Chapter Text
Cur ante tubam tremor occupat artus? – Why should fear seize the limbs before the trumpet sounds? (Virgil)
In the animal kingdom, you are predator, or you are prey. Some animals are both. It all depends, not only on how well you are armed, but how much attitude you have and who else is around at the time. You can be the right species and possess the requisite number of teeth, talons and other adaptations, but without that unique self-awareness, that innate and undefinable quality that belongs to those destined to take their rightful place at the perilous apex of the food chain, you’re almost certain to die before your first birthday. Even when still cute (and frequently fluffy) as babies, real predators have a way of holding themselves. There’s a certain tilt to the head, a unique light in the eyes that marks particular individuals out as natural born killers.
Human beings like to think we’ve evolved, but when you get down to it, it’s still the same old story: you are predator, or you are prey.
Particularly in the realm of interplanetary politics.
“All planets are afflicted with rogues,” the Urgosian Ambassador declared, sniffing and rising on his toes to emphasise the last word. Of the two gestures, the sniff was the more impressive, as the Ambassador was endowed with an extremely long and narrow nose. “Captain Doom is quite correctly described as a space pirate,” he continued, with that little rise up onto his toes again at the word, ‘pirate.’ His dark, severely tailored evening wear made his already angular frame seem taller and thinner than ever. “He runs his piracy operation entirely without the sanction of the recognised government.”
Security Chief David Anderson interpreted this statement as meaning that Captain Doom operated with the sanction of unrecognised areas of the Urgosian government. Which, to the best of the Security Chief’s not-inconsiderable knowledge, was indeed the case. “How unfortunate,” Anderson remarked, “that the recognised government seems to be incapable of apprehending this pirate.” He smiled, all urbanity, as the Urgosian bristled.
The big mezzanine foyer of the Center City Opera House was thick with the après opéra crowd following a charity performance of Madame Butterfly by the highly lauded Zarkadian Opera Company. Anderson, who tolerated opera in very small doses (preferably while walking briskly in any direction that might reasonably constitute “away”) maintained that he attended because of the chance to have constructive informal discussions like the one in which he was engaged with the Urgosian Ambassador. The other, more pressing reason for Anderson’s presence was that the First Lady got decidedly tetchy when senior officials declined too many of her charity invitations. Presented with the choice between having to spend an evening listening to opera at five hundred dollars a seat or deal with a tetchy First Lady... well, one only needed to look around to spot quite a few senior Federal officials all wearing the same desperate, glassy-eyed expression of relief that the fat lady had, quite literally, sung.
“Doom is a persistent and well-resourced criminal,” the Ambassador was saying, bobbing up and down. “Urgos is a barely unified planet. You cannot expect us to be able to duplicate your extensive infrastructure overnight.” He sniffed again. “We are doing all we can, under remarkably pressing circumstances. Doom’s weaponry is most formidable.”
“Extremely,” Anderson agreed. “It may be that the Interplanetary Security Organisation can assist you in taking care of that particular problem.”
The Ambassador came close to choking on his champagne. “My dear Security Chief,” he babbled, “you are most generous, but we could not possibly ask you to spread the Federation’s precious resources thin in such a manner! We’re very grateful to you for your interception of several of Doom’s privateers over the last few months but we understand that Spectra must be a priority for you.” In his distress, the Ambassador quite forgot to bob and sniff, but the tips of his ears went pink.
“Not at all, Mister Ambassador,” Anderson assured him. “Captain Doom represents a threat to any number of worlds, including Earth. Until his unprovoked attack on us back in ‘sixty-one, we were –- I’m sorry to say –- prepared to stand back and do nothing, but his activities have become a matter of grave concern to us. Our analyses suggest that Doom’s depredations have the potential to impact on certain critical lines of supply, so I’m inclined to extend the hand of friendship and assist Planet Urgos’ recognised government in removing him from the picture. With extreme prejudice.” Anderson gave the diplomat what might have passed for a pleasant smile. [1]
“You... you realise... your offer – although exceedingly generous – could not possibly be accepted by the Urgosian government,” the Ambassador said, breaking out in a sweat. “There are certain cultural mores – the matter of saving face. For an outsider to deal with such a persistent problem would cause all kinds of internal political trouble!”
“You need not concern yourself with your internal political situation, Mister Ambassador,” Anderson insisted, “my agency is more than capable of discretion in these matters, particularly when the issue is of such mutual and significant interest to both our governments. I have people who are very good at organising plausible deniability. Just ask any conspiracy theorist.”
The Urgosian went pale. President Kane had noticed the Ambassador’s discomfiture and swept in to the rescue. “Your Excellency!” Kane boomed. “Did you enjoy the performance?”
“Ah, Mister President. It was quite novel,” the Ambassador related, recovering himself enough for a small bob. “I confess I have no understanding of Earth languages other than Standard, but the music was interesting.”
“It’s all Greek to me, Mister Ambassador,” Anderson lied, feigning innocence.
“My dear Ambassador,” Laureli Kane, the First Lady, took the Ambassador’s arm. “You mustn’t let David confuse you.” She bestowed a dazzling smile on the Urgosian. “He’s a very confusing man, you know, always focussing on technicalities. He pretends not to understand opera, but did you know his grandmother was a lead soprano with the Boston Galactic? She’s here tonight with the opera company, actually. You must let me introduce you. I promise she’s nothing like her grandson!” With a poisonous look at Anderson, she guided her guest away.
“And we were getting along so well,” Anderson quipped.
“David,” Alexander Kane warned, “maybe I neglected to mention that we’re trying to patch up relations with Planet Urgos, not start another war!”
A waiter proffered cups of black coffee on a tray while another followed with the cream and sugar. Kane accepted a cup, as did Anderson.
The President lowered his voice to a growl. “We’ve barely managed to smooth things over after the Patrol ‘liberated’ that last cargo shipment. Don’t provoke them any further!”
“Of course, Mister President,” the Security Chief said.
Kane shook his head and stalked away, shadowed by his ever-present security detail.
Anderson glanced at his liaison and protocol officer, who waited patiently nearby, observing her Chief of Staff at work. This evening, she had, in Anderson’s opinion, gone above and beyond the call of duty by occupying the seat between himself and the First Lady in the President’s box for the duration of Madame Butterfly. Lieutenant Colonel Alberta Jones, unobtrusive in a grey silk trouser suit, allowed herself a small, wry smile.
“Something amusing you, Colonel?” Anderson asked once the President was safely out of earshot.
“Merely speculating, sir,” Jones said.
“About?” Anderson prompted.
“Something the Ambassador said: all planets have their rogues.” Jones arched an eyebrow. “Who is ours, do you think?”
Anderson raised his cup and smiled. “That depends on who you ask,” he parried, and took a tentative sip of his coffee. Coffee could be a hit and miss affair, even at functions like this one. Still, no matter what the state of the coffee at the Center City Opera House on any given night, it couldn’t be as bad as the stuff Jones made back at the office on those rare occasions when she decided to demonstrate how it should never, under any circumstances, ever be done.
This particular cup of coffee didn’t taste as though it had died, or that anything had died in it, which was a good start. Anderson recalled the second worst cup of coffee he’d ever had, which had been encountered on a mission to Planet Riga, about twenty-two years previously. Anderson and Marshall Hawking had been on a mission with Rigan intelligence. In an attempt to impress their Rigan liaison, a rather attractive young female captain, Hawking had volunteered to make the coffee around a tiny campfire in a cave. Distracted, Hawking had let the coffee burn. It definitely made an impression, but not the one Hawking had been aiming for. Still, he must have done something right: Anderson had spent the night huddled in his coat outside the cave with a hip flask of whisky to keep himself warm, while Hawking and the liaison officer had kept each other warm inside the cave. Anderson had told Mark how his parents met but he deliberately left out a lot of the detail.
The very worst cup of coffee was anything made by Lieutenant Colonel Jones. Anderson was fairly certain that Jones made bad coffee on purpose. He felt sure that nobody could be so abysmal at something, so consistently, without intent. He’d considered asking, but never did. It would take away the mystery. Anderson felt that everyone ought to have at least one unsolved mystery in their life, and as mysteries went, the substance he’d dubbed Café La Brea Tar Pit seemed innocuous enough. As long as he wasn’t being asked to actually drink it.
Jones declined a waiter’s offer of coffee. A tea drinker, Jones was one of those individuals who believed that almost anything could be coped with if one were adequately braced with a jolly decent cup of tea. It was a simplistic philosophy, but it was one that had worked for the English – and indeed all of the British peoples – for centuries and it wasn’t about to give up the ghost now. The tea coping mechanism applied across classes, continents and interstellar space. Wherever the British ventured, tea went with them.
A life punctuated with rather a lot of tea had left the Englishwoman Jones magnificently repressed with an unfortunate tendency to use words like “jolly” rather more than necessary. A career with Galaxy Security had allowed her to be repressed, highly trained and armed with the finest, jolliest conventional weapons available.
“The Urgosian delegation’s formed a rather worried-looking little huddle,” Jones murmured. “You’ve really put them between a rock and a hard place, you know.”
“Then it’s been a productive evening,” Anderson decided. “I wonder how long it’ll take?”
“Your methods aren’t exactly in keeping with the Kane Administration’s policies of inclusion and overt non-belligerence,” Jones said. “Give it four days.”
“Three if I did a really good job.” Anderson allowed himself a moment to survey the room. “What an evening: Puccini, the First Lady and the Urgosians.” He finished his coffee and put the empty cup on a tray carried by a passing waiter. He offered Jones an arm, which she took, and they began walking slowly toward the exit, flanked by a pair of security officers who silently materialised out of the crowd.
“It could have been worse, you know,” Jones pointed out mildly.
“How?” Anderson asked.
“Could have been Wagner, the First Lady and the Urgosians.”
“Al, that’s just disturbing,” Anderson decided.
Two and a half days later, President Kane was pleased to receive a delegation from the Urgosian Embassy wishing to open negotiations with a view to pursuing a non-aggression pact with the Federation. By Friday, the news media was full of speculation as to what this new development might mean for the war.
The security staff had waved the red convertible through the front gate of Anderson’s residence in response to Zark’s signal. Mark brought his car to a halt in the driveway, shut down the engine and vaulted out of the driver’s seat without bothering to use the car door. He ran up to the front door of the house, keyed the access code and let himself in.
Anderson was in his study, standing by the window with a cup of coffee in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other. Mark pulled up short as he realised he was the third, rather than the second person in the room. The formidable Sorcha Anderson was ensconced in an armchair.
The Anderson matriarch was a marvel at ninety-seven years of age. When her son and daughter-in-law had been assassinated forty-three years ago, she had taken over the raising of her grandsons James and David. Sorcha scoffed at the idea that the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world: she maintained that neither of the boys had ever listened to her.
In actuality, they had. At length. Then they’d gone on to make their own decisions using the same bloody-minded ‘sod you’ kind of independence they’d learned (and no doubt inherited) from Sorcha Anderson.
Sorcha was the one woman who could, out of the habit of decades, make Security Chief Anderson sit up and do as he was told, or make him squirm like a twelve-year-old boy who has forgotten to take out the garbage. She had a similar effect on the members of G-Force.
“Hello, Mark,” she said.
“Grandma Sorcha!” Mark said, and obediently went over to kiss his adoptive great-grandmother’s cheek. “I didn’t know you were in town!”
“I flew over for Madame Butterfly. I’ve been mentoring several of the Zarkadian Opera Company singers since Zarkadia decided to join the Federation. Part of a cultural exchange programme. It’s nice to see you, dear.”
“Likewise,” Mark said.
“I thought Saturday was your day for doing as little as possible,” Anderson said.
“It is, but what’s this I hear about a non-aggression pact with Planet Urgos?” Mark asked.
“I haven’t had the 3V on. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve heard?” Anderson suggested.
“It was on GNN,” Mark said. “They’re saying you’re involved in brokering some kind of deal. Dad, they attacked us, remember?”
Anderson considered his coffee cup. “They haven’t come at us directly since you destroyed Captain Doom’s urgosium refinery back in ‘sixty-one.”
“That doesn’t mean they like us. Why are you suddenly pushing for a non-aggression pact?”
“Mark, Captain Doom hasn’t been hiding under a rock. He’s been focusing on interstellar shipping and he’s causing significant economic damage.”
“So, we’re going to cut some kind of a deal with these people? With space pirates?”
“No, we’re going to cut some kind of a deal with the government of Urgos which continually claims to have no control over the space pirates,” Anderson corrected.
“The difference being?”
“Urgos has little in the way of regular armed forces. If we can manoeuvre the Urgosian government into a corner, they’ll have no choice but to disavow the privateers. Without his power base and support network, Captain Doom’s operation is as good as crippled. Deprived of the proceeds of piracy, the Urgosian economy will weaken and the Federation gets to call the shots.”
“As in, they’ll be in a position where they’ll be willing to sell us the only supply of indestructible urgosium in the known galaxy?”
“The thought had occurred to me,” Anderson said, and sipped at his coffee.
“What about Zoltar?” Mark asked.
“I’m pretty sure he watches GNN, too. By now, he knows what’s happening, and he’ll be very unhappy about it, you can count on that.”
“You think he’ll try gunning for you again?”
“Possibly,” Anderson said. “Director Kelly’s keeping an eye on the market to see if the price on my head goes up. It’s more likely that Spectra will target the Urgosians.”
“All the same,” Mark cautioned, “you should up your security.”
“It’s in hand,” Anderson said, his expression darkening.
Mark smiled. “Al read you the riot act, didn’t she?”
Anderson squared his shoulders. “No member of my staff,” he said, “would dare read me the riot act.”
“Right.” Mark kept his expression neutral. “So, are we on alert for this?”
“Not yet,” Anderson said. “Our counter-intelligence people think that the most dangerous time is going to be the actual signing of the pact, assuming we get that far. Zoltar’s a drama queen. He likes to make his messages public wherever possible, and it’s his style to go for maximum impact.”
“No argument, there,” Mark said.
“Enough talk of all this violence and political upheaval!” Sorcha Anderson declared. “Honestly. You boys! I’m flying back to Boston tomorrow. I expect to see all of you children this evening for dinner. We’ll go to Giuseppe’s since your father’s still hopeless at anything to do with kitchens except setting them on fire. Seven o’clock. Tell the others.”
“Yes, Grandma Sorcha,” Mark said. He cast a pleading glance at his adoptive father, who simply shrugged, helpless in the face of an irresistible force.
ISO Powell Base was just outside of Center City. Unlike Seahorse Base on the bay which catered primarily to marine and light air transport, Powell had the room to cater to heavy air transport and military star ships. Its sprawling complex included permanent accommodation for ISO personnel and hangars that would have dwarfed the G-Force command ship Phoenix.
The sun was still low on the horizon as the working week began, the watery early morning light casting long cool shadows as the Chief of Galaxy Security’s limousine approached one of many near-identical weatherboard bungalows in what was effectively a suburb of the base. The residential sector was neat and tidy with quietly respectable lawns and a limited colour palette which suggested government contract painters.
The particular bungalow at which Chief Anderson’s limousine had stopped was distinguished by the garden gnomes. Security Chief Anderson peered over the top of his sunglasses. Standard Operating Procedure specified that he wasn’t supposed to put the window down on the limousine but given his location – to wit, in the middle of a secure ISO base – he decided it was worth the risk.
A gnome in camouflage aimed a tiny assault rifle with a very realistic finish to the barrel while another in sixteenth century garb hefted a ceramic barrel of gunpowder. Another one wore a twentieth century khaki uniform with stars on its shoulders and a corncob pipe in its mouth. Still another appeared to be sporting G‑Force battle gear in seasonal Christmas red and green. Anderson squinted slightly. Yes, it had bells on.
Anderson’s attention was diverted from the garden gnomes when the car window began to rise. Anderson glanced across at his security coordinator, who was sitting directly opposite him and had her finger firmly on the control button.
When Major Alban released the button and sat back in her seat, Anderson pressed the button to lower the window again. Major Alban bristled. Anderson made a point of ignoring her.
The front door of the house opened to allow Alberta Jones to exit. Jones locked the door behind her and hurried off the porch and down the garden path with a quick patter of heels on the pavement. “Why is your window open?” she asked. “Your window isn’t supposed to be open. Major Alban, you’ll have to lock those if he’s going to keep playing with them.”
Jones walked around to the other side of the limousine, opened the door, climbed inside and pulled the door shut behind her. The automatic locks clicked into place and the window motor whirred softly as the armoured glass slid closed.
“Good morning to you, too,” Anderson said, ignoring the attempts of Major Alban and Captain Maxwell to refrain from smirking.
The vehicle pulled away from the kerb and headed down the quiet residential street with all its windows firmly shut.
“Not that I ever really gave it any thought,” Anderson said, “but if I had, I doubt I’d ever have pictured you as the type to have garden gnomes.”
“The one with the rifle shoots point-one-seven calibre bullets,” Jones said. “Guy Fawkes has an EMP generator in the gunpowder barrel and General MacArthur’s pipe is actually a very powerful scanning device. They’re one of Zark’s little side projects. He asked if he could use my garden as a testing ground and I said he could.”
“I think I’m genuinely sorry I brought it up,” Anderson said.
The limousine made its way out of the residential area and passed through two checkpoints before moving onto the apron and making its way to a compound. There was one last checkpoint before the limo drove up to park in front of a well-guarded hangar.
There were already about a dozen vehicles in the area set aside for parking. On the apron outside the compound, a distinctive blue and red warship was parked, her auxiliary power unit idling noisily in what might otherwise have been early morning quiet.
“They start work early here,” Shay Alban observed.
“Yes they do,” Anderson said as the group got out of the limousine.
The turbine in the Phoenix’s APU wound down with a descending whine and the dorsal dome of the G‑Force command ship unfolded to release Mark, Jason, Princess, Tiny and Keyop, who glided down to the tarmac and joined the Security Chief’s party.
“Morning, Chief,” Mark said, striding over to the limousine. “Here we are, all present and correct.”
“I appreciate you coming out here so early,” Anderson told the team. “I think you’re going to find this interesting.”
Each member of the group was required to submit to a retina scan before the somewhat overawed duty officer opened the door and waved them through.
The lobby was simply an empty room lined with brushed steel with a door at each end. Anderson keyed an access code, pressed his thumb to a pad and waited for the interior door to open with a buzz and the rapid clunks of heavy lock tumblers giving way.
The hangar itself was a large vaulted space with little prefabricated office modules arranged around the walls.
In the middle of the hangar was a segment from a captured Spectran ship. Its antigravity drive had been repaired, as had its force field generator and it hung in the air approximately six feet off the hangar floor in apparent defiance of natural law. Said defiance was expressed by way of a soft hum and a complete and utter lack of falling down and going ‘boom!’
“Wow,” Jason said. “That is one ugly piece of machinery. Isn’t it part of the Space Serpent that attacked those refineries a while back?”
“It was,” Anderson said. “Now it’s a lab rat. Doctor Patterson!” he called. “How’s progress?”
“Chief Anderson!” the project head hurried over. A middle-aged engineer of Native American extraction, Essie Patterson wore a respectably shabby lab coat with lots of tiny burn marks and a perpetually harried expression. “We’ve been testing out a few things, sir but the laws of physics are still getting in the way.”
“Show me,” Anderson said.
Patterson led the group over to a large work station manned by several technicians. “Coffee break, guys,” she ordered and the staff got up and walked away, casting backward glances at their visitors as they did so. “Here’s the thing,” Patterson said as she called up a large holographic display of the ship segment. A grid in the shape of a sphere surrounded it, representing the force field. “The modified G-Force style cable guns were a good idea in theory, but once you get down to brass tacks, they just bounce clean off the force field.” Patterson gestured at the display and it moved, showing technicians firing cables at it which simply bounced and slid off the sphere. “Conceivably, if you knew which frequencies the force field was utilizing you could rig up an electronic grapple which locked onto the wavelength and hung on like a limpet, but what’s to stop Zoltar from modulating the frequency? Modulation’s a standard defence against beam weapons and field neutralisers.” A wave of Patterson’s hand had the image shifting again. “So we tried netting it, and it works, but only to a degree.” The hologram showed a large metallic net being dropped over the force field and remaining in position as technicians anchored it to the floor.
Princess leaned forward to examine the display. “You’re working with urgosium alloy! So this is what happened to it. You’re developing an anti-force-field device, Doctor?”
“We’re trying, ma’am,” Patterson said.
“I see some limited application there,” Anderson remarked.
“Very limited,” Patterson said. “If you can convince Zoltar to fly conveniently close to the ground, then sit back and watch while our people hook the net in place, you could possibly neutralise yourself one very small enemy ship. One. Very small. Then you have to be in a spot where you can hook the net up to something that can drain the power. I mean, if you could earth it, or plug the ship into the city’s power grid with a bunch of stacked conditioning modules to keep from blowing up every office machine on Main Street, you could earth the field’s electromagnetic current and drain it dry. Otherwise you’ve gotta have something you can connect up, say some kind of remote controlled flying Tesla coil or something that could draw enough power to knock the thing out. I’m thinking maybe sacrificial drones could do it, but to be honest with you, Chief, I can’t see a lot of practicality here. It’s small scale only. If you let me shrink it down some I could hand you a great anti-android or small drone countermeasure within a couple months. Knock down anything up to the size of a double-decker bus.”
“Send an interim report through to Director Halloran,” Anderson said. “I’ll take your suggestions under consideration.”
Anderson walked out onto the hangar floor. A long bundle of thick silvery cables connecting up to a central net was neatly laid out over a series of workbenches that had been pushed together to accommodate its size. He picked up one of the cables which moved with a silky hiss, very much like a very large and very expensive slinky toy.
Patterson followed and patted one of the cables as though it were a cat. “It’s something, isn’t it?” she remarked. “Light, flexible and damned near indestructible. I don’t suppose you could be liberating any more of the raw material any time soon.”
“If things go according to plan,” Anderson said, “I may even be able to buy you some.”
“It’s all I want for Christmas, Chief,” Patterson said with a grin. “And for that Zark guy to quit stalking me online.”
Anderson sighed. “I’ll talk to him.”
It was a beautiful morning at the imperial palace on Planet Spectra, but environmental aesthetics were wasted on Zoltar, who was – as Chief Anderson had predicted – in an extremely bad mood.
Zoltar’s staff had retreated to various hiding places throughout the palace, or better yet, found errands to run that took them off the grounds.
Mala alone remained with Spectra’s penultimate ruler as he paced up and down the length of the balcony, his morning cup of tea cooling unregarded on the table.
“After all we have done for those spineless Urgosian ingrates!” Zoltar raged. “This cowardly betrayal cuts me to the very quick! Do you know how much funding we sank into their space piracy operations?”
Mala, whose job it was to know – among other things – exactly how much funding had been sunk into supporting Urgosian space piracy, lit a cigarette and inhaled before answering. “I do. Down to the nearest thousand dragei,” she replied, her words punctuated with smoke. There was a fresh breeze coming off the mountains which swept the smoke away almost instantly.
“We trained their miserable personnel –- we even gave them surplus uniforms with which to clothe their wretched men! How do they repay us? First, they try to beat us to the conquest of Earth, then, once they think themselves forgiven for their presumption, they go crawling to the Earthlings, bleating for a non-aggression pact!”
“Turncoats,” Mala agreed.
Zoltar turned on his heel, all excess energy, and gripped the safety railing on the balustrade with both hands. “They are afraid of the Federation,” he snarled, and bared his teeth into the breeze. “I will show them what it means to be afraid!”
“You could do that,” Mala said. Something in her tone made Zoltar stop and look over his shoulder, his anger in abeyance for the moment.
“Is this one of those times when you are thinking more clearly than I?” he inquired.
“Perhaps,” Mala said. “The ISO may well be counting on Spectra investing resources in a retaliatory attack on Urgos. Resources,” she qualified, “that we could be using against the Federation.”
Zoltar turned away from the balustrade to study his sister through eyes that narrowed behind the mask. He folded his arms across his chest and considered. “That is a distinct possibility,” he said. “And yet, I cannot allow Urgos to escape unscathed. The Galaxy must see what it means to invoke the wrath of Planet Spectra! The Urgosians must be punished, both decisively and visibly! “
“Their leaders, at least,” Mala said.
“What did you have in mind?” Zoltar asked.
Mala smiled and exhaled in a long thin stream of bluish smoke that was snatched up and carried off by the wind. “Efficiency, brother dear.”
“Do we really need to know all this?” Tiny asked as Zark’s briefing continued into its thirty-sixth minute.
The G-Force team were seated around the table in Conference Room 3 on the 100th floor of the ISO Tower. The room was large enough for small, intimate meetings and Mark was convinced that the chairs were designed to keep said meetings short. This seemed to be lost on 7-Zark-7, who was transmitting from Center Neptune Control and lacked the ability to sit down.
“Maybe we could get the Reader’s Digest version?” Jason quipped.
Mark, whose gluteus muscles were beginning to go numb, decided to take advantage of his team-mates’ restlessness and got to his feet. “Okay, Zark, can we take a break? The humans need a comfort stop.”
“Certainly, Commander,” the robot replied. “Signal me when you’re ready to resume.”
The screen image changed from Zark’s electronic visage to dark blue with the Galaxy Security crest rendered in 3D silver.
By mutual and unspoken agreement, all five members of G-Force stood and stretched. Mark stamped his feet a few times while Jason moved to the window and gazed out over Center City.
“Do you think we could ask him to stick to the executive summary?” Jason wondered aloud as he rotated his shoulders.
“Jason,” Mark said wearily, “this is the executive summary. Zark’s full briefing notes are… well let me put it this way: if I were to print the entire document, I’d have the deaths of rainforests on my conscience.”
“And that would be bad,” Keyop said sagely.
“Yes,” Mark said. “That would be bad.”
Jason made a small, helpless sound that might have fallen somewhere between a groan and a scream.
“Okay,” Princess said. “To summarise: the Urgosian government, who we thought were our enemies, are now saying it wasn’t them who attacked Earth in ‘sixty-one but this pirate Captain Doom, who is in fact a criminal whose activities are unsanctioned.”
“Which they never bothered to tell us back in ‘sixty-one,” Keyop added.
“And now,” Princess continued, “the Urgosian government wants to make nice with the Federation, but they don’t want to go so far as to become an Allied World, so they’re just going to sign a non-aggression pact.”
“Which means,” Jason said, “that good ol’ Captain I’ve-got-a-really-ugly-mask Doom is out in the cold, which in turn means that Zoltar could lose a valuable line of supply.”
“Which means Zoltar’s not gonna be happy,” Tiny said. “Which means he’s gonna want to spread it around.”
“Captain Doom won’t be happy either,” Mark said. “We’ll have two enemies gunning for us at once.”
“And this is progress toward peace, right?” Keyop said.
“Apparently,” Mark said. “Yay for peace.”
“I get the feeling,” Jason said darkly, “that peace could be going to get awfully noisy.”
“Look on the bright side,” Princess said. “At least we’ll have an excuse to avoid any more family dinners with Grandma Sorcha for a while.”
“Please don’t remind me,” Jason said. “I don’t need any more of her lectures about ‘facing up to who I am.’ How come she never pesters you about finding out who your father was?”
Princess laughed. “Probably because I’d have to interrogate every DNA database in the galaxy to maybe get a possible match, while all you’d have to do would be to read your birth certificate! I don’t know, Jase. Maybe she’s got a point. My mother never cared enough to name my father – either that or she genuinely didn’t know. Your mother loved your father, even if he did leave in the end. What they had for a while has to be worth something.”
“No,” Jason said. “No, it isn’t worth a thing.”
“Wrong,” Princess said, aiming a mock punch at Jason’s arm. “It resulted in you, and you’re worth the whole world to the people who care about you. Don’t sell yourself short.”
President Alexander Kane leaned forward in the big chair. He glowered at the file which lay open on his desk as though it had personally and deliberately offended him.
The file was marked, ‘TOP SECRET: G-SEC EXECUTIVE AND ABOVE EYES ONLY.’ In smaller print down one side it read, ‘Anderson, James Lachlann.’ The word, ‘Deceased’ had been covered over but was still faintly visible through the tape. A second file was labelled ‘Captain Doom of Urgos.’
Kane’s affronted glare moved from the file to one of the men sitting opposite him. “How much of this is personal, Anderson?” he asked.
Secretary Claybourne, who was seated in one of the visitor’s chairs in the Presidential Office, coughed into his hand.
Kane was dismissive. “There’s a time for tact, Stan,” he said, “and this isn’t it. Well, Anderson?”
In the second visitor’s chair, Security Chief Anderson was effectively caught between his two superiors. “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t personal, sir,” he admitted, “but we have sound operational reasons for pursuing this course of action.”
“I know that,” Kane snapped. “If we didn’t have sound operational reasons you’d be on administrative leave pending a review of your job. What I need to hear from you is that you’ve got it compartmentalised and that you won’t let personal considerations get in the way of completing your mission.”
“My personal feelings,” Anderson said, “are in line with our mission objectives. Captain Doom is a G‑Sec operative gone rogue with a long list of crimes and misdemeanours to his name and I mean to bring him in; alive, if possible.”
“And if you can’t bring him in alive?” Claybourne asked. “He’s your brother, David.”
“Then we neutralize him, Mister Secretary. I’ll pull the trigger myself if I have to.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Claybourne said. “I’d feel better about this if you took a step back. It’s too much to ask.”
“No,” Kane said. “No, Anderson, you keep working on it. Make sure Deputy Chief Galbraith’s there to ride shotgun. You say you can handle this and… well, I’ve seen you work under intense personal pressure before. I’m inclined to trust you.” Kane stood up and his visitors did likewise. “Don’t make me regret it.”
- Pleasant if you were, in the first place, a long way away from it, and in the second place, confident of your likelihood to remain so for quite some time. [2]
- At least until Chief Anderson was in a better mood. If he was already in a good mood, an extended trip away would be a good idea. Preferably one that involved a well-appointed ship with an ongoing mission to explore strange new worlds, seek out new life, and boldly go as far away from Security Chief Anderson as possible.