Solfleet: The Call of Duty (67 page)

“
You make
a valid point, Admiral. But I still believe in us.
”

“As do I,
Madam President. But even we have our limits.”

“
True
enough, unfortunately,
” she reluctantly agreed.

“You should
know, Madam President, just in case you do consider changing your mind down the
road, that as of tonight the individual we discussed that day in August has
agreed to join the agency.”

“
That’s
good to know, Nick, but I doubt anything will change. Good evening to you, and
may God bless us all.
” The screen went dark.

Hansen
leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I am, first and foremost, a soldier and a
patriot, Madam President,” he reflected.

Mandela Station, Ten Weeks Later

Thursday, 2 December 2190

Dylan had
had Beth trim his hair back to regulation length last night before they went to
bed, and had finally bowed to her wishes during his morning ritual and shaved
off the thick, dark brown moustache he’d started growing as soon as he’d left
Cirra. The shorter hair didn’t bother him at all—he’d been in the service his
entire adult life, so he was used to it—but after wearing the moustache for more
than two months he’d gotten used to it and its sudden absence felt as odd to
him now as wearing it had felt when he’d first grown it.

He’d missed
Beth a lot while he was away at the S.I.A. Academy. Much more than he would ever
have anticipated, considering how little time they’d had together before he
left. But even while sitting in the terminal last night, awaiting her arrival,
a part of him had been afraid to face her—afraid that she might be angry with
him for leaving her in the hospital the way he had. For leaving her to face
recovery on her own.

And then she’d
arrived and quickly dispelled his fears. Still a little sore from her wounds,
she’d run into his arms and embraced him as though she intended to never let
him go again. She’d explained then that she’d missed him, too, more than he
could know, but that she’d understood why he had to leave. All that mattered to
her was that they were finally back together again, and that had been all he’d
needed to hear. The second she’d released him he’d taken hold of her hand and
slipped the engagement ring over her finger and asked her to marry him, earning
himself another long embrace.

He cared for
her a great deal, but as he’d already learned the hard way, marriage was a huge
life-altering step. He sincerely hoped that he hadn’t made another mistake.

He slipped
the wide black pleather belt through the loops around the waistline of his dark
olive-burgundy and black Marine Corps class-A jacket—that unique color just
had
to be a trick of how the individual fibers were woven together to form the
fabric—then fastened the shiny gold buckle as he sidled over to the full-length
mirror to check himself out. One look and the absence of his short-lived moustache
was of no consequence.

It felt like
years since he’d worn that uniform, but in fact it had only been about nine months—the
Second Infantry Division’s change-of-command ceremony late last February. To
the men and women who wore it, it was a very special uniform indeed. Like those
of the fleet’s other branches, it sported the standard Solfleet badge, rank
insignia, and multi-colored ribbons to signify the wearer’s individual
achievements. But in lieu of specialty-specific collar regalia, all Marines
wore a pair of gold-plated Solfleet Marine Corps crests known as the ‘Falcon,
Sun, and Planets.’ An obvious offshoot of the United States Marine Corps’
Eagle, Globe, and Anchor, the Falcon, Sun, and Planets were no less coveted and
respected. With its wings spread wide in flight, the falcon clutched the
blazing sun in its talons as two planets and a cluster of moons representing
Earth, Mars, and all of the solar colonies, orbited their mother star in
safety. They were an insignia and a uniform with a relatively short but highly
honored history, and Dylan was proud to wear them both one more time.

And to think
he’d elected to give them up of his own free will.

“You’re
going to miss it, aren’t you,” Beth observed, stepping up from behind him and
wrapping her arms around his waist. Her long raven hair was still mussed from
sleep and the old faded blue cotton pajama shirt with the top two buttons
missing that she’d slept in was the only thing she was wearing.

“Yes,” he
answered honestly. He turned to his fiancée, took her by the waist, and kissed
her. “Then again, I missed the Military Police Security Forces for a while,
too, but I got over it.”

“At least
this job will be a lot less dangerous,” she said, mostly to reassure herself.

“Of that I’m
sure,” he agreed, at least outwardly. No need to add to her anxiety. Better to
allow her the luxury of believing that he wouldn’t be going into any more dangerous
situations.

“At least
you won’t have to worry about ending up in another combat unit the next time
you transfer,” she continued.

“That’s
true.”

She sighed and
her gaze fell to the floor, her forehead to his chest. “I know it can still be
dangerous work,” she conceded, “but I’m trying not to think about that.” She
looked up at him again. “I love you, you know.”

“I know. I
love you, too.” He pulled her close and kissed her again. Then he gave her bare
bottom a couple of gentle taps and said, “I have to go or I’ll be late for my
meeting.”

She held him
tight. “Is it that time already?” she asked.

“I’m afraid
so,” he answered.

She hugged
him even tighter, once again as though she intended to never let go.

“Of course,
if you want me to,” he added, “I could call the admiral and tell him he’s going
to have to wait until
I’m
ready to see
him
.”

“Yeah,
right,” she said with a snicker as she released him. “Go on. Get out of here
before you get yourself court-martialed.”

“There isn’t
a judge or jury in the galaxy that would convict me, once they meet you.”

She smiled. “Flattery
will get you anything you want,
after
you’ve seen the admiral.”

He smiled
back and said, “See you then.” He gave her one last kiss, then left their guest
quarters. He never said ‘good-bye’. Those particular words always sounded too permanent,
even when they weren’t intended to be.

He made his
way as quickly as he could through the enormous station’s labyrinth of curving,
crisscrossing corridors and arrived less than two minutes early for his
appointment with the Chief of Solfleet Intelligence. “Squad Sergeant Dylan
Graves,” he introduced himself to the pretty civilian secretary. “I have an
eight o’clock appointment with Admiral Hansen.”

The woman looked
up at him as if he were little more than an irritating piece of peasant trash
and said, “You can go right in.” and then seemingly dismissed the fact that he
existed at all as she returned to whatever it was she was doing.

Dylan
glanced at the engraved wood grain nameplate on her desk. ‘Victoria
Kennedy-Sands,’ it read.
Kennedy
-Sands. Well, that explained the
attitude, assuming that she was in fact related to that infamous American
political clan. Over the past two hundred years or so, the more prominent
and/or notorious among them had seemed to grow more and more conceited with
each successive generation. Apparently, no one had thought to remind this one
that she was nothing more than a government-employed secretary.

“Thank you,”
he said.

He
approached the admiral’s office door. When it didn’t open for him automatically,
he reached for the buzzer, disregarding the secretary’s instructions to just ‘go
right in.’ An enlisted man didn’t just walk right into an admiral’s office
without announcing himself, NCO or not, no matter who told him to do so. He
touched the pad.

“Come in,”
came a voice from the other side of the door.

He
straightened his jacket as the door slid open, then marched into the spacious
office, came to attention two steps in front of the standard Solfleet-issue desk,
and rendered a sharp salute. He found himself looking at an older yet
strikingly handsome man with short, thick, graying blond hair and a neatly trimmed
beard and moustache. The facial hair was new. The admiral had been clean shaven
when he saw him on the comm monitor two months ago.

“Squad
Sergeant Dylan Graves reporting as ordered, sir.”

The admiral
returned his salute, then said,” Relax, Sergeant.” His deep voice was gentle
yet commanding. Dylan stood at ease. “Your uniform looks regulation-perfect. I’m
impressed.”

It
was
regulation-perfect.
Dylan had made sure of that. “Thank you, sir.”

“Please.
Have a seat.”

“Thank you,
sir,” Dylan repeated as he sat somewhat stiffly in one of the two chairs that
faced his desk and waited for him to begin the briefing.

“I trust you
remember Commander Royer,” he said, nodding toward the door.

Dylan peered
back over his shoulder as that not very tall, near middle-aged blond woman with
the touch of gray in her hair stepped forward. The woman he’d first seen in the
base hospital on Cirra, wearing a doctor’s lab coat that didn’t belong to her.
The woman who’d failed to understand the meaning of the word ‘no.’ The woman
who’d come to his home the day he was released from the hospital and had tried
for over half an hour to get him to come to the door before she finally gave up
and went away.

“Good
morning, Sergeant,” she said as she took a seat in the chair beside him. “You’re
certainly looking a lot better than you were the last time I saw you. How are
you feeling?”

“Fully
recovered, Commander,” he answered without emotion. “Thank you.”

“That was
one hell of an encore you pulled off.”

“I left the
first show a little early.”

She grinned.
“So you did.”

“I don’t
believe the sergeant needs to be reminded of all that, Commander,” Hansen said.

Royer
glanced at her superior officer and agreed, “No, sir, of course not,” then
looked back at Dylan. “My apologies, Sergeant. I didn’t mean to stir up any bad
memories.”

“Apology
accepted, ma’am.”

“I’ll get
right to the point,” she continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “How much do you
know about the starcruiser
Excalibur
?”

“The
Excalibur
?”
he asked. What was this about? Why would she want to know how much he knew
about his father’s ship? What did that have to do with anything? Maybe he’d
find out after he answered her question. “Well, for starters, its last captain
was...”

“...was your
father,” Royer finished for him. “Yes, we know about that. What I mean is,
specifically, how much do you know about its loss?”

Dylan
shrugged his shoulders slightly. “Not much, really. The basic facts. Pretty
much what’s in all the publicized reports, I guess. I was only six when it
happened. Why do you ask?”

She looked
across the desk at her superior. “Admiral?”

Hansen
hesitated for a moment, then said, “Before we say anything more, Sergeant, I
want you to understand that this entire conversation is strictly top secret.
You will repeat nothing of what is said in this room. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I
do.”

“All right,
then here it is. It has recently come to our attention that Tor’Kana females
have some kind of biological connection to their home planet that makes it
impossible for them to travel away from there for more than a few days. If they’re
forced to breathe anything other than their natural, native atmosphere for any
longer than that, they die.”

“I guess
that would explain why we never see Tor’Kana females, sir,” Dylan commented, “but
what does that have to do with my father’s ship?”

“I want you
to understand the gravity of our situation.”

“What
situation is that, sir?”

“I’m sure
you’re well aware of the fact that last July an armada of over a thousand Veshtonn
ships invaded the Rosha’Kana star system and decimated the bulk of the Tor’Kana
defense forces.”

“Yes, sir.
Of course. It was all over the news. The Tor’Kana interstellar fleet was forced
to withdraw from other sectors and go home to bolster their defenses, and
whenever possible the other members of the Coalition, including us, sent ships
to help them.”

“That’s
exactly right,” Hansen confirmed. Good. The sergeant kept up on current events.
“That campaign was a hard-fought one that lasted for weeks,” he added, “but in
the end the Veshtonn won a decisive victory and drove the Tor’Kana from their
world.” He stopped the history lesson to let the gravity of what his words implied
sink in.

“Yeah, and...”
Dylan paused as the significance of the admiral’s statement hit him, then
concluded, “and...if their females can’t breathe anything but their native
atmosphere, then...”

“Then they’ll
die out,” Hansen finished for him.

“What about
survivors on Kana, sir?” Dylan asked. “I mean, we’re talking about an entire
planet here. There must be millions of places where survivors could still be
hiding out from the Veshtonn. There
could
even be a resistance movement
fighting back.”

Hansen drew
a deep breath and slowly exhaled, shaking his head, then answered, “The
Veshtonn dispersed a biological weapon as soon as they achieved planetary
orbit. Enough to poison the entire atmosphere for weeks and contaminate the
oceans and fresh water bodies for months, if not years.”

“My God,”
Dylan exclaimed. How could any intelligent being do such a thing to an entire
world? “What about escapees?”

Excellent.
Hansen liked an NCO who asked intelligent, logical questions. He considered
that a sign of a tactical thinker, which was exactly what his agency needed
more of. “Less than an hour before dispersal, a number of Tor’Kana crews did
manage to dip their vessels into the planet’s atmosphere and flood their cargo
holds with indigenous air, then escape with thousands of their females onboard.
According to their government in exile they were hoping to find a new world to
settle. One with an atmosphere they could quickly and effectively alter to
sustain them. Unfortunately, most of those ships were tracked and destroyed
before they got very far.”