Sentience 1: Storm Clouds Gathering (16 page)

“Aye, aye, skipper.”

“Al, I want you to put together a complete presentation documenting everything, and I mean everything we hashed out here this morning... and I need it yesterday.”

With that, Admiral Melendez rose and Bat looked down at his coffee cup and shook his head. Melendez had his usual three pots, J.T. and Ligurri each went through a pot apiece. Bat managed to finally drink one cold cup, and half a cup of dregs.

J.T. keyed the release codes into the door console. Locking solenoids clanked and air pressure hissed as the hermetic seals released, motors hummed and a green “open” light appeared, allowing J.T. to open the vault door. They all walked through the admiral’s office to where LtJG Fredricks’ desk was situated right outside the admiral’s door. “Anything happen while we were in the vault, Marilyn?”

“Yes, Admiral, here are your messages. Vice Admiral Bradley called twice and Commodore Coxler called his customary three times.”

Coxler, yes I’m going to have to do something about him, real soon. I wonder what’s up with Brad? It’s not like him to call more than once.

“Thanks, Marilyn, get Admiral Bradley on the horn for me and stall Coxler as long as you can.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

“Brad, what’s up?”

“Rico! It’s about time. You guys been holed up throwing darts in the vault again?” asked Vice Admiral Simon Bradley.

“Who started that vicious rumor anyway? Of course not. It was gin rummy this time.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. Anything that I need to know about?”

“Make that a definite maybe, sir. Listen, I really need to talk to you and Doug on the QT. Can you drag him up to my cabin in the country outside of Balt next Saturday around one o’clock? I’ll put the feedbag on and you bring the vodka.”

“Feedbag? Is that one of Bat’s
Indinaranisms?
”

“Yeah, has something to do with the way they feed horses down on the farm. I guess I’m gonna have to fumigate around here... they’re starting to infest everybody.”

“Okay, Bat, what have you got for me?” asked Rear Admiral Melendez.

“I remembered something you mentioned in passing during our discussion yesterday, Admiral, and it gave me an off-the-wall idea. So to check it out, I went back over Al’s security logs and focused on the column listing the codes for the ID’s of incoming data requests, which is compared to a file on authorized users containing their clearance levels and
need-to-know
for security purposes, sets priority flags for pushing the important stuff to the head of the line and provides a routing pointer to where the return data is to be sent.” Bat popped a data cube into the admiral’s console and brought up a file.

“As you can see here,” Bat said, as he ran his finger down a particular column of alpha-numeric codes, “the first three digits on these codes seem to indicate the ID of the originator of the request. Some of it appears pretty straightforward, and with some educated guesswork we might figure out who has been requesting data from the HQ library computer. Here we see the digits ‘BUP,’ which is likely to stand for BuPers, the Bureau of Personnel and here is ‘PIM,’ which is probably State’s Policy Information Management System. Likewise ‘F04’ for 4th Fleet, and ‘NFB’ is possibly Norf Fleet Base at Ginia.

“I got to wondering what Bozo’s designator might be,” Bat continued. “You said that Klaus hated that name and unsurprisingly there are no BOZ designators in this column. Nor could I find any that might be indicative of Bozo’s official title of CLOWNEMS.”

“Okay, that sounds good,” answered Melendez. “I can buy the logic in that, but where are you going with this?”

“Al’s two anomalies are highlighted. Scroll down and take a look at the designators for the request originators immediately prior to both of FALCON’s apparent naps.”

Melendez did. Just prior to both instances, the requester ID symbol was: HAL.

“Bat,” Melendez said, “get the hell out of my office right now, before I come around this desk and kiss you right on the lips!”

Masterson ran.

“Rico! Good to hear from you. How long has it been?”

“Too long, Tom.”

“How’s Emily & the rest of the family doing?”

“Everyone’s good. Listen, can you come up to my cabin next Saturday — I’ve got something I need your input on.”

“Hmm, Saturday. Oh boy, bad day, Rico. I’ve got a golf date with the director that day… his idea.”

“Try to reschedule, will ya? I’ve got some flags coming too.”

“Important?”

“Yes.”

“About?”

“One o’clock.”

“Shit… okay Rico, but this better not be another one of your stunts.”

“I wish it was, Tom. I really wish it was.”

Politics is supposed to be the second-oldest profession. I have come to realize that it bears a very close resemblance to the first.
-- Ronald Reagan

The Alliance Planet Maylan, outside the City of Balt

March, 3060

In a plush chair in front of the fireplace, within Rear Admiral Enrico Melendez’ cabin within a deeply forested area outside of Balt on Maylan, sat Melendez’ immediate superior, Fleet Intelligence Director Vice Admiral Simon Bradley. Next to him sat Bradley’s immediate superior, Fleet Headquarters Operations Commander, Admiral Douglas Campbell. Sitting off to the side on the couch was ABI Special Agent in Charge of Counter-Intelligence, Thomas Nichols.

All three men sat silently with drinks in their hands as they tried to absorb everything they’d just heard. Melendez had just finished his briefing, which contained everything they knew about the possible and potential problems with Bozo and the PIMS systems. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the swinging pendulum in the grandfather clock in the corner. Melendez turned to reach for his glass of vodka and tonic, which had been sitting on the mantel throughout his presentation. The ice had all melted, but Melendez’ throat felt parched as a desert, so he chugged the watery concoction down anyway. The longer the silence continued, the more nervous Melendez became, so he walked over to the bar to begin making himself a refill.

Admiral Campbell finally broke the maddening silence, just as Melendez was finishing squeezing a lime wedge into his new drink. “It’s thin, Rico. Damned thin.”

“Yes, but the implications are absolutely staggering,” observed Nichols.

“Bat’s nose is really twitching on this one?” asked Bradley.

“Badly,” responded Melendez. “His
sixth-sense
is going absolutely crazy.”

“Does the mere fact that FALCON’s I/O channels appear to go dead for a few milliseconds after a Bozo query really indicate something ominous?” asked Admiral Campbell.

“Not by itself, no,” replied Bradley. “But when added to Rico’s story about the mad scientist with a big chip on his shoulder barricading himself into his lab for eleven weeks, and somehow wiping the lab visual records for the entire time, it certainly indicates he didn’t want anyone knowing what he was up to in there — and that sounds damned suspicious to me.”

“Yes,” said Nichols. “People behaving themselves don’t normally go to such great lengths to hide their activities.”

“Everyone’s antennas were in the air about it at the time,” said Melendez. “But Admiral Clements slapped them down hard and after Klaus’ death, and Admiral Tinimen buried the whole thing.”

“God DAMN those guys!” roared Campbell. “What the
fuck
were they thinking?”

“Well, if you’ll think back,” Bradley replied, “Admiral Tinimen retired soon after and became Secretary of Defense, and Admiral Clements eventually moved up into Tinimen’s job as
Chief of Fleet Operations
and then went on to become
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff
... They were thinking about their careers and how a major scandal could deep-six their impending promotions.”

“Politics,” said Nichols disgustedly. “It’s the same inside the Bureau... politics is rampant.”

“How many people know this whole story now, Rico?” asked Admiral Bradley.

“The four of us, plus Al Ligurri, J.T. and Bat.”

“Bat could be a problem,” noted Bradley. “Once that bloodhound gets the scent, he’ll run that trail until he trees something, or dies.”

“Bat’s an idealist,” said Melendez. “Hell, I’m an idealist or I wouldn’t have asked you all here to talk about this mess.”

“You just wanted someone else sharing the responsibility, Rico,” smirked Nichols. “Blame can never be totally proven whenever more than one person is involved.”

“True, but secrets can never be totally secure, whenever more than one person is involved, either.” replied Admiral Bradley.

“Touché.”

“Here’s how I see it,” said Admiral Campbell. “Right now we are all sitting in exactly the same boat that Tinimen found himself in. He found it expedient to believe nothing amiss and sweep it all under the rug. What facts did he use to justify his decision?” Campbell began counting his points off on his fingers:

“#1 - Bozo has apparently been functioning perfectly for years... three in his case and nine in ours, with no hard evidence to the contrary.

“#2 - In spite of Klaus von Hemmel’s potential reasons to deeply resent or even hate Fleet over his medical misdiagnosis, his suspicious activities in barricading himself in his lab, wiping the vids and the cryptic note he left behind, in almost thirty years of having continuous access to some of the Fleet’s most vital secrets, he never demonstrated anything less than total allegiance to the Alliance. While Klaus von Hemmel was widely considered to be a royal pain-in-the-ass, no one
ever
questioned his loyalty.

“#3 - A comprehensive investigation into the integrity of the Bozo and/or PIMS systems would be a virtual impossibility, as it would require acquisition of multiple security access codes, possession of more than one of which constitutes a violation of both federal law and Fleet regulations... the suspension of which would require the pre-approval of both Fleet Admiral Kalis, as the most senior officer in Fleet, and the President of the United Stellar Alliance to obtain.

“#4 - Officials in high office, be they military or civilian, absolutely abhor a political
shit-storm
occurring on their watch, regardless of the dire necessity or nobility of the cause — and will, in all cases exert the full weight of their office to sacrifice their underlings in the attempt to cover their own ass. Catastrophe is preferable to political embarrassment, so they
always
find it easier to shoot the messenger, than confront the problem.”

“As PIMS falls under my jurisdiction, I appreciate your bringing me in on this,” Tom Nichols told the three Fleet flag officers. “I’ll keep mum on this for now and follow your lead, but I am intrigued by Rico’s speculation about the possibility of Bozo and PIMS being interlinked, in spite of the prohibitions against it. I think I’ll do some poking around the security of the PIMS and see if any anomalies are showing up there like they did in FALCON.”

“Even if they are illegally interlinked, I don’t see what proof of that fact would accomplish besides stirring up a big pissing contest between State and Fleet,” observed Admiral Bradley. “With this secession thing rearing it’s ugly head down South, we certainly don’t need any bickering between different branches of government, especially now. Besides, remember #4, Tom.”

“I hear you, Admiral.”

The Planetoid Discol, City of Waston

United Stellar Alliance Fleet Headquarters,

Fleet Intelligence Building

March, 3860

“Admiral, it’s Commodore Coxler again... Line-1,” said LTJG Marilyn Fredricks.

Time to bite the bullet.

“Thank you Marilyn, I’ll take it.”

“Hey Jeff, what’s up?”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to find out for days. What’s this shit about TAD orders temporarily assigning my security chief to you? No advanced warning, no discussion... you just up and steal my guy? Have you forgotten about professional courtesy, Rico?”

The best defense is a good offense.
“Have you forgotten about MILITARY courtesy, Commodore?”

There was dead silence on the communicator for about 15 seconds. “Pulling rank on me, Admiral?”

“You’re goddamned right I’m pulling rank on you,
Commodore
Coxler. We may be friends after work at the Officers' Club, but while we’re on the job you’d better never, ever, forget that I’m wearing twice as many stars on my collar as you do, and you WILL extend me the courtesy that my rank deserves.”

More silence. “My apologies, Admiral. If you’d please enlighten me as to why I’m missing my security director, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“Better... the short version is that Al brought us a very weird anomaly that his crew couldn’t get a handle on, and he was absolutely right to do so. The issue has had me swimming with large, toothy reptiles ever since Al first walked into my office about it.”

“Why wasn’t I informed, if my people discovered it?”

“Jeff, believe me... it is an incredibly complex technical issue that I greatly doubt could have been explained in terms that would have made it understandable to you. Hell, I couldn’t follow half of it myself and had to lean almost totally on J.T. and Bat to interpret what Al was telling us.

“If it was a computer issue, why couldn’t my people solve it?” Coxler asked.

“Jeff, you have the best computer security people in the business. I doubt there’s another group in all of space that could have even detected the anomaly, much less solved it. The only asset that we have that your people lack is Bat’s uncanny
sixth-sense
about things.”

“Well, if Bat solved the problem, when do I get Ligurri back?”

“Jeff, I didn’t say that the problem had been solved,” Melendez said. “So far, Bat has discovered that the origin resides outside of your jurisdiction, but his intuition snapped me back to an old, unsolved case that could potentially turn out to be the
mother-of-all-nasties.
Al has been invaluable to us and is neck deep in an active, ongoing counter-intelligence case, so I can’t release him back to you until this thing gets resolved. Could be a week, could be a year. I just don’t know.”