Psion Gamma (36 page)

“We spent most of the morning discussing one thing, Sammy,” Thomas told him just outside the hall, “getting you home. I told them you have information about a possible mole in your organization. I also told them it’s a remote but real possibility that there are Psions in CAG territory searching for you. They’ve heard the intercepted conversation between the Thirteen cell in Orlando and the tactical team. So everyone in there knows that it’s important we get you back. The only question now is whether they’ll be talked out of it.”

“How? What do you mean?”

Thomas put a hand on Sammy’s back and steered him into the hall.

The instant the door closed behind them, the chatting in the hall stopped, heads whipped around in Sammy’s direction, and every last member of the audience rose to his or her feet. Someone, somewhere began clapping; two strong, sturdy hands rhythmically pounding into each other. Another pair joined them. Then two more pairs. Like rainfall transforming from a gentle shower into a mighty storm, the hall erupted in applause and cheers.

Thomas’s hand fell on Sammy’s shoulder. The old man leaned over to whisper in his ear: “They’re standing because of you. For what you represent.”

For a long time Sammy just stood there, rooted to that spot just inside the door. He looked into the eyes of the resistance as they looked back at him, cheering and clapping. It must have gone on for minutes.

At that moment in his life, he understood what it meant: the oath he had taken, the battles he had fought and might yet fight. In that room, with all those people, it all made sense. Sammy knew why he was a Psion.

Another hand on his other shoulder pushed him forward. As he walked toward the few chairs that faced the crowd, the noise came to a crescendo and held there. Sammy put up a hand and awkwardly waved in acknowledgement of their praise, then sat down.

Slowly the applause died down.

Thomas stood up to speak. “I think Sammy’s a little overwhelmed.”

Polite laughter rippled through the resistance members.

“I think I’ve taken up enough of the morning explaining why I believe we need to get Sammy back home—whether we can reach out to the NWG or just get him there ourselves. However, I promised our ombudsman some time to speak his mind and give his thoughts on the matter. So let’s hear from him.”

The ombudsman sat in a chair on the opposite side of Thomas. He was a tall, thinly-built man wearing a respectable business suit. His dark hair was thinning on the top and graying on the sides. He had all the signs and lines of a chronic smoker. As he spoke, he licked his lips often.

“About eleven years ago, most of our organization broke down because of unneeded risks. We lost over ninety percent of our manpower and many of our properties. It was a huge setback. Since then, we’ve been on a course of extreme caution. We haven’t done much to advance our cause other than collect data, move people into strategic positions of opportunity, and grow our numbers again. That strategy has worked, I believe. We’ve gone from three hundred members to almost two thousand.

“I think we need to ask ourselves several questions before voting on these decisions. First, are we sure we want to attempt to steal a ship? Thomas has suggested looking at Offutt as the site for the caper. This may possibly bring on unwanted attention. Do we want to risk lives—manpower—if things should turn ugly? Next, is there an easier way to contact the NWG to inform them of what we’ve discovered? Thomas suggested our member in Los Angeles who works with GNN. He’s referring, some of you probably know, to Ty Robbins. We have few people as well placed as he. We all need to ask ourselves this question: is what Thomas has proposed too risky or even counterproductive?”

“In what way is it counterproductive, Doug?” Thomas didn’t look happy as he spoke. In fact, he looked downright pissed off. “We sent people down to the old Rio compound to investigate. They found plenty of evidence to suggest someone had been there looking for Sammy!”

Doug licked his lips twice more before responding. “Well, you know, we’re not absolutely certain how important this operation is. Is it worth risking exposure to what we’re doing here? Is it worth putting the lives of many people at risk. I’m not against striking out if this is worth it, but we need to be sure it is.”

Thomas spoke again. “Come on, Doug, you heard the recording!”

Doug turned briefly to Thomas. “Please, it’s my turn to speak. You’ve had your say.”

Thomas became silent, but seemed to take great effort in doing so. Sammy could sense something of a rift between the two men.

“Are we overreacting?” Doug added. “I don’t know. We’ve worked very hard to build ourselves back up since the CAG caught, tortured, and killed so many of us. We must make sure that we’re practicing both prudence and responsible resistance.”

A general murmur broke out in the crowd. Thomas looked at Sammy and shook his head.

“So let’s stop yammering and take a vote!” he called out over the noise, which grew quiet at the sound of his voice. Sammy smiled to himself as he remembered the way Commander Byron could take control over a large group.

“We’ll vote on both items separately. If either item passes with popular consent we’ll form a committee of seven to determine how it will be carried out. All in favor of attempting contact with people who might be searching for Sammy say ‘aye.’”

A loud burst of ‘ayes’ rang across the room. Sammy was almost positive it had been unanimous.

“Any opposed with ‘nay.’”

There were no ‘nays.’

“That decision passes unanimously. All in favor of stealing a cruiser for Sammy to fly home say ‘aye.’”

This time there were noticeably less ‘ayes’ from the crowd. Sammy saw Doug had not voiced in favor. Thomas looked both nervous and disappointed at the response.

“All those opposed?”

A similar sound of ‘nays’ echoed.

“The vote is undetermined.” He shot a glance at Sammy. “I motion for a hand vote.”

“Seconded,” Doug said from his chair.

“Then let’s have a show of hands.”

This time members of the leadership counted hands. The total was one hundred eighty seven for, and one hundred thirty seven against.

The motion passed.

Late that night, Sammy sat in a room with seven members of the resistance. One of the seven was Doug, the ombudsman. He told Thomas if the resistance was going to go through with the crazy notion of stealing a cruiser, he wanted to be on the committee to plan it. Things around the Palace were manic with people scrambling everywhere to get stuff done. No one really knew what the timetable was for the CAG’s impending attack on Baikonur, or what it really meant, but the decision was that the sooner they acted to prevent it the better.

Thomas roamed between the two committees trying to keep everyone on task. Permanently attached to his hand all night was a steaming mug of what smelled to Sammy like hot chocolate. When Thomas came back into the room to check on the “Cruiser Caper Committee,” as he dubbed it, he was beaming.

“We’ve wrapped up plans for the GNN message. Ty says it will go out on the morning broadcast. If Walter is looking for Sammy in Rio or wherever, he should get the message.”

“How’s it going to happen?” Doug asked.

“Ty’s slipping it into the prompt. Says he’ll claim they were hacked. It’s happened before.”

“Won’t the news producers see it on the prompt and stop the feed?” Doug wondered aloud.

“No. GNN uses those—what do you call them—contact prompts. Puts the prompts right in front of the eye. They won’t know it’s coming until it comes out of the newscaster’s mouth.”

Dr. Vogt spoke up next. “We’ve already taken precautions in case something goes awry. His family is on the way here as we speak, and he’ll be joining them as soon as he’s loaded the prompt. If it all blows over, he’ll go back to work.”

Doug nodded, satisfied.

“And this will be heard all over the continent?” Sammy asked.

“All over North and South America,” Thomas answered. “We’re banking on the idea that if they’re here, they’re watching the news. If so, they meet us at Offutt and pick him up. If not, he flies himself and Toad out.”

“Fine. What’s the message?” Doug asked.

“You’ll love it, Sammy,” Thomas chuckled as he pulled a handwritten draft out of his shirt pocket. He cleared his throat dramatically and read: “An Omaha librarian searching through antique books found an unpublished and unread poem co-written by Walt Whitman and Lord Byron titled ‘The Brains of Samuel’. Scholars say it is the first of its kind, and if testing confirms its authenticity, it’s estimated worth would be in the millions. It will be flown out of Omaha early Friday morning to the Smithsonian Institute for age analysis and verification.”

Sammy laughed hard when he heard it, but Doug didn’t seem sold. “How on earth is that going to clue anybody to anything?”

Thomas explained, “Anyone who knows my son knows who he was named after. And anyone who bothers to fact-check it will know that Lord Byron died when Walt Whitman was five years old.”

Doug smiled broadly. “And Whitman wasn’t a prodigy like Mozart, was he?”

“Not that I know of,” Thomas laughed and took a long swig of his hot chocolate. “So what have we got so far on the cruiser caper?”

May 2, 2086

“R
EALLY
?
SHE WANTS PURPLE FLOWERS
?” Byron asked Albert. He sat in his office talking to his son over video conference, taking notes on the young couple’s wedding plans. Since Emily wasn’t alive to help, Byron was determined to do as good a job as two parents would. He’d even gone so far as to order wedding catalogs to help him understand what it meant to plan a wedding.

“Yeah, she’s got it all listed right here.” On screen, Albert tapped his holo-tablet. “She’s very organized.”

“I do not want to intrude on your plans, but . . . purple flowers?” he asked again. “I have never seen any purple flowers in these catalogs, have you?”

Albert laughed hard. Byron joined him. “You’ve been reading up, huh, Dad? Well, remember, her wedding colors are purple and white.”

“Wedding colors, huh?” Byron repeated. He flipped to the glossary of one his books.
Wedding color(s): A color or series of colors around which the wedding decorations, flowers, and ceremonial clothing is arranged.
“Yep, wedding colors.”

“Oh, come on!” Albert said when he saw his dad look up the term. “You act like you’ve never planned a wedding!”

“I never have.”

“Yeah, well, at some point you must have done something . . .”

“I like planning parties as much as I like bowling. And my best bowling score—”

“Is ninety.” Albert rolled his eyes. “Great joke five years ago. But Marie and I aren’t getting married on a whim—”

“It was not on a whim. Emily and I—we just saw no need to go through all these . . . preparations.”

“It was a whim,” Albert said, still chuckling.

Byron let the argument slide. “So where am I going to find purple flowers?”

“Marie said you could order them from the floral shop down the street from the history museum.”

“Do they handle large orders like that?”

“Oh yeah. All the time.”

“Then I will look into it,” Byron told his son.

“Thanks. Do you have anything new on the other thing?” Albert’s tone implied that he was referring to Byron’s secret investigation into a possible mole in the Alpha hierarchy.

“Nothing. I checked transmission records of everyone. I saw no suspicious records. No unusual expenditures or income. We have no record of anyone except aircraft engineers visiting that hangar where the stealth cruiser was kept. Whoever did this has been very careful.”

“No one with ties to the CAG?”

“Honestly, Albert, I have the closest ties to CAG of anyone in Psion Command. However, I have no plans of giving up. Rest easy on that.”

“And no word on Sammy, right?”

Byron folded his arms across his chest. “You already asked me that. Do you really think I would forget to tell you if I heard something?”

Albert rolled his eyes. “I know, I know. Thanks for the chat. I got to go.”

“I am excited for your wedding, son. You know that, right?”

“I know, Dad, really. But I’ve still—”

“Got to go. Talk to you soon.”

Albert’s face disappeared as the screen on Byron’s wall went blank. The commander leaned back in his chair and enjoyed the moment of being able to help his son with wedding plans. It was true, he had not gone through the same process with his wife because of the hurried nature of their wedding.

His screen flashed again. At first he thought his son had forgotten something, but it was not Albert. It was Victor. He looked at the clock and realized it was almost midnight.

What could he want?
“Accept.”

“Walter,” Wrobel said right away. His face appeared on the screen, looking more tired and drawn than Byron had seen him in quite some time.

“Victor, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need a favor, Walter. I’m absolutely swamped.”

“You look swamped,” Byron said with a gentle smile.

Wrobel took the joke in stride with a friendly smile of his own. “You haven’t lost your charm.” His face turned serious again. “Have you read through the latest briefing for the moon launch?”

Due to the lateness of the hour, Byron had to take a moment to pick his brain. “Sent by you two days ago?”

Wrobel nodded. “General Wu didn’t like it. He wants two squadrons at the launch. Along with three dozen Elite.”

“And you would like my help . . .” Byron finished.

“My plate is full just working with the Elite. Plus, I’ve got two upcoming Panels to organize for your Betas.”

“My son is getting married in a month, not to mention I run this entire complex,” he said with an implying tone of voice. “Are any of the other commanders able to pick up some slack?”

“Believe me, Walter, I’ve checked. I really need your help on this.”

Byron suppressed a small sigh. He knew that he was going to say yes, and decided to do so just to have the conversation finished. At least this was a very short-term project.

“Okay, send me the info.”

Wrobel looked as if a huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders, and his boyish charming smile returned. “Much thanks. I’m sending you a file with everything you’ll need.”

“I look forward to it,” Byron responded with his best not-excited smile.

“Let me know if you have questions.”

“Will do, Victor.”

Commander Wrobel’s face disappeared, and Byron downloaded the file his friend had just sent. A strange feeling passed over him as he looked at the file waiting to be opened, perhaps he should have thought twice before accepting Victor’s request. He’d felt similar promptings before, and usually listened to them. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour, or maybe just loyalty to his friend, but he opened the file and went over the maps and mission data Victor had sent.

Dear Moon Launch
. . .
how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways
, Byron mused to himself.

The Alphas had nothing to do with the upcoming launch, code-named Artemis, except to serve as a precautionary security measure against an attack. Byron remembered ten years ago when they’d gone through a similar hullabaloo over the first moon launch, Pioneer. The Pioneer had carried the seeds of the first moon station. Over the last decade, astronauts assembled and tested it meticulously to ensure its safety for living.

Apparently the Pioneer was a success, because the upcoming Artemis shuttle would carry even more cargo and two hundred fifty passengers to the moon. The first moon settlers. The moon colony, the Pioneer and Artemis launches, all of it was top secret until the big announcement the day before liftoff. Rumors had been out there for many months, but so far the secret had stayed well-kept. According to General Wu, special media invitations had been extended to cover the event, and its announcement would happen only hours before the Artemis shuttle took off.

The Alphas and Elite would be nothing more than babysitters with front row seats to the launch. After re-reading the brief and looking through all the squadron schedules, he sent emails to two squad leaders telling them he’d assigned them for the task, and that they were to meet to discuss specific assignments. All of that took about an hour.

A glance at his clock told him it was time to retire. He stretched as he got up from his desk and felt his knees groan. Just as he was about to turn out the lights, something stopped him. It was another call.

“My goodness,” he grumbled. “Who is calling now?”

His screen showed an unidentified number incapable of video feed.

Tango squadron
.

It had only been two days since their last check-in, and another wasn’t scheduled for another five days. Risking too many calls was dangerous—this unexpected contact must be important.

He accepted the call and heard screaming in the background.

“Commander! Commander! Can you hear me?”

“Hello?” His eyes went wide as he gripped the edge of his desk. “I hear you. Are you all right?”

“Commander, this is Shamila. You’re not going to believe this!” the voice shouted. The connection was poor and there was the occasional break up with static, but Byron realized the screaming was celebratory. “You’re simply not going to believe it!”

“Well, what is it?” Byron asked. He felt his own excitement climbing. “Did you find him?”

“Just listen.”

After those two words came a perfect feed of a news broadcast from Los Angeles. Byron sank down into his chair as he listened, not knowing how Sammy had done it, but absolutely certain those words were meant for him.

“If I’m not mistaken,” Shamila said, “somebody’s trying to tell you something. Don’t you agree?”

Byron tried to laugh, but emotion choked him. He gripped his desk hard as a silent prayer escaped his lips. “Thank you, God. This is a miracle.”

“Are you there, sir?”

“Yes.”

“What are our orders?” Shamila asked.

“Get to the coast. I will clear everything with Wu and meet you there ASAP. Be ready for my arrival.”

The joyful shouting continued over the com link. Byron clapped alone in his office. “Good work. Tell your whole squadron that.”

“Yes, sir,” Shamila said through the static, “We’ll see you, sir!”

The line went dead. Byron stood back up, rubbing the last of the sleep out of his eyes. After getting a long drink of water, he sat back at his desk and put through a call to General Wu on urgent status. Byron thought about what he would say. He had a lot of explaining to do.