Solfleet: The Call of Duty (92 page)

Uh oh. It
was a fact as well known as her infamous wrath that the president hated to miss
her morning tea.
Really
hated to miss her morning tea. Maybe
that
was
why she’d been so short with him the last time.

“I sincerely
apologize for that, Madam President,” MacLeod told her, hoping to smooth things
over. “But I think...”

“Apology
accepted, Mister MacLeod,” she interrupted. “Now, please, get on with it.”

She was
definitely not in one of her more patient moods.

“All right.
I won’t trouble you with specific details unless you ask me to, but I have some
information here...” He briefly held the handcomp up where she could see it, “...indicating
that sometime between six and seven years ago, roughly a year or so after he
took over the Solfleet Intelligence Agency, Admiral Icarus Hansen, probably
with the assistance of his Deputy Chief, then Lieutenant Commander Elizabeth
Royer, as well as with that of several members of her research and development
team...”

“Get on with
it already, Mister MacLeod,” the president insisted.

“Yes, ma’am.
I have information indicating that Admiral Hansen and Commander Royer produced
an army of clones six or seven years ago, and that they made arrangements to
have them enhanced with combat cybernetics in direct violation of the
Brix-Cyberclone Cessation Act of twenty-one sixty-two.”

“What
information?” the president asked, unfolding her arms as her entire demeanor
changed to one of genuine concern.

“Further,
this information also indicates that Hansen did, in fact, issue orders that
would send at least some of those cyberclones into combat as soon as they were
ready.”

“What
information do you have, Mister MacLeod?”

“And not
only that, Madam President,” he went on, still ignoring her questions. “Three
and a half months ago, when it happened that the facts of what they had done
were in danger of being revealed, they took some incredibly drastic steps to
insure that their secrets would remain secret.”

“Just a
minute, Mister MacLeod,” the president impatiently interrupted, raising a hand
to stop him. “First of all, violation of the Brix-Cyberclone Act is a very
serious allegation to make against anyone, let alone two of the finest officers
in Solfleet.”

“Yes, ma’am.
I realize that.”

“And
secondly, that same act put an end to all human cloning and related research
the day it was passed, before any success in age acceleration testing was
realized. If, in fact, a group of clones was bred six or seven years ago, they
wouldn’t be near ready for cybernetic enhancement yet, let alone be old enough
for combat training. How could they possibly have been sent into actual combat
already?”

“How indeed,
Madam President?” he asked in return. “How could they possibly have had enough...
time
...to
grow to adulthood, undergo cybernetic enhancement, and train for combat in only
seven years?” He fell silent and waited, allowing her a few moments to ponder
the possible answers to those questions.

Only one
possible answer came to mind, and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one
damn bit. “My God,” she muttered. “Do you have proof of this?”

Raising his
handcomp between them again, he answered, “Overwhelming proof, Madam President.
I wouldn’t have brought this to you if I didn’t.”

She
hesitated, but she had no choice in the matter, and she knew it. “Perhaps you’d
better trouble me with those specific details after all, Mister MacLeod.”

“I thought
you might say that.”

* * *

Command
Fleet Admiral Winston R. Chaffee, commanding officer of the entire Solfleet,
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, answerable only to the president and to the secretary
of Solar Defense, greeted the numerous members of his personal staff and their
hordes of support personnel with a friendly smile and a nod of his mostly bald
head as he made his way briskly through the outer offices. Then, finally, he
escaped into his own.

As soon as
the door slid closed behind him, he relaxed his abdominal muscles and let his
generous belly press against his almost blindingly white uniform jacket, which
felt a little tighter than usual this morning. Actually, it had been feeling a
little tighter
every
day lately. As a kid he’d been downright skinny,
but adolescence had played a cruel trick on him and he’d been fighting a weight
problem ever since. Not so long ago he’d finally begun to win that battle, but
he’d been so busy in the months since taking over the top office that he’d had
no spare time to spend keeping himself in shape, and the fact that he’d been neglecting
his body for over a dozen weeks now was really beginning to show.

At least, it
was readily apparent to him. No one on his staff would ever say anything, of
course. They were always too busy sucking up to him and bowing down like he was
some kind of deity or something, no doubt hoping that their blind devotion
would prove helpful in their efforts to advance their own careers.
God
,
he hated that!

Before he
took another step, he heard the communications console on his desk bleeping at
him. “Oh, for crying out loud,” he mumbled as he approached his desk. “Can’t I
sit down and drink my coffee in peace just once before the galaxy throws its
daily crisis at me?” He reached across to the far side of the desk and thumped
the comm-panel’s ‘receive’ button with one beefy finger. “Admiral Chaffee here,”
he grumbled.

When no one answered
he walked around his desk and looked down at the screen, and noticed the
message’s prominent ‘Command Fleet Admiral Chaffee’s Eyes Only’ parameter.
Suddenly serious, he set his coffee down on his desk and took his seat,
silently praying that the message didn’t contain news of another terrible defeat
at the hands of the Veshtonn. Especially a defeat in the Rosha’Kana star system,
which sadly enough had been looking inevitable for some time now.

“Computer. Special
security voice recognition sequence, classification Top Secret-Eyes Only,” he
said.

“
Special
security voice recognition sequence, classification Top Secret-Eyes Only
initiated,
” the computer responded in its standard voice. “
Commence
procedure.
”

“Recognize
Chaffee, Winston Ronald, Command Fleet Admiral. Serial number S-C, two two five
two, dash nine nine three eight seven. Commanding Officer, Solfleet.”

“
Chaffee,
Winston Ronald, Command Fleet Admiral. Serial number S-C two two five two dash
nine nine three eight seven. Commanding Officer, Solfleet. Voice recognition
verified. Please enter security access code manually.
”

Chaffee did so, and in less than a second the decrypted message appeared on
his screen. “Okay,” he said aloud to himself. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

TO:
Commanding Officer, Solfleet.

FROM:
Commanding Officer, Station X-ray One.

SUBJECT:
Request Confirmation of Orders.

BODY:
Admiral, an S.I.A. agent has recently arrived

this
station. His mission orders are, to say the least,

unusual,
and I would like you to confirm them for me

before I allow him to proceed.
Orders indicate...

Chaffee
stopped reading and rolled his eyes with a sigh and shook his head in disgust.
He should have been used to it by now, he supposed. Throughout his forty-plus
year career with the fleet there had been many hundreds, perhaps even thousands
of days that had started out bad and grown steadily worse. But it was just too
damn early in the morning to have to deal with any of Commander Akagi’s
bitching.

Actually, he
reconsidered as he glanced at his watch, it wasn’t really all that early. But
Akagi had contacted him on far too many occasions over the past few months for
far too few legitimate reasons, most of them trivial and some of them hardly
worth his attention at all, like Admiral Hansen’s periodic calls, and he’d long
since grown tired of hearing from the sniveling little twerp. Due to Station
X-ray One’s sensitive nature and to the very real importance of the commander’s
research, he’d tolerated the seemingly constant annoyances in the past, but
lately it had really begun to get ridiculous.

Yes, he was
the command fleet admiral—the overall commanding officer of the entire solar
space fleet and all of its facilities. But did that mean he had to be advised
of every detail of every mission that every member of the fleet was assigned
to? Of course not! That’s what the joint chiefs and the myriad of division and
agency commanders were for. He was too damn busy with too many other things to
micromanage the whole damn fleet! If Akagi wanted confirmation of S.I.A.
orders, then he could contact the S.I.A. chief to get it.

“Computer, my
authority, delete ‘Command Fleet Admiral Chaffee Eyes Only’ parameter and
rescramble and encrypt the message. Forward to the Office of the Chief of
Solfleet Intelligence, status unread.”

“
Confirmed.
Do you request confirmation of receipt?
”

“Negative.”

That done,
Admiral Chaffee sat back to enjoy his morning coffee.

* * *

President
Shakhar slowly rose from her chair and stepped over to the window. Gazing out
over the city below, far beyond the distant snowcapped peaks and the sparkling
sapphire lake, beyond even the sky itself, she asked, “Is there any possibility
at all that your conclusions are wrong, Mister MacLeod? Could the both of us,
you and I, be missing something? Some small detail that might change what this
material you have inherited implies?”

“Change the implication
of intentionally altered records, Madam President?” he asked in response. “I
remind you that Professor Min’para was murdered on a busy city street in broad
daylight for this material. If he wasn’t close to uncovering something
criminal, why would anyone so desperately need to silence him?”

“They wouldn’t,”
she conceded. She turned and faced him. “I was just hoping that you might say
something...
anything
...that might give me some legitimate reason not to
issue a presidential arrest order against a man who just happens to be one of
the finest military officers I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

As he looked
at her, as he listened to her simple explanation, MacLeod realized that this predicament
was much more painful for her than he’d expected it would be, and he couldn’t
help but sympathize. He’d seen a few of his own friends’ careers come to
shameful and premature ends over the years himself. Such a thing was never
easy.

“I’m sorry,
Madam President,” he finally said. “I truly am. But I see no other alternative.”

She sighed
heavily. “Nor do I, Mister MacLeod,” she said, shaking her head sorrowfully. “Nor
do I.” Then again... She turned back to the window and stared outside once more.
No. No way. An absolutely unacceptable option. But still she asked, “Have you
told anyone else about this? Anyone at all?”

“I did get
in touch with Professor Verne during my research, but I only told him what was
absolutely necessary to get what I needed from him,” he answered, none the
wiser. “Mostly I just lied to him. He doesn’t know anything about Min’para or
about the allegations I’m making here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Professor
Verne wasn’t stupid. That went without saying. If something were to happen to
MacLeod now, so soon after he’d gone to him for help, he’d have questions. And
sooner or later he’d probably take those questions to the police. She shook her
head, ashamed. It was a horrible idea and she silently scolded herself for even
considering it.

“Stop by the
military magistrate’s office on your way out. There will be arrest warrants
issued for both Vice-Admiral Hansen and Commander Royer by the time you get
there. Once you’ve picked those up, go to the C-I-D office and advise the
commanding officer there of what’s going on. Have him assign an agent to
accompany you to Mandela Station.”

MacLeod was
taken aback. “To accompany
me
, Madam President?” he asked.

“Yes, Mister
Chairman, to accompany you. We’re talking about presidential-level arrest warrants
here. The agent will have the authority to arrest, but I want you to serve the
warrants personally.”

“But I’m not
a law enforcement officer...
or
an officer of the court.”

“You’re not
a criminal investigator either, and yet here you sit after having conducted a
criminal investigation.”

“Yes, ma’am,”
MacLeod said as he stood up and started toward the door, though he was anything
but enthusiastic over the idea. “And Madam President?” She didn’t turn. “Once
again, I’m very sorry this had to happen.”

When she
didn’t respond, he walked out without another word.

“So am I,”
she whispered after the door closed behind him.

Admiral
Hansen was having one of those days. The kind of day that starts off badly and
only gets worse as it drags by. The kind of day where absolutely nothing seems
to go right. The kind of day that made a person whish they had never climbed
out of bed. And he hadn’t even made it to the office yet.

He’d crawled
out of bed a full hour earlier than usual, intending to sit down and watch the
early morning news over breakfast. He’d wanted to see if the investigative
reporter looking into that Federation Building shooting that had occurred a
couple weeks back—the guy was supposedly the best in the business—had managed
to discover the identity of the suspect who’d died in the hospital yet. The
suspect who had cost five New York City police officers their lives. He knew
the chances of that were slim, but a slim chance was better than no chance at
all.

Under normal
circumstances Hansen would simply have tapped into his own sources. He had them
virtually everywhere and sooner or later one of them would have come through
for him. They always did. But if the dead suspect was in fact Professor Min’para—all
he knew for sure was that the professor hadn’t yet made it home—the last thing
he wanted to do was to create a trail of inquiries that might lead the investigating
authorities straight to him and Royer. Better to avoid showing any interest at
all.

So far the
U.S. Marines and civilian security guards who’d been involved in the incident
hadn’t been any help at all with regards to determining the dead suspect’s identity.
That in itself seemed more than a little odd to Hansen. Between the four of them
they should have been able to provide enough information to positively identify
the suspect within the first twenty-four hours. But instead, the F.B.I. and the
C.I.D and the Solfleet Intelligence agents he’d assigned to follow their
progress had only hit one road block after another. Every lead had led them to
a dead end.

The more he
thought about it, the more it seemed as if there was someone somewhere on the
inside, working against them.

Oh well.
Hopefully, Commander Royer and her team would find the professor soon, alive
and well and safely out of their business. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about
it anymore. He grinned, despite the urgency of it all. The look on her face
when she’d had to come to him and report that her team had lost track of the
old guy—that she’d failed—had been priceless.

He’d managed
to get a shower and pull on his uniform in peace, but five minutes after he’d
started his breakfast an urgent call had come in from the midnight shift duty
officer, yet another young ensign—weren’t newly commissioned officers ever
assigned to the fleet or to line units anymore?—who’d been left on her own and
in charge for the very first time. It had only taken a couple of minute for
Hansen to convince the young officer that her situation wasn’t nearly as urgent
as she’d thought it was, but as luck would have it that had proven to be just
long enough to ensure that his breakfast overcooked and was ruined beyond recovery.

He’d
considered starting breakfast over again, but rather than risk ruining it twice
in the same morning he’d decided instead to grab something at the officers’ dining
facility. He’d headed directly there, and had been sorely disappointed in his
selections. One bite of whatever kind of meat it was that had been served with
the eggs was all it had taken to remind him of why he’d started cooking for
himself in the first place. Even after centuries of improvements, military
rations prepared in bulk still tasted exactly like military rations prepared in
bulk.

After
breakfast, what little of it he’d actually eaten, he’d left the dining facility
and headed down the corridor to lift 137, the one that would take him directly
to his department, only to discover that some kind of malfunction had shut it
down, trapping at least half a dozen flag officers between two decks. As good a
place as any for a couple of them, as far as he was concerned. Maintenance
crews had been hard at work trying to rescue them, but once that was done it
would likely take ‘two to three days, give or take a few hours,’ according to
the repair crew supervisor, for service to be completely restored. So he’d had
to double back and walk three times as far to the main elevators.

There he’d
run into the station’s Military Police chief, who’d been glad to bump into him
so early because there was a matter of extreme importance he needed to discuss
with him. Unfortunately, he’d left the reports and supporting documents he
needed to refer to back in his office, so he needed the admiral to accompany
him there, if he wouldn’t mind. And of course, in the interests of
interdepartmental harmony, he hadn’t minded.

Naturally,
the matter hadn’t been as important as the Military Police chief had thought it
was, but their discussion had nonetheless dragged on for more than two hours.

Hansen
snapped out of it just in time to respond to a passing crewman’s greeting with a
polite “Good morning,” and then glanced at his watch as he stepped into the
agency’s offices, and immediately wished he hadn’t. It was a little after 1000
hours. Far too early to escape to his quarters and put this miserable day
behind him, yet far too late to be wandering into his office for the first time
to begin the day’s work.

A couple of
years ago it wouldn’t have been a problem. A couple of years ago he could have
shown up late and still gotten his work done by the normal end of duty hours, if
not earlier. But this wasn’t a couple of years ago. Things had gotten a lot
busier since then, especially over the last six or seven months. The long and
very costly succession of Veshtonn victories that had followed their invasion
and occupation of the Rosha’Kana star system had kept the agency busier than he
could ever have dreamed possible, and the renewed campaign to liberate that
system was certainly no different, though Coalition forces were slowly,
finally, beginning to get the upper hand out there. Intelligence reports were constantly
flooding in from all directions. Teams were being assigned or reassigned almost
on a daily basis. And of course, worst of all, there were the losses and the
letters to grieving families that went with them. He felt as though he’d
written more of those in the last six months than in all of his previous years of
service combined.

He and his
staff always had a lot to do. A full day’s work really was a full day’s work,
if not more. So now, unless he wanted to work straight through dinner and well
into the evening, he was going to have to find a way to squeeze this full day’s
work into little more than half a day. Of course, if he did work late, that
would leave Heather to cook dinner again, and that wasn’t a bad thing at all.
She’d turned into quite the gourmet chef lately.

He sat down
at his desk—had he said ‘Good morning’ to Vicky? Had she even been there?—and
noticed that the incoming message indicator on his terminal was flashing. The
time/date stamp indicated that the message had come in a few hours ago. “Receive
and play message, full audio-video mode,” he said.

“
Message
is scrambled and encrypted. Please provide decryption access code.
”

“Hansen,
Icarus. Vice-Admiral. Alpha one dash one nine one beta alpha.”

“
Access
code accepted. Message is text only,
” the computer advised him.

“Display at this location.” The message immediately appeared on his screen.

TO: Commanding Officer,
Solfleet.

FROM: Commanding Officer,
Station X-ray One.

SUBJECT: Request Confirmation
of Orders.

BODY: Admiral, an S.I.A.
agent has recently arrived

this station. His mission
orders are, to say the least,

unusual, and I would like you
to confirm them for me

before I allow him to
proceed. Orders indicate that he

is to go through. This is
highly irregular. Please

confirm. Say again. Please confirm. Standing by.

Hansen
leaned back in his chair and sighed. As if the day hadn’t been difficult enough
already, now he had to deal with the growing conflict within his own conscience
all over again. Not to mention with that annoying Commander Akagi. This was the
last thing he’d expected to happen. He’d thought that once Lieutenant Graves
left the station, that would be it. There would be no turning back—assuming Captain
Sedelnikov got him to Window World safely, of course. While it was true that
Commander Akagi was an egotistical and self-righteous man who thought himself
more than just a little bit superior to everyone else, Hansen had never even
considered the possibility that the little twerp might actually have the gonads
to interfere in an S.I.A. matter. Yet he had done just that. And in doing so he
had unwittingly provided Hansen with one final opportunity to abide by the president’s
decision and cancel the Timeshift mission. One final opportunity to save his already
tenuous career.

He thought
about it very seriously for several minutes. He was usually a man who stuck to
his guns no matter what once he made up his mind about something, but this time...this
time he couldn’t be so sure. He’d been wrestling with second thoughts almost
from the beginning.

At least
Admiral Chaffee hadn’t read the message before forwarding it to him. If he had,
the decision would already have been made and the day would have gotten a whole
lot worse for him than it already was, real fast. Chaffee would have sent a
message canceling the mission and he’d most likely have been thrown into the
brig by now. But Chaffee hadn’t read it, so none of that had happened.

Yes, he was
definitely having one of those days, but perhaps the fates were giving him a
chance to make it a little better.

He tapped
his comm-panel’s ‘call’ button. “Admiral Hansen to Commander Royer.”

“
Royer
here, sir.
”

“Where are
you right now, Liz?”

“
On my
way back from a meeting with the station X-O. Less than a minute away.
”

“See me in
my office, please.”

“
Yes,
sir. I’ll be there in about two seconds.
” She stepped through the door before
Hansen could even close the channel. “What’s going on, Admiral?” she asked as
she approached him.

“This
message just came in this morning,” he told her, pointing at his screen. “Take
a look at it, Commander.”

He scooted
his chair to one side, making room for her as she walked around his desk to
stand at his side. She read the message, then looked down at him and asked, “Have
you sent him a confirmation message yet?”

“Not yet,”
he answered, staring at the screen.

When he said
nothing further, she asked, not without some measure of doubt, “May I assume,
sir, that you intend to do so?”

He folded
his arms across his broad chest and considered his answer for a few moments.
Then, looking up at her, he told her, “I’m not so sure we should go through
with this mission anymore, Commander.”

Royer
stepped out from behind his desk, allowing him to move back to his rightful
place. If she was going to...to question his resolve, and perhaps even his
fitness to command, looking down her nose at him while invading his personal
space was
not
exactly the best way to do it. She took a seat directly across
from him and paused for a moment to gather her thoughts and carefully—
very
carefully—consider
her next words.

“I realize,
sir, that you’ve had your doubts about this mission from the beginning,” she pointed
out as tactfully as she could. “Especially since the president chose not to
authorize it. But I’ve never known you to second-guess your own orders once you’ve
issued them.”

“You make it
sound as though I’ve never made a mistake.”

“Well, we
all make mistakes, of course. But I’ve never known you to give an order unless
you were sure it was the right one. Consequently...”

“I know,
Commander,” he agreed. “But you’ve got to admit that these particular orders
are highly unusual.”

“Granted,
sir, but they also happen to be necessary. This mission is absolutely essential
to the survival of our world.”

“Not
necessarily, Liz,” he countered. “The tide of battle in the Rosha’Kana star
system is beginning to turn in our favor. If we do in fact prevail in that
campaign and return the Tor’Kana to their world...”

“For how
long, Admiral?” Royer asked. “If we do drive the Veshtonn out, how long do you
think they’ll
stay
out? They know as well as we do how vital the Tor’Kana
are to the Coalition’s survival. How much time to rebuild our forces do you
think they’ll give us before they turn around and invade that system all over
again?”

“They’ll
have some rebuilding to do, too, you know,” Hansen pointed out.

“Which they’ve
always managed to do a lot faster than we have,” she reminded him. “That’s a
cold hard fact, and you know it. Sir.”

She had a
good point. Two of them, actually. “You’re absolutely right, Liz,” he told her.
“The Veshtonn have shown us many times during this war that they can rebuild
their forces a lot faster than any of the Coalition members can...
including
the
Tor’Kana. And they
do
know how vital the Tor’Kana are. But that doesn’t
necessarily guarantee they’ll try to take Rosha’Kana back again. At least not
right away, because now they
also
know what lengths we’re willing to go
to in order to defend that system.”

“Which does
not one damn thing to improve our chances of defending it successfully when the
time comes, sir,” she countered. “And you
know
the time will come. They’ll
invade again,
before
we’re ready for them.” She paused a moment,
strictly for effect, then added, “You need to send a confirmation message right
away, Admiral. Deep down inside you know as well as I do that Timeshift is the
only hope we have.”