Solfleet: The Call of Duty (91 page)

Benny
sighed. “If you must have it, Commander.”

“Oh, believe
me, Benny, I must,” Akagi assured him.

“Then stop
wasting time and make your call.”

“I will.”
Taking a deep breath and softening his tone, again, Akagi added, “But until I
do receive that confirmation, please, make yourselves comfortable. We’ve got
dinner and a couple soft beds for you. I’m sure you’re tired after your long voyage
out here.”

“I’m not the
tired old man you might think I am, Commander, but I sure could use a hot meal
that doesn’t come out of a ration pack. Thank you.” To Dylan he said, “Come on,
Dylan. Let’s go eat some real food.”

“You know,
it’s funny,” Dylan commented as the three of them started back toward the
tunnel entrance.

“What’s
that, Lieutenant?” Akagi asked.

“The Portal.
It really does look like the top of an old swimming pool.”

Benny
smiled. “Wait ‘til later, Dylan. Just wait ‘til later.

- - - - - - - - - -

Somewhere deep
in the blessed interlight, a light started flashing on a laborer’s console. The
laborer reported the flashing light to his Vessel Priest. The Vessel Priest ordered
a long-range scanner sweep of the surrounding light systems. The scanner sweep
detected four small vessels orbiting the median world of the
Zielepchtah
light
system.

Demon
vessels.

Tseirran
vessels.

Whatever was
calling forth the temporal waves they had detected earlier, the
Tseirran
demons
had found it first.

That, simply
stated, was unacceptable.

The Next Day

Wednesday, 22 December 2190

Crewman
Anwaar al-Assari had been assigned to Mandela Station’s Central Solfleet
Communications Center for a little over a year, ever since he graduated from technical
school, but had always worked the day shift before—a shift filled with near
constant activity that had a way of flying by so fast that it would often be
over before he knew it. Sometimes even before he realized he was hungry enough
for a lunch break. Not at all like the midnight shift, which he’d just been
reassigned to thanks to the asshole ensign who ran it.

He’d always
made it a priority to not be a clock watcher, but that too had changed, he
realized as he gazed up at the wall chronometer for what he figured to be about
the hundredth time. He was on the midnight shift now. ‘The graveyard shift,’ his
coworkers unofficially called it. Now he understood why.

To simplify
daily operations, Solfleet did it’s best to keep all of its vessels, space
stations, and even as many of its planetary facilities as possible on the same
timetable—in the same time zone, so to speak—so al-Assari had known from the
moment his commanding officer informed him of the rotation that the midnight
shift was going to be boring duty. But he’d had no idea it would be
this
boring.
Six and a half hours so far and not one bit of comm traffic. Not even a stray
signal.

Wasn’t there
supposed to be a war going on somewhere?

“Cheer up,
Crewman,” the ensign said from across the room where he was busy pouring
himself another cup of coffee. He was lucky. As the officer in charge of the
shift he didn’t have to sit on his ass and stare at a quiet panel for eight
hours. He could read whatever he wanted, get himself a cup of coffee whenever
he wanted, and even take a cat nap if he wanted to, as long as he ensured that
his people got their meals and bathroom breaks when they needed them. “Look on
the bright side,” he went on. “After you get some sleep in the morning you’ll
have the whole afternoon and most of the evening to do whatever you want. That’s
what’s so great about this shift. It’s almost like not working at all.”

For some of them
it
was
not working at all, al-Assari mused. Then he said, “Personally,
sir, I’d rather be busy. That’s why I like day shift. Besides, I’m a morning
person. I’d rather get up early and work all day, then have the whole evening
to do what I want and all night to sleep.”

The ensign
grinned. “Come on. It’s not so bad.”

“Yes it is,”
al-Assari disagreed. “Hell, I’ll probably end up sleeping through dinner.”

“Maybe at
first,” the ensign assented as he set the coffee pot down. “But only until you
get used to it. After about a week or so, you’ll fall into the rhythm.”

“Why did you
have me switched, anyway?” He’d been waiting the entire shift to build up
enough courage to ask that question.

“Because, I
wanted...”

“Hold on a
second,” al-Assari interrupted, grabbing his headset off the console and
holding the speaker up to his ear.

“What’s
wrong?” the ensign asked as he raised his mug to his lips.

“Nothing’s
wrong, sir. I’ve got a message coming in.”

The ensign
sipped too much of his steaming coffee and swallowed the entire mouthful before
he could stop himself. His eyes teared as the liquid burned its way down, and
before he could set his mug aside he started coughing so forcefully that he
spilled half of its contents onto the floor. When he finally stopped coughing,
he grabbed his chest and drew several quick, deep breaths, trying to ease the
pain, until he became so lightheaded that he had to lean on the counter to keep
from falling down.

“You okay,
sir?” al-Assari asked. Not that he really cared. Actually, he’d found the
entire spectacle mildly amusing.

The ensign
nodded, though it wasn’t any more sincere than al-Assari’s show of concern.
When he could finally speak again, he asked, “You’re telling me we’re actually
receiving a transmission? At this time of night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re
kidding, right?”

“No, sir, I’m
not. I’ve got incoming traffic.”

“That’s
pretty unusual for this hour.” The ensign stepped over behind al-Assari’s
console. “What is it?” he asked, his voice still tight and raspy.

“I’m not
sure yet,” al-Assari answered as he listened intently. Then, after a few
moments, he said, “That’s strange.”

“What’s
strange?”

“It’s
definitely an official message, encrypted and scrambled with all the proper
codes and everything, but whoever sent it doesn’t identify themselves. There’s
no indication of where it originated, either.”

“None at
all?”

“No, sir.
Nothing. And it seems to be bouncing all over the stellar relay network. I’m
getting it directly from three very different bearings and picking up echoes
from at least a dozen more. It’s overlapping itself, drowning itself out...” He
continued to listen intently, periodically making slight adjustments to his
console, then added, “There’s another direct link and several more echoes. That’s
four directs now. No, make that five. I just got another one.”

“Is there
any way you can track it back far enough to find a convergence point?”

“I’m trying,
sir,” al-Assari answered, shaking his head as he spoke, “but I’m almost at
maximum range now and the signals are still spreading out.”

“All right,
forget it,” the ensign instructed impatiently. “This is getting ridiculous. Who’s
the message addressed to?”

The signal
terminated as abruptly as it had begun. al-Assari listened for another minute or
two just to be sure, then set his headset down on his console, sat back, and
looked up at his supervisor. “It’s addressed directly to Command Admiral
Chaffee, sir. For his eyes only. Do you think he’d be in his office this early?”

“Knowing
him, probably. But I sure as hell don’t want to be the first one in the morning
to call him.”

“Why not?”

“Have you
ever met Admiral Chaffee, Crewman?”

“No, but...”

“Trust me.
The old man can be pretty damn cranky in the morning. Especially before he’s
had his breakfast. Besides, there’s really no need for us to bother him personally
anyway. Tag the message with an audio call and then forward it to his office.
His terminal will beep at him until he manually accepts it. Let him yell at
that
first.”

“Yes, sir.”

The ensign
rubbed his chest and took another deep breath, then headed for the exit. “I’ll
be in Medbay if you need me. I think I scorched half my vital organs.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And do me a
favor, Crewman.” He pointed down at the coffee he’d spilled. “Clean that up for
me. It’s a safety hazard.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks,”
the ensign said. Then he left.

“Asshole can’t
even clean up after himself?” al-Assari mumbled.

* * *

Chairman
MacLeod had hoped to make short work of the information in the professor’s
handcomp, but he’d been so busy with his own day to day duties that he hadn’t
had much time to devote to it. What little time he had been able to spend on
it, however, had only served to draw him further into the mystery. So, much to
Kathleen’s chagrin, he’d devoted the entirety of the last several nights to
that singular pursuit.

And he was
exhausted.

He drew a
deep breath and exhaled noisily, then set the fifth or sixth or maybe even the
seventh handcomp he’d put to use during the night down atop the wobbly stack he’d
piled the others into. He rifled through the notepapers and printouts and data
chips that were still strewn from one side of his desk to the other in complete
disarray as they had been for the last two weeks until he found the ones he was
looking for. Then, as he began rereading some of them for the second or third
time in as many days, the answer dawned on him like the sun’s rays suddenly
breaking through a thick midday cloud cover.

“Well I’ll
be a son of a...” he mumbled, his eyes growing wide.

He grabbed
one of the handcomps from the middle of the stack and glanced at it, ignoring
the others as they crashed to the desk and at least one slid the floor. Wrong
one. He set it aside and grabbed another one. Wrong again. “Come on,” he
grumbled impatiently as he dropped it on top of the first. Third try. That was
it. That was the right one. He began rereading very carefully, paying
meticulous attention to one particular set of design and performance
specifications.

“Well I’ll
be damned,” he said aloud as he compared the data table on its screen with that
which appeared on the printed page. “So
that’s
what this is all about.”

He reached
out and jabbed at his comm-panel. “Kathleen, are you there?”

“
Where
else would I be at two o’clock in the morning after you’ve told me you’re going
to be here all night?
” she asked sarcastically.

MacLeod
stood up and started gathering the materials together. “I know it’s still early
in Geneva, but I need you to contact the president’s office right away. Have
whoever you reach let her know that I’m on my way down there with some very
important information. It is absolutely vital that I see her immediately upon
my arrival.”

“
I doubt
anyone will be there this early.
”

“I don’t
care if you talk to the cleaning crew, Kathleen! Call Geneva! Now!”

“
Yes,
sir!
” she responded in a huff. The channel closed.

She had a
right to be upset, he decided, but she’d get over it. He’d make it up to her
later.

As he
prepared to leave, he spoke to whatever restless essence of the old Cirran
professor might still be lingering in the physical world...not that he really
believed in that sort of thing. “Min’para, my friend, I promise you, you did
not died in vein.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The order
came, as he knew it would. The High Priesthood had even added its praise for his
Pod laborers’ vigilance. A great and blessed honor indeed.

The Pod
Priest sneered with satisfaction. He would be elevated for this, perhaps even
to the High Priesthood itself. But first things first. He had orders to carry
out. He gestured, and the laborer seated at communications obediently opened a
channel to the Pod’s subordinate vessels.

The Pod
Priest gave the word.

“Good
morning, Madam President,” Chairman MacLeod said as he walked right into her office,
handcomp in hand. He’d stopped by his new home in the exclusive neighborhood of
Astoria to clean up and change his suit before rushing over to LaGuardia to
catch the earliest and fastest possible flight to Geneva, so although he was
still very tired he at least looked fresh and presentable. President Shakhar,
on the other hand, looked as though she’d chosen her wardrobe in the dark. Her
forest green and black African serape would have been all right by itself, but
the red-brown wrap she’d pulled on around her shoulders clashed with it
something awful and had definitely seen better days.

Sitting
straight-backed behind her desk with her skeletal arms folded across her spare
chest, she stared at him with a sour expression on her face, and a curt nod
served as the only response she offered to his greeting.

Ignoring her
demeanor, or perhaps not even noticing it at all, MacLeod quickly took a seat
in the same chair he’d occupied during his last visit—had that meeting really
been almost four months ago already?—and said, “Thank you for seeing me on such
short notice again.”

“I suppose
you’re welcome, Mister MacLeod. Although I fail to understand why
your
secretary asked
my
secretary if she was part of the cleaning crew.”

“Uh, inside
joke, ma’am,” he replied. “Something just between the two of them, I think.” He’d
have to have a little talk with Kathleen when he got back.

“I see.”
Getting down to business, she asked, “So then, what is so terribly urgent that
I had to jump out of the shower, throw on whatever happened to be within reach,
and rush up here to meet with you before I even had a chance to enjoy my
morning tea?”