The Firestorm Conspiracy (16 page)

He thought he heard Grock say, “I’m sorry.”

“Me?” John asked as he took his seat.

Rebeccah sat beside him and logged into her terminal.

John turned back to the scowling face of Lt. Cmdr. Targersson.

“Yes, sir. The message asks for you by name and rank.”

He scratched his head and pulled on his lower lip; a habit he’d developed years ago while serving in the UESF that resurfaced when he agreed to take command of the
Firestorm
. “Play the recording.”

“Aye, sir.”

All motion on the bridge ceased when the alien voice cut through the air. Accented and higher in pitch than a typical human male, the alien spoke with an almost musical lilt as he used the subtle trills and sounds unique to the avian languages in his attempt to pronounce the English words correctly.

Captain John Thompson, please respond. My actions have been discovered. We must meet quickly. Captain John Thompson, please respond. I am in danger. Captain John Thompson…

“The broadcast is the same on all frequencies, sir,” said Targersson as he switched off the audio feed.

John nodded, his mind pulled decades into the past.

* * * *

“Captain John Thompson,” the avian sneered in his face. “Captain John Thompson. Stop parroting yourself and tell us what we want to know.” His captor smiled and tried to look sympathetic. “We’ll go much easier on you if you cooperate. We’ll get what we want in the end. The only difference is the amount of suffering you’ll bring on yourself in the meantime.”

John licked his chapped and bleeding lips and looked away.

“Tell us where the fleet is.”

“Captain John Thompson, United Earth Space Force.”

The avian slapped him hard across the face. “Where’s the human fleet? What is its next target?”

“Captain John Thompson, United Earth Space Force.” Another, more vicious slap wrenched his neck and started the blood flowing from his nostrils again.

“Where is the fleet?”

“Captain…”

* * * *

“Captain?” Rebeccah’s voice replaced the avian’s. “Sir?” John shook his head and realized the entire bridge crew was staring at him.

“Sorry,” he said. “What were you saying?”

Concern clear in her green eyes, Rebeccah replied, “I said we found a small packet of encoded data embedded in the transmission, sir.”

He looked at Lt. Miller. “Can you decode it?”

“Yes, sir, I believe I can,” she replied.

“Do it,” he said. Turning to Targersson, he asked, “What are your sensors picking up in terms of nearby traffic?”

“Several civilian transports and a couple of cargo ships, sir. No military presence whatsoever.”

John sighed in relief. They weren’t going to wind up in a firefight before having a chance to talk with the avian agent. “How long before anyone picks us up?”

“Most of the traffic is centered on the southern continent. If we put ourselves into a geosynchronous orbit with the northern pole, we have a decent chance of remaining undetected,” replied Targersson as he pulled up a schematic of the planet and space traffic and put the image on the main viewscreen.

“Helm, lock in Lt. Cmdr. Targersson’s recommended coordinates.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Maintain a low orbit. Get as close to the upper edge of the atmosphere as you can.”

“Aye, sir.”

Noting the doubtful looks on several faces, he explained, “By hugging the planet’s atmosphere, our presence will be masked by the magnetic and atmospheric turbulence of the polar region. We should be able to remain unseen.”

“Sir, I unscrambled the data packet,” Lt. Miller said. Her cheeks were lightly flushed with accomplishment. “It’s a set of coordinates.” She rotated the image of the planet until the location was centered. “They appear to mark a forested area on the northern tip of the southern continent.”

“All right, so now we know where,” John said, “we just need to figure out when.”

“Sir?” Rebeccah asked.

“Yes?”

“I finished running some data and I thought you should be aware that a message from Earth with your name and rank wouldn’t arrive more than six hours before we did.”

Ice formed in John’s stomach as he considered the implications. Who told the avian he was commanding the ship? “Can you determine how long these signals have been broadcasting for?”

The communications officer took a deep breath and replied, “I’ll try, sir.”

“Do your best.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Captain, there’s one more thing.” Rebeccah didn’t look happy. “A message from the
Firestorm
could have arrived as early as two days ago.”

“Can you trace our outgoing transmissions? See if there’s anything suspicious?”

“I’m already on it,” she replied.

“Sir,” cried Targersson. “The transmission stopped.”

“When?”

“I’m not sure, sir. I only noticed it now because I was going to run a cross check with the other transmissions to make sure they were all identical.”

“Sir,” the communications officer said. “I believe I’ve determined the precise moment at which the signals stopped. The transmissions ceased when Lt. Miller first attempted to open the encoded data packet.”

So much for the element of surprise.

First saboteurs and now avian colluders; neither idea sat well with him. He knew there were humans who shared information with the avians, much as this agent was trying to share something with him, but that was knowledge that was fine in the abstract, not as a reality aboard his ship. As he waited for the crew to do their jobs, he tried to ignore the ball of ice forming in the pit of his stomach.

Kree woke to a rhythmic pounding so loud he thought his head would crack open. He pried open one eye and gasped as the light intensified the pain. Cradling his fragile skull in his hands, he rolled onto his side.

Bad idea.

A wave of nausea crashed over him, forcing him to return to his previous position.

By the nine sons of Aesculdan.

Images and snippets of conversation from his evening with Grock surfaced as he sorted through the feathers stuffed into his brain. Thinking was a slow and difficult process. He had a drink with Grock and somehow he’d ended up here.

Where was here?

He realized he had no idea where he was.

His eyes flew open. They flew shut almost as quickly.

A defecation room?

He gingerly opened his right eye a slit. Why was he lying on the floor in a defecation room? His head spun, not only from the pain but from the dizziness as he tried to move to get a better view.

“Grock!” he croaked and almost gagged. His tongue was as dry and fuzzy as the green mold on a pile of untreated guano.

Grock. The fuzz-brain must’ve drugged him.

The thoughts ran in circles around his slowly clearing mind. He found he could keep his eyes open as long as he didn’t try to move his head. He tried to bring his hands to his face, but every muscle in his body protested. His skin seemed paper thin and scalded, a sensation which amplified when he touched his feverish forehead with cold, shaking fingers.

The human.

Kree’s mind began to piece things together.

Grock took his place in order to meet the human agent.

Kree flailed about on the floor. He had to get up. He needed to find Grock before he did something shell-cracked. He pulled himself into a sitting position, where he was able to rest his throbbing head against the cool metal of the sink.

* * * *

“Cmdr. Targersson, please inform the troop leaders that the landing party is to be ready to launch in an hour.”

“Sir? You’re going down without waiting for a signal?” asked Targersson.

“The cessation of the transmission was the signal. We can’t hang about in avian space. We need to get in and back out as fast as possible. While we may not be at war with the avians, let me remind you that we are not here on an official diplomatic mission, and someone in their military or government may take exception to our presence.”

“Aye, sir. The troops and the transport will be ready in one hour.”

* * * *

Kree awoke with a start. Numbness radiated down the left side of his face. He gingerly pulled his jaw off the sink and realized the pounding was no longer a crippling crescendo, but rather a manageable mezzo forte. Slowly opening his eyes, he noted the room didn’t seem as bright as before.

He sat bolt upright and almost cracked his skull open on the counter.

He crawled into the living space in his temporary nest. He pulled himself into the same chair where Grock had drugged him and gazed around the nest. Everything seemed to be as he remembered, right down to his glass still lying haphazardly on the floor.

The fuzz-head could have at least tidied up a bit. He stared at the congealed food encrusted onto the plates sitting on the low table. A small piece of paper propped against Grock’s empty glass caught Kree’s eye.

He carefully reached for the paper--still not trusting his own body--and held it under a nearby light source in order to more easily read the writing. He expected to see thin and precise avian characters, and was startled by the clumsy hand used to laboriously etch out the note.

Grock really wasn’t the smartest hatchling in the flock.

Dear Kree,

I know when you find this you will be upset with me.

“Upset? Try furious, livid, or even blindingly angry, you shell-cracked fuzz-head,” Kree swore at his absent friend.

But I know you will understand. I have lived all my life for this moment. I cannot describe how important this is for me to meet the human. I am sure you will get to meet your own human some other time. Your job as a brave agent will see to that.

Kree ran his free hand over his pant leg. Hadn’t Grock listened to anything he’d said?

You may not have thought so, but I listened very carefully to your story. I will pass on your message to the human. It’s the least I can do after stealing your place in history.

Kree closed his eyes, shook his head, and whispered, “You poor, fuzz-headed fool.”

Maybe in a few sunturns, after you have seen your own human, you will understand what drove me to this. I hope you will forgive me, for I will always be,

Your hatch-mate,

Grock.

“Grock,” Kree cried. “Don’t you realize what kind of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into?” Kree shuddered to think of the consequences if that rough male discovered Grock had taken his place. He had to find him.

He stumbled into the darkened street beyond the cluster of temporary nests and paused before heading north. Unsure of where to go, he rationalized that anyone planning a nasty secret meeting with an alien would probably do it away from the small town and away from prying eyes. The forests to the north of the little village seemed the perfect place for such an enterprise.

Determined, he set off to find his hatch-mate.

John buckled on his light-armored vest. While not as effective against weapons at close range as the heavier, full armor, the vest still offered a measure of protection without making the wearer appear to be planning a firefight. He wanted to protect himself and his troops as much as possible, but he couldn’t go down to the surface armed to the teeth either. They skirted a fine line between trust and safety in situations like this, and he had to maintain the balance or else the entire mission would fail.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he headed toward the door to his cabin. The short hair still threw him off whenever he looked at his face. After so many years hiding his UESF past under longer, absent-minded professorial hair, he hardly recognized himself. Surprisingly though, his hair hadn’t caught his attention this time, his physique had. The vest added to the illusion of a well-built body, but he noted other signs as well.

His arms were more defined under the sleeves of his jacket. His whole body looked toned. His sallow complexion had been replaced with a healthier glow, and he could make out the muscles in his thighs through the black pants that bloused out above his boots.

He marveled at his calmness. Fewer than eight weeks ago the thought of space travel had been enough to give him cold sweats. Now he was about to lead a mission into potentially hostile territory, and adrenaline coursed through his veins, making him feel like he was twenty again.

John smiled.

* * * *

John joined the troopers selected for the mission in the armory. Each trooper carried a light pistol, an energy weapon, and a knife. In addition, two of the troops carried larger rifles, several incendiary devices, and extra ammunition.

John buckled his pistol and energy weapon onto his belt. He knelt down and tucked the knife into the side of his right boot. He made sure he had several extra magazines on his person; placing some in the lower pockets of his combat trousers and a further two packages in the breast pockets of his jacket.

After inspecting each trooper and divvying up some last minute items, he led the group of eight soldiers into the hangar where the transport waited, crew crawling all over, preparing for launch.

“Captain Thompson, I’m Lieutenant Ryan. I will be piloting the transport.”

John accepted the salute and said, “Excellent. Let me know when you’re ready for us to board.”

“Yes, sir. I’m heading in to do my pre-flight check now. We should be launch ready in fifteen,” replied the young pilot.

John nodded and turned to his troops. They grinned at him. For most, this would be their first time stepping onto alien soil. Experienced at boarding other ships and human colonies, these troops had only theoretical knowledge on a situation like this.
Theory will have to be good enough
, he thought. “Take ten. Check your gear. Check your buddy’s gear, and be ready to move out on my command.”

“Yes, sir!” they shouted in unison.

* * * *

“It’s like a symphony,” Rebeccah said, as she walked over to stand beside him. “Every person knows and plays their part. What should be chaos is instead transformed into a harmony of movement.”