***
Calvin awoke slowly, rubbing his eyes that seemed to be glued shut. His throat was parched, and his stomach growled like a beast on the brink of starvation. Everything was black, except for the blinding glow of the clock on the nightstand: 0430 LT and 1350 ST.
A yawn escaped him as he stretched out his limbs and crawled out of bed. His fingers skimmed his clumpy, messy hair. He’d slept on and off for the better part of fifteen hours. The unhealthy result of sleep deprivation, stress, and way too much equarius. Speaking of which … he reached for the bottle of pills and placed it back in its locked case, which he then buried in one of his many boxes. It’d been sloppy of him to leave the bottle in plain sight, even in his own quarters. Had someone seen the pills, he’d be in a lot of trouble.
His shirt was sweaty as he peeled it off, and he realized he hadn’t showered in over a day. Unusual for someone obsessed with being clean, when hygiene trumped breakfast as a top priority. Despite the protests of his stomach, food would have to wait a little longer.
The private shower was much larger than his on the Nighthawk, and being on the station carried another advantage: the hot water seemed endless. He scrubbed himself more than he needed to, lathering everywhere with soap as he enjoyed the soothing temperature and steam. It was relaxing, like his own personal chamber of solitude. There was a tranquility here that even equarius couldn’t offer, and, in his relaxed state, his mind wandered like in a dream.
Until a chirping sound brought him back to the present.
At first he didn’t know what it was, but, when he realized the comm panel was going off, he had to cut short his shower. As he grabbed for a towel to wrap around himself, he wondered who would call him this early. If it’s a sales call, they’ll never hear the end of my wrath!
He tapped a button on the panel, and the screen came to life; blue text informed him that a private call was coming through. He tapped Accept to the audio but Deny to the visual, since being broadcast wet and shirtless wasn’t his style, even if a few people might have enjoyed it.
“Lieutenant Commander Cross, are you there?” The voice was disguised by computer modulation.
“Yeah, I’m here,” said Calvin. “Who is this? What do you want?”
“I just want you to know … I’m sorry.”
He wondered if this was some kind of prank. “Sorry for what?”
“For involving you in this. But I hope, when the time is right, you’ll understand that there was no choice.”
Calvin didn’t say anything for a few seconds, wondering if the mysterious voice would continue.
It didn’t.
“Okay, I have no idea who this is. If you want something from me, you’re going to have to give me more to go on than that. Like your name and what this thing is you’re involved in.”
“Good-bye.”
The screen flashed the text Call Terminated. Calvin searched for caller information, but there was nothing, not even a callback link. Maybe the caller was harmless, but maybe not.
He wrote down what the caller had said, verbatim. Including details about the voice’s sound and texture. Even though the computer modulation had disguised the caller’s voice perfectly, no detail was worthless until proven otherwise. Perhaps if Calvin could identify what software had been used, he would be that much closer to identifying the caller.… Though he didn’t have the faintest idea how to begin that investigation.
The panel chirped again. He quickly tapped Accept Call and, in his haste, forgot to Deny Visual.
“Well, that’s certainly … unprofessional attire.” From the other side of the screen was the narrow brown face of Vice Admiral Harkov in full dress uniform, including her emerald rank insignia.
“Hey … what I wear at obscenely early morning hours—while on leave—is my business and not the Fleet’s.” He cracked a smile. He’d been chastised in the past for being too casual or sarcastic in tone while talking to the top brass; but since he wasn’t part of Harkov’s Fifth Fleet, he didn’t care what she thought of him. It was easy to let his privileged Intel Wing status get the better of him.
“They moved the trial from 0800 to 0600 to decrease media attention. Also it’ll be in chamber three instead of one. You’re still expected to be there early and in full dress uniform—I hope you packed one.”
“So do I,” he said with a smirk.
“That is all.”
Calvin saluted, and the call terminated.
So … two unwelcome calls already and both before six in the morning … I can already tell what kind of day this is shaping up to be.
He scrambled to find the pieces of his dress uniform—which were mostly wrinkled. “Where’s that damn hat?” he mumbled, while hopping on one foot to get on his pants. He dreaded the thought of wearing the whole outfit all day, including the coat and heavy boots. Sure it looked great, but it was horridly uncomfortable and far too hot.
Once he was technically presentable, deciding not to brush his hair because he was pressed on time and had to wear a hat anyway, he dug through a box of rations and grabbed a dehydrated breakfast to eat on the way. Mmm … everyone’s favorite.
He locked the door and headed for the trial chamber, choosing not to worry about the mysterious call.
The Phoenix Conspiracy Page 5