Vyyda Book 1: The Haver Problem (23 page)

             
“None of you really know what’s waiting for you there.  Admit it.”

             
Caroline took the seat that Dorsey had been occupying.

             
“We’re trained.”

             
“I’m sure,” Dorsey said.

             
“You don’t know anything about how well we’re trained.”

             
“Very capable.  I have no doubt.”

             
Caroline had had enough.  She got up from the seat and moved back toward the cockpit.  Then she spun back to face Dorsey.

             
“Is there any point in trying to annoy me?” she asked.

             
“I’m not trying to annoy you.”

             
“Then what
are
you trying to do?”

             
“Nothing.”

             
“Is that right?”

             
Dorsey sat up.  “Ever heard of Hollians?” he asked.

             
“No.”

             
“Familiar with diseases of U-Space?”

             
“I don’t think so.”

             
“You have a plan for selmidge traps in the event you encounter one?”

             
“I might.  If I knew what they were.”

             
“That’s my point.”

             
Caroline sat across from Dorsey once more.

             
“Do you understand that we
have
to do something?  Regardless of risk.  It comes down to the sanctity of human life.  Every life is worth trying to save,” Caroline said.

             
“Every
Earther’s
life.”

             
“I didn’t say that.  Working for Earth’s interests…that’s what the HSPB does.  It’s our job.”

             
“Exactly.  That’s what everyone in U-Space knows.”

             
“It isn’t heroes and villains.”

             
“If every life –
every
life – is sacred,” Dorsey proposed, “then why did you bring me here against my will?  I have nothing to do with your Haver problem.”

             
“I had orders,” she said.  “Ladd Bankenshoff cared about human life.  I doubt he was worried about whether it was from U-Space or Earth.”

             
“You knew him?” Dorsey asked.

             
“No.”

             
“Then you can’t really say.”

             
Caroline remained in the seat that Dorsey had occupied all the way to Haver and watched as he spread out on the bunk once more, draping his left arm over his eyes.

             
“I’m sorry,” Caroline said after a moment.  “And you’re right:  it’s not fair.”

             
Dorsey pulled his arm away and looked at her.

             
“Out here, fair is just a word.”

             
“Will you tell me something?”

             
“Hmm?”

             
“Hollian?  What’s Hollian?”

             
Dorsey spent the better part of an hour explaining most of the things he thought might await the HSPB agents on Haver.  He calmed, his tone growing softer.  He passed along the information with patience, answering the follow up questions with no complaint – much to his own surprise.  Perhaps it was the way Caroline had asked about Hollians (dreadful creatures which only barely seemed human any longer).  She had him as close to being at ease since they’d left Sykes.  He actually
wanted
to help her understand.  It felt surprisingly good – so much so that he resisted the temptation to wonder why.

             
“Thank-you,” Caroline said when he was finished.

             
“I don’t know if it will help you all that much or not.”

             
“It can’t hurt.”

             
“You don’t know Haver.”

16.

Roman Leach

             
As the Haver problem came into focus and family members from Halliston were transported to Berlin, local officials commandeered the Fischnerl Hotel, demanding several dozen rooms to accommodate those involved with the crisis.  One suite of rooms in particular was immediately set aside for a key individual who had yet to make an appearance:  Roman Leach, Commandant of the Home Sector Protection Bureau.

             
It would have made sense for Doone to have seen Leach somewhere in the various operations playing out in Halliston or Berlin.  Yet right up to the two-plus hours he’d spent in the freezing temperatures outside LesenFalver Hall, there had been no sign of the man who was the ultimate authority figure in the Bureau.  That is, until Doone was led from LesenFalver to the Fischnerl by one of the HSPB-Earth agents, taken to the suite of rooms held by Leach and his adjutants.

             
Roman Leach, although born on the home planet, appeared as if he might actually be one of the castoffs from U-Space whose long exposure to the strange influences of alien environments twisted their physical appearance into something decidedly non-human. 

             
Leach’s jet black hair and chalky, alabaster skin set against eyes so bright green that they seemed more like some exotic precious stone than eyes was more than enough to lend him a striking appearance.  The blue streaks the wound along every visible part of his pale skin, however, suggested that this was not a man of Earth, perhaps not even human.

V              V              V              V

             
Something wrong with him.  Deeply wrong.

             
Doone, like all Bureau agents, had heard the whispered comments regarding the HSPB Commandant ever since his days at the Academy.  Roman Leach was a subject of constant conversation and speculation – albeit in hushed tones.

             
Almost immediately upon reaching the Academy, Caroline Dahl had been warned by older cadets (the non-Earthers who weren’t averse to interacting with her) that Roman Leach may be a frequent subject of conversation by some, but that it was better to avoid the topic completely. 
Don’t talk about him – even with people you think you can trust.  He hears about things.  Knows things.  Things he shouldn’t know…he knows.

             
Nevertheless, some in the Bureau couldn’t resist theorizing on what had rendered the Commandant so horribly disturbing in appearance:

             
It was an illness, according to some.  He was resurrected from a cadaver.  Genetic mutation.  He wasn’t a true Earther at all – actual origin unknown.

V              V              V              V

              Roman Leach did nothing to refute the rumors.  It seemed that he was content to let speculation run wild.  More than that, he periodically engineered opportunities to increase uncertainty about himself to anyone and everyone in the Bureau.

             
Case in point:  in the months preceding the Haver problem, suspicions had grown that Bureau agents stationed at the screening facility on Callisto were aiding in smuggling operations.  Vessels traveling between Earth and various settlements in C-Space were required to stop off at the Jovian moon for a thorough scan.  The best and last measure to make sure that contraband was seized and smugglers were apprehended.

             
Any of the supervising HSPB administrators could have taken on the task of investigating the issues on Callisto.  Standard operating procedure would have been for an administrator to be accompanied by a team of one or two dozen agents.  But it was Roman Leach who arrived there, unannounced and by himself. 

             
Less than six hours after he set foot on Jupiter’s moon, there were three veteran agents hanging from the ceiling of the common area – a circular space through which HSPB-Callisto personnel had to pass multiple times each day.  The chains around the necks of the dead agents was for effect.  They’d been killed before Leach had hoisted them aloft.  One of the three, Agent Skullchase, Leach declared the organizer of the group.

             
Skullchase met his end as Leach strong-armed him onto a rotating landing platform, triggered the airlock decompression release and watched the sickening results while oxygen rushed away and pure vacuum replaced it.  Skullchase, with a grip on the handle of the airlock hatch, his face up against the glass, begging for mercy, would have had the stoic expression of Roman Leach staring back as the final, horrific image of his life.

             
Skullchase’s was the most gruesome of the corpses hanging in the common area.  And that was the point.

             
Most agents on Callisto, despite the unpleasantness of the post, would never have considered trying to help smuggle organics, humans and other forbidden material to or from Earth even before the awful display.  Nevertheless, Roman Leach seemed to feel that the exercise was of value.  No hearing, no imprisonment (the likely outcome of such an infraction), just a painful, graphic death.  The rest would remember that.

             
Word of the Callisto episode reached every other HSPB installation within days.  It wasn’t broadcast through official channels, it came as whispered accounts that were repeated between small groups of rank and file agents.  Leach could have broadcast the entire thing to the Bureau at large, but perhaps there was more value – more fear – to be acquired through allowing it to spread on a slithering path through HSPB personnel.

             
As Doone entered the suite at the Fischnerl, Roman Leach stood before a mirror at the opposite end of the room, examining his face.  Wearing what had long been known as “dress reds” (worn only by Leach), he took no immediate notice of Leopold Doone.  Dress reds had long been standard issue for Earth ambassadors to C-Space worlds.  The color was bold, the cut conservative and stately.  Once the practice of assigning ambassadors to embassy posts on nearby planets ended, the dress reds disappeared.  They served no other purpose.  That is, until Roman Leach was promoted to HSPB Commandant and brought the old ambassador’s garb out of retirement.  The popular theory held that it was the red that best reduced the conspicuous blue streaks covering his pale skin.

             
Doone stopped several steps inside the room.  He remained well behind the two men in black flanking Leach – both of whom were at the ready for any instructions which might come their way.

             
Without moving his eyes from the mirror, Leach snapped his fingers in the direction of the adjutant on his right.  The man produced a small jar, removed the cap and handed it to Leach, who looked at the contents of the vessel for a long moment.

             
“This is the new one, is it?” he asked.

             
“Yes, sir.”

             
Leach, gingerly at first, scooped a bit of the flesh-colored paste contained in the jar onto his index finger and applied it to his right cheek, rubbing it in and checking the effect.  Once the entire cheek was covered, he appraised the result for a moment before turning to the others in the room.  The question of whose opinion to seek first took him a moment.  When his eyes settled on Doone, he approached the young agent – stopping within a meter and extending his right cheek.

             
“Look closely,” Leach instructed, “and tell me the truth:  does it seem natural?”

             
Doone couldn’t keep from letting his gaze drift to Leach’s man with the lid of the jar still in his hand.

             
“Don’t look at him!  Give me your answer,” Leach said impatiently.

             
“It’s…an improvement, sir.”

             
“I didn’t ask you that.  Does it look natural?”

             
Doone hesitated, nodding slightly.  “To a point.”

             
Perturbed, Leach tossed the jar back to his man.  “Get rid of it,” he growled.  He motioned for Doone to sit while he began to wipe the cream from his face with a towel.

             
“Agent Doone?”

             
“Yes, sir.”

             
“Were you aware that we have lifted the comms blackout between Earth and Luna?”