Solfleet: The Call of Duty (82 page)

Who was he?
Just another gentleman taking the early flight to Cirra? If so, then why had he
taken such a roundabout route to that chair when it would have been much easier
and more direct for him to walk across the front row and down the window row
from there? It didn’t make sense. No. He wasn’t just a fellow passenger with a
bad sense of direction. He was more than that. More likely the conspirators had
already discovered what he was up to and had assigned that man to watch him. Or
worse. Min’para knew that he was going to have to be very careful.

How he
coveted the security of his own home back at the university.

As he turned
his gaze from the suspicious man it fell on another suited gentleman—a blue
suit this time—standing in the opposite corner of the terminal and he did a
quick double-take. He could have sworn that man had been looking his way at
first, but now he didn’t seem to be paying him any attention at all. Instead,
he was struggling with the periodicals panel in the wall, stabbing his finger to
it repeatedly, apparently having trouble with a download. The panel eventually
surrendered, and once it completed the download—at least the man acted as if he’d
finally gotten what he wanted—the man walked away without so much as a glance
in the professor’s direction and disappeared down the corridor.

Realizing
that he was growing more nervous with every passing minute, Min’para drew a
deep breath and let it out slowly and silently, trying to relax. If only he
could speed up time.

His stomach
began to rumble, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything in almost an
entire Earth day. So, despite knowing that he might draw attention to himself
with even the most insignificant movement, he stood up, pressing his hand briefly
against his suit coat to reassure himself that his handcomp was still safe and
secure in the oversized inside pocket, and headed up the corridor toward the
nearest restaurant for some breakfast. As he walked he made a point of
carefully observing his surroundings, as though he were nothing more than a
curious newcomer to the station taking in the sights. That way, he hoped, the
occasional glance backward to see if he was being followed wouldn’t look so
suspicious.

He walked
into the restaurant and made his way to a booth against the back wall that a
tall, artificial, large-potted floor plant partially obscured from view. He sat
facing the entrance and looked around the room.

The place
was warm and comfortable, furnished with finely crafted dark falsewood tables
and chairs upholstered in fabrics of dark green and shades of maroon and earth
tones. The table lights glowed low and intimate and even flickered a little to
mimic candle flames, and the aromas that filled the air were nothing short of mouthwatering.
It was also practically empty, with only a handful of customers sparsely scattered
throughout the dining area, all of whom had already been served as far as he
could tell, so service was going to be quick.

As though
out of deference to his thoughts, a young waitress arrived and took his order in
less than a minute, and when she brought his food out to him not long after
that he ate slowly and deliberately, and paid careful attention to what was
going on around him at all times.

Those other
customers finished their meals and left the restaurant sporadically, some by
themselves, others in pairs. Only one new one arrived—a young mother who also sought
out a relatively secluded part of the dining area, sat down, and then promptly
opened her blouse to nurse her fussing baby, who quickly fell silent and eagerly
began suckling. Min’para watched her for a few moments, but as tricky as an
agency like the S.I.A. could be, he doubted very much that she was an agent
conducting surveillance on him. After all, what mother in her right mind would
expose her infant child to that kind of potential danger?

He followed
up his breakfast with two more cups of the hot beverage known as coffee, which
he’d acquired an avid taste for a number of years earlier during his contiguous
foreign studies at Harvard, Yale, and Drexel Universities. He’d nearly finished
his second cup when the young mother, who’d employed both of her swollen
breasts to satisfy her infant’s voracious appetite, finally got up and left, leaving
him alone in the dining area. So, when he finished he just sat there and waited
until the call to board his flight finally came.

Looking
ahead as he strolled past gate-4 on the way to board his flight, he saw that at
least seventy or eighty more passengers had arrived and had already formed a
roughly single-file line that stretched from the entrance to the aerobridge,
across the front row of chairs, and into the causeway where it turned ninety
degrees so as not to block pedestrian traffic. He fell into the back of the
line just as the boarding official at the keyed the aerobridge’s pressure door
open and started scanning the passengers’ identicards and as they passed. He
knew that boarding wouldn’t mean he was out of danger, but as he slowly shuffled
forward, watching each of the passengers intently as the agent scanned their
identicards, he nonetheless felt himself growing more and more anxious to do
so.

Where was
his emotional control when he needed it most? He was allowing the potential
danger of inherent in his circumstances get to him.

Another step
forward, and the back corner of the waiting area where he’d originally sat down
came into view. The man in the gray suit still sat facing the windows, clearly
watching the passengers as they filed past the boarding official. That didn’t
necessarily mean anything, though. He
had
bought a ticket. He might
simply have decided to wait until the line got shorter. Nevertheless, Min’para
decided that it might be wise to turn away and not let the man see his face, so
he did just that...

And he found
himself looking right at the blue-suited man who, once again, appeared to be
having trouble with a periodicals download. Coincidence? Possibly. But in the
professor’s mind, not very likely. No, the conspirators had eyes on him. He
could feel it. They knew right where he was and where he was going, and chances
were they were sending someone with him. They were just waiting for him to
board. Once he did, he’d be trapped.

He no longer
had a choice. He had to take what he’d discovered to the Terran authorities.
Then he could bow out gracefully and be done with it. They’d provide him with
protection for the flight home, and once there he’d be safe. Then he could
forget about the whole thing and get on with his life.

But to which
agency could he go and still maintain a reasonable expectation of safety?
Solfleet Intelligence was out of the question, for obvious reasons. Their
Criminal Investigations Division? A separate command perhaps, but still a part
of Solfleet, so that option wasn’t much better. Hansen and Royer likely would
have friends among the agents there and he might end up talking to one of them without
even knowing it.

No. He had
to go to someone outside the fleet, but whoever that someone was would still
have to be a part of Earth’s central Federation government. Any lesser agency
might not have the authority necessary to take action. Given the nature of the
cover-up, that left him with just two or perhaps three agencies to choose from.
The civilian-run Federation Bureau of Investigations, the Central Intelligence
Agency, or the Federation Bureau of Cyberclone Affairs. Which of those three could
he trust more than the others?

As he
continued shuffling slowly but steadily forward and drew closer to the turn in
the line, another idea suddenly occurred to him, and the more he thought about
it, the more he felt like it would be the best way to go. He didn’t necessarily
have to go to a law enforcement or intelligence agency at all. He could go
directly to the central Federation government itself—to the Earth Security
Council, or possibly even to its parent body, the International Council on
Solar Affairs. Yes. Chairman Brian MacLeod, the United States’ representative
to the Federation Congress. He had quite the reputation for getting things
done. He was the one who could, to use one of his Terran expressions, get the
ball rolling. He was the one. But to meet with him quietly, Min’para was going
to have to go to Earth.

He stepped
out of line and strolled back down the causeway at a leisurely pace as though
he didn’t have a care in the world. First thing first. He needed to buy a few
things. A small knife or scissor. A portable sewing kit. And something to wrap
his handcomp in so a security scanner couldn’t pick it up. Perhaps a
null-reflective static-wrap of the type manufacturers of intricate electronic
equipment used as packaging would do the trick. Yes. That should work. Afterwards
he’d buy a seat on the first flight to Earth he could get. Well, the first flight
to New York City at least. MacLeod’s office was in Manhattan. Then, at the last
possible moment, he’d exchange the ticket he’d already purchased and hurry aboard.

* * *

“In the
kitchen, Admiral,” Royer called without bothering to get up as Hansen stepped
into her quarters and the door slid closed and auto-locked behind him. Normally
she would have cleaned herself up, pulled on a fresh uniform, and asked the admiral
for an early meeting in his office. But circumstances were anything but normal
this morning. For one thing, the two of them were playing a dangerous game that
necessitated their being even more secretive than usual. For another, she’d
gotten fewer than three hours’ sleep. So instead she’d just taken a quick
shower and thrown a robe on over fresh underclothes, then contacted him via
secure comm-link a few minutes before seven, about the time he normally left
home for the office, and asked him to come to her quarters without going to the
office first. The privacy they would afford them was, in her mind at least,
imperative. Then she’d sat down with a light breakfast to wait.

“Good
morning, Commander,” Hansen said as he approached her dining table. “You look
surprisingly refreshed this morning, considering what you’ve been up to for the
last several days. Did you finally get a good night’s sleep, or are you still
taking stims?”

“I’m done
with the stims, sir,” she answered, “unless you count a cool shower and lots of
caffeine. And although I wouldn’t exactly call it a
good
night’s sleep,
I did manage to get a couple hours worth.” She raised her cup of coffee and
gestured toward the pot on the counter. “Coffee’s fresh.”

“Only a
couple of hours?” he asked as he stepped over to the counter and took a mug out
of the overhead cabinet.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I
guess that’s better than nothing.” He poured his coffee and replaced the
decanter, then faced her and leaned back against the counter. “At least it
explains what I’m doing here and why you’re still in your bathrobe instead of
in uniform on your way to the office.”

“Yes, sir.
Well, that’s one reason.”

He sipped
his coffee, then asked, “There’s another?”

“Yes, sir,”
she answered as she turned her chair to face him more directly and crossed her
legs, not even caring that her robe fell open and bared her thigh as she did so.
In fact, she was glad it did because she intended to revisit what had clearly
become a forbidden subject with the admiral, and although he was her commanding
officer, he was also a man. And as far as she was concerned, when it came to some
things, men were still just men, squad sergeants and admirals alike. What
worked on one would likely work on another, at least to some degree.

Besides, she’d
disobeyed his orders. She’d authorized the use of lethal force, if necessary,
against Min’para. For that reason alone she and the admiral weren’t completely
on the same side anymore, so a little extra psychological advantage on her part
certainly wouldn’t hurt.

“I’m
waiting, Commander.”

Royer sipped
her coffee, then explained, “I haven’t had a chance to sweep either of our
offices for bugs yet, but I have swept my quarters.”

“Bugs?”
Hansen asked, seemingly at a loss as to what she was talking about.

“Hidden
transmitters, sir,” she clarified.

“Yes,
Commander, I know what bugs are,” he told her, a little perturbed.

“Of course
you do, sir. Sorry.”

He took
another sip, then asked, “So what’s going on? What prompted you to sweep your
own quarters for hidden transmitters?”

“Professor
Min’para is...”

“Wait a
second,” he said, raising a hand to stop her as he peered out into her living
room. “Where’s Karen?”

“Still sound
asleep, sir.”

“All right,”
he said, dropping his hand. “Quietly. What about the professor?”

She knew
Karen couldn’t hear her, but she lowered her voice a little more anyway, for
the admiral’s sake. “He’s onto us, Admiral. He’s aware that I’ve been tracking
his use of the library computer, and I have no way of knowing how long he’s
known. He programmed the terminal in his stateroom to make it appear as though he
were still conducting his research, and while I was being yanked around the
online library like a puppy on a short leash, he snuck out and bought himself a
one-way ticket to New York City. He’s already off the station.”

“How the
hell did he get past your surveillance?”

“Oh, he didn’t
get past it, sir. I assure you.”

“You’ve got
someone on him.”

“Yes, sir. I’d
already set up rolling surveillance as a contingency, just in case he tried
something like this. He initially bought a ticket back to Cirra, but something
spooked him and he exchanged it for the one to New York. We’ll know every move
he makes as he makes it, both during the flight and after he arrives at J-F-K.
The big problem is that there’s only one reason for him to want to go to New
York in the first place. Only one that I can think of, at least.”