But he was afraid that even a casual conversation about Admirals might be enough to amplify scrutiny—over and above whatever was already being applied to their mission conversations and other sensor readings. He couldn’t afford that scrutiny just yet. He would simply act as if his suspicions were the answers to his questions.
Knowing any more or less about their executioner would not change his planned course of action, such as it was.
He wondered if Dominique shared any of his suspicions. He’d tried reading her expression but it was no good; his stomach still dropped when he met her eyes; it messed with his head.
And now, he was planning on using exactly those reactions to his advantage.
A scheme had begun to hatch, though it was not fully formed. It involved the EVA suits. It was risky on several levels, but he had not come up with any alternative plan, so he would have to pursue this one. He hadn’t troubled with retrieving his own suit from his USUCC ship, and was sure that the supplied suits would be loaded with the same array of sensors that would be shipboard. Those sensors would continue to force him to keep his secrets from Dominique. He had to somehow dismantle them without rendering the suits useless.
The various pick-ups would be inaccessible without ripping into the suit structure, if then, and the potential for a nano-complement would mean some could be invisible. He had to damage them through some subversion, all three suits including the spare. It had to seem an accident. If he limited the damage to the electrical components, he was confident that he could then fix the suits to his specifications, repairing or replacing only the life support apparatus and implementing a basic suit-to-suit comm.
Center was going to have a meltdown but they’d be powerless to do anything about it. Or prove any intentional sabotage if Garrison pulled it off right.
For part of this plan, he was counting on his own “emotional weakness,” as he was pained to define it. He intended to lose himself in his anxieties. He would dive into the void of his infatuation for his co-captain; roil in the angst that someone at Center intended to create within him when they gave him those orders. He would twist himself up to be even more of a mess than he already was. It was the only positive side effect of these emotions that he could see: they would mask the additional nervousness that he’d be feeling as he executed the EVA suit sabotage.
He suspected that either an electrical overload or an electro-magnetic pulse might do the trick. He just had to figure out how to achieve this and have it impact the suits.
Ironically, one of his worries was his diminishing level of angst and discomfort around Dominique. While this gave him some relief, it also meant that he would need to enact his plan of sabotage while he could still stir up some intense inner turmoil. He quickly needed to figure out how to create the accident.
Would he do it after they put the suits on? If so, what electrical systems were handy for his needs? Life support? Chancy. Airlock door power? He saw a junction box next to the suit cabinet; access and subtlety would be the issues. Hmm… They’d be using the airlock door when they left the craft. How might he furtively cause its electrical set-up to malfunction in a way that damaged the suits? Could he do it without killing themselves in the process?
No. That was a dead end too. He’d taken shocks during EVA’s before; the suits were Faraday-like in their ability to resist that type of damage. He and Dominique would be fine, but so would the suits. External influence wasn’t the answer.
It had to be before they put on the suits.
They were racked in a cabinet across from the privy. He looked at them every time he came out of the head. He closed his eyes, reclining on his couch, visualizing the cabinet; there were some indicator lights glowing on the suits behind the clear crysteel doors. The suits must be connected to the ship’s systems for some reason. That could be his single advantage.
A suit check needed to be performed before any EVA—that might be his one and only opportunity. If he was doing the suit check and he could force a subsystem malfunction…
Okay, he had a direction to go in, hopefully.
Deep breath. Garrison leaned forward, as he quietly hummed his outbreath, and made some hand-gestures to bring up information regarding the suits. Dominique noticed what he was doing; it showed on her monitor. Again, she did not comment. Center would see that he had initiated the request but it should seem routine to anyone watching. Every ship had its idiosyncrasies, it just made sense for him to familiarize before they would use the suits.
Perfect! There was a high-voltage electrical system that tied into the suits. It did two things: trickle-charged the inner-layer heater batteries and maintained a low heat setting; and the air circulation pumps were kept running. These systems dried the suits after use when they were laden with the sweat of exertion, and kept them from condensing any moisture on the inside surfaces while not in use.
Nice touch. He’d forgotten this nicety of BUMP. Those outfits would be a lot fresher than his musty suit, back at USUCC.
Then there was the hard-wired, low-voltage connection. It was a back-up for systems check, monitored by the AI. As Garrison scrutinized the information and the handy schematic that rolled up on his implant, he saw that he would be able do it. Without even touching the suits.
It would make him look like an idiot, but he could run an override command to the AI. Since all of the physical connections eventually ran through hard-circuit switching, he could see how he could quickly program a shunt, allowing the high and low-voltage connections to cross inside of several expanded micro-relays at the cabinet. It would work—as long as the relays held together for a split second.
Garrison tested his anxiety with a glance at Dominique, and a clearly sub-vocalized inappropriate comment, “you are so fucking hot!” as he visualized fondling her breasts. It ramped up his heart rate and shortened his breath. He gauged the resulting emotional flip as just the cover he would need in the moment he committed his treachery.
It was a guarantee that Dominique would not stay silent when he ran the override, and Center would flinch bad, but he could piggyback two commands in a cascade so that the damage would be done before anyone could stop his “error.” He envisioned the hand movements that he would need to make, to quickly step through the execution.
Garrison returned to his inane hum. Next to him, Astra prepped for her sleep-cycle. He pulled up a few more ship systems to look over, assuring that he gave no clue as to any single interest in the EVA suits.
Timing was the next issue.
He would wait until they were on the verge of their first EVA, and then do his deed.
CHAPTER 26
EVENT: DAY 10, 0800 UT
Dominique felt a chill on her scalp.
The ship’s air scrubbers blew a slight breeze through the short stubble that had appeared in the last few days. It grew fast; she’d decided to let it grow back out. As interesting as it had been to shave it all off, she found she missed her golden mane.
Whether she’d actually accomplished her intentions by shaving it off in the first place, she had her doubts.
She’d dismissed the idea that Bartell was putting on an act with her. He was almost childlike in his various distresses and the pathetic attempts to hide them. His body also betrayed him on a regular basis. But he had begun to behave peculiarly; an entirely separate behavior from the clear emotional and sexual distress that he’d exhibited. She did her best to ignore it, as she had ignored his other “difficult” moments, but his humming was starting to get under her skin.
It wasn’t even a real tune. That might have been tolerable. This was just tuneless noise. The man had a weird way of dealing with his nerves. She assumed that was what he was doing. Every now and then he whispered something that she couldn’t quite catch, but it always sounded like the same thing. Maybe he was trying to meditate to calm himself, but she was close to asking him to stop with the humming.
As they reclined in the flight couches, he alternated between various busy activities, and closing his eyes and resting. He only ate the minimal nutrition cubes, drinking most of his sustenance. She was thankful for this—though his bathroom visits had become frequent, they had less impact on the cabin’s air quality.
She chided herself, but could not get away from her pity for the man. She kept this carefully masked; he’d feel worse than embarrassed if he knew. His ego was oversized, but even so, he seemed an all-right kind of guy. After their conversation, when he’d accepted the olive branch she’d offered, they’d maintained a sort of peace between them. But there was still something wrong that she could not put a name to. Bartell was growing on her; she considered that they might even be able to talk about what it was that she sensed.
That niggling feeling of wrongness caused her to hold back.
He seemed to be worried above and beyond his considerations for or about her. It might be the fact that they were about to face the unknown, but a man like Garrison Bartell, with his background and experience, had to be more stable in these situations.
Instead, she suspected that it was to do with the orders.
That’s what stopped her. Center would be listening to their conversations, and she wanted to maintain a professional appearance for the sake of her hard-won status and career. The orders were for him only (obviously, since the zephyr had blanked after he’d read it). If the conversation with Bartell turned toward those orders, it could be construed that she was attempting to discover something that Center meant to keep from her.
And there was the rub. Center meant to keep something from her. Ever since the orders there had been some changed, undefinable undercurrent in his energy. It had soaked in to her psyche, slowly, until she began to worry about just what those orders were. At the beginning of the assignment she’d reprimanded herself for having doubts concerning her mission. The doubts had stayed repressed for a time. But now, they returned, redoubled.
At the end of the fourth mission day, Dominique had only so much time to discover what was worrying Bartell; if it had to do with those orders, she wanted—no, she needed to know before they faced whatever it was they were up against.
For the first time in her career with SBMMP, she found herself ready to subvert the intentions of her superior officers. It did not sit well with her, but she could no longer deny that it was the truth.
So now, her dilemma: how would she get Bartell to tell her what was in those orders? She had to somehow further overcome the adversarial tone that had been set up between them.
And how was she going to do this without giving herself away to the monitors at Center?
CHAPTER 27
EVENT: DAY 8, 0950 UT
Taylor scanned the mess for Ensign Chris Friday.
All Lev could tell her was that Chris typically ate with certain other crewmen, but rarely with crewwomen. It intrigued her to hear this. It meant no competition, but she wondered what it meant for her chances with this Adonis. Was he married? Did he swing the other way? Did he have some personal code about relations during missions? If it was one of the first two, Taylor had struck out already. The third possibility was simply a challenge for her feminine wiles.
She’d know soon enough—she spotted his sandy hair; he was alone at a table reading a z-vellum. She made her way toward him. Based on the duty rosters, Chris’s crew companions, mentioned by Hahn, were on duty; she wanted him to have no distractions. His shift started in ten minutes, so she would have time enough to make an impression.
She asked in a seductive voice, “Excuse me? Is this seat taken?”
“No, you’re fine.” He barely acknowledged her, then checked his ship time. Immediately, he packed the mini-zephyr he’d been perusing into the small tube at his waist, making it clear that he was preparing to leave.
Taylor sat down. “Hey,” she said, not accepting his dismissal, “where are you going?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, were you looking for some lunch time company? My name’s Chris, but I’ve got to go; I’ve got duty in ten minutes.”
“Yeah, I know,” Taylor let slip.
“You do?” His body language changed as he now gave her full attention, his curiosity suddenly piqued, but not for the reason Taylor had planned or expected—the man showed no response to her as a woman.
“Well, I’m a friend of Lev Hahn’s…” she covered.
His attention returned to casual as he said, “Hahn?” He stared at her for a moment, then realization dawned. “So, you’re new on the ship. Didn’t think I remembered your face. Sorry to have to rush off. Watch yourself with Hahn, Miss, his motives are questionable. Have a good flight. See you around.” The man finished his sentence as he was moving away, then turned and was off before she could even bid him goodbye.
Taylor was confused. She had no real hit from him. He didn’t spark to her, but her intuition told her that he was the type to like woman. Married? Well, maybe. She’d find out somehow.
She got up and wandered over to the food selection displays. Feeling the eyes of the men in the mess following her, she added just such a small amount of strut to her step, and pretended to be oblivious to their attentions. Let ‘em work for it.
She examined the displays, her hips cocked, imagining the stares she must be receiving in her tight black flight suit. Her eyes came to rest on one food in particular, a nutritional high-energy product, packaged in the form of a dessert; specifically, strawberry shortcake with whipped cream. She almost laughed out loud.
She made a fist in front of that particular item’s display card. The fascinating replicator tech went into action; after a few seconds, a light flashed and a single chime sounded from the dispenser below. Her attention quickly shifted from the new gizmo to the treat it had made for her. Opening a door, she removed the most delicious looking thing she’d seen since Chris Friday left the room.
She turned and scanned the hall for the best seat—one in the middle of the biggest knot of shipmen that she could find. She picked her spot, then sashayed toward the group, focused on her treat. She took her long index finger, tipped with a finely manicured fingernail, and swiped it through the flourished tip of the whipped cream topping. Slowly, she inserted it into her mouth, pursing her lips around her first knuckle.
The area immediately around her had fallen into a hush except for a few women’s voices. She slowed for two steps, closing her eyes, drawing her finger out of her mouth, and letting out a sigh of pure pleasure, “Oh, wow, that’s delicious,” she said aloud as she opened her eyes again. She took a few more steps toward her chosen table; there was no room. Miraculously, a space opened between the servicemen as their eager eyes watched her approach. She smiled at them in thanks, and just squeezed into the spot.
“Have you guys had this? It’s incredible.” The men shook their heads or mumbled some expression of a negative. Taylor wasn’t surprised. How many of these macho men would want to be seen eating such a dainty dessert. Directly across, the only other woman at the table just stared.
Taylor asked her sincerely, “You?” The dark-haired, dark-featured girl was also very attractive, probably about her own age, or a little younger. She’d had the attention of the table all to herself until Taylor had elbowed in. It was clear enough that she was unhappy but smart and not about to look less in the eyes of her mates.
This was a competition, to be sure.
She responded easily, “I prefer chocolate. With a latte.” She got up from the table and walked toward the food dispensers. Taylor watched all of the men’s attention go with her as the woman made the most of a trim figure and tight fitting black and gray fatigues.
“Chocolate will make you fat.” Taylor interjected into the banter, but only loud enough for the men at the table to hear. It brought a few chuckles and the attention to her again, until her competition began moving back toward the table.
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At this point most of the men were quite entranced by what was developing between the two women. Some of them looked as if they watched a click-back match, heads turning back and forth from one to the other, mouths slightly gaped; others sat with self-satisfied smiles. Taylor hadn’t expected this turn in her explorations, but made a decision about how she wanted to handle it.
Her challenger sat back down at the table with a creamy mug of coffee and a little dish that held five chocolate-covered cherries. She ignored Taylor as she brought one to her lips. Somehow the girl had managed to put on a deep-red lip color in the interim between getting up and coming back to the table. It was highly effective. Her glistening, red lips pouted around the dark chocolate; she made an Mmmm sound as she bit through it, letting the liquid in the center flow wetly on her lips.
The girl’s attractiveness soared and she captured complete attention once again, her crewmen compadres being presented with a new side of their attractive co-worker.
She flashed her eyes at Taylor suggesting her triumph; most all of the men’s mouths hung open by degrees.
Taylor was ready though. She allowed her own fascination and pleasure to show on her face, then gave the girl an unmistakable come-hither look, with a subtle tongue lick of her lips. The men’s eyes were still riveted to their crewmate and no one but the woman caught the look.
It was perfect. In surprise, she gasped a quick in-breath and sucked half-a-chocolate right into her windpipe. Taylor half-expected something like this but had not intended for the girl to literally choke. With reflexes quicker than most; Taylor slipped up from her seat and, with boot on bench then table, she came across as the woman’s eyes went wide. Her mag-grav boots scattered mugs and plates of food. Leaping over the girl with her next step, she pushed off the ceiling in the low pseudo-gravity, and twisted to land behind the gagging soldier. Scooping her arms under the woman’s rib cage she jerked her up off the bench, simultaneously sending the dislodged sweet through the space that she’d just vacated.
Parallel Extinction (Extinction Encounters Book 1) Page 16