Project U.L.F. (56 page)

“What of the crew of the shuttle?” Leonardson asked.

“Dead. All of them. We found what was left of them in the ship. They were trying to escape, and to be honest, I don’t blame them. We lost four of our own on that place.”

“What were you doing there, anyway? Nobody knew of that place except us.” The lie stuck in his throat. A U.L.F. crew there meant only one thing. Mannheim had sent them.

“That’s a good question. Wyatt believes Mannheim set us up. We were on a one way ticket.”

“Wyatt’s with you?” Leonardson interrupted with astonishment.

“Yes, that’s right. We were sent away on a ruse with less than a full complement of crew and only enough fuel for the trip there. If it hadn’t been for us finding your ship there, General, we would all be dead and no one would ever have found out about this.”

“Wyatt’s still alive?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God,” he whispered.

“But others were not so lucky. Other good people who didn’t deserve to die.” The words were laced with accusation.

Leonardson rocked back in his chair. He steepled his fingers together and planted his thumbs in his mouth, gnawing nervously on the nails. This was a lot worse than he had originally thought. Supplying information to give Mannheim the competitive edge was bad enough, but to know that he had acted on that information with murder in mind appalled him. “Thank you, Miss Keele. What’s your ETA at the moon-base?”

“Six days from now.”

“Good. I shall arrange an escort to rendezvous with you in four days. They will see you in.”

“Thank you, General, but I think we can manage, after all we’ve been through.”

Leonardson smiled weakly, ignoring her comment. “One more thing, Miss Keele…”

“Yes?” She cocked her head, curious.

“Under no circumstances attempt to contact the IZP.” She frowned but he offered no explanation. “Now I must go. Godspeed to you.” She nodded curtly and Leonardson broke off the link. He slumped onto his desk and held his head in his hands. It was all over. His career was ruined. Three men in C&C knew that a U.L.F. crew had returned in one of their ships from a code black planet system. It would not take a genius to figure out that somewhere in the ranks there had been a leak, and soon that leak would be traced back to him. With Wyatt’s return, as well, the whole thing would be blown wide open. Even people in the I.Z.P. would be asking questions and demanding explanations. There was no tenable way he could extricate himself from this and come out unscathed. Either way he would be disgraced. It was over.

He rose and walked around the back of his chair. He had hoped never to see this day, but deep down he had known it would come. He told the computer to inform all callers that he was out of the office and would be for the foreseeable future. Messages would be answered on his return. He sent a delayed message to C&C telling them to send out an escort ship. By the time they got it, he would be gone.

He pulled his tunic off its hanger, which clattered against the stand as it slipped out. Pulling it on, he brushed some imaginary fluff off his epaulettes. He turned to the mirror and pulled the tunic down straight. Taking a deep breath, he held it, puffing out his chest. He didn’t like the man in the mirror, the man he had become. It was time to end it.

He looked at the uniform lying on his bed. It was clean and the seams were pressed neatly to a crisp edge. It was how things should be. Neat. Crisp. Clean. It was not how things were with him. Somewhere along the line life had got complicated. The lines that defined him had become blurred. The standards he had once upheld had fallen. For years he had been fighting it, watching as his world of black and white turned gray against him. But try as he might to avoid it, he found himself caught up in the confusion, dragged down by it. He saw no way out of it now. He was lost.

He had left work that afternoon and driven home. It hadn’t been peak hour, so the roads were relatively quiet, no need to take the skytrack. It had been a while since he had properly driven home, but the route was familiar. Too familiar it seemed. He had been alarmed numerous times during the hour-long drive. Alarmed that he was driving on autopilot. It had seemed that he had come awake at the wheel, even though he hadn’t been sleeping. He would have no recollection of the last ten or fifteen minutes, or of the umpteen sets of lights that he must have passed along thirteen city blocks. His mind was elsewhere.

Slowly, the towering city offices gave way to smaller siblings, which in turn eventually bowed to the apartment blocks and estates of two- and three-story housing that constituted leafy suburbia. Leonardson’s piece of leafy suburbia was here, in Oak Park.
  

He had pulled up in the driveway, no need to garage the car, he would be using it again later. After entering the house, he retrieved a key from a small cabinet and went to the shed at the end of his garden. This was where he kept them all. His collection of antiques.

Now, as he sat on the bed, next to the laid-out uniform, he gazed fondly at a portrait of his family. His wife, being mobbed by their two boys when they had been much younger. One was now a cadet in the Global Alliance Fighter Corps, the other was still in college, over in Los Angeles. It had been a family holiday in France, ten, maybe twelve years ago. He traced their faces through the glass with a finger. He’d thought about leaving a note for them, to try and explain, but they would never have understood, and the more he thought about it, the more he disliked the idea. He wasn’t good with emotions and he would not have been able to find the words he wanted. Not only that, but a note provided evidence of his intent, which would then incriminate him as surely as if he’d admitted to leaking those documents himself. No, this way was better.

Leonardson put the photo back atop the cabinet, next to the item he had collected from the shed. With his other hand he picked it up, testing the feel of it, cold and heavy in his grip. Having been a military man himself once, weapons had always fascinated him; but especially the weapons of old, when thought and care had gone into their construction. This was one of the finest he owned. A six-cylinder revolver.

He undid the catch and with a deft flick of his wrist, tipped the chamber out to one side. Six gold caps looked back at him. Six live rounds. If all went according to plan, he would only need four. He flicked his wrist back and the chamber flew home with a click. He put it back on the cabinet surface.

Leonardson checked his watch. 4:30 PM. No need to rush. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the packet of cigarettes he’d bought not twenty minutes before. Without looking he found the tab on the cellophane wrapper and pulled it off, scrunching the clear plastic into a ball before throwing it at the wastebasket in the corner of the room. The wrapper leapt back into shape as it left his hand and died halfway to its target, falling to the carpeted floor. The whole procedure had seemed second nature to him, even though he hadn’t smoked in years. He had never forgotten the habit but couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a smoke.

He’d given up on the advice of his doctor, for the sake of his health. “Cancer sticks,” his doctor had called them, but he’d never suffered from cancer, just a rattling cough that made his lungs sound like marbles being thrown around in a box. Ah, what the hell! Death was inevitable, why postpone it?

He fished around in his other pocket and pulled out a cheap lighter, struck it to flame and leaned to it. A steady plume of smoke indicated the cigarette was lit. He inhaled deeply, feeling the burning acrid smoke course through his airways. He blew the gray breath toward the ceiling and examined the cigarette between his fingers as if he’d never seen one before. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed them. Putting the butt back to his lips, he took another deep drag, squinting as he did so. Mannheim needed the I.Z.P. like a smoker needed his nicotine. He lived and breathed it. There was no hurry. He’d be there later, and later there would be fewer people around. Besides, he’d gotten used to waiting for this day.

*
  
*
  
*
  
*
  
*

Bobby sat with her feet up on the console and Furball on her lap. She scratched the friendly little creature behind its ear, like Kate had shown her, and it arched its head backward in appreciation, regarding her through half-closed eyes. She had cut the hyperdrive after making contact with the remote listening post and manually fine-tuned the nav computer to take them back to the moon-base. The stars drifted past like snowflakes falling out of a dark night sky. The only sound was Furball’s occasional chitter of satisfaction and the background hum of the ship itself. It was so quiet here. So peaceful.

Her thoughts wandered. Six days. She could hardly believe it. She never thought she would be going home. She never thought she’d see the people she cared about ever again. Six days and they would be home. Those who had survived, of course. Her mind went to the others then, to Par, his sad face before he turned away from her. Alex, and Chris cradling his friend in his arms, devastated at his loss. She thought of Kit, and could even remember a time when she saw him share a joke and smile. And she thought of Byron. One of her best and oldest friends who would now be missing forever. She closed her eyes to the pain the memories invoked, trying to shut it out.

She kept asking herself the same question.

Why?

*
  
*
  
*
  
*
  
*

Mannheim frowned and looked at his watch. It was late for Leonardson to come calling. “Let him in,” he said to the computer, and the door to his office slid open quietly. “Come in, Kurt.”

Leonardson ducked his head as he passed through the door. It had become habit for someone as tall as him. “Good evening, Douglas. I’m glad I caught you.”

Mannheim shrugged. “You know me. I’m here more often than I’m not, but this is an unexpected pleasure. Can I get you a drink?”

It was Mannheim’s standard opening line, and on this occasion Leonardson resented it. Mannheim was supremely confident. Even now, he thought he was in charge. He had no idea how dangerous the situation was. “I’ll get it.” Leonardson strode purposefully over to the cabinet where he knew the brandy decanter was housed. He’d been here many times before. He poured two, giving himself a large measure which he downed in one gulp before refilling, then turned with the two glasses, handing one to Mannheim. Mannheim eyed him suspiciously, fingering the rim of his glass. “Are you all right, Kurt?”

“Fine,” Leonardson finished his second shot before putting the glass down on Mannheim’s desk. He remained standing, his tall, lean frame imposing in the office, a stark challenge to the overweight and seated Mannheim.

“Well then, please sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

“And so you should be.” Even though the words were said quietly, the malice in them was evident. Mannheim chuckled with no mirth. “My organization’s remote listening posts picked up a maxi-shuttle on their sensors today, coming back across the boundary. It’s called the Endeavour.”

Mannheim shrugged, frowning. “So? Happens all the time. This warrants a personal visit from you, in full uniform? What has it got to do with me?”

Leonardson put his hands on the desk and leaned toward Mannheim with predatory intent. “The Endeavour, Douglas? Does it ring any bells?” His fury was at the end of its leash. “It was one we thought we’d lost.”

Mannheim’s disarming smile faltered for a fleeting instant. The name Endeavour did mean something to him, and Leonardson knew it. “Well, congratulations, Kurt. I’ll drink to that.” Mannheim took a particularly large swig and swallowed nervously. The glass rattled against the table as his shaking hand put it down.

Leonardson turned away from him in disbelief and disgust and paced into the center of the room. “Even now, you try to play me like a fiddle,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t have given you that information. It was too sensitive. I knew it had been a mistake as soon as I did it, and you gave me your word!…” he rounded on Mannheim, pointing an accusing finger. “…
your word
that you hadn’t acted upon it!” His face was red and contorted with anger.