Chapter 11
Something was wrong. Terrance Compton had watched the transmission a dozen times, but it still didn’t make sense. “What’s up with you, old friend?” He was alone, talking quietly to himself.
It had been ten days since he’d gotten Garret’s orders, and while he’d followed them immediately, he’d had nagging doubts from the start. He thought a number of the directives coming from Garret’s office recently had been odd, personnel reassignments and other routine commands that seemed very unlike the Augustus Garret that Compton had known for forty years. But this last one had him really worried.
It was a Priority One communication, which meant that Garret had been identified by the computer through DNA scan of a fresh blood sample. It was a test that couldn’t be faked, so there was no doubt the message was genuine. But it just wasn’t something Augustus Garret would order; he was sure of that.
There hadn’t been a Priority One order issued since the war ended, and now Garret was using one to send Compton’s fleet to Columbia because of civil unrest? Priority One status compelled him to override peacetime safety procedures, and the fleet’s reactors had been running at 110% capacity since receiving the order. Four ships had already dropped out of the formation because of overloads or reactor failures. But that wasn’t what troubled him the most. He was expressly ordered to place himself under the command of the Planetary Governor, and to provide any support that official might request. Any support, without limitation. That was unprecedented.
Compton was uncomfortable conducting any operation that might involve action against an Alliance world, and he knew Garret well enough to be sure he would be as well. Now he was supposed to put the firepower of an entire fleet in the hands of this governor. He didn’t even know what a Planetary Governor was – he’d never heard of an Alliance colony having a federal official in charge before. Things must be bad on Columbia, he thought. Compton didn’t like the idea of taking action against Alliance civilians in any circumstances, but the thought of being ordered to do so by a federal bureaucrat with no direct confirmation from Garret? It was unthinkable.
But what could he do? The orders were right there on his screen, and he’d checked the security confirmation at least ten times. He’d sent a personal message to Garret, but the fleet was seven days from Earth on the interstellar network, so he wouldn’t have an answer yet no matter what.
He sighed. There was nothing he could do right now. They were inbound to Columbia, and until and unless the governor ordered him to do something objectionable, there wasn’t a pressing problem. If that did happen, he’d have to decide what to do, and he himself wasn’t sure what that would be.
“Joker, it’s time I stopped stressing about this and did some actual work.” He was exhausted, but he wasn’t sleeping very well anyway, so there was no point in going to bed. Besides, there was a lot to do. “Display current orders and directives.” He shuddered to think of how much routine business had piled up.
“Displaying 364 items requiring your attention.” The AI’s voice was calm and businesslike, but it was hard for Compton not to hear it as mocking. At least hours and hours of boring routine would take his mind off Garret.
Personnel reassignments, fuel use reports, performance assessments. Well, he thought, yawning, this should help with my insomnia at least. He scrolled through the documents, giving most a cursory reading and a perfunctory approval. Not many of them were of any real importance.
He was just about to sign off on an advisory about fighter engines, a defect he had known about for some time, when Joker intervened. “Admiral, the message you are currently reviewing contains a heavily encrypted attachment. It was very difficult to detect, but when you opened the file I received a partial key.”
“Hidden message? Can you decode it?” Compton’s mind raced - what was an encrypted message doing on a routine report?
“I believe so, admiral.” The AI’s voice was calm as ever, but it was already using virtually all of its processing capacity to analyze the message. If Joker had been human he would have been out of breath or sweating. Or something. “The key is only a partial one, so it will take me some time to complete. I estimate six to thirty hours.”
“That’s quite a range there.” Compton was surprised; the AI was usually very precise.
“This is a non-standard file type. Without complete analysis of the data structure, there are too many variables for a more specific time estimate.”
“Well don’t waste time talking with me. Get going.”
“I have already begun, admiral. Conversing with you requires an infinitesimal portion of my processing power and will not meaningfully impact the time required for the decryption process.” The AI’s response was not intended to be sarcastic; the naval AIs didn’t have that capacity in their programming, though some of the Marine units were known to develop the ability to deliver mocking responses.
Compton frowned. Intentional or not, he didn’t like his computer making fun of him. Six to thirty hours, he thought, walking over to the small cot and lying down. Sleep was an impossibility, but at least he could close his eyes for a few minutes. Maybe the thundering headache would subside, at least a little.
Walter Harrigan had been watching Compton – that was why he was on Bunker Hill, after all. Harrigan was a legitimate naval officer, though he owed at least some of his current rank of commander to his sideline as an Alliance Intelligence operative. His post as chief communications officer on the fleet’s flagship gave him the perfect position to keep an eye on the admiral.
Harrigan had been alone on Bunker Hill – the navy was easier to infiltrate than the Marines, but it still wasn’t a simple task to get agents onto fleet flagships. However, the recent personnel reassignments brought eight other operatives onboard. He had no idea how Alliance Intelligence had suddenly managed to move personnel around so effectively, but he was glad for the support. The fleet was heading to Columbia to help put down a rebellion, and Harrigan had strict instructions in the event that Compton failed to obey his orders.
As a liaison to Compton’s staff, Harrigan was separate from the regular crew of Bunker Hill, but his new agents were all part of Flag Captain Arlington’s regular chain of command. It just wasn’t possible to make too many transfers into positions of direct contact with the admiral, not without raising suspicions.
The captain was a potential problem herself. He expected her to side with Compton no matter what. The admiral had been impressed with Elizabeth Arlington in the fighting at Epsilon Eridani, and after the war he’d arranged to have her transferred from Cambrai to serve as his flag captain. It was a move that took her from the command of the oldest capital ship in the fleet to the newest - and kept her in the top rank of ship captains. As part of the post-war demobilization, Cambrai was slated for transfer to the strategic reserve, so if Compton hadn’t grabbed her for Bunker Hill, she might have ended up commanding a cruiser, quite a step backwards from skippering a capital ship. There were fewer of the big battlewagons on active duty, and a lot of captains with more seniority were commanding smaller ships. Compton and Arlington had a close relationship and worked very well together; if the admiral hadn’t been such a duty-driven hardass, Harrigan might have even thought there was something going on between the two.
Harrigan was surprised that Garret had ordered Compton’s fleet to Columbia. He knew why Alliance Intelligence wanted it there, but from what he’d seen of Garret, he’d have expected the admiral to refuse. Of course it wasn’t actually Garret who’d issued those orders, but that was classified far above Harrigan’s level. As far as he knew, the actual Augustus Garret was still in command of the navy, and he figured someone high up in Alliance Intelligence had managed to blackmail the admiral or exert some external influence. However it had happened, they were en route to Columbia, and he had to be ready. He had finally managed to arrange a meeting with all of the new agents, and he was heading down the rendezvous point on deck 20.