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.
Brad stopped talking; the general questions had
been answered. Narval studied the wall monitor
behind Brad, and returned his stare to Brad.
"Let's clear up a few points," he said. "I
understand the ship that you, shall we say,
expropriated for your escape was no more
than a local utility vessel in the Belt. Yet, from
what you say -- and from your ship's log -- your
destination was the rim. Wouldn't you have had a
fuel problem?"
"We thought at first that we would. Our plan,
originally, was to get to a refueling station,
replenish our energy packs, and take it from there.
When we checked our bearings, we discovered that
our coordinates put us within range of a spunnel node
so we headed for that. When we got there, several
convoys were lined up for entry to the Special
Zone. Our ship had UIPS markings and the gateway
was crowded. We managed to get in the lineup and
made it."
Narval glanced at the monitor.
"I see. Now, the Guardian Station prison, I am
informed, keeps tabs on its inmates using a
sophisticated surveillance system. How did you
manage to evade observation long enough to get
away?"
"Zolan, a member of our group is an
expert in electronic countermeasures,
counter-countermeasures, and so on. The system
on the Guardian Station was installed two to three
centuries ago. It serves fine, I suppose, for the
ordinary run of inmates confined on the station.
Zolan devised a screen behind which we did our
planning and preparations. When we were ready to
go, he rammed both a counter and a counter-counter
device into the station's sensors. The double
whammy confused the hell out of the system
long enough for us to make our getaway."
"That's my next question. It seems to me the
Space Guard should have been after you immediately.
How is it they let you get away?"
"I think I owe you the credit for that."
"Me?"
"That's the way I figure it. The Guard needs a
minimum number of ships to do its work in the Inner
Region space lanes. Those lanes are so crowded that
they need every ship they can muster to maintain
order. On that I speak from long and bitter
personal experience. Since the secession, many
more Guard vessels are needed along the Belt
and their overlap into the Jovian Void; at best
they're thinly spread.
"Because of the threat to Slingshot that they
perceive in you, the UIPS has been draining both
groups lately to augment patrols along routes
through the Outer Region that converge on the
Special Zone. The additional ships are from the
Belt patrols. With all that they already have to
cover, expending vital resources to chase a few
escaped convicts just wasn't worth it."
Narval wheezed a chuckle.
"So, you think you are beholden to me for this
indirect assistance. Really feel that way?"
As he asked the question he looked intently at
the monitor. Brad, in turn, watched Narval's eyes.
"I can't see it any other way, Mr. President."
Narval grinned.
"Your answers to my questions present an
interesting scenario," Narval said after studying
the monitor. "The probe, by the way, does not
indicate significant deviations from the facts --
as you understand them, of course."
Narval waved the guards away. Saluting, they left
the room, closing the door softly behind them.
Narval motioned Brad to a chair of much gentler
design alongside his desk. As Brad exchanged seats
Narval swiveled his chair to face him. He leaned
forward and grasped Brad's wrist in a puffy grip.
"The interrogation is over," he said. "This little
session with the probe, along with voice analyses
of you and your associates has, up to now, failed
to disclose a threat to me or about what you all
now know of my plans and military capabilities.
You seem to be what you claim. Nevertheless,
you remain under scrutiny."
Brad shrugged and remained silent; his features
reflected that he expected no less.
Narval's smile was vapid, metallic.
"I commend you for the manner in which you
represented Drummer and, I add, myself. You did
well with the log depot Commander and that upstart
on the transport. I am especially pleased with the
way you conducted yourself in that little squabble
on the transport."
"Thank you, Mr. President."
"Now, to more important matters, Brad."
Narval leaned back in his deeply cushioned chair
and tented his stubby fingers.
"Your observations on the deployment of UIPS
military forces interests me. It supports my
suspicions. The Inner Region's internal Space Guard
is constabulary in both organization and mission.
Their jurisdiction is confined by the UIPS borders.
Their Military Space Force, on the other hand, has
a charter to roam the Solar System -- comparable
to ancient laws ensuring open seas and oceans.
"Transfer of fighter craft and pilots from the UIPS
Space Guard to the Military Space Force, I suspect,
is now taking place. Many will need to be refitted
for long range operations, and their crews trained
in military concepts and tactics in place of those
employed in local constabulary duties."
Narval twisted the rings on his fingers, and his
tiny eyes seemed to sink deeper into surrounding
flesh.
"The greatest single concern of the UIPS is the
integrity of Slingshot and the Special Zone. I am
convinced that the UIPS military forces, once they
attain optimum strength, will attempt to crush me,
or at the least, dominate the Zone.
"We must prepare to withstand, to resist, and
to triumph over this UIPS aggression in the Outer
Region."
Brad felt Narval's eyes on him.
"You are going to help me to prepare," Narval said.