Chapter 21

Brad poked his head into Drummer’s office at Fleet Headquarters. Drummer, at his desk, bent over a document, cast frequent glances at electronic displays on the wall nearby. Racks of data capsules, no space for them on the busy desk, crowded the floor nearby. A conical view tank, recessed in the wall to his left, glowed with symbols of ships and their military characteristics, along with tactical and logistical links.

Scanning the monitors and view tank, Drummer hefted a hand control and pressed keys. Eyes half-closed, he silently transformed mental images into memoranda and messages. Aware of Brad’s presence, he paused and focused on him in the doorway.

“I thought you planned to take a couple of days off after Tornado Six,” Brad said.

“Can’t,” Drummer replied, his eyes back to his notes.

“What’s happening?”

“Until Tornado Six, our forces functioned as separate units. Tornado Six was our fleet’s first integrated operation. The mission succeeded because we got away without military opposition. I can’t trust that sort of luck to hold. We need to refine our tactics, based on our experience with the log depot and that armed transport, and in anticipation of an early organized response by the UIPS.”

Brad appeared uncertain whether to remain or move on.

“Stand by a moment, Brad.”

Drummer resumed recording. Symbols in the tank flashed off and on too quickly for the eye to follow, but Drummer was no longer giving them his attention. He touched a glowing disk on the arm of his chair, sighed, and leaned back. The view tank cleared to continue its work unobserved.

“I need a break. Here’s what’s happening, Brad.”

He motioned Brad to a seat alongside his desk.

“Narval was impressed at our success, especially how we bluffed our way through it. Just as well we didn’t push too hard and force an eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation. He wants much more preparation before we get to that point. I agree, we’ll leave that until our next no-notice inspection.”

“Well, we did have a fire fight, of sorts, on the Sandbox,” Brad interjected.

“By itself, much less significant than the raids we’ve made on UIPS patrols and shipping. The Sandbox incident was the ship commander’s fault however one looks at it. By the way,” Drummer grinned. “I suggested to Colonel Hanno that he chastise the Sandbox’s commander about allowing his people to attack my agents. Lax discipline, and all that.”

Brad laughed, but grimly recalled Rimov’s wasted death. Drummer joined him in the laugh, then quickly resumed his serious expression. Elbows on desk, hands clasped, he frowned at Brad.

“In categorizing the Sandbox incident ‘insignificant’ I do so only in the context of its effect on objectives and strategy. In another sense, it was quite important.”

“Oh?”

“Narval was pleased with the way you handled yourself on the Dragon in dealing with Hanno and Bura.”

“How did he find out?”

“Scarf’s nature, it seems, made him anxious to get a verbatim record of everything said in his presence during Tornado Six. He was wired, and everything said in his presence was recorded. Had events gone otherwise, I’m convinced he would have lifted statements that each of us made and twisted them to discredit us.

“Putting Scarf in hospital immediately upon return to base didn’t give him the chance to tailor the transcript. Since he reports directly to Narval, the recordings were sent to the boss from the hospital as soon as Scarf was admitted -- routine security under the circumstances. I heard a short while ago that Narval spent some time in Scarf’s hospital room. I can only assume he was questioning Scarf on the unedited recording as well as whatever he witnessed.”

“What happens now?”

“Got a call from Narval’s office a short while ago. Narval wants to meet you. Call his office ASAP and get a time.”

Narval’s stare was long and searching. He ignored the armed guards standing within effective range of Brad.

“Sit.” Narval pointed to a heavy chair directly in front of his desk. Straight-backed from flat, hard seat to shoulder level, extension clamshells from the upper section of the chair curved forward sharply to form tapered wings.

Brad sat. The clamshells closed in and stopped a few centimeters from his temple. Wired pads extended and touched his skull at several points. The chair was not comfortable; psychic probes weren’t meant to be.

“Tell me about yourself,” Narval leaned back, inspected his fingers, and then concentrated on a monitor in the wall behind the chair in which Brad sat.

“My name is Brad Curtin,” Brad began, “and I’m here with five others to seek sanctuary.”

“Tell me about the crimes of which you were convicted, the Guardian Station prison to which you were committed, how you organized your escape, and how it was carried through. You know, of course, that you’re undergoing psychic probe. The probe compensates for your awareness of its being used on you; the validity of the findings is not degraded. I see the monitor from where I sit, so, let’s hear your story.”

Brad spoke for fifteen minutes without interruption. He related the events on his transport off Luna, the investigation that led to his trial, his testimony before the Board, and his arrival at the Guardian Station. Without hesitation, he swung into the cover scenario that had been burned deep into his psyche by Ram’s technicians: how he had selected his accomplices, organized the escape, joined the convoy into the spunnel, and finally, his arrival on Planet Pluto.

Brad let the embedded scripts flow freely. He trusted Ram’s preparations; his life and the lives of his companions depended on them. Far more important, the Sentinels mission demanded it. Anomalies, he knew, would be sensed immediately, should he even try to color his recounting of the personal knowledge and programmed experiences now deeply embedded in his mind.