The Firestorm Conspiracy (8 page)

They arrived at the door to his cabin. Small and cramped by civilian standards, John recognized the opulence inherent in the space he’d been granted. To be offered quarters with a bed and separate seating area was a huge gesture of respect. The window in the living area was another luxury accorded to only the highest ranking officers on board. In short, he was impressed.

“I’m sorry,” said Lt. Santiago. “I know this is not what you’re used to.”

“It’s fine,” he replied. Doubt flashed across her features so he added, “It’s more than I was expecting.”

Again, her eyes widened and John puzzled over her reaction. She was too old to be a recent graduate, but she surprised far too easily for an experienced officer. He wondered if she wasn’t a few stops short of a roundtrip.

Alarm coursed through his veins when he realized his own questions and reactions might be blowing his cover. He coughed and scrambled to find something he figured a civilian would ask about. He set his bag down on the bed and moved to the panel on the wall. “I assume I can control all my cabin’s functions from here?”

“Yes. You can adjust the ambient temperature, the lighting, and the window dressings.” She keyed in a few commands to illustrate. “You can also play music or access any of the video networks through here. The screen will descend in front of the bulkhead on your right,” she said, gesturing toward the far wall, “should you wish to watch anything.”

“Thank you.”

He hoped she wouldn’t linger. He hadn’t meant to ask any questions during the walk from the airlock to his cabin, but he’d never been good at curbing his curiosity. To his relief, his escort seemed somewhat preoccupied. Walking back toward the door, he said, “Thank you for your assistance. Please let Captain Forbes know I will join him for dinner.”

She smiled and appeared to take the hint. Santiago moved into the corridor.

“I’ll tell him.” She began walking away then paused to look back over her shoulder. “Welcome aboard, Professor.”

John nodded and closed the door. He dimmed the lights, lowered the window coverings, and sat heavily on the bed. Holding his head with trembling hands, he gulped in several deep breaths and prayed the trip would be over soon.

* * * *

“Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to take your station?” asked Cheng.

The question brought Rebeccah out of her reverie. She blushed slightly and took her place to the right of the captain’s command area.

“I assume you delivered the professor to his accommodations?” said Forbes, leaning back in his chair.

“Yes, sir,” Rebeccah said. “He asked me to tell you he will join you for dinner.”

Cheng rolled his eyes. “Wonderful, just what we need, a pathetic stuffed shirt asking inane questions all night, or trying to teach us about the finer uses of the English language.”

“He’s not an English professor, Commander.” Rebeccah kept her tone respectful--barely. “He’s one of the foremost experts on avian anthropology and sociology.”

“Right.” More eye rolling.

“So,” Forbes leaned forward to ask, “was he everything you thought he’d be?” He chuckled. “I got the impression he wasn’t quite what you expected.”

She smiled at the understatement. “Well he’s certainly less outgoing in person than he is in his seminars.”

“You watched his lectures?” Cheng asked. “Boy, you are nuts. All we’re doing is ferrying the guy into avian space. He’s not going to test us on our knowledge of alien social structures.”

“He didn’t seem introverted,” Forbes said. “He seemed downright terrified.” His tone became more serious. “I wonder what’s so important about this meeting with the avians that HQ would send someone so obviously unsuited to space travel.”

Rebeccah nodded. She’d wondered the same thing too--before he asked several questions no civilian would think of posing. Now she had other questions about John Thompson. She was positive he wasn’t the man their briefing notes indicated.

John kept the blast shields on the windows down and footage from the video networks running day and night in an effort to mask the sounds and sensations of the ship. He tried to tell himself he was in a low-budget hotel at a conference to explain his cramped quarters. If it weren’t for his need to eat, and the damn emergency drills, he would have been able to block the knowledge of his surroundings out completely.

Still the nightmares came.

* * * *

“John!”

The ground shuddered under his feet, jarring his teeth and shaking his bones. Gunfire, explosions, and screams filled the air as he careened down the street. Heedless of enemies holed up in the buildings, he sprinted, his boots raising clouds of dust and debris. The shrill cries of terrified women and children begging for mercy drowned out the sound of his heartbeat and ragged breathing. He ran.

“John!”

“Daddy!”

The words--screamed in desperation--echoed in his mind. They came from the building at the end of the street. He ran, but got no closer. Blind terror drove his feet into the dirt. His heart threatened to burst through his chest, yet he continued to run. The sound of a low flying bomber turned his bowels to water. He didn’t have to be on that ship to know its target.

“Daddy!”

“John! Please, oh God, please no.”

Lungs burning, he staggered along the street. He wouldn’t make it. The bomber swooped in low overhead, its ominous bulk underscoring the massive weaponry carried on board. Tears streaming down his face, he collapsed to his knees.

“No. God, no.”

He cradled the cold and brittle rifle. The black barrel matched the despair in his heart. The whine as the bomber’s sonic weapon powered up raised the hairs on his arms. He clenched his gun, gripping the stock so tightly his knuckles drained of blood. The ship’s cannon discharged and the crash of the collapsing building rode the sonic wave toward him. Head down, shoulders sagging in surrender, he did nothing to protect himself from the blast. It thundered down the street, moving with the force of a hurricane. He was thrown flat, dirt and rocks pelting him like the sting of a thousand hornets.

Silence.

Shakily regaining his knees, he searched for the building at the end of the street. A smoking pile of debris greeted his grit-filled eyes. Ships flew by overhead, their engines silent. Gunfire ripped past him, the bullets mute. He knelt in a deathly quiet world. He lowered his head--heedless of the battle raging around him--as tears poured down his cheeks, exploding in tiny puffs in the dust on his thighs.

His wife and daughter were gone. He’d failed again.

* * * *

The effects of the nightmares lingered as he completed his morning routine, and often followed him into the Officers’ Mess for breakfast. During these moments of overlapping reality, John found it hard to interact with those around him. He kept to himself, stayed only long enough to eat his fill, and tried to minimize the impact of life aboard the
Firestorm
on his already fragile psyche.

He refused to go anywhere other than to the mess hall and his quarters, he refused all social invitations, and he refused to entertain visitors in his cabin. Yet somehow, the ship crept into his life. He didn’t want to feel comfortable here; he wanted his apartment in Vancouver. He didn’t want to wake up and find the vibration of the engines soothing. He wanted to awaken to the cooing of pigeons and his supposedly soothing--yet unconscionably irritating--alarm. He didn’t want to miss the sound of boot steps when he walked in loafers on the deck; he needed to convince himself he made the right decision when he exchanged the UESF for a lonely--he wasn’t lonely--life on Earth. He wanted to hate every last molecule of the ship and her crew.

The smell of paint and boot polish lingered everywhere. He couldn’t escape it. It followed him into the mess hall. It followed him into the shower. It invaded his dreams. It clung to him like a second skin. A skin that on Earth would have disturbed him; here on the
Firestorm
, it began to feel oddly comforting.

“Tell the Minister of Defense he’ll have my risk assessment on his desk by noon tomorrow.” Nate ended the video call. Damn minor functionaries. They always pestered him for something. If he had information to report, he would.

Nate stabbed his communications panel and swore as he bruised his fingertip. “Bob, I’m doing some critical research. I do not want to be disturbed for any reason short of a national disaster. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, sir. No interruptions under any circumstances.”

“Good.” He toggled off the panel and began scanning the latest packet from the
Firestorm
. He skimmed the entries of the captain and executive officer, looking for references to John, the mission, or anything that could be construed as suspicious. Finding nothing, he opened the diplomatic officer’s logs, prepared to skim the contents as well, but his eye caught John’s name and he began to read in earnest.

Professor John Thompson remains a mystery. As part of my duties as the senior diplomat on board, I have made myself available to address his needs. He has been invited to several social functions, but he seems to prefer to remain in his cabin
.

Nate snorted.

I took it upon myself to become familiar with his work, and he has, somewhat reluctantly, been willing to discuss the avians over a quick meal in the mess. I am left wondering how someone so shy and awkward could be the best choice for this mission.

Nate wondered again if sending John had been a good idea. If he couldn’t cope with an uneventful space flight, how might he react to a potentially dangerous meeting with an avian agent?

While Captain Forbes has not shared the specific details of the purpose of the mission among the crew, and Professor Thompson is unwilling to discuss anything beyond generalities, I believe I understand why we’re taking him into avian space. I’ve been hearing rumors that we should not trust the avians. At such a critical point in the peace talks, I can only imagine the damage such gossip might do.

Nate scanned the remainder of Lt. Santiago’s logs, searching for further references to the rumors. The person responsible for spreading dissent might be the conspirator Nate needed to find. As if to deliberately thwart his efforts, Lt. Santiago failed to identify the source of the gossip. He needed an excuse to send her a message.

The talk at the captain’s table revolved around crossing into avian territory the next day. Some of the officers wanted to uphold the tradition of initiating all the crew who had never crossed the line before. Cheng was one of the idea’s strongest proponents.

John sat alone at a table in the corner and tried to ignore the conversations taking place around him.

“The UESF has traditions,” Cheng exclaimed while hoisting his glass, “and we need to honor them.”

A chorus of “Hear, hear,” greeted his words.

“The UESF used to prohibit officers from fraternizing with fellow crewmembers,” Santiago replied. “Do you want to bring back that tradition too?”

“That policy was just plain cruel.” Cheng pouted, raising a bout of laughter from the nearby tables. “This tradition serves a purpose.”

“Tradition,” Targersson chimed in.

“And what purpose does stripping your fellow crewmembers down to their undergarments and covering them in corn syrup and goose feathers serve?” asked Santiago.

“Bonding,” Cheng shouted.

“Camaraderie,” added Targersson.

“For you or them?”

“For us.” Cheng and Targersson laughed as they raised their glasses and toasted each other.

John grimaced in disgust. He wanted to escape the talk, disappointed that such feelings still existed in the UESF, but decided to watch what Forbes would do.

“You two are hopeless.”

“Come on, Santiago. We’re just trying to have some fun,” replied Cheng.

“Mass public humiliation isn’t my idea of fun.”

“Perhaps if you dated--”

“My personal life has nothing to do with this conversation.” Flushed with more than the wine, Santiago set her fork down. “I just don’t understand the point.”

“The
point
is to let loose a little and have a bit of fun. The mission has been routine to the point of boredom, and the crew need a chance to relax.”

John admired Santiago’s vocal opposition. At least one member of the senior staff possessed ethics he agreed with.

“And you find underwear, syrup, and feathers relaxing?”

Cheng laughed. “On the contrary, with the right company, I find underwear, syrup, and feathers to be
highly
stimulating.”

John hid a smile as Santiago blushed. She walked into that one.

“There’s something to be said for the bonding experience of an initiation,” Forbes spoke as soon as the laughter subsided. “After all, each of us remembers our commissioning ceremony and all our subsequent graduations from various training courses.”

“Why do I feel a ‘but’ coming?” Cheng asked.

“Because there is a ‘but’ coming.” Forbes grinned. “
But
, I don’t feel a tradition born during a time of hostility and hatred toward the avians is a suitable thing to resurrect when humanity is on the cusp of establishing a long-term peace with them.”

Cheng refused to meet the captain’s gaze. John watched as Forbes waited for Cheng to glance back at him. As soon as their eyes made contact, Forbes spoke firmly. “There will be no initiations of any kind, particularly ones related to crossing the avian line. Is that clear?”

All signs of friendship disappeared. This was the captain giving a direct order to his subordinate officers. “Yes, sir,” replied Cheng and Targersson.

John’s estimation of Forbes increased by several notches. He may have been young, but he had a good head on his shoulders.

* * * *

The communications packet arrived just before they crossed into avian territory. Rebeccah’s duties became more challenging when the ship travelled at trans-light speed, as it outstripped the UESF’s ability to engage in real-time communication. To compensate, small relay stations were set up throughout human space to pass messages along, but not fast enough to satisfy her need for timely information. At their current distance from Earth, messages arrived roughly three days after they were sent.