The Firestorm Conspiracy (11 page)

She leaned over the side of the control panel and emptied the contents of her stomach into the waste bin.

* * * *

The call to general assembly came just as he exited the shower. Flushed pink, deliciously clean, and clad in only a towel, John padded into the living area of his cabin. He wrinkled his nose in distaste when he realized his earlier rest on the bed had ruined the linens and left a lingering scent of smoke in the room. He ripped off the covers, tossed them down the recycling chute, and searched for fresh blankets.

After dressing and remaking the bed, he sat and randomly flipped through the various video networks.

He had no place joining the crew in hearing the news about the explosion. He knew someone, probably the diplomatic officer, would be along eventually to inform him. He idly wondered if the accident would force the
Firestorm
to turn back, but he had his doubts. He hadn’t been lying to the crewman when he’d talked about the ship’s strength. The
Firestorm
would have to take a much sounder beating before needing to dock somewhere for repairs.

He turned his gaze toward the video monitor and focused his attention on a documentary on the history of the textile industry in an effort to prevent his mind from engaging in speculation about the crew and ship situation.

* * * *

“Serving in space is not without its risks. Even in times of peace danger is inherent in accepting a tour of duty on board a fleet vessel. These risks were brought forcefully home for many of us today.” Rebeccah paused to take a steadying breath as she fought to keep her voice calm. “As you know, an accident occurred in one of the quantum field generator rooms earlier this evening. A malfunction had been detected and several crewmembers were on site investigating when the explosions occurred.”

The hangar was absolutely still. The tripping of her heart drowned out the soft breaths of the crew. Palms clenched into sweaty fists as she stood at attention on the dais, she surveyed the assembled troops, mentally preparing herself to deliver the words no one wanted to hear.

“As a result of the explosions, several crewmembers were killed.” She took a halting breath, closed her eyes, and recited the list from memory. “The entire contingent of Engineering Squad Alpha-A: Leading Shipmate Miguel Santé-Angelo, Leading Shipmate Samantha Brennan, Leading Shipmate Sloane Foster, Master Shipmate Leon McBrugger, Petty Officer Second Class Antonia Ortiz, and Sub Lieutenant James Chow all perished in the blast.

“In addition,” she paused and groaned inwardly at the continuing litany of names, “Chief Engineer, Lieutenant Commander Francis Mwambe, Executive Officer, Commander Maxwell Cheng, and Captain William Forbes were also lost. This is a devastating loss for our ship and crew. The chaplains and counselors will be available on all shifts over the next several days in order to assist those who need help working through their grief.”

Now came the part that made her blood run cold. She needed to tell the crew who was stepping in to fill the gaps in the chain of command until HQ posted appropriate replacements. She shuddered.

“We are currently in avian space. We will hold our position until we receive word from HQ on whether our current mission is to proceed. During this time, we will work to repair the damage to the ship.”

No one made a sound. She couldn’t detect so much as a cough or the shifting of feet, yet to Rebeccah the tension in the air was palpable. The crew needed to know who their leader was. Without a captain they would be directionless. Many of the people she faced had joined the UESF for the sense of camaraderie and family gained from serving with a ship’s crew, and losing their captain and shipmates was tantamount to suddenly being orphaned. The men and women serving on board needed a new authority figure, someone to turn to during this crisis, and despite her best intentions, she just couldn’t do it. She would hold the ship together until the packet from HQ arrived outlining their next steps. Her own message recommended several other crewmembers for the position of acting captain.

“A memorial service for the fallen will be held at fourteen-thirty hours tomorrow. All who wish to attend will be given time off from their duties to do so. Dismissed.”

She fled the hangar as quickly as possible while still maintaining the illusion of military deportment. Practically running through the maze of corridors, she forced herself to slow as she strode across the bridge and locked herself in the captain’s office before anyone had a chance to say anything.

Neither the knock on the door nor the person on the other side startled him; the anguish in her exhausted eyes, however, shocked him. Lt. Santiago stood in the corridor wearing a fresh uniform but still bearing traces of her time near the accident site. Smudges of soot along her hairline and on her left ear hinted at a hasty clean-up before changing. She had ash and debris under her nails. Santiago’s hair fell in wisps about her face, and she nervously tried to tuck several strands back up.

“Lt. Santiago, come in,” he said, gesturing for her to take a seat.

“Thank you, Professor.” Her voice was roughened by the smoke and exhaustion.

He remained standing, unsure of what to do as she sat like a statue, eyes open but seeing nothing. Finally he asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”

Her head moved so slowly he wondered if time had ceased to flow at its normal rate. She blinked and seemed to bring herself back from somewhere else before speaking, “Yes, thank you.”

He approached the tiny bar located near the video monitor and poured her a glass of whiskey. “Here,” he said as he sat across from her.

She nodded her thanks and took a sip. She grimaced and gently swirled the amber liquid. He waited, knowing not to rush her. After what seemed like an eternity, she raised her head. Her green eyes met his and he almost winced at the pain pinching her otherwise attractive face.

“They’re all dead,” she said. He leaned in to hear more clearly; she spoke at barely above a whisper. “Nine crew. Nine people. Nine friends.”

The blood drained to his feet as he absorbed the news. “I’m sorry.” Pathetically inadequate, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

She nodded and returned her gaze to her drink. Her fingers trembled slightly when she said, “The captain and executive officer were among them.”

He recognized her need to shield herself from the emotional impact of her own words by avoiding the use of Forbes’ and Cheng’s names. She was clinging to her professional veneer, and he doubted she had much longer before it cracked.

“I’m sorry.”

“I have sent a message to HQ regarding the incident.” Her professional mask was firmly in place. “I feel it is only fair that you know the current situation may alter the parameters of your mission. The possibility exists that it may be cancelled.”

“Thank you.”

He expected her to leave. She’d done her duty, informing him of the situation and its impact on his mission, yet she remained seated, staring at the floor. He fidgeted slightly in the uncomfortable silence.

“I am the most senior officer in terms of experience and leadership training.”

He couldn’t tell if she were talking to him or the room in general.

“They’re going to insist I take the position of acting captain.”

He nodded. The choice made perfect sense.

She looked up from her glass, her eyes pinning him in place. He wondered what had raced through her mind to make her start like that.

She held his gaze for several seconds before saying, “Unless there’s someone else more qualified.”

Kree wandered along the dusty branchlines of the little town. His journey to Cerces III had taken half a sunturn, and now he had no idea what to do. He had no friends or family here and he had no idea how to contact the human ship.

He’d spent the trip thinking. He thought about his life, his job, and his future. None of those things seemed very bright at the moment, and he knew they’d be even bleaker if the peace process broke down. He might be the only avian with knowledge of the conspiracy and he owed it to the innocent lives of countless avians who would be drawn into the conflict to try his best to stop it.

His feet took him on a meandering route along the dry streets. He walked past a dimly lit alley and let out a muffled peep as he was hauled in.

“Hey,” he squawked. “I don’t have any money. Please don’t hurt me.”

“Are you Kree?” The rough voice in his ear canal sent shivers down his spine.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked. “Who are you? Ow,” he squawked again as his arm was pulled up behind him at an awkward angle.

“I’ll ask the questions.” Kree’s arm was twisted further out of joint. “Are you Kree?”

“Yes. Yes,” he panted. “I’m Kree.”

“Good. Now listen carefully. Someone will contact you when the human ship arrives. You are to go with him to the meeting site. You will introduce yourself to the human. Once you’ve done that, we’ll take over.”

Kree’s mind reeled.

“Do you understand?”

Kree thought his shoulder would be ripped out of its socket at any moment. “Yes,” he cried. “I understand.”

“Good.”

The thug shoved Kree back into the bright, sun-baked branchline from which he’d been abducted. Wide-eyed and panting, Kree stumbled down the street heedless of where he was going. His shoulder throbbed and his bowels threatened to loosen at any moment. He entered a nearby café, hoping to use the facilities when a voice stopped him.

“Kree?”

Kree let out a startled peep as he whipped around, his tail almost toppling an empty chair.

“Kree, is that you?”

“Gr-Grock?” He hadn’t seen his hatch-mate since leaving boarding school.

“Kree. By the stars, what are you doing here?” Grock grabbed Kree in a fierce hug and shook him by the shoulders.

“Ow!” Kree squawked.

“You’re hurt. You need medical attention.” Grock pulled him toward the door. “There’s a government clinic two branches over. We can go there.”

“No,” Kree cried. “No government buildings.” He panted. “I just need to rest. Do you know someplace private I can stay at for a bit?”

“Are you in trouble?” asked Grock.

Kree nodded.

“Let’s go to my place. I live just around the corner.”

* * * *

Kree sat exhausted in the guest chair in Grock’s tiny nest. He flared his nostrils at the dirty dishes strewn about, clothes tossed haphazardly in corners, and printouts of news articles taped all over every available surface.

“You’re going to meet a human,” Grock said, dreamily.

Kree shook his head.

“What is all this?” he asked, gesturing at the walls.

“What?” Grock looked around as though seeing his place for the first time. “Oh, those. Nothing really.” His markings darkened in embarrassment. “I collect things. Copies of news reports. Reports about humans.” He turned back at Kree. “I can’t believe you’re going to get to meet a real, live human.”

The heat must have scrambled his mind.

“I’m so jealous. I’ve always wanted to meet a human. In fact, I moved here to be closer to them.” He grinned sheepishly. “I know we’re still a sunturn away from Earth, but one day, when the peace accord is signed, I’ll be able to travel to Earth and walk among them.” His eyes shone with excitement. “I can’t believe a human is coming here. And my best hatch-mate is the important agent who gets to meet it.”

Kree ran his hands over his skull. Grock completely missed the point. Avians, very rough and uncouth avians, knew about his communications with the humans. They’d hurt and scared him, somehow he doubted they were trying to help him preserve the peace.

“Can I come too?”

“What?” Kree yelled, then lowered his voice. “Are you shell-cracked? I don’t know who these fellows are, but you can be guaranteed they’re up to no good. I can’t drag you into this.”

“But you’re going to meet a human. A real, live human. With soft, mushy skin.” Grock rose and began to scan his news clippings. “I suppose the human will be clothed. I wonder, how will you tell its gender? Is it possible to tell humans apart without examining their genitals?”

Kree lowered his head into his palms and let out an exasperated peep. He almost wished he were back in the alley with the ruffian. Almost.

She knew.

John’s brain shied away from the horrible possibility.

She knew.

The words echoed in the darkest reaches of his mind. His pulse raced and he broke out in a cold sweat.

Impossible. Those records were sealed.

He looked down, unable to meet her stare.

No.

He shook his head.

“No,” he whispered. How dare they ask this of him?

He stood and moved away, needing to distance himself from the question hanging unspoken in the air.

“No.” He needed to escape. He needed to pace. He needed to move, to go anywhere, be anywhere other than here.

Lt. Santiago continued to sit, head bowed, staring at the glass in her hands.

* * * *

The whiskey swirled and eddied around the ice cubes. Rebeccah kept the liquid moving, swirling it around and around, gently enough to prevent the ice from tinkling against the glass, but quickly enough to hold her attention.

She hadn’t meant to make the suggestion. The thought hadn’t even crossed her mind when she entered his cabin to deliver the news. No one in their right mind would ask that of someone who had suffered the way he had.

But there it was, out there.

She’d said the unthinkable, and he’d reacted. She listened to Thompson--
Fleet Commander
Thompson--shift and fuss over by the door. Her every muscle, joint, and limb remained paralyzed, frozen in place by an exhaustion born of grief and fear. She couldn’t face the knowledge he would refuse. She stared at the ice floating in her drink, wishing she could let her thoughts float away too.

* * * *

John reeled and almost stumbled. He needed to sit, but that would bring him back, closer to her. He was trapped like an animal in a cage. HQ could very well rescind his leave and order him to take command. They had to know who he was, even without nosey diplomatic officers snooping through confidential records. He wasn’t a civilian, which made backing away from this responsibility all the more tricky.