Solfleet: The Call of Duty (70 page)

Assuming, of
course, that it really was possible.

There was,
however, still one more very important point they hadn’t yet addressed. “How
would I go back, sir?” he asked, still not really believing that he could. “And
more importantly, how would I come back home?”

“Sorry,
Sergeant,” Royer said, answering in Hansen’s place. “We can’t tell you that
until you agree to do it.”

“Oh really?”
Dylan asked sarcastically.

“Yeah,
really,” Royer answered in kind.

“And what if
I agree, only to have you tell me that it’s a one way trip?”

“It’s not a
one way trip,” Hansen assured him. “The plan includes a way home.”

“And if I
refuse anyway, sir?”

“Due to the unusual
nature of this mission, that option does remain open to you,” the admiral told
him. “If you refuse then you’ll be taken from here directly to Medbay, where all
memory of this entire briefing will be erased from your mind.” He glanced at
Royer briefly—if she’d done something to attract his attention, Dylan had missed
it—then looked back to Dylan. “Then you’ll be given another assignment.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, we’re
continuing our search for your former neighbor. Assuming she’s still alive, perhaps
there’s something more she can tell us that might turn things to our advantage,
although that seems pretty unlikely. We already have a dozen agents searching
for her, but I guess one more wouldn’t hurt. If and when we find her we’ll send
a SpecOps team in to get her.”

A rescue.
Now there was a mission he could go for. A mission right up his alley. But a
memory-edit? He didn’t like the sound of that at all. The thought of someone
walking around in his brain playing with his memories was even scarier than the
thought of traveling back in time.

Perhaps
there was a way to avoid both. “I’ve already given you my word not to repeat
any of this, Admiral,” he pointed out. “A memory-edit...”

“Under the
circumstances, Sergeant Graves, your word isn’t good enough. Don’t take it
personally, though. In this particular case,
no one’s
word would be good
enough. If you refuse this mission you
will
undergo a memory-edit.”

Royer
cleared her throat, seemingly a little louder than should have been necessary. “Tell
me, Sergeant Graves, do you still see those creatures in your nightmares?”

“There was
only one creature, Commander,” Dylan reminded her without looking away from
Hansen, “and no, not for the past several weeks now.”

Hansen,
whose eyes had narrowed at the commander’s question with what looked to Dylan
very much like suspicion, straightened slightly in his chair and asked, “What
creature is that, Sergeant? What’s the commander talking about?”

“As you may
recall, Admiral,” Royer began before Dylan could answer, “the sergeant was
involved in that mission to rescue the Cirran Crown Prince and his consort from
the C-U-F a few months ago. In addition to the terrorists, they ran into a
couple platoons of Sulaini Army regulars and a detachment of Kree-Veshtonn
blood-warriors. He lost most of his squad on that mission and had nightmares
about it for some time afterward in which he reported seeing what, as I
understand it, he was only recently able to describe as some kind of horrible,
acid-spitting serpent-like creature. For a while he thought it had really been
there, even though his conscious memories told him otherwise. His doctors
described it to me as a classic case of post-traumatic stress, but if he’s not
having the nightmares anymore I guess they were finally able to help him sort
it all out.” She looked to Dylan to give some sort of confirmation.

“Yes, ma’am,
they were,” he said.

“I see,”
Hansen said, glaring at Royer.

Something
was wrong. There was something Hansen wasn’t saying—something between him and
Royer—and whatever it was, it was troubling him. A lot.

Hansen
looked at Dylan and said, “Well, Sergeant Graves, it seems you won’t be facing
a memory-edit after all, no matter what decision you make. An episode of
post-traumatic stress in your medical history precludes that possibility. So I
want your word that you will not repeat anything that’s been said in this
briefing.”

No
memory-edit due to post-traumatic stress? That didn’t make sense. On the
contrary, it seemed to him that a memory-edit would be a good way to
cure
post-traumatic
stress. Was that really all that was bothering the admiral? Possibly, but somehow
he didn’t think so. He strongly suspected there was something more, though he
couldn’t venture a guess as to what that something might be.

“I’ve
already given you my word, sir,” he pointed out.

“And I’ll
damn well hold you to it, Sergeant.” His eyes drifted back to Royer again, but
his words were still directed at Dylan. “So it seems you still have a choice,”
he said. Then his gaze shifted back to Dylan. “Help a dozen other agents to
locate your former neighbor, then step out of the Special Ops team’s way when
you find her so
they
can go in and rescue her, or accept the mission we’re
offering you. Go back in time and save your father’s life, the lives of his
crew, and hopefully the entire Coalition at the same time.”

The admiral
fell silent, finally, giving Dylan time to think. On the one hand he could help
try to find his neighbor, although the admiral had just made it abundantly
clear that he wouldn’t be allowed to take part in the rescue if they actually found
her. And, if they were successful, there was no guarantee that she’d be any
help in the overall scheme of things anyway. The Tor’Kana and the Coalition
might still be doomed. On the other hand, he could accept the time-travel
mission and potentially save them all. That was clearly the more important of
the two missions. His actions would have a much larger impact on the galaxy.
Compared to that, finding his neighbor two months after her abduction was
little more than busy-work—the kind of cold-trail mission usually reserved for below-average
agents who couldn’t be trusted with the truly important assignments. But
according to all the theories, history would be drastically altered, and not necessarily
for the better. Did he really want the weight of all that responsibility resting
on his shoulders?

And there
was one more thing to consider. Rather, one more person. Beth. As of last night
they were engaged to be married. What if he accepted the mission and succeeded,
then returned home afterward to discover that in the new reality he and Beth
weren’t a couple? What if she didn’t even know him? Or worse yet, what if she
ended up married to someone else? He might lose her forever. Was he prepared to
face that?

But again,
what about his father? It was equally possible that the changes would spare his
life, perhaps for good. Not to mention all the lives of his crew and the
Coalition as a whole, as the admiral had just pointed out. Imagine...a chance
to actually tell his father that he forgave him. Even better, a chance to convince
him to return to his family. How different might his own life have been, if
only...

And there it
was. That was the key to his decision. Life without his father had been.
Had
been
. Life with Beth was
now
, and although they hadn’t been together
very long yet, he loved her very much.

He finally
looked Hansen in the eye and said, with his head held high, “I’ll help to find
my former neighbor, sir.”

The Admiral
looked like a deflating parade balloon as he let go a long, quiet breath.

Hansen was
disappointed, and he knew that it was his own damn fault. He’d given the
sergeant two choices instead of just one order. “Very well, Sergeant,” he said.
“Your assignment orders will be delivered to you in your guest quarters. Until
you receive them, you’re free to enjoy your stay aboard the station. Dismissed.”

Dylan stood
at attention, saluted, then turned on his heel and marched toward the door.

“Oh, and one
more thing,” Hansen called after him.

Dylan
stopped and turned back. “Sir?”

“You’re not
a sergeant anymore, Mister Graves. All S-I-A field agents are commissioned
officers, as I believe Commander Royer once mentioned to you.”

“Yes, sir, she
did.”

“Therefore,
as of this date, by order of the president of the United Earth Federation, as
recommended by the commanding admiral of Solfleet and the chairman of the
International Council on Solar Affairs, you, Dylan Edward Graves, serial number...you
know your serial number...are hereby commissioned an officer of Solfleet and
appointed to the rank of lieutenant junior grade. Congratulations.
Now
you’re
dismissed.”

“Thank you,
sir. That was some ceremony.”

“On your
way, Lieutenant.” Dylan turned toward the door. “And, Lieutenant.”

He turned
back once more. “Yes, sir?”

“There’s a
formal banquet and ball being held in the Presidential Ballroom tomorrow night
at nineteen-thirty hours to commemorate the anniversary of Earth’s joining the
Coalition. As our newest commissioned field agent, I’d like you and your
fiancée to join with Commander Royer and me in representing our office. Tor’Kana
Ambassador ZielKorj is the guest speaker.”

“The Tor’Kana
ambassador, sir?” Dylan asked. “After everything his people have gone through he’s
speaking at a social function?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I swear I’ll
never understand them as long as I live.”

“Nineteen-thirty
hours, Lieutenant. Formal dress.”

“Understood,
sir.” He turned to leave once more, and this time actually made it through the
door.

As soon as
the door closed behind his newest agent, Hansen sprang to his feet so fast that
his chair shot out from under him and crashed into the wall behind his desk. “Why
the hell wasn’t I told about those nightmares of his, Commander?” he asked
angrily, glaring at her.

Royer stood
quickly and answered, “I didn’t think it was necessary to bother you with it,
sir. They were dealt with and totally discredited.”

“You didn’t
think it was necessary? Do you have any idea what’ll happen to this agency, not
to mention the two of us, if his memory ever returns completely and he figures
out what he really went up against on that mission?”

“Admiral, in
all the years the fleet has employed memory-edits there hasn’t been a single
case in which the edit failed and the suppressed memories returned. His memory
can’t...”

“His memory
obviously did!” Hansen interrupted. “Subconsciously at least! Who’s to say that’s
where it will end?”

“Like I
said, sir, his nightmares were completely discredited.”

Hansen drew
a deep breath to calm himself down. “Maybe so, Commander, but that still doesn’t
solve our current problem, does it? Do you believe for one second that I would
have discussed the Timeshift mission with that man had I known we weren’t going
to have the option of employing another memory-edit on him?”

“He just
gave his word not to...”

“I don’t
care
what
the hell he just gave, Commander!” Hansen shouted. Then he
paused again—he wasn’t generally the kind of commanding officer who yelled at
his staff like they were disobedient children—and took another deep breath,
then resumed in a more civilized tone of voice. “Listen, Liz. You and I are
acting in direct violation of orders from the president of the United Earth Federation.
If Graves ever talks, either about this briefing or about the creature he faced
on Cirra, it’s all over for us. Even if, by some miracle, we
do
manage
to fight off the Veshtonn, our careers are finished.”

“But he
declined the mission, sir,” she pointed out. “We’re not going through with the
operation, so we’re not violating...”

“Don’t argue
semantics with me, Commander,” he told her sternly, though he did manage not to
shout at her again. “In this particular case, just mentioning the proposition
is a violation, and you damn well know it.”

“Yes, sir,”
Royer acknowledged, dropping her gaze to the desktop. Just because he wasn’t shouting
at her anymore didn’t mean his words carried any less weight. But after a
moment’s pause she raised her eyes back to his and asked, “Am I to assume then,
sir, that Lieutenant Dylan Edward Graves now represents a clear and present
threat to Earth security?”

If Hansen’s
eyes had been laser emitters their glaring beams would have burned a hole
through the center of Royer’s head. “Get the hell out of my office, Commander,”
he said through gritted teeth.

“Yes, sir,”
Royer said, turning quickly toward the door. “I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ sir.”

“Damn right
you will,” the admiral confirmed. Royer stopped and faced him again as he
continued. “I will not have one of my brand new agents, formerly one of our
most outstanding Special Operations non-comms, eliminated simply to save my own
ass. Or yours. Do I make myself perfectly crystal clear, Commander?”

“You do,
sir.”

He pointed a
firm finger at her and added, “And, in case I didn’t make myself just as clear
to you earlier, don’t you
ever
set up another service member for
blackmail again or I will burn your ass to a crisp myself! Do you understand
that?”

“I
understand, sir.”

“Good.
Dismissed.”

Royer turned
and left, in a hurry, wondering what the hell had gotten into the admiral.
She’d never seen him so angry.

Hansen
recovered his chair and sat down, and couldn’t help but wonder what else Royer
might be hiding from him. There was one thing she had been honest about though.
In all of the Earth’s medical archives there wasn’t a single record of a memory-edit
ever having failed. He knew that much for a fact, because he’d researched it
thoroughly himself before he gave her his permission to have one performed on
Graves.