The Firestorm Conspiracy (2 page)

But to whom?

To his supervisor? She’d never believe him. Besides, how was he to know she wasn’t involved in the plot too? His colleagues transformed into terrorists as his imagination rapidly gained momentum.

He restarted his computer.

Kree had only one option. His fingers shook as he accessed the communications network. He sent a prayer of thanks to the supervisor who’d granted him permission to monitor transmissions from Earth. An agent of his stature shouldn’t have clearance for the array, but it was deemed necessary given the sheer quantity of human-related reports he received each shift. Kree thanked the nine sons for being tasked with dealing with the wing-nuts as he pulled up a high-traffic channel.

He paused before typing. He could be fired for this.

Kree flexed his jaw and came to the same conclusion: what he’d overheard was too serious to leave unreported. He typed as quickly as his trembling fingers would allow, hoping a short missive wouldn’t attract notice in the Agency’s logs. He transmitted the message, shut off his computer, and sagged against his chair waiting for the shaking to cease.

Kree’s anxiety spiked to new levels when he realized the conspirators might return.

He leapt to his feet and fought to get his cloak off the small hook behind his desk. He fumbled with the clasp in his haste to collect his belongings and escape. Kree patted his pockets to make sure he had everything, took one last look around his cubicle, and spied his shuttle pass. He needed that if he wanted to get home before sun-up.

Habit led him to the main doors to the office floor, but adrenaline propelled him in another direction when the possibility that Squaa and the other male might be waiting for him outside crossed his mind. Kree’s journey through the neighboring wing was punctuated by repeated glances over his shoulder and several run-ins with potted plants and decorative statues.

He placed the bust of the sixteenth Alpha back on her pedestal then slipped through the doorway to the maintenance stairway. Kree took the stairs six at a time, leaning on his forearm as he slid down the railing. He opened the door at the base of the shaft, peering around the edge before stepping out into the humid night. He scurried across the deserted branchline to the nearest platform. As the shuttle pulled out of its berth he finally allowed himself to relax.

Nathan McDonnell returned from an extended lunch meeting with a fellow minister. Both the food and the discussion had been worth the trip, he mused as he absently rubbed his ever expanding girth. He strode through the vaulted halls of the North American headquarters of Earth’s global government, but stopped when he spotted a couple of familiar politicians loitering next to an intricately carved marble pillar.

“Here’s the man of the hour,” chimed one.

“Ah, yes, the esteemed Mr. McDonnell.”

“Good afternoon,” Nate said as he patted the Sub-Director of Agricultural Planning’s shoulder.

“Is it true?”

“Is your department close to brokering an agreement?” asked the other.

“I can’t comment on specifics,” Nate said. “Besides, we’re not the brokers.” He crossed his arms and grinned. “We just gather the necessary information and pass it along.”

“Right.” The Sub-Director smirked.

“Of course.”

“Gentlemen, would I lie to you?”

“There’s a rumor circulating that you’re a lock for a third term.”

Nate feigned surprise. “Really?”

“They’re saying Taylor’s on the outs--”

“No, it’s Chin whose neck is on the block--”

The Sub-Director’s cheeks flushed an angry red. “Do you doubt my information?”

“When it comes from the intern in charge of filling the coffee pot--”

“Gentlemen.” Nate inserted his substantial frame between the two men. “You need to check your sources. I am certain neither minister will lose his post because of the failed metalworkers’ agreement.” He smiled as both men assumed he had privileged information. “The President is sacrificing Greer instead.”

“Finance?”

“She wasn’t even involved--”

“Indirectly.”

“Still--”

Nate marveled at how the in-fighting and politicking never stopped. His smile broadened with the ease at which he deflected attention away from his own activities toward other, more scandalous topics. He left his fellow ministers to their conversation and propelled his bulk through the outer doors of his office.

Not one for flowery speeches or strutting in front of the news networks, Nate preferred to let his track record speak for his performance. Famous or infamous, depending on which party was doing the campaigning, Nate was known across the globe as the man who got results.

He ran his department the way he used to run his ship, with firm direction, strong leadership and an unmistakable chain of command. He pulled open the door to his office suite and was greeted by his harried executive assistant, Bob Jenkins. Bob peered at him from behind his computer screen.

“You have a level three coded message, sir.”

“When did it arrive?”

“About five minutes ago. It’s flagged priority RED.”

“Hold all my calls.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * * *

The coffee sat cold and forgotten on his desk. Even the blinking light on his message console failed to register. Nate focused on the words burning through his screen.

RAPTORS EYEING EARTH.

FIRESTORM SIGNALLING THE WAY.

Nate’s lunch congealed into a cold ball in his stomach as he wiped his palms on his trousers. Priority RED: Read, Evaluate, Destroy. Nate called up the details of the original transmission and verified the communication as legitimate. Not only had the message originated on the avian homeworld, but someone sent it from the office of their intelligence service. Nate frowned. Verifying its authenticity made his job a million times more challenging. He had a credible threat to humanity on his hands.

Or did he?

Maybe the sender simply wanted him to know the avians were spying on Earth. Nate chewed on the inside of his cheek. But that wasn’t news, and why reference raptors--the avian fighting craft? Why not say, “We’re watching you,” or something similar?

He shook off the mental image of Earth superimposed with a set of crosshairs as he continued to puzzle out the message.

Nate was only vaguely familiar with the climatic conditions on the various avian settlements, but he was pretty sure none of the colonies experienced firestorms. He toggled the communications panel on his desk.

“Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir?” Jenkins’ voice squeaked though the speaker.

“Does the word ‘firestorm’ spark any synapses for you?”

“Not offhand, no, sir.” Jenkins paused. “Wait... I think I recall...” The sound of fingers tapping on a console filled the silence. “Yes, sir. I found it.”

“Yes?”

“The
Firestorm
, sir. It’s a ship. One of the newer United Earth Space Force warships. Commissioned eight years ago, launched five years later, mostly running anti-smuggling operations among the colonies, captained by--”

“That’s enough, thank you.” Nate closed the communications channel as his mind raced to catch up to his gut. If the message were referring to the
Firestorm
, then the vessel was either a target or, worse yet, one of the crew was working with the avians. The possibility of an avian disguising himself as a human and getting away with the charade in the close confines of a ship was infinitesimal. Someone in the UESF was a traitor.

That notion wouldn’t sit well among the fleet captains at HQ. He’d need hard evidence to convince them one of their own was plotting treason.

Whoever sent the message had to understand a warning would be insufficient. There must be some clue,
something
to tell Nate how to contact him.

Understanding exploded in the front of his brain as the double meaning behind the message became clear.
Brilliant
.

“Eyeing Earth” meant the avian could see Earth’s sun from the meeting location, and Cerces III was the only avian colony that met the criterion.

Now Nate had to figure out how to find the avian once the human operative arrived.

Of course
.

The avian agent was a master at hiding information in plain sight. He expected the UESF to send the
Firestorm
to Cerces III.

But
, Nate wondered,
would that be wise given the possibility of a traitor among the crew?

Unless...

Perhaps he was giving the sender too much credit. Maybe the message meant the agent thought someone on the
Firestorm
planned to defect. Nate wanted to rationalize treason out of the equation, but he wasn’t one for altering reality for anyone’s gentler sensibilities--even his own. He’d have to find a way to keep close tabs on the warship.

His primary objective remained convincing Fleet Captain Banks to authorize the insertion of an operative among the crew and order the
Firestorm
to make an illegal foray into avian territory. Not a problem, but he wanted to ensure the agent was someone of his choosing--just to be safe.

* * * *

Nate drummed his fingers on his thigh as he waited for Jenkins to finish compiling the list of names. Without revealing the nature of the task, he’d managed to generate an inventory of qualifications necessary for the mission and given Jenkins the unenviable job of finding suitable candidates from the private sector databases.

Too distracted to focus on replying to the messages piling up in his inbox, Nate flipped through the journals and magazines piled on the low table in front of the over-stuffed chair by his office window. His mind running all manner of worst-case scenarios, Nate didn’t pay attention to the words or images as his stubby fingers turned the pages. That is, until an article in the University of Western North America’s quarterly journal,
Ivory Tower
, caught his eye.

Avian Mannerisms: Reading Emotion in Alien Body Language
was an insightful treatise examining the possibility of using gestures and posture to help interpret avian motives and actions. Nate flipped to the periodical’s table of contents and was stunned when he recognized the author’s name.

He stared at the page as though to look away would change the words, and walked over to his desk to toggle the communications panel. “Jenkins, stop your search and book me a spot on the next shuttle bound for Vancouver.”

A short silence greeted Nate’s command. Expecting and dreading a question--he’d fired his previous assistant due to his overactive urge to clarify things--Nate was pleased to hear Jenkins reply.

“Yes, sir. Would you like me to book executive class or common?”

“Executive is preferable, but I need to be on the next shuttle, so if all that’s left is common, I’ll take it. The flight is only an hour long.” He whistled as he packed his belongings.

* * * *

Nate settled his bulk into a leather seat in the executive class section of the shuttle. He reclined his chair, pulled out his computer, and began to type. He needed to frame his approach to the upcoming meeting carefully. He sipped his coffee as he looked over the outline of his plan. The fleet captain’s speedy agreement to the proposed mission had come as a pleasant surprise. He chuckled. Banks’ career depended on the peace process too.

Nate was happy with the preparations they’d worked out via video conference during his ride to the shuttle terminal, but part of him still wondered if it was wise to be sending the
Firestorm
into avian space. If a member of the crew wanted to sabotage the peace accord then they were providing him with the opportunity to do a lot of damage. Yet the message specified the
Firestorm
as the vessel being watched for.

He sighed as he wrestled with how much information to divulge to his chosen operative. Nate chose to work under the assumption that the man would agree to the mission, but he was wavering on sharing certain specifics. An informed operative was better able to make decisions in stressful situations, but one paralyzed by fear for his safety wouldn’t be of much use. Where did he draw the line between deserve to know and need to know?

As the shuttle touched down in Vancouver he decided the fewer things his operative would have to worry about the better. It wasn’t like the agent was being asked to organize a military coup.

John Thompson sighed as he closed yet another essay that regurgitated his lectures. Third year intergalactic studies students should have been able to come up with better thinking than this. He groaned as he read a paragraph outlining the same causes of the avian conflict as the previous twelve papers. He supposed it proved they listened. John decided he needed a respite from grading assignments. He grabbed his jacket and computer, took the stairs two at a time, and let his feet guide him along the campus trails.

John followed his usual route around the tiny peninsula that marked the entrance to Burrard Inlet. He breathed in the salt air, allowing the frustrations to melt away. His professorship at the University of Western North America generated envy among his fellow scholars, but for John, it was merely something to do to pass the time. He tilted his head back to take in the towering cedars. Whoever had thought to build a university on world famous park land was a genius in John’s books. Stanley Park--the jewel of Vancouver--had been sold to the university to help offset massive debt brought about by the global economic disaster of 2097.

Completed in 2105, the UWNA was a seamless blend of modern technology and nature. John loved walking the seawall and took every opportunity to get outdoors. The fresh breeze off the water, the smell of seaweed, and the call of the marine birds always put his soul at ease. He found the solitude among the trees and ferns soothing, and he often did his best writing sitting on a log while the mist eddied around him.

He didn’t have time to write on his lunch break today. Instead, he used his time to plan the changes he wanted to make to his course on avian sociology. John’s attention remained firmly engrossed in his lesson planning as he navigated the seawall with barely a glance at passersby.