CONSTRUCTION SCAFFOLDING SURROUNDS the incomplete Independence. Robotic forklift-like crafts maneuver panels of durasteel into place over the skeletal frame of the unfinished sections. Humanoids in spacesuits weld the new pieces in place. These sections of the craft add to its grandiose nature. Once complete, Admiral Maxtin’s command carrier will protect the worlds of the United Confederation of Planets inside the Riftgate. The behemoth ship orbits the blue-green spear, Parliament, central capital of the UCP.
Concealed next to his private office in a hidden chamber, Admiral Maxtin files away paper documents. His ancient hard-lined features are reminiscent of an angry father with a high forehead and white lion mane hair, some of it braided to disclose his caste among his people. Ribbons decorate his chest, displaying his rank as one of the five elected rulers of the UCP.
Lt. Commander Helena Gibson activates a blast shield, protecting a window between the firing range and the hidden chamber. “You know there are more effective methods of data storage than paper?”
“Effective, yes, but all computer security has a hacker working on ways to penetrate it. Only you and I know of this sensitive information and its location.”
“If they do hack your computer, won’t the lack of information rouse suspicion?”
“There’s plenty of information on my computer, and if someone acts upon the false evidence laced within it, we will know who our enemies are within the UCP.”
“I know who they are,” Gibson muses.
“Poor choice of words. Simply knowing isn’t enough. We must prove it if we are to sway the Senate to stay out of the Mokarran/Throgen war.”
A UCP soldier marches into the firing range. He inspects a rifle before loading it with an energy clip. It hums with power.
Maxtin and Gibson remain stoic behind the protective, clear durasteel glass. Maxtin nods, giving permission to proceed.
The soldier takes aim down range, locks his sights on the target and squeezes the trigger. A plasma beam discharges, cooking through the target disk. He squeezes again. The second shot incinerates the remainder of the target.
A third squeeze.
Gray gelatinous goop paints the observation glass. Exploding chunks of the rifle rain onto the floor along with what’s left of the soldier.
Gibson picks herself up from behind the control console.
Maxtin remains resigned—unmoved—showing no concern.
“You knew that was going to happen?” Gibson asks, straightening her uniform.
“I knew the durasteel would withstand a blast from the weapon exploding.” His red eyes flare with anger but his voice never shifts from his calm fatherly tone.
“You’re damaging your command carrier before it’s completed.”
Maxtin storms through the door to the firing range. “Once again, we’ve confiscated another shipment of imitation weapons.”
Gibson examines the blast pattern in the wall. “It blows out like a grenade. The soldiers on either side of him would be killed as well and others wounded.”
Maxtin pecks at a piece of metal until it’s cool enough to extract from the slime. “Substandard minerals comprised this alloy.”
Gibson uses tongs to remove a piece of embedded shrapnel from the wall. “You scanned it already?”
“I don’t have to. I’ve seen it enough before.” Maxtin holds the metal chunk up to the light. “Too many rebel soldiers are dying from these fakes.”
“I’ll run the test anyway. We might turn up something new.”
Maxtin drops the metal fragment into a plastic tube. “Gibson, I may have to delay your promotion. An officer like you will be impossible to replace.”
She takes the tubes containing the metal fragments. “I’ll take a compliment from a Zayar.”
“Not every Zayar’s like me. My people’s belief system keeps them isolationists. Unfortunately, it also prevents them from understanding no one remains a xenophobe where the Mokarran are involved. They bring the war with them.”
“I’ll get these fragments to the lab.”
“Our focus now has to be on discovering who’s manufacturing these replica weapons. Too many soldiers are dying. It’s cutting into resources for those fighting the Mokarran.”
“Your hidden resources.” Gibson pockets the vials.
“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.”
