Kaliban had been efficiently mothballed. Equipment had been powered down, power supplies disconnected or removed, everything else packed up or put away, the atmosphere inside the facilities rendered as dry as possible, then the atmosphere had been vented from the facilities before they were sealed again. Everything was in deep freeze, but also protected from the ravages of temperature variations, corrosive gases, and other threats.
Images from the facilities seemed at first glance to show darkened rooms that someone could’ve just left after a long day of work. It was only when Geary took note of the unnatural sharpness with which everything could be seen and the way in which light beams didn’t diffuse as they would in atmosphere that he could tell from the images alone that the facilities were airless.
“Look at that,” Desjani commented. They were seated in the conference room, but this time the apparent size of the table stayed small. Instead, just off its end, a large window projected above the table displayed video from any of the scouts they cared to monitor as those scouts went through the Syndic facilities. The particular scout they were watching was going through what must have been the seat of Syndic political administration at Kaliban. Rows and rows of desks in identical cubicles, each left in identical shape, with every object on each desk positioned in the same spots in the same way. “They must’ve had people whose sole job was to inspect people’s desks to make sure everything was left exactly right when they left.”
“I’ve met people who’d enjoy doing that,” Geary remarked.
“Me, too.” Desjani suddenly grinned. “And here we come to the desks occupied by those who left last of all.”
Geary couldn’t help smiling, too. In the last row, several desks were in disarray, with long-ago dried-out drinking cups left standing amid scattered papers and documents, and some items that might have been leftover snack foods that had been desiccated and deep-frozen long ago. “It does look like the inspectors left before those desk jockeys did, doesn’t it? Ah, this might be interesting.” The Alliance scout was entering the main office. It still held an expensive-looking chair and a much more elaborate set of displays in addition to a workstation. “I wonder what that’d be like? Leaving a place forever. Some place you’ve worked at for who knows how long, and knowing odds were you’d never be able to come back. Knowing no one else would take your place because your place was gone.”
“Sort of like being part of the decommissioning crew on a ship, I’d think,” Desjani offered.
“Yeah. You ever done that?”
She hesitated for a moment. “We haven’t had the luxury of retiring many ships while I’ve been in the fleet, sir.”
Geary felt heat in his face and knew he was flushing, embarrassed at having asked such a boneheaded question. “Sorry. I should’ve known better than to ask that.” When the fleet was building ships as fast as possible to replace losses, it was a safe bet no ships were being gently led out to pasture at the end of their optimum service lives.
But Desjani already seemed to have moved on. She nodded at the picture again. “You can see where personal items had been placed for a long time. Whoever occupied that office stayed there for many years.”
Geary squinted, spotting the telltale darker squares and oblongs. “I guess so. I wonder where he or she went when they left Kaliban?”
“It hardly matters. Wherever it was, they went to help the Syndicate Worlds’ war effort.”
He didn’t want to answer that for a moment, but he knew the truth of it, too. “Yeah. What’s that?”
Desjani frowned, looking at the same object as Geary, a flat, white oblong resting on the surface of the desk. The scout they were monitoring walked carefully around the desk until he could focus on the object. “It’s a note,” he reported. “Faded but readable.” He bent closer to read it. “Standard universal script. ‘To Whom It May Concern. The left side…drawer…sticks. The…coffeemaker’s…timer…does not work. There’s…sweetener and coffee in the…right desk drawer…Take care of…everything.’” The Alliance scout straightened. “I can’t read the signature.”
Desjani’s frown changed into a grin that slowly faded. “Captain Geary, for the first time I can remember, I actually wanted to have met a Syndic. Whoever wrote that note seems like someone I could like.” She fell silent for a moment. “I’ve never thought of any Syndic as someone I could like.”
Geary nodded at her words. “Someday, our ancestors willing, this war will end, and we’ll get a chance to know the Syndics as people again. From what I know of this war, I don’t imagine you’ve much interest in that, but it’s necessary. We can’t let hatred rule our relations with the Syndics forever.”
She considered Geary’s words before replying. “Or we’d be no better than they are. Just as you said about our treatment of prisoners.”
“In a way, yeah.” He tapped the communications tab to speak to the scout. “Can you tell yet how long ago they shut this place down?”
The scout pointed to the document. “The date on this uses the Syndic calendar. Just a moment, sir, while I run a conversion.” After a moment, the scout spoke again. “Forty-two years ago, sir, if we assume this date is accurate. That coffee they left behind won’t taste too fresh, I’m afraid, but it’ll probably still be better than what they serve on our ships.”
“You’ve got a point there. Thanks.” Geary let go of the communications tab and looked over at Desjani. “Forty-two years ago. Whoever it was who wrote that note may well be dead by now.”
“It’s not as if there was a realistic chance of meeting the person,” Desjani noted in a dismissive tone, her attitude now implying she wouldn’t waste much time bemoaning the lost opportunity.
“Captain Geary?” Next to the scout’s window, a smaller one appeared, with images of Colonel Carabali and a Marine Major standing in it. Both Marines, in full armor, appeared to be in a Syndic facility somewhere. Geary checked the system display next to the picture, zooming it in on the location of Carabali. They were somewhere in the same facility as the scout Geary had just spoken to. “There’s something odd here.”
Geary felt a sudden heavy sensation in his guts. “Dangerous?”
“No, sir. We don’t think so. Just…odd.” Carabali gestured to her companion. “This is Major Rosado, my best expert on Syndic computer systems.” Rosado saluted smartly. “He tells me that not only have the data files for the Syndic systems been wiped clean and backup storage devices taken, but the operating systems have also been totally removed.”
Geary thought about that. “That’s odd?”
“Yes, sir,” Major Rosado stated. “There’s no sense in it. Why remove the operating systems? We’ve got copies of Syndic code that’ve been acquired by various means, so we can get the stuff working again. And not having operating systems loaded and configured would make it that much harder to get things going for any Syndics who came back.”
“The Syndics know we’ve got copies?”
“They know we’ve got copies of stuff a lot newer than what used to be on these antiques, sir.”
Those “antiques” are likely younger than I am. “You can’t think of any reason they would’ve wiped the operating systems?”
Major Rosado looked uncomfortable. “There’s only one reason I could think of, sir.”
“Which is?” Geary prodded.
“Sir,” Rosado stated reluctantly, “they would’ve removed the operating systems if they were worried about someone besides us accessing these systems after they were abandoned. Someone they didn’t think would have copies of their code.”
“Someone besides us?” Geary looked from Desjani to Carabali. “Who?”
“A…a third party.”
Desjani answered. “There isn’t any third party. There’s us and the planets allied with us, and there’s the Syndics. There isn’t anyone else.”
