Twenty

The Chief of Security’s Office

Things weren’t going at all well for Colonel George Perkins.

Word of Akillistrak’s capture had, of course, reached his office.  Knowing it was only a matter of time before the captured Grugell officer revealed the name of his contact, Perkins was making some alternate arrangements.

In a locked compartment of his office desk were three complete sets of identification cards, complete and indistinguishable from OWME issue right down to the holographic ID image that sprang from the card at a touch of a contact.  Also in the locked compartment was a sum of cash, sixteen thousand, two hundred and fifty American dollars and five thousand UK pounds; enough to see him back to Earth, where he had banked a considerably larger sum, gained from various activities over the years. 

Finally, in the drawer, was the final piece of his intended retirement.  He pulled the small black cube out of the desk, examined it for a moment before dropping it in his oversized briefcase along with the cash and ID cards.

“I’ve got a couple errands to run,” he announced as he strode through the outer office.  His aide and admin assistant both looked up from their desks, but offered no reply.

“Oh, and I’ll be going over to Detention One to have a look at this Grugell prisoner, too.  Don’t look for me back until tomorrow.”

Six blocks away was his apartment, and ten blocks from there was the Transit Office.  A quick change of clothing and ID, a ticket purchase on next-available transit back to Earth, and then all that remained would be to fade away into the background until his ship arrived.

And the Chief of Security knew all the places to disappear. 

The Cachalot

Captain Jan Benton and First Officer Gillian Furst had just finished reading the orders from Tarbos Ground for the fifth time, their heads bent together over the message flimsy as they floated on the Cachalot’s claustrophobic, zero-gravity Bridge.

“I’m not sure I understand these orders.”

Captain Benton nodded, agreeing with her First Officer; but in her nine years with OWME, she’d learned that the Company always had a reason for whatever it did.  Anyway, the orders were clear.  Benton began barking orders to her Bridge crew.

“Helm, bring us to one-fourteen, positive fifty, engage the main drive, all ahead two-thirds.”

“Coming about, Captain, star drive engaged.  Engineering answers ahead two-thirds.”  The massive cargo hull accelerated slowly, the drive sending an audible thrummm through the ship.

 Captain Benton made her way to the Navigation station.  “Lieutenant Karzai, plot a course to five AU’s outside Tarbo’s orbit; give me a trajectory that lands us in a parking orbit that keeps us with a line-of sight to Tarbos as much as possible.  Relay the trajectory to Helm as soon as you have it.”

“Won’t be easy to keep a line-of site that far out, Captain.  I’m not even sure if we can scan that far, visually or any other way.”

“We don’t need to.  They’ll contact us when the time’s right.”

“Contact us for what, Captain?”

“They haven’t said.”

The Bridge crew exchanged puzzled looks, but the expression on Captain Benton’s face forestalled any further discussion.  Silently, the Cachalot’s crew carried out the necessary tasks to place the ship in a parking orbit near the system’s single gas giant.

The Conference Center

Corinthia, as several delegates had suspected, was shaping up to be a problem.  In particular, the King of Corinthia, who had emigrated hundreds of light years to set up an autocratic rule, was shaping up to be a real problem.

“We do not see why we need to have this ratified by a plebiscite on each world.  The various planets sent delegates here, and to do what?  To set up a system of interstellar government, and to raise a Navy.  Fine and good, We say – We are more than willing to contribute the required percentage of Corinthia’s product to build ships and train people to man them.  But We consider the requirement for a plebiscite to be an unacceptable interference in Corinthia’s internal affairs.”  The King pounded on the speaker’s lectern with one hand as he spoke.

“Are not the several worlds to be sovereign entities unto themselves?  What right, then, this Confederation, to dictate how We administer our own planet, a planet founded Our own self at Our own expense?  A planet settled by Our loyal followers, dedicated as they are to serving their sovereign?”

In the audience, Mike Crider Senior was beginning to get annoyed at Harold I’s constant use of the royal “we.”  He wasn’t alone in that sentiment.  The King continued on, oblivious.

“And so, We must say no, no to the presumption that The Confederation will run roughshod over the rights of free planets to determine their own destinies.  We must say no to the ratification rule and no to conditional acceptance.  If this is to be a limited partnership of sovereign worlds, let it be so.  Let the Confederation levy its tax and raise its Navy, and interfere not with the internal affairs of the member worlds.”  With a final glare at the audience, King Harold relinquished the floor.  In front of Mike, the United Kingdom’s Prince Harry muttered to himself, “Stupid, cousin, very, very stupid.”

Mike leaned forward.  Around him voices were raised, many in anger.  “Is he really your cousin?”

Prince Harry turned around in his seat.  “I’m sorry to say, yes, he is.  He was never considered one of the brightest of the Royal Family, you know.  His father was very clever indeed, and he made a tremendous fortune developing land in Africa following the wars and resulting famine.  Harold – you know, at times I’m sorry I share a name with the blighter – always was an arrogant bastard, even as a lad, and you see now where that’s led him.  The moment he inherited his father’s money, off he went, and the family was quite frankly happy to see him go.”

“He sort of just blasted his own argument apart,” Mike commented.  “Letting the ‘free planets determine their own destinies?’  Isn’t that the whole purpose behind this plebiscite requirement?”

“Indeed.  You understand that, and I understand that.  But Harold will never understand that.  As far as he’s concerned, he is Corinthia.  The man, unfortunately, cannot see past the end of his own nose.”

“He’s not making any friends here.  He seems to have just ignored the last few hundred years of Earth’s history.”

“Oh, he excels at ignoring inconvenient facts, I assure you.”

Director Pritchard’s office, the next day

The Grugell didn’t know or understand the human concept of nostalgia, and so Clomonastik was perfectly happy to shed the replica of the uniform he’d once worn with pride.  He had replaced it with a tailored, dark blue silk suit with his usual sparkling white shirt and tie.  Fastidiousness was customary among the Grugell, and Clomonastik was no exception. 

“Well, Director Pritchard, it seems my initial guess was correct.  The Lieutenant – his name, by the way, is Akillistrak XI– informs me that his Commander is indeed on a mission to interfere with any attempt by humanity to form an interstellar government, to include the use of force if necessary.  I’m convinced that my old subordinate would attempt an orbital bombardment, if he thought he would gain the Emperor’s favor in so doing; he always was an ambitious sort.  So, are we all, though, yes?  But Kadastrattik XII possesses ambition in an unhealthy extreme.”

“Do they have the power to do so?”

“Almost certainly yes.  The weapons on even a small frigate could certainly destroy a good part of the city.  Twenty-two years ago, a frigate mounted several different weapons systems, including an energy weapon that is quite capable of penetrating the atmosphere to do considerable damage.  The Imperium may well have developed more effective weapons since then, although the Navy’s scientists and engineers do not work with the – how shall I say this – abandon that your own technical people display?  Innovation is slower in the Empire.”

“People work harder for a personal carrot than a communal stick,” Pritchard noted.

“So I’ve learned, Director.  At any rate, I’m certain Kadastrattik XII would not shrink from bombarding the planet if he thought it necessary; however, his orders would seem to state that such force is to be a last resort.  Unusual,” he mused, “that the Emperor would be so circumspect.  I would have expected him to send a fleet to Tarbos and reduce the planet to a smoking ruin.  Interesting – perhaps the Empire is not as strong as we suspected it to be?  Some internal problem, perhaps?”

“We have no way of knowing that,” Pritchard pointed out.  “We can only proceed on what we know, and try to anticipate what this Kadastrattik will do next.”

“Indeed.  And I may have some insight there as well.”  Clomonastik continued for several minutes.

Pritchard drummed on his desk, thinking rapidly.  “Would these Grugell ships use radio for short-range communications, like we do?”

“They would indeed, Director.” “Good.”  Pritchard stood up and walked out of the office without further explanation.  Clomonastik watched him go, shrugged philosophically, and followed him out.

To see more of Animal’s writing, visit his page at Crimson Dragon Publishing or Amazon.