The Firestorm Conspiracy (4 page)

Ghostly images from their shared past warred with the present.

Two young men, both confident in their abilities, entered the Officers’ Mess. They swaggered over to the bar and each ordered a drink. “To glory
!
” toasted one.

“To an abundant turkey shoot
!
” cheered the other.

John blinked quickly to dispel the image and gestured for Nate to have a seat by the window. Nate gathered up the journals and books on the proffered chair and passed the pile to John, who carefully set them on top of a tottering stack on the floor by his desk. He shrugged at the curious look on Nate’s face and said, “I don’t get a lot of visitors.”

“I can tell.”

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “So, what brings you to Vancouver?”

“Business,” replied Nate. “And since I was here, I thought I’d look up an old friend.”

The same two men stumbled out of the Mess, arms draped around each other’s shoulders, singing, “I dun gone shot me some buzzards. Mama’s gonna make me buzzard pie. I dun gone shot me some raptors. Die all you bastards, die!”

John winced. “It’s, uh, good to see you again.”

“You too.”

“The last I heard, you’d left the service and gone into politics...”

“Yes. I’m working for the Department of Alien Affairs now.”

“That’s wonderful. I’ve been following the negotiations. Your department is doing some truly remarkable work.”

“Thanks,” Nate replied, pulling out a copy of
Ivory Tower
. “And so are you, John. This article on understanding the avians should be required reading for everyone in the foreign ministry.”

John coughed and gestured to outside. “Lovely weather, eh?”

The image of an avian lying dead on the path in front of him hovered beyond the window.

“What?” Nate glanced at the rain running in rivulets down the pane and shrugged. “No worse than New York.”

“Is that where you settled then? After the war?”

“I travelled for a bit first.” Nate smiled. “I wanted to experience life on the colonies firsthand, rather than from a viewscreen on the bridge of a warship.”

“Really.”

Smoke and rending metal accompanied his order to abandon ship. The escape crafts, those that weren’t picked off by the swarm of raptors, plummeted to the planet below.

“Why not? That’s why we went into space, right?”

John swallowed hard. “Didn’t the war--”

“A lot of people were left with scars, John,” Nate interrupted. “But the war ended twenty years ago. Let the wounds heal and move on with life.”

“It’s not as simple as throwing out an old blanket.”

“Why not? I’ve got no use for most of those memories. Better to toss them out and build new ones in a new life.”

John shook his head. A new life didn’t mean the old one would simply disappear. He was living proof of that.

The corner of the area rug under his desk bunched up beneath one of the legs. The faded red and blue weave rippled in the shadows, pulling his mind from the conversation. He had to consciously remind himself he wasn’t alone, that propriety dictated he not drop to his knees and crawl under his desk to fix it. Dragging his attention away from the offending snippets of wool, he caught the end of Nate’s speech.

“Which is why,” Nate paused, “I need you.”

“Me?”

“You.”

John’s pulse began to race. “Why?”

“You’re the only person who can help me.”

“With what? I can’t--”

“You can, John. Your writing proves you’re just the man I need.”

John forced his shoulders to relax. He had worked on a few government contracts in the past; not his best work, but not too bad either. “You want me to do some writing for you?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Nate replied. “I need you to interview an avian and write up your findings in a report for me.”

“I didn’t think there were any avians currently on Earth.”

“There aren’t.”

Space.

The blackness wrapped around his heart, threatening to squeeze the life from him. A natural phenomenon inspiring the dreams of humanity for millennia; for John it represented everything he’d left behind twenty years earlier.

“Nate...”

“Just hear me out, John,” said Nate. “This is more than a simple interview.”

Space.

His lungs fought for air at the thought of boarding a transport ship and leaving the safety of Earth. He’d walked away from the UESF for a reason. “No. I can’t do this for you. I’m sorry.”

“Look, I know you don’t like the idea of space travel, but millions of lives are depending on the outcome of the meeting--and quite probably the future of the peace accord with the avians.”

“Spare me the melodrama, Nate.”

“I’m serious. I’m trying to prevent another war.”

The sound of weapons fire and the screams of the wounded echoed between John’s ears.

“Bullshit.”

“John,” Nate leaned forward, forcing John to meet his eyes. “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”

Thousands of troops cut down where they stood by heavy bombers with sonic weapons flashed through his mind.

“Nate--”

“I need you.”

“I’m a firm supporter of the peace process--”

“I need you, John.”

“I’m sure you can find someone else--”

“I need
you
.”

“Someone with more experience--”

“More experience than the youngest ever fleet commander? The most decorated soldier during the avian conflict?”

John sighed. “I’m done with that, Nate. I walked away.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re still in the UESF. You’re on a long-term leave, but you’re still an officer.”

The cloying scent of hospitals and the cries of patients tormented by visions of war crept in under the door.

“Long-term psychiatric leave--I’m not fit for service.”

“Nonsense.” Nate shifted in his seat. “You haven’t had a psychotic episode in over a decade--”

“You went through my medical files?”

“I needed to know--”

“You needed to mind your own damn business.”

“John, I’ve left you alone for twenty years. Don’t you think if I could find someone else I would?”

“Damn it, Nate. I don’t want to go back out.”

“You’re going to hide in your sheltered little universe as everything goes to hell because you’re too scared to put on a uniform for a few days?”

“I’m done with the UESF. I’m done with ships, and space, and fighting wars! I’m done.”

“If I don’t get details on the planned avian attack, none of us will be done with war.”

John unfolded himself from the chair and moved to stand facing the large bookcase opposite the window. Distance failed to make Nate’s presence any less jarring, and he knew he was being childish pretending to ignore him, but he didn’t care.

“It’s here, staring us in the face. The actions I recommend based on the information I’m given will impact the future of humanity, and I need someone I can trust.”

John ran his hand along the spines of the books on his shelves--their warm leather a stark contrast to the ice gripping his chest.

“What I’m asking isn’t fair,” Nate said.

John shrugged.

“You’ve given your life in service.”

He hunched his shoulders. It wasn’t his life he’d lost; the war had stripped him of his soul.

“I shouldn’t ask this of you, but--”

The desperation in Nate’s voice was plain even to John’s unwilling ears. At one time he’d lived to serve. The notion of protecting innocents and standing firm against the forces of chaos used to warm his blood and propel him out of bed every morning with the strength to conquer the universe. A tiny part of him remembered that feeling.

Elation flared brightly in his mind for a moment--viciously extinguished by the terror running like a river through his body.

“John?”

He recalled his friendship with Nate fondly. He smiled, and the spark returned as snippets of adventures shared, close calls--involving both women and enemies--and drunken shore leaves dammed his surging fear.

He’d trusted Nate with his life dozens of times in the past, and he’d never been let down. Time erased the friendship, but the loyalty remained.

He wavered.

“Can I think it over?”

“Sure. I need to stretch my legs anyway.” Nate stood. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes?”

“I’d prefer only five, but I’m trying to be understanding of your situation.” Nate wrapped his thick hands around the door frame. “I’ll be back in twenty. Think fast.”

* * * *

John paced his office. He licked his dry lips and tried to ignore the tight ball of fear in his stomach.

He didn’t want to go
.

He trailed his fingers along the bookshelf.

Earth was safe
.

Turning, he crossed the antique carpet to the window.

It wouldn’t be if the avians attacked
.

Rain droplets flowed like icy claws down the pane, forcing his eye back to the safety of his office.

It wasn’t his war
.

He stared at his reflection in the smooth surface of his desk.

It would be, if what Nate said was true
.

He sighed, stalked over to the window, and gripped the back of the thinly upholstered chair.

I don’t want to go.

He pushed himself away from the chair in disgust.

His gaze wandered along the shelves full of texts on avian sociology.

Dozens of people could do this.

He pulled on his lower lip as he walked back over to his desk.

Nate was playing politics.

He shook his head in denial. Nate was loyal
.

An unpleasant worm of guilt slithered into the river of fear and he smacked his palm against the smooth wood surface. His life was comfortable
.

He didn’t want to get involved.

* * * *

John was staring morosely out the window, watching the mist flow between the trees when Nate returned. The sound of heavy footfalls drew his attention away from the forest and he took a seat as Nate crossed the threshold. John gestured for Nate to do the same.

“If you were any other man I wouldn’t even consider this. But you were a good friend, an excellent officer, and the only person I ever wanted to watch my back in a firefight. A lot of things have happened over the past two decades, and I sat on the sidelines, choosing to remove myself from the action.”

“John, sometimes we need to--”

“Let me finish.” He softened his tone. “Please.” The rain picked up and pattered against the glass. “I support the peace process, and I think the avians are misunderstood. This is what concerns me the most.

“I don’t want to go back into space, but I’m worried about who you will choose in my stead. How many humans understand who the avians are, their lives, loves, passions, and dreams? I’m not saying I’m your only choice, but I do think I’m one of the best. We can’t survive another war, can we?” He willed Nate to lie.

Nate shook his head.

The echo of a thousand troops coming to attention in a hangar as they prepared to board their transports flashed through John’s mind. He firmly smothered the fear writhing in his belly. He couldn’t stand by while his planet was ripped apart by war.

“I’ll go.”

Nate clapped his hands together and moved to leave.

“On one condition...”

“Condition?”

“I’m not putting a uniform on again.”

“John, I can’t--”

“If you want me to go, I’m going as John Thompson, university professor, not John Thompson, UESF officer. If you won’t make that happen you’ll have to find someone else.”

“John--”

“My terms, Nate.”

Nate rose and made a beeline for the bookshelves. Time slowed to a trickle as John waited for Nate to reach a decision. Nate furiously worked his jaw, and John recalled the young man he’d bunked with on his first space tour all those years ago. He always knew when Nate contemplated something serious. The answer would come as soon as the chewing stopped.

“Agreed.”

Time resumed its normal flow and John slowly released his death grip on the arms of the chair.

“I’ll have my assistant send you all the travel details later today. He’ll also clear your leave of absence with the university. You’re working on a very urgent matter, so be prepared to depart as early as tonight.”

Nate paused at the door. “You won’t regret this, John.”

Somehow I doubt that
.

“He’s lying,” said Lieutenant Santiago, without looking up from her terminal.

Captain William Forbes glanced at the man on the screen, to his diplomatic officer, and back again.

“Come on, Forbes. You know me. I’ve been doing this run for ten years now, and I’ve never had any trouble.”

Forbes studied the face of Herman Kessler. The captain of the freighter glared back. A mess of unruly eyebrows partially obscured his beady eyes. Eyes as grey and bristly as the stubble on his chin. His thin lips pursed as he thrust his jaw forward.

“He’s lying,” repeated Lt. Santiago, her certainty making his decision easy.

“Seize the ship,” said Forbes.

“No!” yelled Kessler.

“Scramble the flyers.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Prepare the tactical insertion team for launch.”

“You can’t do this to me.”

“Tell them to use maximum force.”

“The ship’s my life’s blood. How do you expect me to pay my bills?”

“I’d like the captain taken alive, but if that’s not possible--”

“No! Damn you.” Kessler was panting now. “Listen to me--”

“No, you listen to me.” Forbes’ voice cut through Kessler’s tirade with a whip-like crack.

Kessler opened his mouth several times--making a sound similar to a pillow striking a bed--but remained silent.

“We are searching and seizing your vessel.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You can either hand control over peacefully, or I will order my flyers to disable your ship and tow you to the nearest government base.”

“You can’t do this.”

“Launch the flyers. Attack pattern Delta Nine.”