“Running covert operations requires trust. If my operatives are being killed by the weapons I’m supplying them then I lose.”
She picks up a computer pad. “It’s almost time for your next meeting.”
Maxtin activates a control, and a panel slides up, revealing his office and personal meeting room. “It’s a two-way mirror. You have complete visibility into the office, and they see only a painting. I want you to witness this. Then get a cleanup crew in here to squeegee up this synthoid and send the engineers to my office.”
Gibson seems puzzled. “Engineers?”
“My testing range must stand up against explosions.” Maxtin steps into his office, and the door automatically closes behind him. The seams disappear as if there was no door at all.
The door chimes sound.
“Enter.”
A bulky upper bodied cadet enters in her freshly pressed uniform. A textbook-perfect bun holds blonde hair tightly in place constricted enough to reveal her dark roots. Hardarens are a recent addition to the UCP. They have a bumpy rigid bone running all the way up their forehead, disappearing under the hairline. Hardarens have a neutral tint to their skin pigment, and it brings out their bright purple eyes. They do have one distinct feature Maxtin never encountered before in a bipedal people—cloven feet.
She salutes Maxtin.
He returns the gesture and then offers her a seat in the chair before his desk. She steps in front of the chair but does not sit before Maxtin does.
“Cadet Chelsie Denis.” A hologramatic report grows from the monitor built into his desk. He scans down the personal information until a highlighted section appears.
“Product designer on your own combat fighter. Impressive, for a senior cadet.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
Maxtin reads more. “Your instructors have written astounding commendations. We need bright, young minds like yours in command of the fleet.”
She nervously nods.
Maxtin activates a 3D wire-frame image of the fighter. The schematic rotates above his desk.
“The fighter’s ready for combat testing, Sir.”
Maxtin reads a page on the fighter. The long moment of silence causes a few beads of sweat to form along Chelsie’s bone ridge.
“Not quite yet. Run some more simulations. I’ll need to arrange a practical field test.” Maxtin flips off the image.
“So, my team will be allowed to construct the craft?” In her excitement, she forgets to address the Admiral with the respect he has earned.
Maxtin overlooks her slip in protocol. “The design seems sound. I will authorize it.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“You’re dismissed, Cadet.”
She salutes. Chelsie contains her excitement and has to force herself not to sprint from the office.
Gibson storms through the hidden door, nearly catching her shoulder on the edge as it slides into the wall. “She’s in Admiral Kantian’s camp,” she snaps at Maxtin.
“I’m not so sure.”
Gibson’s face reddens. “She’s a Hardaren. They all are. They demand war.”
Maxtin never loses his composure. “I hope when your promotion’s final you don’t forget to continue to respect rank, Lt. Commander. I’m going to assign her to the Silver Dragon. Some time with Reynard may show her the light.”
“My respect for you goes beyond rank, Admiral, but if her time with Reynard doesn’t enlighten her, she’ll have firsthand knowledge of your black box projects. Kantian would use such information to impeach you.”
“Admiral Kantian isn’t an elected official. He’s a military officer under the command of this office. He hasn’t the authority to start an impeachment process, not as long as Vice-presidential Admiral Wendy Easter is alive. With her death he could get elected.”
Gibson waves a small data crystal before Maxtin. “This information transferred in while you spoke with the Hardaren.”
Maxtin doesn’t ask; he knows. “Easter’s latest medical report.”
Gibson hands it to him. “Her cancer’s terminal.”
YELLOW BULBOUS EYES flicker with a nictitating membrane as Nytalyan reviews the information streaming across her handheld computer. Instructions for her reassignment on Shalenotun VII.
She skips past reports on the recent assassination of the political leader Micah Donkor. The insurrection sparked by his death reveals that the masses no longer desire Mokarran control or the stripping of planetary resources.
The Mokarran surrendered the agricultural resources of Summersun, but Shalenotun VII’s orbital shipyards construct Tri-Star Federation battle cruisers and have prompted the constant arrival of Mokarran military forces.
Now as protests increase, the Mokarran are relocated command and much of the non-Mokarran Tri-Star Federation support staff to the surface, determining it would quell hostilities. According to these reports, the riots are increasing.
Nytalyan’s unsure if her choice of window seat on the monorail tram keeps her far enough away from Saltāl. She never glances in his direction making sure to never encounter him on the transport shuttle. She swears by her dead children she will transmit the information they gathered to the UCP before her discovery ends her tenure with command.
Her eyelids blink to keep the membranes, designed against the forces of oceanic pressures, flooded with constant moisture. Some aquatic-evolved humanoids operating among land-based people contract physically uncontrollable tics. While working at the Tri-Star Federation command center, her eyes never fluctuated in such a manner. This planet’s atmosphere lacks the moisture that the Mokarran artificially pump through their ships and bases to permeate their own moisture needs. Despite her growing discomfort and constant blinking, Nytalyan won’t leave Shalenotun without transmitting her evidence.
Tolerating the pain means little to the visual receptors connected to her brain. Her Aequipinatus synapses allow for direct connection of microprocessors, allowing her to be converted into a living language translator prized among her Mokarran oppressors. Despite this evolutionary gift sparing her people from enslavement, it does not keep her loyal.
Nytalyan’s window seat affords her a chance to view the capital city. None of the disturbances are visible from the monorail. As long as the protesters keep from violence, the Mokarran won’t enact martial law. She needs time to establish herself at her station before she contacts Saltāl. Fighting will forestall her attempt, forcing more security on the command staff.
Messages download to her handheld computer. Many fail to open due to her limited security level. Several briefs
