document and deliver at once via subspace to General Field Marshal Martin Vaughn, at the e-mail address below. Time is of the essence; normal channels have been compromised. You must use Polygon transmitter to clear Federation censorship encoding. You have a friend in Polygon security. Her name is Nancy Webb, on the night shift. She will expect you this evening before midnight. Your code name for this mission is "Mister Lonely".
IMPORTANT: if challenged, destroy this document at all costs. The future of the Confederacy is at stake. Erase this cover letter now.
Orville wiped his brow and tried to still his heart. After thirteen years of frustrating silence, it had happened at last. He was being activated. His own reaction surprised him — he suddenly felt afraid.
He erased the cover letter, then printed out the document and held it with trembling fingers while he read it. It was surprisingly short — just two paragraphs — but they shocked him to the core. The document told of an imminent Feddie assault on Beta Centauri, specifically at a place called Periscope Harbor. He'd never heard of it, but it must be important; the document claimed it was SE headquarters on Beta. Included were the date and time of the attack, the military units involved, and the names of support ships.
Orville's heart pounded harder. The date of the attack was only six days away, which meant the Feddie fleet might already be on its way. This really was important!
Orville stood up, overturning his chair in the process. Panting from adrenaline, he reached for his uniform jacket and shrugged into it, thrust the document into his briefcase, and hurried out the door. Midnight was only two hours away. He had to hurry.
Polygon, Washington City, DC, North America, Terra
"Polygon Security, Fourth Floor. Sergeant Webb speaking."
The vidphone remained dark — the caller was on voice only. Nancy Webb's aqua-blue eyes narrowed as she listened.
"Listen carefully," the muffled male voice on the other end said. "There's no time to explain, but you're about to encounter an intruder. His name is Orville Sutton, and he'll be in Space Force uniform. He's a subspace operator for the Polygon, but he's also a Confederate mole."
"Who is this!" Sgt. Webb demanded, feeling her pulse quicken. She quickly waved another security officer toward her station.
"My name isn't important. But wartime security is at stake, so you'd better believe what I'm telling you. Now this guy is white, about forty, thirty pounds overweight, and he's dangerous. Do not take any chances! If you try to stop him, he may become violent, so be prepared accordingly. He has a weapon that your electronic equipment can't detect. When you have him in custody, contact Peter Miller at the FIA. Miller has been looking for him for a long time."
"Why don't you call Miller?" she asked suspiciously.
"There isn't time. I just found out about this, and I had to warn you first."
Webb tried to keep the man talking.
"How do I know this message is genuine?" she asked.
"That's all I have to say, lady. Do your job, or face the consequences!"
And the caller was gone.
Nancy Webb stared at the other guard with stark eyes.
"What do you think?"
"Might be a hoax, but we can't hardly risk it, can we?"
"No. Go get Charlie and Art. They're on break. Put them in the stairwells, in case this guy tries to rabbit. He'll have to pass by me to get into the subspace office, and when I spot him I'll seal the lifts."
"Where do you want me?"
"Your usual spot. And be cool. We don't want to spook this guy."
* * *
In the hovercab to the Polygon, Orville could barely breathe. He'd never been inside the building at night, but knew it was busy around the clock. The subspace center would be crawling with operators, but that could work in his favor. He carried as much clearance documentation as he needed to get inside, and might not be noticed among the bustle. The trick would be getting a chance to transmit the document without anyone questioning him.
He didn't even think about how he'd get out.
He trotted through the security checkpoints on the first floor without trouble. At the checkpoint by the lifts, however, he encountered his first glitch.
"You're on day shift, aren't you, sir?" the young lady asked.
"That's right." He managed a smile that he hoped didn't look guilty. "The night supervisor called me in. My counterpart called in sick."
He prayed she didn't ask any names, and she didn't. The thing about security, wartime or otherwise, was that daily routine dulled the senses so that everything seemed routine. With a smile, she handed his card back and buzzed him through to the lift.
He panted with relief as the
lift took him to the fourth floor. He rode up alone, and swallowed down his tension as the lift stopped and the door slid open. He stepped out and strode forward, trying to look casual. Only one guard was on duty at the checkpoint, and she was staring at him. She was very pretty, he noticed — another niggo, but a beauty. Light-brown skin, short wavy hair, shockingly blue eyes. Back home he would take her out to the box canyon and enjoy her under a triple moon.
He reached the gate and stopped, fishing for his ID card. She was staring at him as if he were an intruder, he noticed; what was it about niggo women? They all had chips on their shoulders. He handed her the card, and his eyes dropped to read her nametag.
WEBB.
You have a friend in Polygon security.
Relief washed over him. Nancy Webb.
She scanned the card, looked at her display, and stepped back away from her console. Her right hand rested on the butt of her laser pistol.
"What's in the briefcase, Mr. Sutton?" she asked.
Orville stared at her blankly for a second, and then it dawned on him — a niggo would never be a friend of the Confederacy. Not after all the propaganda about racial oppression on Sirius. His eyes widened slowly, his heart thundered in his chest. He'd been set up!
"Mr. Sutton? Would you open the briefcase, please?"
Orville had waited for thirteen years to be activated, to be given his chance to do something for the Confederacy. He'd been angry at times at not being used, that his patriotism was being ignored. What the hell good was being a hidden agent if one never got a chance to do anything?
Now, at long last, he had his chance …
And he panicked.
Without a word he spun on his heel and bolted for the lift, but the door slammed in his face and didn't respond when he stabbed the button. He spun in terror, looking for a way out. Sweat sheened his beefy red face.
"Freeze!" Sgt. Webb shouted, and he saw her in the classic combat crouch, her laser pistol gripped in both hands, pointed directly at him. Terror gripped him, and he dashed down the corridor toward the stairwell. But another officer leaped out and drew down on him, repeating the order to freeze. He turned the other way, and saw a third officer, then a fourth. He was trapped! The words on the cover letter came back to him — the future of the Confederacy was at stake, destroy the document at all costs. Jesus! He had to do something, and he only had seconds. The woman was sprinting toward him, her laser pistol still in hand.