The Firestorm Conspiracy (3 page)

“John?”

John looked up, wondering if he’d heard his name, and let his mind wander straight back to the computer.

“John?” He heard it again, closer.

He stopped and turned. Tina Morrison walked toward him, her petite legs moving at a furious pace to gain on his lengthier strides. Her skirt fluttered in the offshore breeze, and he couldn’t help thinking those weren’t good shoes for walking. His feet ached just looking at them.

“Hi, John,” Tina said, slightly out of breath. “I thought you might like some company on your walk.”

“Um...” John looked down at the device in his hand.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were working on something. I’ll leave you alone.”

“No, it’s all right,” he said, tucking the computer inside his jacket. “I’ve done about all I can out here.” Her look of disappointment dissolved into a smile, and he smiled in return. “I’d love some company for the remainder of my walk.”

“Only if you’re sure,” she replied.

“I’m sure,” he said as he turned to start walking again. He made a conscientious effort to keep his strides short so as not to tire her.

“So, how have you been?” she asked.

“Oh, fine. Busy.”

“I didn’t see you at the last faculty social.”

“Uh, no. I don’t usually attend those things.”

“Oh?”

“You know. A room full of stuffed shirts all more interested in talking about their latest research grant than listening to anything anyone else has to say.” He noted her scandalized expression and hastily added, “Present company excluded, of course.”

Tina laughed. “Oh, John, you don’t have to say that. On the whole, I tend to agree, but the last social was quite pleasant. Dean Hirosuki came down to mix and mingle. Were you aware he was a media reporter during the avian conflict?” John shook his head. “He told us a few stories of his adventures while embedded with a refugee transport ship.”

“Did he?” John replied.

His own memories of cramped and unwashed bodies jammed into cargo holds too small for their numbers hovered at the fringes of his awareness. The stench of illness and death had been overpowering, and the recollection knocked him off balance. John took a deep breath of cleansing sea air.

“I’m sure the dean’s stories were very entertaining.”

Tina nodded. “Yes. You should come to the next one.”

The last thing he wanted was to attend a social event, particularly if people were going to be sharing war stories. “I’ll consider it.” He decided to change the subject. “So what brought you outside on such a grey and dismal day?”

Tina blushed. “I’m not sure. I guess I just wanted some fresh air.” She smiled up at him again before adding, “How about you?”

“I came out here to be alone,” he said.

He realized his mistake as soon as the words left his lips, but he couldn’t take them back. Pulling his foot out of his over-sized mouth, he backpedalled. “I haven’t found anyone who likes walking in this weather. I like to think of it as my alone time.”

The North Shore Mountains were obscured by fog and drizzle, the gunmetal water chopped at the shore, and the filtered sunshine enveloped the world in a dreary grey. “I can see why,” she said. “It’s not exactly Vancouver, or the campus, at its finest.”

He chuckled. “But let’s be honest. This is pretty typical weather for the time of year.”

“True.” She smiled. “Sometimes when I watch the rain pelt against my window I wonder why I ever gave up my tenure at the Santa Cruz campus.”

The building housing John’s office surfaced through the mist around the bend. He had to remain social for two, maybe three minutes more before he could slip away.

“You enjoyed the climate?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” she gushed. “I had a room overlooking the ocean and I walked out to the beach right through the windows. It was always warm and rarely rained. I loved living there.”

“Why’d you come up here then?”

“You know...”

“Nicer office?”

“Not exactly.”

The silence grew denser than the blanket of fog covering the campus, but John didn’t mind. He let his thoughts wander to his schedule for the afternoon.

“To tell you the truth, I left to get away from my ex-husband.”

“Ah.” He was unprepared for her sudden admission and searched for an excuse to escape. He glanced at his watch. “Darn, I forgot.”

“What?”

“I said I would meet someone in my office five minutes ago.”

John picked up his pace, quickly leaving the shorter woman behind. He called over his shoulder, “Thanks for the company, Tina. I’ll see you around sometime.”

He felt a little guilty for lying as he rushed up the steps, but he wasn’t interested in forming friendships and didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

Flushed from his quick escape, John pulled off his jacket as he entered his office. He turned to toss it on the back of his chair and was startled by the presence of a very large man sitting at his desk.

Kree closed and locked the door to his nest for the sixth time. He walked to the nearby shuttle station, stopped, and turned to go back yet again. What if someone discovered his message? They might be planning to arrest him for treason. What if Squaa or the other male was waiting for him? He scurried back toward the safety of his home, glancing over his shoulders.

Once he stood before his locked door, he realized his absence would be noted and investigated. Kree clacked his jaws in an agony of indecision.

* * * *

Kree arrived at the Agency, exhausted but on time. He walked down the central aisle, casting furtive glances with each step. Everyone looked suspicious. Was Preen watching his every move?

The journey to his desk seemed endless. He reached his station and sank into his chair, shaking and panting. Kree closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and tried to bring his heart rate under control. Kree accessed his terminal, gave a startled peep, and nearly fell sideways.

A priority message from the human Department of Alien Affairs blinked malevolently on his display. He ran the basic decoding sequence and read the contents, expecting a standard response similar to the one his office sent to those who submitted wild claims with no proof. What he found caused his head to swim and his mouth to dry up.

Sculdan’s testicles
. They wanted him to meet with them. Some idiot had assumed his message contained information on how to contact him, and now their government was sending an agent into avian territory. They were shell-cracked if they thought he was going to travel off-world to talk with a human spy.

Kree realized he was still wearing his cloak, stood to hang it on his hook, and jumped as two unfamiliar males walked onto the floor. Something about the way they scrutinized the employees made his heart race.

Relax
, he told himself. They had to have clearance to be here. He was letting his imagination get the better of him. He tried to focus on his work as the males methodically made their way closer to him.

“Can I help you?” Preen’s irritated voice carried across the cubicles.

“No,” the male replied. “My associate thinks he may have misplaced an important item and we are checking the floor in case it got dropped.”

Squaa. He’d recognize that grating tone anywhere. It had haunted him through his nightmares until his alarm freed him at sun-up.

They were here and looking for something. A sickening flash of understanding brought his hands to the side of his head. Shoes. They were checking everyone’s footwear.

Kree stared at his shoes--the same footwear Squaa and the other male had found last night--and groaned when he spied the distinctive scuff across the top of the left one from when he’d tripped over a storm drain two days earlier. His unthinking, fuzz-headed action was going to get him killed.

He trembled. Scrambled didn’t even begin to describe this mess.

He grabbed a portable computer from his desk drawer and moved toward his supervisor’s office. He tried to walk naturally, each moment expecting to hear Squaa or the other male call out, or worse yet, to feel a shot through his spine. When he reached the door he had to press the buzzer three times before he could get his quaking hands to trigger the mechanism.

“Come,” called the female on the other side.

Kree opened the door, stepped in, and closed it again. If Wheeta found Kree’s unannounced and unscheduled appearance odd, she didn’t show it. “Kree,” she said, “please, have a seat.”

He followed the movement of her slender fingers as she motioned to the chair. He lowered himself into the chair and nervously plucked at the edges of the computer in his palms.

“This is a surprise. What can I do for you?”

“I need to get away from here,” he blurted.

She started at his words, her eyes widening and her terra cotta markings darkening.

“I, uh, I mean I’d like to take a vacation.”

“I see. Well, standard protocol is to give half a sunturn’s notice, so we’re looking--”

“No,” he cried. “I, uh, need to leave sooner than that. Today, if possible.”

Wheeta’s eyes opened even wider and a small frown of irritation creased her brow. “Today? This is highly irregular.” She tapped her terminal, and said, “I can’t grant your request without a legitimate reason. If you’d followed protocol and done this a sunturn ago, I wouldn’t need to know anything about your plans, but--”

“My hatch-nurse,” he squeaked, sudden inspiration making his voice shoot up an octave.

Wheeta waited for him to elaborate.

“My hatch-nurse is ailing. I, uh, I only found out last night. I need to perform the final farewell. All the hatchlings are trying to make it back.”

“I’m sorry, Kree,” Wheeta replied, sympathy softening her irritation. “Of course you can have the time off.”

Relief coursed through his veins.

“Where are you going?” she asked as she completed his leave request.

“Where?” His mind went blank. His hatch-nurse had passed on almost ten years ago, and he hadn’t considered travelling anywhere. “I, uh...” he said the first thing that came to him, “I’m going to Cerces III.”

“Cerces III? Colonists are not permitted to become agents, even desk agents,” Wheeta said.

“I’m not,” he assured her. “I was hatched and raised here, on the Perfellon Continent. My hatch-nurse, she uh, she retired and moved there a couple of years ago. She said something about the climate being good for her bones.”

“Oh, okay.” Wheeta looked doubtful.

Kree froze. In his unthinking rush to escape, he gave Wheeta the one place he never wanted to visit.

“Kree?” Wheeta stared at him with a puzzled expression on her face.

“Yes?” He paused. “Sorry, I was thinking about the trip.” He shrugged. “I have a lot of planning to do.”

“No, you don’t,” she replied. “Part of our bereavement package includes the Agency making all your travel and accommodation arrangements. That’s what I was trying to tell you.” She pointed to his portable computer. “Everything’s taken care of.”

Kree eyed the device, holding it by the edge as though it might suddenly bite him. “Uh, thanks, Wheeta.” He glanced over his shoulder as he got up to leave. Squaa and the other male were visible through the glass beside her door. One was almost at his cubicle and the other blocked the walkway. “Can I ask for one more favor?”

“You can ask,” she replied.

“Can I, uh, leave through your side door? I don’t want to have to discuss my situation with the others on the floor.” He shuffled his feet. “You know they’re going to ask questions and peck all over me like a bunch of old hens. I don’t think I can handle that right now.”

“Of course, Kree,” she said. She stood and put a hand on his shoulder. “You have a safe trip, and remember, the Agency sends its condolences in your time of need.”

“Uh, yes, um, thanks,” he said as he slipped out her door and into the executive walkway.

“I am so scrambled,” he muttered as he trudged down the stairs and out the main entrance.

Age was the one opponent Nate had yet to beat. A few too many drinks, extra servings of potatoes and gravy, and a penchant for conducting business over meals certainly hadn’t helped. Nearing his mid-sixties, Nate approached life the way a parched man approached water--mouth wide open, hands grasping, and with a single-mindedness bordering on obsession. He reveled in the dirt and the grime of real living, and he expected those around him to do the same.

It came as a huge shock then, when John Thompson entered the room. Pale, underweight, and damp, he resembled a heron stepping through the reeds more than a former UESF fleet commander. If Nate hadn’t double checked the ID markers above the door, he would have sworn he was in the wrong office.

Nate was fascinated by John, observing as his expression registered surprise, anger, and then confusion. Nate remained silent and simply gazed up at the man whose chair he had usurped.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” Nate replied.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Are you a student?”

Nate shook his head. This man was far too polite. Still, diplomacy had its purposes.

“I’m sorry,” John said, “but why are you sitting at my desk?”

“I’m waiting for you.”

Irritation flashed across John’s features. “It is customary to wait for a professor in the outer office, not by entering his room uninvited.”

“I’m sorry about that. But you see, I was invited.”

“By whom?”

“By you.”

“Me?”

Nate nodded.

“When? I don’t recall--”

“Twenty years ago.”

“Excuse me?”

He fought the urge to grin as the light of recognition flared in John’s eyes. “Nate?” John asked. “Nate McDonnell?”

Nate smiled.

“Is it really you?” John stood as if frozen.

He pushed his ample frame out of the chair and moved around the desk to face John. He held out his hand, plastered on his most sincere smile, and said, “Yes, John. It’s me.” John didn’t move. Nate grabbed John’s palm in a firm grip and added, “How the hell have you been?”

* * * *

John stared in horror at the man pumping his arm. He fought down the urge to flee, carefully removed his hand from the other man’s grasp, and tried to force a smile across his own features. “What a surprise.”