The Firestorm Conspiracy (7 page)

John ran his hand along the smooth surface of one of the enormous observation windows in the bow and was glad it no longer bore a physical resemblance to its predecessors. He took his seat a few rows back, determined to enjoy this last opportunity to surround himself with the signs and symbols of civilian life.

When John agreed to the mission, he never once assumed he’d have to travel on a UESF vessel, let alone a warship. He’d figured Nate would book him passage on a commercial transport to help maintain the persona he’d insisted on adopting. His jaw had plummeted into his shoes when he discovered the majority of his travels would be spent on the
Firestorm
.

The transport lumbered out of the hangar and began its laborious journey away from the moon’s surface. Designed to land and take off from a hangar, the transport could also dock with a space-born ship as necessary through the use of extendible airlocks. The thought of crossing between two ships with only thin accordion-like walls of ceramic tiles separating him and the void of space made John shudder. ITTs were far too insubstantial for his liking. Compared to the armored hull of a warship, or even the standard hulls of civilian transports, an ITT’s walls were terrifyingly thin. John was uncomfortable with the idea of relying on tissue paper to keep his head from exploding in the vacuum of space.

The panoply of stars greeted the transport as it moved further away from the base. The
Firestorm
waited to meet the vessel roughly one thousand kilometers above the moon’s northern pole. John was the only person transferring over to the
Firestorm
, and he knew the unscheduled stop would irritate the business people who used these vessels on a regular basis.

If they wanted to complain, they could take it up with the Director of Alien Affairs. He smiled wryly. Nate would love to hear from them.

The warship came into view. In a geosynchronous orbit around the moon, she appeared to be sitting still. Her strong lines, powerful weapons systems, and predatory sleekness advertised the
Firestorm
as one of the deadliest ships in the fleet. Despite his misgivings about stepping foot on her, John stood at the window mesmerized by her fierce beauty. The UESF officer in him, so long repressed and feared, admired the lines and curves of the hull. He noted the changes in overall design--more cannon banks and OPs, a better-protected launch bay, and four additional quantum drives--compared to the warships of two decades ago.

Now, that’s a sleek fighting machine
, John mused.

The transport slowed, preparing to dock with the warship. John’s pulse accelerated as the distance closed between the two ships. He picked up his bag and moved to the starboard side, following the signs to the airlock. Rubbing his sweaty palms against his trousers, John reminded himself the walk would only last a moment, and soon he would be safely ensconced in his quarters on the
Firestorm
.

“You the lucky guy what’s going over there?” asked a heavyset man in shabby coveralls standing by the control panel.

Lucky? That wasn’t the word he was thinking of. John made eye contact with the person responsible for aligning the airlocks and the corridor between them. He hoped those skills were better than his English.

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Heh? Either you is, or you isn’t,” the man--Paul Simmons according to his badge--said.

“I’m the one going across to the
Firestorm
, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“’Course that’s what I was asking.” He paused. “You some kind of officer? You don’t look like one. She’s a warship, she don’t take tourists.”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge that information,” John replied, hoping the man would drop the subject.

“Eh?” Paul leaned in and whispered, his breath a mix of coffee and sardines, “You some sort of spy?” John’s shock must have convinced him of the veracity of his guess because he added, “Don’t worry, I seen lots o’ stuff I shouldn’ta. I won’t breathe a word to no one.” He winked at John.

“Your discretion in this matter would be appreciated.”

“Heh? I ain’t going to tell no one, don’t you worry.” He turned back to the panel and began entering commands with a speed born of experience. He continued to speak without looking up from the console. “There’s some insulation and gravity in the tunnel, but be sure you don’t take too long getting across. It gets mighty cold mighty damn fast.”

John nodded his understanding and started at the sudden sound of the seals from the first airlock popping. Grinding gears followed as the door opened.

“All set,” said Paul. “Now get across before you freeze.”

John took a deep breath and stepped into the chill of the ITT. His feet echoed off the metal plating on the floor, and his bag thumped loudly against his thigh. He worked to get his breathing under control before he met anyone from the other ship. He closed his eyes and walked the remainder of the way half by instinct and half by memory. Within moments he found himself standing in the decompression chamber on board the
Firestorm
. In a matter of seconds the grey door would roll open and he would be faced with his first view of the interior of a modern warship. He hoped he wouldn’t vomit.

The door to the tunnel closed behind him with an echoing finality. The magnetic couplings secured to the ship’s exterior released and the ITT drifted away like a giant tape worm. The transport reeled it in until the large red painted square marking the airlock’s position on the hull remained the only sign of its presence. The words,
Caution: Airlock Expansion Outlet. Do Not Block
were emblazoned above, visible from over one hundred meters away.

He was trapped between the inner and outer hulls of the
Firestorm
. John wasn’t claustrophobic, but standing in the tiny space between the hulls was purgatory. Time stood still as the moment he dreaded arrived. Caught, like an insect in amber, he was paralyzed by the wait. The ship’s gravity pulled him to the deck as the locks popped and the door rolled open.

The glare from the yellow overhead lights blinded him as the smell of artificially circulated air assaulted his nostrils. John blinked as he took his first tentative steps on the
Firestorm
and was swept away by the startling familiarity of his immediate surroundings.

Not much had changed in twenty years. He noted the thick, armored walls, their sloping curves that followed the lines of the ship, and the typical neutral beige paint used everywhere by the UESF. Even their interior decorating tastes hadn’t changed.

A panel near the airlock door beeped, signaling its imminent closure.

John shuffled across the tile flooring and almost bumped into the two men waiting to greet him.

Large blue eyes gazed at him from within a chiseled face topped with blond hair light enough to be white. The man smiled and held out a hand. “Professor Thompson? I’m Captain William Forbes. Welcome aboard the
Firestorm
.”

John’s eyes widened. How could someone so young be in command of one of the premier ships in the fleet? Were they pulling toddlers from their mothers’ arms and thrusting them into uniform? John took Forbes’ hand and forced a weak smile in return.

John clutched his bag tighter as he realized there was more to his welcome than he expected. Another man was standing next to the captain, arm outstretched, ready to grasp his.

“This is Commander Maxwell Cheng, the
Firestorm’s
executive officer,” said Forbes.

“How do you do?” asked Cheng.

Another baby.

He extracted his hand from the man’s vice-like grip. John was about to reply when a soft cough caught his attention.

Forbes smiled as a petite female officer approached the tiny group. “And this is Lt. Rebeccah Santiago, my diplomatic officer.”

* * * *

Rebeccah stared up at the man in front of her. His firm handshake caught her off guard, a stark contrast to his shuffling, nervous entry into the ship, his stunned silence, and the absolute terror in his eyes. She found it hard to believe the UESF would send them an expert on avian anthropology afraid of space travel.

She smiled warmly, trying to put him at ease.

Letting go of her hand, he clutched his travel bag tightly to his chest, his long fingers clenching and unclenching around the straps. She decided to break the awkward silence. “Welcome, Professor. We’re honored to have you aboard.”

He pulled his gaze away from his intense study of the decking and made eye contact with her again.

“Um, yes. Thank you.”

The muscles in his jaw bulged as he clenched his mouth closed.

Her heart ached in sympathy--he looked ill.

“Would you care for a tour of the ship?” asked Forbes.

“No,” Professor Thompson quickly replied. “No, thank you. I’d like to go straight to my cabin.”

“Uh, okay,” said Forbes. “If you change your mind, I’m sure Lt. Santiago here would be willing to organize something for you.”

Cheng sniggered, making her blush under the professor’s scrutiny. Rebeccah cast a quick glare at the XO, then said, “Of course. I’ll be happy to help you with anything you need during the mission.” Cheng was still snickering and she forced herself to retain her professional demeanor despite an overwhelming urge to drive her elbow into his ribs.

Thompson nodded and turned his attention to the captain, who, unlike Cheng, at least tried to make polite conversation with their guest. As soon as they reached a junction in the corridor, Cheng spoke up. “Sir, we should be heading back to the bridge.”

“Commander?”

“We have a lot to do prior to getting underway.” He gave the professor a patronizing pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Professor. We’ll take care of everything. You just relax and enjoy the voyage.”

“Commander...” Forbes seemed unsure about Cheng’s blatant lie.

“We’ll be fine,” Rebeccah said. “I can escort Professor Thompson to his cabin.”

Cheng gave Forbes a knowing look, then turned once again to Thompson. “I’m sure you can imagine the amount of work involved in preparing a vessel like this for the jump to trans-light space.”

Rebeccah stifled a gasp. She swore she caught a flicker of disdain cross the professor’s features when Cheng spoke. She shook her head. Professor Thompson couldn’t possibly understand how absurd Cheng’s excuse was.

“I guess the commander and I should be heading back to the bridge,” Forbes said. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to chat during the voyage.”

“Yes, uh, yes,” replied the professor.

“I would be honored if you would dine at my table tonight,” said Forbes as he gestured for Cheng to hold still a moment longer.

Thompson didn’t answer, apparently absorbed in his study of the pattern on the deck. Rebeccah shrugged her shoulders in response to Forbes’ questioning glance. Cheng coughed and shifted from foot to foot. With a shrug of his own, Forbes turned and walked down the adjoining corridor; Cheng following in close pursuit.

* * * *

One foot in front of the other. Don’t look. Don’t think. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

He tried to avoid noting the details of his surroundings. He didn’t want to make connections between this warship and the ones he’d served on. He ordered his eyes to stare at the decking, but they had other plans. Despite his mantra, his brain seemed determined to learn about the ship and its crew.

The uniform style had changed a little, but the sound of UESF boots striding along the corridors remained the same. He liked the new shirts. Made of a lightweight tan material, he noted the freedom of movement the officers enjoyed, and recalled the stiff pull of seams on his own uniform whenever he needed to stretch or do something physical. He noticed the change within seconds, and found he approved of the new location of the rank insignia. In his day, he wore his rank on his sleeve cuffs, now they resided on the collar.

The UESF logo and the ship’s name were printed on the right and left shoulders, and the surname of each individual was embroidered in black over the left breast pocket. Ribbons representing various medals earned adorned the space above the right. All in all, John felt satisfied he could identify anyone he encountered on the ship. The only thing throwing him off was the UESF’s decision to have every department wear the same neutral top.

“Where are the departmental insignia?”

Santiago glanced down at her sleeve before answering. “Check the trim on the cuff, as well as the color of the belt, and the emblem on the buckle.” She pointed to her own dark green cuffs and belt, and the symbolic olive branch in the center.

“Subtle.”

“The UESF decided to make it harder for an enemy to determine the chain of command in a combat situation.”

“Hmm.”

Images of a battle to take over an avian outpost played before his mind’s eye. The avians hadn’t taken out the leaders wearing blue tops, but had targeted the medics in their burgundy uniforms instead. The horror of watching the one group of soldiers universally respected as neutral cut down took the fight out of the UESF troops faster than a field of anti-personnel mines.

One foot in front of the other. Don’t look. Don’t think. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

John and Lt. Santiago approached the general quarters of the ship. He made out the crew names on the doors they passed, and the aroma of food wafted from a nearby junction.

“The Senior Officers’ Mess is down that corridor,” Santiago said. “That’s where you’ll be taking your meals while on board.” She pointed the opposite way along the same hall. “The Junior Officers’ Mess is over there. The dining facilities for the enlisted troops are located on decks fourteen and fifteen, closer to their billets.”

“Which shift should I eat with?” he asked, knowing the kitchen staff prepared staggered meals to accommodate the three shifts that kept the ship running twenty-four hours a day.

Her eyes widened at the question. “The captain and the rest of the main bridge crew eat on the alpha shift schedule. Please join us.”

He nodded.

One foot in front of the other. Don’t look. Don’t think. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.